by Yaba Badoe
We girls whoop with laughter, and in-between back-slapping and hand-clapping, we make up our minds. We’re going to go to Imma’s brother’s farmhouse, regroup, make a plan to help the others. We’re going to set ’em free and scupper the Captain’s racket. Me, Scarlett and I, getting even with the Captain and his friends is as personal as it gets. For the sake of my parents, and those who drowned with them, it’s time to take care of unfinished business. And even if we’re not able to make everything right, we’ll do all we can to make ’em a whole heap better.
21
It turns out that Carlos Garcia, Imma’s brother, used to work in the entertainment business like we do. Made a bundle playing flamenco guitar while Imma danced to his tunes. Gave it up to run the family farm full-time. A tall, thin man, brown curly hair flopped over an eye, I take to Carlos as soon as I shake his hand. Firm and dry.
‘I was expecting you,’ he says.
The dog at Carlos’s side licks my fingers. Dog’s a red setter called Tortilla. Nuzzles me as his master says: ‘Imma called early this morning and told me all about you guys. I gather you know an old friend of ours, Elvis Gomesh.’
‘Elvis who?’
Carlos smiles: ‘Elvis Gomesh – known to you, most probably, as Midget Man.’
Mama Rose and Redwood, now Midget Man? ‘Never knew Midget Man was called Elvis. Did you, Cobra?’
Cobra shakes his head. Cat shrugs, takes Scarlett’s hand, and Carlos ushers us into his home.
We all take to him – that is – Cobra, Cat and I do. Scarlett’s nervous, wary, even though before we set foot in the house, we sniffed it out. Checked the exits and entrances in case we need to get away in a hurry. Most important before we called out Carlos’s name and knocked on the farmhouse door, we took the measure of the place to get a sense of who lived inside the rambling old house.
I closed my eyes and breathed deep to gauge the scent of the building and hear the echo of past lives that once lived in it. The perfume of wood-smoke laced with a whiff of wild rosemary wafted out of warm ancient brick, built and extended by generations of farmers. A farmhouse baked in the swell and glow of a rolling landscape of hills. Someone’s home, as well as a dwelling place for animals: for behind the reassuring smells and sounds of the house – the footfall of someone walking down stairs, the bark and snuffle of a dog – was the snort of animals roaming in fields, the whinny of stabled horses.
‘Feels good,’ Cobra said.
Cat nodded, and despite a sliver of anxiety on Scarlett’s face, I knocked on the door and Carlos let us in.
First off, he feeds us. Makes cups of milky coffee, then fries bacon and eggs. Cuts us huge slabs of bread, spreads butter on it, and takes the food outside. We sit at a long mosaic table under a chandelier fitted on a canopy of grapevines and figs. Down below is a swimming pool and, beyond the wooden gates of a bottom lawn, flowering meadow and grassland gradually rise into hills that become rocky, mountainous peaks.
I could go walkabout with Priss for days up there. Clamber up those hills, climb those magnificent peaks. I devour the view and, hungry for a spell of solitude with my bird, I forget to eat. Gawp instead. Tortilla jumps up, steals a slice of my bacon.
‘Down, dog,’ Carlos shouts. ‘Good boy.’
Dog slinks away and as I eat what’s left on my plate, Carlos jokes that we’re yet another band of Imma’s runaways. Reckon she must have helped others before us. In any case Carlos tries to tease us, and when we don’t laugh with him, asks the question, which of all the questions in the world, we’d rather not answer. ‘What are you running away from?’
A knife clatters on the flagstones. Scarlett bends to retrieve it. Cobra looks at me. Cat does too. Next thing I know, Carlos’s eyes are drilling into me and he’s talking as if I’m the leader of our gang, the one with an answer for everything.
‘If you’re going to stay here,’ he says, ‘I need to know something about you. Why you’ve come to me for shelter.’
From under the table, Tortilla’s cool nose prods my knee. I stroke the soft, red shine between his ears, and as he snuggles closer, licking my fingers, Priss swoops and nestles on the bower.
Carlos looks at my bird, then looks at me waiting for my reply.
An explanation pushes at the back of my throat. I try to talk. I um and ah, mutter a few words, stumble, then stop.
A frown crosses Carlos’s face; another question sparks in his eyes. The more time he spends in our company, the more puzzled he appears.
