We Go Around In the Night and Are Consumed by Fire

by Jules Grant

  The flat’s in darkness, lock still in one piece. Just a matter of time though, I guess.

  I let myself in, quiet, use the torch. Gives you the willies creeping round your own place with a torch instead of putting the light on, but I can’t risk it.

  In the bedroom I grab the small rucksack, get out Dad’s watch from the drawer, put it in the side pocket. I change my mind, pull it out again, put it on my wrist for safe keeping. Not that it’s worth money or anything, just an old Timex with one hand missing, hasn’t worked for years, but it’s all I’ve got left.

  I was twelve when Dad was locked up, though it wasn’t the first time, obviously. I went into care that time though, being how Mam was dead. After a month or two a social worker took me to see him in Walton. You be brave now, Dad went. Mind your manners, I’ll be out before you know it. Then he gave me a hug. Be my good girl, he said.

  After that I got to see him once every three months, more or less. And that was only because I kicked up a fuss. He died in Walton, near the end of his three-stretch, stabbed through the heart, me just short of sixteen. Never found out who did it but one day I will and then they’ll get what’s coming for certain.

  The day I left care, my key worker gave me a plastic bag. Inside was the watch and his baccy, a picture of me, two pounds twenty in cash, nothing else. Not one for things, me dad. Used to laugh and tap the side of his head with two fingers. This is where you keep the things that matter love, and no one can take that away.

  I sit down on the bed, his watch still in my hand, and all of a sudden it feels like it did after he died. Only me all alone under the huge dark sky, no one else in the world.

  Then I hear his voice just like it used to be. Why you got to swim upstream every time love?

  And I used to laugh at him, back then. Keeps me fit, Da, I’d say.

  Truth is, it was just in me, and I never really got what he was trying to tell me. I look down at the old Timex, get a grip, shove it back in the bag.

  Maybe when this is all over I’ll find a gulf stream Dad, but don’t hold your breath.

  Back at Carla’s, everything’s still in full swing for the wake, people spilling out on to the pavement, too drunk to notice much. In the front room it’s packed out, all singing, drunk as skunks.

  I creep past to the kitchen, open the door. Lise, Sonn and Marta round the table, bottle of Southern Comfort in the middle, full glass beside it for Carla.

  Everyone looks at me and I can’t just say nothing, cuts on me face and the leathers all ripped. How’s it going? I go, bright.

  Lise looks up at me, face tight, white as a sheet, Where the fuck have you been? We was worried.

  I try to shrug but it hurts like hell. Come off the bike, I says, I’ll be fine.

  I go upstairs, slow, into the bedroom, shrug off the jacket then the vest, go over to the mirror, twist round. In the middle of my back there’s a bruise the size of a hub-cap, centre of it coming dark blue already. I touch the ribs, try to count them, realise I don’t know how many there’s supposed to be. Then I’m thinking I bet Ror would know. Makes me smile.

  I peel the pad off the back of my shoulder. Where the bullet went in there’s a raggy hole, black round the edges, all swollen up.

  The door opens, and it’s Lise. She looks at the hole. Fucking good job Ror’s not here, she says. And don’t give me that shit about the bike, I’ve been worried sick.

  I guess if I had a wife that’s what she’d sound like. Kinda cool.

  After I’ve told her everything, she helps me pack.

  What about Ror?

  She’ll be fine with you and Sonn, I says, they’ve got no beef with you, it’s me they’re after. I need to get out of here, or nobody’s safe.

  She wants to know where I’m going. I say I don’t know, tell her to keep everything going, the lock-up, the business, everything. Act as if everything’s normal, I say.

  She tells me Ror’s at Geeta’s tonight.

  Good idea. Let her stay there if she wants to, I say, till I’m back.

  I go into the back bedroom, lift the floorboard, take out the nine millimetre and a box of cartridges. I go to the top of the spare wardrobe where Carla keeps the money, pull down the box, take out a couple of wads. Then I remember how Carla was saving for Ror’s Holy Communion, put one of them back.

