by Yaba Badoe
‘Welcome home, my lovelies,’ says Midget Man, handing out plates Mama Rose serves food on. Chicken and chorizo casserole with potatoes and salad.
Cobra, Cat and Scarlett tuck in. My meal on my lap, I look from one to the other, Mama Rose to Redwood, Midget Man to Mimi. Take in Lizzie’s pink halo of hair. Savour the nooks and crannies of faces I’ve loved all my life; faces I was once more accustomed to than the dark sheen of my skin: Midget Man’s snub nose, Redwood’s loping grin and Mama Rose. Can’t help but stare in wonder at the curious glow of her dark, pebbled eyes.
‘Is everything all right, Sante-girl?’ she asks.
Forks dangle mid-air as everyone stops eating and gazes at me.
‘What is it, sweetie-pie?’ Lizzie asks.
Mimi sighs. ‘Must be the shock of everything she’s gone through, poor darling. A life of adventure takes its toll eventually, and I’m sure you’ve had more than your fair share of scrapes, Sante.’
My jaw drops. Scrapes? Adventure? Where to start? What to say? Rage rises and before I have time to blink, I cry sharp as a cockerel at first light of day: ‘In case you’ve forgotten, Cobra and I were kidnapped. Kidnapped, meaning held in captivity for a ransom for a whole day and a night. And what did you lot do? Did you come and save us? Did you ask the police to look for us? You did nothing. Nothing! Now tell me, who are the adults here?’
I glare at ’em. Glare so hard, forks cease to dangle and are placed carefully on plates. Midget Man rubs his goatee while Redwood, tugging at the lobe of his ear, murmurs: ‘That’s young ’uns for you. Insists on taking off on her own and now she’s back with us safe and sound, seems she wanted us to send in the cavalry all along.’
‘Life doesn’t work like that, sweetie,’ says Lizzie.
Mama Rose puts her plate on the hearth, opens her arms, beckons me closer. I shake my head as words tumble out of me. The very same words Mama Rose uses at the first hint of a lie: ‘It’s time for truth-telling, folks! Who are you, Mama Rose? What’s your real name? And you, Redwood? Or should I call you Cuthbert Xavier Carter the Third?’
Amid splutters and gasps, a ghastly calm descends. The Old Ones stare at each other: wives glance at husbands, Carlos at Midget Man and then all eyes swivel and drill into Mama Rose. And somehow, all of it – all the staring and blinking – is to do with a long-buried secret. I grit my teeth and like a dog scrabbling for a bone, refuse to let go: ‘I asked you questions. Least you can do is reply.’
Redwood takes a sip of wine and says: ‘Where did you hear that name, kid?’
‘From the same person who told us that your real name, Mama Rose, is Rosamund Annabel Williams, and you’re the daughter of Lord Edmund James Hathaway-Williams of Brecon. Same person who told us the two of you are “Missing. Wanted for questioning.”’
‘What’s his name?’ Redwood again.
‘I call him Grey Eyes, but his name’s Wolf. Don’t know his surname yet, but he works with the man who took Scarlett – Miguel – and Miguel’s pa, the Captain.’
Redwood takes another sip of wine. Peers at me and my confidence ebbs, defiance trickles away. Carlos steps in.
‘The Captain is not a man to cross,’ he says. ‘He’s dangerous, highly influential, a gaditano called José-Mariá Zaragosa.’
Firelight flickers and fades on her face as fear ripples through Scarlett. Can’t have her howling the house down, so the moment she parts her lips, I jump in quick: ‘Miguel and his pa meddle with Young Ones. Peddle ’em like they tried to with Scarlett. Like they tried with Cobra and me.’
A horrified hush rushes through the Old Ones, crushing any trace of movement, leaving ’em frozen in time.
Silence clamours. I hold my breath waiting for an explosion of: ‘I told you so! I told you, Sante! But did you listen?’
I count one. Two. Three. Soon as I hit four out it comes, even worse than I expected, ’cause what I hear is a frightened squeak crawling out of Mama Rose’s mouth: ‘Did anyone…?’
I shake my head.
‘And you, Cobra?’
Cobra shrugs. ‘Nothing I couldn’t handle. Others aren’t so lucky.’
Cobra digs out Barrel Man’s phone from his jeans and the images we flipped through earlier scuttle like crabs from the screen into the room.
