She repeated her mantra once more.
‘Spare some change, please . . .’ Said without effort, without hope.
Someone from the travellers’ camp, who had been homeless a long time, once told her there was a reason people walked past and ignored you.
‘They can see you perfectly well,’ he had told her. ‘But they don’t want to acknowledge you. Because that would make you real. And then they might start to think of you as a human being. Someone who got into this situation, someone who was someone else before. Someone like them, even. And they start to think how easy it is, or could be, to go from where they are to where you are. So they ignore you. Go back to work. To a job they hate, suck up to their boss who they hate, be nice to their wife or husband that they’re bored with, get on with things. Because the alternative’s always sitting there, out of the corner of their eye.’
He had said plenty more on the subject, in fact too much; he was a regular philosopher, boringly so. But that was the thing that had stuck with Lila. And now she was experiencing it for herself.
She couldn’t believe what her life had come to. She had never had a happy childhood, but she was beginning to think that her parents were right. That God hated her. God was punishing her. If so, he was a right vengeful fucker and it was really, really time he stopped now.
Head down, shoulders slumped, she felt tears once more welling at the corners of her eyes. No. She wouldn’t give in. She would be strong, brave. She would go on. Things could be worse. She thought back to the yurt, to the fate that had awaited her. Yes, things could definitely be worse.
She looked up and down the street once more. A few shoppers about, heading for the Poundlands and Poundworlds, several early lunchers, builders and tradespeople. And that was it. No one gave her money. No one saw her.
She stood up, decided to take a walk.
After she’d left Tom’s house with his coat she had returned to the leaking garage and spent the remainder of the night there, huddled under some old tarpaulin, disguised from her hunters. The coat proved warm, waterproof and over-large and she’d snuggled into it, managing to get some semblance of sleep.
She felt bad about stealing it. When she’d seen him standing there, framed in the light from the hallway, big and powerfully built, she had been scared. Terrified he would hurt her. She wouldn’t have been able to put up much of a fight, if he had wanted to.
But he was nothing like that. Polite. Kind. He had even fed her. Listened to her story. And that was the trouble. She had said too much to him. Nice as he was, she didn’t know if she could trust him. And when that policewoman had turned up at the door, she knew he definitely couldn’t be trusted and that she had to go. She had grabbed what she could – the coat – and wished she could have taken some of his food but didn’t have time or space. So it was back out the window.
As soon as dawn hit, she was out of the garage and away. Along the back roads, away from the travellers’ campsite, the opposite direction of the village. Hands in pockets, hood pulled up. Shying from vehicles, hiding in bushes and hedgerows when something approached her that might have been familiar.
Eventually, following a road sign, she found herself in Newquay. She knew it from visiting with Kai and the others. They’d surfed, she’d watched. It was the first sizeable place on the map; far enough away from the travellers’ campsite, near enough to walk. Just. Her feet were in pain, the thin, wet material rubbing and chafing, giving her massive, bursting, bleeding blisters. Dark was falling by the time she arrived and she couldn’t walk any more. The rain had held off for the most part and the coat had kept out what had fallen. With no place to stay and no money, she had curled up in a doorway and pretended she wasn’t there.
The first night had been awful. She had slept rough before, when she first left home, and she knew what to expect, but that didn’t make it any easier. Cardboard from a metal cage behind Tesco, placed in a shop doorway, the coat huddling round her.
She barely slept. But she hadn’t been disturbed and that was a relief. She had seen first-hand what could happen to homeless people. Getting attacked while they slept, pissed on, set on fire. No limit to what one human could do to another in order to feel superior. And just because it hadn’t happened to her that night didn’t mean it wouldn’t. She had to sort herself out. Straight away.
She felt in her pockets. Brought out a handful of small change. A morning’s work. She counted it as she walked. Three pounds seventy. Not bad. Maybe people were more generous than she had thought. She was starving, having not eaten anything since the food Tom had given her a few nights ago. She found a café. Nothing flash, as greasy a spoon as possible, all peeling formica tables and moulded plastic chairs, and ordered a cup of tea and a sausage sandwich. Sat down, waited for it.