I mumble, attempt to tell him our story but it weighs heavy on my tongue and defeats me. I may have taken to Carlos, may like his dog as well, but after everything we’ve been through, I’m not foolish enough to think I can trust him yet.
He flips back his hair, pours himself more coffee and says: ‘I let you in because of Imma. If you want to stay here, the least I expect from you is a degree of openness in exchange for my hospitality. Now, if you can’t be straight with me, you’ll have to find shelter elsewhere.’
Takes a sip of coffee, savours the taste and lowers the white china cup.
I stroke the bangle on my wrist and words tumble out of me: ‘We were kidnapped by a German man in Cádiz and his friend, Miguel.’
Just saying the name ignites a convulsion of hatred in Scarlett. ‘Miguel Zaragosa,’ she cries. ‘He … he…’ Scarlett shudders. Then, eyes bright with accusation, she stares at Carlos: ‘Miguel and his father, José-Mariá Zaragosa, hurt girls like me. They meddle with us. Peddle us.’
‘It’s OK, Scarlett. It’s OK,’ Cat says.
She tends to her, holds her close while Cobra takes Scarlett by the hand and lays his fingers over hers. Cups her fingers, warms them with his breath as hushed tears fall.
Carlos presses the palms of his hands together and murmurs: ‘José-Mariá Zaragosa. Imma’s runaways mentioned his name. They called him the Captain. I understand your predicament now.’
*
Carlos shows us to a spare room – a large covered space above a garage where, once upon a time, a previous owner bred doves and pigeons. What Mama Rose would call a Glory Hole – a dumping place for things no longer used but no one can be bothered to get rid of – Carlos calls a pigeonnier, a dovecote.
Piled in clusters at the far end is discarded furniture: garden chairs, a broken beechwood table, on top of which is an ancient vase of dried purple flowers.
‘You’ll have to tidy this up,’ Carlos says. ‘I’ll bring you some bedding. That’s the broom cupboard. Sweep the floor, make mattresses out of the blankets, and you should be OK.’ Carlos looks at his watch. ‘I’ll give you an hour to sort yourselves, then I could use your help mucking out the stables. In the meantime, I’ll call our mutual friends in Granada, let them know you’re here.’
It doesn’t take us long to tidy. Open the windows. Mop the floor. Clean and dust till the place is spruced and buffed. We consider mucking out with Carlos, but decide instead to concentrate on what’s fired us up. We sit on our mattresses. Scarlett removes Barrel Man’s phone from Cat’s pouch, rummages through it and shows what’s inside it to Cat.
‘Barrel Man has a family!’ Cat gasps.
Scarlett, more attuned to gizmos than the rest of us, flicks through the photographs on the phone while Cobra and I lean in to look.
There he is: Barrel Man, round as a tub, arm in arm with Miguel, at a bar. Then again with a thin woman, most probably his wife. On their laps are two girls. Butterball-plump, they look more like their pa than the woman at his side. Wife’s as plain as an old tin pail, yet her timid eyes appear kind.
‘Do you think he bullies her?’ I ask, recalling how Barrel Man relished dangling Cobra by the arm and almost throttled me on the roof terrace.
‘Wouldn’t be surprised,’ says Scarlett in techno-savvy, screen-rat mode.
Screen rats don’t talk much. Don’t know how to, I reckon. Another reason the Old Ones consider it wise to hole up in wild places. Claim ordinary folk can’t communicate any more, ’cause talking
’s been bred out of ’em with the overuse of technology. And when the end comes with unceasing floods, hurricanes, wild fires and pestilence, everyday folk – those whose brains have become wired to gadgets and gizmos – won’t be able to say boo to a goose. They’ll say boo to their screens instead. That’s what the Old Ones say. Don’t usually agree with them, but of one thing I’m certain: whatever’s in those machines is mighty powerful, ’cause it’s drawing me in too.
I look over Scarlett’s shoulder while Cobra searches my rucksack. Brings out Bella and Scales, drapes ’em around his neck before he takes out what’s left of Mamadou’s flute: two pieces of broken bamboo. Inspects ’em, cleans ’em by blowing off the dust, then sits down, cross-legged, and begins mending my heirloom with glue from an old tube he found somewhere.
