by Emmy Ellis
“Tole Teddy you be round tomorrow, yeah? He get you some good shit.” He stared at his trainers—white Nikes.
“Okay, thanks.”
“What time?”
Level seven…
“Oh, about eight?”
“Eight be good. He get deliveries at seven, so it a bit hectic round about that time, you know what I’m sayin’?”
Level six…
“Yeah.”
“So, what be your poison, then? See, I makes sure Teddy got what you needs before you arrive, yeah?”
“Oh, I don’t mind.” I smiled. “Anything.”
Level five…four…
“Anything?” His laugh rumbled in the small enclosure. “You is up for tekkin anything?” He snapped his fingers together and jigged on elasticised legs. “My kinda gal, man. Whooo wee. Funny shit. Yeah, you’re funny.” He sucked on his bottom lip and nodded to a beat only he could hear.
Level three…two…
The lift stopped.
Shit! SHIT!
The door opened.
“Going somewhere without me?” Belinda asked and stepped inside the lift.
The teenager stuck his head out, looked left then right. “Fucking damn kids, man. Pissin’ about with the buttons, innit?” He sucked his teeth, stepped back inside, and jabbed the ground floor button with his thumb. “Where you off to now, then?”
Belinda stood behind him and pulled faces, sticking out her tongue.
“Home,” I said.
“Where is home?” he asked, glancing at me.
My stomach rolled as the lift reached the ground floor. The doors opened.
“Where I’m safe,” I said and stepped out into the piss-addled lobby.
“So, I see you at Teddy’s tomorrow, all right?” he said, walking through the main door with me.
“Okay.” I drew my hands up into my coat sleeves. Leaned on the door, rubbing where I’d touched it earlier.
“So, umm, yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He lurched from one foot to the other.
Embarrassed?
I think he fancies you, Carmel.
Horror bloomed in my guts.
“Yeah,” I said and ran up the paved path and away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Months shot by without seeing Belinda. Another birthday came. Funny that I woke up and automatically looked at the bottom of my bed for a present. Finding nothing, I resorted to filching through the rubbish bin down the alley at the end of the row of Victorian houses, knowing there wouldn’t be anything there either. Old habits died hard. Gary nipped round that day bearing a wilted poinsettia, a probable remnant from Christmas, but I didn’t mind. The thought counted.
One Friday, not long after my twentieth, I stopped at the chemist before going home. The skin of my hands had dried out and they itched. My boss, one with a remedy for almost anything, suggested I buy some intensive hand cream.
“After rubbing it on your hands before bed, put on some latex gloves. That’ll keep the moisture in. When you wake up in the morning, your hands will be soft,” she’d said.
I took her advice. Once purchased, I placed the items in my handbag and popped into the supermarket. Late Friday evenings saw me stocking up on food—got some cut-priced stuff, then. Sometimes Gary visited, and we’d watch a video while scoffing pizza until our tummies grew bloated and hard. Nice evenings, those. However, by nine o’clock, I realised Gary wouldn’t call round. Bored, with nothing of interest on TV, I bustled round my bedsit, cleaning. The fresh smell of bleach and Mr Sheen revived my slacking senses, and by ten o’clock I stood and looked out of the window, wide awake.
A young man leaned against the streetlamp below my window, his breaths white puffs in the cold air. He threw a glowing cigarette into the road and ground it out beneath his heel. Shoving his hands in his coat pockets, he glanced up at my window, pushed away from the lamppost, and loped down the street. Was that the bloody teenage boy with the skateboard? The urge to follow him was strong, and I raced over to my wardrobe and wrenched on my coat. Winding a scarf round my neck, I pulled on my boots and swiped up my keys.
You’ve forgotten something, Carmel.
“Oh, yes. Shit.”
I grabbed a box and stuffed it into my bag, slinging the bag’s handle over my head. Keys in pocket, I opened the door, my breaths forming moisture on the scarf near my chin.
You’ll be careful, won’t you?
“Yeah, yeah.”