The tea arrived. It tasted awful but it comforted her. And it was warm in the café. Very warm. She knew other customers were looking at her, thinking she must be one of those surfer beach bums, but most ignored her. She hadn’t been sleeping rough for long enough to look totally homeless yet.
Very warm. She unzipped the coat, took it off.
And that’s when she felt it.
A hidden pocket. She knew there had been a bulge, but thought it was just some part of the lining, an extra-thick section, padded pocket or something. But no. It was a well-disguised secret compartment. And something was in there.
Another look round. No one was paying any attention to her. Good. She opened the pocket. Took out a package tightly wrapped in plastic. Bound in elastic bands. She undid them. And suddenly she wasn’t hungry any more.
Credit card. Debit card. Driving licence. Passport. NHS card.
Jackpot.
‘There you go.’
She jumped as a bored-looking waitress slapped down a sausage sandwich in front of her. The plate spun a little, like a penny circling a drain, before coming to rest. The waitress was gone by that time.
She looked at her stash once more, her mind whirring with possibilities.
Her first thought: use the cards. Get as much out on them as she could, then run. As far away as possible. Think what she would do when she got to where she ended up at. But be careful with them; use contactless only, small amounts, or order online.
Her second thought: No. She would need an address for ordering online and the cards might already have been cancelled. Or the police might be waiting for someone to use them. Like marked banknotes. Too risky. Reluctantly she put those thoughts aside, turned to the other contents of the package.
Passport. NHS card. She smiled. That was better. That was workable. She had someone she knew who could help her with that. Kai had introduced them. And he was in Newquay. Result. She smiled. Her sausage sandwich tasted like the best thing ever.
11
Time had stopped completely. Or was moving so rapidly he couldn’t feel it. Sleeping. Waking. Both the same thing. Darkness. Cold. Loneliness. Pain. Kyle was barely aware if he was alive or dead.
He had stopped screaming. It did no good: no one heard, no one came, he just gave himself a sore throat and a hoarse voice.
He started talking to himself just to hear something. To tell himself that he was still alive, that this was actually happening. At first, once acceptance had set in and he realised he wasn’t going anywhere soon, he started to talk aloud as a kind of diary.
‘I’ve just woken up. My ankle still hurts like hell . . . I’m getting up, walking around . . .’ Gasping in pain. ‘Shit . . .’ Sitting down again, hard. ‘Fuck, that’s . . . I think it might be broken . . . hurts . . .’
From that he progressed to reliving the events that had brought him there, paying particular attention to the girl who had enticed him, definite now that he had seen reticence in her eyes. And then on to who would be coming for him. How they could reach him.
‘There’ll be appeals on TV, national TV, got to be. And my mum and dad . . . my mum and dad will . . . someone’ll see it, someone’ll s
pot me. Rand and Jack’ll be out looking for me. They’ll find me, they’ll find me . . .’
His voice always trailed off, echoed away to nothing when he reached that point.
Then on to his surroundings. ‘Where am I? Think, Kyle, think. Stone. A hole in the ground. Hole in the ground . . . an old mine? Isn’t that what this place is famous for? Cornwall? Poldark and all that?’ Pacing while he thought this, his ankle starting to bear his weight. ‘A mine. Tin mine, wasn’t it?’ No answer. He continued. ‘I’m in a mine. Probably. Maybe. Underground.’ A sigh. He sat back down. ‘Underground . . .’
The enormity of his words sank in. Underground. If that was the case, they might never find him . . .
Tears at that thought. Self-pity, loss, fear rage, everything. All the stages of grieving for his situation in one. And finally, a prickly, heart-plummeting realisation. A dark and lonely acceptance. Alone. In the dark. And no one would find him.
