by Jules Grant
Anyhow, there she is face-down on the carpet, eyes flashing, kicking and spitting, wriggling like a ferret to get free. Herpes-Head-the-Ball was cursing and trying to keep a hold, shouting over his shoulder for some help from the office, rest of us sitting right there on the stairs watching the show. Even then, there was something about her, that made me want to get near, kick that fat bastard right on his back, help her up. I can still see her throwing her head back, trying to nut him, long curls of her hair bouncing so thick and dark I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
By now I’m sitting on the bottom stair, ten or more kids behind me ringside chanting, Kick him, kick him, kick him. Her trying, him dancing about to make her miss.
Then he half stood up behind her, jerked her up by the neck to her feet, head bent right back, choking the living day out of her.
All of a sudden she wasn’t spitting any more, more like spluttering, and I saw her eyes roll up wide, lips peeling back, legs right off the ground and kicking the air.
So I jumped on his back.
Then I’m holding on round his neck with one arm, fingers reaching up for his eyes, punching in at his ear from behind with my free hand, hard as I could, legs wrapped round his waist so I didn’t fall. I reckon it was only the shock made him let go, probably the only thing that saved him losing an eye, or worse. Carla fell forward on to her knees and he threw himself backwards, me still hanging on. I never even saw the wall coming till I was knocked nearly senseless, sliding down to the floor, wondering what the fuck just happened, ton weight on my chest. I tried to breathe in but nothing happened. Just then I felt a hand grab my shoulder, pull me upright just as I sucked in the best breath ever.
C’mon, she said, let’s just go.
We’re sodden by the time we got to the canal. Under the bridge and I crouch down beside her, both laughing, steam coming off our breath, snorting like wild horses into the cold dark night.
She bunks down, turns to look at me.
It was her eyes got me first, warm treacle toffee shot right through with gold in the lights. Like the stone Dad brought me back from a trip. Tiger’s eye, he said, turning it over in his fingers. You ever seen anything more beautiful?
And, until the day I met Carla, I hadn’t.
I must have been staring, thinking about the tiger’s eye and Dad, getting all caught up in it, because she smiled at me then and her top lip went way up, showed all her teeth at the front, lazy like a snarl, but sexy as. One tooth at the side a tiny bit crooked, always went on about getting it straightened if she’d had the money, but to my mind it just made the rest look more perfect. You know the way those things can be.
I can see that face now, creamy skin splashed with black freckles so cute you’d try to count them. Something flashing across the darkening space in between us, pulling me home.
Hey let’s go to Blackpool, see the lights then, she says.
I look at her, Don’t be mad. How we gonna get there?
Then that smile. I swear, in all the time we were together, how meant nothing to Carla.
You’ll think of something, she said.
And that’s the way it’s been ever since, I suppose. Her wanting stuff, or wanting rid of stuff, me working out how to do it. Me getting it done. Only this one might be too much, Car, even for me.
There’s no way I know of getting a kid out of care once they’re in. Once people in their offices got their minds made up, no use fighting. Hit out and they’ll just tie you up in your own punches, use your own weight against you and the harder you come at them, the harder you’ll fall. The Social got their own story for things, and once it’s planned out everything you say gets caught right up in it, feeds in, until it’s set round you like concrete, no room to manoeuvre. Can make you want to top yourself, that, Dad used to say.
I wind up on the step outside Geeta’s. Sometimes I fucking hate myself, I’m so transparent. That’s not one of mine, it’s what Carla always used to call me, when she saw me crank up the gears for a cruise. Said she always knew when I was on to someone. There was me, thinking I was being all complicated and meaningful and shit. Transparent?
Means see-through, she said.
Whatever.
Kaheesha answers the door. I see her shape through the stained glass and my heart starts to pound. What the fuck will I say? Then she opens the door, sees me and her face flushes pink. I was right, it’s just a matter of time.
