She was pogoing so high that she could touch the ceiling. She stomped up and down their narrow kitchen in time to the thrashing guitar, punching the air. There was nothing else in the universe except this wild music surging through her like an electric shock...
Then the banging on the wall started.
“What are you doing in there? Turn that bloody music down or I’ll come round and turn it down for you,” raged an angry voice.
Celia ran out onto the balcony, pumped up and ready to take on the world.
“Up yours!” she bellowed to the whole estate, before remembering herself and rushing inside to turn off the music. Flopping down on the bed, her heart pounding, her face glowing, she laughed giddily, and for a few short minutes her gloomy bubble was flooded with glorious sunshine.
Celia woke after another fitful night, but it wasn’t just the heat that kept her awake; she couldn’t shake off the questions that tormented her.
Janice had already left for work. No matter where they moved, she’d pick up employment within days. But Celia reckoned that years of constant cleaning jobs had only added to her mother’s neuroses, leading her to fill their homes with bottles of disinfectants and boxes of disposable gloves.
Janice’s latest employer was the chicken processing factory on the outskirts of the estate. Here she spent the day clearing the floors, which became awash with the gruesome remains of the birds. She’d return from work at six p.m., stinking of ammonia and chilled flesh. Despite already having phoned several times during the day, Janice wouldn’t relax until she’d seen for herself that Celia had come to no harm. Only then would she settle down for another suffocating evening together. But all her attempts to engage Celia in conversation were futile as, since coming to the Bluebell Estate, Celia had nothing to report but mind-numbing boredom.
Celia was washed, dressed and eating her cereal when she found Janice’s note on the kitchen worktop.
Stay in and I promise we’ll do something nice when I get home. Remember to use my new number when you phone. Have a good day. Love you, Mum xxx.
She crumpled up the note in disgust. Trying to pretend everything’s all right. Well, if she thinks she can keep me a prisoner in here, she’s got another think coming!
She looked out at the sky; the sun was rapidly burning up the clouds. It was going to be another scorching day. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she approached the front door. With its thin wood and cheap lock, it was hardly a great obstacle, but for Celia, at that moment, it was as if a thousand volts ran through it. She wasn’t used to defying Janice. And what if something happened to her and there was no one around to help? She braced herself, taking a deep breath, and quickly opened the door with her gloved hand. She stepped into the corridor, only exhaling once she’d shut the door behind her. Bypassing the two lifts, she headed for the stairs. For most people, using a lift was just a convenient method of getting up and down a tall building, but to Celia it was like entering a metal coffin. Just looking at one gave her palpitations – the thought of the doors sliding shut, being sealed inside the windowless box, encased on all sides by solid brick as it travelled between floors; the thought of it breaking down, being trapped as the air ran out and the walls closed in. No – choosing to walk down from the top floor of a high-rise seemed the saner option for someone like Celia, who’d feared enclosed spaces for as long as she could remember.
On leaving the foyer of Tower Two, she crossed the square that sat in the middle of the four towers. No one ever lingered here; instead people scurried across, as if it were a no-man’s-land in a battlefield. She reached the shopping precinct which lay behind Tower One. It consisted of two rows of shabby-looking shops, which sat facing each other. The ugly, flat-roofed Bluebell Pub was sandwiched between a cut-price minimart and a betting shop. Two young men, built like bulldozers, were opening it up. Old ladies with shopping trolleys sat chatting on the central benches. A kid on a moped came screeching past, nearly frightening them to death, and everywhere the whirring of CCTV cameras could be heard as they swivelled to monitor people’s every move.
Celia headed for the post office, cutting through the listless queue waiting to collect their benefits. With relief, she dropped her letter to Mary into the postbox. What must her old neighbour have thought? Mary had always been so kind to her and then they’d just disappeared, without even saying goodbye. At least now the old lady would know it wasn’t Celia’s fault.
