Stu folded his paper.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘It is the oldest profession in the book.’
Joyce’s jaw tightened.
‘Stu!’
He shrugged, eyes wide.
‘It is!’
I wanted Jules with me. She’d have bulldozed over the conversation, talking about how she got her broken eye or what happened after she got jutted. The giraffe ornament was looking at me from the windowsill, the gazelle eyeing me from the mantelpiece. Hanging from the ceiling was a string of mahogany birds, cawing and laughing.
‘I don’t do it any more,’ I said quickly.
I should have said that straight away. That, and how it was never something I enjoyed. Some girls do, but they don’t tend to be the ones doing it in the back of someone’s Ford Fiesta on an industrial estate, needing money for the next hit. Yasmin from Glasgow said it wasn’t as bad as some jobs. That working in door-to-door sales for eight months had made her suicidal in a way that the parlour never had. Both were similar; you gave parts of your soul to your customers. You just gritted your teeth and grinned through it so you could pay the bills. But you can’t really explain this stuff to people who’ve never been through it. They feel they have to share their point of view and I’m not really into debates, particularly ones where people only care about what they have to say.
‘I’m trying to get on a better path now,’ I said.
The Yellow Brick Road, I told myself. The Yellow Brick Road.
Joyce’s expression was caught between revulsion and confusion. She couldn’t really hide it, even though I could tell she was trying. No other profession can leave such a sour taste, not the way prostitution does. Except maybe traffic wardens. That’s why I make sure to smile at them.
I couldn’t look at Joyce any more and I couldn’t look at Luca. I hoped he would be more understanding, that he’d know it was just a job I did once.
‘What does your father think about this?’ Joyce asked. Her voice was low and soft.
I looked her hard in the eyes.
‘I couldn’t give a shit,’ I said.
Luca chuckled. He looked sort of proud.
Joyce coughed, leaning over for the bottle.
‘Well, it’s all very brave of you,’ she said. ‘More wine?’
She had her goddess smile back, neck straight and teeth gleaming. It was so well practised that it would have fooled a lot of people, but not me. It was the same smile my mother used for strangers.
I put down my glass and glanced over at Stu, who had his head cocked back, examining me like some foreign artefact.
‘I think I’ll sort my bag out,’ I said.
I shot out of the living-room door, the tiled floor, the wooden stairs, the cream carpet on the landing all a blur as I rushed past. I could hear Joyce calling for me but I was too knotted up for any more. I ran into the bathroom and locked the door. I stood holding the edge of the sink, trying to remember how to breathe. It was hard to focus, my head fuzzy from the wine and filled with wooden animals and scarecrows. I saw Joyce sprinkling berries on to her porridge, her hand covered with fur. When I looked up she had a bear’s face, mouth snarling.
I hit the side of my head. My imagination takes over the truth sometimes. Like the pride on Luca’s face. That was just what I wanted to see.
My face looked back at me in the bathroom mirror. It was pale and drained, blue veins swelling beneath my eyes. It didn’t matter how nice my hair was, or how pretty my dress was, or how long I’d been off the drugs and off the game and how hard I’d tried to be a good, honest person; people always saw the worst. A shadow formed behind me in the glass. It was taller than me, with a hand reaching out. I slapped my head again. Then again. A pain rippled down my neck and into my limbs.
This is how it feels when you need a hit: pain in your joints, cramp, sweat, nausea, anxiety and the deep-down need to make everything disappear. I searched the bathroom for something to make it stop. I checked the medication in the bathroom cabinet. I read the labels but they were mainly vitamins and blood-pressure tablets. Then I came across a cluster of dark little bottles with childproof caps on the top and long words that I couldn’t pronounce. I was going to take a bunch of them, mix them up and hope for the best, but then I saw the same name printed along the bottom of each one.
‘MR L. BARGATE’.
I closed the bathroom cabinet and leant my head against the mirror. The pain had eased but the images were still swirling. I knew what I had to do. I had to leave.
My grandmother saw ghosts, but she didn’t like them. She told me they bothered her at the most inconvenient of times. But then, just before she died, she told me she was glad she could see them.
‘I’m never alone,’ she said.
I didn’t believe in the ghosts, but I knew what she meant.
She reached out and held my wrist. Her fingers were all bone by then, digging into my flesh.
‘She doesn’t know how to ask for help,’ she said. ‘She’s trying, but the words don’t come out.’
I thought she was talking about Mother. But then she mumbled something about a blunt instrument and blood on the carpet and I realized she was talking about Mabel, murdered in the attic by her husband.
When Mother came back into the room – tired and weary – I could see straight through her, right to the flower-print wallpaper behind. She was a ghost, mouth open and no words.
He came in and stood behind her. Her mouth stretched out, trying to cry help.
‘It’s time to go home now,’ she said instead.
It didn’t take long to pack. I thought of leaving a note but there was too much to say so, instead, I took the key from around my neck and placed it carefully on the bedside cabinet. I felt a hollow space around my neck, as though the key had become part of me. But it wasn’t mine; it was Luca’s and he needed it to carry on with his mission. I stroked the laced head and then arranged the chain so that it sat in a large speech bubble. Like the key was saying all the things I couldn’t.
