What Came Before He Shot Her

by Elizabeth George

  Before the Blade could move, Ness kicked her again. Then she fell upon her because she could see that Arissa spoke the truth. Not so much because there was a telltale bump on the other girl’s body but because Arissa hadn’t bothered to try to take Ness on. That was indication enough that there was something more at stake for the girl than her street credentials.

  Ness beat her around the face and shoulders, but what she was beating was a fact, not a girl. It was a fact that she couldn’t look at squarely because to do so meant to look at herself and to draw a conclusion from her past that would colour her future. Ness shrieked, “Bitch! I kill you, slag, you don’t stay ’way.”

  Arissa screamed, “Blade!”

  This put an end to the entertainment, which, while it hadn’t gone on long, had escalated quickly enough to sate the Blade’s need for a demonstration of his desirability. He pulled Ness off the other girl. He held her, bent at the waist and panting and trying to get back to Arissa for more. Ness continued to shriek her curses at the girl, which obviated the necessity of asking her any outright questions about the true history of her relationship with the Blade, and she fought savagely as the Blade jerked her back towards the door and in two deft movements opened it and shoved her into the corridor.

  He did not follow at once, instead remaining behind to assess the reliability of Arissa’s declaration. To him, she looked no different from when he’d taken her upright in the kitchen a short while before, thrusting and grunting with her back against the cooker, working quickly as was his habit when he had other things waiting for his attention.

  She was still on the floor, foetally arranged as before, but he didn’t help her up. He merely gazed upon her and did a few mental calculations. Could be she was; on the other hand, could be she was merely a lying slag. Could be his; could be anyone’s. In any case, there was a simple answer and he gave it to her.

  “Get rid of it, Riss. I got two and ’nother on the way. Don’t need no more.”

  That said, he went out to Ness in the corridor. His plan was to sort her out in a fashion she wouldn’t likely forget because the one thing a man in his position couldn’t have was a woman following him around North Kensington and causing scenes whenever she felt like it. But Ness wasn’t there.

  The way the Blade looked at this development was: could be good; could be bad.

  AFTER THAT, NESS decided she was finished with the Blade. The reason she admitted to herself was the lying, cheating, two-faced nature of the man, going at Arissa like a hatchet-faced monkey at the same time he was going at her. The other reason, however, she didn’t get far enough within herself to examine even superficially. It was enough that he had cheated on her. She wasn’t about to stand for that, no matter who he was or how big his reputation.

  She chose her moment. The Blade had a past, as she had learned, and what she’d also learned—from careful questioning of Six on the matter—was that the other women who’d been in his life over the years had been dismissed without troubling him further. This included the two hapless souls who’d borne him children. Whatever their expectations had been of the Blade’s future part in the lives of his offspring, he had disabused the two women of them in very short order, although he did drop by the estates on occasion when he felt the need to point out to Cal—or to anyone else he wished to impress—the fruit of his loins as they played in their nappies among the rusting shopping trolleys.

  Ness determined that she would not be one of these women, going meekly out of the Blade’s life when he was tired of her. What she told herself was that she was sick and tired of him, and tired especially of his pathetic skill as a lover.

  She waited for the right opportunity to present itself, which it did in a mere three days. Again, Six—that font of useful information on the topic of illegal activities in North Kensington—put her in the picture as to where the Blade took receipt of the contraband whose sale allowed him to keep his position of dominance in the community. This place was on Bravington Road, Six told Ness, where it intersected Kilburn Lane. There was a brick wall along a shop yard that backed onto an alley. The wall had a gate, but this was always locked, and even if it wasn’t, Ness wasn’t to go inside for love or money. No one went inside except the Blade and Cal Hancock. Everyone else did business with him in the alley. This alley was in full view not only of the street but of a line of houses that backed onto it. No one would think to phone the police about the furtive business going on outside, though. Everyone knew who was conducting it.

  Ness went there when she knew the Blade would be dealing with his underlings. She found him as she hoped she might: looking over the goods provided by two thugs and three boys on bicycles.

