‘Chrissie,’ I called. ‘I think I’ve found him.’
She looked across at me and smiled. ‘Cool. Just let me say bye to Clive.’
I walked towards the counter. ‘Did you ask him about the photo?’
‘No. I’m sorry I forgot. Should I?’
‘Photo?’ Clive asked. He squinted at me and I wondered whether he needed glasses.
‘I will.’ I pulled the creased image from my pocket.
‘Do you recognise this man?’
He pulled the photo closer and laughed. ‘Of course I do. That’s Scott Albion, heart breaker and shaman.’
‘Heart breaker?’
‘Mine and your mother’s, dahling.’
‘Were they ... involved?’ The word left a bad taste in my mouth.
‘She wanted to be. Who wouldn’t? He’s gorgeous.’ Giggling, Clive blushed and looked at the photo again. ‘Chasing after him is what caused the poor dahling’s breakdown, in my opinion.’
‘Does he live near here?’
‘Oh yes. You can see his garden wall from the front of the shop. If you go around the corner ...’
‘Thank you.’ I tugged on the photograph.
Clive looked concerned, but released it with a sympathetic half-smile. I grabbed Chrissie’s arm and led her outside.
‘I’m sorry,’ Clive called behind us.
Chrissie turned and waved. ‘Thank you. Have a great day.’
Outside, the heat was relentless. Unable to find shade, we tried to fan ourselves.
‘It’s way too hot for me.’ Chrissie sighed. ‘Let’s just head for Vivienne’s house.’
‘No. I wanna knock on his door first.’
‘Scott Albion’s?’
I nodded and started walking towards the wall. I pointed at the tree. ‘On the other side of this wall.’
Outside the red-brick house it felt even hotter. With a sideways glance at my friend, I rang the doorbell. We waited as minutes dragged like hours. Disappointed, we turned to leave then the door opened and, in the shaded hallway, there stood a tall, blond, young man - Scott Albion.
Spinning round to face him fully, I collapsed.
14
(Bristol, England - 2007)
‘What the fuck happened to you?’ Michael asked as he opened the door.
‘Better not to ask.’ I looked at the reefer in his hand. ‘Roll me one of those.’
He nodded his mostly shaved head and led me inside. The room was full of sour mist. We sat on his bed as he rolled the joint for me. It was a small room, but it was his. No parents, no room mates, his sanctuary and he liked to share it with friends on Friday evenings. He saw me wrinkling my nose.
‘Better not to ask,’ he said, laughing.
Michael was a stoner, and he was also my best friend. He was the most gentle and natural guy I had ever met. Nothing seemed to phase him. His main, perhaps only, flaw was a distinct lack of personal hygiene. Thankfully today he had decided to bathe and his The Specials t-shirt seemed almost clean with just a hint of old yellow stains beneath his arms.
He put his fingers up to the bruise around my eye and whistled. ‘Crow ... why are you always so angry. Chill, chérie.’
‘I wasn’t fighting.’ I stood up and pulled a book from his shelf. ‘New?’
He nodded as I stroked the cover. It spoke to me. ‘What’s it about?’
‘Freedom,’ he replied. ‘Another way to live, man.’
‘It was Mum.’
‘Huh?’
‘I told her she should keep her boyfriends on a leash.’
‘She still doin’ that shit?’
‘I guess it’s her addiction, like this is yours.’
‘Bah, this ain’t no addiction. I’m just unfurling. It’s easy to get wound too tight.’
I smiled. ‘Can I borrow it?’
‘Borrow what, chérie?’
‘The book.’ I grinned. Sometimes Michael was a genius, but at others, he struggled to keep up with my most basic trains of thought.
‘Sure, after I’ve finished with it.’
I placed it back on the shelf. ‘Got any beer?’
‘Nah, man. Shit, Crow, can’t you settle? You’re stressing me out.’
‘Sorry. So who else is coming tonight?’
‘The usual: Emma, Nick, Abbie ... maybe Chris.’
They were all a few years older than me. Some had jobs and others were students while Michael was between jobs. He always seemed to have enough to get by though and he never charged us for the weed we smoked there. He was a good guy.
