It is still hot.
Shed
The air is bruised by the blast of fireworks
and the dusk smells faintly of gunpowder
though it’s weeks until Guy Fawkes.
Straight ahead
a gravelly lane separates
two rows of gardens,
and despite Google Maps telling me to
turn right,
I cut through it, back into town,
down towards the sea.
In one garden,
a greenhouse with mouldy windows.
In another,
a collection of toys piled into a pyramid.
In the next,
a stack of deckchairs and folding tables.
But near the end of the lane
is a ramshackle shed,
its door ajar,
overshadowed by an abandoned house –
no lights on inside,
ivy like lace across its windows.
I slip through a gap in the fencing,
push open the door to the shed,
slip inside.
It is strewn with rusting cans of paint,
a split bag of cement.
Heavy tools hang from hooks;
the one small window looking on to the lane
is curtained over with a torn cardigan.
I can use my jumper as a pillow.
I can lie with my feet against the door.
There are worse harbours.
Nothing
I check my phone
though I haven’t switched off the sound,
would easily have heard a ping,
but still nothing from Kelly-Anne.
And nothing from Dad either.
I try lying down,
imagining tomorrow’s sun
and pleading with sleep to swallow me
before the night rushes in with full force
and switches on the fear –
not of rats or mice
that might, in the night,
nibble away at my burn
like it’s barbecued meat,
tender and theirs for the taking,
but of people
and how they could hurt
an already damaged girl
hunkering
alone
in the dark.
I reach for a rusty spanner,
feel its weight in my hand,
then
swing with all my might
at an invisible stranger,
at looming danger.
My face stings.
I drop the spanner and close my eyes.
My phone remains silent.
During the Night
Shuffling, scuffling noises outside the shed
like boots on gravel.
I sit up, surprised I’ve slept.
The door creaks,
I squeak,
and slinking into the shed
like silk
comes a grey cat
with luminous mini-moon eyes.
Pss-pss-pss-pss-pss, I hiss,
tapping my fingertips together,
offering an empty hand.
The cat noses the air,
then turns,
tail aloft,
arse exposed,
shunning my affection.
Popcorn
He suggested a
Movie Night,
said we’d watch anything I wanted
after he’d had a
quick shower.
He loved
The Full Monty,
it made him laugh out loud,
so that was what I chose,
what I wanted for us both,
had the TV ready and everything.
He also liked salty popcorn,
fresh,
so I made some
in a pan on the hob,
the corn
pop
pop
popping into puffs.
But I popped so much
the oil got too hot,
the kitchen too smoky
and the alarm was raging,
filling the house with
noise.
Dad ran into the kitchen, hair wet.
Jesus hell! he shouted,
and before I could
explain about his
popcorn
surprise
he had me by the wrist
and was twisting it,
twisting it,
and hurting me into the garden,
where I was made to
sit
for several
cold hours
and think carefully
about my behaviour.
Bruised
I cannot get back to sleep,
so pull a banana from my bag
and peel it.
Brown spots
dot its length.
I throw it aside.
I have never
been able to eat
bruised fruit.
Cover Up
There wasn’t much I couldn’t hide
with sleeves, a pair of tights
and a forged note from home:
Allison can’t do PE today
because blah blah blah.
The teachers rolled their eyes
(unsympathetic to period pain)
and let me sit on the sidelines.
My classmates trampolined in their shorts and T-shirts,
front dropping,
somersaulting,
soaring
into the roof of the gym,
howling from the fun of it,
the freedom,
while I had time to plot
how to stay out of Dad’s way
that day
and give the blue bruises a chance
to fade to yellow.
Breakfast on the Beach
Waves steamroll the sand
while toddlers eat fistfuls of it.
I buy a bag of open chips
with my last bit of cash,
Dad’s card declined already,
and drown them in vinegar,
finish them off with a pink lollipop
like I am eight years old.
Then the sky starts to spit,
dotting the sand into darkness,
and I’ve nowhere to hide but back in the shed.
So that is where I head.
The Empty House
The wide windows are shut tight
but much cleaner up close than they seem from the
end
of the garden.
With cupped hands against the back door,
I peer into the kitchen:
brown cupboards and a tin draining board
make it look like it was built before I was born,
and on the hob, a kettle.
A kettle boiling,
whistling for someone to
come quick, come quick,
and stop the steam from screaming.
Then I see her,
emerging from behind the fridge door,
face fragile and
filled with fear
when she spots me.
We stare.
And do not move.
An Invitation
I bomb it
back down the garden
into the shed,
grab my bag
and
go
go
go.
I’m scrambling to get away
because I can’t stay.
But.
Toffee?
A voice as quiet as pencil on paper.
The fencing won’t let me through
no matter how hard I push,
pull,
and then
the voice again –
louder, possibly Irish.
Come back for the love of Christ!
Toffee!
The woman holds up one hand
; like a child in a classroom.
Toffee? she repeats for the third time,
an invitation, probably,
to come inside and eat something sweet.
Desperation spikes her tone.
And I know that feeling –
pleading with someone not to flee.
So.
Overflowing
The kitchen smells of toasted hot cross buns.
There’s an empty plate of burned crumbs
on the counter.
I’d love one smothered in butter.
I can’t turn off the water.
The woman
points with her whole hand,
knotted fingers curled into her palm.
I can’t turn the tap, she explains.
You’d think they’d make it easier.
We’re not all beef cakes
but I wouldn’t say no to one coming in
on a daily basis to turn those taps.
Jesus, let’s be honest, he could turn more than my taps.
She winks, chuckles,
leads me through the kitchen
to the hall,
then a bathroom
where a tub is
about to overflow on to the carpet tiles.
