Clay

by Melissa Harrison

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘He ain’t fine. Look, you can’t just ignore him. He’s your kid.’

  ‘I ain’t ignoring him, OK? Jesus, Jamal, what is this?’

  Jamal reached around her and took a beer from the fridge, sat down at the kitchen table.

  ‘Kel. He’s your kid, OK? You gotta look after him a bit more.’

  ‘I never wanted him in the first place! I was nineteen, for fuck’s sake, I didn’t know any better.’

  ‘Keep it down, yeah? And it’s tough, anyway. He’s here, and he needs you.’

  ‘No he don’t. He’s never here except to eat, he never talks to me.’

  ‘You never talk to him, either.’

  ‘That’s cos he only ever wants to talk about his dad.’

  ‘Jesus, Kel, he’s a little boy. He misses his dad. I can understand it. He don’t know the guy beat you, he don’t know why you split up.’

  ‘It ain’t his business, OK?’ She pushed past him into the lounge, put the TV on. He followed her, shutting the door behind them.

  ‘Kel, it is his business,’ he hissed. ‘You ain’t being fair.’

  ‘Life ain’t fucking fair, Jamal, is it. What is it you want from me? He’s got a home, food on the table.’

  ‘And that’s enough, is it?’

  ‘It’s all I fucking got from my mum. Look, Jamal, are you going to be on my case the whole time? Because if you are, this ain’t gonna work out.’

  ‘Don’t you . . . love him?’

  She let out a breath. ‘Course I do.’

  ‘Really? It don’t look like that.’

  And then she was crying. ‘I did. I do. Fuck. I just can’t . . .’

  Jamal took the can gently from her hand and set it on the table, crouching down beside the sofa as she knuckled her eyes angrily. ‘Listen, Kel. It ain’t too late. It’s the summer holidays now, yeah? Why don’t you think of some things you can do together, you and TC? Don’t have to be much. You just need to spend some time with him, OK? He ain’t his dad; he’s a good kid. You just forgot.’

  Jozef was whittling again, a gift for the boy. He stood at the bedsit’s window with his knife and worked slowly. It was nearly finished, but to rush now would be fatal. It was so easy to let the blade slip at the end, just when you thought the job was done and stopped paying attention.

  He put the carving down and fed Znajda in the kitchen, standing and watching as she pushed the bowl around the kitchen floor. Even when there was nothing left, nothing at all, still she kept at it, her pink tongue edging the plastic bowl along the skirting board. Finally she came to stand by his leg and looked up at him, her body wagging gently.

  Her bowls had been among the first things he had bought for the new place. The other bits he got from the market and a trip to Ikea in Emir’s van; the landlord had contributed an old cathode ray TV and a mattress. He could have done with some bits and pieces from the clearance shop, but he hadn’t been that way in weeks.

  He had surprised himself with how quickly he had settled in. The first time he took Znajda there she had refused the staircase outside, looking dubiously at its metal treads. But when Jozef called her from the top she had barrelled gamely up it, calling from it a paroxysm of joyous clangs. Once inside she sniffed the worn blue carpet carefully before seeking out the only shaft of sun and lying down in it.

  Now she had a folded blanket to sleep on; from it she could see the whole bedsit, so Jozef was never out of her sight. Even when she seemed most deeply asleep, flat out and gently snoring or yipping and twitching after dream-squirrels, even then she would open a rolling eye the moment he stirred. Looking at her at such times Jozef found it hard to remember that at one time he had thought her ugly and brutish. He wondered what had been the matter with him.

  He loved having Znajda there, but he was aware that beyond her was a loneliness she could only go a little way towards shoring up. Apart from TC, Musa was the closest he had to a friend, but although they got on he didn’t need Jozef, and Jozef knew little of his life away from the takeaway. Working in the parks Jozef mostly kept himself to himself; they all did. The turnover was high, Chima and Nazariy already gone. It felt like a long time since he had been important to anybody. The boy, perhaps; but that was something he had to be careful about, he knew.

