by Sara Pascoe
She stopped when she reached the grimy building. It was smaller than she remembered. She clenched her jaw and moved towards the mechanic working under a car bonnet. She stood a few feet away until he came up for air.
‘Oh, hiya,’ the man said, and wiped his hands on his overalls. Raya said nothing. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, I know it’s not likely, but does anyone remember Steve Hollingsworth? He used to work here.’
‘When was that?’
‘Oh, over ten years ago, I guess.’
‘Well, in that case let me ask Bob. He might know. He’s been here since the dinosaurs.’
‘Very funny,’ said a small old man, bent over. He came towards them. His face creased into a smile when he saw Raya. She looked away.
‘Sure, I remember Steve. A good man and a helluva mechanic. Shame when he passed. Sometimes, he’d bring his granddaughter with him. Cute little thing, blonde hair, blue-green eyes. Called her “Raya”, his little ray of sunshine…’ He paused and studied her. She recognized him – the milky teas. Her mouth started to quiver. He smiled again.
‘Is that you? Well, I’ll be! How about a cuppa for old time’s sake? I think we have some bikkies. We’ll toast your grandad.’
Raya nodded, wanted to say yes, wanted to stay, but couldn’t. She felt exposed, preferred to keep the reason for her nickname secret. No one had ever loved her like her grandad did, and she was half sure, half scared no one ever would again. ‘Thanks… I’m sorry…’ was all she could manage. She turned and jogged across the forecourt towards the road. She didn’t know an echo could cut so deep.
On automatic pilot, Raya walked back to the Tube at the start of rush hour and hopped on a westbound train. Might as well look for work near the hostel. With everything that had happened, it was hard to believe it was only this morning when she bolted from Angie’s house with Jake staring gape-mouthed.
She retrieved her purse from her rucksack, slipped her fake ID and Travelcard into a buttoned trouser pocket, then fingered through the notes in her purse despite knowing exactly how much she had. She plugged her earphones in, put her music on and closed her eyes.
She felt someone staring at her and opened them. ‘Agh!’ Raya recoiled. A humongous dog with an expressive face stared at her.
A girl and guy a couple of years older than Raya sat across the crowded aisle. The girl, big like her dog, smiled. ‘Alfie likes you.’
Raya took out an earphone. ‘Hmm, I like dogs, but he’s creeping me out – looks like somebody’s in there.’
The girl loosened the lead. The huge hound stepped around standing commuters, his gaze locked on Raya’s.
‘He won’t hurt you. He just wants to say hi.’
The dog gave her a sniff, put his heavy head in her lap, and stared up at her. It looked like he was smiling. Raya relaxed and stroked him.
‘You know, you shouldn’t flash your money around like that,’ the guy said. He nodded towards Raya’s rucksack on the floor between her feet.
‘What? I didn’t.’
‘You know – when you were counting it before. People can see better than you think,’ he said. The girl nodded.
‘Oh. Thanks.’
Raya got one of those colours again – everything went an ugly grey-green. She stroked the dog and waited for it to pass. The girl tugged the lead and Alfie stepped back to her. Raya put her earphone back in and turned up the music. She didn’t like these two, but the dog was all right.
The recorded voice announced the next stop and the train slowed. The girl and guy got up. Alfie stepped towards Raya.
‘Bye, Alfie.’ Raya patted his noble head. As the doors opened, the girl pulled Alfie along, the guy grabbed Raya’s rucksack, and they bolted.
‘Stop them! He nicked my rucksack!’ Heads turned. She prized the doors open as they closed on her and charged after them. They’d disappeared into the crush of people. She pushed through, called the dog’s name, and yelled for help. Some people tried, but it didn’t make any difference. She saw them run down the stairs and darted after them. The stairs opened up to the exit.
It took two tries for her to get her ticket through and by then the three had vanished. Gone.
Raya stepped out of the station and squinted in the glare of the long summer evening. She checked her trouser pockets for her phone and fake ID. At least she had those. She turned around to look at the sign above the Tube stop – Whitechapel Station.