  When I’ve got everything I need, I give Lise a hug, let myself out the back door into the yard.

  Sonn appears at the back door with Rio. I could drive you.

  I shake my head. Look after them, I say.

  At the lock-up everything’s quiet. There’s no windows in the workshop so the lights won’t show from outside but I’m too jumpy to turn on the light. I prop the torch up against the bench, wheel Carla’s bike into the back, start to change the plates on the Moto Guzzi. Then I get a better idea.

  I wheel the Ducati back into the workshop, strip it down right to the frame, spray the last red bits and the shiny silver spokes with matt black Hammerite, change the plates. Spray an old lid for good measure. I find the drill, fix an old travelling rack on the back. Then I rub everything down with some oil, scrape up the earth between the flags, wipe it all over the bike. Looks filthy now, mean. Like nothing Carla would ever want to ride. Sorry babe, I say.

  Then, just as I’m finishing up, I hear a noise outside in the alley, sounds like footsteps, then an empty can going over.

  I grab the torch, kill the light. Something falls against the doors, makes them rattle.

  I hold my breath, start to creep towards the bench. Then there’s a woman’s giggle, a half-arsed protest, murmur of a male voice in the background. No chance, she’s saying, but she doesn’t sound as if she means it even to me. At least I hope not, because I haven’t got time to sort out any domestics tonight. The doors rattle again, hard. Then there’s laughing and footsteps and it goes quiet again.

  16

  By the time I get to Fatboy’s it’s eight, nearly light. I’m feeling well queasy. Pethidine must be wearing off.

  I park the bike by some bushes, walk, reckon no one’s gonna expect me to turn up bang in the middle of a Cheetah estate so I’m pretty safe. I wait on the corner, just out of sight, behind the hedge.

  It’s not long till I hear the door bang shut. You can tell the sound of a steel door shutting if it’s fitted proper, sounds like a fridge, only louder.

  Kim’s walking towards me now, pushing the little one in a buggy, Dora the Explorer hanging on to her hand. Over her shoulder, a pink plastic lunchbox.

  I wait till they pass me, then slip out and follow them.

  The school’s only a couple of streets away and I wait as she disappears into the yard. Five minutes later and she comes out with the buggy, bends down to wipe the babba’s face with a hanky.

  I walk over, come up behind her. You got something to tell me?

  She jumps a mile, steps in front of the buggy, and I see her eyes flash down to my hands.

  I turn them out, open, palms up. Relax, I’m not gonna hurt you.

  She looks at me long, then nods up towards the park.

  Bench by the swings in ten minutes, she says.

  I kick the needles away, sit down on the bench, look out over the asphalt, reckon this might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. The way I see it I’m as good as dead already if something doesn’t change, so there’s not that much to lose. And there was something in her eyes yesterday, looking up at me from the mud, made me want to slap her and trust her, all at the same time.

  The clouds are dark grey and purple, scudding across the sky, making shafts of light over the high-rise across the park making everything luminous. The wind’s bitter, picking up the litter and tossing it down. Chills you right to the bone.

  Maybe she’s not coming. Which isn’t the worst scenario I could think of. Far from it.

  I zip up my jacket against the wind, watch the clouds.

  Then from the corner of my eye I see her, small, pushing the buggy, wind whipping her hair up ro
und her face.

  It’s only when she sits down next to me, looks me in the face, that I can give it a name, the thing in her eyes that makes me want to get cruel. It’s like looking in a mirror. Everything I ever lost looking right back.

  Her eyes are shadows, glazed over, dark circles underneath. The bruising’s come out on one eye, purple and blue, and there’s a swelling on the right side of her forehead. Her hands are on her lap, wrists thin, bony like a bird.

  Straight off, I do exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t do.

  So, how long were you seeing her?

  Two tears, fat, well up and slide down over the bruises and I have to fight not to reach over and dig my nails into her hand, give her something to cry about. She must’ve felt it, because she turns her head away, reaches for the buggy, makes to stand up.

  I put my hand out, catch her wrist and the skin’s smooth under my fingers. Alright, I’m listening. Don’t flake out on me.

