The boy had returned to his friend excitedly with a triumphant grin and they had parted ways.
“Okay,” Alison said. “He wasn’t very good at it.” She took a step closer to Racquel before she went on. “He took a while to find the hole!” she whispered fiercely and jumped away with a giggle.
Racquel was always in equal parts intrigued and embarrassed by Alison’s stories. She felt as though she was less experienced than all other girls her age. Alison certainly always seemed to know a lot more than her. She was the main source of all of her knowledge about the world of boys.
They came to the edge of Sparrow Street and said their goodbyes. They would see each other again at the same time in two days. Racquel reluctantly turned for home.
It was only a five minute walk from there to the bakery. She enjoyed this time of day, when the baking heat of the sun was no longer beating down on her tanned skin but the air still held a pleasant warmth. The stink also seemed lessened, not so festering as it was during midday heat. The slums were quietening now, offering a less rushed and more pleasant air as people laughed and joked together, packing up after the day’s work. No doubt enjoying these few moments between work and life in the home, where they were suddenly free to joke with their neighbouring workers, no longer trying to sell or get the upper hand. The peaceful time before returning to the household and whatever waited for them there.
Racquel felt it too. Enjoying those last few precious moments before walking up to her home above the bakery. Finally, blissfully alone and able to enjoy the ease in the slums without the lurking tension of Galo or the slightly annoying presence of Alison, even though she felt guilty to admit it.
A slight breeze blew through her hair as she walked. She inhaled, taking in the faint and familiar scent of baked bread, mixed with that of the dubious meat mixture that Dallow made for the meat pies cooked in Galo’s oven. There was also the smell of the people, sweat and dirt, and the wood of the buildings. The sky was stained red behind her and to the left as she neared the door of the bakery. It was closed but not yet locked, Galo often coming up and down the stairs at the end of the evening, organising things for the following day’s work. She pushed the door open, closed it after herself and slid the latch across, locking the door from the inside.
Racquel lived with her aunt and her uncle Galo. Her aunt was her mother’s sister. Her mother had died when she was four from an infection she picked up while working as a nurse in an infirmary. Racquel had fleeting memories of her; the most lasting was a week of crying as she lay wasting in the bed. To this day she could remember the slowly building smell of decay.
After that her aunt took her in, and she had been living above the bakery ever since. Her aunt had proven to be barren and had had no children herself. Racquel was like an only child to her. Galo, however, had always treated her as an unwelcome guest that persisted on staying.
He hated Aunt Cara for the children she hadn’t given him. As the years had gone on, Cara had become more cowed and meek, flinching every time Galo raised his voice, which was often. Her features matched her personality, as in a strange way Galo’s seemed to match his. He was big and brutish, standing over six feet tall, with a doughy round face and a pig’s nose. He was balding and had his brown hair cut short around his head. His chin was joined to his neck by hanging, loose fat that waggled when he moved in haste. He had a round stomach that was strangely smaller than one might expect from his facial features.
Cara, on the other hand, was the same height as Racquel even though she was still growing. She had mousy features; a lightly freckled face with small eyes that showed more wrinkles than it should for a woman not far into her thirties. Her auburn hair was streaked with grey and hung, tied back in a ponytail, to just above her shoulder blades. She looked as though she might once have been pretty but had lost all desire to be so.
Cara often told Racquel that her mother was beautiful, that her looks came from her, while her darker skin was a result of her father.
She walked past the counter and stopped for a moment, her hand resting on the counter top. She spared a glance across at the oven, remembering three days previously when the boy Liam had swooped in like a bird in flight, seeing the prize bread in the oven. And then, like the bird, he had found himself momentarily trapped in the room, unable to open the oven door.
She continued on to the next room where the dough was made. It was a small room and practical of purpose. There were three large pots of flour propped against the far wall, underneath the staircase that led to the living quarters above. Beside these was a stack of wood used for firing in the oven. To her right just inside the door was a flat wooden table where the flour was mixed with water and kneaded until ready for cooking. Sometimes seeds or dried fruit were added to the mix, though these loaves were specially ordered from some of the wealthier clients. Flour lay sprinkled across the top of it. There were various grinding utensils for turning seed into flour that were rarely used, a large roller and knife laid out on the table top.
