Burning Bright

by Helen Dunmore

  ‘That’s all he wants? Nothing else?’

  ‘Yeah. Would you believe it? I mean there’s girls you can go to for that kind of stuff.’

  ‘I can’t see the problem. He’s taking the risk, not you. What with AIDS – still, it’s not for us to say. He’s the client.’

  ‘Is that all you can think of? Him getting AIDS? What about me?’

  ‘Lila, there’s just no risk. OK, it’s a bit childish, but why let it get to you? You didn’t use to be like this.’

  ‘Yeah, but what’s he going to want next? I mean, you don’t know what he might move on to. There’s no telling, is there? Where’s it all heading?’

  ‘You ought to read the newspapers more, Lila, then you’d find out. He’s going places. We need more clients like him. That’s the way to get contacts. You want to read the City pages. Anyway, that sort of client, it’s the one thing they want, nothing else. They don’t change. They’re stuck, you know, like a record going round and round.’

  ‘Yes, well, all the same. What I really wanted to say was, could you pass him on to one of the other girls – maybe Vick, she’s done all that S & M and she doesn’t mind –’

  ‘Lila. Is Vick five foot ten? Has she got long blonde hair? Is she twenty-two? What’m I supposed to say, I chopped your legs off? This is business. If a man goes into the greengrocer’s for apples he doesn’t want turnips. What’s your problem? It’s a piece of piss. Don’t you know science, Lila? Every single human being is ninety per cent water. You girls go to the toilet all day long. All you do is flush it away, nothing gained but extra work for the sewage pipes. And here’s one of our best clients, brilliant future, going to pay well because you’re special. You, Lila. Not those other girls. He likes you. There’s no question of passing him on to Vick or anyone else. Either you think it over properly or we lose a lot of money. And you know how I feel about that.’

  ‘It’s Rosie I’m thinking of, really. I know it sounds silly. If you had kids of your own you’d know what I mean. It’s not just me I’ve got to think of now. I mean, there’s standards.’

  ‘Rosie is nice and safe in her nursery, Lila. Safe as houses. And that’s the way we all want to keep it, don’t we?’

  ‘Kai!’

  ‘Life is difficult, Lila. Sometimes we all have to do things we don’t want. What about me? Don’t talk to me about “standards”. People doing what they’re paid to do, that’s standards. They know me at the nursery, you know. It’s nice the way Rosie calls me Uncle Kai.’

  ‘Kai, you wouldn’t –’

  ‘So what you’ll do is put on the gear – yeah, the black stuff – and those stockings and all the rest of it, and get Mr Famous Client flat on his back on the bed and spread your legs and piss right down his throat. And try and look as if you’re having a nice time. You can think of little Rosie while you’re doing it. And put a plastic sheet down on the mattress first. Your other clients won’t like the smell.’

  Room 7 in the Sports Hall smells of sweat. The room isn’t big enough; the circus skills course was oversubscribed and even though they’ve had to turn people away there are still twenty people in here, juggling with balls and clubs and scarves. Cathy, the group leader, has two assistants with her who are working at full stretch. The bald white walls echo to encouragement and dropped balls. Here’s Dacey who makes unicycles out of old bike frames; here’s Sal who studied ballet for eight years before she gave it up and learned to fire-eat. Every move Cathy makes has the brilliant definition and larger-than-life quality of something done on a stage. She’s teaching juggling basics again, patiently, to a couple of big-framed sixteen-year-old lads in singlets and tattoos. Almost all the circus skills clients are unemployed.

  Cathy watches, moves, intervenes. She wears dusty red baggy trousers and a washed-out black vest. Her skin is deeply tanned and against it her eyes are pale, clear and restful. She’s the full-timer, the professional. Born and raised in a tepee in Wales, she is twenty-one now and has been earning her living since she was fourteen. She travels, but not all the time. She’ll be there at Glastonbury, or WOMAD, earning her living at the summer-long round of festivals. One season she was at Covent Garden; another at Edinburgh. She’ll work with anyone, as long as they don’t mess around. Either they want to do something, or they don’t. On Saturdays she’s down the Ring, juggling ball after ball into the air until she’s hidden by a ripple of colour you can’t follow, a fine fast blur of red and orange and violet and gold. She makes her juggling balls herself. Cathy fire-eats too: she loves fire. It makes money: there’s something about a woman swallowing flames or passing them over her body so that they seem to lick the taut glistening skin which acts like a release-button on men’s wallets. They don’t see the sober careful business behind the thrill.

