A Jigsaw of Fire and Stars

by Yaba Badoe

  ‘Miguel’s got my passport, everything,’ Scarlett says. ‘Won’t give it back to me till I’ve paid off our debt. Says I belong to him now.’

  I see a glint in Cat’s eyes that spells trouble for whoever’s bailed Scarlett’s parents. ‘You’re not his slave,’ Cat says. ‘Not if you don’t want to be. No one has to do anything they don’t want to, not nowadays.’

  I agree and that settles it. We’re taking Scarlett in.

  *

  When I get back to the camp, the Old Ones are packing up to leave. It doesn’t make sense. Not when there’s money to be made in Cádiz and we’re not yet covered in clover. But there they are, sorting themselves out. Bizzie Lizzie attacks a line of carpets with a brush and then spreads them in the trucks while Mimi throws rubbish on a fire.

  Traces of dust linger in the air; embers of wood spark. Food cartons crackle and melt as Priss yelps and flies to her perch. I’m wondering how I’m going to persuade Mama Rose to stay longer, so I can speak to that African, when Cobra jumps out of the front seat of her truck.

  ‘She wants to speak to you,’ he tells me. ‘Says we’re leaving ’cause of you.’

  ‘But why?’

  Cobra shrugs, and then helps me prepare Taj for his trailer. We remove his finery. Just as we start to coax him inside, Cobra stumbles, falls against the trailer and steadies himself. Touches his arm as if it’s suddenly numb and he can no longer feel it. Rubs his arm, shakes it. ‘Where’s Cat got to?’

  ‘She’s gone to town to sort out her new friend,’ I tell him.

  ‘Where exactly?’

  I give him the address where Cat’s gone with Scarlett to pick up her things and retrieve Scarlett’s passport, if they can.

  Cobra shivers, closes his eyes. Groans, holds his head, as his whole body starts trembling. ‘Something’s not right,’ he says. ‘Cat.’ He whispers her name and a glimmer of fear lightens his eyes.

  That’s the way it is with Cobra and Cat. The twins are so close, they’re able to talk to each other when they’re apart, sense where the other one’s at.

  ‘She needs my help.’

  I’m tempted to ask him how he can be sure, but the dread in Cobra’s eyes brightens. ‘Got to find her,’ he says, and I nod.

  Next moment, Mama Rose in overalls, leans out of the truck: ‘Sante? Sante-girl! It’s time I told you what you want to know. Told you about those men Redwood and I met this morning.’

  Mama Rose jumps down, but I’m half-gone already. Cobra runs and I run after him. He leaps on to the back of Redwood’s motorbike and I hop on behind. I shout for Priss, and once she’s in the air, we’re away.

  *

  Cobra leans low and my body follows him. Tilts to the right and so do I. To the left and I’m with him. Two bodies bound in motion straddling a giant panther as it roars down a track, then swings left on to a curve of highway.

  My head on Cobra’s back, the wind on our faces, we hurtle downhill in our rush to reach Cat. The sky, a pale simmering blue, crouches over us, licking up whispers of heat from the tarmac. A huge yellow sun burns my shoulders.

  We climb a steep slope, career down so fast, it feels as if we’re flying past trucks, scooters and cars. Zigzag in and out, around a bend that takes us over a wide, open landscape: the Atlantic on one side and on the other, a trail of flowers beside the motorway.

  We race past villas and farms, over flatlands. Should have told Mama Rose and the others where we were heading. Should have given her Scarlett’s address in the old part of the city: number five, calle Horozco, near San Antonio square.

  Priss, flying overhead, darts along the shoreline, above high-rise apartments into the old quarter. ‘Find Cat,’ I tell her. ‘Help her.’ Priss flies on, and Cobra and I, keeping an eye on her, track her through narrow cobbled streets. Tall, balconied buildings crowd in on us. Cafés, taverns, a church, San Antonio square. Then we zip down an alley marked calle Horozco, to where Priss glides in a shaft of light.

  ‘She’s here somewhere. She’s close by,’ says Cobra.

  He parks the motor. I jump off and run with him to a block of buildings and find number five. Priss yelps, then gives a high-pitched screech that rips the lining from my gut. Trouble. Big Time.

  ‘What’s your bird saying, Sante?’ asks Cobra. ‘What’s she seeing?’

  ‘On the roof. Women screaming. Help them, Priss!’ I signal ‘attack’ and Priss dives.