‘Put some music on, chérie. It might help you relax.’
I wandered over to his hi-fi. Above and around it the shelves were jam-packed with CDs of various genres. I didn’t know half of them. I fingered a few spines then pressed play on the sound system. Massive Attack burst through the speakers. Michael nodded approvingly. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was his choice, not mine.
‘You don’t have to put up with it, you know,’ he said.
‘It’s fine,’ I answered, thinking he was talking about the music.
‘You are a good girl.’
‘I’m not a girl,’ I answered, pouting.
‘What are you then?’
‘Dunno, but not that – what are my choices?’
‘Infinite. You can stay here while you think about it, chérie.’
‘I can’t do that, Michael. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’d be in if a thirteen-year-old was found hiding out in your flat?’
He shrugged. ‘Do you have any idea how many shits I give?’
‘Thanks, but one of us has to be sensible. If I run I’d better go far away. London, maybe.’
‘Tough there in the big smoke. Bad people ready to prey on young ... minds.’
‘Bad people at my house too.’
He nodded, frowning. ‘And she won’t listen?’
‘Nah.’
‘What about your big brother? What’s his name?’
‘Tom. He can’t see it. I guess they don’t bother him. Wrong equipment.’
Michael snorted. ‘You even told him?’
I blushed and shifted uncomfortably on the bed. ‘What good would it do?’
15
(Bristol, England - 2013)
A cool breeze washed over my forehead and I opened my eyes. In the half-light, I saw two familiar faces smiling down at me. I wondered whether I was dreaming. The man’s face soothed me and I drifted happily between the reality of lying on a lumpy sofa in a darkened room and another place, equally real, beneath the boughs of an oak tree, surrounded by fallen leaves of gold and red.
‘You fainted.’ The warm voice of Scott penetrated my consciousness. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Fine.’ I struggled to sit up, but felt light-headed and heavy-bodied.
His hand hovered an inch from my skin. He smelled of earth and soap, with a gentle base of musk. Feeling like a child in my nanny’s arms, I sensed I was safe. In a fluid movement, he moved the air around me from my throat to the crown of my head. I pushed myself into a seated position.
‘Drink this.’ He passed me a frosty looking glass of water.
With a desperate thirst, I gulped down the cold liquid, hardly pausing for breath. I studied his face, memorising every detail from a small mole at the centre of his shaven chin to the laughter lines around each eye. ‘Do I ... do I know you?’
His gentle laughter unsettled me. ‘I must have one of those faces.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He shook his head. ‘Chrissie told me you guys live in London and you’re here to see your mum.’
‘Huh? How long was I out for?’
‘About ten minutes,’ Chrissie answered. ‘Any longer and we might have called an ambulance.’
Scott rolled his eyes.
‘Could I have some more water?’ I asked.
Scott took the glass and left Chrissie and me alone in the room.
‘He’s lovely. If you want to hear all the roma
ntic details, he picked you up in his manly arms and carried you over the threshold.’ Chrissie giggled.
‘Stop it. You know I’m not interested.’
‘Right, course not. Me neither.’
Turning away from her, I noticed the details of the room. The wall opposite had an ugly, bronze-coloured electric fire at its centre. On either side and above this, the wall was covered with chunks of beige and grey rocks which jutted into the room with practised audacity. In small nooks, between some of the stones, nestled cute china unicorns in a myriad of pastel shades. The deep-piled carpet was red with an orange swirling pattern. I felt submerged in dizzyingly 70s kitsch. Wondering what sort of man could tolerate such a room, I lay back on the settee and closed my eyes. Claws pierced my combats and a weight pinned my legs. Startled, I watched as a large reddish-black cat rubbed itself on my shins, purring.
‘Ahh, Kitty!’ Chrissie stroked its nose.
‘Mandala, don’t bother our guests.’ Scott strode through the door.
Mandala stared at me for a moment then leapt onto the floor. After a few circuits of possessive weaving, between and around Scott’s legs, he jogged out of the room, tail held high.
‘I’m sorry we disturbed you,’ I said.