  She elbowed through them. The gate in the brick wall was open, revealing the back of an abandoned building, a platform running along it and upon this platform several wooden crates that were open and others that were not. Cal Hancock was shifting goods around in one of these crates, which meant that he’d left the Blade unguarded. The Blade himself was examining an air pistol he’d been handed, the better to see how much work would be required to modify it into a useful weapon.

  Ness said, “Hey. We finished, fucker. Jus’ thought I stop by and let you know.”

  The Blade looked up. An indrawn breath seemed to be taken in unison by the group that surrounded him. Across the yard, Cal Hancock dropped the top of the crate back into place. He leapt from the platform. Ness knew his intention. She had to be quick, so she spoke in a rush.

  “You nuffink,” she said to the Blade. “You got dat, bred? Act like you a real big mon cos you know you a worm crawl round in the dirt. An’ size of a worm, you got dat, mon?” She laughed and put her hands on her hips. “Blood, I been sick of y’r face wiv dat stupid tattoo since second time I saw you, an’ I even more sick of dat eight-ball head an’ the way it looks when you licking. Y’ unnerstan me? You get what I say? You good for gettin high, i’s true, but, shit, it jus’ ain’t worth it no more, not f’r what you got to offer. So—”

  Cal clamped on to her. The Blade’s face was a mask. His eyes had gone opaque. No one else moved.

  Cal strong-armed her away from the wall and out of the alley, through a dead silence in which Ness acknowledged her triumph by saying to the thugs and the boys on their bikes, “You t’ink he’s summick? He nuffink. He a worm. You ’fraid of him? You ’fraid of a worm?”

  Then she was back in Bravington Road, and Cal was hissing, “You one stupid cow. You one sorry, stupid, bloody-minded cow. You know who you messin wiv? You know what he c’n do ’f he wants? Get out of here now. An’ stay out of his way.” He gave her a push, one that was designed to direct her reluctant feet away from the spot. Since Ness had accomplished what she’d set out to do, she didn’t protest or fight to get away.

  Instead, she laughed. She was finished with the Blade. She felt as light as the air. He could have Arissa and anyone else he wanted, she told herself. What he would not have—and could never have again—was Vanessa Campbell.

  IN HIS QUEST for physical perfection—which the title Mr. Universe would affirm—Dix D’Court needed financial support, and so he had gathered sponsors. Without them, he would have been doomed to squeezing out time for his power lifting before or after work or at the weekends, and this would be when the gym was most crowded. He’d have had little real hope of attaining his dream of the world’s most magnificently sculpted male body if he had to pursue it that way, so early on he’d gathered around him individuals who were willing to finance his endeavour. He had to meet them occasionally, to bring them up to date on the recent competitions he’d entered and won, and he had inadvertently scheduled one of these meetings for the night of Toby’s birthday. Once he learned of this, Dix wanted to cancel his meeting. But allowing this cancellation suggested another step taken towards the sort of commitment that Kendra was trying to avoid, so she told him that the birthday needed to be a private, family affair. The message in this was implicit: Dix was not family. He shot her a look that s
aid Have it your own way. Privately, however, he told Joel he would be there directly after his sponsors’ meeting.

  From this remark, Joel knew not to tell Kendra that Dix would be turning up. There were depths between his aunt and Dix that he could not plumb, and he had other worries anyway. Primary among these was his failure to find a “Happy Birthday” sign to hang upon the kitchen window. It was bad enough not to have the family’s old tin carousel any longer to set in the middle of the table, but to have no dramatic way to wish the birthday boy happiness felt to Joel like a more significant blow. For even Glory Campbell had managed to hang on to the children’s birthday sign, resurrecting it—more tattered every year—from wherever she stowed it when it wasn’t in use. This sign with its grommets, which allowed it to be hung with haphazard cheer any which way, had gone the way of most of Glory’s nonsartorial possessions prior to her departure for Jamaica: She’d tossed it in the rubbish without Joel’s knowledge, and only when he looked through his own belongings did he realise it was no longer a possession of the immediate Campbell clan.

