by Danuta Kot
Her gang was huddled in a group when she saw them. She went over to join them, and Ashley turned on her. ‘You stay away from my sister, you cow, you . . .’
Becca hadn’t understood. She thought Ashley was still upset about the sisters thing. She looked at the others for some support, but they wouldn’t meet her gaze. ‘I only—’ she began.
‘You slag!’ Ashley kept screaming. ‘You slag!’ The others had pulled her away still yelling abuse at Becca.
Her friends. She’d gone after them, ready to smile, telling herself it was a joke, this was how friends joked, it had to be . . . she could see herself following them saying things like, ‘Hey . . . What’s . . . I don’t get what . . .’ How pathetic was that?
And then the summons to Clare’s office had come.
And that was it. Her life in Leeds – gone.
Becca lifted her chin. She didn’t have to take that kind of shit. Fuck them. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She wasn’t ashamed of camming – why should she be? If guys wanted to pay, why shouldn’t she do it? She was good at it, and they gave her money.
And now Liam at the drop-in had called her Bex. Tell you later . . . Bex.
It didn’t mean anything. Liam did that. Terry was Tez, Darren was Daz. Neil was probably Nez for all she knew. Calling her Bex didn’t mean anything.
Nothing at all.
It was good she was working that night. Otherwise she would have been stuck in her flat, staring at the walls, no one to talk to, nothing to do – or nothing she could afford to do – until work on Monday, and she thought, seriously thought, she might go crazy.
Chapter 11
Jared’s plans – not for the first time – were pretty much fucked up. Plan A had been to pack up his stuff, load his car and head up the coast towards Kettleness, but as he wasn’t fit to drive, it had to be Plan B.
Plan B, as usual, didn’t exist.
For the first day after his exploration of the tunnel, he really thought he might need to go back to the hospital – only there was no one to tell and no one to take him. A text arrived from his mother – the usual stuff – How are you, keep in touch, yada yada yada, trying to pretend everything was OK.
But Jared could still hear his father’s voice. What happened, mate? How did you get it so wrong? Jared had been the leader, the experienced caver, and he’d walked away without a scratch, while Charlie . . .
That wasn’t the way his father had taught him.
He swallowed a fistful of pills and washed them down with whisky. Pills were for pain, right? He texted back – Fine. Call soon – then collapsed onto the bed and stayed there, taking painkillers when he surfaced, washing them down with whisky. He just wanted to be out of it.
After a couple of days, his own stink drove him outside and he managed to clean himself – and the caravan – up a bit and take stock. He wasn’t right back where he’d started from, but he couldn’t walk without his stick, if you wanted to call it walking. His back kept going into spasm, when all he could do was stand there and let the pain grip him, teeth clenched, breathing shallow, JesusJesusJesusJesus until it was gone.
Driving wasn’t an option. He survived on dry Weetabix and increasingly dubious milk swigged straight from the bottle. After the first couple of days he cut down on the pills – a bit – and did the exercises his physio had given him. Gradually, his back improved. He managed to go for short walks – very short walks – along the road towards the Flamborough cliffs, but he spent the evenings in a daze of drugs and alcohol.
He was sick of it. Sick down deep in his soul.
On Saturday morning, he hauled himself out of bed, determined to make some kind of move. He was sorting through the piles of his stuff that had accumulated on the floor when he was interrupted by a loud banging on the caravan door.
The police? Back again?
Shit! His gaze skimmed the place looking for any visible evidence of . . . stuff. Things he shouldn’t have. Things he shouldn’t have been doing.
The knock came again, heavier and more impatient. He opened the door a cautious sliver. ‘Yeah?’, relaxing and adding ‘mate’ when he saw it was the site owner. Jared’s philosophy was always to try and find the good side of the people he encountered – why get into unnecessary fights? – but as far as he could tell, GBH only had a bad side and a worse side.
The man was equally abrupt. ‘You had the cops here. What was that about?’
Jared hesitated, wanting to tell the guy to mind his own business. But fair enough, it was his business if there was trouble on the site. ‘Nothing much. They were tracking a phone call. Came from somewhere round here’
‘Yeah. What did you tell them?’
