by Nicky Black
‘Buy a piece of lucky heather?’ Nicola asked in her best witch’s voice.
‘No thanks.’ Tania’s accent was thick and drawling. Nicola took in the tattooed knuckles, the gold rings on every string-like finger.
Nicola smiled at the child. ‘Ahhh, what lovely hair, what’s your name?’
‘Tell the lady, Bobby Anne.’ The child repeated her name shyly.
‘Ahh, that’s nice.’ Nicola turned back to Tania. ‘Want your fortune told?’
‘No, I’m busy –’
‘– See if you’re gonna have any more?’
Tania hesitated. At forty-four she didn’t hold out much hope for any more kids, but she was always grateful to hear the contrary. She held out a tentative palm which Nicola took eagerly.
‘You’ve got two girls?’
Tania nodded suspiciously.
Nicola shook her head. ‘No more with the man you’re with. His name begins with M?’
‘Yeah, Micky.’ Tania was hooked.
‘Your love line’s all broken up. Does he leave you a lot?’
‘He works away, but we’re still together.’ Tania leant into Nicola. ‘Are we going to move soon?’
‘Ahh, he’s promised you a big house.’ Tania nodded, wondering how this Romany hag could be so on the nose. Nicola frowned at Tania’s palm. ‘He can’t be trusted, love. You look after yourself and your children. And don’t get involved in anything that would harm them. Even if he says you must. Do you understand?’ Tania stepped back, stunned by what she was hearing. Nicola handed some heather to Bobby Anne. ‘To keep you lucky.’
She walked slowly to the house next door and pretended to ring the doorbell as Tania closed her door, then she dumped the heather on the pavement and scurried down the street. Utterly betrayed, she bent her head against the wind and made her way back to the Metro station. It must have been going on for at least three or four years, probably longer. How many others were there? She tore the earrings from her lobes, tears of rage smudging her eyes blacker and blacker. Everyone must have known about it. All of his boxing mates, Tiger, Mooney. Who else? Kim? They were all laughing at her. The humiliation swallowed her whole as she fought the tears and climbed the stairs to the approaching train. She was utterly alone.
EIGHTEEN
Lee looked out to the distant lighthouse, his hand shielding his stinging eyes from the sand and salty air. A blustery wind swarmed around him, lifting his shirt so that it billowed out around his torso like a balloon, making the buttons strain in their holes. The beach was virtually empty except for a few tourists in shorts, sandals and bum bags, holding their fleeces tightly closed, heads bowed as they fought their way against the torrent of air that twisted around their ears, making their hair stand upright. He blinked and saw her shimmering form approaching him at some distance, the little dog running excitedly in and out of the water. She’d tied her hood around her face by the tassels and was struggling to push the buggy through the sand. She waved to him. He smiled, his nerves wrapping themselves in knots, and waved back a hopeful hand.
Eventually they stood, face to face, hardly able to open their eyes against the raging wind. He reached out his arms and she offered no resistance, falling against him with an acceptance that felt as natural as air. They kissed, ignoring the sand grinding its way into their mouths and noses. Rufus stood by them barking, Play with me! Lee’s arms tightened around her as her chin fell onto his shoulder. She clung to him and it felt right, like she’d come home.
He kissed a fresh cut above her eye. ‘I can’t believe you want me to rescue a dog when you’re in so much danger.’
‘He was going to shoot him,’ she said.
Lee saw the paranoid look in her eyes as she glanced to her right at someone walking along the sea edge.
‘Come on,’ he said.
They sat in the deep cove beneath the rocky stairs that led to the road above them, the wind whistling past, Kim’s baby, Amy, asleep in the buggy, and Rufus dozing with his chin on Nicola’s lap. She sat nestled between Lee’s legs and rested the back of her head on his chest, his arms locked around her waist. His breastbone was solid and smelled sweet, not like Micky’s spongy sourness. His cheek rested on her head and they sat for a while just breathing in unison before she told him everything that had happened over the last two days.
