“Have you done your letters today?” her mummy asked.
“Yes,” Liyana said, thinking that since she was being burned alive by lies, she’d be stupid to tell the truth.
“Good.” Isisa spread the thick white gloop onto the nape of Liyana’s neck. “I bought a new bedtime book—you shouldn’t waste time anymore with those silly stories your teacher gives you, they’re too easy.”
Liyana closed her eyes and locked her jaw. She hated story time, where she read aloud and her mummy watched, pouncing on every stumbled word.
“Here you must work harder than everyone else, Ana,” she said. “In Ghana you were somebody: daughter of Isisa Sibusisiwe Londiwe Chiweshe, granddaughter of the late Zwelethu Sibusiso Londisizwe Chiweshe. Here you are nobody. Less than the poorest, filthiest white woman living on the streets.”
Liyana opened her eyes. A protest rose in her throat; she swallowed it down. There were enough battles with her mummy; she’d pick the ones she stood some chance of winning.
“To stand out, you must fight,” Isisa continued, spreading the gloop around Liyana’s ears. “No one will give you a favour; every chance you will snatch from someone else’s hand, okay?”
When Liyana realized her mother was looking at her, waiting for a response, she nodded.
“You must train harder, study closer, speak smart and strong,” Isisa said, brandishing the gloopy spatula aloft. “You must struggle every day to prove you are better than the best of them. Then you might stand out, then you might survive.”
Liyana wanted to say that although she certainly wanted to survive, she didn’t particularly want to stand out. Quite the opposite.
Instead, she nodded, biting down the pain of her burning-hot scalp and wondering at the contradiction of striving to stand out while also sweating to fit in.
Scarlet
When she had a little girl of her own, Scarlet vowed, she would spoil her rotten, would give her everything she asked for and plenty more she didn’t. She wasn’t entirely certain how to go about getting a daughter. But if her mother, who didn’t seem to want one, had managed to get one, then it couldn’t be too difficult. And once Scarlet had worked out the particulars, she would ensure that her child felt exceedingly and excessively loved.
Scarlet’s daughter would grow up under a blanket of devotion—she’d be almost smothered; she’d never have to cling to tiny maternal scraps, ripped cloths of almost affection. Scarlet didn’t know why her mother didn’t feel for her what mothers were supposed to feel, but she knew she would be different. Scarlet would dote on her daughter, would nurse her, would stroke her soft tufts of red hair, her plump cheeks, her tight curled fists. Scarlet would adore her daughter right from the start, before she’d done anything to earn it, when all Red (as she’d be called) could do was cry.
Scarlet often thought about how it might feel to be loved for no special reason at all. Without trying to twist yourself into agreeable knots, without having to give what you might not want to give, safe in the knowledge that you were loved for just being your simple self. With her own daughter, Scarlet determined to prove that unconditional love was possible, to prove that it was her mother and not her who was flawed.
Bea
“Careful!” Liyana called up to the soles of Bea’s disappearing shoes. “Don’t climb too high.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Scarlet shouted. “Go as high as you can!”
Bea paused to look down from the branch. When she met Scarlet’s gaze, she grinned, stood straighter, lengthening her spine, reaching towards the canopy. “I’m going all the way up!”
Why not? she thought. It wasn’t too far. And this place was different, after all. It wasn’t like Earth, where a fall from a tree this high would have killed her. The physical laws here were all askew—how else to explain the perpetually falling leaves?—gravity was more forgiving in Everwhere.
When Bea reached the highest branch, she found a firmer footing and readied herself to leap. Then, as she wiggled her toes to the edge, Bea looked down to find her sisters’ eyes, to make sure they were fixed on her.
“If you fall, I’ll catch you.” Liyana stood at the base of the tree, hands pressed to the trunk. “But please don’t fall.”
“I’m not going to fall,” Bea cried. “I’m going to fly!”
Leo
“Psst!”
Leo, stiff and straight in his dormitory bed, twisted in his blankets to turn halfway towards the bed beside his. He saw a hand reaching out across the darkness. He waited.
“Psst.”
“What?” Leo hissed.
The boy in the next bed waggled his hand, as if expecting Leo to take it.
