by Heidi James
‘Alright,’ she said, ‘thanks.’ She linked her arm with Marcus and led him out through the door and down the alley back to the main street. ‘Poor bugger, he’s a very miserable man.’
‘I thought he was rude. How did he know we weren’t going to buy anything? He didn’t even give us a chance.’
‘Because I hardly ever buy anything from him, so he could be pretty certain. What did you think of the music?’
‘Well, I didn’t hear much…’
‘I know that, but still, didn’t it grab you?’
‘It was amazing. Really.’
‘I know.’ She squeezed his arm against her body and he didn’t pull away. ‘What next?’
‘School? If we go now we can go to History.’
‘Can’t go now, silly arse! We’ve missed registration. Better to take the whole afternoon and tell them you had to go home sick.’
Swayed by her logic and previous experience, he ignored the grain of fear dissolving in his stomach and mingling with his bloodstream.
‘Well then, let’s go. You know you’re really cool, Marcus, you’re not like other boys.’
‘Really? Why’s that?’ His cheeks flushed hot.
‘Because you don’t pretend to know everything.’ She let go of his arm and walked off, light and merry. Her dark hair swung as she walked, her arms relaxed and loose at her sides. She moved as if propelled by laughter and yet, in the midst of all that energy, there was a stillness about her, something unreachable. He followed her down the pedestrianised main street, the shops on either side, past mothers and their pre-school children, old women and their men, their hands in their pockets, or carrying shopping bags, tagging along being helpful. Trailing behind her, caught in her wake, he wished he could be in love with her for real, in a way that was useful, or that could make him what he wanted to be.
‘Melly!’ A large girl grabbed hold of Mel, as sudden and engulfing as a wave, wrapping her arms around Mel’s hips and lifting her in the air.
‘Georgie!’ Mel slipped down and stepped back into her own space. ‘Look at you!’ She turned to him, ‘Marcus, this is Georgina, Georgina this is Marcus.’
Georgina grinned, pulling her lips back over her large square teeth. ‘Alright, Marcus!’
He smiled back. Sturdy as an armchair, Georgina had thick arms and legs and a soft, dumpy body; her hair was honey-coloured and fell around her face in thick, soft waves. Her Levi 501s, white t-shirt, Doc Marten shoes with Grolsch bottle tops wound in the laces, and blue eyeliner drawn thick around her eyes marked her out as a Bros fan, a Brossette. Of course, he didn’t like her: she was loud and brash and in the way. He turned towards Melanie to find her looking at him, so he raised an eyebrow and smirked. But she ignored him, blinking him away and held out her hand to Georgina. ‘What’ve you been up to? I haven’t seen you in ages.’
‘College, babe. I’m a career girl now. Got me own flat, up by the hospital. It’s lovely it is. You should come over.’
‘Yeah, I’d love that. What you doing at college?’
‘Secretarial skills. I’ve got my typing, shorthand, the lot. My social worker has got a job lined up for me at TSB. I’m so chuffed. You?’
‘Same. School. Mum. You know. Marcus has just started at Danner.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Georgie nodded ‘Poor fucker! Where you from then?’
He started to blush, pink rising over his collar. ‘I, er…’
‘He got expelled from up the road, you know, Manor Park.’
Mel didn’t look at him, the lie smoothing over his embarrassment, easy as that. He wouldn’t have to confess to being a phony, a rich boy, a failure. He didn’t have to say anything. She kept his secret, and him, safe. He began to understand what it was to be seen clearly by someone with a level gaze, someone whose vision was as sharp and discerning as time itself. He would cherish that feeling. He would do anything to protect it, to keep it alive. Or so he thought then, when he was a boy.
‘Oh, don’t worry.’ Georgina slung her arm around his shoulders. ‘I got expelled loads of times. Unteachable they said, and look at me now.’
‘She’s a character,’ he said later, on the way home.
‘What do you mean?’ Melanie asked, her hands in the pockets of her blazer.
‘You know. She’s a bit... She’s larger than life, shall I say.’
