How to Find Home

by Mahsuda Snaith

We shot straight past the bar and up to a little room on the third floor. It was an arched cave made of the same sandstone as the castle mound it was attached to, with gauntlets hanging from metal loops on the wall and cases holding ornate swords inside. Rusby got all excited, planning to use the gauntlets to prise the swords from their cases. As I went back down to the bar, I could hear the clinking of metal against stone and hoped someone would catch him: the History Preservation Police perhaps, dressed in their own coat of arms.

  There was a grandfather clock standing snug in an alcove by the bar. Twelve twenty-five. Luca said to meet him at half past for the train at ten to. I imagined him standing by the vintage shop, searching the crowds through the square frames of his glasses. I considered slipping out but then the barman asked what I wanted and I just went ahead and ordered. It was a good job because when I turned around Rusby was standing at the top of the stairs, peering down, as though waiting for me to leg it. Just leant up against the doorway, not caring whose way he was in or how dodgy he looked chewing away at his nails. He said it was better than using clippers but would always bite past the point any blade could reach. Then he’d start gnawing on the flesh.

  As soon as he clocked me, Rusby turned around and went back into the sword room. If I ran now he’d only chase me. I’d seen him run from the coppers enough times to know how fast he could be so I followed him up.

  He seemed to have forgotten all about the swords as I sat down opposite him. He was swaying in his seat, pissed already. I put the pint down in front of him, white foam spilling down the sides of the glass. He took a gulp and then started on about his mother and her depression, about how all he really wanted to do was settle down with a nice lass and a couple of kids.

  ‘Maybe get a dog. A Chihuahua.’

  I leant forward on the table trying to find an entry point into this monologue. I thought I could say I had a doctor’s appointment, or a social worker meeting, anything so I could leave. But Rusby banged on like a hammer hitting a nail, driving his point in over and over again, tears in his eyes, hand clinging on to mine.

  ‘You wasss the best thing that ever happened to mees, Moll.’

  He held my hand for a few seconds then slammed his pint down on the table top. Brown liquid sloshed over the rim, fizzing on the dark wood. I wondered what had caused this revelation – probably the Slovakian girl dumping him when he got chucked in the clink for the umpteenth time. Or maybe it was genuine – you could never tell with Rusby. When we first met he was the sweetest lad, particularly considering all the troubles he’d been through – children’s homes, then foster care, then more children’s homes, youth detention centres and finally prison. But he had this thing about him when we first met, like, if someone gave him a break, he could be something wonderful. I wanted to be that person. I wanted to make him wonderful.

  I watched Rusby rocking side to side and remembered what we’d once had. He caught me staring and squatted his shoulders low to the table. His eyes hooded over. It was a look I’d seen before. A look I’d seen too often.

  ‘I will always find you, Molly,’ he said. ‘Anywhere you go, I will Sniff. You. Out.’

  I tried my best not to move. I felt the horrors of our relationship rushing over me. The nights locked in our squat. The days walking up and down looking for the next hit. The anger when we didn’t get it.

  Rusby looked back at his pint.

  ‘I’ve found a place for us,’ he said. ‘Nice little squat. You’ll love it, Molls. It’s perfeck. I’ve got a plan, see.’

  Rusby always had a plan. A new get-rich-quick scheme, a new way to get clean, a new start. But I was already clean and I knew that I wouldn’t stay that way with Rusby. It would start nice, of course. He’d move us into a bedsit, set it up neat and cosy. I could see it forming around him as he sat there in front of me: the Ikea shelves clinking into place on the sandstone walls, filling up with cereal boxes, cans and bowls of fruit. A dresser with a built-in mirror, fairy lights trailing over the top, a picture in a silver frame of us smiling to the camera. For the first few days he wouldn’t even use in front of me; Rusby can do just about anything when he wants. Problem is he never wants to do anything for long. I could see the nice things disappearing from the dresser. The picture frame first, then the ornaments and lights. The fruit shrivelled black in its bowl as the shelves emptied. Rusby’s We can do anything, Molly! expression replaced with a dark Don’t fuck me off scowl. And then he was leaning towards me, body shaking all over, telling me to go to the charity with the food parcels, the one for girls who work on the streets.

