by Hugh Fraser
When I get back, they’re dressed and sitting at the table. I pour tea for myself and give them both a glass of milk and a slice of bread and margarine with a bit of sugar inside. I decide I’m going to spend some of his lousy two quid on some meat and potatoes for tonight. I sit at the table with them. Georgie looks at me as if she’s accusing me of something.
I say, ‘Come on now, you don’t want to be late.’ I get their coats.
Jack holds up his bread and says, ‘I haven’t finished.’ ‘Take it with you,’ I say.
‘What if it’s nicked?’
‘Come on, you.’
I put them into their coats and open the door. They file past me and we go down the stairs and along the hall. The Irish woman’s door opens and she shoos her two boys out, throwing a tennis ball after them. She gives me a quick smile and a shake of the head and goes back into her room. She hasn’t been in the house long, so I don’t really know her. I haven’t seen her husband for a bit. I open the front door and the boys tumble into the street in front of us and start kicking and heading the ball between them. I take our Jack’s hand and we dodge past them towards Golborne, and off to school.
• • •
When I get back to our street, the sun’s shining. The tall tenements cast a big shadow so the street’s only sunny for a bit in the middle of the day. I don’t want to go home and I’ve got some money, so I go down the steps to Claire’s and knock on her door. The curtain on the basement window is pulled back and her mum peers out. She sees it’s me and smiles and nods. I hear her call for Claire and I wait beside the big old pram they keep down there for fetching coal. Claire opens the door. She’s in her nightdress with the ripped hem and looks half asleep and even thinner than usual.
‘Hiya,’ she says, yawning and stretching an arm up above her head. Her dark hair, normally back-combed and lacquered into a bouffant, is flattened down and limp. Her brown eyes are puffy and half closed. She swings the door open and I follow her to the kitchen where her mother’s pouring tea into a flask.
‘You all right, Rina love?’ she says.
‘Not bad, thanks.’
‘I’ve forgotten to put his flask in this morning. I’ll have to take it to him or he’ll go mad when he sees he hasn’t got it.’
Claire’s dad works at the brewery in Bramley Road when they need casuals. He’s all right, but he’s got a temper on him and I know he knocks her mum about sometimes when he’s drunk. She’s a kind woman. Always cleaning and trying to keep things nice.
‘Is your mum all right?’ she asks.
‘Not too bad,’ I say.
She looks at me as if she knows how bad it really is. She’s minded Georgie and Jack sometimes, and given us bits of food and helped us a lot in different ways. She gets on a chair and wipes off some damp that’s running down the wall behind the stove.
‘We’ll drown in this basement one of these days.’
I laugh and she gets down and says, ‘Do you want a nice cup of tea, Rina love?’
‘Not at the moment, Mrs Welch, thanks very much.’
Claire comes in from the bedroom. She’s rebuilt her hair and put on a pair of tartan slacks and a faded, lemon-coloured blouse. I feel shabby next to her in my worn-out grey skirt and my dirty old jacket.
Her mother screws the top on the flask and says, ‘I’d better get this round to him. You off out, you two?’
‘Yeah,’ says Claire.
‘Tara, then.’
‘Tara, Mum.’
‘Bye, Mrs Welch.’
The front door shuts and Claire says, ‘Fancy going up the Two Bare Feet?’
‘Yeah, go on then.’
• • •
The Italian bloke heaves the lever down on the coffee machine and a thin squirt of black liquid oozes out of the pipes into the glass cup underneath. He holds the milk jug up to the steam pipe and it gurgles and fizzes. I give him half a crown and get one and six change. We take our cups and sit at a table by the wall under a picture of Johnny Ray singing his heart out. A couple of girls sitting on stools by the counter turn round and glance at us.
Claire looks at me for a moment. ‘He’s been back, hasn’t he?’ she says. I nod. ‘You’ve got to do something, Reen.’
The door opens and a group of teenage boys walk in. One or two wear the drape and the others are in cheap moth-eaten jackets and drainpipes with the brylcreem and the quiff. One of them is Sammy, Claire’s boyfriend. He’s quite good looking with his swept back black hair and his sideburns.