Market stalls lined the pavement in both directions. The shops brimmed with rainbows of clothing, stacks of fruit and veg, electronics, sweets she’d never seen before. Bearded men in long shirts, loose trousers and skullcaps manned the stalls, chatted with each other and drank coffee from small china cups. Nice staying in your pyjamas. She felt like she’d been transported to another land. Women in headscarves and veils wheeled pushchairs and carried shopping. School kids darted around. There were university students, arty types, and lots of hospital staff. A little bit of everyone.
She was hungry and thirsty, but now she didn’t have any money. She wished she’d kept that two pounds Jake had tried to give her. She’d already eaten the chocolate.
Maybe I should just call Angie. Raya stood by a shop and watched the crowd go by. A woman in tatters with plastic bags on her feet talked to an invisible companion as she rummaged through a rubbish bin. Raya looked away. Nope. I’m not going back.
She asked market vendors and shopkeepers if they needed any help. Most said no without hesitation. Some gave her a look of pity. One told her she should lose the spiky hair and heavy make-up.
She went into a toilet in a fast-food restaurant, rubbed off the black circles around her eyes, and flattened her hair spikes with water. Her make-up was gone with her rucksack. But she still had her height. People often thought she was older than she was. She practised her fake birth date so it would roll off her tongue.
After no luck in the market, she ambled along roads of clothing wholesalers; through Petticoat Lane Market; along Whitechapel Road again; then up to Bethnal Green. Almost all the shops and cafes were closed now. She asked hotels if they needed cleaners. She asked people walking dogs if they needed a dog walker. Most of them hurried away. One old man with an ancient dog gave her a pound.
The evening light stretched on, bathing east London in a syrupy yellow even though it was past eight o’clock. She was exhausted, famished, and her Doc Martens were rubbing blisters. Raya used to think cities looked exciting at night, promising. But tonight the twinkly lights coming on with the dusk didn’t beckon, they jeered. She let her eyes unfocus and the rush of people turned into a river of colours.
All of a sudden, she thought: GO LEFT. She startled and looked around. She’d never got words like that before. She knew the thought was hers, but it had a different quality, louder, like in all caps. With nothing to lose, she turned left.
Aromas from a kebab shop made her stomach rumble. They smelled like the best kebabs in the world. She stopped in front and considered her approach. A down-and-out stood on the far side of the doorway, devouring one.
If you’d give that dirty down-and-out a kebab, why not me? No – that won’t work. Um, sorry to bother you, but I’m travelling up to Scotland to visit my grandmother, someone stole my money and all I have is a pound. Could I buy a pound’s worth of kebab meat please? Too long.
‘You’re right, too long,’ the vagrant said. ‘By the way, it IS the best kebab in the world.’
‘Did I say that out loud?’
The man chuckled. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to eavesdrop on your thoughts. Happens sometimes.’
Oh great, another crazy.
‘Not crazy – psychic. There is a difference, you know.’
‘Right.’ She rolled her eyes.
He laughed again, stepped to her side of the doorway and extended a hand. She balked and he stuck his hand in his pocket. The hurt he tried to hide sliced through her.
‘I’m Pavel Patel.’
‘Oh, h
i. I’m, uh, Beatrice.’
‘So, you’ve run away, you’ve lost all your money and you have no place to stay,’ he said.
‘You mind-reading again, PATELLA?’ This popped out of her mouth.
Pavel wrapped up the rest of his kebab and slipped it into a pocket. ‘No, you look like a runaway, that’s all.’
Raya flushed, embarrassed by her accidental sharpness.
‘He glanced at the clock through the window. ‘So, how old are you?’
‘How old are YOU?’
‘Thirty-eight. I’m only asking because I know some people who run a cafe. From time to time they let people stay in a room above if they help out.’
‘Oh, right. Sorry.’ And she was. Sometimes she could be sharp, prickly before she knew what she was saying. She felt only kindness coming from this Pavel Patel, and maybe some sadness.
