Bad Traffic

by Simon Lewis

  Again, she wanted to ask, Is there someone else? but what she said was, ‘I think I should get a job. I’m tired of doing nothing.’

  ‘No girl of mine needs to work.’ No girl of mine? Implying she was one of several? ‘Very soon, I’ll move you into a nicer place. I promise.’ He stroked her neck. ‘You talked to your dad today, huh? That always puts you in a bad mood.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘He kill any bad guys lately?’

  ‘He shuffles paper and goes to banquets.’

  ‘Could I take him in a fight? If he came over to defend your honour?’ He tickled her.

  ‘Leave him out of it. Tomorrow is four months from when we first met. So what I would like is for us to go out and have a…’ – her eyes went up to the tatty lampshade as she recalled the English phrase – ‘slap up do.’

  ‘Not tomorrow. I’m taking my uncle to the races. We’ll celebrate the week after, okay? The four months anniversary of when we first… you know…’

  The uncle again. She had never met him, or any of Black Fort’s family, about whom he would give no details, and wondered now if they were nothing more than a collection of knee-jerk excuses.

  He started kissing her belly. She would have liked a little more getting to know you, but the feel of his face on her was reassurance that he was still, at least, interested.

  She ran a finger along his dragon tattoo, from the bewhiskered, boggle-eyed head on his shoulder to the scaly tail at his hip. He practised wing chun and his torso was toned and taut. How hard and soft his body was. It was the perennial fascination of men.

  ‘Why don’t you get a tattoo? Just here on your thigh. A dragon to match mine. A dragon for a dragon queen.’

  ‘I’m a princess, not a queen. And it’s a phoenix for a girl.’

  There was a great deal to like about him. His birthmark, for example. He flinched when she touched it. The fact that he was sensitive about it – she liked that, too. He was a whole other country, she an excited tourist.

  Her breathing settled. If only it could be like this all the time, to be the absolute focus of attention. When she was with him she felt whole and protected, but she had to have him all to herself.

  Later, while he slept, she took his clothes into the bathroom, where the light was better. Squatting in the shower stall she went over them minutely, all the time telling herself how silly she was being. Under his shirt cuff she found a long yellow hair, black at the root. There was a smudge of lipstick on his boxer shorts.

  She felt a moment’s relief – she was not going nuts, her ‘female intuition’ was ‘spot on’. She stared hard at the hair, trying to picture its owner, and a sense of grief came, black and overwhelming.

  His wallet was on the bedside table. Riffling through it she found, as well as a few hundred quid in notes, a couple of one Euro coins. In the back pocket of his jeans she discovered the stub of a boarding pass – a flight from Rotterdam, dated today. So he had lied to her – easily, naturally. What had he been doing in Europe?

  He moaned and rolled over and his arm flopped onto her pillow. Curse him for lying and for being in her head so much. A mania had descended that could only be satisfied with more evidence. She went back through everything, worried that her rapid breathing would wake him but unable to stop.

  Tucked behind his debit card was a business card for his gambling club – lips, cocktail glass, characters. Written on the back in a girlish scrawl, in capitals, was an address: Hope Farm, near a place called South Creake. And under that a time, 4pm, and a date – tomorrow – when he had said he was going out with his uncle. And at the bottom were the words, ‘DON’T BE LATE! K.’

  Some uncle. She imagined her rival, Miss K – a fresh-faced country girl in a headscarf, singing as she scattered chicken feed. She decided she was damn well going to find out what was going on and put a stop to it. She took a picture of the address on her phone, wincing as it clicked. He rolled over but didn’t wake.

  (70

  When Black Fort got up, with his usual brisk efficiency, at ten, Wei Wei pretended to be asleep, and huddled under the duvet. He kissed her goodbye – how could he still be so tender? – and she waited for the door to slam.

  It was the work of a few minutes in an internet café to find out where South Creake was, book a bus ticket to the nearest city, King’s Lynn, check the timetable of local buses and to print out a map of the village and surroundings.

