Numbers

by Rachel Ward

  “Fetch it over, love, go on.” Reluctantly, self-consciously, I went over to the fireplace. “Go on, pick him up.” I reached up to the frame. “No, not the photo, Jem,” she said sharply, “the ashes, in that box, look.”

  What the…?

  Sure enough, the photo was standing next to a sturdy wooden box. I hesitated. “Go on. He won’t bite you.”

  I moved a couple of ornaments farther to the side, and took hold of the box. It was surprisingly heavy — thick, smooth wood with a little metal plaque on the top: CYRIL DAWSON, DIED 12 JANUARY 1992, AGED 41 YEARS. I carried it carefully and put it on the pouf, next to the tray. Val leaned right over and smoothed her hand across the top of it.

  “Everyone says it’s a terrible thing to go young, but he had a great life, a young man’s life. None of this”—she rested her hand on her back—“aches and pains, slowing down, everything heading south. No, he lived life to the full, lived like a lion, and went out like a light. Just like that.” She clicked her fingers. “It’s not a bad thing.” She put her hand back on the box, thumb stroking the brass plate. “Just that you miss them so much. The ones that go. You miss them.”

  Spider moved from the doorway, where he’d been leaning, and put his arms around his nan. “This your way of cheering Jem up? Daft old cow.”

  “Here, you, less of that.” Her hand shot up to give him a smack. He grabbed it before it made contact and gave her a kiss on the cheek. When he let go of her hand, it rested affectionately on his face for a second. “He’s not a bad lad, Jem. Not a bad lad. Put your granddad back then, son.”

  “Val,” I said, speaking before I’d really thought about it, “what sort of aura did he — Cyril — have?”

  Her face registered surprise, and then she smiled, displaying a fine set of crooked, orange teeth. “You know, I’d love to know that myself. But I only started seeing them after he’d gone, love. The grief and that, I suppose it opened up my spiritual side. Never saw them before.”

  Then, quick as a flash, her voice low and intimate, “What do you see, Jem?” I recoiled back into the sofa. “What do you see? I know you do. We’re the same, Jem. We know what it’s like to lose someone.”

  She’d caught me with my guard down. I wanted so much to tell her. I had an urge to hold her bony hands in mine, feel her power. I knew that she would believe me. I could share this thing, unburden some of the loneliness it had brought me. I was teetering on the brink — she was drawing me to her. It was going to happen….

  “Nan, if you do this to people I bring here, I’ll never have any mates. For God’s sake, leave her alone.” Spider’s voice cut through the energy lines between us like a sword. Released, I jumped up. “I wanna show you my new sound system, man. Come on, it’ll blow you away.” He led me up to his bedroom.

  I glanced behind me as I went out of the sitting room into the hallway. Val was still looking at me, eyes focused on me even as she scrabbled in the pack and then lit another cigarette.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The music was throbbing through the stairwell. I picked my way over legs and bodies. People hardly noticed me threading my way through: They were getting loaded, getting into the beat, getting into each other.

  I was on the lookout for Spider. “Baz is having a party, Saturday night,” he’d said, the day after the tramp died. We were down by the canal again, chucking stones at a can. “I’m in. Naturally. Come along, any time after ten. Third floor, Nightingale House.”

  I didn’t know what to say. He said it so casually, but a party on a Saturday night sounded suspiciously like a date, and there was no way I was getting into all that boy-girl stuff. I’d just about got my head around having somebody to hang out with, but it was a big step to anything more. Anyway, not that I’d ever say it, but it would have to be someone decent. If I’d ever thought about it, which I rarely did, I pictured someone good-looking — not ten out of ten, maybe, but at least an eight. Not someone like Spider — long, lanky, twitchy, with a major personal cleanliness problem. And a couple of weeks to live.

  I needed to suss him out, find out whether those retards at school were on the right track after all. I wanted to be careful, though, not make either of us look stupid. I’m not a complete bitch.

  “Spider?” I’d said, with a question mark in my voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “You know at school…what did you do that for? Wade in like that?”

  Spider frowned. “He was disrespectful, Jem. What you said — I could tell it was real. It was what you were really feeling. He had no right to make a joke of it.”

  “Yeah, I know, he’s a tosser, but it’s nothing to do with you. You made a right show of yourself. You made a show of me.”

  “I didn’t want him to get away with it.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t need a knight in shining armor. I can look after myself.” He was smiling a bit now. I paused. “It’s not funny, man. It’s made everything worse,” I said quietly. “I’ve got comments all the time now, ‘bout you and me. Sly comments.”

  He looked away, studied his hands. The knuckles on the right one were nearly healed up now.

  My mouth had gone dry, but I had to get this clear with him. “You do know that there’s no ‘you and me,’ don’t you, Spider?”

  He looked up. “What?”

  “We’re not, like…together. Just mates.”

  There was something about his sullenness when he said, “Yeah, ’course. Just mates. Mates is good,” that made me think he felt the exact opposite. I was churning inside, cursing that day under the bridge. People were so bloody difficult. Why had I ever got involved?

