by Priya Basil
Helen was speechless for a while. Her mouth opened and closed a few times as if she was warming up her jaw for some exercise. ‘How was it wrong?’ she eventually said. ‘Your doubts didn’t come out of nowhere.’
‘Danny says it’s my own insecurity that makes me suspicious.’ Jill shrugged her thin shoulders as though there was no room for argument.
Her sister’s marriage was the most twisted example of human weakness parading as love that Helen had ever seen. It was even worse than the strange relationship between her parents. Helen had broken the family mould in so far as she had never let herself be manipulated by a man, for good or bad. As a result, her mother liked to point out, she had made herself a victim of her own high standards. ‘What’s the fun in standing on the outskirts of love and feeling superior?’ Sheila had once asked. ‘There’s no shame in having got it wrong. Whereas it’s a shame when you don’t even give yourself the chance of getting it right. Better to have loved and lost . . .’
Helen is twenty-three years old and has never had a boyfriend. No man has impressed or reassured her enough. There have been only drunken propositions, or friendships that teetered on the brink of something more for so long they fizzled back into friendship.
On the train, bodies press in on Helen from all sides. She inches towards the row of seated passengers, trying to create a fraction of space between herself and the rest of the crowd, but it makes no difference. The knees of the man sitting in front are pressing into her legs again. Someone else’s bum is rubbing against her hip. Her right shoulder is pinned to the ample bosom of a young girl with two piercings in each eyebrow and, as far as Helen can tell, more students are still piling onto the train.
All this brazen body contact makes her feel queasy. She doesn’t know why, but the expression ‘sexual congress’ pops into her head. Maybe it has something to do with the notion of people gathering together implied by ‘congress’ and the idea of them all packed together in a way that suggests intimacy.
There is something rather sexual about all these mingled limbs, rubbing clothes and the inhalation of other people’s breath and body odour. Or maybe Helen just thinks that because she has so little experience in that regard. The subject always makes her feel a little prim. Even in her mind her vocabulary changes, and words related to sex are expressed with a special emphasis, as though she’s dealing with something very delicate.
She’s not aware of it, but her posture has altered too. She’s standing stiff and upright, her chin jutting upwards as though the carriage has filled with water reaching the top of her neck. Helen leans back so she isn’t lodged right under the upraised arm of the man standing next to her. He smells of wet cat, like a lot of people who wear those quilted, country-style jackets . . .
The train restarts with a few jerks, as if it’s struggling to cope with the extra load it has just picked up. After a moment, it eases smoothly along the tracks and starts gliding through the darkness.
Helen finishes typing the message to Jill: We need 2 talk ASAP. About D. Her finger hovers over the ‘send’ button for a few seconds, then she presses ‘save’. Perhaps she should send it later, once she’s home. It wouldn’t be ideal if Jill called back right now.
Her lips part in amusement as she flicks back to her Facebook page.
Tina is brownie mad (that’s the food, not the institution).
How much time and thought can a person devote to food? A lot. Helen should know. Now that she eats less she seems to dream even more about food. One meal is hardly over and she’s looking forward to the next. At any given moment she can list what her meals over the coming twenty-four hours will be. Dinner tonight: grilled salmon with steamed broccoli and brown rice, followed by the leftover pear crumble from yesterday. This reminds her that she needs to buy some cream on the way home. One of her flatmates had used up what was left in the pot for his coffee this morning because there was no more milk. The trials of flat sharing.
Helen can’t wait until she has her own place. Everything would finally be just the way she wants it: the toilet roll would hang the right way in its holder and the jam wouldn’t be filled with crumbs and blobs of butter from people dipping dirty knives into the jar. The TV wouldn’t be on even when no one was watching it; wet bath towels wouldn’t be left hanging on the back of the sofa. The thought of what she has to put up with makes Helen shudder. If it wasn’t for her the flat in Baron’s Court would be a tip, and yet her fellow students complain that she’s the one who’s difficult to live with.
