[ebooktalk] two books
- From: "David Russell" <david.russell8@xxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: <ebooktalk@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Mon, 1 Jul 2013 20:01:09 +0100
Hi
Two books attached with two more to follow.
TREACHEROUS
PARADISE
ALSO BY HENNING MANKELL
Kurt Wallander Series Faceless Killers
The Dogs of Riga
The White Lioness
The Man Who Smiled
Sidetracked
The Fifth Woman
One Step Behind
Firewall
Before the Frost
The Pyramid
The Troubled Man
Fiction
The Return of the Dancing Master
Chronicler of the Winds
Depths
Kennedy's Brain
The Eye of the Leopard
Italian Shoes
The Man from Beijing
Daniel
The Shadow Girls
Non-fiction I Die, but the Memory Lives On
Young Adult Fiction A Bridge to the Stars
Shadows in the Twilight
When the Snow Fell
The Journey to the End of the World
Children's Fiction The Cat Who Liked Rain
Henning Mankell
A
TREACHEROUS
PARADISE
Harvill Seeker
LONDON
Translated from the Swedish by
Laurie Thompson
Published by Harvill Seeker 2013
2468 10 97531
Copyright © Henning Mankell 2011
English translation copyright © Laurie Thompson 2013
Henning Mankell has asserted his right under the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of
trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without
the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published with the title Minnet av en smutsig angel in 2011 by Leopard
Forlag, Stockholm in arrangement with
Leonhardt & Hoier Literary Agency, Copenhagen
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Harvill Secker Random House 20
Vauxhall Bridge Road
London swiv 2sa
www.rbooks.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be
found at: www.randomhouse.co.ukoffices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
isbn 9781846556234 (hardback) sbn 9781846556241 (trade paperback)
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'There are three kinds of people: those who are dead, those who are
alive, and those who sail the seas.'
PLATO
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE u
Africa Hotel, Beira, 2002
PART ONE
The Missionaries Leave the Ship
PART TWO
The Lagoon of Good Death
PART THREE
The Tapeworm in the Chimpanzee's Mouth
PART FOUR
The Butterfly's Behaviour When Faced With
Superior Power
EPILOGUE
Africa Hotel, Beira, 1905
AFTERWORD
GLOSSARY
V
PROLOGUE
Africa Hotel, Beira, 2002
One day in the cold month of July, 2002, a man by the name
of ]os6 Paulo opened up a hole in a rotten floor. He was
not trying to make an escape route nor was he looking for a
hiding place, but he intended to use the damaged parquet flooring
as firewood since the cold of the African winter was harsher than
it had been for many years.
Jose Paulo was unmarried, but he had taken over responsibility
for his sister and her five children after his brother-in-law, Emilio,
had suddenly disappeared one morning, leaving behind nothing
but a pair of worn-out shoes and a number of unpaid bills. His
debts were owed almost exclusively to Donna Samima, who ran
an unlicensed bar close to the harbour where she served tontonto and
home-brewed beer with an astonishingly high alcohol content.
Emilio used to spend his time drinking and talking about the
time in the distant past when he had worked in the South African
gold mines. But many people maintained that he had never set
foot in South Africa, and had certainly never held down a steady
job in his life.
His disappearance was neither something expected, nor something
unexpected. He had simply slunk away during the silent
hours just before dawn, when everybody was asleep.
Nobody knew where he had gone to. Nor would anybody miss
him all that much, not even his own family. It is doubtful whether
1
Donna Samima missed him, but she did insist that his bills should
be paid.
Emilio, the talker and drinker, made virtually no impression
on anybody even when he was in the vicinity. The fact that he
had now disappeared made no real difference.
Jose Paulo lived with his sister's family in the Africa Hotel in
Beira. There had been a time, which now seemed both distant
and incomprehensible, when this establishment had been considered
one of the grandest hotels in colonial Africa. It was ranked
as comparable with the Victoria Falls Hotel, on the border between
Southern Rhodesia and Northern Rhodesia before those countries
achieved independence and became known as Zimbabwe and
Zambia.
White people came to the Africa Hotel from far and wide
in order to get married, celebrate anniversaries, or simply
demonstrate the fact that they belonged to an aristocracy that
could never imagine that their colonial paradise would one
day collapse. The hotel had been the venue for tea dances on
Sunday afternoons, swing and tango competitions, and no end
of people had been photographed standing outside its imposing
entrance.
But the colonial dream of paradise was doomed. One day
the Portuguese abandoned their last fortresses. The Africa Hotel
started to crumble the moment the former owners had left.
The deserted rooms and suites were occupied by poverty
stricken Africans. They deposited their few belongings in the
carcasses of what used to be upright pianos and Steinway grands,
in dilapidated boudoirs and bathtubs. The beautiful parquet
floors were chopped up and used as firewood when winter was
at its coldest.
Eventually there were several thousand people living in what
had once been the Africa Hotel.
Anyway, one day in July, Jose" Paulo made a hole in the floor
2
and chopped up the parquet. It was freezing cold in the room.
The only source of heat was an iron cauldron in which they
cooked their food over an open fire. The smoke was channelled
out through a smashed and badly repaired windowpane by means
of an improvised chimney.
The half-rotten flooring had already begun to smell thanks to
its neglect. Jose thought there must be a dead rat underneath it
spreading the stench of decomposition. But when he investigated,
all he could find wa"s a little notebook with a calf-leather binding.
He managed to spell out a strange name written on the black
cover.
Hanna Lundmark.
Underneath the name was a year: 1905.
But he was unable to make head or tail of what was written
inside it. It was in a language he didn't recognize. He turned to
old Afanastasio who lived further down the corridor, in room 212,
and was regarded by all those packed inside the hotel as a wise
man, because in his youth he had survived a confrontation with
two hungry lions on a deserted road outside Chimoio.
But not even Afanastasio could read the text. He approached
old Lucinda, who lived in what used to be reception, for assistance,
but she didn't know what language it was either.
Afanastasio suggested that Jose Paulo should throw the book
away.
Tt's been lying there under the floorboards for ages,' said
Afanastasio. 'Somebody hid it there in the days when the likes
of us were only allowed to enter this building in the role of
waiters, cleaners or porters. No doubt this forgotten book tells
an unpleasant story. Burn it. Use it as fuel when it gets really
cold.'
Jos6 Paulo took the book back to his room. But he didn't burn
it, without quite knowing why. Instead he found a new hiding
place for it. There was a cavity underneath the window ledge
3
where he used to stash away any money he occasionally managed
to earn. Now the few filthy banknotes could share the space with
the black notebook.
He never took it out again. But he didn't forget about it.
4
PART ONE
The Missionaries Leave the Ship
It is 1904. June. A scorching hot tropical dawn.
In this far distant here and now, a Swedish steamship lies
motionless in :he gentle swell. On board are thirty-one crew
members, one of them a woman. Her name is Hanna Lundmark,
nee Renstrom, and she is working on board as a cook.
In all, thirty-two people were due to make the voyage to
Australia with a cargo of Swedish heartwood, and planks for
saloon floors and the living rooms of rich sheep farmers.
One of the crew has just died. He was a mate, and married to
Hanna.
He was young, and keen to go on living. But despite being
warned by Captain Svartman, he went ashore one day while they
were topping up their supplies of coal in one of the desert harbours
to the south of Suez. He was infected with one of the deadly fevers
that are always a threat on the African coast.
When it dawned on him that he was going to die, he started
howling in fear.
Neither of the men present at his deathbed - Captain Svartman
and Halvorsen, the Ship's Carpenter - could make out any last words
that he uttered. He didn't even say anything to Hanna, who was about
to be widowed after a marriage lasting only one month. He died
screaming and - eventually, just before the end - roaring in terror.
His name was Lars Johan Jakob Antonius Lundmark. Hanna
is still mourning his death, having been devastated by what
happened.
It is now dawn the day after his death. The ship is not moving.
7
It has heaved to because there will shortly be a burial at sea.
Captain Svartman does not want to delay matters. There is no
ice on board to keep the corpse cold.
Hanna is standing aft with a slop pail in her hand. She is short
in stature, high-breasted, with friendly eyes. Her hair is brown
and gathered in a tight bun at the back of her head.
She is not beautiful. But in a strange way she radiates an aura
suggesting that she is a totally genuine human being.
The here and now. She is here. On the sea, on board a steamship
with two funnels. A cargo of timber, on its way to Australia.
Home port: Sundsvall.
The ship is called Lovisa. She was built at the Finnboda shipyard
in Stockholm. But her home port has always been on the northern
Swedish coast.
She was first owned by a shipping company in Gavle, but it went
bankrupt after a series of failed speculative deals. And she was then
bought by a company based in Sundsvall. In Gavle she was called Matilda, after
the shipowner's wife, who played Chopin with clumsy
fingers. Now she is called Lovisa, after the new owner's youngest
daughter.
One of the part-owners is called Forsman. He is the one who
arranged for Hanna Lundmark to be given a job on board.
Although Forsman has a piano in his house, there is nobody who
can play it. Nevertheless, when the piano tuner comes on one of
his regular visits, Forsman makes a point of being there to listen.
But now the mate Lars Johan Jakob Antonius Lundmark has
died, killed by a raging fever.
It is as if the swell of the sea has become paralysed. The ship
is lying there motionless, as if it were holding its breath.
That's exactly what I imagine death to be like, Hanna Lundmark
thought. A sudden stillness, unexpected, coming from nowhere.
Death is like the wind. A sudden shift into the lee.
The lee of death. And then nothing else.
8
t that very moment Hanna is possessed by a memory. It
She recalls her father, his voice, which had become no more
than a whisper by the end of his life. It was as if he were asking
her to preserve and cherish what he said as a valuable secret.
A mucky angel. That's what you are.
He said that to her just before he died. It was as if he were
trying to present her with a gift, despite the fact - or maybe
because of the fact - that he owned next to nothing.
Hanna Renstrom, my beloved daughter, you are an angel - a
right mucky one, hut an angel even so.
What exactly is this memory that she has? What were his
exact words? Did he say she was stony, or mucky! Did he leave
it up to her to choose, to decide for herself? Stony broke, or
mucky? Now as she recalls that moment, she thinks he called
her a mucky angel.
It is a distant memory, faded. She is so far distant from her
father and his death. From there, and from then: a remote
house on a bank of the cold, brown waters of the River Ljungan
in the silent forests of northern Sweden. He passed away
hunched up and contorted by pain on a sofa bed in a kitchen
they had barely been able to keep warm.
He died surrounded by cold, she thinks. It was extremely cold
in January, 1899, when he stopped breathing.
That was over five years ago.
The memory of her father and his words about an angel
9
disappear just as quickly as they came. It takes her only a few
seconds to return to the present from the past.
She knows that we always make the most remarkable journeys
deep down inside ourselves, where there is no time or space.
Perhaps that memory was designed to help her? To throw her
the rope she needs in order to climb over the walls confining her
within an atmosphere of unremitting sorrow?
But she can't run away. The ship has been transformed into an
impregnable fortress.
There is no escape. Her husband really is dead.
Death is a talon that refuses to release its grip.
The pressure in the boilers has beenreduced. The pistons are
motionless, the' engines ticking over. Hanna is standing by
the rail with her slop pail in her hand. She is going to empty it
over the stern. The mess-room boy had wanted to take it from
her when she was on her way out of the galley, but she had clung
on to it, protected it. Even if this is the day she is going to watch
her husband's body being tipped into the depths of the ocean,
sewn into a canvas sailcloth, she does not want to neglect her
duties.
When she looks up from the pail, which is filled with eggshells,
it feels as if the heat is scratching at her face. Somewhere in the
mist to starboard is Africa. Although she cannot see the faintest
trace of land, she thinks she can smell it.
He who is now dead has told her about it. About the steaming,
almost corrosive stench of decay which you find everywhere in the
tropics.
He had already made several voyages to various destinations.
He had managed to learn a few things. But not the most important
thing: how to survive.
He would never complete this voyage. He died at the age of
twenty-four.
It's as if he was trying to warn her, Hanna thinks. But she
doesn't know what he was warning her about. And now he's dead.
A dead man can never answer questions.
Somebody materializes silently by her side. It's her husband's
closest friend on board, the Norwegian carpenter Halvorsen. She
n
doesn't know if he has a first name, despite the fact that they have
been together on the same ship for more than two months. He
is never called anything but Halvorsen, a serious man who is said
to go down on his knees to be readmitted into the Church every
time he comes home to Bronnoysund after a few years at sea, and
then signs on again when his faith can no longer sustain him.
He has large hands, but his face is kind, almost feminine. His
stubble seems to have been painted on and powdered by somebody
trying to be cruel to him.
'I gather there's something you need to ask about,' he says.
His voice sings. It sounds as if he's humming when he speaks.
'The depth,' Hanna says. 'Where will Lundmark's grave be?'
Halvorsen shakes his head doubtfully. She suddenly has the
impression that he is like a restless bird about to fly away.
He leaves her without a word. But she knows he will find out
the answer to her question.
How deep will the grave be? Is there a sea bottom where her
husband can rest in peace, in his sewn-up canvas shroud? Or is
there no bottom, does the sea continue downwards into infinity?
She empties her pail of eggshells, watches the white seabirds
dive down into the water to capture their prey, then wipes the
sweat from her brow with the towel she has tied to her apron.
Then she gives way to the inevitable, and screams.
Some of the birds riding the upwinds, waiting for a new slop
pail to be emptied, flap their wings and strive to escape from the
sorrowful howl that hits them like hailstones.
The mess-room boy Lars peers out in horror from the galley
door. He is holding a cracked egg in his hand, observes her
furtively. Death embarrasses him.
Needless to say, she knows what he is thinking. She's going to
jump now, she's going to leave us because her sorrow is too great
to bear.
Her scream has been heard by many on board. Two sweaty
deckhands naked from the waist up stand by the side of the galley
and gape at her, next to where one of the long hawsers is coiled
up like a gigantic snake.
Hanna merely shakes her head, grits her teeth and goes into
the galley with her empty pail. No, she is not going to climb over
the rail. She has spent the whole of her life keeping a stiff upper
lip, and she intends to continue doing so.
The heat of the galley hits her hard. Standing next to the stoves
is similar to the life of the stokers down below in the engine room.
Women in the vicinity of boilers and lighthouses brings bad luck.
The older generation of seafarers is horrified by the thought
of having women on board. Their presence means trouble. And
also arguments and jealousy among the men. But when shipowner
Forsman announced that he wanted Hanna to join the crew,
Captain Svartman agreed. He didn't worry too much about
superstition.
Hanna picks up an egg, cracks it, drops the contents into the
frying pan and throws the shell into the slop pail. Thirty living
sailors must have their breakfast. She tries to think only about
the eggs, not about the funeral that is in the offing. She is on
board as cook: that situation has not changed as a result of the
death of her husband.
That's the way it is. She is alive, but Lundmark is dead.
4
hortly afterwards Halvorsen returns and asks her to follow
him: Captain Svartman is waiting.
'We're going to sound the depth,' says Halvorsen. 'If our ropes
and lines aren't long enough, the captain will select another place.'
She finishes frying the four eggs she has in the pan, then
accompanies him as bidden. She suddenly feels dizzy, and stumbles:
but she doesn't fall, she manages to keep control of herself.
Captain Svartman comes from a long and unbroken line of
seafarers, she is aware of that. He's an old man, turned sixty. The
tip of the little finger on his left hand is missing: nobody knows
if that is congenital, or the result of an accident.
On two occasions he has been on a sailing ship that sank. On
one of those occasions he and all the crew were rescued, on the
other only he and the ship's dog survived. And when the dog
reached dry land it lay down in the sand and died.
Hanna's dead husband once said that in fact the real Captain
Svartman also died, together with the ship's dog. After that catastrophe,
the captain stayed on land for many years. Nobody knows
what he did. Rumour has it that for part of that time he worked
as a navvy and was a member of the vanguard sent out by state
owned Swedish Railways to build the controversial Inlandsbana
- a railway line linking the south of Sweden with the north of
the country following an inland route rather than the existing
coastal railway: the Swedish Parliament was still arguing about it.
Then he suddenly went to sea again, now as the captain of a
steamship. He was one of the select few who didn't abandon the
14
k
seafaring life once sailing ships began to die out, but chose to be
part of modern developments.
He has never told anybody about those years he spent away
from the sea - what he did, what he thought, not even where he
lived.
He seldom says anything beyond the necessary minimum; he
has as little faith in people's ability to listen as he has in the reliability
of the sea. He has lavender-coloured flowers in pots in his
cabin, which only he% allowed to water.
So he has always been an uncommunicative sea captain. And
now he has to establish the depth at which one of his dead mates
will be buried.
Captain Svartman bows as Hanna approaches him. Despite the
heat he is dressed in his full uniform. Buttons fastened, shirt
pressed.
Standing next to him is the bosun, Peltonen, a Finn. He is
holding a plumb bob, attached to a long, thin line.
Captain Svartman nods, Peltonen throws the bob over the rail
and allows it to sink. The line slides between his fingers. Nobody
speaks. At one point there is a black thread tied round the line.
'A hundred metres,' says Peltonen.
His voice is shrill. His words bounce away over the swell.
After seven black threads, 700 metres, the line comes to an end.
The plumb bob is still hanging down there in the water, it hasn't
yet reached the bottom. Peltonen ties a knot and attaches the line
to a new roll. There too is a black thread marking every hundred
metres.
At 1,935 metres, the line goes slack. The bob has reached the
sea bottom. Hanna now knows the depth of her husband's grave.
Peltonen starts to haul up the line, winding it round a specially
carved wooden board. Captain Svartman takes off his uniform
cap and wipes the sweat from his brow. Then he checks his watch.
A quarter to seven.
'Nine o'clock,' he says to Hanna. 'Before the heat becomes too
oppressive.'
She goes to the cabin she has shared with her husband. His
was the upper bunk. They often shared the lower one. Without
her knowing about it, somebody has taken away his blanket.
The mattress is lying there uncovered. She sits down on the
edge of her own bunk and contemplates the bulkhead on the other
side of the cramped cabin. She knows that she must now force
herself to think.
How did she come to end up here? On a ship, swaying gently
on a distant ocean. After all, she was born in a place about as
far away from the sea as it's possible to get. There was a rowing
boat on the River Ljungan, but that was all. She sometimes
accompanied her father in it when he went fishing. But when
she said she wanted to learn to swim - she was about seven or
eight at the time - he told her he couldn't allow it. It would be
a waste of time. If she wanted to bathe, she could do that by
the bank of the river. If she wanted to get over to the other
side, there was a boat and also a bridge.
She lies down on her bunk and closes her eyes. She travels back
in her memory as far as she can, back into her childhood where
the shadows grow longer and longer.
Maybe that is where she can hide away until the moment comes
when her dead husband disappears into the sea for good.
Leaves her. For ever.
5
Her childhood, deep down there. As if at the bottom of an
abyss. u
That was Hanna's first memory: the cold, writhing and twisting
away inside the cavities in the wooden walls, close to her face as
she slept. She would wake up over and over again, and feel how
thin the gap was between the newspapers pasted on to the walls
- there was no money for wallpaper in the squalid house in
which she grew up - and the cold that was constantly trying to
gnaw its way through the wood.
Every spring her father worked his way over the house, as if it
were a ship on a slipway, patching and mending wherever possible,
before the onset of the next winter.
The cold was a sea, the house a ship, and the winter an endless
waiting. He would keep on filling the holes and gaps until the
frosts arrived in full force. Then it was not possible to do any
more, they would have to make the best of it. The house was
launched into the winter yet again, and if there were still any
leaks allowing the cold to seep through, that was too bad: there
was nothing else he could do.
Her father was Arthur Olaus Angus Renstrom, a lumberjack
who worked for Iggesund and shared a log hoist with the
Salomonsson brothers who lived further down the river. He
worked all out in the forest for next to nothing. He was one of
the many men of the woods who never knew if the money they
earned for their efforts would be sufficient to live on.
Hanna remembered her father as strong, and with a friendly
smile. But also at times melancholy, lost in thoughts she knew
nothing about. She sometimes had the impression that he had
trolls in his head when he sat at the kitchen table, seemingly
in a different world, with his hands like lead weights in his lap.
He was sitting there in his own house, with the rest of his
family, but nevertheless he wasn't there at all. He was in a
different world where stones had turned into trolls, reindeer
moss had become hair, and the wind whispering through the
pines was the chattering of voices of the dead.
He often used to speak about them. All those who had lived
in the past. It frightened him to think about how few were
living in the here and now, and how many more were already
dead.
There was an illness, an epidemic that all women knew the
name of: thumping sickness. It broke out when men had been
hitting the bottle and thumped everybody within range - mostly
their children and the women who tried to protect them. Her
father certainly did drink to excess at times, albeit not very often.
But he was never violent. And so his wife, Hanna's mother, didn't
worry so much about the schnapps as about his melancholy. When
he drank he became maudlin and wanted to sing hymns. Despite
the fact that at other times he was keen to burn down churches
and drive out the priests into the forests.
'Without shoes,' Hanna recalled him shouting. 'Chase the priests
out into the forests without shoes when the cold is at its worst. That's
where they should be banished to, into the forests, barefoot.'
Hanna's maternal grandmother, who lived in a draughty cottage on the edge of
Funasdalen, scared the living daylights
out of her when she talked about her damned son-in-law who
would condemn all his offspring to hell as a result of his blasphemous
prattle. There they would find in store for them
scalding temperatures and sulphurous gases and red-hot coals
under the soles of their feet. Her grandmother preached threats
and punishments with evil eyes and didn't hesitate to scare her
grandchildren so much that they used to burst into tears and
were unable to sleep at night. Hanna thought that the worst
punishment of all was when her mother forced her to keep on
visiting her grandmother.
She remembered how Grandma was always angry. The old
woman never stopped complaining about her daughter. She
couldn't forgive Hanna's mother for marrying that good-for
nothing Renstrom despite her warnings. Why had she fallen
head over heels for that man who had nothing to commend
himself? He was small, bow-legged and bald even before he
celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday. And he had Finnish blood
in his veins, and he came from the depths of the forests - from
as far away as Varmland, where it was impossible to distinguish
between day and night.
Why couldn't she have picked out a man from Hede or
Bruksvallarna or somewhere where honest folk lived?
Hanna's mother was called Elin. She submitted to her ancient
mother, never contradicted her, accepted everything her mother
said without a word of protest. Hanna could understand that it
was possible to love somebody who treated you badly, no matter
how odd that sounded. That must have been the relationship
between Grandma and Elin.
Elin.
Hanna had always thought that it was a name that didn't really suit her mother.
Somebody called Elin ought to be slim and
delicately formed, with hands like milk and fair hair hanging
down over her back. But Elin Wallen, Elin Renstrom after her
marriage, was powerfully built with lank reddish-brown hair, a
large nose and teeth that were not quite regular. They gave the
impression of wanting to jump out of her mouth and run away.
Elin Renstrom was certainly not a beautiful woman. And she knew
it. And perhaps she also regretted it, Hanna sometimes thought
when she became old enough to take a critical look at her own
face in her father's cracked shaving mirror.
But her mother was by no means subdued as a result of her
less than pretty appearance. She had qualities that she made
the most of. She made up for her shortcomings by always
keeping a strict eye on her family's cleanliness. No matter how
draughty and cold her house was, she made sure the floors,
ceilings and walls were kept spotlessly clean; and the same
applied to her children and her own body. Elin hunted down
lice like a battalion of soldiers attacking an enemy. She filled
and emptied the tin tub in which they all bathed, carried the
water up from the river, heated it over the fire until it became
warm, scrubbed everybody down, then carried up more buckets
of water with which to wash all the dirty linen that was always
piling up.
The four children also watched in admiration as their mother
handled their father when he had came home tired and dirty
from the forest. She would wash him in a way which suggested
she was engaged in an act of eternal love. And he seemed to
enjoy the touch of her hands as she scrubbed and dried him,
clipped his rough and misshapen nails, and shaved him so closely
that his cheeks became as smooth as those of a baby.
But Hanna's first memory was the cold. The cold and the snow,
which began to fall around the end of September, and didn't
release its grip until early June, when the last white patches finally
melted away.
And of course there was also the poverty. That was not a
memory as such, but the reality in which she lived while growing
up. And it was also the thing that eventually forced her to leave
her home by the river.
Hanna was seventeen years old then, her father was already
dead, and she spent all her time helping her mother with her
brothers and sisters since she was the eldest. They were poor, but
they managed to keep the worst of their destitution outside the
walls of their house.
Until the year 1903. That summer was afflicted by a long and
severe drought, and then an early frost which killed off whatever
the drought had failed to burn up.
That was the year when her life changed for ever.
The horizon had previously been a distant phenomenon. Now
it came close. Like a threat.
6
Even if she didn't want to remember it, it was a day she could
never forget.
The middle of August, low clouds, an early morning. Hanna
accompanied her mother to look at the devastation. Everything
shrivelled and burnt. The earth was strangely silent. The flour
they had left would barely last them until Advent. Nor would
they have enough hay to feed their only cow over the winter.
As they walked through the dead field, on a slope down to the
river, Elin saw her mother cry for the first time. All those long
weeks while her father had been ill in bed and had eventually
died, Elin had merely closed her eyes, shut out the inevitable end
and the hopeless loneliness that was now in store for her. But she
hadn't cried, hadn't screamed. Hanna had often thought about
how her mother was directing all her pain inwards, to where she
had hidden away somewhere inside her a secret source of strength
that overcame all her pains and troubles.
It was then, as they were walking over the dead field and realized
that destitution was now on their doorstep, that Elin started
talking about how her daughter would have to go away. There
was no future for Hanna there by the river. She would have to
move to the coast in order to earn her living. When Elin and her
husband had come to the bank of the river and taken over the
unpromising little smallholding from one of her uncles, they'd
had no choice. It was 1883, a mere sixteen years after the last great
famine that had devastated Sweden. If famine was now on its way
back, Hanna would have to leave while there was still time.
They were standing at the edge of the forest, where the silent
field came to an end.
'Are you chasing me away?' Hanna asked.
Elin stroked her nose, as she always did when she was embarrassed.
'I
can cope with three children,' she said, 'but not four. You are
grown up now, you can look after yourself, and make things easier
both for you and for me. I don't chase my children away. I just
want to give you the opportunity of living your life. If you stay
here all you can do is hope to survive, nothing more.'
'What can I do down by the coast that would be of any use to
anybody?'
'The same as you do here. Look after children, work with your
hands. There is always a demand for maids in towns.'
'Who says so?'
It wasn't her intention to contradict her mother, but Elin took
it as impertinence and took tight hold of her arm.
'I say so, and you must believe me when I say that I mean every
word that passes my lips. I'm not doing it because it gives me any
pleasure, but because I have to.'
She let go of Hanna's arm, as if she had been guilty of assault
and was now regretting it.
It dawned on Hanna that what her mother was doing was
something extremely difficult.
She never forgot that moment. It was right then, and in that very
place - at the edge of the grim landscape of famine, standing beside
her mother who had just wept for the first time in her presence that
Hanna realized that she was who she was, and nobody else.
She was Hanna, and irreplaceable. Neither her body nor her
thoughts could be replaced by anybody else. And it occurred to
her that her father, who was now dead, had been just like her: a
person who could not be replaced by anybody else.
Is this what it means to be an adult? she thought, her face
turned away because she had the feeling that her mother could
read her thoughts. Exchanging the insecurity of a child for a
different unknown - the knowledge that the only possible answers
are the ones you can provide yourself?
They returned to the house, which was hidden away in a copse
comprising a few birch trees and a single mountain ash. Her
brother and sisters were indoors, despite the fact that this autumn
day was not particularly cold. But they played less and tended to
be quiet when they were hungry. Their life was a never-ending
wait for food, and not much else.
They stopped outside the door, as if Elin had decided never to
allow her daughter inside again.
'My uncle Axel lives in Sundsvall,' she said. 'Axel Andreas Wallen.
He works in the docks. He's a nice man, and he and his wife Dora
don't have any children. They had two boys, but both of them
died, and after that they didn't have any more. Axel and Dora will
help you. They won't turn you away.'
'I don't want to go to them as a beggar,' said Hanna.
The slap came without warning. Afterwards, Hanna thought
the blow was reminiscent of the impact from a bird of prey diving
down at her cheek.
Elin might possibly have slapped her before, but in that case
it would have been triggered mainly by fear. If Hanna had
wandered off alone to the river in the spring when it was a raging
torrent, and risked falling in and being drowned. But now Elin
hit her as a result of irritation. It was the first time.
It was a slap given by a grown-up person to another grown-up.
Who would understand why.
T don't abandon my daughter in order to make her a beggar,'
said Elin angrily. 'I only have your best interests at heart. There's
nothing for you here.'
Hanna had tears in her eyes. Not because of the pain - she had
experienced much worse pain than that in her life.
The slap she had received confirmed what she had just been
thinking: now she was alone in the world. She would have to leave
and travel eastward, towards the coast, and she would never be
able to return. What she left behind would sink deeper into
oblivion for every metre a sleigh's runners whisked her away.
It was early autumn, 1903. Hanna Renstrom was seventeen years
old, and would be eighteen on 12 December.
A few months later she would leave her home for ever. u
7
Hanna thought to herself: the time of sagas and make-believe
is over. Now it's time for real-life stories.
She realized that when Elin told her what was in store for her.
It sometimes happened that businessmen from the coast who
travelled over the mountains in winter to Norway for the R.0ros
market didn't take the usual and shortest route back home, along
the River Ljusnan and down to Karbole. Some of them headed
northwards after crossing the Sweden-Norway border and then,
if the weather permitted it, turned off via Flatruet and along the
River Ljungan so that they could do business in the villages on
the riverbanks.
There was one businessman in particular, Jonathan Forsman,
who usually travelled home via the villages north of Flatruet.
'He has a big sleigh,' said Elin. 'On the way home it's never as
heavily laden as it is when he's on his way to Roros. He's bound
to be able to make room for you. And he'll leave you in peace.
He won't try to make advances to you.'
Hanna looked doubtfully at her. How could Elin be so sure?
Hanna was well aware what life had in store for her, she had never
been totally devoid of other young girls to talk to. Not least the
girls who used to act as maids in the shacks up in the mountains
when the farmers' and shepherds' flocks were grazing in their
summer pastures: they had all kinds of strange tales to tell with
a mixture of giggles and badly concealed discomfort. Hanna knew
what it was like to blush, and what could happen inside her body,
especially in the evenings, just before she fell asleep.
But that was all. How could Elin know what might or might
not happen on a long sleigh-ride to the distant coast?
She asked her straight out.
'He's seen the light,' said Elin promptly. 'He used to be an awful
man, just like most of those old devils with their sleighs. But since
he became a Christian he's a sort of good Samaritan. He'll let you
travel with him and won't even ask for payment. And he'll lend
you one of his fur coats so that you won't freeze.'
But Elin couldn't fee absolutely sure if he would come, or when.
The usual time was shortly before Christmas, but there had been
occasions when he didn't turn up until into the New Year. And
he had been known not to come at all.
'He might also be dead, of course,' said Elin.
When a sleigh set off and was swallowed up by flurries of snow,
you never knew whether that might be the last you ever saw of
a person, no matter how young or old he was.
Hanna would be ready to travel at any time after her birthday
on 12 December. Jonathan Forsman was always in a hurry, never
stayed anywhere longer than necessary. Unlike people who always
had no end of time to spare, he was an important person and
hence was always in a hurry.
'He generally comes in the afternoon,' said Elin. 'He comes out
of the forest to the north, heading southwards along the sleigh
tracks that skirt the edge of the bog and lead down to the river
and the valleys.'
Every afternoon Hanna would go out and gaze in the direction
of the forest as darkness began to fall. She sometimes thought
she could hear the bells of a horse-drawn sleigh in the distance,
but one never appeared. The forest door remained closed.
She slept badly all the time she was worrying and waiting, kept
waking up and had incoherent dreams that frightened her,
although she didn't really understand why. But often her dreams
were as white as snow: empty and silent.
One of her dreams kept recurring and haunting her; she was
lying in the sofa bed with two of her siblings: the youngest of the
family's children, Olaus, and the sister closest to her in age, Vera,
twelve years old. She could feel the warm bodies of her brother
and sister up against her own; but she knew that if she were to
open her eyes they would turn out to be different children lying
there, unknown to her. And the moment she set eyes on them they
would die.
Then she would wake up, and realize to her great relief that it
had all been a dream. She would often lie there awake, watching
the blue moonlight shining in through the low windows covered
in ice crystals. Then stretch out her hand and feel the wooden
wall and the newspaper covering it. Right next to her was the
cold, writhing and twisting away in the ancient timber.
The cold is like an animal, she thought. An animal tethered in
its stall. An animal wanting to break out.
The dream had a meaning that she didn't understand. But it
must have something to do with the journey she would have to
make. What would be in store for her? What would be demanded
of her? She felt awkward in both body and soul when she tried
to imagine people living in a town. If only her father had still
been alive: he would have been able to explain it to her, and
prepare her for it. He had once been to Stockholm, and he'd also
been to another big and remarkable town called Arboga. He could
have told her that she didn't need to be afraid.
Elin came from remote Funasdalen and had never been
anywhere else, apart from the short journey northwards with
the man who became her husband.
Nevertheless, she was the one who had to answer when Hanna
asked her questions. There simply wasn't anybody else.
But Elin's answers? Vague, taciturn. She knew so little.
8
One day at the beginning of November, when they were at
the edge of tHe forest with an axe and a saw, collecting
firewood for the winter, Hanna asked her mother about the sea.
What did it look like? Did it run along a sort of giant furrow,
like the river? Was it the same colour? Was it always so deep that
you couldn't reach the bottom?
Elin paused, held her aching back, and looked at her long and
hard before answering.
'I don't know,' she said. 'The sea is like a big lake, I think. I suppose
there are waves. But I just don't know if the sea has currents.' 'But surely
Renstrom must have told you? He said he'd been
to sea, didn't he?'
'It might not have been completely true. Everything he said might
have only happened inside his head. But all he ever said about the
sea is that it was big.'
Elin bent down to pick up the twigs and branches they had
sawed and chopped off. But Hanna didn't want to give up just
yet. A child stopped asking questions when it had the feeling that
enough was enough: but she was grown up now, she had the right
to go on asking.
'I have no idea what is in store for me,' she said. 'Will I be
living in a house with other people? Will I be sharing a bed with
somebody else?'
Elin scowled and dropped a bundle of sawn-off branches into
their birch-bark basket.
'You are asking too many questions,' she said. 'I can't tell you
what you can expect to find. But there is no future for you here.
At least there are people who can help you there.'
'I only want to know,' said Hanna.
'Stop asking now,' said Elin. Tm getting a headache from all
your questions. I don't have any answers.'
They returned in silence to the house from whose chimney a
thin column of smoke was rising vertically into the pale sky. Olaus
and Vera were looking after the fire. But both Elin and Hanna
made sure that they were never any further away from the house
than would prevent them from climbing up on to a high rock,
taking a look at the chimney and establishing that the fire had
not gone out. Or that nothing even worse had happened: that it
hadn't crept out of the open hearth and begun jumping around
the room like a madman.
It was snowing at night now, and there was frost every morning.
But the really heavy snowfalls that never lasted for less than three
days had still not come creeping over the western mountains. And
Hanna knew that if there wasn't sufficient snow, no sleigh would
be able to approach through the forests from the main routes
further south.
But a few days later the snow finally arrived. As almost always
happened, it crept up silently during the night. When Hanna got
up to light the fire, Elin was standing by the door which she had
opened slightly.
She stood there motionless, staring out. The ground outside
was white. There were low drifts against the walls of the house.
Hanna could see the tracks of crows in the snow, perhaps also of
a mouse and a hare.
It was still snowing.
'This snow's going to lay,' said Elin. 'It's winter now. There'll
be no bare ground again until the spring, at the end of May or
the beginning of June.'
It continued snowing the whole of the following week. At first
the cold wasn't too severe, only a few degrees below zero. But
once the snow had stopped falling the sky became clear and the
temperature dropped significantly.
They had a thermometer that Renstrom had bought at some
market or other a long time ago. Or perhaps he had won it in an
arm-wrestling competition, since he was so strong? The thermometer
had an attachment enabling it to be fixed to an outside wall,
but it was treated with great care: there was always a risk that
somebody might be careless and break the little tube containing
the dangerous mercury.
Extremely carefully Elin placed it out in the snow, at the side
of the house that was always in shade. Now that the seriously cold
weather had arrived, it was more than thirty degrees below zero
for three days in succession.
During the coldest days they did nothing but tend the fire,
make sure the cow and the two goats had something to chew at,
and eat something of the little food they had for themselves. They
used up all their strength in efforts to keep the cold at bay. Every
extra degree below zero was like yet another enemy army added
to those already besieging them.
Hanna could see that Elin was scared. What would happen if
something broke? A window, or a wall? They had nowhere to
flee to, apart from the little cattle shed where the animals were
kept. But they were also freezing cold, and it was not possible
to make a fire there.
It was during these bitterly cold days that Hanna felt for the
first time that the imminent change in her life might not be so
bad after all. An opening in a dark forest where sunlight suddenly
shone down into an unexpected glade. A life that might possibly
be better than the one she was living now, besieged by the armies
of cold and famine? Her fear of the unknown suddenly became
a longing for what might be in store for her. Away from the forests,
in the fertile plains to the south-east.
But she said nothing about this to Elin. She remained silent
about her vague longing.
9
On 17 December, shortly after half past two in the afternoon,
they heard th sound of sleigh-bells coming from the forest.
It was Vera who heard the horse. She had gone out to see if the
hens had laid any eggs, despite the onset of winter. As she returned
empty-handed along the narrow passage that had been dug
between the metre-high drifts, she heard the bells. Elin and Hanna
came running out when she shouted. The worst of the cold had
receded, and it had been thawing during the day: but now there
was a covering of new powdery snow over the frozen crust after
a snowfall during the night.
The sound of the bells came closer, then they caught sight
of the black horse looking like a troll or a bear at the edge of
the forest. The driver, wrapped in furs, tightened the reins and
came to a halt just outside the cottage, which was surrounded
by deep snow and misery.
By then Elin had already told Hanna what she had expected to
hear.
'It's Jonathan Forsman.'
'How can you be sure?'
'Nobody else has a black horse like his. And nobody else wears
so many furs.'
Hanna could see that was true when the man in the sleigh had
stood up and they all entered the cottage. He was wearing furs
from both bears and wolves, had been sitting on a reindeer skin
in his sleigh, and had a red fox fur wrapped round his neck. When
he wormed his way out of all the furs, which were dripping with
snow and sweat, it was like watching a man who had been sitting
for too long in front of a fire. His face was red and unshaven, his
sweaty hair was stuck to his forehead: but Hanna could see that
Elin was right - the man who was going to take her away was
neither malicious nor threatening. He was friendly, sat down on
a stool beside the fire and gave Elin a present: a hymn book he
had bought for her in Roros.
'It's in Norwegian,' he said. 'But the covers are attractive, genuine
leather, and the gold embossing sparkles if you keep it clean.
Besides, Elin Renstrom, you can hardly read in any case! Or am
I wrong?'
'I can puzzle out the words,' said Elin. 'If that amounts to
reading, then I can.'
It was only in the evening, when the younger children were in
bed, that Elin broached the subject of Hanna's journey. They were
sitting round the fire. Forsman was resting his enormous hands.
Before the youngsters had gone to sleep, he had sung a hymn in
his deep, resonant voice. Hanna had never heard a man sing like
that before. The vicar who conducted services in Ljungdalen had
a soft, squeaky voice. When he sung a hymn it sounded as if
somebody was pinching him. But here was a man whose singing
even silenced the cold that creaked and groaned in the walls.
Elin explained the situation. In just a few words, but nothing
more was needed.
'Can you take Hanna with you?' she asked. 'She has to go to
Sundsvall, to relatives who will take care of her.'
Forsman listened thoughtfully.
'Are you sure?' he asked.
'Why shouldn't I be sure? What is there to be doubtful about?'
'That your relatives will look after her? Are they on Renstrom's
side?'
'No, my side. The Wallens. If it had been Renstroms I'd never
have dreamt of sending her.'
Forsman contemplated his hands.
'How long ago was it?' he asked eventually. 'That you spoke
about it?'
'Four years come this spring.'
'A lot could have happened during that time,' said Forsman.
'But I'll take her with me in any case. So let's just hope there's
somebody there who's prepared to accept her.'
'Surely they can't all have died over the last four years,' said
Elin firmly. 'Unlessthere's been some kind of plague we haven't
heard about up here in the mountains.'
Forsman now took a good look at Hanna for the first time.
'How old are you?' he asked.
'I celebrated my eighteenth birthday the other day.'
Forsman nodded. He asked no more questions. The fire
continued burning.
That night Forsman slept on the floor in front of the fire. He
lay on his various fur coats spread out on the floorboards, covered
only by the reindeer skin. His horse had been squeezed into the
cowshed with the cow and the goats.
Hanna lay awake for ages. No man had slept in their cottage
since her father died. Now there was somebody else snoring and
snuffling in his sleep.
Forsman groaned as he breathed in and out, as if he was dragging
a heavy burden behind him.
The next day an occasional snowflake came floating down
from the heavens. The mercury indicated minus two degrees.
Shortly after eight in the morning Hanna sat down in the sleigh
with the two bundles of belongings Elin had prepared for her.
She had wrapped herself up in all the warm clothes she possessed,
and Forsman wrapped a couple more furs around her - she
could barely move.
Her brother and sisters wept when she hugged them and said
goodbye, first one at a time and then all of them in chorus.
But Elin merely shook her hand. This was the way it had to
be. Hanna had decided not to look back once she had sat down
in the sleigh. She was weeping deep down inside when Forsman
cracked his whip and the black horse started pulling the sleigh.
But she didn't show it. Not for anybody.
She thought about her father as they set off. It was as if he
were also standing there, next to Elin, watching her leave.
He had returned, just for that moment. He wanted to be present
when it happened.
It was 1903, the year when famine once again afflicted the north
of Sweden.
10
The journey by sleigh from Ljungdalen to the coast was
supposed to take five days. That is what Jonathan Forsman
had told Elin, almost as if he were making a promise.
'It won't take any longer than that,' he said. 'The going is good,
just right for the sleigh, and I don't have many business calls to
make on the way that could delay us. We'll only stop to eat and
sleep. We'll follow the river, then turn off to the north and make
our way through the forest to Sundsvall. It'll take five days, no
more.'
But the journey did take longer. As early as the second day,
before they'd even got as far as the forest that marked the border
between the provinces of Jamtland and Harjedalen, they were
hit by a sudden snowstorm that blew up from the east and that
Forsman hadn't anticipated. The sky had been blue, it had been
cold and the going was good: but suddenly the clouds had started
to pile up. Even the black horse, whose name was Antero, had
started to be restless.
They stopped at an inn in Overhogdal. Hanna was given a bed in
a room shared by the inn's maidservants: but she ate at the same
table as Forsman, and was served the same food as he had. That
had never happened before in her life.
'We'll set off again tomorrow,' he said after saying grace and
checking to make sure that she clasped her hands in prayer
properly.
But that night the stormy winds veered to the north and then
decided to call a halt. The snowstorm stayed put. They were
snowed in and stuck at the dreary inn. Half a metre of snow fell
in less than four hours, and the wind resulted in drifts that in
places were as high as the building's roof ridge.
It was the afternoon of the fourteenth day of the journey, just as
dusk was falling, that they arrived in Sundsvall. Hanna had been
counting the days, but hadn't realized that this evening was in
fact New Year's Eve. The following day it would be 1904.
Forsman seemed to think that everything associated with the
New Year was important. He pushed the horse hard in order to
make sure that they reached the centre of town before midnight.
New Year's Eve had never been anything special for Hanna. She
had usually been fast asleep when the New Year began. She couldn't
recall either her father or Elin regarding the dawn of a new year
as anything special that deserved to be marked by being awake
at midnight, or celebrating in any other way.
The fact that they had spent Christmas Eve and Christmas
Day together seemed to mean nothing much, or perhaps nothing
at all as far as Forsman was concerned. It was the New Year
that was important.
The long sleigh journey had taken place in silence when they
were travelling through the forests or over the barren plains.
Occasionally Forsman had shouted something to the horse, but
he had never spoken to Hanna. He sat in front of her in the sleigh
like a forbidding wall.
But the last day of their journey was different. He turned round
to shout at her, and she shouted back at him as loudly as she
could, in order to make herself heard.
Jonathan Forsman regarded the New Year as something holy.
'God has created the turn of the year to make us think about
the time that has passed and the time that is to come,' he shouted
at her in the back of the sleigh.
Before he saw the light, he had always indulged in heathen
pastimes on New Year's Eve. He had heated lumps of lead in the
open fire and then dipped them into cold water in order to interpret
the shapes they made as forecasts of the future. And he had
never dared to enter the New Year without being dead drunk.
But now he was enlightened, he shouted at her. He was no
longer afraid of anything.
When they reached Sundsvall, the town was enveloped by darkness
and cold. Forsman pulled up on the edge of the town, in
fact. Hanna was notyet able to check her vision of what Sundsvall
would look like with the reality. Most of it was still in store for
her as she wriggled her way out of the furs and stepped out of
the sleigh.
Forsman's house was built of stone, and comprised two imposingly
large storeys. As he pulled up, hordes of people came
teeming out of the front gate and the lodge. Antero was led away,
and the sleigh was taken care of. All the furs and other contents
of the sleigh were carried into the house. Hanna was bewildered
by everything that was happening all around her, all these
unknown people staring at her, some of them openly, others
surreptitiously. She was used to meeting unknown people one
at a time. Sometimes it had been vagrants who had wandered
up north on the banks of the river, sometimes individual travellers
or people carrying axes and saws that her father had brought
home with him from the forest. But never anything like this, this
teeming crowd of unknown people.
Forsman noticed her discomfort, and bellowed out in a loud
voice that the girl accompanying him was Hanna Renstrom, who
would be visiting relations in Sundsvall. But tonight, New Year's
Eve, she would be a guest in his home.
By midnight Forsman had gathered together all his family and
all his employees, including his grooms and maids. He opened
wide a window in the large room that Hanna had gathered was
called 'the drawing room' and shouted to everybody to be silent.
The clock in Sundsvall's church struck twelve. Hanna could see
that Forsman was counting the chimes silently as his eyes glazed
over.
To her horror she gathered that he was on the point of bursting
into tears. Never in her life had she imagined that a grown man
could weep. She had a lump in her throat, and realized that something important
was in fact happening as the chiming of
the clock, carried by the cold air, penetrated the drawing room
through the open window. Once the chimes had finished, Forsman
started to sing a hymn and all those assembled there joined in
- including Hanna, although she did so furtively.
She spent that night in a room shared by three of the maids
employed in the house of stone. She shared a bed with a girl
called Berta, who was about her own age. Berta smelled less than
absolutely clean, and Hanna suspected that she might well smell
no better herself. Berta pushed and shoved, claimed most of the
bed space, and informed Hanna glumly that she would have to
be up by five o'clock, despite the fact that it was New Year's Day
and was more or less regarded as a Sunday. But she would have
to make the fires and heat up the tiled stoves with the firewood
the skivvies brought in.
Berta soon fell asleep. But Hanna lay awake, thinking that
there was something missing. It was some time before she realized
what it was.
There was no creaking in the stone walls. The cold didn't
penetrate the stone walls like it did in the timber-built house
she had grown up in.
And it was only then, as she lay in bed inside stone walls, that it
finally dawned upon her that she was now living in an unknown
world. She could no longer reach out her hand and touch her siblings,
or hear Elin's heavy breathing as she slept soundly in her bed.
She was somewhere else now, somewhere that was completely
new and unknown to her.
She tentatively placed her hand on Berta's warm body. She
missed her brother and sisters who had always been around her.
She was on her own now, and she didn't know how she would
be able to cope with the void that surrounded her.
11
The following day Forsman sent Jukka, the most trusted of
his servants, to help Hanna to locate her relatives. He had
been given the address where they were thought to live by Elin,
but Sundsvall was not a town where streets and house numbers
could always be relied on.
Even worse was the fact that Forsman, who was confident he
knew everybody in the town, had never heard of a family called
Wallen. But he hadn't told Elin that. He thought that perhaps
they lived at one of the sawmills in the vicinity of Sundsvall.
The cold was less severe now. Hanna could feel that it was no
longer biting into her skin the way it had done during the long
sleigh journey.
Forsman went out into the street with them.
'If you don't find the family, bring her straight back here,' he
told Jukka, who was standing with his fur hat in his hand.
Hanna thought that Jukka was somewhat cowed and insecure
when confronted by his enormous employer in his voluminous
fur coat. He was certainly over sixty, but was nevertheless afraid,
like a little child worried it might receive a beating.
She couldn't understand why this was.
They set off. As soon as Forsman had gone back inside, Jukka
was transformed. He spat and walked with a swagger, elbowing
aside anyone who got in their way, and seemed to be in charge
of the snow-covered and inadequately cleared street.
Hanna observed the town she had come to in the pale wintry
light. For each stone-built house they passed, there seemed to be
ten tumbledown little wooden shacks that had grown up out of
the ground. Like mushrooms, she thought. If the stone houses
were edible, the wooden shacks were the sort of fungi you stamp
on and don't put in your basket.
She felt worried all the time. Would she be able to fit in here?
Or was she the kind of person who would never feel at home in
this town?
And then she came to the sea - but that was nothing like what
she had expected either. There was a harbour with lots of big
ships, some with masts, others with black funnels. But the water
didn't go on for ever, as her father had said it did. She could see
land in all directions, and no sign of open water beyond the ice
and a network of open channels.
Jukka urged her to keep moving whenever she stopped. He
seemed to have just as little time as his employer, and was always
in a hurry.
They walked along the icy edge of the harbour. Hanna almost
slipped and fell over several times. Her shoes, made by a Lappish
cobbler in Fjallnas, were not suitable for the town's stony and
ice-covered pavements.
They came to a cluster of wooden houses which seemed to be
hugging one another in order to keep warm.
Jukka stopped and asked a man pulling a sledge laden with
firewood the way to the address he had been given, to the Wallens.
The man, who had a large burn mark on one cheek and a very
loud chesty cough, pointed and tried unsuccessfully to explain.
Jukka soon lost patience, touched his cap as a gesture of thanks,
and they continued walking.
'It's impossible to find anywhere in this damned town,' he
muttered in his sing-song dialect. 'Completely impossible, but I
think this is it even so.'
He had stopped in front of a two-storey wooden house with a
lopsided roof, broken and patched-up windows and a door that
threatened to fall out of its frame. Jukka knocked hard on the
door. It was opened immediately by an old lady so wrapped up
in shawls that the only parts of her that Hanna could see were
her eyes and her nose.
'Wallen,' said Jukka. 'Does the Wallen family live in this house?'
The old woman gave a start as if he had punched her. Then
she said something he couldn't understand.
'Take that shawl off, damn you!' he roared. 'I'm here on behalf
of Jonathan Forsman, the businessman. He wants to know if
anybody called Wallen lives here. I can't hear a word of what you
are mumbling behind all those rags you're wearing.'
The old woman removed the shawl that was covering her face.
Hanna could see now that it was gaunt and hollowed, as if she
was often left starving.
'The Wallen family,' said Jukka again, making his impatience
obvious.
'They've gone,' said the old woman.
'What do you mean, they've gone? Gone to heaven or hell?
Give me a proper answer before I lose my temper.'
The old woman backed away, but Jukka placed his large boot
between the door and the frame.
'There's only one old man left here in the house,' she said. 'They
left him behind. I don't know where they've gone to.'
Jukka sucked at his lips and tried to make up his mind what
to say to that.
'We'll go in and talk to the old boy,' he said eventually. 'Show
us where he lives!'
The old woman led them up a staircase. Pale-looking children
were standing in doorways, staring wide-eyed at the strangers
going past. Hanna noticed that there was a stale, acrid smell, as
if the house was never aired.
They continued up to the attic floor where the old woman
finally stopped outside a door, knocked, then immediately
scurried away. When Jukka opened the door, he pushed Hanna
inside.
'Go and talk to your relative now,' he said. 'Either you'll be
living here, or you'll have to come back home again with me.'
The room contained a bed, a Windsor-style chair and a cracked
mirror hanging on one of the walls. Hanna could see a reflection
of her face in it - a worried face, somebody she didn't really
recognize. Then she looked at the old man lying in the bed who
was staring at her a# if she had just descended from heaven.
She recalled what her father had said, the last words he had
whispered secretly into her ear. About her being a mucky angel.
Had he been right?
Was it really an angel the old man seemed to see standing in
front of him? Or just a confused serving girl from the distant
mountains?
12
Jukka was impatient.
'Talk to the old boy now,' he growled. 'We don't have time
to just stand around gaping at him.'
He walked over to the window and opened it: it had been closed
for so long that it was extremely difficult to move.
'It stinks in here,' he said. 'A nasty stench of old man. The
earth has already started to eat you up, without your noticing.
Your body is already full of worms and maggots, chewing away
at your flesh.'
Jukka glared expectantly at Hanna. She went up to the bed
where the old man was lying. He had bits of old food in his beard,
his nightshirt was sweaty and dirty. She explained who she was,
what she was called, and who her father and mother were. The
old man didn't seem to understand, or maybe he hadn't heard.
She repeated what she had said, but louder.
In reply he raised a trembling hand. Hanna thought he was
trying to greet her - but the hand was pointing to the window.
'I'm cold,' said the old man. 'Close the window.'
Jukka was standing by the window as if on guard. He took a
step forward, as if he were about to attack.
'The room stinks,' he said. 'It needs airing. But do you realize
who this is, standing here in front of you? Hanna Wallen. Are
you a relative of hers, or not? If you can tell us yes or no, we
can leave you in peace.'
But the old man didn't understand. He started begging for
food - he was hungry, and nobody gave him anything to eat
any more.
Hanna tried again. Explained once again who she was, and
talked at length about Elin. But it was no use. The old man in the
filthy bed was living in a different world, in which the only thing
that mattered was his hunger.
'Come on,' said Jukka. 'Let's go. This is a waste of time. We'll
talk to the old woman downstairs. She might know.'
If she'd been ableto, Hanna would have run out of the house
and not stopped until she was back home again with Elin and
her brothers and sisters. Nobody wanted to take care of her, the
whole journey had been in vain. She didn't belong in this town.
She'd been welcomed by a confused, bewildered old man, nobody
else.
When Forsman heard about the failed expedition, he tore a
strip off the cowering Jukka. Was he incapable of ferreting out
where the family had gone to? Would that have been 50 difficult?
Forsman calmed down eventually, and said to Hanna in his
usual friendly voice that he would personally take over responsibility
for finding out where the family had gone to. She shouldn't
worry. People didn't just disappear into thin air. He would no
doubt be able to find the relatives she had come to meet.
'In the meantime you can stay here,' he said. 'You can make
yourself useful about the house. Help the other girls!'
Two days later he had some information to pass on to her. He
called her into his office, where he was sitting at a desk, chewing
away at a cigar stub.
'That old man you met is just a sort of lodger,' he said. 'He's
not even a relative. He's allowed to lie there in that bed until
he dies. Then somebody else will take over the room. A whole
family of dockers are lined up to move in. They're no doubt
hoping he'll die as soon as possible because at the moment that
family is living in a cattle shed. But nobody seems to know
where the others have gone to.'
He looked hard at her. She was beginning to feel scared, but
braced herself.
'I think you should stay here for the time being,' said Forsman.
'We could do with another maid.'
She closed her eyes, and breathed out. She couldn't make up
her mind if that was due to relief or to joy. She tried to conjure
up the sounds from the house by the river: but everything was
silent, her thoughts were interrupted only by the noise of a cart
clattering past in the street.
Forsman seemed to gather what she was thinking. He smiled.
Hanna curtseyed, and left the room.
She said silently to herself: well, at least I've got something to
do here now.
13
She worked together with Berta from then on. She followed
her around, helped her out in her duties, and also allowed
her to show her around the town in what little spare time they
had. Most of the time was spent washing the clothes of everybody
in the very large household, and also the sheets and
tablecloths. There was a pump in the inner courtyard, and they
fetched water from there to the laundry, which was next to
the stables. Hanna couldn't understand how Berta coped with the
strenuous work, which kept her occupied for more than twelve
hours a day. Berta had started working for Forsman when
she was thirteen years old. She told Hanna that her father had
died as a result of an accident at the sawmill in Essvik, her
mother had died of consumption the following year, and the
children had all gone their different ways. Berta kept coming
back to her assertion that she had been lucky to get a job in
Forsman's household. Although it was hard work and not exactly
uplifting, she had a roof over her head, a bed to sleep in and
a meal three times a day. What had she to complain about?
What right had she to do so?
'If I were to leave, there would be at least ten girls queuing up
outside in the street, hoping to take over my job,' said Berta early
one morning as they were standing by the pump, filling their
buckets. 'Why shouldn't I cling on to what I have?'
'Will you still be here ten years from now?' asked Hanna.
Berta shook her head and burst out laughing. Although she
was still young she had lost several of her upper teeth.
'I can't think that far ahead,' she said. 'Ten years? I don't even
know if I'll still be alive then.'
But Hanna persisted. There must be something that Berta
dreamt about, surely?
'Children,' said Berta hesitantly. 'I'd love to have some. But
for that to happen I'd have to find a husband. And I haven't. I
want somebody who doesn't drink or fight. Where can anybody
find a man like that?'
Whenever Hanna asked Berta a question, she answered it inside
her own head with regard to herself. What did she want? Would
she still be alive ten years from now? Or would she be dead as
well? Who was the man she hoped to meet? Did she really hope
to meet one? And what about children? Could she really think
about having children when she was still a child herself in so
many ways?
Towards the end of February an unexpected thaw set in. In the
evenings, if they had enough strength left, they would go for a
walk through the town. Berta showed her round, did so with
pride, with a sort of sense of both owning something and having
responsibility. She knew something that Hanna didn't. The town
was hers.
Occasionally Berta would ask a few questions about the place
where Hanna lived before she had come to Sundsvall with
Forsman: but Hanna soon noticed that Berta was not really all
that interested in what little she had to tell. Or perhaps it was just
that Berta had never seen anything but the town she lived in, and
couldn't imagine what it would be like by a river below a high
mountain.
Her relationship with Berta was something completely new for
Hanna. During the time she lived in Forsman's house she and
Berta became close friends who dared to take each other into
their confidence. Almost every evening they lay in the bed they
shared, whispering. It seemed to Hanna that she had never before
had a friend like Berta. The relationship she had had with her
siblings and her mother had been quite different.
They dared to talk about the difficult things in life. Love, children,
men. Hanna soon realized that Berta had just as little experience
as she did when it came to what life had in store for them.
Sometimes in the evenings when they were out walking, always
arm in arm, with their shawls wrapped tightly around their hair
and chin, boys of about their own age who were loitering around
would shout to them: but they never replied, just increased their
pace - even if later, when they had gone to bed, they might giggle
and talk about what had happened.
We're not there yet, Hanna thought; but one of these days we'll
stop and start talking to those boys.
Most of the time they spent together, when they were not working,
they devoted to helping each other to learn to read. They had
realized from the start that their knowledge was more or less
equally meagre. Berta had been given a dirty and well-thumbed
ABC book by a cook who used to work at Forsman's house. They
would pore over it, spelling out words, testing each other, and
before long they were secretly borrowing books from Forsman's
library, reading aloud to each other with increasing confidence.
Hanna would never forget the moment when the individual
letters stopped dancing around in front of her eyes. When they
no longer made faces at her but formed words and sentences, and
eventually whole stories that she could understand.
It was also during that time that Hanna happened to acquire
a Portuguese dictionary. Forsman sometimes sifted through his
voluminous library and discarded books and booklets that were
surplus to his requirements. One day Hanna had found the
dictionary in a waste-paper basket. She thought that anything
he'd thrown away she could keep if she fancied it, rather than
taking it to the rubbish dump. She showed it to Berta, who was
5i
not interested in a foreign language she would never have any
use of.
But Hanna kept the dictionary and learnt a few words and
phrases that she didn't even know if she was pronouncing
correctly.
The late winter continued to be mild in 1904. As early as the
middle of March the sailors, who had been spending the winter
ashore when the ice prevented them from going to sea, began to
gather restlessly in the harbour and on the jetties where sailing
boats were beached. Berta explained to Hanna that there were fewer
and fewer sailing boats nowadays: more and more owners were
buying steamships instead. But there were still sailing ships carrying
cargo along the coast, or over to Finland, and perhaps even to the
Baltic countries. Quite a few carried timber and fish down to
Stockholm, while others headed northwards.
Before long sailing boats would disappear altogether, and be
replaced by steamships.
14
One morning Hanna was summoned unexpectedly to
Forsman's office. He didn't often want to talk to her alone.
Every time it did happen, she was worried that he might flare up
and start complaining about her work or her behaviour.
When she entered the room she found that Forsman was not
alone. Sitting on a chair was a man in uniform she had never
seen before. She paused in the doorway and curtseyed. Forsman
nodded to her and put his glowing cigar into an ashtray.
The man in uniform was older than Forsman. He observed her
closely.
'This is Captain Svartman,' said Forsman. 'He is master of a
ship of which I am part-owner. She's called Lovisa, and will soon
be setting off on a long voyage to Australia with a cargo of Swedish
timber, felled in forests owned by me and sawn up in a sawmill
owned by me.'
Forsman paused abruptly, as he usually did when he wanted
to give people time to digest what he had said. Hanna searched
her mind for" a country called Australia, but failed to find it.
However, Forsman had said it would be a long voyage. So Australia
couldn't be a neighbouring country.
'I've been thinking about your future,' Forsman said suddenly,
with such emphasis that Hanna gave a start. T think you can make
more of yourself than just a maid here in my house. I think I can
see in you qualities that suggest you could have a bright future. Exactly what
will become of you I don't know. It's just that I
suspect you have a will of your own. And so I've decided that
you will sail to Australia and back with Captain Svartman. You
will work on board as a cook. You'll be the only woman on the
ship, but everybody will know that you are under my special
protection.'
Forsman fell silent again and contemplated his cigar, which
had gone out. Hanna felt there was something she needed to say
immediately.
'I must ask Elin for permission,' she said. 'I can't go off on a
voyage without my family knowing about it.'
Forsman nodded thoughtfully and leaned forward over his
desk. He picked up a sheet of paper and held it up for Hanna to
see.
'Your mother's writing is like a spider crawling over a page,' he
said. 'Her spelling is awful. And she has no idea where to put a
full stop or a comma. But she knows what I've proposed to you,
and she gives you her permission to go.'
Hanna realized now that Forsman was continuing to take
responsibility for her, as he had promised. It was clear that the
idea of her going on a long voyage on one of his ships had been
planned for some considerable time. It took a long time for letters
to pass between Sundsvall and the distant mountains.
'In just over a month the ship will have all its cargo on board
and be ready to sail,' said Forsman. 'Between now and then you
will go on board every morning. There's an old ship's cook by
the name of Morth who will teach you the ropes. You'll be given
some money to pay for the equipment and clothing you'll need,
and you'll be paid a good wage during the voyage - more money
than you would ever be able to earn as a maid. That'll be all now,
but don't hesitate. I know this is something right up your street.'
Hanna left the room. She could feel a cold sweat under her
blouse.
It was the next day, a Sunday when they had a few hours off
work, before Hanna told Berta about what had happened. The
sun was shining, and melted snow and ice was dripping from
the roofs. They had climbed up a little hill just outside the town
where there was a tree trunk that somebody had turned into a
bench, using an axe. It was still winter, but the midday sun was
quite warm. They spread out their overcoats and sat down. Hanna
hadn't prepared anything in advance, but she suddenly had the
feeling that now was the time to take Berta into her confidence.
She told her everything, and said that she was dreading the task
that Forsman had arranged for her. How on earth would she be
able to cope with being ship's cook on a voyage to Australia?
'I wish it had been me he'd asked,' said Berta. 'I wouldn't have
hesitated to go.'
'But it's so far away,' said Hanna, and explained how she had
found Australia on the brown globe of the world Forsman had
beside his billiard table.
She had been horrified when she discovered that Australia was
on the other side of the world.
T want to stay in Forsman's house,' she said. 'Who will do all
my work while I'm away?'
'Is this drudgery really something to aspire to?' said Berta in
surprise. 'Besides, it's not really necessary to have an extra maid
in this household.'
Berta sounded quite definite in her comments. It was as if she
understood what was worrying Hanna - but it could also be that
Berta was jealous of her. Hanna had the nasty feeling that Berta
might prefer not to have her around.
'It's up to you to make the decision,' said Berta. 'There's nothing
I'd like more for you to stay on here. If for no other reason than
you lie still at night. I can't put up with sharing a bed with somebody
who kicks and tosses and turns all night.'
They both burst out laughing, but soon became serious again.
'Talk to Forsman if you are hesitant about it,' said Berta. 'He's the one who
has the final say.'
They said no more about the voyage just then. Instead they sat
there gazing out over the town and the seemingly endless stretch
of white ice beyond the wooded hills. When it became too cold,
they stood up and made their way back down the icy path. First
Berta slipped, then Hanna. They laughed, then held each other's
hands as they continued down the slope. Hanna was thinking
about what saddened her most: that she would lose the friend
she had made in Berta.
The following day she plucked up courage and knocked on the
door of Forsman's office. He shouted 'Come in', and raised an
eyebrow in surprise when she stepped over the threshold.
'What do you want?'
She remained standing in the doorway. What should she say,
in fact?
'Come on in,' he said. 'Come to my desk! I'm expecting some
men from whom I'm going to buy some timber. Tell me what
you want. Are you unwell, or what's the matter?'
'I'm fine,' said Hanna, curtseying when she spoke to him.
'What is it then? I don't like you standing here curtseying
unnecessarily.'
'I would like to stay here,' she said in a voice so low that Forsman
had to lean forward over his desk in order to hear her.
CI don't know what's in store for me on that ship,' she said. 'But
here I think I do a good job.'
Forsman leaned back in his desk chair again. His large hands
rested heavily on his stomach, where his waistcoat was unbuttoned.
He eyed her intently.
'You must go on that voyage. It's best for you. Believe me.'
He stood up. The interview was over. Hanna curtseyed and
hurried out.
It felt as if she were running.
15
The hymn book was similar to the one Forsman had given
Elin that day irDecember the previous year, when the sleigh
they had been waiting for finally emerged from the edge of the
forest. Now it was time for her to board the ship full-time, it was
Hanna's turn to get one. She had joined the crew, and had signed
a contract and an insurance agreement.
By then she had been taught all the things she needed to know
by the old cook Morth, who couldn't resist groping her but stopped
immediately when she thrust his hand away. Then he would wait
until the following day before trying again. Even if she disliked
the fact that he wouldn't leave her alone, he really did his best to
teach her how to prepare good food for the crew. He urged her
to keep track of essential stores, and which of the harbours they
visited would be most suitable for restocking. He made a map
and drew up a list for her, and she realized that without Morth
she would never have been able to prepare herself properly for
the voyage.
Forsman took her to one side after he had presented her with
the hymn book. He seemed embarrassed, almost emotional, as if
he had been drinking. Which she knew he hadn't been.
'I hope all goes well for you,' he said. 'May God watch over all
you do. But I'm also on call if needs be, I promise you that.'
Her farewells to the stone-built house and its occupants were
short. But Berta and she had made a pact: it was holy, they
assured each other, and must not be broken. They had vowed to
write to each other until they met again. They had learnt to read
and write together, and now it had become clear that there was
a purpose behind it all. And if it turned out that Hanna never
returned to Sundsvall, at least they would be able to meet in the
letters they exchanged.
Forsman accompanied her to the ship. A man in uniform
she had never seen before was waiting for them at the top of
the gangplank. He was young, barely more than four or five years
older than she was. He was wearing a peaked cap and a dark
blue tunic, was fair-haired, and stood at ease with a burnt-out
pipe in his hand.
Hanna stepped out on to the gangplank. When she arrived on
board, the unknown man was waiting for her.
She curtseyed, then regretted it. Why on earth should she
curtsey to one of the sailors?
She heard heavy steps behind her. It was Forsman, coming on
board with the captain.
'Third Mate Lundmark,' said Captain Svartman. 'This is our
cook, Hanna Renstrom. If you look after her well, perhaps you
will get some decent food on the voyage.'
Lundmark nodded. His smile made Hanna feel insecure. Why
did he look at her so intently?
But now she knew who he was, at least.
There was a light breeze blowing over SundsvalPs harbour that
April day. She closed her eyes and listened to the noise of the
wind and the waves. The forest, she thought. The waves sound
just like it did up there in the mountains when there was a wind
blowing. Irrespective of whether the wind was cold or warm.
She suddenly longed to be with Elin and her brother and
sisters. But there was no going back, just now there was only
this steamship with its cargo of aromatic, newly sawn planks,
about to set off for Australia.
'Lars Johan Jakob Antonius Lundmark,' said a voice right next
to her. It was the third mate who had stayed behind while the
captain and Forsman headed for Svartman's cabin. 'Lars after my
father,' he continued. 'Johan after my paternal grandfather, Jakob
after my elder brother who died, Antonius after the doctor who
once cured my father's blood poisoning. Do you know who I am
now?'
'I'm called Hanna,' she said. 'I only have one name. That has
always been enough for me.'
She turned on her heel and went to her own cabin. Apart from
Captain Svartman, she was the only member of the crew who
had a cabin to herself. She sat down on the bunk bed with the
hymn book in her hand. When she opened it up, she found two
shiny one-krona coins inside.
She went back on deck. The mate was no longer there. She
stood by the railing until Forsman emerged from the captain's
cabin.
'Thank you for the money,' she said.
'Money is a good way of helping the word of God to fruition,'
said Forsman. 'A bit of travel money won't do you any harm.'
He stroked her awkwardly on the cheek, then left the ship on
the gangplank which swayed noticeably under his weight.
The whole ship seemed to lean on one side as it bade farewell
to its owner.
16
Nine hours later, on 23 April 1904, the steamship Lovisa weighed anchor and set
off for Perth.
The ship sounded a farewell with its foghorn. Hanna stood by
the rail aft, not far from her cabin, but had the feeling that she
was still standing down there, on the quay.
She had left a part of herself behind. She didn't know who
she now was. The future - uncertain, unknown - would reveal
that to her.
She stood behind her cabin, under a projecting roof, and looked
down at the swirling foam whipped up by the propeller. Drifting
snow, she thought. Now I'm on my way to a world where it never
snows, where there are deserts, and the dry sand whirls around
in temperatures that are beyond my comprehension.
Suddenly the saw that the mate was standing beside her. Looking
back, what she first noticed about him were his fingernails. They
were clean and neatly cut, and she recalled how Elin used to sit
crouched over her father's nails, devoting endless effort and
tenderness to her efforts to make them neat and clean.
She wondered who cut the third mate's nails. She understood
from something Captain Svartman had said that Lundmark was
unmarried. Svartman had also asked her if she had a fiance waiting
for her to return home. When she said she hadn't, he seemed to
be pleased. He had muttered something about preferring that not
too many of his crew had close family connections.
'In case anything happens,' he had added. 'All the sea offers us
is the unexpected.'
Lundmark looked at her with a smile.
'Welcome aboard,' he said.
Hanna looked at him in surprise. It was Forsman speaking.
Lundmark had imitated his voice with astonishing accuracy.
'You sound like him,' she said.
'I can if I want to,' said Lundmark. 'Even a third mate can have
a shipowner's voice hidden away inside him.'
A distant call from the bridge cut short their conversation. The
black smoke from t&e funnels was sinking down on to the deck.
She had to turn away to prevent it from making her eyes hurt.
Hanna had a fifteen-year-old boy by the name of Lars to help
her with the preparation of food. He was also sailing for the
first time. He was an orphan, and scared stiff. When he shook
hands with her, she could feel how he was ready to snatch his
hand away from her if she were to squeeze it too tightly.
Captain Svartman had asked for pork and brown beans this
first day of the voyage.
'I'm not superstitious,' he'd said, 'but my best voyages have
always started with my crew being fed with pork and beans.
There's no harm in repeating what has already proved itself to
be a good thing.'
In the evening, when she had made all the necessary preparations
for the next morning's breakfast and sent the mess-room
boy to bed, she went out on deck. They had now left the archipelago
behind them, and were heading southwards. The sun was
setting over the forests on the starboard side.
All at once Lundmark appeared by her side again. They stood
there together, watching the sun as it slowly vanished.
'Starboard,' he said without warning. 'There's a reason for
everything. It's an odd word, but it means something even so.
Star has nothing to do with stars, it comes from "steer". In the
old days a helmsman would stand with a steering oar in the aft
of the ship, and he would have it on his right because then he
could use his right arm to move it, and a man's right arm is
usually stronger than his left. So the right-hand side was called
"steerboard", and that gradually changed into "starboard".'
'What about "port"?' she wondered.
Lundmark shook his head.
'I don't know,' he said. 'But I'll find out.'
It soon became a habit. Every evening Hanna and the third
mate would stand there talking to each other. If it was raining
or very windy, they would shelter under the projecting roof of
her cabin.
But she never had an answer as to why it was called 'port'.
17
This is amazing, she thought. Every morning when I wake up
my bed has mtfved on. I'm in a different place from where
I was when I went to sleep.
But something else about her was beginning to change as
well. She had started looking forward to her meetings with
Lundmark. They talked tentatively about who they were, where
they had come from, and she didn't flinch one evening when
he suddenly put his arm round her.
They were in the English Channel at the time, edging slowly
forward through a bank of fog that loomed up in front of them
like a wall. Foghorns were sounding eerily from various directions.
They made her think of a flock of animals that had broken
up, and was now trying to reassemble. Captain Svartman was
always on the bridge whenever they passed through fog, and
he had ordered extra lookouts to stand guard. Occasionally
black ships with slack sails or ships with smoking funnels would
appear out of all the whiteness and glide past, sometimes far
too close, making Svartman shake his head in disapproval and
give orders to slow down even more. For two days and two
nights they were almost motionless. All accessible lamps and
lanterns were kept burning on deck, Hanna found it difficult
to sleep and frequently left her cabin, but she was always careful
not to get in the way.
The next day Captain Svartman asked Hanna to look for the
mess-room boy who had disappeared. She found him in the food
store, hidden away. He was trembling with fear. She comforted
him and took him out on deck, where Svartman pressed a lantern
into his hand.
'Work cures everything,' he said.
A few days later the fog started to disperse. They increased
speed again. Hanna heard talk of something called the Bay of
Biscay, through which they would soon be passing.
One evening Lundmark suddenly started talking seriously
about himself. He was the only child of a merchant in Timra
who had gone bankrupt and afterwards was scarcely able to keep
squalor and famine at bay. His mother was a taciturn woman
who could never reconcile herself to the fact that she had only
managed to bring one child into the world. She regarded it as
both disappointing and shameful.
He had always longed to go to sea. Was always running down
to the shore to watch ships coming and going. At the age of thirteen
he had signed on as an apprentice on a small cargo boat plying
between Sundsvall and Soderhamn. His mother and father had
tried to stop him, and even threatened to send the sheriff's officer
after him if he went through with it. But when he persisted they
seemed to become resigned to the inevitable, and allowed him to
do what he had decided was to be his future.
Before falling asleep that night she thought about what the
third mate had told her. He had spoken to her in confidence,
something that hitherto only Berta had done.
The next day he continued with his story. But he also began
asking her about the life she had led before coming to Forsman's
house and then to the ship she was now sailing on. She didn't
think she had anything much to tell him, but he listened attentively
even so and seemed to be genuinely interested.
And so they continued their conversation, every evening if the
wind wasn't too strong or Captain Svartman hadn't ordered
Lundmark to carry out some extra duty or other outside his
normal routine.
Hanna realized that her feelings for Lundmark were different
from anything she had previously experienced in her life. They
couldn't be compared with those she had shared with Elin and
her siblings, nor even the close friendship she had formed with
Berta. She spent every moment of the day looking forward to his
arrival behind the galley: longing for their meeting.
One evening he presented her with a little wooden sculpture
of a mermaid. He had bought it in an Italian port on a previous
voyage, and thereafter took it with him on all the ships he
signed on to.
'I can't possibly accept it,' she said.
'I want you to have it,' he said. 'I think it looks like you.'
'What can I give you in return?' she asked.
'I have everything I need,' said Lundmark. 'That's the way I feel
at the moment.'
They stood there in silence for a while. Hanna wished him
goodnight and went to her cabin. Later, when she peered through
the door she could see him still standing there by the rail. He was
gazing out over the sea as darkness fell. He had his legs apart,
and his officer's cap in his hand.
The following morning she was sitting in the galley, descaling
a freshly caught fish which was to be the sailors' dinner. A shadow
fell over her. When she looked up it was Lundmark standing there.
He went down on one knee, took her hand which was full of glistening fish
scales, and asked her to marry him.
Until that moment they had done nothing but talk to each other;
but everybody else on board had regarded them as a pair, she knew
that, since none of the other men had approached her at all.
Had she been expecting this to happen? Had she been hoping
it would? No doubt she had occasionally had such a thought, the
idea that she was sailing together with him, not with a ship laden
with timber. Despite the fact that she had only met him when
the ship was about to leave Sundsvall.
She said 'Yes' without hesitation. She made up her mind in a
flash. He kissed her face, then stood up and left to attend the
meeting the mates had with the captain every morning.
They stopped in Algiers in order to take on board more coal
-Hanna knew by now that this was called 'bunkering'. The Swedish
consul, a Frenchman who had once visited Stockholm in his youth
and fallen in love with the city, found an English Methodist
minister who was prepared to marry the couple. Captain Svartman produced the
necessary documents and was a witness to the
marriage together with the consul and his wife, who was so moved
by the brief ceremony that she burst into tears. Afterwards the
captain took them to a photographer's and paid for a wedding
photograph out of his own pocket.
That same evening she moved into Lundberg's cabin. The
second mate, whose name was Bjornsson, moved into the ship's
cramped hospital cabin - Hanna would retain her own cabin,
Captain Svartman was reluctant to take it away from her. But if
anybody on board fell seriously ill, it would be used to accommodate
them.
Captain Svartman was positively inclined towards their marriage.
But as they left Algiers that same evening their wedding night was
ruined by the fact that the prearranged timetable of duties came
into operation, and Lundberg had to take his turn as lookout. There
was no question of Captain Svartman giving him the evening off
-his benevolence didn't stretch that far. And it would never have
occurred to Lundmark to ask for special treatment.
So Hanna had become a wife, Fru Lundmark. Both bride and
bridegroom were shy and insecure. The solidly built third mate
had been transformed into a little child, scared stiff of causing
injury or offence. They embraced cautiously, as they barely knew
each other yet. Their lovemaking was low-key, not yet uninhibited
passion.
When they passed through the Suez Canal, they both happened
to be off duty at the same time - an infrequent occurrence. They
stood by the ship's rail, contemplating the beaches, the tall palm
trees, the camels slowly waddling along, the naked children diving
into the waters of the canal.
What Hanna found hardest to get used to was sleeping with
him lying by her side. Sleeping alongside a brother or sister or
Berta had been one thing: but now she was sharing a bed with a
big, heavy man who often tossed and turned and woke her up.
She felt both secure and restless in the situation she now found
herself in, together with him; but at the same time she also felt
an intense longing to be back in the life she had led in that remote
river valley in the mountains.
At night, after making love, they would talk to each other in
the dark, always in whispers as the bulkheads were thin and they
were surrounded by other people.
In the darkness and the warmth, he now confided in her that
he hoped one day to become the captain of his own ship.
'I'll achieve that if you help me,' he said. 'Now that I have you
by my side, I think it's possible.'
She took his hand. Thought about what he had said. And
suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to be able to tell Elin about
everything that was happening in her life.
When Elin had said that there was no other option, Hanna had
to go to the coast, she had been right. But what would she think
now about the voyage Hanna was now embarked upon?
I must write to her, Hanna thought. One day Elin will receive
a letter. I'll enclose a copy of our wedding photo. She must see
the man I've married.
18
She was aroused from her memories by the question that still
remained unanswered, a bridge between the past and where
she found herself now: did she know who she was? Two months
after she had left Sundsvall, she became Lundmark's wife, and
was now waiting for him to be buried.
She had no answer. Everything was silent around her and inside
her. She could not answer the question of who she was or who
she had become.
The ship was motionless in the steaming heat. The pressure in
the steam boilers was kept low while they waited for the burial
at sea to take place. Once that was over, the engine-room telegraph
would give the command 'Full steam ahead!', and the stokers
would once again start shovelling coal into the firebox.
But just now the soot-covered men from the engine room had
come up on deck and washed away the worst of the dirt. There
was only one man left down below to make sure that nothing
caught on fire, or that one of the boilers didn't go out.
Captain Svartman went in person to collect Hanna. He knocked
carefully on the door of the cabin she had shared with her dead
husband. Now she will have to live there alone, Svartman thought.
What shall I do if she is scared of the loneliness? What shall I do
with a widow on board?
He opened the door. She was sitting on the edge of the bunk,
staring at her hands. In her thoughts she had just been reminding
herself of the long journey that had begun in a remote river valley.
She had met a man, they had become a couple, but now he was gone.
They had been together for two months. Then the fever that
had suddenly struck him down after he had gone ashore in
Sudan had killed him. But she was still there. And now he was
going to be buried.
When she got up from the bunk she had the feeling that she
was on her way to her own funeral. Or perhaps to her execution?
Yet again she found herself alone, but now in a much
worse situation than ever before. Why should she travel to the
other side of the world when the man who had belonged to
her no longer existed? Who was she accompanying now?
Apart from Captain Svartman, on the way to the starboard side
of the ship, the one facing land, the African coast hidden away
in the sunny haze and out of sight even with the aid of a
telescope?
There was a lookout on the bridge, an able seaman, one of
the younger ones. But everyone else had assembled by the side
of the soft coffin made out of sailcloth and standing on two
trestles next to the rail. The grey cloth was wrapped up in a
Swedish flag. It was stained and frayed. Hanna suspected it was
the only flag on board. Captain Svartman was not the kind of
person who made plans for what to do if one of his crew were
to die. Only somebody who behaved rashly and broke his rules
could get into trouble. Like the third mate now lying there on
the trestles, and soon to be tipped overboard into the sea.
Hanna looked at the men who were standing in a semicircle.
None of them could bring themselves to look her in the eye. Death
was embarrassing, it made them self-conscious and insecure.
She looked up at the sky, and the sun that was broiling hot
even though it was so early in the morning. In her thoughts she
suddenly found herself back in the sleigh, behind Forsman's broad
back.
Then it was the cold, she thought. Now it's the heat. But in a way they are the
same.
And the movement. Then it was a sleigh, now it was a ship
slowly, almost imperceptibly, swaying in the swell.
Captain Svartman was dressed in his uniform and with white
gloves: in his hand was the book with instructions for how to
conduct a burial at sea. He read in a monotonous but loud voice.
He had no fears when it came to carrying out his duties as captain.
Hanna suspected that more than anything else Svartman was
angry because somebody had ignored his exhortations and gone
ashore, even though he must have been aware of the danger he
was exposing himself to.
The man who was about to be buried had died completely
unnecessarily. A man who had been stupid and not listened to
what Captain Svartman had to say to him.
Hanna had the feeling that Svartman was not simply mourning
the loss of his third mate. He also felt that he'd been let down.
19
The ceremony was short. Captain Svartman did not deviate
from the set teft, added nothing personal. He fell silent when
he came to the end of the order of service and nodded to his
second mate, who had a good singing voice and launched into a
hymn. Oddly enough he had chosen a Christmas hymn. Shine over sea and shore,
star in the distance. The rest of the crew joined in, mumbling, with here and
there
a jarring false note. Hanna glanced furtively at them. Some were
not singing at all.
Which ones were thinking about the man who had died? Some
were, no doubt. Others, perhaps most of them, were just grateful
that they were still alive.
When the hymn was over Captain Svartman nodded at Hanna,
inviting her to step forward. He had explained to her that there
were not really any rules or traditions with regard to what a widow
in the crew should do as a final farewell to her husband during
a burial at sea.
'Place your hand on the sailcloth,' he had suggested. 'As we
don't have any flowers on board, your hand can be the symbol
of a final farewell.'
He could have sacrificed one of his potted plants, she thought.
Broken off one of the flowers and given it to me. But he didn't.
She did as he had suggested, and placed her right hand on the
flag. Tried to conjure up Lundmark in her mind's eye. But although
he had only been dead for a few days, it seemed that she was
already having difficulty in recreating his face.
Death is like a fog, she thought, which slowly envelops the
person who is passing away.
She took a pace backwards, Captain Svartman nodded again,
four able seamen stepped forward, lifted up the plank and tipped
the dead body overboard. Captain Svartman had picked his
strongest sailors because the sailcloth contained not only a dead
body but also several sinkers weighing many kilos, in order to
make sure that the cloth coffin really did sink to the bottom of
the sea.
1,935 metres. Her husband was going to have a much deeper
grave than the deepest grave on land. It would take almost thirty
minutes for the dead body to reach the bottom. Halvorsen had
told her that objects sink very slowly at great depths.
The sea burial was over, the crew returned to their work. Only
a few minutes later there was a clattering noise in the engine
room. The ship was moving again, the interval was over.
Hanna remained standing by the rail. There was no longer
anything to be seen in the water. She turned away and went
straight to the galley where the mess-room boy had begun
preparing lunch. She put on her apron - and then discovered that
a deckhand had been sent to help out in the kitchen.
'Even though my husband is dead, I shall do my job,' she said.
She didn't wait for a reply but climbed down the ladder to the
storeroom to fetch the potatoes that needed to be boiled for the
meals that still remained to be served that day.
The potatoes were duly peeled. She emptied the buckets of
peel overboard and went back into the galley. Halvorsen was
busy repairing a cupboard with racks for saucepans and frying
pans. Her husband's best friend on board. He has also lost a
companion, she thought. He's also wondering why the third
mate took it into his head to go ashore on that unhappy
occasion.
She continued her work with the mess-room boy and the
deckhand. But when Halvorsen had finished what he was doing
he tapped her on the shoulder and beckoned her to follow him
out. She asked the mess-room boy to keep an eye on her saucepans,
and followed after him.
He was looking down at the deck when he spoke to her, never
looked her in the eye.
'What are you going to do now?' he asked.
That was a question she'd had neither the strength nor the
courage to ask herself. What could she do? What choice did she
have?
She was honest with him, and said she didn't know.
'I'll help you,' he said. 'Just so that you know. If I can.'
Halvorsen didn't wait for a response, but turned on his heel
and headed towards the bows. She thought about what he had
said. And gathered that her husband had asked him to help her
in his desperation when he realized how ill he was.
It was Lundmark speaking with Halvorsen's voice. A voice from
the deep. A voice that was very good at imitating others.
20
They berthed in an African town by the name of Lourenco
Marques. The town was small and sparsely populated, reminiscent
of Algiers perhaps, with white-fronted houses climbing up a
slope. At the top of the hill was a white hotel. The name of the town
was impossible to pronounce, so the crew called it Loco - a word
she recognized from her Portuguese dictionary, meaning 'mad'.
Halvorsen had been there before. He urged Hanna not to sleep
with the porthole open as there were mosquitoes that carried the
dreaded malaria. And she should never wear anything with short
sleeves, even though the evenings were warm.
He offered to go ashore with her. They could go for a walk
through the town, perhaps stop at one of the countless small
restaurants and eat the grilled fish, the prawns deep-fried in oil,
or the lobster that was the best in the world.
But she declined. She wasn't yet ready to go anywhere with
another man, even if Halvorsen had the best of intentions. She
remained on board and thought about the fact that in two days'
time they would set sail due east over the big ocean that separated
the African continent from Australia.
One night as they were lying in their cramped bunk, whispering,
Lundmark had told her that sometimes ships heading for Australia
came across icebergs. Although they were sailing on warm seas,
some of these icebergs - as big as palaces built of marble - could
drift a long way north before they were completely melted by the
heat. Captain Svartman had told him that, and everything Captain
Svartman said was true.
She stood by the ship's rail, watching African porters dressed
in rags carrying provisions on board supervised by Captain
Svartman. A white man, bearded and tanned, wearing a khaki suit,
was in charge of the porters. It seemed to Hanna that the movements
of his hands gave the impression that he was lashing their
shoulders with an invisible whip. The porters were thin, frightened.
Now and again she would meet their scared, shifty eyes.
Sometimes she thought she could also see something different:
fury, perhaps hatreds But she couldn't be sure.
The white man's voice was shrill, as if he hated what he was
doing, or just wanted it to come to an end as quickly as possible.
Sometimes when the gangplank was not being used she thought
that despite everything she might cross over it, and set foot on
the African continent one more time.
But she never did. The rail continued to be her unsurmountable
border.
The first night she lay awake in the heat. Halvorsen had said
that she could leave the porthole open as long as she covered it
carefully with a thin cotton cloth. He had given her a piece of
suitable material that he had bought for her while he was ashore.
Now she lay there in the dark, listening to the cicadas, and
beyond them occasional drumbeats and something that might
have been a song, or perhaps the cry of a nocturnal bird.
The static heat was so stifling that she got dressed and went
out on deck. A sailor was guarding the gangplank, which was
blocked at night by a thick rope. She went forward to the bows
of the ship and sat down on a capstan.
All around her the ship was in darkness, apart from the hurricane
lamp by the gangplank. A fire was burning down below on
the quay. Men were sitting around it, their faces lit up by the
flames. She shuddered. She didn't know why. Perhaps she was
afraid, perhaps it was all the unaddressed sorrow that had been
accumulating inside her.
She remained sitting on the capstan until she fell asleep. She
woke up when she felt a mosquito biting her hand. She brushed
it away, and thought that it wouldn't matter anyway if she died.
The following day, the last one they would be spending in
Lourenco Marques, she asked Halvorsen what the country they
were in was called.
'Portuguese East Africa,' he said somewhat doubtfully. 'If that
can really be the name of an African country.'
He shook his head and pulled a face.
'Slavery,' he said. 'The blacks are slaves. No more than that. I
don't think I've ever seen as many brutal people as I've seen here.
And they are all white, like you and me.'
He shook his head again, and left her.
She had seen his disgust. Just as she had seen in the eyes of
some of the black men their fury, and perhaps also a feeling
similar to Halvorsen's.
It was during that same day that the Swedish missionaries came
on board the shif. Captain Svartman met them by the gangplank
shordy before eleven o'clock in the morning. The women in long skirts and white
safari helmets, and a small fat man with
a club foot came on board. Hanna stopped what she was doing
and watched the strangers. Captain Svartman handed them a
suitcase full of post, then invited them into his cabin.
Halvorsen had told her that they had a mission station inland
at a place called Phalaborwa. It was a long way from the coast.
They must have been travelling by ox cart for over a week before
arriving in Lourenco Marques.
'Captain Svartman no doubt sent them a telegram when we
were docked in Algiers,' said Halvorsen. 'So they would know
roughly when we were due to arrive.'
Hanna had been doing some laundry and was about to hang
it up to dry on one of the lines the deckhands rigged up for her
whenever it was needed, but suddenly she discovered that one of
the unknown women was standing in front of her.
The woman was pale, and very thin. She had a little scar along
one side of her nose. Her eyes were dull, blue, and her lips narrow.
She might have been about forty, perhaps younger.
Hanna thought she looked ill.
The woman said her name was Agnes.
'Captain Svartman has told me,' she said. 'About your husband
who has just died. Would you like us to pray together?'
Hanna was standing with several items of newly washed
clothing in her hand. Did the woman mean that they should drop
down on to their knees here on deck? She shuddered at the
thought.
'I'd be glad to help you,' said Agnes.
Her voice was gentle. One of the crewmen spoke the same
dialect, a bosun by the name of Brodin who came from the
forests of Varmland. Was the woman standing there in front of
Hanna really from Varmland?
She glanced at the woman's left hand: no ring. So she was
unmarried. And wanted to help. But how would she be able to
do that? All Hanna wanted was to get her dead husband back.
But he was 1,935 metres down below at the bottom of the sea,
and would never return.
'Thank you,' she mumbled, 'but I don't need any help just now.'
Agnes observed her thoughtfully, then simply nodded and took
her hand.
'I shall pray for you, and ask for your deep sorrow to be made
less painful,' she said.
Hanna watched the missionaries leave the ship with the case
of mail, and disappear into the town. She kept an eye on them
until the last of them, the man with the club foot, was no longer
visible.
Then she had a sudden urge to run after them, to go with them
as far away from the sea as possible. But there was still something
that formed an invisible barrier for her, preventing her from
crossing over the gangplank. She was bound to Captain Svartman's
ship.
To her dead husband's ship.
What happened next, and above all why, was something
Hanna woulcFnever be able to understand. For the rest of
her life the decision she made late that night, after the missionaries
had left the ship, was totally incomprehensible. She had undressed
and gone to bed. The heat was as oppressive as ever, and no
currents of air disturbed the piece of cotton cloth hanging over
the open brass-framed porthole. She had already fallen asleep,
but suddenly sat up in her bunk wide awake. The thought that
Hanna had inside her head was crystal clear, it filled the whole
of her consciousness.
Hanna knew that she couldn't stay on board. She couldn't
continue the voyage because her dead husband was still on
board. She would succumb to her sorrow unless she left the
ship.
She curled up on her bunk, sitting with her back against the
bulkhead, and held her breath. She had made her decision and
now she must leave the ship that very same night, as soon as the
sailor guarding the gangplank had fallen asleep.
Hanna tried one last time to convince herself that despite
everything she really ought to continue to Australia, but the idea
was impossible to countenance. She would never stand by the rail
and watch icebergs, the marble palaces, floating past.
She packed her few belongings in the suitcase that had once
been given to her by Forsman. She hesitated for ages, wondering
whether to take with her Lundmark's sailor's kitbag. In the end
she took only his peaked cap, his discharge book and the wedding
photograph taken in the studio in Algiers. The last item she packed
away was her Portuguese dictionary.
Hanna left her cabin shortly after four in the morning. The
sailor by the gangplank was leaning against the rail, fast asleep,
his head resting on his chest.
The cicadas were singing softly as she stepped over the rope
and walked along the gangplank, and was then swallowed up by
the darkness.
The crew spent all next day looking for her on board, but she
had vanished. Captain Svartman sent Halvorsen and two able
seamen ashore to search for her. The captain waited for as long
as he could. But just before the African dusk fell, he gave the order
to cast off.
Hanna Lundmark, the cook, had deserted. Captain Svartman
suspected sadly that she had gone mad.
He wrote in the ship's logbook: 'The cook Hanna Lundmark
has jumped ship. As she was recently widowed, the suspicion is
that her sorrow has driven her out of her mind. The search for
her was fruitless.'
But she was in fact lurking in the shadows of the harbour,
unseen by anybody on board. She watched the ship leave port
and head off eastwards.
A few days earlier she had been given fifty English pounds by
Captain Svartman. This was the amount due to a widow of a
crew member who died on board, paid by the shipping company's
insurance.
She booked into a cheap hotel in the harbour. She slept uneasily,
disturbed frequently by nagging pains in her stomach.
When she woke up it was a warm day in July 1904. At roughly
the same time the Lovisa came up against its first iceberg.
PART TWO
The Lagoon of Good Death
23
She was woken up by a screech that seemed to come from a
human being in dire straits. It was much later that she discovered
it was in fact the cry of a lone peacock that used to roam about in
the hotel grounds. It was originally one of many based in the gardens
surrounding the Portuguese governor's palace, but one day it turned
up outside the hotel and had never left. He used to screech every
morning, and scared lots of residents with his angst-filled cries.
Peacocks were also associated with a legend, the origins of
which were obscure. It had originated in the culture of the blacks,
but had then spread to the white residents of the town. Every
time a peacock displayed its magnificent tail, a human being
somewhere was cured of an intolerable pain.
This peacock didn't have a name. It moved around slowly,
cautiously, as if brooding over its solitary fate.
And so Hanna woke up after her first night in Africa. What
would she remember afterwards?
Perhaps the night was dream-like, a panoply of visions flitting
hastily past? But at the same time there was also something very
real: a nagging pain in her stomach. The heat was stifling, the
brick walls in the room she had been sleeping in were dripping
with damp. Lizards with shiny, almost transparent skin were
clinging upside down to the ceiling above her head. There was a
crackling sound from the dark floor where insects were lurking
in the shadows. A mulatto woman with vigilant eyes had given
her an oil lamp with a flickering flame that gave the impression
of being the last breaths of a dying man.
And now: dawn. The cry of the peacock was still echoing in
her ears. She walked over to the window on unsteady legs and
watched the sun rising over the horizon. In her mind's eye she
relived the departure of the ship, slowly embarking on its voyage
to Australia with a cargo that smelled of forests.
She washed her hands in a washbasin. She hid the pound notes
she had received from Captain Svartman among her underclothes
in the suitcase that Forsman had presented her with.
A filthy mirror was hanging on one of the brick walls. She
recalled her father's shaving mirror, and stood close up to it in
order to see the reflection of her face.
She suddenly gave a start and turned round. The door of her
room, with the figure 4 untidily written on a scrap of paper
pinned to it, had been opened. The mulatto woman who had
given her the oil lamp the previous evening was standing looking
at her. Then she stepped inside and put a tray with some bread
and a cup of tea on the only table there was in the room.
She was barefoot, and moved without a sound. She was wearing
a loincloth and had naked, glistening breasts.
Hanna wanted to know immediately what the coloured lady
was called. Just now she was living in a world where the only name
she knew was her own. But she couldn't bring herself to say
anything. The silent woman left, and the door closed behind her.
Hanna drank the tea, which was very sweet. When she put the
cup back on its saucer she felt full. She put her hand on her brow.
It was hot. Was it the heat of the room? She didn't know.
The stomach pains Hanna had felt during the night returned.
She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. The nagging pain
came and went in waves. She dozed off, but woke up with a
start. She put her hand on her groin. It was wet. When she
looked at her hand it was covered in blood. She screamed and
sat up in bed.
Death, Hanna thought, trembling. It was not only Lundmark
whose time was up: the same applies to me. She was shivering
with fear, but forced herself to stand up and stagger as far as the
door. She found herself in a corridor that ran round an inner
courtyard. She needed to cling on to the rail so as not to fall
down. In the inner courtyard, paved with stone, was a black piano:
someone was sitting there, polishing the keys with a linen rag.
She must have made a noise that she wasn't aware of. The man
polishing the keys of the piano stopped, turned round and looked
at her. She raised herblood-covered hands, as if she were appealing
to anybody who was prepared to come and help her.
I'm dying, Hanna thought. Even if he doesn't understand what
I say, he must surely recognize a cry for help.
'I'm bleeding,' she screamed. 'I need help!'
She was on the point of passing out, but managed to stagger
back to her room. It felt as if life was draining out of her. She
was already on her way down to the same sea bottom as Lundmark.
Somebody touched Hanna's shoulder. It was the same woman
who had just served her tea. She carefully lifted up Hanna's nightdress,
looked at her lower abdomen, then let it fall again. Her face
betrayed nothing of her thoughts.
Hanna longed for the coloured woman to be transformed into
Elin. But Elin was not the woman standing in front of her, Elin
lived in a different world. As if in a mist, Hanna thought she
could see her mother standing outside the grey house, gazing at
the mountain on the other side of the river.
The coloured woman turned on her heel and left the room.
Hanna could see that she was in a hurry.
I shall find out what her name is, she thought, because I refuse
to die.
I'm not going to sink down. Not yet.
24
Hanna was woken up by the curtain fluttering against the
widow as the door opened. It wasn't the mulatto woman
returning, but a different woman altogether. She was jet black,
with skin that seemed to glisten and her hair in tight plaits apparently
stuck to her skull. Her lips were red, heavily made-up. All
she was wearing was a thin dressing gown with a pattern of fire
breathing dragons and demons over her silken underclothes.
Her voice was husky, perhaps she was hoarse or had been
indulging in too many cigarettes and an excess of alcohol. To
Hanna's surprise, as if what was taking place before her very eyes
was in fact no more than an extension of her confused dreams, the half-naked
woman began talking to her in a language she
immediately recognized, even though she had never heard it
spoken before. When Hanna arrived at the hotel the woman who
gave her the room key had spoken a language she knew was
English. She didn't understand it at all, but with the help of her
hands and single words she had managed to make it clear that
she was looking for a room.
But now this unknown black woman was standing in front of
her and bringing to life the dictionary she had once taken out of
Forsman's waste-paper basket. So this was how the language she
had tried to learn a few words of actually sounded.
Much of what the woman said at first was totally incomprehensible
to Hanna, but then she began to recognize an occasional
word here and there, and managed to guess rather than understand
what was being said.
The woman pointed at Hanna's Swedish discharge book, which
was lying on the bedside table. From what she said Hanna gathered
that she had once lived with a Swedish sailor called Harry Midgard,
who was a terrible man when he was drunk. Hanna suspected that
he had worked on a Norwegian whaling ship.
The woman wiped sweat from her neck with the back of her hand.
'Felicia,' she said. 'I'm Felicia.'
Felicia? The name meant nothing to Hanna, but nevertheless
she had the feeling mat her memory was starting to return.
'How long have I been asleep?' she asked.
'This is the fourth day you've been here.'
Felicia had lit a cigarette that she'd been keeping behind her
ear. She looked searchingly at Hanna.
It struck Hanna that she had seen a similarly searching look
before. It was when Elin had asked Forsman to take her to the
coast with him. His expression had been similar as he looked at
her, as if he were searching for a truth which was not obvious.
