Brass

by Helen Walsh

  Ruben was on it straight away. He smiled to himself, but he was hurt.

  ‘Well. There you go.’ He pecked me on the cheek, gave Dad a look. ‘Safe and sound.’

  And with that he was gone. Dad and I walked home, saying nothing till we reached the bottom of our road. Dad caved first, his need to know devouring him.

  ‘That boy . . .’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Did you . . .?’ He couldn’t say it. I knew full well what he wanted to ask. Dad exhaled, tetchy, and tried again. ‘Did you just meet him this evening?’

  I jabbed my finger at him, furious.

  ‘You of all people, Dad! How dare you?’

  Dad took me by the shoulders, tried to joke my fury away.

  ‘Rachel. You can’t just go wandering off like that.’ But it was eating him up. He had to say it; he had to get it said. ‘You can’t do that with just anyone.’

  I smiled. My dad the reggae fan, the tropical medicine man, the traveller through Africa who lived and breathed this culture – he loved it at arm’s length.

  ‘Let’s say what we mean here, Dad. Articulate your fears.’

  And he was angry, then.

  ‘You’ll understand, one day. When you’ve got kids yourself.’

  All I could think was that I would never, never forgive him for this.

  Acknowledgements

  Mum – my lifeline and bezzie mate, thanks for believing I could write one of these things and for supporting me through every high and low; Dad, thanks for each and every sacrifice and for a childhood that not even Enid Blyton could cook up.

  Jamie B, David G, Stan Niall G. and my lovely editor, Colin ‘method’ McLear – thanks for backing me and Millie; Pru, the last word in shambolic glamour – ta for everything and beyond; Antony, Steve and Matt at Arena – I owe you a pint or three; Dr Dave King – gentleman and genius, thanks for nurturing my ‘queer’ predilections; Dr Storrar, thanks for pulling me from those debilitating lows and for your advice and encouragement over the last two years; Peter C – my fun buddy and ally, tar for indulging me and my Tockie jaunts; and Deena, thank the Lord for Deena and her deliciously skewed take on it all.

  About the Author

  Helen Walsh was born in Warrington in 1977 and moved to Barcelona at the age of sixteen. Working as a fixer in the red-light district, she saved enough money to put herself through language school. Burnt out and broke, she returned to England a year later and now works with socially excluded teenagers in North Liverpool. Brass is her first novel.

  First published in the UK in 2004 by Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh, EH1 1TE

  This digital edition first published in 2009 by Canongate Books

  Copyright © Helen Walsh, 2004

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on request

  from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 84767 618 4

  www.canongate.tv