Scarlett is still sifting through Barrel Man’s phone, and at the same time Cat, forefinger flitting across a screen, hunts through Scarlett’s. Grins. Starts rocking back and forth in silent laugher, lets out a whoop of delight, and shoves Scarlett’s phone at me.
On the screen’s a snapshot of Scarlett in school uniform: navy blazer, blue checked dress, a straw boater jammed on her head. Same eyes, same red hair but back then she was living another life altogether. ‘Scarlett! Is that you?’
Lips twist in what passes for a smile. ‘Used to be,’ she tells me.
Like so much about her it doesn’t make sense. The girl in the photograph’s rich with the imperious elegance of a dancer; a dancer who’s never had to brush or polish her shoes herself, that’s for sure. And another thing: poor kids don’t go to school dressed like that. Can’t afford to. So how come a girl as pampered as the one in the photograph ended up trying to drown herself on a beach in Spain? And how did parents who could once afford an expensive school for their daughter wind up begging on the streets of Cádiz?
Questions hang in the air as Scarlett continues scrolling through Barrel Man’s phone. His whole life is stashed in there: phone numbers of everyone who matters; numbers for the Captain, Isaka and Concha. Scarlett writes them down.
There are photos of Barrel Man lounging on a yacht with Miguel and Grey Eyes. Barrel Man, an arm around Concha. Concha, complexion parchment white, in the black-and-pink costume of a matador; Concha, followed by endless images of boys and girls of all ages and races in a variety of skimpy costumes and seductive poses. Their faces, every one of ’em, expressionless.
I may not be used to playing with ’em yet, but any creature with a brain the size of a flea can see it’s downright dangerous to store your whole life in a gadget. Especially when it can easily fall into the wrong hands. Always thought Barrel Man was a toad. Didn’t realise just how much of a fool he is as well.
Tap, tap, tap. Press, scroll. Scarlett’s finger trawls, creating a rhythm punctuated by occasional pauses and grunts of disgust.
‘This is dynamite,’ she says. ‘This could blow the lot of them clear out of the water, high into the sky. This could land ’em in prison for years if we get these pictures to the right people…’
She can’t stop looking as reams and reams of images surface from the inner workings of Barrel Man’s phone. Despite her revulsion, I begin to sense that she’s digging deeper and deeper, grappling with the task at hand like a hungry pup at the teat, for a reason. ‘Is there one of you in there?’
Scarlett looks at me. Not a sideways half-glance ’cause she’s more intent on what’s on the screen, but a full-on stare that raises the hairs on the back of my neck.
Cinnamon freckles shimmer and glow, eyes glitter hard as diamonds. She curls her mouth in a scowl and then suddenly bites down. A drop of blood swells on her lip. Lip trembles, and I stare, bewitched, dazed by what I’m seeing. Even so, I’m aware of a sharp intake of breath and a blur of movement as Cat hands Scarlett’s phone to Cobra. He gazes perplexed at the screen before he gives it to me. I don’t look at it, ’cause I can’t take my eyes off the blood on Scarlett’s lip. It balloons, is about to spill over when, her eyes still fixed on me, she scoops it up with the tip of her tongue.
‘I told you… I told you…’ she says in answer to my question.
She doesn’t have to tell me. Scarlett, I realise, has to look at everything in case deep in the bowels of Barrel Man’s contraption are images of herself with the same haunted desolation on her face; which means, if I’m right, that she was at Miguel’s for much longer than the single night she claimed to begin with.
Unsure what to say, how best to explain herself, Scarlett rearranges her legs. Crosses ’em. Uncrosses ’em. Looks at Cat. Summons her by patting the empty seat beside her.
Cat sits down again. But this time, instead of lounging over Scarlett as she usually does, she raises her knees to her chin and hugs them. ‘What really happened to you and your folks, Scarlett?’
A growl of thunder rumbles above the pigeonnier as wind whirls through a grove of olives and fig trees. Leaves rustle. Ancient bark creaks. The air inside and out heaves, saturated with the cloying sensation of imminent rain and niggling unanswered questions.
I browse through the pictures. No wonder Cat wants to know more. No wonder the tips of her fingers are white with the strain of not touching; the pain of holding everything in, when she’s tight as a tick about to burst. Can’t be easy loving someone with webs of suspicion wrapped around ’em; especially when that someone’s the girl whose life I’m shuffling through.