'Do you have the strength to get out of bed?' Felicia asked.
Hanna tried. She was still weak and her legs were shaking
when she stood on the floor in a white nightdress which somebody
must have put on her while she was asleep. Felicia helped
her into a dressing gown which smelled strongly of perfume, and
put a pair of slippers on her feet.
They went down the stairs to the inner courtyard which was
deserted. Hanna had taken the Portuguese dictionary which she'd
brought with her on the voyage. Felicia held her under one arm
and led her into a garden surrounded by a stone wall.
It had been raining. The ground was soaking. Hanna thought
it smelled like the riverbank after haymaking. The wet soil was
bubbling and fermenting.
Felicia helped Hanna to sit down by a jacaranda tree in blossom.
She remained standing herself.
'Is it what I think?' Hanna asked.
'How can I know what you think?' said Felicia.
Then she told her in a few words what had happened. Hanna
had suspected what the stomach pains had indicated, and now
it was confirmed. She had suffered an early miscarriage.
Lundmark's child had been rejected. A child without a father
that didn't want to be born.
'I know so little,' said Felicia.
'It wasn't a child that was rejected, just a lump of bloody goo
that didn't have a soul.'
Felicia rang the little bell standing on the table. A young waiter
in a white jacket appeared and stood beside her chair.
'Tea?' she asked, looking at Hanna, who nodded.
They didn't speak while waiting to be served tea. White butterflies
that had been called back to life by the recent rain were
hovering around the tree's blue blossoms. The sound of prayers
suddenly made itself heard from a minaret somewhere in the
vicinity. Hanna was reminded of the call to prayer when she
and Lundmark had married in Algiers.
She leaned back so that her face was in the shade of the jacaranda
tree. Felicia was standing there, staring at her hands. She
had broken a fingernail. That seemed to irritate her.
But she still hadn't sat down, despite the fact that there was plenty of room
on the bench. It dawned on Hanna that she didn't
know this black woman at all, despite the fact that she had probably
saved her life. In fact she was scared of her, just as slThad
been scared of the black men sitting round the fire on the quay.
This fear somehow reminded her of how she had been scared of
the dark when she was a little girl.
I can see you, Felicia, she thought. But what do you see? Who
am I for you? And why don't you sit down? The bench is big
enough for both of us.
The young waiter came with the tea and broke her train of
thought. Hanna looked at his hands as he served her.
Only she received a cup. Not Felicia.
'What's his name?' she asked Felicia.
'Estefano.'
'How old is he?'
'Fourteen at most. But he hasn't had sex with a woman yet. So
he's just a child. His hands are still very soft.'
Hanna drank her tea in silence. Afterwards, when she had slid
the cup to one side, she asked Felicia to tell her about everything
that had happened during the days when all she could remember
was shadows, loneliness and a pain that kept coming and going
in waves.
Felicia was not to leave anything out. She should just say exactly
what had happened. And speak slowly, so that Hanna understood.
25
Felicia said:
'Laurinda, who gave you the lantern when you arrived,
told me that there was a white woman staying in room number
4.1 didn't know that you had taken up residence in the hotel as
I had been visiting my husband and my children in Katembe. I
meet them once every month - never at a prearranged time, but
when Senhor Vaz thinks it's appropriate. I had just returned and
was entertaining my first client when Laurinda came running
up. I thought she must have seen a ghost or some kind of
phantom, and that she wanted me to kill it. But when I came
into your room you immediately became a real, living person. A
bleeding woman is more alive than anything else I can think of.
The blood running out of our bodies proves that we are alive,
but also that we are dying. I understood what had happened
even though I didn't know who you were or where you had come
from. You should really have danced for me. That's how we get
to know strangers in my village and my family. When we see
them dance we discover who they are.
'But I got to know you through your blood. I whispered to
Laurinda that she should fetch warm water and towels. You seemed
to be awake and looking at me, but it was as if you didn't know
what had happened even so. One should always talk to frightened
people in a low voice, that's something I learnt from my mother.
Anyone who shouts in the presence of somebody who is ill can
see his or her shout changing into a fatal spear.
'Laurinda came with water and towels, and I took off your
blood-soaked clothes. When I rummaged around among your
underwear I found some banknotes - a large amount that made
me wonder even more who you were. For one English pound you
can share my bed for a whole week. You had tens of them. I
couldn't understand how a woman could have so much money,
even though you are white.
'But I must also admit to thinking that if you died, I would
take the money. Assuming there wasn't anybody waiting for you,
and that it didn't belong to somebody else. Anyway, I put the
notes back among your underclothes - but I knew now where
they were. You were bleeding profusely, and your forehead felt
hot. There was a moment when I thought it would be impossible
to save your life, and that I had been wrong after all. Perhaps it
wasn't a miscarriage, but something else that had afflicted you,
some illness I knew nothing about.
'Laurinda stayed in the background, but all the time she was
on hand to help me. Then I heard Senhor Vaz coming into the
room. He spends his life taking people by surprise, catching them
doing something they shouldn't. I heard him whispering, asking
what had happened: Laurinda didn't know what to say. When
I heard him talking about sending a messenger to Dr Garibaldi I
got up from the side of the bed where I'd been squatting down
and told him that wouldn't be necessary: Dr Garibaldi didn't
understand this kind of bleeding. As I did so I thought Senhor
Vaz was going to hit me - he never allows one of his whores to
express an opinion. But he didn't touch me. I think he could see
from my eyes that I knew Dr Garibaldi would only make a bad
situation worse. And he didn't want that to happen. That might
give his establishment a bad reputation. His clients might choose
to go to other whores, even if Senhor Vaz had the reputation of
running a brothel that was both spotlessly clean, and had a team
of attractive black women. But if a white woman were to bleed
to death in one of his rooms, that could be a bad omen. There
might be an evil spirit hovering over O Paraiso. Even if all white
folk despise what we believe, we have had a certain amount of
influence on you. Evil spirits can also injure white people. There
was a time when we thought that our African medicine had no
effect on people with light-coloured skin. Nowadays we know
that isn't true. You are just as scared as we are of the evil spirits
that are spread by people that wish us ill. I didn't know who you
were, nor where you were going to. But when I saw you lying
there with your blood-soaked underwear, I immediately had the
impression that somebody wished you ill, that somebody wanted
you to die.'
Felicia suddenly fell silent, as if she felt she had said too much.
There was a clattering sound made by a cart in the street outside.
It seemed to Hanna that there was still so much that she didn't understand. Not
only because she could barely grasp what Felicia
had said, but because she now realized that the hotel she had
checked into the evening she had fled from Captain Svartman's
ship was more than it seemed. The hotel was a front for a brothel,
something she couldn't have avoided hearing the crew of the ship
talking about. And so Felicia, who was standing in front of her
next to the beautiful jacaranda tree, was in fact a prostitute.
She thought she ought to stand up, return to her room, get
dressed and immediately move into a decent hotel.
But it was Felicia who had saved her, together with the woman
she now knew was called Laurinda. Why should she need to flee
from them? She had nothing to do with the brothel: all she had
done was to take a room that she intended to pay for with her
own money.
The money that Felicia hadn't taken, despite the fact that she'd
had the opportunity.
Felicia was looking at her, and seemed to read her thoughts.
'A rumour started,' she said. 'And it spread like wildfire. It
was alleged that Senhor Vaz had acquired his first white whore.
New clients immediately started queuing up. But they soon
realized that you were something as rare as a normal hotel guest.
There was no end to their disappointment.'
'This Senhor Vaz,' said Hanna. 'The owner. Who is he?'
'He's a man who can't bear the sight of blood,' said Felicia.
'When we are bleeding, that's bad for his business - apart from
when we entertain those disgusting men who can only bring
themselves to have sex with a woman when she's having her
period. But he hateseverything else to do with blood. As long as
you're ill he'll keep out of your way.'
'And then what will happen?'
'I assume that as long as you pay for your room, you can
stay on.'
Hanna suddenly had the feeling that somebody was standing
behind her. When she turned round she gave a start and felt
scared stiff. At first she didn't grasp what she was looking at.
Then it dawned on her that it was a chimpanzee standing there
wearing a waiter's white waistcoat, and staring at her.
26
Hanna thought she had gone mad. What she saw couldn't be
true. But the ape was standing there on its bow legs. In one
hand it was holding a tray with pastries and biscuits. Felicia said
something to it. It put the tray down on the table, pulled a few
faces, ground its teeth, then went away.
'It's called Carlos,' said Felicia. 'After some Portuguese king or
other. It came here with its owner five years ago, a man who hunted
lion trophies on the great inland plains. He brought the chimpanzee
with him. In those days it used to wear a topee. But when the
owner couldn't pay his bill after over a week with the ladies, Senhor
Vaz took the chimp as payment. It sulked for a couple of weeks.
But after that it was quite easy to get it used to the white jacket
and its name, and for it to realize that it had a better home now
than it used to have. It usually sits up on the roof at night and
gazes at the forests on the other side of the town. But it never runs
away. This is Carlos's home now.'
Hanna still couldn't believe it was true, neither what she had
seen nor what she had just heard. But Felicia was convincing, she
meant what she said.
The sound of music suddenly became audible. Hanna listened
and realized that it was coming from the piano, but it wasn't really
music, there were no tunes. Single notes were repeated over and
over again, as if a child was sitting at the piano, hitting the keys.
Hanna had the feeling that this was something familiar, something
she'd heard before. The man she'd seen earlier dusting the keys was
now tuning the piano. There had been a piano in Jonathan Forsman's
house. Nobody played it, nobody was allowed to touch it. Forsman
had the key to the locked lid on his watch chain. But twice a year
a blind man came to tune the piano. There had to be silence in the
house while that was happening. The piano tuner always came just
after Forsman had returned from one of his many business trips
with the sleigh or the coach. While the blind man leaned over the
keyboard with his tuning key in his hand, Forsman would sit on a
chair listening intently to what he heard. For him, perfect harmony
was not the music, it%as the well-tuned piano.
The piano tuner in the brothel resumed his work. Hanna
could hear that he was tuning the keys at the bottom end of the
bass register. The fact that he was carrying out the tuning gave
her hope, unexpected strength. Nobody tunes a piano when
somebody is dying, she thought. In those circumstances either
everything is silent, or somebody plays something that soothes
or consoles and then moves over into funeral music.
She remembered vaguely something that had happened in
Forsman's house when the piano tuner was there and Forsman
was sitting back in an armchair enjoying the sound of harmony
being restored, and she had suddenly thought: what can he see?
What can the blind man see that I can't? She couldn't believe that
all he could see before him was blackness.
Hanna could feel that she was tired. Felicia accompanied her
back to her room. Somebody had changed the sheets while she'd
been away. Her blood-stained underclothes had now been
returned, washed clean.
Felicia turned to her in the doorway.
'What shall I tell Senhor Vaz?' she asked.
'That the white woman is still bleeding, not so much now,
though. But she needs to be left alone for a few more days.'
Felicia nodded.
'I promise not to send Carlos to you with cups of tea. Laurinda
will look after you.'
When Felicia had left the room, Hanna burst into tears. She
did so in silence. Not because she didn't want anybody to hear
her, but because she didn't want to scare her body so much that
it started bleeding again.
27
The whores told lies. Just like all other black people.
When Attirrfilio Vaz had introduced himself to Hanna, a
week after she had taken up residence in his hotel and become
sufficiently restored after her miscarriage to be able to leave her
room without assistance and walk down to the ground floor for
her meals, the first three sentences he spoke to her were:
'Don't believe what they say. It's best to believe nothing at all.
The only thing black people here know how to do is to tell lies.'
Hanna found this perplexing. Felicia had explained what had happened to her and
gone on to look after her - Hanna quite
simply couldn't understand the suggestion that she had been
lying. To be sure, she had sometimes found it difficult to understand
Felicia's peculiar language - but not so much that she
could possibly have totally misunderstood or misinterpreted
what she'd said and accepted it as the truth when in fact it was
all lies.
The day Attimilio Vaz had decided to introduce himself to
his hotel guest, he had spoken slowly and been careful not to use
any unnecessarily difficult words.
Senhor Vaz was born in Portugal, but at some point long ago
in his life he had spent time in Sweden, after a short stay in a
Danish town that might have been called Odense, he wasn't
sure. He had been selling Portuguese anchovies, but she got the
impression that it hadn't been quite straightforward. It hadn't
been his fault, of course. Attimilio Vaz considered himself to
be an honest and upright person who unfortunately was often
misunderstood. Even though he had been forced to leave Sweden
in great haste after being accused of fraudulent dealing, he had
memories of a delightful country and equally delightful people
- and he was now pleased to welcome a Swedish guest into his
simple but completely clean and above-board establishment.
A few days later, when Hanna felt strong enough to go out for
the first time since she had arrived, he invited her to dinner at a
restaurant in the same street as O Paraiso.
When she emerged into the street accompanied by her host,
she suddenly felt the ground swaying under her feet. It was as if
she were standing on the deck of the ship again. She stopped and
leaned against the wall. Senhor Vaz was worried and asked if she
wanted to go back to her room, but she shook her head. When
he took hold of her arm she let him do so. No man had touched
her since Lundmark's death. Now she was walking around an
African town and a strange man, a Portuguese brothel proprietor,
was escorting her to a restaurant.
It wasn't a dream, but she found herself in a world where she
didn't belong.
Lundmark had been taller than she was. Senhor Vaz barely
came up to her shoulders.
Hanna gathered from a sign on the side of a building that the
street they were walking along was called rua Bagamoio. There
were bars everywhere, some of them garishly lit up by hissing gas
lamps, others dark, with wax candles flickering secretively behind
curtains that swayed whenever anybody stepped quickly inside.
But it was only this street that was illuminated. The narrow alleys
leading off the rua Bagamoio were dark, silent, empty.
It reminded her of the forests that surrounded the river valley
back home. There she could stand in a glade, enjoying the light
of the sun. But if she took a couple of steps in among the tall
tree trunks she entered a different world, deep in the darkness.
Apart from a few black beggars dressed in rags, everybody
in the street was white. It was a while before Hanna realized that
there were no other women. She was the only one. All around
her were white men, some of them sailors, some soldiers, some
drunk and noisy, others silent as they slunk furtively close to the
walls, as if they didn't really want to be noticed. Inside the bars,
however, were a lot of black women sitting on bar stools or sofas,
smoking in silence.
She thought that if this was a town, she no longer knew what
to call the place wh&e Forsman lived. Did these two places have
any similarities at all? The streets where she and Berta had walked
around together, and this murky town with its mysterious alleys?
A man was sitting on a street corner in front of a fire, tapping
away at a drum that was so small he could hold it in the palm
of his hand. His face was dripping with sweat, and in front of
him he had laid out a little piece of cloth on which a few metal
coins were gleaming. His fingers were pecking away at the drum
skin like the beaks of eager birds. Hanna had never heard such a
frantic rhythm before. She stopped. Vaz seemed impatient, but
dug out a coin that he threw on to the piece of cloth before dragging
her along with him again.
'He was barefoot,' said Vaz. 'If the police appear, they'll whisk
him away.'
Hanna didn't understand what he meant at first. But she
noticed that the man with the little drum hadn't been wearing
shoes.
'Why?' she asked.
'No negroes are allowed in the centre of town without shoes,'
said Vaz. 'That's the law. After nine o'clock they have no right
to be on our streets at all. Unless they are working, and can
produce the appropriate documents. "No black man or woman
has the right of access to the streets of this town unless they are
wearing shoes." That's what the municipal law says. The first
sign that a person is civilized is that he or she is wearing shoes.'
Once again Hanna was unsure if she had understood properly
what he had said. 'Our streets?' Whose streets were they not, then?
Senhor Vaz stopped outside a restaurant that seemed to be
wallowing in darkness. Hanna thought she could see the word morte on the sign
board, but that surely couldn't be right. A
restaurant in a red-light district could hardly have a name that
included the concept of death.
Nevertheless, she was sure. That was the word she had seen,
and it meant 'dead' - it was one of the very first words she had
learnt from Forsman's dictionary.
They ate fish grilled over an open fire. Senhor Vaz offered her
wine, but she shook her head and he didn't insist. He was very
friendly, only asked her a few questions about how she was feeling,
and seemed to be keen to ensure that she was in good shape.
But there was something about his manner that made her
cautious, possibly even suspicious. She answered his questions as
fully as she could, but nevertheless had the feeling that she had
closed all the doors to her innermost rooms, and locked them.
At the end of the meal he informed her that a nurse would be
coming to the hotel the following day, and would stay on for as
long as Hanna needed her help. Hanna tried to protest. She already
had all the help she needed, from Laurinda and Felicia. But Senhor
Vaz was very insistent.
'You need a white nurse,' he said. 'You can't rely on the blacks.
Even if they seem to be looking after your best interests, the reality
might be that they are poisoning you.'
Hanna was struck dumb. Had she heard right? She didn't believe
what he had said. But at the same time, she had the feeling that
a white woman might be able to give her a different kind of
company.
They walked home slowly through the night. Senhor Vaz linked
arms with her. She didn't back off.
When they arrived back at the hotel, he bowed to her at
the foot of the stairs and withdrew. Although it was late most
of the prostitutes were sitting idle on their chairs, smoking or
talking to one another in low voices. She gathered that it was
not a good evening, and thought with disgust about what usually
went on behind the closed doors.
Hanna looked for Felicia, but failed to see her. But when she
was halfway up the stairs Felicia emerged from her room together
with a white man with a bushy beard and an enormous pot belly.
The sight made Harma's stomach turn. She hurried to her room
and closed the door - but just before she closed it her eyes met
Felicia's. Very briefly, but despite everything they seemed to be
exchanging an important message.
At that same moment she also saw Carlos, the chimpanzee
dressed as a waiter, standing next to the piano with a cigar in his
hand. He was looking round curiously. At that moment he seemed
to be the most alive of all those occupying what was known as a
house of pleasure.
28
The following day a white woman with a stern-looking face
appeared outside Hanna's door. Her name was Ana Dolores,
and she spoke only Portuguese plus a few words of the local
language Shangana. But as she spoke slowly and clearly, Hanna
found it easier to understand her than both Felicia and Senhor
Vaz.
After the arrival of Ana Dolores, Hanna was better able to
understand what Senhor Vaz had said about black people telling
lies. Ana was of the same opinion - indeed, if possible she was
even more convinced of it than Senhor Vaz. She became Hanna's
guide in a world that seemed to consist exclusively of lies.
Ana had been summoned because Senhor Vaz had been
convinced that neither Dr Garibaldi nor the black servant girls
would be able to help Hanna to fully recover. The very next day
after his conversation with Felicia he had called a rickshaw and
made the journey up the hills to the Pombal hospital. He had
spoken to Senhor Vasconselous who was in charge of all the
extensive hospital administration despite the fact that he was stone
deaf and could only see out of his left eye. For many years
Vasconselous had been a faithful client at O Paraiso every three
weeks. He told his wife about the long and extremely complicated
games of chess he played with his old friend Vaz. She didn't need
to know that in fact he scarcely knew how to move the various
pieces across the board. The only lady he wished to be served by
when he visited the establishment was the beautiful Belinda
Bonita, who was getting on in years but in view of her maturity
attracted certain clients who couldn't stomach the thought of
bedding any of the younger women.
Senhor Vaz told Senhor Vasconselous the facts: a white woman
had come to stay at O Paraiso out of the blue. To make sure the
deaf man on the other side of the desk understood, he wrote
down what he was saying in large letters on the notepad with
lined yellow paper that always lay in front of the old man.
What he wanted was straightforward. Senhor Vaz needed a
trustworthy nurse to"work for him in the hotel for as long as the
white woman needed medical care. He stressed that it should be
a mature woman who always wore her nurse's uniform whenever
she visited the hotel. He didn't want to risk any of his clients
getting the idea that the first white whore had arrived in Lourenco
Marques. A woman who could also assume various playful and
erotically arousing identities, such as that of a nurse for instance.
Or to be more accurate, perhaps: the second white prostitute
in Lourenco Marques. Nobody, least of all Senhor Vaz, knew if it
was a myth or something that had really happened, but it was
claimed that there was a white woman who seduced clients into
joining her in one of the dark alleys of the illuminated rua
Bagamoio. Nobody knew where she had come from, nobody was
really sure if she actually existed. But occasionally half-naked men
used to stagger out of the dark alleys with stories to tell about a
beautiful white woman who could perform tricks that none of
the black women seemed to be capable of.
Senhor Vaz had never believed these stories. He was convinced
that in the world that black people lived in, lies carried more
weight than the truth. Embedded in falsehoods were also superstition
and fear, deceit and obsequiousness. From the very first day
he had set foot on the quay in Lourenco Marques he had been
convinced that one could never trust black people. Without their
white overlords they would still be living the kind of life that
Europeans left behind hundreds of years ago.
Senhor Vaz was a firm believer in the civilizing mission of the
white race on the African continent. But that did not mean that
he treated the women in his brothel badly. It's true that he occasionally
smacked the girls if he was annoyed by them, but he
never allowed that to develop into serious ill treatment.
Senhor Vasconcelous thought over what his friend had to say,
then rang a bell. His secretary, a grossly overweight woman who
Senhor Vaz recognized from the cathedral where he always
attended Mass every Sunday, came into the room and was
instructed to fetch nurse Ana Dolores, who was working on a
ward for the mentally ill.
Senhor Vaz was a little worried when he heard this and
wondered if his friend Vasconselous had misunderstood him.
He didn't need help looking after a white woman who was out
of her mind. She had booked into his hotel, paid for several
nights in advance, and then suddenly started to bleed. The
bleeding had stopped now, but she was still weak and in need
of care.
He wrote this latter point down in childishly large capital letters.
Senhor Vasconselous read what was written with his short-sighted
good eye, then wrote simply si, entendo, and lit a stump of a cigar.
Ana Dolores was very thin with a hatchet face characterized
by some kind of rancour. Senhor Vaz was doubtful the moment
she entered the room and had her task explained to her. As far
as he was concerned it was just as important that she didn't scare
off his clients as that she took care of the white woman confined
to bed in room number 4. But he decided he had to rely on the
judgement of his friend.
They agreed on a fee, shook hands, and decided that she should
start work that very same evening. Senhor Vaz couldn't tell from
the expression on Ana's face whether or not she knew about O
Paraiso, but she could hardly have failed to be aware of the fact
that rua Bagamoio was the most notorious red-light street in the
whole of southern Africa. Vaz had a fair idea of the wages normally
paid to an experienced nurse, and had immediately doubled that
amount to prevent her from hesitating for financial reasons. He
also promised her accommodation in room number 2, which was
the biggest one in the hotel - more of a modest suite in fact, a
large corner room with a bed recess and a picture window with
views over the rooftops down to the harbour and the Katembe
peninsular.
And so Hanna got to know Ana Dolores. When she woke up
the following morning it was no longer Felicia sitting in the
basket chair by the window, nor Laurinda on her silent feet
carrying in a tray with a cup of tea and nibbles. Now it was a
nurse dressed in white, standing in front of her and staring at
her. Without a word she took her hand and measured her pulse.
Then, with no indication as to whether she was satisfied or not,
she leaned over Hanna's face, pulled her eyelid up and studied
her pupils. Hanna noticed that this unknown nurse smelled of
some fruit or flower she didn't recognize. Having examined
Hanna's eyes, Ana then whipped down the thin duvet and
exposed her lower abdomen. It happened so quickly that Hanna
didn't have time to hide her modesty. She raised a hand, but
Ana brushed it aside, almost as if it had been an insect, and
opened her patient's legs wide. Without a word she contemplated
Hanna's pudenda, lengthily, thoughtfully. Then she folded back
the duvet and left the room.
Laurinda came in with the tea tray. She was wearing a thin
white cotton blouse and a colourful capulana wrapped around
her hips.
Hanna raised her hand and pointed to the door, trying to
reproduce an outline of the woman who had just left the room.
Laurinda understood.
'Dona Ana Dolores,' she said.
Hanna thought she could detect a trace of fear in Laurinda's
voice when she pronounced the nurse's name.
But she couldn't be sure, of course. Not about that or anything
else.
29
Hanna was inflicted by some sort of infection that caused
her a prolonged fever. She was cared for by Ana Dolores
for two months. Her first feelings of being restored to health were
followed by a period of extreme exhaustion which almost paralysed
her. It was during this time that Ana taught Hanna how to
speak Portuguese fluently. Whenever Hanna wasn't feeling too
tired, they practised speaking.
But this was also when Hanna learnt how white people ought
to treat the black people who worked at the hotel - the hotel
which was first and foremost a brothel for white men who
happened to be visiting the port. At first Hanna thought it was
uncomfortable, having to witness the unconcealed contempt, the
harsh condescension that characterized everything Ana did with
regard to the black women who entered the sickroom. But as time
passed, despite herself Hanna began to react less to what Ana
said.
When Hanna had become well enough to leave her sickbed
and go for increasingly long walks through town, always accompanied
by Ana, she realized that the latter's behaviour was always
the same: in the street, in the park, on one of the long beaches
or in a shop - not just within the four walls of O Paraiso.
Ana Dolores took it for granted that black people were a lower
order of beings. It reminded Hanna of the situation in Forsman's
house. Even though he treated his servants better than most Berta
had explained that to her - he also had nothing but
contempt for those near the bottom of the social ladder. Not
only inside his own house, but in society in general. When Hanna
had tried to protest and used herself as an example of Forsman's
kindness, Berta had insisted that he didn't treat everyone like
that. And Hanna had also noticed occasionally that Forsman
could be condescending to the poor people he came across.
Ana explained it to her:
'The blacks are merely shadows of us. They have no colour.
God made them black so that we didn't have to see them in the
dark. And we should never forget where they came from.'
Even though Hanna got used to it, she still regarded Ana's
behaviour with unease. When she hit out at black women who
didn't move out of her way, or didn't hesitate to smack children
who tried to sell her bananas in the streets, Hanna simply wanted
to run away. All the time, as if it were an obvious part of the
job of caring for Hanna, Ana talked about their inferiority, their
deceitfulness, their filthiness in both body and soul. Hanna's
resistance decreased. She took on board what she heard, as if it
were true after all. She realized that there was a crucial difference
compared with the life she had lived in Forsman's house.
There she had been one of the poor workers and servants. Here,
because of the colour of her skin, she was on a quite different
level, superior to the blacks. Here she was the one who made
the decisions, who had the right to give orders and punish black
people with divine blessing. Here she was the equivalent of
Jonathan Forsman. Despite the fact that she was merely a cook
who had deserted her ship.
One day, towards the end of the long time Ana was looking
after Hanna, they went for a walk in the little botanical gardens
a few streets away from the rua Bagamoio, next to the hill
where the new, shiny white cathedral was being built. Both of
them were carrying open parasols to protect them from the
sun. It was very hot, and they sought out the shady areas of
the park where it was a bit cooler. Notices on the iron entrance
gates to the park informed visitors that benches were for whites
only. The text was worded so threateningly that although they
had a right to be in the park, blacks preferred not to go walking
along the sandy paths. The only ones in the park on this occasion
were half-naked gardeners weeding the flowerbeds,
constantly on the lookout for poisonous snakes that might
emerge from the fallen leaves.
Many of the benches were occupied that afternoon. Relaxing
in the park were civifservants from the various colonial offices,
mothers with daughters playing hopscotch and sons running
after their hoops.
Ana suddenly stopped dead. Sitting fast asleep on a bench
in front of her was an elderly black man. Hanna could see the
anger in her face even before she hit the man on the shoulder.
He woke up slowly, looked enquiringly at the two women, then
prepared to go back to sleep.
Once before in her life Hanna had seen an old man open his
eyes in that same slow way. It was when she and Jukka had
entered the room where the old man who had been a lodger
in her relatives' house was lying in his filthy bed. Just like him,
this old black man barely knew where he was. He seemed hungry,
thin and on the brink of dehydration. His skin was stretched
tightly over his cheekbones.
Before Hanna had chance to react Ana had grabbed hold of
him, lifted him up like a floppy doll and thumped him so hard
that he went flying into a clump of rhododendron bushes. He
remained lying there on the ground while Ana wiped the bench
with a handkerchief, then beckoned Hanna to sit down.
For a brief moment everything in the park came to a stop.
The hoops stopped rolling, the ladies on the benches fell silent,
the half-naked gardeners with their sweaty bodies crouching
down in the flowerbeds remained stock-still. Afterwards, when
normality had been restored, Hanna wondered if the stillness
was due to what had already happened, or to what was going
to happen.
Would anything at all happen, in fact?
Hanna glanced furtively at Ana, who was holding her parasol
in one hand and slowly waving the other one in front of her face.
Hanna looked behind her. The old man was still lying among the
blossoming bushes. He wasn't moving at all.
I don't understand this, she thought. Lying behind the bench
I'm sitting on is an old man who has been beaten and flung
on to the ground, and nobody is doing anything to help him.
Not even I.
She didn't know how long they remained seated on the bench,
but when Ana decided it was time to go back to O Paraiso, the old
man had vanished. Perhaps he had crawled deeper into the clump
of rhododendron bushes, and hidden himself alongside the
poisonous snakes that everybody was scared of.
A few days later something took place that shook her deeply,
and made her wonder what was happening to her. Laurinda
dropped a dish when she was serving Hanna's morning tea. The
dish shattered when it hit the stone floor. Hanna was standing
in front of the mirror, combing her hair: she turned round
quickly and slapped Laurinda on the side of the head. Then she
pointed at the shards and told her to pick them up.
Laurinda crawled around on her hands and knees, picking
up the bits of porcelain. Meanwhile Hanna sat on the edge of
the bed, waiting for the tea to cool down sufficiently for her to
be able to drink it.
Laurinda stood up. That annoyed Hanna.
'Who said you were allowed to stand up?' she asked. 'There are
still bits of china on the floor.'
Laurinda got down on her knees again. Hanna was still annoyed
because she could never read Laurinda's thoughts from her facial
no
expression. Was she afraid that Hanna was going to punish her?
Or merely indifferent, or even filled with contempt for this white
woman whose life she had once helped to save?
Laurinda's eyes were very bright, gleaming with a sort of mysterious
inner radiance that Hanna could never recall having seen
in the eyes of a white person.
'You can go now,' she said. 'But I want to know when you are
coming and going. I want you always to wear shoes when you
wait on me.'
Laurinda stood up and disappeared into the darkness. She
somehow managed to make her bare heels sound like shoe heels.
Hanna assumed she was on her way to the kitchen to partake of
some of Mandrillo the chef's stew.
Hanna remained seated in the darkness. Shadows were dancing
around the gas lamp. She tried to envisage the house by the river
in her mind's eye. Elin, her brother and sisters, the brown and
clear water flowing down from the mountains.
But she could see nothing. It was as if everything was hidden
behind a film her eyes couldn't penetrate.
She regretted the way she had treated Laurinda. It frightened
her - the ease with which she had humiliated this friendly woman.
She felt ashamed.
Hanna slept badly that night. The next day the chimpanzee
came up to her room. He was carrying a silver tray with a flower
from the jacaranda tree, sent to her by Senhor Vaz. There was no
message, only his name.
in
30
The blue flower from the jacaranda tree was still alive, floating
in a little shallow dish of water, when something happened
that changed Hanna's life, yet again.
It was early morning when she went downstairs, feeling fit
again at last, even if she was still grieving over the loss of
Lundmark.
A white man with his shirt unbuttoned, barefoot, but still with
his hat on his head, was lying on a sofa, fast asleep. There was no
sign of the women who worked in the brothel: they were still
asleep in their rooms - alone or together with clients who had
paid for a whole night's indulgence. The only other being awake
at this time in the morning was Carlos the chimpanzee. He was
curled up on the ceiling light, swinging slowly backwards and
forwards as he observed her movements.
There was no sign of Senhor Vaz either. Hanna was enveloped
in a musty smell of cigars and strong drink, despite the fact that
the Venetian blinds were up and the windows open. The black
man in charge of the entrance door was asleep in the shadows
outside it.
Hanna stood in the open doorway, careful not to wake up the
watchman. A group of black men pulling a cart full of buckets of
night soil stopped and stared at her. She went back inside. Once
the cart had clattered off on its way, she went back to the doorway.
Something similar happened again, only this time it was two white
men wearing straw hats and carrying leather briefcases who
stopped dead and stared at her. Once again she went back inside.
Was there something wrong with her clothes? Hanna stood in
front of one of the many mirrors hanging on the walls. She was
dressed in white, with a brown shawl over her shoulders, and as
usual she had gathered her hair into a bun at the back of her
head. She could see that she had lost weight, and was very pale.
For the first time in her life her skin was now the same milky
white as her mother's. But Hanna's face was her father's. She could
see him in the mirror. He seemed to be coming closer to her, and
eventually was standing right next to her face.
That thought saddened her. If a door behind her back hadn't
opened at precisely the same time, she might well have burst out
crying. When she turned round she saw a hunchbacked man,
short in stature, almost dwarf-like, enter the room. He limped,
and his head jerked every time he took a step. She recognized the
piano tuner she had hitherto only seen sitting on the piano stool.
He made his way cautiously between all the chairs and sofas. He
paused for a moment when he bumped into one of the sleeping
man's naked feet, but eventually arrived at the piano. He sat down,
opened the lid, and stroked his hands over the keys as if he were
caressing the skin of a woman or a child. Hanna stood there
motionless, observing him: she was reminded of Forsman's piano,
and the thought struck her that she wanted to go back home as
soon as possible. She didn't belong here, and would never do so.
The man at the piano suddenly turned to look at her.
He said something she didn't understand. When she didn't
respond, he repeated what he had said.
Then Hanna started speaking Swedish. Silence was not a
language. She said who she was, her name, and explained about
the ship she had come here on and then abandoned.
She spoke without pausing, as if she were afraid that somebody
might interrupt her. The man at the piano didn't move a muscle.
When Hanna finished talking, he nodded slowly. It was as if
he had understood what she said.
He turned back to the piano, took a tuning key out of his
pocket and started caressing the keys. Hanna had the impression
that he was trying to do it as quietly as possible, so as not to
disturb those who were still asleep.
The man lying on the sofa sat up drowsily. When he saw Hanna
he gave a start and stared at her as if he couldn't believe his eyes.
Then he tried to talk to her. She just shook her head and went back
up the stairs to her room. She sat down on her bed, took the pound
notes from among her underclothes and counted them. It was clear
that she definitely had enough to enable her to head back home to
Sweden. She might not even need to work her passage, but could
perhaps be a paying passenger on a ship sailing to her homeland.
There was a knock on the door. Hanna quickly gathered up
the money and hid it under the pillow. When there came a second
knock, she stood up and opened the door. She thought it would
be Laurinda who was already serving up her breakfast tray, but
in fact it was the man who had been sleeping on the sofa. He still
had his hat on his head and was barefoot. His shirt was unbuttoned
and his pot belly hung down over his waistband. He was
holding a bottle of cognac in one hand. He smiled, and spoke in
a low voice as if he were encouraging a doubtful dog. She was
about to shut the door when he put one of his bare feet in the
way. Then he pushed her over so that she fell down on the bed.
He closed the door, put the bottle on the table and produced a
few notes from his trouser pocket. She was just about to get up
off the bed when he gave a roar and pushed her back down again.
He put the notes on the table, ripped her blouse open and started
pulling up her skirt. When she resisted he slapped her hard. She
still didn't understand what he was saying, but she understood
what was happening. She managed to wriggle out of his grasp,
picked up the bottle he had put on the table and hit him so hard
on the arm with it that it broke. At the same time, she shouted
for help - as loudly as she could.
The blow and the subsequent shriek made the man hesitate.
He let go of Hanna, and stared at her. She heard footsteps and
then the door opened.
It was Senhor Vaz standing there, wearing a red silk dressing
gown. Carlos was perched on his shoulders, then he launched
into an attack on the unknown man. Carlos bit the man's hand
so savagely that he submitted.
31
Senhor Vaz was dishevelled. He must have been woken up by
Hannas scream. But even if he was half asleep, he realized
immediately what had been happening. The man, a Boer by the
name of Fredrik Prinsloo, standing there half naked with uncut
toenails like the claws on a cat, had been causing trouble for
several years whenever he visited O Paraiso. Now he found himself
fighting a desperate but losing battle against the ape that was
biting him and ripping off his clothes.
Senhor Vaz shouted out a command. Carlos immediately
stopped fighting and jumped up on to Hanna's bed. In one hand
he was holding a handkerchief he had managed to snatch from
Prinsloo, who was bleeding quite badly.
Fredrik Prinsloo belonged to one of the earliest families to
emigrate to Cape Town from Europe. Now he was a major landowner
in the province of Transvaal, and had set up a business
organizing safaris for rich hunters from America. One of his
customers was the then President Theodore Roosevelt, who was
a hopeless shot but nevertheless, with the discreet assistance of
Prinsloo, succeeded in bagging vast numbers of buffalo, lion,
leopard and giraffe.
Senhor Vaz had heard the story about the American president
ad nauseam during the many conversations he had been compelled
to have with Prinsloo. But despite the Boer's boasts, he had to be
handled with respect. Prinsloo was not just a regular customer,
but he also recommended Vaz's brothel to his friends whenever
they felt the need to engage in erotic antics with black women.
As Senhor Vaz had realized that the Boer never failed to start
quarrelling with other customers, he introduced a special routine
whenever Prinsloo indicated that he was on his way. Vaz dug out
a notice that he hung on to the front door announcing that a
'private party' was taking place. All this meant in practice was
that Senhor Vaz himself kept a close check on the number of
clients allowed in that evening.
On these occasions wild rumours circulated around the town
of abandoned orgies involving activities that no decent person
could possibly imagine even in their wildest dreams. Senhor Vaz
was well aware of these rumours, and also knew that they created
a sort of magic aura around O Paraiso, which increased its appeal
and also his income.
But he had also established that Prinsloo often treated black
women extremely brutally. For a man like Prinsloo black skin was
merely a shell that concealed stupidity, ignorance and idleness.
But to do what Prinsloo did and combine this contempt with
what seemed at times to be an irrational hatred was something
that Vaz couldn't understand. Why this hatred? Nobody hates
animals, apart from snakes, cockroaches and rats. Let's face it,
black people don't have poisonous fangs. Extremely cautiously,
he had often raised the matter with Prinsloo; but he had beaten
a hasty retreat when Prinsloo became hot under the collar and
refused to answer.
Prinsloo was also an unpredictable person. He could be
generous and friendly, but he sometimes reached a tipping point.
When that happened, he would start treating the prostitutes and
servants with a degree of cruelty that terrified everybody he came
into contact with. Senhor Vaz had instructed his most trusted
servants to inform him immediately when Prinsloo had one of
his attacks. On several occasions, apparently without provocation,
the Boer had suddenly started hitting or whipping the black whore
he had been bedding at the time. Senhor Vaz would then intervene
with the assistance of the burly security officer who for some
reason was called Judas. Their combined efforts would be enough
to rescue the naked, bleeding woman from Prinsloo's attacks. The
Boer never offered any resistance, but nor did he ever express any
regret. What he had done simply didn't seem to bother him.
Prinsloo never gave any extra money to the women he had
attacked, nor did he hesitate to ask for their services again the
next time he visited the brothel.
But Senhor Vaz had drawn a line there. Nobody who had been
subjected to Prinsloo's brutality need ever go to bed with him
again. He simply explained that she was busy with other clients,
and would be otherwise occupied all the time Prinsloo stayed at
O Paraiso, which was usually three or four days. He wasn't sure
whether or not Prinsloo had seen through him, but the Boer was
allowed to choose from all the other women and precautions were
taken to act immediately if ever he started mistreating the woman
he had selected to satisfy his desires on any given occasion.
Senhor Vaz worried about the hatred that Prinsloo had manifested.
He didn't understand it, and it scared him. It was as if it
was warning him about a danger. Something he wasn't aware of
himself.
As he stood there in the doorway, half asleep, and observed the
semi-naked Prinsloo squaring up to the white woman with her
blouse ripped away, he recognized that things had now gone too
far. Prinsloo hadn't hesitated to attack one of the hotel residents,
and a white woman at that. Senhor Vaz could no longer overlook
his behaviour. And he felt he had been insulted personally.
As far as he was concerned, there could be nothing worse. Being
insulted meant that death was testing his powers of resistance.
32
Senhor Vaz was short in stature and not especially strong.
But his anger w&s such that he didn't hesitate to grab hold
of Prinsloo's shirt collar, drag him out of the room and then
push him down the stairs. The scream from the upper floor
had woken up the sleeping whores. Many of the women were
not particularly fond of some of their colleagues, but they
seldom came to blows, although it did happen now and then.
But if the danger came from outside their circle, they were all
united against it.
Now they were standing by the staircase as Prinsloo came
tumbling down. Vaz followed behind him, followed in turn by
Judas, and behind him Carlos, who was chewing Prinsloo's white
handkerchief.
Senhor Vaz stopped on the bottom step and looked sternly at
Prinsloo, who had hit his head and was bleeding from one eyebrow
and the hand where Carlos had bitten him.
'Get out of here,' he said. 'And never come back again.'
Prinsloo pressed his hand against his eyebrow and seemed at
first not to have understood what Senhor Vaz had said. Then he
stood up on unsteady legs, made a threatening gesture at the prostitutes
who were standing round him, then took a step forward
towards Senhor Vaz.
'You know that I usually bring my friends here with me,' he
said. If you throw me out, you throw them all out as well.'
'I'll be only too pleased to explain to them why I don't want
you here.'
Prinsloo didn't reply. He was still bleeding. He suddenly
roared loudly and bent over forwards, as if he was in great
pain.
'Water,' he yelled. 'Warm water. I must wipe away the blood.'
Senhor Vaz nodded to one of the women, indicating that she
should bring some water. He shooed the others away. They
returned quietly to their rooms. Prinsloo sat down on the edge
of a sofa. When the girl brought him an enamel washbasin he
carefully washed away the blood from his forehead and his hand.
'Ice,' he said then.
Senhor Vaz himself went out into the kitchen and chopped
a couple of large lumps of ice from the blocks in the icebox,
then wrapped them up in towels. Prinsloo pressed them against
his wounds. When the bleeding had stopped he stood up,
buttoned up his shirt, put on his socks and shoes and left through
the door.
He left the lumps of ice in the towels lying on the floor next
to the sofa. Senhor Vaz carried them into the kitchen, then went
back up the stairs and knocked on the door of room number 4.
When he heard Hanna's voice he opened the door and entered
the room. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, and had replaced
the torn blouse with a different one.
Senhor Vaz looked for signs that she had been crying, but found
none. He sat down on the only chair in the room.
Not a word was spoken, but Hanna had the feeling nevertheless
that he was apologizing for what had happened.
When he eventually stood up, bowed and left the room, she
was more convinced than ever that she ought to leave this town
as soon as possible.
Africa scared the living daylights out of her. It was full of people
she couldn't understand, and who didn't understand her.
She must get away. But even so, she didn't regret having
abandoned Captain Svartman's ship. That had been the right
thing to do in the circumstances. But what was the right thing
to do now?
She didn't know. There was no answer to that question.
She thought: that dark river is still flowing inside me. The ice hasn't formed
on it yet.
33
That very same day she went down to the harbour. Senhor
Vaz didn't want her to wander around town on her own,
and sent Judas as a sort of bodyguard. He walked a few paces
behind her. Every time she turned round he stopped and looked
down at the ground. He didn't dare to look her in the eye.
How can he possibly protect me? she thought. When he doesn't even dare to look
me in the eye.
There were a lot of ships berthed by the various quays. Still
more were riding at anchor in the roadstead. It was low tide, and
large parts of the lagoon that formed the outer harbour were
silted up, with old wrecks sticking out of the black mud. She
searched for a ship flying the Swedish flag in the inner harbour,
but in vain. Nor could she see a Danish one, the only other flag
she had learnt to recognize. The ships in the roadstead were all
flying flags she couldn't identify.
It was very busy on the quays, with ships being frantically loaded
and unloaded. She watched a net full of elephants' tusks being
hoisted up on a crane and lowered into a hold. Gleaming pianos
and motor cars were lifted out of another ship, and in one of the
nets deposited on the quays were several elegant sofas and armchairs.
The half-naked workers were dripping with sweat as they
carried their burdens along swaying gangplanks. And wherever
she looked there were white men in topees keeping watch over
their slaves like hungry beasts of prey. She soon decided she could
no longer bear to watch all these tortured and torturing people.
She left the harbour.
Just as she was leaving the waterfront she decided she would
take an indirect route back to the hotel. With the sturdily built
Judas behind her, she had no need to feel afraid.
He's my fifth attendant, she thought: Elin was first, then
Forsman, and then Berta, Lundmark, and now this gigantic black
man who doesn't dare to look me in the eye.
She spent a long time wandering around the town that afternoon.
For the first time she had the feeling that she was seeing
everything clearly. Before, everything seemed to have been
shrouded by the strong sunlight. Now at last she was able to
become acquainted with this town to which she was originally
scheduled to pay merely a fleeting visit in order to take on board
fresh water and food supplies before Captain Svartman set off for
the long voyage to Australia in his Lovisa.
But she had jumped ship here, and was still here. All the darkness
she had experienced was now at last beginning to disperse.
She was beginning to see properly the foreign world which now
surrounded her.
It suddenly dawned on her that it was Sunday. One of the first
days in October. But the seasons had changed places. Now it wasn't
winter and the cold that was in store. On the contrary, the
increasing heat indicated that summer had arrived early this year.
She had heard Senhor Vaz discussing this with his brothel clients.
The sun can burn you just as the cold can burn you, she thought.
But perhaps my skin is hardened to the heat, thanks to the fact
that I'm used to the cold?
She had come to the end of a street that opened out on to
a hill, on the top of which the town's as yet unfinished cathedral
towered up towards the heavens. The bright sunlight was
reflected off the white stone walls. She had to screw up her eyes
so that what surrounded her was not transformed into a mirage
by the heat haze. Wherever she looked, everything seemed to
be deserted. There were no other people about. Only the big
black man behind her, always motionless whenever she turned
round.
She walked up the hill. The cathedral doors were standing
open. She stopped in the shadow of the tall tower. It's like
a meringue, she thought as she looked at the white stone. Or a
cake that I saw in Forsman's house when one of his children
was having a birthday party.
She stood in the shadows, wiping her face with a handkerchief.
Judas was standing in full sunlight. She tried beckoning
to him, indicating that he too should come and stand in the
shade. But he stayed where he was, with sweat pouring down
his face.
She suddenly heard singing coming from the dark interior of
the cathedral. Children, she thought - children singing in a choir.
The singing was interrupted by an echoing voice, but then it
began again, a repetition of the same tune. This was evidently a
choir practice. She stepped cautiously into the darkness, unsure
as to whether she was allowed to enter this church. Were prayers
said to the same God here as in the churches she had previously
been to, in the mountains and in Sundsvall? She paused, hesitant,
while her eyes slowly got used to the darkness that was in such
sharp contrast with the sunlight outside.
Then she saw them. The choir. Children in white robes with a
red belt round their waist, boys and girls, all of them black. In
front of them a small white man with bushy hair and hands
moving like soft wings. Nobody had noticed her yet. She stood
there and listened. There were a few more repetitions before the
choirmaster was satisfied.
And now the children dressed in white sang a hymn. It was so
beautiful that it was almost painful. She stood there listening,
with tears in her eyes, thinking that she had never heard anything
so indescribably beautiful. The children sang in exquisite harmony,
the hymn was powerful and rhythmic. All of them kept their eyes
fixed on the little man's gentle hand movements. None of the
children seemed to be frightened of him.
It seemed to her that here and now, in the darkness, for the first
time, she was seeing people who were not afraid. There was nothing
here of what usually scared her to death. Here, inside the dark
cathedral, she thought, there was nobody telling lies. There was
nothing here apart from the truth in the hymn and the white
hands moving like wings full of energy.
Then she suddenly noticed that one of the children, a girl, had
seen her and had lost contact with the choirmaster, even though
she continued singing in tune.
Hanna thought that she could recognize herself, it was as if
she had been transformed into that girl, with her dark skin and
big brown eyes.
She and the girl kept on looking at each other until the hymn
was finished. Then the choirmaster noticed her. She gave a start
and thought once again that she didn't really have the right to be
there. But he smiled and nodded, and said something she didn't
understand before resuming his choir practice.
Hanna was tempted to join the children. To be a part of the
singing. But she stayed where she was in the shadows, transported
by the children's voices.
She wished she had dared to join them. But she didn't have
the necessary courage.
It was only when the practice was over, the children had left
and the choirmaster had packed away his battered old briefcase
that she went back out into the bright sunlight.
34
Judas was still standing on the same spot.
'Why don't you stand in the shade?' she asked, making no
attempt to disguise the fact that she was annoyed. His behaviour
had spoilt her experience in the cathedral.
He didn't answer as he hadn't understood what she said. He
simply wiped the sweat from his brow, then let his arm hang
loosely by his side again.
She returned to O Paraiso where Senhor Vaz was pacing up
and down in the street outside, looking worried. He was carrying
an umbrella as a substitute for a parasol to protect him from the
sun. Carlos had climbed up on to the hotel sign and was throwing
chips gathered from the stone roof at a dog down below. When
Hanna arrived back, Senhor Vaz immediately started berating the
black man. She didn't understand what he was saying as he was
speaking so quickly, but she gathered he had been worried that
something had happened to her.
The black man still said nothing, but she had the impression
that he was unmoved by the fit of rage aimed at him. And as she
watched Senhor Vaz growing more and more furious, she noticed
something that hadn't occurred to her before.
Even if Judas was afraid of his white master, Senhor Vaz was
just as afraid. The gigantic black man was not the only one on
the defensive. Naturally, he couldn't allow himself to react to the
white man standing in front of him and shouting at him. That
would be a punishable offence, and could lead to imprisonment
or a beating. But now Hanna could see that Senhor Vaz was also
afraid - a different sort of fear, but just as strong. And didn't the
same apply to Ana Dolores as well? She would boss the black
servant girls and prostitutes about, give them orders, and was
never satisfied with what they did, nor did she ever thank them.
But wasn't she also possessed by a never-ceasing flood of unease
and fear?
The outburst came to an end just as quickly as it had begun.
Senhor Vaz dismissed Judas with a wave of the hand, and offered
Hanna his arm to take her with him into the coolest of the rooms,
overlooking the sea. Judas squatted down next to the house.
Senhor Vaz flopped down on to a chair, placed his hands over
his heart as if he had just been indulging in something extremely
strenuous, and warned her at great length about the dangers of
going for long walks in the extreme heat. He told her about friends
of his who had suffered from heatstroke, especially after spending
time in places where the sun was reflected by white stone, or by
the sand on the town's beaches. But above all he warned her
against relying too much on the support offered by blacks.
She didn't understand what he was trying to say.
'Is it dangerous for black people to look at you?' she asked.
Senhor Vaz shook his head in annoyance, as if the strain he
had just undergone had used up all his patience.
'A white woman shouldn't walk around too much on her own,'
he said. 'That's just the way it is.'
T went to the cathedral and listened to the black children
singing.'
'They sing very beautifully. They have a remarkable ability to
harmonize without needing to practise all that much. But white
ladies should only go for short walks. And preferably not at all
when it's very hot.'
She wanted to ask more about the unlikely danger she had
evidently exposed herself to. But Senhor Vaz raised his hand, he
didn't have the strength to answer any more questions. He remained
seated on the chair, his white hat on his knee, his black walking stick
made from a wood known as pau preto leaning against one of his
legs, and seemed to be lost in thought.
After a while Hanna stood up and left the room. Senhor Vaz
had fallen asleep, his mouth half open, his eyebrows twitching,
snoring softly.
When she looked out of the front door, she found that Judas
was no longer there. She wondered where he lived, if he was
married, if he had any children.
But most of all she wondered what he was thinking.
That evening she had dinner in her room once again. One of
the black servant girls whose name she didn't know brought her
food. She also moved without making a sound, just like Laurinda.
She wondered if these silent movements also had to do with fear
- the fear she was beginning to see more and more of.
She ate the food: rice, boiled vegetables whose taste she didn't
recognize, and a grilled chicken leg. There were many spices,
completely new to her. But she ate her fill. She drank tea with her
food. What was left over she drank later on when it had grown
cold, as a substitute for water in the evening and during the night.
That was one of the last pieces of advice Lundmark had given
her before he suddenly fell ill and died. Never drink unboiled
water.
She had followed his advice. Now that she wasn't bleeding any
more and was no longer carrying what would have been their
child, her stomach wasn't causing her any problems.
What she was now carrying was merely emptiness.
She put the tray on the floor outside her room and locked the
door. She took ff all her clothes and lay naked on her bed.
The curtain in front of the window was hanging motionless. There
was something sinful about lying naked on a bed, she thought.
Sinful because there is no man here who desires me, nobody I
would allow to take advantage of me. She reached for the blanket
in order to cover up her body, but then changed her mind. There
was nobody who could see her hiding away here. If there was
a God who was invisible but all-seeing, He would surely allow a
person to lie down naked when the heat was so suffocating.
That evening she lay there for a long time, thinking about the
fear she thought she had detected in Senhor Vaz's eyes. She had
never seen fear like that in her mother or father. There was an
upper class in Sweden, of course, but it didn't need to be frightening
if you co-operated with it. But here, things were different.
Here, everybody was afraid, even if the whites tried to hide their
fear behind a front of either calmness and self-control, or well
planned outbursts of rage.
She thought: where is my fear? Am I not afraid because I don't
have anybody to be afraid of? Am I completely alone?
The solitary world. She would never be able to cope with that.
She had grown up as a human being in the company of others.
She would never be able to survive in a world without that
communion.
That evening she regretted having jumped ship. If she had
continued the voyage to Australia, perhaps the feeling of being
unable to cope with the loss of Lundmark would have faded away?
Despite everything, there was a feeling of community on board
that she was a part of. She felt like an insect, flapping its wings
frantically, trapped inside a glass that had been turned upside
down.
But that feeling also faded away. She knew she had done what
she was forced to do. If she had stayed on board the ship, she
might well eventually have jumped overboard. Lundmark's
constant shadow-like presence would have driven her mad.
She was about to fall asleep, still naked on top of the bedcover,
when she heard the sound of raindrops on the tin roof. The sound
gradually grew louder, and before long it was the booming of
tropical rain. She got up and pulled the curtain to one side. The
mosquitoes had fled the heavy rain, so she could allow the cooling
air to flow freely into the room.
It was pitch-dark outside. There were no fires burning. The
rain drowned all other noises. There was no sound of voices or
the gramophone from the ground floor.
She held out her hand and let the rain patter on to her skin.
I must go home, she thought again. I can't cope with living
here, surrounded by all this fear and a loneliness that is threatening
to suffocate me.
She remained standing by the window until the heavy but
short-lived rain had stopped. She closed the curtain and went
back to bed, still without covering herself with the blanket.
The following day, and for many days to come, she went down
to the harbour to see if a ship flying the Swedish flag had berthed
by a quay or was waiting in the roadstead. Judas always accompanied
her, keeping watch in silence a few paces behind her.
It is October, 1904. She is waiting.
The piano tuner's name was Jose, but he was never called
anything but£e, and he was Senhor Vaz's brother. That
was a discovery she made after having lived for quite a long
time in the brothel. No matter how much she studied the two
men, she couldn't see any similarities. But Ze assured her there
was no doubt at all that they had the same parents. Even though
she soon gathered that Ze was somewhat mentally challenged,
she had no reason to doubt him on this point. And why would
Senhor Vaz allow him to sit there tuning the piano day after
day unless there was some special reason? Senhor Vaz was
looking after his brother because their parents had passed away.
In a word, Senhor Vaz loved him. Hanna noted the touching
solicitude with which he treated his brother. If any of the clients
complained about the constant tuning of the piano, she witnessed
with her own eyes how Senhor Vaz would order the man out of
the building and would never allow him back in. Ze had permission
to tune the piano or polish the keys as often and for as long
as he wanted.
But there were exceptions, of course. When the brothel was
visited by prominent men from South Africa, leading figures in
the government or the church, Vaz would lead his brother gently
to the room behind the kitchen where Ze had his bed. The beautiful
Belinda Bonita, who was always well informed about everything
that went on in the brothel, told Hanna that there was also an old
piano in that room. The keys were still there, but all the instrument's strings
had been cut and removed.
So Z would sit in his room, tuning a silent piano.
Ze lived in a world of his own. He was a few years older than
his brother, seldom spoke unless he was spoken to, tuned his
strings or merely sat quietly hunched over the piano as if he
were waiting for something that was never going to happen.
He was like a ticking clock, Hanna thought, with nothing
happening to interrupt the regular rhythm.
But that wasn't completely true, she realized one day when she
had been living in the brothel for nearly four months. As usual
she had strolled down to the harbour together with her gigantic
bodyguard, and looked to see if she could find a ship flying the
Swedish flag: but there was none to be seen on this occasion either.
She had bought a pair of binoculars from an Indian businessman
who also sold cameras and spectacles. Thanks to the magnified
images she was able to establish that none of the ships waiting
in the roadstead was displaying a Swedish flag. Every time she
returned to the hotel she did so with mixed feelings of disappointment
and relief. Disappointment because she really did want
to return home, relief because she dreaded ever having to board
a ship again.
The moment she entered O Paraiso she could see that Ze wasn't
in his usual place at the piano. But she didn't have time to ask
where he was before he made his grand entry. The women who
had been lounging around on the sofas or leaning over the billiard
table patting balls back and forth with rather silly flourishes of
the hand burst out laughing but also applauded him when he
appeared. He had changed out of his usual crumpled dark suit
into a white one. Instead of the usual dirty beret pulled down
over the back of his head, Ze was now wearing a panama hat
similar to the one his brother usually wore. In addition he had a
white shirt with a high collar and a black cravat, elaborately tied.
In one hand he was carrying a bunch of white paper flowers. He
stood in front of the woman whose name was Deolinda, but who
was never called anything other than A Magrinha, since she was
so thin, flat-breasted and totally lacking in the usual female
characteristics.
Hanna had sometimes looked at her and wondered how on
earth she could attract a man. She preferred not to think that
thought through to its logical conclusion, but she couldn't avoid
it: Deolinda was ugly. It seemed to Hanna that the whole of her
emaciated person radiated sorrow and suffering. But she did have
clients, Hanna knewthat: she had seen them going with Deolinda.
She found it totally repulsive to imagine A Magrinha in bed with
one of the white men who patronized the brothel; but she evidently
had something that enticed them and aroused their desires.
Ze bowed and handed over his paper flowers. Deolinda stood
up, took him by the arm and led him to her room in the corridor
where clients were entertained. They were sent on their way by
merry laughter and renewed applause before the room was once
again characterized by apathetic idleness.
There were always a few hours in the late afternoon when
nothing really happened in the brothel. Clients rarely if ever
appeared. The women dozed off, painted their nails, or possibly
exchanged a few whispered confidences.
None of the black women apart from Felicia ever spoke to
Hanna unless she asked them a question or requested something.
Senhor Vaz had made it clear to her that the women in his
establishment were there not only to satisfy their clients, but
that they were also supposed to serve the hotel guests. She still
didn't know how they regarded her: they greeted her, smiled at
her, but never attempted to be friendly with her. And she didn't
know what was meant by their being 'supposed to serve the
hotel guests'. After all, she was the only person renting a room.
She sat down at the end of a sofa next to Esmeralda, who was
one of the oldest of the women, with a bird-like face and the
longest fingers Hanna had ever seen.
Silence descended on the room. Hanna realized that this was the
first time she had ever sat down next to one of the black women.
She pointed at the corridor into which Deolinda and Ze had
just disappeared.
'A pair of lovers?' she asked.
Esmeralda nodded.
'Yes, they are a pair of lovers,' she said. 'He sometimes gets that
feeling. Then he forgets his piano. It happens every other month
or so. He changes his clothes, and it is always Deolinda he chooses.'
Hanna wanted to ask more questions, not least to make sure
that she had understood properly: but Esmeralda stood up in an
impressively dignified fashion. As far as she was concerned the
conversation was at an end. She glided away to her room, her
hips swaying attractively.
Hanna also rose to her feet and went up the stairs. She didn't
need to turn round to know that all the nine women left down
below were watching her attentively. They look at us when we
turn our backs on them, she thought. They are not afraid to look
each other in the eye; but they are afraid of our eyes just as we
are afraid of theirs.
She closed the door behind her, bolted it, and undressed from
the waist up. She washed herself in cold water, using a linen
cloth. She licked one of her lower arms and could taste all the
salt from the perspiration that had been pouring off her. Then
she lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. But she sat up again
almost immediately. She had remembered something she hadn't
thought about since she left Sweden on the ship which must
have long since docked in Australia with its cargo of timber.
She dug out the hymn book with the golden embossing in which
she had hidden the gold coins she had once been given by Forsman.
Between the pages was also a black and white photograph. It was
of Berta and herself, taken in Bernard Dunn's photo-studio in
Sundsvall.
37
It had been Berta's idea. She was always the one who came out
with the boldest and most unexpected suggestions.
'We must have a photograph,' she had said. 'Before you go away.
I'm frightened of forgetting what you look like. Frightened of
forgetting what we both look like together.'
Hanna started worrying immediately. She had never been to a
photographer before, didn't know what to do. But Berta dismissed
all her objections. Besides, both she and Hanna had received a
little gift from Forsman, like all the others who worked for him.
Forsman's business had just celebrated its twenty-fifth birthday,
and he wanted to mark the occasion by being generous to his
employees. The money would pay for the photograph.
They managed to arrange for a couple of hours off one day in
the spring when the days were getting longer. Dunn, the photographer,
had a studio on the main square. They had put on their
best clothes, polished their shoes, and been placed by a table with
a chair. Behind them was a white plaster statue of a dragon-slayer
with a raised sword. The photographer, who was Danish and
spoke a variation of Swedish that was difficult to understand,
instructed Berta to sit down on the chair, with Hanna standing
behind her, next to her shoulder. To balance the photograph and
give it artistic form, he placed a vase of paper flowers on the table.
It was the flowers in Ze's hand when he bowed in front of
Deolinda, so similar to the ones in the photograph, that had
jogged Hanna's memory.
She lay on the bed and looked at the picture. They had received
two copies, and kept one each. Berta was smiling at the camera,
while Hanna looked more serious. She tried to imagine what
Berta would have done if she had been the one lying here in bed
on the upper floor of an African brothel, disguised as a hotel. But
the photograph provided no answer, Berta said nothing.
She laid the photograph on her naked chest, which had started to dry now. I
never expected anything like this, she thought. When
Elin stood in front of me and said that I must travel to the coast
in order to earn a living, I was totally incapable of imagining what
would happen. Perhaps what Hanna was thinking now was confirmation
of the fact that she had grown up and was an adult now?
Perhaps the big secret was the realization that you never knew
what was in store for you? If you made the break and left behind
everything that was known and familiar?
Elin can't see me now, she thought. Berta can't see me, nor can
my brother and sisters. I live in a world that we only share in the
sense that it's incomprehensible, not only for them but also for
me, and I'm living in the middle of it.
She unbolted the door and fell asleep. Soon Laurinda would
come up with her evening meal on a tray - they had agreed that
whenever Hanna didn't turn up at the separate table allocated
to her by Senhor Vaz, Laurinda would take a tray up to her
room. That evening the main course was oily deep-fried fish,
something Hanna had somehow managed to get down her on
a previous occasion. She tried again, but soon pushed the plate
aside and ate the dessert, which was half a coconut with slices
of pineapple.
When Laurinda came back to collect the tray, Hanna tried to
get her to stay by talking to her. Every time she saw Laurinda she
had a bad conscience on account of that slap she had given her
some time ago. She thought she could go some way towards
making up for that by being friendly and talking to Laurinda.
After a lot of patience-testing attempts she had finally managed
to make Laurinda reply to her questions with more than monosyllables.
Sometimes she could even persuade her to tell brief little
tales.
But she had never been able to persuade Laurinda to sit down.
She always remained standing, she evidently couldn't even dream
of sitting down in the presence of a white woman.
When she first arrived at O Paraiso Hanna had noticed a
little tattoo that Laurinda had on her neck, next to her collarbone.
A lot of the sailors on the Lovisa had tattoos. Her husband,
Lundmark, had an anchor with a red rose tattooed on his left
upper arm. But Hanna had never seen anybody with a tattoo
next to their collarbone before, nor had she ever been able to
imagine a woman with tattoos.
She hadn't been able to work out what the tattoo represented.
Was it a dog, perhaps?
Now she couldn't wait any longer. She signalled to Laurinda
that she should leave the tray on the table and pointed at the
tattoo which was visible above her blouse.
'What is it?' she asked.
'It's a suckling hyena,' said Laurinda.
When she gathered that Hanna didn't know what kind of an
animal a hyena was, and possibly didn't even know it was an animal
at all, she walked over to a picture that was hanging on the wall.
During the days when Hanna hadn't been able to leave her bed
she had lain there and gazed at the painting that depicted in
Romantic style a number of different animals that lived in the
African savannah.
Laurinda pointed at one of the animals.
'That's a hyena,' she said. 'It laughed the night I was born. My
father heard the hyena out there in the darkness, and afterwards
told my mother that it had bidden me welcome and provided me
with my first food via its laughter.'
Then she recounted in detail what had happened the night she
was born, without hesitation and as if she had merely been waiting
for the right opportunity. Hanna didn't understand some things,
and several times Laurinda had to repeat bits and gesture with
her hands or make various noises to make her story clear.
She also imitated the hyena's cry, a laughing sound.
'I was my mother and father's first child,' said Laurinda. 'But
before my uncle died he told me that I was born in the year
when there were so many crocodiles in the river that they began
to attack and eat one another. It was also the year when the
flamingos lost their pink colouring and became pure white. It
was a year when lots of strange things happened. My parents
lived on the bank of a tributary to the great River Zambezi, in
a village where everybody had their own little plantation, their
own hut, their own goats, and a smile for everybody they came
across during the course of the day. I grew up in a world that
I thought could never change. But one day when I was big
enough to start helping my mother out in the fields and already
had three younger brothers and sisters, a number of white men
turned up in the village. They had long beards, their clothes
were stained with sweat, they seemed to hate the heat of the
sun and they were in a great hurry. They carried guns, and they
showed the village chief some papers covered in lots of words.
A few weeks later we were driven out of our village by soldiers
commanded by the white men. Our little fields were going to
be joined together to make a big cotton plantation. Anybody
who wanted to stay and work in the cotton fields would be
allowed to do so. Everybody else was driven away. My father,
whose name was Papadjana, was a man who rarely allowed
himself to be bullied and was never downcast when faced with
difficulties. These white men with their cotton plantation were a
big difficulty, but he had no intention of allowing them to tell
him what to do. He spoke to them and said he had no intention
of staying and picking cotton, nor of going away. No matter what
it said in those papers and irrespective of how many soldiers
there were, he was going to stay where he was. He had used a
very loud voice when he spoke to the white men, and all the
villagers who were standing around began to pluck up courage
and give vent to their pent-up feelings when they realized that
one of their number wasn't afraid. I don't know what happened
next, but some more soldiers arrived and one morning soon
after, my mother came with tears rolling down her cheeks and
said that my fatherhad been found floating in the river, dead,
cut to pieces with knives. It was just as dawn was breaking. She
stood there, leaning over me as I lay on the woven mat in the
darkness of our hut. She told me I would have to go to the big
city. I couldn't stay in the village. She would take the smaller
children with her to where her parents lived further inland, but
I should make my way to the coast and the big city. I didn't
want to, but she forced me to.'
Laurinda fell silent, as if the memories were too much for her
to bear. Hanna sat quietly, thinking how what Laurinda had
recounted was so remarkably similar to her own life. Both of them
came from a world in which women were forced out of their
homes and had to move to towns and to the coast in order to
find work and survive.
'So I came here to this town,' said Laurinda eventually. 'During
all the years that have passed I've always thought that one day I
shall go back and look for my mother and my brothers and sisters.
Sometimes when I'm sleeping at night I dream that the hyena
tattooed in my skin liberates herself and goes for a walk. At dawn
she comes back and falls asleep again in my skin. One of these
days she will have found my mother and my siblings.'
Laurinda picked up the tray and left the room. Hanna lay down
on the bed again and thought about what she had heard. What
animal had cried in the night when she was born?
There was a light knock on the door. When she opened it, she
found Senhor Vaz standing outside. He was dressed up in a tailcoat
and carried a top hat under his arm. Next to him was Carlos on
his bow legs, also wearing a tailcoat.
Senhor Vaz bowed.
'I've come to propose to you,' he said.
At first Hanna didn't understand what he meant. But then she
realized that he was actually asking her to marry him.
'Naturally I don't expect you to respond immediately,' he said.
'But I have made my wish clear.'
He bowed again, turned on his heel and walked back towards
the stairs. Carlos suddenly started shouting and jumping up and
down, then grabbed hold of Senhor Vaz's top hat and climbed
up and started swinging from the ceiling light.
Hanna closed the door and heard the chaos that always ensued
when Carlos had one of his high-spirited outbursts slowly fading
away. His punishment on such occasions was to be locked in a
cage for a few days. As he hated the cage more than anything else
in the world, he was always compliant after he had been released.
She lay down on the bed and thought about what Senhor
Vaz had said.
She felt as if she were being caught in a trap. But she still had
the possibility of escaping and leaving the scene.
The following day she decided she would go down to the
harbour shortly after dawn in order to see what ships were moored
by the quays or waiting in the roadstead. As she came out into
the street she noticed that the battered top hat was now on the
watchman's head; he was asleep as usual.
Time was short now. She was in a hurry.
38
Afew days after Senhor Vaz's proposal, a rumour spread across
the town that in enormous iceberg had been seen off the
coast to the north, and that ocean currents were now driving it
southwards. Hanna heard about it from Felicia, who was so excited
that she changed out of her skimpy working clothes and put on
a respectable dress suitable for walking in town. She had been
entertaining a client, an engine driver from distant Salisbury, who
visited the brothel twice a year. He had been just as excited as
Felicia and all the others by the rumours about the iceberg. Senhor
Vaz had already set off for the harbour when Hanna came downstairs, but Judas -
who was now wearing the battered top hat - was
waiting for her.
The streets were full of people making their way to the shore
or climbing up the hills with good vantage points, all of them
hoping to see the iceberg before anybody else.
But no iceberg appeared on the horizon. The weather was hot
and oppressive. People were standing around under their parasols
with sweat running down their expectant faces. Some concluded in
disappointment that the iceberg must have already melted in the
extreme heat. Older and more cynical observers were in no doubt
that it was all a hoax, just as on all similar previous occasions.
Nobody had ever seen an iceberg. But every ten years or so a rumour
was spread, and the whole town started running to see it.
On the way to the harbour Hanna had noticed something she
had never seen before. Blacks and whites were walking side by
side on the pavements. Nobody seemed to be worried by that.
Now, however, when the possibility of seeing the iceberg was no
longer a shared hope, things were back to normal. The whites
took control of the pavements, and pushed aside every black man
or woman who threatened to come too close.
It was as if, for a few brief moments, Hanna had witnessed the
birth of a new social order, as a sort of trial, only to see it disappear
again just as quickly.
That same evening, when the mysterious iceberg had become
a frustrated memory that would soon fade away, it started raining.
It started as drizzle, but became heavier and heavier. At three in
the morning Hanna was woken up by the booming sound of rain
thudding on to the roof tiles.
She got out of bed and went to look out of the window. The
rain seemed to be a grey wall between her and the darkness. But
it was just as hot as during the day. When she stretched her hand
out of the window and allowed the rain to lash down on to her
skin, it felt very warm - as if it had started boiling on its way
down to the ground.
She eventually managed to get back to sleep. When she woke
up at dawn, the rain was just as heavy. She could see that the
street was already flooded.
It continued raining for four days and nights. When it finally
stopped, water was trickling in on to the brothel's stone floors,
despite the fact that everybody had been required to assist in
sewing sacks and filling them with topsoil and gravel in order to
keep out the floods surging along the streets. As all links with the
interior were broken, the only customers coming to the brothel
now were sailors. Senhor Vaz turned them away. There was a state
of emergency, the brothel was in distress and was closed. One
young man, dripping wet and dressed in a French naval uniform,
commented that he was also in distress and his plight was a state
of emergency. Senhor Vaz and Esmeralda felt sorry for him and
allowed him in.
When the rain had stopped and it was replaced by clouds of
steamy damp mist, the air was full of insects fluttering everywhere.
All windows and open areas were closed, and gaps and chinks
were sealed. When the gatekeeper came in to fetch something,
Carlos flung himself at him immediately and started gobbling up
the insects that had settled on his body. White insects were sitting
round his black head like a wreath of flowers. Carlos ate them
all. Hanna could see that they were a great delicacy for the
chimpanzee. u
Everything gradually returned to normal. People came drowsily
in from out of the dampness with steam rising in clouds from
their bodies, as if their insides had also been filled with water.
During the commotion caused by the alleged iceberg and then
the days of heavy rain, Senhor Vaz had not pestered Hanna with
questions about her response to his proposal. She had had time
to think about it while the rain was pouring down. She had no
doubt that Senhor Vaz's intentions were honourable - but who exactly was he,
this little man who kept his hair and his moustache
and his fingernails impeccably clean, his clothes immaculately
creased, and was liable to fly into a fit of fury if he so much as
spilled a drop of coffee on to his clothes or his body? He's a
friendly man, Hanna thought, at least twice as old as I am. I don't
feel anything of the vibrations that existed between me and
Lundmark. He makes me feel safe in this world that is so foreign
to me, but the thought of loving him, of allowing him to come
to bed with me, is impossible.
So she had decided to turn him down when the rain had
stopped, the insects had gone away and the brothel had opened
again.
Then Carlos vanished. One morning there was no sign of him.
It had happened before that he had run off for a few hours to
visit a secret world that nobody knew anything about. There were
no other chimpanzees in Lourenco Marques, but sometimes
baboons appeared in the town's parks, looking for food. Perhaps
Carlos had gone to see them?
But this time the ape didn't return. Carlos was still missing
after three days. The women who worked in the brothel went out
looking for him. Senhor Vaz sent out everybody he could to search
for Carlos. He promised to pay a reward, but nobody had seen
the ape, nobody saw it when it disappeared, nobody had seen it
since.
Hanna could tell that Senhor Vaz was grieving over the disappearance
of Carlos. For the first time his austere mask had slipped,
and he was displaying both regret and worry. Hanna was touched
by what she saw, and it dawned on her that the man who had
proposed to her was also very lonely. Surrounded by girls, but
most of all attached to a confused ape that had come into his
possession when a client had been unable to pay his bill.
Perhaps that is why Carlos ran away, she thought. So that I
would be able to see Senhor Vaz as he really is?
She thought that he reminded her of her father. Elin had always
kept him clean, just as Senhor Vaz was careful to look after his
body and his appearance. Hanna knew that in one of the rooms
at the back of the house where she had never yet ventured, Senhor
Vaz had a bathroom: but he never allowed anybody to see him
bathing in his enamel tub.
Lundmark had not always been clean. Hanna had sometimes
been upset when he came to lie down beside her without having
washed himself properly.
During the days when Carlos was missing, Hanna began to see
Senhor Vaz in a new light. Perhaps he was not the person she had
first thought he was.
One day Carlos came back. Hanna was woken up at dawn by
somebody downstairs crying out in joy. When she had dressed
rapidly and gone out to investigate, she found Carlos sitting with
his arms round Senhor Vaz, who was hugging the ape tightly.
When Carlos came back he had a blue ribbon tied round his
neck. Nobody knew where Carlos had got the ribbon from, or
who had tied it round his neck.
The chimpanzee's sudden disappearance and equally sudden
return remained his secret. But Carlos seemed to be most surprised
by all the fuss, and started yelling and hitting out and pulling
down curtains when everybody wanted to stroke him or slap him
on the back.
Only when nobody bothered about him any more did he finally
settle down.
39
Hanna thought: what happens to an ape when it doesn't want
to be an ape any longer? Could that also happen to a human
being? That he or she no longer wanted to be the person they
were?
She wrote down her thoughts in her room on a loose sheet of
paper. But of course, she didn't mention anything about it to
anybody - not even to Elin, in her thoughts.
After the return of Carlos, Senhor Vaz began courting her again.
She had intended to tell him the facts: that she had recently become
a widow and that her period of mourning would last for quite a
long time to come. But Senhor Vaz didn't make her any new
proposals. He simply continued to court her, quietly, sometimes
even distantly. One day he took her for a ride in one of the few
motor cars in Lourenco Marques, owned by an artillery colonel
in the Portuguese regiment stationed in the town. They drove
along the narrow road that followed the shoreline. A large-scale
promenade was being built alongside the harbour. Hanna saw
the black labourers struggling with the heavy blocks of stone in the
oppressive heat - but Senhor Vaz, who was sitting beside her, didn't
seem to notice them. He was enjoying the sea views, and pointed
out a little sailing boat bobbing up and down on the waves.
They turned away from the sea, and the car climbed up the
hills to the more elevated part of the town. A number of stone
houses were being built along two long, wide esplanades. There
were rails for horse-drawn trams.
The car stopped outside a house that seemed to have just been
finished. It had a white-plastered facade, and a garden with rhododendrons
and acacias. Senhor Vaz opened the car door and helped
Hanna out. She looked questioningly at him. Why had they
stopped outside this house?
The door was opened by a maid. They went in. There was no
furniture in the rooms. Hanna could smell paint that hadn't yet
dried, and wooden floors that had only recently been oiled.
'I want to give you this house,' said Senhor Vaz without further
ado.
His voice was soft, almost husky, as if it were a woman speaking.
She had the impression that he was very proud of what he was
offering her.
'I want us to live here,' he said. 'The day you agree to marry
me, we shall leave our rooms in the hotel and move here.'
Hanna said nothing. She explored the empty house in silence
with Senhor Vaz a few cautious paces behind her.
He asked her no questions. He didn't invite the answer he must
have been longing to hear.
When they returned to the hotel, Hanna thought yet again that
she would never be able to explain to anybody about what had
happened to her during the time she had lived in Africa. Least of
all how a man who barely reached up to her shoulders and owned
a brothel had proposed to her and wanted to present her with a
large stone house with a garden and a sea view.
Nobody would believe her. Everybody would take it for granted
that it was either a lie, or a wild dream.
Hanna decided to talk to Felicia. Perhaps she would be able to
give her some advice.
A few evenings later, when Felicia had said goodbye to one of
her regular clients, a banker from Pretoria who always wanted
her to be brutal and torture him during their sessions, Hanna
went to visit her in her room. Hanna told her the truth - that
Senhor Vaz had proposed marriage to her.
'I know,' said Felicia. 'Everybody knows. I think even Carlos
gathers what is going on. He may only be a chimpanzee, but he's
clever. He understands more than you would think.'
Her reply surprised Hanna. She had thought that Senhor Vaz's
proposal had been made most discreetly.
'Has he spoken about it? To whom?'
'He never says anything. But he doesn't need to. We understand
even so. But he doesn't realize that, of course.'
Hanna suddenly became unsure about what to say next. Their
conversation was turning out to be quite different from what she
had expected.
'Senhor Vaz is a friendly man,' said Felicia. 'He can be brutal,
but he always regrets it afterwards. And he lets us keep nearly half
of what we earn. There are brothels in this town where the women
hardly get a tenth.'
'How come he isn't married?'
'I don't know.'
'Has he ever been married?'
T don't know that either. He came here from Lisbon over twenty
years ago, with his brother and his parents. His father was a
businessman and worked far too hard in the heat we have here.
He died not long after he arrived. His wife went back to Portugal,
but the two brothers stayed on. A few years later Senhor Vaz
started this brothel, using money he'd got when he sold his father's
business. That's all I know.'
'So there's never been a woman in his life?'
Felicia smiled.
'Sometimes I simply don't understand the questions white
people ask,' she said. 'Of course there have been women in his life.
I don't really know how many, or who they are. But he does the
same as other brothel owners do in this town - he never touches
his own girls, but goes to his colleagues' establishments.'
'Why does he want to marry me?'
'Because you are white. I think he's also impressed by the fact
that you can afford to live here and pay for your room. And I
suppose he's stricken by the loneliness that affects all white people
in this country.'
'My money will soon run out.'
Felicia looked thoughtfully at her.
'You're not ill any more,' she said in the end. 'You're strong
enough now to continue your journey to wherever you were or
are going to. But you choose to stay here. Something is making
you stay here. I don't know if it's because you don't have anywhere
to go to or to return to, or whether there is some other reason.
Anyway, now Senhor Vaz has proposed to you. You could marry
a worse man than he is. He'll treat you with respect. He'll give
you a large house. That's something my husband would never be
able to give me. He's a fisherman, his name's Ateme. We have two
children and I'm happy to see him every time we meet.'
'Who looks after your children when you're here?'
'Their mother does.'
Hanna shook her head. She didn't understand.
'Their mother? I thought you said you were their mother.'
'My sister. She's also their mother. Just as I'm her children's
mother as well. Or my other sisters' children's mother.'
'How many sisters do you have?'
'Four.'
Hanna thought that over. There was of course another question
she felt bound to ask.
'What does your husband say about you working here?'
'Nothing,' said Felicia quite simply. 'He knows that I'm faithful
to him.'
'Faithful? Here?'
'I only go with white men. For money. He doesn't bother about
that.'
Hanna tried to understand what she'd just heard. All the time
the gap seemed to grow wider rather than narrower. She didn't
comprehend the world she was living in.
She thought about Carlos again. Perhaps he no longer wanted
to be an ape, but he couldn't be a human being.
The lonely chimpanzee had changed into a vacuum inside a
white waiter's coat.
What was she turning into?
40
That evening Hanna decided to accept Senhor Vaz's proposal
of marriage. The most important reason for her decision
was that she had come to accept that she could no longer cope
with living as a widow. And perhaps one day she would be able
to feel the same for Vaz as she had done for Lundmark.
The following day she gave him her answer. Senhor Vaz didn't
seem to be surprised, but evidently regarded her 'yes' as a formality
that he had taken for granted.
Three weeks later they were married at a simple ceremony in
the Catholic priest's residence next to the cathedral. The marriage
witnesses were people Hanna didn't know. Senhor Vaz had also
taken Carlos along, dressed in his tailcoat, but the priest had
refused to allow the chimpanzee to be present. He was quite
shocked, and regarded the proposed presence of Carlos to be
blasphemy. Senhor Vaz had no choice but to accept the priest's
ban. Carlos waited outside while the ceremony took place, and
climbed up into the bell tower. Afterwards they had dinner in
the best hotel in town, which was situated on a hill with views
over the sea. Carlos was with them, because they had a private
room.
They spent their wedding night in a suite in the hotel. There
was a smell of lavender when Hanna entered the bedroom.
When they had switched the light off she could feel the warm
breath of her new husband on her face. For a short, confused
moment it was as if Lundmark had come back to her; but then
she smelled the pomade in his black hair and knew that this was
a different man lying by her side.
She waited for what was going to come next. She spread herself
out, prepared herself. But Senhor Vaz - or Attimilio to use his
first name - didn't manage to penetrate her. He tried over and
over again, but he wasn't up to it: what should have been a lance
was a broken twig.
In the end he turned away from her and curled up, as if he
were ashamed.
Hanna wondered if she had done something wrong. But the
next day, when she plucked up courage and asked Felicia about
it, she was told that what had happened was not unusual as far
as men were concerned. All in good time Senhor Vaz would no
doubt be able to prove that he had the strength on which the
whole of his commercial enterprises depended. But the fact was
that there was always a threat hanging over a brothel: all men
could suddenly become impotent.
Hanna didn't understand everything that Felicia said, but she
did realize that what had happened wasn't her fault.
A few days later they moved into the stone house that had by
now been filled with furniture. There was a handsome, shiny
piano in one room that smelled of mimosa and other plants that
Hanna had never come across before.
One evening, a few weeks after her wedding, when Hanna was
alone with the maid, she played a note on the piano and made
it linger on by treading on one of the pedals.
It was as if the room's shadows were suddenly populated by all
those people she had left behind. Jonathan Forsman, Berta, Elin,
her siblings and the third mate whose burial at sea she had
attended six months earlier.
But her reaction was neither sadness nor regret. A cold wind
of dismay blew past her. It came from nowhere as the sound of
the piano faded away. What had she done? By attaching herself to a
man she barely knew?
She didn't know. But she forced herself to think: there is no
turning back. I am where I am.
Nowhere else but just here.
4
41
Every morning she went out on to the balcony that ran
along the whole of the house's upper floor. From there
she could see the town climbing up and down the slopes beyond
the harbour with its many cranes gleaming in the heat haze,
and furthest away the sea where ships were waiting for high
tide. She had bought a better pair of binoculars than the ones
she had before, and Senhor Vaz had paid a black carpenter to
make a stand on which the binoculars could rest.
She continued to keep an eye on the ships, but now she no
longer hoped to discover one in the roadstead flying a Swedish
flag. On the contrary. Every morning she was scared she might
see a ship lying there which could take her home. She was afraid
that in that case she would begin to think that the ship had come
too late.
Attimilio, as she still found it difficult to call him, left the house
every morning at eight o'clock. He clambered into one of the
horse-drawn coaches that took him down to the harbour district.
At about noon he would come back home and they would eat
lunch together, after which he took an afternoon nap before going
back down to the women again.
Hanna very soon discovered that her new marriage was very different in one
particular way from the time she had spent with
Lundmark. Now she was almost always alone. Lundmark had
always been close at hand when they were aboard Captain
Svartman's ship. Her new husband treated her with the greatest
respect and was always friendly towards her, but he was rarely at
home. He ate and slept, and at night he continued to make his
failed attempts to do what Hanna now, to her great surprise, had
begun to long for. But apart from that they did next to nothing
together. She continued to ask him questions about his earlier
life, but he answered evasively or not at all. He didn't lose
his temper and didn't seem to be put out by her questions: but
he quite simply didn't want to say anything. Hanna thought it
seemed as if she had married a man without a past at all.
Looking back, Hanna would regard this time as one of almost
total inactivity. There was virtually nothing for her to do, no jobs
that needed to be done. The garden was looked after by an old
black man who was stone deaf. His name was Rumigo, and he
had one of his innumerable sons to help him. Hanna would
sometimes stand and watch how gently he handled the flowers,
trees and shrubs. Inside the house was Anaka, who had also looked
after Attimilio's parents. She was beginning to grow old, but still
worked just as hard, and hardly ever seemed to sleep. She lived
alone in a little shack behind the house. Hanna sometimes saw
her sitting there, smoking her pipe before going to bed. Anaka
would be up again at four o'clock, and served breakfast at six.
Whenever Hanna spoke to Anaka, the maid immediately went
down on one knee before her. Attimilio had explained to Hanna
that this was not primarily a gesture of submission and subservience,
but more of a tradition - a way of showing respect. Hanna
found it difficult to cope with these continual genuflections, and
tried to persuade Anaka to stop it. But without success. When
Attimilio explained that Anaka would do the same to a black man
of superior rank, she gave up. The genuflections continued.
There was another woman in the house, a young girl who
Attimilio explained was the daughter of his mother's seamstress.
She had a Portuguese name, Julietta, and helped Anaka with all
the things the latter didn't have the time or strength to do herself.
Hanna guessed that Julietta must be fourteen or fifteen years old.
Hanna experienced days in which she felt she was wandering
around in an almost trance-like state. The heat was oppressive,
occasionally interrupted by short tropical downpours. She spent
most of the time sitting fanning herself in one of the rooms in
which sea breezes wafted in through the open windows. She had
the feeling that she was waiting for something, but didn't know
what. She was sometimes afflicted by a nagging annoyance at
being superfluous - everything that happened in this large house
was done by the black servants. Her own role was simply to do
nothing.
Attimilio had explained that she shouldn't hesitate to say if she
was dissatisfied with the work carried out by the servants. Now
and then she should put on a pair of white gloves and go around
the house, running her fingers along picture frames and door
frames to make sure that everything had been properly cleaned.
'If you don't keep chasing them up, they'll start skimping,' said
Attimilio.
'But everything is always beautifully clean.'
'That's because you check up on them. The moment you stop
they'll cease to be as careful.'
Hanna could neither understand nor reconcile herself to
Attimilio's constant denigration of black people. She still suspected
that she could detect traces of fear behind his harsh words. But
her presence in the house did not change his attitudes.
One evening he came home after a shocking incident in the
brothel. A customer had fired a revolver and one of the women
had received a superficial flesh wound on one arm. He burst out
into a vehement tirade attacking the country he lived in.
'This would be a good continent to live in,' he roared, 'if only
there weren't all these black people everywhere.'
'But wasn't it a white man who fired the revolver?' asked Hanna
tentatively.
Senhor Vaz didn't respond. Instead he made his excuses and
retired to his study. She could hear through the closed door that
he was playing Portuguese military marches on his primitive
gramophone. When she bent down and peered in through the
keyhole she could see him marching angrily around the room,
swinging his sabre. She started giggling. The man who was now
her husband seemed to be more like a tin soldier than anything
else. One of the tin soldiers she had seen Jonathan Forsman's sons
playing with.
Then she started feeling uneasy again. She had become like
other white women in this town: inactive, apathetic and constantly
fanning herself.
42
After several more weeks during which Attimilio had still
failed to make love to his wife night after night, Hanna began
to realize that Attimilio was close to unbounded desperation. She
turned to Felicia once again, but in secret, one day when Senhor
Vaz had gone to Pretoria where he invested quite a lot of the
money he earned from the brothel. Once a month a lawyer came
to visit him. They would shut themselves away in his study, and
nobody else had a clue what they discussed. The lawyer, whose
name was Andrade and had a limp, spoke so softly that Hanna
could never understand a word of what he said.
Felicia advised Hanna to seek help from a feticheiro. 'There are plants you can
eat, teas you can drink,' said Felicia.
'They enable men to do what they want to do more than anything
else in the world.'
T don't know a feticheiro,' said Hanna. T don't know any medicine
men who can give me what I need.'
Felicia held out her hand.
'It costs money,' she said. 'If you give me some, I can get you
what you need. Then all you have to do is to mix it into his food
or into something he drinks. I don't know all the rules that apply,
but I do know that you have to administer it when a west wind
is blowing.'
Hanna thought that over.
'We hardly ever have a west wind,' she said.
Felicia pondered what Hanna had said.
'You're right,' she said. 'It will be better for you to make use of
the full moon. That is also the right time to give him it. I always
forget that we never get winds blowing here from the interior of
the country - only from the sea or from the ice in the far south.
We who live here in the Baia da Boa Morte know nothing about
the winds from the vast savannah.'
Hanna had never heard the name of the lagoon before. She
knew that the town was called Lourenco Marques. One evening
Attimilio had explained that it was named after a famous
Portuguese general <vho was a match for Bonaparte when it came
to cunning and courage. Hanna had no idea who this Bonaparte
was, just as she had no idea that the lagoon had such a remarkable
name.
But had she really heard correctly what she had said? 'The
lagoon of good death?' Could that really be what Felicia had called
the bay that sparkled every day in the sunshine?
'Why is the lagoon called that?'
'Maybe because it's such a beautiful name. I always think of
the blue water where dolphins swim as a cemetery for people who
have a good death. The sort we all hope to have.'
'What is a good death?'
Felicia looked at her in astonishment. It seemed to Hanna that
Felicia had a special facial expression for occasions when she was
having to think about questions that could only possibly have
come from a white person.
'Everybody thinks about how they are going to die,' said Felicia.
'Didn't you tell me about the man you lived with, the man who
was a third mate on board a ship and had a name I can't
pronounce, who had a grave in the sea?'
'His death was anything but good,' said Hanna. 'He didn't want
to die.'
'When my death comes, I don't intend to resist it. Unless somebody
is trying to murder me. I want to die peacefully. A good
death is never agitated.'
Hanna didn't know what to say about Lundmark's death or
her own uneasy thoughts about her final moments. She gave
Felicia the money she had asked for. A few days later Felicia turned
up when Attimilio had left the house in the morning. Wrapped
up in a piece of cloth she handled with both respect and perhaps
also fear was a green, almost sparkling powder. It smelled strongly
of the tar Hanna remembered from the ships in the harbour at
Sundsvall.
'You must dissolve the powder into whatever Senhor Vaz drinks
in the evening before going to bed.'
'He doesn't drink anything in the evenings. He doesn't want
to be woken up by his bladder during the night.'
'Doesn't he eat anything either?'
'A mango.'
'Then you must carefully open the fruit, press the powder into
it, and close the skin again.'
Hanna shouted for Anaka and asked her to bring a mango. They
then helped each other to carry out the operation and saw that it
was possible to leave no traces of the powder or what they'd done.
'Is that all?' asked Hanna.
'You should put a few drops of lemon into your pussy. Then
you'll be ready to receive him.'
Hanna's face turned red when Felicia talked about the lemon.
Felicia's ability to talk quite normally about something that was
still unmentionable as far as Hanna was concerned made her
blush.
'That's all there is to it,' said Felicia. 'The feticheiro I spoke to
has cured lots of impotent men. Some of them come from a very
long way off. Some of them have come from as far away as India
in order to become real men again. But he also said that if it
doesn't work - which does happen sometimes - he has other,
stronger medicines to make your husband's sexual urges start
working again.'
As the moon was on the wane, Hanna had to wait for quite
some time. Meanwhile Attimilio made several more attempts to
consummate the marriage, without success. Afterwards, when he had given up and
was lying on his side, Hanna gently stroked his
black hair, which left a new greasy stain of pomade on the pillowcase
every morning. I don't really love him, she thought: but I
feel tenderness towards him. He wants to do the best he can for
me. He'll never be another Lundmark in bed, but with a bit of
help from Felicia perhaps one day he'll be able to become a real
man again.
43
By full moon Louren90 Marques had been battered by storms
for a few days. Carlos had run away again but come back,
just as mysteriously as before, this time with a red band round
his neck. Senhor Vaz decided he had better keep Carlos chained
up, but the women were outraged by the very thought and he let
it drop. Carlos resumed his role as a waiter, and would light clients'
cigars in exchange for a banana or an apple. Felicia maintained
that Carlos had a different glint in his eye now: something was
happening to him.
The full moon arrived, the winds had moved on, and Senhor
Vaz came home after a long day at the brothel. Hanna had prepared
the mango and sat beside him at the dining table as he chewed
away at it, deep in thought. She then duly applied the drops of
lemon in the bathroom before going to bed and lying down beside
her husband. He seemed to be on his way to sleep, so she gently
stroked his arm. After a few moments he turned to face her. He
went on to make frantic efforts to penetrate her, just as he had
done on previous occasions, but still without success - although
Hanna could feel that his attempts were more powerful and longer
lasting than ever before.
When he gave up they were both sweating. Hanna decided that
the very next day she would tell Felicia that stronger medicines
were needed to help Attimilio to overcome his difficulties.
She could hear that he had fallen asleep, taking the usual quick,
short breaths as if he didn't really have time to sleep.
When she woke up next morning he was dead. He was lying
beside her, white and already cold. The moment she opened her
eyes, just before Anaka was due to come in with their breakfast
tray, she knew that something had happened. He was rarely, if
ever, still in bed when she woke up. He would usually be in the
bathroom, getting shaved.
He was lying in the same position as he'd been in when he fell
asleep. Hanna slid out of bed, her legs shaking. She had become
a widow for the second time. When Anaka came in she was sitting
in a chair and poirfted to the man in the bed.
'Mortol was all she said. 'Senhor Vaz e mortol
Anaka put down the tray, went down on her knees, chanted
something that might have been a prayer, then hurried away. It
struck Hanna that Attimilio had died in complete silence. He
hadn't screamed like Lundmark did.
It was as if he had died in shame, having failed once again, one
last time, to make love to his wife.
Two days after the chaotic burial in the town's new cemetery, at
which Carlos was also present wearing a dark suit and a new black
top hat, Hanna was visited by Attimilio's solicitor, Senhor Andrade.
He bowed, expressed his condolences once again, and sat down
opposite her in the group of sofa and armchairs in red plush that
Senhor Vaz had had made in distant Cape Town. Unlike on
previous occasions, he now spoke loudly and clearly: Hanna was
no longer merely an appendage of Senhor Vaz.
Andrade explained the situation:
'There is a will. It's signed, and witnessed by me and my
colleague Petrus Sabodini. The will is simple and crystal clear.
There isn't the slightest doubt about its intentions.'
Hanna listened, but it never occurred to her that what was
being said had anything to do with her.
'So, there is a will,' said Andrade again. 'It makes it clear that
all Attimilio's estate and goods and chattels are inherited by you.
In addition to the hotel and the other activities associated with
it, you now own all his businesses, including a warehouse full of
fabrics and nine donkeys grazing in various pastures just outside
the town. There are also significant assets in Pretoria and
Johannesburg.'
Andrade placed a number of documents on the table and stood
up. He bowed again.
'It will be a great pleasure to me if in future I can continue to
offer you my services as your solicitor, Senhora Vaz.'
It was only after he had gone that Hanna grasped what had
happened. She sat there motionless, holding her breath. She had
become the owner of a brothel. And also of a number of donkeys
and a chimpanzee that occasionally ran away when it wasn't
lighting cigars for the customers who visited her house of pleasure.
She stood up and went out on to the balcony. Through the
binoculars she could see the building where the brothel was situated.
She could also make out the contours of the window of the
room that had been hers, when she was sick in bed.
A number of ships were bobbing slowly up and down in the
roadstead, but she didn't pay any attention to them just now.
However, that same day she took Carlos home with her from the
brothel, because she didn't want to live alone. She also took the
big ceiling light because Carlos always liked to sleep in it.
Carlos would now share the big stone house with Hanna. For as long as she
remained in the town spread out there before her,
white and steaming in the heat, on the shore of the bay known
as the Lagoon of Good Death.
PART THREE
The Tapeworm in the
Chifnpanzee's Mouth
44
Every morning when Hanna woke up Carlos was sitting in her
bed with his hairy back towards her. She didn't like him being
there: she was afraid he would introduce stinging and blood-sucking
insects into her bed. She chased him away and closed the bedroom
door before going back to bed and extinguishing the paraffin lamp.
But Carlos always either opened the door, or climbed back in
through the window she kept open. He was there every morning.
She was the one living in a cage, not Carlos.
In the end Hanna realized that he was longing for company,
just as she was. He was missing the companionship characteristic
of the life of chimpanzees - allowing another member of the
troop to examine his fur and pick it clean. She felt sad once this
had become clear to her. She could see her own loneliness mirrored
in his, sat down close to him and began searching his skin for
dead insects. It was obvious how much he enjoyed that. When
Carlos wanted to repay the compliment by searching through her
own hair, she allowed him to do so.
She started to see the pair of them as an odd couple, their
mutual respect growing all the time even though they didn't really
have anything more in common than this morning ritual, which
could go on for hours.
In the early days of this new stage in her life as a widow, she
kept thinking about how she had changed her name for the second
time in her short life. In the course of a brief ceremony in the
distant city of Algiers, she had stopped being Renstrom and
become Lundmark. Then that second name had been replaced
by Vaz. In all the documents that her solicitor Senhor Andrade
brought for her to read and sign, it said that her name was Hanna
Vaz, and that her title was now viuva, widow.
But the thought of her being suddenly subjected once again to
widowhood didn't affect her nearly so much as the realization
that she had become a very rich woman. Andrade produced
accounts for her to read and sign, and she was astounded when
she laboriously worked out the equivalents of English pounds,
Portuguese escudos or American dollars into Swedish kronor. She
was staggered to think that she now probably had more liquid
capital than Jonathan Forsman's total possessions. She sometimes
woke up in the middle of the night under the impression that
money - shiny new coins and pristine banknotes - was raining
down on to her bed. Even after a few months, this wealth seemed
totally unreal to her. And money continued to come rolling in.
Every morning the short, slim cashier Eber, who was descended
from a German family that had emigrated to southern Africa,
would come up to her house from the brothel with a leather
briefcase crammed full of cash. She would sign for the briefcase,
give Eber the empty briefcase from the previous day, and then
shut herself up in the study she had taken over from her former
husband. In one of the walls was a safe that needed two different
keys to open it: she wore them on a ribbon tied round her neck.
She would enter the amounts in a cash book, then place the notes
and coins inside the safe and lock it again. Not even Carlos was
allowed to be in the room when she was counting out the money
from the brothel.
Once a month, in accordance with the cashier's instructions,
she would prepare the payments that needed to be made. On that
day Eber was always accompanied by several Portuguese soldiers
who escorted him back to the brothel with the bulging
briefcase.
Nobody stayed in the hotel as a paying guest now. Once Hanna
had moved out the rooms had either remained empty, or been
used by the whores when their own rooms were being repaired
after being trashed by some overexuberant client. She even
wondered if there had ever been any normal paying guests before
her, or whether the hotel business was no more than a front to
give the brothel an appearance of decency.
One day when she was putting more money into the safe, she
noticed a little notebook lying on the bottom shelf, covered in
dust that had somehow, mysteriously, managed to filter in despite
the tightly fitting steel door. When she examined it more closely
while sitting at the desk, she discovered that it was empty. There
wasn't a single word written in it. It was a gift from a Japanese
shipping line with Yokohama as its main port. Japanese sailors
sometimes visited the brothel. They were clean and polite, but
not especially liked by the women because the intensity of their
sexual activity could be painfully tiring. Hanna had heard rumours
of a Japanese mate who had paid for a whole night, and was
alleged to have had nineteen sexual encounters. Whether or not
that was true, the Japanese were certainly persistent, and on some
occasion or other Senhor Vaz must have received the empty notebook
as a present, or perhaps as a souvenir - or possibly even as
an apology for an excessively savage erotic outburst.