She started with Kim. Kim wasn’t answering the door, hadn’t done for several days, so Nicola had gone round the back and let herself in, Michael and Liam following behind, eating orange ice lollies. The kitchen was a disaster and stank of stale bins and rot. She’d headed down the hall and could hear the ticking clock of Countdown on the TV through the crack in the living room door. When she opened it she saw Kim lying with her back to her, curled up on the sofa, her shoulder blades piercing through her vest top like scalpels. Mooney was slumped in the armchair facing the TV, his head drooping onto his chest, a little bubble of saliva growing and retreating with each breath. The overpowering smell of stale beer and smoke made her cover her mouth with her sleeve. There was another smell in the air, the liquorish stench of something unfamiliar. She kicked away the cans that littered the floor and shook Kim to no effect. Shuffling towards Mooney through the mess, she kicked at his little boy legs.
‘Eh? Wha...’ His head rolled back and he prised his eyes open into glassy slits.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded Nicola. Her face was like the blinding light of a torch in his eyes.
‘Eh?’
‘What’ve you given her?’
‘Nowt, man, fuck off.’
Nicola looked around her and spotted a syringe peeping out from under a newspaper on the floor. She moved the newspaper with her foot and saw a pile of half a dozen syringes, burned spoons and foil.
‘My God.’ She turned and realised Michael and Liam were watching open-mouthed, the last of their lollies dripping to the floor. ‘Michael, take Liam out the back to play.’
‘But Mam –’
‘– NOW!’ she shouted, and Michael turned, pulling a crying Liam with him towards the kitchen, his lolly stick outstretched to the fallen gloop of ice on the carpet.
Nicola turned the emaciated Kim onto her back. Her cheekbones jutted from her snow-white face, and her eyes rolled back in her head. She put her cheek to Kim’s mouth and could feel warm breath. She stood up, spitting fury.
‘You fucking idiot!’ she shouted at Mooney. ‘She’s got a baby!’
‘Nowt to do with me,’ he sniffed, reaching a shaking hand towards the packet of cigarettes on the coffee table.
‘Oh yeah? Last time I saw her she was smoking a bit of weed then suddenly it’s heroin? Where else would she get it?’
Mooney belched loudly and rubbed his stomach. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know,’ he sneered, throwing the empty cigarette packet to the floor and fishing about beside the chair. He dredged up a curly sandwich.
‘Know what?’ she asked, hands on hips, thinking he couldn’t possibly put that food in his mouth. He did, and she felt her stomach heave.
‘You mean, she didn’t tell you?’ he chewed with his mouth wide open and swallowed hard, ‘that she was dealing for Micky?’
Nicola threw her head back and laughed. ‘I don’t believe you! She couldn’t stand Micky: why on earth would she do that?’
Mooney shoved the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and, pushing the food into one cheek, said, ‘Coz he gave her the money for the funeral.’
Nicola stood stunned for a second. She turned to look at Kim, sorrow overwhelming her. She felt her blood boil, picked up the newspaper from the floor and started hitting Mooney with it. He lifted his arm and leg up in defence, laughing.
‘How, man! Pack it in, you fucking loony!’
She threw the paper at him and stormed over to the phone on the windowsill. ‘I’m phoning the police,’ she said and lifted the receiver. The phone was dead.
‘What, your boyfriend?’ Mooney grinned slyly at her, his head jerking and his face twisting like a spast
ic. She put the receiver back in its cradle without looking at him. Mooney cleared his throat and spat into the fireplace. ‘You shop me, and I’ll tell Micky about your Private Dick.’
Nicola swept her hair from her face and looked at him with contempt. ‘Where’s the baby?’ she asked.
‘Fucked if I knaa.’ Mooney stood up and stretched like he’d just had a pleasant afternoon snooze.
‘Get out,’ she said icily.
‘Nae worries.’ He yawned past her and, with a final contemptuous grin, picked up his crutches and expertly swung himself out of the house.
When the door was closed, Nicola covered her mouth with her hand, willing herself to stay calm. Amy. Oh Amy, that gorgeous little girl.