She walked across to the foot of the stairs where she heard raised voices. She took a few steps upwards before pausing to listen, reluctant to walk into an argument.
“A whole batch ruined! I had to turn Dave away and three other customers to match. Laughing at me, they were! A baker who can’t bake bread! By Lev, when I see that girl!”
A shiver ran through Racquel, a thousand pinprick-like jolts that sent her heart into a frenzied panic. A whole batch ruined! Why? What did she have to do with it? She searched through her mind, recalling all of her chores that she was to have completed before leaving that evening. She ticked them off one by one in her head. She couldn’t think of anything!
“Please, Galo, it wasn’t her fault.”
“Wasn’t her fault? Well, whose fault is it so, mine?” Galo stormed. “I ask her to do one thing before swanning off with that little brat!” The oven. Oh Lev, he had told her to dampen the fire down in the oven. The last batch of bread was in it and he had to collect the firewood from Jessup. She was to turn it down so the bread wouldn’t burn and the oven wouldn’t waste good wood. She was on her way to do it when Aunt Cara told her to go, that she would cut the air off once she had taken in the clothes from drying.
“I told her—”
“You told her what?”
Racquel wanted nothing more than to turn and flee but she had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. She would have to come back eventually, and Galo would be all the angrier for her tardiness. Plus she didn’t want her aunt to admit what she had done. Better to be punished herself and have it over with. If Cara told him that it was she that had forgotten, it would only make the two of them accountable in Galo’s eyes.
She stole her nerve, every fibre of her being trying to resist, walked the last few steps and pushed the door open. The hinges creaked and the room beyond fell into momentary silence. She couldn’t meet Galo’s stare as he turned to face her, instead staring into space between the two of them.
“There she is,” breathed Galo. She knew pleading wouldn’t do any good but she couldn’t help herself.
“I … I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “I just forgot. This one time. I won’t do it again. I—”
“You’re damn right you won’t do it again!” He strode across the room, each step a deliberate, heavy plod, reverberating through the floor. He grabbed the large wooden spoon from the table in his meaty hand.
“No, please, Galo …” her aunt pleaded, reaching for him, but she was shoved roughly away with one sweep of his powerful arm.
“Come here!” he shouted at her, but Racquel was frozen in place, unable to move an inch and filled with terror. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her along to the chair in front of the table. He sat down and dragged her across his lap after him. She couldn’t help but pull away, resisting, but she was no match for his strength.
“You can squirm all you like, girl!” he said as he pushed her roughly down over his lap with his left hand, holding her in pl
ace. Her left side pressed against the warm rolls of fat of his stomach. She did squirm, wriggling for freedom, but to no avail. His left hand holding her in place, he pulled up the skirt of her dress past her waist with his right, still holding the spoon. He tucked the dress under his left, leaving her bottom, wrapped in her underclothes, exposed.
The first blow came, his body hopping in the seat as he brought his full force to bear, the spoon whishing through the air before landing with a smack. Racquel cried out in pain, a fiery mark remaining as he lifted his hand again. Another blow landed, and another. He held nothing back, and Racquel cried as she was rocked forwards and backwards on his lap, her breasts rubbing against his left leg. She heard him grunt as he continued and she forced herself to stop squirming, hoping that he would stop.
“Stop, Galo, please,” cried Cara, her voice high-pitched and whiney. “It’s my fault! I told her to go, I forgot to dampen the fire.” His hand slowed, the last blow landing softly.
“What business do you have doing Rac’s chores for her? I didn’t tell you to do it, I told her to do it.” His rage seemed only increased from her aunt’s confession, and tears ran down Racquel’s face. She sensed his attention come back to her.
“You think you’re a woman now, to order your aunt around!” he brought the spoon down twice more, then seemed to find it inadequate; dropping it, he slapped her with his bare hand. He grabbed at her with his left hand, squeezing her side. She felt a hard pressure push against her from beneath his tunic. He leaned down over her, his warm breath bathing her ear as his lips moved close.