The leather smelled of calfskin, but it had turned black over
the years. The white pages were made of thick paper, but were
nevertheless soft and pliable. When Hanna wrote her name on
one, she could see how the paper sucked up the dark blue ink.
No blotting paper was needed.
She wrote the current date: 26 March, 1905. Carefully, as if every
single word could have dangerous consequences, she wrote a
sentence: 'Dreamt last night about what no longer is.'
'Dreamt last night about what no longer is.' That was all. But
it seemed to her that she had sparked off a new habit that she
was determined to stick to. She would no longer simply write
down new figures in her account books, but she would also keep
a diary that nobody but she would have access to.
From then on she would write down a few sentences after
Eber had been with his bag full of money and she had locked
away the previous night's income in the safe. As the days passed
she dared to stray from the usual paths where the words she
wrote simply referred to something she had dreamt, or what
Carlos had done, or what the weather had been like. She started
to write about the women who worked for her, both in the
brothel and in the house where she was sitting and writing.
After just over a month she made a note about Senhor Vaz and
his hopeless attempts to satisfy both her and himself. Her tone
became increasingly sharp, the judgements she passed on people
increasingly less considerate. No unauthorized readers were going
to have access to her diary.
But what she wrote in her diary had no effect on the daily conversations she
had with the people she was in charge of. In those situations she was just as
friendly and considerate as she
had been before. But in her diary she wrote what she really
thought. That was where the truth was; but she kept it hidden.
Only one other person knew of the existence of the diary. That
was young Julietta, who helped out in the house whenever and
wherever necessary. One day she had stood in the half-open
doorway and seen Hanna leaning over her diary at her desk.
Hanna had called the girl in and shown her what she was writing,
well aware that Julietta was illiterate and had no idea about writing
nor languages. Julietta had asked what Hanna was writing.
'Words,' Hanna had said. 'Words about the country I come
from.'
That was all she had said, despite the fact that Julietta
continued to ask questions. Afterwards Hanna had asked herself
why she had lied to Julietta. There was nothing in the diary
about her life in the mountains and by the cold river. But on
the other hand she had often made disparaging comments about
Julietta.
Why hadn't she told her the truth? Had she begun to be like
all the others in this town, who never seemed to tell the truth?
At first she had believed that Senhor Vaz had been right when he
claimed that all black people told lies. But then she had discovered
that the same applied to all the whites, and to those of Indian or
Arabic origins. Everybody lied, even if they did so in different
ways. She was living in a country which seemed to be founded
on lies and hypocrisy.
She signalled that Julietta should leave the room. Then she
wrote down what she had just been thinking: 'Black people lie
in order to avoid unnecessary suffering. White people lie to
preserve the superiority they wish to uphold. And the others, the Arabs and
Indians, lie because there is no longer room for
the truth in this town we live in.'
She also thought, although she didn't write it down, that she
regretted having shown Julietta her notebook. Perhaps that was
a careless move that would come back to haunt her at some time
in the future.
She locked the diary away in the safe and stood by the window
looking out over the sea. She took her binoculars and viewed the
island called Inhaca which she had once visited, during her 'time
of inactivity', with Senhor Vas and the solicitor, Senhor Andrade.
She redirected the binoculars at the town, at the harbour district
where the brothel was located. If she stood on tiptoe she could
see the lookout outside the gate, and possibly also one or two of
the girls hanging around in the shadows, waiting for a client.
A thought occurred to her that she had had many times before:
I can see them. But the question is, can they see me? And if they
can: what do I mean to them?
She replaced the binoculars and stand on the marble shelf in
front of the window, and closed her eyes. Despite the heat she
could conjure up how she had sat in the sleigh, wrapped up in
Jonathan Foreman's furs that smelled of lard and dogs.
When she opened her eyes again, she thought that she really
must soon make up her mind. Should she stay where she was, or
should she return home?
But on that day of all days, the day when she had shown Tulietta
her notebook, Hanna was possessed by another emotion.
She was frightened. She had the feeling that danger was
approaching. There was something in the vicinity that she hadn't
yet discovered.
A growing threat. That she couldn't see. But she knew that it
was approaching rapidly, like a sleigh gliding along at speed over
tightly packed snow.
45
Not long after she had begun to write about Senhor Vaz in
her diary, Hanna called a meeting of the women and everybody
else who worked in the brothel. She held it early in the
morning when the brothel was nearly always empty. Most of
them generally slept when the last of the clients had left. Many
of them travelled in horse-drawn carriages, but some in motor
cars, all of which were cleaned and polished during the night by
the black workers who disobeyed the law that said blacks were
not allowed in the town at night. The police turned a blind eye
because they always had right of access to the women in the
various brothels concentrated along rua Bagamoio provided they
left the nocturnal workers in peace.
It seemed to Hanna that the newly polished cars heading for
the South African border in the early hours of the morning were
a sign that the men who used the services of her brothel wanted
to remove all trace of what they had been up to. It was as if the
cars and carriages were also soiled by what went on inside the
brothel. But now the men were travelling back in their sparklingly
clean vehicles to the country where it was morally reprehensible
and perilously close to being a jailable offence for white men to
associate with black women.
Hanna gathered the women and the security guards around
the jacaranda tree in the garden. She had asked Andrade to be
present, and had taken Carlos with her, dressed in his white waiter's
jacket. She now allowed him to be what he really was - a chimpanzee
stolen from his troop somewhere inland. Carlos seemed
worried at first about returning to the brothel, but after slapping
the lid of the piano hard several times he calmed down and sat
on Ze's knee, just as in the old days.
Ze seemed to be barely aware of the fact that his brother had
passed away unexpectedly. He had attended the funeral, but had
shown no sign of sorrow or pain. He sat at the piano and continued
to tune the strings which never seemed to attain the harmony he
was striving for.
Hanna started by saying that essentially, nothing would change.
Everything would continue more or less as it always had done.
As the widow of Senhor Vaz she intended to retain all the rules,
duties and benefits that her husband had introduced to give their
workplace the best possible reputation that it had always enjoyed.
She would continue to be generous with regard to granting time
off, and would be no less strict than Senhor Vaz had been when
it came to clients who were violent or behaved in any other unacceptable
fashion.
But of course, not everything could be the same as before, she
said as she approached the end of her little speech that she had
learnt off by heart in Portuguese, to ensure that she didn't lose
control of her words and thoughts. She was a woman. She didn't
have the same bodily strength as her husband had had - she
wouldn't be able to intervene if there was some kind of disturbance
- and so she was going to appoint a couple more sturdy
security guards who would protect the women and guarantee
their safety.
But there was another thing which would inevitably be different
because she wasn't a man. The women would find it easier to talk
to her about some things that would have been difficult to discuss
with her husband. She envisaged a situation in which they could
all talk more intimately with one another. That had to be an
improvement for everybody, she asserted at the end of her brief
address.
Afterwards, she was enveloped by a long-drawn-out silence.
A single jacaranda flower floated slowly, as light as a feather,
down to the ground. She hadn't expected anybody to make any
comments, but the silence scared her. It was not the usual silence
between whites and blacks: it seemed to have a significance that
she was unable to put her finger on.
She flung her hands out wide to indicate that the meeting was
over. Nobody needed to stay any longer. The women picked up
their chairs and went indoors, and Judas started sweeping the
courtyard - but she waved him away as well. Z£ returned to the
piano with Carlos half asleep on his lap.
It dawned on Hanna what the silence had indicated. Nobody
had wanted the closer relationship she had offered them. The
silence had been heavy with an invisible reluctance, she realized
that now. But she didn't understand it. Couldn't they see that as
she was a woman, she really was closer to them? That everything
she had said was true, unusually so in this world of hypocrisy
and lies?
She had taken her notebook with her, and now she wrote in it
- hesitantly, as if she couldn't rely on her ability to interpret her
own thoughts: 'Anybody who robs somebody of their freedom can never expect to
form a close relationship with them.'
She read what she had written. She put the notebook back
in the woven basket which also contained a shawl and a tin
flask that she always carried with her. It contained drinking
water that had boiled for many hours before being left to cool
down.
The women had returned to their rooms. Nobody was sitting
on the sofas yet, ready to receive their clients once again. It was
clear to Hanna that they were keeping out of her way so that they
didn't need to risk her speaking to them and offering them the
closer relationship she had spoken about.
A close relationship, she thought. As far as they are concerned,
all that means is a threat to which they don't want to expose
themselves.
She stood there with the basket in her hand, unsure about
whether the reaction she had been confronted with aroused her
anger or disappointment. Or was she in fact grateful and relieved
that she didn't need to try to carry out in practice what she had
so wrongly envisaged in theory?
Senhor Andrade suddenly materialized by her side. Despite the
fact that it was early in the morning, sweat was already pouring
down his face. A drop hanging from the tip of his nose filled her
with distaste. She had to restrain herself from thwacking him in
the face with the handkerchief she had stuffed inside her blouse.
'Is there anything else you require of me this morning?'
'No. Nothing apart from hearing what you thought about it.'
Andrade gave a start. New drops of sweat gathered on the tip
of his nose. Hanna realized that she had used the familiar form
of address, and that he objected to that. She ought to have included
the words 'Senhor Andrade'. He evidently thought that not doing
so indicated a lack of respect. But she knew that he was well paid
for his services, and she certainly didn't want to exchange him
for one of the keen young solicitors from Lisbon who were now
converging on Portugal's African possessions in the hope of
making their fortunes.
'What I thought about what?'
'My address. The meeting. The silence.'
Her distaste was increasing all the time. The beads of sweat on
his bloated face made her feel ill.
'It was a good exposition of the facts of the situation,' said
Andrade thoughtfully.
'You're not in court. Tell me what you really think. About their
reaction.'
'The whores? What else can you expect from them but silence?
They're used to opening other things than their mouths.'
Andrade's effrontery almost made Hanna blush. She became
the girl by the river again, scarcely daring to look any man she
didn't know in the eye. But she also realized that he was right.
Why had she thought that she might be able to expect anything
other than silence? On several occasions she had been present
when Senhor Vaz had assembled the women to address them, but
none of them had ever asked a question or requested that anything
should be explained more clearly - and most certainly there had
never been any question of contradicting him.
Andrade went out into the broiling sunshine and clambered
into his car, which was driven by a black chauffeur in uniform.
Hanna had arranged for the chauffeur to come and collect her
an hour later.
She went up the stairs and opened the door to the room where
she had slept those first nights after she had fled from Svartman's
ship. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. But there was
nothing she could return to, not even the memory of those first
lonely nights, the bleeding, and Laurinda coming to help her
without making a sound.
She left the room without understanding why she had gone up
the stairs to the upper floor. She sat down on one of the red plush
sofas and waited for the car. Carlos had woken up and climbed
into the jacaranda tree. He sat there watching her, as if he expected
her to climb up as well and cling on to the branches.
She looked at all the closed doors. She thought about the fact
that she knew nothing at all about what really went on inside the
women's heads. She would never be able to repeat the conversations
she had sometimes had with Felicia. The fact that she was
now the owner of the brothel opened up a chasm between her
and the women with whom she had previously had a relationship
as close as racial differences allowed.
Her unrest made it difficult for her to breathe. She held tightly
on to the arms of the sofa so as not to fall. I can't stay here, she
thought. I have no business to be here. On a foreign continent
where the residents either hate me or are scared of me.
Her thoughts were still unclear, but she had an idea of what she ought to do.
The very next day she should summon Andrade
and instruct him to find somebody willing to purchase the brothel.
There was bound to be any number of willing would-be buyers
prepared to pay for the brothel's good name and reputation. Then
she would get out of here as quickly as possible. Her future was
secure, thanks to the money she already had plus what she would
earn from the sale of the brothel. It would be a rich woman leaving
Africa behind her. Hers had been a brief visit. Two short-lived
marriages, two unexpected deaths, and then nothing else.
I have just one problem, she thought. What will happen to
Carlos? I can't take him with me to the cold country where he
would freeze to death. But who will be able to look after him,
now that he has no desire at all to return to the forests he originally
came from? When he doesn't even want to be an ape any
longer?
She had no answer to that. When the car arrived and she
shouted for Carlos, he immediately climbed down from the tree.
But just as he touched the ground after climbing out of the
tree, he had given a start, as if he had burnt himself on the hard,
flat soil. He sniffed around, then hurried away.
Hanna stared at him in surprise. Why had he been afraid of
the ground underneath the tree? But Carlos gave no indication
of why. He simply sat down beside her in the car, grinning as the
sea air caressed his face.
46
Shortly before his death, totally unexpectedly - as if he had
had a premonition of his imminent demise - Senhor Vaz
had told Hanna that if she ever needed advice and he was not at
hand to give it, she should turn first to Senhor Pedro Pimenta.
'Why him?' she had asked. 'I barely know who he is.'
'I don't know anybody who is more honest than he is,' he said.
'He's the only person in this country who I've never caught out
telling lies. Talk to Pedro Pimenta if you need advice. And rest
assured that you can trust Herr Eber to look after our money he'd
never steal a single escudo of our assets. He believes that
God goes out of His way to look after him. You couldn't ask to
find a better cashier than Herr Eber. God has erected steel bars
between Herr Eber and any thievish inclinations he might have,
deep down inside him.'
Pedro Pimenta was an immigrant from Coimbra who carved
out for himself an astonishing career when he came to the African
colony. He had first been an assistant to a tailor who had decided
to seek his fortune in the African colonies. Pimenta's real intention
had been to emigrate to Angola, and more specifically to the
city of Luanda, because rumour had it that the white colonial
population was badly in need of tailors. But fate had dictated that
the master tailor who paid for Pimenta's ticket had decided to
settle in the country that at that time was still called Portuguese
East Africa. For the first three months after his arrival, Pimenta,
who was only seventeen at the time, had been scared to death by
everything the alien continent threw at him. He was terrified of
the dark nights, of the whispering voices of the blacks, of the
snakes he never saw and the spiders that hid away in the darkness.
Even though it was many years since beasts of prey had wandered into the town
at night, he was always afraid that a lion would
force its way in through his half-open window and rip out his
throat. For the first three months Pimenta spent all his time hiding
behind barricades. As he was unable to sleep at night, he didn't
have the strength to work during the day. The master tailor sacked
him, and kicked him out of the little house down by the harbour
where he had established his tailoring business.
The fact that Pimenta was out of work did not mean that he
was ruined: instead he was forced to overcome his fears and take
responsibility for his life. Thanks to a number of forged references,
he was given a job by an Indian businessman, learnt the basics
of commerce, and before long started up his own business with
prices undercutting anything his rivals had to offer. After less than
ten years he had become a rich man. He built a house on a hill
outside the town, was one of the first people in Lourenco Marques
to own a car and a chauffeur, and was considered to be one of
the most prominent of the colonial immigrants.
Nobody knew that Pedro Pimenta was illiterate. He managed
to keep in his head all the figures he needed to master in his
business dealings. When he became more successful he called up
a younger brother from Portugal who could both read and write.
That brother took care of all the necessary correspondence, and
nobody had the slightest idea that all the letters of the alphabet
jumped around inside Pimenta's head in total confusion.
Pimentas big breakthrough came with the dogs. He had the
idea one evening when he was visiting the brothel run by his good
friend Senhor Vaz. It was shortly after Felicia had started to work
there: Pimenta soon became a regular customer of hers, visiting
her once every week, always on Tuesday evenings.
On one of his visits there was a man of about his own age
sitting waiting for the woman he had just booked, hoping she
would soon finish her session with her current client. He and
Pimenta started talking. The man, who came from South Africa,
ran a business selling guard dogs.
'Fear is an excellent employer,' he said. 'Especially in South
Africa where the whites shut themselves away in compounds
surrounded by high fences, and their need for guard dogs is
never-ending. They would really prefer to have bloodthirsty,
starving wolves, but f provide them with German shepherd dogs
trained in Belgium and some kennels in the south of Germany.
When they are fully trained to attack black people, they are sent
on boats to Durban or Port Elizabeth. My customers queue up
and are prepared to pay a small fortune for the strongest and
most aggressive dogs.'
The man tipped the ash off his cigar and burst out laughing.
'The only drawback with the dogs is that they are not white,'
he said. 'If they were, they would be worth twice as much.'
Pimenta didn't understand at first what he meant.
'White sheepdogs?'
'Yes, it would be perfect if one could breed white sheepdogs
- albinos, for instance. White dogs, just as white as their owners.
They would scare the blacks even more. And hence make their
owners feel more secure.'
Pimenta nodded and said that was a fascinating idea, of course.
But what he didn't say was that he knew a man, a Portuguese
veterinary surgeon, who had a few white sheepdogs in his garden.
The following day Pimenta went to see the vet, who was in his
sixties and had begun to think about moving back to Portugal
before he became too old. He had lived in Africa for over forty
years, and on several occasions had suffered serious bouts of
malaria that had almost killed him. He was convinced that his
inner organs were vulnerable to attacks by bacteria, worms and
amoebae. No doctor had been able to solve the problem and they
didn't even think it was worth trying to cure him. Pimenta
proposed that he should take over the pair of sheepdogs and their
recent litter of puppies, all of them as white as snow, in return for
a sum of money that would greatly assist the old vet to undertake
the journey back home to Portugal. They reached an agreement,
and a few months later Pimenta waved goodbye to him from the
quay in Lourenco Marques harbour as a regular passenger liner
set sail for Durban, Port Elizabeth, Cape Town and Lisbon.
By that time Pimenta had already bought some land outside
the town with the utmost secrecy, and he had a large complex
of kennels built on it. His brother Louis, the one who could
read and write, took over responsibility for it. After two more
years, he had a collection of over thirty white sheepdogs. By
then Louis had grown tired of the African heat and returned
home. And so Pimenta took over control of everything himself.
With the help of a retired Portuguese cavalry officer the dogs
had been trained to go on the attack the moment a black person
approached. Pimenta had paid the commander of the fort to
allow his dogs to practise on a group of black miscreants who
were being held in the military jail. In order not to appear
excessively brutal, Pimenta had supplied the black prisoners
with thick fur coats that the sheepdogs were unable to bite
through.
Pimenta travelled to Johannesburg and placed an advert in the
biggest national newspaper announcing that sensational white
sheepdogs, trained as guard dogs, were for sale, albeit only in
limited numbers at present.
He had rented a suite in one of Johannesburg's leading hotels.
Before long the desperate hotel manager was forced to employ
extra staff to cope with the long queue of prospective buyers.
Pimenta had taken two of the puppies with him to Johannesburg,
a dog and a bitch. They were two of the most intelligent of the
dogs he had bred. To demonstrate their aggressiveness he called
a black bellboy to his room: the dogs immediately began straining
at their leashes, snarling and growling frantically.
He sold the dogs for amounts that made it clear he had the
equivalent of top-grade diamonds in his kennels. When he went
back home he had with him orders and down payments for over
fifty dogs, and had increased his fortune just like a successful gold
prospector - without ever having so much as touched a spade or
a wash pan.
Pedro Pimenta had become an entrepreneur in fear. He knew
how he was going to exploit his knowledge. As far as he was
concerned, the fear some people had of others was purely and
simply a brilliant business opportunity.
47
The day after the meeting at the brothel, Hanna paid to borrow
Andrade's car and chauffeur in order to visit Pedro Pimenta's
estate outside Lourenco Marques.
Pimenta had built an enormous house next to his dog kennels.
He had created a large garden around it, and dug out several
ponds in which he fattened up crocodiles before sending their
skins to tanneries in Paris where they were made into shoes and
handbags. The crocodile eggs were collected from sandbanks
further up the River Komati. He had also employed oarsmen to
capture newly born crocodiles from the water next to the sandbanks
where the mothers were lying on guard. They didn't hesitate
to attack if anybody tried to steal their eggs or the youngsters
they had carefully carried down to the river in their mouths. On
one occasion a large crocodile had succeeded in overturning one
of the flimsy rowing boats. Both men had fallen into the water
and desperately attempted to swim to the riverbank. One of them
had succeeded, but had had been forced to watch as his friend
struggled as far as the bank and dug his fingers into the wet sand
in order to haul himself up: but as he tried to do so a crocodile
seized him by the leg and dragged him down into the water again.
His head had appeared once more before the crocodile pulled him
back down under the surface for good, and lodged the body in
among the tangled roots of the trees near the bank. The body
would rot away there until it was ready for eating.
Hanna had heard that story from Felicia, and had no doubt
that it was true. She couldn't just dismiss it as yet another of the
thousands of yarns told by the men sitting in the brothel, chatting
to their whores.
Pedro Pimenta was religious. Felicia had shown her the memorial
stone he had erected in the municipal cemetery in memory
of the man who had been eaten by the crocodiles. There had
been no body to bury. The dead man's clothes had been placed
in a beautifully carved wooden coffin. The only word on the
memorial stone was the name Walibamgu: Pimenta didn't know
the man's surname. He had simply turned up one day at the
crocodile pools, looking for work, and Pimenta had recruited
him without further ado. As far as Pimenta was concerned it
didn't matter that the man had no surname and no past. He
was just one of the vagrants from the interior of Africa who
only existed for one moment, a Walibamgu with no date of birth
- but a date of death.
Pimenta believed in God and attended the cathedral regularly.
He donated money for the purchase of new candlesticks, and had
also paid for the repair of some pews that had been damaged by
termites.
Now he was sitting in the shade on his large veranda with views
of the river and beyond that the mountains that seemed to melt
away into a permanent mist. Hanna knew that Pimenta very rarely
left his home. The only excursions he made were to the brothel
and to the cathedral. He turned down all the invitations he
received. Not even the Portuguese governor was able to tempt
him to attend any of the dinners the rest of the white colonial
elite fought among themselves in order to be present at. Pimenta
preferred to sit on his veranda, keeping watch on his crocodiles
as they grew bigger and fatter in their ponds, and on the white
sheepdogs whose aggression was being built up in the extensive
kennels. In a pond next to his veranda he kept a few baby crocodiles
and fed them himself with small fish and frogs.
Pimenta was wearing a white linen suit and a pith helmet with
a protective cloth covering the back of his neck. The shape of his
body was peculiar: the whole of his body was thin apart from
his stomach, which stuck out like a tumour over his belt. His skin
was covered in scars caused by insect bites and pimples, one of
his eyelids was sagging as if half of his being was devoted to struggling
with overpowering exhaustion. Although he was still young,
he had aged prematurely - as was often the case with white people
who migrated to the tropics and spent their time there working
far too hard.
For several years Pedro Pimenta had been living with a black
woman called Isabel, and had two children with her: a son and
a daughter. Both of them had been baptized in the cathedral and
were called Joanna and Rogerio.
Hardly any of the whites in Lourenco Marques worried about
the fact that he had a black lover; but the fact that he lived openly
with her, as if they were married, and that he looked after her
children as if they were his own - which of course they were with
the help of a private tutor, was condemned by everybody.
In some circles he was regarded with contempt, while others
looked upon him with a sort of vague worry.
Pimenta shook Hanna's hand when she emerged from the car,
and invited her to accompany him to the veranda where there
was at least a suggestion of cool breezes from the river valley blowing
along the house walls. Isabel came out to greet her. She was dressed
just like a white woman and her black hair was gathered in a tight
bun at the back of her head. It struck Hanna that this was the first
black woman she'd met who had looked her in the eye when they
shook hands. The expression in Isabel's eyes gave Hanna the feeling
that this was what native Africans had looked like before the whites
had arrived in their ships in search of slaves, diamonds and ivory.
Isabel fetched the children so that they could greet her as well.
Hanna thought she was looking at two unusually handsome
children.
'My children,' said Pimenta. 'My greatest joy. Often my only
joy, come to that.'
Hanna wondered why he suddenly sounded so downcast. A
cold breeze that didn't come from the river but from inside herself
wafted past. She didn't understand how he could talk about joy
in a way that actually indicated depression.
Something worried her, although she couldn't put her finger
on it.
He took her to thfc dog kennels.
'Demand is growing all the time,' he said. 'I thought I would
have a monopoly of these white dogs for four years at most, then
other breeders would start producing similar dogs to satisfy the
market demands: but I now realize that I had underestimated the
human need of originals. And these here are the originals, they
exist nowhere else.'
'How much do the dogs cost?' Hanna asked.
'Anybody who asks about the price can hardly be able to afford
one of them.'
'I'm not asking because I want one for myself.'
'I know. You would be able to afford one.'
Hanna gathered that he didn't want to reveal his asking price.
Or perhaps he didn't have a set price, but asked individual
customers to pay what he thought they would be able to afford.
They continued to the various pools that comprised the crocodile
farm. Pedro explained to her that the slowly growing crocodiles
needed to be separated from the rest so that they didn't become
food for those that had grown somewhat larger.
In a pond with dark green water, all on its own, was an enormous
crocodile lying motionless on a flat rock. It was almost five
metres long. Nobody knew how old it was. Pimenta wouldn't
allow anybody else to feed it. Once a week he would throw food
down into the pond. And in fact it was this very day that he was
due to feed Noah, as he called it. He asked Hanna if she would
like to watch. She really wanted to say no, but nodded her head.
He shouted for one of the black workers who looked after the
crocodiles. A woolly sheep, a very powerfully built ram, was
dragged out of a pen. The black man handed the rope to which
the sheep was attached to Pimenta, then hurried off. The ram
seemed to suspect what was going to happen - like an animal
that can smell the blood of those that have just been
slaughtered.
Pimenta hung his jacket on a coat rack next to the pond that
was evidently there for this very purpose. He unbuttoned the
waistcoat that was stretched over his enormous stomach, folded
up his shirt sleeves and untied the rope at the same time as he
took a firm grip of the ram's neck. The ram bellowed. The crocodile
lay there motionless. Pimenta suddenly grabbed the ram's
feet and turned it over on its back, then threw it down into the
water where the crocodile was waiting. With a sudden movement
that was so quick that Hanna barely saw it, the crocodile left the
rock and sank down into the water. It clamped its jaws round the
ram, threw it into the air to turn it over, dragged it down under
the surface, then reappeared with just the ram's head.
Hanna didn't want to see any more. She turned away and
hurried back to the veranda.
'I'll come when the party's over,' she heard Pimenta saying
behind her.
It's almost as if he were taking part in the feast himself, she
thought agitatedly. How is this man going to be able to advise
me on what to do with my life?
Her first impulse was to get into the car and drive back to
town. But despite everything she stayed on the veranda, and had
settled down in a shady corner by the time Pimenta returned
from the crocodile's feast. There was not a trace on his face of
the scenes that had been enacted in the crocodile pool. He smiled
at Hanna, rang a small silver bell, ordered some tea from a servant,
and asked why she had come to his house - she had never visited
him before.
'I can't sleep at night,' she said. 'I don't know why I should stay
here in Africa, but nor do I know why I should leave. Nor where
I should go to.'
What she said didn't seem to surprise him. He fanned his face
slowly with his pith helmet.
'Those are thoughts that nag away at all of us,' he said. 'There's
no avoiding them. To stay or not to stay. Even if we were born
here, we are still on foreign soil. Or perhaps I should say that we
are in enemy territory.'
'Is that what I'm feeling? All the hatred directed at us because
we are white?'
'That's hardly something that we need to worry about. What
could the blacks do to us? Nothing.'
'There's something they have that we don't have.'
For the first time he looked at her in surprise.
'And what could that be?'
'Their numbers'
He seemed disappointed by her answer, as if he had hoped she
would astound him, say something he'd never thought of before. 'The idea that
they could be a threat to us because there are a
lot of them is nothing more than a figment of the imagination
for nervous people,' he said impatiently. 'Nightmares that can
never become reality. The more of them there are, the more
confused they become.'
'I don't regard myself as a nervous type. But I see what I see.
And I hear what I hear.'
'What do you hear?'
'A silence. Which isn't natural.'
Before Pimenta could respond, Isabel came out on to the
veranda and sat down on one of the basket chairs. She smiled.
Hanna suspected she had been listening to their conversation.
But why had she come out on to the veranda at just that moment?
Because she wanted the conversation to come to an end? Or was
there some other reason?
In her mind's eye Hanna suddenly saw Pimenta grabbing hold
of Isabel's legs and flinging her into the crocodile pit. She gave a
start and dropped the cup of tea she was holding in her hand.
Having imagined Pimenta hurling his black wife to the crocodile,
it was not far to the next image: Pimenta throwing her down as
well, despite the fact that she was a white woman.
Pimenta rang the silver bell once more. A servant appeared, picked up the
broken pieces of crockery and wiped the floor clean.
She suddenly recalled Berta. Jonathan Forsman had accidentally
knocked a coffee cup off a table. She could see the scene in her
mind's eye: Berta picking up the bits and then wiping up the
coffee. And Forsman didn't even look in her direction.
Which direction am I looking in? Hanna thought. And why do
I think what I do about Pedro Pimenta?
The cooling breezes had faded away. The heat on the veranda
was motionless. A single peal of laughter rang out somewhere
in the distance.
They sat there without speaking. Hanna looked at the others.
The beautiful Isabel and the tight-lipped Pedro Pimenta.
I'm not a mirror, she thought. But I know that it's him I'm
beginning to look like. And I don't want to.
48
Shortly afterwards Isabel had left them. Pedro Pimenta no
longer had the %nergy to fan himself with his helmet. He
moved over to a garden hammock suspended from springs and
iron chains, kicked off his right shoe and inserted his big toe into
a loop in a rope attached to a gauze-like fan a metre long, suspended
over his head. As he swung back and forth in the hammock, the
fan moved up and down. The resulting breeze reached as far as
Hanna, who had moved her chair closer to the hammock as
requested by Pimenta. Anybody observing the pair of them from
a distance would have assumed that their conversation was
extremely intimate: but in fact it was only the faint cooling breeze
created by the fan that led them to sit so close together that their
legs were touching.
'We know nothing about each other,' said Pimenta. 'We all live
here, but none of us knows anything about our respective pasts.
I sometimes imagine that one dark night, on board a ship from
Lisbon, without anybody seeing us, we all threw our pasts overboard,
tightly packed and attached to heavy weights. For instance,
I know nothing about you. One day, all of a sudden, you are
staying in a room in a brothel that I frequent. A mysterious guest.
And then, just as suddenly, you marry Senhor Vaz. When he dies,
you become the owner of the most lucrative house of pleasure
for gentlemen in this part of Africa. But I still know nothing about
you. And you ask me for advice that I can't possibly give you.'
'It was my husband who suggested that I should speak to you.
If I needed advice. And if he wasn't around.'
He screwed up his eyes and looked hard at her.
'That sounds odd.'
'That he asked me to talk to you?'
'No. That he thought it would be possible in any circumstances
for somebody to give another person advice. He wasn't that sort
of man.'
'He said exactly what I've just told you he said.'
'Obviously, I don't think for a moment that you are telling
me an untruth. What good would it do you? I just find it astonishing
that he surprises me like this after his death. I don't like
it when the dead surprise me.'
That was the end of the conversation. Isabel came and
squatted down beside her husband. She ran her fingers over his
neck and his cheek. Hanna was surprised that he allowed her
to display such tenderness so openly in the presence of a
stranger.
I have a chimpanzee, she thought, and I pick ticks off his skin.
He has a black woman who caresses his cheek. In a way those
two activities are remarkably similar.
She wondered what it would be like to have a black man squatting down by her
side, running his fingers over her cheek.
She shuddered at the thought. Then she remembered Lundmark's
rough but well-tended hands, and was overcome by sorrow.
Isabel stood up and left the veranda again. She smiled at Hanna
as she left. Pimenta watched her go, his eyes screwed up.
T can buy the brothel off you,' he said suddenly. 'If you decide
to leave here. I can pay you in Portuguese currency, or in gold,
or in jewels. But I'm a businessman. I won't give you a friendship
price - I'll try to buy it as cheaply as possible.'
The thought of a potential deal had made him so excited that
he tugged too hard with his big toe in the rope loop, and the loop
broke. He shouted at the top of his voice for a servant by the
name of Harri. He came running up and retied the rope. Hanna
could see that this wasn't the first time the link had broken when
Pimenta had got carried away.
"Why is he called Harri?' she asked when they were alone again.
'That's surely not a Portuguese name, is it?'
'He comes from Matabeleland, the English colony. He claims
that he once saw Cecil Rhodes in evening dress when he was
about to have dinner in the middle of the bush. A large number
of pack horses had carried dining tables, silver cutlery and a
Persian rug that waf laid out in the depths of lion and elephant
country. I doubt whether he saw all this with his own eyes, but there is no
doubt that Cecil Rhodes treated every campsite as if
it were the Savoy hotel in London. That man really was crazy. But
I've taken a liking to Harri. He's now more faithful than any of
my dogs. And as my dogs play such an important role in my life,
blacks who behave like that have all the sympathy I can muster.'
'What would happen if I sold the brothel to you?'
T would maintain its good name and reputation. And take
good care of our clients.'
'And what about the women?'
He seemed puzzled by her question. The women? His foot
started pulling harder at the fan rope.
'You mean the whores?'
'Yes.'
'What about them?'
'They grow older. Fall ill. Nobody wants to pay for them any
more.'
'Then we kick them out, of course.'
'Give them some money so that they can buy a stall in the
market. Or build them a house if they need one. Those are conditions
I shall impose on any buyer. That's what we do for them
now, and it must continue that way.'
He shook his head almost imperceptibly, and thought carefully
before continuing. His foot operating the fan rope was still.
'Naturally I shall continue with the routines that apply now.
Why should I want to change them?'
'I'm sure you know that many brothel owners in this town treat
their girls very brutally. We have always been an exception.'
She realized that the 'we' was an exaggeration. It was Senhor
Vaz she was speaking about. Her only contribution was not to
have changed any of the routines that had always applied before
her husband died.
'It will be as I say,' he said. 'I shan't change anything. Why
should I?'
They spoke no more about it. Hanna was invited to a meal
consisting of cold soup and a dish of peeled and mashed fruits. She
drank two glasses of wine despite the fact that she knew it would
give her a headache. Isabel ate as well, but she didn't say anything.
Pimenta talked at length, without any attempt to conceal his satisfaction,
about the prominent families in South Africa who had
bought his white sheepdogs. He recounted with pride how at least
two of his white sheepdogs had bitten to death black men who had
tried to burgle the palace-like mansions the dogs were guarding.
Isabel didn't seem to react when he told this story. She had a frozen
smile on her face which never seemed to change at all.
Hanna returned to town later in the afternoon. The sun had
disappeared behind thunderclouds that were building up over the
mountains near the border with Swaziland.
The conversation with Pedro Pimenta had increased her confusion.
She was more unsure than ever about what she ought to do.
She couldn't believe that what he had said about not changing
anything was true. There was no reason to believe that he would
treat the women any differently from the way he treated his white
dogs and the crocodiles waiting in his ponds to be killed and
skinned. Pimenta was a man who enjoyed throwing living sheep
to hungry crocodiles.
She sat in the car with the window open. The wind was
pounding the shawl she had over her mouth to avoid having to
breathe in the red dust that was swirling around along the road.
For a brief moment she was sorely tempted to instruct the
chauffeur to drive her to the South African border: but she didn't,
she merely closed her eyes and dreamt about the clear, brown
water of the river.
When she got out of the car in front of her house, Julietta
immediately opened the front door and took her hat. Hanna
realized that her meeting with Pimenta had given her a sort of
answer after all. She was responsible for the women her dead husband had
bequeathed to her.
She could only live up to that if at the same time she accepted
responsibility for herself.
49
After a night of heavy rain that once again flooded the streets
of Lourenco Marques, a man stood shivering at the front
door of the brothel, asking to speak to the woman who owned
it. The fact that he knew there was now a woman owner and was
evidently not a customer made Hanna uneasy. She was becoming
more worried about the unknown, not least people wanting to
see her without her knowing why.
That same morning she had sat with her bookkeeper and
cashier Herr Eber and discussed the costs of repairs that were
necessary after two Finnish sailors had run amok. They had
smashed most of the furniture in the sofa room where the whores
received their customers. Soldiers summoned from the Portuguese
garrison had finally managed to handcuff them. Nobody knew
what had triggered their furious outburst, least of all the drunken
sailors themselves, who couldn't speak a word of any language
other than their odd-sounding Finnish - but on a previous
occasion when clients had turned violent, Felicia had said that
the cause was almost always the fact that the men had been
stricken with impotence and could find no way of expressing
their frustration other than trashing the brothel's furniture and
fittings, as if that was the cause of their impotence and therefore
needed to be punished.
The captain of the Finnish ship had paid for his two crew
members to be released, then hastily set sail for Goa, which was
his final destination. The money he had paid barely covered the
cost of the repairs, and Hanna had decided to draw up a manual
listing the precise cost of every kind of damage that might be
done to the brothel on some future occasion.
Judas came in, bowed, and mumbled something about a visitor
at the front door. Hanna had never heard his name before:
Emanuel Roberto. Judas was told to ask the man to wait until
Hanna had concluded her session with Herr Eber, who was very
precise but slow. There were times when his pedantic, almost
somnambulistic writing with his rasping pen drove her to distraction.
But she always managed to control herself. She depended
on him for information about how all her businesses were going.
When Herr Eber had finally left her room with a deep bow,
she summoned Emanuel Roberto. He seemed to stagger rather
than walk normally, and his face was distorted by strange tics.
Hanna wondered if he was drunk, and her first impulse was to
send him packing without even bothering to discover what he
wanted. But when he handed over his business card, his hand
shaking, and she saw that he was the deputy director of the
Portuguese tax authorities in Lourenco Marques, she realized that
she had to treat him with respect. She asked him to take a seat,
and ordered coffee and a bowl of fruit. His body secreted an
odour that suggested his flesh was in a state of fermentation, and
Hanna felt obliged to begin breathing discreetly through her
mouth.
Roberto made no attempt to pick up his coffee cup, but instead
bent forward and drank in a manner reminiscent of an animal
at a waterhole.
Unlike his fidgety body, his voice was steady and distinct.
'I had the honour of dealing with Senhor Vaz's tax affairs during
all the years he was the owner of this whorehouse,' he began.
Hanna objected to his use of the word 'whorehouse': it seemed
out of place in his mouth.
'According to information I have received from Senhor Andrade,'
he went on, 'Senhora Vaz is now the owner of this house and the
activities which take place here. If I have understood the situation
correctly, Senhor Andrade will continue to look after all legal
aspects, just as he did in the time of the former owner.'
He paused and looked at her, as if he was expecting a response.
Hanna found it difficult not to burst out laughing. The tics all
over his face were much too strong a contrast to his solemn tone
of voice. The man standing in front of her seemed quite simply
to have been wrongly put together.
When she said nothing he opened his briefcase and took out
some elegantly written-out documents on stiff paper, adorned
with seals and stamps.
'This is your final tax statement from the last financial year. As
your husband was the owner and responsible for all activities for
the main part of the financial year, we shall naturally simply
present you with our calculations for you to check. But I can tell
you that in the current financial year this whorehouse is still the
biggest taxpayer in the Portuguese colony. Needless to say it can
feel painful for a civil servant to acknowledge that a brothel is
the most flourishing and profitable business in the country. Some
officials in Lisbon are most upset. Therefore we usually describe
your establishment as a hotel. But the outcome is the same, of
course: your tax payments exceed those of any other business in
the country. All I can say is: congratulations!'
He handed over the documents for her to read. The bureaucratic
Portuguese and the ornate handwriting meant that she guessed
rather than understood what was written: but the columns of
figures were absolutely clear. She reckoned out quickly in her head
that she was paying a gigantic sum of Swedish kronor in tax.
The very thought made her feel dizzy. For the first time she
understood fully that she had not merely become well off by
marrying Senhor Vaz: she was rolling in money. And it was not
only in this distant outpost that she was filthy rich: even if she
returned to Sweden she would still be extremely wealthy.
Emanuel Roberto stood up and bowed.
'I'll leave my papers here,' he said. 'If you have any points to
raise, please contact me about them within the next fourteen days.
But I think I can assure you that everything is in the best of order,
correctly calculated and recorded.'
He bowed once again, then left the room. Hanna remained
seated on her chair for a long time. When she finally stood up
she had made up her mind to return to her house on the hill and
think seriously about what all this wealth meant for her future.
When she came out into the big sitting room she saw one of
the women disappearing into her room with an early customer.
She only saw the man briefly, from behind, as the door closed.
Nevertheless she was certain. It was Captain Svartman who had
gone into the room.
50
The peacock screeched. It was standing in the middle of the
empty street, bathed in sunshine streaming in through the gap
between two houses while Indian traders slowly, almost casually
opened up their stalls down at street level. All around the peacock
was shadow. It seemed to be standing on a stage, illuminated by
a single spotlight.
It screeched once again, then started pecking calmly at the
invisible seeds that only a peacock's eye could see.
Hanna had stopped dead. The fact that Captain Svartman was
in her brothel confused her. She didn't know if what she was feeling
was joy at seeing somebody from her earlier existence, or if she
was scared of actually meeting him.
But most of all she was astonished. For her, Captain Svartman
had never been anything other than the resolute captain whose
only passion had been the potted plants in his cabin that nobody
except him was allowed to tend. She could never have imagined
that he would visit whores in an African port. Perhaps he had
come so early in the morning so that there was a minimal risk
of his meeting anybody from the ship of which he was in
command?
The thought of the ship moved her to act. She left the hotel,
took with her one of the black watchmen who had been squatting
down asleep in the shade outside the front door, and hurried
down to the harbour. The Indian traders who were busy rolling
up the blinds in front of their stalls eyed her inquisitively, but
were careful not to make it obvious. Hanna had realized a long
time ago that many of them knew who she was. She sometimes
felt embarrassingly pleased at no longer being a nobody. That was
why she was careful to dress smartly for her daily walks between
her house and the brothel.
Even during the short time she was married to Senhor Vaz
she had had two seamstresses who made her clothes for her.
Now she had employed another one who, somewhat mysteriously,
had ended up in Africa after a long life in the most
renowned circles of Parisian fashion. There were rumours of
embezzlement, and perhaps something even worse, but she was
still a skilled dressmaker, and Hanna didn't hesitate to pay her
whatever she asked for.
Hanna was out of breath by the time she got to the harbour.
Berthed at one of the quays furthest out was the ship she knew
so well. She stopped in the shadow of one of the enormous cranes
that had recently been installed in the harbour. Black labourers
in ragged trousers and bare feet were standing in a circle around
a white foreman who was assigning work. Hanna had the feeling
that he was some kind of priest, preaching the religion of slavery
to the black workers.
But her attention was concentrated on the ship. She was filled
with contradictory thoughts and feelings. As they were unloading
all their cargo of timber in Lourenco Marques, Hanna assumed
that must mean the ship was now on its way back to Sweden.
She would be able to go back home as a paying passenger, leave
everything behind her, sell the brothel that very day. She would
obviously lose money on such a deal, but she would still be a
very rich woman.
The sight of the ship also put her possible flight in a different
perspective. What did she have to return to? Surely her life had
turned out to be something she could never have dreamt of?
She returned to the brothel, more unsure than ever about
what she wanted. When she entered through the front door she still
wasn't sure whether she would reveal her presence to Captain
Svartman. She headed for the bench under the jacaranda tree,
but before she could get there the door to Felicia's room opened,
Captain Svartman came out, and suddenly they were face to face.
At first he didn't seem to recognize her. He paused for a second.
Then he knew.
'Are you here?' he said.
'I could say the same about you,' she said. 'Is Captain Svartman
here?'
They looked each other up and down. Hanna felt that she had
the upper hand, because he couldn't possibly know what she was
doing there in the brothel. He would probably jump to the obvious
conclusion - that she was there to give pleasure to men in return
for money. But surely he would find that difficult to believe?
Hanna felt she ought to make it clear that any such suspicion
was unfounded. She shook her head.
'Things are not what you probably think,' she said.
She beckoned him to follow her out to the jacaranda tree and
the wooden bench. Ze had materialized from nowhere and sat
down at the piano. He said nothing but was obviously longing
for Carlos, who was probably his only friend now that Senhor
Vaz's heart had stopped beating. Hanna thought he probably
regarded her as an evil person who had robbed him of his brother
and also the chimpanzee he could always turn to.
Hanna and Captain Svartman drank tea under the jacaranda tree.
'I wonder who is most surprised,' she said. 'You at seeing me,
or me at seeing you?'
'I obviously wondered what happened,' said Svartman. 'We
spent a whole day looking for you. But then we were forced to
continue our voyage.'
'I had the constant feeling that Lundmark was still there on
board the ship,' she said. 'I couldn't cope with that. There was no
other way out for me.'
Svartman nodded thoughtfully. Then he started to smile.
'I'm very pleased, of course. Very glad to see that you are still alive.'
'A friend of mine was married to the owner of this brothel,'
she said. 'He died. She is very ill. I look after the money that's
made here - but I hate the whole business, of course, and only
do it for the sake of my friend.'
Did he believe her? She couldn't be sure. The ring she had on
her left hand could be a leftover from her marriage to Lundmark.
'What exactly happened?' Captain Svartman asked when he
had thought about what she said. It still seemed as if he couldn't
really grasp the fact that he had met again the third mate's widow,
who had jumped ship.
'I booked into a hotel to start with. I had enough money to
do that. Then I ended up looking after a house for an elderly
man. But all the time I've been looking forward to the moment
when I can go back home.'
'What prevents you from doing that?'
'My sorrow at having lost Lundmark. And my fear of the sea.'
'I think I can understand,' said Svartman doubtfully.
As nothing she had said was true, Hanna tried to change the
subject. She returned to the moment when she had left the ship
under cover of night.
'What did you think had happened?' she asked.
T thought you might have drowned.'
'Drowned by accident, or drowned myself?'
'I suppose I considered both possibilities. But needless to say
there were others on board who made wilder guesses. That you
had fallen into the hands of white slave traders, for instance. Or
been killed by a bite from a poisonous snake that had managed
to slither on board, and that you had fallen overboard as the
poison began to work.'
'But nobody suspected that I had left the ship of my own free
will?'
Svartman sounded depressed when he replied.
'I have to admit that not even I could envisage that possibility.
And after all, during my many years as captain I've seen lots of
sailors disappear in ports all over the world.'
She asked about the voyage, and the return route: had they
called at Lourenco Marques on the way home as well? Svartman
told her they had gone straight to Port Elizabeth to pick up some
mixed cargo bound for the French port of Rouen.
She started asking about Halvorsen and the other sailors. And
about Forsman and Berta. He answered briefly and suddenly
seemed to be in a hurry. Hanna gathered that he didn't want to
stay at the brothel any longer than necessary. His visit to Felicia
had been a secret, and nobody in the crew must get to know
about it.
Hanna was disappointed to discover that Captain Svartman
was just like all other men. They concealed the truth about themselves,
the things they did in secret, under cover of darkness.
But was she any better herself? Didn't she also go sneaking
around? They were simply sitting there under the jacaranda tree
exchanging half-truths.
'How long are you staying here?' she asked.
'Until tomorrow.'
'I'd like to visit the ship. And naturally, I won't mention the
fact that I met you here.'
She thought she could detect a doubtful look in his eye as he
tried to decide whether or not to believe her. But she looked him
straight in the eye. She was his equal now, no longer the scared
cook who had curtseyed deeply to him almost a year ago.
She stood up and brought the conversation to a close. She was
setting him free.
They said goodbye outside in the street.
'This afternoon will be okay,' said Svartman. 'I have business
to see to this morning, and I must keep an eye on the bunkering.'
The peacock was nowhere to be seen. The street was completely
deserted in the blazing sunshine. She stretched out her hand.
'I'll come this afternoon, then,' she said. 'If that's all right with
you.'
'I'll be there.'
He bowed, then seemed to hesitate.
'Peltonen is dead,' he said. 'He fell overboard one night off the
Egyptian coast. Nobody noticed he was missing until the next
morning.'
'It was Peltonen who measured the depth of Lundmark's grave,'
said Hanna. '1,935 metres.'
Svartman nodded. Then turned and walked away. He turned
off into the first side street.
So he's not taking the shortest route to the harbour, she thought.
He turned off as soon as possible so that I wouldn't be able to
see him.
She suddenly wondered if they had seen any icebergs.
Then she was driven back home to her house on the hill, and
sat down to write the letters that couldn't wait.
51
It was a shock to her when she read through the letter she
had written to Elin. Instead of writing about the voyage,
she had written something more like a saga. The only link with
reality was her description of how she had met Lundmark, married
him, and then been forced to watch as he was buried at sea. But
she had left out completely most of what had happened afterwards
- her jumping ship and meeting the brothel owner Senhor Vaz.
She merely wrote that she was in Africa, in good health, and on
her way home. As an explanation of why she hadn't completed
the voyage to Australia and hadn't come back to Sweden on the Lovisa, she wrote
rather vaguely that she had been afflicted with
a serious but short-lived illness, and had been perfectly healthy
again for ages.
She put the letter down in disgust. It was only now that she
realized the full consequences of what Captain Svartman had said.
What Forsman had been told when the ship docked in Sundsvall
after returning from Australia. And what Elin must eventually
have been told in her house in the remote mountains.
Her daughter was dead. For a long time Elin had been forced
to live with the sad news that Hanna had died in a foreign country.
Nobody knew what had happened to her, or where her grave was.
Always assuming that there was a grave.
The thought made Hanna cry. She suddenly realized that Julietta
was standing in the half-open doorway, watching her. In a flash
of rage Hanna grabbed Senhor Vaz's old bronze paperweight and
hurled it at her. Julietta dodged it, and hastily closed the door.
Hanna wanted to cry in peace. But it seemed that there was
no time even for that. She tore the letter up and wrote a new one,
her hand shaking.
'I'm alive,' she wrote. That was the most important thing. 'I'm
alive.' She repeated those words on almost every other line. The
whole letter was a sort of long request to be taken at her word.
She was alive, she wasn't dead as Captain Svartman had thought.
She had gone ashore because she was devastated by grief, and
then stayed there when the ship continued its voyage to Australia.
But she would soon be coming home. And she was alive. That
was the most important thing of all: she was still alive.
That was the letter she wanted to write to Elin. And she repeated
the same words, albeit in less emotional style, in the other two
letters she wrote that day. One was to Forsman, the other to Berta.
She was alive, and she would soon be coming home again.
Eventually the three letters lay on the desk in front of her,
meticulously fitted into envelopes that she carefully sealed with
the names of the recipients written as neatly as she could possibly
manage. She and Berta had taught themselves to read and write
- with difficulty, but even so it was an important step away from
poverty: she still found it difficult to write, and was unsure about
spelling and word order. But she didn't bother about that. The
letter to Elin would be the most important message she had ever
received in her life. One of her daughters had returned from the
dead.
In the afternoon she summoned Andrade's car and was driven
to the harbour. She had put on her best clothes, and spent an age
in front of the big mirror in the hall next to the front door. On
the way to the harbour she suddenly had an idea, and asked the
chauffeur to make a detour and stop outside Picard's photographic
studio. Picard was a Frenchman who had established himself in
Lourenco Marques as early as the beginning of the 1890s. His
studio was used by the town's wealthy inhabitants. His face had
been disfigured by a shell splinter that had hit him during the
Franco-Prussian War in 1870. Although his face was repugnant,
his friendliness and his photographic skills endeared him to everybody.
But he refused to take pictures of black people, unless they
were in the role of servants or bearers, or simply made up the
background behind the white people who were being portrayed. Picard bowed and
informed her that he could take her photograph
immediately - a couple had just cancelled their slot because
their engagement had been broken off. Hanna wanted to be photographed
standing up, wearing her big hat, her long gloves, and
with her furled parasol by her side.
Picard asked respectfully who the picture was for. He knew exactly
who she was, and about her short marriage to Senhor Vaz. Hanna
also knew that for some unknown reason Picard had always patronized
a rival establishment when he made his regular brothel visits.
'The photograph is for my mother,' she said.
'I see,' said Picard. 'So we want a dignified picture. One showing
that all is well on the African continent, and that you are leading
a life that has brought you success and riches.'
He placed her next to a large mirror and a chair with beautiful
arms. He moved a flower arrangement standing on a small table
out of the composition after having tried it but found it unsuitable.
Then he took the photograph and promised to develop it
immediately and make three copies. Hanna paid him twice as
much as he asked for. They agreed that the black messenger boy
would deliver the photographs to Captain Svartman's ship the
moment they were dry.
When she reached the harbour she found Captain Svartman
standing on the gangplank, waiting for her. Hanna noted that his
uniform had been newly brushed down and his peaked cap
polished. She walked up the gangplank, and for a brief, dizzy
moment recalled the emotions she had felt when she left the ship.
Some crewmen were busy splicing ropes, others were repairing a
cargo hatch. She couldn't see anybody she recognized. The captain
realized that she was looking for a familiar face.
'The crew is completely new,' he said. 'After Lundmark's death rumours started
to spread suggesting that I was an unlucky
captain. Peltonen's disappearance didn't help matters. But my new
crew is very competent. As captain I can't go around wishing that
earlier crew members were back on board again. I sail with the
living, not the dead.'
He took her to his cabin. On the way there she saw the new
cook coming out of the galley, a young man with blond hair.
'An Estonian,' said the captain. 'He usually makes pretty good
food. He's quiet and clean.'
They sat down in the cabin and were served tea by a nervous
seeming boy in a white jacket. Hanna noticed that the potted
plants in the brass-framed portholes were well looked after.
'I must know what you said to Jonathan Forsman.'
Svartman nodded. He'd been expecting that question.
'All I could tell him were the facts as I knew them. That you
had disappeared during our stop at the last port before the final
lap to Australia. That we spent a whole day looking for you, but
were then forced to continue our voyage. And that I didn't know
what had happened to you. Either you were alive, or you were
dead: I had no idea which.'
'What did Forsman say?'
'He was upset. Shaking. I was afraid he might get into such a
state that he had a heart attack. It wasn't me he was directing his
anger at, but Fate. The fact that you hadn't come back. I think
he felt a heavy responsibility.'
'Do you know what he told my mother?'
The captain shook his head.
'I assume he tried to give her courage and hope, but I suspect
she must have thought that her daughter was dead and buried in a foreign
country.'
Hanna felt a lump in her throat, and tears gathering behind
her eyes. But she didn't want to start crying in front of the captain.
She tried to keep a firm grip on herself so as not to break down.
They drank the tea that the boy had poured into their cups,
his hand trembling. Hanna recognized the crockery from her time
on board.
'This accursed continent!' said the captain out of the blue. 'I'm
trying to understand how it's been possible for you to live here
so long.'
'Not everything is bad,' she said. 'The heat can be difficult, but
most of the time it's pleasant. There's no such thing as cold here.
I've tried to explain to black people what snow is - like ice, but
at the same time as light as a chicken feather falling down from
the sky. It's not possible to make them understand.'
'But what about the people? The blacks? I shudder when I see
how they live.'
'I don't know much about that. They live their own lives outside
town. In the mornings they come wandering in out of the sun
to work as servants or miners. Then they disappear again.'
'I hear a lot of talk about violence and robbery. We always post
extra guards by the gangplank when we are berthed in African
harbours. Other captains have told me about thieves who swim to the ship and
climb on board.'
'I haven't come across anything of that kind all the time I've
been living here. The blacks are not like us, but I don't know if
they are dangerous. I wouldn't have thought so.'
'Can they be trusted?'
'No,' said Hanna, mostly because that was obviously what the
captain wanted to hear. She suddenly realized that she simply
didn't know what she really thought.
The captain studied his hands without speaking.
'It doesn't happen very often,' he said eventually. 'My visits to
those black women.'
'Of course not,' said Hanna. Tve already forgotten it was there
we happened to meet.'
The captain seemed relieved. Hanna immediately cashed in on
her reward for being so understanding.
'I only went to the brothel to find out why the cashier hadn't
been to see me the evening before. I never go there otherwise. I
do the work I need to do at a safe distance. I live in a stone-built
house that is not much smaller than Jonathan Forsman's.'
u
The captain nodded. Hanna could see that he was impressed
by what she had to say, although he wasn't totally convinced that
it was true. We don't trust each other, she thought. But we did
when we were working together on the boat.
She suddenly had the feeling that she wanted to get away from
the ship as quickly as possible. And so she put the three letters
on the little table that was screwed down on to the floor.
'Three copies of a photograph are on their way,' she said. 'A
messenger boy will bring them to the ship shortly. I want
Forsman and Berta to have a copy, and the third one should
be sent to my mother.'
She opened her purse and took out several high-value
Portuguese banknotes. Svartman declined to accept them. Hanna
couldn't help wondering what currency he had used to pay Felicia
for her services. She felt uncomfortable when the image of the
naked captain lying on top of Felicia's attractive body appeared
in her mind's eye.
He accompanied her out on to the deck.
'I'll be going back to Sweden soon,' she said. 'Other Swedish
ships call in here from time to time, but I can't possibly leave just
now. I've accepted responsibility for the brothel for as long as the
owner is ill, so I can't leave this town until she's fit again.'
'Of course not,' said the captain.
He doesn't believe me, Hanna thought. Or at least, he doesn't
believe what I say. Why should he, after all?
They walked around the ship, and took a good look at the
Norwegian forest cat that had come on board in Sundsvall and
was now curled up fast asleep down at the bottom of a large coil
of hawser.
'How about Berta?' Hanna asked apropos of nothing. 'Is she
still at Forsman's place?'
'She's had a baby,' said the captain. 'I don't know who the father
is, but Forsman has allowed her to stay on in his house.'
Hanna immediately assumed that Forsman himself was the
father of the child. Otherwise he would never have allowed Berta
to stay.
Berta's loneliness, she thought. And mine. Is there really any
difference between them?
A black man came running along the quay. He had a packet
in his hand. It contained the photographs from Picard. The captain
and Hanna opened the envelope. The black and white picture was
a true image of what she looked like, she realized. A woman, still
very young, looking frankly and unhesitatingly straight at the
camera.
'Both Forsman and your mother will be very pleased,' said the
captain. 'Forsman will probably be extremely relieved to discover
that you are alive.'
He had one last question for her before they took leave of each
other by the gangplank.
'Where shall I tell them you are working?'
'At a hotel,' she said. 'The Paradise Hotel.'
They shook hands. She didn't look back after leaving the ship.
The following day when she returned to the harbour, the ship
had left.
52
Afew days later.The sea was calm, no cooling breezes were
blowing along the dusty streets.
One night Hanna woke up, feeling as if somebody had hit
her. Carlos had shouted out from his perch on the ceiling light,
then jumped down on to the bed. Hanna knew that monkeys
screamed in a special way when they were warning others in
the troop about a snake or some other danger they had become
aware of. She lit the paraffin lamp next to her bed. When it
radiated its flickering light around the room, Carlos seemed to
calm down immediately. She thought he must have had a nightmare,
something she had suspected on previous occasions when
he had started whimpering restlessly in bed, and the following
day seemed to be gloomily introspective and preoccupied. But something was
still worrying him. He had climbed up on
to the window ledge and was now sitting behind the curtain.
When Hanna opened it she found herself looking straight out
into the brief tropical dawn - but she could also see smoke and
flames rising from a block not far from the brothel. When she
opened the window she could also hear shouts and screams in
the distance. Carlos climbed out on to the roof, and didn't come
back despite her calling for him.
She aimed her binoculars at the centre of the blaze. The dawn
light was still only faint, but she could see right away that it
was no ordinary fire. Black men were running around with
cudgels and bows and arrows in their hands. They were throwing
stones and burning bundles of twigs at the soldiers from the
Portuguese garrison who had assembled there. Hanna could
see bodies lying in the street, but she couldn't make out if they
were black or white.
She put down the binoculars and tried to work out what was
happening. Then she pulled the bell cord - hard, so that there
should be no doubt about her wanting a servant to come to her
room without delay, despite the fact that all of them except Anaka
were bound to be still asleep.
In fact it was Julietta who came, half-dressed and unkempt,
but Hanna could see immediately that she was wide awake.
Presumably the others in the house had also realized what was
happening down below in the town, and told the youngest of
them to answer the bell.
Hanna took Julietta out on to the veranda with her.
'What's going on?' she asked.
'People are angry'
'Who's angry?'
'We are angry.'
As Julietta said those last words, she also did something out of
the ordinary. She looked Hanna in the eye. It was as if she had
been stung, Hanna thought. What's going on in the street down
below evidently concerns me as well.
'Why are you angry?' Hanna asked. 'Please tell me without me
having to drag it out of you.'
'A white man broke a woman's water pitcher.'
Hanna was irritated by the answer, which didn't give her any
understandable context. She angrily told Julietta to go and fetch
Anaka. When Anaka arrived, she was if anything even more laconic than Julietta.
Hanna got dressed and thought it was lucky that she was
expecting a visit from Andrade that morning, with some papers
for her to sign. Nobody knew more than he did about what went
on in town, whether it happened openly or on the sly. As she was
having breakfast, waiting for his arrival, she occasionally went out
on to the veranda and took another look through her binoculars.
The fire was still burning, and it seemed as if new ones had been
started, although they were hidden behind buildings and out of
range of the binoculars. She could hear distant shouting and the
rattle of gunfire. Carlos was sitting motionless on the roof,
following the action.
When Andrade arrived he was red in the face and more agitated
than she had ever seen him before. She noted that he had been
impolite to her servants, and that he slammed a revolver on to
the coffee table before sitting down. Before she had time to ask
him any questions, he started to explain what had happened that
morning. The sudden uprising had begun a few hours earlier
when a group of black men had come marching in from the
slums. They had carefully avoided the streets that were usually
patrolled by Portuguese soldiers ensuring that the night curfew
was observed. Once they had reached the centre of town they had
run to a police station and set it on fire by throwing bottles full
of paraffin through the windows. The half-asleep soldiers had
started shooting the rioters, and then bloody chaos had taken
hold.
'So it's an uprising,' said Hanna. 'There must be a reason for it.'
'Must there?' asked Andrade ironically. 'These black savages
need no reason other than their inherited bloodthirstiness to start
a riot that can only lead to their own destruction.'
Hanna found it difficult to believe him. It surely couldn't be
as simple as he suggested. As early as the day when Captain
Svartman's ship had docked in Lourenco Marques, she had
thought she could detect hostility and sadness in the eyes of the
blacks. She was living in a sad continent where the only ones who
laughed - often far too loudly - were the white people. But she
was well aware that the laughter was usually no more than a way
of disguising apprehension that could easily grow into fear. A fear
of darkness, of the people who lived in darkness but couldn't be
seen.
Hanna insisted. Something must have triggered the fury of the
blacks. Andrade shrugged impatiently.
'No doubt somebody thought he had been treated unfairly and
thought it was necessary to die if needs be in order to avenge the
perceived injustice. But it will soon pass. If there's one thing I
know about these black people, it's that they are cowards. They
run away like terrified dogs when things get serious.'
He picked up the revolver from the table.
'To be honest I would prefer our meeting to be postponed until
tomorrow morning. Calm will have been restored by then, the
worst of the troublemakers will be dead and the others will be
locked up in the fort. What I feel I must do now is go down to
where the fires are burning. I belong to the town's civil militia
who have been trained to stand shoulder to shoulder with the
soldiers whenever there is a threat to our safety. I can certainly
be of some use with the aid of this revolver.'
There was something jubilant in Andrade's voice that scared
Hanna. But at the same time she wanted to find out what was
actually happening close to her brothel.
'I'll come with you,' she said, standing up. 'This is naturally
more important than the papers I'm supposed to sign.'
'From the point of view of safety it might be better for you to
stay here,' said Andrade. 'Niggers running amok are dangerous.'
'I have the brothel to look after,' said Hanna. 'I'm responsible
for my employees.'
She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, put on the hat
with the peacock feather and picked up her umbrella. Andrade
could see that there was no chance of her changing her mind.
They drove through the town, which was unusually quiet.
The few blacks in the streets were walking as closely as possible
to the house walls. Soldiers from the town's garrison were
everywhere. Even the town's firemen were carrying weapons, as
were many civilians who had formed small groups to protect
their neighbourhood if the riot were to spread. During the whole
of the drive down to the fires and the centre of the revolt,
Andrade talked about what he was going to do. Hanna was
disgusted by the way in which he seemed to be looking forward
to the opportunity to fire his gun at some of the black rioters.
But nothing turned out as Andrade had hoped. When they
came down to the town and the chauffeur turned into a side
street leading to the brothel, they found themselves in the midst
of a violent confrontation between soldiers and a raging mass of
black men. It was bayonets and rifles against cudgels and billhooks,
fear versus limitless fury. The car was surrounded by furious
Africans who started rocking it from side to side in an attempt
to overturn it. There was a smell of burning paraffin everywhere.
Hanna was horrified by the thought of being trapped inside a
burning car. She tried in vain to force the passenger door open.
The sound of rifle shots suddenly rang out. A black face that
shortly before had been pressed up against the glass was suddenly
transformed into a mess of blood and shattered splinters of bone.
Hanna shouted to Andrade to use his revolver, but when she
turned to look at him she saw that he was white with terror, and
a pool of urine was expanding over his white linen trousers. The
chauffeur managed to open the driver s door, get out of the car,
and was then immediately swallowed up by the crowd of people.
Hanna was now so scared, she was afraid of losing consciousness.
But the fear of being burnt to death was even stronger. She forced
herself to clamber over into the front seat and get out of the car
just as the chauffeur had done.
She was surrounded by black people, their faces, eyes, smells,
cudgels and knives. Hanna remembered something Senhor Vaz
had told her. If you were confronted by a lion, the worst thing you could do
was to run away. That would only result in the lion
taking up the hunt and felling the fugitive with a bite at the back
of his head.
Hanna also knew that she shouldn't look the lion in the eye. So
she lowered her gaze and forced herself to begin making her way
through the crowd of people. At any moment she expected to be
stabbed, or to be hit on the head by a cudgel. But a path opened
up for her. She suppressed the urge to start running, and continued
walking slowly, her heart pounding inside her blouse. There was
still a clatter of rifle shots on all sides. She gave a start after each
one. She stumbled over a man lying dead on the street with his
chest torn apart, and paused. But then she forced herself to continue.
Suddenly a troop of cavalrymen on agitated, sweaty horses
came galloping up. In just a few seconds the mass of people that
had been crowding around her melted away. The street looked
like a battlefield, filled with burnt rags and broken cudgels, and
among them the gleaming cases of the soldiers' cartridges. The
street and pavements were covered in a large number of distorted
black bodies, some of them almost naked. A man was howling in
pain or in rage, she couldn't make up her mind which. The white
soldiers in their dark blue uniforms were standing with their rifles
at the ready, as if they were afraid that the dead would rise again
and attack them. White people were now beginning to assemble
at a safe distance. They were making a sort of growling noise, as
if the hatred they felt could not be satisfied by the sight of the
dead, but needed to continue punishing them.
The howling man suddenly fell silent. Hanna began walking
slowly back to Andrade's car. The chauffeur had already returned,
and was sitting with his hands round the steering wheel, staring
straight ahead, right through her.
Andrade was sitting hunched up in the back seat. The urine
stain on his white trousers had begun to dry. He was holding his
revolver in his hands as if it were a crucifix.
Hanna looked at him, and thought that she hated him for his
cowardice. But at the same time she couldn't help but be pleased
that he had survived and was uninjured. Everything is full of
contradictions, she thought. Nothing is as straightforward as I
wish it were.
She was surprised to find that she felt nothing at all for the
dead black corpses all around her.
Swarms of flies had already begun to gather around the dead
bodies. Horses and carts that had been requisitioned by the
soldiers stood in the s%ade. Soldiers with white handkerchiefs over
their faces began to gather up the corpses.
Like dead animals, Hanna thought. Just slaughtered, but not
yet skinned.
She hurried away. Andrade shouted something after her but she
didn't gather what it was he wanted.
She didn't stop until she was inside the brothel.
The black women were sitting on the sofas, looking at her. She thought she
ought to say something.
But she had no idea what.
53
Their silence unnerved her, as did the fact that they were
looking her in the eye. All she had experienced that morning
was so frightening and so overwhelming that she was now the
one who averted her eyes. She went back out into the street
where an officer she recognized was handing out ammunition
to the soldiers standing guard on the street corner. He visited
the brothel regularly and promised to drive her back home in
his army car as soon as he had finished. She sat down in his car
and waited. As there was no roof, she raised her parasol to
protect herself from the scorching sun. Swarms of flies were
buzzing excitedly around her head as if she were dead as well.
She flapped her hand at them, and had the feeling that everything
that was happening was a dream she had not yet managed
to wake up from.
The young officer sat down at the wheel himself. Next to him
was a soldier with a gun at the ready. When they pulled up outside
the stone house the officer asked if she would like to have an
armed guard outside her front door, but she felt safe in her own
home. In addition, she knew full well that the officer was trying
to do a deal - he would provide a guard if she allowed him access
to one of the women for free. That annoyed her.
And so she declined his offer and went in through the door
that Julietta was holding open for her. She took her mistress's hat,
gloves and parasol.
Hanna asked her to come upstairs to the veranda. The smell
from the fires in the town below was still noticeable. Anaka brought
her a carafe of water. Julietta was waiting a few metres away from
the sofa where Hanna was sitting. Hanna pointed to a chair, and
Julietta sat down very gingerly, on the extreme edge of the seat.
'What happened?' Hanna asked. 'Don't make anything up. Just
tell me what you know for sure.'
Julietta spoke slowly as she knew Hanna found it difficult to
understand what she was saying. Hanna frequently had to ask
her to repeat a sentence or two, but out there on the veranda
that morning, Juliei:ta spoke more clearly than she had ever
done before. Perhaps that was because she knew that what she
had to say was very important for her.
A young woman by the name of Nausica had gone to fetch
water from a well on the outskirts of Xhipamanhine, one of the
town's biggest settlements for blacks. Like all other women, she
was balancing the water pitcher on her head. The pitcher was
large, it contained twenty litres: but Nausica was proceeding gracefully
along the path as she had done so many times before. Then
according to Julietta, something happened just as the woman was
coming back to the settlement. Nausica had been confronted by
three white men, all of them young, carrying shotguns to shoot
the seagulls that were gathered at the site of the large rubbish
dumps by the shore. It was a swampy area where nobody and
nothing lived, apart from the malaria-carrying mosquitoes that
had one of their biggest incubation sites just there. Nausica tried
to make way for the three men without losing control of the heavy
water pitcher. But just as they were passing one of the young men
hit the pitcher with the butt of his shotgun and smashed it, so
that the water poured down over Nausica. She sank down in a
heap on to the ground, hugging her knees hard. Behind her she
could hear the men laughing. Some women working on their tiny machambor had
seen what happened. Only when the three men
had disappeared along the path did they dare to venture forward
to see if Nausica was badly injured.
But there was somebody else who had seen what had happened.
It was Nausica's father, Akatapande, who now came running along
the path. He was an engine driver on trains travelling between
Lourenco Marques and the South African border at Ressano
Garcia. This incident happened to coincide with the two days off
he had every month. Having established that Nausica was not
seriously injured, his first instinct was to chase after the three
men who had attacked her. Nausica and the other women tried
to restrain him - he was risking being beaten to death or shot by
the white men who were hardly likely to worry about a father
who was protesting about his daughter having been humiliated.
But they couldn't hold Akatapande back. He raced along the path
until he caught up with the three men who were still laughing
about the woman who had been soaked through.
Akatapande started by cursing the three men. At first they
seemed to pay no attention to him at all, but continued walking
down to the beach. However, Akatapande stood in their way and
started punching one of the men on the chest. One of the others
clubbed him down with the butt of his shotgun. When Akatapande
managed to get to his feet, he was immediately clubbed down
again. Then the first man aimed his gun at Akatapande's head
and shot him. Then they had continued on their way, quite calmly,
as if nothing had happened.
News of Akatapande's death spread with the speed that only
extremely brutal attacks could bring about. When an officer
summoned from the fort decided not to instigate an investigation
because one of the men concerned was the son of one of the governor's
closest associates, the subdued muttering in Xhipamanhine
began to grow into a furious outcry, and by the early morning had
developed into the riot.
Hanna had no doubt that what Julietta had told her was the
truth.
And she had become aware of something else: what upset the
blacks most of all was that the young men hadn't reacted at all
to what they had done.
A dead black man - nothing to bother about.
Julietta stood up, but remained on the veranda. Hanna asked
her if there was anything else she wanted to say.
'I want to work at the hotel,' said Julietta.
'Don't you like it here?'
No answer.
'We don't need afiy staff in the hotel. Nobody books in there
any longer.'
'That's not what I mean.'
It dawned on Hanna, to her surprise, that Julietta wanted to
start working as a prostitute. She wanted to sit alongside the
other black women on the sofas, waiting for customers. Hanna
was upset. Julietta was still a child. She was younger than Hanna
had been when she had snuggled down among Forsman's greasy
furs in the sleigh that had transported her through the frozen
countryside to the coast.
'Have you ever been with a man?' Hanna asked angrily.
'Yes.'
'Who? When?'
No answer. Hanna knew that she was not going to get one. But
she had no real reason to doubt that Julietta was telling the truth
about her experience.
I know nothing about these black people, she thought. Their
life is a mystery about which I can't even begin to conjure up
some kind of explanation. It's just as unknown as the whole of
this part of the world I find myself living in.
'That's out of the question,' she said. 'You're too young.'
'Felicia was sixteen when she started.'
'How do you know?'
'She told me.'
'I didn't know you talked to the women who live down there.'
'I talk to everybody. And everybody talks to me.'
Hanna thought the conversation was starting to go in circles.
'Anyway, I'm the one who decides. And I say once and for all
that you are too young.'
'But Esmeralda is old and fat. Nobody wants to go with her
any more. I want to start in her place.'
'How do you know that nobody is interested in her any longer?'
'She's told me that.'
'Has Esmarelda said that?'
'Yes.'
Hanna no longer knew if Julietta was telling the truth or not.
But unfortunately Julietta was quite right about Esmeralda. The
old prostitute had recently gone even further downhill. She drank
in secret, always seemed to be eating chicken coated with thick
layers of fat, and she had completely lost control of her weight.
At one of their morning meetings Herr Eber had told Hanna
sorrowfully that nowadays Esmeralda was earning virtually no
money at all. She spent most of her time sitting on sofas, with
nothing else to do. Only an occasional drunken sailor would turn
up late at night, collapse into her arms, then fall asleep and remain
in her bed until he was lifted up by one of the guards and thrown
out - naturally having first paid for the intercourse he thought
he had had, but most often couldn't remember.
Esmeralda's situation was not something Hanna wanted to
discuss with Julietta. She was still upset by the girl's request to
start working in the brothel. She dismissed her from the veranda
without saying anything more.
That same afternoon Hanna sent a messenger to Felicia with
a brief message she had placed inside an envelope and sealed it.
Hanna didn't want the letter to come into the wrong hands. T
need to talk to you about Esmeralda.'
Felicia came up the hill to the stone house that evening.
There was still a smell of smoke on the veranda and outside
the windows. Felicia was able to tell Hanna that all the dead
bodies had now been removed from the street. The riot had
fizzled out. Soldiers with guns at the ready were still patrolling
the most important thoroughfares, but nobody expected
anything drastic to happen. On the other hand, the brothel was
almost empty.
Felicia sat down on the chair in Hanna's study. Hanna gave her
an envelope, this one sealed as well.
'I'd like you to give this to the girl Nausica, please,' she said.
'Nausica is a sixteen-year-old girl who can't read.'
'The envelope doesn't contain anything written. I'm giving her
money. For her father's burial and a new water pitcher.'
Felicia hesitated before accepting the envelope and putting it
inside her blouse. Hanna wondered if Felicia might be considering
if her honesty was being tested.
But she said nothing about that, and started talking about
Esmeralda instead. Esmeralda was about twenty when she came
to the brothel - Felicia didn't know where Senhor Vaz had found
her. In the early days Esmeralda had been one of the favourites,
for several years the most sought after of the women.
Hanna wanted to know about Esmeralda's life outside the
brothel.
'She's married and has five children. Another two have died.
Of those still alive four are girls and the other a boy. He is the
youngest, and is called Ultimo. Her husband is called Pecado, and he makes a
living by selling birds he has caught with nets.'
'Where do they live?'
'In a house in Jardin.'
'Where the riot began?'
'Where all riots begin. There or in Xhipamanhine.'
'What is their house like?'
'Like all the other houses.'
'What does that mean?'
'Leaky, patched up, built of whatever Pecado has managed to
get hold of.'
'Have you been there?'
'Never. But I know even so.'
Hanna thought over what Felicia had said. Everything seemed
to be beyond her comprehension.
'What do you advise me to do?' she asked in the end.
Felicia was evidently prepared for that question. She took
some small clear glass jars from out of one of the side pockets
in her skirt. They were filled with water, and white worms were
swimming around inside.
'I think Esmeralda deserves a chance to get rid of all the fat
she is carrying and become in demand again. She'll be able to do
it. She knows already that she's no longer justifying her place on
one of the sofas.'
Felicia leaned over towards Hanna and gave her the glass jars.
At that very moment Carlos sneaked silently into the room. He
climbed up on to the wardrobe in which Senhor Vaz used to keep
his suits and shorts and ties. Carlos sat there motionless, eyeing
the two women and the glass jars.
'They are tapeworms,' said Felicia. T got them from a feticheira who knows more
than anybody else in these parts about how to
help people to lose weight. All Esmeralda needs to do is to put
one of these tapeworms into a glass of milk and then drink it. It
will start growing inside her body, and could eventually become
as much as five metres long. It will gobble up most of the food
that Esmeralda eats. She will quite soon be thin again. Most tapeworms need
many years to grow, but not this particular type.'
Hanna observed the white worms and felt quite sick. But she knew that what
Felicia had described would come to pass. Her
main concern was not Esmeralda, but that Julietta shouldn't end
up with the white men who regarded the women in the brothel
with superior contempt.
The following day, when the final remnants of the uprising had
been cleared away, the streets cleaned up and the cartridge cases
removed, Hanna had a meeting with Herr Eber. She also exchanged
a few words with Felicia, who reported that Esmeralda had drunk
the milk containing the tapeworm late the previous evening.
As Hanna was on her way to the outside gate, she happened
to glance into the interior courtyard where the jacaranda tree was.
She noticed that Esmeralda was kneeling beside the tree.
It seemed to Hanfk that something was happening around that
tree that she didn't understand. But there was nobody she could
ask about it. The white people she knew would understand no
more than she did, and the blacks would give her evasive answers.
There was no end of possible answers. But none would be able
to clarify the situation for her.
54
At first Hanna couldn't believe her eyes. Nevertheless the fact
was that Esmeralda really did start to grow thinner.
Every time Hanna looked at her, she'd changed. Herr Eber also
kept presenting Hanna with a constandy increasing number of
bills from seamstresses who had been taking in Esmeralda's
clothes. Hanna still felt uncomfortable whenever she thought
about that white worm in the little glass jar, but it was quite
obviously now growing apace in Esmeralda's stomach, eating all
the food that previously produced bigger and bigger layers of fat
around her body.
Hanna had put the rest of the glass jars in the wardrobe where
Senhor Vaz's suits and shirts were hanging. Despite her uneasiness,
there were evenings when Hanna simply couldn't resist taking out
one of the jars and studying the white worm wriggling away inside
it. How this tiny animal could grow and become as big as five
metres long in a human being's stomach and gut was beyond her
comprehension. She would put the jar back in the wardrobe with
a shudder.
Carlos sat on top of the high wardrobe, watching her.
'What can you see?' she would ask.
Carlos would reply with his usual jabbering, then just yawn
and scratch away absent-mindedly at his stomach.
Two days later Esmeralda disappeared. She had gone away during
the night. Late in the evening Felicia had seen her going into her
room to sleep. None of the guards had seen her leaving the brothel.
Hanna asked Felicia directly if there was any cause for concern:
Felicia shook her head, but Hanna thought she could detect a
hint of doubt, although she couldn't be sure.
But it soon became clear that she hadn't gone to see her family.
That made everybody start worrying.
Contrary to her usual practice, Hanna stayed in the brothel
during the day. She sat by herself on one of the red sofas. The
only customers were some Russian sailors. A train was expected
later in the day from Johannesburg, carrying some Englishmen
and Boers whose only reason for the trip was to have sessions
with Hanna's black women.
Shortly after three in the afternoon there was a buzz of excited
voices in the street outside. Hanna had fallen asleep in the corner
of her sofa. An unknown man was talking to one of the guards
in a language Hanna didn't understand, or even recognize. Felicia
came out of her room, wearing a flimsy dressing gown, and
joined in the conversation.
Suddenly silence fell. Felicia came in from the street, and
announced in an unsteady voice that Esmeralda was dead. Her
body had been floating in the dock. The town's bombeiros had
been called to retrieve the dead woman. Together with one of the
guards and Felicia, who was still wearing her pink dressing gown,
Hanna went down to the harbour. As they approached they could
see a small crowd gathered at the far end of the quay. When they
got there the corpse was just being lifted out of the water.
Esmeralda was completely naked. Despite the fact that she had
lost a lot of weight during the time she had the tapeworm inside
her, her body was still swollen and enveloped by large rolls of fat.
Hanna felt that it was shamefully cruel for the body to be pulled
up out of the water with no clothes on.
It was a sort of burial in reverse, she thought. I watched
Lundmark being tipped into the sea. Now Esmeralda is being
lifted out of the selfsame water.
The governor had decreed that every dead body found in
Lourenco Marques that might possibly have been the result of
an assault should undergo a post-mortem. Felicia and Hanna
accompanied the firemen to the mortuary that was situated
behind the hospital. There was an overpowering stench when
the doors were opened. The doctor who was due to carry out
the post-mortem was standing outside in the courtyard,
smoking. Hanna noted his dirty hands and frayed shirt collar.
He introduced himself as Dr Meandros, and spoke Portuguese
with a strong foreign accent. He came originally from Greece.
Nobody knew for certain how he had ended up in Lourenco
Marques, but some suggested that he had been on a ship
that ran aground off Durban. He was a skilful pathologist.
It was very rare for him not to be able to establish the
cause of death, and hence conclude whether or not it was
self-inflicted.
Dr Meandros rolled up his shirtsleeves, threw away the butt of
his cigarette and stood on it, then went back into the stinking
building. Hanna and Felicia went back to the brothel in a rickshaw
powered by a man with enormous ears.
'Why was she naked?' Hanna asked.
T think she wanted to show everybody who she was,' said Felicia.
Hanna tried in vain to work out what she meant by that.
'I don't understand your answer. Explain for me why she decided
to take her own life in that filthy dock, and why she undressed before
doing so.'
'Nobody has found her clothes.'
'How am I supposed to interpret that? That they have just
vanished into thin air? Or that somebody has stolen them?'
'All I know is that they weren't there on the quay. Nobody saw
her coming there with no clothes on. Nobody saw her jump into
the water. Perhaps she was carrying large stones in each hand, to
make sure that she sank.'
'But why should she do that with no clothes on?'
'Perhaps she did have clothes on when she jumped into the
water. And then took them off before she died.'
'Why?'
'Perhaps she wanted to die in the same way as she had lived.'
Although she still didn't really know what Felicia meant, Hanna
suspected that she was trying to make a comment about
Esmeralda's death. Dying the way she had lived. With no clothes
on, naked to the wdrld.
Hanna asked no more questions. When Felicia had got off at
the front gate of the brothel, which was being guarded by Judas,
she asked the man pulling the rickshaw to go back up the steep
hills to her house. He was dripping with sweat when they got
there. She paid him twice as much as he had asked for, but even
so it was only a few escudos, worth next to nothing.
Julietta was standing in the entrance, looking at her. Hanna
could see the curiosity in her eyes, but didn't want to talk to her.
She simply gave the maid her hat and parasol and told her that
Dr Meandros should be allowed in the moment he arrived. She
took it for granted that Julietta and the rest of the staff in the
house already knew that Esmeralda was dead. Invisible or silent
messages were passed with astonishing speed among the blacks
of Lourenco Marques.
Carlos was sitting on her desk chair chewing at a carrot when
she entered her study. She let him stay there, sat down on the
visitor's chair and closed her eyes.
When she woke up she realized she had been asleep for four
hours, a deep and long sleep that felt as if it lasted a whole night.
There was no sign of Carlos. She went over to the desk chair and
sat down. She had been dreaming. Unclear fragments slowly rose
up into her mind. Lundmark had been in it. He had been sitting
at the brothel piano, hesitantly fingering the keys. The jacaranda
tree had been cut down. Senhor Vaz had been wandering around
in a dinner jacket, smoking a cigar that smelled like the fires
caused by the rioters. But she couldn't see herself in the dream.
She hadn't taken part in it, was simply an observer on the outside,
looking in.
She summoned Julietta, ordered tea, then sent her brusquely
on her way - as if to remind her that she still hadn't forgotten
Julietta's outrageous request to be transferred to the brothel.
She had just finished drinking her tea when Dr Meandros
arrived at the front door. When he came up to her study she could
see that his hands were still dirty. There were what could well
have been dried bloodstains on his scruffy jacket.
He sat down and asked for a glass of wine. When Julietta
brought a glass on a tray, he emptied it as if he had been dying
of thirst. But he declined firmly the offer of a second glass.
'There's no doubt that the woman committed suicide,' he said.
'Her lungs were full of dirty water from the dock. It would be
sufficient, of course, to give the cause of death as drowning, but
I made a more comprehensive examination of her body. Visiting
and travelling through a person's intestines can be an adventurous
journey. I was able to ascertain that she had probably given birth
to a lot of children. Her obesity had resulted in deposits in her
blood vessels and brain. Her body was old for a woman who was
as young as I take it she was.'
Hanna interpreted that last remark as a question.
'She was about thirty-eight. Nobody knows her exact age.'
'That can probably be an advantage for black people,' said
Meandros thoughtfully. 'For those of us who know the date and
perhaps even the time of day or night when we were born, it
can be a confounded nuisance being constantly reminded of
the exact moment. A rather more vague time is preferable in
many ways.'
Meandros seemed to be lost in his own thoughts for a while.
Then he continued.
'The most interesting and surprising thing, however, was that
she had a very big and particularly flourishing tapeworm inside
her stomach and intestines. I wound it around one of my walking
sticks and measured it with a tape measure: it was four metres
and sixty-five centimetres long.'
Hanna pulled a disgusted face. Meandros noticed her reaction
and raised his hands in apology.
'I don't need to go into any more details,' he said. 'The body
can be released for Burial. I have signed the death certificate and
given the cause of death as a clear case of suicide.'
'I shall pay for the burial.'
Meandros stood up, swayed suddenly as if he had suffered
an attack of dizziness, then held out his hand for Hanna to
shake. She accompanied him down to the front door.
'What do they usually die of?' she asked.
'The Africans, you mean? Diabetes is rare. Heart attacks and
strokes are also quite unusual. The commonest causes are infections
cause by malaria-carrying mosquitoes, dirty water, too little food, too little
dietary variation, too heavy work. There is a vast
chasm between our ways of living and our ways of dying. But
tapeworms can affect white people as well.'
'How do we get a tapeworm inside our bodies?'
'We eat them.'
'Eat them?'
'By accident, of course. But once they get into your body, they
stay there. Until they eventually decide it's time to leave. They say
it has happened that tapeworms have left bodies through the
corner of an eye - but the usual route is of course the natural
way.'
Hanna didn't want to hear any more. She also doubted if what
he said about the corner of an eye was true. She opened her purse
to pay the doctor for his visit, but he refused point-blank to accept
any payment. He raised his hat and set off on the walk down the
hills to the hospital where he had as much responsibility for the
dead as he had for the living.
The next day Felicia went to visit Esmeralda's family. Hanna
had decided to close down the brothel during the afternoon when
the burial was to take place. This had never happened before,
despite the fact that several of the women had died during Senhor
Vaz's time. Hanna also made sure that all of the women had
decent black clothes. When they eventually gathered as a group,
all dressed in black with dark hats and veils, it seemed to her that
it was a ghostly collection she had standing there before her. They
all seemed to be dead already.
A funeral procession of the dead. Dead people mourning a
dead person. And in parallel with all this, the thought of the
almost-five-metre-long tapeworm. Her desire to throw up came
and went in waves.
Hanna had hired a horse-drawn hearse with benches at the
sides. Felicia was waiting in the cemetery, with Esmeralda's
husband and children. Felicia whispered to Hanna that Esmeralda's
ancient father was also present. They gathered around the open
grave where the coffin was resting on two rough wooden
trestles.
The cemetery was split in exactly the same way as the town:
on the right, just after the entrance, were the resting places for
the whites - marble sarcophagi or impressive mausoleums.
Then an area of less imposing graves, and beyond that the field
where the blacks were buried. Their graves were marked by
rickety wooden crosses, or nothing at all. Hanna decided on
the spot that Esmeralda would have a decent gravestone with
her name on.
The black priest, dressed in a white cowl, spoke one of the
languages Hanna didn't understand. She occasionally registered
the name Esmeralda, but understood nothing else of what he said.
She thought that was quite appropriate: she had no idea about
Esmeralda's life, and so it was right that she should continue to
be unknown to Hanna in death.
We are the ones who have brought about this situation, Hanna
thought, somewhat remorseful. We have turned their lives into
something that suits us, rather than them.
Hanna stood there watching Esmeralda's children, and her
husband, who was staring at the priest with his teeth clenched.
When it was all over, she summoned Felicia and asked her to tell
Esmeralda's husband that the family would receive a regular
payment. The man came over to thank Hanna. His hand was wet
with sweat, his grip slack like that of a man scared to grasp the
hand of another person too firmly.
Hanna returned home. Herr Eber, who had attended the
funeral, was instructed to make sure that the brothel was opened
for business again, and that the black mourning clothes were
taken care of.
As she left the cemetery she noticed that Julietta was communicating
in whispers with Felicia next to a mausoleum for an old
Portuguese ship's captain. Her first instinct was to box Julietta on
the ear, but she resisted the temptation, turned away and left the
grave - which was already being filled in.
When she got home she went to lie down on her bed. She slept
like a log for several hours. Afterwards she ate some of the food
she had been served, but the thought of the tapeworm came back
to haunt her, and she slid the plate to one side.
With the paraffin lantern in her hand, she went into her
study to write about Esmeralda's death and burial in her diary.
But when she entered the room and the lamp banished the
shadows, she saw that Carlos was sitting on her desk chair. He
was holding in his hand one of the glass jars he had taken from
the big wardrobe, and had unscrewed the lid. Only now did
Hanna realize that the jar was empty. Then she saw the tapeworm
wriggling away in the side of Carlos's mouth. She
screamed and tried to take hold of the worm, but Carlos swallowed
it. Her first impulse was to hit him, but instead she prised
apart his jaws and thrust her fingers down into his throat to
make him sick. Carlos screamed and resisted. He was strong,
and she couldn't hold on to him. Anaka and Julietta heard the
noise and came running to assist. Hanna couldn't manage to
explain what Carlos had swallowed, just that it was important
that he should vomit it up. They grabbed hold of Carlos and
this time it was Anaka who managed to force her hand so far
down into his throat that he started to vomit. Yellow carrot
juice spurted out all over the desk.
Hanna didn't know the Portuguese word for tapeworm. She
fetched one of the glass jars that were left in the wardrobe, showed
them the tapeworm, and then the jar on the desk that was empty.
They all poked around in the contents of Carlos's stomach, but
didn't find it. Hanna was furious, sent Julietta to fetch more lamps,
and told Anaka to thrust her ringers down into Carlos's throat
once again. But all that came up was nasty-smelling stomach
juices.
They never succeeded in finding the tapeworm.
Carlos jumped up on to the ceiling light and refused to come
down even when Hanna tried to console him and offered him
the drink he liked more than anything else: milk. But he didn't
come down. Carlos was a wounded animal that hid himself away in his impregnable
fortress - a lampshade.
Julietta and Anaka cleaned up the desk. Hanna went out on to
the veranda. The town down below was shrouded in darkness.
One or two fires in the far distance. Perhaps also the sound of
drums.
From somewhere came the sound of laughter. It reminded her
of the night when she had made up her mind to leave Captain
Svartman's ship.
Perhaps it's the same man laughing, she thought. But I am
quite a different person now: how can I be sure that I've heard
his laughter before? And besides, on that occasion I didn't need
to worry about a chimpanzee that has eaten a tapeworm.
It was dawn before she went to bed.
By then Carlos had also gone to sleep, curled up like a frightened
child in the ceiling light.
55
Hanna turned to Felicia once again. She told her about the
tapeworm that Carlos had swallowed, but the only advice
Felicia had to offer was to wait until it left the chimpanzees body
of its own accord. Hanna asked whether there was a cure, anything
the woman with the knowledge of medicine could give Carlos to
kill the worm while it was still inside him, but Felicia said that
the mysterious female magician who had sold her the tapeworms
refused to have anything to do with apes or any other animal.
She refused to treat elephants or mice, her knowledge was
restricted to human suffering and the remedies she could offer
them.
Hanna became so desperate that she borrowed Andrade's car
and was driven to the cathedral to talk to one of the Catholic
priests. She assumed that the priests there could give advice on
everything to do with human life. Even if it was the health of a
chimpanzee that she was worried about, it was her own worries
that she wanted to be free of.
The heat was like a solid wall in front of her as she travelled
to the cathedral. Even though it was early in the morning the heat
was so intense that her eyes ached as she hurried towards the
darkness behind the open doors. Once inside, Hanna stood still
for a while and allowed her eyes to become used to the darkness.
The cathedral was empty, apart from a few nuns dressed in white,
kneeling before a picture of the Madonna, and a solitary man in
a white suit sitting in a pew with his eyes closed, as if he were
asleep. There was a smell from the newly painted doors. Some
black women in bare feet were gliding over the stone floor, carrying
dusters and long poles with feathers on the end, with which they
carefully caressed the highest-hanging pictures of the saints.
A priest dressed in black came out of a room in the chancel.
He paused in front of the high altar and polished his spectacles.
Hanna stood up and walked towards him. He put his glasses back
on and eyed her up and down. He was young, barely more than
thirty. That made her feel hesitant - a priest ought to be an old
man. u
'The senhora looks as if she wants to confess,' he said in a
friendly tone.
'What do people look like then?' she responded. 'Guilty? Full
of sin?'
The claim that she looked as if she wanted to make a confession
touched a sore point in her. She could not deny that she was
the owner of the town's biggest brothel, and earned money from
the organized sin that was for sale there. But the priest didn't
seem to react against her negative tone of voice.
'Most of all people who want to confess express a longing. They
want to liberate themselves.'
'I don't want to confess. I've come here to ask for advice.'
The young priest pulled up two chairs and placed them facing
each other. The cleaners had vanished, but the sleeping man was
still there in a pew not far away.
'I'm Father Leopoldo,' said the young priest. 'I've recently come
here from Portugal.'
'My name's Hanna. My Portuguese is not good. I need to speak
slowly in order to find the words I need, and I often place them
in the wrong order.'
Father Leopoldo smiled. Hanna thought that his face was handsome
even if he was very pale and almost gave the impression of
being undernourished. Perhaps the priest also had a hungry worm
in his intestines?
'Where do you come from, Senhora Hanna?'
She recounted her background in brief, but chose not to
mention the brothel: she merely said that she had married a
Portuguese man called Senhor Vaz, who had died suddenly shortly
after the marriage.
'You said you needed some advice,' said Father Leopoldo, who
had listened intently to her story. 'But you still haven't asked me
a question that I can react to.'
I can't possibly start talking about a chimpanzee that has swallowed
a tapeworm, she thought dejectedly. The priest will either
think I'm crazy, or that I've come here to the cathedral to poke
fun at him and all that's holy.
Nevertheless, she explained the situation. She told him about
the chimpanzee that meant so much to her, about the contents
of the glass jar and the tapeworm that was now living inside its
body. The priest was not at all annoyed by what she said: he
believed both what had happened and her worries about Carlos's
fate.
T don't think you have told me everything,' he said when she
had finished, still just as patient and friendly as before. 'It's difficult
to give advice to somebody who doesn't tell the whole story.'
Hanna realized that he had seen through her. Even if Vaz was
not an unusual name in Lourenco Marques, Father Leopoldo
evidently knew about the Senhor Vaz who had run the biggest
brothel in town. Perhaps he had even heard about his marriage to the Swedish
woman, and his death that had taken place so
soon afterwards?
There was no longer any reason to hold anything back. She
told him about Esmeralda, and that she herself was now the owner
and proprietor of the brothel.
'I'm afraid for my chimpanzee's life,' she said in the end. 'And
I simply don't know what I'm going to do with what I now own
and am responsible for.'
Father Leopoldo observed her from behind his rimless spectacles.
She didn't find his look censorious. She thought it likely
that even a young priest was used to hearing the oddest of tales,
whether or not they were told to him during confession.
'There is a veterinary surgeon here in Lourenco Marques called
Paulo Miranda,' said Father Leopoldo. 'His clinic is right next to
the big market. Perhaps he can give you some advice on how to
cure your ape?'
'What can he do thfet the local women who know about medicines
can't do?'
'I don't know. You asked me for advice. Besides, I think that
traditional native medicine is based mainly on magic and should
be opposed.'
Hanna would have liked him to see those white tapeworms,
and to explain to him how much weight Esmeralda had lost by
showing him the clothes she had worn when she was at her fattest.
But she said nothing.
The priest continued to look at her, and pushed his chair closer
to her.
'In everything you say I detect a searching for something else,'
he said. 'Something different from the ape and your worries about
what it has in its stomach. As I understand it, the advice you are
seeking has more to do with your own life. As the owner and hostess
of the biggest brothel in Lourenco Marques, I don't need to tell
you what the Church thinks about the type of life of sin that takes
place in that establishment. All I know about your homeland of
Sweden is that it can be very cold there, and that large numbers of
poor people have left it and travelled over the sea in search of a
better life in America. But not even there would the life you are
now leading be regarded as decent or honourable.'
His words affected her deeply.
'What should I do?' she asked. 'I was left the brothel in my
husband's will.'
'Close it,' said Father Leopoldo. 'Or sell it to somebody who
can transform it into a respectable hotel or restaurant. Give the
women money so that they can begin to lead respectable lives.
Leave this country and go back to where you come from. You
are still young. The ape can return to the bush, It will no doubt
soon find a troop it can join.'
Hanna said nothing about the fact that Carlos had lost his
identity as an ape a long time ago, and now lived in a twilight
world in which he was neither an animal nor a human being. His
home was a ceiling light rather than a forest.
'You are running away from something,' said Father Leopoldo.
'That flight will never come to an end if you don't return to your
homeland. And leave all this messy business behind you.'
T don't know if I have anything to return to.'
'Surely you have a family, Senhora? In which case you have
your roots there, and not in this town.'
Hanna noticed that Father Leopoldo was staring at something
behind her head. When she turned round to find out what it was,
she saw one of the Portuguese garrison's highest-ranking officers.
He was wearing his uniform, with a sabre hanging from his belt
and his officer's cap under his arm. Father Leopoldo stood up.
'I'm sorry I can't continue this conversation, but do come back
some other time.'
He gave Hanna an encouraging smile, then accompanied the
soldier into one of the confessionals. The curtains were drawn
on each side of the centre wall. Hanna thought that the high
ranking officer probably had a large number of sins to confess.
She had recognized him immediately. He was a regular customer
at the brothel, and sometimes had strange requirements of the
women who served him. Some of his perversities were such that
the women refused. Hanna had blushed the first time she'd had
explained to her what the officer wanted. He asked for two women
at the same time, and that they should pretend to be mother and
daughter. Her first reaction was to ban him, but he was a good
customer. Felicia had also told her that much worse requests
sometimes came from some of the South African customers who
were more deserving of a ban.
They had been sitting under the jacaranda tree, talking. Felicia
had explained all the peculiar perversions men sometimes had
when it came to their association with women. She had been
astonished, and blushed. She had never experienced anything
remotely like that in fter short erotic life with Lundmark and Vaz.
She realized that there was a lot she knew nothing about. Things
that the proprietor of a brothel certainly ought to know.
She stood up to leave the cathedral, still unsure about what
she ought to do.
The man who seemed to have been asleep was suddenly
standing in front of her. He was holding his white hat in his hand,
and there was a friendly smile on his face.
T couldn't help hearing what Father Leopoldo said. Sometimes
things can be heard very clearly in this enormous cathedral. It's
only in the confessional that nobody can hear what's being said.
But I want to stress that I'm not normally an eavesdropper. My
name is Jose Antonio Nunez. I've spent many years in this country,
doing business. But I've put all that behind me now, and nowadays
I devote myself to quite different things. Things that are important
in this life. I wonder if I might steal a few minutes of Senhora
Vaz's time?'
T don't know you. But you know my name?'
'This is not a big town. Or at least, the white population is not
so great that one can remain anonymous for very long. Let me
just say that I knew your husband, and ask you to accept my
condolences. I really did wish Senhor Vaz a happy and successful
life.'
Hanna reckoned that the man standing in front of her was in
his forties. His friendliness seemed convincing. It seemed somehow
that he didn't really belong to this town - in the same way that
she was also a foreigner.
They sat down. He was confident and determined, she less so.
'I'll keep it short,' said Nunez. 'I'm prepared to relieve you
of the establishment of which you are the proprietor. I would
pay off the women, just as Father Leopoldo recommended.
What is of value to me is the actual building. After all my years
as a businessman, I'm trying to pay back something of all the
benefits I have accrued. If you sell the building to me, I shall
turn it into a children's home.'
'For black children?'
'Yes.'
'In the middle of the white men's red-light district?'
