‘Can you hell! They’re not even a year old yet, them. You wanna start looking after your stuff if you want it to last.’
‘It ain’t my fault. And my teacher said—’
‘Do I look like I give a flying fuck what your teacher says?’ Mary rounded on her son furiously. ‘He can have his say when he’s the one putting food in your greedy gob, but till then he’d better keep his trap shut, or I’ll come down there and put my fist in it!’
‘All right, Mum, there’s no need to jump down his throat.’ Chantelle leapt to her brother’s defence.
‘Oh, I wondered how long it’d take for you to stick your beak in.’ Mary switched the glare onto her daughter. ‘You know what, I’m sick to death of the pair of you. Give me this, buy me that … it’s all I ever fuckin’ hear round here, and it’s doing my head in!’
‘Pardon us for being born,’ said Chantelle, pushing Leon out into the hall.
‘Yeah, well, I wish you hadn’t been,’ Mary yelled after them. ‘The trouble you two have caused me, you’d have been better off leaving me to die that time!’
Chantelle looked back and gave a disapproving shake of her head before following her brother out of the room.
‘’S up with her?’ Leon whined, stuffing his boots into his school bag.
‘The usual,’ Chantelle muttered. She’d already guessed that her mum was on a speed comedown, because she was always vicious after a heavy session and it always culminated in her saying that she wished they had let her die when she’d taken the overdose a year and a half earlier – even though both she and Chantelle knew that it hadn’t been a serious suicide attempt. Given the amount of alcohol she regularly drank, and the cocktail of illegal drugs she’d been feeding into her body for as long as Chantelle could remember, it would have taken a damn sight more than a few poxy painkillers to bring Mary Booth down.
‘What am I supposed to tell my teacher?’ Leon grumbled when Chantelle hustled him out through the front door. ‘He says he’ll kick me off the team if I don’t get me boots sorted.’
‘You’re the best player; there’s no way he’ll get rid of you,’ Chantelle assured him. ‘But if he says it again, tell him I’m going to make sure you get some new ones.’
‘BITCH!’ Mary yelled as the front door slammed shut behind them. It pissed her off that Chantelle had gone over her head and promised Leon new boots. But good luck to her if she thought muggins was paying for them, because hell would have to freeze over before Mary dipped her hand in her purse now.
Still fuming, Mary flopped down on the couch and took a deep drag on her cigarette. Almost choking on it when a vibration rattled the back of her head, she grabbed the jacket that was draped behind her and pulled her mobile phone out of its pocket. ‘That you, Trace?’
‘No, it fuckin’ ain’t.’
Mary winced at the sound of her dealer’s angry voice. ‘All right, Ricky. Wasn’t expecting you.’
‘No, I bet you wasn’t,’ spat Ricky. ‘Where’s my money, you thieving bitch?’
‘I meant to come round,’ Mary lied. ‘But things keep cropping up. I’ll get it to you as soon as I can, I promise. But it’s not easy when you’ve got kids, you know.’
‘I don’t give a fuck about your kids,’ Ricky bellowed, forcing her to jerk the phone away from her ear. ‘I just want my bastard money. You’ve got an hour – and if I don’t see you, I’m gonna come looking for you. You’ve been warned!’
Mary bit her lip when the line went dead. Shit! Now what was she supposed to do? There was no way she could get her hands on two hundred quid in an hour. But if she didn’t, he would kill her.
Almost jumping out of her skin when someone knocked at the front door, she crept over to the window – praying with every tiptoed step that it wasn’t Ricky, because she wouldn’t put it past him to have been outside the whole time. A man wearing a jacket bearing the E.ON logo was standing on the step. Relieved that it wasn’t Ricky, Mary went back to the couch and stubbed out the burned-down cigarette before lighting a fresh one.
The man knocked again, and then raised the flap of the letter box. ‘Mrs Booth? I need to speak to you about your electricity arrears.’
Mary gritted her teeth and stuck two fingers up at the door. Cheeky bastard, shouting out her business for the whole world to hear.