‘Told them I didn’t know anything about it. Why?’
‘Never mind why. What else?’
Jared thought back. They were now definitely on mind your own business territory, but if the police had been hassling the guy, then Jared had no problems helping him out. ‘I told them to ask the people having the parties.’
The reaction surprised him. The man’s face went dark with anger. ‘What are you talking about?’
Jared shrugged. ‘The bunch of headbangers who’ve been playing music over that way.’ He indicated the far side of the field where the late-night partying had been going on.
The man stared at him in silence, then said, ‘Yeah? You listen to me. There’s been no parties on this site, right?’
‘OK, if you say so.’
‘This site’s closed for the winter now. I want to you out of here. Tomorrow.’
‘You’re closing down what, exactly?’ He looked around the empty site and the rows of battered, deteriorating caravans. Down the rutted track, a broken gate was pushed back against the tangle of winter undergrowth. ‘Locking the gates to keep all the tourists out?’
‘Don’t get funny with me, mate. I’m switching the water off. Start packing.’
As GBH strode away, Jared watched until he was out of sight, then went across to where his car was parked. He rummaged inside, pulling out handfuls of junk, until he found what he was looking for – a dispenser’s paper bag with his latest prescription painkillers. He was just limping his way back to the caravan when a bike went past at high speed, almost hitting him and making him stagger back from the path. As he stared after it, another one passed him. He caught a glimpse of a boyish, freckled face as a voice shouted, ‘Move it, mong!’ and they vanished along the path.
Jared steadied himself, but didn’t waste the effort in yelling an obscenity after the disappearing rider. Having just avoided being manhandled off the site by the manager, he didn’t want to be beaten up by a couple of pill-headed yobs. His own weakness depressed him. He used to be able to stand his ground. Now he seemed to be taking endless shit from just about anyone.
As he closed the caravan door, he decided it was time he stopped messing around. If he wanted to get fit again, he needed to get out and do things. He had to stop letting a bit of pain ground him. For fuck’s sake, of course it hurt. He’d broken his fucking back, and then he’d fallen down a ladder in a tunnel. It wouldn’t get better unless he started using it.
OK. A timetable. In a way, GBH was doing him a favour. Sort out his stuff today, leave tomorrow. He could manage the drive up the coast if he took it slowly, lots of stops. He had his tent and all his gear. Camping at Kettleness would be better than this – it certainly couldn’t be worse.
He cleared the minuscule bit of floor space the caravan offered, and, gritting his teeth, he put himself through another physio routine. After half an hour, it felt as though every muscle in his body was on fire. He crawled onto the bed, making himself ignore the whisky and the painkillers lying temptingly within reach. He’d give himself an hour to recover, then he’d start the whole routine again.
And it worked. By the evening he was knackered, but he felt better. So much better, he almost had to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. His head felt clear and for the first time since he’d almost killed himself in
the side tunnel, he was feeling properly hungry.
A fry-up – eggs, bacon, sausage, fried bread – then a good night’s sleep and he’d be ready for anything . . . but that would mean a drive into Brid, a drive back here, cooking it all on the inadequate two-ring burner, leaving the caravan full of condensation and the smell of frying.
Or . . . he could go to the pub. Pie and peas. He could almost feel the crust break under his knife, and see the gravy flooding the plate across the fat crispness of the chips and the green mush of the peas . . .
And a pint of beer, get back for about ten, just a couple of pills to make him sleep like a baby until morning . . .
He grinned, feeling his spirits lift. Pie and peas was as good a cure for soul sickness as any other he knew. With beer. He finished organising his stuff, pulled on the closest thing he had to clean clothes and put the rest into a black bag for the launderette when he got into Whitby tomorrow, then grabbed his keys and set out.
There was a decent pub about a mile away. He’d earned a good evening.
