“Are you sick? Do you want to leave?” I asked.
“Course I’m not sick.” She laughed. The girls waiting in line glared. She put two fingers down her throat and did a fake retch. “Oh, yuck. I didn’t wash my hands. Come on. You’re missing the show.”
“What show?”
“The Arden and Malik show.”
Arden was up on a podium. She was swinging around a pole that might have been for dancing, or a prop to hold the sagging ceiling above the stage. She’d lost her jacket and her peacock eyelashes were gone, too. There was something wrong with her. Her movements were graceless and jerky, like a puppet’s. Her jaw was slack but the tendons in her neck were rigid.
She smacked a kiss onto the unsuspecting DJ and bowed. The crowd in the sinkhole cheered and clapped.
Malik appeared at the foot of the podium and tried to grab Arden by the foot. She lashed out at him with her spiked heels.
“Jesus. What was in those shooters?” I shouted.
“Just booze. I think she needed to let herself go tonight,” Carrie yelled back.
“Does she do that often?”
Carrie shook her head. “It was probably seeing Wish again.”
“What do you mean?” I asked but she didn’t answer.
Malik was getting aggressive, trying to capture Arden and reel her in by the hem of her pants. As the crowd pushed and pressed up against the podium he started swinging his fists. The crowd fell back. A bouncer said something in Malik’s ear and hauled him off in a stranglehold.
Arden gave the bouncer the thumbs-up and continued dancing.
“It’s going to be a long night,” Carrie said and headed off back to the bar.
“I’m going to get some air,” I shouted after her, but she didn’t hear. I stumbled out.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IN THE DARK SIDE STREET I gulped cold, night air. I looked left, right, chose left, and walked a little way past a stinking garbage can and two men, walking and smoking.
“Sweetheart,” called one of them wearing an unbuttoned white shirt.
“Leave her,” said the other, gripping a bottle.
White Shirt unzipped his jeans and took a piss, right there, in plain view.
I passed an alley, the Jack the Ripper kind, complete with dripping gutters and chimneys coiling steam. Water trickled through downpipes, playing a sinister music. I could just make out a couple, kissing, up against a wall. A maybe purple shirt with puffy sleeves. Joe getting lucky? I thought and smiled. I was tired in my bones and my head was still thumping with the echoes of bass.
The two men weren’t far behind me, so I sped up. Ahead, there was a main street with more lights and more people. My blood was pumping so hard I couldn’t feel the cold, except in my fingertips.
I checked behind me but the guys had disappeared.
In the distance, laughter, and in that laughter, hate.
I stopped. It went quiet—the kind of quiet that comes before disaster.
A guy hobbled out of the alley clutching his stomach, half-fell, recovered and started running.
“Joe?” I called. “Is that you, Joe?” My voice sounded wobbly and uncertain. “Are you there?”
There was a yelp. A crunching thud, like the sound of an animal hitting a bull-bar. Another. More laughter and breaking glass.
“Joe!” I yelled.
I ran past the opening to the alley because I couldn’t bear to look or hear anymore.
“Can you help?” I pleaded with the bouncer but he just opened the door like an automaton, earplugs jammed in tight.
It felt like forever until I found Carrie, long minutes wasted scanning the writhing crowd when I could have—should have—done something to help Joe while I was right there.
Carrie was dancing by herself, waving her arms around like a washing machine, clearing a space around her.
“It’s Joe.” I gasped. “Outside. Guys in the alley.”
“Cool,” Carrie said vaguely. “Joe likes guys.”
“No, they’re beating him up!” My words couldn’t get out fast enough, tripping over one another. “Other guys. Not the one he was kissing. We have to help him.”
“Oh, shit,” Carrie said and lunged off toward the bathroom. “Find Darcy and Silence,” she said but I followed her, pushing through the line.
Carrie yelled, “Arden! Come out. We need you. Where’s Malik?”