The man tried one last time before shoving something through the letter box and walking away, his heels thudding dully on the concrete landing. Mary went out into the hall, snatched up the letter, and curled her lip when she read that they intended to take her to court if she didn’t contact them to make arrangements to pay her arrears. She tossed it onto the hall table along with the rest of her unpaid bills and marched into the kitchen in search of alcohol to soothe her nerves.
They were a load of fucking vultures, expecting her to conjure money out of thin air to pay their extortionate charges. They ought to be chasing the benefits people, not her, seeing as they were the ones who had messed up her claim and made her get into debt in the first place.
‘We have strong evidence to suggest that you are living with someone whilst claiming as a single parent,’ the woman from the benefit fraud squad had said when they called her into the office that day, ‘and we’ll be suspending your claim pending further investigations.’
Strong evidence, her arse! More like word of malicious mouth. But that was the trouble with living in a place like this: it was chock-full of nosy bastards who had nothing better to do than stick their beaks into things that didn’t concern them. Mary wouldn’t have minded so much if she and Jimmy had even been serious, but it had only ever been a fling. And, all right, so maybe he had more or less moved in – but that was her business. She’d kicked him out as soon as it came on top, so that should have been that. But it had taken ages for the stupid bastards to reinstate her benefits, and now, because of their incompetence, everyone wanted a piece of her.
Fuck them, she thought, slamming the fridge shut when she saw that there were no beers to be had. They could form a queue to peck the flesh off her bones when she was dead and buried, but until then they could all go to hell.
Chantelle was exhausted when she arrived home from school that afternoon. The walk took fifteen minutes on a good day, but when she felt as lousy as she did today it seemed to take hours. And the weather wasn’t helping. It was supposed to be the beginning of summer, but there had been no sign of it yet and the chill air was exacerbating the headache that had started during her last lesson. Her head was pounding, and her neck and shoulders were killing her from the weight of the books she’d been lugging around in her bag all day. All she wanted to do was climb into bed and sleep for a week. But her exams were starting on Monday, and if she were to stand any chance of passing them she was going to have to spend the whole weekend revising.
Inside the flat it was even colder and darker than it was outside, and Chantelle shivered as she dropped her bag on the hall floor. ‘It’s me,’ she called as she slipped out of her blazer and looped it over the peg.
When no answer came, she popped her head around her mum’s bedroom door. Surprised to see that the bed was empty – her mum usually slept for a couple of days after a heavy binge – she wandered into the kitchen to see if Mary had done the shopping before going out.
‘Great!’ she muttered when she saw that the cupboards were still bare. ‘So, that’s me revising on an empty stomach – again. Cheers, Mum.’
Chantelle went into the living room and drew the curtains to hide the depressing sight of heavy clouds gathering over the roof of the flats across the way. Then, switching the lamp on, she went back out into the hall to fetch her books.
It was only when she came back that she noticed the note propped on the mantelpiece, and she frowned when she reached for it and a £ note fluttered to the floor at her feet. No wonder her mum hadn’t bothered to do the shopping: she obviously expected her little lackey to do it for her – like Chantelle didn’t have better things to do.
Go
ing to a party with Trace, the note read, so you’ll have to get our Leon’s tea. Don’t wait up ’cos I don’t know when I’ll be back. Mum xxx
Furious that her mother had gone out on the lash and dumped Leon on her knowing full well that she needed to revise, Chantelle yanked her mobile phone out of her bag and rang her mum’s number.
‘Hey there,’ the answerphone message trilled, in the phony American accent that her mum seemed to think was sexy. ‘I can’t take your call right now, but if you leave your name, number, and cock size, I’ll get right back to you …’
Nose wrinkled in disgust, Chantelle waited for the filthy chuckle at the end of the message. Then, keeping as even a tone as she could manage, she said, ‘Call me back as soon as you get this. I know you’ve probably forgotten, but my exams are starting on Monday and I need to get my head down, so I could really do without having to watch our Leon. Call me.’
She’d just finished the message when the door opened behind her. Sure that it was her mum, because Leon didn’t have a key, she turned around, saying, ‘Oh, good, you’re back. I just left you a mes—’ She trailed off when she saw her brother and frowned. ‘How did you get in?’
