by Emmy Ellis
Elation butterflies danced in my gut, coupled with fear of what would happen when I returned home later that night. I shoved those thoughts away, concentrating on the good feelings for once. I’d beaten Mam, and if this was the only time I’d ever do it, I wanted to revel in my victory.
Ever attuned to danger, and despite the breeze slapping at them, my ears picked up the sounds of rustling grass. Eyes still closed, I smiled, thinking Gary had come to meet me early, had maybe anticipated I’d be at the park by now. I stopped moving my legs, waited for the swing to slow, listened to the grass sounds moving closer. Stretching my foot, I let it drag along the floor, ceasing the swing’s motion. Footsteps padded across the tarmac that surrounded the play area. I opened my eyes.
A screech, coupled with Mam’s breath, hit my face. Her hands found my shoulders, yanked me from the swing, and pushed me downward by sheer rage-induced force. My torso flung over the swing’s seat chest down, and the chains that held the swing to the brightly covered frame jangled. Wound across my neck. The metal chilled my throat, bit at the soft flesh. I opened my mouth to gulp in oxygen and was left wanting.
“You fucking little whore. I’ll teach you to go against me. Who the fuck d’you think you are, eh?”
I didn’t answer, couldn’t.
“Eh? Answer me, you little bitch.”
I brought my hands up to the chain, my fingers slipping against the metal, unable to find purchase. Gargled sounds came from my mouth, and I kicked my feet in an attempt to strike her, anywhere, give her pain so she released her grip. I stared at the sky, silently apologised to Mr Moon for kicking him in the head, pleaded with him to make the star-steps appear.
“She’s one angry mother.” Belinda.
She stood before me, chubby hands on chubby hips, her eye-socket face now purple. I conveyed my want through my eyes, hoped she’d understand what I needed.
“Oh, no. Not your time. Sorry, no star-steps for you.”
The chain’s pressure released, and I slumped forward, the swing’s seat pushing on my chest. Mam’s breaths gasped behind me, my own overtaking them in volume. I swallowed. Painful. Grit dug into my knees, and I toed the ground, stumbled upright.
With my hands at my throat, rubbing the skin to ease the immense soreness, I turned to face Mam. She stood a metre away, hands by her sides, fingers clenching, unclenching to the rhythm of her exhalations. Her eyes held a wild glint, and her cheeks, I’d never seen them so red.
A sharp pain pricked my temples, and I swear my brain swelled, even for only a moment, before it shrivelled back to its usual size. Swallowing again—fragments of glass—I concentrated on steadying my breaths, reducing the speed of my heart.
“You,” Mam said, raising a hand to point at me, “will be the death of me.” She closed her eyes, lifted her face to Mr Moon, and laughed. “Fucking ironic, eh? I was nearly the death of you.” She inhaled through her nostrils, a great snatch of air, then said, “You mark my words, kid. If you don’t come back with me now, your life won’t be worth living.”
Though only twelve years old, I saw her. Saw her. A pitiful wreck. Someone who worked hand in hand with fear to keep me in line. Fear became my best friend now.
“And you mark my words, Mam. You touch me one more time, make me do one more thing, and I’m telling the police.”
Her breath hitched. She opened her eyes, looked at Mr Moon again—had he witnessed some of her misdeeds too?—and then switched her attention to me. She stared with eyes that had frightened me witless throughout my life, and her irises dulled—a light went out.
“Your neck’s swelling.” She turned from me and trudged back across the park in the direction of home.
* * * *
I walked to Gary’s. No idea of the time, I banged on his front door with the side of my fist, rested my palm on the wall beside the door, and bent over. Pressure built in my throat from my position, and I straightened upright once more, swallowed the glass.
The door opened. Gary’s dad, Pete, stood there, a smile across his face. His brown hair stood on end as if he’d been having a rest on the sofa. Stubble covered his chin, and specks of mechanic’s grease dotted his cheeks. The smell of food—sausage and mash?—wafted from the house.
“Oh, it’s you, Carmel. Come in. What the fu—?”
I stumbled on the doorstep, caught by his strong arms.
