by Jules Grant
The Bike One stays outside, leans in through the window, says, Got any plasters? He raises his eyebrows, nods over at me. She’s bleeding, her foot.
Everyone laughs, and there’s something about it makes me throat tight and me heart start to thump. Then the central locking clicks on.
I’ve changed me mind, I says, reaching for the door handle, I can walk.
The one next to me puts his arm across me like a seat belt, grabs me wrist.
Walk? You don’t want to be doing that this time of night, love, he says. It’s not safe.
I can hardly breathe, head pushed down between me knees, hand on me neck, holding me down. On the floor of the car there’s an empty crisp packet, cheese and onion and a plastic sandwich wrapper, smell knocking me sick.
I try to count the corners but it’s no good I keep losing count, and every time the car goes round another one I think I’m gonna throw up.
Ages later, we stop and they let me lift up me head, but before I can get a proper look round, someone puts a cloth thing over me head. Sweaty, feels like a T-shirt that needs a wash.
Then they’re dragging me out of the car and I scrape me knee on the door. Whenever we get to Donna I’m gonna tell her how they scraped me, and she’ll go mental. Then they’ll be sorry.
Out of the car and then I’m tripping over because I can’t see anything, feels like a kerb. One’s got his arm tight round me neck, holding me against him, hand over the cloth across me mouth, stinks of Lynx.
Then one of me trainers comes off.
Leave it, a voice says.
Don’t be stupid, says someone else.
Now it’s smooth under me feet, like a path. I hear a door open in front, and then it’s warm so we must be in. They push me up some stairs and then I think I’m on a landing because it feels like carpet.
Someone pushes me forward, hard, then lets me go, fast, and I nearly trip. I hear a door slam shut behind me and the scrape of a bolt going in, hear footsteps going back down the stairs. Then it’s quiet.
I stand there for a bit, waiting.
Maybe it’s a surprise, like on birthdays, and everyone’ll be standing there when I take the cloth off, balloons and cake and everything. And if they are, I’ll probably not grass The Lynx One up about the scraping thing.
I can hear voices downstairs.
I reach up for the cloth-thing, pull it off me face, look round. The room’s nearly dark, just a smidge of light coming in between the curtains and some under the door.
I go back to the door and, try it, but it’s locked, I can feel the bolts jiggling on the other side. I turn on the light switch and nothing happens.
I go over to the curtains, pull them open a bit. The moon’s round and bright, scraps of shadow passing over it, must be clouds. The sky is inky and black, little stars scattered everywhere, winking.
There’s some kind of mesh on the inside of the window, little holes in the wire, tiny triangles. I press me finger on one of the triangles and it comes away dented. Outside the snow in the back yard is melty and grey. Behind the yard is a rec. Across it I can see the back yards of the houses on the other side, far away, street-lights shining in pools on the snow.
Could be anywhere.
After a while I can see a bit better, moon coming in through the window. In the room there’s a mattress on the floor. It’s got sheets on and a Peter Pan duvet cover. Wendy laughing, flying, John in his top hat.
Beside the bed on the carpet, there’s a colouring book and some crayons, kids’ stuff. I go and touch the radiator. It’s on, and even though there’s nothing much in the room it feels like a proper house, just without all the furniture.
I need the toilet, so I bang on the door. No one comes.
I sit down on the mattress, take the trainer off. The other sock’s wet where it’s been in the snow, so I take that off too. I lie down on the mattress and pull Wendy up over me. It’s not cold but I still can’t stop shivering. Got into me bones, or whatever Nan says.
Whoever the toys belong to will probably be back soon, and they’ll tell me what’s going on I suppose. I try to think of Wendy flying away over the sky, holding on to John’s hand, turning left at the star and straight on to Neverland, to cheer myself up. How she left everyone behind for Peter, even her Mam. Then I’m remembering how even when he shot her down with the arrow she still loved him. Mental.
Then it comes to me all at once. The Co-op. Me wishing the baby would be locked up in a shed just to get back at her Mam. Now I know why I’m here and it’s all me own fault.
