by Billy London
Said the Demon to Little Miss Eva
Billy London
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 Billy London
ISBN: 978-0-9840042-1-8
Cover Artist: Nancy Grayson Donahue
Editor: Michael LaRocca
Proofreader: Stephanie Parent
Published by Mocha Memoirs Press, LLC
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be produced or shared in any form, including but not limited to: printing, photocopying, faxing, or electronic transmission, without prior written permission from the authors.
This book is a work of fiction. References may be made to locations and historical events; however, names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the authors’ imaginations and/or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, events or locales is either used fictitiously or coincidental.
Other Works by Billy London
At Last
Windows (Italian Knights)
Prologue
Gabriel would be the first to admit that nothing ever came easily to him. His was a heritage of struggle and he hadn't made it easy for himself. He'd worked for everything. To pay attention in school. To not get kicked out for fighting with people who thought it was funny to call him comrade. Those who tried to pigeonhole him or to belittle him thought better of it at the other end of his fist. Or a booted foot. Or both.
His parents, religious and committed to godly behavior, quite despaired as to what would happen to him, what he would do with his life, as trouble seemed to follow him wherever he went. When he was nineteen, he went on a pilgrimage—Bosnia, Germany, Russia and Israel, touching every country where his family had lived, breathed and died. It cooled his anger considerably, and he returned to London with a near Buddha-like calm. He took a minicab back to London from the airport and saw a discarded newspaper, a few days old.
It showed a picture of a fifteen-year-old girl, composing herself as she gave a reading for her school friends who had died in a bus accident in France the week before. The paper quite joyfully explained that the girl hadn't been on the trip because her parents were unable to afford to send her with the others. She hadn't been alone in that circumstance; nine other students had parents without deep pockets. But she was an extremely pretty black girl, and the irony of a lack of money saving the life of a “disaffected black youth” was too sweet for the tabloids to not enjoy. It made Gabriel clench his jaw at how pigeonholed she was, with no regard for what she had lost. The girl was quickly forgotten when it was revealed that one of the passengers on the bus had in fact survived. Then it was all about “freak boy.” She wasn't featured in a paper again.
But that girl, her mouth parted with the onset of tears, both hands on her reading, her school uniform as immaculate as the cornrows in her hair, touched him right in his soul. Until then, he had seriously considered that he didn't have one. And for the first time since his music teacher had been persuaded to not press charges against him for smashing an instrument into his teacher's head when he'd called Gabriel an
“untalented Jew,” he picked up his guitar. And he wrote a song about her. “A Girl's Solace,” he'd called it. He started busking with that song, met a few guys on the music scene, joined a band, and they started the steady climb toward acknowledgement.
He was twenty-six when he and his band hit the cover of NME. Then they were the next best thing. It was always easy from there. Money, clothes, gigs, girls. God, the girls. They were crazy. One wanted to have his baby and offered to suck the sperm from him so he wouldn't even have to fuck her. Mentalists. It was almost enough to turn him celibate. All right, almost—he wasn't Jesus Christ.
It had been fifteen years since he’d picked up that newspaper, since that girl lost her classmates, since she'd been on the front cover of a tabloid crying for things she'd never share with people she'd sat next to in class every day. Each time his band made a sale or whenever fans screamed for “A Girl's Solace” he wondered where that girl was, how she was now, if she still cried for her lost friends. If she had any idea what her tears had given him. It felt wrong to have benefited so much from her pain, but he swore if he ever met her he'd make up for it.
Chapter One
Eva was in the mood to kick someone's ass today. “You know I'll kill you if my face is lightened,” she warned lightly.
The newspaper photographer paused and glanced at the journalist who had spent the last half hour gritting his teeth at Eva's answers. “Why would we do that?”
“I'm a little dark for the arts pages, aren't I? I know Steve McQueen directed Hunger and won the Turner Prize, but he's a man.” Do it, say it so I can knock you out.
The journalist spluttered. “What an extraordinary thing to say.”
She glanced up at the ceiling, recalling a party in New York. “I was accosted by a publicist in the States who told me I should Photoshop all my promotions to make sure I'm an acceptable shade of brown. He knew a good dentist, so I let him go to his dentist friend so she could earn some money.”
The journalist stared at her. Eva flashed bright white teeth, very aware that he didn't like her one bit.
“I get that look a lot. I mean, there are women who are aiming for this with fake tan. Isn't that mad?”
“Quite,” the journalist agreed.
“Well, it doesn't matter. This exhibition is just an homage to Dali. But Dali in the throes of war. I was in a gruesome place.”
The journalist gave her a nervous look before asking, “Anything to do with the fallout with critic Richard Frost?”