He stops at our table. ‘All right, girls?’ Claire ignores him.
He walks on.
I look at Claire and say, ‘What’s up?’
‘We got chucked out of Whiteleys yesterday.’
‘What happened?’
‘Doorman stops us. “We don’t want no slum kids in here,” he says.’
‘Flippin’ cheek.’
‘And he does nothing.’
‘Sammy?’
‘Nothing. Just walks away.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Called him a cunt and went after Sammy and called him a cunt as well, and he says the geezer’s connected and it’s not worth it, and that.’
‘He’s all right though, Sammy.’
‘Can’t have that though, can you?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Slum kids. Fucking insult.’
The boys are standing round the juke box looking at the song titles. Singin’ the Blues rocks gently forth.
Sammy walks to our table and says to Claire, ‘Fancy a dance?’
Claire ignores him, and he stands looking a bit embarrassed, with his mates watching, so I get up and do a slow jive with him. Sammy’s quite good and it feels nice to have a dance and have people watching. I slip under his arm and do a reverse turn.
As we come together he says, ‘She’s got the hump all right.’
I smile at him. ‘You’ll be OK.’
The record ends and we go back to the table. I sit opposite Claire and Sammy pulls a chair up to the end of the table and sits down just as the driving beat of Rock Around the Clock powers out of the speaker. Sammy gets up again and I do too, then Claire jumps up between us and pushes me out of the way. I sit down and watch them twist and twirl and show us what great jivers they are together. The boys start clapping and whooping and whistling, and I reckon they’re all right again.
I have a couple of dances with one of Sammy’s mates, but when he asks if he can see me again, I pretend I didn’t hear him and tell Claire I’ve got some shopping to do. Sammy’s got his arm round her now, and she gives me a wave as I step out into Westbourne Grove.
I decide to give Whiteleys a miss and head for the posh butcher at the corner of Garway Road. I buy two pounds of stewing steak and slip a couple of eggs into my pocket while he’s reaching into the window for the meat. I walk along Westbourne Grove to Portobello Market, making my way through the stalls and the old junk and rubbish that’s piled up in between them. I say hello to one of the stallholders who lives in our street and buy potatoes from him. He gives me a couple of carrots, a twisted looking turnip and a wink, and I go on up the hill, past the old clothes and the china and cutlery stalls, along Golborne Road and into our street. Someone’s playing the piano in the Earl of Warwick on the corner.
The pavement’s quite full with people out in the sun now. A bookie’s runner hurries past me with his leather bag under his arm. There are boys playing football in the road and aproned women talking and gossiping in groups around front steps, and little kids running about and chasing each other in and out of the legs of Teddy Boys, who’ve managed to get hold of the thirty guineas for the drape suits and the brothel creepers, lounging around and smoking and ignoring the girls, who are busy ignoring them in return. An African woman wearing a big turban and a long skirt with a sort of a shawl wrapped round her waist gets some looks from people as she walks along the edge of the pavement, staring straight ahead of her.
There are four blac
k men with suitcases standing outside our house. They look like railwaymen or labourers. I go up the steps. I can hear a woman shouting and a dog barking. I open the door and see the landlord’s rent collector standing at the foot of the stairs. He’s a tall man in an expensive suit with a walking stick in one hand and the leash of an Alsatian dog in the other. The dog strains forward, slathering and snarling at the Irish woman, who is standing in the doorway of her room with her sons clinging to her legs on each side of her. The dog barks at her and the woman starts screaming. The man in the suit wrenches the dog away, smacks his stick against the rotten wood panelling on the side of the staircase and shatters it. The Irish woman stops screaming.
He fixes her with a stare. ‘You were told.’