* * * *
The cold air smacked me in the face, stung my eyes, and nipped my ear tops. I glanced down the road. The man had reached the end of the street, his bobbing frame growing smaller, his breaths a train’s steam. Had he followed me the last time I’d seen him to find out where I lived? It was ages ago, so why appear now?
I’d convinced myself that he wouldn’t put two and two together and tie me to the occurrence in flat twenty, level six.
Told yourself enough times that it didn’t happen, and you now believe it’s true.
I quickened my pace. Why did I want to catch up to him?
You know why.
The path glistened with frost, and the hedges bordering the gardens bore white evidence that winter’s chill would linger for some time to come. The frigid air chilled my lungs, so I buried my chin in my scarf, bringing it over my nose. The young man reached the end of the street and turned right, leaving another puff of breath as proof of his existence. I ran, despite the icy glimmer underfoot, praying the tread on my boot soles would grip the frozen tarmac.
Upon reaching the corner, I peered down another long road. He bounced along, head low, shoulders hunched. Maybe fifty metres ahead of me now, he veered across the street without looking, jeans baggy, his white Adidas sports coat too big for his skinny body. A car screeched to a halt, horn blaring, and he flipped the driver the bird. I smiled.
On the other side of the street, another road led west, a small convenience store dominating the corner. He disappeared into the shop. I followed. Inside, I didn’t see him at first, but his voice sailed back to me.
“All right? Twenty Benson and Hedges and a box of matches.”
“Do you have ID?” asked a woman.
“ID? You tekkin the fucking piss? I don’t need no ID. I’m twenty-one, man. You know this.” He clicked his tongue.
I smiled again and walked to the back of the shop. A counter spanned the width. Staggered plastic shelves sat on top of it, holding various chocolate bars. Cigarettes lined the back wall, and the middle-aged female shop assistant stood poised, her hand midway to the cigarettes the man had asked for.
“You should be flattered I’m asking for ID,” she said and picked out a gold packet of Benson and Hedges.
“Flattered? Man, you is tekkin the piss. You know how old I am—been comin’ here on and off for a long time.”
She laughed and held out her hand for payment. Sale completed, she said, “Just let me serve this young lady, and we’ll have a natter.” She turned to me. “What would you like, love?”
I pulled my scarf away from my face. “Oh, I’ll have what he had, thanks.”
The young guy leaned towards me, eyes narrowed, his black beanie bearing the Puma logo. “Is that you?”
I faced him fully. “Me?”
“You don’t remember me, right? Story of my life.” His mock-offended expression drew the urge to giggle.
I frowned. “Umm, should I remember you?”
His brown eyes widened, and his rugged, good-looking features made my stomach clench. “I’da hoped so, but it don’t matter.” He rested an elbow on the counter, looked at the woman and said, “I been thinkin’ of this woman for a long time, you know, and when I finally see her again, she don’t know who I am. Mortified ain’t the word, man.”
I smiled and paid for the cigarettes.
“Got an easily forgettable face, Richie, that’s your problem.” The woman handed me some change and winked.
“What? You sayin’ I’m forgettable now? Tsk. I shoul
d tek my business elsewhere, you know.”
I shoved the cigarettes in my pocket and turned to walk away. “Well, umm, nice to have met you both, anyway. Bye now.”
By the time I reached the shop door, he stood behind me and held it open. “You sure you don’t remember me?”
I stepped through the doorway and turned left, looking up at him. “Yeah, I remember you. You’re the kid with the skateboard in the lift.”
We walked, him bouncing beside me. His smile brightened his face, and his lips revealed a gold tooth at the front. “Kid? Tsk. And you didn’t come back to Teddy’s either, man. I waited for you.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, though I wondered what a girl like you would be doin’ getting gear from Teddy, know what I mean?” He sniffed and opened his cigarettes, offering one to me.
“No thanks,” I said. “What were you doing back there in Pointer Street?”
He paused in lighting his cigarette. It dangled from his lips, and the match rested against the strike strip on the side of its box. “Waitin’ for someone, you diggin’ me? Fucker didn’t show up.” He struck the match, the sizzle loud as the flame bounced to life.