  Cathy’s patient with clumsy beginners, not so patient with smart-arses who want to stick to what they know rather than learn the new, the next, the more difficult trick. She likes Nadine. Nadine’s got the right body to begin with, light and flexible and not too tall. A good sense of balance too, from years of ballet as a kid, like Sal. Lots of people come on to circus skills from dance. They can earn money. You can’t busk on a couple of arabesques and a pas de chat.

  The place is full of kids. Fees are cut if you can show a UB40, and most of these can. Leggings, baggy t-shirts, shaved heads with a little slender plait making its way down the nape of a neck. You don’t get the crusties here, though. These are the kids who still think there’s some hope, and it’s worth learning something new. Lots of them’ll learn for a bit, then head for the resorts where people are in holiday mood with a bit of money to throw away.

  Yeah, Nadine’s all right. She’s got the makings. Well coordinated, and she can concentrate. Amazing how many people can’t. And she looks right too. That’s important, though it’s got nothing to do with ordinary good looks. It’s the way someone can make you watch her, not any of the others. That part’s not so easy to teach.

  Nadine’s damp hair spikes up off her forehead. It’s hot tonight. She’s slower with clubs than balls. Can’t get the rhythm right today; too slow. It’s all a question of rhythm. Relax, says Cathy. Relax and keep your eye on the clubs. A trickle of sweat inches its way across Nadine’s forehead.

  After the class Cathy stops Nadine on her way to the shower. ‘You done any busking yet?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ says Nadine.

  ‘Want to try?’

  ‘All right. I’d like to.’

  ‘OΚ. I’ll take you down the Ring one Saturday.’

  Nadine nods, smiles, recognizing privilege. She rests her arms on a windowsill and leans her weight on them, cooling off, watching the room sideways. People are stopping now, packing away balls and clubs into the wicker hamper. Some bring their own stuff. A couple of kids laugh and fool, juggling their way across the room. The balls go up sloppily into the air.

  ‘Give them here,’ says Cathy.

  As they throw the balls to her, she catches them and sets them spinning. First they make a tight fast loop around her head, then they fluke higher and one’s behind her back to be flipped up again and set sideways, over arm, under arm, the balls free and thoughtless as birds that always want to fly back to Cathy’s hands. As suddenly as she started, she stops. The balls pour up under one raised leg, fly into her right hand and are neat in the basket. It’s over. The kids lean against one another, watching, hoping she’ll do more. But she doesn’t. Cathy’s timing is perfect.

  Nadine strips off leggings, singlet and pants, and steps into the women’s communal shower. A woman with a tiny girl at her knees presses the shower button beside her. The kid jumps in and out of needles of water. The mother is big-thighed, big-breasted, reaching up to soap herself, shutting her eyes to the spray of water. She is four or five months pregnant. She is lovely as she stoops awkwardly, legs straddling, picks the child out of the soapy water that swills in the shower stall, and rinses her off. The little girl squeals and flips her head back, mouth open, small per
fect teeth showing. The mother smiles at Nadine sidelong, a proud, apologetic smile. ‘Shut it,’ she says tenderly to her daughter. ‘Shut it now.’

  ‘Sukey, it’s gone far enough. Too far.’

  ‘What can you mean, darling?’

  ‘This business with Enid. It isn’t fair to her.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I don’t see why not.’

  ‘You’re encouraging her. Putting ideas into her head. Having her here all the time. What about her job?’

  ‘Enid has a perfectly good job, Caro. She is allowed a day off occasionally. Those brutes owed her some holiday. Poor lamb, she works like a slave.’

  ‘She’ll lose her job, and then you’ll be stuck with her. And you’ll get bored, you always get bored. You know what you’re like.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what I’m like, Caro. Have some of these dates: they’re fresh. Basil sent them from Egypt in the diplomatic bag, can you imagine? Lots of date-y documents for the diplomats. I must just go and telephone –’

  ‘Sukey, don’t go! I’ve got to talk to you. It isn’t a joke, it’s serious. Why do you turn everything into a joke?’

