‘And what about the likes of us?’ I said. ‘In your country?’
Fazel snorted. ‘What do you know about my country?’
Gina and Tad wor now clambering over two women who wor sat on t’ bottom steps. Behind me the toilet flushed and the door opened, so I ducked in, pleading urgency.
I sat on t’ bog, listening, weighing the options. I wor breaking into a cold sweat. I rubbed my palms over my face, trying to stay calm, trying to marshal my thoughts. The toilet walls wor a collage of arty posters. Pasted on t’ back of t’ door wor some friggin’ poem about Jesus called ‘The Love that Dares to Speak its Name’ by that poet bloke called James Kirkup, across which wor scrawled in red biro, ‘Defend Gay News!!’ This wor t’ very poem Gordon and Jeff had been blathering on about in t’ snooker club. Why did folk get so worked up about poetry?
I could feel the bass thud of Bowie’s ‘Jean Genie’ coming from below. I tried reading the first couple of lines of t’ poem. But then someone wor banging on t’ bog door.
‘Oi! You died in there?’
‘Won’t be a mo!’
‘Well, fucking well hurry up or I’ll crucify you! I’m dying for a crap!’
I took the key out of t’ door and peered through t’ keyhole. All I could see wor a flower patch on t’ backside of someone’s jeans. I unspooled the last of t’ bog roll and dropped it into t’ bog, flushed the chain and opened the door.
‘Sorry mate.’
I scuttled past him and up the second, narrower flight of stairs to t’ attic rooms. On one door wor a sign on a card that read ‘The Rochester Suite’, beneath which wor scrawled in biro, ‘Fazel’s Room. OUT OF BOUNDS’. So I went in.
At first I took it to be a storeroom of household junk. There wor a mattress under t’ steep roof slope, an overstuffed chest of drawers, thickly painted purple, and a wooden chair. Boxes, suitcases, clothes and books lay about in untidy piles.
I moseyed about. I tugged open t’ top right drawer of t’ chest. It wor chocful of papers: airmail letters and bills and study notes and the like. Under them I found Fazel’s passport. I flipped to t’ photo page. Fazel then worn’t very Fazel now. His hair wor combed and shiny and he wor wearing a striped sweater that an aunt might have notched up. In t’ passport wor a small buff envelope of loose photographs. Inside, two bevel-edged black-and-white photos of a boyish Fazel, studio head shots wi’ glued-on smiles.
I put them back, and had barely closed the drawer when t’ bedroom door wor flung open, making me spasm wi’ fright. It wor Tad.
‘Saw you disappearing up here,’ he said. ‘Gina’s having a helluva bloody barney wi’ someone or other. I guess we both need to keep a low profile.’
‘Only if Gina grasses me up.’
‘She won’t.’
Tad stepped further into t’ room, filling the meagre space, his head catching the round paper ceiling shade, making it sway. He still had the half-bottle of gin.
‘Why not?’
‘She don’t do that. She’s loyal. She expects loyalty in return. And she’s got this thing about you, I don’t know what.’
‘What about you? And Gina?’
‘There’s nowt going on between Gina and me, if that’s what you mean. She’s a law unto hersen, is Gina.’
‘I heard she’s married. To that Hell’s Angel bloke.’
‘Did you now? News travels fast, don’t it? She married Victor about two year back. But now she won’t have anything to do wi’ him. Poor sod still follows her about like a dog.’
‘How sweet. Anyone see you coming up here?’
‘Don’t think so. And no one else here knows me. Not even your Arab mate.’
‘Trust me, he’s not my mate. And he’s Iranian. They ain’t Arabs.’
Tad took a sup from t’ gin bottle and passed it to me. A fiery slug of gin coated my tonsils, making me cough.
‘Sorry,’ I said, handing back the bottle. We sat down on t’ mattress. Tad took another sup and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Music vibrated through t’ floor. ‘Nutbush City Limits’. The bottle passed back and forth between us like a silent conversation. Tad kept his eyes fixed on t’ wall opposite, as if waiting for summat to happen. My hand edged toward his leg. I didn’t know if he’d kiss me or punch me. Tad took another slug of gin and turning his head toward mine, snogged me, letting the gin sluice from his mouth into mine and then down our chins. The gin made him splutter. He pulled back. I wor breathing hard, like I’d swum across a swollen river. I weaved my fingers behind his neck, tilting his head toward me, his lips giving way as they brushed across mine.