Takes less than a minute for the Old Ones to grasp what we’re showing ’em. Gawp and shudder, shaking their heads. Carlos grabs the phone and stamps the crabs dead by switching it off. Cat takes it from him and pockets it.
More glances as all eyes including mine lock on Mama Rose. She fidgets, heaves a huge sigh and it’s then I feel it again: that worm of anxiety from the night Mama Rose took Isaka’s note and shoved it in her bra. Thicker, bigger, heavier than ever before, it crawls from the depths of the earth and wriggles into the open.
Mama Rose senses it as well, for she says: ‘Sante, Cobra, Cat – might as well include you in our circle tonight, Scarlett, since you’re here – it’s time I told you something I should have mentioned long ago.’
24
Turns out truth-telling takes time. Time enough for the Old Ones to pile more food on their plates, empty two bottles of wine, and then drag up a case of booze from Carlos’s cellar and start swilling it down. Eat and drink like it’s Christmas tomorrow to erase the scuttle stain of crabs and what we told ’em. Redwood throws another log on the fire, we cosy up, and when all eyes are on her once again, we give Mama Rose the floor.
‘A long time ago when I was much younger than you are today, I upended everything my parents stood for. Didn’t feel right to live in a great, big house in the country when outside our gates my pals were poor as church mice.’
Pictures of Mama Rose as she once was leapfrog over the ones in Barrel Man’s phone and jostle for attention. An age-old house appears in my mind and I catch sight of Mama Rose as a baby. Chubby cheeks, white bonnet. Mama Rose at seven, skipping, playing hopscotch.
‘I gave away the family silver: all our cutlery and candlesticks. Didn’t go down well with my parents and so they packed me off to boarding school. The very best, of course, where they tried to instil in me rules rich folk live by; rules that say that things are the way they are ’cause that’s how they should be. The rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate.’
The Old Ones chuckle, Redwood loudest of all.
‘Last time I counted,’ Mama Rose says, ‘I reckon that by the age of sixteen, I’d been expelled from at least ten schools. But I was clever. Went to university and it was there that everything fell into place and I discovered exactly who and what I am…’
More pictures crystallise and I recognise Mama Rose, a young woman strutting in a pair of high-heeled shoes. Red, like the slash of lipstick on her mouth today.
She notices me staring at her, mouth half-open, the food on my plate untouched. ‘Eat up, Sante-girl,’ she chides. ‘Eat your food while it’s hot.’
Truth is, I’m more interested in what she’s saying. And nibbling at my curiosity are yet more questions about the woman who raised me. Questions I never thought to ask until now. Where was she born? Who else apart from Cobra, Cat and me has she loved deeply, sincerely? I want to know more and more. For instance, what in heaven’s name is holding the Old Ones back from discussing the contents of Barrel Man’s phone? Must have rattled ’em. Rattled ’em good.
I take a bite of cold chicken, make a stab at the salad, and more images leap into vision in anticipation of what Mama Rose is about to say. I’m catching the drift of her all right; she’s coming through loud and clear.
Mama Rose, a clenched fist in the air, marches with a raised placard in her hand. Marches singing, then shouting and fighting. Did a whole heap of fighting by the look of it. Fought and felled people with her fists!
‘I suppose you could call me an anarchist,’ she says. ‘Hate governments of all sorts, rules, fetters of any kind. Threw stones, lit fires. Got into trouble. Trouble enough for all of us here at one time or another to be labelled terrorists. In two shak
es of a lamb’s tail, black-boots were over us like ’roaches in a sack of sugar. Said we’d leaked secrets. State secrets. That’s how Mama Rose’s Family Circus was born. We changed our names, acquired new skills, and went underground.’
‘Did you, Mama Rose? Did you leak secrets?’
She smiles at me. ‘It was a very long time ago, Sante. The world’s changed since then. Walls that divided us are down, and although new ones seem to be going up all the time, the police have bigger fish to fry these days. Even so, we prefer to lie low.’
Cobra, his plate empty, sits up. ‘What’s an anarchist?’ he asks.
‘A dude who doesn’t need black-boots on his tail to behave,’ Redwood replies. ‘We believe in freedom, son. Absolute freedom to do what we want to, when we want to do it.’
‘And not a moment before,’ Lizzie chimes in.