He didn’t know how long he continued to feel like that. Night and day had no meaning any more. He slept, but for how long he couldn’t tell. Same for waking. So he turned his attention inwards.
Because some part of him was untouched by self-pity. Some tiny desperate kernel of rage was still there, glowing hot, building. Forcing him to think, to act. Or at least to try.
He got up, walked round his cell once more. There must be something, he thought. Some small chink, some crack he could work on, expose . . .
Fingers working on the wall, the floor. Methodical, probing one section at a time, not finishing with it until it had been fully explored. His fingernails tore. His fingers felt wet. He knew they were bleeding. He would stop, let them recover, then continue.
The walls were stone. Tightly placed atop other stones. The weight from whatever construction was above him pushing the bottom ones down even further. They wouldn’t budge. No matter how hard he pushed and tried to pull, worked his fingers round the edges, tried to find cracks or crumbles of loose rock, he couldn’t shift them.
It was exhausting work to begin with but in his weakened, damaged state even more so. The breaks in between trying became longer as the rational voice in his head built up and the hopeless, futile nature of his enterprise was exposed. Then the scales would tip, and the other part of him would be in the ascendancy. Up he would get and try again.
Standing on the bed, reaching as high as he could, feeling his way round the wall, he had an idea. Could he actually do something to get even higher? Could he even manage to reach the entrance above?
He jumped off the bed, looked at it. His eyes had accustomed well to the gloom now, enough to make out shapes and shadows, judge distances and perspectives. The bed was metal-framed. Springs stretched across the frame, an old, mildewed mattress on top. If he put the bed vertically against the wall, climbed up it, could he reach the top?
He looked up. Trying to gauge whether it was possible.
Worth a go . . .
Heart quickening, he pulled the bed away from the wall. Stripping the mattress, ignoring the pain in his ankle, he scraped the bed along the floor, tried to get it to a position where he would have enough space to stand it up. Another look at the place above that he was aiming for, and he slowly flipped the bed up onto its end. Panting from the sudden exertion, he waited until he had regained his breath, shaking from the sudden burst of adrenaline, and pushed the bed against the wall.
The floor was uneven and the bed rocked. He pulled it slightly away from the wall, then pushed the top end towards it creating a steep ramp to climb up. The top two legs of the bed hit the wall, stayed put. Smiling, Kyle began to climb.
Using the springs as ladder rungs, he made his way slowly upwards, his ankle crying out with every movement, every bit of pressure placed on it.
As he reached the top, gasping and stretching, the bed began to pull away from the wall and he felt himself beginning to move backwards into air.
‘No . . .’
He pushed his body weight forward, moved the bed frame back to the wall once more. It landed with a thud. Kyle clung to it, getting his breath back, before continuing upward.
Eventually he reached the top of the bed. Balancing his feet in the spring rungs, wobbling before finding balance, ignoring the pain in his ankle, he stretched his arms up as high as he could.
His fingertips brushed the corrugated-metal covering. His heart skipped a beat, kept pounding on. He forced his body further, trying to elongate himself as much as possible. Get a grip, find an edge, push . . .
His fingers now touched the cold metal. He pushed harder. Moved his feet, tried to climb even higher.
And lost his balance.
Arms windmilling, Kyle tried to angle his body forward, grab the wall, keep himself and the bed upright.
No good. His damaged ankle had given way. The bed was detaching itself from the wall, swinging away, falling down. And Kyle went with it.
He landed on the mattress but didn’t have time to consider his luck as the frame came crashing down after him. He rolled inwards, hoping to shield himself from the impact, tucking his head into his arms, curling foetally. The heavy metal frame avoided him for the most part but the taut coiled springs, with their sharp, pointed ends, hit him with full force.
He lay there unmoving.
It was a long time before he started to cry.
12
Crack Converters. That’s what everyone Lila knew called it where she was from; she didn’t think it would be any different here. No matter what name it was going by.