I needed to find Jules. And then we’d have to make our way back to Nottingham, hitchhiking or jumping the train, or some other last-ditch attempt that would probably land us in hot water. Then I’d have to deal with Rusby. He’d still be mad at me for the beer-soaking and he’d think I owed him. I started to feel heavy at the thought of this so lay down on the bed and pulled my knees to my chest.
They weren’t always so bad, the punters. Some were young lads who’d preferred a sure bet to a night on the town full of rejection. Some were older men who didn’t want anything but a chat. I’m a good listener so I didn’t mind those. But sometimes, when I was standing on the streets in the middle of the night, clinging on to my denim jacket, bouncing up and down in my red canvas shoes to keep warm, I’d see a car pull up beside me and know by the way the man was sitting, the slump of his shoulders, the leer in his eyes, that there would be trouble. By the way he wouldn’t speak as I leant down and asked how he was doing, but would carry on leering like I was some kind of insect he wanted to pull the legs off. I’d get that slithering feeling in my gut, the cold wet crawling along my spine, and know that I shouldn’t get in the car, that this man would do horrible, terrible things and I wouldn’t have any right to complain because I’d asked for it, hadn’t I? But when these men came, and I saw what they were, I knew that Rusby would be around the corner watching. He’d get fisty if I turned away a client even though I’d turned them away because I thought they’d get fisty themselves. Rock and a hard place. That’s where girls like me always get stuck. So I went with these men, trying to make chit-chat about the weather, acting cheery as they drove me down a real dark alley, and I knew Rusby, for all the use he was, was getting further and further behind. So I’d do what they said, take the insults and slaps and the fear, because that was my job. That was how I survived.
I only realized I was crying when Luca put his hand on my shoulder. He’d crept through the bedroom door. I wiped the wetness from my face but couldn�
�t stop the sniffing, couldn’t stop my body shaking, couldn’t stop the snakes slithering.
Luca slipped on to the bed, curling his body around mine. He didn’t say anything as he shuffled one of his arms under my neck, draping the other over the top of me. His body was warm. It felt like I was in a cocoon of Luca, all snug and protected. Then I felt his breath hot on my ear.
‘It’s OK, Molly,’ he said. ‘It’s over now.’
The Cowardly Lions
It’s hard to let go of the past.
Once, Private Pete got temporary accommodation in a bedsit and spent a week sleeping on the floor. The bed was too comfortable; it kept him awake. When Big Tony first came back from the army he said the worst thing was not being told what to do every minute of the day; the freedom drove him crazy. Yasmin from Glasgow said she couldn’t ever have a loving relationship because all she’d seen was the worst side of men.
I’d been invisible for so long – the Stillness Lessons, disappearing down dark alleys and being a ghost on the streets – that it felt hard to be seen again. By Joyce and Stu; even by Luca. But when you stop being seen, you stop existing. And when you stop existing, that’s when you give up.
I must have dozed for a few minutes because the next thing I knew Luca was gone. I went to the bathroom and washed my face with a gloopy gel. It was minty and made my skin raw and tingly, which was exactly how I felt inside.
I don’t know why, but as I was scrubbing I got to thinking about Robin Hood outside the Tourist Information. I thought about how, when he was packing up one day, we started having a real nice conversation about corrupt politics and reclaiming power from ‘the man’ when, all of a sudden, he fixed me with pain-soaked eyes. I asked what was wrong and he told me it was his daughter Emily’s birthday that day. It shocked me dead centre because I didn’t think Robin Hood had kids; he always seemed the loner type. I asked how old she was and he said that she wasn’t any age, not any more.
‘She drowned on a sailing holiday ten years ago,’ he said. ‘She was twenty-two.’
I felt a sharp twist inside my chest. When you lose someone like that it leaves a hole inside you that you can never fill again. Nobody can see it but you’re hollow for the rest of your life and even if you can make a shot of things and somehow feel happy again, that hole will always be there.
‘You look a bit like her,’ he told me. ‘She had the same eyes as you.’
He smiled at me, grateful even though I hadn’t done anything. After that I couldn’t go back to the Tourist Information. I felt rotten about it, but I couldn’t be someone’s daughter again, not when it had gone so badly the first time. Besides, I knew Robin Hood wouldn’t read too much into it. People move on quick on the streets.
I suppose I got to thinking about this in the bathroom because I still had the feeling I’d had with Robin: like I needed to run away. But then I thought about Luca and how he’d held me and I knew I couldn’t do it to him. So I went back to the bedroom and put the key around my neck. I tucked it beneath my dress and it glowed amber like a candle.
When I went downstairs I couldn’t find Luca or Cora but I could hear Joyce and Stu talking in the kitchen. The door was cracked open and I could see Stu pacing up and down with his hands shoved into his corduroy trousers. I was going to walk straight in, get the awkwardness out of the way, but then I heard him speaking and there was something in his tone that made me stop.
‘He’s still got that stupid trumpet case with him,’ he said. ‘And don’t even get me started on that girl.’
‘Stu, please keep your voice down.’