“Marsden, Christopher,” he whispered. “You can call me Chris if you like.”
Leo looked down at the hand but didn’t shake it. “Penry-Jones, Leo.”
“Good to meet you,” Christopher said. He retracted his hand and sat up. Leo did the same. “You’re new, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Why so late?”
“What do you mean?” Leo said, hugging his knees.
“Well, most boys start here before they’re six, don’t they? I did.”
“Yeah, well, my mother wanted me at home,” Leo said. “My father allowed it for a while, but when I turned eight, he insisted.”
Christopher slipped down under his blankets again and pressed his head into the pillow. “You’re lucky.” He smiled. “I bet your mother’s missing you like mad. Mine hasn’t even noticed I’m gone.”
Leo smiled back. “If you’ve been here three years, then I bet she has.”
Christopher gave a slight snort, as if he couldn’t even begin to tell Leo how wrong he was. “Do you miss your mother?”
“I, um . . .” Leo was reluctant to confess just how much he did.
“You can come in here with me,” Christopher whispered. “If you like.”
And Leo knew that, although several metres of floor and several inches of bedding separated them, Christopher still felt the frantic pulse of his loneliness unsettling the air. Leo cast a quick eye over the twelve other dormitory beds, at the boys cocooned in sleep and tight sheets. And before he could chicken out, Leo gave a quick tug to his sheets and set his feet onto the cold stone floor.
A few minutes later Christopher was asleep, curled towards Leo, his soft snores tickling Leo’s ear. Until dawn, Leo watched his new friend sleep. And not until the morning sun began to light the dormitory did Leo sneak back into his own bed.
7th October
Twenty-five days . . .
7:11 a.m.—Goldie
I have a confession. I’m sort of stalking Leo. I’m not tapping his phone or following him home—though I happen to know he’s studying law at Saint John’s, and for some reason (probably an overprotective mother—I recognize the signs) he spends some nights at the hotel with his parents. Admittedly, I clean his family’s suite more thoroughly than is strictly necessary, lingering over certain things such as his shampoo and shirts. I know it’s not part of my job description to tend to his wardrobe, or sniff his toiletries, but I like to go above and beyond in my duties.
Last night, while dusting the interior of Leo’s bedside table, I discovered his diary. I didn’t read it. I may be a thief and a liar, but I still have certain moral standards. I haven’t even opened it. And I won’t. No matter how tempted I am. Cross my heart and hope to die.
After the curious experience of commanding Leo, nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Life has been boring and benign, which, though I don’t exactly revel in it, is certainly preferable to strange and unexpected. I go to work, clean lavatories, daydream about Leo, hoover floors, polish mirrors, dust carriage clocks. I go home, feed Teddy, help with his homework, clean the flat, go to bed. After nearly a week of that, I’ve almost forgotten the experience altogether. Which is why I’m shocked when it happens again.
I’m hoovering the first-floor corridors when I glance up to see Mr. Penry-Jones st
riding towards me. For a second I’m still, since there’s every chance his son might be striding along behind him. He isn’t. But before I can continue hoovering, Mr. Penry-Jones steps past me, treading on the hoover cord without a word of excuse to me, or anything else to acknowledge my existence, and continues on his merry way.
Dickhead, I think. I hope you fall and twist your bloody ankle.
A second later, he trips over the twisting cord and is thrown forward, splayed out on the plush purple carpet like a starfish. I nearly laugh but am stopped by shock. A coincidence, surely?
“Don’t stand there gawping, idiotic girl,” he snaps, half lifting his head. “Call the doctor. I think I’ve twisted my bloody ankle.”
That has me gawping a good few seconds longer, but I pull myself together and go. As I’m hurrying down the hallway, I feel another surge of strength. All at once I’m taller, stronger, faster. I can command armies, I think. I can topple nations. I have magic at my fingertips . . . I feel as if my head were brushing the ceiling and my feet have lifted from the floor. I’m seized by a strange sensation of slipping my fingers into wet earth, touching elongated roots. I’m coaxing them, controlling them, pulling a fully formed tree fresh from the ground. Then, all at once, the roots are rebelling, wrapping round my wrists, tugging me underground. A rush of panic snatches hold of me—I start to shrink back and sink down so, by the time I reach the stairs, I’m small and insignificant again. What the hell was that? I think, as I hurry to get help.