Mimi nods, Carlos and Midget Man too.
‘We refuse to answer to anyone but ourselves,’ says Redwood. ‘Want to live with the wind in our hair, the sun on our faces.’
My cheeks pucker in a grin, ’cause true as the blue in the sky, next time Redwood wants to teach me something new, next time he reminds me to do my chores, I’ll say: ‘I refuse to answer to anyone but myself. I want to fly free like my bird Priss.’
I can almost taste how sweet it would be to always do as I please, when a splash of mango juice wets the tip of my tongue. I sit up and sense Scarlett, half-hidden by Cat, urging me to ask a question that concerns us all. Scarlett thinks it and straightaway the question hops out of my mouth: ‘Freedom to meddle with Young Ones whenever and wherever you want? Freedom to sell us and pimp us out? Really?’
All eyes turn to Mama Rose again and I can’t help but wonder at the connection between Scarlett and me. Felt it this afternoon when she realised my spooks were in the yard without even looking. I think of Scarlett, then tumbling hotfoot behind her, dwell on the weirdness of my family. Being Doomsters was bad enough, but this? My family of misfits an anarchist terrorist cell? Even as I listen to Mama Rose, my mind’s in a spin as I try to understand what’s within and around me.
‘Freedom to molest and traffic Young Ones isn’t the sort of freedom I’m talking about, Sante.’
‘So why didn’t you come and fetch us?’ Cobra replies. ‘Why didn’t you call in the cavalry like anyone else would have done?’
Mama Rose plays for time. Chews the inside of her cheek and I consider a possibility. Whatever crimes they committed, it’ll take days of pestering to get this lot to talk. Yet if they know how to operate outside the law, perhaps they can help us bring down the Captain and Grey Eyes. All the more reason to listen closely to what Mama Rose says next.
‘We didn’t go to the police on principle, Cobra. Black-boots are agents of the state, thieves and liars. After what they put us through all those years ago, I shall never ask them for help again. Never!’
‘Never?’ Cat sucks her teeth in disgust. Eyeballs the closest creature to a mother we have, and cries: ‘You’ve been lying to us for years and you dare call other people liars? You’ve all lied to us!’ Pent-up rage flushes her face. ‘Every second of every day when you dragged us from one godforsaken hellhole to another, from some witch’s bum of a place to a damp, smelly creek in the back of beyond, you were lying. Said you were looking out for us, keeping us safe, when in fact all that traipsing around was always about you!’
Mama Rose flinches.
‘Seemed to me the older you got,’ she replies, ‘the more I felt it was never the right time to tell you.’
Mimi stifles a sob. ‘The long and short of it is we didn’t want to let go of any of you.’ Rubs tears from her eyes and turning to Cat, she says: ‘We did everything we could to help you thrive, and more. We made mistakes, for sure, but, Cat, darling, where’s your gratitude?’
Might as well ask a snake to say please before it strikes. Tell a lion to smile before it roars. There’s no stopping Cat now: ‘Oh, you’re good,’ she says. ‘Very good. You twist and turn the truth and yet you want me to be grateful when you’re the ones who said that lying’s a kind of betrayal. The worst, the most deadly kind.’
Tears start to spill down Mama Rose’s face. ‘The three of you were so young, you could easily have let our secret slip. We didn’t have a choice!’
Now it’s Cobra’s turn to talk. I watch him warm his tongue as he weighs up his words. Wants ’em to come out just right: ‘When we were in Cádiz locked up on the roof, I said – “Sante, we should hear what you Old Ones have to say about this name-changing business before we make up our minds.”’ Redwood nods. We all do. ‘So what do you expect us to think when you’ve told us again and again that no matter how desperate our world may seem, we always have a choice. And the choices we make are what makes a difference.’ Cobra pauses, lets his words hover, then slowly sink in. ‘Could be our interests coincided with yours. Could be living off the grid kept all of us safe. Fact is, we trusted you to do right by us, but it seems from the start, you did what you’ve taught us to despise – you lied.’
Anger still ripe in her, Cat jumps up. ‘I’m going to leave this outfit! I’m out of here.’
Tries to take Scarlett with her, but Scarlett pulls her back down. Scarlett glances at me. A single glance and I hear her appeal to haul us back on track. Somehow or other, despite their hatred of black-boots, we need the Old Ones on side to achieve our goal.