A man appears behind the woman and forces his way past her, carrying an old suitcase and a pile of clothes. I move out of the way as he goes out of the door, down the steps, and dumps the stuff on the pavement. The Irish woman is crying now. Another man comes out of her room with a basket of linen and another battered suitcase and throws it down beside her other possessions. She starts to plead with the man in the suit to let her stay. He ignores her, turns to me and nods towards the staircase. When I don’t move he twitches the dog’s lead. It gives a low growl and moves towards me. I look at the Irish woman to try to show that I feel sorry for her and go upstairs. On the landing, I stop and look over the bannister. She has hold of her boys’ hands and they’re walking slowly out through the front door. The man with the dog beckons to someone I can’t see. The four black men who were standing on the pavement come in through the front door and go into the Irish woman’s room.
• • •
I walk into our kitchen and Mum’s at the window. I put the meat and the vegetables by the sink, stand beside Mum and watch the Irish woman and her kids picking up their stuff and moving off down the street.
Mum says, ‘Good riddance to her.’
‘What if we’re next?’ I say.
‘We’ll be all right.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Johnny’s told him.’
‘Told who?’
‘Bielsky, the landlord.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘He won’t get himself on the wrong side of the Prestons.’
I know she’s right. They’re one of the hardest families on the manor, with a lot of connections, and they were here long before the Polish landlords came to town.
‘I’m going up to see Lizzie,’ I say.
‘All right, love.’
I go upstairs and knock on Lizzie’s door. I wait a bit and then I hear her come to the other side of the door.
‘Who is it?’ she says.
‘It’s me, Rina.’
She slips the chain and opens the door. ‘Come in, love.’
Her pink nylon dressing gown falls open to reveal her black lace bra and pants as she reaches for her cigarettes on the kitchen table. ‘Sit down, love,’ she says as she lights a cigarette and picks up the kettle.
‘Cup of tea?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
She fills the kettle and turns on the gas, tries to light it and fails. ‘Fucking meter’s run out.’
She rummages in her handbag for her purse and opens it. ‘Never a shilling when you need one, dammit.’
‘Here,’ I say.
I feel among the change in my pocket for a piece of old lino I’ve cut out into the size of a shilling, and hand it to her.
‘Ta, love.’ She looks at it and laughs. ‘I ain’t used one of these in a while.’
She goes out to the landing and puts it in the meter, then she comes back and lights the gas.
‘Lovely.’
She sits down at the table.
‘Did you know her downstairs got thrown out?’ she says.
‘I saw it.’
‘Poor cow. Two kids. First her husband fucks off and now this.’
‘Why did they get rid of her?’
‘More rent off four Jamaicans in them two rooms.’
‘I suppose.’
‘They’ll probably put four more of them in there next week.’
‘What do think she’ll do?’
‘What can she do? If she’s got no one to go to, she’ll probably ask them for another place and they’ll offer her something if she’ll go on the game.’
‘They’re horrible.’
‘Don’t I know it.’
There’s a knock at the door.
Lizzie stands and says, ‘You’ll have to go, love. Come and have your tea another time. OK?’
‘OK.’
Lizzie opens the door and gestures me to leave. I walk through the door and past the man with the dog waiting outside. He goes inside and the door shuts.
Something makes me wait on the landing.
There are mumbled voices and then Lizzie shouts: ‘No!’ There’s a slap and a short bark and the sound of someone falling down.
I go down the stairs. The kids will be home soon.
5
The car surges down the drive, raising dust. We’re followed by another Mercedes containing six of Manuel’s goons, suited up to look like security men. Guards open the iron gates and we turn onto the two lane road that leads down to the highway. As we lurch round a sharp bend, our driver suddenly brakes hard, slews the car sideways and hits the rear end of a donkey cart, sending a cascade of melons into the valley below. The driver clings desperately to the cart as it sways dangerously over the abyss for a moment until the bellowing donkey wrenches it back onto the road. The driver falls off the cart, gets to his feet cursing loudly and turns to confront whoever has almost killed him. Roberto steps out of the car. The cart driver sees him, bows his head in submission and steps aside to let us pass. Roberto gets back into the car and we continue down the winding road in silence.