‘Not at all. It’s hot outside, maybe you were just dehydrated.’
‘Yeah, probably, but what I meant was, just turning up like that.’
‘Like what?’
I looked at Chrissie. She shrugged.
‘Umm, well we met with Clive, at Healing Ways.’
He cocked his head to one side and sat on the sofa beside my legs. I watched him, silently until he nodded for me to continue.
‘My mum had your photo. I’m Vivienne Nightingale’s kid, Crow.’
I thought I caught the flush of pink in his cheeks, but he didn’t answer.
‘Did you know her?’
‘Your mum?’
‘Yeah, my mum, Vivienne.’
He nodded and sighed. ‘How is she doing?’
‘I don’t think she’s doing well at all. Why did she have your photo?’
‘I don’t know,’ he answered. He glanced at a clock on the wall. ‘Sorry, I have to cook ... before my mum gets home. If you want, you can come back tomorrow, but I don’t know how much help I can be. Clive knows her better than I do.’
‘Why don’t you come to Vivienne’s house tomorrow?’ Chrissie asked.
Scott looked hesitant. ‘I haven’t been there since Vivienne ...’
‘What did she do?’ I asked.
‘Nothing, not really. Guess I should go back, dispel some negative energy.’ He paused. ‘But I think I might struggle to get there until Monday.’
‘Okay, Monday it is,’ Chrissie said with an air of finality.
‘I’m not sure we’ll still be there,’ I said. I thought of my backpack, everything packed ready to run. I didn’t want to be anyone else’s rock. I was a raging river - pushing, rushing.
‘Of course we will. Come on Crow, big house, bigger mysteries. We can’t leave yet.’
I looked at her and saw her face beneath a heavy boot. Didn’t she realise I couldn’t be squeezed like that? Movement was my medium, my life blood. No roots. No history. No voices in my head to be pushed away. Silently I told myself I could leave. I could grab my backpack and head ... anywhere. My choices were infinite. Yet standing still ... could that be a choice and if so was it a choice I could make? Two steps forward, one step back.
Chrissie kissed Scott’s cheek as we left. I waved and Scott simply smiled. I followed her, placidly, my head bowed and full of turmoil. As we turned the corner Chrissie mouthed the word Mum in disbelief. I shrugged, thinking instead about how I could have dreamed of someone I had never met.
16
(London, England - 2013)
I had spent another night in a cell - disturbing the peace, this time. Apparently moving towards a police officer who is trying to crush your friend’s skull with his boot can be deemed as intimidating behaviour, poor piggies.
The squat wasn’t far away. I walked the distance even though I felt a sharp pain in my hip every time I climbed steps or stepped on or off the kerb. It was impossible to sleep in a police cell and I felt so tired and sore I had to stop every ten minutes to roll a cigarette.
When I reached the squat everyone was already awake. Chrissie had arrived there a few hours before. They cheered as I walked into the living room and I took a deep bow, wincing with the effort. Apparently, only Chrissie and I had been nicked; the rest had made it out of the affray without arrest. Mitch, Wendy and Si lifted their cans of beer and toasted our return. Matty and Harv disappeared to the kitchen and Chrissie waved weakly from the floor. I grabbed a can of warm beer and gulped it down while my eyelids grew heavier. Exhausted, I lay on the floor alongside Chrissie.
The seven of us had lived together in this dark, damp squat for a little over a year. We were soldiers, idealists and wastrels. It was the closest I’d come to living life as a freedom-fighter, like my father. Sometimes it felt important, but at others I would look at my friends, listen to their inane chatter and wonder whether we were less a bunch of revolutionaries and more a group of children playing at non-conformity. One step forward, two steps back.
Matty and Harv returned to the room and nodded off in the corner, surrounded by burnt silver foil and the sweet smell of death. It sounded as though Mitch was puking in the bathroom again and, from their grunts and groans, I guessed Wendy and Si were at it on the stairs.
I turned around to face Chrissie. She held a pen in her left hand and sucked on her knee with a glazed expression in her eyes. I watched her as she faded in and out, sucking then scribbling in her red notebook. Her long blonde hair was twisted into dreads and a kitsch scarf, with a pink kitten motif, pulled it back from her freckled face. I left her to her thoughts and stared at purple and green islands of bruises on the ocean of my skin. My cheek bone throbbed and I wondered whether the bone had chipped on impact.