“Think you’re all grown up now, do you?” he whispered harshly, breathing hard, panting into her ear. She dared not say a word, she was frozen in terror. He stopped hitting her, instead grabbing her right buttock with his hand, squeezing it hard. “Think you’re a woman!” He reached his hand around, grabbing her between the legs. “You keep acting like a woman and maybe I’ll start treating you like one!” He squeezed and then grabbed the back of her dress with his left hand. He heaved her up and threw her away from him. She stumbled across the floor, barely keeping her balance. She threw her palms up as she hit the wall and rested against it for a moment.
Her dress had half fallen, and she knew her bottom was red raw as it still seared with pain. She adjusted her dress quickly, covering up her legs. She wiped at her cheeks and eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears.
Galo turned his anger on Cara.
“You think you can say who does what in this household now, woman!” he shouted at her, getting up from his chair. Racquel saw that his tunic was pressing out slightly below his belly as he walked towards Cara. “Maybe you need to be reminded who’s the woman and who’s the man in this house.” He grabbed her roughly by the arm.
“No, Galo.” Cara tried to pull her arm free but his grip was iron. He slapped her hard across the face and, dragging Cara behind him, strode towards the bedroom. Racquel knew that his hand was pressing painfully into her arm. He hauled her into the room and slammed the wooden door shut behind him. Racquel heard a shriek from her aunt and the springs of the bed creak.
“Bend over!” came Galo’s harsh voice. “This’ll teach ye.” There were scuffling noises that were soon followed by his angry grunts.
Racquel tried to close her ears. There were only three rooms above the bakery; the main living room where she was, the bedroom from which Galo’s grunts came and a small room adjacent that was used as a lavatory. Seeing no alternative, she opened the door to the stairs and ran down to the bottom. Crouching on the bottom rung, she put her hands to her face and cried.
******
He eventually became aware of voices. Constant chatter. Close. Just above him. He didn’t want to leave, he didn’t want to change but, unwilling, his mind became more conscious, more aware.
“How long has he been here?”
“A couple of hours!” There was laughter.
“What the fuck’s wrong with ’im?”
“Dono, just found ’im crawlin along the side of the street. Went over to ’im, asked him what he was at, and he just curled into a ball like that and started crying.” There was another snort of laughter.
“Calum probably told ’im he wanted some time apart!” That sneer. He recognised that sneer. There was a snigger of laughter.
“There’s something wrong with him …”
“No shit.”
“His face is covered in puke.” There was a moment’s silence.
“What are we goanna do?”
“Why the fuck should we do anythin’? Leave him here until he wakes up, I’d say.”
“We can’t just leave him here.” Darren. That was Darren.
“Fuck him, leave Calum to sort ’im out.” Calum. Calum. He groaned. There was a shuffling of feet. He tried to speak but his throat was stuck. He tried again, getting a bare whisper.
“Calum …” He couldn’t continue. His face crunched together, his chest tightened, his muscles tensed. He waited for a moment until they relaxed again. He tried once more. “He’s dead,” his voice was a hoarse whisper.
“Dead? …”
“You mean Calum?”
“Calum’s dead?”
Liam managed the barest of nods. He unwound himself, his body stiff, resisting. Slowly, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.
“What happened?”
“How?”
Liam got up onto his feet unsteadily. What was he doing? He felt drained. He felt emptied out inside, devoid of emotion. He looked around, taking in his bearings. He was at the edge of Ratville … Devin Street. The flat wasn’t far away. A left at the end of the street and a right afterwards.
“Liam … what happened?” Liam looked across at the source of the voice. It was Darren. His eyes seemed wide. He held his hands in front of him as though unsure what to do with them. Beside and behind Darren were Deaglan and Erinin. Deaglan stood with his arms crossed, pretending to be uncaring and nonchalant, though Liam could see the eagerness within him to hear the answer. His shoulders were slightly pressed forward, his head cocked. Erinin looked as shocked as Darren.
Liam shook his head. Turning from them, he began to walk towards the end of the street and the flat.