  Down below, I help Cobra push open a large door made of heavy, old wood. We pass through a courtyard in the centre of the building and then Cobra stops. He closes his eyes. Sniffs. Feels the pulse of the house. Shakes his head in dismay, then scrambles up a narrow staircase. Up, up we go, past luxury apartments. Round and round, up five floors, and the closer we get to sky, the more we hear what Priss has been hearing: screams. Screams so loud, my body quakes as we rush on to the roof terrace.

  I’ve been running through shadows so long, the sunlight dazzles me. I hear a jumble of sounds, then figures begin to form and I’m able to see ’em. A barrel of a man punches Cat. She ducks, lunges at him. Scarlett, a satchel over a shoulder, jumps on him, thumps him again and again. He shakes her off as Cat headbutts him. Scarlett screams, and a sleekly-dressed man, black hair oiled in a quiff, grabs Cat from behind while the big one reaches for her legs.

  Wings poised, Priss swoops and tears out tufts of hair. The big man yells, lets go of Cat. She wriggles free and Cobra, behind me, throws her a knife. She catches it and smiles at Quiff. Quiff simpers. A flick-knife springs into the palm of his hand and they circle each other, two tigers about to let rip. Scarlett scrambles behind Cobra and hides.

  The big man is about to jump Cat again when Cobra steps in front of him. The man downs Cobra with his weight, tramples him as Priss dives and rips open the man’s face. Talons drip blood.

  I yell: ‘Stop, Priss! Stop!’

  I say the words and Quiff looks at me. A moment – that’s all it takes for Cat to pounce and plunge the knife into his shoulder. Quiff yowls and gawps at the blood gushing. Flips open a phone, summons help. Slumps over.

  ‘Take her,’ Cat says, shoving Scarlett at Cobra. ‘Get her out of here quickly.’

  ‘I want to stay with you,’ Scarlett whimpers.

  ‘Go!’

  Cobra takes Scarlett’s arm and they’re away down the stairs.

  In five shakes, I begin to wonder if they were able to make it as the thud of feet running upstairs sounds from below. A gang, maybe four of ’em, closing in.

  Cat slashes washing lines to slow ’em down. Nods, and we run as far away from the stairwell exit as we can. We run across the roof terrace, bodies pursuing us. I look behind. One of ’em trips over a tangle of washing, but they’re fast. Six-packs heaving heft, they trample through a roof garden. They’re agile, these men. What they don’t seem to realise is that we circus folk earn our living being fleet-footed and nimble. They may be quick, but we’re going to show ’em we’re quicker.

  9

  Mama Rose told me not so long ago that when I was crawling and couldn’t quite walk, before she fully figured out that I’m more beast than fowl, Priss tried to teach me to fly. Lured me on to chairs and tables, and helped me take off, arms flapping. Got me to climb a tree once and jump out.

  ‘It’s a mercy you’re still alive, Sante,’ Mama Rose said, when Cobra showed her the dent on my head.

  All those early tumbles and cuts mean that, though I can’t fly as such, I’m pretty spry. Can leap and dive, twist and turn and, thanks to Priss, I’ve no fear, whatsoever, of heights.

  So when Cat runs across the roof terrace, I glean what she’s thinking and race in front of her. Priss leads the way and I jump from one roof to the next. Catch my breath, run to the next roof and jump again. Fall over a flowerpot. Somersault, leap, legs paddling empty sky. I lunge forwards just in time to catch hold of a strip of cable, and haul myself up. Cat’s ahead of me now.

  ‘Stop!’ I shout at her. ‘We have to go down to find a way out of here.
’

  She hesitates, looks back and sees only two men after us now. Ahead of us is a roof-scape of satellite dishes, flat terraces straddled with washing lines, clothes fluttering. And beyond, as far as the eye can see, a glittering coastline.

  I dart into a stairwell and Cat follows. We run down. A pimpled teenager carrying boxes of pizza passes us. I return his smile. We pretend to walk. Pizzas disappear upstairs and we sprint fast as foxes through a courtyard garden of bougainvillea and jasmine.

  We pause at the front door. Breathe slow, breathe deep, then we peek outside. On the left, cars are parked on the street and two women in black hobble along talking. On the right, a Honda. In his haste to deliver hot food, the pizza delivery boy left his scooter running, keys in the ignition.

  Cat cackles and I laugh with her as she jumps on the Honda. I slip on behind her, and with Priss guiding us, we make our way back to the campsite.

  *

  I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand Old Ones. Maybe when I’m old myself I’ll appreciate why, when Cat and I get back, they behave as if we’ve lobbed a hand-grenade on to their laps: a Scarlett-coloured grenade that’s likely, at any moment, to blow us to high heaven.

