by Julie Shaw
He was. Was sitting on the futon he’d only recently slept in, greasy jeans covering legs that were splayed across the floor. He had a fat spliff in his hand and he grinned as he saw her, replacing the smile with a frown as he saw the look on her face.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘what’s up, sis? Hang on …’ he added, pulling himself up. He then placed the spliff in the ashtray, nudging the collection of butts up to make room for it. Then he reached behind the futon and pulled out something huge and soft-looking and grey.
‘This help?’ he said, thrusting the oversized soft toy at her. It was Eeyore, the sad donkey out of Winnie-the-Pooh.
‘Where’d you get that?’ Christine wanted to know, her distress diverted momentarily. It was made of plush and at least three times the size of Joey.
‘Down the market,’ Nicky answered. ‘And before you pull a face, no, I didn’t nick it. Couldn’t say no to it, could I? Little Joey’s going to love it, don’t you reckon? Well, when he’s big enough, of course. Might be a bit of a while yet.’
Christine couldn’t speak. She had a rock in her throat. Nicky put the toy down. ‘Hey, come on, sis, get a grip will you? Come on.’ He gently took her hands from the pram handle and steered the sleeping Joey into the bedroom. ‘Go on,’ he said, gesturing towards the futon. ‘Take the weight off those feet.’
Christine flopped down, sniffing and snivelling, and picked up the enormous toy. So like Nicky. Not a bean, yet he’d spent a packet on this most probably. And even if he hadn’t – and she wasn’t going to press him on that point – it was the thought. And what it meant. Just how much it meant. It meant she and Joey weren’t just a nuisance. An inconvenience to be borne.
Nicky flopped down beside her moments later. ‘Go on, then, spill, sis,’ he said, propping the toy up against the wall.
So she started telling him – about what Sister Rawson had said, about seeing June, about their mam, all the while accepting drags on the spliff, gratefully, as she spoke. She still didn’t like all the drugs they took, but the dope didn’t count. It really didn’t. They were even trying to legalise it, and with good reason. It didn’t make anyone shout and scream and punch. It didn’t do that thing you saw all the time down the Listers on a weekend. It didn’t make lads brawl in the street.
Quite the opposite, she’d come to realise. Dope was gentle, and kind. It helped to soothe troubled thoughts. Helped you calm down and relax. Helped put your troubles in perspective.
‘Fuck that silly cow,’ Nicky said, raising his free arm and putting it around her shoulder. ‘You got me and Brian, sis,’ he said, planting a kiss on the top of her head. ‘You’re fine here. We’ll sort you out. See you right. You’re fine here.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know, Nick. It’s just –’
Nicky pulled back. ‘Do you?’ he asked, holding her gaze. ‘Do you really, Chris? I’m not sure you do. But let me tell you, I’ll always do right by you, you know that? You and Joey. You’re the only family I’ve got and I’ll take care of you, okay?’
Christine took another drag, then sank back gratefully into the cushions, feeling the weight and solidity of her brother’s encircling arm, and finally starting to feel a little less broken.
Chapter 10
Brian stumbled into the living room, barefoot and stinking of booze, but looking unusually animated.
‘Fuck me, I nearly forgot,’ he said, laughing. ‘It’s only me fucking birthday, Chris, innit!’
Barely two weeks had passed since Christine had been to see her mother. And though she’d dutifully attended baby clinic, and met up with Josie to pour her heart out, nothing had changed. No word from the housing, and nothing either from or about her mother.
She’d thought more than once she might phone the social-worker woman, Carol Sloper. But the idea had somehow not translated to action. When it had come to it, she hadn’t quite found the wherewithal to actually go to the phone box and make the call.
Brian was hopping from foot to foot, looking around, as if for something. ‘Where’s your Nicky?’ he asked. ‘We’ll have to have a party or summat, won’t we?’
Christine studied him, taking in the state of him. Even with her sense of smell being so accustomed to the general rankness now, he stank. ‘He’s nipped out to cash his giro,’ she answered. Then had a thought. ‘And, if that’s the case, maybe you’ll be thinking of having a bath?’