A drug related meeting? Relieved that his hanging around my place had been a coincidence, I lightened my steps.
“I see,” I said and slid my hands into my pockets.
We walked faster without talking, and my bag smacked against my backside. I glanced at him, took in his profile. He sucked on his cigarette; the end glowed the colour of Mr Hemmings’ electric fire bars.
“You hear about that murder near Teddy’s?” he asked. “Night I met you? Some fucker topped an old geezer.”
I widened my eyes. “Really? Sounds nasty. What happened?” I blinked, sniffed, and wetted my lips.
He spat a bubbly glob of spittle on the pavement then sucked on his cigarette again. Exhaling, he said, “The old bloke, he got a poker in the head, know what I’m sayin’? Right in the middle of his forehead, man.”
“Ouch.”
We turned left at the end of the street and headed towards the estate of my youth. Blue-tinged clouds scarfed in front of the cheese ball Mr Moon, and a light smattering of rain began to fall.
“Ouch is right. He musta royally pissed someone off. Rumour went round he was a nonce. If that be the case, serves himself right, eh?”
Misty-looking rain settled on my cheeks, and the cold air froze it. I swiped my face, quickly putting my hand back in my pocket.
“Yeah, I suppose. Did they catch who did it?” I swallowed.
“Word on the street is that because of what he was, the police weren’t really interested in finding no killer. That’s one less kiddie fiddler to be worryin’ about, see?” He flicked his cigarette butt into the road. It bounced; orange sparks showered then disappeared into darkness. “Still, it gave me the heebie-jeebies at the time. Mind you, all kinds of shit goes down round there, innit. Goes with the territory.”
The territory stood before us now, a waste of space, an estate housing drug addicts, sellers, prostitutes, nonces, the dregs of society. Smattered among them lived ordinary people trying to eke an existence among the criminals.
But you’ve made it out of there, Carmel. All on your own.
Upon nearing the grey tower block, he said, “You comin’ to visit Teddy tonight?” He laughed. “Or you goin’ to visit whoever it was you visited last time?”
I blinked. “No. My friend doesn’t live there anymore.”
“Who was that, then?” He frowned and stared at the black, cloud-scudded sky. “Ah, mebbe that blonde bird, innit? The one with the twins? She hardly spoke to anyone, man.”
“That’s her,” I said. “She moved out.”
“Yeah.” He shuffled from foot to foot, stared at his trainers, another pair of Nikes. “Umm, like, I wasn’t jokin’ in the shop when I said I’d thought about you.”
I raised my eyebrows. Smiled. He looked up, his face reddening.
“What you doin’ tonight?” he asked, toeing the tarmac.
“Going to visit someone and then going home. Why?” I cocked my head, made eye contact.
“Wanna meet me for a drink in a bit? We could nip into The Shackle. Stays open until two.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Why not? Shall we meet back here in say…” I glanced at my watch. Ten forty-five. “Two hours?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, and don’t you be lettin’ me down now, else I got another lonely stretch of thinkin’ about you, innit?” He smiled, his gold tooth glinting from a nearby streetlamp.
* * * *
The quiet of the street hummed around me, and I stood and surveyed my old home from the darkness of the alleyway. The front of Mam’s house sat in darkness, the windows empty eye sockets. With my scarf over the lower half of my face, I shrugged my hood over my head and walked, head down, to Mam’s front door. The handle, dull silver, still dangled as if broken. With my hand inside my sleeve, I pushed the handle farther down. The still-scarred door swung open on silent hinges, and the odour of my younger years gusted out to greet me once again. My stomach churned, and I stepped inside, biting back a retch. Bare concrete beneath my feet—was Mam getting a new carpet at last?—echoed from my tread. Closing the front door, I stepped into the hallway.
The door to the cupboard under the stairs stood ajar, the shape of a shoe visible in the open crack. Memories of the night I’d dropped the fifty pence slashed through my mind, and the little girl I once was resurfaced. Sorrow rendered my legs weak and, shoving the images of that beating away, I stumbled into the darkened living room.
