Later that day, Trevelyn called to me as I was passing, “Make us a cup of coffee will you, luv?”
“Make it yourself,” I snapped.
“McGinty’s here to mend motors, not make your brew for you,” Dewhurst intervened sternly from the other side.
I hid a grin. That was a turn-up! I’d have liked to see Trevelyn’s expression, but I knew I mustn’t look round.
Later that day, the guy was hanging around flashing those white teeth at me and calling me ‘Eve’ in a slimy familiar manner.
I straightened up and looked coldly at him. “McGinty to you,” I said sharply. “Bowker, Dewhurst, Bolton and McGinty.”
His eyes flickered slightly. Then he smiled. “If you say so, Ginty,” he said.
“Ok Trev,” I countered, making the shortened form of his name sound really chavvy and unattractive. I had an instinct that he definitely didn’t like that. I watched him walk away and speculated as to what he was wearing under his overalls, which he somehow was managing to wear still tight enough to show off his great arse. I wondered how my own backside looked in mine. The mirror in the loo was far too small and high for me to bend over and see. And if I tried to leap up high enough I’d probably end up nutting myself on the cistern.
By the time I got back in that night and squidged across the soggy ruined stinking carpet, I’d decided that the only thing I could do was persuade Nasim for her own and our safety to go to this Asian Woman’s Refuge. This sort of situation would be well understood by them there, and they probably had all sorts of special arrangements with the police. But when I walked into my room I could see she was in a real mess. She looked like she’d been crying all day and she was verging on hysteria.
“I should be reading the Qur’an, and I haven’t got one!”
“Shall I get you one on Amazon?” I offered.
“You don’t understand, it’s a Holy book and you can’t just go and order one!”
“Yes you can,” I said. “I bet if I put it into Google there’s lots of places I could get you one.”
She ignored me. “I want to be a good Muslim, I want to keep halal, I want to pray five times a day, I want to read the Qur’an, I want to be allowed in the mosque, I don’t want to be dishonoured and disowned by my family. I want my mother!” Her voice was steadily rising in note. “I want my mother,” she wailed again and began to cry.
The last time that same sentence had passed my lips I must have been about seven. Maybe it had been when the beastly little Quinn had slaughtered my pet rabbit. I grit my teeth as Nasim sobbed. I’m afraid I’m just not the naturally sympathetic sort.
“Does your mother speak English?” I asked at last.
“Enough,” she sniffed.
“Enough for what?”
“For going down the shops and watching TV.”
I wasn’t convinced. The couple of times I’d been round to Nasim’s house when I was younger, her mother had brought in sticky little rice sweets and just smiled and nodded and said ‘yes’ whenever I’d addressed her. But I picked up my mobile anyway and went downstairs to the landline. I retrieved Nasim’s home number from my mobile and rang it on the landline putting 141 in first to block them from using the 1471 service to find out who it was if one of the men answered and I was obliged to ring off straight away.
My heart had begun to thump quite loudly in my ears before the phone was picked up by a female voice.
“Is that Nasim’s mum?” I established.
“Yes.”
“It’s Eve,” I explained. “The person who Nasim’s staying with. Are you alone in the room?”
“Yes.”
“Nasim wants to see you and she wants to forget about Rajesh and she wants to come home. Will you come and see her here?”
“Yes.”
“You need to order a taxi as soon as possible to come to our house. You must come on your own and you mustn’t tell any of the men, you’ve got to promise that.”
“Yes.”
“Have you got a pen handy to write down our address?”
“Yes.”
By this time I’d decided that the only way I could find out if she spoke English was if she actually turned up in a taxi in the next half an hour… I spelled out our address to her and put the phone down. This was a high risk strategy and much though I wanted Nasim to show some backbone it didn’t seem worth putting her through such misery. It was her life after all. Who was I to tell her what to do?
I locked both doors in case the men turned up instead of the mother, then hung around in the living room on tenterhooks watching out the window. Twenty minutes later a taxi drew up outside and a small figure got out with her shawl drawn tightly around her face. She scuttled up the path and I opened the door for her. “Thanks for coming,” I said.
