PRECIOUS METAL
A modern day Romeo and Juliet set among immigrants working in the UK metal trade
‘Michelle Flatley thrusts you into the real world of wrecked streets, ethnic tensions and all the petty oppressions that attend people who live in Britain’s blighted communities, telling a truth only fiction can get to the heart of.’ —PAUL MASON, author and broadcaster
‘Flatley shows how the reality of life in England does not match up to what the women had imagined it would be; and examines the tensions at work as her characters try to adjust to living in a new culture. The result is a tale that’s harrowing and uplifting by turns.’ —Follow The Thread on My Beautiful England
A small girl is mysteriously knocked down in a back street in Blackburn and the Asian community blames the new influx of Romanians. As the Romanians Dragos and Nikolae continue to collect metal to survive, tensions rise even further and the Romanian Café is burnt down. Dragos tells his son ‘Copper is cash, metal is money,’ but the dangers of the metal trade soon become apparent. When eighteen-year-old Nikolae falls in love with the shopkeeper’s daughter, Zareen, (meaning gold in Urdu) two cultures collide. Eighteen-year-old Zareen is due to marry her cousin but continues to see the metal collector Nikolae. With their families divided can they be together and can two different communities ever live together in peace?
Praise for Michelle Flatley
‘A fantastic book from start to finish that is filled with humour, sadness, violence, wonderful friendships, it’s got it all!’ —HEATHER BUTTERWORTH, Amazon.co.uk
‘Michelle Flatley takes you on an emotional journey that will make you think about England and society in general.’ —Amazon.co.uk
Precious Metal was inspired by images of young immigrants in the media, the industrial landscape of Blackburn and newspaper stories about the criminal metal trade in northern England.
MICHELLE FLATLEY has worked as a journalist in London, a community artist and now teaches English to Speakers of Other Languages in the north of England. Her first novel My Beautiful England was published by Cutting Edge Press in July 2013 and explores the lives of female immigrants in a deprived northern town. She also writes short stories and much of her writing is concerned with identity and social realities, in particular perceptions of immigrants and the position of women in Asian communities. She recently appeared on Sky Television to discuss challenges faced by migrants in the UK. Her sculptures of animals and characters from literature can be found in many schools in the North West.
Her novella Precious Metal was inspired by images of young immigrants in the media, the industrial landscape of Blackburn and newspaper stories about the criminal metal trade in northern England.
Published by Salt Publishing Ltd
12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX
All rights reserved
Copyright © Michelle Flatley, 2014
The right of Michelle Flatley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.
Salt Publishing 2014
Created by Salt Publishing Ltd
This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN 978-1-78463-001-0 electronic
Chapter One
‘SO, NOW THE bloody Romanians are coming.’
Zareen Khan frowned and cast her father a disapproving look. ‘Abbu,’ she said, because she nearly always called her father this when he was angry, ‘people once said the same about us.’
Bilal Khan leant over the shop counter and waved a newspaper in his teenage daughter’s face. ‘This is different. We is British. These peoples is not the same as us. This town already has enough problems. Drink, drugs and no jobs. And now these dirty robbers come and take over our neighbourhood.’
Zareen whisked the paper from her father’s hand and began to laugh. ‘Don’t believe what you read in the papers, Abbu.’ She watched a shadow slowly creep over her father’s tired face. ‘Trust me. It won’t happen, this invasion.’
‘It already has,’ her father protested, his face swelling with rage. ‘Just because you are studying politics don’t mean you know everything girl. Give me that newspaper. I knows about people politics. There will be trouble. These thieving Europeans. I heard all about them. The government should send them back. They’ve already robbed Azrul’s store.’
Zareen rolled her eyes. ‘So, you want them to send the Romanians back?’ Zareen waited. Her father looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Yes. It’s recession. Too many people milking the system. Yes, if it protects the business. YES!’
‘I have to go college.’ Zareen reached under the counter for her coat and shook her head. Her father continued on, shouting after her.
‘And don’t tell them Romanians where you living. Muhammad Iqbal said Blackburn College full of them.’ But Zareen had gone. There was just the sound of a shop bell tinkling and then his wife’s footsteps. When his wife appeared, Bilal read the newspaper headline again.
