by Liza Cody
But this time I wanted to talk. It was too big to keep to myself.
Also I wanted someone to understand why I was going to wring Auntie Lo’s plump little neck like a dirty dish rag. And why I was going to lob bricks through the Beijing Garden window and duff up Mr Cheng till he looked like Chicken Chop Suey. I wanted Goldie to know why I was going to do these things. I didn’t want her to think I was mean with no reason.
‘Eva!’ Goldie said suddenly.
‘What?’
‘What are you doing? You’ll cut your hand.’
I looked down and saw that somehow I had broken the handle off my mug.
‘Don’t know me own strength,’ I said. But it had me worried. How do you do a thing like that without knowing you’ve done it?
‘Go back to bed,’ she said. ‘You look dreadful.’
Just then her friend Rob came tap-tapping at the door and she went to answer it. I realised that the men were leaving for the night and soon I would have to lock up and let the dogs out.
I heard Goldie say, ‘Just a minute, I’ll get my coat.’
She came back saying, ‘He’s here. Will you be all right, Eva? I won’t be gone long.’
I was feeling so rough I didn’t even answer.
‘I’ll be back soon, honestly,’ she said, shrugging on her jacket.
I mean, how could she? If she was worried enough to ask me how I felt shouldn’t she be worried enough to stop in with me?
So I said nothing, and she went out with that bumdrop, Rob, from the yard. All for a few units of free electricity. Power on the cheap. Shocking! Ha-bloody-ha.
I turned off the light and sat in the dark watching telly, not thinking.
It was on the local news.
It really did look like old films of the war.
The newsreader was saying, ‘An explosion in the early hours of this morning in a North London drinking club … the emergency services searching through the rubble … it is still not known how many … the police have issued an appeal for anyone in the vicinity of Harrow Road at approximately 3 a.m. this morning …’
I was so amazed I stood up to watch. You’ll think I’m bleeding daft but it seemed more real on telly. I expect it was the lights – it was all so clear and bright on the bricks and beams and glass. When I was there the dust hadn’t settled. There had been loads of dust and smoke and I suppose that was what made it seem like a dream.
I just stood there gawping. There was hardly a wall left standing. That whole shebeen was a heap of bricks and burnt timber. The only people you could see were firemen in their yellow helmets. I was half expecting to see the screaming woman and I was glad she was gone. I didn’t want to see her again. Because she would look more real on telly too, and she was bad enough in a dream.
I turned the telly off and went to find my jacket. It wasn’t there, and then I remembered that it was ruined too. So I unearthed the old padded one I used to wear before I got into leather. I put it on and went out.
The yard was silent and empty. I let the dogs out of their pen and they went rushing off into the dark. I followed them slowly. There was still work to be done – doors and windows to check, cars to count, fences to mend. The trouble was that I felt too heavy to do it. Really, I felt as if I weighed a ton.
Then I thought about my leather jacket again and I hurried back to the Static to see if I could find it. It was important because of what I had put in the pocket.
By the steps to the Static I found a plastic bin bag. Goldie had shoved all my old clothes inside. I took my jacket out and sat down on the steps. The lovely soft leather was shredded and it smelled of smoke. I laid it on my knees. The pockets were torn and the letter from the solicitor in Braintree, Essex – the letter about Simone – was gone. So I just sat there and stared into the dark.
The dogs came snuffling up. Lineker made a grab for my jacket. At first I tried to pull it back off him. Then I let him have it.
‘Kill!’ I said.
He worried at it and tossed it around and snarled and tore. Why not? It was good practice for him. Ramses sat still a little way off and stared at me with his evil yellow eyes.
‘Look at something else,’ I said, and I got up and walked to the gate. Ramses followed at a distance. He growled deep down in his throat. He did not like me that evening. He did not like me at all.
When I got to the gate I climbed up on it and looked down the street. There was no sign of Goldie coming home. There was no sign of anyone. To tell you the truth I wasn’t expecting Goldie. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again.