  She called her father.

  ‘Did you finish the accounts?’

  ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘It’s about my course.’

  ‘What about your course?’

  ‘I wasn’t… I wasn’t telling the truth.’

  She wanted to say, I’ve made a bit of a mess of things, I dropped out, now I’m this hood’s moll, which isn’t as exciting as I thought it would be, and I think he’s cheating on me.

  ‘My… marks have gone down a bit. Fifty percent.’

  ‘That’s not so bad. How has the weather been?’

  ‘It’s warmer – the sun is shining.’

  She gathered her forces to try again to surmount the formidable barrier of habit.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I feel bad.’

  A silence stretched. She wished she could see his face.

  ‘You stick in there. A few bad marks is nothing. The important thing is to keep your head down and work hard. Don’t let anything stop you.’

  He was slurring his words, and she could hear laughter and conversation in the background. Perhaps it was not a good time.

  ‘I’m just… I’m having a bad day today.’

  She was floundering in unfamiliar territory and 1 it was distressing him as well.

  ‘Application is not easy. You have to be strong. You have to be determined.’

  ‘I’m not sure what I should do. Maybe I should just let things go on the way they are or try to change them.’

  ‘Always try to make things better. Always push for improvement.’

  He sounded like the Party Commissar off some crappy old film, spouting slogans. Her patience left her, she didn’t want to be thrashing around in this murk, causing discomfort.

  She said, ‘For breakfast I had a chicken sandwich.’

  ‘How was that?’

  ‘Too dry. I miss steamed buns.’

  ‘I’m sure bread is very good for you.’

  ‘I’ll say goodbye. Thank you for… I’ll say goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  She pressed ‘end call’. She felt stupid – all she had done was worry him. It was an embarrassing incident that would never be mentioned. She resolved, next time they talked, to be relentlessly upbeat.

  She squeezed her eyes closed so that when she opened them the last few minutes would have gone away. It struck her that one of her father’s characteristic gestures – the hand drawn over the screwed-up face – had the same purpose. She opened her eyes and, yes, it was gone. She was elsewhere.

  She’d get there just after four and catch them in the act. She composed a mental diorama – the wronged girlfriend at the centre, her anger magnificent, the contrite boyfriend wilting before her. The other woman – cheap slut, painted hussy – was banished to the shadowy edge. Like the women on the television, she would point and say, ‘You are out of order!’ It was such an exciting image that her face flushed.

  (71

  As the local bus wound through rural Norfolk, Wei Wei reflected that all this fresh air and nature would be invigorating in other circumstances. She had not realised that England could manage such bucolic charm. South Creake was so twee it made her want to laugh. She could imagine the cottage where Black Fort’s lover lived, with ivy climbing the walls and flowers in baskets hanging from the porch.

  According to her googlemap, she had to walk past the duck pond, turn left and there would find a turnoff that led up Bloodgate Hill. But she couldn’t find the turnoff, so she asked at the only shop, a studio se
lling artistic weather vanes. The sculptor said he’d ask his cleaning lady, who told her that the track didn’t lead anywhere since they’d built the new road, that Bloodgate Hill was windswept and no use to anyone but birdwatchers, and finally that the overgrown track was just past the duck pond.

  Heading up the hill, the landscape changed into one more fitting her mood. Here were thick woods and empty fields and no sign of human habitation. It was all, she guessed, because of the wind whipping in from the coast, not so far away. Trees rustled and shook, and those atop the hill were bent and stunted by the pressure of that ceaseless agitation. She recalibrated her mental picture – the other woman was a gypsy, living in a cabin in a wood.

  Perhaps there had been a mistake. Really, there was nothing here. It was almost four. A voice told her to go home, be reasonable, get sensible. She ignored it, searched the hedgerows for gaps, and found wheel ruts either side of a tummocky ridge. The track ran along a hedge, then curled and was swallowed by a wood.