  He stood up, came toward me, putting an arm out. I thought, Shit, he’s going to hug me. Hasn’t he listened to anything? But his hand formed a fist, and he lightly punched my arm. “Listen, man, I know what you’re like. I’ve told you I’ll never say nothing nice to you. And now you’ve put me straight, I’ll never do nothing nice for you, neither. OK? If someone disrespects you, I’ll let them. If you’re being mugged on the street, I’ll walk on by. If I see you on fire, I won’t even piss on you. OK?”

  I grinned, relaxed a bit. That was better, bit of humor, bit of distance. And he was right, he was starting to know me. No one else had ever been able to tease me like that, make me smile. After all that, me pushing him away, I almost felt like reaching out, putting my arms ’round him. Almost. But of course I didn’t. Instead our hands met, fists together, knuckles touching.

  “Safe, man.”

  “Yeah, Spider,” I said. “Safe.”

  “So are you coming on Saturday? Not a date, retard, just a night out. Mates.”

  “Dunno. I’ll see.”

  I’d thought about it for a long time. More or less every minute between him asking me and me going up those stairs a couple of days later. I’d decided not to go hundreds of times. For so many reasons, it was a bad idea: First, I didn’t like people, they didn’t like me; second, Baz was a well-known psycho, a dangerous guy to be around; and, finally, Karen wouldn’t let me out that late. On the other hand, I’d never been asked to a party before, and part of me wanted to be out there, being normal. I told myself I would just go for a while, see what it was like. I wouldn’t have to stay if I didn’t like it. As for Karen, what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

  I slipped out through the kitchen while she was watching the telly in the sitting room, carrying my shoes so I wouldn’t make a noise on the stairs. I walked quickly, cocooned in the protection of my hood. Deep in my pocket, my hand felt the smoothness of the knife’s plastic handle. I’d picked it up on my way through the kitchen, just something to boost my confidence. I’d never use it, you know, I’m not aggressive or anything — but if trouble came looking for me, I figured the threat of a blade would make people back off long enough for me to leg it. Anyway, just knowing it was there was enough to get me out the door and into the dark. Another little secret to help me through.

  It was easy enough to find Baz’s place: The
music got louder and louder as I made my way up the stairs and along the hallway, and the concentration of spaced-out kids got denser. I’d hoped to see Spider out on the landing, but no such luck. I’d have to go inside. Given all the people hanging around, I wasn’t going to be able to just walk into the place, though; I was going to have to push my way through. Considering I didn’t know anyone and didn’t like being physically close to people, this was something of a tall order, but I was determined to go through with it now. Anyway, being small for my age, it was pretty easy to worm my way through — people didn’t seem to take offense.

  Inside, it was so much worse than what I’d imagined: boiling hot, music so loud you couldn’t think, people crammed in, rancid armpits shoved in your face, overwhelming smell of smoke, dope, and sweat. And all the time, people’s numbers right in front of me, close up, no escape.

  They say average life expectancy’s going up, don’t they, but I guess that doesn’t apply to kids from the projects of Greater London. Most of them were only going to make their forties or fifties; quite a few were checking out way before that. Casualties of how we all live now, I guess — cars, booze, drugs, despair. I’d rather not have known, but it wasn’t something I could switch on and off.

  I’d got about ten feet in when I started to panic, wedged between a guy with his T-shirt completely soaked in his own sweat and his girlfriend, all hairspray and perfume. I didn’t see how I could get much farther forward, and the gap behind me had closed up. There was no air and the noise was so loud it was like it was actually inside my head, trying to burst out through my ears and eyes and nose. I was feeling light-headed, and as the strength started to go from my legs, I realized I didn’t actually need them; my body was held up by all those around me.

  Through the smallest of gaps I saw a familiar logo on the back of a yellow T-shirt, bobbing up and down as its occupant moved in time to the beat. Spider! I took a deep breath and dropped to the floor, ducking down to squeeze through the sea of legs. I resurfaced by Spider and tapped him on the shoulder.

  He half turned, smiled, and put his long arm across my back, holding me at my waist. Despite our little chat, I didn’t object. Drawn into his side, the familiar smell of his BO was almost welcome, and his arm supported me, giving me a chance to relax and breathe again.

  He was saying something to me, but I couldn’t hear a thing. He bent down and yelled, “Good vibes, man! Here…” From his other hand he offered me a big roll-up. Battered and dazed just by having made it there, I took it without thinking. “Go on,” he shouted in my ear. “It’s good stuff.”

  I looked at the roach, held between my fingers, blue smoke spiraling out of the end. It was just pot, nothing heavy. Then I thought of my mum, the funny angle she was lying at when I found her. Was this how she started? A harmless toke? No way I was going down that road. I handed it back to Spider.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Nothing. It’s a bit hot in here — I think I need a drink.”

  “You need to take off your hoodie, Jem, or you’ll melt.”