“Gone,” Arden called back in a dreamy voice. “He started swinging and got chucked out.” She sounded pleased with the outcome. “I’m not finished partying. You guys go if you want. I’m having a good time.” She flushed and came out of the stall, still pulling up her pants. She staggered and caught herself by hanging on to the edge of a sink. She looked tall and dangerous in her heels. The girls in the line fell back.
“It’s Joe. You’ve gotta come. Now.”
“What’s wrong with Joe?”
“Some guys caught him doing a Brokeback Mountain against the wall outside. They’ve got him,” Carrie said.
Arden casually applied lipstick.
Carrie was aghast, waiting.
“They’re hitting him,” I said. I was crying. “We have to call the police.”
Arden looked at me with disgust and pushed me out of her way. She slipped off her shoes and carried them, broke into a sprint, elbowing people aside. Carrie and I followed. When she got to the double doors she slammed through, taking the bouncer by surprise. He grunted and stepped aside, then resumed his position, arms crossed and legs apart.
“Down there,” I pointed.
It was too late.
In the dark, Joe was a crumpled mess in the gutter, his arms curled around his legs as if he was still trying to fend off blows. His purple shirt was spattered with blood, his face puffy and grotesque. There had to be blood. After those sounds I heard there had to be lots of it, but the sight of it was still shocking.
“What did they look like?” Arden snapped.
“He needs an ambulance,” Carrie said.
Darcy and Silence turned up and stood nearby with their hands over their mouths.
I sat down in the gutter next to Joe. I touched his face. It was bursting, his eyes swollen shut and his lip split in two places. He groaned and when I lifted his shoulders he rolled his head into my lap.
“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” Joe said in a high voice and tried to smile.
“What did they look like?” Arden screamed.
“Big guy, white shirt and jeans. Another one with a bottle of bourbon. I don’t really know. They’ll be gone. We need to get him to a hospital,” I said dully.
“Stay with Joe,” Arden said to Carrie. To me, she said, “You come with me.”
Reluctantly, I let Joe go. Carrie dipped her shirt into a puddle and started to clean his face. Her tenderness made me cry harder.
We paced the street. I searched the crowd. Arden watched me for any signs of recognition.
“Stop crying,” she said. “Crying doesn’t help Joe.”
“They’re gone. I can’t see them anywhere. They probably got in a cab.”
“Keep looking. Pigs like that always hang around to watch.”
She was right. They were sitting in a green car parked across the street. Eating kebabs. I could see Joe’s blood on the big guy’s white shirt. He held his fist up and inspected his knuckles. The other man laughed.
“That them?”
“Yes. I think so. What are you going to . . . ?”
But Arden was gone already, striding barefoot along the wet footpath, crossing the road, doubling back behind the car. She reached the rear bumper and leaned on it as she slipped on her stilettos.
I had my hands over my face, but I watched through my fingers.
Darcy flopped down next to me on the bench and tucked stray hair under her beret. She glanced at me and smirked at my expression.
Silence slipped up behind me in his ghostlike way. He touched my shoulder and raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t know,” I said to his
unspoken question. “I can’t watch.”
“Watch and learn, country girl,” Darcy said.
Arden climbed up on the trunk of the car. Her weight made the rear end dip and the guys’ heads whipped around. Her heels made terrible scraping sounds on the metal and I could imagine the shiny green paint grinding off under them. She levered herself up onto the roof and stood there like a warrior princess, hands on her hips.
Darcy, Silence, and I climbed on the bench for a better view. People were stopping to look as word spread that something was happening.
Both guys got out of the car.
“Get down, you crazy bitch!” White Shirt yelled.
Arden ignored him. She danced. Tap dancing. Her heels left hailstone dents in the roof and each step was punctuated by a sound like a bullet hitting a tin can.
“Jesus, help me get her off!”
Darcy laughed and clapped, clearly still drunk.
Silence was transfixed and smiling, his bad mood forgotten.