She came in and looked around, clearly expecting to see Nasim waiting for her. “Nasim doesn’t know I’ve rung you,” I explained. “But I want you to understand before you see her that Rajesh hasn’t laid a finger on her and that myself and also sometimes my father were present every time he visited. Do you think you can protect her from your men?”
She nodded cautiously.
“And she really wants to be a good Muslim but she also wants to finish her ‘A’ levels and do Law at University. Do you think you can persuade her father not to marry her off and let her finish her education first?”
Again she nodded slightly.
I sighed. I had no idea if anything I was saying was having any impact at all. “I’ll go and get her then…” I said and went upstairs.
I left them to their tearful re-union. Ten minutes later a subdued but much calmer and happier Nasim was asking me if I would call a taxi for them while she packed. Her mother was sitting there wreathed in smiles. I handed her a cup of tea as I figured there was no point in asking her if she wanted one as she’d just say ‘yes’. She put it down immediately and grabbed my hands and fervently said, “Thank you! Thank you!” I figured she was talking about re-uniting her with her daughter, and not that she was overwhelmingly grateful for the cuppa.
Ten minutes more and they were gone. The house seemed really quiet all of a sudden and my bedroom seemed empty. I suppressed the underlying feeling of anxiety and guilt I was feeling at sending Nasim back, and went to make the evening meal.
Dad stomped in through the blackened mess and glowered around. “More money,” he muttered. But he sat down and tucked into his sausage and mash with gusto. “I was worried I was never going to set eyes on a good pork sausage again,” he confessed. “How did you get her to go home?”
“Rajesh dumped her yesterday afternoon,” I said morosely.
Dad tut tutted. “He doesn’t know a good thing when he sees one. A gorgeous looking girl like that making sheep’s eyes at him over the table, and a great little cook to boot!”
I felt offended. I’d have liked to have set Dad right about that. It was just as much me as Nasim that cooked those curries! But it seemed a bit petty really.
Jamie had slid in late for the meal, but Dad and he were trying to pretend that yesterday evening hadn’t happened, so nothing had been said. “Are you saying that Rajesh had already split up with her before last night?” Jamie said a bit crossly. “If you’d told me that, I’d have made sure Sahmir knew and they needn’t have firebombed us!”
I stared accusingly at him. “You don’t mean to tell me that you’re such a little weasel that you’ve been spying on us on behalf of Sahmir?” I was incensed.
Jamie glared at me. “No. I just happened to tell Sahmir occasionally if I knew Rajesh had been round because he just kept going on about it at school the whole time!”
The complete weaselly little traitor! I was never going to trust him again! Dad took a nervous look at my expression. “Now, now,” he said feebly. Jamie stared me in the eye for one long second and then he picked up his plate and removed himself swiftly to the living room.
“I’ll do the washing up,” Dad said appeasingly.
I stormed upstairs.
Another long shower later, I tucked myself back into my own bed with a sigh of relief. It felt fantastically comfortable after the mattress on the floor. I was just settling down when I got a text off Quinn. Thort U wer comg round 2nite? Blah. I just couldn’t cope. 2 nakerd sory CU 2moro. I needed my beauty sleep quite literally. And my eyes had closed within seconds of switching my phone off.
Nasim had left behind Beth’s borrowed phone and the Romeo and Juliet book. I drove to school before work one last time, to see if I could catch either Beth or Nasim. No sign of Nasim but Beth fielded both items and promised to give the book to Nasim when she saw her. Since last week CCTV cameras had appeared on the school gates and a man in a fluorescent jacket was standing scrutinising everyone as they came in. He watched me fixedly as I waited there on the bike and I began to feel uncomfortable.
“They’re bringing in an electronic security pass system next week,” Beth explained. “So that only legitimate people can come in. That guy’s just there until the system gets sorted.”
I raised my eyebrows in amazement.
“Nearly all the schools have them round here,” Beth told me casually. “Mr. Henderson says we’re behind the times.”
