Clementine and Rudy

by Siobhan Curham

  “So, this is the kitchen.” Rudy leads me into the first room on the left.

  It takes everything I’ve got not to show my shock. Although the room contains all of the standard kitchen things – oven, fridge-freezer, table and sink – that’s where any resemblance to other kitchens ends. The counters are covered in a random assortment of clothes and magazines and make-up and CDs and on the table there’s what appears to be part of an engine, possibly from a car. All of the walls are painted bright emerald green, apart from the largest one, behind the table, which is painted blue and has the huge outline of the old pier drawn on it.

  “I only just started working on that,” Rudy says, following my gaze. As if drawing a giant mural in your kitchen is a totally run-of-the-mill thing.

  “What’s it going to be?”

  “Me and my mum. I’m going to draw us on top of the pier.”

  “That sounds really cool.” I look around the kitchen, try and drink it all in. It couldn’t be more different to the pristine black and white kitchen at home. I love it.

  “Hello, ladies.” Behind us a man comes into the room. He’s got dark brown skin and silver cropped hair and he’s wearing a checked shirt and jeans. “You must be Clementine.” He holds his hand out to me. There’s a silver ring on his little finger that looks like a really small wedding band. “I’m Dave.”

  As I shake his hand he gives me a warm, twinkly-eyed grin. This is definitely not what I was expecting.

  “Are you going out then?” Rudy says to Dave, although it sounds more like a command than a question.

  “Yeah, thought I’d nip down the pub for a couple.” He grabs a scuffed leather jacket from the back of one of the chairs. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Bye,” I say.

  Rudy doesn’t reply and opens the fridge.

  “He’s so annoying,” she says as soon as we hear the front door close and Dave’s footsteps echoing away along the corridor.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  My heart sinks. Dave had actually seemed genuinely nice. It makes me sick to think that he might be just like Vincent when other people aren’t around; that he’s horrible to Rudy.

  Rudy takes a bottle of Coke from the fridge and a huge bag of tortilla chips from one of the cupboards. “Shall we get to work then?”

  And just like that, the tension in me eases. “Absolutely.”

  RUDY

  “’Scuse the mess,” I say, as I open my bedroom door.

  “Wow!” Clementine gasps as she follows me into the room. She had the same goldfish expression when she went into the kitchen. I’m guessing this place is very different from where she lives. “This is amazing.”

  I watch as Clementine walks into the middle of the room, to the one bit of carpet that’s not covered in clothes or paints or sketches or books, and does a full 360, taking it all in. My radar is on high alert, programmed for any sign she might be judging, but she looks genuinely awestruck.

  “This is just like my…” She breaks off, looking embarrassed.

  “Just like what?”

  “My dream bedroom,” she mutters, her cheeks blushing.

  I can’t help laughing. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. My mum has this obsession with keeping everything clean and colour-coordinated and in its right place and I hate it. I fantasize about having a room like this. Not that I mean your room is messy…”

  “It is messy.”

  “Yes, but it’s a creative mess.” Her face is so red now it’s off the colour chart.

  I stare at her, shaking my head.

  We look at each other for a moment, then crack up laughing. As much as I can’t quite believe I could ever be friends with someone who looks so much like the perfect princess, Clementine keeps on surprising me.

  “OK, so I’ve pretty much got the artwork done.” I point to the bed, where I’ve laid out the picture. “I just need to cut out the stencil for your poem.”

  When Clementine sees the picture she goes into a meltdown, clapping her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. “This is amazing. Oh my God!” She looks so impressed it kind of floors me. “I love the colours and how scared the mermaid looks – and the crying moon. It’s so sad – and so powerful.”

  “Thank you. I’m going to spray-paint the ocean backdrop and I thought it might be cool to stick actual pieces of plastic swirling around her, trapping her.” I show Clementine the assortment of plastic packaging I’ve been saving all week.