Ramses crouched and snarled when I got off the gate.
I snarled back at him. ‘You evil bastard, you,’ I said. I walked towards him, and he backed off.
‘You’re bad,’ I said. ‘You’re rotten wicked.’
He backed off further. He did not go for me, but I almost wished he would. I’d give him such a pounding … but he didn’t go for me.
I went back to the Static, flung myself down on the sofa and went to sleep.
The dogs woke me up at around midnight. I went to the gate to let Goldie in. She was bright and giggly and loaded down with Selfridges bags.
‘You’re pissed,’ I said.
‘Hello to you too,’ she said. ‘We went late night Christmas shopping in the West End.’
‘Where did you get the money?’
‘I bought you a present.’
‘Stuff it,’ I said. ‘Selfridges doesn’t stay open till midnight. Even I know that.’
‘Want to see your present?’ she asked, holding one of the bags behind her back, squirming like a little kid.
‘Go to bed,’ I said. ‘He may respect you in the morning, but I won’t.’
So she went to bed. In my bed. And I lay down on the sofa again. I could’ve throttled her. But she’d have probably enjoyed it – the mood she was in – all tiddly and smelling like a cat.
Chapter 15
Next morning, while Goldie was still asleep, I penned the dogs, opened the yard and went out to the Mandala Street Market. I bought some bread, milk and bananas. I thought about boosting another leather jacket off one of the clothes stalls, but I didn’t feel lucky. You have got to feel lucky when you go out on the boost. If you don’t, you’re just asking to be nicked. I felt a lot better that morning but not lucky enough.
The men had started work in the yard when I got back so I decided to put in a few more hours sleep. But Goldie woke up at eleven.
‘Ooh,’ she moaned, ‘my head!’
‘Serves you right,’ I said and made her a cup of tea. Which was pretty nice of me considering all the trouble she’d put me to.
She had two mugs of tea and two bananas. She didn’t say much. After breakfast she had a shower. And I didn’t say much either. Well, what did she expect, the dirty mare, leaving me all alone when I was blue and aching for a bit of company.
But she looked so cross-eyed and forlorn that I forgave her and we went up to Sam’s Gym for a workout. She didn’t want to go, but I told her she’d feel better if she sweated the poison out of her system. She said she’d rather have a sauna. I said she was a lazy cow, and that’s how we made it up – although we’d never actually fought.
We were the only two there to begin with. I showed her how to warm up properly. She was very supple so those dancing lessons must have been good for something. Then I showed her how to use a couple of the simpler machines with not much weight attached.
After a while, Sam himself came down to talk to us. Sam is a legend, but he hardly ever comes out of his office.
Goldie said she thought weight-training would be easier if it could be done to music.
‘It’s not meant to be easy,’ Sam said, but he put on the tape the evening class used for aerobics. And time fairly zipped by.
I was not pulling much weight myself, to tell you the honest truth. I was sore and heavy and sweating pure manure. If we hadn’t had the music I’d have given up after half an hour.
‘D
o you think you’ll be all right for tomorrow?’ Goldie asked.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ Goldie said anxiously. ‘It’s tomorrow. Saturday.’
‘I know it’s Saturday,’ I said. But I didn’t, and it came as quite a shock. I thought I still had days to prepare. Life had been jumping up and biting back in the past few days. Somewhere, somehow, I’d lost a chunk of time.
It was just as well I was only fighting Bombshell again. I could handle Bombshell blindfold with one arm amputated.
Goldie was sitting on one of the bikes. She was pedalling slowly, warming down.
‘I feel great,’ she said. ‘You were right, Eva. I needed that. I wouldn’t want to weight-train as a regular thing though. I don’t want to get big.’
‘Myth,’ Sam said.
‘What?’
‘Myth. You can train for shape and definition. You don’t have to train for bulk. I could design you a programme.’
‘Really?’
‘Take him up on it,’ I said. Blokes are always on at Sam to design them programmes, but he hardly ever does. ‘Work it out for yourself,’ he says, ‘like I did.’ Now here he was, offering Goldie one for free.