Brian really did stink. Especially his breath, which she could smell from across the room. Not to mention his clothes, which he usually slept in, only changing them under duress. She’d learned he could usually be persuaded to, if she offered to do a wash for him, but, other than that, it was as if he either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
‘Cheeky git,’ he said, laughing again as he stretched and scratched luxuriously, before stepping out on to the balcony that served the fourth floor.
She watched him hoick up his jeans and bend dangerously far over the railing. ‘C’mon, Rodders!’ he hollered down. ‘It’s only me bleedin’ birthday!’ He then leaned back into the front room, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Your Nick,’ he explained, for what must have been the umpteenth time. ‘Rodders. D’you get it, Chrissy? Like off that Fools and Horses thingy. Del Boy and Rodders. I’m Del Boy and your Nick is that plonker – that Rodney. Suits him, don’t you think?’ He mimed what Christine assumed was some ducking and diving. ‘Suits him down to the ground, that does. That plonker.’
Christine carried on picking up the stray rubbish that habitually littered the living room. Where did it all come from? It was as if it bred in the night. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said. ‘And this is Peckham, and this is Nelson Mandela House. Yeah, you’ve told me, Brian. Several times. I get that.’
Brian went back out onto the balcony and eventually returned with Nicky, who was carrying a paper bag from which a delicious smell was coming. ‘Bacon sarnies all round,’ he announced, holding the bag up and smiling. ‘Get the kettle on, Chrissy. And see if you can find the brown sauce.’
They all trooped into the kitchen and while Christine popped the kettle on, the sauce located, Nicky started doling out his booty. The sink was, as usual, overflowing with filthy dishes – which always struck Christine as odd, since Nicky and Brian mostly ate out of take-away containers. She ran the hot tap, somewhat optimistically, while Nicky plopped sauce onto the butties, and once it was lukewarm, squeezed the last dregs of washing-up liquid onto the stacks of crockery. Joey’d not long gone down, so, not waiting for the kettle, she followed them both back into the lounge.
‘So what’s the plan then?’ she asked. ‘How shall we celebrate? Go out? Maybe I could ask Sonia to sit Joey.’
Sonia, who lived on the landing above them, was always on hand to babysit, it seemed. A half-caste fifteen-year-old – which made Christine warm to her – she’d long since dumped school for the more profitable business of looking after other people’s kids. And it was profitable. She had no shortage of work. Chances were she might already be booked up.
Brian, predictably, was already halfway into his sandwich. He ate pretty erratically, which was why he was so scrawny, but when he did, he consumed food like it was the last he would ever see.
‘Nah, mate,’ he said, wiping ineffectually at the butter dripping down his stubble-coated chin. ‘I thought I’d get a few of the lads round for a bit of a knees-up. It’s cheaper than the pub, and besides, we’ll be getting some gear, won’t we? And some Charlie, if we’re lucky. Can’t do that in the pub, can we?’
Nick snorted. ‘And who exactly do you think is gonna bring gear round here, mate? You still owe half the fucking estate for what you had last week.’
Brian winked at his friend. ‘It’s your best mate’s birthday, innit? And you got your giro this morning. You work it out.’
‘No way is all this going on smack, mate,’ Nicky said, patting his back pocket. ‘Be happy you got a sarnie for your birthday, cos that’s all your getting.’
Brian wasn’t to be deflected though. If
there was money around, he was having some. It was his flat. As Christine was never allowed to forget when she got her family allowance either. ‘Listen, I swear, Nick,’ he said. ‘I’ve got something coming up on Saturday. I’ll be able to drop you a few quid at the weekend, promise. Tell you what – in fact I’ll double what you spend.’
Christine had heard conversations like this on an almost daily basis since moving in, and she knew how it would go. Nick would say no. Brian would continue to plead, then Nick would cave in. But then he’d tell Brian he wasn’t going to pay any rent until he got paid back. This time was no different. Nor would it ever be, she reckoned. Much as she loved her brother, what she wouldn’t give to get out. And what the fuck was she supposed to do with Joey while all this was happening? Yes, she could keep him in the bedroom, and hope he’d sleep through most of it, but the flat would be crawling with the sort of idiots who saw a closed bedroom door as an opportunity (for either a quickie or a kip) and on the evidence of what she’d seen so far – even though in other flats, not this one – the whole thing could go on for bloody hours.