  And that’s how it would begin.

  The lights on the wall flickered and I was back in the Trip with Rusby. When I looked at his face I felt nothing but rotten disgust.

  ‘It’s going to be beautiful, Molls,’ he said. ‘A fresh new start.’

  Pipes and lutes played from the streets. I looked up at the swords hanging from the wall. If I’d lived in medieval times I would have dressed as a boy and joined Robin Hood’s outlaws. There’d be no pretty pointed hats and cross-stitch for me; no way, fella. I’d be the best archer and poacher in Sherwood and, when the unwitting rich came stumbling through, I’d be the first one to attack, screaming so loud the whole forest could hear.

  I decided to be an outlaw. I reached for Rusby’s pint and, gripping it hard in my hand, threw the contents in his face. The liquid hit him in the eyes, spraying out in a foaming shower. He yelped like a schoolchild, clutching his face. I held the glass up and released my battle cry.

  ‘Yaaah!’

  I smashed the glass against the wall behind him. The shattering noise silenced the whole pub. I picked up my rucksack and ran down the stairs, hoping the barman would run up to the cave room, recognize Rusby and delay him.

  I ran across the cobbles, away from the castle mound, dodging the traffic on the main road as everyone hit their horns. I ran past the Navigation pub, across another road and down the slope towards the canal path. I thought I’d made it, that I was free, but then I heard his voice over the noise of the traffic.

  ‘Mollleee!’

  I imagined Rusby running up to the railings, looking down and spotting me as I dashed towards the station. So I ran for the bridge instead, disappearing underneath and leaning against the inside wall. I took a deep breath, trying to think of what to do next. Then I pulled my phone out of my pocket and began to text.

  Jules says don’t come to hers. She’s fuming at you.

  I pressed send and threw the phone in the canal. It made a funny plo-unk! noise. Circular ripples swam across the green water. It felt good to do that; throwing away that phone was like throwing away Rusby.

  Above me, I heard squawking. Rusby had picked a noise like a parrot being murdered for all his notifications. I could tell he was close, from the volume. I closed my eyes. If Rusby believed the lie, he’d head to Jules’s after he’d read the message. If he didn’t, he might stay up there, waiting for me. Pigeons sat in the rafters near my head, cooing and ruffling their feathers. I’d bunked under that bridge so many times that the noise sounded like a lullaby, calming me down. I placed my hand over the pocket of my denim jacket where my pillbox sat, with its flower motif painted on the front.

  I knew what I needed to do.

  I took off my denim jacket and rammed it into my rucksack. Then I put up the hoodie of my jumper and walked out from under the bridge. If Rusby was still watching, he wouldn’t know it was me unless I ran, so I tried to walk normally, just like another person in the crowd. The wind picked up, pulling me backwards. But then pigeons flew out from under the bridge, as if they were leading the way. As if saying, You can do this, Molly. Fly.

  I came to the slope before the magistrates’ court. I tried not to think about the last time I walked through the big glass doors, eyes turning to look at me. The way they’d looked.

  I shook my head. The past was tugging at me, or perhaps it was Rusby. He had this magnetic power; he could always pull me into his grip. And th
en the wind changed.

  Instead of dragging me back, a huge gust lifted me up. I hovered off the ground and my body sailed over the canal path to the main road. I passed buses, bikes and the train station tower as its clock hands pointed to twelve forty-three. I flew with the pigeons towards the vintage shop with gold print glittering on the window. There in the doorway, by a rusty giraffe sculpture, stood Luca with a navy-blue trench coat, a leather rucksack on his back and a trumpet case by his feet. He’d waited for me.

  The wind lowered me down beside Luca. I flung my arms around his neck and he yelped as I squeezed tightly.

  ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ I whispered in his ear.