  “That’s going to look brilliant.” Clementine takes off her coat. She’s wearing skinny jeans, Converse and a designer-label hoodie. Although her hair and skin are pristine as always, there are dark smudges of tiredness beneath her eyes.

  “Do you want to help me with the stencil of your poem?” I ask.

  “Sure. I’d love to.”

  I go over to my desk, and a sheet of card with Clementine’s poem printed on it in large typewriter font.

  “All you have to do is cut around the edges of each letter.” I take the scalpel from my pen jar and start cutting out the first letter. “See?”

  “OK.” Clementine sits down at the desk and I hand her the knife. As she begins cutting the card, she pokes the tip of her tongue out of her mouth in concentration. She looks really sweet, like a little kid focusing on her colouring-in.

  “Right, I just need to make a couple of finishing touches to the picture.” I put some music on, choosing a track with a chill-out beat.

  I glance over at Clementine, she’s still bent over the stencil deep in concentration, her feet tapping in time to the music.

  “So, you like to dance then?” I say, remembering what she said the other day about going to dance school.

  “I love to dance but I’m not really loving my dance classes.” She looks over at me. “That’s why I was grounded this week – for not going.”

  “Really?” Another Clementine surprise. She so doesn’t look like the type to skive off lessons.

  Clementine nods. “But my mum and stepdad won’t let me give it up because, of course, they know all about what’s best for me.”

  It takes me a moment to realize she’s being sarcastic. “Yeah, adults always think they know best.”

  “When did your parents split up?” Clementine asks, going back to her cutting.

  I add a sheen of green to the mermaid’s braids to help them blend into the ocean. “When I was four.”

  “Do you see much of your dad?”

  “I don’t see any of my dad. Haven’t seen or heard from him since he walked out.”

  “Oh no. I’m sorry.” Clementine puts down the scalpel and for a horrible moment I think she’s going to do something cringe like come over and hug me, but she stays at the desk.

  “Do you not have any idea where he is?”

  I shake my head. “Don’t want to, though, so it’s all good. How about your dad?” I ask, keen to change the subject.

  “He lives in Germany. In Berlin. I see him most holidays but…”

  “But what?”

  “I wish I saw him more. He’s so much nicer than my stepdad.”

  “Yeah, so what’s the deal with him?”

  “My stepdad?”

  I nod.

  “He’s the biggest a-hole going.”

  I try not to double-take at Clementine’s almost-swear word.

  “He’s so arrogant and he treats my mum like crap, or at least he has for the past couple of years. I mean, I get that she had a crush on him when she was a teenager and when she went to work for him it must have been amazing, working for one of her heroes, but still…” Clementine pauses to take a breath. “Sorry, I’m ranting.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s cool. How come your mum had a crush on him when she was a teenager?”

  “He used to be a big-shot radio presenter back in the nineties. But now he hosts the mid-afternoon show on Radio Sussex. He’s a cheesy old has-been.”

  There’s something almost comical about seeing Clementine so
mad. It’s a bit like watching a super-cute toddler have a tantrum – all the rage seems so out of character.

  “He sounds like a nightmare.”

  She nods. “So, what’s up with Dave then? Is he like Vincent? Does he treat your mum badly?”

  I think of the way Dave always looks at mum so adoringly and how he always laughs so loudly at her jokes and makes her endless cups of tea and calls her his Princess. It wouldn’t be true to say that he treats her badly but he’s still trying to get his feet under the table here.

  “Not exactly. Not yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I think he’s using her – to get to live here.” I feel an uncomfortable squirming in the pit of my stomach. Again, I don’t know this to be absolutely true, but if Mum’s previous partners are anything to go by… Both guys she was with after Dad used her and then did a runner. The last one even took our flat-screen TV when he left. Why should Dave be any different?

  “Oh no, that’s horrible.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s life.” I look back at the picture. “How are you getting on with the stencil?”

  “Good, almost there.”

  Then I have an idea. “Maybe we could do it tonight, as it’s ready and you’re here. Then you won’t have to worry about your mum and stepdad catching you sneaking out.”

