No, as I say, you can’t stop talking to someone just because they die on you.
SATURDAY
CHAPTER ONE
Saturday, the day after Da dies, dawns warm and sticky: a hazy, pearly white June light that promises more heat as the day wears on. The night has been sultry and oppressive, the temperature never dropping, a stew of heat simmering at a steady bubble. I twist and turn restlessly all night and wake feeling drained, with the sheet kicked down at my feet. There is a second, a tiny brief second of hope, like a flaring match, when I open my eyes and think it is just another day. And then consciousness sweeps over me and I remember. The day dies instantly, the flame of hope a thin, useless, trail of smoke from a blackened, fizzled-out match-head.
It is that hopelessness rather than tiredness that makes my eyes close again; there is nothing left to wake for. For a while, I drift in a twilight world, where consciousness is heavy with the shadows of sleep. Not fully sleeping, not fully waking. Then, slowly, lured into dreams, the slow-motion fall from consciousness, like the fall from dusk to darkness.
Coloured dreams, ferocious dreams, monstrous in their vividness. Da is there, walking in the street ahead of me and I run to catch him. But though his pace never changes, I can’t reach him, no matter how hard I run. When I am sweating and out of breath, the ground between us suddenly disappears and I run smack into his back, and he turns so that I am staring into his face. Or what is left of his face.
It is Da all right, but there are great chunks missing: gouged black holes in his cheek and a red, bloodied socket where his right eye should be. And then the face turns on his shoulders like a revolving door, metamorphosing into Tariq.
Da, Tariq. Da. Tariq.
Tariq is Shameena’s brother. I got to know them both through Da when he worked on the buses beside their father, Khadim. Over the years, our families became so close that Shameena and I were like blood sisters, close in a way that Sarah and I were never able to be. But Tariq was not like a brother. No, Tariq was never like a brother.
There is a glaze of sweat on my back when I wake again. Thumping heart, a rush of noise in my head like a train in a tunnel. I jump from the bed in a panic, stumbling against the chest of drawers, smashing my hip bone painfully against the drawer handle. Tariq. Da.
Outside the open window, the squeal of kids now, banging sticks on the army of wheelie bins that stand sentinel at the top end of the road. A car engine cuts and dies. Sarah, I think, peeping round the edge of the curtain. Damn it. Des is with her. Pompous, pin-suited, lawyer Des, with his ice-cream-cone hair and shiny shoes.
Da and I had a bet on about Sarah and Des. Da said she’d marry him. He said Sarah needed looking after, that she craved someone solid and dependable like Des.
And minted, of course, I had said. Minted helps. Da had smiled at me, a wry, disapproving smile, and said it was just that Sarah needed security. Security?
Bloody imprisonment, I said. Sarah and I might not always see eye to eye, but I wouldn’t wish Des on her. I wouldn’t wish Des on anyone. I said I hoped she got smart, cleaned what she could out of Des’s fat bank account, before running off on a world tour with a long-haired rocker from a heavy metal band. It’s the sort of flippant, immature, stupid stuff I used to come out with sometimes. It didn’t mean anything, really. Da just rolled his eyes.
“When are you going to grow up?” he said.
Des has his own law practice, which is the kind of thing that impresses Sarah. “I suppose he’s good looking enough in an almost-forty kind of way,” I told her at the time, and Sarah said in her tight little voice, “He’s thirty-four, Becca.” “Split hairs if you want, I said, but he acts forty and you are only twenty-four, for God’s sake.” Des gives occasional lectures at the university and majors in them in his everyday conversation if you let him. Which I don’t. When I was going off on another seasonal job once, he had the nerve to tell me Sarah was worried about me taking all these temporary posts and didn’t I think a smart girl like me could do better for myself? I said considering how well a dumb boy like him had done, I probably could. Sarah didn’t talk to me for two days.
She met Des at the university when he gave a guest lecture to her year and she stayed behind to ask ‘Sir’ some questions. After they had been seeing each other for a while, she came home once all sparkly-eyed and in love and said guess what, her Des was thinking of taking his PhD. She’s a bit of an intellectual snob, Sarah. “What in?” I said. “Smugness?”
