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by Claire North

  Mum was inside, trying to get one final meeting with Dad before they took him away, but they were on a deadline luv, they had three more drop-offs to make and didn’t get paid overtime.

  The boy ate fried chicken, listened to the arcade across the street, the fruit machines, the whack-a-mole, the speed racers and the shoot-em-ups, the kung-fu button crunchers and the tingalingaling of digital gold pouring from the speakers.

  Wondered what he was going to do with his life.

  He couldn’t imagine any future in which he wasn’t sat here for ever, eating fried chicken until he died. He couldn’t imagine that there was any way, or any place, that wasn’t a fucking naïve stupid fucking dream. The secret, he decided, was not to care. Care about dreams and of course you’ll be disappointed; that was the point of living.

  He licked his fingers, and the grease didn’t shift, and sat and waited for the seagulls to get close enough to kick.

  A car pulled up.

  A man with dark hair growing thin on the top got out, looked at the boy, turned, murmured to his driver, a man in jeans and black leather jacket. Get us some chips, yeah—no salt, his missus had him on one of these blood pressure diet things, but vinegar and extra vinegar because there was always the bit at the bottom which the vinegar didn’t get to. Commands given, he walked over to the boy who would be Theo, towered over him, the curve of his belly pulling the eye upwards in a concave motorway of flesh, and proclaimed:

  “Mike’s boy, right?”

  “No.”

  The man raised both eyebrows, though perhaps he was trying to raise only one, because the expression was crooked, awkward, practised without success. Five foot five, thin hair down to his shoulders, usually in a ponytail, fingers covered in rings—a skull, a blue eye, a silver London bus, a pair of crossed gold knives and a flat band with a pinhole at the top—he was proud of his appearance, and had to remind people of this whenever they forgot to be impressed, which was most of the time.

  “I’ve got no time for your boy-shit, boy.”

  “I don’t have a dad.”

  “Mike said you might say that. Made it out like it didn’t bother him, lying cunt.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Jacob. I’m a friend of your dad’s. Him and me go back a long way. Said I’d keep an eye on you said I’d make sure you were okay, not fucking things up, keeping a straight head. Godfather, me, that’s what I am, or like one of those uncles you only see at Christmas, the good kind, the kind that gives you sweets but doesn’t take any nonsense not like others might, not that kind of uncle a proper uncle—I’m like that. That’s what I’m like.”

  “Excuse me I’m …”

  A hand caught the boy’s wrist as he tried to stand. That hand is the hand that threw a perfect 180 at the Folkestone Champions’ League Semi-Final back last year, the crowd went wild, his whole family had bought these sponge hands with fingers pointing up to the sky, which they waved triumphantly, his son had his face painted special like a dartboard and his missus got a tattoo of the winning triple twenty inscribed on her …

  … well, never mind where it was inscribed, point was it was a mighty hand indeed that now grasped the boy.

  “I heard you went and applied to do A levels. That’s good. Nice. You should get educated. That’s all your dad ever asked for you and I promised I’d see it was done right. Me, I never got educated, and sure, I made a go of things but that takes a special kind of backbone which I see you lack. It’s something I’d wish for my own kids. Universities … any take your fancy?”

  “They won’t let me on the course. I’ll never get to university.”

  “Of course they will, they just don’t know you yet, that sort of negative attitude isn’t healthy, now I can tell you, my missus she says that there’s this psychosomatic link between the mind and the old ticker, between—”

  “I can’t get sponsorship. The factory won’t sponsor a kid whose dad laundered money through the football club.”

  These words, calm, composed, are possibly the first adult things that the boy who will be Theo has ever said, and having spoken them out loud, he realises with a sudden jerk that shimmers through his whole body that he will never be a child again. A flicker of grief, a flash of mourning for a thing lost without a sound, and then he hardens his gaze, and looks into the eyes of Jacob Pritchard, and sees them smiling back.