  And there was more, of course. He missed home all the time, and having his own place felt like staking a claim here, away from Poland, however impermanent the current arrangement could turn out to be. There was a betrayal in it somewhere, he couldn’t help but feel.

  He wrote to his mother, care of his youngest sister in Nowy Sacz; it was only his second letter since arriving in the country three years before. ‘I am renting a little flat,’ he wrote. ‘I have a dog. You would like her, she reminds me of Boska, do you remember Boska, Bernard’s dog?’

  He wrote, ‘I work outside now in the daytimes. I like it much better. It is very hot this year, much hotter than Poland, and I would not like to be inside all the time.’

  He did not write, ‘Will you come and visit me?’ – not yet. He did not say that he would save up and come home at Christmas. He printed his new address carefully at the end and wondered if anyone would reply.

  He was on his way back from the post office when he saw Denny. It was too late to change direction, and the smaller man had already seen him anyway. He was glad he did not have Znajda with him; unlike in Poland he’d found they did not welcome dogs in shops here, and he did not like to leave her tied up on the pavement.

  ‘Oi, Joe,’ Denny shouted from a few yards off, chin up, eyes squinting against the sun. ‘Oi!’ He let out a brief and piercing whistle, as though Jozef had not already acknowledged him, or as though he were a recalcitrant dog himself.

  Jozef stopped, nodded at him. ‘Denny. Are you well?’

  ‘Am I well? Never mind if I’m fucking well. I hear you’ve got my dog.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Going to bring it back, were you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think so. You don’t think so. And why don’t you think so? It’s my fucking dog, or am I missing something?’

  ‘Denny . . .’ Jozef made a calming gesture with both hands.

  ‘You think I’m not fit, is it? Cos that’s what I’ve heard.’

  A group of white kids eating ribs at the bus stop were grinning and staring, hopeful of a fight. One was aiming a cameraphone at them already.

  ‘Denny, she –’

  ‘It’s my dog. I make good money off it. You know what I make off it?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘A ton each, maybe more. Five puppies, say, that’s five hundred quid.’

  ‘You want me to buy her.’

  ‘Compensation, let’s call it. And I’m doing you a fucking favour, as it goes. I could easily ask for more. You could make it back if you were smart, bred from it again. But you won’t do that, will you? You’re a soft cunt, is what it is. So. You bring it to the shop, yeah? Tomorrow. Or the dog. One or the other.’ He walked on, past Jozef, calling, ‘One or the other, OK?’

  Later that afternoon Jozef took Znajda to the common. She stayed close, sensing his mood; when he sat down on the parched grass she subsided beside him, sniffing the air but content to stay there with his broad hand on her flank.

  Jozef knew what he was going to do about Denny, and there was no sense in going over it. He let his mind drift back to the boy again, as it tended to do. He wanted to see him, maybe play a game of chess or take him to the cafe, maybe let him try some of his beer. He wanted to talk to him, tell him about Poland, ask him about the owls and the other creatures he’d found. He wondered how he could find him; maybe he’d call into the takeaway on the way back, see if he’d been in; maybe he’d have a look for him in the little park. The kid wanted to learn to use a knife; well, perhaps it was OK after all.

  He thought about the first thing he’d whittled, and how it had felt to finish it: a crude bird that stayed on his father’s d
resser for years, even after his carvings became much more detailed and refined. Where was it now? he wondered. And what about the other things that had lived on the dresser: he had his father’s knife, but where now was his pipe and his bone-handled comb? When you’re gone, what happens to all the infinite, familiar things that make up your life?

  The city sweltered, broiled, flickered like a mirage. Everything sounded sharp and off-key; everything felt either sticky or too dry. And the birds, who had been so voluble all spring while they had nests and mates and territories to defend – finally, now, the birds had fallen silent.

  Znajda’s brindled coat had grown hot under Jozef’s hand. He got up and led her into the shade.

  20

  Lammas

  For the first time that summer the Perseids darted like tracer fire, faint and intermittent, above the city all night. When the sky eventually lightened it revealed dew, heavy on the dry, dead grass of the little park. The blades hung, jewelled and still and briefly silver, draped between with a thousand tiny webs that caught and held the dew as a jeweller’s cloth does diamonds. Then, as the sun rose above the roofs of the Plestor Estate and the dawn sky slowly deepened to blue, the light illumined the grey-veiled grass, and within ten minutes or so it was dry.