Chapter 12
The first person Becca saw when she got into the drop-in was Hannah, one of the youth workers who often used the café as a kind of informal counselling booth. Hannah was small and solid, given to dungarees and boots. Liam called her an old dyke – but not to her face, Becca was interested to note. She was always friendly, and managed to offer advice without sounding as if she thought Becca was an idiot. ‘Hi Becca. I’ve switched on the urn. Nothing to report. Just the usual suspects in tonight.’
‘Thanks.’ Becca had no idea who the usual suspects were, but Hannah always said that. ‘See you tomorrow.’ Hannah gave her a wave as she headed towards the door, pulling on her coat as she went.
Once she’d gone, the café was all Becca’s. In the evenings, the job was simple. There was no cooking. The café served hot drinks for free, and sold canned drinks, sweets and biscuits.
Hannah had left everything ready. All Becca needed to do was keep checking the urn and wait for business. The main room was quiet and the café was empty. Saturday nights, most of the kids managed to find some entertainment in the town. Somewhere, someone was whistling, a sad tune that tugged at her memory . . . yeah. Matt used to whistle it when he was working on something, some kind of song about love, and whisky, and stuff like that.
She missed him.
She sat on a stool by the counter and watched two lads who were playing idly on the snooker table and talking earnestly between shots.
It was Liam with, as always, Terry. Tez. Wherever Liam went, Terry was not far behind. No one was going to mess with Liam when Terry was there. Terry was big. Though come to think of it, no one messed with Liam anyway.
He looked up and saw her watching him.
‘Hi, Bex. Come to make us a drink? Get a move on, then.’ He gave Terry a push and the two of them scuffled their way towards the counter where she was standing.
‘And two Cokes,’ he said, reaching over the counter and helping himself to a biscuit. They were both laughing. As one stopped, the other nudged, and they started again. She wasn’t sure if she was the target of the joke or not.
‘Fifty pence for Cokes,’ she said, heading towards the hatch so she could serve them.
Liam turned his smile on her. ‘Come on, Bex. Dykelady lets us have it for free.’
‘Yeah, right. Fifty.’
‘They sell it for half that down the supermarket.’
‘This look like a supermarket to you?’
He smiled and held her gaze. While she was distracted, Terry ducked under the hatch, helped himself to two cans of Coke and was away. ‘You see?’ Liam said cheerfully. ‘Self-service.’
‘That’s going on a tab.’
Liam held up the can as if he was drinking to her, and said, ‘Any more at home like you, Bex girl. Kid sister, maybe?’ Becca froze. He waggled his tongue, and Terry sniggered. The two of them left the room, scuffling and laughing.
Becca felt the wash of rage that preceded the room-wreckings of her teenage years. No one spoke to her like that. No one. Her hand gripped a cup, already seeing the arc it would make through the air, and hearing the satisfying smash. Seeing it smash into Liam’s sneer, and seeing . . .
The whistling she’d heard earlier helped her. It made her think of Matt and what he said to her when she went into a meltdown. Anger is useful, Becca. Don’t waste it. Use it the right way.
Yeah, useful like the power it would give her arm when she hurled the cup into . . . When she did exactly what Liam wanted, and got into serious trouble.
Forget it, she told herself. Forget it. He’s not worth it.
But she didn’t believe that, not really.
As the slow evening dragged on, the whole thing went round and round in her head as she served drinks, cleared tables, washed up.
Liam was making it clear, he didn’t have to spell it out – if she did anything he didn’t like . . . Just like Him, her stepfather. Don’t tell, Becca. They won’t believe you. They’ll send you away. He’d kept her powerless by the fear of consequences and no one was going to do that to her again.
Maybe she should tell Neil about Bexgirl now, and then . . . She tried to picture a scene in which Neil listened, nodded understandingly and said it would be OK, she wasn’t to worry.
Yeah, right.
The café was empty. She locked up the cash drawer, went into the small kitchen behind the counter and sat down on a box. She needed some time on her own. What to do?
Liam was a creep. He made people do what he wanted – Paige did what he said, Terry did what he said and now he was going to start on Becca. She knew what would happen – if she didn’t do what he wanted, he’d make sure everyone knew about Bexgirl.
And she’d lose her job.