  ‘Caro, darling, be reasonable. We’re going to the cottage next week. We’ll have all the time in the world. We’ll sit in the garden and you can tell me anything you like and I promise I’ll listen. There won’t be any interruptions…;’

  ‘Oh, Sukey, darling, I can’t believe it’s ever going to happen. I can’t wait to be there, just the two of us. Can you, darling? Aren’t you awfully impatient?’

  ‘Awfully impatient, Caro. I’ll telephone, then we’ll talk about it some more. Ring for some iced tea, you look so hot…;’

  Nine

  A bell drags Nadine out of sleep.

  Our room. The bell’s still ringing. If I wait maybe they’ll go away. Could be Tony, if he’s forgotten his key. Nobody else’d come this early. Feel on the floor for t-shirt, clench it between my toes, get hold of it, shake it out and over my head. And run downstairs, combing my hair with my fingers. It’ll be Tony for sure.

  No. A tanned woman with hair pulled back in gold and silver streaks along her scalp, expensive sunglasses on a chain, gold chain, gold earrings. Make-up, tight smile and a row of perfect teeth. She stands there immaculate, looking at me. The sun makes me blink.

  ‘Sorry, I thought you were Tony…;’ I apologize, and tug the t-shirt down my thighs.

  ‘Having a lie-in, were you? I don’t blame you, I’d do the same myself if I had the chance.’

  No, she wouldn’t. This one would be up at dawn whatever happened, face-packing and leg-waxing, telephoning and doing her nails. Her fingers are perfectly manicured, her polished nails are curved ovals with an extra-long claw on the thumb. It must be nearly an inch long. She’s like a Chinese nobleman, letting one nail grow so everyone knows she doesn’t work with her hands. She’ll have spent hours plumping the tiny wrinkles around her eyes with cream made from human placentas. Her hair’s so perfect it looks like thin metal with a slick of gel. Then she’d have to floss and rinse and spit till those big teeth were free of plaque. It’s a serious business, looking like that.

  ‘I kept on knocking but no one came, so I pulled the bell-rope. I don’t know how you can stand the noise. You might as well be living next to a church. Not that they let them make that row these days, do they, churches in a residential area like this? People complain. And quite right too. I mean to say, I’ve nothing against religion –’

  ‘It was here when we came. Part of the house. I quite like it.’

  ‘Oh, well, tastes differ, don’t they? Kai about?’

  ‘He’s away.’

  ‘Any idea when he’s likely to be back?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I think. Unless he rings.’

  Less of the teeth shows now. A rim of white glistens, balked. What does she want? Why’s she come to see Kai here, at this time?

  ‘Tony in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Gone off with Kai, has he?’

  ‘He might have done. I don’t think so. He’s probably around.’

  Another blast of smile, woman to woman this time. She opens her handbag and scrabbles through it.

  ‘Oh, knickers, I haven’t got a pen. I’m not doing very well, am I? Can I pop in a minute and leave a message for Kai?’

  I don’t want her in our house, with her hard snooping eyes, but she steps into the doorway and I have to move back.

  ‘Mind where you tread with those heels. The boards are loose. Tony’s been checking the gas pipes.’

  ‘Tony’s a wonder, isn’t he, the way he can turn his hand to anything? I’ve heard ever such a lot about the house. Kai was really keen. Potential, he said it had. And you can tell, can’t you? That plaster moulding must be the original. Very classy.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not really interested in architecture.’

  ‘Well, not as such, maybe. But it’s different when it’s your home, isn’t it? You must be Nadine, have I got it right?’

  Oh, she’s got it off perfectly, that look of inquiry as if there might be any number of girls in here, all shacked up with Kai.

  ‘No, I’m Suzette. Who’s Nadine?’

  A really sharp look this time, then an unwilling smile, the teeth again, and, ‘I’ve heard ever so much about you from Kai. In here? Oh, verynice. You must get the sun all day long in here. Now this would have been the morning-room, am I riģht?’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about houses.’