  “Sponsorship,” the older man breathes. “Yeah, sponsorship. I heard about that. Two years get paid through A levels and it’s what, like six years after that working for some bank? Good rate of return that, decent interest on time spent, I respect that, I understand that, not my language but it’s my song. You should go to university. Your dad would like that. It’d make him proud, all warm and fuzzy inside. I see something in you. I feel this great soppy affection for your pasty gormless face, I could kiss you on the lips I could, hold you like my own son, you, me, Christmas turkey and bits of bacon round the sausage, yes I could, yes I can, and so you shall. You shall, boy. So you bloody shall.”

  This done, the man let the boy go, and his driver came back with chips—no salt, spare vinegar, malt not onion obviously—and Jacob Pritchard, king of the coast, bathed in petrol, blood and cheap French wine, got back into his car and drove away.

  Four days later, a letter came from the school announcing that after due consideration the Sponsorship Committee was altering its decision, and the boy who would be Theo was very welcome to participate in its sponsored A-level scheme, and that he needed to provide ×4 pens (black), ×4 pens (blue), ×5 reams of ×250 sheets of lined white paper, ×6 large ring binders, ×3 small ring binders, ×100 paper plates and napkins and ×16 rolls of toilet paper for the sixth-form learning hub.

  The day he started A levels, Dani Cumali began her student apprenticeship at Budgetfood’s local fish-processing plant, where she maintained the fish-gut nets where the flies bred in order to produce maggots for the medicinal trade.

  Very good at cleaning wounds your average maggot. They only actually eat dead flesh and that’s why we value this by-product as a vital part of our environment consumer promise return strategy, bringing the company forward for the future.

  Chapter 16

  Time is

  Theo isn’t sure he knows what time is there is blood in his clothes in his hair in his fingers sometimes he sleeps and he dreams of

  macaroni cheese

  Helen in the snow in the ice in the

  Dani Cumali, sat by the side of the couch

  “Blessed are her hands blessed is the water beneath her fingers blessed are the stones at the bottom of the lake blessed are the roots that dig blessed is the moon that shines upon the …”

  The patty’s prayer, the chant of those condemned to the prison work line, vanishes into the slop slop slop of water against the side of the boat and Theo

  dreams.

  Today’s cards: nine of swords, five of swords, queen of cups, the Priestess, three of coins, knave of staves, the Moon (inverted), the Fool, the Hanged Man (inverted).

  If only she knew the right question to ask, Neila felt sure that there would be a satisfactory answer in all of this.

  The water pump at Cassiobridge Lock isn’t working, and no one mans the gate.

  Theo is awake, and walks to the prow of the boat as Neila begins cranking, the cold on the metal handle of the winch tearing through the double layers of wool and cotton on her hands, biting to the bone as she hauls open the sluice. He opens his mouth as if he might offer to help, then realises this is a silly idea and simply watches, waiting as the water rises, carrying the narrowboat up to the next level of the canal.

  Neila’s back curls into a circle, legs stiff castle buttresses as she heaves the gates shut behind them, ready for another passer-by. Theo watches and waits, hands buried inside his sleeves, shivering, as she comes back on board. She enters at the stern, past the engine, and he shuffles inside at the prow, closing the door behind him.

  They eat lunch and it isr />
  very nice

  thank you it’s very

  I don’t have much you see but it’s …

  You were hurt. On the canal. There is a code on the canal you see but actually it’s my principles that’s more important to me, my sense of …

  I didn’t do anything

  Neila puts her spoon down in the bowl of chemical tomato soup, leans back in her folding chair, crosses her legs, says, “I read fortunes. Hands. Cards. I’ve got clients in Leighton Buzzard, and a pub in Tring has a psychic night and they said they’d have me. Nine years ago I was arrested for antisocial behaviour and criminal damage. I’d been protesting at the closing of a library. When I was a child we used to sing ‘the wheels on the bus’ in the kids’ section, but most people liked it for the DVDs. The police said we smashed a car. We had cardboard placards made from fruit-juice boxes. They gave me an indemnity of £17,000 or four years on the patty line. I paid the indemnity, and that took everything I had. Now I live on the canal. I thought it would be romantic. Sometimes it is. I spend most of my days thinking about fuel and drinking water. When I tell you to wait outside, you wait outside. Do you understand?”