The shops had sprung up about twenty years ago. Modern pawnshops, second-hand shops, offering instant cash for electronics and electrical items. Always in poor areas, always busy. Always well stocked. The staff never asked where the stuff came from. It didn’t matter, there was no law to compel them to. It was the nearest thing to legally fencing stolen goods around. Crack Converters because that’s what the core clientele usually converted their sold items into.
Lila knew there was one in Newquay. She had been there with Kai when he was offloading some audio gear he had somehow acquired. He also knew that one of the guys who worked there dealt in more lucrative stuff under the counter. The kind of stuff she had found in the coat pocket.
It took her a while, but she remembered where the shop was. Away from the tourist front, back where the locals lived. Locals who didn’t take part in the seafront bar culture. She entered the shop.
It was all strip lighting and outdated equipment, DVDs and games. The lights showed up the cheap plastic shells on the items, the years of wear, the obsolescence. Even on a rainy day like this one, the shop was busy. Mainly young men in tracksuits, trainers and hoodies that would never see the inside of a gym. Bad complexions and bad hair. Bargain-basement bargain hunters. The place smelled of sweat and damp, unwashed, smoke-infused, petrichoral clothing.
This is my kind of place now, thought Lila. These are the people I have to hang around with if I want to get by. The realisation made her feel like crying. Then another thought: No. Get this stuff fenced, get some money, get out of here. Where didn’t matter. Anywhere was better than this.
She walked up to the counter. A black kid who looked younger than her waited for her to speak. ‘Is Conroy in?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, then his eyes narrowed. He looked her up and down, appraising her. Seemed slightly put off by her shabby appearance, but from the leer on his lips was willing to put that aside. He leaned on the counter. ‘You can talk to me, if you like.’
Lila wasn’t in the mood for his shit. She gave him a stare that would have emasculated him if it could. ‘Get him.’
The youth did as he was told.
Lila waited. For longer than she had expected. It seemed like Conroy was doing it deliberately. She scanned the kids in the shop as she stood, checking how much attention she had drawn to herself. Beyond casual glances, not much. She tried to see if there was anyone she recognised. There wasn’t. Good sign.
Eventually Co
nroy appeared. He saw her, stopped walking and smiled. Not a good smile. The kind a mongoose gives before it hypnotises a snake and pounces.
But Conroy was bigger than a mongoose. Much bigger. He had so much fat on his body that his bones seemed to have shrivelled and shrunk beneath. Every part of him seemed spherical. His arms, unable to get closer to his body, stuck out at his sides like a doll, his legs also when he walked. He breathed through his mouth as he moved, panting from the effort and the strain he was putting on his lungs. His clothes – T-shirt, joggers – were enormous. By comparison his trainers looked small, or rather normal-sized. He had short, greasy black hair and somewhere in the back of his dough face, cunning little raisin eyes.
‘I know you,’ he said, wheezing as he approached her.
‘I know you do.’
‘You’re usually here with that hippy. Where’s he?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve got something for you, if you’re interested.’
He smiled, revealing a wide array of teeth in various stages of distress. His breath matched them. ‘Have you now? Let’s see it.’
‘Not here.’
He looked back the way he had come, down towards the rear of the shop. The prospect of walking there didn’t fill him with enthusiasm. ‘Better be worth it,’ he said and set off.
Aware that the black kid was watching her as she went, Lila followed him.
The back office looked exactly like the kind of place Conroy would sit in. A wide armchair pummelled into submission sat behind an office-surplus desk that was so old it could have enjoyed an expensive second life in a Hoxton members’ club. A large TV dominated the corner, a porn film frozen in mid-climax on the screen.
‘Better be good,’ Conroy said, manoeuvring his body into the armchair. ‘I was busy.’
Lila didn’t make any comment. Just stood in the centre of the room.
‘What you got then?’
‘You still dealing in cards?’
He shrugged. It took a while, sent ripples down his chest. ‘Maybe.’
The Old Religion Page 6