‘I don’t want to get stiff,’ she said. ‘I’m a dancer.’
‘Dancers do weights,’ he said. ‘You won’t get big or stiff. You’ll see.’ He went back to his office just as Mr Deeds came in.
‘Morning, girls,’ he said.
‘Good morning, George,’ Goldie said.
‘Have I got news for you!’ He put his briefcase down on one of the benches.
‘We were just going for a shower,’ I said. I didn’t like the way he was eyeing Goldie’s wet leotard.
‘Hang about. I want to show you the posters. And I’ll need you, Goldie, for rehearsal. Where’s Gruff and Pete?’
‘Dunno, Mr Deeds.’
‘They should’ve been here twenty minutes ago.’ He looked at his watch. Then he pulled a poster out of his briefcase, unfolded it and held it across his chest.
There it was in big black letters – ‘BATTLE OF THE TITANS – THE CARVER VERSUS GRUFF GORDON – featuring his valet The One and Only Glamour Girl Goldie’.
I had to admit it looked pretty good. But what caught my eye was further down the bill. It said, ‘Star of the East, ROCKIN’ SHERRY-LEE LEWIS v THE LONDON LASSASSIN’.
‘What?’ I said, my mouth dropping open.
‘Glamour Girl Goldie,’ Goldie said.
‘Knew you’d like it,’ Mr Deeds said, beaming so wide you could see his gums.
‘Jesus!’ said Goldie.
‘But …’ I said.
‘You can have your shower now,’ Mr Deeds said, fondling Goldie’s elbow. ‘Can’t have you getting chilled, can we. Want me to come in and scrub your back? Ha-ha-ha.’
‘I think I can manage, thank you, George,’ Goldie said. She gave him a stunning smile and walked away to the showers.
‘Class,’ Mr Deeds sighed. ‘That kid’s got real class.’
‘But, Mr Deeds …’ I said pointing to where it said Star of the East, ROCKIN’ SHERRY-LEE LEWIS.
‘Oh, you noticed,’ he said, and he looked at me for the first time. ‘What’s up with you, Eva? Lost an argument with an armoured car? Yeah, we had a change of plan. I got a sick note from Bombshell’s physio. She’s out. Sherry’s manager owes me one, so she’s in.’
‘But …’
‘We could of dropped you off the bill,’ he said and folded up the poster. ‘But I thought, Nah, give the girl a chance. ‘Bout time you had some opposition. She wants to win, of course. It’s in her contract. But it’s a step up for you, Eva. A real step up.’
‘Yeah,’ I said very sincerely. I won’t say Sherry-Lee Lewis is Klondyke Kate, exactly. But she is a contender. And she is big.
‘Say, “Thank you Mr Deeds”,’ Mr Deeds said.
‘Thanks boss,’ I said. And I meant it.
I saw Sherry-Lee Lewis fight once in Newcastle. She’s popular, for a woman, in Newcastle. She was very athletic, very useful. She never said anything to me – well she wouldn’t – I was just there to help with equipment and stuff. But she smiled once as she walked past. I liked her.
‘Run along,’ Mr Deeds said. ‘You pong something awful.’
Isn’t that typical? Just when you think life is a total write-off you get a sparkler. All the grind you put in on something which is beginning to look like a waste of time suddenly pays. Your slot machine spits coins! Whango! Zippety-doo-dah!
It was a shame I wasn’t a hundred per cent physically. But you can’t have everything. And even if I wasn’t in peak condition I could still make a good fight of it. If Sherry-Lee Lewis wanted one. And I thought she would. She didn’t look like a woman who went through the motions. She looked like a woman who enjoyed her own strength – who would like to test it every now and then. There are women like that. Believe me.
Bombshell isn’t like that. She likes prancing round the ring in her glitter tights and lipstick. The only way she can beat me is on a technicality. Even the punters know that. Which is why I have to get myself disqualified sometimes – just to please the crowd.