Chapter Six
Two carriages down, right at the back of the train, Innocent Babatunde and his two friends, Blessing and Comfort, are playing tunes to each other from their mobiles. No earpieces for them. They use their phones like mini-stereos, blasting out music so that everyone can hear. The volume is up so high that every word of their rap songs is audible, even above the lively chatter of their fellow passengers.
‘Awww, this is one sick tune.’ Innocent sucks his cheeks against his teeth. ‘These bars are greeze, blud. I need a copy.’ Even though he’s pleased, his face doesn’t show it. There’s a surly set to his mouth, as though he’s permanently pissed off with the world.
Approval for the music comes from his fellow students. Their high fives are loaded with a respect that has more behind it than a shared taste in music. The three teenagers with the old-fashioned charitable names form a group no one cares to mess with. Well-known for their courage and recklessness, these boys have been dubbed the Unholy Trinity. To many of their peers, they are as invincible as the spiritual trio they’re named after. So it follows that the people they diss deserve it, the laws they break are stupid and whatever they’re into is cool.
On the train right now, it’s tough luck for anyone who doesn’t like gangster rap. Only one person dares to complain. An elderly man in a tweed jacket asks, ‘Would you mind turning that down, please?’
He’s rewarded with a collective stare of contempt.
‘Huh?’ Blessing raises his eyebrows and lets his mouth drop open. With his chubby cheeks and small, snub nose, he’s the one who looks sweet and innocent. His two buddies are taller and tougher.
‘We don’t all have to listen to that, do we?’ The man points at the phone that Blessing is holding up. ‘I’m not sure the music is to everybody’s taste, and we are in a public space.’ The man glances around, hoping to catch a sympathetic eye, but every other adult seems to be absorbed in reading their palms.
‘What?’ Blessing’s features suggest a total lack of understanding. His eyes grow small, his forehead creases. His black skin seems smooth and shiny enough to reflect back any disapproval that comes his way.
‘Maybe you could just turn it down a bit?’ The man tries again, but already there’s a hint of defeat in his voice.
‘Ah?’ This time Blessing crosses his eyes and shakes his head. It’s as if he’s been confronted with complete insanity and the only possible response is madness. His friends laugh and turn the volume up even higher.
The music fans fall under the command of the thumping bass. The beat makes their necks and shoulders snake back and forth. A couple of them close their eyes and sway as if they’re in a club. The rhythm of the train fits in nicely with the music; its motion is like an extension of theirs.
‘Oh-oh, Centi, blud.’ Comfort nudges Innocent and points a thumb over his shoulder. A ticket inspector is coming. He’s only a metre away, moving slowly through the crowd in his navy-blue uniform.
Innocent rolls his eyes. He glances from the inspector to the door up ahead, which leads to the next carriage. He could probably lose the inspector if he hurries off through the crowd now. The fact that the carriage is so packed would work to his advantage. He’d have to slip off at the next stop and get another train home, but that’s not convenient. He wants to go to Blessing’s house with the others. He’ll just have to buy a ticket.
He busies himself with his phone while those around him present their tickets. When he feels the inspect
or’s eye on him he doesn’t look up. His shaved, domed head remains bent in defiance against authority.
‘Your ticket, please?’ Timothy Odolo asks. The inspector hates all checks that involve being on the train during the post-school rush hour. Nobody gives him more stick than these youngsters. He’s devised strategies to deal with them, but they still scare him. They seem to have got cockier over the years, and he gets more hassle now than ever before.
‘Yeah, I need a single to East Croydon,’ Innocent says. He keeps his eyes on his phone. His fingers move over the keys as though there’s something much more important he needs to be getting on with.
A fine is really in order, but Timothy knows what will happen if he gives one to this type of kid. There will be outrage and arguments, then the friends will join in and he’ll probably end up calling the police. He doesn’t have the stamina for that today. He reaches for the ticket machine hanging from a strap that loops over his left shoulder down to his right hip. He punches in the ticket type and route and then requests the fare.