She headed up the stairs, images of Mark’s hanging body and bulging eyes flashing before her. As she approached the cot, she held her hand to her stomach and breathed deeply. She peeked over the edge, not sure if she was ready for what she was about to see. Amy lay on her side with her back to her, just like Kim on the sofa downstairs. Nicola reached a trembling hand out and turned the baby over sharply, a blue-veined face and stiff body in her mind’s eye. Amy jumped with fright and blinked her eyes open at being disturbed so roughly. Her face twisted and turned crimson as she let out a whimper then drew in breath and belted out a long cry. Nicola’s eyes were wet with relief as she picked the baby up and held her to her neck, bouncing her up and down and patting her on the back. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she cooed. But she wasn’t sorry. Mark’s baby was alive, and she was going to make sure she stayed that way.
She hurried downstairs, put Amy in her buggy and sat next to Kim on the sofa, shaking her and calling her name. She felt for a pulse but she didn’t really know what she was looking for. Kim’s lips were turning slightly blue. Panic welled up in her throat and she’d put her cheek to Kim’s mouth once more. The breath was gone.
The wind was dropping now and the air turned less chilly. Lee pulled Nicola tighter to him as she took a few moments to gather her thoughts as the tears came. She wiped her face with both hands. ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘take your time.’ She continued, her breathing shallow and her fingers picking at the threads on her scarf.
It was nearly midnight last night. They were in the kitchen and Micky was holding up a plastic carrier bag, the one containing her leather jacket and hooped earrings.
‘What’ve I done wrong this time?’ she’d asked, looking defiantly into Micky’s enflamed face.
‘You tell me, Gypsy Rose Lee.’
She’d been back from the hospital for less than five minutes and was overwrought with exhaustion. The doctors had managed to revive Kim but she’d been without oxygen a long time and Nicola had left her in Intensive Care, a machine breathing for her. The staff nurse had taken care of Amy, fed and changed her, soothed her frantic cries. Of course, Micky hadn’t batted an eyelid when she got home. He was livid, she could tell, and she stood in front of him now, draped in fear, but hiding it well. If Mooney had opened his mouth, she was dead. She clutched the panic alarm in her coat pocket, knowing it would be useless against a strangling hand or a gunshot.
Micky backed her into the corner of the kitchen, manoeuvring her expertly into the space between the table and the fridge. The bag was thrown at her, and a crutch lashed across her face. He moved in and stood right up to her, his back arched, his stomach touching hers, looking down his flaming nostrils at her. He’d spoken to Tania – she’d had her fortune told, she’d said. Some green-eyed, Geordie traveller who knew everything – knew all about his long absences and empty promises. Rufus barked outside the back door and Nicola closed her eyes against the ceaseless noise.
‘Who told you?’ he growled into her face like a snarling hound.
‘I don’t know,’ she shook her head, looking down. She felt the blood trickle down her eye onto her cheekbone. She let it run. She had no fight in her tonight.
‘DON’T FUCKING LIE TO ME!’
She hadn’t moved, she didn’t flinch. Tired. So tired.
‘Just some woman, alright? She phoned here and said you were having an affair.’
‘Eh? Who the fuck would want to do that?’ Micky wasn’t sure how to handle Nicola’s indifference.
She kept her voice steady and monotone. ‘I don’t know, Micky, it was just some woman. Maybe it was her, your.... other woman.’
Micky hobbled backwards and stared at her. Jesus Christ. They’d got to Tania, told her everything. Told her he was married, kids, house, garden, and she’d gone apeshit.
He rubbed his hand over his unshaven mouth, frustrated at not getting the reaction he wanted, but knowing that he couldn’t catch her if she ran. He leant back into her, one hand against the wall. ‘I’m sick of people stabbing me in the back and not doing what I say. What did I tell you about that dog?’
She glanced at the back door, Rufus beyond it, barking his failed attempts at protection. She remained silent.
‘If it’s not gone by tomorrow, I’m gonna shoot it, and you can bury it, right?’ She stared ahead, not doubting his intentions, the blood dripping onto her front. ‘RIGHT?’ Amy had started to twist in her buggy, hungry, alone, confined. ‘And that’s not staying with us. Get it to social services or something.’