‘I’m sixteen.’ She reeled off her fake birth date. Her practice had paid off.
He studied her for a moment. ‘Seventeen in the autumn, and you can prove it?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She retrieved her fake ID. It looked much better than she remembered. Much. She held it up and Pavel scrutinised it.
‘Now, you don’t know me, and you must be careful, but as it looks like you’re out of luck – and well, I know what that’s like. I can introduce you, and you can decide for yourself.’
Raya nodded. ‘I guess I could check it out.’
‘In that case, we should get a move on.’
Raya figured she’d go with him as long as they stayed on streets with other people around. The two fell into step, taking long, purposeful strides as they wended their way behind the huge hospital complex. She was sorry not to have had any of that kebab.
I wonder how he got that weird name.
‘Oh, that’s easy. My mum’s Czech and my father’s Jamaican, but mixed Indian and black.’
‘Could we just stick to regular, you know, conversation? You’re creeping me out.’
He laughed. ‘Sure, but you have skills, too, you know.’
Raya stuffed her hands in her pockets. ‘Whatever.’
A cyclist whizzed by.
Pavel shrugged and resumed his forward march. They continued in silence, past a statue of a woman in an old-fashioned dress, past a small park nestled amongst the city streets where people relaxed and kids played.
Pavel looked at his watch. It was old with a worn strap, but still too nice for the rest of him. ‘Come on. We have to hurry.’
Raya trotted to keep up with him.
A bit puffed out, they reached the corner of Commercial Road and Hessel Street. The Cosmic Cafe sign was still lit. Inside were booths, tables and a long counter with padded stools. A lone customer sat at the counter. A man and woman cleaned and sorted things. Raya took a deep breath and caught herself looking to Pavel for reassurance. Stop it – you don’t know him.
‘Nothing to worry about – they’re good people. I grew up with them.’ When he held the door open for her, he didn’t whiff as she’d expected. The two behind the counter and the customer all turned to look.
The man smiled. He was one of those guys who knew he was good-looking. ‘Hiya, Pavel. Who’s your friend?’
‘This is Beatrice,’ Pavel said.
The cafe man stuck out his hand. ‘Hiya, Beatrice. I’m Ian, and this is my sister and partner in crime, Emma.’
The customer picked up his briefcase and left.
Emma, pretty and slender with a cool short haircut, wiped her hands on the apron over her jeans and T-shirt. She leaned against the counter and extended her hand. ‘Hiya, Beatrice. Nice to meet you. Pavel, why don’t you go in the back and pick out some nice ones. I’ll make a round of teas.’
‘Beatrice, you’ve got to try her muffins. She’s working on recipes for her new bakery,’ Pavel said, then walked in the back with Ian.
Emma chatted as she made the teas. The men returned talking in that overly jolly way people do when they want to cover what they’d really been talking about. Ian carried a plate of muffins. Pavel and Raya sat at the counter.
Ian and Emma continued to work while Pavel snacked on the muffins, and Raya inhaled hers. She thought about sneaking some into her rucksack, then remembered she didn’t have it any more. Emma scratched around behind the counter and came up with a thick turkey and cheese sandwich.
‘Thought you could use this.’
‘Wow. Thanks,’ Raya said.
After a bit more general conversation Pavel said, ‘I was wondering if you could use any help. Beatrice here’s looking for a job and needs a place to stay.’
Emma looked at Ian, who nodded.
‘I’m opening my own bakery soon – not here, in south London – so we could really use the help in the cafe,’ Emma said.
Ian stopped scraping the grill. ‘You’ve got ID, to prove your age?’ He wiped his hands on a towel and waited.
‘Sure do,’ Raya said and whipped it out of her pocket and smiled. Ian and Emma looked at it and seemed satisfied.
I don’t know if I’d take in some stray with only a fake ID. Raya had studied all this on the Internet. You were legally allowed to leave home at sixteen, but part of her wanted them to be nosier about some kid they were taking in.
Ian and Emma went into the back to get things for tomorrow.
‘These two have helped out a lot of folks over the years, especially young people, especially integrators,’ Pavel said.