Leon held up her keys and rattled them. ‘You left them in the lock.’
‘You’re joking!’ Chantelle gasped. ‘God, what an idiot.’
‘You said it.’ Leon smirked, tossing the keys onto the table. ‘Mum still in bed?’
‘No, she’s gone out.’ Chantelle followed as he wandered into the kitchen. ‘And she hasn’t been shopping, so don’t bother rooting.’
Leon looked in the fridge anyway, and then slammed the door when he saw that she was telling the truth. ‘When’s she coming back? I’m starving.’
‘No idea. But she’s left some money, so I’ll go to the shops in a bit.’
‘You’re not cooking, are you?’ Leon pulled a face. ‘Can’t we have chippy?’
‘I suppose so,’ Chantelle conceded. ‘But then I’ve got to revise, so I hope you’re going to be quiet.’
‘I won’t be here,’ Leon told her, walking back out into the hall. ‘I only came back for something to eat. I’m off to Kermit’s.’
‘I want you to stay in now you’re here,’ Chantelle told him.
‘Get stuffed,’ Leon grunted, still heading for the door. ‘It’s not even five yet; Mum lets me stay out till seven.’
‘Yeah, but she’s not here, so I’m in charge,’ said Chantelle. ‘And I’ve got too much to do, so I want you where I can see you.’
‘I’ll have a sausage when you go to the chippy,’ Leon said over his shoulder, already opening the door. ‘And gravy.’
‘Leon!’ Chantelle rushed up the hall when he stepped outside and pulled the door shut. ‘Come back here!’ She followed him out onto the landing and gritted her teeth when she saw him legging it for the stairs. ‘Right, fine, go then,’ she called after him. ‘But I’ll be coming for you on my way back from the chippy, so make sure you’re ready ’cos I’m not hanging round like an idiot if it starts raining!’
Leon raised his hand before disappearing into the stairwell. Chantelle was starting to feel sick by now, and her head was throbbing. Praying that the headache didn’t turn into a full-blown migraine, she went back into the flat and swallowed a couple of paracetamol. Then, with an hour still to go before the chippy opened, she lay down on the couch and pulled a cushion over her eyes.
2
The Richmond Estate, on the border between Hulme and Old Trafford, was mainly populated by single mothers and their offspring. There was a play area in the centre of the estate, which no child dared go near for fear of getting battered by the hoody boys who hung out there to smoke weed and sniff glue. There was also a car park and a set of garages, which none of the residents ever used, because they knew their cars would get broken into or set on fire as soon as their backs were turned. Of the parade of shops, only two of the original six were still occupied. The owners of the other units had long ago given up on trying to run a business in a place where the majority of their customers had perfected the art of paying for one item whilst walking out with three.
The two units that were still in business sat side by side at the end of the parade. Abdul’s General Store had just closed when Chantelle got there at six, but Jimmy’s Chippy had just opened. The heat from the fryers smacked her in the face when she walked in, and the delicious scents of vinegar and freshly cooked chips made her stomach growl. The owner, Jimmy, a tiny Chinese man who could barely see over the counter, beamed when he saw her.
‘Ah … long time, no see, missy. You had babba now?’
Chantelle smiled when he mimed rocking a baby in his arms, and shook her head. ‘You must be thinking of someone else. Can I get two lots of sausage and chips and a small tub of gravy, please?’
‘Fi’ minutes,’ Jimmy said, his smiling eyes just slits in the deep wrinkles of his kindly face as he stirred his batch with vigour.
On the shelf behind him a portable TV sat between a pyramid of soda cans and a statue of a nodding, waving cat. Chantelle placed her cold hands up against the glass of the warming cabinet and glanced at the screen. It was tuned to the six o’clock news, and flickering images of what appeared to be a riot were flashing across the screen behind the sombre-faced reporter. The volume was too low for her to hear what he was saying, but the subtitles told her that there had, earlier that day in Bury, been a violent confrontation between a faction of the English Defence League and a group of Muslims protesting about a deportation.