Nicola looked at him and then at Amy. There was nothing he hated more than a screaming baby. He moved back to let her past so she could stop the screeching.
Micky watched her pick the baby out of the buggy and take her into the living room, calmly wiping the blood from her face with the baby’s blanket. Her hands weren’t shaking. No matter how defiant she managed to make her face or her body language, her hands always shook. But tonight they didn’t, and he noticed something in her he hadn’t ever noticed before. It took him a while to realise what it was. Courage. And there it was again – a rising dread that made his legs weaken and his palms sweat. This wasn’t right. She had to fear him, otherwise what was he? Who was he if he wasn’t the man scaring Nicola? He sat down at the kitchen table, his thoughts frozen, his plans crashing in.
Nicola held the dummy in Amy’s mouth and rocked her gently as the baby’s eyes glazed over and started to succumb to sleep. There was no movement from the kitchen. Maybe he was working on his list. She had seen Micky, two or three times over the last few days, bent over the pad of paper, a pen chewed to a grizzly nub in his mouth. The list grew and diminished, was ripped out, torn to shreds and started again. He drew diagrams and ran arrows from names, noting motives, incentives, family ties. Every now and then, a name would be roughly crossed off, the pen cutting through the paper. He’d sigh and start again, muttering to himself: ‘Ray McKewan.’ He’d stare at the name, pen in his mouth and continue to mutter: ‘Brother – Sonny. Ten years – Acklington. Wife left him. Took the lot.’ Then he’d write something like– DEBT?????? He’d sit back, lift his head and stare at the wall. She’d seen him slip the pad of paper under the sofa cushion when someone came to the door or if she walked into the room. She’d only need five minutes to copy the names down: she just needed to get him out of the living room, but he was still sleeping downstairs. She’d do it tomorrow when he trudged upstairs to use the bathroom: that was a fairly predictable morning occurrence and it would just give her enough time. Tomorrow, if she could muster the nerve.
The next morning she walked unsteadily to the payphone at the supermarket before anyone was awake. Lee agreed to meet her at the coast. He’d wait for her however long it took. He loved her, he feared for her, he wanted her to be safe.
Back home in the kitchen the wind hummed through the windows and made the back door rattle. She’d spent the night reeling between spells of euphoria and fits of mouth-drying anxiety. Micky’s tea and bacon and egg sandwich had been consumed, and he stood up with a groan and a sniff. She sipped at her coffee, watching him over the mug as he hobbled towards the living room door. He was moving more quickly now. Maybe she’d miscalculated how long he would be out of the room. Her heart beat in her ears.
She heard
each foot on every stair. With the kids outside playing with Rufus, and the shot of the bolt on the bathroom door still in her ears, she ripped the cushion off the sofa to retrieve the writing pad. She felt around with her hands but all she’d found was a pen and a red plastic Monopoly hotel. Shit! She put the cushion back and looked around her, listening at the same time for the sound of the toilet flushing. The other sofa cushion and the chair yielded nothing. She checked under the sofa, under the chair, inside the magazine rack. She rattled her brains. Where had he been other than the living room? She ran upstairs, rummaged through the bedside drawers, peered under the bed at a hot-water bottle, a dusty pair of trainers, moving the spare quilt to one side. There was nothing.
She knocked tentatively on the bathroom door. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Piss off, man!’ was the response.
Back in the living room, she put her thumbs to her jaw and rubbed her temples with her fingers. Think, woman, think! She paced, her eyes closed, tripping over the rug in front of the fireplace. She felt something under her foot, under the rug.
They were all there – her salvation. On the front page were about a dozen names, some crossed out but legible, and at the bottom of the page, scribbled and circled about six times – Tania??? She grabbed at a pen from the mantelpiece and started copying the names down. As she started writing, the toilet flushed, the bathroom door opened and her pounding heart made her face flush and her hands shake. It would take him about thirty seconds to limp down the twelve stairs that stood between her and freedom. How many times had she counted the stairs taking Michael and Liam to bed, helping him learn their numbers? She heard Micky’s foot and crutch thud on each step. She wrote as quickly as she could, two, three.