  “Oh … OK.” Clementine doesn’t sound completely convinced.

  “It’s all right, my mum doesn’t get back from work till about four on a Saturday night, so we’ve only got Dave to worry about. Hopefully he’ll crash out when he gets back from the pub.”

  “Where does your mum work?”

  “At a casino by the marina.”

  Clementine nods. “Will Tyler come with us?”

  “Nah, he’s had to take his parents up to a family birthday party in London. He won’t be back till tomorrow.”

  Clementine smiles. “OK.” She still looks slightly nervous, though.

  I push my own nerves from my mind. It will be good to do this on our own. To overcome our fear and live the message of our pictures.

  CLEMENTINE

  I know I don’t have the worry of sneaking out of my own home tonight, but I can’t help feeling slightly jittery as Rudy and I creep along the narrow hallway in her flat. Although Dave has been really nice to us, bringing us chips when he got in from the pub and asking me loads about my poetry, I somehow don’t think he’d be all that happy to catch us about to go out, especially if Rudy is right and it’s all some big act to suck up to her. As we get to Rudy’s mum’s bedroom I hear the low rumble of Dave snoring and it makes me want to giggle. I force myself to think of something sad – the fact that I won’t be seeing Dad anytime soon and I’m stuck living with Mum and Vincent. This usually does the trick. I make my way along the rest of the hallway in glum silence.

  Rudy carefully unlocks the door and we tiptoe out into the corridor and down the stairs. My relief at having got out without waking Dave is short-lived. Walking through the estate at this time of night is pretty scary. Somewhere in the distance I hear a dog growling and barking. Rudy seems unfazed though. “Have you got your phone?” she asks, pulling up her hood.

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. We need to get some photos tonight, just in case that idiot LADZ sees it and ruins it.”

  “Oh no, do you think he would?” I can’t bear the thought of another of our pictures being ruined. “Maybe you shouldn’t tag it, so he won’t know it’s us.”

  “No!” Rudy practically yells. “If we do that he’ll have won.”

  “OK,” I say, but I can’t help thinking she’s making a mistake, that this whole idea is a mistake. Rudy wants to paint the picture on a wall close to the station so more people will see it. The problem with this is that more people are likely to see us doing it. Even though the station is long closed by now, it’s still right in the heart of the city. But Rudy is clearly on a mission. I have to half walk, half run to keep up with her as she strides along the street, her backpack slung over her shoulder. I think about how cool it will be to have one of my poems on a wall. I think about the message behind our piece and all the damage being done to the ocean. Rudy is right. We need to do this.

  The streets are pretty deserted now but every so often we pass people weaving their way home from the clubs. Rudy keeps striding ahead, not one bit nervous. I wish I could be more like her. I wish I had her confidence. I wonder how Rudy would be if she lived with Vincent. I bet she’d stand up to him. I bet she wouldn’t let him talk to her like she was a piece of dirt. We head down Sydney Street. It looks so strange late at night, drained of all the people and colour and noise. Every time we walk past a darkened alleyway I want to suggest we do the picture there but I don’t want to seem chicken. Finally, we arrive on Trafalgar Street and start walking towards the station.

  “How about down there?” Rudy says, gesturing to a side street just before the railway arches. It’s dark and deserted and although it’s visible from the main road, at least there are some shadowy doorways to hide in.

  “OK.”

  “Let’s do it here,” Rudy says, almost as soon as we turn into the street, pointing to a blank piece of wall.

  “Isn’t it a bit too visible?” I whisper.

  Rudy looks at me like I’m insane. “That’s the whole point. We want people to see it.” Then she nudges me and grins. “It’s what our mermaid would want.”

  I give a nervous laugh. “That’s very true.”

  “OK, we’re going to have to do this one super quick.” Rudy puts down her backpack and starts taking out cans of paint. “You keep watch, I’ll get started.”