‘Shall you? Maybe she has to be large to live the life she’s had.’ She quickened her step and said nothing else until she reached her bus stop and said goodbye. He was afraid he’d upset her, but her mood had changed before the walk home.
He’d followed them into Woolworths, Georgie making jokes that only she laughed at, so loud that people turned to stare, although Mel chuckled along companionably, her nose wrinkling as she laughed.
‘I love Woollies,’ Georgie said, ‘it’s got everything you could ever need. Let’s have a look at the clothes.’ They followed her up towards the back of the shop, past the pick’n’mix sweet barrels, the toy section, the household paraphernalia, garden hoses, colanders and saucepan sets towards the clothing aisles. Tall metal baskets held pairs of black plimsolls secured together by elastic bands. Georgie nudged Mel and reached in, picking up several pairs. She shared them out between the three of them, ‘Come on, let’s switch ’em! It’ll be a right crack when someone tries them on.’ She pulled off the bands and began re-pairing the shoes. ‘I’ve got a three here, you got a four? We don’t want to make it too obvious. Come on, quick’ And they began undoing and swapping the shoes, with Georgie laughing to herself, her belly shuddering with each guffaw, as a security guard sauntered over and watched them. Georgie turned and smiled at him, ‘Just trying on some plimmies for school, mate.’ He nodded, the pouch of flesh under his chin wobbling, and sauntered further up the aisle.
‘Come on,’ Mel started throwing the shoes back in the wire basket. ‘That’s enough now.’
‘Yeah, fucking pig is a right buzz kill.’ Georgie stood up, dumping the rest of the plimsolls back. ‘Let’s have a look at the music.’
Georgie was embarrassing but Marcus followed them anyway, wishing she’d leave him and Melanie alone together. Georgie meandered along, stopping if something caught her eye: running her fingers over a three-pack of tea towels, or a child’s book, looking for all the world as if she were an interested customer rather than a kid out for a lark. At the music section, where the top ten was displayed – racks of cassettes, CDs and some seven-inch singles, nothing of any interest to him – she stopped in front of a stand devoted to Kylie Minogue and grabbed an album, held it up next to her face and pouted in a vague approximation of Kylie. ‘I look like her, don’t I?’ She turned her head, pushed her chin in the air, sucking in her cheeks, and cocked her hip out. ‘See?’
‘Yeah, yeah, identical bloody twins, that’s what you are.’ Mel said and pointed towards a poster of Sonia, all red curls and Liverpudlian charm. ‘More like Sonia, I’d say.’
‘Fuck off!’ Georgina laughed, punching Mel’s shoulder. ‘She’s much fatter than me.’
‘How d’you know each other?’ Marcus asked, wanting to pull himself back into the circle of their attention.
‘I love his accent!’ she said to Mel. She turned to him. ‘You sound like a newsreader off the telly. Say it again.’ He repeated the question. ‘Love it. He sounds lovely, don’t he! I was at Danner, same year as youse. Till they kicked me out. But we known each other years, ain’t we, Smells?’
‘Sure have, George. Her old foster mum lives over the road from us.’ Melanie looked at her, standing there under the strip lights, her eyes soft. It was like an embrace rather than an appraisal; attention, not judgement. Marcus and Georgie stood there, not moving, unembarrassed. Then Melanie stepped back and said: ‘Time I was heading out, I think. You should too, Marcus, if you want to get home at the right time.’
‘Already?’ Georgie’s disappoin
tment rolled through her like an increase of gravity, dragging her down.
‘Yep, gotta be off.’
‘Can’t you come back to mine? We could watch a video.’
Mel had started out towards the door back to the street; Marcus followed, the security guard eyeing them all as they passed him at the exit, assessing every bulging pocket and pouchy jumper. Out in the street Mel started walking towards the bus stop. ‘I’m heading home. You coming this way?’
‘Hang on a minute, come over here, I want to show you something.’ Georgie crossed over the other side of the walkway, to the path leading into the multi-storey car park.