  He was right. I could feel the sweat running down my front. I wriggled out of the sweatshirt, trying not to elbow anyone as I drew it up and over my head. Of course, I’d forgotten the knife. It fell out onto the floor. I held my breath, wondering what the reaction would be. Quite a few people had noticed — they just laughed.

  “Hey, there’s no need for that here. Honor among thieves, right?” Someone ducked down, picked it up off the floor, and handed it back to me.

  “Spider, who’s this you’ve got with you? She’s hardcore.” A wink of the eye told me they were laughing at me. I was fifteen and five foot nothing, no threat to them.

  Spider grinned. “Yeah, this is Jem. You don’t want to mess with her. She’s little, but she’s mean.”

  I wouldn’t normally like people talking about me, but squashed in there, it seemed like it was someone else they were talking about. It didn’t matter.

  After a while, a big bloke came over to us and had a word with Spider. He was covered in tattoos, and I mean covered. Arms, neck, face, the lot. It was the ones on his face that freaked me out, never seen nothing that extreme before. Spider leaned down to me and yelled, “I’ve got to do a bit of business. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I watched them disappear together into a back room while my mind tried to make sense of something. The tattooed guy had looked me up and down when he’d come over to Spider. Now his number was drifting ’round my mind and I was trying to make sense of it — I may not have taken a draw on Spider’s spliff, but I guess I’d been breathing it in anyway. My mind wasn’t quite working the way it should — I hadn’t exactly stopped thinking, but it was just all taking a bit longer than usual. 12112010. What the hell did that mean? Then it all kind of came into focus again. The eleventh of December this year. That was when Tattoo Face was going to die. Four days before Spider. What the hell was going on around here?

  Without Spider next to me, and with the numbers thing burning a hole in my head, I was definitely feeling edgy now. I hung around with Spider’s new pals, but I didn’t know them and they didn’t know me. I shut my eyes and pretended to be getting into the music, wondering how long I could stick it out, whether Spider would notice — or mind — if I wasn’t there when he got back.

  Something made me open my eyes again — something different about the noise, someone pushing against me, I don’t know. Across the room, things were heating up. A group of guys, including the one with the tattoos, were shoving somebody around. Hands, shoulders, elbows all going in. In the middle of it all, towering above them, was Spider. Big as he was, there was no doubt what was going on. They were bullying him, intimidating him. He was holding his hands up, as if to say, Hold on, guys, while they ranged ’round him like hyenas. He’s tall, Spider, but there’s no meat on him, and my stomach flipped over to see him like that. So vulnerable.

  After a couple of minutes, someone else came out of the back room, baseball cap and shades on. Nothing special to look at, but there was something about him, the way he carried himself. I didn’t need an introduction: This was Baz; he was “The Man” around here. He said something, and they all laid off Spider. Spider thanked the guy, and you could tell he was going over the top, head nodding like a bobblehead dog’s, and then he was back with me.

  “Come on, Jem, it’s time to go.”

  He grabbed my arm, and instead of shrugging him off, I let him steer me toward the front door, glad to be getting out of there, sorry I’d come in the first place.

  “Are you alright?” I asked.

  “Yeah, ’course. Everything’s cool. Everything’s cool. Let’s get out of here.” He was still nodding and mumbling to himself as we made our way through the crowd. No need to barge this time: People were making a path through. The bit of aggro in the corner hadn’t escaped anyone’s notice, and Spider was tainted with it.

  The night air was shockingly cold after the sweatbox of Baz’s flat. We walked down the stairs in silence. Spider didn’t show any signs of telling me about it, so in the end I asked him straight out.

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m not stupid, Spider. Suddenly — out of nowhere — you’ve got a new sound system, you’ve got money to spend, and you get invited to Baz’s party — a bloke who three weeks ago wouldn’t have spat on you to save your life. I saw all those guys ’round you just now. What have you got yourself into? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

  “No, Jem, not trouble. Nothing I can’t handle, anyway. They just…they just wanted to make sure I didn’t screw up. And I’m not gonna. It’s all gonna be cool. I’ve just got to take a little package somewhere and then bring another one back.”

  “Package?” My heart sank. “Oh, Jesus, Spider, what have they got you doing?”

  “It’s just helping out, that’s all.” We were cutting through the High Street now. He looked quickly behind me, then darted into a shop doorwa
y and beckoned to me. He looked so bloody shifty, it was hilarious. If I’d asked you to pick out someone from the whole street who was up to no good, you’d have picked him, no problem.

  I squeezed in next to him. He opened his jacket, wafting his familiar stink out into the night air.

  “What are you doing?”

  He smiled the smile of a man with a secret he was just bursting to tell, reached into his inside pocket, and drew out an envelope. Then he leaned down toward me and almost whispered, “I’ve got two thousand quid in here.”

  I looked out of our alcove. There was no one near enough to have heard. “Shut up,” I said.

  Spider snorted. “No, really. Two thousand. They trust me, Jem, you see. They trust me with it.”

  “What if you get mugged or something, carrying all that lot?”