I bit my lip, unsure what to do.
Arden tapped out her rhythm with her arms above her head like a flamenco dancer.
The two guys circled the car and reached across, snatching at the air, trying to grab her. One got a grip on Arden’s ankle and she came down hard, passive. He reeled her in, dragging her down across the hood. Arden wound up and kicked out. Riiip. She caught his cheekbone with her heel and he let go. He fell backward, hit the gutter and clawed at his face. Arden rolled off the hood like a stuntwoman and landed on her feet. She whipped off her shoes and went after the guy on the ground, swinging her stilettos. Smack! Another whack to his wounded face and he dropped again.
A growing crowd gathered around. Arden was outnumbered and they seemed content to watch.
White Shirt was livid. He stood, breathing hard, probably deciding how things would play out if he hit a girl.
Arden decided for him.
She took a low, fast run up and swung her shoe in a looping arc that landed sweet under his chin. He clutched his throat with one hand and tried to hit her with the other. Missed. The motion carried through and he turned his back to her. Arden dropped her shoes and climbed aboard, legs wrapped around his waist in a death grip. She had one arm hooked around his neck and with the other she punched him, flat-fisted. Whack, whack, whack.
White Shirt howled, spinning around in a useless attempt to shake her off. He beat at the back of her head, but she wouldn’t let go. She had him and he knew it.
Silence pointed a finger past my nose. There was a police car pulling up, blue lights blinking, further down the street.
Arden saw it too.
Darcy yelled, “Cops!” and the crowd started to break up.
Arden let go. She dismounted as if she’d broken a wild horse; she picked up her shoes as if she’d just been for a walk along the beach.
“What the fuck?” said White Shirt, his face already swelling.
“You know what!” Arden yelled. She pointed at the blood on his shirt, probably more his than Joe’s.
Her finger stayed there for a long time, a witch’s bone that quivered ever so slightly. Then she loped off. Stopped. Dragged her heel along the side of the car, leaving a ragged silver scar in the paintwork.
I looked at Silence. I wasn’t sure if the expression on his face was horror or admiration.
I felt awe. My heart was doing double time and my jaw was wired open. It’s not that she was brave—she was brave—it was her conviction. The way she waded in and extracted revenge like that. It made me feel small. Not in size, but small like . . . inconsequential.
Darcy was already gone.
“Go, go, go!” Arden screeched and flew past.
Silence didn’t need a second invitation. He took off after her, leaving me dithering, wondering what would happen to Carrie and Joe if we left them behind.
The police officers had already collared White Shirt. The few onlookers left standing around were gesturing in our direction.
I ran.
◆ ◆ ◆
Back at the squat we waited for an hour before a call came from Carrie.
“They waited for us,” Arden said. “They’re on their way in a cab. Joe’s okay.”
She smiled at me. That unexpected, beautiful smile. It felt like a benediction.
Arden went upstairs and after ten minutes of Ping-Pong arguing, she and Malik started making up.
I put my fingers in my ears.
Bree boiled the kettle—it had the same effect.
“Don’t you just love happy endings?” She smirked.
Darcy didn’t make it upstairs. She passed out in the hallway.
Silence waved good night. He touched my face where my wounds were still healing and in his eyes and touch there were questions I didn’t understand. The violence had left me feeling fragile. I was at breaking point. I had nothing for him, why didn’t he get that?
“Good night, Silence,” I said.
There were bloodstains on the front of Darcy’s silver dress. One more reason for her to hate me.
Bree put a steaming mug in front of me and sat down.
“You did a good thing. Getting help for Joe.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I said miserably. “I could have stopped it sooner, but I was too scared. You should have seen her, Bree. She just went for it. She took out those two men like that.” I snapped my fingers. “We all sat there on the other side of the street and watched.”
“Yep. That’s Arden for you.” There was pride in her tone—and something else.
“What do you mean?”