'That is precisely my intention. To create something that
reminds people of all the parentless black children drifting around
like leaves in the wind.'
'The governor would never allow it.'
'He's a friend of mine. He knows that he's dependent on me
to keep his job. A lot of white people in this town accept my
advice.'
Hanna shook her head. She didn't know what to believe. Who
was this man who had been sitting there with his eyes closed, and
now suddenly wanted to buy the brothel?
T don't know if I'm going to sell,' she said. 'Nothing has been
decided.'
'My offer still applies tomorrow, and perhaps some time into
the future. I know you use the solicitor Andrade. Ask him to
contact me.'
T don't even know where you live.'
'He does,' said Nunez with a smile.
'I need some time to think this over. We can meet here a week
from now. At the same time.'
He bowed deeply.
'I'll be here. But a week is too long. Let us say three days from
now.'
'I don't know who you are,' she said again.
'I'm sure you can easily find out.'
Hanna left the cathedral. Once again she needed some advice,
and she knew there was a person she could turn to. Not only to
ask about Nunez, but also about what Father Leopoldo had said.
That same afternoon she was driven out to Pedro Pimenta's
farm, where dogs were barking and crocodiles thrashing their tails
before vanishing into the murky waters of their pools.
When she got out of the car and the engine had been switched
off, she heard the sound of glass shattering inside the house. The
veranda was deserted.
Hanna looked around. Everything seemed strangely empty.
Then a white woman came racing out of the door, her hands
covering her face. She was followed by a girl, screaming and trying
to catch up with the fleeing woman.
They disappeared down the hill leading to the crocodile pools.
Then silence once again.
A boy a few years older than the girl came out of the door.
Hanna had never seen him, the girl or the sobbing woman before.
The boy, who might have been sixteen or thereabouts, paused
in the doorway. He seemed to be holding his breath.
He's like me, Hanna thought. I can recognize myself in him
- there in the doorway stands a boy who doesn't understand a
thing about what is happening all around him.
56
The scene Hanna was observing was transformed into an oil
painting with the frame formed by sunbeams. The boy's face
seemed to melt as he stood there in the doorway. The dogs in
their cages had fallen silent: they just stood there, tongues hanging
out and panting heavily.
Quietness at last! Hanna thought. In this peculiar town it is never
normally silent. There's always somebody speaking, shouting,
screeching or laughing. Not even at night does the town seem to rest.
But just now: silence.
The boy stood there motionless, tied down in the middle of
the painting. Hanna was just going to walk over to the steps
leading up to the veranda when Pedro Pimenta came out through
the door. He stopped next to the boy, who stared at him. Pimenta
was holding a blood-soaked handkerchief. He had a wound in
his forehead that hadn't quite stopped bleeding. He can't have
been shot, Hanna thought. A shot in the forehead would have
killed him. Then she remembered the sound of shattering glass,
and assumed that the sobbing woman must have thrown something
at him.
Pimenta looked down at the blood-soaked handkerchief, then
caught sight of Hanna standing under her parasol. He seemed
tired, lacking the usual energy and friendliness he normally
displayed when he had visitors. Instead of inviting her up to the
veranda, he went down the steps to her. The wound in his forehead
was a deep scratch just above his left eye and running up
to his greying hair.
'Did you see where they went to?' he asked.
'If you mean the woman and the girl, they headed for the
crocodile pools.'
He pulled a worried face, then shook his head.
'I must find them,' he said. 'Go and sit down on the veranda
and wait until I get back. Everything can be explained.'
'Where's your wife? Who's the boy?'
Pimenta didn't answer. He threw the handkerchief on to the
ground and hurriedbff down the slope towards the pools.
Hanna sat down on the veranda. The boy was still in the
doorway. She nodded at him, but he didn't react. It was still silent
on all sides. She stood up and went into the house. There were
glass splinters all over the floor, which was covered by lion hides
and zebra skins. Hanging on one of the walls was the mounted
head of a kudu, with its long spiral-shaped horns. Hanna tried to
imagine what had happened. Not knowing who the woman and
the boy were, she couldn't imagine the sequence of events. The
glass shards glittered like pearls scattered over the animal skins.
She found all the domestic staff collected in the kitchen. They
were scared, crowded together, protecting one another. Hanna was
going to ask them what had happened, but changed her mind.
Pimenta's wife and the children must be somewhere in the house.
She searched the ground floor, then went up the stairs. In the biggest
bedroom, where Pimenta slept with Isabel, Hanna found her and
the two children. They were sitting on the bed, huddled up next
to each other.
T don't want to disturb you,' said Hanna, 'but I was worried
when I heard the sound of breaking glass and saw Pedro with a
bleeding forehead.'
Isabel looked at her without answering. Unlike the servants,
she was not afraid, Hanna could see that straight away.
Isabel was furious, full of simmering anger of a kind that Hanna
had never seen in this woman before.
'What's happened?' she asked.
'It's best if you leave,' said Isabel. 'I don't want you to be here
when what has to happen actually happens.'
'What's that?'
'That I kill him.'
The children didn't seem at all surprised. Hanna thought that
could only mean one thing: that they'd heard her say it before.
Hanna sat down gingerly beside Isabel and took hold of her
hand.
T don't understand what's going on. How can you say to me,
in the presence of your children, that you're going to kill your
husband?'
'Because I am.'
'But why?'
Isabel turned to look at her. Hanna could see that Isabel found
it impossible to grasp that Hanna didn't get it. What is it that I
can't see? she asked herself. I'm caught up in a drama that I don't
understand.
Isabel suddenly stood up and smoothed down her skirt, as if
running her hands over her body in that way would give her
strength. The two children looked at her. Isabel bent down in
front of them.
'Stay here,' she said. 'I'll be back shortly. Nothing will happen
to you.'
Then she took Hanna by the arm and escorted her out of the
room.
'What's going to happen now?' Hanna asked.
'You've already asked me that question. I don't know what's
going to happen. You can leave if you want to. Or you can stay.
Do whichever you like.'
They had come down the stairs by now. The boy was still
standing in the doorway. Isabel swept past him without even
looking at him. She doesn't like him, Hanna thought. A grown
woman distancing herself from a young boy. A suspicion, vague
as yet but perhaps the beginnings of an explanation, began to
grow in her mind.
Isabel flopped down on the sofa on the veranda. Hanna moved
a basket chair closer to the wall and sat down carefully. Still the
boy didn't move. It seemed to Hanna that she was now entering
the oil painting she had imagined earlier. She was no longer just
an observer.
Pedro Pimenta appeared on the slope. Walking just behind him
was the white woman, who was no longer crying. She was holding
the girl's hand tightly. The girl was silent. Hanna couldn't hear what
the woman was saying to Pimenta. He suddenly stopped, and started
gesticulating with his hands. It looked as if he wanted the woman
to take the girl with her and go away. He continued towards the
veranda, started running, with the woman after him. When they
came up on to the veranda, she exploded: 'I believed you,' she
screamed. 'I've kept all the letters you wrote, all the protestations
of the enormous love you had for me. I kept asking to come and
visit you with the children. I simply couldn't bear to keep on waiting
in Coimbra any longer. But all the time you kept on telling me that
Lourenco Marques was too dangerous. The same thing in letter
after letter.'
She took a crumpled sheet of letter paper out of her pocket
and started reading in a shrill voice.
' "In Lourenco Marques the streets are full of cunning leopards
and prides of lion prowling around at night. Every morning the
remains are found of some white person or other, often a woman
or a child, that has been eaten. Poisonous snakes find their way
into the houses. It's still too dangerous for you to come here."
Did you write that, or didn't you?'
'I wrote the truth.'
'But there are no wild animals in the streets here. You lied.'
'They were here in the streets some years ago.'
'Nobody I've spoken to has seen a single lion in this town for the
last thirty years. You lied to me in your letters because you didn't
want us to come here. The love that you described doesn't exist.'
The furious woman had forced Pimenta up against the wall of
the veranda. The girl had joined her brother in the doorway. Isabel
was sitting tensely on the sofa, watching what was happening.
Hanna thought that perhaps she ought to leave: but something
that wasn't merely curiosity held her back.
The woman suddenly turned to look at the far side of the long
veranda. Joanna and Rogerio were standing there. They had
appeared without a sound, like their mother.
'Who are they?' yelled the woman from Coimbra.
'Can't we sit down and try to talk our way through this calmly
and peacefully?' said Pimenta.
But the woman continued to force him up against the wall.
'They are my children,' said Isabel, standing up. 'They are the
children I have with Pedro. And now I'd like to know who you
are, and why you are behaving like this towards my husband.'
'My husband? My husband? But I'm the one who's married to
him! Am I not married to you, Pedro? For nearly twenty years?
Who's she? A black whore you've picked up?'
Isabel thumped the woman, and promptly received a thump in
return. Pimenta separated them and urged both women to calm
down. Isabel sat down, but the other woman started hitting Pedro
instead.
'Can't you tell me the truth for a change? What's she doing
here? Who are those children?'
'Teresa! Let's calm down a bit to start with. Then we can talk.
Everything can be explained.'
T am calm. I'm just fed up of all the letters in which you've
lied to me and urged me to stay in Coimbra.'
'All the time I was scared stiff that something might happen
to you.'
'And who's she?'
Pimenta tried to lead her away to one side, perhaps so that he
could talk to her without Isabel understanding what was said. But
Isabel stood up again. She fetched her children and pushed them
forward to Teresa and Pedro.
'These are Pedro's and my children,' she said.
Teresa stared at them.
'Good God!' she said. 'Don't tell me their names!'
"Why not?'
'Is the boy called Jos£? And the girl Anabel?'
'They're called Rogerio and Joanna.'
'Well, at least he hasn't given them the same names as the
children he abandoned. At least that was a step too far.'
Hanna tried to understand. So Pimenta had a family in Portugal
and another family here in Lourenco Marques.
Teresa had stopped shouting now. She was speaking in a low
but firm voice, as if she had drawn a horrific conclusion which
nevertheless gave her the calm that truth endows.
'So that's why we weren't allowed to come here,' she said. 'So
that's why you wrote all those damned letters about the dangers
of this place. You'd got yourself a new family here in Africa. When
I was finally unable to wait any longer, I thought you would be
pleased. Instead, I came here and found you out. How could you
treat us like that?'
Pimenta stood leaning against the wall. He was very pale. Hanna
had the impression that standing in front of her was a man who
had been caught after committing a very serious crime.
Teresa suddenly turned to look at her.
'Who are you?' she asked. 'Does he have children with you as
well? Where are they? Perhaps you are also married to him? Are
your children called Jose or Anabel?'
Hanna stood up.
'He's only my friend.'
'How can you have a man like that as your friend?'
Teresa suddenly seemed totally abandoned. She looked from one
of them to the other. But it was Isabel who progressed from words
to action. Lying on the table was a knife that Pimenta used to
carve small wooden sculptures, which he burnt when they were
finished. She grabbed the knife and thrust it deep into Pimenta's
chest, pulled it out, then stabbed him again. Hanna thought she
could count up to at least ten deep wounds before Pimenta's body
slowly slithered down on to the floor of the veranda. Isabel took
her children and disappeared into the house. Teresa collapsed.
For the first time the boy left the doorway. He squatted down
beside his mother and put his arms round her. The girl started
crying again, but quietly this time, almost silently.
Many hours later, when Pimenta's dead body had been sent to the
mortuary and Isabel had been led away wearing handcuffs and
with a chain round her right foot, Hanna went back home. She
had also met once again Ana Dolores, the nurse who had helped
her to become fit again, and tried to explain to her the difference
between black and white people. Ana had taken care of Teresa and
her children, but handed over Isabel's children to the servants with
instructions to take them to their mother's sister. She lived in a
slum whose name Hanna had failed to grasp. She was distressed
to think that they would be taken away from the well-organized
white world where they had grown up, and instead plunged into
the chaos that reigned in the inaccessible black settlements.
On the way back to town Hanna asked the chauffeur to stop
the car by the side of the road. They were on the bank of the
river, just before the old bridge that was so narrow, it could only
cope with one-way traffic. An old African stood on duty there
with a red and a green flag, directing the few cars that used it.
The shock of what had happened was only now beginning to
register with her.
'What will happen to Isabel?' she asked.
'She'll be locked up in the fort,' said the chauffeur. There was
no trace of doubt in his voice.
'Who will pass judgement on her?'
'She's already condemned.'
'But surely the fact that Pedro double-crossed her and let her
down must be taken into account? Just as he let Teresa down.'
'If Teresa had killed him, she would just have been sent back
to Portugal with the children. But Isabel is a black woman. She
has killed a white man. She will be punished for that. Besides,
who would get upset over the fact that a white man had let down
a black woman?'
They spoke no more about the matter. Hanna noticed that the
chauffeur didn't want to reveal what he really thought.
They continued their journey back to town when the man at
the bridge raised his green flag. Hanna felt a surge of anger when
she noticed that the flag was broken and frayed.
She asked to be taken to the promenade to the north of the
town. She took off her shoes and walked over the soft sand. It
was low tide. Small single-masted fishing boats were bobbing up
and down in the distance. Black children were playing on the part
of the beach that wasn't reserved for whites only.
Saving Isabel will be identical with saving myself, she thought.
I can't leave here until I've made sure that she gets a fair trial.
Only then will I be able to make up my mind what I'm going
to do.
She walked along the beach, watching the tide come slowly in.
Just now Isabel was the most important person in her life. What
happened to Isabel was inseparably linked with herself. She was
surprised at how natural and convincing that feeling was. For
once in her life, she had no doubts whatsoever.
She was driven back home and paid the chauffeur. That
evening she sat at her desk and counted up all the cash she had
collected since Senhor Vaz's death. She would now use some of
the money to pay for a lawyer.
Carlos was sitting on top of the wardrobe, observing what she
was doing. He suddenly jumped down and sat beside her at the
table. He picked up a bundle of notes and began counting them
with his long, black fingers, bundle after bundle. Seriously, as if
he actually understood what he was doing.
PART FOUR
The Butterfly's Behaviour When
Faced With a Superior Power
57
There was still a long way to go before dawn when the woman
called Ana and Visually referred to as Ana Branca was woken
up by a man's hand touching one of her breasts. For a moment
she thought it was Lundmark who had returned from the dead,
but when she switched on the light she saw that it was just Carlos
who had touched her in his sleep, as if he were feeling for something
he'd lost in his dreams. He was woken up by her violent
movement. She didn't know if it was disappointment or merely
a feeling of shame at being touched up by an ape, but she
pushed Carlos out of bed. He gathered that she was angry and
jumped up on to the ceiling light. He sat there, looking at her
- she could never decide if those eyes of his were sad or amused.
'You confounded ape,' she yelled. 'Don't ever touch me again!'
Then she switched the light off. She could hear that Carlos's
concern was gradually fading away, and he was able to relax on
the lamp as it swayed back and forth over the bed. She immediately
regretted what she had said and done. After all, Carlos was
very close to her - like a dog, but cleverer, and just as affectionate.
He wasn't messing her about.
She also thought it was remarkable that the tapeworm Carlos
had swallowed didn't seem to have harmed him at all. Perhaps
the stomach juices of an ape are so acidic that a worm able to
survive inside a human being can't live inside an ape's gut?
She had promised Rumigo, who looked after her garden, some
extra payment if he would examine Carlos's excrement to see
if there was any sign of a tapeworm. He hadn't found anything
yet, but she was sure he would continue to look - he didn't
dare not to.
Ana used to be called Hanna. She had also lost her previous
second name, Vaz. She lost it the same day as the peacock
disappeared.
Despite its clipped wings, Judas swore that he had seen it
flying away over the rooftops. Hanna refused to believe him,
and in a fit of rage threatened to have him beaten if he didn't
tell her the truth. Had he killed the bird and eaten it? Had he
plucked off its feathers and sold them as adornments for
women's hats? But Judas was adamant: the bird really had flown
away.
It was only when one of the harbour guards on his way home
from work swore that he had seen the peacock flying out over
the sea that Hanna was forced to accept that it really was the
truth. She was living in a part of the world where birds whose
wings had been clipped could suddenly recover their ability to
fly. It was no more peculiar than the claims about ghostly dogs
with no legs or paws roaming the streets at night. Or that tapeworms
inside a human being's stomach could grow to be five
metres long.
Hanna thought that it was a premonition. If she wanted to
achieve the impossible, she must do the impossible. She must
become somebody else.
And so she was now called Ana Branca, nothing else. Ana
Branca is a lonely person, she thought. She was losing the respect
that Hanna Vaz had enjoyed. Her decision to try to get Isabel
absolved from the murder of her husband Pedro had aroused
widespread indignation on the grounds that she had failed in her
foremost duty - upholding the solidarity of the white race.
Defending the status of her own race at all costs.
Ana was unable to go back to sleep. When the first light of
dawn illuminated her window, she got out of bed. This was the
morning when she was due to meet Senhor Andrade and talk to
him about what was likely to happen to Isabel.
Her first thought that morning was the same as the last one she
had the day before. It was the image of Isabel in her underground
cell in the fort, where a tiny window at ground level was the only
way in for the same light of day that Ana could see was now
lighting up the sea and the town, the palm trees along the promenade,
and the hills marking the border with the African interior.
Isabel slept on a bunk with a single blanket and a mattress stuffed
with grass. The cell was either freezing cold or so hot that the
damp dripped down from the ceiling. During her first weeks in
the cell she had a shackle round one of her ankles, but Ana had
succeeded in persuading Lima, the commanding officer of the
military prison, to have it removed.
Ana intended to visit Isabel later that day. Every time she had
to humiliate herself by asking permission from Lima, who usually
kept her waiting inordinately long before making a decision.
Sometimes he wasn't even there - or pretended not to be there.
Ana always took some food with her, the only thing she was
permitted to give Isabel. Only twice had she been allowed to take
her clothes. Isabel had been in jail now for two months. She
smelled of sweat and dirt every time Ana met her, but Isabel
couldn't use the small amount of water she was given in order to
wash herself: she had to drink it. Ana knew that two white men
who were imprisoned after beating up and killing a third were
treated quite differently. But when she complained to Lima about
this, it was as if he didn't hear what she said. He would look past
her, or through her, while absent-mindedly polishing the stripes
on his uniform.
Ana Branca is a lonely person, she thought as she stood by the
window. She had rebelled against her own race by standing up
for Isabel, who was wasting away in the bowels of the fort.
It was nine o'clock when Andrade arrived and handed his white
hat and walking stick to Julietta, who made a fuss of him and
bowed after escorting him to Ana's study. Ana and Andrade no
longer shook hands: that gesture, which had never been a mark
of friendship but had signified respect, was a thing of the past.
He sat down opposite her at her desk.
What she wanted to know first of all was if there was a risk
that Isabel might be decapitated or hanged. She had asked her
solicitor that question several times, but never received a satisfactory
answer.
'The death penalty was abolished in Portugal in 1867,' said
Andrade. 'In other words, I can't see any risk of her being executed.
I've tried to explain that before.'
Ana felt relieved. But could she be absolutely sure?
'I've consulted all the law books,' said Andrade, 'and the fact is
that nobody is condemned to death any more apart from those
found guilty of treason. I've also written a letter to the Ministry
of Justice in Lisbon, but I haven't had a reply yet. But I don't
hesitate to say that there are a lot of us who think that the death
penalty ought to be reinstated, especially in the Portuguese colonies
in Africa. That would force the blacks to refrain from even
thinking about committing crimes against white people.'
'Who will pass judgement on her?' she asked.
Andrade was surprised by the question, possibly even annoyed.
'Pass judgement on her? Surely she has already condemned
herself.'
'Where will the trial take place? Who will be the judges? Who
will defend her?'
'This isn't Europe. We don't need a judge in order to lock up
a black woman who has committed murder.'
'So there won't be a trial?'
'No.'
'How long will she be locked up in the fort?'
'Until she dies.'
'But won't she be given a chance to defend herself?'
Andrade shook his head in irritation. Her questions were
annoying him.
'Portugal's relationship with this black country is still not legally
regulated. We are here because we want to be here. We send our
own criminals back to Lisbon or Oporto. We don't bother about
blacks who commit crimes involving other blacks. They have their
own laws and traditions, and we don't poke our noses into that.
But in this unique dase, we lock her up in the fort. End of story.'
'But surely she has the right to a lawyer? Somebody who can
argue her case?'
Andrade leaned forward.
'Isn't there somebody who is now known as Ana Branca who is looking after that
side of things?'
'I'm not a lawyer. I need advice. There's nobody here in
Lourenco Marques who is willing to help me.'
'It might be possible to find an Indian lawyer in Johannesburg
or Pretoria who would be prepared to take on the case.'
Andrade took a gold pen from his breast pocket and wrote a
name and address on the back of a business card.
'I've heard about somebody who might do it,' he said as he put
the business card on the table. 'He's called Pandre and comes
from Bengal. For some strange reason I don't understand he has
learnt Shangana, which is no doubt the language Isabel speaks
when she's not babbling on in Portuguese. He might be able to
help you.'
Andrade stood up and bowed. When Ana offered to pay him,
he shook his head in disdain.
'I don't accept payment for when I'm not working,' he said.
'I'll find my own way out.'
He paused in the doorway.
'If you decide to leave our town, I'm prepared to offer you a
good price for this house. Can we say that I'm first in the queue
if that's the way things go? As a reward for the bit of help I've
given you this morning?'
He didn't wait for a reply, but left the building. She could hear
his car starting in the street outside.
Carlos had crept into the room unnoticed, and was now sitting
in his usual spot on top of the dark brown wardrobe that still
contained Senhor Vaz's clothes.
What exactly does he understand? Ana thought. Nothing? Or
everything?
58
Ana took a horse-drawn cab down to the brothel. There she
picked up Juda#who accompanied her to the fort when the
worst of the midday heat was over. She was always a little worried
when she walked past the armed guards: perhaps the doors to the
fort would close behind her? Judas was carrying the basket
containing the food for Isabel. Judas suddenly began talking - a
very rare occurrence.
'I don't understand,' he said. 'Why is Senhora Ana helping this
woman who stabbed her husband?'
'Because I know I might well have done the same thing myself.'
'He should never have got involved with a black woman.'
'Isn't that what white men do every evening in my
establishment?'
'Not in the way that Senhor Pimenta did. He sired children
with her, and recognized them as his own. That could only end
in one way.'
They walked in the shadow to the low building where Indian
vendors sat at their stalls smelling of foreign spices.
Ana paused and looked at Judas.
'I'm going to keep on fighting until I've got Isabel out of prison,'
she said. 'You can tell that to everybody you talk to.'
Commanding Officer Lima was standing on the steps to the
building where the fort's weapons were stored. He seemed to be
bored stiff, and was rocking back and forth on his heels. On this
occasion he simply waved her through without a word. Judas
handed her the basket, then stood there motionless at the spot
where she had left him. As usual, he waited for her in the scorching
hot sunshine. Ana could hear that Lima was talking to one of the
soldiers. About me, she thought. No doubt scornful comments
about me.
Isabel was sitting on her rickety bunk. She said nothing, didn't
even look at Ana when she stepped into the murky cell. Despite
the fact that Isabel smelled awful, Ana sat down beside her and
took hold of her hand, which was very thin and cold.
Not a word was said. After a long silence, Ana took the empty
basket from the previous day, and left the cell. As long as Isabel
kept eating, there was still hope.
Two days later Ana took the train to Johannesburg. It was a journey
she had never made before, and she would have liked to have a
companion: but there was nobody she could trust among the
whites she knew - at least, not in connection with the matter she
hoped to resolve.
A horse-drawn cab took her to the house in the centre of town
where the lawyer Pandre had his office. When she arrived, she
was surprised to find that he was in - something she had hardly
felt able to hope for. He even had time to speak to her, albeit for
quite a short time before he had to attend a court proceeding.
Pandre was a middle-aged man, wearing Western clothes but
with a turban lying on his desk. He was addressed as munshi by
his male secretary, who was also Indian. He invited her to sit
down, and Ana could see that he was curious to find out why a
white woman would want to come and consult him, so far away
from Lourenco Marques. His Portuguese was not fluent, but
significantly better than Ana's. When she asked if he spoke
Shangana, he nodded - but gave no explanation of why he had
bothered to learn one of the languages spoken by the blacks.
He listened intently while she told him about Isabel, and how
she had killed Pedro Pimenta.
'I need advice,' she said in the end. 'I need somebody to tell
me how I can convince the Portuguese that she should be set free.'
Padre looked at her and nodded slowly.
'Why?' he asked. 'Why should a white woman want to help a
black woman who has landed in the worst possible of situations?'
'Because I have to.'
'You speak broken Portuguese. May I ask where you come
from?'
'Sweden.'
Pandre thought over her response for a while, then left the
room and returned with a dented and stained globe in his hand.
'The world's a big place,' he said. 'Where is the country that
you come from?'
'There.'
'I've heard about something called the Northern Lights,' he said
thoughtfully. 'And that the sun never sets during the summer
months.'
'That's true.'
'We all come from somewhere,' said Pandre. 'I'm not going to
ask you why you have come to Africa, but please tell me what
you are doing in Lourenco Marques.'
During the long train journey she had made up her mind to tell the truth, no
matter what questions were asked.
'I run a brothel,' she said. 'It's very successful. I inherited it
from my husband. A lot of my customers come from Johannesburg.
Just now there are thirteen women of various ages and various
degrees of beauty in my brothel, so I can afford to pay for your
services.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'Go to visit her. Get her to talk. And advise me what to do in
order to have her set free.'
Pandre sat there in silence, slowly rotating the globe and
pondering what she had said.
'I shall charge you one hundred English pounds for my visit,'
he said eventually. 'And I also have an extra request, bearing in
mind the business you conduct.'
Ana understood without his needing to say anything more.
'Of course,' she said. 'You will have access to the brothel whenever
you feel like it. Gratis, naturally.'
Pandre stood up and looked at a clock hanging on the wall.
'I'm sorry, but I have to go now,' he said. 'One of my clients,
who I unfortunately failed to defend successfully, is due to be
hanged in the municipal prison. He has requested that I should
be present. It's not something I'm going to enjoy doing, of course;
but on the other hand, it doesn't upset me all that much. Anyway,
I take it that we have reached an agreement. I can pay a visit to
your black woman next week.'
It required quite an effort on Ana's part not to storm out of
the room when the lawyer displayed such total indifference to the
plight of a client who was about to be hanged. Just how would this man be able
to help Isabel?
'Is it a man who's going to be hanged?' she asked.
'Of course it's a man.'
'Black?'
'White. A poor man who could only afford an Indian lawyer
to defend him.'
'What had he done?'
'He cut the throat of two women, a mother and daughter, in
an attack of jealousy. Very brutal. It was obviously impossible to
avoid the death penalty. Some accused can be saved, others can't.
And some don't deserve to be saved. Unless we are intent on
transforming human beings into beasts of prey.'
Pandre bowed, rang a bell and left the room. The obsequious
secretary came in, and noted down her address in Lourenco
Marques.
'What does munshi mean?' she asked.
'The word means "a man who is a teacher" in Hindi. It is usually
an honorary title. Herr Pandre is a wise man.'
'But nevertheless his clients are hanged?'
The secretary flung out his arms as if he were regretting what
he'd said.
'That very rarely happens. Herr Pandre has a good reputation.'
'Does he have any black clients?'
'He never has had so far.'
'Why not?' u
'The courts decide which lawyers will represent blacks. All
blacks have to be defended by whites.'
'Why?'
'To avoid any suggestion of bias.'
T don't understand that.'
'Laws and jurisprudence are matters for specialists. Herr
Pandre understands. As I said, he is a wise man.'
The following day she travelled back to Lourenco Marques. She
had not forgotten the secretary's words.
When she returned to the brothel Felicia informed her that
somebody had placed a headless chicken on the steps outside the
prison governor's residence. An amateurish drawing of Isabel on
a piece of brown wrapping paper from one of the Indian stalls
had been attached to one of the chicken's legs. It could only mean
that a lynching might take place at any time.
The threat had become more menacing, more imminent. Things
are closing in on me, Ana thought. Everywhere, everything.
59
fter her trip to Johannesburg Ana began spending more of
jfjLher time in the brothel. Felicia, who was by now her only
confidante, had told her that certain clients had suddenly begun
to mistreat the women. Ana therefore wanted to be present among
them as the men were hardly likely to try anything on in her
presence. She could see immediately that the women were both
surprised and grateful. On the other hand, if any of them treated
a customer off-handedly or merely did the minimum necessary
to satisfy his desires, Ana would immediately give the person
concerned a telling-off. They were not allowed to use their treatment
of clients as a way of taking revenge on those who wanted
to harm Isabel.
One morning Ana gathered all the women together, along with
Ze and Judas, and told them about her visit to Johannesburg and
the meeting with Pandre. She didn't say anything about the
promise she had given him for the time being, but she could tell
by the reaction she received that even if there was an element of
surprise and astonishment, they were delighted to discover that
Ana had not abandoned Isabel. While the whites in Lourenco
Marques regarded her as a disgraceful criminal who had killed
an innocent man, for the blacks she was not exactly a heroine she
had after all killed the father of her children - but a woman
who had made a valiant attempt to rise out of her misery and
offer some resistance.
Ana thought that was an appropriate description of Isabel's
fate: that she had risen up and offered some resistance. Even if
she was now locked up in a cramped prison cell, guarded by
menacing and often drunken soldiers, it was as if she had walked
away from her plight and left behind all the white people who
despised her.
That same day, a white man she had never seen before came
to the brothel and asked for a job. It did happen from time to
time that white men, often in a bad way thanks to a fever or
alcohol, came to her asking for work. She had hitherto always
sent them packing asrhey had nothing to offer her that could be
of use.
But the man standing before her now made a different impression.
He wasn't dressed in shabby clothes, nor was he unwashed
with a straggly beard. He introduced himself as O'Neill, and
explained that he had worked as a bouncer in bars and brothels
all over the world. He also produced a well-thumbed bundle of
references from previous employers.
Ana had often wished she had a white bouncer in the brothel.
Even if Judas and the other security guards did what they were
supposed to do, she was never absolutely sure that they would
react as she wanted them to.
She decided to employ O'Neill on trial for a few months. He
seemed to be strong and radiated determination. She thought it
would soon become clear if he was a person she could employ
permanently.
Later on Ana had a conversation with Felicia under the jacaranda
tree. It was evening by now. Felicia was waiting for one of
her regular customers from Pretoria, a religious gentleman farmer
who was always talking about his eleven children, and that the
only reason he visited the brothel was that he no longer wanted
to have sex with his wife because she was worn out after giving
birth to all those children.
Ana asked her about Isabel's family. There was so much she
still didn't know. It also surprised her that none of Isabel's
relations had been to see her in the fort. Ana was the only person
who visited her, apart from Father Leopoldo who always did the
rounds of those imprisoned there. Ana had been to the cathedral
again to see him, and he told her that Isabel never spoke to him
either. She kept it to herself, but that knowledge gave her a feeling
of relief. She knew that she could well have become jealous if
Isabel had chosen a priest to talk to.
Felicia was dressed in white, just as the gentleman farmer always
wanted her to be.
'I don't know much,' said Felicia. 'Isabel's sisters are looking
after the children. She also has an elder brother called Moses. He
works in the mines in Rand. He'll no doubt come here as soon
as he can. If he can.'
Are her parents still alive?'
'They live in Beira. But the sisters have decided not to tell them
anything about what has happened.'
'Why not?'
Felicia shook her head.
'Perhaps because they are afraid that the news would cause
their parents such great grief that it kills them. They are old. Or
maybe they don't want them to be afraid that the whip would
start lashing their shoulders as well. Everybody seems to be waiting
for the brother who works in the mines.'
'When will he come?'
'Nobody knows. Neither when nor if he can come.'
Ana began talking about the headless bird that had been lying
on the prison governor's steps.
'Who could have done that?'
Felicia drew back, as if Ana were accusing her of doing it.
'I don't mean that you did it, of course. But who would want
to kill her? No white man would put a dead bird on a step as a
warning. Surely it must have been somebody black?'
'Or somebody who wanted to make it look that way.'
Ana realized that Felicia was right.
'So you think it was a white man?'
'Only a white person would want her to die.'
'Why do you think she refuses to speak?'
'Because she's grieving.
'Grieving?5
'Grieving for the husband she was forced to kill.'
'Because he had deceived her?'
'She knows that aft whites do that.'
'Are you saying that all white people tell lies?'
'Not to other whites. But to us.'
'Do I tell lies?'
Felicia didn't answer. She continued looking at Ana, didn't turn
her eyes away, but remained silent. So I shall have to answer the
question myself, she thought. She's making me decide. It's my
decision and nobody else's.
'I still don't understand what you mean when you say that Isabel
is grieving. She misses her children, of course. But that's not grief.'
'She's grieving for the children she never had. As she was forced
to kill her husband.'
Ana had the impression that their conversation was going
round in circles and getting nowhere. She sensed rather than
understood the logic in Felicia's words.
'Who would want to kill her?' she asked again.
'I don't know, but essentially I believe that every single one of
all the thousands of white people living in this town would be
prepared to hold the knife that stabs right into her heart.'
'Who has anything to gain from her death? It wouldn't bring
Pedro back to life.'
'I don't know,' said Felicia. 'I can't understand the way you think.'
Ana got no further. Felicia stroked her hand over her newly
washed white dress, carefully smoothing away the wrinkles. She
wanted to leave.
'Who am I to you?' Ana suddenly asked.
'You are Ana Branca,' said Felicia in surprise.
'Nothing more?'
'You own this tree, the ground it's growing in and the building
around us.'
'Nothing more?'
'Isn't that enough?'
'Yes,' said Ana. 'That's more than enough. It's so much that I
can barely manage to cope with it.'
A gigantic man with a large beard and a weatherbeaten face
appeared in the open door leading into the garden. It was Felicia's
client. Ana watched them walking towards Felicia's room. She
looked very small by his side.
Just like I must have done, Ana thought. When I walked beside
Lundmark to the consul in Algiers, to get married.
She remained sitting under the tree. It had been raining earlier
in the evening. Steam was rising from the soil, and there was a
sweet smell coming from the tree's roots. There was also another
smell, but she couldn't make out where it was coming from. The
underworld was intruding. Ana thought of herself as Hanna again,
and remembered all the smells that rose up from the marshes and heather-clad
moors where she grew up.
For a short while the feeling of homesickness was overpowering.
No memories could awaken this longing as strongly as smells and
fragrances, reminding her of something that she had lost and
would always miss.
There under the tree she decided to stay in Africa until the lawyer
Pandre had been to visit Isabel and given her advice. If the bottom
line was that there was no way in which she could help the
imprisoned woman, there was no reason for her to stay here any
longer. She wouldn't give up, but neither would she surrender
to illusions.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice she thought she
recognized. Emerging from one of the rooms, together with
Belinda Bonita, was a man who, she could see that from the way
he walked, seemed to be not completely sober. His back was turned
towards her. At first she couldn't understand what he was saying.
Then she realized it was a language she understood when the
person talking it wasn't slurring his speech.
She knew now who it was with his back turned towards her.
Halvorsen. The man_who had been Landmark's best friend. The
one who had promised her his support if she needed it after
Lundmark's death and burial.
6o
For the second time, somebody from the original crew of the Lovisa had come to
her brothel. But she had to ask herself if
she might be mistaken after all. Halvorsen had been a serious
man, deeply religious, and not a heavy drinker like most others
of the crew. Svartman, Lundmark and Halvorsen had been among
the sober ones, she thought. But he was having difficulty in keeping
his balance, and his Norwegian was slurred. She had the feeling
that he was irritated because Belinda Bonita hadn't understood
what he said. On board the ship Halvorsen had always spoken in
a low voice, not much more than a whisper. Now he was shouting,
as if giving orders.
When he finally turned round and flopped down on to one
of the sofas - with a bundle of banknotes in his hands, which
Belinda quickly took from him - Ana saw that she had not been
mistaken. It was Halvorsen all right, his hair plastered down,
wearing his best clothes: she had last seen him dressed like that
when he stood on deck at Lundmark's burial, watching the
corpse, weighed down with an iron sinker, disappear down into
the depths.
She could still remember the magic number of metres: i,935When
Belinda had left Halvorsen, who was now sitting
mumbling to himself, Ana stood up. O'Neill was standing behind
him, wondering whether to help him out, but Ana waved him
aside and sat down carefully beside Halvorsen. He turned his head
slowly to look at her with bloodshot eyes. He had hardly changed
since she saw him last, a few hours before she had slipped across
the gangplank and jumped ship. Perhaps his hair had become
slightly thinner, his cheeks hollower. But his enormous hands
were exactly the same.
She smiled at him, but could see immediately that he didn't
know who she was. There was nothing in his eyes to suggest that
he recognized her. As far as he was concerned she was an unknown
woman, a white woman in a black brothel where he had just
availed himself of the services of the beautiful but cool Belinda
Bonita, who had sturfed his banknotes inside her blouse and gone
back to her room to get washed and perhaps also change the
sheets.
Halvorsen screwed up his eyes and tried to look at her with
just one eye. He still seemed not to know who she was.
'It's me,' she said. 'Hanna Lundmark. Do you remember me?'
Halvorsen gave a start. He shook his head, couldn't believe his
ears.
'I'm not a ghost,' she said, trying to speak as clearly as possible. 'It really
is me.'
Now he knew. He stared at her incredulously.
'You disappeared,' he said. 'We never found you.'
'I went ashore. There was no way I could continue the voyage.
It was as if Lundmark was still on board.'
'1,935 metres,' said Halvorsen. T still remember that.'
He sat up, straightened his back, tried to force himself to
become sober.
T didn't believe I would ever see our cook alive again,' he said.
'Least of all here. What happened?'
T went ashore. I got married again, and became a widow once
more.'
Halvorsen pondered upon her words, then asked her to repeat
them, but more slowly this time. She did as he asked.
'We thought you were dead,' he said. 'Nobody could believe
that you would leave the ship voluntarily in an African port.'
'I'd like to hear about the voyage,' she said. 'Did you see any
icebergs?'
'We saw one iceberg, as tall as a church. It was just after we
left this port. The nights were always a worrying time - nobody
ever discovers an iceberg until it's too late. But we got to Australia
and came back again.'
'I kept going down to the harbour, but I never saw you berthed
there.'
'We bunkered further north, in Dar es Salaam. Or was it further
south, in Durban? I can't remember.'
Ana realized that Halvorsen must have remained on board all
the way back to Sundsvall. That meant that he must have met
Svartman, who always gathered together and greeted his crew
when they returned to their home port.
'I assume you stayed with the ship all the way back home?'
T stayed on board all the way to Sundsvall. But then I travelled
to Norway and signed on to a different ship.'
'I'm not worried about that. I'd just like to know what Forsman
said.'
Halvorsen frowned.
'Forsman? Who's he?'
'The ship's owner!'
The penny dropped.
'He came rolling up to the quay in a sort of wheelchair.'
'Had he injured himself?'
'He'd had an accident and had to have a leg amputated. But
he was determined to go up on deck. He hopped around like a
lame bird.'
'Was he alone?'
T think he was accompanied by a Finn, but I can't remember
his name.'
Ana continued questioning him, but he didn't know anything
about Berta or any children. Although it was obviously pointless,
Ana couldn't help asking him about her mother. Had anybody
mentioned Elin? The woman who had a daughter who never came
back to Sweden?
Halvorsen knew nothing about anybody called Elin.
'I never spoke to Forsman,' he said. 'It was Svartman who did
that. I know nothing about what they said about you and
Lundmark, his death and your disappearance. I travelled to
Spitzbergen and spent the winter there in the belief that I'd be
able to hunt dowrrso many furs, I'd be able to afford to buy a
little farm somewhere in Trondelag. All that happened was that
I nearly froze to death, was driven mad by the darkness, and
completely lost all faith in the God I used to turn to in times of
trouble. He doesn't exist for me any longer. But I think I've
collected in advance enough forgiveness for all the sins I haven't
yet committed.'
Halvorsen couldn't help laughing somewhat plaintively. Then
he suddenly leaned towards her, so close that the stench of strong
drink hit her full in the face.
As you are here, I take it you are also for sale. That negress
certainly knew what she was doing. But it can never be the same
as it is with a white woman. Do you cost as much as she does?
Or maybe you charge even more?'
Halvorsen placed a hand on her breast and gave it a squeeze.
She was reminded of Carlos's hairy fingers, and pushed him
away. Halvorsen thought it was the start of a game, and felt
her again. This time she slapped him hard and shouted for
O'Neill.
'Throw this man out,' she said. 'And make sure he's never
allowed back in. Never ever.'
Halvorsen didn't even have time to protest before O'Neill had
pulled him up off the sofa and dragged him out into the street.
The door closed behind him.
Ana thought that the difference between Captain Svartman and
Crewman Halvorsen had been ironed out the moment they
entered the establishment where women were for sale. But she
couldn't get over the fact that Halvorsen had thought she was a
whore. At that moment something ended irrevocably.
61
After Halvorsen's unexpected visit, Ana began noting things
down in her diary more often. What had previously been
an occasional activity now became more and more important for
her. She wrote down in minute detail absolutely everything about
Halvorsen's visit, and his churlish behaviour.
The day after his visit she went with O'Neill down to the
harbour. There were two English ships and one Portuguese
berthed at the quay. She had no way of knowing which of the
ships Halvorsen was a crew member of. Nor could she work out
afterwards why she had made that visit to the quay. Perhaps it
was nothing more than curiosity that she had no control over?
During the night a swarm of grasshoppers had descended on
Lourenco Marques. Nobody knew where they had come from,
nor why they had chosen Lourenco Marques to fall down and die
in. There were dead or dying grasshoppers lying all over the place
- in the streets, on steps and on roofs. When she walked from
the brothel to the harbour, she had the impression that this was
what a battlefield looked like: every grasshopper was a wounded
or dead soldier.
The only one who seemed to appreciate all these grasshoppers
was Carlos, who sat on the roof of Ana's house feasting on the insects.
That afternoon, when she made her usual visit to Isabel in the
fort, she was confronted by an officer she had never seen before.
That day she had chosen to take O'Neill with her rather than
Judas. Commanding Officer Lima had succumbed to some illness
that was probably malaria, and had been taken to hospital. His
military adviser had taken over Lima's place. He introduced
himself as Lemuel Gulliver Sullivan. Despite his English name, he
spoke fluent Portuguese. He was a young man, and could barely
have celebrated his thirtieth birthday. Ana hoped that his youth
would contribute to more tolerance and consideration for Isabel
than Lima had displayed.
But the moment he started speaking, she realized that what
she had hoped for would not, in fact, take place.
'As long as I am in charge here, stricter rules will be applied,'
he began. 'Those who are imprisoned in this fort are criminals.
Their punishment must be felt. At this very moment I am
discussing with my fellow officers about the possibility of reintroducing
whipping. Giving miscreants a good walloping has
always produced good results.'
Ana thought at first that she had misheard what he said. Was
Isabel's life in her wretched cell going to become even worse than
it was already? She said as much, without attempting to conceal
her concern.
'Her crime must be treated extremely strictly,' said the new
commanding officer. 'The only thing that matters in this case is
that she killed a white man. If we don't clamp down strictly on
that, it could be interpreted as a sign that the respect we demand
is not total and unconditional.'
Ana could see that it was pointless to try to argue with Sullivan.
'Are there other regulations that will come into force from now
on?' she asked instead.
'We shall not permit more than an extremely limited number
of visitors.'
'Who, to be precise?'
'You, of course. And that priest who keeps turning up and
trying to accumulate lost souls. Plus a doctor, should that become
necessary. But nobody else.'
'What about if she should acquire a legal adviser?'
Sullivan burst out laughing and advertised the fact that he was
short of quite a large number of teeth, despite his age.
'Who on earth would want to advise her? And about what?'
Ana asked no more questions. She went down the stairs into
the darkness where Isabel was sitting motionless on her bunk bed,
looking as if she hadn't moved since Ana's visit the previous day.
But the basket was empty: Isabel was still alive. She was eating.
'Somebody will come to visit you,' said Ana. 'I think and hope
he's a clever man who might be able to help me to have you set
free. He'll pretend to be a doctor when he enters the fort. As he
speaks the same language as you, nobody will be able to understand
what the pair of you are saying, not even me.'
Isabel didn't respond, but Ana had the impression that she was
listening.
'The next time I come I'll bring you some clean clothes,' she
said. 'By then it will be three months since you were locked up
here. I'll ask once again for them to give you sufficient water for
you to get washed.'
Ana only stayed for a few minutes. The important thing now
was not her visits, but whether or not Pandre would be able to
change her situation.
On the way back she made a detour via the harbour. When
O'Neill wondered why, she snapped at him. She didn't like him
asking questions all the time. She had begun to discover sides of
O'Neill she didn't like. She was annoyed by the way he eavesdropped
on her, and, moreover, she had heard that he'd been seen
in the company of the owner of another of the town's brothels.
Perhaps she had made a mistake in employing him?
'What does she do all day?' he asked. 'Does she regret her
sins? Does she hammer on the cell walls as if they were tom-tom
drums? Does she turn up the whites of her eyes?'
Ana stopped dead.
'One more word from you and you can go away and never
come back.'
'But I'm only asking a few questions.'
'Not a word. Not a single word. From now on part of your
duties is to remain silent.'
O'Neill shrugged, but Ana could see that he had understood
the risk he was running.
When they came to the harbour Ana noticed that one of the
English ships had left. She suspected that must be the ship that
Halvorsen had signed on to as a carpenter.
She had also noted that O'Neill was staring hard at her. When
she left the harbour she told him to stay where he was until she
had disappeared round the first corner.
A few days later Pandre sent a telegram to say that he was on his
way. Ana met him at the newly built railway station. Although
Pandre had said in his telegram that he only intended to stay for
two days, he had a large number of suitcases, bags and hat boxes
with him. Four porters and two trolleys were needed to transport
the luggage to the car that she had once again borrowed from
Andrade. A horse-drawn carriage was filled with all the luggage
for which there was no room in the boot of the car.
They drove to the hotel where, in accordance with the instructions
in Pandre's telegram, Ana had rented the largest suite they
had. Ana had been a little worried when she went to the hotel:
would they accept Pandre, who was coloured, as a guest? But the
hotel manager had assured her that a lawyer of Indian origin
would be most welcome. Ana was committed to paying all
expenses for Pandre's visit, and handed over a sum of money to
pay for his stay. She began to wonder if Pandre was intentionally
doing all he could to squeeze out of her as much money as
possible; or was this the way he always lived whenever he left
Johannesburg on business?
After Pandre had taken a bath, changed into a newly ironed
white linen suit and then spent some time admiring the view,
they sat down to eat in the empty dining room.
Dark clouds were gathering over the inland mountains, presaging
a storm that would arrive in Lourenco Marques by the
evening. Ana told Pandre about her conversation with the new
prison governor, and explained that Pandre would only be allowed
in if he played the role of a doctor.
'I don't have a white coat with me in my luggage, I'm afraid,'
he said. 'Being a lawyer doesn't normally mean that one needs to
adopt a disguise.'
'I don't think that will be necessary, either.'
'Tell me more about this man. Officers in the military are often
suspicious by their very nature. Will he be able to see through a
false doctor?'
'I don't know. He introduced himself as Lemuel Gulliver
Sullivan. But he spoke fluent Portuguese so I suspect he's only an
Englishman by name.'
Pandre burst out laughing as he rolled a gleaming serviette
ring between his fingers.
'Is that really his name? Lemuel Gulliver Sullivan?'
'I wrote the name down the moment I got back home.'
'Was he surrounded by horses?'
'The soldiers' horses are stabled in the outskirts of the town.
There are only a few goats inside the fort.'
T mean his soldiers. Did they look like horses?'
Ana didn't understand his question. She was immediately on
her guard.
'Why should he be surrounded by horses?'
'Yes, that's a good question. Perhaps he was surrounded by
unusually small people instead? People who would be able to
stand inside this serviette ring as if it were a wine barrel. Or
are his soldiers giants?'
He could see that she didn't understand his references.
'Lemuel Gulliver is a character in a novel,' he said with a smile.
'I've never heard of anybody cheeky or conceited enough to call
their son after that remarkable fictional character. I take it you
don't know about the books featuring that man?'
'I run a brothel,' said Ana. 'I'm trying to help a woman to get
out of prison. I don't read books.'
'That sounds reasonable enough,' said Pandre. 'I don't suppose
that young commanding officer reads all that many books either. If
any at all. But in any case, his father must have read Gulliver's Travels!
They ate in silence. Pandre occasionally asked her a question,
mainly as a polite indication that he hadn't retired entirely into
his own private thoughts. He asked about the climate, the rainy
season, animal life and various tropical illnesses. She answered as
best she could, and wondered if he intended to visit her brothel
that same evening, to take advantage of the special offer he had
asked for and received.
But that wasn't his plan. After the meal he stood up, bowed
and asked to be collected at ten o'clock the following morning.
Then he bowed again and left the dining room. Ana paid the bill,
and was driven home.
Carlos had come down from the ceiling, replete with all the
grasshoppers he had been gobbling. He was lying on her bed,
belching contentedly. Ana sat down at her desk, opened her diary,
but left it untouched to start with. She thought about the impression
that Pandre had made, now that she had spent some time
with him, and only then wrote down everything that had happened
since he arrived.
One of these days she hoped to be able to read aloud for Isabel
everything she had written. The story of the long journey she had
undertaken in order to secure Isabel's liberty.
She knew now how she would conclude her diary: she would
note down the date and time when Isabel had been set free.
And she would also write the answer to the question she spent
most of her time thinking about: was everything that had
happened since the death of Lundmark merely a temporary parenthesis
in her life?
The last thing she would write would be about Isabel's and her
own freedom.
She closed the diary, extinguished the paraffin lamp and
remained sitting there in the dark. She thought: Isabel is locked
up in her disgustinf dump. And I'm confined in a different sort
of prison.
62
The following day: intense heat.
Pearls of sweat were glinting on Pandre's brow when he came
out of his hotel and stepped into the car. He was carrying a leather
briefcase. It occurred to Ana that it could very well have contained
a stethoscope and other instruments that a doctor would need.
Lemuel Gulliver Sullivan was waiting for them on the steps,
just as his sick predecessor had always done. Ana thought he
looked like a little boy in a uniform that was too big for him and
boots that were far too shiny.
She introduced Pandre.
'Here is the doctor I spoke about with your predecessor - I
assume he told you Herr Pandre would be coming?
The commanding officer nodded, but he regarded Pandre with
undisguised antipathy.
'I thought I had better come with you,' he said, 'and listen to
the doctor's conversation with his imprisoned patient.'
'The conversation will take place in the patient's own language,'
said Pandre in a friendly tone of voice. 'That is purely in order
that she can describe her aches and pains properly, so that I
can ask the right questions and give answers that are clear to her.'
'I'll come with you in any case,' said the governor. 'I'm interested
to see if you can persuade her to talk at all. So far she hasn't
uttered a word. Perhaps she was born without any vocal cords? I
don't even know if her voice is low or high-pitched.'
'It's low,' said Ana. 'I shall understand what they say to each
other in her native tongue. I can translate for you.'
Pandre looked fleetingly at her. He understood what she was
intending to do, and regarded her for the first time with genuine
approval.
They walked down the stone steps to the fort's basement. A
half-asleep soldier quickly straightened his back, saluted and began
to raise the grating in front of the iron door. The commanding
officer turned to Pandre.
T assume that you don't have a gun in your briefcase,' he said.
'Whether it's to shdbt the prisoner dead or to set her free.'
Pandre opened the briefcase and took out the stethoscope Ana
had imagined might be inside it. How on earth had he managed
to get hold of that? He's prepared himself well, she thought.
Perhaps he's the right man to help Isabel after all.
They stepped into the dark basement where the musty air was
motionless. An unshaven, half-naked white man was shaking in
his cell as they passed by.
'He's going to be moved to a lunatic asylum,' said the
commanding officer. 'He is convinced he has a large insect in his
stomach that is eating him up from the inside. He beat a man to
death because he refused to listen to him going on about the
insect's insatiable hunger.'
Pandre listened attentively and politely to what the officer had
to say. He doesn't seem to be affected by the musty air, Ana
thought. Perhaps there are similar prisons in the town and the
country where he comes from.
They passed by another cell where a man was lying asleep,
stretched out on the floor, gasping for air.
'He's a Spaniard by the name of Mendoza,' said the commanding
officer as he continued to guide them through the darkness. 'He
killed his brother on a coaster, and now he's trying to punish
himself by refusing to eat. He ought to go to the asylum as well,
but they refuse to accept him. I expect him to die within the
next few days. Some of my soldiers are placing bets on how long
he will live. I don't like that, but there's not much I can do
about it.'
They entered Isabel's cell. Ana noted that the basket was empty.
Isabel was sitting motionless on her bunk.
'You have a visitor,' roared the commanding officer.
Isabel didn't react. Pandre nudged the officer's arm to indicate
that he shouldn't yell at her again, then went up to Isabel and
sat down beside her. Ana stood by the side of the bunk, while
the officer remained in the half-open doorway. Ana had no idea
of what Pandre was saying to Isabel, but Isabel bucked up the
moment the lawyer started speaking to her, and answered his
questions in her own language.
The commanding officer rattled his sabre impatiently. Ana took
a step closer to him and began to tell him the story she was
making up as she spoke.
'They're talking about her children,' she said. 'They are
discussing her great sorrow at having been deceived by her
husband, and her regret for what she has done. She's telling him
how much she wants to leave this dump of a prison and start
work in one of the white missionary stations, spreading the true
faith among the black population.'
Ana tried her hardest to imbue the story she was making up with
as much conviction as she could possibly muster. The commanding
officer listened in stony silence. He's not really interested, she thought.
Isabel means nothing to him. It doesn't matter to him if she lives
or dies. He only came along with us because he was bored stiff.
She continued to elaborate on her story while Pandre and
Isabel spoke quietly to each other. When the conversation was
over - and it stopped suddenly, as if absolutely everything had
now been said - Ana rounded off her account by repeating
what she had said about Isabel's longing to devote her life to
a Christian missionary station.
,
When they returned to the hotel they sat down in the shade of
some frangipani trees and gazed out over the sea. Pandre had said
nothing in the car after saying a polite goodbye to the commanding
officer. Now he swayed slowly back and forth in the garden
hammock, a glass of iced water in his hand.
'Isabel is ready to die if she has to,' he said. 'She will die rather
than admit to any guilt. Her silence is due to her dignity. Her
soul. She kept repeating that word over and over again. "It's all
about my soul.'" s
'Doesn't she want to live for the sake of her children?'
'Of course she wants to live. Perhaps she might be able to
escape. But if her only way out is to admit to being guilty, she
would rather die.'
Pandre continued rocking back and forth, gazing out to sea.
He stretched out the hand in which he held the glass of water
and pointed at the horizon.
'That's India over there,' he said. 'Thirty years ago my parents
came to Africa from there. Perhaps I or my children will go back
one of these days.'
'Why did your parents come to Africa?'
'My father sold pigeons,' Pandre said. 'He heard that there were
a lot of white people in southern Africa who were prepared to
pay large sums of money for beautiful pigeons. My father had
learnt how to glue extra tail feathers on to his pigeons so as to
get a higher price for them.'
He looked at Ana with a smile.
'My father was a confidence trickster,' he said. 'That's probably
why I have become his opposite.'
He put down the glass of water.
T can't really give you any advice,' he said. 'The only thing that
can save her is if she can escape. Perhaps the commanding officer
can be bribed? Perhaps one of the soldiers can be persuaded to
leave her cell door open one evening? I'm afraid I can't suggest
anything else. But as you have plenty of money, you have access
to the one thing that might be able to get her free. I simply don't
know how best you can use your money in this particular case.'
'I'll do anything to get her out of that prison.'
'I suppose that's what I'm suggesting. That you do anything at
all you can.'
Pandre took an envelope out of his inside pocket and gave it
to Ana.
'Here is my bill,' he said. 'I'm intending to visit your women
tonight. I'd like to be picked up from here at nine o'clock. I'll
have dinner alone in my room.'
He stood up, bowed and walked over to the white hotel building.
Ana stayed where she was, thinking over what Pandre had said.
She knew that he was right. Isabel was trying to choose between
dying and saving her soul.
Is that what I'm doing as well? she asked herself. Or has the
possibility of choosing already passed?
She remained sitting there until the sun set. Then she went
home, changed her clothes and went to pick up Pandre at nine
o'clock. He was now wearing a dark suit with a high stiff collar,
and smelled of a perfume Ana had never before come across on
a man.
'That stethoscope,' she said when they were sitting in the car.
'Where did you get it from?'
T made my preparations,' said Pandre. 'Before I was picked up
I paid a short visit to the hospital. A friendly doctor let me have
an old stethoscope very cheaply.'
They sat in silence for the rest of the journey.
When they arrived at O Paraiso, Pandre sat down on one of
the red sofas, was served a glass of sherry, and then started to
assess the women carefully, one by one.
Ana sat down on a chair in a corner of the room, and watched
him from a distance. She still hadn't opened the bill he'd given
her. They had agreed earlier on £100, but she suspected Pandre
would have added considerable extra costs that she would have
to pay him.
She observed Pandre and his critical eyes.
Isabel's dump of a prison seemed very close by. A chain round
Isabel's leg chafed and rattled quietly somewhere deep down inside
Ana.
63
hen Pandre eventually chose the woman he wanted to
V V be with, and pointed at her as if he were selecting an
animal for slaughter, all present were surprised to find that his
finger was aimed at the pale and almost repulsive A Magrinha.
Ana thought at first that it was Felicia he had selected, as she
was standing next to A Magrinha. But when she saw Pandre
stand up and bow in front of the extremely thin woman that
hardly any of the customers ever chose, there was no doubt
about it. She was astonished; but if there was one thing she had
learnt during the time she spent in the brothel, it was that the
desires of men and their views on what was tempting were
impossible to predict. It also occurred to her, not without a
degree of satisfaction, that Pandre's selection of A Magrinha
meant that the cost of his visit had decreased because A
Magrinha was a net loss to the brothel rather than making any
money for it. Perhaps the time had now come to have one final
talk with her, ask Herr Eber to pay her enough money for a
vegetable stall in one of the town's markets for the blacks, and
then to send her packing once and for all.
But she got no further in her thoughts before something unexpected
happened and distracted her. There were rather a lot of
clients in the brothel that evening, crowded round the little bar
in one corner of the room with their glasses and cigars, and as
Pandre was on his way with A Magrinha to her room a tall, well
built man suddenly stepped in front of them and blocked the
way. O'Neill, who could always sense when danger was in the air,
got up from his seat next to the door. Ana did the same. The man
standing in front of Pandre was called Rocha, a person with an
Italian father and a Portuguese mother. He worked in the colonial
administration, in charge of the maintenance of roads and sewers,
and visited the brothel every week. He was usually well behaved,
but he occasionally lost his temper when he had been drinking
too much. When that happened he would be escorted off the
premises before he could cause any damage.
Ana suspected instinctively that something very serious was
about to happen. Rocha pushed A Magrinha to one side and
began speaking to Pandre in broken English.
'I have choosed her to spend the evening with me,' said Rocha.
'I find that very hard to believe,' said Pandre, without losing
his friendly smile.
'To say as it is, all the women have already clients for the
evening. You come too late.'
Ana had approached close enough to hear the brief conversation,
and knew immediately what it meant. She had noticed how
many of the white customers had reacted when a coloured man
entered the brothel. It had never happened before during her time
in charge, although Senhor Vaz had told her how he very occasionally
made an exception for influential Indians from Durban
or Johannesburg. As nobody had protested openly, she thought
that the complaints would come directly to her later, after Pandre
had left the brothel. That somebody might ask her what she meant
by allowing such a person in when all the other customers were
white, and that she would reply that she was the one who decided
whether anybody should be turned away or not. She knew that
they wouldn't like it, no matter how much she stressed that it was
an exception.
All conversation had ceased, everybody was looking at the
two men and the girl, who hardly knew what was happening
around her.
'Is there a problem?' Ana asked.
'Not really,' said Pandre. 'It's just that this man is standing in
our way. We were just about to withdraw.'
'He has stolen the woman I have picked for this evening,' said
Rocha.
He spoke Portuguese to Ana. When he started to translate,
Pandre raised his hand to stop him. He had understood everything
that was said.
Rocha pulled A Magrinha roughly to his side, as if to underline
what he had said. In a flash Pandre took her back again - but
before either Rocha or Ana had time to react, A Magrinha had
snapped out of her trance-like state. She pushed Pandre to one
side and stood next to Rocha.
'He is going to be with me tonight,' she said. 'Not that brown
man.'
Pandre's smile vanished. It was as if a flame had been blown
out. He turned to Ana. She could see that he was furious.
'I insist that I have made my choice,' he almost snarled.
'That's my impression too,' said Ana, turning to A Magrinha
and gesturing that she should go back to Pandre.
'I don't want to,' she said. 'He's brown.'
'And you are black,' said Ana. 'I'm white. And I'm the one who
decides what you're going to do.'
'No,' said A Magrinha. 'I'm not going to get undressed for him.'
Rocha smiled. O'Neill had moved closer as it looked as if blows
were about to be exchanged. But Pandre gave up. Ana knew that he
was not accepting defeat, he was still furious: but he could see that
things could become very nasty, and he wanted to avoid that.
'I'm going back to my hotel,' he said. 'I assume that the payment
for my services will have arrived before I leave Lourenco Marques
around noon tomorrow.'
He bowed, then hastily left the establishment, followed by
O'Neill. The men clustered round the bar applauded approvingly.
Rocha pushed A Magrinha away contemptuously, and she flopped
down on to a sofa. Ana could see that right now she hated the
place she found herself in - more than ever before.
When Ana heard the car's engine start, she went out into the
street. O'Neill was standing there, smoking.
'That man should never have come here,' he said. 'It's none of
my business, of course. But if you let the likes of him come in,
you'll soon find that all the other customers disappear.'
Ana didn't respond. She knew that she ought to go in and order
Rocha to leave the premises, but instead she crossed over the street
and went into a little bar run by two Portuguese brothers. One
was small and fat, the other a hunchback. The bar was cramped.
It contained a wooden counter, a few tables in the dark corners,
and a number of street walkers who divided their time between
parading up and down outside and having drinks bought for
them in the dark interior of the bar. Ana asked the hunchbacked
brother for a glass of cognac, emptied it rapidly and ordered
another. She recognized one of the women lurking in the shadows.
She had frequently asked to joined Ana's brothel, but been rejected
by the other women because she had a reputation for stealing.
She was also in the habit of punishing customers who didn't treat
her well by poisoning them with magic potions. The poison didn't
kill them, but rendered the men impotent for a considerable length
of time.
When Ana saw that the woman was coming towards her, she
gestured with her hand that she should keep her distance, put
money on the counter to pay for her drinks, and went back out
into the street.
The night sky was clear. She thought about her father and the
evenings when he used to show her the constellations he was so
familiar with. She waited there in the street until the car returned
from Pandre's hotel, and just before clambering in she turned to
O'Neill.
'Tell the women I want to see them all at seven o'clock tomorrow
morning.'
'They'll be asleep then.'
'No, they won't,' said Ana. 'They will be awake, washed and
dressed. At seven o'clock tomorrow morning I want to see them
gathered around the jacaranda tree.'
'I shall be there.'
'I want to talk to the women, not to you. You will not be there.'
She closed the car door. She could see through the rear window
that O'Neill was standing with an unlit cigarette in his hand,
watching the car leave.
Carlos spent that night lying asleep, looking like a hairy ball,
in the bed beside Ana. He touched her arms now and then in
his sleep, as if he were climbing. As he didn't whimper at all she
assumed that meant he wasn't having nightmares. If indeed apes
had dreams like humans did. She wasn't sure, but perhaps by
now Carlos had moved sufficiently far away from his life as an
ape. She had the impression that more and more often he was
having dreams that scared him. Ana herself lay awake, dozing
off briefly now and again, but most of the time rehearsing for
the meeting tomorrow morning. She needed to prepare them for
the difficulties which were going to get worse for as long as she
continued trying to secure the release of Isabel. She would tell
them that she had no intention of giving up, no matter what
problems that might cause. But at the same time she wanted to
know what they thought about it all. Did they understand Isabel's
situation? Was there any desire to help her?
During the night Ana got out of bed now and then - quietly
in order not to wake Carlos up, even if she was never sure if he
was only pretending to be asleep. She leafed through her well- thumbed and
shabby Portuguese dictionary in an attempt to find
the right words to express what she wanted to say the next
morning. She went out on to the veranda in the warm night air.
The guards were asleep beside their fires, a solitary dog trotted
past without a sound in the street below. From the sea she could
see the twinkling lights of ships waiting for high tide so that at
dawn they could progress into the harbour and berth.
One of these days I'll go down to the quayside as well,
she thought. With a life newly shattered, in an attempt to mend
it. That's what brought me here. Soon it must also lead me on
to the next stage, even if I don't yet know where my destination
will be. u
64
Everybody was already there when Ana arrived at the brothel
the next morning. On the way, she had stopped at Pandre's
hotel and handed over an envelope sealed with sealing wax to the
half-awake manager. It contained the money Pandre had asked
for. As she left the hotel, she wondered if she would ever see him
again. She didn't really know anything about him, apart from the
fact that his father was a confidence trickster who used to glue
false tail feathers on to pigeons.
There was no sign of O'Neill when Ana entered the brothel for
the early-morning meeting. A chair had been placed under the
jacaranda tree for her. To her surprise it was Felicia who started
talking the moment she sat down. It became obvious to Ana that
the women had prepared for the meeting in advance, perhaps just
as thoroughly as she had.
Felicia spoke on behalf of them all.
'We know that Senhora Ana is trying to help Isabel. That is
something that surprises us, and we respect you for it. No white
man would do that. Probably no other white woman either. But
we are also aware that your doing so is causing difficulties for us.
We are getting fewer customers, and the ones that do come are
not as generous as they were before. We've also noticed that they
sometimes treat us more roughly than they used to. The word in
town is that men are choosing to go to different establishments
with different women, as a protest against what you are doing to
help Isabel. That means that we are earning less - if it goes on
like this we shall soon have no customers at all. In other words,
this place would lose altogether the good reputation it used to
have.'
Felicia had spoken as if she were reading from a script. Ana
knew she was right. The number of customers had indeed gone
down - at first only slightly, but lately much more noticeably.
Herr Eber was worried and had shown her a graph illustrating
how income was falling - not exactly over a precipice, but down
a hill that was growing steeper and steeper.
Nevertheless, Ana was both annoyed and disappointed by what
Felicia had said. She had hoped for approval and support for her
efforts to get Isabel released. She found herself feeling contempt
for these black women who sold their bodies without a second
thought. All that mattered to them was their income.
She realized immediately that the thought was unfair. She was
the one who earned more than anybody else from the activities
of the brothel. She was the one who could afford to spend time
and money on attempts to help Isabel. She was the one who had
the means to bring Pandre to Lourenco Marques from abroad,
and she was the one who might eventually be able to bribe somebody
to allow Isabel to escape.
But what Felicia had said continued to annoy her. Even during
the time when Senhor Vaz was alive, the women in his establishment
had earned much more than those in any of the town's
other brothels.
'The difference in earnings can't be all that great,' said Ana. 'Is
there really anybody among you who has cause for complaint?'
Ana noticed that her voice was tense. She wanted them to be
aware of her anger.
None of the women spoke. They all stared into space. Nobody
reacted even when two orange-sellers in the street outside
started quarrelling. The women were normally more interested
in fights or noisy quarrels outside the brothel than almost
anything else.
1 want to know,' said Ana. 'Is there anybody who has noticed
a significant fall in earnings?'
Still nobody spoke - but then, as if in response to an invisible
sign, all of them raised their hands.
Ana stood up. She felt she couldn't bear this any longer.
'I shall personally pay each of you however much you think
you have lost as a result of my helping Isabel,' she shouted. 'Come
to me every month with bills for what you would have earned
from customers who haven't shown up. I shall pay them. I shall
become your new customer!'
Ana stormed out of the brothel without looking back, and was
driven straight back to her house. She sat for ages in front of her
open diary without actually writing anything. She didn't yet know
how to deal with her big disappointment.
After a while, she went over to a window and looked out over
the sea. Small fishing boats with triangular sails were scudding
along over the waves, making the most of a fresh following wind.
Carlos had climbed up on to the roof and was sitting on the edge
of the chimney with an orange in his hands.
Ana was just about to leave the window when she noticed a
black man standing in the street down below, looking up at
her. She had never seen him before. He was strongly built, and
wearing what looked like overalls. When he noticed that she
had seen him, he turned round and walked away. She shouted
for Julietta.
'Have you seen a black man standing in the street, looking up
at my house?'
'No,' said Julietta.
'I've just seen one down below, looking up.'
'I don't know who it could have been. But I can ask.'
By the time Ana got into the car that afternoon to be driven down
to the fort, Julietta had still not managed to find out the identity
of the man in the street. Nobody seemed to have seen him. Ana
began to wonder if she'd imagined it.
Sullivan was standing on the steps waiting for her when she
arrived.
'The prisoner was injured last night,' he said, off-handedly as
if it didn't concern him.
At first Ana didn't understand what he meant.
'The woman for whom you bring food was injured during the
night.'
'What happened?'
'Somebody tried to kill her. But failed. It's also possible that it was
only somebody trying to disfigure her, to make a mess of her face.'
'How could that happen?'
'We are investigating the circumstances.'
Ana didn't wait to hear what else Sullivan had to say. She ran
across the open courtyard with the grassy patch where goats were
grazing. A soldier had already raised the grating when he saw her
come in through the front gate. Ana raced along the dark corridor.
The door to Isabel's cell was standing open. For once she wasn't
sitting on the bunk, but lying down. Ana sat down on the stone
floor next to the bunk. Blood was running from one of Isabel's
cheeks and her mouth. It was obvious that she had been slashed
with a knife.
Sullivan had followed her down to the cell.
'Maybe you should fetch that Indian doctor,' he said.
Ana had the distinct impression that Sullivan knew Pandre was
not at all what he had pretended to be, but just now was not the
time to start wondering about what Sullivan knew or didn't know.
He could think whatever he liked.
'He's already left,' she said. 'Why can't the fort summon a
doctor?'
'He's on his way,' said Sullivan. 'But he had to deliver a baby
first. Life always takes precedence over death.'
'Not always,' said Ana. 'I think that life and death are equally
important. Isabel might die if she doesn't get medical treatment.'
The doctor who eventually arrived turned out to be an
extremely deaf old Portuguese man who had lived in Africa for
over fifty years. He surprised Ana by stitching up the gaping
wound with admirable skill, and covering it with cotton wool.
'Will she survive?' Ana asked.
'Of course she'll survive,' said the doctor. 'She'll have a scar.
But that's all.'
'Did whoever attacked her want to kill her, or just to injure
her?'
She had to shout loudly into the doctor's ear in order for him
to understand.
'Both intentions are possible,' he said, 'but the probability is
that he wasn't trying to kill her. To do that all he'd have needed
to do was to slash her a bit lower down, over her throat, and a
bit deeper. A sharp knife across a victim's throat can kill in less
than a minute.'
Ana stayed with Isabel. She couldn't be sure how much pain
the patient was in. They shared the silence and listened to each
other's breathing. Ana watched an insect creeping incredibly slowly
over one of the cell walls.
"Who could have got access to her?' Ana asked.
'To be absolutely honest,' said Sullivan, 'I just don't know. But
I can promise you that we shall get to the bottom of this. I don't
want a prisoner for whom I'm responsible to be killed.'
'Is that true?'
'Yes,' said Sullivan. 'It certainly is true. I don't care about her
- I think she ought to be hanged or shot. But nobody is going to
sneak into one of my cells and kill her, and get away with it.'
That evening, when Ana returned to her house and was about
to draw the curtains in her bedroom, she once again saw the black
man in overalls standing in the street below.
Not long afterwards, she peered out through a gap in the
curtains.
The man was still there.
He's waiting for me, she thought. There's something he wants
from me.
She went down the stairs, carefully opened the front door and
passed by the guards. She was possessed by an overwhelming
desire to push them into the fire for falling asleep instead of
standing guard oveif the entrance to her house, but instead she
opened the gate leading into the street. The man was still there,
on the other side. She was carrying a candle, and walked over to
him.
'I'm Moses,' he said. 'Isabel's brother. I've come from the mines
to set her free and take her away with me.'
His eyes were completely calm. In some strange way he
reminded her of her father.
3«3
65
Two fires were already burning where the guards were curled
up asleep. But Moses lit a third one at the back of the house
where Ana had arranged for a vegetable garden to be created, and
planted some orange and lime trees. For the first time since she
arrived in Lourenco Marques she found herself with an African
who treated her as an equal. There was no trace in him of the
false subservience the blacks felt obliged to assume. Moses looked
her in the eye when he spoke to her. And this was the first time
a black man had sat down on a chair in her presence. The norm
was always for her to sit down while the black man she was
speaking to remained standing. Ana Dolores had made that clear
to her from the very start.
She put it to him straight out: why was he so different from
all the others?
'Why shouldn't I look you in the eye?' Moses replied. 'You
can't hate or despise blacks or you wouldn't be trying to help
my sister. And so you are an unusual person as far as I am
concerned.'
'What do you do down the mines? Do you dig for coal?' 'Diamonds. But of course,
there is also coal there. It's the same
stuff, after all.'
Ana didn't know about the connection between diamonds and coal, and so she
didn't understand his comment.
'You make fires with coal. You wear diamonds on your fingers.
How can they be the same thing?'
'Really old coal develops into diamonds,' said Moses. 'One day
perhaps I can explain it to you properly - all about the stuff we
take out of the ground in the Rand.'
Ana said that she knew who he was and where he worked but
wondered how he knew who she was. Has Isabel told him
about her?
'I know what I know,' was all he said in response. He gave her
no further explanation, but instead embarked on a description
of life in the mines, without her having asked about it.
'The whites who've' landed on our coasts have always turned
most of their attention to looking for what is hidden under the
soil,' said Moses. 'That's why we Africans find it so hard to understand
you. How can anybody travel so far and be prepared to risk
dying of fever or snake bites, simply in order to look for things
that are hidden under the ground? Of course, a lot of hunters
come here as well. Others are running away from harassment they
suffer in their homelands - what we don't understand is why they
come here and choose to live a life harassing us. White people
are basically incomprehensible - but for that reason we find it
easy to understand them because we know what they are after.
But they don't even do the digging themselves: they force us to
do it. The whites have transformed us blacks into servants in the
underworld. One day it will all come to an end, just as the sources
of gold and diamonds will wither away.'
'What will you do when your sister is free again?' Ana asked.
'I'm thinking of using those underground tunnels I know so
well to protect my sister and her children. That's where I shall
take them to once she has escaped. Moving into another country,
passing over a border that the whites have established, that doesn't
mean a thing. All the borders you have made are nothing more
than lines in our red soil - they could have been drawn by children
using sticks.'
He stopped, and watched the fire dying out. It seemed to Ana
that he had made a fire that would only burn for as long as he had
something to say to her. Once the embers were no longer glowing,
he stood up and left. His last words were that they would meet at
the fort the following day.
Ana went back to her bedroom. Carlos woke up when she lay
down in bed, and stretched his hand out towards her. But just
now she didn't want an ape in bed beside her. Not just after having
met and talked to the man known as Moses. She smacked Carlos
- not hard, but enough to signal to him that he should move to
the ceiling light. With a sigh and an irritated grunt, Carlos leapt
up and lay down in the dish-shaped lampshade, one arm hanging
down towards the bed.
She got up early next morning, sat for a long time in front of
the mirror contemplating her face and thinking how she could
barely contain herself until she met Moses again. To her surprise
she found herself thinking an unheard-of thought: Moses was a
man she could imagine herself becoming close to. She put her
hand over her mouth, as if she had cried out in horror.
The person I can see in the mirror is somebody else, she thought.
Or somebody I have become without realizing it.
A few hours later, when she had forced herself to go through
Herr Eber's accounts in order to try and understand the claims
about reduced income, Julietta announced that Father Leopoldo
had come to visit her. Ana was immediately worried that something
might have happened to Isabel. She ran down the stairs
to meet him. But Father Leopoldo was able to calm her down.
The old doctor had stitched up the wound very well, and the
cotton wool was protecting her skin and preventing dirt from
entering it.
'I've only come to say that I'm continuing with my attempts
to talk to her,' he said when they had sat down in the shade on
the veranda and Julietta had served tea.
'But she's still silent, is she?'
'She doesn't say a word. But she listens.'
'Can you be sure of that?'
'I can see that she's listening.'
'I know it's none of my business, but what are you trying to
talk to her about?'
'I'm trying to persuade her to confess to her terrible sin, and
submit her soul to God. He will pass judgement on her, but His
judgement will be mild if she confesses and submits to His will.'
Ana looked at Father Leopoldo in surprise. He really believes
what he says, she thdught. For him, God is someone who hands
out punishment - the same God that my grandmother in
Funasdalen used to talk about. He believes in the same hell that
she did. He's not like me. I don't believe in hell, but I'm frightened
of it all the same. If there is a hell, it is here on earth.
God is white, Ana thought. I suppose I've always thought that,
but never so clearly as I do now.
She wanted to conclude the conversation.
'This is the first time you've been to visit me,' she said. 'I don't
believe that you have only come to inform me that Isabel still
isn't saying anything. I know that already, because I visit her every
day.'
'I've also come to tell you that the plaster and rendering in one
corner of the cathedral is falling off and needs repairing.'
'I'm not a plasterer.'
'We are going to need voluntary donations so that we can carry
out repairs as soon as possible, before the damage gets any worse.
We can't wait for the Church authorities in Lisbon to pass resolutions
to assist us.'
Ana nodded. She promised to make a donation despite the fact
that it felt humiliating to discover that this was the real reason
for Father Leopoldo's visit. She no longer regarded him as a priest,
but as a beggar pestering her.
He stood up, as if he were in a hurry to leave. Ana rang her
bell and instructed Julietta to escort him out. She thought about
her father's words, to the effect that priests should be kicked out
into the snow in bare feet. He wouldn't have liked Father Leopoldo,
she thought - but I would still have been a mucky little angel as
far as he was concerned.
Ana avoided visiting the brothel that day. She sent Julietta there
with a message to O'Neill saying that he would be responsible for
what happened there until her next visit, but at the end she implied
that she might well turn up before the end of the day despite
everything. Senhor Vaz had taught her that everybody in the
brothel needed to be kept on tenterhooks, suspecting that checks
might be made at any time of day or night.
After the meeting with Father Leopoldo, Ana sacked one of the
night security guards who had been asleep on duty. He pleaded
in vain to keep his job. He had been ill, he said; he'd had a fever,
his mother had had an accident, several of his children were in
difficulties - that was why he had fallen asleep. Ana knew full
well that nothing he said was true, it was a ritual from start to
finish. But she allowed him to fetch his brother and appointed
him as a night security guard instead, warning him that she would
check up every night to make sure that he was awake.
After her afternoon siesta, when she had lain in bed unable to
sleep, fanning herself, she was driven down to the fort. Carlos was
sitting on the chimney when she left. She had realized that he
was changing in some way, although it was not clear how. Perhaps
I see Carlos as a reflection of myself, she thought. Something is
happening, something with vital implications for my life. And
hence also for Carlos's future.
66
Moses was waiting in the shade of the wall surrounding the
fort. Ana got out of the car and walked over to him. Moses
selected a place where they could stand without being seen, and
gave her a small leather pouch.
"What's this?'
'The crushed shell of a special snail that lives off the Inhambane
coast. Plus dried blossom from a tree that only blossoms once every nineteen
years.'
'Surely there aren't any such trees?'
He looked offended, and she regretted what she had said.
'What do you want me to do with this?'
'Give it to Isabel. Say it's from me. She should eat it.'
'Why should she eat flowers?'
'They'll give her wings, like a butterfly's. She'll then be able
to fly out of the prison. I'll meet her and take her and her
children to the tunnels in my mine. All that will be left in the
cell is the leather pouch, and it will slowly rot away with a
whispering noise.'
'What? Can a leather pouch whisper?'
'This one can: it will tell the story of Isabel and her new life
for anybody who wants to listen.'
'It sounds like a fairy tale you tell to small children.'
'But what I'm telling you is the truth.'
Ana could see that Moses was serious. The person standing in
front of her was no small child, and as far as he was concerned
what he said was the truth, and nothing but the truth. Ana thought
he looked very much like Isabel, you could see they were brother
and sister, especially in his eyes and the high forehead.
'I'll give it to her,' said Ana, putting the pouch into the basket
with the food. 'Does she know what to do with it?'
'Yes, she knows.'
'And you really believe that she will grow wings?'
Moses took a step backwards, as if he no longer wanted to be
too close to her. Then he turned on his heel without answering,
and left. Ana remained where she was, hesitating. She put down
the basket, took out the leather pouch and opened it. It was half full of a
bluish-white powder that glittered when the sun's rays
fell on it.
I'm taking part in a strange game, she thought. How can wings
suddenly grow on a human being's back? If my father had given
me these ground snail shells and flowers, would he then have
been able to watch me flying off over the river and up into the
mountains?
She tied the pouch again. There's a lot I don't understand, she
thought. The wings are something that only Moses and Isabel can
relate to. For me they are both laughable and deeply serious at
one and the same time.
She went into the fort through the entrance doors. Sullivan
was waiting for her on the steps as usual. Today, he was wearing
his white dress uniform. He was holding his pipe in one hand. It
had gone out. She asked if he had managed to throw any light
on who was responsible for the attack on Isabel.
'No,' he said. 'But I can't believe that we won't be able to work
out who did it.'
'One of the soldiers?'
'Who would take the risk? I would send the guilty man back
home, and doing one's military service in a penal settlement in
Portugal is something every sensible soldier is scared stiff of.'
'But who could get past the guards?'
'That's precisely what we are looking into. This is a small
town. It will be difficult to hide away the truth about what
happened.'
I'll never get an answer, Ana thought. For all I know the man
I'm talking to now could be the one who slashed her face.
She left the commanding officer and went down to the cells.
She sat down beside Isabel. The basket from the previous day
wasn't completely empty: she had eaten, but not very much.
'This pouch is frorn Moses,' Ana said. 'He wants you to swallow
the contents so that you can escape.'
For the first time Isabel took hold of Ana's hand. She squeezed
the leather pouch hard, and for a brief moment leaned her head
on Ana's shoulder.
'Go now,' she said in a voice that was hoarse from lack of use.
'I don't have much time left.'
Ana left the darkness and came out again into the bright
sunshine. Some black men were busy polishing the statue of a
knight that had arrived on a ship from Lisbon, and would soon
be put on display in one of the town's squares. The goats were
standing motionless in a shady corner of the walled courtyard.
Ana was driven back home. She had hoped that Moses would
be waiting for her outside the fort, but he wasn't there.
The next day, when she was woken up at dawn by Carlos
kicking the quilt off the bed, she discovered that Moses was
standing in the street below, staring up at her window. She
hurried down the stairs and out into the street. The night guards
had woken up, put out their fires and were getting washed at
a pump at the rear of the house.
Moses was holding a spade in his hand.
'It didn't work,' he said. 'She's still locked up inside the fort.'
'How do you know?'
'I know. She knows. There are too many white people around
her, scaring away the spirits. And so I'm going to start digging
3"
today, so that I can get in under the wall. It will take longer than
if she had been able to fly out, but we are patient.'
'Where are you going to start digging? Do you really think its
possible?'
'It must be possible!'
'Can you really do it, all by yourself? Even if you are a miner
and used to digging.'
Moses didn't answer. He merely turned on his heel and began
walking quickly down the hill towards the fort.
Ana stayed where she was, even though she was wearing
nothing but a dressing gown. It was only when the night guards
came out of the courtyard and set off for home that she went
back indoors. No matter what Moses and Isabel believed about
butterflies' wings, she was the only one who could help Isabel.
She lay down on her bed again, and didn't get up until she had
made up her mind what to do. She got dressed, and gathered
together most of the money she had in Senhor Vaz's drawers
and safes. She filled a large laundry basket with it, and was
helped by Julietta to carry it down to the car when it was time
for her to visit Isabel.
'Is she going to eat that much food?' asked Julietta inquisitively.
'You ask far too many questions,' said Ana sternly. 'I haven't
the strength to answer them all. You must learn to keep quiet.
Besides, this is a laundry basket, not something you carry
food in.'
The chauffeur helped her to carry the basket into the fort.
Sullivan was waiting for her as usual, this time wearing his ordinary
uniform.
'I want to talk to you in private,' said Ana. 'And I need help to
carry in this basket.'
Sullivan looked at her in surprise. Then he shouted for two
soldiers who carried the basket into his office. Ana followed them,
and closed the door when they had left. The basket with the
money was covered by an oriental quilt that Senhor Vaz had been
given by a customer who didn't have enough cash.
Sullivan sat down at his dark brown desk and pointed at a
visitor's chair.
'You want to speak to me?'
'I'll come straight to the point. Isabel won't survive if she stays
here. So I'm prepared to give you this basket of money if you can
arrange for her to be given the opportunity to escape.'
She stood up ancf removed the quilt, exposing the money in
bundles of notes that filled the whole basket. Sullivan contemplated
the contents of the basket.
'It's all I have,' said Ana. 'And of course, I promise never to
mention this money to anybody. I want only one thing, and that
is for Isabel to be set free.'
Sullivan sat down behind his desk again. His face was totally
expressionless.
'Why does she mean so much to you?'
'I saw what happened. I know why she did it. I would have
done the same thing. But I have never been locked up inside an
underground hellhole. Because I am white.'
Sullivan nodded without saying anything. The goats could be
heard bleating in the courtyard. Ana waited.
There was a long pause before he spoke. In the end he turned
to look at her. He smiled.
'It sounds like an excellent idea,' he said. 'I'm not impossible
to do business with. But the money isn't enough.'
'I don't have any more.'
'It's not money I want.'
Ana assumed Sullivan had the same desire as Pandre.
'You are of course welcome to visit my establishment whenever
you like,' she said. 'Without needing to pay.'
'You still don't know what I mean,' said Sullivan. 'You're absolutely
right to think that I'm intending to visit your place and all
the beautiful women who are so tempting to your customers. But
I shall expect it to be you who accompanies me to a room and
stays there with me all night. Nobody else will do. I want the
woman no other customer could have.'
Ana had no doubt that he meant what he said. Nor would he
allow himself to be persuaded to accept any of the other women.
He had made up his mind.
'The money can stay here until you have made your decision,'
he said. 'I guarantee that nobody will steal anything. I'll give you
until tomorrow to decide.'
He stood up, bowed and opened the door for her. As he passed her he stroked his
gloved hand gently over her cheek. She
shuddered.
Ana's visit to Isabel that day was very short. Late that evening,
when Carlos was already asleep, she made her decision. For once
in her life, she would sell herself.
Once it was over she would be able to go away at last. To leave
this hell on earth that her mother had never taught her anything
about. She would vanish from this town where she had once gone
ashore without knowing what she was letting herself in for when
she walked down that confounded gangplank.
67
In order to sleep she took a large dose of the chloral sleeping if tablets
Senhor Vaz used to use. She slept restlessly, but she did
sleep.
All of a sudden, she was awake. She opened her eyes and found
herself looking straight into O'Neill's unshaven and glistening
face. His eyes were open wide, and bloodshot.
It was daybreak. Light crept in between the half-open curtains.
O'Neill had a knife in one hand, and it was covered in blood.
She thought at first that she had been the victim, but she could
feel no pain. Confusion and terrified thoughts whirled around in
her brain. Where was Carlos? Why hadn't he protected her?
Then she saw that he was lying on the floor next to her bed,
with blood on the part of his face that wasn't covered in hair.
She couldn't make out if Carlos was dead or seriously injured. She
now had a vague memory of hearing Carlos shout out while
she was asleep - was that the sound that had lifted her into
consciousness?
Once she had established that she wasn't injured, she realized
that O'Neill was scared. Against whom had he used that knife?
The sleeping night guards? Julietta? She tried to force herself to
be calm, and slowly dragged herself up so that she was half
sitting, leaning back on the pillows. O'Neill pulled open the
curtains so that the last of the darkness disappeared. He seemed
to be in a hurry. That increased her worries, as it could only
mean that he had done something he needed to run away from,
as fast as he possibly could.
'What do you want?' she asked, as calmly as she could manage.
'I've come to take your money,' he said.
She could see that he was trembling.
'What have you done?'
Had he attacked one of the women in the brothel? Or perhaps
several? Or even all of them? Was it the blood of Felicia and the
others dripping from the blade of his knife?
'I have to know,' she said. 'What has happened? Who have you
stabbed?'
O'Neill didn't answer. No more than an impatient groan passed
over his lips. He pulled back the quilt and hissed at her that she
should give him all the money she had in the house. She got out
of bed, put on her dressing gown and thought about how remarkable
it was that since yesterday most of her money was locked up
inside the commanding officer's office, guarded by the town's
Portuguese garrison.
'What has happened?' she asked again.
O'Neill was still holding the knife at the ready, as if he was
afraid that she would jump at him. Carlos was lying unconscious,
but Ana could see from the rising and falling of his chest that he
was still alive. Whatever else O'Neill had done, she would never
forgive him for attacking an innocent chimpanzee and almost
killing him.
O'Neill suddenly answered her question. It was as if he were
flinging the words out of himself.
'I went into her cell and finished off what I failed to do the
last time. This time she really is dead.'
Ana became stone cold. She groaned. O'Neill took a step
towards her.
'I couldn't stand by and watch the women's earnings being
squandered by you on a black woman who murdered her husband.
Now I'm getting out of here. And I intend to take all your money
with me. You won't even be able to afford a coffin for her funeral.'
Ana sat down tentatively on the edge of the bed. It was as if
O'Neill's knife had severed something inside her. She had only
one desire just now, and that was to mourn the death of Isabel:
but O'Neill was standing in her way. He wouldn't leave until he
had received the money, and he wouldn't believe what she said
about most of her wealth being in the commanding officer's
office. Perhaps this was the end of the remarkable journey that
had begun with a sleigh-ride in what seemed to be the far distant
past. She would d$ here in this room, stabbed to death by a
raving lunatic of a man she had made the mistake of employing.
A man she personally had taken on for a trial period without
knowing that in doing so, she had allowed a murderer into her
house. She would die in this bedroom where she had spent her
widowhood, and would die together with the remarkable chimpanzee
who used to work as a servant in the brothel, dressed in
a white suit.
But could what O'Neill had said happened possibly be true?
She looked at him, and it struck her that this could be a trap she
had fallen straight into. She had failed to notice the gap that had
suddenly opened up in front of her, and was about to fall into it.
'Why did you kill her? And why should I believe you?'
'Because nobody else was able to do the only right thing killing
her - I took it upon myself.'
'How could you get into her cell? Twice?'
'Somebody helped me, of course. Left doors open. But I'm not
going to say who it was.'
'Was it the commanding officer? Sullivan?'
O'Neill made an energetic gesture with the knife, and in doing
so happened to tread on Carlos, who whimpered.
'No, it wasn't Sullivan. But I shan't answer any more of your
questions.'
He picked up a grey sack made of jute that was lying on the
floor beside him.
'Fill this with your money!'
I can t.
Something in her voice made him hesitate rather than repeating
his demand immediately in an even more threatening tone.
"Why can't you?'
'Because nearly all my money is locked up in the commanding
officer's office, in the fort.'
She could see that he was nervously swaying between doubt
and fury. The sack was hanging down in his hand.
'Why has he got your money? You didn't know that I was going
to come here tonight.'
'I gave the money to him as a bribe,' said Ana. 'So that he would
secretly allow me to fetch Isabel and arrange for her to leave
Lourenco Marques. Later this morning I was due to go to him
with the rest.'
'So there is more money here in the house?'
'Not more money, no. The rest of the bargain was to be paid
in a different way.'
'How? With what?'
'With me.'
O'Neill didn't move. She could see that he was confused. He
didn't understand what she meant. His uncertainty gave her
the upper hand despite his knife.
'I promised to become his whore. Who would believe the
immoral proprietess of a brothel if she tried to explain afterwards
what had happened?'
At last the penny dropped for O'Neill. What Ana said couldn't
be a lie, something she had simply made up. He picked her up
from the bed, grabbed hold of her throat and shook the sack
violently.
'Everything you've got,' he said. 'Absolutely everything. And you
must never breathe a word to anybody that I was the one who
came here.'
'People will understand that even so.'
'Not if you don't say anything.'
He thrust her away so hard that she fell down on to the stone
floor. She landed with her face right next to Carlos, who was still
breathing awkwardly.
Just as she was about to get up, Carlos cautiously opened one
eye and looked at her.
Ana stood up and began gathering together the money she still
had in the house. SKe had filled two porcelain vases decorated with
oriental nymphs with money she was going to use to compensate
the women for their reduced earnings. She put it all into the sack
while O'Neill urged her to hurry up. On the floor in the wardrobe
she had two of Senhor Vaz's leather suitcases filled with money
intended for her journey to wherever she eventually decided to go.
The money she received for selling her house and the brothel would
go to the people who worked there. She didn't intend to keep any
of that herself.
When she had emptied the last of the suitcases, she saw that
the sack was still less than half full. If the money in the CO's
office had been available, O'Neill would have needed two, possibly
three sacks.
'That's everything,' she said. If you want any more, you'll have
to talk to Sullivan.'
O'Neill punched her, hard, a blow loaded with his disappointment:
he had expected so much more. In the midst of all the
pain that the punch caused her, Ana managed to think about
how brutal O'Neill was. How could she have failed to see that
earlier? That she had appointed as a security guard a man who
was worse than the worst of her clients?
'There must be more,' he said, his face so threateningly close to
hers that she could feel his stubble against her cheek.
'If you like I can swear on the Bible, or on my honour. There
is no more.'
She couldn't make up her mind if he believed her or not. But
he pulled off the rings she had on her fingers and dropped them
into the sack. Then he hit her so hard that everything went
black.
When she came round Carlos was sitting looking at her. He
was swaying b&ck and forth, as he always did when he was
frightened or felt himself abandoned. O'Neill had left. Ana had
the feeling that she hadn't been unconscious very long. The open
window overlooking the upper veranda indicated the way O'Neill
had chosen to leave, and perhaps also the way he had got in. She
went outside and saw that the two guards were sitting by the spent
remains of their fire, yawning as if they had just woken up. If she
had had a gun, she would have shot them - or at least, the temptation
to do so would have been very great. But even if she had
aimed at them she would no doubt have pointed the pistol at the
sky before pulling the trigger: she would never be able to kill
anybody. She was a mucky angel, not a murdering monster.
She sat down on the bed and dabbed at Carlos's wounds with
a damp sponge. Nobody would believe me if I told them about
this, she thought. Me sitting on my bed after being attacked,
tending the wounds on a chimpanzee's bleeding forehead. But
I'm not going to tell a soul.
Quite early in the morning she left the house and was driven
down to the fort. Julietta and Anaka had been horrified by the
state of the bedroom - the torn sheets, the bloodstains and the
broken mirror - but Ana had simply told them that Carlos had
had nightmares. He had caused the wound on his own forehead.
She didn't bother to comment on her swollen cheek.
As she arrived at the fort earlier than usual, Sullivan was not
yet standing on the steps, pipe in hand. He hadn't even arrived
at the fort from his lodgings in the upper part of the town, where
the garrison's accommodation was situated. Ana took a deep
breath and walked over to the entrance to the cells. The guard at
the entrance was reluctant to let her in at first. He was worried
because the lock on the grill had been forced during the night
when another soldier had been on duty, but Ana yelled at him to
get out of the way and pushed him aside.
Isabel was lying dead on the stone floor next to the bunk. Ana
had the feeling that she had used up the last of her strength in
an attempt to sit up, since that was how she wanted to be when
she died, but she hadn't had the strength. One of her arms was
resting on the bunk. O'Neill had turned her body into a bloody
mess of skin, thoughts and memories, scars after the birth of her
children, her love of Pedro - everything that had made her the
person she was. O'Neill had not only stabbed and cut her with
his sharp knife, he had disfigured her in such a way as to make
her body almost unrecognizable. In her desperation Ana thought
that O'Neill must harbour unlimited hatred for black people who
refused to submit to the will of whites, even when they were
locked up in prison.
With considerable difficulty Ana carefully lifted Isabel on to
the bunk. She covered her with the blanket she had never used,
even when the nights had been at their coldest. Every time she
touched the corpse she seemed to be reminded of the cold that
had always surrounded her when she was a child. Isabel's dead
body transformed the underground cell into the countryside she
had once lived in, always frozen, always longing for the heat of a
fire, or from the sun that so seldom forced its way through the
clouds drifting in from the mountains to the west. She looked at
Isabel and was reminded of all these things that until a few minutes
ago had seemed so far away but had now returned. Who is it I
am saying goodbye to? she thought. Isabel or myself? Or both of
us?
A soldier came into the cell and announced that the commanding
officer was waiting for her. He was standing by his desk when she
arrived. When he asked why she was making her visit so early, it
dawned on Ana that he didn't know what had happened during
the night. That gave her an unexpected advantage that she didn't
hesitate to make use of.
'Come with me,' she said. 'I've something to show you.'
'Perhaps we should first sort out the last part of our
agreement?'
'There is no longer any agreement.'
Ana turned on her heel and left the room. Sullivan hurried
after her into the courtyard. Ana could see that the news had
begun to spread among the soldiers. Sullivan entered the cell. Ana
removed the blanket and revealed Isabel's mutilated body.
'I know who killed her,' said Hanna. 'I'll give you his name, but
he's bound to be on his way to the interior of the country already,
and he knows all the roads. Perhaps he has a horse to carry him?
All I can do is to give you his name, then you can decide if you
want to send your soldiers out after him.'
She told him about O'Neill, about the attack in her house, and
how he had admitted that he was the murderer. Sullivan listened
with mounting anger. Ana didn't know if it was because he had
been humiliated or because he would lose all that money in the
laundry basket, and could no longer look forward to having sex
with her. All she did know is that just now she had the upper hand.
'Her brother will come to collect the body,' she said. 'I shall
take the money with me. We shall never meet again. But I want
soldiers to continue keeping watch over her, even though she is
now dead.'
They returned to the courtyard. Two soldiers carried the
laundry basket to the car and put it in the boot.
'We'll catch him,' said Sullivan, who had accompanied her to
the entrance door.
'No,' said Ana. 'He is a white man, and you'll let him escape. I
don't believe a word you say. I had thought of agreeing to your
request, but now I feel great relief at never needing to come
anywhere near you again.'
Before Sullivan had a chance to respond, Ana had turned away
and got into the car. As they drove off Ana saw how the enormous
statue of the knight was being dragged out into the street by several
black men with ropes round their shoulders and waists. She closed
her eyes. She now regretted not having agreed to Sullivan's request
immediately. Perhaps that might have saved Isabel. During the
night that turned out to be her last, Isabel might have been with
Moses, on her way to freedom in the distant mine tunnels.
The rest of the day passed: Ana couldn't remember anything about
it. Only a bright white light and a deafening roar in her ears.
Nothing else.
Moses turned up outside her house as dusk fell. She had been
standing by the window, waiting for him. He knew already that
Isabel was dead. Ana never bothered to ask him how he knew
about what had happened. He stood there, grubby and dirty after
the digging he had just embarked upon.
He was digging to make a tunnel, she thought. An opening
through which a person would be able to escape into freedom.
Instead, what he is doing now is the beginning of a grave.
'You can collect her body tomorrow,' she said. 'It won't have
started smelling by then. If you want me to help you, I will.
Nobody will mistreat you at the fort. Soldiers are standing guard
over her body'
'I'll collect her myself,' said Moses. 'I want to make the last
journey with her by myself.'
'What will happen now to her children?'
Moses didn't answer. He merely shook his head, muttered something
inaudible, and left.
At that moment she was on the point of running after him,
following him to wherever he was going - back to the mines in
the Rand or Kimberley or anywhere else in the world that extended
for ever out there, beyond the mountains and the vast plains.
But she remained where she was. Ana Branca and Hanna
Lundmark didn't know which world they belonged to.
When she returned to the house, she saw that Carlos had
returned to his place on the chimney. All that could be seen in
the last light of the setting sun was his silhouette. Carlos looked
like an old man, she thought. An ape, or a hunchbacked man
weighed down by an enormous burden he was unable to free
himself from.
That evening she made a note in her diary. She wrote: 'Isabel,
her wings, a blue butterfly, fluttering away into a world where I
can no longer reach her. Moses left. I love him. Impossible, in
vain, desperate.'
She closed the book, knotted a red linen ribbon around the
covers, and put it into the desk drawer.
She didn't touch the laundry basket full of money that evening.
She stood on the veranda as the sun began to rise over the sea,
but Moses wasn't around. Disappointed, she went back into the
house, emptied the laundry basket of all the money and packed
the bundles of notes into the safe and cupboards and drawers.
She had great difficulty in making enough room for it all.
When she had finished, she washed her hands thoroughly - but
even so there was an unpleasant, lingering smell.
When Julietta came with her breakfast tray, Ana instructed
her to go immediately to the fort and find out about arrangements
for Isabel's burial. To Ana's surprise, Julietta didn't react
to what ought to have been the news that Isabel was dead: she
obviously knew about it already. There must be a secret way,
she thought, for black people to send out invisible messengers
to one another with important news.
'Be as quick as you can,' said Ana. 'Don't pause to look in shop
windows, or to talk to any boys or girls you meet. If you are really
fast and get back here so soon that I'm surprised, you'll get a reward.'