She leads me down the hall past a table with curly legs and a mirror above it, a chair beside the table that looks too low for anyone to sit on. On one side of the mirror there’s a line-up of photos in dark wooden frames.
Everything’s wood. Not the cheap stuff, but smooth and dark and shiny, makes you want to run your fingers along it.
I follow her down the corridor, past two other doors that are shut. The wooden floors are polished, catch the light through the stained glass of the door.
At the bottom of the hall she pushes open another door and then everything’s light. Across a huge room where the end wall should be there’s just glass, right from one side of the room to the other; I can see across a patio to the lawn and some trees at the bottom of the garden, smart orange and blue climbing frame in the corner. Out in the middle of the lawn there’s a statue, three half-dressed women holding up a concrete bowl for the birds. Makes me think of Tony and his disappearing baby-mama propping up the underpass. Fancy having something like that in your garden.
She opens the fridge, big as a shed, gets the milk out. Puts two mugs down on the breakfast bar. Coffee?
I pull a stool up, sit down. She scoops up some papers from the worktop, shuffles them together, puts them on one side. Just work, she says. I nod and look around.
The room is one massive L-shape, kitchen at one end, sofa and chairs and bookshelves at the other, huge table with candles by the window looking out over the garden. You could get the Sale women’s rugby team round that table.
I’ve told them we’ll have her here with us, she says, her back to me, reaching into a cupboard. For ever if necessary. I’m sure they’ll come round.
I nod. She’s not used to things being hopeless, I can tell.
I watch her sift coffee out of a bag and into a cafetière without using a spoon. She holds the glass jug up to the light checking the measure. Her eyes catch the light from the window.
Are they green?
She’s pouring the water from the kettle now, into the jug. Sorry?
Your eyes. I mean, it’s unusual, isn’t it?
I’m stumbling around like an idiot. Can’t believe what just came out of my mouth. Totally losing my touch.
She laughs, not loud but a short kind of humph. For somebody with brown skin, you mean?
I watch her carefully and shrug, I suppose so.
Actually, it’s not that unusual where my family come from. My grandparents came from the north of Pakistan, borders of Afghanistan. But don’t fret, you’re not the first person to ask.
Is that where Sanjay comes from? I keep my voice level as I say his name.
She smiles. We’re both English, both born here. San’s family is Indian, comes from Karachi originally. We met at uni in London, moved up here for San’s job.
I like the way she says uni, not university or college. How long have you been married? I say.
We’re not married. She smiles at me. Anything else you want to know?
I’m not sure I heard right. You’re not married?
It’s complicated, different religions. Anyway, we don’t need to be married.
I’ve never heard anyone talk like that and I’m not sure how to handle it. I feel out of my depth. If he loved her he’d have married her wouldn’t he? Chrissakes, I’d fucking marry her and that’s got to be a first.
You could have got married in a registry office like everyone else, I say, watching her face.
She laughs properly now, out loud.
It doesn’t mean anything if you don’t believe in it, does it? she says. I mean
, I can see the point if you believe in God, if you want a Christian marriage, or a Muslim or Hindu or Sikh one. Or a registry office if you just want to be owned. But what’s the point otherwise? It doesn’t make people love each other more.
I never really thought about it like that, never wondered what the point was, or whether there was one. Then I realise there might be someone knows more than me. Then I’m thinking what the fuck, I’d deffo want to own her, and if she’s not really married I might be in with a chance.
You don’t believe in God?
Let’s just say I’m not convinced about the merits of organised religion.
I just love the sound of that, whatever it means. Come to think of it I love the sound of it all. I think about leaning across the breakfast bar and kissing her smack on the mouth, bottle it, stir my coffee instead. I need your help to get Ror back, I say.
The phone rings and makes us both jump. She answers it, turning away from me into the receiver, probably Sanjay.
It’s Social Services. She turns to me, pale. Ror’s run off, she’s gone missing.