They are in the sitting room when I come downstairs. Des gets up and kisses me stiffly.
“I’m really sorry, Rebecca, about your dad.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”
I look at Sarah. Her eyes are red-rimmed and she looks tired.
“Want a coffee?”
“I’ll make it,” she says and goes out, leaving me with Des and an awkward silence.
“It’s good you got back home in time, Rebecca, you know, that you got the chance to be with him at the end,” he says finally.
“Yeah.”
“Lucky.”
“Mmmm.”
“Well, not lucky, but… well… you know what I mean… fate.”
“Yeah.”
We lapse into silence. Des crosses his legs.
“Job wasn’t working out then?”
“Nah.”
I stare out of the window at Mr Curtis next door, walking up the path with his little Yorkshire terrier. Mr Curtis doesn’t look unlike his pet. Such a gallus walk.
Kind of mincing and a bit nebby. But he was kind when we came back from hospital, even knocked on the door and asked if there was anything he could get for us. Millie from number 38, on the other hand, who knows us much better, was embarrassed and pretended not to see me when I went round to Mohammed’s for milk. People surprise you.
I can’t be bothered being polite to Des. In the circumstances, I don’t think I should be expected to try.
“I’ll just give Sarah a hand,” I say, and leave the room.
Sarah doesn’t even look up when I come into the kitchen. I stand beside her as she pours the water into mugs. “I’m sorry about last night. About telling you to piss off. I didn’t mean it. I was just… you know…”
She flushes.
“It’s okay.”
Her hand is trembling as she puts the sugar in and I reach out and steady her. The gesture makes her break. She puts the sugar bowl down and clings to me and the two of us sob like babies, more united in sorrow than we ever were in joy. Daddy’s girls. I wipe the tears from her face with my hand.
“We’d better go see Father Riley today and tell him what we’ve organised with the undertaker,” I say quietly. “Make sure he can do the mass.”
She nods. “We’ll go together?”
“Yes,” I say, raising my eyes and making a face.
She smiles. She knows I am making an effort if I am willing to go talk hymns and flowers with Father Riley. “Do you want to get changed first?” she asks, looking at my tight, frayed jeans, and I feel the old, familiar flash of irritation. Sarah looks like she is going for a day at the office in a navy trouser suit and pale pink blouse. Just looking at her always makes me want to tousle my hair and put a rip in my shirt.
“It’s okay,” I say, more drily than I mean to. “You look prim enough for both of us.”
CHAPTER TWO
The truth about Sarah. Sarah is my sister and I should tell you that I love her. And I do. But it is not quite that simple. The complications of our relationship drove what happened after Da died, affected how I reacted to events. I was never sure if that was because I wanted to protect her or destroy her. Even now, years later, there is a doubt in my mind.
The fact is that back then, I loved Sarah and I hated her, sometimes at the same time. I always felt hemmed in by her, maybe because I had to look after her when we were small. The thing about death is that it strips away veneers, makes you get right down to the base coat. But that summer, we hadn’t removed all
our layers of varnish yet, me and Sarah. It was too early to know the colour of the bottom layer.
We’re not the first, of course. Not the first siblings to feel icy shards of resentment swirling round the warm blood of love in our veins. I suppose if we’re being honest, I’d have to say that I’m more to blame than Sarah. When she was small, she was like one of those devoted little puppies, but I kicked her often enough for her to learn how to nip.
Da insisted we stick together. Everywhere I went, Sarah went. There was no escape. Sometimes after tea, I’d sneak to the door and open it, then shout quickly, “I’m just off to the park.” I’d try and belt out the door, slamming it behind me before he could answer. Most times it didn’t work.
“Take Sarah with you,” he’d shout, and Sarah would come running to the hall, cheeks bulging with the last of her dinner.
“Hurry up and get your shoes on, stupid, or I’ll belt you one,” I’d hiss venomously.