‘Thousands. It says thousands more will come.’ He folded the paper over and observed the ink printed on his hands. ‘That girl think she know everything,’ he said with a frown.
‘She does. About politics anyway,’ his wife chastised him.
‘She needs a firm hand, a husband to guide her. I think it’s time.’
Marika Khan turned away. ‘Not yet, she said softly. ‘She’s studying. Let’s wait.’
Bilal’s voice rose. ‘I see her changing. It’s this place. Wearing English clothes and listening to that music, copying those English girls from town. She’s forgetting her own ways. I can see it, Marika. That college is putting ideas in her head. And politics is no good for a woman.’
‘I will talk to her,’ said Marika, tapping her husband’s back. ‘She’s young, strong headed. That’s all.’
‘I knew it. Trouble from the day she was born,’ Bilal complained. ‘Not like Mohammed. That’s girls for you. Born upside down. You know what they say about your luck if your child is born upside down, Marika. No wonder our luck has drained.’
From the road Nikolae could see Blackburn town stretching in front of him. The crooked roofs of terraced houses resembled jagged shapes in a Cubist painting. He’d seen a painting like that on television once. But something else caught his eye. At the centre of it all was a golden dome that reflected the light and looked oddly out of place. ‘It’s the mosque,’ his father said. ‘Where all the Asians go.’ Nikolae looked blank. His father became more and more animated and removed his hands from the steering wheel. ‘Church. Big church. Where Pakis pray.’ He placed his hands together.
Nikolae made an elongated aww sound and tried to think of an English word. He nodded. Then not knowing why, he repeated the word, PRAY.
‘Yes. And the English are PRAYING that we leave.’ Dragos Balcescu wound the window down on the truck and spat out some grey gum. He smiled. ‘I told you England paved with gold. ’He paused. ‘And dog shit.’ He laughed at his own joke and then repeated it in Romanian for the benefit of Nikolae. Then he cursed because the truck window refused to wind up again. They continued to survey the streets
around them but it was getting dark and today the truck was empty.
Dragos parked up in a back street. ‘Washing machine. Over there.’ He pointed to a white painted wall covered in grafitti.’ In yard,’ he whispered. ‘I come here last night and look in all the yards.’
He pushed Nikolae’s arm. ‘Go. Gate. Check.’
Nikolae narrowed his eyes. Upstairs the light was on. ‘Peoples in house.’
‘Go!’ Dragos stormed. He punched his son’s back. ‘Me will help you.’
Still, Nikolae hesitated. In the distance he heard a police car. He shuddered. His denim jacket was damp from trawling though endless skips looking for copper. Nothing. People round here were starting to realise the value of metal. ‘Metal is money.’ Dragos was saying it again. ‘Metal is money. Copper is cash.’ He’d heard some Englishman playing on the words and liked the sound of it. He’d stolen the words and now he was about to steal the machine from someone’s back yard.
Nikolae watched the rain dripping down the windscreen. The weather in England depressed him. It had rained every day for three weeks, ever since they arrived, just the two of them, father and son, with a ruck sack each and a split carrier bag. It was the kind of rain that wet you through to the bone. He stayed rigid in the front seat of the pick-up and turned up the heater.
Dragos thumped the dashboard with his clenched fist. ‘I do it myself. For God’s sake. Two man job. Done by one man, yeah. Only one man here, yeah. He poked Nikolae’s chest but the boy didn’t respond. ‘Sometimes I wonder if you crazy, boy, like you inherit some madness. You’re never thinking. Fucking crazy man. Fucking crazy son of mine. Eighteen and no use.’