  She sits back down, starts to talk, quiet, and I guess I could’ve written the script myself, if I’d thought about it at all. Saw each other in secret, for a month or two, loved each other. Gonna run away together, someplace warm naturally. That’s how come we couldn’t tell anyone, she says.

  I hear myself snort, turn it into a cough. Carla was a lot of crazy things but you couldn’t ever call her a coward and no way Kim would have been a secret if Carla had really been in love. That was always Carla’s problem, see. She didn’t care about the risks even when she spotted them, which wasn’t often. Just made her want to do something more.

  I think about telling Kim how much shit I’ve had to clear up just because Carla can’t keep her mouth shut and her boxers on but something stops me.

  There’s no way she’d have kept something that big a secret, not from me.

  OK, I admit it, Carla was full of dreams and shit and sometimes we used to talk about how good it would be to get right away, how we’d have a swimming pool and a barbie and maybe she’d take a course in hairdressing or run a boat for the tourists. How we’d pick off the hot ones, trade them in every fortnight. But that was just what she did, made pretty stories up out of nothing, no harm in it.

  I love you.

  And no way would she be leaving me, everything she’d ever known, not on account of a two-bit shag.

  I’m sure that’s what she told you, I say.

  I let her keep talking, get stuff off her chest, and letting her ramble on gives me half a chance to work out where she’s coming from.

  She tells me about the night she went home, how Fats locked the kids in the bedroom, gave her a proper pasting. Then how he kicked her upstairs, tried to throttle her on the landing for good measure. She unzips her jacket, pulls down the scarf, shows me the marks round her neck. Christ, it looks like he was trying to hang her.

  I must’ve looked shocked. Don’t worry, he won’t kill me, she says.

  Then she gives this tight little smile. Not unless I leave him. That’s why it had to be a secret.

  By the time she gets round to telling me what I’ve come to hear, the sky’s one big dark cloud and it’s started to spit. Kim takes a raincover out of the back of the buggy, covers the babba. Tiny face peeping out, fat cheeks raw with the cold. I hadn’t really noticed before, but she’s got her mam’s eyes. Kim gives her a dummy and her eyes start to slide up under the lids, then, even before her mam’s sat down, she’s spark out.

  They’re gonna waste you, she says.

  No shit Sherlock. I can handle the Cheetahs, I say.

  She shakes her head. Tony and Daz, they’re in it together. Had a meeting with Fats, she says, early-doors yesterday, in the house.

  Everything slides into place, like a bolt in a breech. That’s how come Fats could shoot Carla down in a safe Darts club, how come Lloyd didn’t stop him on the way in. Tony wasn’t just in on it. He gave the order.

  I see Danny’s face float in front of me. Finn, she’s not coming.

  A cold hand squeezes at my guts and I feel sick. Was Danny there? I say.

  No.

  I dig my nails into my palms. What’s in it for Daz?

  Tony’s promised him half your patch in return for him wiping you out.

  Piece of fucking shit. Did they mention Mike?

  Mike’s finished, she says.

  I take a deep breath. So who was in the Audi? Who shot me?

  They just said it’d be done on the way back from the funeral. I tried to tell you.

  That’s why you came looking? To warn me?

  I watch her, one long strand of hair whipped over her face in the wind. She brushes it away. Could be she’s on the level. Which makes me feel a right twat for treating her like a slag.

  On the other hand, could be it’s a set-up. I check the exits. Why are you telling me all this?

  Because she loved you too, she says.

  I love you.

  I see Carla’s sweet face and my heart does a twizz.

  Said you were the best friend she had, like sisters.

  This time the pain goes right in, like a knife between the ribs. Yeah, like sisters, I say.

  We’re silent for a bit. I ask her what she’s gonna do now but she just shrugs. I know I should walk away but I feel like I owe her something.

  There’s places, I say. I can give you a number.

  She looks down at the pushchair, gives this sad little smile, shakes her head. There’s nowhere, she says.