  TC was at the top of the fire escape when Jozef left his flat. He opened the door and there he was, one foot frozen on the highest tread, a khaki kitbag far too big for him hooked around one skinny shoulder.

  ‘I – I – the man at the takeaway said –’

  ‘It’s OK. Come in. Everything is OK?’

  ‘Were you off out?’

  ‘In a moment, yes. But it can wait a little bit. Come, come.’

  He took the bag from the boy and followed him into the flat, closing the door behind them both. Znajda came and looked up at TC, flipping her ears back for a stroke.

  ‘Big bag,’ Jozef said, and swung it onto the chair. ‘You are going somewhere?’

  ‘Not really. Sort of.’

  ‘You want to tell me?’

  ‘Just to the secret garden. You know, the place I told you about. Not running away, just – just – I’ve got a camp. I thought I could stay there. But I don’t know if I’ve got all the right stuff. I mean, I think I have. Not forever, just the holidays. I thought – I thought . . .’

  Sometimes, Jozef thought, you don’t know what it is you really want from people. What you ask for isn’t always what you need.

  ‘You want to borrow something?’

  ‘A knife. I mean, your knife. Or if you had another. I’ll give it back, I promise.’

  Jozef went to the open window and looked at the buses passing on the high road below. He couldn’t give the boy a knife, and he couldn’t let him run away to sleep rough in some godforsaken corner of the city, but to refuse him now would be to lose his trust – and who else was there to look out for him?

  He turned back and folded his arms. ‘I am hungry. You hungry?’

  TC nodded.

  ‘OK. I will go out and get breakfast. We eat, then we go through your things, find out if you have everything you will need. You like eggs? Good. And some ham, I think.’ Jozef switched on the TV. ‘Is not very good, only five channels. But here is the control. Now, you stay here, OK? I go to the shop, but I have – I have something else I have to do first. It won’t take long, though. I will be maybe fifteen, twenty minutes, OK?’

  The sound of Jozef’s feet on the metal stairs faded away, and TC sat down on the chair. He patted his legs to call Znajda over, but she wouldn’t budge from the door. She had really wanted to go with Jozef; he’d had to push her gently back inside when he pulled the door to, and she had cried a little bit, which wasn’t like her. Now she lay by the door with her head between her paws.

  The bedsit was small, but it was so neat and tidy, so . . . cosy, or something. TC got up and went into the kitchen: there were three new tea towels folded on top of the fridge, and the hob was spotless. An old jar held a wooden spoon, a paring knife and a tin-opener; he picked up the knife and looked at it, but put it back. In the corner of the kitchen were Znajda’s two bowls on a plastic mat; something about seeing them there made TC feel nice inside.

  In the main room the TV laughed and chattered: kids’ programmes. TC flicked it off with the remote. Into the silence came the sound of the traffic rumbling past, and he drifted over to the window to look out.

  On the sill was a little carving, an owl with fierce eyes and feathers that looked somehow soft, despite the wood; and TC knew that it was meant for him. He picked it up and examined it; it felt warm, and fitted so exactly into his palm. Without thinking he slipped it into his pocket.

  He looked around the room. It would be so brilliant to have somewhere that was just yours; it would be almost better than the camp. But the camp was still good, he thought. He could watch over the owls there, and besides, this was Jozef’s place, not his, and the camp would be his, with his things in it. As long as the weather stayed nice it would be OK. And Jozef would help him, Jozef was really nice, he hadn’t told him off about it or anything. It wasn’t weird or anything that they were friends. Maybe he would tell Jozef where the camp was after all. Just so somebody knew. Just in case.