“Hey!” Deaglan grabbed his arm. Liam suddenly felt a spike of fury unlike anything he had felt before. He pulled his arm from Deaglan’s grasp and turned, his eyes ablaze. Deaglan took a quick step backwards but Liam stepped after him. His right arm flew out, grasping Deaglan’s neck and squeezing. A guttural growl escaped from him as he pushed forward. Deaglan’s arms flew up from his sides, grasping at Liam and trying to push him away but he had not been expecting the sudden onslaught and lost his footing as he stumbled backwards from Liam’s advance.
Darren and Erinin jumped back a step in shock. Deaglan tripped, falling over. Liam followed him down, dropping on top of him heavily. His second hand joined his first around Deaglan’s throat and he squeezed, choking him.
At last Darren and Erinin reacted.
“Liam!” shouted Darren. “Get off him!” They grabbed an arm each and pulled. Liam managed to hold on for a few moments before his grip was ripped free. Deaglan gasped for air, his hands reaching to his neck. He turned over and spluttered as Liam was lifted clear, struggling wildly in their arms.
He looked across at Darren, snarling, his lips wide around clenched teeth. Darren flinched backwards. And then, as suddenly as the rage had come, it was gone. The empty feeling returned but this time weighed down with depression and a deep sadness. He stopped struggling and the boys let him go.
He looked to the ground and turned away again, walking back to the flat. He suddenly didn’t care about anything.
“Fucking Lev!” he heard Deaglan splutter. “That mad fucking bastard! I’m going to kill ’im.” There was a scramble of feet and a small scuffle.
“Leave it, Cil,” said Darren. “Calum’s dead.” Liam didn’t look around, he just kept walking. His head felt a dead weight as it hung low, his chi
n touching his chest. Darren’s words rang in his head; an empty cavern devoid of anything else, just those words, bouncing off the walls. Calum’s dead.
******
Once Liam arrived back at the flat, he lay down on his bedroll and wrapped a blanket around himself. He rolled over to face the stairs, with the rest of the room to his back. He ignored anything and anyone around him and didn’t look up when Darren, Deaglan and Erinin returned. He simply lay there until a troubled sleep overtook him.
He was slow to wake the following day, avoiding the clarity of the morning for as long as he could manage. When he finally opened his eyes, the room was bright from sunlight and he was alone. He rolled onto his back and stretched, forgetting everything for a moment. He felt refreshed and invigorated. There was a niggle in the back of his mind, why had he been so drained? The answer came back to him in a rush, flooding through his body. Depression seeped into his mind, controlling and consuming it.
He remained wrapped in his blanket for much of the day, not moving, until thirst forced him out. He walked down the stairs and out the door, the sudden glare of the sunlight hurting his sleep-crusted eyes. He put a hand to his forehead and felt the dried puke there.
He walked to the well and drank greedily from it before stripping to his small clothes. He threw a bucket of the cool water straight over his head before filling another one and using it to scrub the scum and dirt from his face and body with his hands. Once he felt clean, he threw another bucket over his head to wash any lasting dirt off. He rinsed out his hair and flicked free the excess water before donning his tunic again. The fabric stuck to his damp skin but Liam could trust the heat of the summer sun to dry him. He glanced in its direction and was rewarded with a purple ring burnt into his vision.
He left the well and walked through the streets for a while. Something began to eat at him as he went. He started to feel antsy, pent up. He couldn’t put a finger on it but everything seemed wrong. He looked about him, trying to place it. Everything seemed the same as it always was, everyone was going about their business as they did on every other day; every other normal day. But today wasn’t a normal day. It was wrong. Why weren’t the streets in turmoil, why weren’t people in tears, weeping, mourning, as he was. He knew it was stupid, he understood it at an intellectual level, but on a deeper level it didn’t seem right. Deep within he felt he should be able to see the result of Calum’s death all around him, in wailing children, in weeping wives, in angry fathers. The slums seemed almost peaceful in the sun, but he felt as though they should be in bloody war, as his inner being was. People should be falling from the sky.
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