  I watch her walk away across the asphalt, shoulders hunched against the wind, wisps of long hair flying out around her head.

  And even at the corner, she doesn’t look back.

  17

  By the time I get to Warrington the rain’s turning to sleet, steams up the visor, making it hard to see. The traffic’s backed up from IKEA, all the way to the sliproad. I weave in and out of the cars.

  Ten minutes on the ring road and I’m in Collingwood Close, wide, tree-lined.

  The house is one of those old Victorian semis. Could be nice, if it wasn’t falling down. Most of the houses round here were bedsits for years, until all the doctors and lawyers started buying them up cheap, turning them back into whole houses.

  I push the bike up the front path, over the piles of dead leaves, round to the side of the house. The side gate’s rotten, I push it and it creaks open, strains at the hinges.

  Through the gate and into the garden. There’s a high hedge all round, overgrown, keeps things private.

  At the bottom of the garden there’s a plastic swing and a slide, bright yellow streaked black from the rain.

  I kick against something, nearly trip. Fuck’s sake. Fisher-Price dumper truck, one wheel missing.

  I park the bike up by the back door, use my key. Inside the kitchen it’s even colder than outside. I go over to the boiler, switch on the heating, nothing happens. Fantastic. I flick on the light-switch and at least there’s electricity.

  In the sink there’s one mouldy plate, a couple of dirty cups, a baby cup. Looks like no one’s been in here for months.

  In the back living room it’s bare except for a mattress, but the grate is full of ash. Someone must have had a fire in here, some time.

  I put the rucksack down, look round.

  The curtains at the window are filthy but they’re lined, must have been up since year dot. I go over to the window, look out over the garden. The frames are wooden and loose and I can feel the cold coming in, even through the glass, but they got window locks so they’ll do.

  I look out over the back and to each side, but all I can see are the roofs, no one overlooking, the gardens are that big. Not that they’d care about looking in. That’s the great thing about posh places, no one gives a shit what’s going on next door. You can do stuff you’d never get away with in Moss Side or Gorton, everyone knowing everyone’s business. Round here you could bury your missus under the patio and no one would care unless you put the earth out on the pavement.

  Still, I draw the curtains nearly shut, just in case.


  In the living room there’s an old electric fire, three old sofas lined up against the walls, a box of toys. Looks like a waiting room, carpet shabby, covered with stains.

  Upstairs smells like old nappies. In the big front bedroom there’s three mattresses, stripped, lying side by side. One double, two single. Big stains in the middle of both the singles. Probably where the smell comes from. I go back on to the landing, pull the door shut tight behind me. I check out the other four bedrooms and climb up the twisty stairs to the attic. Just mattresses, empty wardrobes, piles of blankets, an old chest of drawers painted red.

  I decide on the downstairs back living room. Less chance of being seen, if anyone comes looking, and nearest to the exit.

  Not that I’m expecting anyone. The Warrington girls have run this house pretty tight since 2003, ever since Jimmy Doyle threw their Kylie downstairs holding the baby, only three months at the time. Kylie went down like a sack of spuds, and the babba hit her head on a step on the way down, fractured an arm. Social Services took the baby away from her when it came out of hospital, even though she gave a statement about Jimmy, stood up against him in court and everything. Even though she knew he’d kill her for it if he ever found her. Social worker said she should’ve left him ages back. As if it was all her fault. As if she had somewhere to go. Even though most of the refuges been closed since the nineties when the funding dried up. Thing is, the ones that still operate, there’s nothing secret about them any more, work hand in hand with the police and Social Services and Probation. No place there for a woman whose life is, well, complicated.

  After that, we needed to find somewhere for women to go that was secret, and that’s how come we ended up with this. Some of Mel’s rugby contacts out in Cheshire, all bugger-me and jolly-hockey-sticks, lawyers, surveyors, all with money to burn and the guilt to go with it, found us this house.

  That’s the thing about the lesbian network, it’s like a web no one else gets access to, cuts right across the things that make us different, brings you into contact with people you wouldn’t spit on otherwise. I don’t fool myself that only works one way, either.