  In the hedge she found a rotted plank. She tugged it out, breaking the grasp of knotty tendrils and exposing worms and woodlice to the light. Two words had been burned onto it with a soldering iron, now just readable: ‘HOPE FARM’. She tossed it aside. Right then.

  The track fell into the shade of tall trees and unkempt hedges. It led to a dilapidated farmyard. Wilderness seemed to be taking possession of the place. Weeds grew through cracks in the paving of the yard and rusted machinery lay half subsumed in tangles of foliage. Birds flitted about the gaping roof of a barn, and their cheeping, and the rustle of leaves in the wind, was the only sound.

  Black Fort’s flashy car was parked beside a dirty white van, before a tumbledown cottage. Certainly he was here, but this did not seem right at all. It occurred to her, for the first time, that she had got entirely the wrong idea. What girl would accept such a home? Only the wildest kind of wench. Perhaps the desolation added a frisson to their coupling.

  She picked her way across the yard and peered in at a window, with hands shading her face, but she could see nothing beyond the drawn curtains. She heard a girlish moan of pleasure and froze. Indignation swelled, and her frustrations gathered, preparing for tumultuous outlet. Her heartbeat quickened and she was aware of blood thudding in her temples.

  She tried the front door and it opened into a dingy corridor. Her senses were keen and she was quivering. Though impatient for the release of confrontation, she slowed and stepped carefully. She did not want to be heard, she wanted masochistically to catch them in the most explicit of acts. She did not yet know what she would say, but was confident that the right words would come, at the right volume. Perhaps no words would be needed. From behind a closed door another groan came, and now the torment could be borne no longer. She wanted to break things. She shoved a door and stepped into a room.

  Six or seven surprised faces turned to her. A lot of big men idled in a small space. Caterpillar and Six Days smoked on the sofa. A pall of smoke hung at head height. On top of a television with a shattered screen sat a laptop. Its display showed a busy profusion of flesh and straining faces.

  A strangled sound came from Wei Wei’s throat and she closed her mouth with an audible pop. An ashtray fell to the floor and a beer can clinked as it rolled. Everyone was now standing up.

  A fat white man said, ‘What the fuck?’ The porn on the laptop continued, and a girl moaned, ‘Oh, baby, that’s so good.’ Foaming beer dribbled off the table.

  Black Fort grabbed her shoulders, span her round and rushed her out into the yard.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘I thought you had a girl here.’

  ‘You looked through my stuff? What am I going to do with you? Get out of here.’

  He raised his hand and she thought this is it, he’s going to hit me, but all he did was gesture up the track.

  She saw herself with his eyes, and she was pathetic. She sat, feeling tears well.

  ‘Look at you. You’re a mess.’

  Yes, she was a mess. She’d been a mess for a long time and there was something wrong with her. She was worthless, he should have hit her, it was what she deserved.

  ‘I’m so lonely.’

  ‘Come on. Get up.’

  It was embarrassing that she could think of nothing to do but cry, but she could not stop. Men came to the door, looked at her, then went back inside.

  ‘Let’s get you out of here.’

  Black Fort helped her to her feet, and with a hand on her elbow steered her away. Her eyes were blurred, and the scene before her was a green mass. She noticed the way that sunlight coming between the leaves dappled the track. The sobbing fit was winding down in a trickle of sniffs and heaves. She stumbled and leaned against him, and the feel of his firm hands supporting her was great reassurance.

  She said again, ‘I thought you had a girl.’

  ‘It’s just you, babe. Mind your feet.’

  She dried her eyes with her sleeves. She was relieved and ashamed and there was a surge of self-pity. Her mind-state of only a few minutes ago seemed bizarre – how could she have worked herself up like that?

  ‘I just… I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’m lost. I should have stayed at college. I feel like it’s all a mess.’

  ‘Hey, you’re fine. You’re doing well. You’re having an adventure, aren’t you? You’re finding yourself. That’s what you said you wanted, remember? This is you, finding yourself.’

  ‘Can we have a talk?’

  ‘Huh? Yeah sure. I’ll come and visit soon. I promise.’