7:48 a.m.—Goldie
Garrick dismisses me as soon as he reaches Mr. Penry-Jones, still prostrate on the carpet and whining like a little girl, clutching at his ankle. I leave Garrick clucking and fawning over his guest like a neurotic ma. I wait till I’m safe behind the door to room 17 before I burst out laughing, stifling the sound in my apron.
I go slower after that, though, distracted by my thoughts. I don’t know. It’s strange. As a kid, all I wanted was to be strong. Stronger than the adults around me. But, now that I might be, I find it oddly unnerving.
I save Leo’s room for last, the way I used to save sweets as a kid. I’ve not taken anything but I’ve done worse, since a violation of privacy is a far greater sin than theft. Okay, so I lied. Not only have I been through Leo’s personal things, but I’ve now read his personal thoughts, and some of them are quite surprising.
I’m still sitting on the single bed, when he walks into the room. Mercifully, I’ve just returned the diary to its drawer. I leap up.
“What are you doing?”
I stare at him open-mouthed but say nothing.
He eyes me curiously. “Are you . . . stealing?”
I frown, before noticing a black leather wallet on the bed, next to the imprint I’d left on the quilt. “Oh, no, I—” Then I reconsider. It’s better he thinks me a thief (I am, after all) than a snoop. So I hang my head.
Leo crosses the room in three strides. He’s in front of me before I can take my next breath, his mouth now closer to mine than a man’s has ever been since—
“You’re not . . .” He reaches out towards my cheek and I flinch. But, as I feel the heat of his hand, the pulse of his fingers, I find I’m not scared. I meet his eyes, half a dozen shades of green and, now I notice, a splash of yellow at the centre. Sunlight on leaves. There’s curiosity in his eyes, tenderness too.
“Leo! What the hell’s going on?” Mr. Penry-Jones stands in the doorway, leaning on a gilded walking stick, his left foot elevated, his face flushed with fury.
Leo drops his hand and steps away.
“Do you want to explain yourself?” Mr. Penry-Jones hobbles into the room, taking in the scene: his son, me, the wallet. “Leo?”
I look to Leo, who’s staring at his father.
“Leo.” His voice drops. “Were you engaging in something untoward with this—?”
“No, sir. Of course not.”
“Well then, what in hell were you doing?”
“I was only asking her—”
I step forward. “H-he caught me,” I say. “I—I was . . . t-trying to take his . . . wallet.”
11:59 a.m.—Goldie
Leo denies it. He tells his father it isn’t true. Heated words (father’s loud, son’s soft) are exchanged, while I stand next to the bed, looking from one to the other and then at my feet. I don’t know why I did it, why I said it. It was a stupid, stupid impulse. I know only that I felt a sudden desire to protect him from his father’s shaming. After they’ve been arguing for a while, the elder Penry-Jones hobbles to the telephone and picks it up.
“I’d like to speak with the manager, please. Yes, I’ll wait.”
My spirits sink through the floor down to Garrick’s office. I knew this was coming and I’m already regretting my foolish chivalry. But it’s too late to deny it now.
When Garrick doesn’t even try to grope me in the lift, I realize the full severity of my situation. I enter his office first, and he closes the door behind us. At the click of the lock, my spirits sink down to the basement. As Garrick eases his bulk into the cheap faux-leather chair behind his desk, the fabric squeaks and he coughs to cover it. He crosses his thick legs.
“Oh, Goldie. What a disappointment you’ve proved to be.”
He sighs theatrically, as if he were a high court judge sentencing a serial killer. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes.
“Well then . . .” He sits back, steepling his fingers and pressing them to his lips—the ridiculous pose he’s affected to ponder my fate. “How . . . are we going to handle this?”
I stay silent. I won’t deny the charges or beg for leniency. I feel the quicksand rising and know any such tactics will only hasten my descent. Garrick lowers his hands, uncrosses his legs. He leans forward, his bald spot shining with sweaty excitement. It pulses off him in sticky waves.