She’d sit down on the bottom step in the hall and buckle her shoes silently, glancing up at me watchfully through a curtain of straw-coloured hair. She knew that I would walk far too quickly for her, that she would be hauled roughly all the way to the park, but it was enough to be with me.
Past Mohammed’s Asian grocery shop on the corner of Rosebank Street, the stacks of wooden fruit boxes piled higgledy-piggledy on the pavement outside: a pile of speckled bananas; some loose mushrooms, dark earth still clinging to the milky stalks; a few wizened red peppers. Past the glossy black-painted exterior of the Blacksmith’s Arms. “Come on, Sarah,” and I’d yank her hand to pass the pub quickly, the whiff of stale beer lurching through the swing doors as customers walked in, or staggered out. Sarah would say nothing but her hair would fall over her face and her legs would work overtime to keep up. As the years went on, I think Sarah took a quiet satisfaction in being an ever-present thorn in my side. Sarah has always done everything, even vengeance, quietly.
The only time I was nice to her was when someone else wasn’t. She was a pain in the butt but she was my pain in the butt. In the park once, Davie Richardson from number 42 was tormenting her. He had her pinned against the green iron railings of the swing-park and was getting his dog to jump up on her. It was a vicious looking Alsatian called Satan, which tells you everything you need to know about Davie. Sarah squealed with fear and Satan got more and more overexcited. Every time Sarah tried to move from the railings, Davie would move forward and give the dog a bit more leash so that she had to jump back. She ended up screaming at the top of her voice, drumming her feet on the ground in a frantic dance of terror.
I could hear her screams from the other side of the park and came running. Davie and his pals were doubled up with laughter.
“Up!” shouted Davie, and the dog leapt.
I didn’t bother warning Davie. I just drew back my foot and kicked him in the backside as hard as I could.
“Oi!” he shouted, dropping Satan’s lead and pivoting round to grab my wrists. “Get your ugly mutt off her,” I yelled.
A low growl rumbled from deep inside Satan and he crouched low, preparing to leap. One of Davie’s friends grabbed the lead. Davie’s hold was tightening round my arms as I struggled against him. I lifted my heel and stamped it so hard on his foot he howled. His pals jeered, a mixture of laughter and derision.
“Come on, Davie boy, for God’s sake!”
“She’s only a bloody girl!”
But Davie had dropped my arms with the pain and I followed through, elbowing him right in the stomach. I wasn’t one for the Queensberry rules. As he doubled up, I grabbed Sarah’s hand. Satan was growling, straining at the leash. “Mad bitch,” Davie yelled as we walked away. “Bloody lesbian!” I didn’t look back but stuck my two fingers up in the air above my head and walked on. Sarah caught the gesture and gasped.
“You tell Da and I’ll batter you too,” I warned.
She said nothing, but gripped my hand tight and wouldn’t let go all the way home. For once I let her. Back past Blacksmith’s, past Mohammed’s, her small hand warm and sticky in mine.
“Want a couple of apples, Becca?” Mohammed shouted as we went past. He came and leant on the doorway.
“This year’s or last’s?” I shouted over my shoulder.
“Last’s!”
“No ta.”
But most of the time, it was like Sarah and I were fighting on opposite sides. If I had to single out the biggest sign that on some level Sarah and I missed having a mother, it was in the way we competed with each other for Da’s love. A few weeks before my tenth birthday, Da told me he was making me a surprise present. He was always so clever with his hands. Our house was small, but he would take his tools into his bedroom and locked himself away for hours at a time. I stood outside and listened to the banging of hammers and nails, and the rhythmic grating of the saw, and the high-pitched screech of his electric drill, until I was feverish with the excitement of it all.
“What is it, Da?” I yelled, jumping furiously outside the door of his room. I had my outdoor shoes on and the floor vibrated ominously. “What is it, Da?”
He laughed then. I heard him behind the door and he shouted, “Wait and see! You’ll know soon enough…”
But oh I was sick with the wait and the excitement. He would come home with mysterious packages and go straight to his room with them. And then the day itself came. I’ll never forget it. He told me to wait outside his bedroom until he got it all ready, but Peggy had to keep stopping me trying to push the door open.