  ‘Really promise?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Okay.’ She sniffed and wiped her face. ‘What’s happening at four?’

  ‘Business.’

  ‘Is it that?’

  A truck was rumbling down the track in low gear. Dust swirled behind it.

  Black Fort said, ‘Go on, get out. I’ll call.’

  He steered her onto the verge, out of the way, and she felt his eyes on her as she walked away. The haste with which she had been dismissed was disquieting. She turned to see his face again, hoping for an encouraging smile, but he was jogging back to the farmyard.

  The men were coming out of the cottage. She ducked behind a tree to watch him join them. She did not like them. They were thuggish and frightening, and to see him among them, being matey and relaxed, was to see another side to him. Did he belong there, or with her? Perhaps, in a sense, there were rivals here, after all. She wanted to call him away. He was so much better than them. He had capabilities – for humour, for passion – that they surely did not.

  The truck passed her. Now she found her relief tainted with indignation. So the other woman had been a ridiculous fantasy brought on by too much thinking and unhappiness, but the fact remained that he had lied to her. There was that whole matter with the uncle, and Rotterdam. Really, she did not like the way she had been sent so quickly away. There were still things that needed to be discussed. She was not in the wrong, he was not exonerated. She was going to demand some candour. She had half a mind to walk right back to the farm and start on him now.

  She heard oaths, and looked up. The truck was parked in the yard and the men were gathered round the open back doors of the container. It was a curious scene, and she stepped closer and peered around a tree.

  A man called, ‘Hello? Hello? Oi. Get up!’ and reached in to shake a limp arm.

  Another said, ‘Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.’

  Black Fort said, ‘This is a mess.’

  ‘Some might be alright. We should get them down. Get a mirror – see if they’re still breathing.’

  Though all she could see of the men was the backs of their heads, their shock and consternation was obvious. Six Days was kicking the ground. Blue had his hands over his face.

  ‘Look at their tongues,’ said Kevin. ‘Look at their bleeding fingers. They tried to claw their way out.’

  Black Fort tugged at something, and it tumbled out of the container, hitting the ground
with a dull crack.

  He said, ‘Fuck.’

  In dismay the men retreated from the object, stepping slowly backwards as if being repelled by an invisible force, and now Wei Wei had a clear view. She blinked watery eyes and the scene sharpened into awful clarity.

  An expression of bug-eyed terror was frozen on the waxy face of the man on the ground. A second body flopped over the edge of the container, arms dangling. Many more were strewn behind, limp and in awkward attitudes, like rag dolls. A woman lay with her skirt in disarray, exposing pale thighs. She clutched a child to her chest, and his T-shirt had ridden up over his head, and his skinny torso was arched in a way that looked subtly unnatural.

  Wei Wei put one hand over her mouth, and with the other reached out to steady herself on the tree trunk. She couldn’t stop looking but the meaning of what she was seeing was slow to penetrate. Perhaps, after all, one of the figures would get up and this obscenity would be refuted. She wanted to go and pull the child’s T-shirt down and tidy the woman’s skirt. She willed one of the men to go and do it, but they were still retreating.

  Someone shouted, ‘That girl. She saw.’

  Many eyes considered her. She shrank back. A man stepped forwards. She turned and sprinted away.

  (72

  Wei Wei ran blindly. She stumbled when she came onto the road and put her hand down, and the rasp of tarmac on her palm brought her to her senses. She looked back and could see no pursuit, only a bland view of trees trembling in the wind. She heard nothing over the din of her own blood and breath. Remembering that harsh voice, she forced herself on.

  She ran all the way to the village. When she came to the pond she bent with her hand on a ‘Ducks Crossing’ sign, chest juddering as she gasped. Exertion had kept the images at bay, but they flooded back now – a limp hand with cracked fingernails, a dead head on concrete, lips stretched back from pale gums. She blinked them away. The village continued nestling snugly, being cute and clueless. The only movement in the landscape was a bus trundling along a lane. A harsh scream at her feet made her jerk in shock.