I reach over, try to get the phone off her but she pushes me back, signals me to stay quiet, puts the phone on speaker and rests it on the breakfast bar between us.
A man’s voice says Ror jumped out of the car at the lights on the way to the children’s home, could’ve been killed. No, no, she’s not hurt, not as far as they know. The police are on it, they think she’ll come here, will Kaheesha ring them if she does?
Yes, of course I will, she says.
When they hang up, she puts her face in her hands, elbows leaning on the worktop. I fight the urge to lean over, take her hands away, cover her face with my own. Cover her.
They’re bloody useless, she says through her fingers. What kind of Social Services Department can’t even keep hold of a ten-year-old?
She looks up. In loco parentis my arse.
I stare at her.
Means in place of a parent. It’s what a local authority is supposed to do when a child’s in their care, she says. Act like a parent.
I’ve heard it all now. I’ve known some shit parents in my time but all of them better than being in care. Oh, Carla would’ve loved that one. And I must have looked shocked because then we’re both laughing and she’s got this way of putting her hand up to her mouth when she laughs, like she’s shy of her own pleasure, makes my stomach flip over.
She stops laughing first, looks at me, face still flushed.
Seriously though, Donna, where would she go? Back home? To Marie’s? Here?
It’s the first time she’s said my name and I can’t look her in the eye. I shake my head. Don’t worry, she’s not stupid, she’ll be looking for me.
Then one of my phones rings, makes me jump.
It’s Sonn. Leave me alone, I tell her, businesslike, for God’s sake, I could be anywhere.
I know where you are, says Sonn, and I hear the smile in her voice. Stop thinking with your fanny and get back over here where you’re needed.
I look at Kaheesha, but I don’t think she heard.
Thanks for that, I say into the phone.
Then I cut her off, put the phone in my pocket. She’s right of course, could be a patrol car outside any second.
I stand up, I’ve got to go, I say, I’ll see myself out.
Let me know what I can do, she says.
28
I’ve had the darkness with me ever since I can remember, and most likely it’s from me mam’s side, though I can’t know that for sure. Sometimes I feel it under me, like balancing on a tightrope and underneath it’s just a cold dark space, a bottomless pit. One slip and I’ll fall right in, disappear. Other times it’s what keeps me awake at night listening, thoughts creeping about the edges like shadows, when everyone else is sleeping and the only sound is the yowl of a cat or the sound of a car shishing past in the rain. It’s what makes me have to go and sit under the bridge on my own, down by the canal, when anyone else in their right mind is pissing it up on Canal Street, and me, I just want to leave them all to it. Not normal, that, Carla used to say.
So one time I asked her, What’s normal?
She looked at me funny and shrugged.
Not having to ask what’s normal, she said.
When I get to Dusty’s it’s packed, black and red with white leather sofas and a PVC bar, Sixties or something, some historical thing.
It’s pretty quiet because it’s still early. I’m just getting settled with a Red Stripe and a tequila shot when someone sidles up, digs me in the side with one bony elbow. Alright Donna?
Maeve. Skinny as a lat, not six stone wet through. You’d think you could snap her in half with two fingers but she’s fit as a butcher’s and three times as fast. Out on the wing she’s a proper whippet and she throws a punch with the best. Last summer she did the Great North Run and me and Carla and a whole gang of us drove over to Hexham, two cars and a van, just to see her come in. Ribs like running boards, flat as a boy except where the bony bits stuck out, not an attractive look to be honest.
There you go then, Carla said, pulling her smug face. Living proof running’s no good for you.
The only kind of exercise Carla had time for was dancing, or sex. And she could be a real bitch when she wanted.
It’s too late to pretend I’m not here. How’s it going Maeve, I say, not too interested if I’m honest.
Turns out there’s some college student she met at the track, over by the exit looking for some action. I look over where she’s pointing, just to be polite. Against the wall there’s a cute little thing with a blonde wave that curls all round her face. Babydoll hair, babydoll dress, babydoll smile, Jimmy Choos. Christ, I feel tired just looking at her.