But then mid-kiss a commotion from elsewhere made us stop. We listened like lovers hidden in a broom cupboard. It wor coming from t’ street, three floors below. We heard Gina’s voice first, then Fazel’s and another woman’s, all screaming and berating each other, then a banshee wail from Gina, and then t’other woman wor yelling, ‘Fuck off, you little fascist bitch!’ which made Tad fall back onto t’ bed, hiccupping wi’ laughter. Then Fazel, shouting, ‘Fuck off home! Fascist cow! We don’t want you here!’ And then Gina, ‘You go home! We don’t want you here neither! Don’t push me! Don’t you ever push me!’
I thought Tad would race to her aid, but he just lay there, helplessly hiccupping and laughing. I got up, went to t’ window and forced up the sash. In t’ street below I could see Gina, walking backward and putting up two-finger salutes at Fazel and one of t’ Afro-haired guys I’d seen dancing earlier. Camp David wor at the edge of t’ group, his purple dress billowing in t’ summer-night breeze. The Afro-hair guy had his arm around Fazel and wor trying to lead him back into t’ house.
I watched the scene ’til I felt Tad’s arms wrap around me and his fingertips kneading my body under my T-shirt. ‘Forget them,’ he said softly into my ear.
Jayne MacDonald
26/06/1977
I woke up alone, starkers, wi’ a head that felt full of wet sand.
I’d had a fitful Technicolor dream of sitting behind the immense steering wheel of an articulated truck. The wheel wor so wide that I could barely grasp it wi’ both arms outstretched. I wor trying to steer t’ truck in one friggin’ direction while all t’ time some mysterious hand wor trying to wrest the wheel from me. The truck wor veering out of control. I’d woken suddenly just as it drove over a cliff into an abyss.
I propped mesen on one elbow. Fazel’s duvet had a musty, unlaundered smell to it. I didn’t know if Tad had stayed the night or had left me kipping. I could only remember t’ sex as a drunken, fumbling urgency and awkwardness. Neither of us could make it to t’ end, as if summat other than t’ gin wor preventing us, so we’d lain there, listening to t’ party winding down. Had he stayed, or had he scarpered as soon as I’d fallen into a sozzled slumber? Maybe he hadn’t wanted to be found here. And where wor Fazel? Had he come across us? If so, where had he slept?
I stretched my limbs like a cat and listened out for signs of life. Right now, I wor thinking, I could murder a full English brekkie. Two rashers, sausage, fried egg, baked beans and buttered toast. A nice thick slice of Mother’s Pride to mop up the egg.
I kicked back the duvet, crossed to t’ window and pressed my face against t’ windowpane. The sky wor a milky gauze. In t’ window of t’ house opposite hung a solitary Leeds Utd rosette. The brickwork of t’ next house along wor painted lime green, wi’ purple window frames and doors. An Asian family must live there. I saw houses like that on t’ rounds, the brickwork garish colours, as if trying to evoke the spirit of another place far away amidst all t’ dull red brick.
A frail old woman in a floral apron and outsized slippers wor putting summat in a dustbin. I watched her as she clattered the lid, looked about, took out whatever it wor again, clattered the lid again, looked about some more, then rattled it again. She scanned the neighbouring houses, waiting. When no one appeared she rattled the lid one final time, as if saying ‘To hell wi’ you all then,’ before shuffling back indoors.
I dressed and headed down to t’ kitchen. Camp David wor in his dressing gown, upending a bottle of nail-varnish remover onto cotton-wool balls. The astringent smell of t’ nail-varnish remover, cold fag ash, flat beer and old wine assailed my nostrils. Someone had made a half-arsed attempt at tidying up. A carton of empty wine bottles had been put by t’ back door, and paper cups, corks, cans, ring pulls and ciggie butts had been swept into a loose pile. I scoured about for matches wi’ which to relight the pilot of t’ gas boiler.
‘Want some tea?’ I said, filling the greasy old kettle.
‘Oooh, please. Better make that three mugs. There’s someone waiting for you in the lounge.’
‘For me? Who? Not Tad?’
‘If by that you mean the man with whom you were climbing the walls last night, he left at first light. Who was that, anyway?’
‘Do you think Fazel minded?’
‘That you sullied his bed? Hardly. Fazel got off with John and Arnie, and went back to their place. Anyway, I don’t believe he’s washed those sheets in six months. That room must smell like a fox’s den.’