“What the fuck’s up with your neck? What’s happened?” asked Pete, steering me into their living room. I inhaled the scent of grease from his grey T-shirt. “Someone shut the front door, will you? Gary? Carmel’s here. She’s hurt.”
I waved my arms, my hands flapping on the ends like rubber, and sat on the sofa. “No. It’s…I’m okay.”
Pete sat beside me, dangled his hands between his open legs. “’Ere, Sandra. Come and look at the state of this kid’s neck. Fucking purple and swollen, it is.” Spittle flew from Pete’s mouth, and he flashed out his tongue to dismiss the globules that rested on his bottom lip. “Jesus. What you been up to, Carmel?”
I leant back, rested my head on the sofa. “Fell off a swing. The chain went round my neck.” Covering for Mam? No…
“Reckon you need to see a doctor,” said Pete as he turned in the direction of the kitchen. “Sandra? Where are you? Didn’t you hear me?”
Sandra, Gary’s mam, bustled into the room, her fleshy cheeks flushed. “What?” she said, a tea towel in her hands. “Oh, fuck me. What happened?” Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes devoured the state of me.
“Fell off a bloody swing, she said. Chain caught round her neck. Lucky she didn’t top herself, eh?” Pete stood, placed one hand on his denim-clad hip; the other swiped his brow.
“Blimey,” said Sandra. “Do you want us to take you home, Carmel? Get your mam to take you to the doctor?” She raked a hand through her short, curly blonde hair.
Pete’s loud bark of laughter made me jump. “You taking the piss, love? That bitch wouldn’t put a suffering dog down.” He looked at me, adding, “Sorry. Uncalled for, that.”
I smiled. Laughed. “No, it’s okay. You’re right.”
* * * *
“You sure you’ll be okay?” asked Gary.
We walked across the field that housed the funfair in its centre.
“Yeah. It’s fine, just a bit sore.”
Gary frowned then smiled. “Knew she’d let you out.”
I laughed quietly. “Yeah.”
The ground throbbed with music. The beat travelled through my feet, up my legs. I kept my gaze forward—it hurt to turn my neck—determined to enjoy the evening’s entertainment. Shrieks from riders flew into the air on wings of fun, and the low rumble of ride owners speaking into microphones sounded garbled, indecipherable. Despite the constant ache in my throat, excitement buzzed around me, enticed me to join in the revelry. As we drew closer, I spotted candyfloss stalls, Hook a Duck, the Rifle Range. Brightly coloured stalls lured crowds to gather round them.
The Waltzers’ cars trundled around the platform, their inhabitants screaming, faces smiling. The Twister stood proudly in the centre of the field, spider-shaped, a riding carriage on the end of each leg. Those legs rose, the body spun, and the spider feet rotated and whizzed through the air, much to the delight of the people inside them.
Reduced to a child, a proper child, I broke away from Gary’s side and ran towards the melee.
“Hey, wait up,” Gary yelled.
I smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Memories. Those good ones are brilliant when regurgitated, spun back through the mind. I re-lived that evening on my walk home. It took my mind off what might happen when I arrived at Mam’s decrepit shit hole. Yes, my neck was sore, very, and no, I couldn’t scream on the rides, even when I wanted to, but the exhilaration that zipped through my body proved enough. I experienced freedom up there in the sky—that’s what being on The Twister felt like. So much so, I went on that ride three times. My guts rolled, hair danced in the wind, face pulled in all d
irections, and the fun, sheer fun of being ‘just a kid’ was mine for a couple of hours.
The free ride sessions over, Gary treated me to some candyfloss, and I hooked a duck and won a crappy plastic ring, silver, with a huge fake diamond in the centre. Gary placed it on my finger and like a proposing sap, said, “We’ll be friends forever, right?”
“Right,” I said, hugging the knowledge to my heart that he wanted me as his lifelong friend. I placed it in a box in my mind, the one labelled SPECIAL. No lock on that box. Those recollections were free to swim through the murky waters, break through the surface into the sunlight.