Leaving school is weird. All the time you’re there everything that happens is part of you. Then suddenly, within months, things start happening that you’re not part of and everyone else knows but not you. For a bit you can start out joining in the conversation about all the people who are still there and shriek along with all the rest, ‘NO really! I wouldn’t have believed it of her!’ but then suddenly it dawns on you that you’re an outsider now and you’re out of the loop and then you start sounding like some old fogie starting every sentence ‘in my day…’
I headed off to work and spent the day trying to studiously ignore whatsisface, whilst trying to look simultaneously attractive.
Quinn hot footed it round in the evening to take up residence in my bed again. I graciously allowed him to give me a back massage. This was an activity that he’d worked out enabled him to get a number of layers of my clothes off and allowed him get his hands fruitfully on my bare skin in a way that I was such a sucker for I was never able to resist. The only thing I had to do was not groan too loudly in the pure pleasure of it lest Dad think we were up to something else.
Quinn sat astride me, his backside resting heavily down on mine, kneading my back. “Ooo, now my shoulders and neck,” I urged with a sigh. He was getting quite expert at this. His strong fingers began to work away at the knots in my shoulders. “So what time are we getting picked up for Belle Vue?” I asked casually.
“Rob’s picking me up at nine,” Quinn said with a definite emphasis on the singular.
“Right,” I said. It was going to be us if I had anything to do with it. But I wasn’t giving Quinn forewarning of that.
Day two after Nasim left I got a text from Beth’s phone from her. Nasim is useless at texting, she can’t help but write most words out with correct spelling and punctuation, only occasionally giving in to shortening anything. I’m in disgrace+they stil won’t let me hav my fone back so NO TXTS PLEAS but I’m back at school+I’m allowed to finish my As. Not allowed to C any of my friends outside of school especially not U. Thanx4looking after me. Xxxxx
I read the text with mixed feelings. I was glad she was ok but it seemed like I might never see her again. She hadn’t stayed long but I’d got really used to her company and I’d got into the way of thinking that I may have to support her for the whole year. Now when I walked into the house it seemed lonely and I wandered around the empty rooms feeling strangely churned up. I wanted to giggle with someone about the new guy at work and have someone to text about his arse. Today the self satisfied git when instructed by Dewhurst, ‘if you ever get a female customer you can’t handle, pass them on to McGinty,’ came back with a suggestive ‘I’ve never had a female I can’t handle.’ I’d like to report that one back to someone with a roll of the eyes and a squeal of derision, but I just couldn’t think of anyone to get on the phone to.
Friday now, and the evening was taken up with my Community Hours. Devendra rushed up and looked past me hopefully. Then he grabbed my arm and stroked the skin on the back of my wrist and then held out his own hand and stroked it.
“Sorry Dev, no Naz today.”
He looked crestfallen and followed me around the place saying ‘Naz’ to me every now and again. Since he hardly ever spoke, this verbalisation was quite significant, but it was getting on my wick. Finally I turned round to him and told him sourly, “Take it from me Dev, it’s not worth the hassle. Your parents would never allow you to marry her. Find yourself a nice Hindu girl!”
I don’t suppose he understood me but my nasty tone of voice got through, and he backed off. I got on my phone and texted Beth Tel Naz tt if R wont hav her, Devs stil keen. Then I deleted it.
When a grinning Bobby leapt out in front of my bike again as I left, causing a shriek of horror from an on-looking female member of staff and a last second swerve from me, I reflected that perhaps I owed Bobby for my quick reactions when Tariq jumped out in front of me the other day. Good training.
Before bed I texted Quinn, U stil off 4 th hole dA 2moro? Like I was merely disappointed he wouldn’t be around. On his affirmative reply I checked. Stil lEvg @ 9? Apparently he was. I set my alarm for seven thirty.