  ‘Oh, well, you get to, don’t you? You pick it up. You can’t go anywhere without people wanting to tell you about their houses. You ought to go to Prague. ‘Course it’ll be spoiled soon, once they get more money. Miles to walk to the bathroom in the hotels, but if you want style that’s where to go. There’s one good thing about these countries that used to be Communist, they don’t get mucked up. I remember one bloke had a castle – not in Prague, mind you, it was over here.’

  ‘What, a real one?’

  ‘Oh, yes, it was a real castle all right. He’d got the lot: sieges and cannon and boiling oil. But it was only small. Not famous or anything. In fact it was a bit rough on the outside. But he’d made it really nice inside. They’d turned the dungeon into a disco, with a light show. There was a band later on, and they put them in a sort of cage where they used to keep the prisoners. You’d never guess how they used to kill prisoners in the olden days, down in the dungeons.’

  Why guess when you’re going to be told anyway? Look at that bracelet going round and round on her wrist. She’s getting excited. I can tell what kind of shivers it gives her.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you have to imagine the dungeon down there, and a sort of chute from the tower above it. All dark and smelly then, not at all like it was when we were there. He’d done wonders with the place. What they’d do was they’d throw down animal carcasses – pigs and cows and so on, after they’d taken off most of the meat for the kitchens. Then they’d leave them to rot with the prisoners. Well, you can imagine they niffed a bit. The prisoners used to suffocate because the air was too bad to breathe. And then there’d be flies and maggots, and rats. They chained the prisoners to the walls so they couldn’t move. Not even if a rat ran over them. It was this bloke’s ancestors that did it all. If you were a guest at the castle you’d be brought to look down at the prisoners, just like going to look at a room someone’s done up. And then go off and have your dinner. Well, I suppose people were different then. It makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You’d think it’d be easier to hang them.’

  ‘Yes, but it was a deterrent. And the thing was that they died without a mark on them. Charlie explained the whole thing. You could say they’d died naturally, of plague or something.’

  ‘Well, perhaps not plague. It might put the guests off their dinner.’

  Impatient shrug. Narrowing of eyes. She thinks I’m taking the mickey.

  ‘I’ve always taken an interest in history, I’m funny like that. You c
an learn a lot if you keep your eyes and ears open, Nadine.’

  ‘You must be a friend of Kai’s. I haven’t met you before, though, have I?’ I’d never forget those teeth.

  ‘No, but that’s Kai, isn’t it, he likes to keep things separate. So he went off this morning, did he?’

  ‘Yes, very early. He never wakes me up in the mornings.’ There. Just so you know.

  ‘Yes, you need your beauty sleep, don’t you? All those late nights.’

  ‘I’m ushering down at the Warehouse. They have late shows on Wednesdays and Saturdays.’

  ‘Oh – you work at that arts place? Not that I’ve ever been down there. How long’ve you been down here now – three weeks, is it?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘So you’re not really in the business yet? I must have got it wrong.’

  ‘Well, no,’ says Nadine. ‘Not as such. But this is only temporary. I’m thinking of starting something on my own later on.’ There. Let her work that out.

  ‘Oh. But surely there’s no need for that? Not with Kai to look after you. He could easily fix you up. Though you have to think ahead, I can quite see that.’

  Ahead to the time when Kai’s chucked me out, that’s what she means. She’s so sure of it. She knows how it goes. All that gold jewellery. At least she’s got something to hang on to.

  ‘But there’s the question of capital –’ I go on. Her face warms, brightens. For the first time I’m talking sense.

  ‘Oh, don’t talk to me about capital! I know exactly what you mean. Setting up on your own is no picnic. Everything’s tied up with forms. I was at my insurance adviser’s last week to talk about a little PEP plan for my Donna – but the fuss they make you wouldn’t believe, contacting your tax office, loads of forms. And they’ve even changed the name of the scheme. Well, I turned round and told him I might as well keep my money in a sock under the bed.’

  Really animated now. Warming to me. I’m not such a fool as I look. Not such a fool as I look standing here in my baggy t-shirt, thinking I’m young, I’m OK, I don’t need to bother with makeup or good clothes. One curve-clawed hand fastens on my arm. She’s not as tall as I am so she has to look up. She makes me feel clumsy and big. Confiding flower-like eyes, only I’m pretty sure they’re tinted contact lenses. Fixing me with those eyes she coos, ‘And then there’s security. That’s such a big worry.’