‘Hurry up, then,’ Mel said, and so of course he followed. The crowd on the street had changed: other school kids had replaced the mothers and children, men and women having finished work were pushing through the bodies, heading home. It was getting cooler; the sky glimpsed above the buildings was cloudy, pale grey wads blocking out the sun. They both gathered around Georgie, as she gestured them to move even closer, looking over her shoulder at the street.
‘Here, look what I’ve got.’ She stepped in closer still and pulled out handfuls of sweets from her pockets – chocolate éclairs, jelly snakes, caramel cups – pushing them into their hands. ‘And this!’ Reaching behind her back she pulled a cassette from her jeans. ‘Ta-da!’
Marcus laughed, unwrapped an éclair and popped it in his mouth. ‘What’s the tape?’ He leaned in to look at the cover.
‘Jive Bunnies Party Mix, great huh?’ She beamed, her curls bouncing around her head. He laughed even harder, almost choking on the sweet, high on being around these girls, being part of their gang. Fuck Anthony and his beautiful lips, fuck his stupid parents and fuck that school. He didn’t need any of them.
‘Take it all back,’ Mel said.
‘Shut up!’ Georgie laughed.
‘Seriously, take it back.’ Her voice was flat, low.
‘What?’ Georgie blinked, looking at Marcus, then back at Mel, her hands still full of sweets and the tape.
‘Go on. Take it back.’ The three of them stood there, awkward, Georgie still not sure if Mel was having a laugh, Marcus chewing the sweet as surreptitiously as he could, the toffee getting stuck on the fillings in his back teeth.
‘You can’t chore stuff like that. You starving? No. You shouldn’t chore, George. Take it back.’
‘I’ll get caught, and if I get caught I lose my flat, my job, college. They’ll send me up the hill.’ Georgie began to breathe heavily through her mouth, the air hissing and huffing past her teeth. ‘They’ll call the gavvers.’
‘What are the gavvers?’ Marcus asked. They ignored him.
‘That’s why you shouldn’t have nicked it all, George. You have to be careful.’
‘I can’t take it back, Mel.’
‘Then give the tape to the Oxfam.’
‘What about the sweets?’
‘Chuck ’em or eat them, if you can stomach them,’ Mel said, handing back the sweets Georgina had given her. ‘Don’t chore, girl. You’re better than that.’ Mel hugged her and turned away, leaving Marcus and Georgie standing there with the stolen goods.
‘I’ll see you then,’ he said. Jogging to catch up with Mel, he turned back to see Georgie stuffing the tape and chocolate back into her pockets.
At Mel’s bus stop she handed him a pile of coins. ‘Your change from the chips earlier.’
‘Oh, right, thanks.’ He took the money and slid it into his pocket. He stood there for bit, unsure what to do or say; he’d ruined everything again, just like always. Leaning out into the road to look for the bus, he asked Mel if she wanted him to wait with her.
‘No, you’re alright. See you tomorrow perhaps.’
‘OK,’ he said and started off in the opposite direction, towards home. He walked about twenty steps before looking back over his shoulder: she was still there, leaning against the bus shelter, reading a book. He raised his hand to wave, but she didn’t look up.
Barking Up the Wrong Tree
I parked behind the police station, between a riot van and a squad car. The street was in shadow, almost dark, pressed between the rough concrete building rising several storeys high, and the hill lifting sheer and chalk-faced to the war memorial a few hundred feet above. There was no access to the public on that side, so I walked around the building, picking up pace to outrun the creeping sense of being crushed.
The brightly-lit reception was crowded, but the two officers manning the desk appeared unflappable; fielding calls and ignoring most of the people hassling for their attention. I took a seat on a perforated metal bench that was bolted to the floor in the corner of the room, prepared to wait. There were a few other journalists there, recognisable by their self-important tone of voice and the flashing of their IDs. A middle-aged woman, thin and well-dressed, was crying at the other end of my bench. She muttered to herself, then gulped and sniffed. She clutched a dog collar and lead so tightly that her knuckles were white.