Scarlett with her parents and her brother during easier, happier times. Could be any group of rich folk, any one of the families I’ve looked at and envied for as long as I can remember. Families I’ve wanted to snuggle up to and infiltrate: a proper, normal family with a ma and pa and two children – a flame-haired teenager beside a boy. Could be any family, if it wasn’t for the fact that standing behind ’em, an arm around each of Scarlett’s parents, is a face I recognise: Miguel, a smile on his lying, cupid lips.
I slide a finger over the screen, the way Cat’s been doing, and more images pop up: all of ’em of Scarlett and Miguel now. Scarlett in a sun hat on a beach. Tousle-haired Scarlett sleepy-eyed in bed. And in each of the photographs, she’s entwined with Miguel, hugging him as if they’re not only the best of friends but much more. Miguel on a bar stool, a hand over Scarlett’s, while Scarlett in a green bikini, eyes hidden by a visor, sips a drink the same colour as her swimsuit. Crème de Menthe – Bizzie Lizzie’s favourite. And there she is again draped over a sofa, a well of secret knowledge brimming in her eyes.
Blasts of wind scour the farmhouse, whipping up dust. Windows rattle in the pigeonnier. Thunder sounds and a moment later, lightning zips across the sky, illuminating our faces.
‘I asked you a question.’ A chink of ice in Cat’s voice does the trick. Scarlett sits up. Cobra does too, alert to a shift that tells those of us who know her that Cat’s claws are out.
I hand the phone back to Scarlett. She looks at it and her cheeks flush. ‘I heard you,’ she says to Cat. ‘It’s just…’
She drops the phone, reaches out, then recoils as Cat hisses:
‘Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me again till you tell me the truth about you, your folks and Miguel.’
Scarlett tries to speak, but when words won’t come, emotions flit over her face like a spray of cards in a hasty five-card trick. Tight-lipped fury. Uncertainty. Spasms of fear and love, which slip into a look guaranteed to give her the Cat she’s after: a Cat’s who’s pliant and tender and is completely on her side. Mouth half-open, Scarlett cautiously meets Cat’s gaze, then beats a hasty retreat. I would too if I were her, ’cause from the ferocity in Cat’s greens, she has no intention, whatsoever, of taking any prisoners today.
‘Please, Cat,’ Scarlett whispers. ‘Please.’
Cat shakes her head. ‘Ain’t going to work this time, Scarlett. Asked you a simple question and I’m waiting for your answer.’
‘You want to know what happened to me and my family and Miguel? You really want to know? Are you sure, Cat? Really?’ Scarlett shivers.
Goosebump-blotches appear on her arms and she hugs herself to keep the storm raging outside as far away as possible. ‘You don’t want know, Cat. If you care for me at all, you don’t want to know. Please.’
‘Oh, but I do, Scarlett. I do.’
‘No, you don’t!’ she says and begins rocking back and forth, to and fro, again and again, as if in order to reveal crucial facts about her life, she has to enter a trance – a safe place in no-man’s land where she can talk without fear of hurting.
Back and forth she goes, faster and faster, until almost panting, she asks, one more time: ‘Are you sure, Cat? Are you really sure?’
‘Tell me the truth for once! All of it in one go! And this time make sure that every little bit of what you say is one hundred per cent, hand-on-heart truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.’
Reckon the truth may be a moveable feast, as far as Scarlett’s concerned, and belief in God not an option she takes very seriously, for she spits out: ‘So help me God! Thank you, God, for my mother and father. Thank you! Thank you for parents who think of themselves before they consider my brother and me. Parents who feed their addictions before they even begin to think of feeding us. Use us, more like it, me especially.
‘Did you know drugs eat you up, Cat? They do. Drugs devour you. Gambling too. Put the two together, worlds collide and bad things happen. Unspeakable things. I’m not talking a bit of dirt on your hands or mud on your shoes. I’m talking up to your neck in it, swimming in filth. Can’t wash yourself clean after that, ’cause the stink never goes away. Attracts bluebottles and flies. Maggots hatch. Then along comes the biggest maggot of them all, Uncle Miguel. Takes a long hard look at me, and gives the adults in my family even more money, more drugs. Says come to Spain, why don’t you? Make a fresh start. And… And…’