‘Fuck the rent, Nicky,’ Brian said amiably. ‘I’m telling you, I won’t need it this month. Rasta Mo is fetching me some right gear round on Saturday. I’ll get rid of it the same day – no problem – then I’ll be sorted. Tickety boo, like. It’ll clear my debt with him as well. Happy all round.’
Mo. Christine’s stomach flipped. Mo? Coming here? She looked anxiously at her brother, who had already looked in her direction. ‘Is he for real?’ she asked Nicky. She felt scared suddenly. Even as she knew she was being ridiculous. Scared and at the same time not a little defiant – even expectant. Let him come. Let him see what he’d produced. What they’d created. As much as anything she wanted to see his reaction when he did, even though Josie had told her over and over that he produced kids all over. That he couldn’t, wouldn’t give a shit.
‘You can’t have him round here!’ Nicky said, pointing at Christine. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
Brian’s expression told Christine that he had. Then he shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, he won’t come in, or anything. He told me not to tell anyone, didn’t he? Not even you, Nicky. He’ll wait down in the car park. It’ll be one of his Joeys who comes up with the gear.’
Christine glanced towards her bedroom door, distracted and cross. Her poor boy. Having him for a sodding father. Then she turned to Brian, having processed what he’d said. ‘Joeys?’ she said.
Brian was busy scratching his crotch now. ‘Eh?’
Nicky shook his head. ‘Boys, sis. One of his boys is what he meant.’
Christine shrugged. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,’ she said. ‘Fuck Mo. He’s a waste of space. So. Who’s for tea?’
She wiped her hands on one of Joey’s muslins, and gathered up a couple of stray mugs, suddenly feeling up for it. Feeling bullish. Feeling like she too had a right to a life. ‘Let’s plan this party then, shall we?’ she said brightly. ‘It’s about time I let my hair down.’
Though initially looking shocked at Christine’s sudden change of mind, Nicky and Brian soon got up to speed, deciding on whom they would or wouldn’t bestow an invite, and discussing how they’d come by sufficient quantities of drugs and alcohol. In reality, their list of ‘friends’ mostly comprised fellow junkies from the flats, but perhaps that was the definition of ‘friend’ for the likes of Brian and, increasingly, Christine mused, for her brother.
She decided to leave them to it, her brief moment of enthusiasm quickly beginning to seep from her, revealing itself for the impostor it really was. She slipped into the bedroom quietly, anxious not to wake Joey, and wondered, as she so often did, how she was going to fill another day.
She thought about going out, deciding that perhaps she’d nip to the post office to get a card for Brian, then immediately dismissed the idea as being pointless. Brian would much rather have a joint than a card. Fact. Indeed, he’d likely as not use it, assuming it was sufficiently thick card, to tear into strips to make filters.
She lay back on the bed, laced her fingers behind her head and stared up at the ceiling. It was covered in damp patches; great swathes of dirty grey, liberally spotted by spreading black mould spores. It had spread even since she’d been there and could only get worse – both from the condensation (it was too cold to air the room properly) and from the imminent approach of winter.
She had to get out. She had to. For Joey’s health, as much as anything. They both seemed to be permanently snotty and snivelling. Which couldn’t be good for him. And above all things, she wanted things to be good for him. She just felt powerless to make anything right.
She also felt anxious about seeing Mo. No, that was wrong, she decided. Her anxiety was more about him seeing her. Anxious about feeling scrutinised by him. About his gaze running over her – up and down, as was his way – and then deeming her unworthy of a second glance. Her position angered her. Her assigned role of being one of his pathetic cast-offs – too stupid even to have got rid of his baby, and now saddled with a kid he had no use for. She hoped he did stay in his car – his look-at-me-I’m-so-hard BMW. She wondered if he even realised that round their way they called BMWs Black Men’s Wheels, because every black wannabe gangster aspired to drive one. Probably, she conceded. And he probably didn’t care. He was so full of himself he probably thought it was appropriate.
No, she hated the idea of seeing him, because she knew she’d find it hard to play the role she’d been assigned. That she’d want to slap him, put him down, give him a piece of her mind – like absolutely no one, as far as she could tell, ever dared to do. But at least she had the knowledge that her mam had sent him packing. No one sent Mo packing, but her mam had had the strength to.