I fix my gaze on Cobra. Even with the little he knows, he’s way ahead of me, already searching for a chink in the Old Ones’ armour; already probing ’em to find their weakest link. ‘Carlos,’ he says at last. ‘We need your help to find out if a policeman called Federico Angel de Menendez is clean.’
‘And how can we get those pictures on Barrel Man’s phone,’ I chip in, ‘to someone, anyone, who can help us scupper the Captain’s racket?’
The Old Ones stare at each other again. Heads cocked, eyes plead as a mixture of emotions splurge into the open: hesitation, panic, deep alarm. There’s no need for words, for what I’m hearing as clearly as if each and every one of ’em is voicing their deepest fear out loud is: This is dangerous. This could scuttle our plans to toe the line.
Feelings pull and shove in different directions and even though no one moves an inch, I sense a tussle in each of ’em, a tug of war between ’em as a group. On one side are Midget Man, Mimi and Carlos. On the other, urging extreme caution, tight-lipped and strait-laced, are Redwood, Mama Rose and Lizzie.
I’m watching ’em closely, when a jab of pain pricks my heart, and I sense Lizzie’s determination harden. She folds her arms as a cloak of sadness settles around her: ‘You promised, Redwood! You promised!’
‘I know, Lizzie. I know,’ Redwood’s face confirms.
Silent exchanges spark and smoulder like dying embers in the grate. Feet shuffle, eyes blink. Passions skitter, twist and turn, until Redwood pulls the lobe of his left ear – a sign, which I know from experience, means his insides are melting. He’s relenting. Tugs his ear a second time and faint whispers of doubt surface alongside an urge to rebel and right ancient wrongs. His resolve shifts and a transformation occurs. All eyes needle Mama Rose and once again she nods.
‘Come this way,’ Carlos says. ‘Let’s do it.’
And we begin.
*
Take a computer, any computer. Once upon a time, according to Midget Man, Redwood was a dab hand at ’em.
‘Used to be a hacker,’ Midget Man tells me. ‘Broke into computers and stole their secrets. FBI, KGB, there wasn’t a contraption in the whole wide world Redwood couldn’t worm his way into.’
We’re gathered in Carlos’s study, a place with books everywhere. Books on thick wooden shelves, on an old mahogany desk, books piled high on a tiled floor.
Carlos sits down at a computer. Revs it up and Redwood lurches forwards. ‘Let me do it,’ he says. ‘I’ll make it impossible for them to trace those images back to you. Then I’ll dig into Menendez’s police file while you make calls to check if h
e’s clean.’
Opposite me, Bizzie Lizzie’s topknot quivers. Eyes and nostrils flare. Haven’t spent years as a member of Mama Rose’s circus without learning how to spot the first sign of trouble. As soon as Lizzie’s nose twitches, out it comes.
‘Redwood,’ Lizzie says, hauling herself up to her full, dizzying height. ‘Redwood, you promised. Promised on your father’s grave that you would never again touch one of those things. We gave up everything, Redwood: our apartment in Central Park, our furniture, our art. We even gave up family and friends and still I stuck with you. And in exchange you promised. Put your hand on the stone Bible of your father’s grave and swore…’
Eyes on fire, Redwood cries: ‘God dammit, Lizzie! Yes! I did all of the above and we both of us know I was as drunk as a jackass at the time. What’s more, I’m an atheist, Lizzie! An atheist!’
I’ve never heard any of this before, but then, the way we’ve been living off the grid, I’ve never once seen Redwood in front of a computer. Hands poised over the keyboard, beads of sweat glimmer on his brow, while an inner light illuminates his weary clown face. And there’s something else I can’t quite place, a love-shine in his eyes that slips, from one moment to the next, into a fiendish, ravenous glow.
‘Be careful, Redwood. Be very careful indeed,’ says Lizzie. ‘’Cause if you push me to the brink, it’ll either be me or that thing.’
I stare at that thing and feel the same magnetic power that drew me closer to the screen of Barrel Man’s phone.
Redwood’s fingers settle on the keyboard, rapture fills his face. Plumps out his cheeks till even his lips turn up in a smile: ‘I made you a promise, Lizzie,’ he says. ‘Can’t deny it, ’cause I did. Truth is, would you rather hooch and moonshine kill me? Or I help our young ’uns with this thing?’