Julietta hurried out of the room. Ana could hear her footsteps
racing down the stairs.
Julietta arrived back less than an hour later, panting after all
that running up the steep hills. Ana was forced to tell her to sit
down and get her breath back, as to begin with she couldn't
understand what Julietta was trying to say.
'The body has gone already,' said Julietta in the end.
Ana stared at her.
'What do you mean by "the body has gone"?'
'He fetched it as the sun rose.'
'Who fetched it?'
'A black man. He carried her away without any assistance.'
'Did you not see the young commanding officer?'
'One of the soldiers said he was still in bed in his lodgings,
asleep. He'd been invited out yesterday evening.'
'Invited by whom? Had he been drinking? Do I have to drag
everything out of you?'
'That's what they Said. Then they tried to lure me down into
the dark underground prison where Isabel had died. I ran away.'
'You did the right thing.'
Ana had prepared a reward for Julietta. She gave her a pretty
necklace and a shimmering silk blouse. Julietta curtseyed.
'You may go now,' said Ana. 'Tell the chauffeur I'll be down
shortly.'
Julietta remained standing where she was. Ana realized immediately
what she wanted.
'No,' she said. 'You're never going to be allowed to work in the
brothel with the other women. Go now, before I take back what
I've just given you!'
Julietta left. Ana put on her black clothes, the same ones as she
had worn at Senhor Vaz's funeral. Once again she was going to
accompany a person to her grave, someone who had died quite
unexpectedly. Unlike Senhor Vaz's funeral, Ana would be the only
white person among the mourners. And any whites who saw her
would become even more antagonistic towards her, more adamant
in what in many cases had already become their hatred of her.
She was not only concerned about the welfare of blacks who were
alive, but she also accompanied a convicted murderess to her
grave.
She was unsure about black people's burial rituals, but she
picked a few red flowers from her garden and sat down in the
car. The chauffeur gave a start when he heard that he was being
asked to drive her to the cemetery. He knows, she thought. He
knows it's now time for Isabel to be buried.
A new wall was being built at the entrance to the cemetery.
When Ana got out of the car the black workers paused and stared
at her with bricks and trowels in their hands. She stood in the
shade of a tree and told the chauffeur to ask when Moses and the
rest of the family were due to arrive with Isabel's body. She watched
him asking one of the bricklayers, and could see that the reply
he received surprised him. He hurried back to her.
'They have already arrived,' he said. 'They are waiting inside
the cemetery.'
'Waiting for whom?'
'Waiting for you, Senhora.'
Moses, she thought as she hurried into the cemetery, the red
flowers in her hand. He knew that I wouldn't allow Isabel to be
buried without my being present at the ceremony.
The chauffeur pointed out a part of the cemetery separate from
the graves of white people, where a group of blacks were waiting.
As she hurried along past the crumbling gravestones she detected
a sort of sweetish smell of dead bodies rising up from the earth.
She held her hand over her mouth, and was afraid that she would
feel so sick that she would throw up.
The coffin was brown, made of rough planks. It had already
been lowered into the grave. Standing round it were Moses in his
overalls, Isabel's children and several black women Ana had never
seen before. She assumed they were Isabel's sisters who were now
looking after the orphaned children. There was no priest from
the cathedral present. When she reached the grave, Moses led the
mourners in the singing of a hymn. Everybody joined in, singing
in harmony. Afterwards Moses mumbled a few words that Ana
couldn't understand, then looked at Ana.
'Would you like to say something?'
'No.'
Moses nodded, then began shovelling soil down over the coffin.
All the others joined in to help. They dug with their hands, or
with sticks and flat stones. Ana had the impression that they were
in a great hurry. The coffin should be covered over as quickly as
possible. She remembered something Senhor Vaz had said, about
black people always wanting to get away from burials as quickly
as possible because they were afraid that evil spirits would escape
from the coffin and chase after them. Could it be that despite
everything, Isabel was regarded above all as an evil, obsessed
murderess, even by her own sisters? Ana placed her red flowers
on the heap of earth on top of the grave. Then she saw that what
she had heard was true: everyone apart from Moses scuttled away
from the grave. Some of them jumped back and forth between
the paths as if to confuse the evil spirits they were afraid might
be following them. It looked so odd that she found it hard not
to burst out laughing, despite her deep sorrow.
In the end there was only Moses and herself left.
'What happens now?' she asked.
'I go back to the mines.'
'But surely you could stay here? I still have the money I'd saved
to try to get Isabel set free.'
Moses looked at her.
'I'm serious,' she said. 'You can build a house, and look after
Isabel's children. You don't need to toil in the mines any more.'
Did he believe her? She couldn't be sure. But in any case he
said no.
'I can't take your money.'
'Why not?'
'Isabel wouldn't have wanted me to. Her children are well looked
after as it is.'
'As I understand it you have been working for many years in
the smoke and dust in the mines - it's not good to work for too long in those
conditions.'
'But that is where I'm at home.'
She could sense that he was a little bit hesitant even so.
'I shall think about what you have said,' he said. 'I'll come to
your house tomorrow, when I've finished thinking.'
He turned on his heel and hurried off along the paths between
all the unmarked graves. She watched him until he came to the
white mauseleums, then vanished completely.
She was driven back to town and asked the chauffeur to stop
at the brothel, but just before they got there she changed her mind
and told him to drive her home. She still didn't know what she
ought to say. Isabel's death and her meeting with Moses had
increased her feeling of being totally absorbed by herself and her
own thoughts.
After taking a bath, she lay down on her bed. Over and over again
she relived the long journey that had eventually taken her to the
room where she was now lying. But the images inside her head were
jumbled up haphazardly. Now it was Senhor Vaz she had married
in Algiers, and Lundmark she had met in the brothel. Moses was
her bouncer, and O'Neill was dressed as Father Leopoldo in the
shadowy cathedral.
The rest of the day and the evening was spent in the borderland
between dreams and consciousness. She changed into a dressing
gown when Julietta brought her a tray of food, but hardly touched
the food on the plate. She occasionally opened her diary, and
picked up her pen in order to make an entry: but in the end she
wrote nothing at all. She merely drew a map of the river that was
flowing inside her head, the mountains decked in white, and the
house where her father seemed to spend all his time filling the
gaps and cracks so that they could endure the never-ending cold
of yet another winter.
After taking another large dose of sleeping tablets she managed
to fall asleep. But all the time she dreamt that she was awake. Or
at least that's how it felt when she eventually woke up.
She was already standing on the veranda when dawn broke.
There was an expectation within her that she tried to dampen
down, but without success. She had never felt as strongly as this
when she had been waiting for Lundmark, or Senhor Vaz. But
she certainly felt that way now.
Moses didn't show up. After having waited in vain all morning,
she decided he must have already gone back to the mines. He
hadn't meant what he said about coming back to her house. She
didn't feel he had deceived her: he had been certain that she would
understand his decision. He didn't want her money. All he wanted
was to return to the mines, where he felt at home.
However, at around noon a little boy came to the front door
of the house and handed in a sealed envelope with Ana's name
on it. Julietta carried it up to her room. Ana asked her to leave
before she opened the envelope. She didn't recognize the handwriting,
but it was - as she had hoped - from Moses. He asked
her to go to Beira and try to find his and Isabel's parents, and
tell them that she was dead. It was a mission he wanted to entrust
to her, and was sure that Isabel would have felt the same.
She put the letter in her desk drawer, and locked it. As usual,
she hung the key round her neck.
The letter had made her both upset and disappointed. Why had
Moses chosen to give her a task that he ought to have carried out
himself? Had she misjudged him, just as she had misjudged O'Neill?
Did Moses lack the courage his sister had possessed? She felt
increasingly despondent, but at the same time wondered if she
had misunderstood his motives for bestowing the honour of undertaking
this journey upon her. She didn't even know who to talk
to, in an attempt to understand better. Could Felicia be of help
again? She was doubtful, and chose in the end to speak to Father
Leopoldo, who had met Isabel after all, and might be able to explain
Moses' behaviour.
She found him sitting on a chair in the cathedral, listening to
the children's choir practising. Ana recalled her first visit, and
tears came into her eyes. She wasn't sure if this was a result of
the children's singing, or of the memory of that first time she had
ever entered the cathedral.
Father Leopoldo noticed her, and took her into a room where
the priests kept their vestments. The singing of the children's choir
could be heard faintly through the thick walls. She told Father
Leopoldo about Isabel's burial and Moses' letter.
'Why is he asking me to go and look for her parents?'
'Perhaps he wants to show them the greatest respect he can
think of: sending a white woman to inform them about a death.
How often does a white woman or man do something like that
for a simple black miner?'
'But he was her brother, surely?'
'I think he wants to honour her memory by asking you to
do it.'
'Then why didn't he say so? Why did he promise he would
come back, and then simply send me a letter?'
Tn a way he did come back. He wrote down his plea to you.'
Ana was still doubtful, despite the fact that there was something
convincing about Father Leopoldo's voice. She thought that he
might well have understood better than she had why Moses had
done what he did. Then Father Leopoldo asked her cautiously
how she had reacted to Isabel's death. She told him the truth: her
sorrow still hadn't hit her with full force, and she was afraid of
the moment when it eventually arrived.
'What are you going to do now, Senhora? You have frequently
talked about leaving here.'
'I don't know. But I do know that I must soon make up my
mind.'
The conversation was interrupted by Father Leopoldo being
summoned to listen to a confession. Ana walked through the
empty church. The choir had stopped singing and the children
had left. Then she noticed somebody sitting in the darkness next
to the big entrance cloor. It was Senhor Nunez. He was waiting
for her. I'm being watched all the time, she thought. There are so
many who see me without my seeing them.
Nunez stood up and bowed. She raised her hand.
'Don't say anything! Give me a moment to think!'
Nunez nodded and sat down again. Ana flopped down on a
chair after having turned her back on Nunez.
She stared out through the open door, straight into the bright
sunlight. And she made up her mind almost immediately. She
didn't need to hesitate any longer. She knew what she wanted
to do.
She turned her chair to face Nunez.
'I'm going to sell my establishment,' she said. T want paying in
English pounds, and I want the whole amount in one go. You
must promise to observe the same rules and procedures as apply
now. I don't care what you do after the women who are working
there now have moved on. I don't believe in the children's home
you spoke about.'
T shall respect your demands, of course. But I'm still thinking
about that children's home.'
Ana stood up.
'You don't need to lie to me. Come round to my house
tomorrow afternoon, and bring the money with you.'
'But we haven't agreed on a price yet.'
'I'm not going to name a price - but I'll tell you if you come
with too little money. In that case I'll sell to somebody else. A
lawyer will have prepared a contract. I want the whole affair to
be settled immediately.'
She didn't wait for a response, simply stood up and left the
cathedral. Now I'm the one who's leaving the underworld,
she thought; but in contrast to Isabel, I'm still alive.
The following day Andrade drew up two contracts. One was
for the sale of Ana's house, for which he was to pay £4,000,
with all the furniture included in the deal. He also promised
to keep all the staff on for at least a year, and after that to pay
Anaka's and Rumigo's pensions.
The other contract concerned the sale of the brothel business
to Senhor Nunez. To Andrade's surprise Ana requested him to
leave a line blank for the selling price to be written in. Nor did
the contract include any mention of the brothel being converted
into a children's home.
At three o'clock in the afternoon Nunez arrived. He offered
£4,000 for the establishment. Ana said that she wanted £5,000, as
she was convinced that was the sum he had in his fat leather
briefcase. Nunez smiled and agreed. All aspects of the sale were
completed in less than an hour.
'Four days from now you can take over everything,' she said.
'Before then you are not allowed inside the premises. And you
are not allowed to breathe a word about our deal until I've spoken
to everybody who works here. Where have you got all your money
from?'
Nunez smiled and shook his head.
'Revealing my source of income is not a part of our deal.'
'Elephant tusks? Lionskins? Secret diamond mines that nobody
knows about?'
'I've no intention of answering your question.'
'As long as you are not a slave trader,' said Ana.
'What will happen to the chimpanzee?' Nunez asked, pointing
at Carlos who was sitting on top of the tall cupboard. 'Is he a
non-specified part of our agreement?'
'He's coming with me,' said Ana. 'His future is my responsibility,
not yours. I hope you also noticed that I didn't require that the
brothel should be converted into a children's home. Why should
I demand something that you have no intention of doing? I want
you to leave now. We've concluded our business, and don't need
to talk to each other.'
Nunez eyed her upf and down. He suddenly appeared sorrowful.
'I don't understand why you distrust me,' he said. 'Just like you
I am upset about the way in which we treat black people. Maybe
I'm not good through and through, but I hate the contempt we
show towards these people. It is lunacy to believe that such an
attitude can continue for ever and a day - an illusion, and very
stupid.'
Nunez stood up.
'Perhaps you are not as lonely as you think,' he said. 'I share
your disgust.'
He bowed and left. She thought about what he had said. Perhaps
she had been wrong about him after all.
When she was alone she looked at the contracts and the bundles
of banknotes. She had arrived in Africa with nothing: now she
was very rich.
All she knew about her future was that she would travel to
Beira and look for Isabel's parents. What would happen after that
she didn't know, and it was something that she was somewhat
afraid of. But before leaving she would have to have a final discussion
with the women in the brothel, and also sort out a future
for Carlos.
That evening, for the second time in their shared lives, she and
Carlos sat together and counted all the money that was piled up
in enormous heaps on tables and chairs.
he next morning Ana carefully dug out the photograph of
X her and Lundmark from their wedding in Algiers. It was only
eighteen months since that occasion, but even so it seemed like
another world and another age, when everything had a context
and she always looked forward to the next day. Now it seemed to
her that darkness was closing in all around her. She had a long
way to go, and she didn't know where the path would lead her.
Moreover, she would have to do everything on her own. When
she left the house by the river in the sleigh, she was not abandoning
a large circle of friends, and although she was leaving
behind her family, she had had Forsman's broad back in front
of her. Now, though, she felt totally isolated. But she had no
intention of giving up, the mucky angel still had its wings. She
hated the gloom surrounding her on all sides, she missed all the
happiness she had enjoyed. I'm a smiling angel, she thought. The
life I'm leading at the moment will always be foreign to me.
As she looked at the photograph taken in the studio in Algiers,
a thought struck her and she decided immediately to say a silent
'yes' to it. She made up her mind to hold her final talk in the brothel
during the quiet hours of the afternoon. That would give her an
opportunity of paying another visit to the photographer Picard first.
But she also made up her mind to do something that had
hitherto never been more than a passing thought. She now realized
that the time had come to actually do it. She had nothing to
lose by surprising the women in the brothel in a way that none
of them would ever have been able to imagine.
The whites who lived in Lourenco Marques had themselves
photographed by Picard when they got married, celebrated a
birthday or some other anniversary, or lay dead, waiting to be
buried or shipped back to Portugal in a well-sealed zinc coffin.
He never took photographs of black people on principle, but Ana
knew that the amount of money she intended to offer him would
ensure that he made an exception. Picard was a skilful photographer,
but he was also greedy.
He was in the process of photographing a newborn baby when
Ana entered his studio. The baby was crying and Picard, who
hated taking photographs of unruly children, had stuffed his ears
with cotton wool. As a result he didn't hear Ana when she came
into the room and sat down quietly on a chair. The mother holding
the baby was very young. Ana thought it could well have been
Berta sitting there with Forsman's child in her lap. Ana could see
that the mother was looking at the child without a trace of pleasure
in her eyes, and assumed she was one of those young white women
who are forced to move to the African continent by their husbands,
and soon become desperate and scared by what they regard as
the realm of unbearable terror.
Picard disappeared under his black cloth and took a picture of
the screeching baby. It was only after he had more or less shooed
the woman and her child out of his studio that he noticed Ana.
He took the cotton wool out of his ears, and bowed.
'Do you have an appointment?' he asked, looking worried. 'If
so my secretary hasn't been doing her job properly.'
'No, I don't have an appointment,' said Ana, 'but I have come
here to ask you to take a picture. At very short notice.'
'What does that mean?'
'In a few hours from now.'
'Here?'
At the brothel.'
Picard gave a start.
'I shall pay you more than you have ever received before,' she
said. 'For a group photo. With me and all the prostitutes. None
of them will be naked. Then I want as many copies as there are
people in the picture. And the copies must be in my hands
tomorrow morning before ten o'clock - but preferably this
evening: if you can manage that I shall pay you extra, of course.'
Before Picard had chance to reply or raise any objections, Ana
had taken several English pound notes out of her handbag and
placed them on the table in front of him.
'I want the picture taken at four o'clock this afternoon - three
hours from now.'
'I promise I'll be there.'
'I know you will,' said Ana. 'You don't need to assure me of
that.'
After her visit to the photographer's Ana asked the chauffeur
to drive her down to the promenade. She got out of the car and
wandered slowly around in the shade of the palm trees, gazing
out to sea. The small fishing boats with their triangular sails that
she had become so fond of were on their way into port. She knew
that this would be one of the images she would take away with
her: fishing boats scudding along over the waves or swaying gently
in the swell when the winds had dropped, just as she would
remember the small black figures standing at the helm, or cleaning
the nets and sorting out the catch.
I live in a black world in which the whites use up all their
energy deceiving both themselves and the blacks, she thought.
They believe that the people who live here wouldn't be able to
survive without them, and that black people are inferior because
they believe that rocks and trees have a soul. But the blacks in
turn fail to understand how anybody could treat a son of God so
badly that they nail Him on to a cross. They are amazed by the
fact that whites come here and rush around all the time in such
a hurry that their hearts soon give way, unable to cope with the
never-ending hunt for wealth and power. Whites don't love life.
They love time, which they always have far too little of.
What kills us off more than anything else is all the lies, Ana
thought. I don't want to become like Ana Dolores who really is
convinced that black people are inferior to whites. I don't want
it to say on my gravestone that I was somebody who never appreciated
the value of black people.
She sat down on a stone bench. The sea was glittering. The
heat was bearable when cool breezes were blowing. She thought
about what she was going to say in her speech to the women,
then finally stood up and returned to the car.
She was driven back home to pick up Carlos. Needless to say,
he was going to be in the picture that Picard would take.
When she arrived at the brothel she handed Carlos over to Judas, with whom he
had always got on well. Carlos felt secure
in his company. As Ana was early, the room with the red sofas
was deserted. She went quietly up the stairs and into her old
room. In the large wardrobes was a collection of clothes that could
be worn if some customer had special desires about what his
woman should be dressed in, or if for some reason or other one
of the women was short of a garment.
She closed the door, undressed quickly and then opened the
wardrobe doors. Several times towards the end of her stay in that
room, when she was coming to the end of her long convalescence,
she had taken out dresses and shoes, and even the tiaras and
bracelets lying on the shelves. She had often been tempted to dress
up in silk and adorn herself with rings and necklaces, but she had
never done so.
Not until now. She slid her hand over the long row of silk
skirts, dresses and suits. She settled on an oriental-style costume
in green and red, with touches of golden embroidery. She put it
on in front of the mirror. The blouse was low-cut and could be
opened simply by unfastening a ribbon underneath the breast.
She selected a circular tiara to match the clothes, and placed it
on her hair. Then she slid a broad bracelet similar to the tiara on
to her left arm.
Among the rings she also discovered brushes, powder and
lipstick. She made up her eyes and painted her lips, put a pair of
silk slippers on her feet, and was ready.
She looked at herself in the mirror and it struck her that the
change in her appearance was much greater than she had expected.
She was not Ana any longer, but a woman of oriental extraction.
There was nothing left of Hanna Renstrom. Whoever she really
was, she knew that she had transformed herself into a woman
who would attract a lot of customers if she were to sit down on
one of the red sofas and wait for a proposition.
She sat down on the bed. It would be some time yet before all
the women had gathered.
The time eventually came. She went down the stairs and stopped
by a half-open curtain that at night-time was closed in front of
the opening to the inner courtyard.
The women were sitting around chatting as usual when she
appeared from behind the curtain. Silence fell immediately. Ana
could see that several of them didn't recognize her at first, and
as she had expected, none of the women commented on the
change in her appearance. Nobody laughed or admired her beautiful
clothes. They daren't, Ana thought. Even if I have changed
completely, I'm still first and foremost the white woman, nothing
else.
She walked into the room.
Ze was sitting at the piano, tuning a single key deep down at
the bass end of the keyboard. The guards had succeeded in not
allowing any new customers in. A few sullen-looking and half
drunk sailors from a Norwegian whaling ship were staggering
along towards one of the side streets where there was another
establishment.
'Are there any customers left?' Ana asked Felicia.
'Just a couple, asleep. They won't wake up.'
'Perhaps you've given them some of your magic medicine?'
Felicia smiled, but didn't reply.
Picard had arrived. He had set up his large camera, hung the
black cloth over it, and rearranged the furniture so that there was
room for everybody in the picture.
Ana decided to begin with the group photograph. With luck
it would create an atmosphere in the room that would make it
easier for her afterwards to say everything it was necessary for
her to say.
'We're going to take a photograph,' she said, clapping her hands.
'Everybody's going to be on it, including Ze and the security
guards. And not least Carlos, of course.'
There was immediately an air of excitement as they all moved
into the places where they were directed by Picard. The women
giggled and tittered, exchanged combs and little mirrors, adjusted
one another's clothes (which weren't covering all that much of
their bodies anyway). Eventually everybody was ready, with Ana
in the middle, sitting in an armchair. Carlos had jumped up on
to a pedestal which normally held a potted plant.
'I want a serious picture,' said Ana. 'I want nobody to laugh,
nobody to smile. Look serious, straight at the camera.'
Picard made the final adjustments, moving somebody a bit
closer, somebody else a bit further away. Then he prepared the
flash by scattering some magnesium powder on to a metal tray.
He ducked underneath the black cloth with a burning matchstick
in his hand. The magnesium flared up and the picture was taken.
He prepared another flash, ducked under the cloth again and
took a second picture.
Afterwards, when Picard had left and gone back to his studio
to develop the photographs and choose the one from which he
needed to make fourteen copies, Ana assembled the women under
the jacaranda tree. Z6 had returned to the piano where he was
examining the keys before beginning to polish them. Carlos was
sitting on one of the red sofas, smacking his lips noisily as he ate
an orange.
It seemed to Ana at that moment as if everything surrounding
her was a sort of artificial idyll.
A treacherous paradise.
Just as Ana was about to speak, Ze raised his hands and began
playing. For the first time he had stopped merely tuning the
strings. It took a few moments for what had happened to sink
in. She watched Ze's hands in astonishment and listened to his
playing. It was like a bolt from the blue in the brothel. After
spending all that time tinkering with his piano, Ze now seemed
to have reached the point when it was sufficiently in tune for him
to play it. Everybody listened in silence. Ana felt the tears in her
eyes. Ze knew exactly where each finger should be, and his wrists
were moving smoothly despite the frayed cuffs of his shirt.
When he had finished the piece, he placed his hands on his
knees and sat there in silence. Nobody spoke, nobody applauded.
In the end Ana went up to him and put her hand on his shoulder.
'That was lovely,' she said. 'I didn't know you could play like
that.'
'It's an old piano,' said Ze. 'It's hard to tune it.'
'How long have you spent tuning it?'
'Six years. And now I'll have to start all over again.'
'I'll buy you a new piano,' said Ana. 'A good piano. You won't
need to keep tuning it in order to play.'
Ze shook his head.
'This the only piano I can play,' he said quietly. 'I'd get no
pleasure out of a new instrument.'
Ana nodded. She thought she understood, even though she
had just witnessed something that could well have been a miracle.
'What was the piece you played?' she asked.
'It was written by a Polish man. His name is Frederic'
'It was beautiful,' said Ana.
Then she turned to face the others and started them off clapping.
Ze stood up hesitantly and bowed, closed the lid, locked the
piano, picked up his hat and left.
'Where does he go to?' Ana asked.
'Nobody knows,' said Felicia. 'But he always comes back. The
last time he played for us was on New Year's Eve, 1899. As the
century came to a close.'
Ana could see that everybody was looking at her. She told them
the facts: she was about to leave them. The new owner, Nunez,
had promised not to change anything for as long as the women
now working in the brothel stayed on.
'I came here by chance,' she said in conclusion. 'I was ill, and
I thought in my innocence that this place was a hotel. And I was
very well looked after. I might have been dead by now if it hadn't
been for the care you gave me. But now it's time for me to move
on. I shall leave here and go to Beira where I shall look for Isabel's
parents and tell them that Isabel is dead. I don't know what will
happen after that. All I do know is that I shan't be coming back
here.'
Ana then took the bundles of banknotes out of her handbag.
Each of the women received the equivalent of five years' earnings.
But to her great surprise, none of the women displayed the slightest
sign of gratitude, despite the fact that they had never seen
anywhere near as much money as that in their lives before.
'You don't need to stay on here now,' she said. 'Evening after
evening, night after night. You can start living with your families
again.'
Ana had been standing up while she spoke. Now she sat down
on the deep red plush chair they had placed for her under the
jacaranda tree. Nobody spoke. Ana was used to this silence, and
knew that in the end she would no doubt be forced to break it
herself. She took one of the bundles of banknotes and tried to
give it to Felicia - but Felicia declined to accept it and started
talking again instead. She had obviously rehearsed her speech, as
if everybody knew already what Ana was going to say.
'We shall go with you, Senhora,' said Felicia. 'No matter where
you decide to open a new brothel, we shall go with you.'
'But I have no intention ever again to run a brothel, not for as
long as I live! I want to give you all money so that you can lead
quite a different life.Besides, what would you do with your families
if you were to accompany me?'
'We'll take them with us. We'll go with you, no matter where
you end up. As long as it's not a country where there aren't any
men.'
'That's impossible. Don't you understand what I'm telling you?'
Nobody spoke. Ana realized that Felicia hadn't just been talking
for herself: yet again she had been speaking on behalf of all the
women assembled round the tree. The women really did believe
that she was leaving in order to open up a new brothel somewhere
else. And they wanted to go with her. She didn't know whether
to be touched or angry at what seemed to be their incredible
naivety.
She thought: they want me to lead a general exodus to an
unknown destination. No matter where it is, they see me as what
Forsman was for Elin - a guarantee of the possibility of a better
life.
A Magrinha had suddenly stood up and left the garden: now
she returned, carrying a large lizard. Ana knew that it was called
a halakavuma.
'This lizard is very wise,' said Felicia. 'When people find a lizard
like this one, they catch it and take it to their tribal chief. A halakavuma
can always give the chieftain valuable advice. Senhora
Ana has been listening for far too long to advice from unreliable
people. That's why we have tracked down this lizard, so that it
can advise Senhora Ana about what is best for her to do. This
lizard is like a wise old lady.'
The big, crocodile-like lizard was placed on Ana's knee. Sticky
slime was dripping from its mouth, its cold skin was wet, its eyes
staring, its tongue darting in and out of its mouth. Carlos had
jumped up on to the piano, and was staring at the lizard in disgust.
I'm living in a crazy world, Ana thought. Am I really expected
to listen to a lizard in order to find out what I ought to do with
my life?
She put the lizard down on the ground. It disappeared slowly
behind the tree, swaying from side to side on apparently unsteady
legs.
T shall listen to what it has to say,' she said. 'But not now. I'd
rather hear from you than listen to a lizard.'
She stood up again, uncertain of what to say as she thought
she had already said it all. She could see that she was surrounded
by disappointment and surprise. The money she had produced
for the women had not had the effect she had expected. What
was crucial as far as they were concerned was Felicia's words - that
they wanted to accompany her to wherever she was going.
I don't understand this, she thought. I'll never understand it.
But the time I've spent in this town has been characterized by
my always being surrounded by white people claiming that it's
impossible to understand the blacks. I no longer see whatever it
is I'm looking at. My eyes are constantly enveloped by this white
mist.
She left the garden and walked past the empty sofas. The only
person in the room was a man trying to light a half-smoked cigar.
For some reason his presence aroused her fury. She picked up a
cushion and hit him in the face with it, sending the cigar stump
flying.
She stared at him without saying anything, shouted for Carlos,
and left. When she came out into the street she screamed loudly,
as if for a moment she had been transformed into a peacock in
distress. A street cleaner stopped what he was doing and looked
hard at her. She got into the car, but her chauffeur made no
comment of surprise or admiration when he saw what she was
wearing. The street cleaner resumed his work, as if nothing had
happened.
When Julietta opened the door and stared at her, Ana couldn't
resist asking her what she thought of her get-up.
'I'd love to wear those clothes myself,' said Julietta.
'You'll never be allowed to,' said Ana.
She went upstairs to her bedroom. She threw the clothes she'd
been wearing into a laundry basket. The masquerade was over.
Late that evening Picard came to hand over the prints of the
photograph he'd taken. Long after he had left, she sat contemplating
the picture he had chosen in the light of her paraffin lamp.
Everybody was wearing a serious expression and looking
straight at the camera. Apart from Carlos, who was laughing - as
if he were a human being.
The only person in the picture who seemed frightened was Ana
herself.
The day after she had sat with the lizard on her knee, Ana
was driven out to Pedro Pimenta's farm for what she had
decided would be her last visit. On the way there it occurred
to her that this place, among the cages with the white sheepdogs
and the ponds with the crocodiles, was where her journey had
reached its fateful end. She had come this far, and now she just
needed to travel back. When Isabel had been let down by her
husband, Ana had finally become aware of all the deceit that
surrounded her on all sides. An environment that seemed to
be comprised of nothing but hypocrisy and a repulsive
contempt for the people whose home this country actually
was. It was as if the guests had eaten their fill of the meal to
which they hadn't even been invited. We are the uninvited
guests, she thought. I no longer need to have any doubts about
that, at least.
She had taken Carlos with her. It was for his sake that she
returned to Pedro's farm. Carlos would be able to live there in
freedom. There were trees and open spaces, and in addition he
would be surrounded by both white and black people, which is
what he was used to. Moreover, beyond the crocodile pools was
the extensive countryside he had originally come from - the
endless wilderness covered in bushes that he could go back to if
he so wished.
Ana had realized that Carlos was just as far away from home
as she was herself. Perhaps there was also a river with cold,
brown water running through the forests where he had been
born? Even if nothing else unites us, there is no doubt a longing
to go home that we have both done all in our power to resist.
I've done so in my way, but I'll never be able to understand how
he's managed it.
When they reached the farm Ana shuddered at the memory
of what had happened there. Carlos climbed on to the car roof
and looked around curiously, as if he suspected that something
important was about to happen.
Ana Dolores carrie out on to the steps. It was the first time Ana
had seen her when she was not wearing her nurse's uniform, with
the stiff nurse's hat on her head. She was surprised: hadn't Ana
Dolores come here to nurse the sick Teresa?
The truth about the big changes that had taken place became
immediately apparent. Ana Dolores bade her a low-key welcome,
gave Carlos an odd look, then invited her guest to sit down on
the veranda and have a cup of tea. When a maid came with a tea
tray, it was obvious who ruled the roost in this household. Ana
Dolores was not simply the nurse, she was also the mistress of
the house. The black woman went down on one knee before Ana
Dolores after having served the tea.
We have the same name, Ana thought. She is Ana Dolores
and I am Ana Branca - but soon I shall return to the person I
once was. When that happens, my name will revert to being
Hanna. But perhaps other changes have taken place inside me.
Things I can't see, only feel or perhaps suspect? I know that
what happened to me after Isabel's death will be crucial for the
rest of my life. Even if I don't yet know how.
She asked Ana Dolores about Teresa.
'She'll probably never become healthy again,' said Ana Dolores.
'But the chances of her throwing herself into one of the crocodile
pools have decreased. Her sick mind hasn't completely eaten away
what remains of her will to live.'
'What does she say?'
'Not a lot. She mutters away about things that happened when
she was a little girl. Her life before Pedro Pimenta entered it.'
'What about her and Pedro's children? What will happen to
them?'
'Just now they are on a ship to Portugal. Neither of them will
ever come back here. The boy was given a crocodile skin to take
back home with him, the girl a piece of cloth like those that women
here wrap around themselves. All I hope is that their memories
of Africa fade away and eventually disappear altogether.'
'And what about you, Ana Dolores?'
'I live here.'
'Looking after a woman who's never going to get better?'
'I also run the place. I sell dogs and harvest crocodile skins.
I've grown tired of merely looking after people.'
Ana said nothing more, but waited for Ana Dolores to ask a
few questions about Isabel's death. Perhaps she might also be
interested in knowing why Ana had made such a determined
effort to help Isabel.
But Ana Dolores said nothing. She sat there with a smile on
her face, gazing out over the farm she now ruled over. It occurred
to Ana that this was the first time she had ever seen Ana Dolores
smile.
A car approached in a cloud of dust, and pulled up outside
the house.
'Please excuse me,' said Ana Dolores, standing up. 'I have a
visitor, a man from Kimberley who's going to buy one of my dogs.
It won't take long. Wait here for me. Just ring the bell if you want
any more tea.'
The man who stepped out of the car was wearing a pith helmet
and seemed to be in a hurry. It seemed to Ana that he was one
of those white men who had come to Africa to live a short life.
He would die like a hunted animal - hunted down by himself.
She and Carlos went to look at the crocodiles. Carlos stayed
a respectable distance away from the pools containing the biggest
crocodiles, which were almost four metres long. There have
never been any crocodiles in my river, Ana thought. But perhaps
once upon a time Carlos lived by a river where crocodiles lurked
just under the surface of the water. He knows about the threat
they pose.
As she stood there watching the crocodiles, Ana suddenly
noticed how things had changed since her last visit to the farm.
She couldn't put Her finger on it at first, but then it dawned on
her that what she was looking at was becoming more and more
decrepit: things had deteriorated markedly since Pedro's death.
She noted the cracks in the concrete walls of the pools, the weeds
growing up through the stone paths, the troughs of food beginning
to rust, broken tools, rubbish that hadn't been collected and
carried away for burning. Wherever she looked there were signs
of decay. There was also a smell of death on all sides.
This was a change that had taken place in a very short time.
As she returned to the house she saw more and more signs of
decay and decadence. The white sheepdogs in their kennels were
not as well cared for as they had been in the past. Pedro Pimenta's
farm was wasting away. When he and Isabel died, what they had
built up together had immediately started to crumble away.
Ana Dolores had gone into the house with her customer. Ana
sat down on the veranda and Carlos climbed up on to an abandoned
dovecote. Ana suddenly had the feeling that she wasn't
alone. When she turned to look she discovered Teresa standing
at the point where the veranda branched off along the side of
the house. She was very pale, and so thin that she was almost
unrecognizable. At first Ana wasn't sure if it really was Teresa.
She was uncertain what to do, but stood up and said hello. Teresa
did not reply, but she hurried over and stood close by Ana. She
smelled strongly of some oily perfume or other. Ana could see
that the roots of her hair were caked in dirt and grease.
'Were you also married to my husband?' Teresa asked.
'No.'
'I'm sure you were married to my husband. You used to have
red hair, but then you had it dyed.'
'I've never had red hair, and I've never been married to Pedro.'
Teresa suddenly gave Ana a powerful slap in the face. It was so
unexpected that the pain in her cheek and the surprise at being
hit struck her dumb.
'As you know what my husband is called you must have been
married to him.'
Teresa turned round and hurried away. Then she suddenly
turned round and started to come back. Ana braced herself for
another smack, but Teresa turned yet again and disappeared
behind the gable end of the house, and started shrieking.
Ana Dolores came running on to the veranda.
'Where is she?'
Ana pointed. Ana Dolores hurried along the veranda and
followed it behind the gable end. When she came back she was
holding Teresa by the arm. It was as if she were dragging along
a rag doll. They both disappeared into the house.
The man in the pith helmet left with his newly purchased white
sheepdog. He didn't even seem to have noticed Teresa's presence.
Ana Dolores came back again. Ana wondered what she had done
in order to calm Teresa down, but she didn't ask.
'I've come here because there's something I want you to do,'
said Ana.
She pointed at Carlos, who was sitting on the abandoned dovecote,
scratching his fur absent-mindedly. He didn't seem to have
noticed Teresa's outburst either, something that surprised Ana.
Carlos always tried to protect her by screeching and kicking up
a row. But not this time.
'I'm about to leave Lourenco Marques,' she said, 'and I can't
take Carlos with me. I thought I would ask if he could stay here
on the farm. As long as he gets food and is allowed to do what
he wants to do, he's very calm and no trouble. One day he might
well decide to go back to the forest again. He'd be able to do that
from here.'
'You mean that he would be free to wander around and sit
wherever he likes, as he's doing now?'
'You could give him some rules if you liked. He's a quick learner.'
'But you don't want me to build a cage for him?'
'Certainly not. Nor should you attach a chain to his neck.
Obviously I'm prepared to pay you well for your trouble.'
Ana Dolores looked at her, smiling.
'When you first came here you were in a pitiful state,' she said.
'But you've done well for yourself.'
'I can at least pay you so that Carlos can lead the life he wants
to have when I'm no longer here.'
Ana Dolores stood up.
'Let me think it over,' she said. 'If I'm going to take on
responsibility for an ape, I want to be sure that I really can and
want to do that.'
She stood underneath the dovecote, looking up at Carlos who
was still picking away at his skin, searching for ticks. Ana watched
them from her seat on the veranda. Ana Dolores left the dovecote
and walked to the row of kennels and pens where the sheepdogs
that were already trained were jumping up excitedly at the bars.
She stopped at one of the pens and seemed to pat the dog through
the bars. Then she returned to the veranda.
'Shout for the ape,' she said. 'Or at least get him to come down
from the dovecote so that I can introduce myself to him.'
'So Carlos can stay here?'
'As long as he doesn't bite.'
Ana shouted for Carlos, who clambered slowly down from
the dovecote. Looking back, it seemed to Ana that he had
appeared to hesitate.
What came next happened so quickly that afterwards Ana
wasn't at all sure of the course of events. The sheepdog
Ana Delores had just been stroking burst through the bars
surrounding its pen and raced towards Carlos, who had just
reached the ground. Ana shouted a warning, but it was too late.
The dog leapt up and sunk its teeth into Carlos's throat before
he had realized the danger. Ana ran down the steps and began
hitting the dog with a sweeping brush that was leaning against
the veranda rail, but it didn't release its grip on Carlos's throat.
Ana screamed and hit out with the brush as hard as she could.
Ana Dolores didn't move a muscle. Only when it was all over did
she help to pull the dog away and drag it back to its pen.
Carlos lay motionless on the ground. His head was almost
detached from his body. His eyes were open. He continued to
look at Ana, even though he was dead.
Ana Dolores came back after locking up the sheepdog, which
was still wild with fury.
'I don't understand how it could have happened,' she said.
When Ana heard those words, she realized immediately what
the facts were. At first she couldn't believe it, but there was no
other possible explanation.
It had not been an accident.
Ana stood up and slowly brushed the dust off her dress.
'I don't know how you did it,' she said. 'I understand that you
unfastened the gate to the dog's pen, but not how you then ordered
it to attack. Perhaps the dog is trained to react not only to a
spoken command, but also to a hand gesture or a movement of
the head.'
Ana Dolores tried to interrupt her.
'Let me finish,' roared Ana. 'If you interrupt me I shall beat
you to death. You gave the dog a signal to attack Carlos. You
wanted the ape to die. I don't know why you did it. Perhaps
because you are so full of hatred towards anybody who doesn't
look down on black people? Perhaps you are so full of hatred
towards the ape whobecame my friend that it had to die? I have
never met anybody as full of bitterness and hatred as you, Ana
Dolores. One of these days the people in this country will have
had more than enough of the likes of you.'
Ana Dolores tried once again to say something, but Ana - who
was so furious that she was shaking - merely raised her hand.
'Don't say a word,' she said. 'Not a single word. I don't want
to hear a word from your mouth ever again. Just fetch me a sack
so that I can take him away from here.'
Ana Dolores turned on her heel and disappeared into the house.
She never reappeared. Instead, a maid came out with an empty
sack. She handed it over without even looking at the dead ape.
Ana put Carlos's body into the sack, knowing that Ana Dolores
was standing behind one of the windows in the house, watching
her.
The chauffeur was waiting at the side of the car, and stepped
forward to assist her. But she shook her head: she wanted to carry
Carlos herself.
On the way back to town, she asked the chauffeur to stop on
the bridge over the river. She got out of the car and stood by the
rail. Some women were washing clothes in the river, not far from
the bridge. They had hoisted up their skirts up over their thighs.
They were chatting away as they did the washing, and Ana could
hear them laughing merrily as they slapped and kneaded the piles
of garments. She was very tempted to go down to the women,
hoist up her own dress and help them with the washing. In those
black women she could detect a trace of Elin, and perhaps also
herself.
In the end she stepped back from the rail. By then she had
decided where Carlos should be buried.
When she got back home, she found herself unable to cry
over her dead chimpanzee, but she felt a boundless longing
for Lundmark, to have him by her side to make the mourning for
Carlos easier. He wouldn't have had much to say, as he was a
man of few words: but he would have been able to console her,
and assure her that she wasn't alone. She thought about the
fact that in this continent she found so confusing and so full
of contradictions, in the end the only thing she could rely on
had been a chimpanzee.
She put the sack with Carlos's body in the icebox. She forbade
Julietta and the other servants to go anywhere near it. She knew
that they were very curious, so she had a large, heavy stone brought
up from the garden and placed on the lid of the icebox, telling
them all that white people also had their witchcraft, and that hers
was now hidden away inside the stone. Anybody who touched
the stone would find that his or her fingers were transformed
into small, sharp pieces of granite and that nothing - no white
or black medicine - would be able to restore them. She could see
that they believed her, and couldn't help feeling a bitter-sweet
pleasure in among all the misery she had experienced. Especially
when Julietta turned pale and slunk away.
Once again, she slept that night with the aid of a strong dose of
sleeping tablets. But she was up again as dawn broke. As the chauffeur
had been instructed to be ready for an early departure, he had
spent the night curled up on the back seat of the car. He helped
Ana to carry the sack containing Carlos's body from the icebox,
and also packed into the car a spade and a pickaxe that Ana had
taken from the garden shed the previous evening.
All was quiet as they carried the sack into the brothel, past the
sleeping guards, through the sofa room where a few men lay
stretched out, snoring.
The chauffeur put the sack down where she indicated, next
to the jacaranda tree. Then he went back to the car.
This was where she was going to bury Carlos. He would lie there
under an array of blue blossom.
There was simply no other location worthy of being Carlos's
last resting place.
na raised the pickaxe. That very movement meant that she
xl-had reverted to being Hanna Renstrom. It was how she used
to raise the pickaxe when she and Elin were preparing the potato
patch in the spring, and again in the autumn when they needed
to harvest the potatoes before the first frosts arrived, heralding
the approach of the long winter.
The ground was hard on the surface, but softer underneath
and easier to penetrate. She exchanged the pickaxe for a spade
and began digging. She was in a hurry, but couldn't bring herself
to work fast. Digging a grave was not something that could be
rushed. A grave was not merely a hole in the ground: it was just
as much a hole being made in her heart.
Once, when she was a child, she had buried a dead great
northern diver that had been washed ashore by the river. It was
the only grave she had ever dug in her life. But now she was about
to commit a dead ape to its final resting place, and then leave it
and the tree, never to return.
She rolled up the sleeves of her blouse and unbuttoned it at
the neck - it was early in the morning, but already the temperature
was rising. She could smell the scent of a little lemon tree that
Senhor Vaz had planted in the garden.
The spade hit against something she thought at first was a stone,
but when she bent down to pick it up she saw that it was a bone. A
chicken bone, she thought. Somebody must have been sitting here,
chewing the meat off it, and then thrown it away. She carried on
digging. More bones appeared in the soil she shovelled to one side.
The spade hit against a biggish stone that sounded noticeably
hollow. When she picked it up she saw that it was in fact a skull.
A very small skull. She paused, wondering what it could be, and
decided it must be from a dead monkey.
But then she realized that it was the remains of a human head.
A child's skull. So small that it might well have been that of a
newborn baby, or even a foetus.
She was beginning to feel very uneasy, but she continued
digging. Wherever sHe dug she was coming across bones and
skulls. These were not chicken bones at all, but the remains of
human skeletons. She felt queasy, but she didn't stop digging. She
wanted to bury Carlos that morning, and to have finished before
the brothel came back to life.
It eventually dawned on her that she was exposing a mass
grave, the remains of babies and foetuses that had been buried
under this jacaranda tree to be hidden and forgotten about. She
was faced with a children's cemetery, the results of unwanted
pregnancies after all the thousands of nocturnal encounters that
had taken place in this brothel. The bones were all white or grey,
but all the foetuses and newborn babies that had been strangled
or killed in some other way had been a mixture of white and
black.
In the end she put down the spade and sat on the bench. She
was in torment. The ground in front of her was covered in bones
from dead children. It seemed as if this morning, once and for
all, she had discovered what kind of a world she had been living
in. Her queasiness had turned into a feeling of dismay, perhaps
even horror.
Without Ana's noticing, Felicia had come out into the courtyard.
She was wearing one of her many attractive silk dressing gowns.
She looked at the dug-up soil and all the pieces of bone with a
blank expression on her face.
'Why are you digging all this up?' she asked.
Instead of answering Ana opened the sack and showed her
Carlos's stiff and shrivelled corpse.
"Didn't you know that this was a cemetery?' asked Felicia in
surprise.
'No. I knew nothing about it. I just wanted Carlos to have a
pretty resting place here under the jacaranda tree.'
'Why have you killed Carlos?'
Ana was not surprised by Felicia's question. If she had learnt
one thing during her time in this town, it was that black people
thought whites were capable of all kinds of actions, even the most
inexplicable or cruel.
'It wasn't me who killed him.'
She explained what had happened at Pedro Pimenta's farm.
When Ana mentioned Ana Dolores's name, she realized that Felicia
understood that what she was saying was true.
'Ana Dolores is a dangerous person,' said Felicia. 'She is
surrounded by all kinds of evil spirits that can kill. I have never
understood how she could be a nurse.'
It struck Ana that Felicia didn't seem in the least disturbed by
all the bones that had been dug up. That only increased Ana's
unease.
'Bury him here,' said Felicia. 'It's a good place for him to be.'
Felicia turned to leave, but Ana stretched out her hand and
took hold of her dressing gown.
'I must ask you a question,' she said. 'I realize that all these
aborted foetuses or newborn babies that have been killed are the
result of what happened here in the brothel. But there's something
else I want to know, and I want you to give me an honest answer.'
'I'm always honest,' said Felicia.
Ana shook her head.
'Oh no you're not,' she said. 'Neither am 1.1 haven't met a single
person in this town who tells the truth. But the truth is what I
want from you now. Is my dead foetus buried here as well?'
'Yes. It was Laurinda who buried it. She dug a hole and emptied
the bucket into it.'
Ana nodded in silence. This seemed to be the moment when
she discovered and understood everything about her time here
in Lourenco Marques, from the moment she stepped ashore until
now, as she sat here with all these human remains in front of her.
She stood up.
'That was all I wanted to know,' she said. 'Now I'll lay my ape
to rest and replace off the soil as it was before. I understand that
this is a cemetery. Right at the heart of the brothel is a secret
burial place.'
'And it tells a truth,' said Felicia.
'Yes,' said Ana. 'The cemetery also tells a truth. One we'd rather
not know about.'
Felicia went back inside. But it dawned on Ana that she
couldn't bury Carlos here as she had planned. She couldn't
allow him to lie here among all these lost souls of foetuses and
dead babies. She put Carlos back into the sack, and replaced
the soil so that no bones could be seen. She went to fetch the
chauffeur, who carried the sack back to the car. He didn't ask
any questions. He's an old man who's seen and heard it all, she
thought. Is there any basic difference between all the crazy
things white people do, and me being driven back and forth
with an ape in a sack?
She asked him to take her to the part of the harbour where
small fishing boats were moored. It was next to the high wooden
frames where the fishermen hung their nets and the baskets that
were used to carry their catches up to the market stalls.
Ana got out of the car. Most of the fishing boats were already
out at sea, and would return later in the day with their catches.
But at one of the jetties there were a few boats still moored there,
with their sails furled round the masts. She asked the chauffeur
to accompany her there.
'I need to hire a boat,' she said. 'I want to take my ape out to
sea and bury him there.'
'I shall ask,' said the chauffeur.
'Whoever takes me out to sea will be well paid, of course.'
Two of the fishermen shook their heads, but a third one, an
older man about the same age as the chauffeur, said he was willing.
When Ana gathered the man was prepared to take her out in his
boat, she went on to the jetty.
'I've assured him that you are not out of your mind,' said the
chauffeur. 'He's willing to take you to sea, provided you go right
away.'
'I shall pay him well,' said Ana. 'I also need some heavy weights
to put in the sack, to make sure that it really does sink.'
The chauffeur explained that to the fisherman, and listened to
his response.
'He has an old anchor that he can sacrifice as a sinker,' he said.
'He'll need to be paid extra for that, of course. He hopes you
won't be afraid of getting your dress dirty, but he also has another
important question.'
'What does he want to know?'
'Can you swim?'
Ana thought about her father and his stubborn refusal to allow
her to swim in the river. Should she tell the fisherman a white
lie, or give him an honest answer? She felt that she couldn't cope
with any more lies.
'No,' she said. T can't swim.'
'Good,' said the chauffeur. 'He doesn't want to have people who
can swim in his boat. They don't have sufficient respect for the
sea.'
They fetched the sack containing Carlos. Ana had the feeling
that it was getting heavier and heavier.
'I'm ashamed to say that I've forgotten your name,' said Ana.
'Why should you be ashamed of something you've forgotten?
Does that mean you should also be ashamed of what you
remember? My name's Vanji.'
'I'd like you to stay here until we get back, please. Then I'll
only need you and your car for a few more days'
Vanji was disappointed to hear that their time together would
soon be over. Ana didn't have the strength to console him.
'What's the name of the man with the boat?' she asked.
'Columbus,' said the chauffeur. 'He never goes out fishing on
a Tuesday. He's convinced he would never catch anything then.
You are lucky that it's Tuesday today. It's unlikely that anybody
else apart from Columbus would be prepared to go to sea with a
dead ape in the boat, and, to cap it all, with a white woman as
a passenger.'
na sat down by the mast in the little boat. The sack and the
il rusty old anchor were lying at her feet. The boat smelled
strongly of many years of catches. Columbus raised the sail with
his sinewy arms and sat down by the rudder. When they came to
the harbour entrance, the wind filled the sail and they started
moving more quickly. Ana pointed out to sea, the wide strait
between the mainland and the as yet invisible island known as
Inhaca.
'Until we can hardly see land,' she tried to explain, not knowing
if the old fisherman could speak Portuguese or not.
He smiled by way of an answer. That smile calmed Ana down.
The discovery of the child cemetery had been gripping her in a
sort of stranglehold. Now that feeling was beginning to fade away.
She let one hand trail in the water, which was both warm and
cool at the same time. A few seabirds were circling overhead. They
were like sparks coming out of the sun, white sparks that eventually
formed a sort of halo over the fishing boat, which was painted
red, blue and green. Columbus had lit an old pipe, and his gaze
seemed to be permanently fixed on the horizon. Ana packed the
anchor into the sack, letting Carlos embrace the rusty iron, then
tied a knot just as she remembered it being done at Lundmark's
burial. Perhaps the two bodies will meet? Could there be a sort
of cemetery somewhere down at the bottom of the sea where all
the corpses eventually gathered together? It was a childish thought,
she knew that, but nobody could care less what she was thinking
just now, least of all Columbus with his pipe in his mouth.
A school of playful dolphins attached itself to the boat. Carlos
is not going to be buried in isolation, Ana thought. The dolphins
dived, reappeared and swam along close to the boat, then vanished
into the depths once again. She felt an almost irresistible desire
to tell Berta about these dolphins and the remarkable funeral
procession in which they were taking part. Once she'd located
Isabel's parents, she would at last have a definite plan for the next
stage of her life: I want to tell Berta about a dead chimpanzee, a
school of playful dolpHins, and me approaching the second seismic
shift in my life.
They continued sailing towards the horizon. Lourenco Marques
glided past in the mist. It seemed to Ana that they had now
reached the point she had been looking for.
'Let's take down the sail,' she said. 'This is the right place.'
Columbus tucked his pipe away somewhere behind his ragged
shirt, took in the sail and secured it to the mast. The boat was
stationary now, bobbing up and down in the swell. The dolphins
were circling around them, at a distance. The seabirds above their
heads were screeching like instruments out of tune. Columbus
helped Ana to lift up the sack and drop it into the water with a
gentle splash. She watched it sinking down into the depths. One
of the dolphins swam up to it, nudged it with its nose, then swam
away again, having said its final goodbye.
When Ana could no longer see the sack, she felt that her loneliness
was now greater than ever before: but it no longer frightened
her as much as it had done in the past. She was about to bid farewell
to a world in which it had been impossible for her to have any
friends. She had no feelings of community with the whites who
lived in Lourenco Marques, and the blacks didn't trust her but
merely saw her as a person in authority whom they must obey.
Senhor Vaz had given her a necklace when they got married: she suddenly
wrenched it off and flung it into the water. A seabird dived after it, but not
quickly enough to catch it before it sank.
They turned back to the harbour and berthed by the jetty. Ana
paid Columbus and shook his hand. She wondered for how many
years he would have to make his fishing trips in order to earn as
much as she had just given him. But Columbus seemed unimpressed
by the bundle of banknotes he had received. He continued
to smile at her, but didn't even turn to watch her walking back
to the car.
Ana stopped at the harbour office to ask about the next coaster
heading for Beira. She was in luck. A ship would be leaving the
day after next, at six in the morning. She booked a ticket and
paid for the biggest cabin they had - and thought how easy
everything had become. All she needed to do now was make sure
that the photographs were taken to the brothel, say goodbye to
her domestic staff, and hand over all her bunches of keys. Getting
rid of those keys, which she had been obliged to carry around
and take care of constantly, was something she longed to do.
She spent the last couple of days packing two light suitcases. She
arranged with Andrade that all her and Senhor Vaz's clothes would
be donated to those in need. All she kept were a few photographs,
Lundmark's discharge book, and her diary. She disposed of everything
else.
The last afternoon before her departure, Ana assembled all her
domestic staff in order to say goodbye to them. As Andrade was
about to move into the house he had bought from her, none of
them needed to worry about their future.
She had prepared individual envelopes for each of them, so
that nobody would know how much the others had received. She
was quite sure, for instance, that Julietta would try to find out
how she was valued in relation to Anaka.
Ana summoned them to her study. She recalled how Jonathan
Forsman had done the same when he spoke to his staff. She told
them the facts, that she was going first to Beira, and then to an
as yet unknown destination. She thanked them for their services,
and wished them all the best with their new employer, Andrade.
As usual, her words were greeted with silence. Nobody thanked
her, nobody said anything at all. Ana sent them back to their
duties, but asked Julietta to stay behind.
'You'll be okay with Andrade,' she said, 'as long as you behave
yourself.'
'I always behave myself,' said Julietta.
'I'd like you to do sfomething for me,' Ana said. 'Before it gets dark I'd like
you to take this envelope down to Felicia and the
other women. It contains photographs.'
lulietta took the letter, then left the room. Ana heard the front
door close with a bang.
Now that she was alone, she made a note in her diary. 'I can't
live in a world in which everybody always knows more than I do.'
Then she put the diary in one of the suitcases, still not entirely
sure about why she was keeping it.
The next morning, when Ana got up very early to prepare for
her journey down to the harbour, Julietta still hadn't returned.
She was worried - what could have happened to her? She sent
for Anaka and asked her. Anaka didn't answer, but she didn't give
the impression of being worried in the least.
Then the penny dropped. Julietta had stayed at the brothel. She
had gone to Nunez, who had now taken over the premises, and
told him she wanted to start working there. And, of course, he
had taken her on. All that talk about a children's home had been a lot of hot
air. Perhaps he had even taken her to one of the rooms
to find out how good she was at satisfying a man.
Ana was highly annoyed when she realized that this was the
most likely reason for Julietta's non-appearance.
But she banished the thought. She had no desire to leave this
house weighed down with disappointment and unpleasant feelings.
She'd had more than enough of her joyless existence. For
the last time she spoke to Anaka, who accompanied her down to
the front door.
'I'm leaving now,' she said. 'It's going to be a hot day - but it
will be cooler at sea.'
She thought she ought to say more than that - but what?
She had run out of words. She stroked Anaka gently over her
cheek, then left her for the final time.
When Ana came out into the street, it was not only her car
standing therewaiting for her. Moses had also returned.
So he hadn't returned to the mines in the Rand after all, but had
stayed in town all the time. Perhaps he's been keeping an eye on
me without my knowing it, Ana thought. Just like a leopard, who
sees everything but is never seen.
Moses was wearing his usual overalls and a worn-out pair of
sandals. His hands were dangling down by his sides, looking quite
helpless.
'You're here,' she said.
'Yes,' said Moses. 'I'm here. I wanted to say goodbye.'
'How did you know I'd be leaving today?'
As soon as she'd said that, she knew it was a question to which
she would never receive an answer. If Moses had said he'd discovered
the date of her departure in the pattern of paving stones
outside her house, she wouldn't have believed him: but he would
have believed it himself. Anyway, here he was, just as she was
about to step for the last time into the car that Vanji would return
to its owner later in the day.
Moses looked at her and smiled, but he didn't answer.
It wasn't important, Ana thought. She was simply pleased that
he'd come back.
She suddenly had the feeling that she didn't want to leave after all. She
wanted to stay close to him, for as long as possible. But
that wasn't on. She didn't have a house any longer, and had handed
over all the keys. The only accommodation she had was a cabin
on board a coaster that would take her to Beira.
Her feelings frightened her, but also filled her with happiness.
She really loved this man standing in front of her. However, it
was not possible for them to have a relationship, it would go
against all the assumptions and conventions that held sway in
this accursed town.
'Come with me to the harbour,' was all she could say.
'Yes,' said Moses, 'I'll come with you.'
But when she opened the car door for him, he shook his head,
and instead started running with light, springy steps down the
hills leading to the harbour.
Ana told Vanji to take a different route. She didn't want to pass
by Moses as he was running.
She also handed Vanji two envelopes, one with the money she
owed for renting the car, and the other with a payment to him.
Those were the last two envelopes she needed to give people:
everybody had been paid. She didn't owe anybody anything
now, and she had behaved in a way which all other white citizens
would have condemned outright, if they'd known about
it. They would have said she was spoiling the blacks, making
them obstinate and lazy, and reducing their respect for their
white superiors.
I'm in the middle of all that, with a foot in both camps, Ana
thought. I don't belong anywhere. Not until now, that is. Now
that Moses has returned, I belong with him. But that won't be
possible.
He was standing waiting for her by the quay when she arrived.
Despite the long run, he seemed totally unaffected by the strain.
It struck Ana that she was treating him as she'd treated Lundmark.
She only saw what she wanted to see. If she'd examined Moses
closely she would no doubt have discovered that his hands were
dirty and his overalls unwashed, and she might also have noticed
that the run had indeed left its mark as his lungs must have been
damaged after all those years down the mines.
She said farewell to Vanji, who stood up straight and saluted
her awkwardly.
'We'll never see each other again,' said Ana.
'Not in this life, at least,' said Vanji, saluting her again.
When she turned round she saw that Moses had already picked
up her suitcases. He went on board with her. The white officer
by the gangplank saluted Ana and let them pass. A steward in a
white jacket led the way to her cabin. Ana couldn't help but recall
the first time she had seen Carlos, and chuckled sadly.
Nobody will understand this, she thought. I'm mourning the
loss of a man I was barely married to. Another man I was
married to died but I felt no sorrow. But there is a black woman
and a chimpanzee who will always be a part of me for as long
as I live. And now there's a black man, by the name of Moses,
who I want to be with.
The steward opened the cabin door, and waited in order to
escort Moses back to the quay. But Ana closed the door, after
explaining that Moses would unpack her suitcases before going
back ashore.
For the first time, they were alone together in a room. Ana sat
on the edge of the bed. Moses remained standing.
'I thought you had gone back to your mines,' she said. T was
angry because you had left without saying anything.'
Moses didn't respond. His usual calm smile seemed to have
deserted him.
I must be bold, Ana thought. I've nothing to lose. If I've learnt
anything from my time between the two gangplanks - the one I
crossed when I first arrived here, and the one I've crossed now
that I'm leaving - it's that I must dare to do what I want to do,
and not allow myself to be held back by what others consider is
permissible for a white woman like me.
To her surprise, everything seemed perfectly clear to her now,
for the first time. Now, when she was about to place a full stop
behind the confused months she had spent in the town by the
lagoon. Meeting Isabel had awoken inside her an affection for a
black woman whose fate had affected her so profoundly. But Isabel
was dead. Just as Lars Johan Jakob Antonius Lundmark, her first
husband, was dead. And Senhor Vaz, who had made her rich, was
also dead.
Then Moses had crossed her path. The affection she had felt
for Isabel had turned into love for her brother. And he was alive,
he hadn't left her.
Ana stood up and walked over to Moses. She leaned her face
against his, and felt both gratitude and relief when he put his
arms around her waist.
They made love in great haste, half-dressed, anxious but
passionate - accompanied by the sound of footsteps on the deck
over their heads and in the narrow corridor outside the cabin.
She was possessed by the thought - and the desire - that this
lovemaking would never end, that they would stay where they
were until the ship filled up with water and sank. She appreciated
Moses' sensual pleasure, his tenderness, and then when she heard him sob,
Isabel and her children were with them in that cabin.
Afterwards everything was very still. They lay beside each other
on the narrow bunk with its high sides of well-worn wood,
designed to prevent passengers from falling out during a storm.
Ana placed her hand on Moses' heart, and felt how his breathing
slowly subsided from excited passion to deep calm.
Perhaps she thought about Lundmark at that moment, she
couldn't be sure afterwards. But over and over again she thought
about how so many aspects of her life kept repeating themselves.
Making love in cramped bunks, sudden departures,
burials at sea. She hadn't been prepared for any of this, not by
her father or by Elin. In her life by the river, Ana had learnt
how to handle a pickaxe, to look after children, to wade through
deep snow and endure freezing temperatures and emerge
smiling - and even to be afraid of a God who punished you
for your sins, according to her grandmother's angst-filled
convictions. Now she had done courageous things without
being prepared in the least, and without anybody forcing her
to do them.
Time was short. The ship would shortly be leaving.
'Come with me,' she said. 'I want you to come with me.'
T can't.'
'Why not?'
'You know that, Senhora.'
'Don't call me Senhora! Don't call me Ana either. Call me
Hanna. That's my real name.'
T'll be killed, just like Isabel was.'
'That will not happen as long as I'm around.'
'You couldn't even protect Isabel.'
'Are you accusing me?'
'No. I'm just stating the facts.'
Moses sat up, then stood and put on his overalls again. Ana
was still lying in bed, half-dressed, her clothes in disorder, her
hair all over the place.
At that moment there was a sound of loud footsteps outside
the cabin door. Somebody hammered hard on the door, which
was then flung open. The officer who had been on duty by the
gangplank - a first mate - stood in the doorway, accompanied
by another man who Ana assumed was his colleague.
Ana thought the two men looked like rampant beasts of prey.
'Has he attacked you?' roared the mate, punching Moses
in the face.
'He hasn't touched me,' shrieked Ana, trying to put herself
between them. But the mate had already managed to kick Moses
on to the floor, and he sat on him with his hands round his throat.
'I'll kill the bastard,' yelled the mate. 'A porter who dares to
attack one of my passengers in her cabin.'
'He hasn't attacked me,' shouted Ana in desperation, pulling at
the mate's hands. 'Let go of him!'
The raving officer stood up and dragged Moses to his feet.
Blood was dripping from Moses' face.
'What did he do?' asked the man in the doorway, who hadn't
spoken so far.
'He didn't do anything apart from what I asked him to do,'
said Ana. 'And I'm disgusted by the way you have treated him.'
'We're the ones who decide how to treat the niggers who come
on board this ship,' said the mate.
As if to emphasize what he'd said, he punched Moses again. Ana
forced her way between them. She was only half-dressed, and realized
that her appearance might have led the mate to jump to conclusions.
But she didn't bother about that now. At one of the happiest moments
in her life, she had been more outraged than ever before.
'Let him go,' she said. 'And don't set hands on him again.'
'No,' said the mate. 'He's off to jail. The fort can take care of
him.'
Ana was struck dumb by the thought of Moses ending up in
the same miserable dump in which his sister Isabel had died.
'In that case you'll have to take me there as well,' she said.
Something in her voice was so convincing that the two officers
backed off. Ana took out a handkerchief and wiped Moses' face.
The blood clinging to the handkerchief suddenly made her
aware of a sticky feeling on the inside of her thigh. She knew
what it was, and thought that just now, it was the biggest and
most important secret of her whole life.
When they left the cabin, all the passengers and crew stared at
the procession, wondering what had happened. Everybody on
board knew that something out of the ordinary had taken place
inside the ships biggest cabin.
Moses walked along the gangplank, not having been able to
say a proper goodbye to Ana. She watched him walking along the
quay without so much as a backward glance. She continued
watching until he was out of sight, then she went back to her
cabin and lay down on her bunk, completely exhausted, but also
furious about what had happened. She lay there until she heard
various commands being issued, felt the shaking as the pressure
rose in the boilers, and listened to the rattling of chains as the
moorings were shed.
Why hadn't she left the ship and gone with Moses? Why hadn't
she dared to do that?
For one brief moment I saw everything clearly, she thought.
But then I didn't dare to accept the consequences of what had
happened.
After many hours, she went up on deck. She had combed her
hair carefully and changed into a different dress. She stood by
the rail. The other white passengers on board made room for
her - not out of politeness, she felt, but as an indication of
their disapproval.
At that last moment I was transformed into a whore in their
eyes, she thought. I took a black man with me into my cabin, and
performed the most outrageous act a person can imagine.
She contemplated the white town climbing along the hills in
the far distance. She watched it fading away in the gathering heat
haze. Their course was now almost due north, the sun was high
in the heavens, and she was called to the first meal after embarkation.
But she declined: she was quite hungry, but she didn't want
to interrupt her leave-taking of the town she would never see
again.
Suddenly a man was standing by her side. He was wearing a
uniform, and she gathered he was the captain. She had a vague
feeling that she recognized him, but couldn't quite place him. He
saluted her, and held out his hand.
'Captain Fortuna,' he said. 'Welcome on board.'
He smelled strongly of beer, and his breath was like a distant
memory of Senhor Vaz. He was in his forties, suntanned and
sinewy.
'Thank you,' she said after shaking hands. 'What's the weather
going to be like on this voyage?'
'Calm and tranquil. No rough seas.'
'Icebergs?'
Captain Fortuna looked at her in surprise, then burst out
laughing, thinking she was joking.
'No ice apart from what we have in the iceboxes,' he said. 'There
are no underwater reefs around here, nothing dangerous as long
as one stays sufficiently far from land. I've been in command of
this ship for nearly ten years. The most dramatic incident I've
experienced was when we had a bull on board: it went mad and
jumped over the rail. Unfortunately we couldn't rescue him. He
swam at amazing speed towards India. It was night-time, and
we couldn't locate him.'
'I've never been to Beira,' said Ana. 'I know nothing about the
town, but I know I shall need to book into a hotel'
'The Africa Hotel,' said Captain Fortuna. 'They've just finished
building it. It's a splendid hotel. That's where you should stay.'
'Is it a big town?'
'Not as big as Lourenco Marques. It's not far at all to the hotel.'
Captain Fortuna saluted her again, then walked over to the
rope ladder leading up to the bridge.
It dawned on Ana where she had seen him before. On one
occasion, perhaps more, Captain Fortuna had visited her
brothel. He hadn't bfeen wearing his uniform, so that is why
she hadn't recognized him at first.
I'm surrounded by my old customers, she thought. And he
knows who I am.
She returned to her cabin and lay down on her bunk again.
She ran her hand over her pelvis, and decided that if in fact she
had conceived, she would allow the baby to live. No matter where
she went after doing what she had to do in Beira, she would avoid
going anywhere near a cemetery for foetuses and unwanted babies.
That's a promise, she thought. I'm swearing an oath that only
I know about. So what is its significance?
She took dinner in her cabin, so as not to come into contact
with curious and gossiping people.
In the evening, after darkness had fallen, she went out on deck
again to breathe in the cooling air. The starry sky was completely
clear. She could feel the proximity of Moses. And of Lundmark
as well, and perhaps even Senhor Vaz. A coil of rope by her feet
could easily be Carlos, curled up and asleep.
In the distance: lanterns, shooting stars, the beam from a lighthouse
pulsating into the horizon.
Captain Fortuna suddenly emerged from the shadows. He no
longer smelled of beer, now he smelled of wine.
'Senhora Vaz, I don't interfere in other people's lives,' he said,
'but please allow me to express my admiration for what you did
to try to rescue that black woman they locked up in prison. Pedro
Pimenta was a nice man, but he was a scoundrel. He let down all
the women he ever came across.'
'I didn't do enough,' said Ana. 'Isabel died.'
'People from our part of the world change into insufferable
creatures when they come to Africa,' he said sorrowfully. 'Here
on board this ship I don't come into close contact with all the
suffering and misery that exists on land. But there is no doubt
that we treat the blacks in a way that will come back to haunt
and punish us, there's no doubt about that.'
Perhaps Captain Fortuna expected her to respond, but she
said nothing for a while, then began to talk about something
quite different.
'Let's be honest,' she said. 'I know you visited the brothel I
inherited when my husband died. You paid up as required, and
you treated the women well. But there's one thing I wonder about.
Which of the women did you visit?'
'Belinda Bonita. Never anybody else. If it had been possible,
I'd have married her.'
'That black porter who came on board with me,' said Ana. 'I
love him. I hope I'm carrying his child.'
Captain Fortuna eyed her in the flickering light of the lantern
he was holding in his hand.
He smiled. A friendly smile.
'I understand,' he said. 'I understand exactly what you mean.'
That night Ana slept long and deep. It seemed to her that the
sea was like a rocking chair in which she was swaying gently back
and forth as the night passed, and another life slowly became
possible.
Africa Hotel, Beira, 1905
u
For the second time in her life Hanna Lundmark walked along
a gangplank and left a ship that she would never board again.
During the voyage she had abandoned for ever her other names:
Ana Branca and Hanna Vaz. She had even considered dropping
Lundmark's name and reverting to what she was at the very
beginning: Hanna Renstrom. She had stood leaning on the rail
of the little coaster, occasionally watching dolphins playing in the
ship's wake, and once, just off Xai-Xai, she had even seen a pod
of whales spouting in the distance. But mainly she had just stood
there with her various names in her hand, dropping them into
the water one after another.
She had chosen to stand in the stern of the ship because that's
where the galley was - just as it had been on the Lovisa. Working
inside the cramped kitchen, oozing with smoke and cooking
smells, were an incredibly fat black woman, and two men who
might well have been chosen because they were so thin. Otherwise
there would never have been room for them as well as the wood
burning stove and all the pots and pans and chipped crockery.
There were not many passengers on board. Hanna had the best
cabin, but every evening she had to wage war on masses of cockroaches,
which she crushed with a shoe. Over her head she could
hear the coughing and scraping noises made by the deck passengers
as they wrapped themselves up in their sleeping bags to sleep.
She occasionally spoke to Captain Fortuna. Hanna gathered
his origins could be traced back to practically everywhere in the
world. On her second day on board he had asked her where she
came from.
'Sweden,' she had said. 'A country up in the far north. Where
the Northern Lights illuminate the night sky.'
She had not been totally convinced that he knew where her
homeland was, but she politely asked where he came from.
'My mother was Greek,' he said. 'My mother's father came from
Persia and his mother was born in India, but she had her roots
in one of the South Sea Islands. My father was a Turk, but his
ancestry was in fact a mixture of Jewish, Moroccan and a drop
of blood from distant Japan. I regard myself as an Arabian African,
or an African Arab. The ocean belongs to everybody.'
Hanna took her meals in her cabin, served by one of the thin
men she had seen in the galley. She ate very little, spent most of
the time resting on her bunk or standing in the stern, tracing the
contours of the dark continent through the heat haze.
At one point the steam engine broke down. They drifted for
almost a full day before the mechanic managed to trace and repair
the fault so that they could continue their voyage to Beira.
It was dusk when she walked along the gangplank and set foot
in the unknown town. She was followed by two crew members
who had been ordered by Captain Fortuna to carry her luggage
and accompany her to the Africa Hotel. That was where she would
stay while she was searching for Isabel's parents.
As she entered through the illuminated doors, she was astonished
by the splendour surrounding her on all sides. She had
thought the hotel Pandre stayed in was the most palatial she had
ever seen in her life, but the Africa Hotel in Beira exceeded
anything she could possibly have dreamt of. She moved into the
second-largest suite in the hotel as the marriage suite was already
booked. That first evening she was served a meal in her room,
and drank champagne for only the second time in her life: the
first time was the evening when she and Senhor Vaz had married.
The following day she started looking for Isabel's parents. She
had been assisted by the hotel to recruit two African men who
could show her around the slum districts where she assumed
Isabel's parents would live. With the aid of the two men she spent
over a week combing all the outlying settlements around Beira.
As she had never visited any of the African districts in Lourenco
Marques, it came as% shock for her to discover the conditions in
which black people lived. She discovered squalor and suffering
way beyond her imagination. Every evening she would sit in her
lovely rooms in a state of petrified horror. She almost stopped
eating altogether while the search was taking place. At night she
had a succession of nightmares, nearly all of which transported
her back to the river and the mountains where she failed to find
the home she had left so long ago.
But after a few days she noticed something else when she made
her repeated visits to the black settlements. She discovered an
unexpected lust for life among the poorest of the poor. The
slightest reason for feeling joy was not tossed disdainfully aside,
but seized with both hands. People supported one another, even
though they had virtually nothing that they could share.
One evening she tried to note down in her diary what it was
she thought she had discovered, once she had managed to dig down deeper under
the surface of all the poverty and squalor.
She wrote: 'Amidst this incomprehensible poverty I can see
islands of wealth. Happiness that ought not to exist, warmth that
should never really have survived. This discovery enables me to
see in the white people who live here a different kind of poverty
among all their riches and well-being.'
She read through what she had written. She thought she hadn't
quite managed to work out exactly what she had experienced; but
nevertheless she felt that for the first time she had seen the reality
of the black people and their lives. Until now, her perspective had
been twisted.
Perhaps, coming from the most poverty-stricken level of society
in Sweden, she had more in common with blacks than she had
previously realized.
The next day she continued her search for Isabel's parents.
Every step she took, every person she saw, convinced her that
what she had written the previous night had been correct.
For the first time she was struck by a totally unexpected thought:
perhaps I might be able to feel at home here after all. She realized
that she was not just searching for Isabel's parents: she was also
searching for an entirely new way of looking at herself.
During the days she was looking for Isabel's parents, the hotel
was making preparations for a major wedding celebration. A
Portuguese prince was going to marry an English duchess. At
anchor in the roadstead were several large yachts that had made
the journey from Europe. Hanna was the only person staying
at the hotel who was not one of the wedding guests. Needless
to say, she received an invitation even so, seeing as she was on
the spot. She accepted, and despite everything had to acknowledge
that she felt safe and secure to be surrounded by white
people after all the misery and squalor she had encountered in
the African settlements.
She was on the point of giving up: she didn't think she would
ever be able to find Isabel's parents and tell them that Isabel was
dead. She paid her two guides, and watched them stare at the
many banknotes she handed over with amazement, almost fear.
The wedding was due to take place that same evening. Hanna
spent the afternoon in the shady part of the hotel grounds, so as
not to disturb the intensive preparations.
She suddenly found an elderly man standing in front of her, a
white man wearing a dark suit. He must have been about sixty.
Hanna wanted to be left in peace, and at first found his presence
importunate: but she noticed that his friendliness seemed to be
genuine, and that he was simply looking for somebody to talk to.
They watched the colourful birds with long beaks flying around
the bushes and flowers.
'I'm on my way,' said the man suddenly.
'Aren't we all?' Hanna responded.
'My name's Harold ffendon,' said the man. 'I used to be called
something completely different -1 can no longer recall what. But
my father was calledWilson, John Wilson, and was never known
as anything but Jack. Now I'm on my way to what in his time
was known as Van Diemen's Land.'
'Where's that?'
'It's called Tasmania nowadays. But when my father lived there
it was a notorious penal colony - England sent many of its worst
criminals there either to die, or simply to disappear from the city
streets in their homeland. My father had stolen a pair of shoes in
the city of Bristol and for that he was exiled for fifteen years.
When he'd served his sentence he chose to stay on there. He
became a sheep farmer, but he also learnt the art of building
organs. He's dead now, but I intend to go out there and live close
to where he did.'
'How come you have ended up here?'
'It's a long way to Australia.'
Yes, Hanna thought: it's a very long way to Australia. I never
got there. I also ended up here.
'You can see icebergs on the way there,' she said.
T know,' said ffendon. 'Many of the ships taking criminals to
Australia and Van Dieman's Land never got there. Some of them
were sunk by icebergs.'
The conversation died away, just as quickly as it had begun.
Ffendon suddenly stood up, bowed and held out his hand.
'I need help to complete my journey,' he said. 'I'm ashamed to
admit it, but I'm asking for help even so.'
Hanna went up to her room, fetched fifty English pounds and
returned to the garden.
'How did you know that I had a bit of money to spare?' she
asked.
'You give the impression of not being worried about anything,'
said ffendon. 'A person like that either believes in God, or has
plenty of money. You didn't seem to be a believer, so as far as I
was concerned there was only one other possibility left.'
'Good luck with your journey,' she said, handing over the
money.
She watched him leave. If he really would go to Tasmania or
if he'd gamble away the money, she had no idea. She didn't really
care.
Hanna attended the wedding ceremony itself, saw the handsome
young couple and recalled the simplicity of the occasion when
she and Lundmark had married in Algiers. But at the reception
afterwards, her chair at one of the round tables was empty. She
had gone back to her room in order to work out where she would
go next. Where was the Tasmania that she could head for? What
choices did she have? Did she have any choice in fact? Or should
she simply stay on at the Africa Hotel until her money ran out?
Late that night she made up her mind to go to Phalaborwa,
the place the missionary Agnes had talked about on board the Lovisa the day
after Hanna had arrived in Africa. She could go
there and maybe find inspiration for what to do with her life. At
the missionary station she would be able to discard the final
remains of what she had become during her time in Africa.
She slept for a few hours before getting up as dawn broke. The
wedding party was still in full swing. She looked out of the window
and gave a start: Moses was standing there under a tree. He was
staring up at her window. She shouted out, knowing that she
wasn't mistaken. Beside herself with happiness, she got dressed
and hurried down into the garden. Moses was no longer there
under the tree - but she knew what he was thinking. It was not
appropriate for a black man to meet a white woman in the grounds
of a hotel. And so he had withdrawn to somewhere discreet. She
looked around and saw a dense clump of bushes next to the stone
wall surrounding the hotel.
He was standing there, waiting for her. He wasn't wearing his
usual overalls, but was dressed in a shabby black suit. She was
surprised that he had been allowed in: the blacks who worked in
the hotel or in the prk-like grounds all wore uniforms.
'I climbed over the wall,' he said. 'They'd never have allowed
me in. In the mines we learn how to climb over and past piles of
fallen stone. There's no wall a miner can't climb over.'
She barely listened to what he was saying. Instead she stood
close to him and felt how he put his arms round her.
'How did you get here?' she asked.
'On another ship.'
'When did you arrive?'
'Yesterday.'
'No doubt you know that I haven't found your parents.'
'I know.'
She looked at him.
'Why did you come here?'
He took a step backwards and produced a little pouch from
out of his pocket. Hanna recognized it immediately. He had once
given a similar pouch to Isabel.
'I wanted to give you this.'
'Is it the same as you gave Isabel?'
'Yes.'
'You said then that it didn't work on her because she was
surrounded by too many white people who took away all its
strength. Why are you giving it to me, then?'
'Because you are not like the others. I know you are called Ana
Branca. But that's wrong. For me you are Ana Negra.'
Black Ana, she thought. Is that my real name?
'Your last task in the life of the white woman you were born
as is to find my parents,' said Moses. 'Once you've done that, you
are one of us, Ana Negra.'
'What will happen if I grow wings?'
'You'll fly to wherever I am.'
Without another word he handed over the pouch, climbed up
the wall and disappeared over the other side. It all happened so
quickly that she had no time to react.
She continued searching but didn't find the parents. Nobody
seemed to recognize their names. Every evening she went back to
the hotel and contemplated the pouch lying on her table. And every
morning she stood by the window, but Moses never reappeared.
In the end she gave up. Isabel's and Moses' parents had been
swallowed up by the mass of black people: she would never be
able to find them. What she wanted more than anything else - to
see Moses standing down below in the hotel grounds once again,
and then to run off with him over the high stone wall - would
never become reality.
That evening she started packing her belongings. The pouch
remained where it had been all the time, untouched. She had not
changed her resolve to go to the missionary station.
In the end only her diary was left. She was determined to be
rid of the notebook that she had tied a red ribbon around. She
considered burning it, but changed her mind without really
knowing why.
By chance she noticed that although the hotel was newly built,
the parquet floor in her room was already cracking. When she
poked a finger into one of those cracks, a piece of parquet came
loose. She knelt down and pushed the diary into the gap, as far
as it would go: then she replaced the loose piece.
She later summoned one of the hotel's black caretakers who
made sure that the crack was repaired.
She stayed for one more day and one more night at the Africa
Hotel. All the wedding guests had left by now. The white yachts
in the roadstead had weighed anchor and departed. The hotel
seemed deserted.
That last evening she sat by the open window where the curtain
was swaying slowly in the evening breeze. She emptied the contents
of the leather pouch into her hand and swallowed them, washed
down with a glass of water.
Nobody saw her ieave, and afterwards nobody was able to
confirm if she had rented a carriage or left Beira in a boat or on
horseback.
When the hotel staff let themselves into her room the following
day, her payment was lying in an envelope on the table.
Her suitcases were no longer there.
Nobody ever saw her again.
As a general rule, everything I write is based on truth - it
might be a big or a small truth, it can be crystal clear or
extremely fragmentary; but nevertheless, there is always something
based on real events that leads to the fiction in all my novels.
As in this particular case. It was Tor Sallstrom, author and
Africa enthusiast, who mentioned in a conversation, almost in
passing, some remarkable documents he had come across in old
colonial archives in Maputo, the capital of Mozambique. According
to what he read, at the end of the nineteenth century and perhaps
also the beginning of the twentieth century, a Swedish woman
had been the owner of one of the biggest brothels in the town,
which in those days was called Lourenco Marques. She was
mentioned because she had been a significant taxpayer.
After a few years, she is no longer mentioned in the documents.
She apparently came from nowhere, and vanished just as mysteriously
as she had appeared.
Who was she? Where did she come from? I did more research,
but it seems her origins really were unknown, as was her fate. All
conclusions had to be theories, more or less probable.
But we do know that Swedish ships berthed in Lourenco
Marques, often carrying cargoes of timber to Australia. And most
probably there were women crew members now and then, mainly
cooks.
In other words, everything beyond those basic facts is speculation.
Apart from the bureaucratic evidence in an old ledger. When
it came to taxes gathered, colonial civil servants were scrupulous
with the facts. Every year it was necessary to convince the government
in Lisbon that the colony really was a profit-making venture.
So, she really did exist and lived in Lourenco Marques, because
the archives do not lie. She paid impressive amounts of tax.
My story is therefore based on the little we know, and all that
we don't know.
Henning Mankell
Gothenburg, June 2&11
O Paraiso
Shangana
Capulana
Pau preto
A Magrinha
Feticheiroa
Xhipamanhine
Bombeiros
Ana Branca
Ana Negra
Belinda Bonita
Halakavuma
Nickname of a home-brewed spirit with a
high alcohol content
Paradise
A language spoken in southern parts of
Mozambique
Piece of batik cloth used by women as a loincloth
in Mozambique
Very hard, black type of wood found in
Africa
The thin one
Male or female witchdoctor
One of the oldest black settlements in
Maputo, Mozambique. Maputo used to be
called Lourenco Marques
Firemen
White Ana
Black Ana
The beautiful Belinda
The name in Shangana of a large lizard that
is considered to possess magical wisdom
The fortunate one
June Dawson has come a long way from the
rough East End background where she met, got
pregnant by and eventually married charming,
reckless Johnny Fuller. Now she lives in leafy
Rainham, in a nice little cul-de-sac, with her
respectable second husband and a lovely
social life.
Then her world collapses when daughter Debbie announces that she is pregnant by
her low-life, drug addict boyfriend, Billy McDaid. June feels
though she is being physically sucked back into the world of villains and
things she thought she had escaped for ever. but worse is to come. Much, much
worse.
BORN EVIL
preface
publishing
KIMBERLEY
CHAMBERS
Published by Preface 2009
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10 98765432
Copyright © Kimberley Chambers 2009
Kimberley Chambers has asserted her right to be identified as the author
of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of
trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated
without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition,
including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Preface Publishing
1 Queen Anne's Gate
London SW1H 9BT
An imprint of The Random House Group Limited
www.rbooks.co.uk
www.prefacepublishing.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited
can be found at www.randomhouse.co.uk
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A C1P catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 84809 112 2
In memory of my wonderful grandparents
Daisy and Charlie Chambers.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A big kiss to Rosie de Courcy, my partner in crime!
Sue Cox, my hands and brains! Tim Bates, my agent and
therapist!
Also, a special mention to Trevor Dolby, Lesley Pollinger,
Annabel Robinson, Pat Fletcher and my number one fan
Jeanette Slinger.
A life is created
A child is born
A beautiful gift
Not one to mourn
A son for keeps
A love to gel
Unless that child
Belongs in hell
ONE
October 1990
I ook, Mum, there's no easy way for me to say this.
You're gonna go mental, so I'm just gonna give it to you
straight. I'm pregnant.'
June Dawson felt bile rise from her stomach and reach I In.- back of her
throat. Dropping the dishcloth she'd been
washing up with, she clung on to the worktop for physical
support.
For a moment, she thought she was going to pass out.
15 rcathing in deeply and blowing out slowly, she somehow
managed to steady herself. As she turned around to face
her daughter, she felt every hope and dream she'd ever
nurtured for her fly straight out of the window.
Trying to speak, June found that her voice sounded
anything but normal. She usually spoke loudly, but her
words came out in no more than a whisper.
Ms Billy the father?'
Debbie stood, hands on hips, staring defiantly into her
mother's eyes.
'Of course he is. I love him, Mum.'
June fished around in the kitchen cupboards and found
the bottle of brandy she kept there for cooking and medicinal
purposes. She and her husband only ever drank
socially.
June poured herself a large glass and downed it in one,
1
then immediately knocked back another. She was in that
much shock, she could quite easily have swallowed the
whole bloody bottle. With the drink going straight to her
head, her voice suddenly came back and she decided to
say her piece.
'You're gonna have to get rid of it, Debbie. You're eighteen
years old, with your whole life ahead of you. Don't
sell yourself short and end up with a no-good arsehole
like Billy McDaid. He's a wrong 'un love, everybody says
so, and far too old for you. He'll run a mile once he
knows you're pregnant. You mark my words, he'll be off
like a shot. Blokes like him are all the same.'
Blinded by love and obstinate by nature, Debbie glared
defiantly at her mother.
'Well, that's where you're wrong, Mum. Billy already
knows about the baby and he's over the moon. He's dying
for it to be born and can't wait to become a father. 1 love
him so much and I'm keeping the baby whatever you say.
You're just gonna have to accept it, or you'll end up losing
me and your unborn grandchild. As for calling Billy a
wrong 'un .. .you'd know all about that, Mother, wouldn't
you?'
June looked at her daughter with a mixture of pity and
disgust. She needed to talk to her Peter. He would know
how to handle the situation.
'Get out of my sight, Debbie. You wait till Peter gets
home from work. I'm gonna tell him what you said to
me and he won't be very happy.'
'As if I bloody well care! He's hardly me father now,
is he?' Debbie screamed, and slammed the kitchen door.
June sat down at the table, put her head in her hands
and sobbed. Both her children had now fucked their lives
up, and she wondered where she'd gone so bloody wrong.
She'd disowned Mickey, her son, a while back, when
he'd got caught hijacking a lorry load of cigarettes with
i rang of well-known villains he'd been knocking about with,
I Icr Peter had gone totally apeshit and demanded she
w ish her hands of the lad. It hadn't helped that the lory was front-page news
in the local paper. She and
Peter had had to endure the shame, stares and gossip for weeks.
Unbeknown to her husband, though, June still disi
reetly enquired after Mickey. She'd heard through the
grapevine that he was due out of prison in the next few weeks. He'd served his
sentence in Wormwood Scrubs and had written to her from here a couple of times,
pleading with her to visit him. June had tearfully read the letters that her
first-born had sent and felt nothing
Imt love and compassion for the son she still adored.
But, after careful consideration, she'd torn them up and
severed all contact with him.
It had been the hardest decision she'd ever had to make,
but in her eyes it was the only one left to her. She'd had to choose her
husband over her son.
Now the same thing was going to happen with Debbie,
Peter was gonna go mad when he heard she was pregnant.
Unless Debs agreed to get rid of the baby, June knew that he would make her
daughter move out of the
house.
Peter wasn't an ogre, just a strict, highly regimented
man of integrity, with a high opinion of himself and his
family. He was also preparing to stand as a Tory councillor
in the forthcoming local election and certainly
wouldn't welcome any bad press.
June poured herself another brandy, dreading what was
to come. Without Peter she was nothing, a nobody. In
many ways he'd been the making of her. He'd turned her
from a rough East End girl into a respectable member of
the community. He'd moved her from a shit-hole house
3
in Poplar to a nice little cul-de-sac in Rainham. He'd taken
on her kids as his own and given her a purpose in life,
a chance to better herself, and she'd grasped that opportunity
with both hands. She couldn't throw it all back in
his face by siding with Debbie, she just couldn't. Not
when her daughter was making the biggest mistake of
her life.
Debbie lay on her bed. She felt like crying with frustration.
She bit her trembling lip as hard as she could and
drew blood. The pain stopped the tears from coming. She
knew there was going to be a showdown when Perfect
Peter walked through the door.
Well, he wasn't her dad and she was sick of jumping
to his bloody tune. This baby was hers, and she wasn't
taking shit off no one. He'd been good to her, had Peter,
but his attitude really wound her up. Both he and her
mother were shoved so far up their own arses, it was as
though reality didn't exist for them. In their world, dinner
parties, Masonic events, local politics and golf club meetings
were much more important than what was going on
in the real world.
Debbie had never had the pleasure of meeting her real
father. She'd been only eighteen months old when he'd
kicked the living daylights out of her mum and brother
and left the house for the last time. Her brother Mickey,
who was seven years older than she was, remembered
him well and said he'd been an out and out cunt, a total
scumbag.
Johnny Fuller was his name and part of Debbie wished
she'd had the chance to meet him. Just the once would
have done the trick. It would have satisfied her burning
curiosity to know exactly where she came from.
She had no chance of that now, though. Six months
ago her father had been found dead outside a betting shop
4
in Whitechapel. He'd died of a single stab wound, a homeless
alcoholic.
As Debbie heard the front door bang downstairs, she
forgot about her real dad. Pulling the quilt over her head,
she prepared herself for one of her stepfather's lectures.
Twenty minutes later, there was a tap-tap on her
bedroom door, and a surprisingly calm Peter entered her
room. Perching himself on the end of her bed, he came
straight to the point.
'If you decide to have an abortion, Debbie, your mother
and I will give you our one hundred per cent support. I'll
pay, send you to the best private clinic available, and your
mum and I will accompany you, so you won't have to go
through this alone. However, if you are adamant about
keeping the baby, then I'm afraid you'll be on your own.
Your mum and I will have no option other than to wash
our hands of you.'
Debbie took a deep breath as she pulled down the quilt
and prepared to stand her ground.
'Look, Peter, I know I'm only young, and I appreciate
your concern and Mum's, but I want this baby. I love
Billy and he loves me. What can be so wrong about two
people in love having a baby together?'
Looking at her disdainfully, Peter spoke slowly, clearly,
in his most patronising voice.
'Debbie, Debbie, Debbie . . . you are so young and
naive, my dear child. What am I going to do with you?
Billy McDaid is not a very nice person, my love. He has
a terrible track record with convictions for violence as
well as drink- and drug-related offences. Eight years ago
he was locked up in Pentonville for a vicious assault on
an ex-girlfriend.'
Debbie's eyes were burning with fury as she leaped
off the bed.
T don't believe you - you're making it up! You're only
5
saying all this so I'll get rid of the baby. I bet my mother's
put you up to this, hasn't she?'
Peter slowly shook his head from side to side and
looked sadly into the eyes of this strong-willed girl bent
on defying him.
'Everything I've told you is for your own good,
Debbie. Your mother was so worried when you started
courting this lad that I decided to have him checked
out. I have well-connected friends, as you know, so
getting the low-down on him wasn't that difficult. I can
assure you, everything I've told you tonight is the absolute
truth. He's also lied to you about his age. He's not
twenty-nine, he's thirty-five years old. The ball is in
your court now, and the decision is entirely yours. Get
rid of the baby and Mummy and I will help you as
much as we can. But, I have to be brutal about this,
Debbie, if you decide to keep it, I want you out of this
house by next weekend. Your mother and I have our
reputations and also my standing in the community to
consider.'
As he quietly shut the bedroom door, Peter said a silent
prayer for the girl he'd brought up as his own and grown
so very fond of. He was satisfied he'd done his utmost,
his very best. Composing himself, he went downstairs to
comfort his tearful, heartbroken wife.
'Wanker,' Debbie mumbled, as soon as he was out of
earshot. 'Lying fucking bastard.' She was absolutely
seething. Billy wouldn't lie to her about his age, and as
for all the other shit. . . she didn't believe a word of it.
It was definitely a ploy, just so she'd get rid of the baby
His standing in the community? What a tosser! Well, they
could both go and fuck themselves. Perfect Peter and her
drama queen mother deserved one another. As for the lies
they'd concocted, she'd never forgive them for that.
Pulling her case out from under the bed, she started
6
a
to pack her clothes and belongings. They wouldn't have
to wait till next weekend to get rid of her, she'd be long
gone before then. She crammed in the last of her necessities,
zipped the case and slid it back under the bed. She
was seeing Billy tomorrow morning and couldn't wait to
tell him the whole sorry story. He'd been asking her to
move in with him for the last few months, but she hadn't
wanted to upset her parents so had said no. Now, though,
she couldn't wait to set up home with him.
Billy had a council place on an estate in Barking. The
area was a bit rough and his flat was dirty with virtually
no furniture. In fact, it was the complete opposite to the
clean house and nice area that Debbie had become accustomed
to.
All it needs is a woman's touch, a good clean, a bit
more furniture and we'll be fine, she told herself.
The last night in her perfectly furnished bedroom with
its pink wallpaper, hi-fi system, TV, video, and all her
other personal belongings, wasn't an easy one for Debbie.
She spent the whole night tossing and turning, unable to
sleep. Ninety-nine per cent of her felt sure she was doing
the right thing. Moving in with Billy and having his baby
was what she wanted, wasn't it? There was only that one
little seed of doubt at the back of her mind telling her
that her choice could be wrong.
There's an old saying in life: 'Little seeds grow into
very big trees.'
Unacknowledged by her, Debbie's little seed had
already begun to sprout.
7
TWO
June sat on a floral-upholstered chair in the conservatory,
a thousand thoughts spinning through her mind.
She sipped her coffee and stared through the plate-glass
window while Peter mowed the lawn. Watching her
daughter leave home this morning, suitcase in hand, had
broken her heart. She hadn't said a word as Debbie had
walked away but kept schtum, to please Peter. What kind
of mother did that make her? She should have shaken
the girl, made her see sense, cuddled her and begged
her to stay. Maybe even sat her down and told her the
whole sorry story of her own younger years. Surely that
would have been enough to make Debbie sit up and take
notice.
Instead she'd done nothing, absolutely sod all, just let
her daughter walk down the path and out of her life, with
that no-good bastard Billy McDaid standing smirking by
the front door. All she could do now was hope and bloody
pray that her Debbie's life didn't turn out to be a mirror
image of her own.
June Dawson had been only a kid, sixteen years old,
in fact, when she'd had the misfortune to meet Johnny
Fuller at the local fairground. Ten years older than herself,
he was a handsome bastard. He had the clothes, the looks,
the chat and the charm to impress a gullible teenager.
8
June had fallen for him, hook, line and sinker. She could
remember the night she'd lost her virginity like it was
yesterday. He'd looked so good in his black Crombie,
tight trousers and winkle-picker shoes, she'd been overwhelmed
with lust for him, putty in his hands.
Her pregnancy had shocked her parents to the core and
they'd demanded she go away to a home, give birth to
the child and have it adopted. Blinded by a mixture of
naivety and love, June had ignored their request and
chosen her own path. A brief spell living with Johnny's
mother was followed by a council tenancy in a house in
the back streets of Poplar.
Overjoyed at having her own home and determined
to be a good mother and potential wife, June threw
herself into a homemaking role where cooking, cleaning,
scrubbing and lovemaking were all part of her everyday
duties. Trouble was, as happy as she was in her new life,
her Johnny wasn't. Within weeks of their moving in
together, he was spending more and more time in the
local pub.
The night her Mickey was born would stick in June's
mind forever. At just turned seventeen, she knew nothing
about having babies. On the night her waters broke, she
thought she'd accidentally wet herself. When the contractions
started she put it down to an upset tummy, blaming
the bread and dripping she'd eaten earlier. For four hours
she lay on the floor, crippled with pain, hoping and praying
that Johnny would come home. Finally, unable to stand
it anymore, she crawled on her hands and knees to old
Lil next door.
Lillian Wade had lived through two world wars. After
taking one look at June, she grabbed a towel and a pair
of scissors, and forty-five minutes later young Mickey
Dawson let out his first cry.
Johnny Fuller arrived home five days after his son was
9
born. Unbeknown to June he'd met some old scrubber,
eighteen years his senior, from the Whitechapel area and
had been staying at hers. After spending less than an hour
with his first-born, Johnny headed off to the pub to wet
the baby's head.
Life grew harder for June from that moment onwards.
Money was scarce, and as time wore on she was left more
and more alone with her son; Johnny was usually nowhere
to be seen. But June, being a fighter, learned how to cope
on her own with her boy. Her neighbours were wonderful,
and whenever her so-called partner stayed away for long
spells they helped her out with Mickey, making sure that
both of them were okay. Many a cold night June and the
boy sat huddled around a neighbour's coal fire for a bit
of warmth; the rest of the time, they sat indoors with their
coats on and a blanket over them.
As the years rolled by, June and Mickey settled into a
nice routine. By now, Johnny hardly came home at all.
If he popped in twice a year, he overstayed his welcome.
Working up North was his excuse, but truth be told he
was living with a bird over in Dagenham, playing Daddy
to her two kids.
June's pleasant routine ended on the morning of
Mickey's sixth birthday. Lily had baked him a cake, all
the neighbours had chipped in to buy him a second-hand
bike and a party was planned for him that afternoon.
Hearing the front door open and slam shut, June thought
it was Lily bringing the cake in.
'I'm in the kitchen, Lil.'
To her horror, it wasn't Lily at all. It was a drunken,
unkempt, old-looking Johnny carrying a bin liner full of
belongings in his hand.
'I'm home, darlin',' he slurred. 'For good this time,
there's no more work up North.'
Life got a lot worse for June from that moment on.
Nursing a broken heart and an alcohol addiction, Johnny
drank for England, refused to work, and took out all his
frustration on her and the boy.
The beatings started within weeks. First it was just the
odd clump here and there, but within months he was
knocking seven colours of shit out of her.
June hated him, wished he was dead, but she was
trapped.
Due to his drink problem, he'd stopped wanting regular
sex but she dreaded the nights he beat her. It wasn't the
pain, she cc;uld handle that, it was the aftermath. The
violence seemed to arouse him and he'd then force himself
upon her. It was on one of these nights that Debbie was
conceived.
A couple of weeks after June's pregnancy was
confirmed, Johnny did another disappearing act. Money
was still tight and life was tough, but once again the
neighbours helped out and June began to smile again.
Debbie was just over a year old when her father
returned from his last jaunt. This time his behaviour was
worse than ever and the beatings became more frequent.
Things came to a head a few months later when, instead
of just knocking his wife about, he started beating the
living daylights out of Mickey boy as well. After a particular
vicious attack on her son, June confided in her
neighbour Lily, who knew exactly what to do. The lad
was rushed to hospital and the police were called.
June did not clap eyes on Johnny Fuller again from
that day onwards. A year later she met Peter at a wedding
and had not looked back since. He had loved her,
supported her, and made her financially and emotionally
secure. Which was why, whatever happened, she had to
stick by him. He had rescued her from a living hell and
she would always be indebted to him for that.
Are you all right, my darling?'
Peter wiped his muddy boots on the mat and sat down
opposite his wife. Taking her hands in his, he spoke softly.
'Everything will be okay, June, trust me. Debbie will
come to her senses. But meanwhile we have to stick to
our guns, be strong. What's meant to be is meant to be,
my love.'
June looked into his eyes. He was so sincere, so sure
of himself. Squeezing his hands, she smiled. T hope you're
right, Peter, I really do.'
Her husband kissed her gently on the forehead. 'Believe
me, darling, I'm always right.'