‘I no want this,’ Nikolae mumbled, not daring to look his father in the eye. Dragos performed an exaggerated sigh and cursed him in Romanian. Then he crept towards the gate with the red letters painted on. Within seconds he was inside. Nikolae checked the street and his watch. It was almost fully dark now and he could just about make out the shapes of spilling bins and a cat on a windowsill. He heard the sound of police sirens, this time coming closer. There was no sign of Dragos. He didn’t hesitate. He slid into the driver seat and started the engine. A choking sound, the engine dimmed. Quickly, he slammed his foot down hard and screeched away, only he didn’t take the road, but continued down the back of the houses out of sight, not even switching the lights on. Bins turned over on their sides, Nikolae could hardly see. He heard a snap as the wing mirror hit a yard wall. The tyres spat gravel and stone. He was too close and adjusted his position. He saw the main road down through an opening. He accelerated, felt the truck jerk and jolt back. He’d hit something. Probably a plastic bag. His mind played tricks. There were loud voices, lights switching on, windows lighting up, one after the other. It was like being on a fairground ride, waiting for something to happen, lights blinding and shadows dancing in the corners of his eyes. Any time now he expected Dragos to appear, to rescue him from this dark nightmare. But Dragos didn’t come. Not for many hours. And when he did, he told him about a girl. Knocked down in a back street. The girl was dead.
Chapter Two
DRAGOS WHEELED THE washing machine away and waited outside the carpet shop. ‘Nikolae done runner,’ he said, embarrassed. Andrei, his friend, shook his head in dismay. ‘This is the thanks you get. No wonder business is bad. Kids always getting too many big ideas of their own and not listening to their elders, it’s the modern way.’ In McDonalds the two men ate chips and talked metal and sons.
Andrei looked nervous and his eyes darted from side to side. He checked his phone again and again. ‘OK. Let’s go. Girl dead in Magnolia Street. Cops are everywhere.’
Dragos went pale. ‘What happen?’
‘Hit and run.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight. Friend call me.’
‘That bad.’
‘Aged six.’
Dragos thought for a moment. Magnolia Street. The washing machine. Suddenly he remembered Nikolae had raced away. His skin went cold.
When Dragos got home he found Nikolae sitting on a mattress, cross-legged, eating pizza. Beside him an electric heater glowed orange and whirred and hummed.
‘Cold,’ Nikolae said, not raising his eyes.
‘Andrei bring me home because you fucked off. Why?’
Dragos was thinking about what his friend told him. ‘Small girl dead. In Magnolia Street. You know about this?’
Nikolae wasn’t listening. ‘You took gas pipes out. Selling pipes. Now house too cold.’
Dragos frowned. ‘That street tonight. You take truck. You fucking idiot. Now a girl is dead.’
Nikolae stopped eating and threw the pizza down. ‘I no understand.’
Dragos stood over him waving his hands in the air. ‘You drove like mad man. Hit. Did you hit?’
Nikolae thought for a moment. ‘NO!’ he blasted. ‘I know if I hit a girl. Police were coming.’
‘We need check truck,’ Dragos said quickly. ‘Clean. Come now. Take garage and clean. Real shit. This real shit. Asian girl, six. Oh my God. This serious, Nikolae.’
‘Dead?’ Nikolae remembered the way the truck had jolted in the back street. ‘Fuck!’ Dragos slapped his head. Nikolae hardly felt the slap but he knew he was about to be sick. His stomach churned and knotted, twisting tighter and tighter. He covered his face with his hands. ‘Accident! Fuck! Fuck. Fuck. Me no understand. Accident.’
Dragos fetched him some whisky. ‘Drink.’
Nikolae’s hands began to shake. ‘I will clean truck,’ Dragos said. You stay here for a few days until peoples forget.’
‘Forget?’ Nikolae asked, his voice fragile and high. ‘Me no forget. The mother no forget.’
‘Don’t think,’ said Dragos. ‘Not about the mother.’ He paced up and down, wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘Not about girl.’ Then he grabbed Nikolae by the shoulders and shook him.
‘It’s like wars. You clean your mind. Wipe it out. Or you will be finished. No think. We will be finished. Life in England. Everything will be over. You think about this and you might as well be dead. Understand?’
Nikolae nodded. His father let go of his jacket. He switched on the television and stared vacantly at the screen. Together they sat on the bare mattresses that covered the floor. A naked bulb dangled from the ceiling and glowed pink. Dragos took some pizza and inspected it for some time before deciding he wasn’t hungry after all. They watched some programme about Cornwall, the coast, houses with lush gardens and roses. Classical music blared out. That was the England Nikolae imagined. Not this.