“Wait until he says, Becca,” she laughed, hugging me while I waited.
“Okay,” Da shouted, and I pushed the door open and gasped. A doll’s house. A doll’s house with a roof that lifted right up and a front that opened out to reveal two storeys with a long attic room on top. It had metal doors and windows with the tiniest of fragile handles. I thought it was the poshest house in the world, a film star’s house, because it had a balcony for sunbathing and a garage with a little car beneath the house.
“Happy birthday, Becca,” Da said.
He couldn’t afford much in the way of furniture because that was shop-bought, but it had a little miniature plastic table, a few chairs. It looked a bit empty, but God, I didn’t care.
“We’ll add to it,” he said gruffly, motioning at the furniture, and I jumped on the spot and clapped my hands. He smiled then.
“Like it, Becca? Do you like it?” he said eagerly, and I didn’t answer. I just ran to him and threw my arms round his waist. It was the best birthday of my life. There have been men who have given me expensive presents since, but no present has ever come close to that doll’s house. Except maybe a little bracelet of cheap beads Tariq gave me when I was sixteen.
We bent down, the two of us, and Da pointed out the little flight of stairs I hadn’t noticed, and I kept spotting other things I hadn’t seen.
“Ooh look, Auntie Peggy,” I shouted, and she came over while I pointed out the black-and-white diamond-patterned paper that Da had bought in the model shop in town and pasted to the bathroom floor.
“Your Da’s clever, Becca, isn’t he?” Peggy said.
It was then Da suddenly straightened up and said, “Where’s Sarah?”
None of us had noticed in the excitement that she had left the room. She was in our bedroom lying face down on the bed, and Da went in and sat beside her and stroked her back.
“What’s the matter with you, misery guts?” I shouted, secure in the knowledge that it was my birthday and I was the day’s VIP.
Sarah sat up furiously at the contempt in my tone, and I saw her cheeks were red with temper.
“I hate you, Becca!” she yelled.
I just laughed. It was mine. The doll’s house was mine. And there was a certain triumph in seeing perfect, composed little Sarah lose her cool.
“Now, now, now,” Da said gently and lifted Sarah onto his knee. “What’s the matter?”
“You never made anything for me when it was my birthday,” whispere
d Sarah, trying not to let me hear as she put her arms round his neck.
“I know, but you haven’t seen the other surprise,” Da said. “I was looking for you to give you your surprise.
Sarah stilled, looked up hopefully at him and sniffed. I frowned. He took her hand, led her back through next door. I hadn’t noticed it in all the excitement of the doll’s house. But on the bedside table there was a little tiny wooden house, a money box with a slot in the roof for the pennies to drop. It was roughly made compared to the doll’s house, but it was bright and attractive, a little pixie house that had a wooden toadstool on its path, painted red with white spots.
Sarah didn’t swoop on it as I had swooped on mine. Her eyes just brightened and she fingered it gently and then she looked at him and smiled.
“Here,” Da said, handing her a coin, “put the penny in.”
There was a tune when the penny dropped. We thought it was magic but Da opened it up and showed us it was just a little musical device with a small lever.
When the penny dropped on the lever, the music played. He said the model shop had imported them from Switzerland, which we knew was a long way from Glasgow. Of course, there wasn’t nearly the craftsmanship in the little money box that there was in the doll’s house, but I was still a bit mad with Da.
“It’s not her birthday,” I complained. “Why is she getting that when it’s not even her birthday!?”
But Da said it was a late birthday present for Sarah because hers had been shop bought and he wanted to make her something too. It is only now, as an adult, that I recognise what that says about him, how hard he worked to treat us equally.
He was so proud when Sarah graduated from her law degree. To tell the truth, it gave me a pang that I had never made him that proud, that all these years I’d bummed around from job to job. And yet, I always sensed that what he felt for me was something slightly different from what he felt for Sarah. But people say that, don’t they, that parents love their children in different, special ways. He was soft around Sarah, gentle. But he laughed more around me. Sometimes I thought Sarah was his pride and I was his joy.
Dead Secret Page 4