Chrissie looked across and smiled. ‘My hero.’ She closed her notebook and put down her pen.
‘I tried, but failed,’ I replied.
‘I saw the blow. That was cold, Crow.’
I nodded and my cheek throbbed even more.
‘Thank you.’
I tried to grin, but the pain was unbearable. ‘Ta nada.’
‘Looks like you got another letter.’ She reached behind her.
I tried to sit up, but failed. ‘It’ll be from Tom.’
‘About Vivienne?’
‘Probably. That seems to be his subject of choice these days.’
Chrissie sighed, passing me the envelope. ‘Families.’
‘Uh, huh.’ I turned it over in my hand.
‘Will you go?’
I shook my head. ‘There’s nothing there for me.’
‘I know.’ Chrissie’s voice was soft.
Turning away, I put the unopened letter on the floor beside my head, feeling angry and powerless. First Mum then all these stupid bruises, the arrest and the sleepless night, none of it seemed fair. I wanted to rage, not at Chrissie, but at the world, which had let me down so badly.
‘She’s a slut-psycho-bitch!’ I said suddenly, shocking myself. Did I really feel that way? What right did I have to judge her choices? My body shook. Concentrating on my breathing, I tried to calm myself. ‘She hates me.’
I felt Chrissie’s hand brush the stubble on my crown then quickly withdraw. ‘You know, Crow. Maybe you need to go back ... discover what skeletons lurk behind the stage curtains.’ She grabbed my shoulder.
I recoiled and stared at her.
She blushed and let go. ‘Sorry.’ She shook her head and frowned. ‘You can run away from your family, but not from yourself. You’ll take your pain wherever you go, until you face your demons.’
I shrugged. ‘The only pain I feel is from the beating I got, flower. I know what happened and I’d rather stay far away.’
She snorted but didn’t argue the point. In
stead she picked up her notepad and pen again. I lay on my back staring at the yellow and black ceiling. This place was a dump.
17
(Bristol, England - 2013)
‘Morning,’ Chrissie called through the open door.
‘Wa, what time is it?’ I yawned.
‘Eleven. I found some things I want to show you.’
‘Huh?’
‘Sorry, Crow. Come, have coffee, I’ll tell you later.’
I sat up in bed. Flashes from my dream raced through my head. I tried to hold onto them, but only clutched at the edges of fragments. Scott again, or at least his eyes, and a bird soaring beyond his narrow shoulder, a black bird, a crow or a raven, perhaps. I looked for more, but couldn’t find it. Squeezing my eyes shut, I sent the memories away and pulled myself out of bed.
I felt Chrissie’s eagerness the moment I walked into the kitchen. I accepted the black coffee placed in front of me, rolled and lit a cigarette, and rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand. The coffee was too strong. It coated my tongue as I sipped it, but it helped me shake off a little of the tiredness I felt.
‘What were you dreaming about?’ Chrissie asked.
‘A bird. I can’t really remember.’
‘You were shouting, “leave him alone.”’
‘Sorry, Chrissie. Did I wake you?’
She gripped my hand and squeezed. ‘It’s okay. I’m here for you, sweetie.’
I grimaced. ‘What have you found?’
‘A stack of your old drawings in Vivienne’s desk. I’ve popped them on the dining table. Come and see.’
The papers were yellowed, creased and had fingerprints around their edges. Most of the pictures were portraits. Amongst the pile there were a few of Tomas; in all of them he was smiling. There were a selection of self-portraits and two of Vivienne – in one she looked beautiful, her dark hair draped around her shoulders and her mouth smiling benevolently; in the other she looked frightening, her mouth twisted, her hair wild and her eyes dark and cruel.
Rifling through them, I discarded the ones of myself and lingered over the two of my mother, remembering each face in turn and how swiftly one could change into the other. Chrissie picked up some of the discarded portraits.
The Ballerina and the Revolutionary Page 5