  There was a black-and-white photograph Blu-tacked to one wall, and TC went over to look at it, sitting carefully on the edge of the neatly made bed. It showed a family outside a house with a wooden porch. The mother and father sat on chairs, the mother with a baby in her arms, and around them stood four children. They all looked old-fashioned; not just because of the black-and-white picture – there was something else, but TC wasn’t sure what it was. The clothes weren’t too olden-day, although the mother wore a headscarf; maybe that was it. And their faces – they didn’t look like anyone he knew, anyone from the city. They looked . . . long gone, somehow. Or far away, perhaps; and perhaps it was the same thing.

  A girl of about four, TC guessed, stood slightly awkwardly with one hand on her mother’s shoulder; it looked as though she had just been told off for fidgeting. Another girl, a bit older, stood on the right, and behind the seated parents were the two tallest children, a girl and a boy. The boy was squinting into the light, and his hair was all messy and big. TC realised with a start that it was Jozef.

  Znajda heaved a sigh and raised her eyes balefully to TC. Perhaps she needed to go to the toilet, he thought; she had really wanted to go out with Jozef before, and now she was just lying by the front door as though she was trying to tell him something. What if she peed on the carpet, would it be his fault? Jozef hadn’t said anything about that, but maybe it was supposed to be obvious. He’d never been in charge of a dog by himself before; there was probably stuff everybody knew except him.

  When he stood up she raised her head and the stump of her tail moved hopefully. He decided to take her across the road to the little park; from the benches he’d be able to see the entrance to the laneway behind the shops, and could keep an eye out for Jozef when he came back.

  Leaving the flat with Znajda and his kitbag, he paused. The bag was far too heavy to cart about. He put it neatly away behind the flat door and swung it shut behind him.

  Jozef arrived at the second-hand furniture shop as Denny was carrying an old hatstand out to the pavement. It rested on the smaller man’s shoulder like a lance, its blunt hooks pointing towards Jozef, whose heart gave a dull chime and then was still.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ Denny said, putting the hatstand down beside a pair of armchairs and dusting off his hands. ‘No dog, I see. You must have something for me.’

  ‘Shall we go inside?’

  ‘No, mate, I’m fine here.’ He folded his arms. ‘Got my money, then, have you?’

  ‘Denny, I am not giving you any money for the dog.’

  ‘Oh, is it. Is it really. Well, well. And no dog either. You must think I’m a cunt.’

  ‘I think you were right yesterday. You . . . you are not fit.’

  ‘I’m not fit? I’m not fucking fit?’ Denny’s
face flushed, but he looked calm and almost joyful in his self-righteousness and rage. He began walking slowly towards Jozef, who held his ground. ‘Who the fuck are you, fucking Polack,’ he enunciated very precisely, ‘to tell me that I am not fucking fit?’

  As he reached Jozef he sprang up in a small movement, fists clenched but held by his sides. His head cracked Jozef’s nose with stunning force, and Jozef felt the pavement rush up to meet him behind.

  Denny stood over him and grinned. A small crowd had formed, but at a distance. ‘You’re a fucking poof, Joe, you know that?’ he said. ‘A fucking, horrible poof.’

  Jozef got up, slowly, and looked levelly at Denny. He could feel the weight of his father’s knife in his jeans pocket, but put the thought away. He touched the back of his hand to his nose, gently, and saw it come away red.

  ‘You can have that one,’ he said. ‘But here is what I got to say. You tell the council about everything you find in the houses, Denny? You write it all down properly, what is there, anything of value? You never sell something on the side, don’t write it down, don’t give the money to the council, the relatives? Don’t forget, I worked with you for over one year. I was there at the houses, after someone die. I see what you do, Denny. So. You want to talk about my dog some more, you come and see me. You come and see me any time.’

  He forgot the breakfast stuff. It didn’t matter anyway. He wondered what he should say to TC about what had happened. He could feel both his eyes swelling shut.

  Years since he’d had a fight; years. Kraków, probably. Not that this was one, not really. He’d known what Denny would want, what it would require, and he had not intended to fight back unless he had to. The headbutt, though, that had been a shock; he’d pictured a punch, forgotten Denny’s height, and his own. What a strange thing violence was, both petty and shocking at the same time. The blood on the stones; the spectre of what could have happened crowding around them on the pavement as the buses rumbled past. He was proud of himself for walking away.