I smiled again at the memory and ignored my thudding pulse as I clasped the handle of Mam’s front door. It moved downwards, and the door unlatched with a soft click. I’d expected it to be locked. Surprise burst inside a small section of my mind like a flame, a stark contrast to the darkness that greeted me in the hallway. Instantly on guard, as Mam was usually still awake at ten o’clock at night, I quietly closed the front door and walked through to the unlit living room. Furniture shapes loomed, appearing bigger than they were with the light on—menacing, even.
I shivered and glanced through the doorway to the kitchen. A slither of light beneath the door of the posh back room lit a strip of lino, its continuity broken by grey shadows. I moved towards it, the beats of my heart growing faster and louder the closer I got. Muffled voices sounded—Mam’s and Bob’s.
What are they doing in there without me?
My toe stubbed one of the chair legs, and I cursed quietly, remained still with bated breath, hoping Mam and Bob hadn’t heard the resultant scrape of wood against lino. Seconds passed. No door flung open, no questions regarding me being there blurted out of disgusting mouths. I took a couple more steps and, careful not to touch the door or the doorframe, I knelt. My knees sore from the grit at the park, I shuffled my position to one of more comfort. Leaning forward, I peered through the keyhole below the handle of the door.
My gaze landed on the bed directly opposite. A small form lay inert, its face leather-clad.
Bile surged into my throat. Confusion, fright—jealousy?—rumbled through me, and I blindly stood and ran through the house, choking back a sob. I sat on the bottom step in the hallway, caught my breath, and attempted to sort through the new set of muddles in my mind.
Tears flashed hotly down my cheeks. I pulled my thighs against my torso, resting my face on my knees. Pressure on my neck ensured I lifted my head again. All merriment of the fun evening fled as I crept up to bed and hid beneath my blanket.
Emotions raged. What was right? What was wrong? Why did I feel ousted? Wasn’t that what I wanted—to be free of Thursday nights and all they entailed? Where had that person on the bed come from? Why hadn’t Mam locked the front door if she’d been working? Scary thoughts taunted me, showed images of Mam abducting a kid on the way back from the park, her rage so prevalent that the child couldn’t fight her off. Did they make that person drink my medicine?
Of course they did, Carmel.
And what was that mask?
That mask, it jangles round the recesses of your mind. You can remember where you’ve seen it before…
Up on the star-steps looking down upon the world.
Yes.
Who the hell had taken my place?
Just some kid.
I stayed in the same position for a long time. Tears abated, questions quieted. My mind loitered, just hanging there, thinking nothing. Fuzzed voices from downstairs filtered through the fog. Noises from directly below told me Mam and Bob now stood in the hallway. My door, open a crack, allowed their voices admittance. They spoke in low tones.
“What time did your mate say he’d be here?” Mam.
“In a few minutes. He’ll take her back home, put her in bed. Nobody’ll be any the wiser,” said Bob.
“Good.”
“Been thinking about what you said, you know, about Carmel giving you grief. Ain’t a problem. We knew this would happen sooner or later.”
“Yeah. Growing tits now, she is. That’s no fucking good to us.”
“No.”
The swish of tyres on the road outside and the arc of headlights flashing through the sheet at my window brought the ‘mate’.
“He’s here. Go and get the package,” Mam said.
“Package?” Bob’s laugh grew more distant—walking back to the posh room, then.
My face burned. They’d given a kid my medicine, brought the child here without it even knowing. What about the kid’s parents? Did they know? Were there more parents out there like my mam?
More kids live like you.
The implications of this news weighed heavy on my small shoulders. What should I do?
Rat on Mam and Bob.
Where would I go then? There was no one to look after me…
Long after the shuffles in the hallway stopped, I waited in the darkness. Realisations thundered through my mind. Decision reached, I clutched Nelson to my chest and drifted into longed-for sleep.
* * * *
“Carmel? Quick. Fucking wake up. Coppers are at the front door.”
Feign sleep. Ignore her. Let her deal with it by herself.
My tummy muscles clenched.
Mam’s spiteful fingers dug into my shoulder, shook me. “Wake up. Come on, you need to go down and do your thing. Get rid of them.”
I sighed, smelt her sour breath, opened my eyes. Mam’s face, inches from mine, appeared ghost-like. Her eyes glowed, reflecting the streetlight from outside, which peeked through the holes in the window sheet. Shrugging off her hand, I stared at her.