  He didn’t have enough cash to get another one, so he’d had to settle for making one himself, which he did by using notebook paper. He took one sheet for each letter and he coloured them with a red pencil borrowed from Mr. Eastbourne at Holland Park School. On Toby’s birthday he was ready to hang them on the window, but there was nothing to use as adhesive save a book of first-class postage stamps.

  He would have preferred Sellotape or Blu Tac. But he lacked the funds to purchase that as well. So he used the stamps, reckoning they could be glued to envelopes afterwards, as long as he was careful to put them on the window in such a way as to make them easy to get off later. That was how he began to explain matters to his aunt when she arrived home after work on the day in question, exclaiming, “What the hell!” as she saw the handmade sign and how it had been attached to the window. She dropped her carrier bags on the work top and turned to Joel, who’d followed her into the kitchen with his explanation ready. But she stopped him in the midst of it by putting her arm around his shoulders.

  “You did a good thing,” she said into the top of his head. Her voice was husky, and it occurred to Joel that she’d softened a bit since Dix had started coming around number 84 Edenham Way, especially since the day they’d all trooped up to the Rainbow Café to meet his dad and his mum, the latter of whom was more than generous with dollops of hot custard when it involved an order of her apple pie.

  Kendra unpacked the carrier bags, which turned out to be holding takeaway curry. She said, “Where’s Ness?” and then called up the stairs, where the television sounds indicated cartoons were playing, “Mr. Toby Campbell? You get into this kitchen straightaway. You hear?”

  Joel shrugged, his answer to the whereabouts of Ness. She’d been around more often in the past few days, a brooding presence licking its wounds when she wasn’t out and about with Six and Natasha. Joel didn’t know where she’d taken herself off to. He hadn’t seen her since yesterday evening.

  “She knows what day this is, doesn’t she?” Kendra asked.

  “S’pose,” Joel said. “I di’n’t tell her. I ain’t seen her.”

  “Haven’t,” Kendra said.

  “I haven’t seen her.” He added, “Have you?” because he couldn’t help it. So much still the child, it seemed to him that, as the adult, Kendra could have done something about the problem that was Ness.

  Kendra eyed him, and she read him as well as if he’d spoken. “What?” she said. “Tie her down? Lock her up in a room?” She removed plates from the cupboard and handed them to him, along with cutlery. He started to set the table. “Time comes, Joel, when a person decides what her life’s going to look like. Ness’s decided.”

  Joel said nothing because he couldn’t articulate what he believed since what he believed rose from the history he shared with his sister as well as what he felt about her. What he felt was longing: for the Ness she had been. What he believed was that she missed who she’d been as much as he did, but had even less hope of getting her back.

  Toby clattered down the stairs, his lava lamp under his arm. He set it in the middle of the table and extended its flex to plug it into a point. He climbed into a chair and rested his chin on his hands to watch the shining orange globules begin their rhythmic rising and falling.

  Kendra said to him, “Got your favourite here, Mr. Campbell. Naan with raisins, almonds, and honey. You ready for that?”

  Toby looked over at her, his eyes bright at the thought of the bread. Kendra smiled and took from her shoulder bag an envelope with three foreign stamps affixed to it. She handed this over to Toby, saying, “Looks like your gran didn’t forget your special day, either. This came all the way from Jamaica”—she made no mention of the fact that she’d phoned her mother three times about sending it and had herself included the five-pound note Toby was going to find when he wrestled it open—“so open it up and let’s see what she says.”

  Joel helped Toby ease the large card from its envelope. He scooped up the limp five-pound note that fluttered to the floor. He said, “Hey, lookit this, Tobe! Y’r rich,” but Toby was studying a Polaroid picture Glory had sent as well. In it, she and George stood with a string of strangers, arms slung around one another and bottles of Red Stripe hoisted in the air. Glory wore a halter top—not a wise choice for a woman her age—a baseball cap with “Cardinals” written on it, shorts, and no shoes.

  “Looks like she’s found her niche,” Kendra said when she took the picture from Toby and gave it a look. “Who’re all these people? George’s clan? And she sent you five pounds, Toby? Well, that was nice, wasn’t it? What’re you going to do with all that dosh?”