  Perhaps he did. He nodded, once, watching her.

  “Some things are easier with two. Carrying coal, water, wood; making repairs. The toilet has a tank which we’ll need to pump out. Sometimes the pump freezes, then you have to do it by hand. The engine goes. Usually the coolant filter. Am I making myself clear here, I don’t know if I’m making myself …

  Before I read fortunes, I was a hairdresser. There’s a woman in Water Eaton who swears she won’t let anyone else touch her head. She has stories. I like her stories; she was a mayoress for a time, someone once buried a cow upside down in her front garden in protest at a planning permission, I hope the cow was dead first but imagine the effort. Getting the cow, getting the truck, getting the shovel, digging—the whole laying-the-corpse and they put the grass back too those hooves sticking in the air—are we good?” He nodded, but she repeated, firmer, one hand resting on the tabletop. “Are we good?”

  Licked his lips, nodded again, harder. “Yes. We’re good.”

  “Good. You should finish eating and rest. When you’re feeling ready, I’ll take you through the basics of the boat.”

  Chapter 17

  Ring ring ring ring!

  Ring ring destiny is calling!

  ring ring ring ring

  In Tulse Hill, lying on his belly, Theo struggles to wake, and only answered because he didn’t recognise her number.

  Dani said, “Theo?”

  He didn’t speak, phone frozen, breath caught, mouth closing behind it.

  “Are you there? I know you can hear me. Listen. Listen. I’ve fucked up. I’ve fucked up and now they’re going to … I’ve fucked up.”

  This wasn’t sadness or self-pity. Fact upon fact, truth that was necessary to be spoken. “Are you there?”

  “I’m here,” he replied, groggy.

  “They’re going to come and get me. I need you to …”

  “I can’t talk to you.”

  “Lucy is your daughter.”

  The words settled between them.

  Theo looked round his room and remembered again how small and stupid and soulless it was, wondered why he bothered folding his pants. Did that make him mad? Pants could just be shoved into the drawer, there was room after all.

  “Lucy is your daughter,” repeated Dani. “She’s your daughter.”

  Silence on the line.

  A collision of probabilities—a coin thrown one hundred times lands on heads one hundred times, and yet that does not mean that it must land on tails. Mean, median, middle, count backwards from the date of birth and maybe, the thinnest of maybes, and then what equation do you use for this moment, how do you equate her need, her lies, the truth, how do you even begin to …

  “I … don’t believe you,” mumbled Theo. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I didn’t rat you out. Lucy’s your daughter—I’d never snitch, whatever you’ve done, I’d never snitch, I thought that maybe … she’s your daughter. Lucy is your daughter. She’s yours. I went looking for some way to bring her back, and you wouldn’t help me so I did it myself. Listen. I don’t have much time. There’s this woman, her name is Helen, she’s seen the pits, she’s got the …

  Lucy is your daughter. I love her. I haven’t seen her for fourteen years and I still love her, how fucked up is that? They’ve been watching me. I don’t care what happens to me, but you’ve gotta use this shit, you hear me? You’ve gotta get her out before it’s too late.”

  “Dani, it’s not—”

  “I can prove it. I can prove that they broke it. They broke everything. They broke the world. Can you hear me? I know you can hear me. I know you’re there. I know you know it’s true. You knew the moment you heard her birthday you knew you just didn’t …

  Lucy is your daughter. She’s yours now. Don’t fuck it up.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “Where are you?”

  He cycled from Tulse Hill to Sidcup. The trains stopped at 23.45, and the taxi ride was more than he could pay.