I had my campaign well sorted – I’d arranged to have the morning off work today by promising to work late one evening next week instead. So now I got myself real tarted up and watched the Quinns’ front drive like a hawk lest Rob turn up early. As soon as I saw Quinn come out of the house to hang around I went down and stood at the front door to keep a sharp eye on the situation. As soon as I heard the sound of Rob’s engine approaching I wiggled my way out in a very tight, very short skirt, with stilletto heeled button up boots, my short waisted fashion leather unzipped to show an indecently revealing low cut top, and sporting ostentatiously dangly earrings with my hair left loose in a mass of hot tonged waves and ringlets. I knew my feet would be killing me by the end of the day and that trainers were the only sensible option, but first of all I had to get there. In my shoulder bag I had shoved a small light pair of flat pumps in case of serious agony.
I walked up behind Quinn, paused with my chest and one hip thrust out, tossed my hair back and smiled flirtatiously at Rob. “You don’t mind having me along do you?”
Quinn whirled round and glared at me, but I kept my eyes beaming smoking hot messages at Rob. There was a moment’s hesitation, then his eyes flickered just briefly up and down me. “Why not?” He said cheerfully after a second. “The more the merrier. And you’ll be useful for fetching brews. Hop in.”
So I hopped in.
We drove to the outskirts of town and stopped to swop into a 4x4 that was hooked up to a huge trailer and set off again.
“Dave and Tolly are getting the banger there,” Rob told Quinn.
Quinn nodded. He was sulking. He hadn’t spoken to me yet, and he managed to keep that up the whole way there.
Rob on the other hand was loquacious on his favourite subject. He raced in BriSCA F1 classes. Apparently the vehicles in this class consisted of race-tuned but naturally apirated chevrolet V-8 engines developing 650 bhp, quick change heavily modified Ford Transit rear axles and a Doug Nash style gearbox with 2 forward gears and one reverse, plus a biased and staggered chassis and braking set up for constant left turning. Not to mention the large aerofoils on the roof to help slow the cars down on the short tight turns of the quarter mile oval tracks and to create downforce on the corners to provide some extra cornering grip. Add to this a robust roll-over safety cage and reinforced bumpers and armour to enable you to physically shunt the opposition out of the way if you couldn’t get by them on mere speed alone and my mouth was positively watering. Bobby would love this!
By the time we got to the stadium and negotiated the last turn through the gates into the Belle Vue premises, I’d
also garnered info on the points system, the Championships, the different roof colours according to your race grading and the difference between racing on shale or tarmac. Rob kept two vehicles, one set up for each surface. Belle Vue, he informed me, was shale.
We parked up in our allotted space and Rob leapt out, all business-like and acutely focused, to liase with the support team who were already there. He was booked into the first race that kicked off at one-thirty. I got out more slowly and looked around. Rob had kept referring to the ‘pits’. I’d been imagining it more like the Grand Prix racing with seperated spaces for each team, but actually it was just a big bit of rough ground with cars parked apparently randomly all round the edge with only a metre or two between one team’s space and the next. But the atmosphere was amazing. The place was buzzing. Men rushing around everywhere. Last minute welding. The sound of grinding down of metal. Kids and women, not always at a particularly safe distance, so presumably family members, milling around the frantic mêlée. As a fellow mechanic I felt out of place all dolled up, but as a fellow female, I seemed to have it judged it fairly bang on.
Rob had his car completely ready, so no last minute adjustments were needed. All we had to do was stand and admire it. It looked amazing, like something out of wacky races. The aerofoil and roof were red, so I knew that meant that Rob was pretty good. At the moment his face was a mask of pride as he looked at his gleaming V-8 baby, but in the back of his eyes the geniality was fading and a light was starting to glow that I recognised as the beginning of the ramping up of the testosterone. Rob was coldly determined and deeply competitive and I could see that he was after some major points to add to his season’s score. He glanced at me, “Two teas, two coffees,” he ordered.
Having prostituted myself out to get here, and having kept up the subtle hints that I might just put out if I was kept on board, I figured this wasn’t the time to go all feminist on him. I therefore meekly established the exact beverage requirements of the four men and went off to find a refreshments wagon.
Paradise Postponed (Not Quite Eden Book 2) Page 9