  When I let go, he looked confused, happy and annoyed. I pulled down my hoodie to show him it was me. His expression didn’t change.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to wait for the next one now.’

  My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath. My cheeks were stinging, a stitch aching down my side as if someone had punched me.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ he said.

  I still couldn’t speak so I gave him a wide, apologetic grin. He tried to be serious, but it wasn’t convincing because he didn’t have a serious face.

  ‘I’m not mental,’ he said.

  It was an odd thing to say but, at the same time, it wasn’t.

  ‘I don’t care if you are,’ I said.

  There was something broken in him. You couldn’t see it at first but if you looked real hard there was a hairline fracture running through his soul. Perhaps I could see it because I had one too.

  Luca shook his head.

  ‘We’d better go,’ he said.

  The Road to the Station

  I was born in the customer lounge of Nottingham train station. My mother was waiting on the platform for the 6.52 to take her to an important meeting in London when the contractions she’d been trying to ignore throughout the previous night became so strong that she keeled over, amniotic fluid trickling down the inside of her thighs. The other passengers reared back as a puddle formed at her feet. As the train pulled up she was ready to straighten herself up and walk calmly on board to continue her journey. But when the rail guard arrived, face ashen, she felt the rush of the next contraction clamping down and knew there was no getting out of it. He escorted her into the customer lounge, eyes bulging, before radioing for help and sitting down on one of the benches.

  ‘It’s the last week before I retire,’ he said. ‘I was hoping for a quiet one.’

  My mother loved telling me this story because it was proof, she said, that I was trouble from the start. Whenever she got to the part with the guard she’d look at me, shaking her head, as if I’d done it all on purpose. She said I liked to ruin things: her important meeting, the guard’s retirement; it was my way of drawing attention to myself. I even ruined Nottingham for her. After she gave birth to me in the customer lounge and the local newspaper put her story on the front page, we moved away from the city. She didn’t like attention, my mother, which explained why she didn’t like having a child; people can’t help but see children.

  So my mother gave me Stillness Lessons, teaching me how to disappear.

  I usually like going to the train station. I feel connected to the tracks and cables, the café with its high ceilings and stained-glass windows, the noise of the trains whizzing past. When I ran away, I ran to Nottingham station, not Nottingham itself. I knew my parents would never look for me there. It was my safe place, the place no one could touch me. I hung around the platforms, slept in the toilets, looked up at the departure boards as though I was a passenger at the beginning of a journey when, really, I’d just finished one. Nottingham station wasn’t home, but it was the closest thing I had to one.

  But this time, as I walked towards the station, I didn’t feel that I was going home. I was on edge; every baseball cap, every glance my way, every wiry body that brushed my shoulder was Rusby’s. Even people who didn’t look like Rusby were Rusby. Their eyes turned gaunt and wide, their teeth turned to broken slabs ready to rip right into me. It’s as if I give off a scent that only he can smell and no matter how hard I try to scrub it off, Rusby will do just as he promised: Sniff. Me. Out.

  ‘Do you know what makes us human?’ asked Luca.

  He’d stopped walking and was stood by the wall under the tram bridge. He looked quite smart with his leather rucksack and buttoned-up trench coat.

  I watched as a crowd of Rusbys walked past.

  ‘Say again?’ I said.

  Luca dropped his rucksack on the ground, looking as though he’d just asked the Most Serious of All Serious Questions.

  ‘Do you know what makes us human?’ he repeated.

  ‘Is this a riddle?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. I thought about it for a bit.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘What makes us human?’

  He opened his mouth as if he was going to give me the answer, then shook his head again.

  ‘Think about it.’

  Luca picked up his bag and began walking. He was an odd fish, that was for sure, but some of the best people I knew were the oddest.

  We didn’t walk to the main station entrance, but to the platform footbridge at the side. The smell of just-brewed coffee wafted past in takeaway cups. It was another hour until the next train but Luca had wanted to be early because time was relative.

  ‘When you have lots to do you have less time, and when you have nothing to do you have lots.’