“I don't fancy being sued,” Eva murmured, trying not to show a reaction to Richard's name. It had been six months. She didn't have anything to be ashamed of—he did. What kind of man tries to elevate his career by blasting his ex-girlfriend in a national newspaper, calling her a “crude copycat of every decent artist she wished in her wildest dreams she could emulate”? A man who’d apparently ruptured a testicle after she'd assaulted him. He'd deserved it, and even though she expected the lawsuit, what was more surprising was that he dropped it and a retraction was printed in the newspaper. Not that it mattered; the damage had been done. It took her weeks to pick up a brush again, and New York had become the scene of her shame. Doing what anyone else would have, she'd booked herself on the first flight to Ghana and reassured herself that she was awesome at what she did. In fact, her exhibition was a one-fingered salute to every single word Richard had written about her. That would teach her to dump a man without any delicacy.
Eva beamed at the journalist. “Is that everything? I've got to get my hair done and pick out music for the show.”
“Any music in particular?”
“Tinie Tempah will do it,” Eva said carelessly, noting that he had lost interest since she wasn't talking about Richard. There was no doubt he would mention it, but he would stay out of her way. “Anyone helping the revival of drum and bass gets my approval. Drum and bass and civil war has a nice ring to it.”
“Thank you, Miss Mensah.”
“No problem.” She smiled again and caught the tail end of a camera flash.
“Got it,” the photographer breathed.
Eva got up and looked at the digital screen. There she was, all glossy mahogany skin, the red tones deepened by the navy blue spotted play suit, a matching scarf pulling her Afro from her heart-shaped face. Not at all like the woman who had her hea
rt stamped on and smeared over the art pages of the Times.
“Any lighter,” she started warningly.
“Yeah, I heard that.”
She collected her bag and waved goodbye. That was a suitable threat that they knew she'd carry out if she didn't get her way. The blessing of not having a publicist was having the freedom to say whatever she bloody well liked. She hoped her parents didn't read the review. They'd had enough shocks with her in a newspaper to last them a lifetime.
She made her way to her brand new flat, a walk across Vauxhall Bridge. It was insanely expensive but she had the money, so why not invest in a decent bit of property? And she loved London. She hadn't met any of her neighbors, but the city wasn't really like that anymore. If you said hello to someone on the tube, if you weren't secretly zapped you were labeled as mental. Such a change from Kumasi, where her parents seemed to know everyone. No, this isn't the one who does the financial disting, it's the one who does the painting, yooo. She grinned to herself. One day she'd tell them how much she'd made in the last few years, if only to have her father stop telling her to get a proper job.
She typed in the entry code, took the stairs to her seventh-floor flat, opened her door, and noticed that the TV was on. That was strange. She must have turned that off before she left. It was nowhere near as weird as when she was woken up last night by her washing machine on full spin with nothing inside. James Cameron was right, the machines were taking over.
She painted her nails jet black, carving an orange cat into the drying enamel with a toothpick. She watched the traffic rolling over the bridge from her window with a small glass of white wine until she felt quite at peace. The answering machine picked up her voice messages, as she didn't want to run the risk of ruining her nails. Everything needed to be perfect.
Her sister called first: “I'm still at work! I'll be there. Call me, I have to tell you something before you get ready.”
The gallery: “Hi lovely, it's Martin. Any problems, call me. You have to be here on time, people want to touch greatness.”
Her mum: “Hello my baby! Oseden? Daddy and I will come to the next one. Your silly Daddy hurt himself on the palm farm. Come back here soon. We love you.”
She called her mum straight back, nails or no nails. “Mama Nancy.”
“Hello! Why weren't you answering your phone?”
“Nails, Mama. What did Daddy do?”
“He took half his skin off with a carver. Thank God it wasn't his leg.”
Her father wasn't that careless. Maybe he just didn't want to see her 'pictures.' “Ma, I'd have paid for the flight.”
“No, no, don't be silly. Daddy needs to rest. I'm so sorry about your show.”
“It's fine.” She pushed back a twinge of disappointment that never failed to surprise her when it came to her parents. It wasn't the first show. It didn't matter. They'd seen all her work and told her they loved it. “As long as Daddy's okay.”
“He'll be fine.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Evangeline,” came her father's stern voice, “what's up?”
She paused for a moment then whispered, “Are you okay, Daddy?”
“What are you worried for?” he tutted. “Small cut, your mother makes it sound as if I've cut my leg off. It'll be all right.”
She didn't quite believe him, but her father would let hell come to earth before he ever admitted he was in pain. “When are you coming to see my brand new flat?”
“When the UK has weather that won't kill me.”
“Never, I take it?” she teased.
He gave a patient sigh. “It's summer in two months. I'll come over then.”
Despite having just spent the last six months day in day out with her parents, she missed them terribly. “Miss you, Daddy.”
“New job yet?”
Oh lord. “No, Daddy.”
“Hmmm, all right. Be good.”
“Love you.”
“Me too.”
She ended the call, and immediately dialed her sister. “Jojo!”
“Don't call me that. Listen, I'm supposed to be getting tissues for a client who has just lost half a million in shares. Gabriel Walker's coming to your show.”
Eva nearly dropped the phone. “How do you know?” she said casually.
“I checked his Twitter.”
“He's not on Twitter,” she argued, then nearly kicked herself for even knowing and double kicked herself for admitting it to her sister, who had a memory like a flaming elephant.