“Told you she’d do anything to protect us.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.” Bree said. “And that’s why you always want her on your side.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IT HAD BEEN NINETEEN DAYS since Silence had found me in the train station. I was starting to feel less like I was stuck and more like I belonged. I was earning my keep by chalking all the loose thoughts in my head on the footpath. Some were my own. Others were wisps of recollection, snippets from poems Vivienne used to recite when she was in the mood. Poetry, the others called it, but I knew better. Poetry had rhythm and reason, and what I wrote had neither, but people seemed to like it. Some days I could write four or five in a few hours and other days I sat empty-headed for ages while traffic swirled around me.
I still felt alone. I still fended off grief every day, but it didn’t take me by surprise anymore. It was a dull ache all over, not an acute physical hit every time I thought of her.
If it wasn’t for the fact that the others saw him too, that he was made of flesh and bone, I would have suspected Silence was my invisible guardian angel. Since the attack on Joe, he’d started sleeping in the room I shared with Carrie and Bree. The first night he crept in, I was unnerved. The second, I was resigned. By the third I was comforted by his presence and I missed him if he wasn’t there. We found peace in each other and nobody else seemed to think it was strange that he watched me all the time.
I thought he was waiting to see when I’d leave. Without him. That was what he expected—to be left behind.
Sometimes he knew what I was thinking before I knew it myself. He left me food when I was busking. Offerings, like a cat might leave on your doorstep—a cinnamon doughnut, a bunch of grapes, a bag of nuts, a fresh bread roll.
On the day I met Alison Dunne, it was a large pretzel, still warm. I looked around but Silence had been and gone.
Intense morning sunshine had beckoned more people outside than usual. They were stunned and blinking, as if years had passed and they were waking from a long sleep.
Days like that brought out the best in people; in a little under an hour I’d made thirty-eight dollars. But by midday the sun was overhead and I’d fallen into shade. There was too much foot traffic outside a gallery, squeezed between a couple of cafés, too many shoes scuffing through my words, leaving them smeared and unreadable. I started packing away my chalk and prepared to move to anot
her spot.
I lingered a few minutes too long, mesmerized by a painting in the gallery window—a woman, standing still in a city street while people jostled past. She was rendered in black and white as if she hadn’t been finished. The rest of the streetscape was in vivid color. Her face was expressionless and her feet were anchored in concrete. The brushstrokes were thick and glossy as butter; it was the kind of painting you itch to touch.
The artist had so perfectly captured my feeling of isolation—of being different, motionless, while everyone around me was moving—I reached out. I pressed my hand to the window. My palm left a faint, chalky imprint on the glass, like it had been dusted for fingerprints. I saw the reflection of someone just behind me, a young woman. She was staring at the painting too.
I gave her a quick smile and made room.
“It’s pretty,” she said.
I nodded.
“Makes you want to touch it.”
“Hmm.”
“Do you paint?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Do you do anything?”
It was a pointed question from someone I had never met. I frowned and looked at her more closely.
She was in her early twenties, dressed smartly in suit pants and a matching jacket. Her hair was cut blunt, dyed a colour too red to be real. She held a briefcase-style handbag that looked heavy enough to be carrying bricks, and her shoes were plain black, flat, and scuffed. Cheap shoes. There was a newspaper tucked under her arm.
“Are you living on the street?”
“What?”
That was like asking if you’d ever wet the bed. I took it as personal and offensive, even though it was just a straight-up question with a straight-up answer. I was wary and I backed away.
She reached out and touched my arm. “Don’t go. I want to ask you some questions. If that’s okay?”
“I’m in a hurry,” I said.
There was something about her that made me squirm. Her eyes were too blue and direct. She was looking at me as if I was something she wanted to unravel.
“Look, I’m sorry . . . maybe I should explain who I am?” She sighed like I should have known who she was, and handed me a business card. “I’m Alison Dunne. I’m a journalist.”
Friday Never Leaving Page 10