Well, wasn’t that what she wanted? Hadn’t she spent the last month moaning at herself and anyone who would listen how much she hated it.
And she did.
Except . . .
She liked it when Paige sought her out. She liked it when Hannah treated her like a . . . like a colleague, not some know-nothing kid. She’d even liked it when Neil – who was still a patronising git – said she was doing well. If she left, it was going to be her decision, not something Liam forced her into.
And if she got the push, what would she do for money?
Right. She might not know what to do about Liam, but she wasn’t going to let him know that. Her head came up and she stalked back into the café. Don’t try it, creep!
There was no sign of either Liam or Terry. Paige was sitting in one of the chairs, smoking some kind of roll-up. Her gaze met Becca’s.
‘Want some?’ she asked, holding it up.
Becca couldn’t be arsed with the rules tonight. She was going to get the push – what did she care. ‘Ta.’ She sat down at the table with Paige and took a drag. The hit was amazing – an instant high. This wasn’t weed, it was . . . ‘What is it?’
Paige, who was watching her closely, grinned. ‘Good, isn’t it? I can get you some if you want.’
Becca could feel the high fading, and she wanted it back. Now. She wanted to go on feeling like this and already she could sense the down that was coming.
‘Becca?’ Paige was looking at her expectantly.
‘No. I don’t want it. And you’d better put that thing out before someone sees you.’
To her surprise, Paige nipped the end of the roll-up and slipped it into her bag with no more than an eloquent rolling of the eyes.
They sat in silence, Paige watching Becca, her gaze dropping or moving away when Becca looked at her. She fidgeted with her bag and looked at the clock on the wall.
‘You OK?’ Becca asked eventually.
Paige shrugged. ‘Makes me jumpy. That stuff.’ She met Becca’s gaze. ‘I don’t get you.’
‘What don’t you get?’
‘What you’re doing here. Why did you come to a dump like this? If I had a place in Leeds, I wouldn’t.’
Why was
everyone so hooked on Leeds? Liam with his I know a mate of yours, Paige with her Leeds is so cool shit. The trouble was, it was a question Becca asked herself all the time, though the answer was simple. Because she’d fucked up big time. ‘I needed a job.’
‘Yeah. But . . .’ She met Becca’s gaze. ‘OK. Whatever. Listen, do you know someone called Kay? Kay McKinnon?’
Surprise kept Becca silent for a minute, then she said, ‘Yeah. Do you?’
‘Kind of. Is she, you know, OK? I mean, can you . . .’ Whatever Paige wanted to say, she didn’t finish. Her gaze moved beyond Becca to the door.
Liam stood there, jerking a peremptory head. ‘You ready or what?’ He ignored Becca.
‘I’m talking to Becca.’
‘Yeah, well, time to stop, isn’t it?’
Paige sighed. ‘It’s only nine thirty. There’s plenty of time.’
Liam beckoned her over to the door and they talked, keeping their voices low. Liam looked angry. ‘What are you playing at?’ Becca heard him say.
‘I don’t like it,’ Paige shot back. ‘I want to know what . . .’ Her gaze slid round to Becca, and Liam looked as well. His gaze challenged her as he put his hand on Paige’s arm and tried to draw her away.
Paige shook him off and Becca jumped to her feet just as Alek came into the café. He looked at the three of them, frowning. To Becca’s surprise, Liam dropped Paige’s arm and she came back to the table rubbing her wrist. Becca took her chance. ‘Liam was just going,’ she said. ‘But he owes us for drinks.’ I’m not scared of you!
Just for a second, she caught a flash of real hostility in Liam’s eyes, then he fished in his pocket and held out a handful of cash. ‘Keep the change,’ he said. Then his gaze locked on hers. ‘Not bad for a quid. Does that include the kid sister?’
Becca met his gaze. ‘Get lost, Liam.’
Alek walked with Liam and Terry to the exit, not saying anything – he wasn’t big on chat. Becca was pretty sure he was checking they were safely off the premises. It was close to closing time – she could start packing up herself. Then she realised that Paige was still there, watching her.