She continued through the precinct and found herself in a maze of boxy houses with slits for windows. These had been built later than the Towers, when the council realized the estate’s potential as a dumping ground for problem families, undesirables and unwitting immigrants who’d come in search of a better life. Each time she tried to find her way out through one of the covered passageways, she only ended up in the centre of yet another barricade of houses. Celia approached a man who was attempting to assemble a motorbike which lay in a hundred pieces in his front yard.
“Excuse me. How do I get out of here?” she asked.
“We’d all like to know the answer to that one,” the man laughed bitterly. “Just keep going right. You’ll hit the main road eventually.”
Ten minutes later Celia was heading towards yet another passageway, more disorientated than before. It wasn’t until she entered that she saw the group, clustered against the left wall of the passage, with their backs to her. She glanced at them out of the corner of her eye, her pulse quickening. They all looked the same, shrouded in hooded black tops and oversized jeans, which hung precariously from their bony hips. Chunky sovereign rings glimmered on their fingers, while the soles of their brilliant white trainers, thick as moon boots, made them look unnaturally tall. In the middle stood a male who could have been sixteen or sixty, so pinched and granite-like was his face. He was holding the lead of an enormous hulk of a Rottweiler, but the animal’s ribs were clearly visible through its battle-scarred coat, and on the tip of its mauled left ear was a weeping wound. Spotting her, the dog gave a volley of barks, making the whole gang turn around. She caught glimpses of pasty, pimply faces as they glared at her through puffy eyes.
“What’s with the gloves?” the granite-faced youth demanded.
Celia put her head down and kept walking.
“Hey girl, don’t walk away from me. I asked you a question,” he shouted.
Celia stopped. “My hands are sore,” she mumbled into the ground.
“Are you sure you got hands, cos you sure look like a dog to me.”
This set the others off, whooping and barking at her.
Celia’s cheeks burned as she started to walk on.
“That’s right, darlin’, keep walking or you’ll be next.”
Next? Celia looked back to see what they’d been surrounding. For a second, there on the ground, all she registered was a heap of filthy clothes topped by a mass of matted hair. But suddenly the hair rose up, revealing traces of a crumpled, ruddy face. The figure lifted a beer can to his mouth but, before he could take a sip, one of the gang kicked it clean out of his hand. The passageway echoed with sickening laughter.
“Feck off!” the man grunted, hitting out at the air. “Leave me the feck alone!”
“You need a wash, man, you stink. Should we give him a wash?” the granite boy asked, as if he were in a pantomime.
“Yeah, Razor, give him a wash,” they chorused.
He picked up the half-full beer can and poured its contents over the cowering man. Celia gasped.
“You still here?” Razor snarled, letting out the dog’s chain. “Mind your own business, girl, or Rocky will take a chunk out of you.”
The dog was only centimetres away, straining at the leash and snarling. Celia backed slowly out of the passageway, her heart beating madly. As soon as she was out of sight, she grabbed the phone from her bag and pressed the numbers with shaking fingers.
“Police... There’s a guy, a homeless guy...there’s a gang...he’s in trouble. They might hurt him. You’ve got to s
top them... Where am I? On the Bluebell Estate... No, not at the flats, I’m at the houses... I don’t know, they all look the same. It’s in one of the passageways... Yeah, I’ll look, hang on.” Celia tried to calm down, gather her wits. She looked around frantically at the walls of the surrounding houses until she found a sign. “It’s Spring Court,” she said with relief. “They’re in the passageway off Spring Court... I don’t know who they are. There’s six of them, white boys, black hoodies, they’re all wearing these big sovereigns. Razor, they called the one with the dog Razor... No, I don’t want to give my name. I just want the police here, now!” She cut the operator off.
As the minutes passed, the noise from the passageway got louder, more aggressive. Celia moved closer, desperate to see if the man was okay. Razor was hectoring his victim.
“See that?” He pointed to the wall. It was daubed with a gold chain, a sovereign hanging from it like a noose. “That means this is part of The Sovereign Crew’s turf – our turf – and you’ve gone and parked your stinking body on it. So how about we just take all your clothes as rent.”