“His PR lot bloody well are! He's bringing every slag in London with him tonight. Have you got enough champagne to go around?”
She could feel herself starting to panic, and she didn't want to do that, not before a show. “Jo, why'd you tell me?”
“So you can be prepared. And wear something better than whatever Blaxplotation thing you want to strut around in.”
Oh that was better, irritation. “Don't tell me what to wear, I'm a grown woman. So he turns up or not, I don't care.”
Jo snorted. “Yes you do. Are you going to have your hair done? Please let my guy have a go on you.”
“What on earth do you mean?” Eva blurted.
“Straighteners!”
Eva rolled her eyes. “Look, you've got to stop this. I do not want to put chemicals in my hair. Just because you've had twenty-nine years of people telling you that straight is beautiful does not mean it's true. I like my 'fro. I've been a natural free woman for a long time, and I'm not conforming because you want me to. I'm not working in the Square Mile and I am not going to be Banker Beyonce. All right?”
Jo was silent for a moment. “He fucked you good.”
“See you later, Jo.”
She ended the call, distantly hearing her sister's laughter. Pull yourself to-fucking-gether, woman.
***
The stylist, Dean, picked at her afro despondently. “Why don't you want to straighten your hair?”
A simple look in the reflection in the dressing mirror made the stylist look down in horror. He obviously threaded his eyebrows more than she ever would in her natural life. She had an idea that his mother appreciated his threading knowledge. “You'll look amazing with it. Let me prove you wrong.”
Eva's lip curled. “If you put any 400-degree heated irons anywhere near my 'fro, it'll end up in your skull. I hope that doesn't ruin our relationship.”
“Why are you threatening me?” he asked, pouting. “I'm here to help you! So what's all the excitement about?” He gave a little gasp of joy. “Is it a man?”
Eva was quite glad he was out of reach so she couldn't drown him in his own gushing bullshit as he pushed her into a seat before the washbasins. “Why does anything have to do with a man? I've worked bloody hard for six months and I'm having an exhibition.”
Dean started wetting her hair. “What's his name?”
He probably wouldn't believe her. “Gabriel Walker.”
Water sloshed over her face. Spluttering, as Dean apologized profusely, she struggled to sit up.
“He's gorgeous!”
“Yes he is,” she agreed, as Dean coaxed her back to the basin, handing her a towel so she could pat her face dry.
“Isn't he like Native American or something?”
Eva tried really hard not to laugh. “Er... No. He's from here. London.”
“He's really fucking famous!” She gave a mild shrug. “How did you meet him? Why haven't you glued yourself to him? Oh my god, you have to let me style you for the wedding. I'm thinking some private island in the Caribbean...”
Eva patted her face dry. “It's not like that.”
Dean started to shampoo her hair. “Ooh, what did you do?”
She frowned in annoyance. “What makes you think I did anything to him?”
“You're mental,” Dean declared, scrubbing her 'fro furiously. “I've got a picture on my phone of his last tour. He was just wearing jeans and a guitar. I got to touch chest sweat.”
“Holy freaking
God,” Eva swore.
“Now you could have chest sweat all for yourself, but you're a little girl hiding in a cupboard.”
He yanked her to her feet and sat her down in front of the mirror. Water was pearling in her 'fro. “I'm not. He's coming to me. I'm not bothered.”
Dean snorted as he sprayed in conditioner. “I know you are if you want accessories in your hair. When did you last see him?”
Well the last time she'd seen him, he hadn't quite been awake, and she'd prayed that pulling her bra from beneath his thigh wouldn't wake him up. It didn't, and her escape was only missing the Dambusters theme music. “A year ago. And I went out with a complete cunt in the meantime.”
He ranted at her for what felt like hours, but she couldn't hear over the blast of the hair dryer. “...and then you're fucking miserable anyway, so you may as well get some hot time in before you die. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yeah, yeah. I get you.”
“Plus, I know you're Ghanaian and your mother's all about 'where are da babies?'” he affected a perfect accent. “You know, if you're his baby momma you'll get a mansion and Botox from now until you die.”
He sprayed some more conditioner in her hair then rested his wrists on her forehead as he started to plait tight, tiny cornrows.
“What's wrong with you people? Why do you want me to attach myself to a man whore?”
Dean tugged on her hair firmly, ignoring her protesting howl. “You're making excuses.”
“Look, the guy makes me behave like a ho. I am not a ho.”
Dean started on the next cornrow before announcing, “He must have fucked you good.”
“Shut up, Dean.”
Chapter Two
Eva nearly thought twice about the halter top with the matching shorts and the calf boots until she remembered that her parents weren't going to look her up and down and tell her she'd get mosquito bites. She picked up her phone and keys and made sure all her electrical goods were firmly off. It was quite odd, but she had developed instant OCD the minute she signed the mortgage on her own flat. She was worried she'd turn around and she'd leave the gas on by accident, burning down the whole building in one fell swoop. A taxi was definitely needed, after some bloke asked her how much for an hour. He wouldn't be driving until his eye healed.