Billy carried Debbie's case as they walked towards the
tower block on the Gascoigne Estate. Gagging as she
stepped into the lift, Debbie held her nose to block out
the smell. She had been in the same lift plenty of times
before, but the stench seemed far worse now that she was
pregnant.
Billy lived thirteen floors up, which gave Debbie
plenty of time to study her surroundings. They consisted
of graffiti, spit, fag butts and stale urine. Noticing her
expression, Billy smiled.
'Aye, lassie, you'll get used to the smell after a bit,
you will.'
Debbie pretended to agree, but made a mental note to
use the stairs whenever possible.
'Now, make yourself at home, hen. I have to pop out
for a wee bit, to pick some money up. I willnae be long.'
Debbie took a good long look at her new abode and
felt increasingly depressed. 'An absolute shit-hole' was
the best way to describe it. She'd been here before, lots
of times, but always after a drink and of an evening. Her v mum and Peter had
never let her stay out all night, so
she'd never had a chance to see the place in daylight. The
flat itself was okay, quite big for a council place, it was
just so bare and desperately in need of decorating and
some furniture.
Debbie looked into the bedroom and found there
was nowhere for her to put her clothes. The one small
wardrobe was full of Billy's stuff. As she sat down on
the mattress on the bare floor, which served as the bed,
Debbie started to sob. She would have to have a serious
chat with Billy, she told herself. She wasn't coming
round here once a week now, bladdered like before.
She was a pregnant woman and needed comfort, a
proper home.
Billy arrived back two hours later. Listening to Debbie
talking between her sobs, he hugged her tightly.
'Shhh, now. Hey, come on, everything will be okay.
I've got plenty of money. We'll get some paint
tomorrow, spruce the place up a bit. There's a secondhand
furniture place down the road - I'll take you there
and we'll kit the place out. I didnae bother with all
that shit before, living here on my own, but now you're
here it's different. Now come on, stop crying, we'll get
it sorted, I promise.'
Billy woke up early the next morning. Debs had
been tossing and turning all night, she'd kept him awake
for bloody hours. He glanced at her, and was surprised
to see that she was now fast asleep. He hoped he'd
made the right decision, letting her move in with him.
Her performance last night, with all the tears and shit,
wasn't his scene - dramatics had never been his game.
He'd thought Debs was different, a laugh. He'd never
seen her cry before, she'd always been so happy-go
lucky. He really hoped she wasn't about to change. For
some reason or other, he always attracted nutty women.
The last three had been all right until he'd moved in
with them. Within weeks they all seemed to turn psycho
on him.
Sighing, Billy slung his arm round Debs. 'Wakey,
wakey'
As he rubbed his erection against her leg, he willed
her to respond. He was fucked if he was going to stand
painting for hours, buy furniture he didn't want, and get
nothing in return.
Stirring, Debbie reciprocated his kisses. She'd been
silly last night, all emotional. This was her new life now.
She loved Billy and was determined to make it work.
Billy was as good as his word. He bought a couple of
tins of paint and then took Debbie to a tut shop where
she chose a sofa, coffee table, small wardrobe, lamp and
a chest of drawers. She refused to sleep in a second-hand
bed, which pissed him off as he had to fork out for a
brand new one. She also demanded saucepans, utensils
and a big shop at Tesco.
'Fucking women,' Billy muttered, as soon as she was
out of earshot. Three hundred and sixty pounds today had
bloody well cost him! He just hoped Debs was worth it
because if she wasn't she'd go the same way as all the
others had.
Billy took a deep breath as he fought to keep his temper
in check. In the past he'd made the mistake of lashing
out at women, but he was determined to put all that shit
behind him now and make a fresh start.
He really loved Debbie, but prayed she didn't push
him too far. The others had all taken the piss out of him
and he wasn't the type of geezer to take shit off anyone,
especially a woman. His mum was to blame for the way
he was, he knew that. She had fucked him up. He had
tried desperately to forget his damaged childhood, but
sometimes when women pissed him off, it came back to
him. As he terrorised them, all he could think of was his
whore of a mother.
Billy put the last of the Tesco bags in the kitchen, then
rummaged through them and opened a can of Strongbow.
Greedily gulping the cider, he calmed himself down. This
was a new start for him and he had to make it work. If
he didn't, his-evil bitch of a mother would have won.
THREE
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Six months into Debbie's pregnancy, the cracks in Billy's
resolve began to show. Spending most of her time in the
flat alone, while Billy spent his in the pub, had become
second nature to Debbie, so she was surprised when he
insisted she attend a pal's wedding reception, which was
being held in a local pub.
'Do I have to come, Bill? I can't drink, and I feel so
fat and frumpy'
'Aye, I want you to come. All my mates are taking
their other halves, so I need you to be there for me.'
As she got ready that night, Debbie felt like shit. She'd
made good friends with a couple of the neighbours, Sharon
and Donna, and was usually quite happy to spend her
time at home with them while Billy was out gallivanting.
After powdering her face, she applied blue eye shadow,
squeezed herself into the one black dress she possessed,
and stood facing the cracked mirror which hung next to
the wardrobe. The sight of her reflection didn't do her
mood any good. 'Bleeding hell,' she muttered. She'd overdone
the bronzer and felt like an orange that had become
too big for its skin. Studying herself, she picked holes in
her appearance. Her shoulder-length brown hair looked
thin and lifeless. Her nose was a bit too big for her face,
and her teeth had always been crooked. When she'd been
slim her features hadn't bothered her so much, some
people had even called her attractive, but now she was
fat it was a different story. She felt unsightly.
'You ready, babe?' Billy stood at the bedroom door,
looking smart in his light grey suit.
Plastering on a false smile, Debbie pecked him on the
lips. 'As ready as I'll ever be.'
To her dismay, both lifts in the block were out of action,
and by the time she'd walked down the thirteen flights of
stairs she felt absolutely knackered.
The party was avvjful. The pub was a shit-hole, everyone
was slaughtered and the DJ was a blind man. She'd have
tried to enjoy it if only she could have had a drink, but
standing in the corner on her own all night, with only a
glass of Coke for company, wasn't much fun. Billy had introduced her to
everyone earlier. He'd even stood with
her for the first hour, but now he was drunk and up at
the bar with the lads.
Debbie found herself studying him. He looked really
smart tonight. Like her, he was no oil painting. Billy was
skinny and pale, with light brown hair and sharp features.
Attractive in his own way, though. She loved his
Glaswegian accent, it made her laugh, and he was always
cool and self-assured.
'It's Debbie, isn't it? Debbie Dawson?'
Swinging around to see who was talking to her, Debbie
vaguely recognised the short lad with blond cropped hair,
but couldn't think where from.
'Darren,' he said, shaking her hand. 'Darren Jackson.
I was in your class at junior school.'
Once the penny had dropped the evening flew by for
Debbie and she spent the rest of the night with him,
discussing their classmates, teachers and old friends.
Billy stood at the bar, seething. Talk about making him
look a prick in front of all his mates! With his blood at
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boiling point, he could stand it no more. Slamming his
pint down on the bar, he walked over to where his slut
of a bird and the blond-haired dwarf were standing.
'Whaddya think you're doing, you fucking slag?'
Terribly embarrassed, Debbie tried to smooth over the
situation. 'Stop mucking about, Billy. This is Darren. He's
an old school friend of mine.'
T couldnae give a fuck who the cunt is, we're going
home!' Billy grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the
packed pub.
As they walked back to the flat, Debbie felt more and
more uneasy. Billy looked furious and hadn't said another
word.
'Tell me what's the matter, Bill? Has someone upset
you?' she asked him. When he still said nothing, she
carried on, 'Surely you're not annoyed because I was
talking to that bloke. He's only someone I went to school
with.'
Squeezing her arm fiercely, Billy pushed her ahead of
him. 'Get home, you slag. I'll deal with you indoors.'
The nearer they got to the flat, the more worried Debbie
became. She'd never seen him like this before and his
behaviour was intimidating. With the lifts still out of
action, Billy shoved her towards the staircase.
'Get up them stairs, bitch!'
Coming down thirteen flights of stairs while pregnant
had been bad enough, but going up was even worse.
Unable to keep up with his pace, Debbie sat down on the
landing on the eighth floor, panting for breath.
'Please, stop pushing me, Bill. I need a rest... I can't
breathe.'
Billy grabbed her hair and pulled her to her feet. 'You
do as I say, you fucking whore! Get up them stairs, now.'
The look on his face told Debbie she had best do as
he said. Petrified, she tried desperately to calm him down.
She was frightened to go inside the flat with him in this
state.
'Billy, tell me what I've done? Please don't be like
this. I love-you ... why are you doing this to me?'
Ignoring her plea, Billy dragged Debbie into the flat
and pushed her down on to the sofa. He put on a Simple
Minds LP and turned it up full blast. He knew Debs was
friendly with the neighbours and didn't want the nosy
bastards knowing his business. Then he walked into the
kitchen, took a can of cider out of the fridge and gulped
it down. Taking a deep breath, he ran towards Debbie
who had started to get to her feet and pushed her back
on to the sofa, using his full body weight to trap her
there.
'You acted like a slag tonight. . . making me look a
cunt! If you ever, ever do that again, believe me, I'll
fucking kill ya!'
Not knowing how to handle the situation, Debbie loudly
protested her innocence. 'I've done nothing wrong, Bill.
Honestly, he was an old school friend who. ..'
She got no further. Billy stood up, lifted his right foot
and kicked her with such force between the legs that it
brought tears to her eyes.
'Nooooo, Billy, stop it! Why are you being like this?'
she screamed.
Billy snarled at her, T can do exactly what I want,
Debs, and do you know why?'
Debbie shook her head.
'Because that is mine,' Billy said, pointing at her crotch.
'That also is mine,' he said as he gestured towards her
oversized stomach. 'And believe it or not, girl, you are
mine. If I was you, I'd get that into your thick skull and
start behaving appropriately'
Debbie was stunned as Billy left the flat. She'd done
nothing to deserve this treatment, absolutely nothing.
Lifting herself gingerly off the sofa, she staggered
over to the record player. 'Alive and Kicking' was
playing. After what had just happened to her, it was the
last bloody song she needed to hear. At a loss as to what
to do next, she climbed into bed. She was too frightened
to knock at her neighbours'. If Billy came home
and she wasn't there, it would make the whole situation
ten times worse.
Pulling the old blue blanket over her head, Debbie
started to cry. She was desperately worried about the safely
of the child she was carrying, and now knew that her
mother and Perfect Peter had been right all along. Who
was Billy McDaid? Tonight had proved she didn't know
him at all. Devastated, she cried herself to sleep.
Billy was at his mate Andy's flat on the second floor.
He'd calmed down by now, the cannabis and Strongbow
had seen to that.
'I've had it now, mate, I'm off to bed. You stay as long
as you like, Bill,' his friend told him.
As Andy left the room, Billy felt his anger return. It
wasn't Debbie who'd caused it this time, but memories
of his childhood and the bastard cards he'd been dealt.
Billy McDaid was born in 1955, at home, in a slum
in the back streets of Glasgow. Father unknown, Billy had
spent his younger years watching a succession of uncles
coming to and from the house. His mother barely spoke
to him, and most of his time was spent with his brother
Charlie, who was seven years older than himself.
Looking back, Billy must have been the only wean in
Glasgow who actually looked forward to going to school.
The teachers there were nice to him and showed him
kindness, something he'd never known at home. When
he was seven, his mum bought home a man called Uncle
Colin. When he was nine, Uncle Colin came into his
room one night, turned him on his front and shoved his
penis up his arse.
'This is our wee secret, Billy. One word to your mother
and you'll no' see her or your brother again.'
The abuse carried on for years. Every time he was in
the house alone with Uncle Colin, he was subjected to
the man's sexual depravity. By now his brother had left
home and Billy hadn't a soul in the world to talk to about
his predicament.
At eleven years old, he could stand it no more. He told
his teacher. Mrs McLintock informed the appropriate
authorities, who then approached his mum. The social
worker stood by and did nothing as his mother then beat
him to a pulp.
'You lying little bastard!' she screamed accusingly.
A children's home was the next stop for Billy. Hoping
life would be better there, he behaved himself and tried
his hardest. He needn't have bothered. He ended up bullied
and sexually abused there, too.
At sixteen he made contact with his brother Charlie and went to live with him.
It was only then that he found
out that Uncle Colin had subjected Charlie to the same
abuse as himself.
The next couple of years were the happiest of Billy's
so far poxy life. He and his brother lived together, worked
together and drank together. Billly felt that he had more
or less recovered from his fucked up childhood; unfortunately,
his brother felt differently.
Unable to deal with the guilt he felt for knowingly
leaving his younger brother in the hands of a paedophile,
Charlie began to experiment with heroin. The drug helped
him forget what he'd done, but at the same time took a
hold of him. He died three months later, of an overdose.
Overcome by grief, Billy went off the rails. He drank
himself into oblivion and shagged everything in sight.
Within six months, two girls claimed that they were
carrying his children. Unprepared for fatherhood, Billy
decided a fresh start was the best thing for him. He headed
South and picked up work on a building site in Bow.
Hoping a change of scenery would make him forget
the past, Billy worked his arse off and made new friends
in the process. Sadly, as the years rolled by and he grew
older, the past increasingly returned to haunt him. All his
relationships seemed doomed. As soon as he got close to
someone, all he could think about was his dead brother,
and cuntsmouth Colin. He knew all the problems in his
life were his mother's fault. That's why he hated women
so much. Slags, they were, all of them. He didn't trust
'em one little bit.
Billy finished his drink and spliff, stood up and brushed
the ash off his suit. Debbie, though, was a good girl,
different from all the other slags, and he was desperate
to make things work with her. He loved her, she'd been
the making of him, and he owed it to her to make a go
of things, whatever it took.
Shutting Andy's front door behind him, he took the
stairs two by two. He was desperate by now to reach the
thirteenth floor and put everything right again. Out of
breath, he dashed into the bedroom.
'I'm so sorry, Debs, really I am. I promise you, babe,
I will never hurt you again. I swear on my life. Please
believe me?'
Debbie saw the sincerity in his eyes as he crouched
down beside the bed. The baby had been kicking her all
night and seemed as strong as ever. The love she felt for
her unborn child was worth forgiving its father for.
'Just get into bed, Billy. You were well out of order
earlier, but I'll forgive you, just this once. If you ever do
anything like that again, me and you are history'
Later, unable to sleep, she lay wide-eyed as Billy
snored. Tonight had been awful but Debbie wasn't about
to give up on him, not just yet. It was obvious now that
Peter had been speaking the truth about Billy's past. Well,
she'd made her choice and it was up to her to deal with
it. Going back to her mother's, cap in hand, wasn't an
option. Debbie was stubborn as an ox and the thought of
Perfect Peter telling her 'I told you so' was a non-starter.
The only thing she could do now was to think positive:
hope and pray that what had happened tonight was a fluke,
a one-off. Turning on to her side, Debbie willed herself
to go to sleep. Her baby seemed to move about morning,
noon and night. She was having a nightmare pregnancy
and couldn't wait for it to end.
Debbie wished more than anything that she could ring
her mother, talk to her and ask her advice. Angrily, she
wiped the tears from her cheeks. She knew she had to be
strong. There was no other way.
Peter's last words to her still echoed in her mind.
'Life is full of choices, Deborah. People make their
own beds, and if they choose the wrong one, they should
bloody well learn to lie in it.'
FOUR
Mickey Dawson pulled up at the top of the cul-de-sac,
turned the van around so he wouldn't be seen, parked up
and switched off the engine. Positioning the wing mirror
so that he could clearly see his mother's front door, he
pulled down his baseball cap until it partially covered his
eyes. Picking up his copy of the Sun, he prepared himself
to wait, however long it took.
Ten weeks he'd been out of prison, ten fucking weeks,
and he still hadn't seen his mother or sister once, thanks
to that jumped-up ponce they happened to be living
with. Not wanting to cause them any grief, he'd decided
against bowling up to the front door. He'd been itching
to knock and give Peter a right-hander, just to wipe the
supercilious look off his face, but he knew that in the
long run it wasn't the best way forward. Debbie would
probably have laughed, but it certainly wouldn't earn
him any brownie points with his mother. This was why
he'd decided to borrow his mate's plumbing van and
was now waiting for the dickhead to fuck off to work
before he made his move.
As luck would have it, he didn't have to wait long. Ten
minutes later the front door opened, Peter appeared with
a briefcase, jumped into his Ford Granada and sped off.
Not wanting the nosy neighbours to see him, Mickey
grabbed his phone. When he'd gone into nick, mobiles
were unheard of and he'd purchased his first one only a
couple of weeks ago. It was an absolute godsend, especially
in his line of work. His mum's phone was answered
on the fifth ring. A lump came into his throat at the sound of her voice.
'Mum, it's me. I'm outside in a Watts's Plumbing van.
It's parked on the corner. I really need to see you. Come
out for a drive with me and then I'll take you to lunch.
Debs can come as well, if you like.'
June very nearly dropped the phone in shock. She didn't
receive many calls in the morning and certainly hadn't
been expecting this one. Part of her wanted to dash outside
and envelop her beloved first-born in her arms, but she
was too worried about Peter finding out to go with her
instincts.
'Oh, Mickey, what are you doing outside? I'm not even
dressed. What if somebody recognises you?'
'Don't start worrying, Mum, I'm in disguise. No one
is gonna know who I am. Just put your glad rags on and
get your arse out here! I've been sitting here, waiting for
the Gestapo to go to work. The least you can do is come
out for a drive with me and have a bit of grub. I am your
bloody son, after all.'
'Okay, I've already had a bath. I just need to do my
make-up and get dressed ... I'll be about twenty minutes.'
Mickey smiled as he ended the call. It had been nearly
three years since he'd last had the chance to talk to his
mum properly and he was desperate to rebuild their relationship,
even if it had to be done in secret.
Hands shaking as she applied her slap, June finally
closed her make-up bag and began to choose her outfit.
She settled on a grey jumper dress. She knew she'd
gained a bit of weight recently so put a black blazer on
top to cover her bulges. Desperate not to look old-fash-
ioned, she added black suede boots and slung on some
gold costume jewellery as a finishing touch. Mickey was
her only son after all and she was eager to look nice for
him.
She was a bundle of nerves as she approached the
white van parked on the corner. Walking past it, she
gesticulated for Mickey to drive down the road a bit. Her
little community was very close-knit and she was determined
not to get caught out. Peter would go apeshit.
Conversation was stilted at first - awkward, in fact.
Mickey politely asked June how life was treating her. And
June tactfully asked him about prison.
'So how's Debs?' he continued. 'Ain't she at home,
Mum? I've been dying to see her. Where is she, at work
or something?'
June felt guilty as she explained the situation. 'Haven't
you heard, son? She's pregnant. She doesn't live at home
any more, she's living in Barking somewhere. She won't
have no more to do with me and Peter. We tried to help
her, really we did, wanted to pay privately for an abortion,
but you know how headstrong Debbie is. She stormed
out and I haven't seen her since. I think about her all the
time, son, I'm so worried about her.'
Spotting a lay by, Mickey pulled over. 'Our Debs, pregnant?
Fucking hell! What's her address? I'll go and see
her, make sure she's all right. I can't believe she's up the
duff. What's his name, the geezer she's with?'
'Oh, Mick, she's picked a real wrong 'un. His name's
Billy McDaid. Peter had him checked out. He's got a
terrible track record. Been inside for drugs, violence, and
Christ knows what else! Years older than her, he is. We
tried to tell Debs, make her see sense, but you know what
she's like . . . she wouldn't listen to us, thought we were
making it all up.'
'I can't believe it, Mum. I'll tell you one thing, though,
our Debs ain't silly. Surely the bloke can't be that bad.
Leave it with me. I'll find out who he is and have him
checked out my way'
June patted his arm. 'Thanks, Mick, but don't go round
there like a bull in a china shop. I'm desperate to know
she's all right, but I don't want you getting in no more
trouble.'
'I won't cause no agg, I promise ya. I'll just find out
where she's living and then I can keep an eye on the situation,
check up on her and that. I'll have a quiet word in
the geezer's shell-like, too, make sure he treats her okay.
It won't hurt for him to know Debs has got a big brother.
If he's cute, he'll know what he's dealing with.'
June smiled. 'You are a good lad, Mickey'
'I'm always there for you and our Debs if you need
me, you know that, Mum. Now, how about that bit of
lunch? There's a nice little boozer down the road, does
some lovely home-made grub.'
'Sounds great, son.'
The meat pie, potatoes and fresh veg were melt-in
your-mouth material, but neither of them ate a lot. They
had too much catching up to do. Finally Mickey paid the
bill and cuddled his mum as he led her back towards the
car-park. He loved her dearly and was overjoyed at being
able to spend some time with her.
'Are you plumbing now, love?' June asked innocently,
noticing the writing on the van.
Mickey chuckled. She didn't have a clue, bless her.
'No, I ain't, Mum. I borrowed the van off me mate. I
wanted to keep a low profile and my motor would have
stood out like a sore thumb.'
'Why's that then, love?'
'Oh, no reason, Mum. Just thought the van was more
discreet to pick you up in.'
He daren't tell her that he was swanning about in a
brand new Merc. She'd have given him a Spanish
Inquisition about where he'd got the money from.
'So what are you doing for money? Are you working
at the moment, love?'
Mickey chose his words carefully 'I'm doing okay. I'm
working as a party organiser, setting up functions and
stuff.'
June shot him a surprised glance. She had her Mickey
down for a lot of things, but planning parties wasn't one
of them.
'What do you mean? What sort of parties?'
'You know ... weddings, birthdays, anniversaries. All
sorts of stuff, Mum.'
June knew he was lying, but decided not to pry. The
less she knew about his lifestyle, the less she would worry.
'Where do you want dropping, Mum? I take it you
don't want me pulling into the turning.'
'Drop me by that little shop, Mickey. I need to get a
loaf
Bumping the van on to a stretch of kerb, Mickey leaned
over and hugged her tightly. 'Does Peter always leave for
work at the same time?'
June ruffled her son's dark hair, just as she'd done a
million times when he was a little boy. T can't get out a
lot, Mickey, you know what Peter's like. I can probably
manage it about once a month. He's normally gone to
work by ten but ring first, just in case. And do me a
favour, son - find out how Debbie's doing. As soon as
you have any news, ring me and let me know. I've been
worried sick about her.'
'I'll ring you when I've seen her, but I have to say a
lot of this is your own fault, Mum. You should never have
lost contact with her, nor with me. We're your kids, at
the end of the day. I know we're not perfect but blood's
thicker than water. You shouldn't let that prick dictate to
you. You have to learn to stand up to him before it's too
late.'
June opened the door of the van and climbed out.
'Let's not spoil a good day, Mickey. I can't deal with
this conversation right now. I'll see you soon, love. Ring
me as soon as you have any news about Debs. Take care,
son. Love ya.'
June had tears in her eyes as she left her beloved boy
and began the short walk home. She knew what he'd said
to her had been right. She also knew that she was too
weak to do anything about it. Peter was so bloody domineering
and if she started standing up to him, she was
worried her days as his wife would be numbered. In Peter's
world women were to be seen and not heard.
Mickey hit the A13 and headed back towards Bow.
He'd been living there since he'd come out of the Scrubs.
It was only a temporary thing, just till he got back on his
feet. He was planning to move out to Essex once he got
a few bob behind him, but for now Bow and his onebedroomed
bachelor pad suited him fine. He'd spent a
fair few years as a kid there, working on Roman Road
Market, and he knew the area and its inhabitants inside
out. In fact, most of his contacts came from that neck of
the woods.
Life was sweet for Mickey at the moment and had
been since the day he'd walked out of nick. The money
was rolling in thick and fast. He'd hooked up with an old
pal of his, Big Stevie Roberts, and they were currently
on to a nice little earner.
Big Steve had told him about his newfound business
venture while he'd been on the inside. It wasn't until
Mickey was released that he realised just how big it really
was. Illegal raves were fucking massive, and he and Steve
were currently netting a fortune, organising the little beauties.
This was the score. Scour the M25, find a friendly
farmer, smile at him, offer him a big wad of money ...
and Bob's your fucking uncle.
Mickey was now in charge of finding the right venues
and chatting the owners up. He looked the part and had
the spiel. Steve was no good at all at that. A massive
bastard, with a skinhead haircut, he looked like an out and out thug. He had a
heart of gold, but the farmers
weren't to know that.
There was a real biggie organised for a fortnight's time.
It was due to be held at a disused airfield on the outskirts
of Essex, and Mickey had been running around like a
blue-arsed fly, trying to get things sorted. Everything
about these raves had to be kept hush-hush. The old bill
were doing their utmost to put a stop to them, and any
tip-off they received was a tip-off too much.
Because of this, the advertising was mainly done on
the night, via pirate radio stations who would give out a
mobile phone number. Partygoers would ring up from a
phone box to find the exact venue. The M25 would then
fill up like rush hour as thousands of pilled-up punters
headed off for the night of their lives. It was a bit like a
game of cat and mouse with the filth, and so far the boys
in blue were on a losing streak. Mickey and Steve were
absolutely loving the chase, and up to this point hadn't
had one rave cancelled.
Smiling to himself, Mickey thought about his mum. It
had been so good to see her. She'd changed a lot since
he'd seen her last. She had never been a stick insect but
was now quite plump, with a real mumsy look about her.
She looked even shorter than he'd remembered, though
at only five foot she'd never been tall in the first place.
Maybe it was the weight she'd put on. Mickey decided
he liked his mum's new look. Her clothes were top drawer,
her short dark hair cut into a modern style, and he thought
she looked just like a mum should.
Parking the van he'd borrowed outside his mate's,
Mickey stuck the keys through the letterbox and jumped
into his Merc. He immediately punched Big Steve's
number into his mobile. 'What you up to, mate?'
Steve was having a swift half in his local. He'd been
hard at it all morning, trying to sort out the security for
their latest rave, and was now having a well-earned rest.
'I'm in the Needle Gun, having a beer with Terry. Why,
what's up?'
'How do you fancy a trip to Barking? Apparently me
sister's got herself knocked up by some wrong 'un and I
need to sort if out.'
'Okay, count me in,' Steve said, downing the rest of
his lager.
After Mickey had filled Steve in, the lads decided the
best way to do their homework was to pay a visit to a
few boozers around the Barking area. They struck gold
in the very first pub. The spotty kid of a barman was only
too willing to spill his guts at the sight of a fifty pound
note. Tucking it safely into his shirt pocket, he ushered
them over to a quiet corner.
In ten minutes flat the lads knew Billy McDaid's life
story. They were told where he lived, where he drank, and
where he punted his puff and speed. They also learned
that he wasn't exactly fucking popular.
'Wonderful! She's got herself knocked up by a middle
aged, drunken drug dealer and he's Scotch an' all,' sighed
Mickey as they left the boozer.
Much to his pal's annoyance, Steve burst out laughing.
'Don't wind me up, Steve. It ain't fucking funny. What
are we meant to do now?'
Trying to keep a straight face, Steve looked at his mate.
'Sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. It's just, well, the cunt
couldn't have sounded any worse, could he?'
Mickey let out a worried sigh. 'No, he fucking well
couldn't. My mother's gonna go apeshit if I tell her the
full SP. I'm gonna have to keep schtum and pretend he's
not as bad as we first thought. How do you reckon I
should handle it, Steve? Should I knock seven colours of
shit out of him, or should I go and see Debbie first?
Check he's treating her all right?'
'You'll have to go and see your sister first. You can
hardly go in with both feet, not if she's carrying his nipper.'
Mickey started the engine and looked at the address
on the bit of paper he'd been given. 'Yeah, you're right.
But I'll tell you this, Steve - if he ain't been treating her
right, he'll pay for it. She's my sister, I love her, and
believe me, if it came to it, I would fucking kill for her.'
FIVE
Mickey checked the address on the piece of scrap paper,
in case his eyes were deceiving him, and felt his bad
mood worsen.
'Look at the state of this fucking dump. What a shit
hole! Christ knows what my little sis has got herself roped
up with here.'
Steve looked at the rundown tower block. 'It looks
like Nelson Mandela House on Only Fools and Horses, don't it?'
Debbie was hanging her washing out on a line over
the bath when she heard the tap on the front door. Thinking
it was one of the neighbours, she opened it without first
checking the spy hole and nearly keeled over at the sight
of her brother standing there, with a big skinhead by his
side.
'Mickey, what a wonderful surprise,' she managed to
stutter.
'This is me mate Steve. Ain't you gonna invite us in
then, sis?'
'Nice to meet you, Steve. Of course you can come in.
I'm sorry, Mick, it was such a shock seeing you, I forgot
me manners. Go and sit down and I'll put the kettle on.'
Debbie was all of a fluster as she poured boiling water
over the coffee granules. She was pleased to see her
brother. It had been ages and she'd missed him like mad.
She just wished she'd known he was coming so she could
have spruced herself and the flat up a bit more.
As he sipped his coffee, Mickey nudged his mate
and told him to pop downstairs and check on the car.
He needed to have a one-to-one with his little sis, a
proper chat, family only kind of stuff. As soon as the
front door clicked shut, Mickey jumped out of the
threadbare armchair that had seen better days, walked
over to the window and stared out at the far from
appealing view.
He had to tread carefully here; he knew how fiery
Debs could be and didn't want to rub her up the wrong
way. He'd never be able to keep an eye on her if they
had words and she fucked him off. But, guessing what
was coming, Debbie decided to make it easier for him.
'Come on then, Mick, cut the crap. What are you really
doing here? Has Mum sent you round to check up on me
or what?'
Mickey turned to face her. 'Mum never sent me,
although she is worried about you. So am I, Debs. What
are you doing living in a shit-hole like this? You can't
bring a kid up round here. And who's this geezer you're
with? Does he work? Is he looking after you okay?'
Picking up her brother's box of cigarettes, Debbie lit
one and took a deep drag. She'd given up the stinking
habit as soon as she found out she was pregnant, but the
way she felt at this moment, she could literally smoke
the whole box. She flicked her ash into the chipped ashtray
then turned to face her brother, determined to stand her
own ground.
'Look, Mick, I'm a big girl now. You don't have to
worry about me, honestly, I'm fine. Billy's as good as
gold. We have our ups and downs, like anyone else does,
but overall he treats me really well. He usually works on
building sites, but to be honest even when he's not at
work, he's never short of money. Anything I ask him for,
or need, he gives to me. As for this flat, I'm not stupid,
I know it's not the Ritz, but it's only temporary. Once the
baby's born, I'll be eligible for a council house, hopefully
in a much better area.'
Mickey looked at his sister and just for a moment
blamed himself for her predicament. He'd always looked
after her when they were kids, always been there for her,
and if he hadn't been locked away in the slammer, she
certainly wouldn't be in the position she was in now. Over
his dead body would he have let any of this shit happen
to her.
'Look, Debs, I don't wanna burst your bubble or fall
out with you, babe, but I need to meet this geezer, just
to put me own mind at rest. If he's always got money,
even when he's not working, he's got to be a bit dodgy,
ain't he?'
Debbie could feel her temper bubbling to the surface
and was determined to stick up for the father of her unborn
child.
'Look, Mick, don't give it Snow White with me. You never go to work and you've
always got money. Maybe
he does the same shit as you do. I don't know what he does, but you of all
people have no right to get on your
fucking high horse! At least my Billy hasn't spent the last
couple of years slopping out shit buckets in Wormwood
Scrubs, like you bloody well have.
'You make me fucking die, you do. You've always put
yourself first, Mick. And as for my caring mother - she's
shoved so far up Peter's arse, I'm surprised she can even
breathe. Now, all of a sudden, everyone's worried about
poor little Debs? Well, bollocks to the pair of ya! I needed
you both years ago, not now.
'I'll tell you something else an' all, shall I? When you
left home, my life was absolute shit. You didn't give a
toss that I was stuck there with Mum and that arsehole
Peter on my own, did ya? I mean it, Mick, my life has
got sod all to do with you or Mum now, so you can both
keep your fucking trunks out.''
Holding up his hands in defeat, Mickey walked towards
her, intending to give her a hug.
Debbie was having none of it. 'Don't try and be nice
to me, Mick, you've upset me now. I've tried to make a
life for meself and all you can do is come round and pick
fucking holes.'
'Come on, Debs, I'm your big bruv and I love ya.
Sorry if I've been a bit brutal with ya, but I'm bound
to be worried. I wouldn't be much of a brother if I
wasn't.'
These words moved Debbie in a way nothing else he
had said had. The fight went out of her and she suddenly
felt tearful.
'Now come on, don't cry,' Mickey said as he held her
in his arms.
'Oh, ignore me,' Debbie said, half laughing, half crying.
'It's just me hormones playing up.'
Letting her go, Mickey reached inside his jacket and
took out a pen. 'Get us a bit of paper, sis, and I'll give
you my mobile number. Are you on the phone here?'
Debbie shook her head. 'We've no phone, but Billy
has promised he'll get one put in nearer the birth.'
Taking a wad of notes out of his pocket, Mickey rolled
off a bundle. 'No arguments, Debs, take this and make
sure you get a phone put on. Do it as soon as possible,
and treat yourself to something nice with the rest of the
money.'
'Thanks, Mick. I'll pop next door to Sharon's. She's
with BT, I'll get her to ring them for me.'
Mickey rubbed her arm. 'Good girl, and don't worry
about the bill. If you get stuck, or you're a bit short, I'll
always pay it. Now put my number away safely. You can
ring me anytime on that, day or night.'
'I'll put it in me purse. But I'll make a note of it somewhere
else, just in case I lose it.'
'Right, I'd best be going now, Debs. Me and Steve are
gonna have a couple of beers round here, before we shoot
home. What pub does your Billy drink in? I'll buy him
a pint if I meet him. I'd like to get to know him.'
Debbie felt her heart sink. This was all she bloody well
needed.
'He probably won't be in the pub today, Mick. He had
to be somewhere earlier.'
'I'll have a look anyway, Debs. Where's he likely to
be, if he's about? I mean, if we're gonna be family, I need
to introduce meself and that, don't I?'
Debbie knew there was no point in lying. He was a
clever bastard, her brother, and he'd find out anyway. If
she lied, it would just look like she was hiding something.
'If he's about, he'll be in the Westbury, the Brewery
Tap or the Hope and Anchor. Promise you'll be nice to
him if you do bump into him, Mick?'
'Of course I will. I just wanna buy him a pint and that.
You worry too much, Debs.'
As Debbie kissed him goodbye, she felt as if she had
the weight of the world on her shoulders. Ever since the
night Billy had laid into her then apologised, things had
been going pretty smoothly. Billy had been attentive and
caring once more and she didn't need her brother or
anyone else upsetting the apple cart.
Feeling shattered, she lay on her bed, imagining her
partner and her brother getting on well together. She knew
she was kidding herself, though. Deep inside she had a
terrible feeling that they'd hate one another on sight.
Billy McDaid nodded to one of his regular punters to
follow him out to the toilets. The guv'nor, Fred, was in
today, and even though Billy knew he was aware of what
went on here, he didn't want to take the piss by serving
up right under his nose.
'Want a drink, Fred?' he asked innocently as he returned
from the Gents.
'Yeah, go on, I'll have a large Scotch,' the landlord
replied, busying himself behind the bar. He couldn't stand
McDaid. In fact, he couldn't stand any of his customers.
Scumbags and wasters, the whole bloody lot of 'em. He'd
lived through a world war. These arseholes round here
wouldn't be able to survive a fucking thunderstorm!
Billy chatted away happily to a couple of cronies up
at the bar. He'd been much more relaxed in himself over
the last couple of months and finally felt that his life was
on the up. Serving up in pubs suited Billy down to the
ground and was much more appealing to him than freezing
his plums off on a building site. He'd first fallen into his
new career by accident. He'd been dealing to his mates,
word had got around, and it had escalated from there. He
didn't sell anything heavy, just a bit of speed and puff,
and he worked it from his three locals. He visited each
boozer at a set time, on a daily basis, so his punters always
knew where to find him.
Billy never took his work home with him. All of his
stash was hidden downstairs at his mate Andy's, along
with his scales, wraps, clingfilm, and any other evidence
that could incriminate him. If it all came on top, the last
thing he wanted was to get Debs involved. They'd been
getting on so well lately, he would hate anything to jeopardise
that.
Noticing that the pub had suddenly fallen silent, Billy
swung round on his barstool to find out why. He smelled
trouble as soon as he clocked the two heavy geezers walk
up to the bar and order a drink. Outsiders weren't welcome
in the Hope and Anchor; it was a locals' boozer where
everyone knew everyone. They certainly didn't look like
old bill, but they didn't look like mugs either. If anything,
the pair of them looked pretty handy.
Mickey and Steve sipped their pints and chatted quietly
to each other. They knew which one of the punters was
supposed to be McDaid because they'd paid a little kid
outside a score to look through the window and point him
out. Not wanting to make a tit of himself, Mickey decided
to watch and wait. He needed to check if his intended
target had a Scottish accent, hear him called by name
before he made himself known. For all he knew the kid
outside might have been pulling a fast one and he was
damned if he was gonna mug himself off.
Sensing trouble brewing, Fred decided to call it a day
and leave the honours to his barmaid Julie. He hated the
pub; they could smash it to smithereens, for all he cared.
'See ya, Bill. Bye, lads,' he shouted as he made a rapid
exit.
Hearing the name Bill, Mickey knew that he'd struck
gold. Over the next hour or so he watched three or four
punters come into the pub, follow Billy into the toilets
and immediately leave the premises without even buying
a drink.
'Classy,' Mickey said sarcastically to Steve. 'He must
use the khazi as his office.'
Steve laughed. 'What we gonna do then, Mick? We
can't just stand here all day'
Telling his friend to stay put, Mickey walked over to
where McDaid was sitting.
'You got a minute, Bill?' he asked casually.
Billy was shitting himself. He was sure he didn't know
this cunt from Adam, but with all his mates' eyes firmly
on him, was determined not to show his fear.
'How do you know my name? Who the fuck are you?'
As Mickey moved closer, he looked the skinny gutted
arsehole straight in the eye. 'Don't you notice the family
resemblance?' Holding out his hand, he smiled as he
clocked the alarm on Billy's face.
'Mickey Dawson, Debbie's brother. Now, shall I ask
you again, have you got a minute?'
'Aye, nice to meet yer, Mickey. I've heard lots about
yer. What are yer having?'
'I don't want a drink, Billy, I just want a quick word
with ya. Let's go outside, eh?'
Unlocking the Merc, Mickey told Billy to get in the
passenger seat.
'I dinnae want to go for no drive, ye ken. My pals are
all inside the boozer and I cannae leave them.'
Mickey smiled at him. 'You worry too much, Billy.
We're not going anywhere.'
Once in the car, Mickey turned to face him. 'Right,
I've been to see me sister who informs me that you treat
her okay and that she's happy and so on. Me personally,
I don't like the sound or the look of you, but you're my
sister's choice and not mine. Obviously, being her older
brother, I will always be about to protect Debs and keep
a watchful eye on her. At the moment, even though you're
obviously selling drugs from a khazi, I'm willing to give
you the benefit of the doubt. But - and I mean but - if
you ever get her arrested, lay a finger on her, or treat
her badly in any way, then you'll have me to fucking
deal with. Do you understand what I'm saying to ya,
Bill?'
Lost for words, Billy nodded dumbly. Feeling nervous,
he searched for the right words. 'Look, I love your sister,
man, I really do. I'd never treat her bad, I swear I
wouldnae.'
'Well, that's okay, then. As long as we understand one
another, we won't have a problem. Now let's go back in
the pub and I'll buy you a pint.'
Mickey nodded to Steve to join him and Billy as they
re-entered the pub. He then spent the next half an hour
chatting to his sister's choice of man and trying to be as
polite as possible. It was difficult; the geezer was an outand-out
prick. Finishing the last of his drink, Mickey
forced himself to shake Billy's hand.
'Well, I'm glad I've met ya. I'm going now, but as I
said I'll be popping round again to check on me sis. I
left her some money today to get a phone put on, so make
sure she does, efi, Bill?'
'Definitely. I'll sort it, nae problem.'
Mickey smiled. 'Good stuff. Oh, and by the way, I'd
appreciate it if you didn't tell Debs the ins and outs of
our little conversation. Just say that we had a beer together,
got on fine, and leave it at that, okay?'
'No probs,' Billy said as he waved them goodbye. As
soon as Mickey and Steve walked out the door, though,
Billy's temper began to boil. The more cider he drank,
the angrier he got. He was extremely annoyed with himself
for being so gutless and not giving Mickey what for. Billy
was a face round here in Barking, everyone knew him,
and that twat had had the cheek to come and belittle him,
make him look a prick in his own local? Ordering a pint
of snakebite, he vented his true feelings to his mate.
'Andy, you listen to me - Billy McDaid. You see that
prick . . . that mug? I didnae lose it with him 'cause of
Debs. But I'm telling yer now, if that cockney cunt ever
comes back in here and pulls me out of this pub again,
I'm gonnae do him, believe me, man. I'll kill him. And
if I find out Debs has been slagging me off behind my
back, I'll kill her as well. May God be my judge, I swear
I'll kill the fucking pair of 'em.'
SIX
Debbie eased herself into a sitting position. For what
seemed like the umpteenth time, she hauled her oversized
body out of the armchair and stood staring out of the
window. She was worried sick about her Billy. He loved
his grub. Like clockwork, he popped home about six for
his dinner, and if by any chance he couldn't make it, he
always sent a pal round to tell her he would be late. It
was now eleven o'clock and she hadn't seen hide nor hair
of him. She just hoped he was okay. Surely if he had been
arrested or involved in an accident of some kind, someone
would have informed her.
It seemed too much of a coincidence, today of all days,
when her brother had gone to look for him, that this had
happened. Maybe they had got on that well they'd
embarked on a bender together. Somehow, though, she
couldn't imagine that. She was kidding herself. And even
if they had gone out on the piss, Billy would still have
made time to let her know.
Debating whether to knock next door and borrow
Sharon's phone to ring her brother's mobile, Debbie
decided against it. It was late now and she didn't want
to become a pest. She'd already knocked twice earlier, to
ring around Billy's locals.
'He's not in here tonight, love,' had been the answer
to her question in all three pubs. Billy didn't normally
venture anywhere else. If he wasn't in his usual haunts,
she was stumped as to where he was. Defeated, she
wandered out into the kitchen and left a note on the top,
telling him that his shepherd's pie was in the oven. Then,
not knowing what else to do, she got into bed and prayed
for his safe return.
Billy McDaid staggered down the dimly lit road and
angrily kicked out at a cat that had the cheek to get in
his way. Still fuming over the events of earlier, he'd got
himself paralytic, hoping to improve his mood. Instead
of making him feel better, though, the snakebites he'd
sunk had had the opposite affect. Kicking over a dustbin,
he reeled into the tower block and repeatedly pressed the
lift button. He swayed out of the lift and with difficulty
managed to fit his key in the lock at the second attempt.
Debbie had barely slept a wink and was relieved when
she heard the sound of the front door opening.
'Is that you, Bill? Where have you been?'
Billy let out a loud belch. 'Mind your own fucking
business.'
Debbie was shocked by his viciousness. 'What's
happened, Bill? Are you okay?
Kicking the door shut, Billy slammed his fist against
the wall. 'Am I okay? Do I sound okay? You silly fucking
slag!'
The tone of his voice told Debbie not to say any more.
Staggering into the kitchen, Billy clumsily retrieved
the shepherd's pie from the oven and dropped a quarter
of it on the floor. He scooped it up with his hands, slopped
it back on to the plate, picked up a fork and ate the bastard
thing. Burping, he opened the fridge door, took out a can
of cider and greedily downed it.
Debbie felt her whole body start to shake from head
to foot as she heard him approach the bedroom. She hadn't
a clue what she was meant to have done wrong, but
guessed it was something to do with her brother. Feeling
the baby kick, she prayed for its safety.
Billy staggered into the bedroom and lunged at her.
Dragging her out of bed by her hair, he swung her round
to face him. 'You been telling tales on me, you fucking
cunt?'
Debbie started to sob. She knew from past experience
that there was no reasoning with him when he was like
this. 'I haven't said anything bad about you. I love you,
Billy, why would I say anything bad?'
Lip curling, like a dog that was about to bite, Billy
spat in her face. Then, losing it completely, he head-butted
her as hard as he could. As his spittle ran down her chin,
Debbie sank to the ground.
'Billy, don't!' she screamed, as he repeatedly kicked
her. Lost in a red mist, Billy was unable to control
himself. Thoughts of his childhood and his mother
overwhelmed him, as he drew back his foot again and
again.
'The baby, Billy! You're hurting our baby .. .'
It was the mention of his unborn child that brought
Billy to his senses. Sinking down onto his knees, he
cuddled Debbie's battered body to him.
'I'm so sorry, hen. Please, don't leave me! I swear to
you, I'll get help. I'll go for counselling, I'll do whatever
you want me to. I love you, Debs, I really do.'
Debbie had taken such a beating she could barely
speak. 'Go next door,' she muttered. 'Use Sharon's phone
. . . ring for an ambulance.'
'You can't go to hospital,' he pleaded. 'I'll get nicked.
They'll put me away.'
T have to, Bill, I can't feel the baby moving. Go and
ring one, quick! I promise I won't grass you up. I'll tell
them I fell down the stairs or something.'
Panicking, he pummelled on the neighbour's door.
'Sharon, for fuck's sake, open up! Debbie's had an accident,'
he screamed. He didn't even feel drunk anymore.
He just felt sick with fear.
Sharon leaped out of bed and opened her front door.
'What's the matter? What happened to her?'
'Just call a fucking ambulance, will yer?' Billy was
agitated now. He was in Shit Street and he knew it.
Sharon dialled 999. 'What are her injuries, Billy?
They're asking me what's happened to her.' Receiving no
reply, she handed the receiver to him.
'Just fucking hurry up, will yer?' he told the ambulance
service. 'She's over eight months pregnant.'
Putting on her dressing gown, Sharon ran next door to
help her friend. As soon as she saw Debbie, she put her
hand over her mouth in shock. The poor little cow looked
like she'd gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.
'You bastard how could you do this to her?' Sharon
screamed at Billy.
T didnae do nothing! She was putting the rubbish out
... she slipped and fell down the stairs.'
'You lying fucking cunt,' Sharon said, through gritted
teeth. 'You keep away from her, Billy McDaid, do you
hear me? I'll go to the hospital with Debs. She needs you
like she needs a hole in the head.'
Billy put his head in his hands then sobbed like a baby.
'I'm so sorry, Debs,' he said, stroking her bloodied hand.
Debbie was in too much shock to speak. Instead, she
nodded dumbly.
Sharon carried her sleeping children into Donna's, who
lived the other side of Debbie. Donna was only too glad to
look after the kids and be of help. She liked Debbie, she
really did, and couldn't believe what she was being told.
Sharon ran back into Debs's flat and pressed the release
button on the buzzer to let the ambulance men in downstairs.
'Get
away from her,' she said vehemently as she noticed
Billy stroking her friend's battered face.
Knowing when he was beaten, and not wanting to face
the wrath of the ambulance men, Billy took her advice.
Still sobbing, he grabbed his fags and lighter and bolted
down the stairs to spill his guts to Andy.
The ambulance men took one look at Debbie and
glanced knowingly at one another.
T fell down the stairs,' she managed to mumble.
Yeah, right, they each thought.
Inside the ambulance, Sharon held Debbie's hand and
assured her that everything was going to be okay. 'You're
going to be just fine, Debs, and so is that little baby of
yours.'
Debbie was given some oxygen to help with her
breathing. Sharon felt so sorry for her friend as she noticed
her tears dripping on to the stretcher.
Once at the hospital, Debbie was classed as an emergency.
'You'll
have to wait here,' Sharon was told as her friend
was rushed off surrounded by doctors.
As she sat down on an uncomfortable plastic chair,
Sharon wished she had asked Debs if there was anyone
she could contact for her. She knew Debs had a mum and
a brother but didn't have a clue where they lived. Debbie
rarely spoke about either of them. Sharon had only known
Debs a matter of months but liked her immensely. She
was funny, genuine and honest and certainly deserved a
lot more from life than the no-good-bastard she had got
herself entangled with. She had been looking forward so
much to the birth of her baby and had spoken of little
else over the past couple of months. Sharon prayed the
opportunity of becoming a mother wasn't about to be
cruelly taken away from her.
Meanwhile, Doctor Agomonga pulled his colleague to
one side and explained that there was something wrong
with Debbie's breathing, possibly due to damage to her
lungs. The baby was also a major concern as they could
only detect a faint heartbeat.
'Miss Dawson is adamant we put the baby first. I think
we must perform a caesarean section, deliver the child,
and sort the patient's breathing out afterwards.'
Debbie asked to speak to her friend alone for a few
seconds, before" they wheeled her to theatre.
Sharon put on a gown, washed her hands in some
surgical disinfectant and went in to face Debbie. She spoke
faintly, her breathing laboured.
'I've told the doctors that I've no next-of-kin, so if
they need anything signed, I've given permission for you
to do it. If anything happens to me, I want you to contact
my brother Mickey. His number's in my purse. You've
still got my bag, haven't you?'
Sharon nodded, unable to stop the tears from streaming
down her face. 'You'll be fine, Debs. I've gotta go now
. .. the doctors are waiting to operate.'
'And,' Debbie whispered, grabbing her arm, 'promise
me, Sharon? If I die and my baby survives, look after it
for me. Tell my brother and everyone what Billy did to
me. Make sure he doesn't get his hands on the baby. If
I'm okay, keep quiet, and say nothing to no one, apart
from Donna.'
T promise,' Sharon said.
Debbie's last thoughts, as the anesthetic took hold, were
of her own funeral. She could visualise her mother, shoulders
hunched, being supported by Peter. She could see
her brother Mickey sobbing at the graveside.
Overcome by tiredness, she closed her eyes.
SEVEN
Billy McDaid sat on a wooden bench, trying to muster up
the courage to walk through the glass doors ahead of him.
It was over forty-eight hours since the birth of his son,
and he was desperate to visit both Debbie and the boy.
He'd been constantly ringing the hospital since the
morning after Debs had been admitted, but getting any
information out of the bastards had been like extracting
blood from a stone. Today, however, he'd decided to try
a different tactic and, amazingly, it had worked.
Albert, one of the old regulars who drank in the Hope
and Anchor, had made the phone call for him, pretending
to be Debbie's uncle. Glad to be rid of the suspected
abuser with the Glaswegian accent who kept ringing up,
the hospital had swallowed old Albert's yarn and told him
the facts. Hence Billy's arrival at the hospital, armed with
a bunch of flowers and a teddy bear, waiting for the right
moment to go in.
Deciding that after what he'd done to Debbie there was
never gonna be a right moment, he took a deep breath
and marched through the glass doors. Shit or bust, he
needed to be with his family.
Debbie took a sip of lukewarm tea and looked lovingly
into the cot beside her bed. He was gorgeous, her son,
tiny but perfect. She was amazed that she had actually
created such a beautiful creature. The nurses had only
allowed him to be in the same room as her since this
morning. They'd said she wasn't well enough before that.
Her injuries were bad, but not as serious as the doctors
had first suspected.
A collapsed lung, two fractured ribs and a broken nose
were the result of Billy's frenzied attack on her. The staff
had been pleased with her progress, though, and Debbie
no longer cared about her injuries. She was alive, her
baby was okay, and that was all that mattered. The only
distressing thing for her now was that she'd been advised
not to breast-feed.
Not wanting to dwell on what she couldn't do, Debbie
had decided it was time to think positively. At one point
in the ambulance, her breathing had been so bad she'd
thought she was dying and wouldn't be around to see her
precious baby.
Her friends Sharon and Donna had both been fantastic,
absolute stars. Sharon had turned up with a bag full of
night clothes and underwear, and had also offered her a
place to stay when she was discharged.
'I've made room already' she told Debbie. 'You'll be
fine, living with me, until the council sort you somewhere
out. I know it's not ideal living next-door to that bastard,
but don't worry, I'll look after you, I promise.'
Debbie was especially grateful that Sharon had kept
her word and told no one about what had happened.
'Wendy and Jenny asked me round the shops and I
just told them you'd gone into labour early. They're like
the News of the fucking World them two. Good job I never
slipped up or everyone in Barking would have been told
by now,' Sharon had laughed.
Debbie prayed her Mickey didn't turn up again soon.
She just hoped that, because she hadn't rung him with
the promised landline number, he wouldn't call in at the
flat unexpectedly. If he did turn up when she got back,
she would just make the excuse that the baby had arrived
early and, with a bit of luck, by then her injuries would
probably be healed.
In all honesty, though, her brother was the least of her
problems. Billy was her main concern and she'd been
thinking about him all day. Her head told her that she
hated him, despised him, and was well rid. Trouble was,
her heart told her differently. She knew he had problems
of his own and was worried that, without her in his life,
he'd do something stupid. Part of her would always love
him, always care for him, and she couldn't just switch
off her feelings. She hadn't told Sharon and Donna how
she felt, nor would she tell anyone else. People would
think she was mental and deserved all she got.
Her thoughts were broken by the sound of her son
crying. Debbie buzzed the nurse and waited patiently for
her to arrive. She hated having to buzz for help just to
attend to her baby, but was under strict orders from the
doctor to stay in bed and take things slowly.
'What are you going to call him?' the nurses kept
asking her. She and Billy had both agreed on Charlie for
a boy. It was Billy's idea really; he'd wanted to name him
after his dead brother. Debbie hadn't mentioned this to
the nurses, but had just told them she was undecided.
This was true. If she wasn't with Billy anymore, she might
as well name him after her own brother, or pick a
completely different name which suited the baby more.
Debbie took her son from the nurse and fed him his
bottle. He looked nothing like her, he was more like Billy.
As she studied him, she racked her brains for a name that
would suit him. For some strange reason, she couldn't
think of one.
Billy ducked out of the way of an oncoming doctor and
stood at the entrance to the obstetric ward. He knew that
Debs was in a side room, as the nurse had told old Albert
so, but he was frightened to ask any of the medical staff
for directions. His accent would definitely give him away.
Feeling more and more like a dickhead, with a teddy
in one arm and a wilting bouquet in the other, Billy was
quite relieved when a young girl pushing a tea trolley
stopped and asked him if he was looking for anyone in
particular.
'I'm looking for my sister, Debbie Dawson,' he lied,
imitating a cockney accent to the best of his ability.
The girl smiled. She liked her new job and wanted to
be helpful. 'Debbie's in that room over there,' she pointed,
'last door on the right.'
So far, so good, Billy thought to himself. He'd expected
it to be an ordeal just to get to Debs, but it had been an
absolute doddle. Feeling nervous as hell, he opened the
door and walked in.
'Hiya, Debs. Please don't chuck me out. Can we talk?'
he pleaded.
Shocked by his unexpected appearance, Debbie felt
nervous and awkward. 'Sit down over there if you want,'
she said.
Seeing her lying in bed, bruised, fragile and with his
son in her arms, brought a lump to Billy's throat. He
hadn't come prepared with a speech and was stumped as
to what to say to her next.
'I'm lost for words, Debs,' he finally admitted. T cannae
explain why I did what I did. All I can say is that I am
so, so sorry. I cannae believe how badly I've treated you.
I know you must hate me and I'll understand if you never
wannae see me again, but I'm begging you, please, give
me just one more chance. I'll get help for my temper, I'll
do anything you say. I love you, Debs and I want us to
be a proper family. I'll do whatever it takes. I'm nae
talking shit, I really do love you. Please say you'll give
me another chance. I'll make it up to you, I swear I will.'
With tears dropping on to her baby's face, Debbie held
the child as close as her sore ribs would allow. Annoyed
with herself for getting all emotional, she stopped crying,
cleared her throat and spoke the truth.
'I don't know if I can forgive you, Bill. I nearly lost
the baby because of you. In fact, I nearly died. At one
point the doctors said it was touch and go because my
breathing was that bad. How can I give you another
chance? I'll be treading on eggshells for the rest of my
life in case I say or do something to set you off again. I
can't live like that, Billy, I really can't. And, to be honest,
I'd be petrified for the baby's safety. When you lose it,
Bill, you're like a madman. There's no reasoning with
you. What is wrong with you? Why do you do it?'
Billy knew that what she was saying was true. Unable
to take his gaze off the little bundle in her arms, he walked
towards her. 'Can I hold him for a minute, Debs, so I can
have a proper look at him?'
'No, you can't,' she said, clinging on to her son for
dear life. 'I've just asked you a question, Billy. Don't
change the bloody subject! Why did you beat me up?
What is it that triggers you off? Is there something in
your past that you haven't told me about?'
Her words and questions struck a nerve. Billy flopped
down into his chair, held his head in his hands and began
to sob. 'Yes,' he managed to mutter. 'Something really
bad happened to me .. .but I've never told anyone, Debs,
only my brother. It's so bad, I cannae tell yen'
Debbie looked deep into his eyes and could see nothing
but fear there.
'Move your chair nearer,' she urged him. Then,
squeezing his hand comfortingly, she spoke kindly to him.
'You have to tell me, Billy. Whatever it is, I need to know.
If you don't, I can't help you.'
Billy held his hands over his face and kept them there.
He was too embarrassed to look at her. Feeling thoroughly
ashamed, he told her all the horrors of his childhood. As
he finished spilling his guts, Debbie was stunned. She'd
guessed he had some secret in his past, but never this.
Poor Billy. Her heart went out to him.
'Look at me, Billy, please,' she said gently.
Getting up off the chair, he ignored her and walked
over to the window. He couldn't look at her in case he
saw a look of disgust in her eyes. He was used to seeing
it in his own. He saw it every day of every week, and
every week of every year, whenever he glanced in the
mirror. Opening the dirty window, he gulped in the fresh
air. Unlike him, it felt clean and unspoiled.
As Debbie lay there in her hopsital bed she felt
completely lost for words. She knew from the past odd
comment he'd muttered about his mother, that he'd had
a shit childhood. But never in a million years would she
have thought him the victim of sexual abuse. The signs
just hadn't been there.
Desperate to comfort him but not knowing what to say,
she was almost relieved when the baby started to cry.
'Come on, Bill, don't stand over there. What happened
to you wasn't your fault. I'll help you get through this, I
promise. Now come over here. Our son's crying and he
needs his daddy'
Shoulders slumped, Billy walked towards her, managed
a half-smile and took his baby in his arms for the very
first time. As he rocked him to and fro, he studied the
baby intently and was pleased to see that he had the same
colour hair and sharp features as himself. Smiling for the
first time in days, he looked at Debs.
'He's a bonny lad, eh? Looks just like his daddy'
Glad to see his mood had lifted, Debbie smiled back.
'He's your double, Billy, he's a ringer for you. Now we
must decide on a name. Do you still want to call him
Charlie, after your brother?'
'Can we?' he asked, surprised. After what had
happened, he hadn't expected any choice in the matter.
'Can he still have my surname?'
'Of course he can.'
After kissing his son gently on the forehead, Billy
handed him back to her.
'Can I stay a bit longer, Debs, or would you rather I
go now and pop back tomorrow?'
She took a deep breath. 'I'm a bit tired now, Bill. I could
do with some sleep. Why don't you come back then, eh?'
'Okay' He stood up. Are we still an item, Debs, me
and you?'
A nurse entering the room then saved Debbie from
replying to his question when she didn't know the answer.
'We'll talk tomorrow, Bill,' she said softly as she took her
medication.
As she watched the nurse put the giant teddy bear on
the chair and take the flowers away, Debbie lay deep in
thought. She knew in her heart that she still loved Billy,
but she was worried about putting her and her son's
safety at risk. She knew Billy needed her and that she
couldn't walk away from that. How could she leave him
after what he'd told her earlier? She might be stubborn
and hard on the outside, but underneath her tough exterior
she was kind and gentle and would do her utmost
to help him.
Debbie gently guided the bottle into Charlie's mouth.
As she watched him feed, she knew she couldn't deny
him the chance of having his father around. Boys needed
a daddy, and she was damned if she was going to let her
son miss out, for the sake of her pride.
Perhaps now that Billy had told her everything, his evil
temper would cease to be a problem. He had someone to
talk to now, to discuss his problems with. Maybe that
would calm him down, stop him losing his rag. Hoping
against hope that she was making the right decision,
Debbie smiled at her little bundle of joy.
'I don't know if I'm doing the right thing, Charlie, but
I think me and you should give Daddy one more chance.
If he messes up, son, then it's just me and you against
the whole wide world. What do you think, eh, boy?'
Charlie finished his bottle, took one look at his mother
and screamed.
EIGHT
Debbie looked at her shiny new phone and knew that the
first call she had to make was the one she'd been most
dreading.
She had to ring her Mickey and invite him round to
see the baby. Her brother was a clever bastard, and would
get suspicious if she put him off any longer. She had no
excuse now anyway as the tell-tale signs of the hiding
she'd endured were long gone.
It was three weeks to the day since Charlie's birth and
she'd been back at home in Barking for just under a
week. Giving Billy another chance hadn't been easy, but
she'd felt it was the right thing to do. She still hadn't
totally forgiven him; that would come in time, she hoped.
But since she'd been home, Billy had been a different
person. He'd been extra-kind and attentive, and when he
wasn't out working, had been waiting on her, hand and
foot.
Sharon and Donna had been there to offer any advice
she needed about motherhood, but the pair of them refused
to come into her flat any more.
'We want nothing more to do with that no-good bastard, and neither should you,'
they'd told her in no uncertain
terms. Sharon, in particular, was furious with Debbie for
giving him another chance. 'You gotta be fucking mad,
Debs,' she'd insisted. 'A leopard don't change its spots,
mate. He'll do it again, you mark my words.'
Debbie had shrugged her shoulders, knowing that
there was every chance her friend was right. There was
no way she could explain why she'd taken him back,
she couldn't betray Billy's confidence, so she'd just kept
quiet and let her best friend think she'd taken leave of
her senses.
Taking a deep breath, Debbie took the bit of paper
Mickey had given her out of her purse and dialled her
brother's number. He already knew that she'd given birth
to Charlie because she'd called him from Sharon's phone
a few days earlier, and given him a load of cock and bull
about a premature labour.
T reckon they got the dates wrong, Mick,' she'd lied.
Mickey had wanted to rush straight over to meet his
little nephew, but Debbie had put him off. She'd told him
that she felt like shit and needed to rest up for a few days
before she had any visitors. 'As soon as I feel well enough,
you can be my first visitor,' she'd promised.
Now, as the phone was answered, Debbie did her best
to sound happy and jovial. T feel much more like meself
now, Mick, and little Charlie can't wait to meet his uncle.
When do you wanna come round?'
'Tomorrow lunchtime okay, sis? I've got little Charlie
loads of presents, and I've got a surprise for you as well.'
'Great,' Debbie said unenthusiastically. 'See you
tomorrow then, Mick. Come after one.'
She replaced the receiver, put her head in her hands
and cried. She really didn't feel like playing happy families,
but knew she couldn't avoid it.
The last couple of weeks had been hard for her, bloody
hard, and since she'd come out of hospital she'd had very
little sleep. It wasn't Billy, he'd been fine. It was Charlie
who was causing her untold worry. The kid just didn't
stop crying, and since she'd brought him home he'd got
worse and worse.
She would feed him, rock him, cuddle him, but nothing
seemed to work. Now she was at the end of her tether.
He'd been fully checked over at the hospital and a health
visitor had popped in to see him at home, assuring her
that the baby was just fine and things would become
easier in time.
Debbie flopped down on the bed, feeling thoroughly
exhausted. Billy had gone back to work today and she
felt a failure trying at coping alone. The baby seemed to
respond better to his father than to her. If Billy picked
Charlie up, his tears subsided. When she tried, they worsened.
The child hated her, she could sense it. Either that
or she was being paranoid and imagining things. Perhaps
she had that post-natal depression.
After another night with virtually no sleep, Debbie's
mood was no better the following day. Her brother was
due in a few hours and she was absolutely dreading it.
She still hadn't forgiven him for the day he'd had a beer
with Billy and earned her a bloody good hiding.
Debbie wasn't in the mood to do anything, but forced
herself to have a bath. The sight of herself in the cracked
mirror did nothing to lighten her mood. She looked
dreadful, and even though most of the baby weight had
disappeared, still had rolls of fat around her middle, which
looked disgusting.
She tried on her old Levi jeans, but they wouldn't do
up so she chucked on a pair of old black trackie bottoms
and a baggy black T-shirt. Feeling frumpy and ugly, she
applied some lipstick and eye shadow. The end result was
awful. She felt even more hideous. As she was about to
get changed once again, Charlie began screaming his head
off. Time for his bottle. Feeling physically drained, she
shuffled into the kitchen.
Debbie was just about to feed her son when the buzzer
went. Unfortunately for her, Mickey had arrived half an
hour early. She felt like tearing her hair out as she laid
Charlie back in his cot and answered the door. As if things
couldn't get any worse, to her horror, not only was her
brother standing there, but her mother was as well.
'I told you I had a surprise for you,' Mickey announced,
not noticing her anguished expression. Laden with bags
of presents for the baby, he dumped them all in the hallway
and walked back towards the door. 'I've gotta go down
to the car, sis, to get his big present out. Have a chat with
Mum for a minute, eh?'
Completely taken by surprise, Debbie went on to
autopilot and offered her mother a cup of tea. Picking up
screaming Charlie, she took him into the living room and
thrust him towards his nan.
'Meet your grandson, his name's Charlie. Oh, and by
the way, I must be a shit mother as he doesn't stop fucking
crying!'
Debbie stomped out into the kitchen and waited for
the kettle to boil. She was gonna have her Mickey for
this. Fucking cheek, bringing Mum round here without
her say-so!
June Dawson sat down on the battered old sofa and
tried to soothe the distressed child. As she studied him,
she felt there was something unusual about him. She had
expected to melt at the sight of her first born grandchild,
but instead felt no maternal stirring whatsoever. Maybe
it's because its Billy's child, she thought, noticing that the
poor little mite had inherited his father's rat-like features.
Looking around the living room, though, June understood
the child's misery. 'Shit-hole' did not even begin to
describe this place. The furniture was threadbare, the curtains
ill-fitting, and it didn't look as if any housework had been
done for weeks.
June smiled as her daughter brought in the tea. 'He's
gorgeous, Debbie,' she lied as she offered the child back to
her. 'So, apart from him crying, are you coping okay, love?'
Debbie took Charlie from her mother and looked defiantly
into her eyes. 'What are you really doing here, Mum?
I thought you wanted nothing to do with us. Why the
change of heart?'
June took a sip of her drink before answering. 'Mickey
asked me to come. I've been so worried about you and
was desperate to make sure you were okay. You are my
only daughter, Debs, and believe it or not, I love you very
much.'
Debbie went straight on the defensive. 'Don't give me
that old bollocks,' she said, as she gently laid her son over
her shoulder to rub his back. 'I bet you love me so much,
you haven't even told Peter you're coming to fucking see
me.'
Unable to meet her daughter's stare, June was saved
from answering by Mickey returning with the most expensive
buggy he'd been able to find.
'What do you think, sis?' he asked casually.
'Thanks, Mick, it's a beauty.'
He smiled. 'Give us the little bruiser 'ere, I'm dying
to meet him.'
As Mickey took Charlie into his arms he felt himself
shudder. The situation reminded him of the episode of Only Fools and Horses
when Rodney had first looked at
Del boy's kid. Difference was, the guy who played Rodney
had been fucking acting! 'He's a belter, Debs,' lied Mickey.
Desperate to get rid of the child, he handed him over to
June. 'Go see Nana,' he said in a silly voice.
As Debbie watched her son bond with his family,
she felt her mood lighten. Both granny and uncle were
obviously besotted and she was overjoyed to see it.
Billy McDaid thanked his two punters, sat back on his
barstool and sipped at his pint. He had his shitty old
workman's clothes on today because he'd told Debs he
had. a few days' graft on a building site. It wasn't true,
he'd just wanted to make a good impression, let her know
he was trying hard to change. Selling a bit of gear was
easy money for Billy and he was fucked if he was jacking
it in. He needed the money now, anyway, what with three
mouths to feed. What Debs didn't know wouldn't hurt
her, and after a week or so he'd tell her there was no more
work and he'd gone back to serving up, just to keep the
wolf from the door.
Things had been going really well since she had come
home from hospital and he found he was thoroughly
enjoying being a father. Obviously with babies you were
limited as to what you could do with them, and secretly
he couldn't wait until Charlie was that bit older. Billy was
gagging to introduce his son round the local pubs, take
him to football and do the whole father-and-son routine.
He was over the moon that Debbie had decided to give
him another chance and was determined not to fuck it up
this time. Since telling her about all the shit he'd endured
in his childhood, he felt as if he'd unloaded some of his
problems, shared the burden. Although his past would
never go away, he felt that by offloading himself to Debs
he had brought them closer together. At least now she
could finally understand him as a person.
She still drove him mad at times and probably always
would. She was always moaning and getting on his case
about work and shit, but he'd come to the conclusion that
all women were the same. If they opened their mouths,
they whinged. Simple as that. On the other hand, he knew
his Debs was one of the most decent birds he'd ever met
and that he'd struggle to find a better one.
'Do ya want another drink, Bill?'
He politely refused. 'Nae thanks, mate, I'm gonna get
meself home to Debs and the wean.'
Billy left the pub feeling happy with himself. A bonny
wean and a beautiful lassie, what more could a man
want? Smiling, he decided to stop at the offie. His
woman deserved a treat and he was just the man to buy
her one. Browsing the shelves, he bought a bottle of
wine, a box of Milk Tray and six cans of Strongbow.
He'd had a good day today and had nicked at least a
fifty. Deciding to really push the boat out, he headed
to the local Chinese, and ordered a tenner's worth of
takeaway.
'I'm home, hen,' he called cheerfully as he entered the
flat. 'I've brought you loads of goodies, lassie.'
Debbie had had a good afternoon since her mother and
brother had left. After the initial awkwardness, it had been
really nice to see them and although no arrangement had
been made to meet up again, she knew all she had to do
was pick up the phone. She hadn't had a go at Mickey
after all. Her mother, for all her faults, had seemed
genuinely pleased to be with her. Debbie had even put
up with June doing her Hyacinth Bucket bit, allowing her
to vac, polish and do some ironing.
After her family had left, Debbie had for once managed
to get Charlie off to sleep. She now felt miles better after
some much-needed shut-eye herself. In fact, she'd only
woken an hour ago.
'Surprise!' Billy announced as he stood in the doorway.
'Bill, come and look at all this stuff!' Debbie called
to him excitedly. She'd just been going through all the
bags her Mickey had left for Charlie and he'd bought some blinding gear. Baby
jeans, cord dungarees, little
boots, the tiniest Nike trainers you ever did see, a baseball
cap, toys ... he'd thought of everything.
'Look, Bill,' she said again as she clapped her hands
together in excitement. 'Mickey got all these up Bethnal
Green. He reckons there are some fantastic baby shops
there. He said he'll take me and I can pick out whatever
I want.'
As Billy stood there with the Chinese in one hand and
the carrier bag in the other, he felt like a complete and
utter prick.
'What you brought me then, Bill?' Debbie asked cheerfully.
'Nothing
much,' he said dejectedly. 'Only a Chinese
and that.'
She jumped up and slung her arms around his neck.
She'd already decided not to mention the fact that her
mum had visited, just in case it upset him. 'Oh, you're a
darling. Go and dish it up, Bill, I'm starving! Let's get
stuck in while Charlie's still asleep.'
Billy walked into the kitchen and threw the Chinese on to the worktop. He took
the Milk Tray out of the
bag and slung the box straight into the bin. His blood
was boiling and he was fucking fuming. He'd thought
Debs would be over the moon with his surprise, but no,
her cunting brother had had to arrive here first like
fucking Santa Claus and make his present look like a
burnt offering.
As he chucked the special fried rice on to the plates,
he took a few deep breaths. He had to keep his temper
in check, couldn't lose it, not now.
'Mickey fucking Big Shot Cunt,' he muttered to
himself, as he shovelled prawn balls on the side. He hated
being belittled and, for the second time in months, Deb's
brother had managed it quite easily.
'What you doing, Bill? Hurry up, I'm starving!' Debbie
shouted innocently.
'Coming, dear,' he growled, gritting his teeth with anger.
He couldn't be made to feel a loser any more by her brother.
He'd had enough of it. He'd have to put a stop to his visits,
cause a row, do something. Mickey fucking Dawson was
hardly Reggie Kray. The sooner he got the cunt out of their
lives, the better.
NINE
December 1994
'Do you mind waiting behind for a few minutes, Debbie?
Only I need to have a word with you in private.'
Debbie sat down on one of the plastic chairs and
watched all the other mums and kids straggle out of the
building. Feeling her cheeks redden, she braced herself
for the worst. She didn't have to wait long. Two minutes
later Charlie's teacher sat down next to her, a pitying
expression plastered across her face. In her most patronising
voice, Mrs Jones listed all the naughty things that
Charlie had been caught doing that particular week. These
included punching a little girl, spitting at a little boy and
showing his willy to her and everybody else in his class.
As her son sat on a nearby chair, rocking in his seat
and giggling uncontrollably at the stories of his own antics,
Debbie cringed with horror. This wasn't the first time
she'd had to deal with this kind of situation, but she still
didn't know what to say.
She cleared her throat. 'I'm so sorry, Mrs Jones. I
promise I'll have a word with Charlie's father as soon as
I get home, and I can assure you he will be punished for his bad behaviour.'
Mrs Jones nodded her head sympathetically. In all her
years of teaching children, she had never come across
one as intelligent as Charlie. He was approaching genius
level developmentally. Streets ahead for his age, he was
three going on thirteen. But so far as his behaviour went,
he was the worst child she had ever taught. He was rude,
constantly swore, had an extremely violent nature and
was way too sexually aware for his tender years. Mrs
Jones glanced at the child, still gleefully rocking on his
chair and pulling faces at her. Turning her attention back
to his mother, she felt nothing but relief as she delivered
her final blow.
'I'm so sorry, Debbie, but I think it would be best all
round if you found another nursery for Charlie to attend.
We've been extremely patient with him and given him so
many chances, but we simply haven't the staff to deal
with him here. He seems to need constant attention and
we have to divide our time equally between all of the
children.'
'He won't misbehave again, I promise, Mrs Jones.
Please, just give him one more chance?' Debbie pleaded.
'No,' said the teacher firmly. 'Charlie has had too many
chances as it is. Recently we've had far too many
complaints from the other parents. I'm afraid we have no
choice other than to ask you to remove him. I'm really
sorry, Debbie, but we just can't control him and also feel
that he'd benefit from a change of school. As you know,
his intelligence is not in question, but unfortunately he
needs far more attention than we can offer him here.'
Debbie stood up. 'Okay, well, thank you for your time,
Mrs Jones.'
'Old bag, old bag, old bag,' Charlie chanted, and started
to laugh hysterically.
Grabbing her child out of his seat, Debbie dragged
him towards the door. Telling him off was useless. He'd
obey Billy, but with her it went in one ear and out the
other. Five minutes from home, she happened to remember
that she'd forgotten to collect her Family Allowance. With
Christmas on the horizon, money was much needed so
she decided to take a detour towards the Post Office.
'Nooooo, wanna go home!' Charlie screamed, sitting
down on the pavement and refusing to budge.
'Please, Charlie, now come on, be a good boy for
Mummy. If we don't go to the Post Office, Father
Christmas won't bring you any presents next week.'
'Don't care,' he replied, folding his arms. 'Father
Christmas not real. I want toys today'
Debbie wearily reverted to the only tactic she knew
would work. 'You be a good boy, Charlie. Come to the
Post Office with Mummy and you can pick out any toy
you want.'
Smiling, Charlie got up from the pavement. As young
as he was, he knew exactly what buttons to press with
his silly mummy.
At the Post Office, Debbie was greeted by the sight
of a long queue and her heart sank. Charlie and queues
didn't really go together. Holding his hand and forcing
him to stand next to her, she prayed for him to behave
and not make a show of her. Her prayers must have fallen
on deaf ears. Five minutes later, he pointed at the woman
in the sari standing in front of them and screamed, 'Look,
Mum - Paki, Paki, Paki.'
Debbie was mortified. Billy had taught Charlie his foul
and racist language, not her. Coon, Paki, cunt, wanker...
she'd heard Billy laugh as he'd made his son repeat the
words after him. Trouble was, with Charlie being so bloody
intelligent, he knew exactly what the words meant and
who they were aimed at. As she noticed the horrified
expressions on faces around her, Debbie apologised and
quickly left the queue. Sod the allowance, she didn't need
the money that much.
T want my toy,' Charlie screamed as they headed home.
He refused to walk, chucked himself to the ground, and
in the end Debbie had to nigh on carry him over her
shoulder.
Reaching the tranquillity of her flat at last, Debbie locked
her son in his room and turned the radio on to drown out
the sound of his tantrum. Today had been awful, and to
say she'd felt embarrassed was putting it mildly. What the
hell had she done so bloody wrong as a mother? Stressed
beyond belief, she put her head in her hands and sobbed.
When his temper subsided, Charlie sat down on his bed.
Tall for his age, his looks were a perfect match for his
character. Dark-haired and dark-skinned, he had the smile
of an angel and the eyes of a devil. As he thought of Mrs
Jones, he smiled. Her face had been a picture when he'd
called her an old bag. As for shouting out 'Paki' in the
Post Office, that had been really fun. Giggling, he picked
up his teddy and bounced up and down on his bed. As
his laugher turned into hysterics, he leapt higher and
higher.
Debbie opened the fridge door and reached for one of
Billy's strong ciders. Her life at the moment was totally
shit, an absolute nightmare, she dreaded waking up in the
morning.
Looking back now, part of her secretly wished she had
listened to her mum and Peter. At the time, Debbie hadn't
thought she had much going for her before she'd met
Billy when really she had. Now she was stuck here in a
rut. A horrible, shitty rut that she'd probably never get
out of.
At times she still loved Billy, but deep down knew that
he was no good for her. He was one of life's losers: dossing
about, selling a bit of gear, drinking his life away. She
knew that if she stayed with him, she'd never have the
nice car, spacious house and happy lifestyle that she
craved. The area they lived in didn't help either. It was a
rundown, depressing dump, full of junkies, winos and
lowlifes.
Unfortunately for their situation, Billy had years ago
managed to wangle a two-bedroomed flat out of the
council by telling them he had kids in Scotland who would
be coming to stay. Getting out of a one-bed was hard
enough, but getting out of a two-bed was nigh on impossible,
so they were stuck in the tower block from hell.
Debbie had often wondered how life would be if only
they could get a transfer to Dagenham. Surely if they got
out of Barking and were given a nice little house with its
own garden, Charlie would be better behaved? Maybe
that was all her son needed, a backyard where he could
play, run about and let off steam.
Charlie's behaviour was a massive cause for concern
to Debbie. She knew it wasn't her fault, everyone told
her what a good little mum she was, but she had no control
at all over him. Charlie did exactly what Charlie wanted,
and some of the things he said and did would shock even
the most open-minded person. None of her friends' children
were as badly behaved. They were normal kids.
Mischievous but manageable. Trust her to give birth to a
problem child.
The only time her son seemed happy or even behaved
to a certain extent was when Billy was about, and that
made Debbie feel like an out and out failure. He spent
no more than a couple of hours a day with his son, but
had a bond and mutual understanding with him that she
could only dream of. She was the one who spoiled Charlie,
she knew that. Maybe that was why he seemed to have no respect for her, but
bargaining with him, buying and
giving him things, was the only way she could get him
to do as he was told.
Billy certainly hadn't helped matters. She'd scold
Charlie for swearing, and then Billy would be ecstatic
when the child said the word 'fuck' or 'wanker' in front
of him. He'd bounce him up and down on his knee, telling
him what a top boy he was. It was no wonder really that
Charlie was so badly behaved. He probably didn't even
know what was right and what was wrong.
Billy kept on and on lately about having another kid.
Debbie couldn't think of anything worse. Still wary of
his temper, she'd outwardly gone along with his plan of
adding to their brood and agreed to come off the pill.
Unbeknown to her partner, though, she was still taking
her contraception daily, hiding the evidence in the lining
of her handbag. The thought of another child put the fear
of God into her. She couldn't control the one she had and
dreaded the thought of a second.
What Billy didn't know wouldn't hurt him, she'd
decided. She knew he wasn't the type to march up to the
fertility clinic to find out why she wasn't falling. He was
far too proud for that, and wanking into a jar certainly
wouldn't be his idea of a family day out.
If Billy found out that she'd been lying, Debbie knew
there would be murder. He still lost his temper on occasions
and wasn't averse to giving her the odd clump here
and there. He had improved, though, and had never really
lost it with her since the time she'd landed up in hospital.
The only digs she'd received since then were due to her
brother's visits. Billy hated it when Mickey turned up,
laden with gifts, and every one of his visits caused untold
grief afterwards.
Thankfully, over the last couple of months Mickey had
been so busy he'd hardly had time to pop round. He had
some new business venture on the go and was spending
a lot of time flitting between France and Spain. Debbie
never asked him what he was up to, but she'd guessed he
was getting hold of cheap booze and fags. Every time he
visited, he turned up with bundles of the stuff.
With Mickey in and out of the country, the only contact
Debbie had had with her mother recently was via the
phone. This suited her down to the ground, as whenever
June was due to visit Debbie flew into a flustered panic
and would spend hours tidying the flat up before her
mother arrived. Problem was, no matter how much she
vacced, dusted and tried to make the place look
presentable, within five minutes of arriving her mother
always found fault with it. Many times she'd heard the
words, 'Debs, bring in a dustpan and brush, love, you
forgot to do under the sofa,' or, 'Get us a cloth, Debbie
love, your "skirting needs a good wipe.'
Charlie's behaviour in front of his nan hadn't exactly
helped their relationship. Mickey didn't seem to take much
notice of her son's naughtiness, but her mum was a
different kettle of fish.
'Hello, Charlie, does Nanny get a kiss?' her mum would
ask.
'Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks,' Charlie would reply as
he galloped around the room.
More than once, June had pulled her aside about this.
'I swear, Debs, that's not normal behaviour. Whether you
like it or not, I'm telling you, love, there is something
terribly wrong with that child!'
Luckily Mickey always came to her rescue. 'He's all
right, Mum. He's just a proper little boy. He's got the
Dawson spirit, that's all.'
'Mmm,' replied June, with a disdainful look on her
face.
'Mummy!'
Debbie's thoughts of her family were interrupted by
her son's frantic scream. Charlie had bounced so high
he'd gone head first into his wardrobe and was now lying
in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Shit, Debbie thought. She'd just been about to prepare
dinner and do a few jobs. She knew from past experience
that once Charlie demanded her attention, she got
very little else done. Chucking the chicken and potatoes
into the oven, she went into his room, picked him up and
carried him into the lounge.
'Are you gonna help Mummy cook Daddy's dinner?'
'Nooooo,' Charlie screamed. 'Wanna play games.'
'Okay,' Debbie said. The veg would have to wait until
Billy got home. Luckily, it was no more than fifteen
minutes later that she heard his key in the door.
'Daddy!' Charlie yelled as he ran to greet him.
Debbie gave Billy a peck on the cheek, and told him
to amuse their son while she sorted out the dinner. Cooking
had never been her thing until she'd moved in with Billy
and she was still no Delia Smith. Somehow, though, she'd
managed to teach herself the basics and now did a mean
roast, which was Billy's favourite.
Billy tucked into his grub with a smile on his face. As
he listened to the story of his son being excluded from
nursery, he almost fell out of his seat with laughter. Hearing
about Charlie showing the whole class his willy, Billy
roared, put his plate on the carpet, sat his son on his knee
and ruffled his hair. He opened a can of cider with one
hand as he tickled his pride and joy with the other.
'You're such a top boy, Charlie. At least you went out
in style, eh, wee man?' Charlie laughed. 'Do you wannae
know a secret? Your daddy used to flash his willy at the
teacher too.'
Watching father and son giggling together on the sofa,
Debbie was seriously fuming.
'You're meant to be telling him off, Billy, not encouraging
him to be naughty. It's not funny, you know, when he
behaves like that. It's not you who has to go through the
embarrassment of it every day, is it?'
'Willy, willy, willy,' Charlie shouted.
As he looked at Debbie's serious expression, Billy's
laughter grew louder. He was well pissed by now. He had
been in the boozer since lunchtime and consequently
thought Charlie's antics hilarious. In fact, he couldn't wait
to tell all the lads in the pub that his boy had flashed his
cock at the teacher. How funny was that?
Debbie picked up the dirty plates, stormed out into the
kitchen and slammed the door behind her. No wonder her
son had behaviour problems with a father who encouraged
his every bit of wrongdoing. Why, oh why, hadn't she
listened to her mother and Peter and chosen a better partner
to have kids with? It was at that precise moment that she
knew she was gonna have to do something, and soon. The
longer she stayed with Billy, the fewer chances in life her
son was going to have.
Going back to her mother's wasn't an option; Perfect
Peter would strangle Charlie in five minutes flat. Deciding
that her brother was her best bet, Debbie resolved to get
Christmas and New Year out the way, then get in touch
with Mickey and ask him to help her. Rubbing her tired
eyes, she picked up the tea-towel and dried the last of the
plates. She was nervous about her future, but convinced
that she was making the right decision.
Debbie wasn't a religious girl. As she put the plates
away in the cupboard, she had no idea that Him up above
had already dealt her hand. Getting away from Billy wasn't
destined to be easy. Downright impossible, maybe. But
easy ... no fucking way!
TEN
Debbie was awoken early on Christmas morning by an
excited Charlie who'd decided to jump up and down on
top of her.
'Presents, Mum, presents!' he screamed. Nudging Billy,
so that he wouldn't miss out, Debbie got out of bed,
chucked on her old pink dressing gown, and shuffled out
into the kitchen to make a coffee.
Three o'clock she'd finally got to bed that morning. It
had taken her till that time to wrap all of Charlie's presents.
Thirty-two they'd bought him in total and she'd had to
hide the bloody things next door in Sharon's. Her son was
a nosy little sod and would have found them weeks ago
if she hadn't kept them well hidden away.
Billy had brought over half of them home from the
many pubs he frequented. Apparently, at this time of year
the junkies and lowlifes were out thieving on a daily basis,
and toy shops were an easy target for their thieving little
hands. They would then go round the local pubs selling
their hooky wares for cheap and cheerful prices. The likes
of Billy would offer them puff, whizz or cash in exchange.
Hearing a commotion in the front room, Debbie rushed
in and was dismayed to see that Charlie had already
opened half of his gifts and chucked them to one side.
'Now stop it,' she scolded him as he lobbed a football
across the room, sending the Christmas tree flying. 'I told
you to wait for Mummy, you naughty boy. Let Daddy get
out of bed before you open the rest.'
Ten minutes later, a bleary-eyed Billy sat on the sofa
in his boxer shorts, feeling as rough as old boots. He'd
intended on having an early one last night, so he'd be
nice and fresh for his fatherly duties today, but he'd ended
up doing the exact opposite and hadn't rolled home till
four o'clock this morning.
As soon as the final presents were opened, Billy thanked
Debbie for the jumper and jeans she'd bought him, slung his clothes dn, and
announced he was popping down to
Andy's to get her presents and another big one he'd brought
for Charlie last night.
He returned over an hour later and handed her a fake
Cartier watch, a bottle of hooky perfume and a stolen
M&S dressing gown and slippers that were both far too
big. For Charlie there was a large plastic car. Billy looked
as proud as a peacock as he watched his boy pedalling
around, knocking into all and sundry on his way.
'That's a bit big for in here, Billy,' Debbie said, horrified
by the monstrous-looking thing with which her son
was gleefully bashing up the flat.
Billy put his arms around her. 'Lighten up, Debs, it's
Christmas and he loves it. Nae matter about the damage,
the furniture's old anyway. Oh, and I hope you don't mind,
but I felt so sorry for Andy sitting downstairs on his own
that I invited him up for dinner. The poor bastard has nae
family nearby so I said he could spend the day with us.'
' Whatever,' Debbie said as she marched out into the
kitchen to peel the potatoes and veg.
Andy was pleasant enough but permanently stoned and
spent most of his days in his own little trance. He wasn't
particularly the type of influence she wanted around her
precious son. Charlie had enough problems of his own
without having any more. Deciding to keep her thoughts
to herself rather than start World War Three, Debbie lost
herself in daydreams of her brand new life. She would
have a nice house with a big garden. Charlie would behave
impeccably, at home and at school. Maybe she would get
him a dog, a cute little puppy for him to play with and
love . ..
Her daydreams were interrupted by a knock at the door.
She wasn't expecting any visitors so she guessed it was
either Andy arriving or one of the girls from next-door.
Looking through the peephole, she could see no one.
'Surprise!' shouted her brother as she opened the door.
Debbie's heart turned over. Her Christmas was destined
to be shit as it was, without this. Laden with two big
sacks full of presents, Mickey followed his sister into the
kitchen and accepted her offer of a can of lager.
'Sorry I couldn't get round before, sis, but I've been
so busy. You know how it is.'
Debbie was a bundle of nerves as she dragged her
brother into the living room. He usually turned up when
Billy wasn't about and she knew that there was no love
lost between them.
Mickey grinned. 'All right, Billy, how you doing?'
'Yeah, fine,' Billy answered politely. Inside he was
seething. He hated Mickey with a passion. Just hearing
that cocksure voice wound him up practically to the point
of no return.
'What have you brought me, Uncle Mickey?' Charlie
yelled, bouncing up and down with excitement as he
spotted the two big sacks in the hallway.
Mickey smiled falsely at the child that he'd tried, but
was unable, to like. He was however determined to carry
on his role as doting uncle, for his sister's sake if no one
else's. 'By the looks of it, Father Christmas has brought
you enough as it is,' he said, winding the kid up. 'Maybe
I should take my presents home with me and give them
to some other poor little boy who hasn't got any?'
'Nooooo!' Charlie screamed at the top of his voice.
'My presents, I want them!'
Billy sat with a fixed smile while he watched his son
open the expensive presents his shit-cunt of an uncle had
bought him. Charlie leapt up and down with pure delight
at his latest haul.
A toy garage full of cars; a robot that walked about at
the switch of a button; a cowboy outfit which looked like
the real thing; and finally an electronic train set with
stations, people, warning signs . . . the whole fucking lot!
Unable to watch any more, Billy was saved by a knock
at the door and Andy's arrival. He dragged his pal into
the kitchen, handed him a can of Strongbow and downed
his own in record time. He was furious, really wild, and
needed to calm himself down.
Opening the kitchen window, he nodded at Andy to
shut the door, requested one of his joints and leaned out
of the window for a smoke, hoping to mellow his temper.
He felt undermined once again, like he was the weak man
in his own fucking house. He'd brought his son so many
presents, but nothing could compete with the top-of-the
range stuff that Mickey fucking Big Potatoes had turned
up with.
Billy flicked the last of the joint out of the window
and took a deep breath before walking back into the living
room. Debbie was calling him and he didn't want to mug
himself off, that would really give old Mickey boy something
to get his teeth into. 'What's up?' he asked.
'Look,' she said, handing him a wrapped up box.
'Mickey's bought you a present.'
'Thanks,' Billy said, ungratefully.
'Well, open it then. Look at what he got me,' Debbie
said, her eyes shining.
Billy glanced at the expensive gold cross hanging
around her neck from a thick gold chain.
'Aye, that's nice,' he muttered as he tried to get the
wrapping off his own present. Billy took one look at the
gold hoop earrings inside and quickly shut the box. He
knew without a doubt that Mickey was taking the complete
and utter piss out of him, and was unable to control
himself. 'Earrings? Bird's fucking earrings! Do I look
like some kind of shit-stabber or what?'
Mickey gave him a cocky smirk. 'Well, I knew you
wore them,' he said with assumed innocence, pointing at
the two sleepers in Billy's right ear, one of which had a
cross hanging from it.
'Not like these I fucking don't!' Throwing the box on
the floor in temper, Billy grabbed Andy by the arm. 'We're
off to the pub,' he said as he stormed out the door.
Debbie was really annoyed with her brother. 'Why did
you have to buy him them, Mick? He's not stupid, you
know. He can see you're taking the piss out of him. You're
bang out of order,' she insisted.
'What am I meant to have done wrong?' he said, holding
up his hands and still acting the innocent. T knew he
wore earrings. The ones he had looked old so I bought him a new pair. I don't
understand what his problem is.'
Debbie sat on the sofa with her head in her hands. She
didn't need this shit, not today of all days. It was all right
for her Mickey, he'd fuck off soon and have a decent
Christmas elsewhere. It was her that was stuck here and
would have to bear the brunt of Billy's temper.
'Cheer up, sis. What's the matter?' Mickey slung one
arm around her shoulders. 'You're not frightened of the
cunt, are ya? He ain't ever clumped you, has he? 'Cause
I swear, if he ever lays a hand on you, I'll fucking kill
him.'
'Stop it, Charlie!' Debbie screamed as her son rammed
his new car into her legs for the second time. She felt ill
with worry but had no choice other than to lie. 'Of course
he's never hit me. It's just that ... oh, I dunno, Mick,
sometimes I'm not sure if I'm that happy with Billy'
'Liar, liar, liar.' Charlie leapt out of his car and viciously
kicked his mother in the leg. 'Daddy kicks you ... I saw
him. He kicks you like this,' he said proudly.
Debbie grabbed her son, smacked him and put him in
his bedroom. She couldn't speak openly in front of Charlie.
He had a strong bond with Billy, was a clever little sod,
and would probably repeat her conversation word for
word. Turning the telly up to drown out her son's screams,
she sat down again next to her brother, who looked
concerned.
'Tell me about this kicking thing then, sis?'
T swear, Mick, he doesn't kick me. Take no notice of
Charlie. He has an overactive imagination. I am thinking
of leaving Billy, though. Charlie's behaviour is going from
bad to worse and Billy doesn't support me with disciplining
him. He laughs when he swears and encourages him
to be naughty. He thought it was hilarious when Charlie
got himself excluded from nursery school. I've got to get
Charlie away from him or he's gonna grow up into a
monster.'
Mickey squeezed his sister's hand. 'Look, Debs, Billy's
a mug, a complete wanker, and you can do so much better.
You don't wanna be living in a shit-hole flat like this, and
the area's diabolical. Leave right now . . . come back to
my flat with me. I'll sort a place out for you and Charlie,
somewhere decent in a respectable area.'
'Thanks, Mick,' she said gratefully. 'But I can't leave
today. I couldn't do that to Billy. Let me get New Year
out of the way and then I'll ring you. Billy's got a lot of
problems, stuff you don't know about. I need to sit down
with him and sort things out properly'
Mickey glanced at his watch and stood up. 'The
choice is yours, sis. I can't make you come with me. I
do worry about you living here, though, especially with
that cunt. But I'm afraid I'm gonna have to be making
tracks now. I've got a new bird on the scene, Danielle,
and I've been invited round for Christmas to meet the
parents. Between me and you, I don't do families and
I'm dreading it!'
Debbie hugged him. 'They'll love you, Mickey. How
could they not?'
'Now are you sure you're gonna be all right, Debs?
You've got me mobile number. If that tosser comes in
and starts, you ring me, okay? Danielle only lives on the
Isle of Dogs. I can be here in quarter of an hour if you
have any grief
'I'm fine, Mick, honestly. You go and enjoy yourself.
As soon as I'm ready to leave Billy, I'll give you a ring,
okay?'
Mickey winked at her. "Bye, Charlie,' he shouted as
he opened the front door.
'Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off,' was his nephew's reply.
Mickey gave his sister a sympathetic smile. 'That kid
has something severely wrong with him. The quicker you
get him away from this dump and his scumbag of a father,
the better. If you don't, sis, you're gonna have agg . . .
major, major agg . . . trust me.'
Debbie nodded and they said goodbye.
Mickey thought he was giving her good advice, but
all he'd done was tell her what she already knew. Monster
. . . terror . . . horror . . . Debbie knew exactly what the
world thought of her son. Family, friends, teachers,
strangers - she'd seen their shocked expressions, clocked
their sly glances and heard their snide comments.
Difference was, Charlie didn't belong to them. He
belonged to her. She'd created him, carried him and
brought him into the world. He was her responsibility.
No matter what became of him, she knew she would
always love him unconditionally.
ELEVEN
As she looked at the dried-up turkey and stone cold veg
lying on top of the clapped out oven, Debbie knew she
was in Shit Street and wished she had taken up her
brother's earlier offer.
It was now nine p.m. and she still hadn't heard a dickie
bird from Billy. She had guessed he had a strop on when
he stormed out earlier, but she'd fully expected him to
come back with Andy for his dinner. Debbie knew from
past experience that silence from Billy was a bad omen.
Worried, she reached for her purse, took out the screwed
up bit of paper and dialled her brother's number.
'It has not been possible to connect your call,' a
woman's voice announced. Unable to think straight,
Debbie headed for the fridge and opened the bottle of
Liebfraumilch that was to have accompanied their
completely ruined festive dinner. She hadn't touched a
drink all day, but now needed one desperately.
Should she stay in the flat or should she get the hell
out of here? Debbie repeated the same question over and
over to herself.
'Mummy, Mummy, Mummy!' Her child's screams prompted her to make a decision. She
picked up the telephone
and dialled Sharon's number. With a bit of luck
her friend would let her stay there.
'Shal, I'm sorry to bother you, I know you've got
company, but I'm petrified. Me brother upset Billy earlier,
he stormed out and I haven't seen him since. I've got a
really bad feeling. I think he's gonna come in and start
on me again. What am I gonna do?'
Sharon sighed. She was sick of the BillyDebbie saga
and, as much as she loved and felt sorry for her friend,
wasn't going to have her own Christmas spoilt. Over and
over again she'd told Debbie that Billy was an arsehole.
She should never have gone back after he'd put her in
hospital. Debbie had chosen her own bed, and if it wasn't
comfortable enough, it was her own bloody fault!
'Look, Debs, any other time you could come and stay
here, you know you could, but not tonight, mate. I've got
my mum, my cousin Tracey and my Aunt Ivy here, and
there's no room, love. The best thing you can do is put
yourself to bed and I'll listen out for Billy coming home.
If I hear any shouting or banging or anything untoward,
I'll be there like a shot, I promise.'
Debbie thanked her and said goodbye. She had little
choice now other than to stay in the flat. Her other neighbour,
Donna, was away for the holiday at her mum's house,
and with no other close friends in the tower block, Debbie's
options were limited.
It was just before midnight when she heard the front
door slam shut. She lay shivering nervously under the
cheap, thin quilt. She'd been thinking hard all night and
had reached the decision that she would contact her brother
first thing tomorrow and ask him to come and collect her
and Charlie as soon as possible.
As Debbie lay still, she heard grunting and gulping
noises coming from the kitchen. She knew her partner's
grotesque habits off by heart, and guessed he was shoving
his dinner down his throat and washing it down with cider.
The loud belch that followed confirmed her suspicions.
Billy aimed a half-eaten turkey leg for the rubbish bag
and missed. He had stuffed his face, felt as sick as a pig
and could eat no more. Wiping his greasy mouth on the
sleeve of his new jumper, he staggered into the living
room and fell on to the sofa.
He had left the pub at lunchtime. Twelve until two
were the strictly observed opening hours on Christmas
morning, and guv'nors shut their bars promptly so they
could enjoy the day with their families. With none of their
local haunts open, he and Andy had been at a loose end.
Not exactly laden with invitations from any of their pals,
they had bought a couple of crates from the pub and
headed off towards Andy's flat to drown their sorrows.
Two minutes from their destination, they'd bumped into
Dave the Druggie who'd popped out of his notorious
address to buy some fags.
'Fuck Christmas! It's a load of old bollocks. Come
back to mine, I've got a right old assortment indoors,'
he'd insisted. Dave had no family and was desperate for
some company and someone to get high with.
Although he sold bundles of gear, Billy wasn't usually
the biggest user in the world. He liked a joint here and
there, and a bit of speed to liven him up on a night out,
but apart from that, after what had happened to his brother
Charlie, he'd steered clear of any heavy shit. Today, though,
was different. He was wound up, fucked off and desperate
to get out of his nut.
The day had now taken its toll on him. He'd puffed,
dropped some acid, and downed numerous snakebites.
He'd also dabbled in needles for the first time in his life,
injecting himself with speed to put him on a high and
then Temazepan to bring him back down. Now he felt
fucking rotten - and it was all Mickey Bigshot's fault. If
that cunt hadn't turned up this morning, none of this
would have happened. Billy would have had a nice
Christmas with his bird and son, and not spent it jacking
up round some junkie's flat.
Off his face, he decided it was time to sort out the
problem. He would ring Mickey fucking Big Bollocks
immediately and bar him from coming anywhere near his
family ever again. He staggered into the bedroom, ripped
the quilt off Debbie and smacked her round the face.
'Right, bitch, give us your brother's phone number.
Now!'
As Debbie looked up into Billy's glazed eyes, she shook
like a leaf. 'I don't know where it is offhand,' she lied.
Billy put liis hands around her throat. 'You willnae lie
to me, you fucking whore!'
'I-It's in the zip compartment of my h-handbag,' Debbie
stammered. 'G-give it here and I'll find it for you.'
Billy leapt off the bed, grabbed the black handbag and
clumsily tipped it upside down on the floor. As he
rummaged through the contents, which included a lipstick,
baby wipes and box of Tampax, he could feel himself
getting angrier and angrier.
'It's in the zip bit, Billy' Debbie was by now desperate
to be helpful. His mad expression left her with no choice.