I pull the plug, turn off the tap.
Water burbles and glugs.
A light bulb flickers.
I wanted to wash the nets.
But, you know, I’ll throw them out.
I’d rather throw them than wash them.
Sure, who needs nets?
Not-quite-white net curtains rolled into a ball
are piled high in the sink.
I gotta go.
I step back,
eyeball the front door.
The woman tilts her head to the side.
Can’t you stay? she asks.
I’ll get Mammy to do another plate.
It’s not like there’ll be much to eat at your place.
Huh? No, I’ve got plans, I try,
but don’t move,
my body knowing more than my brain:
I have no money and nowhere to go
and leaving will mean traipsing in the rain.
The woman smiles,
showing off a set of tiny yellow snaggle-teeth.
She is examining my face.
Does it hurt? she asks.
I touch the burn.
Yes, I admit. A bit.
She doesn’t really look all that sorry but says,
I have ointment … Let me find it …
and shuffles back to the kitchen,
roots in a cupboard
and hands me a bottle of factor 30 sunscreen.
Is that what you were after? she asks.
I turn the bottle over, smile.
Um. Not exactly the weather for it, is it?
She looks irritated all of a sudden
like I am to blame.
My stomach pinches with hunger pangs.
Can I have a hot cross bun? I ask.
Oh yes,
it’s just like you to come over when you’re hungry.
She pulls out a chair.
Now sit there.
Go on, sit there.
Hot Cross Buns
The crunch of the bread, juice of the raisins
and melted butter all mingling
in my mouth at once. I’ve never tasted
anything so good.
I Am Marla
What’s your name? I ask.
She wags a finger accusingly,
then clouds over,
contemplating the question.
I’m Marla.
Yes.
I am Marla.
Now …
did you hear back from Connor
about the hurling on Saturday?
Are we going or not?
I can’t stand the way he messes us ’round.
Every bleedin’ week it’s the same old shite.
He’s a messer all right though. You know?
A pause. A glance at the window.
The weather’s turned, hasn’t it?
Felt like summer yesterday.
I was meaning to plant some mint.
Can you smell something burning
or is it just me?
Hailstones, like little glass beads,
patter against the window panes.
Marla hands me a cherry ChapStick
and points to my cheek.
Try that.
Can I have another hot cross bun? I ask.
I Am Toffee
I tell Marla my real name,
twice:
Allison. Allison.
And she uses it for a while,
not looking at me,
then continues to call me Toffee.
She thinks that’s who I am,
so I stop correcting her,
and anyway,
I like the idea of being
sweet and hard,
a girl with a name for people
to chew on.
A girl who could break teeth.
Bacon
I stare into Marla’s bathroom mirror,
focus on my cooked and battered cheek.
I thought the redness would have faded by now,
the mark dissolved a bit,
but there it is,
blazing,
less like I’ve been burned
and more branded,
the colour and shape of a slice of bacon
slapped against my face.
Behind me in the mirror Marla is
watching,
her almost-not-there eyebrows furrow.
It looks awful. Let me help.
No, I snap,
not knowing what to do with her concern,
turning away so she sees less
of my wincing face in the mirror.
I don’t need pity from this stranger.
The hurt is half my doing anyway.
Stupid me.
Stupid mouth.
Stupid fault.
It’ll fade.
Her voice is dashed with anger.
I don’t remember it so brutal.
She is wearing a ring with a bright blue
sapphire.
Her ears are studded with pearls.
Both would sell for a decent amount.
My mouth gets stuck.
I blink.
I better go, I tell her.
I step into the hallway.
A leather handbag is hanging
unbuckled
from the
newel post.
Marla shakes her head. Looks sad.
It’d be deadly if you stayed.
We could play poker. Ah, don’t go, Toff.
I’ll stay until the worst of the weather passes.
A mound of loose change is
lying in an ashtray.
The forecast
predicts rain
for days.
Hobnobs
We watch a talk show, the news,
eat Hobnobs and drink tea.
At ten o’clock Marla’s phone beeps.
That’s me, then.
She switches off the TV.
When I was doing my exams
I used a reminder to tell me
to go to sleep too, I say,
speaking more than I have all evening.
Oh, I have reminders for everything.
I mightn’t remember otherwise, she says.
She peers at the phone.
Peggy put them in.
Goodnight then.
Are you going now?
I’m shattered.
Yes, it’s late.
She nods and leaves,
switching off the lights on her way to bed.
Without knowing why,
I tiptoe up the stairs
after Marla,
my ear against her door,
listening,
pushing on another door, where
<
br /> a bedroom is revealed –
the bed stripped bare,
walls painted avocado.
No one else lives here.
That’s obvious.
So I could have one night.
What harm would one night do?
I dash downstairs
and in the kitchen stare out at the shed.
But instead of leaving,
I lock the doors
and return
to the avocado
bedroom.
Victory
Every hour I do not call my father
is a victory,
a declaration:
I do not need you.
I do not want to be with you.
Although,
the longer it goes on,
the more I get to wondering
whether his silence
means
exactly the same thing.
Alarm Bell
I am blasted out of sleep by an alarm
and scramble downstairs
in only a T-shirt and knickers.
Nee-awwwwwwwww,
nee-awwwwwwwww.
The kitchen is a fog of toasty smoke.
Marla is in her nightie, teetering on a stool,
frantically flapping a tea towel at a fire alarm
on the ceiling.
I grab a newspaper,
wave it around
until the noise stops,
then grab Marla by the wrist, help her
hobble down from the stool.
Who in blazes are you? she asks.
Toffee Page 2