  Toby smiled happily and fingered the note, which Joel handed to him. It was more money than he’d ever had at any one time in his entire life.

  Ness joined them soon after that, right at the point when Joel was deciding what would do as a special plate that Toby could eat from on his special day. He’d settled for a tin tray painted with the face of Father Christmas, which he unearthed from beneath two pie tins and a baking dish. Dust grimed the edges, but a quick wash would remedy that.

  Ness hadn’t forgotten Toby’s birthday either. She arrived bringing what she announced was a magic wand. It was made of clear plastic and filled with sparkles, which glowed brightly when someone shook it. She made no mention of where she’d got it, which was just as well since she’d pinched it from the very same shop in Portobello Road where Joel had purchased the lava lamp.

  Toby grinned when Ness demonstrated how the magic wand worked. He said, “Wicked.” He shook it happily. “C’n I make a wish when it’s shook?”

  “You c’n do whatever you want,” Ness told him. “It’s your birthday, innit.”

  “And since it’s his birthday,” Kendra said, “I got something as well…” She disappeared up the stairs at a trot, returning with a long package that she handed to Toby. This he unwrapped to discover a snorkel and an underwater mask, perhaps as useless a gift as any child has ever received from a well-meaning relation. Kendra said helpfully, “They go with your life ring, Toby. Where is it, anyway? Why’ve you not got it on?”

  Joel and Toby hadn’t told her, of course, about the day they’d had the confrontation with Neal Wyatt, the day on which the life ring had taken its near fatal wound. Since that time, Joel had attempted a repair with glue, but it hadn’t held well. Consequently, the life ring was pretty much done for.

  Things were not perfect, but no one dwelt on that since every one of them—including Ness—was determined to maintain an aura of good cheer. Toby himself didn’t appear to notice everything that was missing from his celebration: the birthday sign, the tin carousel, and most of all the mother who’d given him birth.

  The four of them tucked into the takeaway, revelling in everything from vegetable jalfrezi to onions bhaji. They drank lemonade, and they talked about what Toby could do with his birthday five pounds. All the time the lava lamp sat in
the middle of the table, blurping and oozing with an eerie light.

  They’d just got to the naan when someone banged on the front door. Three sharp raps were followed by a silence, two more raps, and someone yelling, “Give it over, cow. You hear me?” It was a man’s voice, nasty with threat. Kendra looked up from tearing off a piece of naan for Toby. Joel gave his attention to the door. Toby gazed at the lava lamp. Ness kept her eyes fixed on her plate.

  The banging on the door began again, more in earnest this time. Another shout accompanied it. “Ness! You hear me? I say open or I kick this piece of shit door down wiv one foot, easy.” More banging ensued. “Don’t vex me, Ness. I break up your fucking head, you don’t open when I say.”

  This wasn’t the sort of language that frightened Kendra Osborne. But it was the sort of language that fired the cylinders of her outrage. She began to get to her feet, saying, “Who the hell is that? I won’t have anyone—”

  “I c’n get it.” Ness rose to stop Kendra.

  “Not alone, you won’t.” Kendra stalked to the door, Ness hard on her heels. Toby and Joel followed. Toby was chewing on his piece of naan, his eyes wide with curiosity, like someone believing that this was part of an unexpected birthday show.

  “What the hell are you on about?” Kendra demanded as she swung open the door. “What d’you mean, pounding on this door like a common—” Then she saw who it was, and the seeing stopped her from saying anything more. Instead, she looked from the Blade to Ness and then back to the Blade, who was dressed like a London banker but who, with a red beret covering his hairless head and a venom-spitting cobra tattooed on his cheek, would never have been mistaken for one.

  Kendra knew who he was. She’d lived in North Kensington long enough to have heard about him. Even had this not been the case, Adair Street was no great distance from Edenham Way, and it was on Adair Street that the Blade’s mother lived in a terrace house from which—according to gossip exchanged in the market in Golborne Road—she had evicted her eldest son when it became apparent to her that following in an older sibling’s footsteps meant that her younger children would be treading one path or another that led without diversions to places like Pentonville or Dartmoor.