25
I wake up, sweaty. The sheet’s wet where I’ve done it again.
I hear the door open a crack and someone creeps in, light from the hall behind them so I can’t see them properly. I hold me breath. You’re not supposed to sneak into a person’s bedroom, The Wiz says, and anyone who does that is just Up To No Good. My heart’s thumping so loud now it’s like a drum going off.
I squeeze me eyes tight and in me head there’s the Little Drummer Boy singing, Daaah da dah dah, pahrumpah pum pum…
You alright love? A woman’s voice, floaty.
I feel a hand on me and I hold the sheets tighter, wiggle away.
Dah dah dah dadada, pahrumpah pum pum…
She puts something down beside the bed.
I’m Shantelle, she says. Be a good girl and you won’t be here long, no one’s gonna hurt you. She puts something down. If you want a wee, love, you’ll have to use that.
After she’s gone, I open me eyes. There’s a can of Fanta beside the bed. In the corner is a red plastic washing-up bowl. She must be kidding.
I pick up the colouring book, open it. It’s a baby’s book really, and whoever lives here must be way younger than me. I wonder what the baby was in here for, whether they did something really bad, for a baby, and where they’ve gone now. How long they had to stay.
I look at Dumbo, remember the film me and Mam watched last Christmas, On Demand, him crying for his Mam and me getting all teary, even though back then I didn’t know what it felt like for your Mam to be dead. Now I’m grown up I know that sad doesn’t have to be crying, it can just be a big black hole in you and maybe crying would be better. I get it now, Dumbo.
I expect I’ll have to stay here till I’ve been properly wronged, but I don’t know how long that’ll take, to be honest. I think of all the bad things I’ve done but there’s too many and the first ones fall out of me head just when I push the last ones in and I have to start again. Then I realise, I don’t even know what counts as a bad thing any more. How am I supposed to know, when they won’t even let me go to Confession yet, and all the bad stuff built up for ten years is fit to burst?
I start off with an easy one, like lying to Mam about the tenner and Mr Lowski. I don’t know whether to count it as bad though for telling lies, or good for not dropping Space right in it and maybe another good for Mam not having to worry. But then she went and worried about Mr Lowski anyway, so that bit might still count as a bad. Which leaves one good and two bad. By the end of it all, there’s just one thing I done I can think of that’s never had any good in it and it’s wishing a babba would be locked in a shed. Father Tom says you Reap What You Sow unless you’ve been to Confession. Mam says it’s probably rubbish, some things just come back and bite you on the bum, no way of knowing which ones, just luck, but best to go to Confession in case. Lise calls it Karma and you have to burn a joss stick. Donna says that’s all the same mumbo-jumbo, just means you get what you deserve. Which must be how come I’m here.
Confession doesn’t count unless you’ve been done. Now I’m wishing I had me Holy Communion Card, the one Father Tom writes in when I go to Communion class on a Sunday. Maybe if I had the card it wouldn’t matter so much that I haven’t been Done yet.
Still, Baby Jesus probably knows I’m here because Father Tom says Baby Jesus Can Always See You, however well you hide, so asking him for help has got to be worth a shot.
I take out a crayon.
At the back of the colouring book there’s a nearly-blank sheet, just a few little words at the bottom. I tear out the page.
Dear Baby Jesus,
I am sorry for wishing the babba got took to a shed.
Please let me go home.
Love Aurora Grace.
Grace is my Special Name, the one I’m getting from Father Tom on the Special Day, the one Baby Jesus probably knows me by already. It’s a stupid name but it’s way better than Magdalena, which is what some people get.
I fold up the paper, put it under the mattress. If Baby Jesus can see everything, seeing through some scuzzy old mattress should be no problem.
I hear footsteps down the stairs. The sound of metal scraping. Then the sound of a front door slamming and something heavy and metal scraping again. Then there’s feet coming back up towards me. I race back to the bed, put me back against the wall.