As he tugged at the zip, Billy noticed it was stuck.
Fuming, he ripped the lining with both hands. He shook
the bag upside down and was shocked to see a packet of
pills and a diary fall out. Now, Billy was no genius when
it came to women's shit, but in seconds he realised the
pills were of the birth control kind and had been purposely
hidden there away from his prying eyes. Face reddening
with anger, he checked the day of the week on the packet
before he threw them at Debbie.
'Have you been taking these, you cunt? No wonder
you havenae fell pregnant, you lying fucking slag!'
Debbie said nothing. What could she say? Billy had
her diary in his hand and she was too nervous to open
her mouth. How could she have been so stupid? What
had possessed her to keep a written account of all her
thoughts, fears and dreams?
As Billy flicked through the pages, he started to laugh
hysterically. His eyes bulged as he mimicked Debbie's
voice: '"Charlie bad today, played up in supermarket. Billy
laughed as usual. Need to get Charlie away from him.'"
He frowned and read on. '"Spoke to Sharon today, told
her I was seriously thinking of leaving Billy. She said she
couldn't believe I was still with him and should have left
ages ago.'"
The last extract had been written on Christmas Eve.
Billy read it slowly, his voice filled with sarcasm. '"Really
pissed off today. Charlie worse than ever, Billy no help
getting stuff ready for Xmas. Def. decided am going to
get New Year over and leave him.'"
Sobbing with fear, Debbie lay paralysed in bed. The
sheet beneath her felt damp and she knew without looking
that she'd wet herself.
Billy sat on the edge of the mattress with his head in
his hands. His first instinct was to sob like a baby. His
second was to stand up and repeatedly punch the wall.
Losing it completely, he trashed the bedroom before
lunging at Debbie. 'You fucking bitch . . . you whore!
You think you're taking my kid and leaving me, do you?
Over my dead body, you fucking cunt!'
Dragging her from the bed by her brother's cross and
chain, Billy slammed her against the wardrobe. He picked
up the alarm clock then and battered her round the face
and head with it, over and over again.
'If I cannae have yer, I'll make damn sure no one else
will want yer, you fucking slut!' he screamed.
Woken by the commotion, Charlie picked up Mr Teddy
and toddled out of his bedroom. As he watched Daddy
hitting Mummy with the alarm clock, he began to giggle.
Debbie lay on the floor with two of her teeth on the
bare boards beside her. When Billy saw his son, he dropped
the alarm clock and froze. As injured as she was, Debbie
spat out a mouthful of blood and managed to say, 'Go
back to your room, Charlie.'
Unsettled by his son's presence, Billy ran out of the
room. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck!' he shouted as he head-butted
the fridge.
Charlie picked up his mother's teeth and tried to fit
them into Mr Teddy's mouth. 'Mummy ill,' he giggled.
Debbie tried to sit up, but was unable to. Her poor,
poor baby. To child should ever have to witness what he
had just seen. 'Please, Charlie, be a good boy. Give
Mummy the teeth and go to your room.'
'Nooooo,' Charlie screamed. He was enjoying himself
far too much to go back to bed. Sitting down next to his
mum, he stared at the puddle of blood by her head.
Smiling, he picked up Mr Teddy and rubbed his face in
it. 'Mummy bleed, Teddy bleed.'
Debbie took one look at her son's gloating expression
and finally burst into tears.
Sharon was dancing around the living room with her eldest
kid and her Aunt Ivy to Wizard's T Wish it Could Be
Christmas Every Day', when she heard the bangs and
crashes coming from next-door. Guessing that Billy was
home and it had kicked off, she picked up her phone and
calmly dialled 999. She wouldn't dream of intervening
personally. She knew exactly what Billy McDaid was
capable of.
Billy paced up and down the kitchen, talking to himself
like a madman. Spotting his son, he picked him up, held
him in one arm and lit a fag with the other hand.
'Can I watch Mummy die?' Charlie asked.
Billy smiled, 'Okay, wee man.'
Debbie squinted. Her head was banging and she was
unable to focus properly. 'Take Charlie into the other
room, Billy, don't let him see me like this,' she
whispered.
'Fuck off,' he said, aiming a sly kick at her swollen
face. 'He's my son and I'll do what I want with him, you
stupid bitch.'
Charlie giggled. 'I'm hungry, Daddy'
'Shall Daddy make us some sandwiches?'
Charlie nodded. Billy aimed one more kick at Debbie
and, with his son hugging him tightly around the neck,
strolled out into the kitchen to butter the bread.
By now, Debbie was too weak to move. She was sure
her leg was broken, and was having trouble keeping her
eyes open. 'Please God, help me,' she whispered.
Sharon let the police into the block and gave them
the lowdown. 'Look, it might be nothing, but you have
to check on her. There was a terrible commotion earlier
and now it's gone deathly quiet. He's beaten her to a
pulp before. Could you just check to see if she's all
right?'
Debbie could feel herself drifting off to sleep. The
knock on the door woke her up.
'Open up, it's the police!'
'Help,' Debbie tried to say. Her mouth opened, but her
voice failed her.
'Ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner,' Charlie screamed,
as he jumped up and down excitedly. He had a real thing
about blue flashing lights.
'Shhh, be quiet,' whispered Billy.
The old bill smiled when they heard the child's voice.
'Open up, McDaid. We know you're in there.'
DC Longman had had a lot of dealings with Billy in
the past and despised the fucking scumbag. To nick him
tonight would be the best present he could wish for. Far
better than anything Santa had brought him.
'You've got one minute to open this door, McDaid,
else J'll break it down.'
Billy stood frozen to the spot. He was fucked now,
well and truly, and he knew it.
As the front door began to splinter, he panicked.
Grabbing his son, he ran into the living room and opened
the main window. 'Nooooo, daddy, nooooo!' Charlie
screamed as he was dangled head first out of it.
Out of his head on drugs, Billy smiled as he eyed the
plod. 'You move one step nearer and the kid's a goner.'
'Mummy, Mummy, Mummy!'
A semi-conscious Debbie was dimly aware of her son
calling for her. The realisation of why he was doing so
made her lose consciousness completely.
TWELVE
As she placed the last of the buffet on to the serving
trolley, June stood back, admired her handiwork and
smiled tenderly at Peter. 'Well, what do you think?'
'It looks absolutely fabulous, darling, I knew you
wouldn't let me down.'
June smiled. It was indeed a feast fit for a king.
Cooked meats of various kinds, home-made coleslaw,
potato salad, vol-au-vents, sausage rolls, quiche, and the
biggest selection of gateaux you could imagine. In fact,
there was enough food there to feed the whole British
Army, let alone the four couples who had been invited
over to join them for Boxing Day.
Today was important to Peter and June was determined
to make sure everything would be perfect for him. His
friends included the Chief Constable of the Essex police,
an up-and-coming Tory politician, and the captain of the
extremely posh golf club he'd recently joined.
Peter smiled at his wife and kissed her on the forehead.
The sound of the doorbell made him straighten up.
It was time to greet the first of his guests.
Mickey Dawson thanked the doctor for his time and
pondered his next move. His little sis was in Intensive
Care and he was absolutely devastated. He'd only just
found out the full extent of her injuries. At first the
doctors thought that Debbie had a serious head injury.
Thankfully, a brain scan had ruled that out. They'd had
to shave her hair down one side to check her out properly
and Mickey was dreading her reaction to that. Debs
weren't a bad-looking girl, but had no confidence in her
appearance whatsoever. Sporting half a Grant Mitchell
haircut would do nothing to improve her already low
self-esteem.
Grabbing a much-needed coffee from the vending
machine, Mickey sat on one of the battered plastic chairs
and tried to "get his thoughts in order. He'd have McDaid
for this, fucking kill him with his bare hands if he got
the chance. But seeing as he'd just been informed that
the Glaswegian piece of shit was currently in custody,
there was fat chance he could get anywhere near him,
unless the scum got bail. The only hope of getting to him
was if he was sent to the Scrubs. Mickey had gained a
lot of respect and friends in clink and knew he only had
to give the word. A nice bucket of sugary scalding water
wouldn't go amiss on good ole Billy boy.
Mickey shook his head at the bastard day he was
having. He'd had a well-earned lie in this morning and
hadn't got up till after eleven. By the time he'd bothered
switching his phone on it was past midday.
Within minutes, he'd received a distraught phone call
from Debbie's neighbour, Sharon, who had given him a
blow-by-blow account of his sister's savage beating. Billy
being violent towards Debbie hadn't surprised Mickey;
he'd always known he was capable of it. But dangling his
own kid out of the window of a tower block for ten minutes
was beyond belief. The police had apparently had a terrible
job trying to coax him into putting the boy down safely
before they'd finally arrested Billy.
Sharon had been blunt with him. 'Look, Mick, I know
things are awkward for you, but I can't look after Charlie
for more than a day or two. He's playing up something
chronic, keeps upsetting me own kids, and to be honest,
I think he needs to be around his own family. I'm going
to stay at me mum's for New Year and there's no way I
can take him there with me.'
'Don't worry, Sharon, I understand,' Mickey had said.
'Just keep him for a day or so, till I can sort out somewhere
for him to stay. I'm gonna go up the hospital now
to see what's happening with Debs. I'll call you later, yeah?'
Now he slung the last of his stone-cold coffee into a
nearby bin. He'd do anything for Debs, but there was no
way he could look after her son. The kid gave him the
fucking willies. He still felt like Rodney Trotter whenever
he looked at the little bastard. Sighing, he headed
back towards Intensive Care to check on his once bright
and bubbly sister.
After another chat with a second doctor, Mickey was
informed that Debs's condition was no longer classed as
critical and she would probably be moved into a ward of
some kind in the next day or two.
'Can I see her?' he asked.
'A couple of minutes at the most,' the doctor told him.
At the distressing sight of seeing his sister out for the
count, battered and bruised and with her head swollen to
nearly twice its normal size, tears came to Mickey's eyes.
Squeezing her limp hand, he gently leaned over her and
brushed her forehead with his lips.
T don't know whether you can hear me or not, sis, but
I've gotta go soon as the doctor says you need to rest.
You're gonna be okay, you know, and don't worry about
Charlie - he's fine, Sharon's looking after him. As for
that bastard that's done this to you, Debs . . . he's dead
meat. I swear I'll have him for this. He'll get his comeuppance,
sweetheart, just you wait and see.'
With a lump in his throat and his heart feeling like it
weighed a ton, Mickey left the hospital, jumped into his
motor and picked up his phone. He needed to think fast.
It was gonna be a long while before Debs was well enough
to go home and look after her son. What should he do?
The only person he could think of to approach for help
was their mum, but she wasn't exactly Mrs Doubtfire. He
might as well ring her now, though. He would have to
inform her about Debbie at some point. And after all,
she'd brought up two kids of her own and was Charlie's
gran ... it was her duty to fucking help.
Pissed off that his mother always put Peter in front of
her own family, Mickey angrily punched in her number.
If she let him down and refused to muck in, he'd tell her
her fucking fortune once and for all.
Peter was topping up his guests' glasses with the festive
favourite, brandy and Bailey's, when he heard the shrill
ringing of the telephone. 'Can you get that, dear?' he
shouted to June, who was out in the kitchen preparing
Irish coffees.
At the sound of her son's voice, June's heart flew into
her mouth. She quickly shut the door behind her. 'Peter's
here. I told you not to call me over the holiday,' she whispered
into the receiver.
'Stop worrying about yourself for a moment, Mum,
and fucking listen to me!' Mickey shouted. 'Your
daughter is in Intensive Care. That bastard McDaid has
beaten seven colours of shit out of her and probably
broken every bone in her body. There's no one to look
after Charlie, Mum, so you're gonna have to have him.
Her neighbour's got him at the moment, but she can
only look after him until tomorrow. If you don't help
out, he'll be taken into care and that will break our
Debs's heart.'
Feeling faint, June steadied herself and sat down at the
kitchen table. 'Oh, my God. My poor Debbie. Have you
seen her, Mickey? What hospital is she in?'
He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply between sentences.
He'd had to exaggerate his sister's injuries just to get his
mother's attention. 'She's in Oldchurch. I'm up here now,
in the car park. She's still unconscious although the doctor
just told me she's no longer classed as critical. She's in
a real bad way, though, Mum. Looks terrible. You need
to get your arse up here, I'm all on me own and I don't
know what to do.'
'It's a bit awkward, Mickey . . . I'm in the middle of
a party. What am I meant to tell Peter? He doesn't even
know I'm in contact with you or Debbie.'
Mickey felt his temper reach boiling point. 'What are
you meant to tell Peter? Are you having a fucking laugh,
Mother? Just tell the jumped-up ponce the truth for once
- and as for your precious guests, tell them all to fuck
off home! You never fail to disappoint me, Mum. You
gave birth to me and our Debs. You know, you really need
to get your priorities sorted.'
June felt awful. Her Mickey was right. For years she'd
put Peter above her own flesh and blood. Well, no more.
If her children needed her then, whatever the consequences,
she would be there for them. 'I'm so sorry,
Mickey. I've been a terrible mum to you and Debs. Can
you come over and pick me up now, son?'
He breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, she had seen sense.
'I'll be there in ten minutes. I'll bib outside.'
As June walked into the lounge, Peter noticed that his
wife looked a whiter shade of pale. 'Are you okay, darling?
What's the matter?'
'I need to talk to you alone for a minute.'
June gesticulated for him to follow her out into the
kitchen. She didn't want their guests to overhear this
conversation. After repeating what Mickey had just told
her, she anxiously awaited his reaction.
'The silly, silly girl! I tried to warn her, June. I told
her something like this would happen,' Peter sighed.
'I know you did, love.' Hearing a loud toot outside,
June grabbed his arm. 'I have to go to her, Peter. You do
understand, don't you?'
Peter looked at his wife in horror. 'You can't go now!
What the hell am I meant to tell my friends? You haven't
even brought the cheese board out yet. I can hardly entertain
them alone.'
With Mickey's words still ringing in her head,
answering him back came easier than June had expected.
'My children need me, Peter. I will be there for them,
whether you like it or not. And as for your friends . . .
tell them what you bloody well like! I'm sick of you
ruling my life. From now on I'm putting my foot down.
As far as I'm concerned, my kids come first from this
day onward.'
With her head held high, June marched out of the front
door, leaving her flabbergasted husband practically
foaming at the mouth.
'Good for you, Mum,' Mickey said proudly as she
relayed what she had said to Peter.
T know I've done the right thing, but I am worried
he'll leave me now, Mickey. How will I manage if he
does? I love my little house and our pretty cul-de-sac.
What am I gonna do if he asks for a divorce?'
Mickey comfortingly squeezed her hand. 'Here, don't
worry about that. The house is half yours, and whatever
happens, you'll be able to afford a decent place of your
own. But he won't divorce you, Mum, you'll see. Truth
be told, it's probably done you the world of good, sticking
up for yourself. Once he gets over the initial shock, he'll
respect you more for it and see you in a different light.
Mark my words, he won't get anyone better than you and
deep down he must know that.'
'Thanks, love,' June replied gratefully.
As Mickey parked the car at the hospital, he turned to
face his mother. 'What we gonna do about Charlie? If Debs is awake, that'll be
the first question she asks us.
Billy dangled him out of the window and nearly killed
him, for God's sake. Someone has to help the kid. Will
you take care of him for her, Mum?'
June thought before answering. The idea of looking
after her monster of a grandson didn't exactly enthral her,
but she knew deep down that she had no choice.
'Yeah, I'll look after him. If Peter won't let me bring
him home, then I'll have to stay at yours.'
'Thanks, Mum,' Mickey said, relief flooding through
him. He couldn't have handled the little bastard himself,
that was for sure.
Seeing her daughter lying in Intensive Care, surrounded
by wires and tubes, reminded June painfully of every
maternal shortcoming she'd ever had. Her poor girl, to
come to this . . .
Debbie was still drugged up to the eyeballs, but as her
eyes flickered open a couple of times, June was sure that
she knew her mother was there. Debs probably wasn't
able to hear her clearly, but June spoke to her anyway.
'Now don't worry about Charlie. I'm gonna take real
good care of him for you.'
The doctor spoke to June and Mickey and assured them
that Debbie was expected to make a full recovery.
'Physically her injuries should heal in months, but
mentally they may take longer,' he warned. 'Some form
of counselling or therapy will help, once she's back on
her feet.'
The enormity of the situation hit June as she left the
hospital. Seeing her Debbie like that, lying so lifeless and
helpless, filled her with anger and bitterness. She hoped
with all her heart that Billy McDaid would meet a painful
death and afterwards rot in hell.
Mickey held his sobbing mother in his arms, whispering
good old East End words of comfort. 'Don't worry
about McDaid. He's a dead man, trust me. He'll never go
near our Debs again, I'll make sure of it.'
'You are a good boy, Mickey,' June said proudly. She
knew exactly what her son's intentions were.
He swung the Merc into the empty car park of a nearby
pub. 'I think we need a drink, and then we can sort out
what we're gonna do next.'
June readily agreed. Half an hour and two brandies
later, she plucked up the courage to ring Peter. Explaining
that she had no choice but to look after her grandson,
she waited nervously for his reaction. If he refused to
allow her to bring Charlie home, she was going to
collect some of her things and move temporarily into
Mickey's.
In fact, June was shocked by his helpfulness. 'Our
guests have gone now, darling. Collect your grandson and
bring him home immediately. In times of need we must
help others.'
Mickey laughed as June repeated the conversation to
him. 'What a wanker!' he said.
He headed for the bar, ordered himself another pint
and his mother another brandy.
Handing his mum her drink, he smiled at her. 'I suppose
I'd better go and pick up the devil child in a minute. Have
you told Peter, by any chance, that Charlie isn't exactly
a normal kid?'
June smirked as she sipped her brandy. 'Of course I
bloody well haven't! He doesn't even know I've seen the
child.'
Mickey tried to keep a straight face. Sipping his pint,
he thoughtfully rubbed the stubble on his chin. 'Poor
Peter. He's in for a shock ... a very fucking big shock!'
'I won't be a minute, kids,' Sharon shouted, as she popped
next-door with Debbie's spare key to sort out Charlie's
stuff. She couldn't wait to get rid of him. The kid was
driving her insane. Her brood had never been angels, but
Charlie was in a league of his own. Sharon could honestly
say she had never met such a horrible child in her entire
life.
As she rushed back into her own flat with the monster's
clothes and toys, Sharon was stunned to hear the manic
screams of her own children. 'Whatever's wrong?' she
shouted as she kicked the front door shut.
She had only been gone five minutes and had left them
playing happily with Tiger, the kitten she'd bought them
for Christmas.
Sharon stopped in her tracks at the door to the living
room. Standing at the open window, swinging Tiger
outside by his tail, was none other than a grinning Charlie.
'Puddy cat, puddy cat, puddy cat,' he chanted.
Tiger's whole body was rigid with fear. He gave a faint
squeal and waited for someone to rescue him.
'Meow, meow, meow'
THIRTEEN
a
Tiger used up one of his nine lives that day, saved only
by a quick-thinking Mickey who had turned up at the flat
to collect his nephew.
'Bring the kitten away from the window, Charlie,' he
ordered.
Charlie laughed. 'Puddy cat, puddy cat, puddy cat.'
T mean it, Charlie, don't fuck with me.'
Charlie ignored his uncle. He was enjoyed terrorising
the cat far too much to come away from the window.
Mickey decided a change of tactic was needed. 'I've
brought you loads of presents, Charlie. Put the kitten on
the carpet and you can open them in the car.'
Now Charlie might be evil, but he certainly wasn't
stupid. Even at his tender age, he knew that anything his
uncle bought him was well worth having.
Obediently, he stepped away from the window and
dropped the terrified kitten on to the floor.
'Meeow!' he said, giggling.
Mickey grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into
the hallway. 'I'm so sorry, Sharon,' he said apologetically.
Sharon felt sick to her stomach at what she'd just
witnessed. Fuming, she gave it to Mickey in no uncertain
terms. 'Look at the state of my kids! Don't you ever,
ever bring that horrible little bastard near me again. There
is something very fucking wrong with that child and if I
never see him again, it'll be too soon.'
Mickey actually agreed with her. He felt totally embarrassed.
Taking a wad of notes out of his pocket, he rolled
off a hundred quid and handed it to her. 'Take your kids
out and treat 'em to something nice, eh?'
Snatching the money off him, Sharon breathed a sigh
of relief as Charlie walked out of the front door.
Once in the front seat of his uncle's Merc, the boy's
beady little eyes scanned the inside of the car. 'Where's
my presents?' he demanded.
Mickey started the engine and threw his nephew a look of pure hatred. What he
had just witnessed had shocked
him to the core. He personally loved animals and had no
time for any bastard who hurt them. Deep in thought, he
drove towards his mother's house. How she and Peter were
gonna cope with Charlie boy was anyone's guess. Luckily
for them, they had no pets.
T want my presents and I want them now!'
The sound of his nephew's cocksure tones made Mickey
see red. Deciding to teach the nasty little bastard a lesson,
he took a detour. Pulling over in a secluded lay by, he
turned to face the child. 'If you ever, ever hurt another
little animal like you tried to earlier, I will fucking kill
you. Do you understand me, Charlie?'
Head bowed, Charlie looked at his feet. 'Sorry. Can I
have my presents now?' he asked meekly.
'No you fucking can't! I'm taking them all back to the
shop. And do you wanna know why I'm taking them
back?'
A sulky Charlie didn't answer.
'Because you're a nasty little boy who doesn't deserve anything. Now, I'm gonna
take you to stay at your nan's
house until your mum's better, and I'm warning you . . .
if you play her up or misbehave, you'll have me to deal
with. And I am not a person to mess with, believe me.
If I hear any stories from Nanny about you being naughty,
I will give you such a hiding you won't know what's hit
you. Do you understand what I've just said to you?'
For once, Charlie was lost for words. Unable to meet
his uncle's frightening gaze, he sat in silence and nodded.
'Good,' Mickey said. Restarting the engine, he headed
off towards his mother's house.
'Right, that's the last of his stuff, Mum. If you're short
of anything, let me know. I've got Debbie's key and I'm
gonna go round the flat tomorrow with Big Steve and get
all of her and Charlie's stuff out of there. The last thing
she needs when she comes out of hospital is to return to
that shit-hole with all its bad memories.'
'Where will she live?' June asked, worried.
'I'm gonna rent her a place, Mum, down this way
somewhere. If I put a deposit down for her, the Social
will cough up the rent. She'll be happy in a nicer area,
and it'll be better for him too,' Mickey said, nodding
towards Charlie who was sitting at the kitchen table,
sipping orange squash and nibbling on a biscuit.
'Oh, you are a good boy, Mickey,' June said, smiling.
She was very proud of her strapping, handsome son and
was as pleased as punch that he was taking matters into
his own hands and sorting his sister out somewhere nice.
'Why don't you stay for a cup of tea, love? I'll make
you something to eat, if you like?'
'No, you're all right, Mum. Thanks anyway but I've
had a long day and I just wanna get home. I might pop
out for a pint with me mate later. Where's Peter, by the
way?'
'He had a bad headache. He's upstairs, lying down. It
was probably the shock of me answering him back, eh,
son?' June giggled.
'Right, I'd best be off now. I'll pick you up early
tomorrow afternoon, Mum, and we'll go and visit Debs
together.'
June hugged him. 'Thanks, love. I rang the hospital
about half an hour ago. She's stable, but still out for the
count. They're moving her as soon as she comes round,
putting her in a side ward.'
'See ya then, Mum. 'Bye, Charlie,' Mickey said, edging
towards the front door.
Charlie sat in silence. He hated his uncle and wished
he would die.
'He's ever so quiet, Mickey,' June said, nodding towards
her grandson in the kitchen.
'He'll be all right, Mum. He's just had a lot to deal
with, and he must be missing our Debs.'
June smiled. He was such a kind boy, her Mickey, so
thoughtful. 'Yeah, you're right. I'll make a fuss of him
tonight, make him feel at home.'
After waving Mickey goodbye, she went into the
kitchen and sat at the table opposite Charlie. 'Your Uncle
Mickey brought your toys over from the flat. Do you want
to play a game with Nanny?'
Sullenly, Charlie shook his head.
Racking her brains as to how to cheer the child up,
June tried to tempt him with food, asked him if he wanted
to watch telly, even offered to show him his room and
read him a nice bedtime story. Charlie declined every
suggestion.
'Why don't you tell Nanny what you want to do then,
love?' she said, running out of ideas.
'Don't wanna do nuffink,' came the stroppy reply.
Mickey rang Big Steve on his way home. On learning
that Steve was enjoying a quiet beverage in the nearby
Needle Gun, he eagerly joined his friend. He'd had the
day from hell and was in desperate need of a pick-me
up. Not in the mood to get involved with the little firm
Steve was boozing with, Mickey ushered him over to a
table in the corner where they could talk undisturbed.
As he listened to his pal's version of the day's events,
Steve shook his head in amazement. 'Fucking hell! Is
Debbie gonna be all right?' he asked, genuinely concerned.
Steve had only met Mickey's sister once, but was worried
all the same.
Mickey took a gulp of his much-needed pint.
'Physically, the doc says she'll be okay, but she's been
through such an ordeal that mentally it'll take her a lot
longer to recover. Hopefully, she'll be fine in the end.
She's a strong character, our Debs. If anyone can get over
something like this, she can.'
'What you gonna do about McDaid?'
Mickey gave him a knowing look. 'What do you think?
I can't do nothing yet though, unless he gets put in the
Scrubs. Other than that, I'll have to wait till they let him
out . . . and when they do, I'll have the cunt's guts for
garters. Make no mistake about that, Stevie boy'
Steve stood up to get another round. 'I'll be right by
your side, Mick. I'd love to give him a dig meself. Anyone
who does that to a woman, especially the mother of his
kid, deserves everything they've got coming to 'em. As
for dangling his own son out the window, that's beyond
fucking belief!'
Steve ordered another couple of pints and some chasers
then sat back down and listened to the drama of Charlie
and the kitten. 'Jesus Christ. Do you reckon he'll be all
right at your mum's, Mick?'
Mickey let out a worried sigh. 'It ain't just the cat
thing, Steve. The kid ain't normal, mate. He's like that
fucking Damien out of that Omen film. He's evil - takes
after his father. Honestly, I ain't lying, I've seen it all
along. I mean, the only reason I used to splash out, buying
him loads of presents, was to help our Debs. Inwardly,
I've never liked the kid. He's not a child you can take to,
there's something not right about him. He's a spiteful little
bastard. Nastiness runs through his veins. Honestly, Steve,
I feel awful saying bad things about him. He's my own
nephew, for fuck's sake, the first nipper in the family, but
he's horrible - and I mean really horrible.'
Steve nodded sympathetically. He could see his best
mate had had a shit time of it, so came out with the only
suggestion he could think of. 'Let's get out of here, eh,
Mick? Come back to mine. I've gotta bottle of JD sitting
at home. Let's crack it open. You'll feel better if you drown
your sorrows.'
Mickey didn't need asking twice. 'Let's go.'
Peter opened his eyes gingerly. Relieved that his migraine
had now cleared, he headed downstairs to make amends
with his wife. It had come as a complete shock when
June had shouted and sworn at him. Once he'd got rid of
their guests, he'd sat down and thought the whole situation
through. He loved his wife immensely and the thought
of life without her didn't bear thinking about. That's why,
although he'd been fuming at first, he'd decided to swallow
his pride and forgive her.
Being lumbered with her grandson was the last thing
he needed. He couldn't think of anything worse. Peter
hated kids at the best of times. He'd only fathered the
one himself and split up from her mother shortly after.
He lacked practice and patience with them, but was determined
to give it his best shot this time. Hopefully, June's
grandson would be a cute little chap, well-behaved and
polite. Peter trudged down the stairs and walked into the
kitchen to meet his house guest.
June had never been so pleased in her life to see her
husband. The last hour had been awful for her, with
Charlie playing up something rotten. He'd chucked the
turkey sandwich she'd made him on to the floor, sworn
at her and refused to go to bed.
'Fuck Nanny, fuck Nanny, fuck Nanny,' he shouted.
'Oh, thank God you're here. This is your Granddad
Peter, Charlie. Be a good boy and say hello to him.'
'Nooooo,' Charlie screamed. T want my daddy'
Peter knelt down next to the distressed child. 'Hello,
Charlie. I'm Granddad Peter, and I'm going to be looking
after you with your nana.'
Charlie screwed up his little face 'Go away, I hate you!
Bastard, bastard, bastard.'
As Peter looked at June, he struggled to contain his
horror. 'Charlie seems tired to me. I think it's bedtime
for the child, don't you, dear?'
A flustered June explained that for the last hour she'd
been trying to coax Charlie to bed. 'He won't budge,' she
said.
'Oh, well, we'll see about that, won't we? Come on,
Charlie, it's nearly ten o'clock, well past your bedtime.'
Seeing that the child had no intention of moving, Peter
leaned over to pick him up. If carrying him up the stairs
was the only option, then so be it.
'Nooooo, don't wanna,' Charlie screamed, wriggling like
a snake as he was lifted from his chair. Peter had a hell of
a job trying to carry the thrashing child up the stairs.
'Cunt, cunt, cunt. Hate you, hate you, hate you.'
Peter was appalled by such language which belonged
on the football terraces and not in his home. How did a
child of that age even know such words? Disgusted, he
put Charlie into bed fully clothed.
'Get some sleep now, child, and we'll talk in the
morning. You are a guest in my house and will learn to
do as you are told.'
'Bollocks!'
Being a man of some influence locally, Peter was used
to being listened to, agreed with, and obeyed. As Charlie's
spittle sprayed his face, he realised that tonight was a first
for him.
Charlie smiled as he watched his Granddad Peter leave
the room. 'Silly Granddad, silly Granddad, silly Granddad,'
he chirped. Happy once more, he laughed himself to sleep.
FOURTEEN
#
Charlie's behaviour went from bad to worse over the next
few days and June was at her wits' end. Peter had had a
gutful after twenty-four hours, and had taken to working
late at the office and popping to the pub afterwards rather
than face seeing the child.
'I'll be home at nine from now on, dear,' he told June.
'By the time I return, I expect your grandchild to be
tucked up in bed and out of my bloody sight.'
June did her best to charm and entertain the boy, but
nothing seemed to please him. He was sullen, ignorant,
uncouth and extremely ungrateful. June couldn't wait to
offload him and get her life back to normal. With New
Year on the horizon, she and Peter had originally arranged
to go away with some friends from the golf club, staying
at a posh country manor. Obviously, they'd now had to
cancel and had invited a couple of Peter's local councillor
friends over to the house instead.
'I've told all our guests to arrive at eight o'clock, June.
Please make sure your grandson is snuggled up in bed
by that time, dear.'
'Of course.' She had been surprised he'd invited
friends over at all, with Charlie on the premises, but had
decided to keep her thoughts to herself. The child was
so unpredictable, you could never judge what he was
going to do or say next. She just hoped that the evening
would go without a hitch, for Peter's sake.
June spent the morning of New Year's Eve practising
her culinary skills. She loved entertaining and always
pushed the boat out in the food department, forever trying
out mouthwatering new recipes.
Mickey was picking her up this afternoon and they were
taking Charlie up to the hospital to see his mum for the
first time since she'd been admitted. Debbie had regained
consciousness the day after Boxing Day and had been
moved into a little side ward. She had been asking to see
her son for the last few days, but because she'd been so
poorly, June had decided against taking the brat up there
before now. However, yesterday Debbie's condition had
apparently turned a corner and the nurse had told June
that seeing her son would now do her the world of good.
'Come on, Charlie, be a good boy. Put your coat on
for Nanny. Your Uncle Mickey will be here in a minute
to take us to see Mummy'
'Don't wanna go,' he said, ignoring the little Puffa
jacket held out towards him.
'Now come on, don't be naughty. We need to make
Mummy better, and seeing you will make her feel great
again.'
Charlie sat on the floor, arms folded. He enjoyed
winding his nan up. Silly old cow, he couldn't stand her. 'Don't like Mummy,
don't care if she dies,' he said,
smirking.
Horrified, June used the only trick she knew would
work. 'You are one nasty piece of work, Charlie. Now
get this coat on or else your Uncle Mickey'll come in
and give you a bloody good hiding!'
Wary of his Uncle Mickey, Charlie did as he was told.
Debbie was elated to see her son and made as much fuss
of him as her injuries would allow. 'Come and sit on
Mummy's bed,' she urged.
Charlie shook his head. 'Don't wanna. You look like
a man.'
Debbie felt sad. Her injuries must look awful, they
were obviously upsetting her son. 'Mummy's missed you
so much, Charlie. I hope you've been a good boy for
Nanny'
Finger up his nose, Charlie shook his head. 'Don't like
Nanny Wanna live with Daddy'
Debbie glanced at June. 'Mum, take Charlie and get
him a chocolate bar for me, I want to have a quick word
with Mickey. Give us five minutes, eh?'
As soon as they'd left the room, she turned to her
brother. 'Any news on Billy yet, Mick?'
'He's still locked up, apparently. Peter rung up a couple
of his police pals to find out the SP and he's due up in
court on the tenth of January. He'll obviously try and get
bail before it goes to Crown Court.'
'You don't reckon he'll come after me if they let him
out, do you, Mick?'
Holding his sister's hand, Mickey did his utmost to
reassure her. 'I doubt he'll get bail, to be honest, but if
the cunt does, I'll be waiting for him. He won't come
within a mile of you, trust me, I'll see to that. You just
concentrate on getting yourself better. Don't worry about
that piece of shit, you leave him to me.'
'How's Charlie been behaving, Mick, and I mean truthfully? He seems ever so
subdued. I'll never forgive Billy
for what he did to him. Charlie's bound to be scarred
mentally by it. What if it screws him up for life?'
Not wanting to worry his sister, Mickey chose his words
carefully. 'Mum said he's played up a little bit round there.
I don't think he's said much about his dad, but to be
honest, once you get out of here, I think it might be a
good idea to take him to see someone, maybe a kiddie
shrink or something.'
'I'm not taking him to one of them, Mick. He ain't
mental, he's just confused. Maybe now that Billy's out
the picture, his behaviour will improve of its own
accord.'
Seeing Charlie and his mum walk back into the room
saved Mickey the awful job of confessing to his sister
that he didn't think her kid was quite right in the head.
Another time, another place, would be better for that. The
serious shit would have to wait until Debs was up to
hearing the truth about her offspring. Smiling, he quickly
changed the subject.
'I'm going to have a look at a couple of properties in
the next few day, Debs, right near Mum. They'd be ideal
for you and Charlie.'
Debbie looked at her brother in amazement. She'd been
so ill that she hadn't given a thought to where she was
going to live. 'It's a lovely idea, Mick, but who's gonna
pay for it? I'll have to go back to the flat, else how am
I gonna get my stuff back? Everything that me and Charlie
own is inside that place.'
Squeezing her hand, Mickey informed her that he and
his mate Steve had already collected all of her belongings.
He then explained that he had a pal who owed him
a couple of favours and dealt in renting out properties.
'Honestly, Debs, all I've gotta do is go and view 'em
and pick the one I want. I ain't even gotta give him a
deposit because you're my sis. The Housing Benefit mob
will pay your rent for ya.'
'Oh, that's brilliant, Mickey. It'll be so much better for
Charlie, living in a decent area. He can go to a nice little
school and make new friends. It'll be the making of him,
I know it will.'
June and Mickey shot each other a knowing glance.
They both felt that Charlie's problems were far too deep
rooted for a change of area to make any difference. Neither
of them wanted to burst Debbie's bubble, though, so they
both agreed with her.
As Debbie waved goodbye to her family, she felt more
confident than she had for a while. Thinking positively,
she decided that once she was discharged, she would
definitely get her life back on track. Obviously, her hair
would have to be shaved completely and she would need
dentistry work to repair the two teeth she'd lost, but she
was determined to bounce back stronger than ever before.
She certainly wasn't going to let a no-good piece of shit
like Billy McDaid ruin her life.
She was adamant that from now on there would be no
more men in her life and she would just concentrate on
herself and her son. Tired but determined she drifted off
to sleep.
On the way home, with an unusually quiet Charlie
crashed out on the back seat, June and Mickey discussed
how much chirpier Debbie had seemed.
'She'll be fine, Mum, I know she will. She's a strong
'un, our Debs, tough as old boots. Once she's in a nice
little house, round the corner from you, she'll be as right
as ninepence.'
June glanced at the sleeping child, sprawled out on the
back seat of the car.
T know it's a horrible thing to say,' she whispered, 'but
it's a shame she's got him, isn't it? Without him she'd
have no ties to McDaid and if anything is going to drag
her down, it'll be that little bastard, mark my words. I
can't see him changing, acting normally, can you?'
Changing gear, Mickey shook his head. 'There's no
way he's gonna change. Unfortunately for Debs, she's
given birth to fucking Damien.'
Ill
June smiled at her son's humour. She'd loved the Omen films and thought that
Damien was a perfect name for
her grandson. The smile was quickly wiped off her face
when Mickey told her the story of how Charlie dangled
the kitten out of Debbie's neighbour's window.
'You should have seen the look on his face, Mum.
Honestly, I've never seen anything like it, not even in
prison. He was totally getting off on the terror of the poor
animal, I could see it in his evil little eyes.'
Charlie smiled to himself. He often pretended to be
asleep, and loved it when he was the topic of conversation.
Remembering the look on Tiger the kitten's face, it
was a struggle to stop himself from giggling. Then overcome
by the wonderful memories, he did burst out
laughing.
'Shhh, he's awake,' June said as she quickly changed
the subject. 'So, where you going to see the New Year
in, Mick?'
'Club up town, Mum. A pal of mine runs it.'
Pulling up outside his mum's house, Mickey jumped
out of the car and opened her door for her. 'The one good
thing that's come out of this, Mum, is at least we're all
close again, like a proper family. It's just a shame that
Debbie had to take a beating for that to happen.'
'You're so right, Mick. I'm to blame for that, though.
I should never have put Peter ahead of you and Debbie.
I'm really ashamed of meself
'Oh, forget it now, Mum. You came up trumps when
we really needed ya, and that's all that matters.'
T love you, son.'
Mickey blew her a kiss and drove off.
At 7.30 p.m. exactly June added a diamante necklace and earrings to her
expensive new dress and checked
herself out in the full-length mirror. Pleased with the
results, she made her way downstairs for Peter's approval.
'You look beautiful, darling. Perfect, in fact,' he said
as he admired the jade green number she'd spent hours
choosing.
Charlie, clad in his pyjamas and watching cartoons on
his nan's video, turned around to see what the commotion
was all about.
'Nanny fat, Nanny fat, Nanny fat,' he chanted.
Taking no notice of him, June turned off the video.
'Come on, bed-time for you, young man.'
'Not going, not tired.'
'Now come on Charlie, don't mess me about,' June
said sternly.
'Noooooo, not going.'
As he lay on the floor, having one of his famous temper
tantrums, Charlie remembered what his nan had said about
him earlier. She had said it was a shame that he'd ever
been born. Smiling, he decided it was payback time.
Taking the lid off his beaker of Ribena, he giggled as he
chucked the contents all over Nanny's new dress.
June was in shock as she looked at the state of her
outfit. 'You evil little bastard!' she screamed. Crying with
anger, she ran up the stairs, leaving Peter to deal with the
child from hell.
'You are a nasty, naughty, horrible little boy. You will
go to bed this very minute,' Peter said as he dragged the
hysterical child up the stairs.
'Bastard, bastard, bastard,' Charlie screamed.
Peter opened the bedroom door. 'Get in that bed and
go to sleep now, child.'
Charlie hated his granddad. Screwing his face up, he
spat at him and missed.
Overcome by anger, Peter lifted the brat off the bed
by his left arm and repeatedly smacked his bottom.
Though still extremely flustered, June and Peter
managed to pull themselves together in time to greet their
guests. As host and hostess they had a reputation second
to none, and were determined to keep it that way.
At five to midnight, Peter tuned into a local radio
station. 'Ten, nine, eight, seven . . . '
June cracked open the vintage champagne. ' . . . six,
five, four, three, two, one. Happy New Year!' As Auld
Lang Syne blared out from the speakers, the three couples
stood in a circle, arms crossed.
Charlie sat bolt upright in bed. The music, screams
and guffaws had woken him. Deep in thought, he sucked
his thumb. He hated living in this horrible house. He'd
been happy before, living in the flat with his daddy. Why
hadn't his daddy come to get him? He hadn't seen him
since they'd played the scary window game. His dad had
been upset that night. He was crying when he'd gone off
with the nasty policemen.
Charlie grabbed hold of his new toy and hugged him.
His nan had taken Mr Teddy away from him because
he was covered in blood. She'd said that Mr Teddy was
ill and needed to go into hospital, like Mummy. She'd
given him Deputy Dawg to play with instead.
Apparently, the dog had belonged to his mum when she
was a little girl. No longer tired, Charlie toddled downstairs
to see what all the commotion was about. Peter
was horrified to see him appear, and quickly scooped
the child into his arms.
Hilary Forsyth-Smith and her husband Duncan had
never been lucky enough to conceive a child themselves.
'Oh, look, bless him! Please let him stay for a while,
Peter,' Hilary pleaded.
'Goodness, no, it's way past his bedtime,' Peter said
firmly.
'Pleeease.' Hilary was extremely drunk and wasn't
taking no for an answer. 'Aren't you a little cutie?' she
said, tickling Charlie under his chin. 'And look at your
little Superman pyjamas . . . aren't they adorable? Please,
Peter, let me hold him.'
Seeing Hilary's outstretched arms and noticing the mad
'I'm desperate for a baby' glint in her eye, he didn't have
the heart to say no. He had to put on an act. He'd spent
ages earlier telling his guests how he and June had taken
the boy in and were caring for him like he was their own.
He hadn't mentioned what a little bastard the child was,
naturally, but had made the situation sound idyllic, Granny, Grandpa and cute
little Charlie. He knew without a doubt
that he had scored political brownie points with Duncan
with that act, just as he'd intended. He could hardly banish
the child now.
Peter stood watching Hilary dote on the child, feeling
very on edge. 'Come on then, Charlie,' he said finally,
feeling that these past ten minutes spent without incident
were more than he could have hoped for. Better not push
his luck.
'Show me how your little doggy walks,' Hilary said,
still all gooey and starry-eyed.
'Don't wanna,' Charlie said, hugging the toy close to
his chest.
'Oh, pleeease, come on. Auntie Hilary wants to see
Doggy Woggie.'
Wriggling out of the madwoman's arms, Charlie turned
to look at her. She reminded him of a horse with her great
big teeth. Knowing he was about to be whisked back off
to bed by his surrogate grandfather, Charlie decided to
go out in style. Giggling, he pulled down his pyjama
bottoms, grabbed his dinkle and thrust it towards Hilary.
'Suck my cock, suck my cock, suck my cock,' he
shouted, laughing gleefully.
Hilary put her hand over her mouth in horror. She had
never sucked Duncan's dinkle in all the years they'd been
married, the mere thought had always appalled her.
June and Peter glanced at one another. Their party was
well and truly over along with their reputation for
respectability.
Ordering June to take the child to bed at once, a shellshocked
Peter lit up one of his Hamlets and apologised
profusely. He needn't have bothered, the evening was
already ruined.
Hilary grabbed Duncan's arm. 'Could you take me
home, dear? I am feeling rather faint and insist we leave
immediately'
Duncan looked at Peter, raised his eyebrows and walked
out.
Peter said goodbye to the last of his guests and slammed
the door. What a bloody show-up. He had never felt so
embarrassed in the whole of his life. Charlie's behaviour
had just spelt the end of his political career, that was for
sure. Word of tonight's events would spread like wildfire
amongst his colleagues, and where would that leave him?
A bloody laughing stock, that's where! He most certainly
would not allow that to happen. Tomorrow he would do
the decent thing and walk away with his head held high.
His resignation from the Council would be handed in with
immediate effect.
FIFTEEN
4
Debbie was finally discharged from hospital, three weeks
to the day after she was first admitted. The weather was
dull, rainy and miserable, and it matched her mood
completely. Yesterday was the first time she'd looked into
a mirror since the beating and she'd been surprised she
hadn't cracked the bastard thing.
Obviously, she had known all along that she'd lost a
couple of her teeth and that her hair was now cropped.
Her mum had brought Peter's razor in and evened it up
to match the side that had already been shaved. The nurses
had forbidden her to look into a mirror until the bruises
and swelling had lessened so she'd had no idea just how
bloody repulsive she looked, until now. Hence her mood
today as she hobbled out of the hospital on crutches alongside
Mickey.
Glancing at his watch, he realised it had taken them
ten minutes to reach the end of the corridor. 'Why don't
you let me get you a wheelchair? The nurses said you
could borrow one.'
Debbie paused and pulled the Nike baseball cap he'd
lent her over her eyes. She could see all the passers-by
staring at her, pitying expressions on their faces.
T am not being pushed about in one of them bloody
things. What do you think I am, some kind of an invalid?'
Mickey smiled to himself. Every day this week he'd
seen more and more of the old Debbie return. She'd been
entirely different with that bastard McDaid, a shadow of
her former self.
Glancing round at her, he clocked that she'd barely
moved an inch in the last five minutes. Now Mickey might
have a lot of virtues, but patience wasn't one of them.
'For fuck's sake, Debs, we'll be here all night at this rate!
Sit on that fucking seat over there while I go and find
you a wheelchair.'
Watching her brother storm off in the direction from
which they'd just come, Debbie allowed herself a wry
smile. They weren't even out of the hospital door and
already they were arguing like cat and dog. They'd had a
massive row yesterday when she'd first looked into the
mirror.
'Look at the fucking state of me, Mick. I look like a
freak,' she'd wailed, expecting some sympathy.
Not that great with women's hang-ups and insecurities,
Mickey said what he thought she'd want to hear.
T think you look proper, Debs. I really like your hair
cropped. I prefer it to when it was long. It suits you . . .
makes you look pretty, like.'
If Debbie had been sitting near enough, she'd have
smacked him straight in the teeth. She had never looked
pretty in the first place, let alone now.
'Pretty! Are you having a laugh, Mick? I've got no
fucking teeth and me hair looks like I'm suffering from
terminal cancer. Pretty? I look like something out of
bloody Cell Block H. Now fuck off and leave me alone.'
Mickey had slunk from the room like a naughty
puppy that had just had its first scolding. 'Fucking
women, I'll never understand 'em,' he'd mumbled to
himself.
Hearing the rumble of the clapped out wheelchair
approaching, Debbie's thoughts snapped back to the
present.
Originally, it had been decided that for the first couple
of weeks, she would stay with her mum and Peter, to help
her out with Charlie and give her some time to recover.
This idea, however, had gone out of the window last week.
At the end of his tether, Peter could take no more and
finally tackled June. 'I'll say this once and once only, my
dear. I cannot spend another day around your grandson.
That child is Lucifer himself. Either he goes or I do.'
June had no choice but to pack up some stuff and move
with Charlie into the pretty little two-bedroomed house
that Mickey had rented for Debbie. She didn't blame Peter.
Secretly, she thought he'd been marvellous to suffer the
child as long as he had. If the boot had been on the other
foot, she couldn't have put up with it.
As Debbie arrived at her new home, which was literally
five minutes from her mother's, she felt her mood
lift.
'Oh, Mickey, it's beautiful, I love it,' she crowed as she
hobbled excitedly from one room to another. It was
spacious, modern, had a pretty garden and a massive
kitchen. The house Mickey had found was absolutely ideal
for her. Situated on the outskirts of Rainham and Elm
Park, it formed part of a little close with nine other houses.
It was a far cry from Junkie Town and Nelson Mandela
House.
'Mick, I'll be so happy here! You're the best brother
in the whole wide world.'
He smirked as she clung around his neck. He'd obviously
done something right for once. Only yesterday she
was calling him every cunt under the sun. Fuck getting
married, he thought, as he hugged her back. Women were
too unpredictable for his liking, he'd never understand
their way of thinking.
June watched her two children laughing and bantering
and was secretly as proud as a peacock. Damien, as she
still privately called Charlie, was upstairs asleep and it
was nice to have a bit of quality time, just the three of
them. She'd guessed by now that her Mickey was no
party organiser. She didn't care. He was her son, she
loved him dearly, and what she didn't know couldn't
hurt her.
Leaving her kids chatting away happily in the lounge,
June headed to the kitchen to make a brew. She was
parched and guessed they must be as well.
'Right, girls. I've got a bit of an announcement to make
meself,' Mickey said on her return.
June put the mugs on to coasters and felt her heart
leap with excitement. Maybe he was getting married? she
thought as she fleetingly pictured her own outfit. She sat
waiting with bated breath.
Mickey smiled. 'I've bought a little house down this
way meself. I've wanted out of the East End for a while
now. It's changed so much up there, far too multicultural
for my liking, so I decided Essex was to be me next move.
A nice three-bedroomed gaff I bought. Got it on the cheap
an' all, I did. It needs a bit of work done, but me mate
Steve's gonna move down here with me, rent a room off
me, like. He's pretty handy and we can do any work that
needs doing in our spare time.'
'That's fantastic son,' June said, nearly choking on her
biscuit. She wished he'd settle down properly, though,
move in with a girl. She'd been hoping he would shack
up with a Susie or a Sandra, not a bloody Steve. Surely
he wasn't gay, she thought. You never knew these days
. . . Worried about him, she gave a half-smile.
Mickey knew exactly which way his mother ticked and
guessed what she was thinking. Deciding a wind-up was
on the cards, he winked at Debbie and cleared his throat.
'Look, Mum, Debs, there's something I need to tell you
and I don't know how you're gonna take it.'
Trying not to laugh, he put on his most sincere expression
and stared at his mother.
'Oh, this is so awkward, I dunno where to start. I've
known what I was from an early age, but was frightened
to tell ya. So I rang that gay helpline and they told me I
had to be honest. Me and Steve, Mum, we're lovers and
we're hoping to get married this summer. A gay vicar has
offered to do the service and, well, I was wondering if
you could ask Peter to be my best man.'
Debbie roared, unable to contain herself.
June dropped her mug and its contents all over Debbie's
new carpet. Her handsome, macho son a shit-stabber . . .
surely not? What would she say to Peter?
Laughing hysterically, Mickey and Debbie held their
stomachs. The look on their mother's face was a picture,
an absolute classic. 'He's winding you up,' Debbie
screamed.
Relieved it had all been a big joke, June rushed out to
the kitchen. Returning with a cloth, she got down on her
hands and knees and mopped up the mess.
It had been a long time since Debbie had had a laugh
like this. Enjoying herself, she carried it on.
'Can you imagine Mrs Bucket having to tell Peter and
her friends that her son's a raving iron!'
Seeing the funny side herself now, June went into a
fit of giggles and was unable to get up off her hands and
knees. 'Christ, don't bend over with your arse up like
that, Mum. Steve'll be round in a minute and he always
gives me a good seeing to when I'm in that position!'
Mickey shouted.
The raucous laughter and crude humour went on for
a good ten minutes and only came to a halt when a
miserable-looking Charlie entered the room.
'Mummy's home, Charlie. Do you like our new house?
Come and give me a cuddle,' Debbie said happily.
'I hate it. It's 'orrible,' Charlie replied tactlessly.
The change in the atmosphere was like someone turning
a switch off. Mickey glanced at his mother, threw his
nephew a look of pure hatred and feeling like Rodney
Trotter once again, stood up.
'Right, girls, I'll let yous two get sorted now, I'm gonna
shoot. I've gotta bit of business to sort out later.'
Mickey kissed them both and, for Debbie's sake, forced
himself to say goodbye to Damien. When he got no reply
from the ignorant little shit, he slammed the front door,
jumped into his motor and shot up the Al3.
Mickey had really enjoyed the day with his mum and
sis, but as usual that horrible fucking kid had spoiled
things. Normally he loved children. Some of his mates
had little 'uns and Mickey had all the time in the world,
for them, but Charlie was the devil in disguise. In fact,
he was a ringer for his no-good cunt of an old man.
Flicking through the radio channels, Mickey opted for
Kiss FM. He liked rave music, it had made him wealthy.
As he cranked the sound up as loud as it would go, he
tried to banish to the back of his mind any thoughts of
what he'd like to do to his nephew and bloody Billy
McDaid.
June and Debbie fell into a nice little routine over the
next few days and Debbie was glad of her mother's
company.
As usual the only fly in the ointment was Charlie, who
continued to be rude, sullen and surly, showing neither
his mum nor his nan any respect or affection at all.
'I'm really at the end of my tether, Mum. I honestly
don't know what to do with him any more. I've tried
everything. I've smacked him, taken his toys away, locked
him in his room . . . but nothing seems to work. I just
can't seem to connect with him. Billy could, he had him
eating out the palm of his hand, but me ... I just feel
like he hates me. And I'm his mother, for Christ's sake.'
Not knowing what to say to Debbie in case she said
the wrong thing, June suggested that they open the bottle
of wine Peter had given her earlier. 'To help you cope,'
he'd said sarcastically. He was bloody spot on, June
thought as she poured it.
'What am 1 gonna do, Mum?'
T don't know, Debs, I really don't. You and Mickey
were angels compared to Charlie, and 1 thought you were
both naughty at the time. You've just got to hope that
he'll change when he starts proper school in September.'
'Please God he does, Mum, but I can't see him
changing. I've never told you before but he got excluded
from nursery school for being a little bastard. He
walloped a couple of kids there and flashed his willy at
the teacher.'
June sighed and decided now was as good a time as
any to tell Debbie about the New Year's Eve debacle.
'Oh, Mum, I'm so sorry. I feel terrible. You must have
been horrified.'
'Well, it was a night to remember, Debbie, especially
when the little sod started shouting "suck my cock" at
Hilary. You know how posh Peter's political friends are?
As for Peter, he was that mortified, he handed in his resignation
the following day'
Debbie didn't know whether to laugh or cry June
made the decision for her. The two glasses of wine she'd
drunk had gone straight to her head and she erupted into
a fit of giggles.
T know we shouldn't be laughing, Debbie, but if you'd
have been there and seen this Hilary's face! It was a
picture, love.'
'Oh, Mum. The Tory Party was Peter's life. Fancy him
having to leave because of Charlie.'
'Well I ain't gotta put up with his boring friends no
more. I never liked 'em much anyway. And a least now
he's got more time to do my fucking garden!' Screaming
with laughter, June topped up their glasses.
Mickey was sitting in the Needle Gun, having a quiet pint with Big Steve, when
he received an unexpected phone
call from an old pal of his, Tommy the Fence.
'What's occurring? Long time no hear from. How you
been, Tom?'
Never a man for exchanging pleasantries, Tommy came
straight to the point.
'Just to let you know, Bobby Turner was up in court
today and that McDaid that did your sister walked . . .
he got bail. Just thought you should know, son.'
The line went dead. Downing his pint in one, Mickey
nodded to Steve to hurry up and finish his. 'What's the
rush?' he asked, innocently
'McDaid. They've let him go. Now it's our turn to
prosecute the cunt, Stevie boy'
SIXTEEN
Billy McDaid wasn't as easy to find as they'd first thought,
and spending day in, day out, scouring around the piss
hole pubs in Barking wasn't Mickey's idea of fun. By day
five he'd had a gutful of it and needed a break.
'I dunno about you, Steve, but I think we should call
it a night. My stomach thinks me throat's been cut. Let's
go and have a bit of Chinese or something. We'll have a
sit down, eh?'
Never one to refuse a meal, Steve agreed and the pair
of them left the depressing streets of Barking and headed off to Chinatown in
Ilford. As they tucked into a selection
of dishes, they discussed what they should do next.
Shovelling a succession of spare ribs into his mouth,
Mickey spoke between mouthfuls.
'I think we should give up the search, just for a couple
of days. He's obviously laying low somewhere. And the
more he hears we've been hunting for him, the further
away we're gonna push him. I think we should concentrate
on moving our stuff down to the house in the next
couple of days. Adam Prior said we can borrow his transit
van. Let's get all our shit sorted and then we'll worry
about McDaid after.'
Steve had some ideas of his own. 'Look, we know
from when we was looking for McDaid before that he's
not the most popular of geezers. Why don't we pop back
to a couple of his locals and ask a couple of junkies to
help us find him? These people are lowlifes, Mick, they'll
bite your hand off for a tenner. If we offer 'em, say,
hundred quid for the right information, we'll have 'em
queuing up to help us.'
Sipping his beer while he mulled over the suggestion,
Mickey decided that they had nothing to lose. 'That ain't
a bad idea, you know, big man. Why should we do all
the fucking hard work?' he said, chucking some money
on to the table.
Ten minutes later the pair of them were back in Barking,
searching for suitable candidates.
Billy McDaid heard a noise coming from the landing
outside and felt his heart-rate quicken. 'Go and have a
look through the spy hole, Andy, see if anyone's out there,'.
he whispered.
A stoned Andy informed him that it was the kid next
door, playing football with an empty beer can.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Billy took out a Benson and
Hedges and carried on chain-smoking.
It was six days now since he'd been given bail and he'd been stuck in Andy's
flat ever since. Not once had he set
foot outside the door, nor even seen the light of day. He'd
fully expected Mr Mickey fucking Bigshot to have come
knocking on the door by now and had made preparations
just in case.
Andy had a big broom cupboard in his onebedroomed
flat which had a decent-sized loft above it.
Billy had already moved the hatch aside and put the
ladders in place, in case he needed to make a quick
escape. Staying at Andy's was fine on a temporary basis,
but he was at a dead loss as to what he was going to
do in the long run.
For obvious reasons, he couldn't go back to his own
flat and, apart from Andy, he had no other real friends
who would risk their neck for him. Going back to Glasgow
was a definite no go. Cuntsmouth Colin, his slut of a
mother, and memories of his brother's death were more
than enough to stop him from returning there. One day
he'd like to go back, but not now.
'We're out of cider, Bill, and I'm running low on fags.
I'm gonna go down to the offie and get some. I'll pop to
the chippy as well. You hungry?'
Billy shook his head. He hadn't eaten in days and, the
way he felt at the moment, didn't think he'd ever have an
appetite again. Ordering his mate to be as quick as poss,
Billy cracked open the last can of cider and stared listlessly
out of the window.
He'd hated being banged up, it hadn't suited him at
all, and the thought of doing a long stretch, filled him
with dread. Sitting in a cell on his own had given Billy
far too much time to think. He'd thought a lot about the
past during his time at Andy's too, and all the shit he'd
been through, but most of all he'd thought of Debbie and
little Charlie boy.
Over and over again, he wished he could turn the clock
back to Christmas morning. Why the fuck hadn't he
handled things differently? Billy felt terrible about the
hiding he'd given Debbie, but that was nothing in comparison
to the guilt he felt over what he'd done to his son.
Dangling his own flesh and blood out of a thirteenth
floor window was the action of the lowest of the low, and
the memory of it would haunt him until the day he died.
The only thing he could blame it on was the drugs, but
even that was no excuse.
'Nooooo, Daddy, nooooo!' His son's screams would
live with him forever. All he could hope for was that in
time Charlie would forget that his father had threatened
to kill him, just to save his own sorry arse. Disgusted
with himself, Billy sat on the floor, held his head in his
hands and sobbed.
Mickey and Steve were lugging a sofa into their new
abode when Mickey's phone started to ring.
'All right. Is that Mickey?' said a drugged up voice.
'Yeah, speaking. Who's that?'
'It's Scott. You gave me your number yesterday and
told me to ring you if I found out where Billy McDaid
was. Well, I've found out where he's staying but I want me money first.'
Nodding to Big Steve to chuck the sofa inside, Mickey
made a meet with the kid and the pair of them shot off
straight away.
They made Barking in eight minutes flat.
'You Scott?' Mickey asked the spotty-looking teenager.
'Nah, I'm his brother Ricky. Scott's waiting round the
corner. He don't want anyone to see him meeting ya.
Follow me.'
Hoping they weren't being arsed about, Mickey and
Steve reluctantly followed the kid round to a row of disused
garages. 'You ain't fucking leading us up the garden path
'ere, are you, son?' Mickey enquired menacingly.
'I'm not, honest,' Ricky said nervously. As he let out
a loud whistle, his brother appeared like magic. After a
brief conversation, Mickey handed the kid a score.
'We said hundred, where's the other eighty?' Scott
asked in dismay. He was going to a rave later and was
relying on this money to keep him in Ecstasy tablets for
the evening.
Mickey smiled. 'For all I know you might be lying.
You'll get the rest of your dough after I've found McDaid.
Wait down the bottom of the flats and if your story rings
true, I'll slip it to you on the way out.'
Scott wasn't easy with this arrangement. 'What if
someone sees me wiv ya? Grasses ain't popular round
here, yer know. My name'll be shit if anyone finds out.'
Noticing an empty McDonald's bag drifting across the
pavement, Mickey picked it up and shoved eighty quid
in it.
'If all goes to plan, I'll make sure I drop this on the
floor as I come down the stairs, right?'
'Okay,' Scott said dubiously. He'd only ever dealt with
druggies and thieves, and lived in a world where it was
the norm to pull a fast one.
As he walked away from the garages, Mickey turned
back towards the boys. 'By the way, I forgot to ask ya.
How do you know the cunt is definitely staying at this
flat? You seen him with your own eyes?'
'No,' Scott replied truthfully. 'My dad bumped into his
mate, Andy, in the chip shop last night. He told him Billy
was staying there and was gonna climb into the loft if
anyone came looking for him.'
'Good lad,' Mickey said, as he broke into a run.
'Slow down, for Christ's sake,' Steve said, falling behind
his pal.
'You need to lose weight, you fat bastard,' Mickey
informed him.
The pair of them entered the tower block like Batman
and Robin. The lifts were working and it didn't take
them long to track down their destination. Tiptoeing up
to the door, they listened in silence for a good couple
of minutes.
T can definitely hear talking and music or something,'
Steve whispered.
Mickey knocked on the door, but got no joy.
'Look, if they ain't answering, it must mean the cunt's
in there. We'll have to take a chance, Steve, kick the door
down. If we've got it wrong, we'll buy the poor bastard
that lives there a new one and bung him some dosh for
his inconvenience.'
Stevie boy was a big old lump and an expert at hurtling
through locked doors. Within seconds they were in.
As Andy sat shivering on the sofa, Mickey stood over
him. 'All right, lad, where's your mate?'
'I d-don't know what you're t-talking about,' stammered Andy.
'Oh, I think you do.'
Picking Andy up by his dirty Led Zeppelin T-shirt,
Mickey shoved him against the nicotine-stained wall.
'Where's your loft, you junkie cunt?'
Petrified, Andy nodded towards the cupboard in the
hallway and was relieved when Mickey dropped him on
to the floor like a piece of old rubbish. Mickey nudged
Steve and pointed at the ladder. Climbing up a few rungs,
he pushed the hatch open.
'Oh, Billy boy, Uncle Mickey's here to see you. You
do remember me, dontcha? I was once your friendly
brother-in-law. Now, be a good boy and come and say
hello to me.'
Billy sat huddled in a corner of the loft, knees pressed
to his chest. He was scared beyond belief and felt like a
rabbit caught in the headlights.
Mickey climbed up higher. He could see fuck all, it
was pitch black up there.
'Pass us your lighter, Steve.'
He handed over his Ronson and held the ladder firmly.
Igniting the flame, Mickey smiled as he found what he'd
been looking for.
'Right, I can see you, McDaid, and you've got two
choices here. Either you come down now or I'm gonna
come up there and drag you down head first. The choice
is yours.'
Billy felt as if he was having a flashback to his child
hood. It was a reminder of being paralysed with fear
every night as he'd listened to Colin's footsteps getting
closer and closer.
.'Right, you cunt, you've had your fucking chance! Now
I'm coming to get ya.'
Pushing Billy out of the hatch, kicking him into the
lift and slinging him into the boot of the Merc made
Mickey feel on top of the world. Now he knows how my
Debs must have felt, he thought as he smelled the cunt's
fear.
As he remembered the money that was due to Scott,
he told Steve to start the car while he delivered it. There
was no one about as he dropped the bag but he was sure
the kids were somewhere close by, awaiting their payout.
Billy McDaid gasped for air as he lay squashed into
the boot of the car. His life to date had been fucking shit.
He prayed to God to take him now as that would still be
better than what he had coming.
The last thing he remembered was the smell of his
own diarrhoea and the feeling of it running down his legs
before, overcome by panic, he lost consciousness.
SEVENTEEN
Steve lit up two fags, passed one to Mickey and took a
deep drag on the other.
'What happens now then, Mick? Where we taking
him?' he asked.
'Epping Forest, where no one will fucking well find
him.'
Feeling a bit nervous, Steve fished for more information.
'What we gonna do to him when we get there? We
can't do him in, Mick.'
Mickey threw him a look. 'Well, what do you suggest
we do then, Steve, take the cunt for lunch?'
Choosing his words carefully, Steve spoke slowly but
thoughtfully. He might not be the sharpest tool in the box,
but when it came to shit like this he knew the score. He
was damned if he was gonna end up at the sharp end of
some murder charge for a scumbag like McDaid.
'Look, Mick, the whole of Barking knows we've been
chasing around looking for this piece of shit, and if he's
found brown bread it ain't gonna take one of them junkie
scumbags five minutes to open their mouth. We only
offered 'em a hundred quid and we got a result. I'm telling
ya, Mick, you might wanna spend the next twenty years
inside but fucking well don't.'
'Stop worrying, will ya?' Mickey said as he swerved
the car into a lay by. 'Get out and check the cunt's okay
in that boot. Make sure he's breathing and that.'
Steve opened the boot and was greeted by the unadulterated
smell of shit. Holding his nose, he prodded and poked
a semi-conscious Billy.
'Wake up! Oh, for fuck's sake, are you all right?' he
shouted.
McDaid felt desperately weak, but managed to answer.
'Not enough air,' he gasped. Walking round to the driver's
side of the car, Steve told Mickey the score.
'Pull the back seats down so he can breathe and you
sit in the back. Make sure he don't fucking move.'
Seconds after the seats were released, the stench of
shit hit Mickey's nostrils.
'Dirty cunt,' he muttered to himself as he weaved his
way through more country lanes.
Finally satisfied he'd found a secluded spot safe from
prying eyes, Mickey stopped the engine and nodded at
Steve. 'This'll do. Bring that shovel and rope and I'll
bring him.'
Billy's legs turned to jelly as he was dragged from the
boot. Overcome by panic, he collapsed in a crumpled
heap on the floor.
'Please don't kill me,' he pleaded. 'I swear, I'll do
anything you ask, but please don't kill me.'
'Get up, you cunt,' Mickey shouted as he grabbed him
by the elbow.
He dragged his prisoner along until he felt happy with
their surroundings. Positive that they were now deep
enough in the forest not be disturbed, he roughly shoved
McDaid to the ground.
'I'm so sorry,' Billy sobbed. 'I didn't mean to hurt
Debbie, I loved her so much . . . '
'Loved her? Loved her, you fucking mug?'
Mickey lifted his right foot and kicked Billy in the
mouth as hard as he could. He smiled as he saw two
teeth fly out and land amongst the twigs. Pleased with
his precision, he booted him again, this time in the
bollocks. Then, asking Steve to hand him the rope, he
winked at his pal.
'Right, I want you to start digging Billy's grave for
me, Steve.'
McDaid sobbed like a newborn. 'Mickey, please, no
. . . you can't bury me. Help me . . . help!' he shouted.
Mickey looked at him and laughed. 'Shut up, you prick.
You're in the middle of a forest. Who the fuck's gonna
hear you out here, you thick bastard?'
'I'm sorry, Mickey. I'll move back to Scotland, never
go near Debbie or Charlie again, I swear. I'll do anything
you ask, I promise. But please don't bury me - not alive.'
Mickey was by now enjoying himself immensely, and
was even more pleased when he saw that McDaid had
pissed himself with fright. Pointing to the wet patch on
Billy's jeans, he chuckled loudly. 'Ah, you done wee-wees,
have ya? You should have said if you wanted a piss, Billy.'
Steve, who was busy digging the grave, took a break
to join in with the banter.
'Yeah, we'd have found you a toilet, Bill. Anyway, who
said we were gonna bury you alive? You'll be lucky. We'll
probably have to kill you first, won't we, Mick?'
Roaring with laughter, Mickey took a packet of
Benson's out of his pocket and handed one to Steve.
'Do you want a final fag before I wipe your life out,
Billy?' he asked, grinning at his victim.
Billy's hand shook as he took the cigarette that was offered to him. Watching
his tormentors puffing away
happily, he plucked up the courage to ask for a light.
Mickey blew smoke into his face. 'A light? You've got
the cheek to ask me for a light? You might get your last
wish on Death Row but not in Epping Forest, you cunt.
The only light you'd get off me was if I decided to pour
petrol over ya and set ya on fire.'
Fag break over, Mickey stood up. 'Right, carry on
digging, Steve, while I sort out our Scottish friend here.'
Pulling Billy up from the ground by his hair, Mickey
marched him over to a nearby tree.
'Take your clothes off,' he ordered as he took a Stanley
knife out of his jacket.
'What you g-gonna d-do to me?' Billy stammered, his
eyes bulging like organ stops.
'Just do it,' Mickey replied viciously.
Standing there In just his boxer shorts, Billy shivered.
'Take your shorts off,' Mickey said, noticing he hadn't
removed them.
T-I can't,' Billy screamed, collapsing on to his knees.
Mickey crouched down beside him. 'You either take
them off yourself or I'm gonna cut them off with this.'
Scrambling around amongst the leaves, Billy managed
to get his boxers off. Mickey laughed, picked him up and
chucked him against a tree trunk.
'Well, well, well. 'Ere, Steve, come and 'ave a look at
this.'
Steve stuck the shovel in the ground, glad of some
respite.
'What's occurring?'
'Not a lot, I just wanted your opinion. Have you ever
seen a cock as small as our Billy's?'
Steve walked over to the shivering wreck standing
pinned against a tree trunk and glanced down at his John
Thomas.
'Christ, you'd never have made a male stripper, would
you, Billy boy?'
As Mickey noticed that the slight drizzle of rain had
suddenly become heavier, he ordered Steve to bring the
rope over to him. Still holding the knife, he looked Billy
straight in his beady little eyes and spoke clearly and
confidently.
'Right, you Scotch cunt. If I do you the favour of
sparing you a burial, will you promise me you'll go back
to Scotland and never, ever return?'
'I p-promise,' Billy stuttered.
Mickey smiled at his obvious distress. 'And will you
also promise never, ever to contact my sister or her son
again?'
'I'll d-do whatever you say, Mickey'
'Well, I'm gonna give you a reprieve then. Not 'cause
1 like ya. I'm doing it because you're so fucking worthless,
you're not worth doing bird for. But I'm telling you
now, Billy, if you ever break your word, I personally am
gonna kill ya, do you understand me?'
'Y-yes Mickey. Thank you.'
Gesturing to Steve to hold one end of the rope, Mickey
walked round and round the tree, securing Billy to the
trunk.
'Right, Billy boy, I've tied you up. If someone finds
you, you'll live. If they don't, you'll starve or freeze to
death, and be munched on by foxes.'
Billy McDaid felt weak, very weak, and knew that if
he was left tied to this tree, he wouldn't live to tell the
tale.
'Please untie me! I promise I'll do everything you say.
You'll never see me again.'
T wanna word,' Steve said, pulling Mickey aside.
'Look,' he continued, 'we've taught him a lesson, but we
can't leave him here like this. We might as well have just
fucking shot him. No one will find him in time, Mick,
and what with the hole I've just dug, we'll have the old
bill all over us.'
Mickey smiled. 'Do you think I don't know that, Steve?
Do you think I'm stupid or something? I've no intention
of leaving him tied up. I'm just teaching the cunt a lesson
that he'll never forget.'
A look of relief spread over Big Steve's face. 'Thank
fuck for that. Come on, Mick, let's get out of here now.
I'm soaking wet and starving.'
Walking back over to McDaid, Mickey smiled in satisfaction.
'My
mate Steve reckons I should untie you. Now, I'm
not giving you your clothes back, 'cause you look better
naked. When you find your way out of this jungle, Billy,
and your little cock goes on display to the general public,
I want you to tell whoever finds you that you've been out
on a stag night and got stripped off as a prank. As for
your teeth and the bruises, tell 'em you were pissed and
fell over.'
Billy nodded. He felt so ill now, he was almost unable
to speak.
Pulling a wad of notes out of his pocket, Mickey
counted out fifty quid and handed it to him. 'That's your
train fare. I want you to take the first train back to Glasgow.
And if I find out you haven't, I'm gonna cut your little
cock off and shove it down your throat. Got it?'
'Got it,' Billy said faintly.
Mickey cut the rope and laughed loudly as Billy fell
to the ground in a crumpled heap. Unable to resist one
last kick, he aimed it deep into Billy's stomach.
'That's from Debbie,' he said, as he picked up the rope
and any other evidence they may have left.
Noticing just how weak and ill Billy looked, Steve was
still worried. 'I'm telling ya, Mick, he ain't gonna make
it out of this forest if we leave him here. Let's get him dressed help him back
to the car and drop him off at the
nearest station.'
As much as Mickey would have liked to see McDaid
lost forever in the forest, dying a slow painful death and
eventually eaten by anything hungry, he knew that what
Steve was saying made sense. Mickey had big plans for
his own future and doing bird for a piece of shit wasn't
part of them.
'Get dressed,' he growled at Billy, as he chucked his
shit-stained jeans at him.
The walk back to the car took ages. As Mickey finally
started the engine, Steve bundled McDaid into the back
seat.
'He ain't looking too good, is he?' Mickey said, stating
the obvious. Part of him was still buzzing with adrenaline. The other part of
him was worried that he had gone a bit
over the top. He could certainly do without Billy croaking
it. He and Steve would be in Shit Street if that were to
happen.
Steve felt anxious as he glanced at their prisoner. T
think we should stop at a McDonalds on the way, Mick.
Let's get some grub down him and some fluids. Hopefully,
that'll liven him up a bit.'
Mickey smiled. Only Steve could come out with that
idea. Food was his answer to everything.
After a short food stop, where they tried to shovel a
Big Mac, chips and milkshake into Billy's mouth, Mickey
headed for the nearest tube station.
'Right,' he said, as he noticed the Central Line sign.
'Time for you to return to your native Glasgow, Billy boy.
Chop-chop, out ya get, son.'
Thankful to be alive, Billy stumbled from the car.
As Mickey and Steve drove away that day, both of
them were absolutely sure that they'd seen the last of Billy
McDaid.
Unfortunately for them, they were wrong.
EIGHTEEN
Eight Months Later
'Now come on, Charlie, put your blazer on for Mummy,
there's a good boy'
'Don't wanna wear it,' came the sulky reply.
'Don't start, Charlie. You know you have to wear it.'
'Don't, don't, don't.'
Exasperated, Debbie picked up his school bag, grabbed
him by the hand, and with the blazer slung over her arm,
dragged him out of the door and towards the infants'
school he'd just started attending.
As she waved goodbye to him at the school gates, she
couldn't help but notice all of the other children playing
happily amongst themselves. Instead of joining them,
Charlie stood alone against a wall, a sullen expression
plastered across his face.
'That child will be the death of me,' she mumbled as
she headed back home to begin her day's chores.
After she'd done the washing and ironing, Debbie sat
in the garden for a fag and a coffee break. With the sun
shining brightly, she tilted her head to face the warmth
of its rays and lapsed into one of her daydreams.
It was just over eight months since she had hobbled
out of the hospital door on crutches. Her life had
changed so much since then. Her physical injuries had
virtually disappeared, and apart from a slight limp, there
was no evidence of the brutal attack she'd endured.
Mentally, she was still suffering, though. The slightest
noise or sudden movement would make her jump out
of her skin. An unexpected knock at the door,
especially at night-time, would send her into a paranoid
frenzy. But worst of all were the nightmares,
which came every time she shut her eyes. Many a night
she would wake up drenched in sweat and shaking
uncontrollably.
Although the nights were a problem, by day Debbie
was the happiest she'd been in ages. She absolutely adored
the little house that Mickey had found her and had made
good friends with a neighbour, Susan, who had a teenage
daughter. The relationship between her and her mum had
never been better either. Debbie's ordeal seemed to have
bridged the gap between them and brought back the closeness
they'd shared years ago.
Peter's pomposity still grated on her, but Debbie could
tell that he really loved her mum, and if June was happy,
that was good enough for her.
Debbie was closer than ever to her brother Mickey. He
was her hero, her saviour. She'd been overjoyed the day
he'd come round to tell her that she wouldn't be hearing
from Billy any more.
'I've sorted McDaid out, sis. He won't bother you or
Charlie ever again.'
'Thanks, Mick,' she'd said, relief flooding through her.
'What about the court case? Will I still have to give
evidence?'
'You can forget about that now. I doubt he'd have
attended anyway, and me sorting it out saves you from
going through all that shit.'
Mickey had rarely mentioned Billy since that day and
neither had she. Sometimes she wondered what had
happened to him. She didn't think her brother was capable
of murder but would've loved to have known if Billy had
suffered, just like she had. She'd asked Mickey once but
he'd given nothing away.
'Look, Debs, let's not talk about that cunt, eh? Believe
me, it's sorted and that's all you need to know'
Just lately, Mickey had been spending more and more
time abroad on business, so he'd asked his mate Steve to
look after his interests, which included her.
'When I ain't about, Debs, Big Steve'll be popping
round to see if you're OK.'
Debbie was a bit put out at first when the giant skinhead
kept appearing on her doorstep, but as the months
passed, she got used to his visits and looked forward to
them more and more. Underneath his thuggish appearance
Big Steve was a gentleman, and Debbie felt safe
and secure, knowing he was only a phone call and five
minutes away. He was a funny bastard as well and, once
the ice was broken between them, regularly had her in
hysterics with his deadpan sense of humour.
Charlie hated Big Steve coming round. 'Horrible man,
Mummy, don't let him in.'
'Don't be so silly, Charlie, he's your Uncle Mickey's
best friend,' Debbie said each time he complained.
With Billy out of her life, Charlie was Debbie's only
real headache. Her son's behaviour seemed to go from
bad to worse. Driven mad with him under her feet all day,
she was relieved when he'd finally started school. It was
guilt that made her succumb to his every whim when he
was home. After what he'd been through with his father,
she couldn't help but spoil him. A few months ago she'd
taken some unwanted advice from her brother. Mickey
had paid her a flying visit and Charlie had been acting
up as usual, refusing to eat his dinner and chucking it all
over the floor.
Pulling her to one side, Mickey had handed her the
business card of a child psychiatrist. 'Look, please don't
think I'm interfering but this geezer's meant to be good,
sis. If you don't get Charlie sorted now, you're gonna
regret it. You've got to do it, for his sake. Book an appointment.
I'll pay for it, Debs.'
Not overjoyed with the idea of her son needing a shrink,
Debbie stuck the card and the money in her purse and
forgot about it. It was Charlie kicking and spitting at an
old lady on a bus ride home from Romford that jogged
her memory.
The appointment was booked for a week later. 'Nooooo,
nooooo, nooooo!' Charlie screamed as he was dragged,
kicking and screaming, into the waiting room of the clinic
in Hornchurch. But, to Debbie's amazement, as soon as
he entered the premises, her son turned from monster to
cherub.
'Hello, Charlie. My name's Dr Foster.'
'Hello, Dr Foster,' Charlie replied angelically.
The doc let him play with some toys and gently asked
him a few questions. Charlie answered every single one,
intelligently and politely. Trying a different tactic, the
psychiatrist handed Charlie a crayon and some paper and
asked him to draw pictures. Charlie liked drawing and
was happy to oblige. Dr Foster then told Debbie to pay
at reception and to book a follow-up appointment with
his secretary.
Four appointments and a hundred and sixty quid later,
Debbie realised that she was wasting Mickey's money
and her time. Every time Charlie entered Dr Foster's clinic
he changed from little bastard to little cherub. At the end
of the fourth visit, the doc pulled Debbie aside.
'To be honest, Miss Dawson, I don't think Charlie needs
our help. He's a very bright, stable, cheerful little boy, and
although I'm quite happy to keep on taking your money,
I can assure you, with my thirty years of experience, I
consider that there is nothing wrong with your son whatsoever.'
'Thank
you, Doctor,' Debbie said, taking Charlie by
the hand.
Five minutes down the road, the cherub was gone and
in its place was the bastard.
T want McDonald's,' Charlie demanded.
'No, not today, Charlie. Mummy's cooking you a nice
roast dinner. You can have McDonald's at the weekend.'
'Nooooo,' he screamed, pulling away from her hand
and sitting firmly on the ground.
'Get up off that pavement now,' Debbie said. Charlie
had as usual attracted the attention of passers-by.
'You're not being a naughty boy for your mummy, are
you?' asked a little old lady.
'Cunt, cunt, cunt,' Charlie said, smiling at her.
T am so sorry,' Debbie said apologetically.
Wondering if her hearing aid had been deceiving her,
the little old lady walked away in shock.
'Get up now!' Debbie screamed at her son.
'No. If you don't get me McDonald's, I'm gonna run
in the road,' he said, still smiling. Debbie knew that she
was making a rod for her own back by giving in to him
all the time. Her mother, Peter, her brother . . . they'd all
said the same thing. Deciding it was high time she made
a stand, she lifted up the kicking and screaming child and
half dragged him to the nearest bus stop.
Now, Charlie was not a child to appreciate being
thwarted. Deciding to pay his mother back in the worst
way that he could, he flashed her his angelic smile.
'Sorry, Mummy. Put me down now?'
Debbie was as pleased as punch that, for once, she'd
stood her ground and won.
'Will you promise to be a good boy?' she asked gently
as she put him on his feet.
'Yes, Mummy.'
Charlie stood next to her, waiting to seize his opportunity.
He wasn't stupid, he had no intention of killing
himself, but he needed to teach silly Mummy a lesson.
He watched the cars trundle past and waited for the appropriate
moment to make his move. Then, quick as a ferret,
he darted into the road.
'No, Charlie, no!' Debbie screamed as she chased after
him.
Ten minutes later she was sitting in McDonald's,
watching the little fucker munch happily away on a cheeseburger
and fries.
'Want a chip, Mummy?' he asked innocently.
Debbie shook her head. She was still shaking from
shock. Deciding that she couldn't face going back to the
bus stop, she called one of the staff over. 'Excuse me,
I'm sorry to bother you but my little boy just nearly got
run over. It's made me feel ill. Would you be able to call
me a cab, please?'
After putting Charlie to bed that evening, Debbie
reached for the bottle of wine that had lain unopened in
her refrigerator for the past week. She felt a complete
and utter mental wreck.
Meanwhile, upstairs, Charlie lay in bed so hyped up
that he was having difficulty sleeping. He smiled to
himself. His mum, nan, uncle, the doc - they all thought
they could work him out, but they had no chance. Only
he knew how his mind ticked and he intended to keep it
that way. Today had been a great day. He liked his visits
to the silly doctor. As for his mum, her face had been a
picture when he'd run into the road. Giggling, he stood
on his bed. Laughing hysterically, he bounced up and
down.
Debbie topped up her glass and stared at the bottle.
She'd had the day from bloody hell. The trips to the
psychiatrist had been a complete and utter waste of
time. She was no nearer to understanding her son than
she ever had been.
Debbie sat up thinking into the early hours that night,
more worried about Charlie than before. Momentarily she
had felt such relief when Dr Foster had said there was
nothing wrong with him, but deep down she had known
she was only kidding herself.
'How can a five-year-old child con a professional, with
over thirty years' experience?' she muttered as she tried
to fathom the impossible.
Even as she said it, she realised that it was because
her child was cleverer than the psychiatrist. Unlikely, but
true. And despite her annoyance with him, she felt
suddenly proud of her son. Giving birth to her Charlie
had been the best day of her life, Debbie told herself
firmly. She would rather die than give up on him now.
NINETEEN
Mickey Dawson walked back from the bar with a pint in
each hand and two packets of peanuts dangling from his
mouth. Sitting down opposite his pal, he opened his jaws
and let the nuts fall gracefully on to the table.
'Right, come on, Steve me old mucker, let's have it.
What's bothering ya?'
Steve shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unable to look
Mickey in the eye.
'What you on about? I'm fine,' he mumbled unconvincingly.
'Come on, it's me you're talking to, you soppy bastard.
You can tell me anything, you know that, Steve.'
Wiping the beads of sweat off his forehead with his
arm, Steve knew it was now or never to bring up the
subject that had been plaguing him for the last few weeks.
'Well, it's a bit awkward, Mickey. I don't really know
where to start . . . '
Mickey smiled at his pal's embarassment and decided
to wind him up a bit more. Pointing at Steve's groin area,
he tried to keep the humour from his voice.
'You ain't got trouble with the old meat and two veg,
have you, son?'
'No, I fucking well ain't,' Steve said angrily.
Enjoying himself immensely, Mickey carried on. 'Only,
if you've caught a dose or your old pecker's packed up,
I know a good cock doctor. I'll book an appointment for
you if you want. I'll even go with you, if you can't face
going alone.'
'Fuck off, Mick, there's nothing wrong with me cock,'
Steve replied, agitated.
'Well, what is it then?' Mickey asked, laughing out
loud.
Steve took a deep breath. 'You know me and your Debs
have been seeing quite a bit of each other? We get on
well, and to be honest, Mick, I really like her. Well, I was
thinking of asking her out on a proper date, but I didn't
know if you'd approve. What with all the shit she's been
through and her being your sister, I dunno if it's the done
thing. I don't wanna make things awkward between me
and you.'
Mickey sipped his beer and smiled. 'After watching
Debs waste her life with McDaid, I'd be pleased if she
told me she was going out with Adolf Hitler, let alone
you, you tosser. Go ahead and ask her, Steve. I'd be more
than happy if you and our Debs got it together.'
'Cheers, mate,' Steve said, relieved that his big secret
was now out in the open. 'Do you think she'll go on a
date with me, Mick? She's always inviting me round for
dinner and that, but a date's different, innit?'
Mickey handed him a fag. 'Look, if she didn't like
you, she wouldn't be asking you round there all the time.
Whenever I go round there, she's always "Steve this" and
"Steve that". In this life, you've gotta take your chances,
mate. If you don't ask, you don't get. Now get your arse
in gear and get me another drink. I've gotta mouth like
a nun's crotch.'
As he looked at his pal's lumbering physique, Mickey
smiled to himself. Steve would be a great bloke for Debbie.
He was a big old lump with a heart of gold and Mickey
just hoped that Debs didn't knock him back. Steve was
great with blokes, a typical man's man, but around women
he seemed to lack confidence. He and Debs would be a
match made in heaven.
Debbie carefully put the mashed potato on top of the
mince and popped the shepherd's pie into the preheated
oven. Hearing a racket coming from the living room, she
stopped in her tracks.
'What are you doing in there, Charlie?'
'Just watching telly, Mummy.'
Knowing he was doing no such thing, Debbie went to
inspect. 'You naughty boy, why have you done that?' she
asked, noticing that he'd ruined her carefully laid arrangement
on the dining table.
Charlie giggled.
'Right, bath and bedtime for you, I think.'
'Nooooo,' Charlie screamed, as he lay on the floor and
refused to budge.
As Debbie tried to repair the damage, she was furious
to see that he'd also drawn in crayon over her fresh white
tablecloth. That was the final straw. Grabbing him by the
arm, she dragged him kicking and screaming up the stairs,
then locked him in his bedroom.
T want my daddy. I hate you!' he shouted through the
door.
Determined not to let Charlie spoil her night, Debbie
went into her bedroom to get changed. She'd bathed and
washed her hair earlier, and all she needed was a bit of
slap and a change of clothes. As she looked in the mirror,
she smiled. She looked passable now. She'd tanned up
well, the garden had seen to that. The recent dentistry
work which had repaired her two front teeth, kindly paid
for by Mickey, had added to her confidence no end. The
only hang-up she still had was about her wonky nose, but
she could live with that, if the rest of her features looked
okay. Even her hair had grown back and been trimmed
in a trendy layered cut.
Realising that the shouting and swearing in Charlie's
room had stopped, she quietly opened the door and was
relieved to find him sleeping peacefully. Curled up on
top of the quilt in his Batman pyjamas, he looked almost
angelic. It was hard to believe that this was the same child
who spewed out vulgar words, morning, noon and night.
Where he got them from was a mystery. He swore more
now than when Billy had been around.
Tiptoeing down the stairs, Debbie went to check on
the shepherd's pie.
Steven Arthur Roberts tried on his third and final shirt.
Realising he'd put on weight and couldn't do up the
buttons, he took it off and put on the first one again. It
was almost three years since Steve had last worn a shirt
and that had been for a funeral. Noticing he was running
late, he grabbed the keys to his pick-up truck and steamed
out of the door.
Debbie re-laid the table and sat twiddling her fingers.
Nerves getting the better of her, she headed to the fridge
to pour herself a glass of wine. She didn't really know
why she felt the way she did. Big Steve had been a good
mate for a few months now. At first she would never
have believed that she could feel anything other than
friendship for the hulking, muscular, shaven-headed sort
who happened to be her brother's best friend. But lately
her feelings had changed. The more time she spent in
Steve's company, the more she liked him. For some
reason or other, he made her feel safe, secure and
womanly, and all of a sudden she couldn't stop thinking
about him.
'All right, Debs?' Steve greeted her gruffly when he
arrived on her doorstep. He handed her a cold bottle of
Chardonnay.
'You look nice, Steve. I've never seen you in a shirt
before.'
Embarrassed but quick witted, he replied, 'I thought
I'd make the effort. Anyway, you can talk . . . you've got
a skirt on. I didn't know you had legs!'
Thrusting a beer at him, Debbie burst out laughing.
'Get your arse in there and sit at the table, you tosser.'
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly. Steve wolfed
down his own dinner and finished off Debbie's. The pair
of them drank plenty and didn't stop bantering and
laughing, throughout the meal and afterwards.
Charlie woke up just the once, but Debbie managed
to settle him down again quickly.
She then stuck on the video of An Officer and a
Gentleman and Steve took the piss all the way through
it. As the credits rolled he glanced at his watch. It was
one in the morning and he knew he had to say something.
It was now or never.
'Better make a move, Debs,' he said picking up his
keys.
'All right. Thanks for coming round I really enjoyed
it,' she replied, meaning every word.
Steve hovered awkwardly by the door. He was sweating
like a pig. He stuttered and stammered as he tried to find
the right words. 'Debs, can we go out? You know, on a
proper date, like? I'll take you somewhere really nice. If
you don't wanna go, I'll understand and still be your
mate.'
Debbie looked at the gentle giant standing three feet
away from her and felt nothing but admiration for him.
'Of course I'll come. I thought you'd never ask me, you
silly sod.'
Overjoyed by her response, but not used to being in
this situation, he gave her a quick peck on the cheek. It
was the type of kiss you'd give to an aunt you didn't like.
He promised to ring her the next morning, then shot out
of the door like a greyhound leaving the traps at Romford.
Giggling at his shyness, Debbie poured herself the last
drop of wine left in the bottle. She'd had a wonderful
night and being asked out was the icing on the cake. Steve
was such a nice guy and looked out for her like her brother
always had. Billy she had found physically attractive, but with Steve it was
different. Over the months he'd been
coming round she'd fallen for him as a person. He was
kind, generous and extremely funny. Debbie finished her
drink and went happily to bed.
Steve opened the front door and was relieved to see that
Mickey wasn't there. He wanted to think over all that had
happened tonight and didn't need his best pal winding
him up.
Unable to stop smiling, he cracked open a can of
Foster's and flicked through the TV channels. He was
ecstatic that Debs had agreed to go on a date with him.
He couldn't wait to take her out properly and decided he
would treat her like a queen; she deserved it, and he would
never let her down.
Steven Arthur Roberts, aka Big Steve, had been born
in a tiny flat above a hardware shop along the Bethnal
Green Road. The eldest of two boys, Steve had been
extremely close to his mum, Maureen. Big Mo, as she
was known, had brought up him and his brother on her
own and he was devastated when she was diagnosed with
breast cancer and cruelly taken from them. At sixteen
years old, determined that his younger brother Lee would
not fall into the hands of Social Services, Steve took up
the reins. With the help of his Auntie Doll, he brought
up his brother himself and did a bloody good job of it.
Apart from his mum and Auntie Doll, Steve had had
very little to do with women, though. At school he'd
ignored the girls. He was more interested in making a
few bob and boxing than in messing about with birds.
After leaving school, he met a girl called Sandra in a pub
one night. Forward, and as rough as old boots, Sandra
seduced him and he lost his virginity to her. He was gutted
when he found out she was the local bike and had only
shagged him for a bet.
Put off women for a long, long time after that, he was
twenty-two when he met Julie. She was a lively one, a
bit of a party girl with bleached blonde hair and a thing
for Spandau Ballet. Steve treated her really well and spent
all his hard-earned money on her. He worked hard, running
a shoe stall for a geezer in Roman Road Market.
Julie spent all her spare time on the stall with him.
Steve thought it was because of her love for shoes as well
as him, but unfortunately it turned out she was shagging
the geezer opposite who had a stall selling discount handbags.
Once he had found out the truth, Steve went to work
the following Saturday morning and beat the object of
her affections into next week. The market inspector and
the police were called, and so was Steve's guv'nor who
had no choice but to sack him on the spot.
Jobless and loveless, Steve decided women were
nothing but fucking trouble. He started ducking and diving
for a living, someone had to put food on the table for his
little brother. It was around this time that he met Mickey,
only a kid then himself and also working on the market.
A couple of dodgy deals later, Mickey jacked in the
Roman and the pair of them set up in business. With
Steve's brawn and Mickey's brain, they worked well
together and had never looked back since, apart from
Mickey's short spell inside. Steve was not involved in
that. He hadn't liked the set-up and had opted out, urging
his pal to do the same, but Mickey being Mickey had
learned the hard way.
Finishing his beer, Steve turned the telly off and happily
climbed the stairs. He was in love and it felt great. Being
older and wiser now, he knew this time was different.
Debbie was nothing like the Sandras and Julies of this
world and he was determined, given a chance, to make
her the happiest girl alive.
Grinning, he jumped into his pit. Third time lucky, as
the old saying goes. She was the one, he knew it. He
could feel it in his bones.
TWENTY
Steve rang, as promised, the next day and the big date
was arranged for the following Saturday evening. June
was overjoyed and booked herself in to baby-sit.
That morning, Debbie jumped on a 103 bus and
dragged her whingeing son to Romford where she intended
to purchase a new outfit for her big night out. She hadn't
bought anything new for ages, partly because of money
worries, and partly because she rarely went out and didn't
see the point in wasting what little spare cash she had on
herself when she could spend it on Charlie instead.
Her mum was living and breathing Debbie's news,
though, and slipped fifty quid into her bag, telling her
to treat herself to something nice to wear for the big
occasion.
Shopping with Charlie was an ordeal, however. By the
time she hit the third shop, Jane Norman, Debbie had
had a gutful and wanted to get home.
As she picked up a top, she heard a commotion behind
her, turned around and found Charlie lying on the floor
amongst a pile of clothes. Unfortunately, he'd swung on
a rail and toppled the bloody thing over. Embarrassed,
Debbie picked up the only thing she even remotely liked,
an army-green safari dress. She apologised profusely to
the young shop assistant, hurriedly paid for the item and
left the shop red-faced, hoping against hope that the bloody
thing fitted.
Later on that evening, she was pleasantly surprised
with the results. The dress clung to her and the style suited
her to a tee. She'd already made her mind up that if it
looked like shit, she'd wear her old faithful black dress
and take the new one back on Monday morning.
Thankfully, now she wouldn't have to.
To finish her outfit off, she chose thick black tights,
long black boots, a black handbag and a cute little bolero.
Debbie wasn't used to wearing frocks, but this one was
a bit of her. The accessories she'd chosen added femininity
to it and she was more than happy with the result.
Debbie headed downstairs to seek her mother's
approval. 'Well, how do I look?'
Tears of pride welled up in June's eyes. 'Oh, Debs,
you look beautiful. I can't believe we've finally got you
in a bleeding dress.'
Charlie turned away from the cartoon he was engrossed
in and stared at his mother. He knew she was going out
with that horrible man who kept coming round and was
determined to put his little boot in. He chose his nasty
voice and spoke extra loudly 'You look fat, Mummy. Pig, pig, pig,' he chanted.
Seeing the hurt expression in her daughter's eyes, June
took matters into her own hands. 'Right, bath-time for
you and then bed,' she shouted to her grandson, wishing
she could leave him alone in the bathroom and that the
little bastard would drown.
'Nooooo,' screamed Charlie, lying face down on the
floor while he punched and kicked the carpet.
'Well, behave yourself then. One more word out that
vulgar little mouth of yours and I'll put you to bed for
the night, understand?'
Charlie might have been a lot of things but stupid
wasn't one of them. He knew by the stern sound of his
nan's voice that she meant business.
'Sorry, Nanny. Sorry, Mummy,' he said with false
remorse.
Ignoring him, June turned to her daughter. 'Let's go
into the kitchen. We'll have a nice glass of wine and you
can tell me all about you know who.'
Charlie watched them both leave the room. 'You know
who' meant 'Big Fat Bastard'. Did they really suppose
he was so dumb he didn't know who they were talking
about? He could read, write, understand and spell like a
good 'un, and they'd have to be a damn' sight cuter to
get one up on him. Annoyed, he turned his attention back
to Wacky Races. His mum had introduced him to the
programme. It had been a favourite of hers when she was
a little girl and she'd bought him all the videos. Charlie
loved Dastardly and Muttley. They were his favourites,
and always cheered him up when he felt angry with life.
Steve sprayed himself with Kouros aftershave and glanced
at his reflection in the mirror. He'd shot up the Bethnal
Green Road this morning and invested in a new suit and
shirt. Pleased with his smarter image, he headed downstairs
to the anticipated piss-taking from Mickey.
'Well, well, well. If it ain't Weight Watchers' answer
to Johnny Cash. You look like you're going to a funeral,
you cunt. What did ya buy black for?'
'Fuck off, Mick,' Steve said, half-laughing but annoyed
at the same time.
'Where you taking her then, the fucking Ritz?' Mickey
was surprised by the effort his pal had gone to, but secretly
chuffed all the same.
'I'm taking her up West. I've booked a nice little Italian
and then I'll take her to a couple of clubs I used to do
the door on. We might even end up in Stringfellows
just go with the flow, like. What you doing? You going
out yourself, Mick?'
Mickey took a sip from his can of Foster's. 'By the
looks of it, . I might as well sit here and prepare me best
man's speech! No, seriously, I've having a night in. I feel
absolutely shattered. I'm gonna order a Chinese later . . .
takeaway that is, not a bird . . . and have a few cans, stuff
me face and watch Match of the Day?
'Right, I'm off then,' said Steve, picking up the keys
to Mickey's Merc.
'You can't take our Debs out in that monster of a truck.
You'll look like something out of the Dukes of fucking Hazzard' Mickey had
pointed out earlier, before offering
his friend the use of his car for the evening.
Driving towards Debbie's, Steve was as nervous as hell.
His heart was beating ten to the dozen. He felt like a
schoolboy about to have his first wank.
'He's here, Debs,' June shouted excitedly when she
heard the doorbell go.
Debbie answered the door and was presented with the
biggest bouquet she'd ever seen, let alone received. 'Oh,
Steve, they're beautiful! You shouldn't have. Come in a
minute, so I can put them in water.'
Steve shuffled into the hallway and stood awkwardly
by the staircase.
'Where you gone?' Debbie shouted. 'Don't be shy,
come and say hello to me mum.'
After shaking June's hand and giving her a polite kiss
on the cheek, he chatted to her for about ten minutes,
mainly about Mickey.
Determined not to be forgotten, Charlie wandered into
the kitchen.
Steve ruffled his hair. 'All right, son?'
'You're not my dad. Go away. I hate you,' came the
charming reply.
June shoved him back into the lounge and smacked
him before returning to apologise. 'I'm so sorry, Steve.
He's a little shit, honestly.' She lowered her voice and shut
the kitchen door. 'Between me and you, he's got a lot of
problems. Been through a bit too much, what with his
father and all that.'
'It's fine, don't worry. Mickey's told me the score,'
Steve replied.
Debbie opened the kitchen door. 'Ready to make
tracks?'
'Don't she look lovely, Steve? Beautiful, ain't she?'
June said.
'Mum, shut up, will you!'
Squirming, Debbie shoved Steve out of the door before
her mother started with her baby photos.
'Sorry about that, Steve. She's a bloody nightmare.'
Starting up the engine, Steve smiled at her. 'She's right,
though, you do look beautiful.'
'Not you an' all. Just shut up and drive, will ya?'
Debbie said, punching him playfully on the arm.
The Italian restaurant that Steve had chosen was top
drawer and the food was exquisite. With neither of them
used to too much class, they had a right old laugh trying
to work out what the dishes on the menu were. Eventually
they included the waiter in their banter with Debbie joking,
'We're only used to pie, mash and liquor. Give us a hand
to order, mate, eh?'
After three bottles of wine and some of the best pasta
he'd ever tasted, Steve's nerves had gone and he was his
normal, entertaining, piss-taking self.
'Where we going next then?' Debbie asked, as he
shouted for the bill.
'I used to do a lot of door work in this neck of the
woods. I'll take you to a couple of the clubs I used to
work at. We'll drop the motor off first, though. There's a
pal of mine who lives five minutes round the comer. I'll
leave the car there, we'll get a cab, and me and Mickey'll
pick the car up tomorrow.'