“Now, under ordinary circumstances I’d have to dismiss you, effective immediately. And call the police. However”—he pauses for further dramatic effect—“There are . . . alternative options to consider.”
He pushes the chair back and stands; the faux leather squeaks as it releases him. He steps around the desk. Watching him, I bite my upper lip. All the blood blanches from it.
“What do you think to that?”
I say nothing, eyeing the locked door.
“That’s okay, you don’t need to speak.” He grins. “I mean, I like a pottymouth as much as the next man, but I don’t need you to rev me up. I’m all revved up already.” He takes another step towards me. “You stand against the wall like a good little girl. I’ll do all the work.”
He steps closer. I stumble back. He reaches out to steady me. I flinch, but since his office is almost as small as the lift, I’m now backed up against the wall. I start to hyperventilate. Garrick pushes on me with all his weight so I’m pinned to the wall.
“Would you like to do the honours?” He nods down at his groin. “Or shall I?”
I try to speak, but I’m struggling to breathe.
“Cat got your tongue?” He brings his face so close that I can see the pores of his sweaty skin and smell his stale, smoky breath. For one horrific moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. Instead he slips a fat finger into my mouth. My eyes go wide, unblinking.
“You like that?” He grins again. “Suck it up, sweetheart—a small preview of coming attractions.”
Then, somehow, I do what I’ve never been able to do before. Instead of freezing, I fight. It’s an impulse; I don’t think strategy, I just bite. I bite down so hard on his finger that his skin breaks and blood fills my mouth.
Garrick shrieks and leaps back, grasping his bloodied finger, hopping and twitching and squealing like a pig being slaughtered.
“You—you little fucking bitch!” he screams. “What the fuck do you—?”
A cascade of curses gush forth, words so crude, so colourful, that for a second I’m pinned to the spot in shock. Then I turn and run.
12:34 p.m.—Liyana
Other than her tarot cards
, when Liyana feels lost it is blackbirds she looks for. They are her personal angels, messengers from a benevolent universe, if such a thing exists, to reassure and remind her, to tell her when she’s on the right track. At the sight of a blackbird Liyana feels that, ultimately, all is right with the world, no matter how hopeless it might seem at the time.
It’s blackbirds because, though she’d never admit this to another living soul, Liyana believes that, in some esoteric and inexplicable way, they embody her mother’s spirit. Perhaps because Isisa used to sing a song about blackbirds so often it became a soundtrack to her dreams. Sometimes Liyana would wake with the lyrics still on her lips. Sadly, she can’t remember any of the words anymore, no matter how hard she tries.
Liyana hasn’t picked up a feather or seen a blackbird in weeks. The angels have deserted her. So Liyana returns to the tarot. She asks about money, about marriage, about the chance of miracles. She deals the Tower, the Three of Swords, the Five of Cups. She asks the same questions over and over, dealing again and again for the chance of different cards. She shuffles and reshuffles, deals and re-deals, in the desperate hope of a single reassuring sign. She gets none.
2:59 p.m.—Scarlet
Scarlet leans against her beloved cappuccino machine, half-heartedly polishing Francisco’s flank with a dishcloth, trying not to think about Ezekiel Wolfe and his plans to erect another monument to global capitalism on the site of her grandmother’s little café. Scarlet feels a fool. Still, she’ll be damned if she’ll let Mr. Wolfe get his claws on the café. It’s still beloved, after all. The old stalwarts still come. Cambridge is a city of tradition, ritual, memory. Sadly, though, this loyalty doesn’t increase with the same eager ferocity as the rent.
Glancing at her blurred reflection in the shining stainless steel, Scarlet allows herself to wonder what she might do if she weren’t doing this. She hasn’t thought about doing anything else, not for years. Why would she? She’s qualified for nothing—where will ten GCSEs get you nowadays? Even if they are all As. Which, given that she was helping her grandmother out in the café every day after school, is quite impressive. But what employer would think so? She’d need to continue studying or take a training course. Either of which would require time and money, neither of which she has in plentiful supply.
The Sisters Grimm Page 9