I stepped away from the door. Stu was still pacing.
‘Bringing that three-legged beast in here.’
‘It’s just a dog.’
‘And that Jules friend of hers.’
Joyce didn’t say anything. The temperature dropped; I could feel the sudden chill in the air. I wrapped my arms around my body.
‘The way she was talking about that … stuff,’ Stu carried on. ‘Over lunch, for God’s sake.’
Perhaps telling them over breakfast would have made it better, or while they watched the news. I could have whispered it to them while they slept, or screamed it from the rooftop. But, in the end, it doesn’t matter how you tell a person something, not when they don’t want to hear it.
It was so cold now that tiny ice crystals were forming above my head. Joyce was chopping something with quick little movements. Her back was towards me as I watched her shoulders lift and drop, lift and drop.
‘So she’s lived a little.’
I smiled when she said that. It’s funny how people can be different from what you think. I thought Stu seemed relaxed about the whole thing and Joyce was disgusted. But I forgot that sometimes people need time to think.
Stu was standing with his hands on his hips now. He looked like a statue of a Greek god.
‘Lived a little?’ he said.
Joyce stopped chopping and looked over at Stu.
‘OK, so I was shocked too. But rarely, Stu, it isn’t a big—’
Stu tossed his head back.
‘Don’t get all bohemian liberal with me, Joyce.’
She sighed in that weary sort of way parents do with children. I liked Stu, I really did, but I could see how he’d grate after a while. He poured himself a large glass of red wine. He swirled the ruby liquid around the glass.
‘You’re overreacting, Stu,’ Joyce said. ‘She’s a perfectly nice girl.’
Stu moved out of my vision. I put my eye to a crack in the door. He was leaning against the kitchen worktop, stuffing green beans into his mouth.
‘Yes, she’s very nice,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
Even though I knew I was about to hear something I shouldn’t, that I ought to cover my ears and run away, I was frozen, ice crystals blooming in the air. I kept my body huddled by the crack of the kitchen door, muscles sucked in tight. The key to being invisible is to be inoffensive, small, harmless. People don’t pay attention to you when they think you’re not a threat.
Stu was still stuffing green beans into his mouth.
‘And I’m cancelling my credit card,’ he said. ‘You can’t stop me now.’
‘But we need to keep track of him,’ Joyce said.
‘He’s here now. How much closer can we track him?’
The ice crystals were beautiful, spreading out in fractal patterns. I looked up at them, then back through the crack as Stu tried to lower his voice but to little effect.
‘Did you see her arms?’ he said.
I could feel the ice crackles on my lashes as I blinked.
‘Little scars all over them,’ he said. ‘She’s a drug addict, I’m telling you. Heroin or poppy. Whatever they call it nowadays.’
Joyce crossed the kitchen.
‘Just because she’s a sex worker does not mean—’
Stu’s voice boomed loud again.
‘Pull the other one, Joyce! You can act all Mother Earth about the whoring but you know what drug addicts are like. Besides, I saw you put all your jewellery away last night.’
Joyce was pushing a tray into the oven. I had to strain to hear her over the clanking.
‘Just because I’m sympathetic doesn’t mean I’m an idiot,’ she said.
Stu pointed at her.
‘I knew it!’
The ice encased me. Sympathetic. I used to think that was a good word but Jules said it was an insult. Empathy meant someone felt what you felt, was trying to walk in your shoes. Sympathy meant they were looking down at you from way up high.
Of course that was what Joyce was doing. She didn’t want to imagine what it would be like to live in my shoes. Nobody wanted to imagine that.
‘Yes, yes, and I’m sure there’s a terrible story behind it,’ Stu said. ‘But she’s not our problem, Joyce.’
He held his hand up before she could interrupt.
‘Luca’s our problem. Is she really the type of person he needs right now?’
Joyce
stopped real still this time. I couldn’t see her face but I could tell by the silence that she agreed with him. When she spoke again her voice was faltering.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said.
Her shoulders hiccuped but she hardly made a sound. Even when she cried she was graceful.
‘He used to be full of potential,’ she said, a wobble in her voice. ‘Now he’s walking the streets with smackheads … I shouldn’t have said that.’
I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me. This is how people think: Once a smackhead, always a smackhead. It’s the same for criminals. Big Tony, for example; convicted of grievous bodily harm at least four times in his youth, but he learnt his lesson on the last conviction, nearly killed a man only to realize it wasn’t the man he’d been looking for. He was a pacifist now, but that didn’t mean anything when it came to finding a job. Once a violent nutter, always a violent nutter, and if there are thirty people going for the same minimum-wage job, why choose the convicted one?
Stu was getting excited now, hopping about on the spot. He knew he was on to a winner.
‘Yes, you should bloody well say it, Joyce!’ he said. ‘It’s not right. He’s not right. Doing that thing with his socks, carrying that tatty trumpet case around.’
‘That was Dad’s trumpet case,’ Joyce said.
Stu laughed.
‘Yes, the man who told everyone Louis Armstrong was his personal mentor,’ he cried. ‘Living in a fantasy world. I wonder where Luca gets it from.’
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