‘That’s full price.’ Innocent finally looks at the inspector. The man is short and a little tubby. He has a scar on his forehead that disappears under the thick fuzz of his Afro hair. ‘I’m a student. I need my discount.’
Timothy takes a deep breath. ‘Where’s your student railcard?’ He prepares to change the ticket, jabbing at the square black buttons on his grey machine.
‘I don’t have it with me today.’ Innocent’s chin rises as he speaks. It bears the straggly first traces of the goatee beard he’s started to grow. In fact, his railcard ran out a week ago. He hasn’t got round to renewing it because the money his mum gave him for the card got spent honouring a bet he’d lost. He has a habit of making impulsive wagers about things he’s absolutely sure of, and half the time he turns out to be wrong.
The inspector pauses and takes stock of this kid whose attitude rises off him like steam. There’s no way he’s going to avoid a fine and get the lower priced ticket. ‘It’s the full fare then. Three pounds.’
‘But I’m a student! You know it. I’m here with all my boyz.’ Just an abrupt move of his head and Innocent has several guys speaking up and vouching for him.
‘He’s one of us, man,’ Comfort says.
‘We all just come out of college,’ another guy adds.
Timothy shrugs. ‘If you don’t have proof, I have to charge you the full fare.’ He notices that Innocent, unlike the other boys, is not carrying any kind of bag holding books. The kid probably thinks he’s too cool for that. Timothy guesses, a little unfairly, that he attends school only to collect the weekly £30 incentive that the government pays sixteen- to eighteen-year-olds for full attendance.
‘But I do got proof!’ Innocent’s gaze sweeps over those standing around him. ‘You saying my boyz are lying?’
Six pairs of eyes drill into the inspector. Each hard, shining stare feels as piercing as a whistle. Timothy’s body stiffens as he tries to resist the pressure being put on him.
‘I need official proof.’ He reckons the boy is probably telling the truth, but that’s not good enough. That’s not how the law works.
‘Aw, get a life. Why you being so sad? Look at this guy?’ Innocent jabs a hand towards the inspector. ‘Go do something more worthwhile!’
The gang around him burst into over-loud laughter.
‘Three pounds, please.’ Timothy taps a finger against his machine. He has a feeling this could go on for ever.
‘What’s wrong with you? I told you I’m a student and I’m not paying more just because you think I’m not.’ Innocent fishes into the back pocket of his jeans for the money he’s prepared to pay. He holds out a two-pound coin between his thumb and index finger.
‘It’s not about what I think. It’s the law.’ The first sign of impatience escapes Timothy and his words come out harsher than he intended.
Innocent crosses his arms over his chest. ‘Are you gay?’ he asks. He peers at the inspector, looking him up and down suspiciously. The other boys start to snigger.
‘What?’ Timothy’s forehead wrinkles.
‘I’m asking if you’re gay, man?’ Innocent grins, enjoying the confusion he’s created. He’s like a different person when his teeth are on display, handsome and boyish.
‘Of course not! And even if I was, what’s it to you?’
Innocent moves his mouth in doubtful circles. ‘I don’t know, man. You look gay.’ He turns to his friends. ‘What do you think?’
‘He’s a batty-man,’ comes the verdict.
Timothy looks around. He feels the sweat break out on the back of his neck. He doesn’t have anything against gay people, but it’s embarrassing to be called something you’re not in public like this. And by a bunch of teenagers at that.
‘I’m not gay, OK? Are you going to pay the fare or what?’
‘Prove it.’ Innocent’s face has set back into its usual scornful expression.
‘What?’
‘I don’t believe you’re not gay, so prove it.’ His tongue rolls with pleasure in his mouth. He’s enjoying the shift in the balance of power, relishing the amusement and approval of his peers. He’s aware that every single person in the carriage is listening to the conversation: no one’s phone is ringing, nobody is talking. There is silence, and under that a very real interest in how this exchange is going to pan out. Innocent feels it like a force, the way actors on stage must feel the power of an audience.