  Scarlett and Cobra made it, but there’s no sign of jubilation. Down by the stream, Mama Rose and Redwood are hearing Cobra out. Could be we’ve put our lives on the line, but from everything they’ve taught us – how best to survive, how to co-operate and work as a team – seems taking care of each other doesn’t stretch to taking in strangers.

  We’re travellers and all the travellers I know tend to be wary of outsiders before we let ’em in. Truth is, only Midget Man and Mimi were born travelling. Only they are Romany at heart, gypsy through and through. The others chose to carry their homes in trucks and keep on the move. Yet when we return to find Scarlett sitting on the back step of Mama Rose’s truck, I can tell just by looking at ’em that Midget Man and Mimi are the only ones minded to take her in.

  The two of ’em are chatting to her even though Scarlett won’t answer back. She stares into space.

  ‘It’s OK, darling,’ says Mimi. ‘You’re safe now.’

  Midget Man croons a tune, as if Scarlett were a jittery foal he was trying to get close to. Unless I’m mistaken, give him another minute or two and he’ll offer her a lump of sugar.

  All of ’em look relieved when we appear. Scarlett runs up to Cat and hugs her while Mama Rose steps up to me.

  ‘Are you OK, Sante?’ she asks.

  I nod, half-expecting her to make us return the Honda to its rightful owner straightaway. She cups my chin. Inspects my face, arms and legs.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I tell her. ‘A few scratches and bruises, that’s all…’

  Mama Rose walks over to Cat. Prises Scarlett off her, fingers the bruising around Cat’s right eye. ‘Sante-girl,’ she says to me. ‘Get some arnica from the first aid kit. Cobra, pick some of those marigolds in that field. I’ll need the petals to make calendula for your sister.’

  Cobra doesn’t move. He’s watching Cat, taking note of how she is with Scarlett: those tender pauses and silences as Cat’s fingers trail through Scarlett’s hair. He watches his sister and for the first time truly sees the stranger. Scarlett gazes back at him with the limpid eyes of a colt about to bolt. As surely as day follows night and sunshine chases moonshine, his soul opens up to her and – bam! – same thing happens to him as with Cat. I hear it; feel the hiss, the tug at his heart as Scarlett lassoes it with a smile.

  Cobra gives her one of his cheeky, insinuating grins, and then fixes his greens on me. He knows what I do now. This one’s for Cat, Cat alone. And if he so much as gets in his sister’s way, she’s going to scratch out his eyes and give ’em to Priss for an afternoon snack. If Cat doesn’t keep him off Scarlett, so help me, I will.

  There’s nothing like a challenge to whet Cobra’s ardour. Straightaway, he flashes a smile at Scarlett, and burns a hole straight through my heart. Hurts so much I feel like saying: ‘What’s she got that I haven’t? Look at her! Hunger’s scooped her out from within and there’s no fat on her body, no curves whatsoever. In fact, her backside’s every bit as scrawny as mine is!’

  I can scarcely breathe until Mama Rose says to Cobra: ‘Get a move on, I need those petals to tend to your sister.’

  The moment Cobra leaves, the Old Ones want to know exactly what’s going on. Why we’ve been fighting, stolen a Honda. They want to know where Scarlett comes from, where her folks are. They want answers to a whole heap of hard-to-answer questions, when even I know in my heart, that to keep Scarlett safe from those thugs, we have to take her in. No two ways about it. But like I’ve said already, where Old Ones are concerned, nothing’s easy.

  Cat tells ’em what she can. Tells ’em everything that Scarlett’s told her. Then Scarlett licks her lips, reddens them with the tip of a coral-pink tongue and speaks. Speaks so low everyone has to lean in to hear her. Speaks low and soft, as if she’s broken in pieces and can’t stoop any lower. But this time, when she tells us how it is, she uses words she couldn’t say before, words such as ‘pimp’.

  The man with the black quiff, Miguel, is planning to pimp her out. He used to be kind to her, but now her parents have gone, he wants her to earn back the money he gave ’em. From the sound of it, the devil himself couldn’t be any worse than Miguel.

  Scarlett clings to Cat’s fingers as she describes her tribulations. Even so, she gets the shakes waiting to hear if the Old Ones will let her stay.

  Redwood’s eyes narrow. He tugs on the lobe of his ear and asks: ‘Where’s your passport, Scarlett?’

  Mama Rose nods, Bizzie Lizzie too, while Mimi creeps closer and touches Scarlett. Scarlett flinches. Freezes. Won’t let anyone but Cat touch her. Lets Cat speak for her as well:

  ‘Miguel still has her passport. We were trying to bust into his safe when he found us.’