The door opens. The woman comes towards me.
She walks weird, like she’s got some kind of limp. I crouch down, back against the wall.
She stops. It’s OK, she says. It’s me, love, Shantelle. I’m not going to hurt you. Are you hungry?
I shake me head.
Do you want to come downstairs and watch some telly?
I nod.
She smiles at me, and I can see that she’s pretty even if she has got a limp.
She walks to the door, turns round, ruffs me head. Come on then, she says.
I follow her down the stairs. The front door’s bolted top and bottom, massive thick wedges of steel across the middle.
I follow her into the lounge. She checks the curtains, makes sure they’re shut, points to the settee, Sit down there.
The TV’s on but there’s no sound.
She hands me the Sky remote. Can you work it?
I nod.
Go on then. Put whatever you like on.
She smiles and her eyes are nice. I’ve got Crimewatch on Sky Plus, if you fancy, she says.
I don’t really fancy it tonight, being how me and Mam and Donna always watched it, how Mam used to shriek at the telly whenever some paedo or rapist came on. See that face, Ror, she’d say, pointing at some mugshot, now that’s a Bastard. You watch out for the likes of him now.
Well she was wrong. If Lynx Boy had even a bit of a squint or gammy leg, or had greasy hair over his ears and bad teeth, I’d have recognised him as a Bastard straight off. Then I wouldn’t be here now, I’d have run a mile.
She takes the remote off me, flicks through the channels. We could watch the re-runs of Skins? Have you seen that?
I have as it happens. Haven’t you got anything with a decent story in it, I say.
In the end I choose Law and Order USA.
If he comes back you’ll need to scoot upstairs fast, she says, or I’m in trouble.
I nod.
Later there’s the sound of a car outside and Shantelle jumps up to the window. I head for the stairs.
No time, she says, pulling the settee out from the wall. Get behind here. Stay quiet. He’s never in long.
I get between the settee and the wall, hear her go towards the door. Before she gets there I hear the key turn in the lock, the door open.
I recognise the voice straight away. Get us all a brew love, says Daz. Three sugars for Tony, that right mate?
I’m not stopping, says The Tony One, but I could go a biscuit.
Through the gap I see Shantelle go past towards the kitchen.
One sugar for Fats, Daz calls out. Sit down lads.
Someone heavy sits down on the settee so I nearly can’t breathe. I squash the side of me face against the wall, bits of woodchip digging into me cheek, try not to panic.
The sound of the kettle.
You all set then? says Tony.
Sounds good to me mate, says Daz.
Better we should go in it together, split the cost and the delivery. Just you and Fats though. Don’t want to go mob-handed, unsettle the natives when there’s no need. I’ll bring Danny.
Just me and Fats, says Daz, no sweat.
Sorry it’s short notice. Can you come up with the cash?
No worries, says Daz, I can do the money.
There’s a pause. I hear Shantelle come back in with the tea.
Go OK with the kid? says Tony.
I hold me breath. Dolly Dingers they mean me. My heart thumps in me ears and me chest hurts.
Shantelle sits down on the arm of the sofa, tucks her feet back across the gap in front of me. I look at her shoes. One sole is much thicker than the other, different shape like a boot. Must have a gammy.
Yeah no problem, says Daz. Safely tucked away up in Preston with Tiny’s missus and his kids like you said, sound as a pound.
I feel sick.
Tell him to hold on to her, says The Tony One, we’ll flush that bitch out in no time. You heard owt?
Nah. Got the lads on it though, says Daz. We’ll find her.
All of a sudden the settee moves and I can breathe and there’s room to move me head.
OK then I’m off, see you later, says Tony. Ta Shantelle for the biscuits. I’ll take a couple with me, he says, ta-ra then.
I’m going to check the car out, make sure it’s right for Sunday, says Daz. C’mon Fats.
I listen to the front door open and shut. Shantelle’s face appears in the gap between the sofa and the wall. She looks scared.
Right missus, get up them stairs before he comes back.