I carried two mugs of tea into t’ lounge. There, parked in an armchair, wreathed in smoke, surrounded by old beer cans and empty wine bottles and leafing through a back copy of Gay News, sat Gordon.
‘Good morning,’ he chirrupped. ‘Ah, tea!’
‘This is most unexpected, Gordon.’
Gordon smiled soppily, his eyes sparkling at me.
‘Well, I had intended to call on my dear friend Charles. You haven’t met Charles yet, but you should. Marvellous old soul. Charles and I used to go on weekend cottaging forays together, until Charles developed emphysema. Difficult to perform orally when you’re constantly out of breath. But I digress. Charles wasn’t at home, so I suppose he must be over at his sister’s. He goes there for Sunday dinner sometimes. So then I thought, Gordon, why don’t you pop in on Radclyffe Hall? And so, here I am. I have to say, you do look a picture in eyeliner.’
I wiped my sleeve across my face. ‘David wor messing wi’ my face last night. I should go wash it off. Folks’ll think I’ve gone all Larry Grayson.’ From t’ kitchen we could hear t’ radio, and Camp David trilling along to Donna Summer’s ‘I Feel Love’. A police panda car whizzed by t’ window, siren la-la-ing furiously.
‘Heavens, that’s about the fourth in twenty minutes,’ Gordon said, flicking ciggie ash off his trouser knee. ‘I thought it might be fire engines. But fire engines have an altogether distinct sound. No ambulances either. Just the police. Something is keeping the old Bill busy this morning. I was hoping,’ he continued, touching the knot of his old paisley tie, ‘to invite you out on a little foray in the Humber. But if I’m disturbing you, do say. I don’t mind being on my own. I’ve grown quite used to it in fact.’
He pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and parped into it loudly. My throat tightened a notch. I didn’t want to be caught up wi’ Gordon for t’ day. My head wor fuzzy and my body wor limp. I needed some time on my tod. Most likely I smelt like a tomcat.
We heard yet more screaming police sirens. Gordon rose from his chair and filched three ciggies from a packet lying on t’ dining table. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘but I need a good cuppa to unfreeze the blood, and a cigarette or two to clear the cobwebs from the mind.’ He lit one ciggie and put the other two in his top pocket. He inhaled deeply. ‘If you won’t accompany me on a drive into the country, will you at least, young man, let me give you a lift home?’
I nodded gratefully.
On t’ way Gordon prattled on about his car.
‘This is my fourth Humber,’ he said proudly. ‘My first was a Humber Snipe from the late 1930s, then I changed that for a Humber Super Snipe Mark IV, then I had a Series III saloon for a while – the one with the double headlights – and now I drive this one – the Series IV saloon. Sadly, they don’t make them any more. There’s no craftsmanship, no elegance in cars nowadays. We’re being flooded by Japanese tin boxes on wheels. Of course, my boy, this car is a mite conspicuous when out cottaging, so I usually park a few streets away so as not to be noticed.’
The friggin’ talk wor always reverting to cottaging. Any moment now, I thought gloomily, Gordon’s going to suggest just that: stop off at some red-brick public lav, wi’ Gordon dallying about while I’m sent inside to whip up some action. Or worse, get me and some other bloke in t’ back seat of t’ Humber, wi’ Gordon ogling in t’ rear-view mirror while he fumbles wi’ himsen. Not that Gordon had suggested owt of that ilk. Mind you, if it wor Tad … I sniffed. I could smell him on my skin.
‘I’ll drop you at the end of your street, shall I?’
‘Might be best.’
Watching the Humber pull away, it occurred to me that I hadn’t told Gordon where I lived.
I walked in on Mother and Mand having a barney. Summat about some evening job that sis had lined up. Mother’s face and neck wor practically piebald red and white. Sis wor saying, ‘I’ve already said I’d do it.’
‘Well, you can unsay it. Does Mitch know about this?’
Mand pouted and looked sideways at the floor.
‘He won’t let me. I know he won’t. I know what he’ll say.’
‘You don’t know anything of t’ sort.’
Mother looked at me like I wor summat alien.
Sis worn’t done yet. ‘But it’s only in the evenings and I wouldn’t miss school or owt and anyway I’m leaving in a couple of week and it would be brill and I know there’s this nutter going about but we still have to live our lives and I’m dead careful and anyway he’s only topping whores.’
‘Not no more, he ain’t. Didn’t you hear t’ news this morning?’
‘Has there been another one?’ I asked quietly. ‘I heard t’ police sirens.’