The gang’s heckling came to an abrupt halt as the man growled.
“Turf? Turf? It’s not a football pitch, you feckin’ eejit.”
“That deserves a good kicking,” Razor spat.
Celia looked around, panicking. Still no sign of the police. She had to do something.
She walked into sight. “Stop it!” she screamed into the passageway. “I’ve called the police. They’re coming now, right now.”
“You stupid bitch!” One of the gang lunged at her as the sound of sirens cut through them.
“Leave her, Shane. She’ll be easy enough to find.” Razor winked at Celia. “I’ll catch up with you soon, darlin’.” He yanked at the dog’s lead and the mob secreted themselves deep into the estate.
Celia bent down to the huddled man. “The police will be here in a second. Are you going to be okay?”
“Piss off, the lot of yeh,” he grunted, waving her away. She was happy to oblige. It was best if she wasn’t around when the police arrived. She didn’t want to be dragged into giving a statement. She didn’t want them contacting her mother. Janice would go mad if she found out that Celia had put herself in danger.
With leaden legs she followed the sound of the sirens, looking the other way as three flak-jacketed policemen ran past her. She needed to sit down. She needed to calm the sick feeling in her stomach. But more than anything, she needed to get out of this place. The sirens led her to the main road. Opposite was the police station. With its razor-wired walls, surveillance cameras and iron-barred windows, Celia realized that they were more under siege than in control of the estate.
She spotted her mode of escape. The approaching bus was heading for the city. She made her legs run to the stop, waving her arm dementedly to flag it down. But her relief on entering the bus was short-lived, as she squeezed past the passengers who were packed in like battery hens. Celia stood for five kilometres, her face pressed up against a window. She felt like an insect pinned under some grubby boy’s magnifying glass, waiting until the sunrays made her catch fire. Her jeans and long sleeved blouse clung to her wilting body. Her gloved hands itched to be released. She tried to distract herself by focusing on the uninspiring landscape outside. As the bus bounced and jolted along the road, the muscle-bound man next to her, who was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, stretched out his arm to stop himself falling. Celia felt his wet, hairy armpit brush her face, sending her stomach into spasms. The bus jolted again and she was crushed against the window. Bile rose up into her throat; she gagged.
Celia attempted to shout over the noise of the engine and the chatter of the passengers who appeared immune to the trials of the journey. “Let me off, please. I need to get off!”
The driver didn’t hear her but the people around her did and they stared in alarm.
“Are you all right, love?” a woman asked. “You’ve gone green.”
“Please...I just need to get off.” Celia spoke slowly, concentrating on not throwing up.
The woman saw Celia’s watery eyes as she gagged again, instantly creating a space around herself.
“Driver, stop the bus now,” bellowed the woman.
“This is not a designated stop,” the driver shouted back.
The people around Celia started to protest.
“Let the girl off! She’s not well.”
“Do you want her throwing up on your bus?”
At this, the driver slammed the brakes on and moments later, as the bus juddered away, Celia was left crouching on the roadside, vomiting into a ditch.
The last retch heaved from Celia’s body and she sat up, patting her clammy face with her sleeve and wishing that she’d brought some water to get rid of the vile taste in her mouth. Behind her lay fields of wizened, forgotten crops in the hard earth. In the distance, a few isolated houses were dotted along the road as it stretched onwards towards the city. Looking back towards the estate, the four towers were still visible, their brooding presence mocking her attempt to escape them. But on the other side of the road, set right back, lay the sprawling woods that she could see from their balcony. She realized that the trees offered the only shelter from the sun, which beat so fiercely now that she could already feel the top of her head beginning to burn.
Celia crossed the road and tramped through the barren fields. Walking in among the trees, she immediately felt the coolness provided by their canopy. Soft, mossy ground sprang beneath her feet. Dappled sunlight shone through the leaves, throwing patterns on the woodland floor.