The music started to rise. Nikolae’s mind began to travel with the music. He saw a small girl dressed in a pink dress. He imagined her playing with a red ball. He could see her clearly. Plaits and a gap in her front teeth, she was smiling, catching the ball in her tiny hands. The ball was in the air. Then it tipped over a wall and rolled down the gutter. The girl sprang through the gate, her feet splashing in a dirty puddle. Down the road she chased the ball. Never looking back. He drank some more.
In the morning he woke to find Dragos in the kitchen making tea and frying eggs.
‘I have appointment job centre,’ Nikolae said, his throat dry and hoarse. ‘Appointment ten o’clock.’
‘I will take,’ said Dragos, spooning oil over the hissing eggs.
‘No,’ Nikolae replied. ‘I walk. I want walk. Get head clear.Yes?’
His father gestured for him to sit on the only plastic chair in the room.
‘Yes. Go job centre or no benefits.’ Nikolae sipped the tea and turned on the radio. He heard the sound of a woman’s voice, the sizzle of sausages in the pan. His father hummed and whistled. The woman was talking about Blackburn. He heard the woman say hit and run. He wasn’t sure what it meant. Then the words Magnolia Street registered. Amna Bibi was dead. Residents found her dead in the street where she lived. His father switched the radio off
and turned the pan up high. Fat droplets splattered the tiles. The two men were lost in the cooking smoke that filled the room and Nikolae prodded a burnt sausage with his fork. He couldn’t eat.
He wondered how long his father could pretend that everything was normal, how long he could block it all out. Today Dragos was going metal hunting with Andrei. The truck had been washed. Dragos said he had done it twice, just to make sure. He didn’t mention the girl, or any evidence. Nikolae knew the English word ‘blood’. Would there have been any? Would it have been quick? Did the girl scream? Once he saw a dog get knocked down in Bucharest. It didn’t die quietly and it didn’t die quickly. Eventually someone came and thrashed it with a heavy stone. Head mashed up. Ended its misery. There had been a lot of blood. In Bucharest death was no stranger. His mother had died long ago in her sleep. At least it had been a silent death. That was the best kind, his grandmother said, to be stolen away in your sleep by death’s kiss.
From Bucharest to Blackburn death had come teasing and tugging at his thoughts. He shook the images of his mother and the girl away. He left the black sausage and watched the watery egg sliding round the plate like some foul pond creature. As he went out he heard Dragos on the phone to Andrei, engrossed in a conversation about more friends coming to Henniker Road, how this would be good for business. The coach was on its way and as he stepped into the grey, dark world that was England he wondered what their Romanian friends would make of the English dream.
He didn’t feel like going to the job centre and found himself walking the streets aimlessly. Past the terraced houses that fronted the narrow streets he kicked a can of coke. He watched the liquid spill and split into brown rivers down the hill. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and felt better for it. Today he was happy to be anonymous. The Asian women stopped and stared, looking a little afraid. He forgot. He kept looking them in the eye, sizing them up, wondering about their breasts hidden beneath so many clothes. He remembered now. Andrei said he could look at any English woman, but never at an Asian woman, not unless he wanted his head kicked in. And in England everyone was scared of people wearing hoods. He watched the women cross the road to avoid him. He tested the theory out and deliberately followed an Asian girl in a hijab. She sped up the path fast, eventually disappearing into a house. Bored of the game Nikolae stopped and checked his phone. A missed call. Probably from the job centre. The job centre was on his back. They wanted him to join an English class, but Dragos said ‘no’. It was all about the metal. It was all about the business. He turned, not really realising where he was and that’s when he noticed the sign. MAGNOLIA STREET. This is what he saw. This is what he would always remember. The concrete road was covered in flowers, puddles of water, floating stems. A sea of pink. Ribbons. Cards. A bear. And in the middle of the bouquets and tear-stained cards was a girl. Knelt down. Crying. He removed his hood. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Precious Metal Page 1