Mother’s neck vein glooped like a snake swallowing a rat. ‘An innocent sixteen-year-old girl! Murdered only yards from her home!’
I opened the acne fridge-magnet door. So that’s what all t’ hoo-hah wor about. At least, I thought, they’re giving this one some attention. There wor nowt much in t’ fridge save an open pack of cheddar cheese slices. I wor ravenous, and needed a shower. I opened the breadbin and pulled out two slices of Mother’s Pride.
‘But Mum,’ persisted Mand, ‘it’s only a couple evenings a week in a caf.’
‘Mandy, darling, this latest one, she worn’t no prostitute, she wor a young girl almost t’ same age as you, and …’
‘I’m careful, Mum!’
‘So is HE! Careful at hunting down his victims!’
‘But we don’t live anywhere near where it happened … This ain’t no prozzie area! It’s not fair!’
Mandy’s voice wor hard, full of need. I wor wondering what kind of caf it wor. Probably some steamed-up hole wi’ dirty cream walls, red Formica tables and cappuccino machines that make that friggin’ awful sucking sound. Fry-ups and liver and peas and steak-and-kidney pies under cellophane. The pop rounds wor chocful of ’em.
I dropped the two slices in t’ toaster.
‘I’ll put it to Mitch,’ Mother wor saying.
Mandy rolled her eyes. ‘He’ll say no! I know he will. I hate him, he says no to everything. In any case, he’s never here, so he can’t stop me. I don’t care what any of you say, I’m doing it!’
She kicked her new shoulder bag, that wor parked on t’ floor, sending it skating across t’ kitchen. The toaster popped.
‘That’s enough! You’re still too young. Maybe next year.’
‘Next year, next year!’ Mandy yelled. ‘It’s always next year! Rick has a job, so why can’t I?’
Grinning, I held up my hands in protest. ‘Don’t look at me,’ I said. ‘Mitch got me that job, and he takes most of t’ dosh off me every week for so-called upkeep. Sis, any chance of a bacon sarnie? Bit of pre-job training?’
She scowled. ‘I hate you!’ she spat. ‘And you smell!’
I kipped dreamlessly for a couple of hour. I wor pulled from my slumber by a
rapping sound coming from t’ back of t’ house. I lay awake for a while, idly massaging my balls, thinking of Tad and listening to this sound, trying to work out what it wor. My bedside alarm clock said two-thirty in t’ afternoon. I rose and crossed the landing into t’ bathroom, opened the window a smidgen and peered down.
On our dried-up patch of back lawn wor a large tomcat wi’ a bird in its mouth. Downstairs below me, Mother wor drumming her fists on t’ kitchen windowpane. Then she opened the window and screamed shrilly at the cat to go away. Which it did, just a few feet, wi’ t’ bird whole in its gob. It dropped the bird and looked about. The bird wor flapping a wing on t’ ground. The cat toyed wi’ it, releasing it then pouncing on it again, rolling it across the grass wi’ its paws then taking it in its mouth again.
It’s just a cat, I told mesen, acting out a cat’s instincts. It don’t know no better. I heard the window downstairs close, and moments after Mother appeared round the side of t’ house. The cat, momentarily startled, froze and looked at her indignantly. She shouted again, waving her arms.
‘Shoo! Go away!’
The cat stiffened onto its paws, its back arching. Then it dropped the bird and fled. The bird lay on t’ grass, quivering in shock. Mother came back inside to get summat to pick it up with. No helping the poor bugger now, I thought. What wor she going to do wi’ it? Bring it indoors and nurse it back to health? Better to knock it on t’ head wi’ a mallet or summat.
The coast clear, the cat returned, stalking rapidly across t’ grass. It pounced, dragging the bird away. At a safe distance, it bit off its head. Mother screamed. The cat scarpered, leaving a headless carcass lying on t’ lawn.
I’d awoken to a tilted world. The Murder of the Innocent One! So that’s what all t’ sirens had been about. By t’ evening we wor on t’ TV, radio, even t’ friggin’ foreign news. Leeds wor finally on t’ map for summat other than friggin’ footie.
In no time the city wor heaving wi’ Southern friggin’ journalists, shoving their fat-headed mics in t’ faces of folk just going about their business, trampling through flowerbeds, knocking on doors. An innocent! Thousands of statements wor being taken, everyone wor being questioned about their whereabouts on t’ night in question.
Blood Relatives Page 11