  Redwood shakes his head, looks up at the late afternoon sky, then scowls at Cat: ‘If you insist on acting crazy,’ he says, ‘you’re going to end up crazier than an old coot, and there’ll be no helping you, Cat.’

  Cat bristles, is about to answer back, but scrunches her face in fury instead. There’s no need for her to say anything when she’s like that. No need to throw daggers, when she’s already hurling ’em with her eyes.

  ‘Cat isn’t nuts,’ I say to Redwood. ‘In case, you’ve forgotten, you brought us up to look out for each other.’

  ‘Far as I recall, I didn’t have a hand in raising her.’ Redwood nods at Scarlett. ‘If you want to find your way home, young lady, I suggest you go to the British Consul in Cádiz They’ll help you out.’

  Mama Rose folds her arms waiting for Scarlett’s reply.

  The girl’s mind is thick with cobwebs. Parts her lips, starts to stutter.

  ‘Scarlett needs us!’ I cry. ‘Needs somewhere to lay her head tonight, food to eat tomorrow.’

  ‘Nothing’s as simple as it seems,’ Mama Rose reminds me. ‘The police may be looking for her already and if they’re working with Miguel and his friends, that makes her a liability to us.’

  ‘A great big albatross around our necks,’ Redwood sighs.

  ‘A downright curse,’ Lizzie mutters.

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Are these the same people who took me in, and saved Cobra and Cat before me? I make fists of my hands, stand square, and face Mama Rose, saying: ‘So you think we should leave her to fend for herself? Let Miguel use her to make money? Will someone please wake me up and tell me that this isn’t happening?’

  I look from one to the other: Mama Rose to Redwood, Bizzie Lizzie to Midget Man and Mimi. Not a single one of ’em replies, so I turn again to Mama Rose: ‘Aren’t you the one who’s always warning us that some lowlife would love to get their hands on us? Sell us, make us slaves? You said as much last night. Said so to me. And now you want us to stand by and watch that creature Miguel take Scarlett away?’

  ‘Not while I’m around,’ says Cobra, handing a pouch o
f petals to Mama Rose.

  ‘Me too,’ says Cat. She strokes Scarlett’s hand and takes in the Old Ones: ‘Seems the only way to get heard around here is to keep saying the same thing again and again. We young ones have a stake in this outfit and we want Scarlett to stay.’

  ‘Mimi and I agree.’ Midget Man speaks and the tide turns.

  ‘Are you sure, Sante?’ says Mama Rose.

  Scarlett gazes at me, eyes sweet as honey. Her soul brushes against mine a second time and I nod.

  ‘Very well. She can stay with us tonight,’ says Mama Rose. ‘We’ll decide what to do tomorrow. Come along, Sante. I need to talk to you.’

  10

  I make Mama Rose wait. She has to wait. I can’t tear myself away from what’s right in front of me: Cobra making eyes at Scarlett. As soon as Mimi started tending to Cat’s bruises, Cobra corralled Scarlett. Fetched her a cup of water, a bite of bread and cheese to eat. Behaves as if she’s the only girl in the world and I don’t matter any more. From what my heart’s telling me, Cobra’s enchanted, and even though she doesn’t register him yet, ’cause she can’t focus on anyone but Cat, he hovers over her like Priss does before she dives at her prey.

  I’ve seen that look on my bird so often, I’d recognise it anywhere. It goes deeper than anything you’ll ever read in a book. Deeper than the ocean and the sky above it, and it’s telling me that Cobra’s crazy for her. I watch ’em together and the hole in my heart grows bigger. Truth is, Cobra’s never looked at me like that. The white girl may be pale and thin, but I swear, there’s something about her that’s set him spinning. What puzzles me is that I’m spinning as well.

  Mama Rose calls me a second time, then again. Third time lucky. I follow her voice and find her sitting on a cushion in the back of our truck. Redwood’s opposite her. On her right is a mahogany sea-chest. From the resolute expression in her dark eyes, seems Mama Rose has been building up to this moment for a long while, longer than yesterday. Those eyes and her clothes tell me this is serious; life and death serious. Must be, ’cause she’s changed out of overalls into her thinking gear: an indigo kimono, a band belted around her waist. And in her hair, a black lacquered chopstick speared through a bun on top of her head. In the same way that my thoughts untangle in the grey dawn of morning, Mama Rose’s thinking flows freely when she dresses as a geisha. There’s a formality about the attire, a measured elegance, she says, that assists her reasoning. She hasn’t powdered her cheeks white this time, though her face is ashen.