She had another thought then. Why was Mo supplying Brian with gear to sell anyway? Mo hated Brian. Everyone knew that. He called him ‘blow job’ – a name he had earned very famously when he’d gone down on another dealer to pay for a spliff. Mo thought Brian was a joke, just like all the other dealers did. So why Brian? Why now? It made little sense. Except … A new thought slipped into Christine’s mind and stayed there. Was there another reason for Mo’s sudden interest in the flat?
She continued to study the ceiling while she played with possibilities, chief among them – and despite herself, she couldn’t help but consider it – being that Mo, having been dumped by his ever-faithful doormat, Lizzie, had decided he might as well seek Christine out again. She might have a baby but she was still very young. And everyone knew, her included (she had the evidence in the pram beside her) that Mo had a liking for young flesh.
She shuddered inwardly, as the murky memories of their coupling revisited her. She’d loved Mo back then. Like a caring kindly uncle. Found him captivating, since she was eleven and he’d arrived with a toy for her. A Barbie doll equivalent that he’d chosen especially for her. ‘Look at that!’ her mam had raved. ‘Aren’t you the luckiest girl ever?’ And he’d smiled his smooth smile, ran a hand over her head, and she’d drunk in his presence and the smell of his aftershave, and thought fleetingly how nice it would be – how amazing it would be – if Rasta Mo came to live with them and became her daddy.
When Christine emerged from her bedroom with Joey, to make up his bottle, Brian was alone in the living room. ‘Change of plan,’ he said. ‘Your Nicky’s been knocking on doors, and we’ve decided it’d be a better plan to leave the party till Saturday, so’s people have got their money. Plus there’s another benefit –’ He talked like a teacher, presenting a lesson plan to a class. ‘I’ll have the gear, then, off Mo, and I’ll be able to cut a bit of it, which means you, me and Nicky won’t have to pay for any of it.’
Christine wondered at the mindset that seemed to see life as a series of obstacles in which success was measured in terms of what you got away with. She needed her benefits – needed them badly – but there wasn’t a day when she cashed her giro without a sense of guilt and frustration. She wanted to work. T
o have her job back. To feel she mattered.
But this was good news. Far better to have it at the weekend, when there was much less chance of people kicking off about the noise.
Though Brian winked at her. ‘Doesn’t stop us having a little blast on our own tonight though, does it? Your Nicky said he’ll bring us a couple of rocks back in a bit, if you’re up for it.’
Christine was about to shake her head, but something stopped her. Now her head was sorted, she felt a lot braver. So instead she shrugged. ‘Yeah, perhaps,’ she said, shifting Joey to her other hip. ‘Perhaps.’
Brian came over and lifted a hand to chuck Joey under the chin, and it was an effort of will not to flinch under the twin assault of filthy hand and fetid breath. ‘Oh, go on,’ he said. ‘You know you want to.’
Chapter 11
For all that the possibility of Mo turning up had been on her mind, Christine hadn’t actually expected to see him. It wasn’t even noon yet, for pity’s sake – pretty much the middle of the night for the likes of Mo. He slept late and worked late and partied till sun up. Christine knew this because she’d observed his comings and goings for many years. So when she’d popped out with Joey, after a full morning’s tidying and scrubbing, the last thing she expected to see when she turned the final corner to home was the sight of his BMW parked up in the flat car park.
Much less the sight of Mo himself. Yet here he was, large as life, leaning against the car, legs crossed at the ankle, one hand holding the cigarette he was lifting to his lips, the other slipped inside the pocket of his jeans.
He didn’t even pause when he saw her. Not even for half a second. The cigarette continued its journey to his opening lips as smoothly as if propelled there by a motor. He took a deep drag, released it, then blew a steady stream of smoke out, while he flicked the ash off the tip onto the concrete.
Christine stopped in her tracks, her mind whirring and racing at the sight of him. Seeing his black jacket – leather, but styled like a suit jacket. The bright T-shirt beneath. The trademark Bob Marley dreadlocks, which were still such an arresting sight. Still one of the many things about him that had the power to unsettle her. How could such a bastard still exert such a power?