‘You can’t prove you’re not gay and I can’t prove I’m a student, so which of us is wrong?’ Innocent raises himself up to his full height. He’s taller than his peers and the inspector. He’s so used to slouching, mainly so his jeans will stay on, that it’s always a pleasant surprise to discover he can look down on the adults who try to cow him. He extends a hand, offering the two-pound coin again.
Timothy is speechless. He stands with his jaw clenched and considers the absolute lack of logic in the boy’s argument. Part of him knows he should take the lower fare and go. You can’t win with these sorts of people. Another part of him can’t accept that this behaviour should be allowed. The inspector’s face hardens and he sticks out his chest. ‘Pay the three pounds now or you’re getting a fine,’ he says.
‘Look at this clown! How much you getting paid to do this? Move on. Go hassle someone else.’ Innocent turns away and presents his back to the inspector.
Timothy stares at it. He starts tapping on his machine again. ‘I need your name and address.’ He’s fully prepared to be given the wrong details, but he feels he has to go through the motions.
Innocent speaks without turning. ‘I don’t have to tell you shit. I’m ready to buy a ticket and you don’t want to sell me one.’ He raises a hand, the coin gleams in his fingers. It’s a new one. The inner steel circle is bright silver, the ring around it shiny yellow. ‘Take it or leave it,’ he says.
Timothy’s options are narrowing. He looks towards the window, trying to judge how far they might be from the next stop, but he can’t see clearly past all the people. He guesses it’ll be a minute, maybe a minute and half, before they reach the next station. The kid will probably bolt off the train there. That or the whole gang might push him out:that’s happened to Timothy once before.
‘Oi, batty-man!’ Comfort looks over his shoulder at the inspector. ‘Why you still hanging around here? Get on with your job. Maybe you can find a white man to pick on for a change.’
‘Right. This is your last chance.’ Timothy chews on his lower lip. He really doesn’t want to do what he’ll have to do next.
Innocent and all the other guys ignore him now, turning up the volume on their mobiles again.
When Timothy starts walking away, squeezing along the crowded aisle, it looks like Innocent has won. Then they see Timothy put a key into the glass box protecting the alarm. A flap opens on one side and he reaches in to pull the lever.
Chapter Seven
That morning Innocent Babatunde had got up as usual at 07:15. T
he moment the alarm went, he was out of bed. Not for him the snooze setting going off every eight to ten minutes. His sisters used that, his mother too. They set the alarm at least half an hour early so they could spend the extra time lounging, pretending to themselves that they were getting a lie-in. Seemed stupid to Innocent. Lying around half awake and knowing you had to be up soon. Plain dumb, actually. Better to sleep as long as you could and rise when you had to.
He was the only one in the house who didn’t share a room. His mother, Ivie, slept with the baby, Ruth, and his two sisters, Adanna and Charity, shared a room. Innocent’s space was small, just about holding a single bed and a desk. His clothes were stored in drawers under the bed. His trainers, all six pairs, were lined up along the wall near the door.
The bed was always made; not very neatly, but made. That was one thing his mother had insisted on since he was a little boy, so he’d got into the habit. It was a reflex, now, when he got out of bed, to drag the duvet with him. Then he’d grab two corners, fling the whole fluffy mass into the air and let it settle back down on the bed. He liked to think that that was about as domestic as he got, but his mum would argue that he’s also a very good babysitter.
Above the bed a Nigerian flag hung down from the ceiling. Innocent had never been there, nor had his mother, but his grandparents had come from that country, and his dad had been born there too. That was all he knew about his dad, who’d left his mother when she was pregnant. According to his mother, Innocent’s father had gone back to Lagos because he got tired of being a black man in London. He was always a black man in that city, never just a man. He wanted to go somewhere where his colour didn’t matter. Ivie didn’t feel the same and hadn’t followed him. The man had left and made no effort to stay in touch or honour his duties as a father. Over the years, the saying ‘makes me want to run off to Lagos’ had become a standard expression for anything bad or annoying in the family.