Raya huffed, ‘There’s no such thing.’
‘Really? You know, psychics, empaths, witches – whatever you want to call them, us,’ Pavel said.
Raya chased a few sandwich crumbs around the plate. She took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. There was that social worker seeming to know she was about to run into trouble. Could that have been real? This was too much to figure out – made her uncomfortable trying. Why can’t people just leave me alone? Hire me, don’t hire me, but stop telling me all this stuff. And besides, I don’t know these people. Maybe staying here was a dumb idea.
She stood up from the counter. ‘Thanks for the food and everything, but maybe it’s best I get going.’
Emma looked surprised. She put a case of beans on the counter. ‘No worries, Beatrice. You can come back if you don’t find anything else – see if we still need the help.’
‘Thanks,’ Raya said as she opened the door. An old-fashioned bell attached to the top jingled. The air from outside, cooler now, rolled in along with traffic sounds. The summer sun bowing out threw slashes of colour between the buildings. London looked big, empty, and lonely. She stood in the doorway, like a cat trying to make up its mind.
Ian slit the case open and shelved the tins behind the counter. ‘The accommodation isn’t much, but it’s OK. It’s safe and there’s a shower.’
Raya turned back towards the three at the counter. She could have sworn there was a yellow glow around them. She couldn’t outrun it, whatever ‘it’ was – being psychotic or psychic. She was exhausted, skint, and scared. I guess they don’t seem like axe-murderers.
Over the next few days, Raya learned that cafe work was harder than she’d thought. She hauled bags of potatoes, shifted cases of tins, peeled and chopped piles of onions, lugged unwieldy rubbish to the bins in the alley, waited on customers, and scrubbed pots and pans.
By six in the morning, she was baking with Emma. She was allowed to eat the burnt and the broken, and together they invented new muffins and pastries. Raspberry almond croissants were her favourites so far.
Next she helped Ian with the breakfast rush. The smell of bacon and sausages, both meat and veggie, was like a cloud coming off Ian’s grill as he sang to the radio before customers arrived. He was impatient and bossed her around a bit as they hustled to serve customers and make takeaway orders. After lunch, she got a break. Then, after closing they worked together to sort things for the next day. She could eat for free as long as it was leftovers or mistakes. After everyone went home, she often took a walk in the long summer e
venings imagining she was looking for a party or a rave which she never found. She usually ended up wandering in and out of the few shops that stayed open. This was not the life she’d imagined.
The first time she was paid, she bought some cheap clothes and a box of the mousiest brown hair colour on the shelf. She decided to grow out the shaved parts on her head. Ian made her take out her face piercings before she’d started.
‘Those are unhygienic. You can’t wear them while you work,’ Ian had said.
‘Really? It’s not like I rub my face in the food or anything,’ she had replied.
She continued to get those weird experiences, and more. Of course, there was the unnerving experience of hearing what that blasted social worker’s cat seemed to be saying, but in her head. And in addition to the static images or colours corresponding to certain people or situations, she started getting scenes, sometimes complete with sounds and smells that related to what people, and even animals, were thinking.
She saw a jack-o-lantern, smiling and hollowed out, with no candle in it when a well-dressed businesswoman came in for a latte and muffin.
‘Who’s that?’ Raya whispered to Emma as she wrapped up the woman’s cheddar-corn-red-pepper muffin. Emma waited until the bell on the door jingled as the woman clip-clopped out in her heels.
‘She owns a clothing company down the road. Lost her kid last year – one of those diseases you’re born with. Left her a hollow shell of her former self,’ Emma said.
Other visuals included a piano with keys made of cutlery, a liquid telephone, a cackling tree. These corresponded to a musician who had to take on his family restaurant business; a telemarketer with an alcohol problem; and a dog. That made her laugh – picking up a dog’s thoughts. His owner, a man who used a wheelchair, told her how the dog hated a tree outside his house that creaked in the wind. I’m just a visual thinker – that’s all. Pictures instead of words. No big deal.