  He had to swing wide to avoid the New Cross Gate enclave, the marks of the tribes painted white in dark streets, the smell of gasoline, the cracks in the road. Some places just couldn’t get the corporate sponsorship, so people gave up, if they won’t, can’t, won’t, whatever—what do you expect from the scroungers, the whiners, the mums who shouldn’t have got pregnant, the dads who can’t be redeemed, the druggies who just need to get over themselves seriously, like, just stop taking the fucking drugs it’s not so hard it’s not so …

  Everyone avoided the enclaves. Sometimes the odd journalist would go inside, or stand by the gates with armed security out of shot, and the desperate ones—the children with no family left to call their own, the old biddies who liked to dine on flash-fried cat, the sewer-crawlers and the ones who picked their way through the landfills—before those were sold off to the parole companies and patties brought in from the patty line to go through the waste—they would shuffle and lurch and glare at the camera, and by their cracked faces and their brutal ugliness it was very clear that they were not human any more, and only knew how to resent and hate the intrusion of beautiful people into their scurrying lives.

  “You! Off the bike on the ground now!! Get down get down you …”

  The men at Blackheath had come so hard and fast out of the reinforced steel gate, Tasers up and ready to fire, that Theo nearly fell off his bike as he swung to avoid them, skidding and dropping hard onto one leg, ankle buckling against the tarmac.

  “I’m lost I’m just lost I’m not I’m just lost!”

  “Identification!”

  “I don’t have any I left it at home I’m going to see a friend my friend she’s going into labour she can’t afford the hospital she’s going into labour I got turned round please the child is mine the child is …”

  Why did he use that excuse? He wasn’t sure, but clearly he sounded convincing enough because the men walked him back to the end of the street, pointed him at Sidcup and, quieter, wished him good luck and told him to be careful not to pedal too close to the gated communities, rare bubbles of wealth clinging to the railway lines, lest security take it personally.

  Walls around the enclaves to keep the wild things in; walls around the sanctuaries, deluxe lifestyle housing estates and gated villages to keep the wild things out. These decisions had never been government policy. It had just worked out that way.

  The lights of London stretched out behind, the brightness where the electricity flowed, the circles of darkness where the council didn’t pay its bills, the zones where the insurance companies wouldn’t go, rationed down to their mandatory six hours a day of illumination.

  Flashes of light on the side of the road.

  A Chinese takeaway, a golden cat in the window perpetually fascist-saluting a marching parade.

  The off-licence, never closed, tw
o boys outside trying to muster the courage to pinch a bag of crisps.

  Bin-crawlers, tearing through the tips and overflowing plastic bins in search of things to burn, sell, melt or make.

  A man ran out into the middle of the street as he pedalled down the final stretch towards the M20 approach, threw himself towards the bicycle—for a moment Theo thought he was in pain, needed help, he skidded to avoid hitting him and only then saw the other two men coming towards him, one on a low stunt bicycle that bounced and hugged the road, the other on foot, running to grab the handlebars, and with a snarl of unexpected fury he pushed harder on the pedals and kicked the man who’d lunged squarely in the chest as he pedalled by, outpacing his pursuers in a few streets of wind-blasted night.

  There was no wall around the enclave where Dani lived, but three women guarded the entrance, hunkered down on a cracked bench by the main road, a barrier of rusted chain slung between two lamp posts, torches in their hands. As he approached one rose, shone a light in his eyes, grunted, “Who’re you?”

  “My name is Theo. I’m here for Dani Cumali.”

  “This is the women’s place. The men don’t come in here.”

  “I’m a friend of Dani’s.”

  “This is the women’s place!” she repeated, higher, angry. “This is our place!”

  “She called me. She said it was urgent.” Then, feeling almost ashamed: “She has a daughter.”

  A flicker, a scowl. “Wait here.”

  The women communed, heads together like the closed petals of a thorny flower, opened, returned to Theo, barked, “You got a phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gimme the phone, wallet. We’ll look after the bike. You get ’em back when you’re done.”

  “She called me, she …”