I know about the shoes because Lise is always on about them, cutting pictures out of Heat, shoving them under my nose, reminding me when her birthday is. Maybe I’ll get her some next year. Anyhow, Babydoll’s pretending to look in her bag but you can tell she’s watching. And she’s definitely straight. I catch Shauna’s eye behind the bar, motion for another shot, better make it a large one.
Leave it out Maeve, I say, I don’t want the mither. I’m in mourning.
Maeve looks at me like I’ve grown horns, and that gets right on my tits. Not tonight ta, I say.
The thing about some straight women is they irritate the shit out of me. Always thinking we’ll fancy them, just because we’re dykes and they happen to be female, no matter what. I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. If we shagged around half as hard as they seem to think we do we’d be withered to nowt. To my mind that’s fucked up. Still, I guess it can’t be much fun being straight these days, like looking for a diamond with your teeth in a bucket of shit.
I don’t mind the ones who were straight because they didn’t realise there was anything else, and then one day they meet it, the else, and it blows their heads right off their shoulders and they never look back. I can cope with those. No, I mean the collegey ones just thinking about their sec-shoo-alitee, telling you how they just never had the chance, well apart from they kissed a girl once at school and they liked it. Oh yeah and wow, now there’s You. Those are the ones to walk away from, quick-time. Problem is, telling the difference, and while you’re trying to work it all out they’re all over you, no matter how hard you try to fight them off. I swear, no one takes liberties like a straight woman out looking for kicks. So after a while you give in, because by now you can’t think straight and hey fuck it you’re only human. Then just when there’s no turning back she’s up and off, scalded cat style, and you won’t see her for dust. It’s not you… I just don’t think I can do this… No? Really? You could have mentioned it. Makes you feel used up somehow, dirty. Next night she’ll be telling her mates on a girly night in, or worse laying it on some yah-boy just for a bone. Yah, well, I nearly did once, you know, it was so cooool. Sister take it from me, only baby dykes and fully paid-up nutjobs think that kind of shit is a challenge. So that’s numero uno in the sur
vival guide for smart dykes – no straights.
Then Kaheesha’s face floats in front of me, makes me mean. Just get lost Maeve, I say.
I knock back the shot, watch the lights send slow shapes up the floor and the walls, cocktail girls shimmying about in their lurex minis. I think about beating Tony’s face to a pulp, blood everywhere, makes me feel better.
By now Dusty’s is humming, women climbing over each other to get to the bar, I can hardly hear myself think. Mel’s right up behind me before I clock her, all six foot of her, eyes dancing like cornflowers in the sun.
Pay attention geeal, she goes, with a grin. I coulda been anyone.
I slap her on the shoulder. I need you, I say.
I’m back at the lock-up around eleven. I’m about to crawl on to the shelf and pull the blanket over me when I hear the crash from upstairs, the doors going in. This time I hear the voices and there’s no mistaking them.
I leap up, pull the ladder away from the trapdoor and run through to the shelter. Pull the steel door shut behind me and lock it. How could they know?
I grab some ammo from the box and make for the trap door to the canal, lock it behind me.
Out through the crawl space and into the tunnel, arched brick high above me like a cavern, Blue John mines. There’s a narrow shelf, two bricks wide, along the wall beside me, leads to a narrow towpath. I inch along sideways, below me the water, almost black, no knowing how deep it is. When I hit the path I start to run, my footsteps echoing in my ears.
I reach the steel maintenence ladder and race up it, turn the handle. The door is locked from the outside. Fuck, fuck, fuck it. Down the ladder and along two hundred yards and there’s another ladder alongside a manhole.
I wedge myself at the top of the ladder, pull the iron clip and the manhole comes loose. I push with all my strength. It weighs a ton but then it scrapes loose and I can push it over to the side a few inches. I get both hands through the gap, push some more. Then I’m out.