  I walk back to the end of the street and look up and down for any sign of movement. The hiss of Rudy’s spray cans breaks the silence. Why is it so loud? Up at the top of the hill a car’s headlights sweep across the road, thankfully turning off in the direction of the seafront. The waft of paint fumes reaches me. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! Finally, the hissing stops.

  “Is the coast still clear?” Rudy calls quietly.

  “Yes,” I whisper back. But for how long? Someone’s bound to come along at some point. And then, as if my thinking it has made it happen, two women stagger into view at the bottom of the hill.

  “Someone’s coming,” I hiss.

  “Crap!” Rudy has got the picture of the mermaid out and is about to paste it to the wall. “How far away? Have I got time to put her up?”

  “Yes, but be quick.” I peer round the corner and watch the women weaving their way towards us. Then one of the women grabs the other’s arm and they head off down a side street.

  “It’s OK, they’ve gone. Have you finished?” I whisper.

  “Yeah, just got to stencil the poem,” Rudy replies, her voice muffled by her scarf, which is up over her face like a mask.

  There’s a loud rattle, followed by more spraying.

  I keep looking up and down the street. Please, please, please, don’t let anyone else appear.

  “OK, done,” Rudy calls.

  I hurry back to her. As soon as I see the artwork all of my fear fades. The mixture of Rudy’s paste-up of the mermaid drowning in plastic wrappers against the painted ocean backdrop and the crying moon is incredible.

  “Quick, get some photos,” Rudy says, stuffing the paint cans and paste back in her backpack.

  I reach for my phone and start taking pictures. “This is your best yet,” I say. “It looks amazing.”

  “Oh, shit!” Rudy exclaims.

  “What?” I stop what I’m doing and turn to see a sight that makes my blood run cold. A police car is turning into the side street and coming our way, the indicator light blinking bright orange as it pulls in beside us.

  RUDY

  I’ve always imagined – or liked to imagine – that if I ever got arrested for my street art I’d wear it as a badge of honour, a sign that I’d finally arrived as an urban artist, but as I sit in the back of the police car with Clementine, all I feel is dread. When the polic
e first pulled up beside us I’d tried to play all innocent. We were just on our way home. My friend loves taking pictures of street art, you should see her Instagram. Clementine, show them your Instagram… But the stink of paint in the air was a bit of a giveaway and then, when they’d wanted to search my bag and I’d asked them if they had a warrant, well, things went rapidly downhill.

  I stare out of the window at the lights of Brighton streaming by. It all feels so surreal. In the front of the car a message comes over the radio and the policewoman, who is definitely the Bad Cop of the duo, picks up the receiver and says something about perpetrators and being on their way. I sneak a glance at Clementine. She’s staring straight ahead, ashen-faced, but as if she can sense my gaze, she turns and gives me a sad smile. I think of how this is going to make things a million times worse for her with her stepdad and it makes me feel horrible. I close my eyes, willing myself to stay strong and I notice something cold against my hand on the car seat. I open my eyes and look down. Clementine has linked her little finger in mine. It’s such a small gesture but it feels so powerful, like we’re joined by an unbreakable iron chain. I squeeze her finger tightly. We sit there like that, pinkie-linked for the rest of the journey.

  When we get to the police station, Good Cop – a young, ginger-haired guy – takes us over to a desk, where a bored-looking police officer takes our names and dates of birth and our parents’ details. I end up giving them Dave’s phone number, as I can’t bear the thought of Mum getting a call at work from the police. It’ll be bad enough having to tell her what’s happened when she gets home. Once we’ve given them our details, Bad Cop escorts us to a small room off the main corridor. It might not be a cell but with its harsh lighting and basic furniture it’s not far from it.

  “You’re to wait here until we’ve contacted your parents,” Bad Cop says, like we’re a couple of annoying little kids who’ve been caught misbehaving in the park.

  Next to me, Clementine shudders. I’m guessing she’s thinking about her stepdad.