I walked on springs to the changing-room. Goldie was in the shower washing her hair. I stepped in beside her. I couldn’t contain myself.
I said, ‘Sherry-Lee Lewis. I’m fighting the Star of the East tomorrow.’
‘Is that good?’
‘Good? It’s solid platinum.’
‘Great,’ Goldie said. ‘I’m pleased for you. Do you want my shampoo?’
She gave me her shampoo and got out to dry. Well, she wouldn’t understand, would she? She’d only been around for a few days.
I washed all over in her shampoo because I’d forgotten the soap. It smelled brilliant.
‘Glamour Girl Goldie,’ she shouted over the noise of the water. ‘Did you see that?’
‘Don’t you like it?’ I was surprised.
‘Goldie’s all right. Glamour Girl is plain tacky.’
‘Oh.’ I turned off the water and got out.
She was putting on a brand new leotard. It was a soft green colour and had stripy leggings to match.
She saw me watching and said, ‘Eva? I’ve got a bit of a confession to make.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t be angry.’
‘Why should I be angry?’
‘I borrowed a bit more money.’
‘Who from?’
‘You.’
‘Me?’
‘It was in the clothes I threw away. I went through all the pockets and I found this roll of notes. So I put it aside for you, and when Rob came to collect me last night I thought I’d better not go out without any money at all. You know, in case he got rough and I had to take a taxi home. But I was in a hurry and I picked it all up by mistake. And somehow, last night, it all got spent.’
‘What else?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In my pockets. What else did you find in my pockets?’ I was practically dancing up and down on the tiled floor.
‘Nothing,’ she said, alarmed, ‘Just a letter. I put it under the jam jar. Eva! What’re you doing?’
I had picked her up and swung her round.
‘Goldie, you are bloody magic,’ I said. I put her down. I was getting her all wet again.
‘You don’t mind about the money?’
‘It’s only money,’ I said, ecstatic. ‘That letter is my sister.’
‘What?’
So, while I dried and changed, and while she did her hair and make-up, I told her about Simone and the foster parents. And then I got to the bit I’ve never told anyone – the bit I don’t like to remember – about when I was thirteen and I went to their house. Simone was shut in the bedroom, I know she was, and they wouldn’t let me see her and they called the polizei to take me away.
When I got to that bit Goldie stopped doing her make-up and just sat and listened. I mean she really listened.
People don’t, y
ou know. You can see them sitting there thinking about what they are going to say next and waiting till they can interrupt.
But Goldie sat and listened. She never took her eyes off me till I finished.
Then she said, ‘But Eva, if you’ve already been to the foster parents’ house why do you need the solicitors to tell you their address?’
Which was a good question. The answer is that something went wrong with my head after that and I was shut away for quite a few months in a sort of hospital. When I came out I couldn’t find the house again. I thought I found the street but all the houses looked alike.
I did not tell Goldie this. People do not like to hear about things going wrong with other people’s heads. Even when it’s years and years ago.
I said, ‘They moved. Ma said they moved but she didn’t know where.’
‘So what are you going to do? How are you going to get a firm of solicitors to tell you where a client lives?’
‘I’m grown up now,’ I said. ‘No one shoves me around any more. I do the shoving.’
‘Mmm.’
‘What do you mean, “Mmm”?’
Goldie looked at me with a funny expression on her face.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Eva,’ she said, very quietly. ‘Eva, they are middle class.’
‘So what?’
‘If you go in like a raging bull, they’ll get frightened. When the middle classes get frightened you’d better watch out. That is when they’re most dangerous.’
‘They don’t scare me.’
‘They should. These are solicitors. They are there to protect the middle classes. So are the police. You tried it before. Remember what happened then?’
‘I was only thirteen then.’
‘No difference. It’d be better if you tried a little subterfuge.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s going the long way round. It’s ringing up and pretending to be … another solicitor … or an insurance agent – one of their own kind. Someone they would tell things to.’