Lee is seated next to me, looking convincing with his military haircut and immaculate US Army General’s uniform. I see him take in the deep red Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress I selected, to give me an elegant but liberated look. He reaches out and takes my hand in his.
‘You look beautiful,’ he says.
I withdraw my hand, turn and look out of the window.
‘Just rehearsing,’ he says, as he leans back and closes his eyes. We join the highway and a sign tells me that we are on the Autopista del Sol, two hundred and fifty kilometres from Mexico City. We stop at a toll booth. The driver pays and exchanges a few remarks with Roberto as we pull away. The road twists and turns through valleys and hills shimmering under the dazzling sun.
I consider the evening ahead and feel a tingle of excitement. I put my hands between my knees and check the mechanism of the bracelet on my right wrist that releases razor sharp teeth, long enough to pierce the cervical segment of the carotid artery when twisted in a certain way. I made it in a jewellery class some years ago, during one of my attempts to embrace a slightly more conventional means of making a living. As ever, I soon traded the cloying relationships and creeping stupefaction of ordinary work for the electrifying excitement of murder, and adapted the bracelet accordingly. Nothing comes close to the purity and simplicity of the contest. It is either him or me.
I settle back in my seat and let mile after mile of beautiful mountain scenery soothe my soul. We cross an elegant white suspension bridge spanning a broad peaceful river glistening far below. The highway curves on through the parched hills beyond.
Lee opens his eyes and turns to me. ‘You OK?’
‘Yes.’
He looks nervous. I hope he’s going to perform his role adequately and not land us in a Mexican jail. His story sounded far too neat and well prepared. Vietnam, Woodstock, running drugs into California; a bust here and there would have made it more plausible. I take the ID I have been given out of my evening bag and study it. I am Caroline Johansen from Rockville, Maryland.
They’ve copied the photograph from my British passport and created an American one with considerable skill.
I turn to Lee. ‘Wha
t’s your first name, General Johansen?’
‘Would you believe Spencer?’
‘Tell me about Rockville.’
‘Small city about twelve miles out of DC. I’d say we moved there with our two children around ten years ago, after we met while I was attached to the US Embassy in London.’
‘Names?’
‘Sally and Jim, seven and ten. We’re staying at the Four Seasons.’
I nod. Lee looks at me as if expecting more. He’s scared and wants to talk. I ignore him and close my eyes.
It seems like moments later when Lee wakes me and I look out of the window at the Mexico City skyline. The high-velocity calm of the highway gives way to the fractious skirmishing of urban traffic as we’re caught in the sticky web of the city. A hysterical chorus of horns blares around us as we twist and heave through the broiling mess of metal and flesh, our long black car with its gold-braided occupant giving us some small purchase in the struggle.
We eventually enter a large open square. An outsize Mexican flag billows self-importantly from a tall mast in the centre. A smaller version waves back at it from the top of the central tower of a solid, official-looking, four-storey building that occupies one side of the square. Along its full length, bright red shutters, standing proud of its second-floor windows, add a brash confidence to its imposing façade. We join a line of cars approaching the entrance.
‘Here we go, dear,’ says Lee, putting on his hat.
We draw level with a uniformed soldier who opens the rear door of the car. We step out onto a red carpet. Our security team exits the car behind and gathers discreetly around us. At the entrance to the Palace, we are asked to present our ID and then escorted across a hall, towards the foot of twin staircases that curve away from each other and meet again on the floor above, in front of an enormous mural triptych of incredible detail, depicting what I take to be the history of Mexico.
We climb the stairs to a large open landing, surrounded by baroque arches, with a view onto the square beyond. Further murals of extraordinary richness and colour line the walls. A uniformed official ushers us into a large stateroom where the ornate arched ceiling echoes a cacophony of premeditated cordiality and mutual congratulation exchanged by a large gathering of older men in military uniforms and evening wear. Expensively dressed women decorate the crowd, some young and fresh, others old and grotesque, with that embalmed look that comes from spending too much time and money trying to look less decrepit.