  My mind sprang into gear.

  ‘Like when you’re in a waiting room for twenty minutes and it seems like hours?’

  Luca nodded.

  ‘But when you’re having fun,’ I continued, ‘hours go by in seconds.’

  Luca frowned as though ‘fun’ was a foreign word.

  ‘Like when we were dancing at the party,’ I said. ‘We danced for ages but time just zoomed by.’

  He thought about this for a second, then licked his lips, nodding as though he’d tasted something amazing and that thing had been my words. That’s how I got caught off guard.

  There was a figure standing by the exit, talking to a man with long dreads, holding some Big Issues. I didn’t recognize him, but I knew the woman straight away. If a cat was sitting by itself, Jules would start talking to it.

  She caught sight of me and leant her shoulder against the wall.

  ‘All right, Molls?’ she yelled. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

  She had slicked her hair into a neat ponytail and rolled up the cuffs of her oversized jacket. Her army rucksack was by her feet and stuffed as if she was ready to hike Mount Kilimanjaro. I wrapped my arms around my waist and smiled.

  ‘All right, Jules,’ I said.

  I could feel Luca twitching beside me. Jules saw it too, though she didn’t let on. Instead, she looked him right in the eye.

  ‘All right, Posh Boy?’ she said.

  This didn’t seem to help matters. He looked down at me, trying to keep his voice low.

  ‘We’ve got to go, Molly,’ he said.

  Jules rocked back on her heels.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ she said. ‘Where are you two lovebirds off to?’

  The man with the dreads shuffled to the middle of our group. He looked sort of sorry and cross at the same time.

  ‘No offence, guys, but you’re ruining my trade.’

  He rolled his eyes towards all the people walking in and out of the station. We nodded and moved to the other side of the road. The Big Issue folk take their jobs seriously and one thing they don’t like is other homeless ruining their trade. Pedestrians can’t stand groups of homeless together, especially when they’re trying to flog something. They like to think of us as lonely types with no community. If you’re by yourself, people can identify and sympathize, but if you’re in a group then they feel alienated and resentful. Simple psychology really.

  ‘Having a dirty weekend, then?’ Jules said real loud for the whole world to hear. She
was swinging side to side. It can look hostile the way she rocks about, but it’s a technique she uses to keep herself alert. If she stands still for too long her defences drop.

  I kept my voice light.

  ‘Just going away for the day,’ I said.

  She raised her brows, showing off the black iris in her broken eye.

  ‘Anywhere special?’

  Luca stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and mumbled through the side of his mouth.

  ‘Skegness,’ he said.

  Jules did one of her broad grins.

  ‘Brill-i-ant. Love a bit of Skeggie, I do. Got an aunt up there, ain’t I, Molls?’

  She slapped me on the side of my arm as she carried on grinning.

  ‘You remember? The one with the figurines.’

  I nodded, watching the electronic board that publicizes the departure times.

  ‘Don’t mind if I come along, do you?’ she said.

  She scanned both our faces, waiting for us to grin back. Luca clenched his jaw.

  ‘No way,’ he said.

  Jules stood tall. Her broken eye bulged.

  ‘ParDON mE?’

  The edge in her voice was sharp as a butcher’s knife but Luca didn’t hear it.

  ‘This is a two-man mission,’ he said.

  Jules screwed her jaw tight.

  ‘As far as I can see there ain’t no mEN around here.’

  There was once a woman called Medusa who was beautiful in that way women in myths and fairy tales always are (flaxen hair, fair skin, virginal as a nun). This woman was cursed and transformed into a hideous monster with snakes for hair. She became ugly in that way women in myths and fairy tales always are (old and withered). If you looked Medusa in the eyes she’d turn you to stone, mouth spitting hatred, face filled with venom. That was like Jules when she started a berserker in public. I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty.

  ‘Give us a minute, Jules,’ I said.

  I pulled at Luca’s sleeve and made him follow me to the other side of the pavement. He was huffing and tutting, like a kid who wasn’t getting his own way.