What did they mean? I ask her. Flush who out?
Nothing for you to worry about. Go on up now, chop chop.
26
The first thing I see when I open my eyes is Sonn, sitting on the ammo box, silent, watching me. Lise is beside her. I push myself up on one elbow and the pain in my shoulder makes me wince, my head thick from a dream. I swing both legs over, start to pull on my boots, Fuck’s sake, what’s a girl got to do to get any sleep around here?
Lise looks away. Rio starts to slink into the corner, tail between his legs, a sure sign something’s up.
What?
They’ve got Ror, says Sonn.
My guts do a twizz. Who have?
The Social. Won’t let her go back to Geeta’s. Won’t even let them see her, Kaheesha says.
Rio’s curled up, face to the wall, and he whimpers.
Shut that fucking dog up, Sonn. Where’ve they put her?
We’ve put the word out. Someone’s gonna turn up something, says Sonn.
At least she’ll be safe, says Lise.
Lise is the only one out of us who hasn’t been in care, ever, and care’s like a shit joke, you have to have been there to get it.
Me and Sonn just look at her. Safe? I say. In care? And what planet would that be on, Dorothy?
Find out where she is and go and see her, I tell them. Tell her to keep shtum, tell her we’ll get her home.
How we gonna do that?
Everything tightens up in my chest, feels like it’s going to explode. I throw my boot at the wall. What the fuck were you thinking, Lise? I told you to get her from Marie’s.
Lise fills up like she’s going to cry and that sends me right over the edge, being how I was only clinging on by my fingernails anyway. Get out of my sight before I twat you, I say.
When she’s gone, I sit down. I shake my head, try to clear it. Decide I’m not taking any more of that stuff no matter how bad the pain gets.
Ease off her, says Sonn.
Keep an eye on her then, I say. And watch her with the merchandise for God’s sake. Lise on a ski-trip, that’s all we need.
Sonn reaches into her pocket, jangles a key in front of me, smiles. Locked it all up, she says.
Go and put the word out – everyone we know. I want to know where Ror is, I tell her.
Then she tells me how Jess, that bouncer in the Bluebird, owes her a favour. Her mam works day shift in rezzie over Miles Platting way.
She’ll know someone who knows something, says Sonn.
I’m not so sure.
/> We need more people in the system, I say. Higher up, not just wiping arses in rezzie. It’s not like you can just pay someone for information any more, not safe enough, needs to be tight. You want someone to shovel shit for you these days, you can’t afford for them to bring their own spade.
We’d need the money to train them, she says.
Maybe if Jess comes through this time we could think about it but right now I can’t think of anyone I hate enough to send on a social work course, so I drop it.
Don’t tell me what we need, I say. Get out there and do something about it. I want Ror found, before anyone else finds her.
I start to pull on a vest.
You can’t go out there, says Sonn. They’ll be waiting.
I lift up the lid of the ammo box, grab a magazine of bullets and load the Glock, shove a spare magazine in my pocket.
Doesn’t matter how much I blame Lise or Sonn, I know it’s down to me this time. I should’ve been there, should’ve thought about it, made proper arrangements for Ror. But I didn’t, did I? Just like no one did it for me, or for Carla. Things going right down the line on repeat whether we mean them to or not.
I head for the door. Out my fucking way Sonn, I say.
27
The first time I saw Carla she was in a headlock, face pressed sideways against the floor, fuckwit care worker with his knee in her back. Whoa-whoa! Lie still, lie still.
She tried to spit but the way he had her against that shitty brown carpet the spit couldn’t go nowhere, just dribbled down the side of her mouth so she had to lie right in it. Didn’t stop her trying though, and right then I knew I was going to like her.
Sounds harsh, but we were used to it back then. Once they’d got a grip they locked you in a room with no blankets, just a mattress on the floor, left you there till they felt calm, which could be never, or at least no time soon. The time to look out was at the end of a double weekend shift and we all knew it; used to take bets on who would get it this time. Don’t ask me what they thought they were achieving.