The doors opened and a bruiser of a man was carried in, kicking and swearing, by several officers. His hands cuffed behind him, he bucked and writhed like a bulky eel, red raw from booze, the smell rolling off him so strong it cancelled out the stink of industrial strength pine disinfectant. It was a relief when they were finally buzzed through the security door.
‘Missing, missing, missing,’ the woman said, huddled at the end of the bench. One of the reception staff leaned over the desk, resting on his elbows. ‘Misty gone walkabout again, Mrs B? Never mind, she’ll be back, she always comes back. Have a tea and then get yourself home. OK?’
She stopped crying, nodding and wiping her face as if that’s all she was waiting for: acknowledgment and reassurance.
‘I’ll get you a tea then, shall I?’
‘No, that’s alright.’ She stood, looked around to check that she hadn’t forgotten anything, then shuffled out, still clutching the lead and collar.
The desk clerk watched her until she was gone: it was over. He answered the phone, tapped on a keyboard. Ready for the next scene, next drama. Next story. There’s always another story.
I’m writing this as I remember it, without notes or recordings. It isn’t as simple as I thought, when it’s your story, your life. A neat sum of events and consequences: that’s a joke. What comes back are trivialities, flimsy components that collapse under the telling. Anyway, I’ll keep trying.
Finally, two women emerged from the dark interior of the building: a small woman with a clatter of bangles jangling up her wrist and the detective from the day before, tall and slim with her black hair pulled back in a bun.
‘Right. Press, have you all got your visitor’s passes and signed in?’
I hadn’t and I crossed to the desk clerk, scrawling my name and showing him my press ID. He slid the laminated visitor pass over. Eyes rolled around me; I was the hold up, rookie, amateur. I probably felt the heat of embarrassment ooze up and over my collar. Probably.
‘All done? Good, we’re moving up to the press room. I’m Jennifer Brooks, the Media Liaison Officer, and this is DC Okonjo. I’ll give you my card in a minute and I’ll be your contact for now. Detective Chief Inspector Sutton is heading up the investigation: along with David Finborough from the Department of Transport, he will be answering your questions and give you all the details. Follow me please.’
We followed them up a flight of stairs, carrying cameras and equipment cases, then along a corridor past the incident room. The door was open on the desks and computers and a blank white board ready for the mess of detail and witness statements, the rosters of objects brought in and photos of the scene, all still waiting to be amassed and collated, catalogued and numbered like museum exhibits – fragments of a story ready to be fitted together as a whole. I repeated the names she’d mentioned, Sutton, Finborough, Okonjo, Sutton, Finborough, Okonjo as if they would somehow rearrange
themselves into the article that would magic me out of there. I just needed to focus, but I suddenly felt so tired.
The room was large and windowless. The Kent Police insignia was emblazoned on a blue background on the far wall; just in front was a large desk with four seats tucked behind it. A door, closed, was partially hidden behind a screen. We were ushered into the plastic chairs that fanned out through the rest of the room. I took a seat as close to the front as I could, pushing but not actually shoving my way through. Not that anyone cared, it’s standard behaviour: who has the time for manners when reality is being forged and documented? There were a few minutes of chaos and noise as microphones were placed on the desk and plugged in to wires that were rapidly unravelled across the room and connected with cameras and recording devices, then we sat and waited.
I took out my voice recorder and note pad, writing down the names I’d been repeating: Finborough, Sutton, Okonjo. I underlined Sutton, then Finborough, then realised it didn’t mean anything and sat back. I was lost, sitting there in that airless room, which was ironic considering I was in my hometown, doing the job I’d done for twenty years, but I felt foreign, out of my depth, vulnerable. Why did I imagine I was any different to anyone else?
‘Busy isn’t it?’
I turned to the voice on my left. ‘Sorry?’ It was a woman in her twenties, thin lips, no make-up, nervous. Cheap blouse and trouser suit. Good hair, thick and shoulder length. The details presented themselves, directing my judgment of who she was and who she wasn’t, what she might become. She smiled. Perhaps she thought I needed reassurance. What signs and signals, which details did she pick up from me? My lack of a wedding ring? My pressed shirt, courtesy of Joyce? Did I look lost? Straight?