“Get out of the way, then,” I said.
Mam moved back and stepped to the window. She pulled the sheet across a few inches, staring outside. “Two cars out there. Did you fucking call them out?”
“No.” I slipped out of bed and wrapped my teddy bear blanket around my shoulders.
Another set of raps smacked the front door.
“What the fuck do they want, then? Unless… Aw, shit. Carmel, you tell them we went to the fair together tonight.” She turned from the window and gawped at me. “And cover your damn neck. Looks black in this light.”
I clasped the sides of my blanket together beneath my chin and padded downstairs. Two dark figures stood behind the patterned glass in the front door, their outlines fuzzy. I opened the front door a crack. Smiled sleepily.
“Hello, miss. Your mam in?” one officer said, his brown hair kinked, just visible beneath his peaked cap. Kindly blue eyes.
I nodded and gazed up and down the street. The two police cars had parked haphazardly at the end of the road. “She’s asleep in bed.”
“Can you wake her up? We need to have a word,” said the other officer, a portly man, grey sideburns, brown eyes.
“Hang on,” I said and closed the door.
“Tell them you can’t wake me up!” Mam hissed.
I jumped. Mam stood beside the cupboard under the stairs, a shape in the darkness.
“Don’t think they’re here for you. Cars are up the other end,” I whispered and moved away from the door, standing with my back to the wall beside it.
“Then why do they want a fucking word?”
I shrugged, realised she wouldn’t see it in the gloom. “Dunno, but there are two at snotty’s next door as well.”
“Shit!”
Mam’s fright pleased me, although a hint of fear kissed my limbs, and my knees buckled, my hands shook. “Just let them in, Mam. They’ll get to you eventually, anyway.”
“Fucking enjoying this, aren’t you?” she said and stalked past me to open the front door. “Hello, Officers. What can I do to you tonight? Massage? Toe rub?”
One of the officers laughed. “Very funny, Annette. Just let us in, will you? Got some questions you might know the answers to.”
I retreated into the corner, pressing myself against it.
Mam’s working smile—she should have kept her mouth shut with those teeth—fil
led her face, and she patted her hair. “Good job you don’t want nothin’, really. I’m not presentable.”
A choked laugh came from the other side of the door.
“Come in, then,” Mam said on a sigh.
The three adults trooped past me in the gloom, my existence apparently forgotten. Again.
The living room light flicked on. Mam’s breath huffed as she thwumped down on the sofa, her lighter clicked, and she said, “Questions?” She inhaled, exhaled.
The vein in my throat throbbed, freaked with adrenaline.
“The old chap at the end of the road. Mr Lawton. He a customer of yours?” I recognised the voice of the older policeman.
Mam laughed—a short, harsh burst of sound. “Mr Lawton? Not fucking likely.”
“Know anything about him?” asked Old Cop.
“Nah. What with him being up the other end, I don’t see the bloke. Why?” Mam sounded bored.
“Do you know of any other prostitutes that he might have visited?” said Blue Eyes.
“Other prostitutes?” Mam sniggered. “I’m a fucking masseuse, told you lot that before.”
Old Cop laughed. “Fucking being the operative word, off the record, like.”
“No off the record about it,” Mam said. “I massage people for a living. Ain’t no crime in that.” Her inhalation sounded like a gasp of fright.
Body movements—the flick of a notebook, maybe?—sounded. Black leather shoes squeaked. “Let me rephrase that. Do you know of any woman Mr Lawton might have visited, been in contact with on a regular basis?”
“Let me answer that again for you. No, because I don’t have anything to do with the pervy old fucker.”
The air seemed to still. I held my breath, sure that Mam had said something of significance. My heart thudded, and I had the urge to run upstairs, but I stood my ground, fear like lead in my feet.
“You don’t have anything to do with him, know nothing about him, yet say he’s a pervert?” Old Cop said.
Mam’s embarrassed titter danced on my nerves. “Well, when I’ve seen him walk past the house, he reminds me of a perv, that’s all. You get to spot them in my line of work, know what I mean?”