Familiar shapes: the decrepit sofa, my old chair beside the window, the coffee table holding the usual bric-a-brac. I squinted, peering through to the kitchen, seeking out the door to the back room. A line of stark light shone from beneath, showcasing a section of the dirty kitchen floor. Muffled grunts sounded, and a female said, “Finished?”
Mam.
I flattened myself against the living room wall beside the door adjacent to the kitchen, my breaths heavy, my heart ticking hard. The wall cold beneath my palms, I rested the back of my head against it and closed my eyes, immediately snapping them open again. The door to the back room opened—I’d recognise that sound anywhere—and the light spilled out, reaching the fusty carpet beside my feet.
“You know the drill,” Mam said. “Flick the door latch up on your way out. Thank fuck you’re the last one of the night.” She cackled then snorted.
Big old scary dragon.
“Same time next week?” a man asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, see you then.”
The kettle switch flicked, Mam’s lighter clicked, and the man breezed past me towards the living room door. I held my breath, and my pulse quickened, its throb painful in my neck. After releasing my breath, I inhaled once more. The scent of recent sex wafted in his wake, and I swallowed the rising vomit. He exited the living room and walked through the hallway, his shoes scuffing on the concrete. Then he fiddled with the door latch, stepped outside and slammed the door.
I stared around the gloom-filled room. The shabby net curtains seemed to glow, a square of dirty cream in an otherwise grey house. The switch on the other side of the wall snapped, and I jumped, my breath hitching. Stutters of light flashed on the carpet and the wall to my left as the kitchen strip light burst to life. Water sploshed, the sound of it filling a cup loud.
“Ow! Burnt myself. Fucking hell, that water’s hot,” Mam grumbled.
It would be. You just boiled it, you thick bitch.
I inhaled deeply, steeled myself.
Pushing off the wall, I turned and stood in the kitchen doorway. Mam swung round, her mouth an O, eyes wide in sunken sockets, hair greasy and lank, as usual. She stared at me. Screeched.
“Hello again, Mam.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
She sloshed the teabag against the side of her cup, squeezed it, then plopped it on the worktop. Steam rose from it, and I thought about picking it up and pressin
g it against her face.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she said, spooning sugar into her tea. “And why the hell am I making this tea when you are here? Get the milk out, kid.”
I did—but not from fear or habit. She left her cup on the worktop and slouched to the table, bare feet slapping on the lino. I poured milk into her tea, stirred the brew, and listened to the sounds of her shuffling into a comfortable position.
Her lighter clicked again, her previous cigarette still burning on a saucer by the kettle. I left it smouldering, the grey smoke rising into the air. Then I turned and walked to the table, placing her cup down.
Mam stared at the window in the back door—at her image reflected there?—and puffed on her cigarette. Wrinkles lined her red, lipstick-smeared mouth now. She’d aged quite a bit. Her greasy hair hung limper than I remembered, resting in slug-like strips on her shoulders. She’d acquired a new working dress—red with fake diamonds on the neckline. The skin on her slim body sagged around her waist, three rolls laying one on top of the other. Why did men go with her? Desperation? Any hole would do? You didn’t need to look at the fire when poking the coals?
“So, like I asked just now. What are you doing here?” She exhaled smoke, sipped some tea, and winced at the heat of it.
“I saw Bob last year, he—”
“Yeah, I know. He said you’d popped round.” She sniffed, and her arms jerked. “Well, it took you long enough to come back again. Happens I don’t want to see you anymore now. Had a lapse of sanity back then, I reckon.” Still staring at the window, she huffed, dumped her cup down, and crossed her arms over her stomach. A tic in her eye flickered, and she blinked, making it worse.
“I’ll just go, then, shall I?” I moved to walk away.
“Nah. Nah, you may as well stay for five minutes now you’re here. So, what you been up to?” Still staring at the window. Tic still flicking.
“Nothing much. Working mainly.” I stared at her reflection in the window. Her gaze met mine.