‘Idiots.’ Jimmy gave a backward jerk of his head when he saw her watching it. ‘They need try t’ai chi.’ He raised a knee and both hands into the air to demonstrate. ‘Good for chase devil out here.’ He lowered his leg and patted his chest now, to indicate, Chantelle guessed, that he was referring to the heart. Then, pointing a gnarly old finger at her, he said, ‘You no have devil; your mama kep’ it for hersel’ when you born. But your brudda …’ He trailed off and sucked an ominous breath in through his wonky teeth.
Curious to know what he meant, Chantelle was about to ask when the door opened behind her and a gust of freezing air swirled around her legs.
‘It’s kicking right off out there,’ the woman who came in declared excitedly as she approached the counter. ‘That nonce has just walked round the corner bold as brass, and them black lads are having a right go at him. No offence,’ she added quickly for Chantelle’s benefit, ‘but there’s two lots of ’em what hang around outside here of a night, one black, one white.’
Chantelle bit her tongue and handed her money over to Jimmy when he placed her wrapped food on the counter.
‘Be careful,’ he cautioned as he pressed her change into her hand. ‘Go other way, and run run run.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ Chantelle murmured, hugging the warm parcels to her chest and stepping back out into the cold.
Outside the burned-out TV repair shop at the other end of the row, several youths had formed a circle around the old man who was known locally as Paedo Bob. It was rumoured that he had once been arrested for flashing his bits at some kids in the park, and everyone on the estate hated him even though he’d never actually been charged. Whether or not it was true, Chantelle couldn’t help but feel sorry for him now as she watched him turn this way and that, trying to grab back the filthy multicoloured bobble-hat that the lads were tossing to each other over his head. They were all much younger, taller and stronger than him, and they might be laughing now, but Chantelle knew their mood could easily turn. One wrong word and Bob would be on the floor with a flurry of feet aiming at his head.
As she stood there, torn between minding her own business and intervening, Chantelle felt a prickle on the back of her neck as if someone was staring at her. She snapped her gaze to the left and was surprised to see Anton Davis leaning casually back against the wall, smoking a cigarette. A slow smile came onto his lips when their eyes met, and she felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She hadn’t seen him around
in a while and had heard that he’d been sent down, although she didn’t know what for. He’d always been good-looking, and all the girls at school had fancied him. Loads of them had even fought over him, but Chantelle had always steered well clear – partly because of his reputation but mainly because she’d seen enough girls fall for boys like him to know that, whatever kick girls got out of being a bad boy’s bitch-of-the-moment, it was never worth the inevitable heartache. They either ended up hitting you, cheating on you, or getting you pregnant – none of which Chantelle was stupid enough to volunteer for.
When the old man suddenly let out a cry, Chantelle turned her attention back to the gang. They had stopped throwing the hat and were now pushing Bob around, and when she saw from their expressions that they were no longer playing, she yelled, ‘Oi! Pack it in, you lot. Leave him alone.’
They all turned and stared at her, and for an awful moment she thought they were going to start on her instead. But then Anton whistled softly between his teeth and, like a pack of dogs obeying a command, the lads backed away. Still smiling, Anton winked at her. Then, jerking his head at his mates, he turned and walked away.
‘Thanks, love,’ the old man gasped as he staggered towards Chantelle, his unshaven face grey, his bloodshot eyes bulging with fear and indignation. ‘I thought I’d had it there. They want bloody hanging!’
‘If anyone wants hanging round here, it’s you,’ bellowed the woman from the chip shop, who had just stepped out behind Chantelle. ‘Blokes like you want your dicks cutting off and rammin’ down your throats, if you ask me. Now, gercha, before I do it meself, y’ dirty auld bastard!’
She swung her bag at him and cackled with jubilation when he fled back the way he’d come. ‘I fuckin’ hate nonces, me,’ she told Chantelle when he’d gone. ‘If I had my way, they’d bang the whole filthy lot of ’em up in a cell and let ’em bugger each other senseless – see how they like it.’
Respect (Mandasue Heller) Page 2