As she ventured deeper into the woods, a rabbit bounded unwittingly towards her, stopping abruptly as it saw the unexpected visitor. Celia and the rabbit stared at each other for a moment before the creature bolted. Celia smiled. She’d never had much to do with nature. Janice had always dragged them from one overcrowded city to the next, where nature was an endangered species. As she stopped to investigate a foxhole, a gleam caught her eye. Sunlight was reflecting off something further into the woods. Walking towards it, she discovered that it was a wire fence, which seemed to form a sudden perimeter. It stood at least three metres high, topped off with barbed wire.
“What’s that about?” Celia said out loud.
She peered through the mesh. All she could see was more trees, although the vegetation beyond the fence looked different to that where she stood. She chose a direction and followed the fencing around. It seemed to be endless, without a single gap. Every so often, buckled, rusting signs had been tied to it. DANGER! KEEP OUT, some warned. Others read: BEWARE. DOGS ON PATROL, and TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
At last she spotted a shallow tunnel that went under the wire and through to the forbidden side. Curiosity gnawed away at her better instincts as she sized it up.
Could I fit through there? Celia wondered excitedly.
All her life she’d been conditioned to avoid risk. Even walking through the woods as she’d just done should have been a painstaking journey, watching out for every tree root, every twig or thorn. But now, even though her doubt felt like a betrayal, it was proving more powerful than years of conditioning.
She paused a moment; she had to think it through. Of course she’d just been lucky to survive the cut Jenkins gave her – what other explanation was there?
Trespassing would be a totally irresponsible and reckless thing to do. She smiled to herself as she passed her bag through the gap to the other side and then proceeded to lie on her front. But as she slid her long, skinny body through, her cloud of hair got caught in the spiky wire and jerked her head back painfully.
“Oww!” she yelped. Bending her arms behind, she felt the tangled mess. She tried to work the hair out of the wire but only made it worse. Her arms and neck were starting to ache and she realized that the only way to get free was to rip the hair loose, even if it meant leaving a clump attached to the wire. But Celia was overzealous and yanked it with such force that her head shot forward and smacked in
to the earth, her mouth hitting a stone jutting out of the soil.
Immediately blood flooded her mouth. She pushed herself completely through to the other side and spat out the crimson liquid. No sooner had she done this than it filled up again. She felt inside her mouth. At least all her teeth were secure; she’d never been to a dentist and she didn’t want to start now. But she could feel the soft sliding skin of her gums where they had split, and the smarting of her right cheek, which had also felt the impact of the ground. Her lip was already ballooning. Celia spat again. From her bag she fished out the first-aid kit that Janice insisted she never went anywhere without.
Useless! she thought, rifling through bandages, plasters and disposable gloves.
She patted her cheek with an antiseptic wipe. There was only dirt; at least the knock hadn’t broken the skin. But as her mouth filled with blood yet again, Celia became jittery.
It isn’t stopping, not like the knife wound. It isn’t stopping.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! I shouldn’t have doubted her. As if she’d lie about this. Think, Celia, think... Phone! Phone an ambulance.
Celia looked in horror at her mobile.
No signal! No signal!! Right...run back to the road. Flag down a car... Would anyone stop? How much blood could I lose before someone stopped?
But amid her growing panic, her senses couldn’t help registering the metallic taste in her mouth. She suddenly fell still, eyes glazed, as her mind transported her back to a scruffy yard... She was no more than five years old. Janice had on bright yellow washing-up gloves and was carefully pulling a dangling baby tooth from Celia’s mouth. She’d experienced that same taste then, as the tooth came away from the gum. She’d squealed even though it didn’t hurt. Janice kept giving her sips of water, telling her to swill it around her mouth and swallow it. They’d sat in the yard together until the bleeding had stopped. Then she’d been taken inside, given an ice pop, a blue ice pop, and everything had been fine.
The Truth About Celia Frost Page 5