Having never been for a night out in the West End
before in her life, the clubs Steve took her to were a
proper eye-opener for Debbie and she loved every minute
of it. They met rich people, wacky people, tourists ... it
was a world she had only heard about before.
When Steve left her for a few minutes to visit the
Gents, Debbie sipped her cocktail and thought what a
loser Billy had been. What she'd seen in him, she would
never know if if turned round and smacked her in the
face. Steve was different, a proper geezer. The way he'd
been greeted in the three clubs they'd visited so far showed
her just how respected and popular he was.
'What you thinking about?' Steve asked, rubbing his
wet, freshly washed hands on her cheeks.
'Just thinking about you and how different you are
from Billy. He was such a wanker, Steve. What was I
thinking, eh?'
Planting a soft kiss on her forehead, Steve smiled at
her. 'Forget Billy boy. We all make mistakes, girl. Your
past is your past. Me and you, we're the future. Now, how
do ya fancy Stringfellow's?'
'Yes, please!' she cried, clapping her hands excitedly.
As she stood in Stringfellow's later, drinking yet another
cocktail, Debbie thought she'd died and gone to heaven.
Recognising two soap stars, a footballer and spotting a
TV presenter, whom she couldn't quite place, she couldn't
believe that she, Debbie Dawson, was standing here
amongst these famous people. With Billy she'd never gone
further than the Hope and Anchor in Barking. She couldn't
believe the change in her luck.
When Peter Stringfellow headed their way, shook
Steve's hand and ordered them a drink on the house, she
stood rooted to the spot, eyes like organ stops. As he
walked away, she frantically nudged Steve. 'How do you
know Peter Stringfellow?'
Taking a sip of his drink, Steve casually said, 'Just
through the doors and stuff. He knows Mickey as well.
We've been here a few times over the years.'
Astonished by her date's popularity, Debbie had the
most exciting evening of her life, but sadly the cab journey
home was too much for her. The numerous cocktails
proved fatal and unfortunately she slung her guts up in
the back of the black cab.
'I'm really sorry, mate,' Steve said, bunging the driver
fifty quid, plus the fare, as he chucked them out in the
middle of nowhere.
'Oh, God, Steve. I'm not used to drinking such large
amounts,' Debbie managed to say, retching at the same time.
'Shhh, you're okay, babe. Just bring it all up and you'll
feel better. Stick your fingers down your throat if you
have to,' he replied, rubbing her back as if she were a
newborn baby.
Twenty minutes later, Debbie felt more with it and a
lot more sober. After gratefully taking some chewing gum
from Steve, she apologised over and over again.
T don't know what you must think of me. I haven't
been out for ages ... I'm so sorry if I've spoiled the
evening.'
'Shut up, you dopey cow,' he said, and took her in his
arms.
Holding her close to him, Steve kissed her gently on
the forehead. He'd had a great night, probably the best
night out with a bird he'd ever had, and he certainly wasn't
gonna be put off by a bit of vomit. Deciding she looked
well enough to travel again, he hailed another cab.
Outside Debs's house, he asked the driver to wait a
minute while he made sure she got in all right.
'Do you fancy a coffee, Steve? My mum will be in
bed by now and you're more than welcome to come in,'
Debbie offered.
Looking at his watch, Steve decided against the idea.
'It's nearly four o'clock, Debs. I'd better shoot. Mickey'll
have me up at the crack of dawn once he sees his car
never made the journey home. I've gotta fuck about
picking that up.'
Debbie felt a slight pang of disappointment. She was
dead tired herself, but would have liked a kiss and a
cuddle. Praying she hadn't put him off by making a show
of herself, she took the initiative. 'What you doing
tomorrow night then? I could cook you a nice dinner, if
you like, to say thank you for a wonderful night out.'
He smiled and dropped a kiss on her nose. 'That'd be
nice, Debs, really nice.'
Debbie breathed a sigh of relief as they arranged to
meet at eight o'clock that evening. Jumping back into the
cab, Steve gave the driver directions for the short journey
home.
'That your girlfriend, mate?' the driver asked nosily.
Feeling like the King of England, Steve slung his arm
across the top of the seat. 'Yeah, mate, that's my girl,' he
said confidently.
The driver looked at his fare in the mirror. He was tired and chatting kept him
awake after a long shift. T
hope you don't mind me saying, but you look really well
suited. I see all sorts in this job, but I rarely see anybody
as happy as you two seem to be.'
Steve smiled. 'Well suited ain't the word, mate. I love
that girl and very soon I'm gonna make her my wife!'
TWENTY-ONE
June buttered two slices of wholemeal toast, put the eggs
into dainty little cups, stirred the coffee and took the laden
tray upstairs to Debbie.
'Wakey, wakey. Well, how did it go? I've been like a
cat on a hot tin roof all morning - you know what a nosey
cow I am. Where did he take you? Do you really like
him?'
Sitting up in bed made Debbie realise just how severe
her headache was. The sight of her breakfast was the final
straw. She ran, gagging, towards the bathroom.
A disappointed June headed back downstairs to keep
an eye on her naughty grandson. Glancing at the clock
on the kitchen wall, she noticed it was midday. 'Shit,' she
mumbled as she remembered she'd promised Peter she'd
be home by lunchtime for the surprise he had in store for
her. Not knowing what to do for the best, she decided to
use Debbie's phone to let him know she was going to be
late.
Ever since she'd stood up to Peter over his attitude to
her kids, he'd treated her with more respect and given her
more leeway. On a personal level he had virtually nothing
to do with Debbie or Mickey, but he always enquired after
them and seemed happy to listen to whatever stories June
told him about her children. Charlie was a different story,
though. Understandably, he hated her grandson with a
passion. Resigning from his council position had affected
Peter deeply. He kept himself to himself now. He avoided
Masonic parties, scarcely ever played golf any more, and
rarely went out without her.
Having him under her feet all the time secretly drove
June round the bend. He was the old-fashioned type
who insisted the man should wear the trousers in the
home and, to keep the peace, she found it easier to let
him do so, no matter how much it grated. The only
thing that had changed was that she now put her own
kids first, as she should have done in the first bloody
place.
June dialled her home number and waited patiently
while it rang. Peter was going to have the right hump,
she knew that, but what else could she do? Debbie was
upstairs spewing her guts up, and she could hardly leave
Charlie downstairs on his own to wreck the joint. Taking
the child home with her was a definite no go. Peter had
banned him from the house for life.
Finally there was an answer. 'Hello, Peter speaking.'
June braced herself. 'Oh hello, love, it's only me. I've
got a bit of a problem. Debbie's got gastroenteritis . . .
she can't stop being sick. I'm going to have to stay here
and look after Charlie, there's no one else to have him.'
Peter was annoyed, very annoyed. He had been looking
forward to this afternoon for weeks and had planned it
with his usual precision.
'June my dear, today of all days you must not do this
to me. I've made a lovely picnic for us and I'm taking
you somewhere very special. If you let me down, my love,
I won't be a happy man, especially after all the trouble
I've gone to to arrange this.'
June held the receiver away from her ear. He was so
bloody patronising sometimes. No wonder he'd always
got on her kids' nerves. Deciding to stand her ground,
she spoke calmly but firmly.
'My daughter needs me, Peter. Where were you meant
to be taking me anyway? Can't we do it another day?'
Not liking his surprises to be spoiled, but realising he
had no other option but to let her know what she would
be missing, Peter said proudly: 'Today, my dear, I am
taking you to see the home of the one and only Winston
Churchill. I have organised a tour around the house and
grounds, and we will enjoy our picnic sitting romantically
in his garden.'
June could feel her blood boiling. A surprise for her? She didn't bloody think
so! She'd been dragged up in the
East End of London and had never taken any interest
whatsoever in politics. She listened politely whenever her
husabnd spoke about them, and had always shown a proper
interest in his one-time political career, but secretly it
bored her shitless. To her, politics was a complete and
utter load of old bollocks. They were all lying bastards,
and once they got into government ended up breaking
every promise they'd bloody well made in the first place.
Fuming to hear about her so-called surprise, June let
him have it. 'If you think for one minute that I'm going
to put a trip to a dead politician's house in front of helping
out my own daughter, my flesh and blood, you've got
another think coming! As for the actual surprise ... I
couldn't think of anything worse. It's all about you, isn't
it, Peter? You're the one who's into politics, not me. So
why is it my fucking surprise?'
Shocked by her outburst and atrocious language, Peter
spoke calmly but with a hint of sarcasm. 'Do you have
to swear, my dear? You sound like a fishwife. Is it really
so terrible that I made us a lovely picnic and arranged a
pleasant day out? You can be very ungrateful at times,
June. As for young Deborah, are you sure she's not
suffering from alcohol poisoning rather than gastroenteritis?
It was only last night she was out partying. Bit
of a coincidence, don't you think?'
Lying through her teeth, June hit back at him. 'How
dare you! That poor little cow never goes out, and when
she does she hardly drinks. I know my own daughter,
and I know when she's ill . . . and I certainly don't need you calling me a
liar. I may not be a perfect parent, Peter,
and I'm the first to admit that my kids have their faults,
but at least we're a family. We care about each other.
You've been a terrible father, you have. I've never known
a man have less contact with his child, except for my ex
. . . and he was an arsehole. You don't speak to your
Dolores from one year to the next, so you're certainly
not in any pos-ition to be judging other people's family
values.'
Annoyed that she'd brought up his strained relationship
with his own daughter, Peter became even more
sarcastic.
'Your family is like something off that bloody soap
opera, EastEnders or whatever it's called. Prison
sentences, unwanted pregnancies, domestic violence there's
always a bloody drama! And as for that evil little
grandson of yours . . . he'll prove to be the biggest drama
yet. I may not speak to my Dolores as much as I should,
but that's because she's extremely busy. Unlike your brood,
she's made something of her life. The girl is a top-class
lawyer and has done fantastically well for herself, thank
you very much. Which is more than I can say for the
Dawson tribe.'
Insulting her was one thing, June could take that with
a pinch of salt, insulting her kids was a different story.
'Well, if me and my kids aren't good enough for you,
Peter, you know what you can do. Divorce me, you wanker,
see if I fucking care!'
June slammed the phone down and flopped on to
Debbie's sofa. They'd rowed before, but never like this.
Shaking with temper, she headed out to the kitchen in
search of alcohol. She found half a bottle of wine in
Debbie's fridge and poured herself a glass. She needed
to calm down. Annoyed with herself for letting her guard
slip and showing her common side, she took a long sip
from the glass.
Dressed up in his cowboy outfit, Charlie had been
playing in the garden, shooting imaginary Indians. Hearing
raised voices, he'd sneaked into the kitchen and heard the
whole row. Seeing his nan sitting at the table looking sad,
he decided to try and cheer her up.
T don't like Granddad. I hope he dies, Nanny'
Not quite believing her ears, June couldn't help but
scream at the child. 'Get out of my fucking sight! I'm
not in the mood for you, Charlie. Believe me, I'm not.'
By the look on her face, he knew she meant business.
Giggling to himself, he headed outdoors to shoot more
Indians and, hopefully, next-door's cat.
Debbie had heard the commotion downstairs and
decided it was time she got up and pulled herself together.
Feeling slightly better, she chucked on her dressing gown
and went to face the music.
June cried as she relayed the whole story.
'I'm so sorry, Mum. This is all my fault. I feel okay
now, you get home to Peter and sort things out.'
'Are you sure, love?' June asked, already picking up
her handbag.
'Positive, Mum.'
Cursing herself for losing her temper, June waved to
her daughter and started the short walk home. Peter
annoyed her, wound her up no end, but in her heart she
loved him and would be devastated if they were to split
up. Now she'd calmed down, she felt terrible about the
nasty things she'd said to him. She didn't lose her temper
often but, when she did, she lost control completely and
swore like a washerwoman. As the old saying goes: You
can take the . girl out of the East End, but you can't take
the East End out of the girl. Furious with her own big
gob, she headed home to try and put things right.
Walking around Tesco with the hangover from hell and Charlie was no mean feat,
but somehow Debbie managed
it. As she unpacked her shopping she smiled to herself
and began to look forward to the night ahead. Sirloin
steak, sauteed potatoes, mushrooms and beef-flavoured
rice was her chosen menu, followed by a shop-bought
apple pie and cream. She hated bloody cooking, but Steve
was well worth the effort.
'Mummy, I'm hungry'
As she sat down next to Charlie, she watched him
greedily devour his chicken nuggets, chips and beans.
Smiling at his appetite, Debbie gently ruffled his hair and
decided that now was as good a time as any to have a
quiet word with him.
'Mummy's friend Steve is coming over later, Charlie,
and I was thinking ... if you're a good boy, Mummy will
let you stay up for a bit. Maybe we can all play some
games, or watch a cartoon together. What do you think?'
Charlie's previously happy expression instantly
changed to a dark one. 'Don't want him here. Don't wanna
play games. Don't wanna do nuffink.'
Debbie handed him his vanilla ice-cream and tried to
bargain with him. 'Please, Charlie. Be a good boy for
Mummy. Steve's a nice man when you get to know him
and Mummy's got to have friends, hasn't she?'
With his bottom lip pouting spectacularly, Charlie threw
his spoon on to the floor. Looking at his mother out of
the corner of his eye, he decided to be naughty. He knew
she hated him saying bad words, so he thought of the
worst thing he could say.
'Are you sucking his cock, Mummy?'
Horrified, Debbie grabbed him by the arm. 'You
naughty boy! Get up them stairs and into that bedroom
- now.'
'Nooooo,' Charlie screamed, knocking the ice-cream
bowl on to the floor and smashing it.
Debbie locked him in his bedroom, cleared up the mess
in the kitchen, sat down at the table and poured herself
a much-needed hair of the dog. Her child was enough to
make a saint scream and she was at a complete loss as
to what to do with him.
To seek professional help was totally out of the question.
He'd already made a mug out of one psychiatrist
and, at forty quid a shot, it was a rather expensive hobby.
Racking her brains, she tried to think of the answer.
Suddenly it came to her. What Charlie really needed was
a man around the house. Someone who would take no
shit off him, and really take him in hand. The boy needed
to be taught manners and respect. She knew he would
never listen to her. Mickey wasn't around a lot, but when
he was Charlie played up a lot less, which only proved
her point.
What her son needed was rules and discipline, and it
was too late in the day for her to enforce them. With a
man's backing she could do it, but not on her own. Sipping
her wine, she decided that Steve was the ideal candidate
to sort Charlie out. He was a no-nonsense sort, just what
her son needed. Whenever Steve had come round for
dinner in the past, she'd made sure Charlie was safely
tucked up in bed. He'd only had contact with the child
when he'd popped round in the daytime. Hopefully, now,
things could be different.
Daydreaming of her happy family life-to-be, Debbie
went upstairs to get ready. Pleased with her efforts, she
went downstairs to make a start on dishing the dinner up.
Steve would be here soon. A typical bloke, he was always
starving and wanted feeding on the spot. Happily stirring
the rice, she turned the radio on.
'You Are the Sunshine of My Life' was playing. Singing
along with the soulful voice of Stevie Wonder, Debbie
thought how appropriate the song was. Maybe it was a
sign of good things to come, her turning on the radio at
that particular moment.
As the doorbell rang, Debbie stopped singing. Smiling,
she put the wooden-spoon on the table and went to greet
the man she hoped would bring some much-needed
sunshine into her own life.
TWENTY-TWO
Billy McDaid lay back on the uncomfortable wooden
bench and stared at the graffiti on the scuffed paintwork
of the walls.
His game was up, he had no doubt about that. He also
knew that very shortly the police at the Glasgow cop shop
where he was being held would see through the false
name he'd given them and then the fun would really start.
He'd been pulled in for a drunken brawl and could kick
himself for being so bloody stupid.
From the moment Billy had stepped off the train,
battered and bruised from the hiding he'd taken from
Mickey, he'd kept his head down and his nose clean.
Hating Glasgow more than life itself, due to the memories
that it held, he had returned only reluctantly, not
knowing where to go or what to do. After sleeping rough
for a couple of nights, he had decided to pay his Auntie
Mary a visit, to see if she could put him up until he sorted
himself out.
Mary was his mum's older sister. Complete opposites,
his mother and aunt had never got along. Because of this,
Billy had never had a great deal to do with his aunt, but
on the odd occasion he had bumped into her she'd always
been warm and kind to him. The day of his brother's
funeral stood out in his mind particularly. His mother
didn't even show up. It was his aunt who had held him,
soothed him and wiped away his tears.
'If you need anything, laddie, anything at all, you come
and see me. You know where I live and my door is always
open to you,' Mary had told him. He could tell, by the
look in her eyes, that it was a genuine offer. He could
also tell that she felt sorry for him as she was well aware what kind of an
upbringing he and his brother had had.
When he knocked on her door that day, he felt and
looked like a tramp. Praying that she hadn't recently
moved house, he was overcome by relief when she opened
the door, made a fuss of him and welcomed him in with
open arms. Things had looked up for Billy from that day
onwards. After a lazy few weeks where he had done
nothing but sleep, let his injuries heal and enjoy his aunt's
wonderful cooking, he picked himself up and found a job,
working locally on a building site. Normally work-shy,
he was reasonably content with his new life. He liked the
lads he was working with, they were a good laugh, and
having a break from the drugs and drink had more or less
cleared his head.
The main problem he had was himself. For Billy good
things never lasted. His short attention span meant he got
bored very easily. Unfortunately for him, boredom
equalled trouble. Living with his aunt was good at first,
she made him feel safe and secure, but gradually, as the
weeks turned into months, he'd become more and more
restless and had craved a part of his old life back. He
wasn't being ungrateful; his aunt had been wonderful to
him, and he would never bite the hand that had fed him
so kindly. But, yearning to be the old Billy again, he made
the fatal mistake of moving out of his Auntie Mary's and
into a bed-sit with a guy he'd palled up with at work.
Johnny Archibald was a pisshead, a puffhead, and one
of life's losers. In fact, he was the ideal person to help
Billy return to his old ways. Within weeks of moving in
together, they had both been fired from their job for
throwing sickies and turning up late. Billy then decided
to go back to what he knew best: selling drugs. He and
Johnny pooled their money together and started punting
their trade around the roughest pubs in their local area.
Everything had been hunky-dory until last night when
they'd accidentally trodden on somebody else's stamping
ground and all hell had broken loose. Hence the reason
why Billy was now locked up in a cell in Glasgow town
centre, nervously awaiting his fate.
Because of his near-death experience at Mickey's
hands, he had had no choice other than to jump bail for
the assault on Debbie. It would all come out now, and he
wouldn't see the light of day for a while, that was for
sure. He was bound to be stuck here on remand until his
case came to court. He'd given a false name last night,
but the old bill were having none of it. Deciding to be a
man and get it over with, he shouted for one of the officers.
Within forty-eight hours of revealing his true identity,
Billy McDaid was back in Pentonville, slopping out
buckets of piss and shit.
The relationship between Debbie and Steve progressed
rapidly after their first couple of dates. The pair of them
had both been nervous about making love for the first
time, and had ended up fumbling around like inexperienced
teenagers. After losing their initial awkwardness,
however, they were now thoroughly enjoying themselves.
Steve was so much gentler with Debbie than Billy had
ever been. He handled her like a priceless piece of china,
whereas Billy had just shoved it in and pumped away.
There had been no foreplay of any kind with him, just a
quick wham, bam, thank you, mam, generally when he
was inebriated or stoned out of his brain. Steve was kind
and considerate, in bed and out, and had shown Debbie
what true love could really be like.
The only downside to their relationship was Charlie's
attitude to. it. Debbie knew that her son hated her new
man. Steve had tried with Charlie, he really had. He'd
taken them on as a package, and apart from their lone
nights out, when her mum baby-sat, tried to include
Charlie in everything they did. At first Debbie had hoped
that having a man with Steve's qualities around would
bring her son out of himself, but it had turned out to
have the opposite effect. Charlie was now a forlorn
figure, lost in his own little world, and as hard as she
tried, Debbie wasn't able to reach him at all. He still
played up something chronic when she was alone with
him, but when Steve was around he retreated to his
bedroom and refused to come out. He talked constantly
to an imaginary friend named Timmy, which Debbie
found quite alarming. Many a time she'd listened outside
his bedroom door and heard snippets of the conversations
he was having with his make-believe pal. They
included talk of death, torturing animals, and references
to sex which were way too disturbing and advanced for
a child of his age.
Charlie's schooling was another problem. Three times
she'd been called in to have a word with his headmistress
about her son's unusual and disruptive behaviour. Now
he'd been issued with a final warning.
'We'll give Charlie one more chance, but after that,
you'll have to find him a different school. Academically
he's very promising, but his behaviour is appalling and
he refuses to abide by our rules. His sexual awareness
has also become a problem. His bad language and constant
innuendos have begun to affect the other children. Thanks
to your son, "suck my cock" has become a catchphrase
in his class. This kind of conduct is not acceptable, Miss
Dawson, and I would advise you to have a very serious
talk with Charlie.'
Not for the first time in her life, Debbie shuffled out
of her son's school, red-faced and truly ashamed.
Sitting in a rough and ready cafe along the A13, Steve
tucked into his fried breakfast, enjoying every mouthful.
As he dunked bread into a yolk, he asked Mickey the
question that had been uppermost in his mind.
'Mick, you know I'm taking Debs away this weekend
for her birthday . . . well, I need your opinion on something.
I'm thinking of getting a ring and proposing to her.
Do you think she'd be up for it or do you think I'm
jumping the gun?'
Mickey gulped down his tea to stop himself from
choking. 'Fuck me! You don't hang about, do you, mate?'
Steve laid his knife and fork on the plate and stared
intently at his friend. 'I love her so much, Mick, and
things have moved really fast. We get on so well, why
waste time? She's the one for me, I know that and I don't
even care if we have a long engagement. I just wanna put
a ring on her finger so I can say that she's mine, if you
know what I mean.'
Mickey lit up a cigarette and thought seriously about
the situation. He wasn't much of a one for relationships
himself. He always had a bird in tow, but he chopped and
changed 'em like the weather. Birds were aggro, and business
came first with Mickey. That was why he was still
single. He had the looks and the charm to pull any girl
he wanted, but the dolly birds he tended to go for soon
got the pox of him when they realised he was too busy
to spend much time with them.
'I dunno what to say to you, Steve. You know what
I'm like . . . relationships just come and go with me and
I don't give a shit about any of 'em. You and Debbie are
different, you've got something special. I mean, you're
not stupid. If you feel the time's right, then go for it. I'd
love to have you as a brother-in-law, you know that, and
I couldn't pick a better geezer for our Debs.'
Shaking his best pal's hand, Steve sat at the table as
proud as a peacock. He'd got the okay from Mickey and
that meant the world to him. Now it was all down to Debs
accepting his proposal. Deciding there was no time like
the present, he asked Mickey for one more favour.
'I ain't got a clue about rings and stuff. Come with us,
Mick, and help me choose a nice one.'
The weekend away to celebrate Debbie's birthday was a
surprise for her and Steve didn't tell her where they were
going until they'd reached the airport. She'd thought they were going somewhere
in England, but he'd got hold of
her passport on the quiet and sorted out a nice trip to
Marbella. A pal of his and Mickey's owned a villa on the
outskirts of Puerto Banus, and because he owed them
more than a few favours had lent it to Steve in the hope
of wiping the slate clean.
Steve had played his cards right by inviting Charlie
along. He'd even had June sort out a passport for the
child, but Charlie had flatly refused the offer of a holiday.
'Nooooo, nooooo, nooooo,' he'd screamed. 'Wanna
stay here with Timmy. Hate you, hate you, hate you.'
Thankful that June had agreed to baby-sit, Debbie
decided to forget about her troublesome son, even if it
was only for one weekend, and enjoy a carefree birthday
trip.
As they arrived at the airport she was full of excitement.
She'd only ever been abroad once before, for a
week in Menorca with her mum and Peter. Running around
in the duty free section, she was like a kid in a sweet
shop. 'Look, Steve. This is well cheap, clock this!'
'You pick out whatever you want,' he insisted.
Not used to such kindness but not wanting to take
advantage of his good nature, Debbie chose her purchases
sparingly, picking only a bottle of perfume, a lipstick and
a book.
'It that all you want?' he asked, surprised.
'I don't need anything else,' she said honestly.
The flight was on time and Debbie loved every moment
of being on the plane. She spent the first hour gabbling
away to Steve and, when he dozed off, read the Jackie
Collins novel she'd purchased at the airport.
On arrival, Debbie drank in everything. The midday
humidity. The happy faces of holidaymakers. The nice
Spanish man at Customs. Being with Steve made Debbie
feel alive. Without having to worry about Charlie, she
guiltily enjoyed the freedom she hadn't felt for a long
time. Steve led her to a taxi and spent the entire journey
giving her a history lesson.
'Look to your right, Debs. See that massive place over
there? That belonged to Charlie Wilson. He was one of
the Great Train Robbers.'
Buzzing with excitement, she craned her neck.
'And see that big white gaff on that hill . . . that's
Freddie's. He was into gold bullion. He's a mate of your
brother's. In fact, I think Mickey's been out here and
stayed with him once or twice.'
Debbie was astounded. The properties were amazing
and she couldn't believe that her brother and Steve knew
all these people. It was a different world from her previous
life with Billy. 'Wow, this is fantastic!' she said as she
stepped into their villa.
'Ain't bad, is it, girl?' Steve grunted. Inwardly he was
as pleased as punch that the place had turned out to be
the nuts, but he wasn't one to show it.
'You are the best boyfriend I could ever wish for,'
Debbie screamed, as she dragged him towards their own
private swimming pool.
Smiling to himself, Steve patted the ring that was
hidden in his trouser pocket. Monday was her birthday.
He planned to present her with it late on Sunday evening.
The weekend passed in a bubble of happiness. They
ate, drank, made love, and barely left the villa.
On the Sunday morning, Steve told Debbie that he was
popping out for a stroll, to see a man about a dog.
'I'll come with ya,' Debbie said, chucking a sarong
over her bikini bottoms.
'You can't, Birthday Girl. I need to sort out your
present.'
The evening that followed was one that Debbie would
never forget as long as she lived. Steve walked into the
living area that night wearing grey slacks and a crisp
white shirt. He then presented her with a beautiful white
gold and diamond bracelet. After telling her to put her
glad rags on, he admired her new black dress, took her
hand and escorted her to the most exquisite little restaurant
she'd ever seen in the whole of her life.
The bistro specialised in seafood and was set within
yards of the beach. Debbie felt like she'd died and gone
to heaven as she sipped her fruity wine and watched the
waves lap against the shore.
'You order for me, Steve,' she said, passing the menu
back to him. She didn't have a clue about seafood and
didn't want to make herself look an idiot. Taking the initiative,
he opted for the lobster. He knew Debbie wasn't used
to places like this and to be honest neither was he, but he'd
had a damn' sight more experience of them than she had.
Debbie polished off the last of the sauteed potatoes.
After wiping her mouth with a serviette, she smiled at
Steve. 'Christ, that was lovely. It was the best fish and
chips I've ever had.'
Steve laughed at her uneducated comment. She was a
girl after his own heart. A night at the dogs and a curry
was all she was used to, and he bloody well loved her
for it.
'What are you laughing at?' Debbie asked, annoyed.
He was saved from answering by the singer starting
his session. '"Teardrops keep falling fwom my Spanish
eyes . . ."' he crooned.
Steve took Debbie's hand and dragged her on to the
tiny, dimly lit dance floor. T don't arf love you, girl,' he
mumbled as he wrapped her in his strong arms.
The rest of the evening passed in a romantic blur as
the pair of them danced, drank and sang. At five to twelve,
Steve nodded to the waiter to bring out the surprise
birthday cake.
'Ladies and gentlemen, can 1 have your attention,
pleeze?'
Picking up his guitar, Fernando the singer walked
towards Debbie and Steve.
Juan the headwaiter walked out of the kitchen followed
by the rest of the staff.
'"Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday, dear Debbie, Happy Birthday to you,'"
they all sang in broken English.
As the cake came towards the table, Steve got off his
chair and awkwardly dropped down on one knee.
'What you lost?' Debbie asked innocently, thinking
he'd dropped something under the table.
Then her eyes fell on the white iced cake.
The words, 'Debbie will you marry me?' leaped out at her in bright green icing.
She was speechless. This was
totally unexpected and felt almost surreal.
Luckily Fernando, who loved nothing more than the
sound of his own voice, was only too happy to take control
of matters.
'Now we have a special wequest for Debbie. Her
boyfwiend Steph want to ask her vewwy special question.'
Even
though he'd had a skinful, Steve was as nervous
as a kitten coming face to face with a Rottweiler. Shaking,
he took the mike with one hand while pulling the velvet
box out of his pocket with the other. He glanced around.
Everyone in the restaurant was staring at him, customers,
staff, there was even a stray dog outside that seemed to
be looking his way . . . Suddenly the enormity of the situation
hit him and he wished he had done things more
privately. Talk about make yourself look a prick, he
thought, as he reached for his wine and downed it in one.
At last, he found his voice.
'Debs, I'm not the best with words so I'll keep this
short and sweet. Since I've met you, girl, you've made
me the happiest man alive and I love you so much. I know
we ain't been together long, but I also know, without a
doubt, that I wanna spend the rest of my life with you.
Will ya marry me, babe?'
Thrusting the diamond ring towards her, he stared
intently into her eyes. The staff, the customers, the singer,
even the stray dog, sat rooted to the spot. Would she?
Wouldn't she? The whole restaurant waited in silence.
TWENTY-THREE
Debbie wasn't used to being the centre of attention, and
wished the ground would promptly open up and swallow
her. For an unconfident person, she couldn't think of a
worse way to be proposed to.
But as she looked into Steve's pleading eyes, she forgot
about the gawping audience and smiled. She couldn't be
angry with him, not after all the effort he'd gone to.
'The answer is yes, you silly sod. Of course I'll marry
ya.'
Her reply seemed to take forever to come, and then
the whole restaurant erupted into a mixture of cheers and
clapping.
'Champagne on ze house,' shouted an excited Juan.
Pleased to have his mike back in his hand, Fernando
dedicated the first song to Debbie and Steph. 'Love is in
ze air, everyvere I look awound,' he sang, absolutely
murdering the John Paul Young classic.
Steve wasn't happy. Twice now the Spanish cunt had
said his name wrong.
'I'm gonna fucking kill you when I get you back to
the villa,' Debbie said through gritted teeth as she dragged
him onto the dance floor.
'What have I done?' Steve shrugged his shoulders, a
picture of innocence.
Waving at an elderly couple who were mouthing
'Congratulations' in her direction, Debbie answered him
like a ventriloquist.
'I've never felt such a prat in my whole life. We're
surrounded by people we don't know from Adam, yet
because of you, ya tosser, we're the evening's entertainment!'
Knowing
that she wasn't really annoyed with him,
Steve planted a smacker on her lips and carried on the
banter.
'I had to do something special. I wanted to give you
a night to remember.'
'Oh, you've certainly done that, dear. I'll never forget
it till the day I die, you wanker!'
As the last verse of 'Love is in ze air' faded out, Debbie
grabbed Steve by the hand and pulled him back to their
table, thankful that the showcase was finally over.
The rest of the evening passed in a happy blur before
the pair of them finally left the restaurant about three.
Both of them were very drunk and Steve had major trouble
opening the door to the villa.
'Fucking wonderful, Steph,' Debbie joked, plonking
herself down on the steps to wait. 'As if it ain't bad enough
you've made a complete show out of me tonight, I'm now
gonna sit here freezing me tits off
On about the ninth attempt, the door opened and Steve
fell arse up over the threshold. Debbie nearly wet herself,
she was laughing so much. Steve picked himself up,
picked her up, carried her into the bedroom and flung
her down on the luxurious bed. The pair of them were
out for the count within minutes, sleeping fully clothed
in one another's arms.
The next morning Debbie woke up to the hangover
from hell. 'I'm never mixing my drinks again,' she
mumbled as she retched into the toilet.
'You said that after our first date, you fucking lush,'
Steve told her, jokingly.
After showering and changing Debbie felt slightly
better and agreed to go to breakfast with her fiance. As
she watched him tuck into a full English, though, she
immediately felt queasy again.
'I hope I'm gonna be all right on the flight. What time
we gotta leave?' she asked, turning her chair around
slightly. The grease swimming around on his plate was
doing her no favours at all.
'The flight's at three, I've called the cab for twelve,'
Steve replied, squeezing her hand. He wasn't surprised she
felt rough, considering the mixture they'd consumed the
previous night. Wine, champagne, shots, Bailey's ... they'd
gone through the card. Even he had felt like shit this
morning.
The flight home was slightly delayed, and when they
finally got on the plane Debbie slept for the whole journey
with her head on Steve's shoulder. Mickey had taken them
to the airport and was waiting patiently for them now in
the Arrivals hall.
'Well, how did it go?' he asked.
On hearing their good news, he hugged the pair of
them. He was just as excited about it as they were.
By the time they hit the M25, Debbie felt a lot better
and had livened up. 'Honestly Mick, I was so embarrassed
at the time, but it turned out to be an hilarious
night. The singer in there was such a wanker. "To ze
happy couple," he kept saying. He couldn't say Steve's
name properly, kept calling him Steph, and then he
wouldn't stop singing songs for us. Steve kept taking
glasses of champagne up to the stage for him, then
about two o'clock I heard him singing "My Way" and
all of a sudden he fell off the stage and had to be helped
up by one of the waiters. Oh, Mick, it was so funny,
honestly. I wish you'd been there, you'd have slaughtered
him.'
Mickey nearly pissed himself laughing. Taking his eyes
off the road, he glanced round at Steve. 'All right, Steph.
That's them man boobs, ya cunt. I told you to lose some
fucking weight.'
Not finding the joke at all funny, Steve nudged Debs.
'Thanks a lot, babe. I'll never hear the last of that now.'
Debbie smiled at his annoyance and quickly changed
the subject. 'You staying tonight, Steve, or going home?'
she asked.
T dunno, babe, it's up to you.'
Mickey was still in hysterics. 'Why don't I stop at an
offie and get some champagne? Mum'11 definitely wanna
join in the celebrations. I mean, it ain't every day a mother
learns that her daughter's marrying a geezer called Steph!'
If Steve had been sitting in the front he would have
clumped him. 'Just stop and get the drink, Mick, you wanker.'
'What's all this then?' June asked, as Mickey walked
in carrying a case of champagne followed by Steve and
Debbie.
'Shhh, where's Charlie?' Debbie asked softly. She knew
how much her son would hate her good news and wanted
to break it to him gently.
T put him to bed about an hour ago, love. He's played
me up rotten all day. Now don't keep me in suspense,
what's going on?' June asked.
Ordering Mickey to go and get some glasses, Debbie
ushered her family into the living room and shut the door.
'Guess what, Mum? Me and Steve are getting married,'
she said happily, flashing her ring.
'Oh, Debs, that's fantastic news. I am so pleased for
you, darling.' June's eyes filled with tears as she fell into
her daughter's arms. Turning her attention to Steve, she
hugged him too.
'Steve, welcome to the family, son.'
June studied Debbie's ring. 'Oh, Debs, you are such
a lucky girl . . . it's beautiful.'
'I know,' Debbie said, truly meaning it.
June looked at her children with pleading eyes as she
sipped her champagne. 'I promised Peter I'd be home
soon, but I'd rather stay here and celebrate. Do you mind
if I ring him, tell him the good news and invite him
round?'
Debbie glanced at Mickey who shrugged his shoulders
and answered for her.
'We don't mind, Mum, but I doubt he'll wanna come.
He don't usually.'
June picked up the phone. 'He's been a lot better since
I told him his fortune and has promised to make an effort
to be more of a family man. With a wedding to arrange,
we have to build some bridges.'
She took the phone into the kitchen so she could speak
to her husband in private. Somehow she managed to
persuade Peter to come round within the hour. 'Your wish
is my command, my dear,' he told her sarcastically.
Debbie fiddled with the tuner on her stack system and
found Capital Gold. In her eyes you couldn't have a celebration
without a bit of music, and it was her mother's
favourite station.
With June out in the kitchen, rustling up sandwiches,
Debbie left Steve and Mickey talking business and tiptoed
upstairs to check on Charlie. Opening his bedroom door,
she crept into the room and sat on the edge of his little bed.
He was fast asleep, bless him, with his arms firmly around
Deputy Dawg. She studied him, taking in his handsome
face with the slight smile that always made him look so
happy as he slept. For some reason his features completely
changed on awakening. Once his eyes were open, Charlie's
lack of contentment altered his face and stole his beauty.
After kissing his forehead, Debbie sat down at the top
of the stairs, deep in thought. She'd been so swept up in
her trip to Marbella and surprise engagement that she'd
barely had time to consider her son or his feelings. He
hadn't taken to Steve, that was obvious. All she could do
was hope and pray that he would begin to accept having
him around the house and, as he grew older, build a relationship
with him. Maybe, in time, Steve could take him
to football or fishing. And in the future perhaps Charlie
would have a brother or sister to play with. Maybe both.
She was saved from worrying any more by the sound of
the doorbell and the arrival of Peter.
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly and the champagne
went down very nicely. Debbie was full of the
proposal and the memorable evening they'd had. June
asked questions galore. Peter, who still unfortunately
suffered from a personality bypass, smiled politely and
said nothing.
The sandwiches were eaten in minutes and June,
forever the hostess, rushed into Debbie's kitchen with
the empty plates and came back with mounds of cheese
on toast.
'So, any idea when you'll set the date for?' she asked
excitedly.
'We haven't had time to speak about it yet,' Debbie
replied, smiling at Steve.
He turned to June. 'I'll leave it all to Debbie to decide.
I love her to bits and would marry her tomorrow, she
knows that.'
'Ahhh, it's so romantic! Do you remember our wedding,
Peter? We had a wonderful day, didn't we, love?' June
said.
'Yes, dear, it was very nice.' Peter loved his wife to
death, but wasn't one for showing his feelings, especially
not in front of other people.
Hearing 'Love is in the Air' come on the radio, Debbie
cranked the volume up and danced around the room, doing
funny impressions of Fernando.
Charlie woke up and rubbed his beady little eyes.
Hearing voices, laugher and loud music, he decided to
investigate. 'Come on,Timmy,' he said, inviting his imaginary
friend to join him. Realising his Uncle Mickey and
Granddad Peter were downstairs, he decided to sit at the
top of the stairs and earwig. He hated the pair of them
and wished them both dead.
'One day, when we're big and strong, Timmy, we'll
beat up Uncle Mickey and Granddad Peter and chop their
heads off,' he said.
'Yes, Charlie,' he replied in the squeaky voice he always
used for Timmy.
Sucking his thumb and sitting still for what seemed
like ages, Charlie caught snippets of conversation, but
because the music was loud he couldn't hear anything
clearly. As the lounge door opened, he shifted himself out
of sight.
'Thanks, Mum, for looking after Charlie for me,' he
heard his own mum saying.
'Any time, love. It was worth it to see you so happy,'
replied his silly gran.
About to say something funny to Timmy, the next
sentence made Charlie bite back his words as his blood
ran cold.
'Thank you for coming as well, Peter. I know we've
had our differences over the years, but now that I'm
getting married, I'm really glad we've buried the hatchet,'
his mother was saying.
The too, dear,' Peter replied.
Charlie turned to his imaginary friend, his little face
contorted in anger. 'Come back to the bedroom now, Timmy.'
'Okay,' Charlie said, his assumed voice filled with rage
too.
'Sit there,' he demanded once back in his room. 'My
mum is not gonna marry that fat man, Timmy. We have
to stop her. We hate him. He's a bastard, bastard, bastard.'
Timmy stayed silent. Overcome by anger, Charlie flew
at him. 'Talk to me. Please talk to me, Timmy,' he pleaded,
as he kicked and punched his friend.
Timmy stayed schtum.
Charlie got into bed and sobbed, 'I'm sorry, Timmy.
Please talk to me. I didn't mean to hurt you. Please, can
we still be friends?'
T love you, Charlie. You will always be my friend,'
said a badly shaken Timmy.
Relieved by his friend's forgiveness, Charlie pulled the
Batman quilt over his head. Worn out by his eventful
evening, he fell asleep within seconds.
TWENTY-FOUR
Debbie took the tinsel out of the box and wound it round
the Christmas tree. She added some baubles, smiled, and
turned to Charlie.
'Why don't you come and help Mummy decorate the
tree?'
Charlie ignored her.
Kneeling down in front of him, Debbie did her best
to entice him. 'I've brought you some special chocolate decorations. Help Mummy
hang them on the tree and you
can have one now.'
'Don't want one. Go away. I hate you.' Kicking her in
the shin, Charlie ran out of the room.
Exasperated, Debbie put her head in her hands and
cried. Recently, the relationship between her son and her
had deteriorated to the point of no return. The situation
was slowly but surely breaking her heart. Ever since
Charlie had found out about the wedding, he'd made her
life a complete misery. At first he'd begged her not to go
through with it.
'Nooooo, Mummy, nooooo. I promise I'll be a good
boy and never be naughty again. I don't wanna new
daddy. Please, Mummy, don't marry that man,' he'd
screamed.
Debbie had been really upset by his behaviour. Some
days she even toyed with the idea of postponing the event
until her son was old enough to deal with it.
'You will do no such bloody thing. You can't let your
life be ruled by a five-year-old child, Debbie. And what
about poor Steve? He'd be devastated,' her mother had
said in no uncertain terms.
Debbie reluctantly agreed with her and carried on planning
the big day, but guilt was eating away at her. She
was due to get married in seven days' time and, instead
of being excited and full of beans, she was worrying
constantly about her son. Charlie rarely left his room except
for school. He lived in a little make-believe world he'd
created for himself. Apart from the invisible Timmy, he'd
talked to no one. Now, hearing the front door open, Debbie
frantically tried to wipe away the evidence of her tears.
'What's up, babe?' Steve asked as soon as he saw her.
Sobbing, then, Debbie let it all pour out. 'It's Charlie
. . . he still won't talk to me. What am I gonna do, Steve?
I love him so much, but I just can't get through to him.'
'Shhh, come on, everything will be okay,' Steve said,
hugging her tightly.
'I dunno what to do, Steve. This is my big day and I
should be so excited, but Charlie's ruining everything for
me. He's refused to come to the wedding and we've no
one to baby-sit him. We can't leave him with a stranger,
he'd terrorise 'em. How are we gonna manage?'
Stroking her hair, Steve spoke to her, quietly but firmly.
'You're way too soft with him, Debs, you let him get away
with murder. I know you feel guilty 'cause of what
happened with Billy, but you've gotta try and put that to
the back of your mind now. If he ignores you, give him
a taste of his own medicine and ignore him. I bet he soon
talks to you then. And as for the wedding, we'll just drag
him there, kicking and screaming, if we have to.
Look, Debs, I don't like to get too involved in the
situation between you and him, but why don't you let
me have a chat to him, man to man, like? He's wary of
Mickey, you know. Won't play up in front of him. He
needs a firm hand, Debs, trust me.'
Unable to think of a better idea herself, she agreed.
'Don't be too hard on him, though, will you, Steve?'
He gave a little tap and opened Charlie's bedroom door.
Charlie was furious to see who the intruder was. 'Go
away,' he said as he put his head under the covers.
Steve ignored his command and sat down on the edge
of his bed. 'I think me and you need to have a little chat,
don't you, Charlie?'
'Nooooo,' the boy screamed.
Steve grabbed the cover from his face and moved nearer
to him. 'Now shut the fuck up and listen to me. Me and
your mum are getting married next week, whether you like
it or not. Now, I don't like you and you don't like me, but
we're gonna make an effort for your mother's sake. You
will come to the wedding. And while you're there, you'll
behave yourself and be a good boy. Do you understand me,
Charlie?'
'Won't. Can't make me,' he said obstinately.
Furious, Steve lifted the child off the bed by the neck
of his pyjamas and put his own face right next to Charlie's.
'You will do as I say, you fucking little shit!'
Charlie wriggled like an eel. Unnerved, he nodded his
head.
'Good. Now, in a minute, you're gonna walk downstairs
and tell your mum you're sorry. And if I find out
you've played her up at all in the future, it'll be me you'll
be dealing with, not her. Do we understand one another?'
Shocked into silence, Charlie nodded dumbly and was
relieved to see Steve finally leave his room.
'How did it go?' Debbie asked, her voice filled with
dread.
'Yeah, fine, he was as good as gold. He's coming down
in a minute to see you.'
Not quite believing what she was hearing, Debbie was
even more amazed when she heard footsteps on the stairs.
Standing in front of her, clutching his beloved toy dog,
was Charlie and he was actually apologising.
'I'm sorry, Mum, if I was naughty, and I promise to
be a good boy from now on.'
'Oh, bless ya,' Debbie said hugging him.
Charlie pulled himself away from her. 'Can I go back
to my bedroom now?'
'Of course you can,' Debbie said, stunned by her son's
change of heart. 'Whatever did you say to him?' she asked
Steve as soon as Charlie was out of earshot.
'Just had a little chat. As I said before, Debs, he needs
a man's touch,' Steve replied, unable to look her in the
eye.
Over the next few days, because of Charlie's
turnaround, Debbie was able to concentrate on the
wedding. Her mum was a great help and the pair of them
spent hours organising the last minute bits and bobs.
Debbie had refused to get married in church and opted
for a quick ceremony in a Register Office, together with
a handful of family and close friends.
'I don't want loads of fuss and there's no way I'm
floating up the aisle in a wedding dress, being stared at
by all and sundry,' she'd told Steve.
'As long as me and you get married I don't care if you
wear a boiler suit and we say our vows in the middle of
Romford fucking Market. We'll do whatever you wanna do,
babe. Just tell me the date and the time and I'll be there.'
June had been a bit put out at first that her daughter
hadn't opted for the works. 'Peter and I will pay for it,
Debbie. You must have a church wedding, love. It's the
biggest day of your life.'
But Debbie was adamant. 'Mum, I'm ugly. I've got a
wonky nose, me hair's too short and makes me look like
a lesbian, I ain't even got me own fucking front teeth . . .
If you think I'm parading meself about in a church, looking
like I do, you can think again.'
June got ever so upset when Debbie put herself down.
She was attractive, everybody said so. If only her daughter
could look into the mirror and see what everybody else
did. Knowing when she was beaten, though, June decided
to keep her trap shut from that day onwards and abide
by Debbie's wishes. It was her big day, after all.
The hen night and stag nights were two small affairs
because neither Debbie nor Steve particularly wanted them.
Steve held his in a boozer up in Bow and could have
throttled Mickey and the lads when some Roly Poly stripogram
turned up. Bendy Wendy, she called herself. He
nearly died when she got out her massive pair of jugs
and rubbed them in his face.
Debbie opted for a sit-down meal in a local Chinese
and was joined by a few old school friends, two distant
cousins and Susan, her friend from across the street. Her
mum was unable to attend as she was the only person on
earth capable of baby-sitting Charlie.
The night before the wedding, Debbie sent Steve back
home and had her mum stay with her. Steve hadn't
formally moved in with her yet, though he stayed at least
five or six nights a week.
On 23 December, the morning of the wedding, Debbie
was overcome by nerves and couldn't get off the toilet.
'Drink that, darling, it'll calm you down,' June said,
thrusting a glass of champagne at her.
Debbie's old classmate, Alison, arrived at ten. A qualified
beautician, she'd promised to do her friend's makeup,
hair and nails.
'Oh, Debbie. I'm so proud of you! You look absolutely
fantastic, darling,' June crowed as she admired the finished
results.
Instead of a wedding dress, Debbie had opted for a
beige pinstripe skirt and jacket. She accompanied this
with a white, wide-collared blouse, high tan suede boots,
a small beige hat and a bouquet of cream-coloured flowers.
Looking in the mirror, she was surprised to see how nice
she looked. Temporarily, her confidence soared.
'Are you ready to see how cute your little boy looks?'
June asked excitedly, pulling a sullen-looking Charlie into
the bedroom by his clammy hand.
As Debbie looked at him in his little grey suit, white
shirt and pink tie, she felt as if she was about to burst
with pride. He looked so grown up, bless him.
Peter turned up at twelve o'clock and told them that
the car was waiting outside. Much to June's delight, Debbie
had agreed that he should give her away. With her brother
already snapped up as best man and her real dad six feet
under, she hadn't really had a lot of choice in the matter.
Insisting that Charlie should sit next to her in the
car, Debbie squeezed his hand. Are you all right,
darling?'
He nodded without answering. His behaviour had been
a little odd all this last week, she mused. He'd been polite,
but only ever spoke when spoken to and answered with
a complete lack of expression. He'd stopped playing up
so much, which was one good thing, but spent even more
time in his bedroom, talking to his make-believe friend.
Concerned for him but not wanting to spoil her own big
day, Debbie resolutely turned her thoughts back to her
husband-to-be.
As the music played and the ceremony began, Steve
glanced around and caught sight of his bride walking
towards him. The love he felt for her choked him. Debbie
looked so beautiful that he was unable to stop his tears.
Seeing his friend's emotion, Mickey patted him on the
back reassuringly.
Peter felt quite honoured to be giving Debbie away. The
man he was handing her over to wouldn't have been his
first choice of chap, but he could tell that Steve genuinely
loved his step-daughter and that was good enough for him.
Peter's own emotions were running riot. He'd found out
only yesterday, by email, that his own daughter Dolores
had just got married on a secluded beach in Thailand.
Apparently she'd been given away by a complete stranger.
He hadn't told June the news yet. She would be so upset
for him and he didn't want to spoil her big day.
The ceremony was short and sweet. As the happy couple
made their vows, there was hardly a dry eye in the house.
June, Mickey, Peter . . . they all shed a tear. Only Charlie
showed no emotion. Head bowed, he stared at the floor.
A short photographic session in the pretty adjoining
gardens was followed by a slap-up meal at a restaurant
in Hornchurch town centre.
Steve gave a short but moving speech in which he
thanked Debbie for making him the happiest man alive.
Peter got up next and said a few polite words on behalf
of June and himself. Not surprisingly, it was Mickey's
acid tongue which completely stole the show, as usual.
The whole restaurant was in hysterics as he delivered his
hilarious best man's speech.
'As you know, Marbella is full of famous people. Many
a villain has left these shores to live it up there. Ronnie
Biggs once lived there . . . Mickey Green . . . Freddie
Foreman ... the list is endless. I happened to be over
there recently, conducting a bit of business, and was very
surprised to find that this man here,' Mickey paused to
pat Steve on the back, 'is as well known as anyone. No
matter what bar or restaurant I went in, the name on
everyone's lips was Stephanie Arthur Roberts.'
Steve felt himself go beetroot red as the whole place
erupted into laughter. Mickey carried on: 'Now let me tell
ya a little story. I hadn't known Steph that long when he
decided to take me over West Ham. Anyway, we're queuing
up at the ground and we finally gets to the turnstile. So,
I've gone through, looked round and I can't see Steph
anywhere. I couldn't work it out. I knew he was right behind
me. Anyway, I wanders back towards the entrance to see if
I can spot him, and you'll never guess where he was . . . '
Steve put his head in his hands as all the guests urged
Mickey to tell them. He was such a piss-taking bastard,
Steve would kill him for this.
Mickey smiled as triumphantly he finished his story.
'Poor old Steph was that fat, he'd got stuck in the fucking
turnstile! The stewards were pulling on his oversized arms,
but they couldn't dislodge him. And the funniest part of
it was, the crowd who were queuing up behind, clocked
what was going on and broke into song. All 1 could hear
was half of Upton Park singing, "Who ate all the pies,
who ate all the pies? You fat bastard, you fat bastard, you
ate all the pies!'"
'I'll fucking kill you for that, you cunt,' Steve joked
as Mickey sat back down.
The evening reception had been arranged and paid for
by the best man and was held at a pub in Rainham village.
Another hundred or so guests joined in the celebrations
there and put the finishing touch to a completely
successful day.
As Debbie sat at a table next to her mum, she noticed
her son staring into space. 'You all right, Charlie? Are
you gonna come and have a dance with Mummy?'
He shook his head and stared down at the floor.
'Shall I get you something to eat from the buffet?
They've got chicken nuggets - your favourite. Mummy
ordered them especially for you.'
'Not hungry,' he replied, still staring at the floor.
Debbie ruffled his hair and dragged June to the Ladies.
'I'm really worried about him, Mum. He hardly touched
his food in the restaurant and he's barely said a word all
day. You don't think he's ill, do you?'
'Not on your nelly,' replied June. 'There's sod all wrong
with him. He's just playing up, trying different tactics.
I'll keep me eye on him. You go and find your husband
and have a bloody good time, love.'
Taking her mother's advice, Debbie let her hair down
and spent the rest of the evening singing, drinking and
laughing. She sat with Steve's friends and family, and was
overjoyed, but not surprised, to find out just how popular
and highly thought of he was.
'Honestly, Debbie, you've got yourself a good 'un
there. If it weren't for Steve, I'd have been shoved in a
home as a kid. He fed me, clothed me, put me on the
right track in life. If he hadn't guided me, I'd probably
be inside now, like most of me old mates are,' insisted
Steve's little brother Lee, who'd been granted special
leave by the army for his brother's big day.
The latter part of the evening passed in one big happy
blur. The DJ called Debbie and Steve on to the dance floor
and played Cliff Richard's 'Congratulations'. Everyone
stood in a circle and surrounded the happy couple. Debbie
and Steve then smooched to Elton John's 'Your Song',
which had been a favourite of Steve's mum. Completely
oblivious to anyone else, they gazed lovingly into one
another's eyes.
'Do you think we'll always be this happy, Steve?'
Debbie asked him.
'Of course we will, babe. Nothing and no one can spoil
what we've got,' he insisted.
At the very moment that Debbie and Steve were enjoying
their last dance, Billy McDaid lay wide awake in his cell,
unable to sleep. He had no idea that Debbie was even
with Steve, let alone that they'd got married that day. He'd
been sentenced the previous week and had received five
years for his crime. He no longer loved Debbie; in fact,
he hated her and blamed her for everything bad that had
ever happened to him. Closing his eyes, he pictured his
son, his precious little Charlie boy.
'I love you, son,' he said softly as he kissed a photo
of the child. Talking to Charlie kept him sane in this place.
'One day me and you will be together, boy'
'Shut up, bloodclot,' came the dulcet tones of his cellmate
Clinton.
Billy was frightened of the big, black six-footer he was
sharing with, so quickly shut up. Smiling to himself, he
pictured the day he and his son were finally together
again.
Billy had heard that he'd also fathered a couple of kids
up in Scotland. Obviously, he'd never met them. He had
no wish to. In his mind, Charlie was the only child who
truly belonged to him. One day, when he got out of this
shit-hole, he'd make things right with his son. Billy had
always regarded himself as a bit of a face. Surely his
wean would turn out to be a chip off the old block. The
child bore his surname, after all.
Once a McDaid, always a McDaid.
Like Billy himself, the kid was destined to become a
legend.
TWENTY-FIVE
December 2005 - Ten Years Later
Realising that the girls were due to be picked up in less
than half an hour, Debbie gobbled the last of her sandwich,
picked up the keys to her latest birthday present, a
BMW X5, and headed off for the drama school to collect
her daughters.
As she sat in heavy traffic, she thought briefly back
over her past. The Billy saga was virtually forgotten now,
little more than a distant memory to her. She had a
wonderful life and, truth be told, it was all thanks to Steve.
Marrying him was the best decision Debbie had ever
made, and she loved him more as each day passed.
Over the past ten years her life had turned around
completely. When she looked into the mirror these days
she could barely make out the shy, wonky-nosed individual
she had once been. She was now the mother of
two beautiful little girls, Gracie aged eight and Rosie who
had just turned six.
Steve was a wonderful father, strict but fair, and the
girls were a credit to their parents. Polite and intelligent,
they excelled at dance and drama and were loved by
anyone and everyone who came into contact with them.
On the birth of his first daughter, Gracie, Steve had made
the life-changing decision to give up crime and go legit.
T ain't missing out on seeing my daughter grow up so
I'm going straight,' he'd announced. True to his word,
he'd managed to badger Mickey into going halves with
him to buy a pub. Debbie's brother had been dubious at
first but had stuck up half the cash, opting to be a silent
partner. He was more surprised than anyone when the
venture turned out to be a huge success. A bit put out
that Steve had cracked it without his help, Mickey soon
got involved in the running of it himself.
Mickey and Steve were still very well known and
respected in certain criminal circles and it wasn't long
before the pub was packed out with their own kind. The
customers who drank there felt safe. They knew Mickey
and Steve were two of their own and consequently all
kinds of business could be discussed freely and openly,
without their having to worry. Within a year of its opening,
the pub had made enough money for the boys to expand
their thriving business. They were now the proud owners
of four boozers in total and had just added a gentlemen's
club to their rapidly growing empire.
Neither Mickey nor Steve was involved in running the
premises now. They'd hired managers for each establishment
to do the actual work. Their own job was to keep
an eye on the overall running of the businesses and flit
from one to the other of them, turning up at unannounced
times on a daily basis to make spot checks. Mickey had
taken Steve's lead and four years ago decided to go straight
himself. There were two reasons for his change of heart.
First, he'd had a tip off from a bent copper he knew, telling
him the old bill were on to him, and the second reason
was Karen.
As fate would have it, he'd met her in one of this own
pubs. Even though he hated to admit it, she'd been the
absolute making of him and had brought him more
personal happiness than he could ever have believed
possible.
Enchanted by her long dark hair, delicate features,
hearty laugh and wicked sense of humour, he'd fallen
head over heels for her within weeks. A feisty, fiercely
independent single mum of one, Karen had been a hard
nut to crack. Mickey was used to women falling at his
feet, and the challenge she'd presented only made him
love her more.
Determined to win her over, Mickey upped the charm
stakes. It must have worked as a year later they were
married and had since produced a son, Alfie, now eighteen
months old. Mickey had also legally adopted Karen's
fifteen-year-old daughter Lois. As the proud father of two
children, he was the happiest he'd ever been. He idolised
Karen and vice versa. They were soul-mates and very,
very happy together.
Debbie's thoughts were jolted back to the present by
the sound of her mobile ringing. Seeing her son's name
flashing on the screen, she mounted a kerb to take the
call.
'Hello, love, you all right?'
Charlie did not bother to answer his mother's question
but came straight to the point. 'Where are you, Mum? I
need some money. How long you gonna be?'
Debbie sighed, exasperated. The only time her son ever
rang her was when he wanted something. T gave you
twenty quid last night, love. You have more pocket money
than any other kid I know. I'm not a bank, Charlie.'
Hearing an ominous silence at the other end of the
phone, Debbie did what she always did when it came to
her son - she gave in. 'There's fifty quid in an envelope
in the top right-hand drawer, take twenty out of that.'
'Can't I take thirty?'
'No, you can't.' Debbie was annoyed as she ended the
call. Her son was such an ungrateful little sod.
She arrived ten minutes early at the school and sat
in the car thinking. Overall her life was pretty good.
She was even content with her looks and figure now
since Steve had treated her to a nose job and she'd
joined the local gym. Charlie was the only downside to
her otherwise happy existence, and she was beyond
knowing what to do about him. Steve didn't have a clue
how much money her son wheedled out of her every
week; he'd have gone apeshit if he knew the exact
amount the boy demanded. What Charlie did with that
money was anyone's guess. Debbie knew that because
she felt guilty for spending most of her time with her
two adorable daughters, she tried to compensate her son
with constant hand-outs. Charlie was bright at school,
disruptive but clever, the teachers said. The main
concern Debbie had was that he had no real friends and
the vibes she always got on open evenings told her he
was extremely unpopular.
Her son went out sometimes of an evening, but she
didn't know where, and when she inquired, he told her
precisely nothing. During the time he was at home, he
was always holed up in his bedroom. He was obsessed
with computer games and spent most of his time playing
them. His only other interest was surfing chat rooms on
the internet. He never joined in with anything they did
as a family. Debbie always tried to include him, but Charlie
flatly refused to comply.
His relationship with his sisters was awful. The only
time he spoke to them was to torment them. The girls
had loved him when they were little and had looked up
to him, but he'd rejected them from day one. As they'd
got older, they'd learned that keeping out of his way was
the best option.
Steve hated the sight of Charlie and suffered him only
for his wife's sake. Debbie knew the score, and to be
honest couldn't blame him. If the boot had been on the
other foot, she'd have struggled herself. Her son was still
wary of Steve and oozed politeness on the odd occasions
he was forced to spend in his company. When Steve wasn't
around, he'd talk to her and his sisters like they were
pieces of shit. Debbie never told Steve about this. Keeping
her trap shut equalled a quiet life, and that was the way
she liked it.
Seeing her daughters running happily towards her,
Debbie forgot her worries. She hugged them tight and
asked them about their class.
'We did tap dancing and sang songs,' they answered
excitedly.
Debbie smiled to herself as she drove home. The
girls were in the back, gabbling away ten to the dozen,
and some of the things they came out with were just
hilarious.
Considering neither she nor Steve was an oil painting,
it was a mystery how they'd been blessed with two such
pretty girls. With their long dark hair and dark eyes, they
were both stunning kids. Charlie wasn't so fortunate. Now
a plain, tall boy, he was slightly overweight, with beady
eyes and an untrustworthy look. In fact, he looked like a
younger, fatter version of his father.
'How many days to Christmas now, Mummy? What time
does Santa bring the presents?' Rosie asked excitedly.
'There is no Santa,' Gracie replied, giggling.
'Yes, there is. Don't spoil things for her, Gracie. This
time next week is Christmas Day, and Santa waits until
you're asleep and delivers his presents the night before,'
Debbie told her youngest.
This would be the first Christmas in their new house
and Debbie couldn't wait. It was her turn to have all the
family over. They'd only moved in six months ago. A
five-bedroomed house in a rural part of Brentwood with
a couple of acres attached, it had turned out to be the
home of Debbie's dreams. It had cost a little more than
they'd intended paying but, on realising his wife had
fallen in love with the property, Steve had stuck a bid
in. After a bit of bargaining, the deal was done and Debbie
was overjoyed.
They'd previously lived in a three-bedroomed semi in
Upminster and Debbie had been keen to move while the
girls were young. The schools were far better in Brentwood
and she wanted the best for her daughters. Charlie only
had a year and a half left at his school in Upminster and
opted to stay there. This wasn't a problem as it was only
a bus ride away
'Mum, Dad's on the phone!' Gracie shouted.
Debbie was putting salt on the drive, which had begun
to freeze over. Dropping the shovel, she ran indoors.
'You took your fucking time. Where were you Calcutta?'
Steve joked.
T was just chucking some salt down outside, you
cheeky sod.'
'I'll be home in about half-hour, babe. I know you
don't like cooking, so I wondered if you wanted me to
bring a Chinese in?'
Debbie laughed. The relationship between them had not
changed since the day they'd first got together. They still
loved nothing more than taking the piss out of one another.
'Go on then, you've twisted me arm. Get a mixture
of dishes, Steve. You know what the girls have, don't
ya?'
'Don't worry, Debs. The woman in the Chinese gets
the order ready without even asking what the fuck I want.
"Hello Mr Steve," she says when I walk through the door.
I bet she thinks I'm one of these poor single dads. I'm
gonna tell her one day, I've got a lazy fucking old woman.'
Laughing, Debbie cut him off.
Charlie sat in his mate's bedroom in a council house in
Harold Hill. His heart was pumping with excitement as
he took the DVD out of its case and handed it to his
friend.
Kevin was the only mate he had. They had the same
interests and the same things in common, which included
smoking joints, watching porn, listening to heavy rock
music and playing violent computer games. Kevin Newley
was an oddball through and through. Unwanted by his
mother, he'd been raised by his psychotic grandmother
Doreen who had done him no favours whatsoever. A fat
boy with glasses, Kevin was unkempt and rarely came
into contact with soap or water. He was an almost complete
loner and totally in awe of his one and only friend. If
Charlie said jump, Kevin would do it. That's why their
friendship worked.
Being unpopular too, Charlie was glad of his only pal.
Kevin was fat and minging, but his house came in handy
to class round. His nan was senile so they could puff,
watch films, drink beer ... in fact, they could do whatever
they bloody well wanted here. The situation suited
Charlie. He was a bully, liked getting his own way, and
Kevin was well and truly under his thumb.
Seeing the DVD flicker into life, Charlie's excitement
grew, along with his hard on. He had his own DVD dealer,
a little Chinese bloke called Lee, who got hold of all the
real hardcore stuff, and had managed to get Animal Farm for him. Charlie had
built up quite a collection which was
kept safely hidden under Kevin's bed. Sometimes he'd
sneak a couple home and watch them when the house
was empty, but he was always careful not to leave them
lying about. His mum would have a fit. As for Steve, he'd
rip his stepson's head off if he got wind of Charlie's little
hobby.
Charlie was clever and had learned how to play his
mother and Steve over the years. He was never talkative,
but always tried to be polite. Sometimes he'd give his mum
a bit of stick if Steve wasn't about. He knew she wouldn't
say anything, she was too soft. He hated his sisters, especially
Rosie who was a trappy little cow, and on more than
one occasion had fantasised about throttling her and
watching her gasp for her last breath. That thought made
him giggle. Gracie had been the same once upon a time,
but he'd taught her who was boss and managed to shut
her up. Shame he'd never done the same to Rosie.
Turning his attention back to the film, he cheered with
delight at the sheer filth of it. He'd heard about this film
on a porn chat room and had been told it was an all-time
classic.
'Er, that's disgusting . . . look what's she's doing with
that horse,' Kevin chortled.
The boys enjoyed the film immensely and at the end
of it discussed the juiciest bits over a joint.
'Birds are slags. That film proves it. I mean, what sort
of person would shag animals for money?' said Charlie.
Kevin thought about this. T dunno. Weren't that how
AIDS was started - by shagging sheep? I'm sure I saw
that on the internet.'
Charlie ignored his pal's question and slapped him on
the back.
'What me and you need, mate, is some real pussy.
Watching it on films is all right, but we need to get
ourselves some of the real thing.'
'You're right,' Kevin agreed.
Finishing the spliff, Charlie put on his Puffa jacket.
'Leave the pussy to me, I'll sort us out. Look, I'd better
go now, I've gotta get my bus. I'll ring you tomorrow.'
As he walked towards the bus stop, Charlie saw a
young blonde girl on the other side of the road. Slag, he
thought, as he clocked her short skirt and white stilettos.
The fucking whore was asking for trouble, walking about
like that.
Feeling his cock rising, he imagined grabbing her and
shoving himself right up that short skirt of hers. It'd serve
her right.
Aware that she was being stared at, the girl glanced in
his direction. Charlie put his hands over his cock, made
a thrusting movement with his hips and waved his tongue
at her. Frightened, the girl quickened her step and ran
towards the safety of her home.
TWENTY-SIX
Debbie and Steve were awoken early on Christmas
morning by two excited little girls, impatient to open their
presents.
'Charlie,' Debbie said, knocking on his door, 'we're
going downstairs to open the presents. You coming, love?'
'Later,' was the gruff reply.
The girls squealed with delight as they ripped the paper
off the abundance of gifts supposedly delivered by Santa.
Nudging Steve, Debbie urged him to show them their big
surprise.
'Mummy and Daddy have got something special out
the back for you, girls. Shall we go and see what it is?'
Gracie and Rosie screamed excitedly as they followed
their parents to the field at the back of the house.
Their little faces were a picture when they saw the two
ponies in the newly built stables. 'Are they really ours,
Daddy?' Rosie asked.
'Can we keep them forever, Mummy?' Gracie pleaded.
'Yep, they're all yours.' Steve squeezed Debbie's hand.
He loved his girls more than anything on earth, and making
them and Debbie happy meant the world to him.
'I'm gonna call mine Britney,' Rosie piped up.
Laughing, Debbie tried to usher them indoors. 'You can go back out and see them
later, after dinner.
Louise who lives down the road is going to look after
them for you. She'll teach you all you need to know. She
already works as a stablegirl and me and Daddy have
asked her to help you with your ponies. She's promised
to pop in later to feed them, and tomorrow she'll start to
teach you how to ride.'
Charlie scratched his genitals, let out a fart, and ventured
over to the window. He could hear the commotion outside.
It had woken him up. Clocking the ponies, he immediately
guessed that they were Christmas presents for the
two spoiled brats. He hated animals, always had done.
They were a waste of space; all they ever did was piss,
shit and eat.
Slinging on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt,
he smiled to himself as he walked down the stairs. He
could use his sisters' Christmas presents to blackmail them.
'Do this for me, Rosie.' 'Get this for me, Gracie . . . '
And when they said no, he would threaten to dismember
the bastard creatures.
'Morning, love. What you laughing at?' Debbie asked,
surprised to see her son looking cheerful for once.
'Nothing. Do us some breakfast, Mum.'
It was an order, not a request. Rustling him up a couple
of sausage sandwiches, Debbie put the sauce on for him,
just the way he liked it.
'When you've eaten that, love, come into the lounge
and open your presents.'
Wiping his plate clean with the last bit of bread, Charlie
sauntered into the front room and was relieved to find
there was no sign of his stepdad or sisters.
'Where is everyone?'
Debbie handed him his gifts and waited for him to
open them. 'Steve's gone to pick Nanny and Granddad
up. The girls have gone with him.'
'Thanks, Mum,' Charlie said, after he'd unwrapped the
last present.
T didn't really know what to get you this year, love.
That's why I gave you mainly money. I thought you'd appreciate buying your own
stuff now.'
Glad he had his mum to himself, even if only for a
little while, Charlie experienced one of his rare sentimental
moments. These didn't happen very often.
Throughout the entire course of his life, he could count
them all on one hand. Smiling, he walked towards Debbie
and awkwardly gave her a hug.
'Happy Christmas, Mum.'
Unable to remember the last time he'd voluntarily put
his arms around her, Debbie had tears in her eyes as she
watched him walk away up the stairs, carrying his gifts.
He wasn't a bad lad, bless him. He was just a typical
teenager, all mixed up and confused.
Steve arrived home with the girls, June and Peter, and
they were followed in by Mickey, Karen and the kids,
who had turned up nigh on the same time.
'Oh, Debs, I love that handbag,' Karen said, spotting
the Prada that Steve had bought her.
Debbie adored her sister-in-law. They were like best
friends and often shopped and lunched together.
June grabbed Peter's arm to give him a grand tour of
the new house. He'd seen it before, but not since it had
been redecorated.
'Very nice, dear,' he said, showing little real enthusiasm.
He'd have liked to have reminded his wife that the
property had probably been paid for with ill-gotten gains.
'Don't she look stunning, Karen?' Debbie said, looking
enviously at Lois.
Karen put her arm around her daughter's shoulders and
replied quietly, 'Don't tell Mickey but she's been spotted
by some model agency. They approached her in Romford
and want her to go up town for a photo-shoot. She's so
shy, though, Debs - she's not sure if she wants to do it.
I won't broach the subject with Mickey until she's decided
if she's going. He's so protective of Lois, it ain't worth
causing World War Three until we know if she wants this
or not.'
June, playing the hostess as usual, got everyone a drink.
Debbie, being a lazy cow, was only too happy to let her
mother do the honours. But spotting June sneaking a duster
out of the cupboard, Debbie politely asked her what planet
she was on.
'But I've just spotted some dust on the rungs of the
dining chairs, dear.'
'Mum, you don't have to do your Mrs Bucket bit now,
you know. I have a cleaner who comes in twice a week,'
Debbie said indignantly.
'You should sack her then, dear. She's obviously not
doing her job properly' Debbie and Karen roared with
laughter at this. June would find fault with Buckingham
Palace if she was allowed in there for the day.
Steve and Mickey sat at the kitchen table, having a
brief discussion about the new club's takings. Opening
a bottle of bourbon, Steve handed his brother-in-law a
tumbler.
'To us,' they said, clinking their glasses together. Their
businesses were raking it in. Both money-oriented, they
couldn't have been happier with the way things were
going.
'Mum, quick, look at Alfie! He's dancing.'
Debbie turned around to see her nephew swinging his
hips to a Justin Timberlake tune. 'Oh, ain't he cute, Karen?
I love his little boots, where did you get them?'
'Mickey got them in a shop up Roman Road. He
idolises his boy. There's not a week goes by when he
doesn't come home with an armful of presents for Alfie.'
Debbie took a sip of wine. 'He used to be like that
with Charlie when he was little. He was forever buying
him stuff.'
'Where is Charlie?' Lois asked, desperate for someone
of her own age to talk to.
'He's up in his room, love. He's probably on his
computer, or playing a game of some sort. Go up and see
him.'
'He might not want me to,' Lois replied, her shyness
getting the better of her.
"Course he will,' Debbie said, desperate for her son
to have some company. 'Last room on the right,' she
shouted as the girl walked up the stairs.
Karen felt a bit apprehensive as she watched her
daughter leave the room. She didn't like Charlie, never
had done. Mickey had filled her in on his past and had
always portrayed him as an evil little bastard.
'Shouldn't we give your mum a hand with the dinner?'
Karen asked, desperate to tell Mickey that Lois had gone
up to Charlie's room.
'No, leave her. She's happy as Larry while she's
cooking. We'll only get in her way,' Debbie said.
'Who is it?' Charlie asked, as he heard the gentle tap
on his door.
'It's Lois.'
What the fuck does she want? he thought, logging off
his chat room. Unwanted visitors were a fucking nuisance.
Feeling pissed off, he yanked open the bedroom door.
The sight of what stood behind it cheered him up in no
time.
'Christ, you look different,' he stammered, lost for
words at the change in her. It had been a year to the day
since he'd last set eyes on Mickey's stepdaughter, and
she'd altered so much that had he walked past her in the
street, he wouldn't have recognised her. Gone was the
plump girl with the dodgy braces on her teeth and fried
eggs for tits. In her place was a slim absolute stunner
with massive knockers.
'Come in. Sorry about the state of me room,' he said
frantically trying to tidy up.
Politeness and good manners oozed from Charlie as
he did his utmost to impress. He wasn't good around girls
as a rule. He attended an all boys school so had very little
dealings with them. He'd only ever had one girlfriend.
She was called Lucy and he'd met her at a fairground
when he was thirteen. The relationship had lasted all of
two weeks. She'd dumped him, calling him a pervert for
trying to shove his hand up her skirt.
'So, what do you like doing? Where do you hang out?'
Charlie pried.
'I don't really go out a lot, not of a night. My mum
and Mickey are quite strict. I'm allowed to go over to a
friend's house or they come round to me, but I'm not
allowed out on the streets.'
'What about weekends in the daytime and that?' he
persisted.
T normally go to Romford. Me and my friends love
shopping and sometimes we go to the pictures or for a
pizza,' Lois replied, confused by his show of interest.
'I'm in Romford a lot at weekends,' Charlie lied.
'Maybe we could meet up. Give me your phone number?'
Sitting opposite him, Lois felt embarrassed. She'd
always looked upon him as a cousin, but could tell by
the way he was staring down her top that he looked upon
her as nothing of the sort. Not wanting to hurt his feelings,
she gave him her number. Her phone was in her
hand, so she could hardly lie and say she didn't own
one.
Charlie eagerly rang her number and demanded she
store his. Making a mental note never to answer his
calls, Lois was relieved to hear her mum's voice calling
her.
'Lois, your dinner's ready!'
As Charlie grabbed hold of her arm, Lois felt the hairs
stand up on the back of her neck. 'What are you doing?'
she asked.
'Nothing,' he replied. 'I just wanted to say to you, don't
tell Mickey or your mum that we've swapped numbers.
Keep it as our little secret.'
'Okay,' Lois said, relieved to be walking out of his
room and down the stairs. Charlie had given her the
creeps. She was determined never to be alone with him
again.
The change in Charlie's behaviour during the rest of
the day was a shock to everyone. Charming and amiable,
his manners were impeccable. He offered to help his nan
wash up, assembled Rosie's new toy, happily trotted
outside to meet the new ponies and even joined in with
some party games.
'What's got into him?' June asked Debbie, on the quiet.
'Oh, he's a good lad really, Mum. He's a typical teenager
but a good boy deep down,' she replied defensively.
Good boy, my arse, June thought. Conniving little
bastard more like. Always had been and always would be.
Steve eyed his stepson suspiciously. He knew what
game the boy was playing because he'd clocked him
making eyes at Lois all day. Mickey was pissed, thank
God, and hadn't noticed. Steve was positive Karen had,
though.
Not wanting to cause havoc for Debbie, Steve decided
to keep schtum. Mickey would go apeshit if he clued him
up and then there'd be a massive row. Ever-protective of
her son, Debbie would stick up for him, and Steve would
be bang in the middle of it. He'd have a word with Mickey
on the quiet instead, when he was sober. He could tell by
Lois's behaviour that the feelings weren't reciprocated.
The poor little mare had spent the best part of the day
averting her eyes from her admirer.
'Let's have a bit of Chas and Dave, Debs,' June
demanded, the drink as always bringing out the cockney
in her.
As 'Rabbit' filled the speakers, Peter excused himself
and went outside for a cigar. His wife's behaviour was
flawless in front of their own circle of friends, but as soon
as she got with her family she behaved like a navvy. As
for Chas and Dave . . . they should have been shot at
birth, he thought. Peter was extremely cultured himself
and loved nothing more than a bit of classical music. How
anyone could listen to that cockney apples and pears
rubbish when they could be listening to Beethoven was
beyond his understanding.
'Mum, Alfie's fallen asleep on the kitchen floor,' Gracie
said, tugging at Debbie's arm to stop her dancing.
Debbie was enjoying leaping about too much to stop.
'Karen, Alfie's crashed out. Take him upstairs and let him
sleep in one of the bedrooms,' she shouted at the top of
her voice.
Karen went to tend to her son. 'I don't need your help,
1 can manage, Lois,' she said as she noticed her daughter
still glued to her side.
'But I want to put Alfie to bed with you, Mum.'
Tucking her son in, Karen turned to face her daughter.
'What's the matter, love? You've been ever so quiet. Are
you feeling okay?'
'I'm fine, Mum,' Lois lied. Part of her wanted to
confide in her mother, tell her that Charlie had given her
the heebie-jeebies, but considering he hadn't actually
done anything, she didn't want to make herself look
stupid. She daren't tell her mum she'd given him her
phone number. She'd already had her mobile confiscated
once this year for giving her number to a weirdo on the
internet.
Knowing her daughter better than she knew herself,
Karen guessed what might be bothering her. 'Is it Charlie?
Did he say or do something to upset you when you were
upstairs with him?'
Lois forced a smile. 'Of course not, we were just talking
about school and stuff.'
Relieved, Karen smiled and took her daughter by the
hand.
What Lois didn't know as she ventured downstairs to
rejoin the festive celebrations was that if only she'd put
her trust in her mother then, she would have saved herself
a whole load of heartache to come.
TWENTY-SEVEN
With both dinner and supper out of the way, Charlie was
desperate to get Lois on her own for five minutes. 'Do
you wanna come upstairs and play some computer
games?' he asked hopefully.
'No, thank you,' she replied, looking at the floor to
avoid any eye contact with him. He'd been leering at her
all day, freaking her out, and the last thing she wanted
was to be alone with him.
Knees up, Mother Brown,
Knees Up, Mother Brown,
Under the table you must go,
E-eye E-eye E-eye O.
Mickey and Debbie roared as they saw their mother
cocking her big old legs in the air. They rarely saw her
inebriated, and when they did she was pure entertainment.
Glancing at his watch, Peter decided enough was
enough. 'Could you call us a cab, Debbie? I think it's
time I got your mother home.'
'Oh, she's all right, she's just enjoying herself,' Debbie
replied indignantly, thinking what a boring bastard her
step-dad was.
But Peter wasn't taking no for an answer. He'd had
enough of his wife acting like a Pearly Queen, and as for
showing her knickers - that was the final straw.
'I'm not arguing with you, Deborah. Just call me a
cab, dear, will you? If your mother wants to stay here,
she's more than welcome. I personally wish to go home.'
Debbie decided to do as he asked rather than cause a
row. It was the season of goodwill, after all.
'What time are we going, Mum? Can we go soon?'
Lois whispered to Karen.
'Are you tired, love?' her mother asked, concerned by
her daughter's question.
'Yes, and I've got a really bad headache.'
Gesticulating to Debbie to call a cab, Karen told
Mickey that she was taking the children home, but
said he was welcome to stay on and have a drink with
Steve. Not trusting anyone who drove a mini-cab as
far as he could throw them, however, Mickey wouldn't
hear of it.
'I'm ready to go meself, babe. Why don't we invite
Steve, Debbie and the kids over to us tomorrow?'
Karen loved Debbie and Steve's company and told her
husband she'd be only too pleased to lay on a bash for
them. Peter's cab arrived first. June, feeling tipsy, decided
she'd now had enough and decided to go home with him.
'Thanks for the lovely day. 'Bye, everybody,' she
shouted, before falling arse over tit on the driveway.
Debbie went into a fit of giggles as an embarrassed
Peter tried to heave her mother off the ground and haul
her into the cab. Karen and Mickey's cab arrived ten
minutes later.
'I'll see you tomorrow then, sis, about four o'clock,'
Mickey said, stroking the head of a comatose Alfie who
lay snoring gently in his arms.
Charlie stood in the hallway listening to the following
day's arrangements with interest.
As Steve tidied up, Debbie washed the remaining
plates, cups and glasses. Gracie and Rosie had gone to
bed and Charlie was rather surprisingly in the shower.
Pleased to have his wife to himself for five minutes, Steve
hugged her tightly and kissed her gently on the lips. 'It
went well today, didn't it?'
Responding to the warmth of his hug, Debbie rubbed
his cropped head and smiled lovingly at him. 'I had a
great day. Really enjoyed myself. Did you see Peter going
into one when Mother was doing "Knees Up, Mother
Brown"? His face was a picture.'
Steve shook his head and laughed. 'I was probably too
busy rabbiting to Mickey'
'I was really proud of Charlie today, Steve. He was so
polite and well-mannered. Maybe he's coming through
that stroppy teenage stage now. What do you think?'
Not wanting to burst her bubble, Steve was honest but
tactful. 'He's got the hots for Lois, that's why he bleeding
well behaved himself
'Has he?' Debbie asked, surprised.
'He couldn't take his eyes off her all day. Good job
Mickey never clocked it, there'd have been murders.'
Steve's comment angered Debbie. 'What's it got to do
with Mickey? Charlie and Lois aren't blood-related. So
what if he likes her? He's a normal lad he's gonna take
an interest in girls. There'd be something wrong with the
boy if he didn't.'
T don't think Mickey would see it that way somehow,
do you?' Steve laughed, trying to make a joke out of it,
but hoping she'd see sense at the same time.
'Nothing he can do,' Debbie replied, annoyed that
everyone and anyone seemed to have it in for her son.
Turning the shower off, Charlie put a towel round
himself, went into his bedroom and rummaged around in
his wardrobe until he found what he was looking for. As
he opened the bedroom door, he was pleased to hear
voices coming from downstairs, which meant his mother
and Steve weren't lurking nearby.
Excited, he put on a DVD and turned the sound down
in case he woke his sisters. He loved the film Pussy
Galore, it was his favourite. Dropping the towel, he lay
on his bed, clenched his right hand around his rather large
penis and thought of Lois as he shot his load.
Debbie was making breakfast the following morning when
Charlie appeared, looking full of the joys of spring and
reeking of Steve's expensive new aftershave.
'You're up early, love. To what do we owe this pleasure?'
she asked, shocked that he'd risen from his pit so
soon.
'You going over Uncle Mickey's later, Mum?'
'Yes,' Debbie replied, thinking he wanted the house to
himself.
T think I'll come too,' Charlie said awkwardly.
Debbie looked at him in amazement. Maybe Steve was
right and he did have the hots for young Lois. He usually
avoided family outings like the plague and she couldn't
remember the last time he'd invited himself out with them.
Swiping Rosie's bacon sandwich off her plate, Charlie
shoved it in his mouth, grinned at her annoyance and
sauntered back to his room.
Feeling hyper, he rang Kevin and told him all about
Lois. Kevin had never even got as far as kissing a girl
and was in awe of his friend's expertise with women.
'What does she look like? Has she got big tits?'
'Massive,' Charlie bragged. 'She's well fit.'
'So are you definitely going out with her then?' Kevin
asked, hoping that she had a mate for him.
'Yep,' Charlie replied confidently.
He then went into detail about how she'd come to
his bedroom and made a play for him. 'Honestly, Kev,
she's well up for it. She couldn't take her eyes off me
all day'
'Find out if she's got a mate for me,' his mate asked
optimistically.
'I'll ask her,' Charlie lied. He intended to do no such
thing. Kevin was an embarrassment. He certainly wasn't
about to introduce him to Lois.
Debbie and Steve stood freezing their bits off as they
watched Louise giving the girls their first proper riding
lesson.
'Look at me, Mummy,' Rosie squealed excitedly as she
held the reins for the very first time.
'Look at me, Daddy,' Gracie piped up, not wanting to
be outdone by her younger sister who was looking much
more of a natural than she was.
'I'm fucking frozen. Maybe buying poxy ponies wasn't
such a good idea after all,' Steve complained under his
breath to his wife.
'Cheer up, you miserable sod,' Debbie said, as she
aimed a playful punch his way. Frozen herself, she looked
at her watch and signalled to Louise to call it a day.
'But, Mum, we've only been out here a few minutes,'
Rosie whined.
'I wanna stay with Britney,' Gracie insisted.
'You can see her again and have another ride tomorrow.
We've got to be at your Uncle Mickey's by four and you're
not even ready yet,' Debbie said sternly.
After ordering the girls to go upstairs and change into
the pretty matching dresses she'd bought them for
Christmas, Debbie sat down at the kitchen table and
eagerly accepted a glass of wine from Steve. 'Did I tell
you, Charlie wants to come with us this afternoon?'
Steve was pouring himself a beer and had his back
turned to his wife. Now, normally he trod carefully when
it came to Charlie, but since Mickey's stepdaughter was
involved he was determined to say his piece.
He swung around. 'I don't think that's a very good
idea, Debs. Poor little Lois didn't know where to look
yesterday when Charlie was gawping at her and I don't
think it's fair to put the poor little cow through that again,
especially in her own home.'
Furious, Debbie jumped straight down his throat. 'What
the fuck you on about? I was here all day yesterday and
I didn't notice anything untoward. You make my Charlie sound like some kind of
a weirdo. What if Lois likes him,
has that thought even occurred to you?'
Steve gulped at his drink. He and Debbie rarely argued
and he absolutely hated it when they did. Normally he
just let things sail over his head, but not this time. Not
when it involved Mickey and his kids.
'Look, Debs, I don't wanna argue with you but you
were pissed yesterday. I wasn't. I saw what was going on
and it wasn't pleasant. Lois has got her whole life in front
of her, she looks like a model, that girl, and she certainly
ain't gonna be interested in someone like Charlie. Anyway,
with Mickey being your brother you shouldn't be fucking
encouraging it. It ain't on, Debs.'
Debbie was shaking with temper now. How dare he
insult her beloved son?
'What exactly are you implying, Steve? That my boy
ain't good enough. That what you're trying to say, is it?'
Getting angrier by the minute, he was determined to
make his wife see sense.
'Don't put words in me fucking mouth, Debs. All I'm
trying to say is, the girl is your brother's daughter. He
adopted her. She's Charlie's cousin, for fuck's sake. I ain't
into incest and I ain't having it in my house.'
'They're not fucking related!' Debbie screamed back.
'And I'll tell you something now, Steve - if Charlie ain't
welcome then I don't go. Got it?'
Throwing his empty can into the rubbish bin, Steve
stood up. 'That's fine by me. None of us will go. I'll ring
Mickey and tell him why, shall I?'
'Do what you fucking like,' Debbie shouted, storming
out of the kitchen.
Hearing his mum coming up the stairs, Charlie crept
into his bedroom and shut the door. He'd heard the whole
argument, every single fucking word of it, and he was
furious. How dare Steve say that he wasn't good enough
for Lois? Well, he'd show him. He'd show them all. Anyone
who had ever doubted him would have a shock coming
to them. Lois wanted him, he could sense it, and he was
determined to prove all his doubters wrong. The girl was
gagging for it.
Annoyed that his plans had been spoiled and he wasn't
going to be seeing her today, Charlie scrolled through his
phone to find her number. Deciding to text rather than
ring, in case his uncle got wind of their romance, he
punched in the letters.
Hi sexy. Mum n Steve have had big row, so wont b
cmin over 2day. Mum is ok bout us goin out, but Steve
went mad (fat bastard). Wot u doin next wkend? Do u
fancy meetin up?
Smiling, Charlie pressed Send got under his quilt and
rubbed himself in anticipation.
Steve picked up his car keys and slammed the front door
shut as hard as he could. He was fucking seething and
drove down the road like a lunatic. One-handed, he
picked up his phone and rang Mickey. The and Debs
won't be coming over, we've had a massive fucking fall
out;
'Whatever's the matter?' Mickey asked, surprised.
When he'd left them yesterday they'd been happy as pigs
in shit.
Steve asked his pal to meet him for a pint and told
him he desperately needed a chat.
Karen gave Mickey the green light. 'I'm knackered
anyway, Mick. I still feel hungover from yesterday. You
go out and have a drink with Steve. Honest, I don't mind.'
Steve arranged to pick his friend up and forty minutes later they were sitting
in one of their old haunts, just off
the Mile End Road. Mickey had never seen Steve so angry
and wondered what the fuck had happened. He and Debs
had been fine all day yesterday. Knowing his pal like he
did, Mickey knew something pretty serious must have
happened.
Steve was glad that none of their old cronies were in
the pub. He shouted up some beers, urged his pal to sit
down and, start to finish, told him the story. Mickey's
temper was close to exploding point as he heard that his
evil cunt of a nephew had a thing for his stepdaughter.
'If he goes within a hundred yards of her, I swear I'll
fucking kill him! I'm telling you, Steve, he'll go the same
way as his scumbag of a father did, if he tries it on with
Lois. I'll beat the cunt out of him, my life I will,' he
declared, slamming his bottle down on the table.
Steve tried to reassure him that it was a one-way thing
and nothing to do with Lois. 'Honestly, Mick, the girl
couldn't wait to leave the house last night. Poor little cow,
I felt sorry for her all day. She's clued-up is Lois, and
she knows Charlie's a fucking loser.'
Mickey downed his drink. Chucking some money at
Steve, he asked him to go back up to the bar again. He
had to calm himself down and needed a couple of minutes
on his own to do so. He wasn't worried about his daughter
being interested in Charlie, as there was no way in this
world she would be. Lois was beautiful, with everything
going for her, while Charlie was a freak with nothing in
his favour. That part was simple. The part that worried
him was the fact that he didn't trust his nephew. The kid
was a monster. Mickey had never forgotten the kitten
episode. Charlie was a ringer for his evil fucking father.
A piece of shit, in other words. But the thing that had
annoyed Mickey most was Debbie's reaction to this. How
could she even think of encouraging that notright of a
son of hers to pursue his Lois? Mickey was wild, fucking
wild, and he'd have it out with Debbie, if it was the last
thing he did. Snatching the drink that Steve handed to
him, he assured his pal that he had calmed down and was
now okay.
'It all falls into place now, Steve. Karen told me this
morning that Lois had been reserved all day yesterday.
That's why, innit? She had that fucking piece of shit on
her case. And as for my Debbie ... I'm disgusted with
her.'
Steve sipped his drink, trying to find the right words
with which to get his wife off the hook. 'She'll soon
realise she's wrong, Mick. I think deep down she knows
Charlie's not normal and is probably just desperate for
him to become the son she really wants. If he had a girlfriend
and that, Debs would be over the moon. He's never
shown much interest in girls before, so I suppose Debs
is just happy he's got a love interest, even if it is Lois.'
'Well, best she fucking thinks again,' Mickey replied
angrily.
Meanwhile, back in Brentwood, Debbie was just as angry
as her brother. Desperate for somebody to confide in, she
toyed with the idea of ringing her mum but quickly decided
against it. June and Charlie had never been that close,
and if her mum sided with Steve it would only cause
ructions.
Debbie poured another drink and searched through the
contacts on her phone. Normally Karen was the only
person she would ring in a crisis, but she could hardly
do that this time. Remembering Bev, from the girls' school,
she decided to give her a call. Her daughter Ruby was in
the same class as Rosie. Single and bitter, Bev had just
been through a messy divorce. A self-confessed man
hater, she was a good listener and would be sure to offer
a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.
'Oh, Debs. What a fucking bastard!' Bev said vehemently.
'Look, we can't discuss this on the phone. Come
round here and we'll have a drink. Ruby's staying over
at the arsehole's tonight, so I'm on my lonesome. Surely
you can leave the girls with Charlie? I'm only bloody
five minutes away. If they need you, they can ring your
mobile.'
'I'm not sure I should leave them,' Debbie said
awkwardly. She didn't know what to do for the best. Steve
hated the girls being left alone with Charlie. 'He's only
a kid himself and not capable of looking after them,' he'd
always insisted.
Hating all men with a passion after her divorce, Bev
loved nothing more than putting her jaundiced views across.
'Look, Debs, your Steve has sodded off out. As we speak,
he's probably surrounded by a table full of women, pissed
out of his head somewhere. Why should you sit indoors
like silly-girl-got-none? I did that and look where it got
me. The no-good cunt ran off with his twenty-year-old
secretary.'
Debbie laughed at her friend's choice of words.
Judgement clouded by the amount of drink she'd
consumed, she decided to be a devil. 'Oh, sod it. Give us
twenty minutes and I'll be round.'
Rosie and Gracie were sitting in the living room,
watching the musical Oliver on DVD. 'Girls, I'm gonna
pop out for an hour. I'll only be round at Bev's. Charlie's
upstairs if you need anything.'
'Okay,' Rosie said.
'Don't leave us, Mummy. We don't want to stay here
on our own. Can't we come with you?' Gracie pleaded.
Debbie sighed as her eldest daughter burst into tears.
She was always so clingy. Rosie was the opposite, much
more independent. Debbie sat down next to Gracie and
cuddled her. 'You're a big girl now, Gracie. Don't cry.
Look at your sister, she can't wait to get rid of me. You are silly sometimes.
I tell you what, shall 1 ask Charlie
to come downstairs and sit with you?'
'No,' Gracie insisted.
'I promise I won't be long,' Debbie said as she stood
up.
'Oom Pa Pa' had little attraction any more for Gracie
as her mother left the room. She was far too upset to concentrate on Nancy.
Feeling guilty, Debbie knocked on her son's bedroom
door. 'All right to come in, love?'
Charlie was in a foul mood. He was still waiting to
hear back from Lois and wanted to be left alone. 'Go
away,' he shouted.
Debbie ignored him and let herself in. 'Charlie, I need
a favour from you. I'm popping out for an hour. Your
sisters are watching a DVD in the living room. Be a good
boy and go downstairs, will you? Keep an eye on them
and make sure they're okay for me.'
He smiled. 'No problem, Mum.'
As soon as he heard the front door close, Charlie
wandered downstairs. Rarely did he get a chance to
torment his sisters, but if and when he did, he grabbed it
with both hands. 'Well, well, well, this is cosy,' he said,
as he sauntered into the living room.
Rosie smiled. She didn't particularly like her brother
but was far too young to realise just how nasty he could
be. Gracie could feel herself shaking. She knew differently.
Charlie
sat down opposite Gracie and stared at her. He
knew she was scared of him, and her fear made him
happy. Leaning towards her, he watched her flinch. He
laughed, picked up the remote and switched off the film.
'No, Charlie. We're doing Oliver at drama school. Put
it back on,' Rosie demanded.
Still laughing, he took the remote into the kitchen
with him. He opened the fridge and grabbed a beer.
Sitting down at the table, he checked his phone. Still no
text from Lois. What the fuck was she playing at? He
knew her phone was switched on. He had delivery reports
on his, so she'd definitely got his messages. Surely even
if her mum and Mickey were about she could have
sneaked out of the room? Pissed off, he downed his
drink and lobbed the empty can into the bin. He was
bored and needed to cheer himself up. Scanning the
kitchen, he spotted the bread knife on the work top. He
smiled, picked it up and strolled back into the living
room.
'Wanna play sword-fighting?' he shouted, as he brandished
it towards his sisters.
'Stop it, Charlie!' Rosie screamed, covering her face.
Gracie stayed silent. She wanted to protect her little
sister, but was mute and unable to move.
'I know what we'll do.' Charlie was enjoying himself
now. 'Let's go and see what the ponies think of the knife
. . . I bet they like a bit of sword fighting.'
Gracie and Rosie screamed as he ran off towards the
stables.
'Please don't hurt Britney,' Rosie sobbed. 'No, Charlie,
no!'
Gracie sat rooted to the sofa as her sister chased after
him. Sobbing, she prayed for her mum to return. Why
did she have to go out? Why? Why?
Aware that Gracie hadn't followed them out, Charlie
concentrated on Rosie's pony.
'We've got no carrots today, Britney, but you can have
this instead,' he said as he pointed the knife at the terrified
creature.
Rosie was frantic and her continuous screams did
nothing but egg Charlie on. He opened the stable door.
'I think Britney's tail is too long. Shall we give it a little
trim for her, Rosie?'
Unable to ignore her sister's screams any longer, Gracie
found some inner strength. Taking a deep breath, she
stood up and ran after them.
'Leave Rosie and the ponies alone, Charlie,' she called
to him. 'I swear if you don't, I'm gonna tell Mum and
Dad. And if I tell them about this, I'll tell them everything
else as well.'
Charlie smiled at Gracie's threat. He'd terrorised her
as a kid. Now, she'd become far too grown-up for his
liking. If this, or any of his other pranks, got back to that
fat cunt Steve, there'd be murders. Charlie leaned lazily
against the stable door. He still had the knife in his hand.
'I'll do a deal with you. I promise I'll never go near either
of your ponies again on one condition: you keep your
trap shut.'
Gracie nodded. 'Okay'
Rosie disagreed with this. She clung on to her sister.
'We should tell Mum, Gracie. Charlie would get told off
then, like we do when we're naughty'
Charlie stared long and hard at his youngest sister.
'You say one word, Rosie, and I swear, I'll chop Britney
up in little pieces.'
Gracie hugged the by now hysterical Rosie. 'She won't
say a word, I won't let her.'
Charlie looked at Gracie and laughed. Still clutching
the knife, he walked back inside.
Gracie waited until he was out of sight, then she kneeled
down and held her sister's hands. 'Listen to me, Rosie,
you musn't say anything about this. Charlie's evil. . . you
don't know what he's like. He will kill our ponies if we
tell on him, I know he will. Promise me you won't tell
Mum or Dad?'
Rosie nodded. She couldn't risk Britney being hurt,
plus her sister was older and wiser than she was. Surely
she knew best?
Debbie stood at the front door, unable to find her keys.
She was an hour later than she'd intended. She'd got very
drunk with Bev and lost track of time. Thank God Steve's
car wasn't home. He'd have killed her for leaving the
girls. Finally locating the door key, she unsteadily let
herself in.
'How's my big soldier and my two little princesses?'
she slurred.
Charlie shot out into the kitchen. Huddled together
under a quilt on the sofa, Rosie and Gracie glanced at
one another. 'Remember what I said? Don't tell,' Gracie
whispered.
Debbie staggered into the room and smothered the girls
in kisses. 'What have you two been doing? You're not
still watching Oliver, are you?'
Before they could answer, Charlie walked into the room
carrying a large tray. 'I've been taking good care of them,
Mum. They've driven me mad with that film, though. 'Ere
you go, girls,' he said, smiling at them for Debbie's benefit.
Gracie and Rosie looked at their brother in disbelief
as he handed them a plate of turkey sandwiches. 'Are you
hungry, Mum? Shall I make you something?' he asked
politely.
'No, I'm fine, love.' Debbie was smiling as she left
the room. Steve was so wrong about him. He was such
a good boy, and more than old enough to baby-sit the
girls.
'I'm off to bed now, Mum. Night, girls.' Charlie grinned
as he walked up the stairs. He'd noted the terror in his
sisters' eyes. There was no way they'd be grassing him
up. He opened the door and flopped down on his bed. If
he turned down the volume, he could watch one of his
special films and text Lois again at the same time.
Lois sat on the edge of her bed and switched her phone
off. She debated whether to tell her mother about the
disturbing messages she'd been receiving all day, but
decided against it. Her mum was best friends with her
Auntie Debbie and she was determined not to cause any
trouble between them. She'd tell her friend Gemma
instead. That way she wouldn't cause ructions between
their two families.
Lying back on her pretty pink quilt, Lois was filled
with worry. The first few texts she'd received had been
pretty strange, with Charlie referring to them as a couple
and asking to meet her for a date. The last three had been
far worse. Disgusting, in fact. She hadn't answered any
of them and had no intention of doing so. How dare he
text her asking to suck her titties? She was utterly revolted
by the whole situation.
Determined not to spoil what was left of Boxing Night,
though, she brushed her long hair and put it back into a
ponytail. She'd only ever been in Charlie's company on
Christmas Day in recent years so hopefully had another
year before she must face him again. Trying to erase her
worries from her mind, Lois wandered downstairs to watch
telly with her mum.
In life people never know what's just around the corner
for them. As hard as poor Lois sat there that night, trying
to convince herself that everything was going to be okay,
her fate had already been sealed.
TWENTY-EIGHT
'That's my son you're slagging off, Mickey. Who the fuck
do you think you are?'
'A father who's protecting his kids, that's who I am.
And I'm telling you, Debs, I don't want that boy of yours
anywhere near my Lois, you got that?'
'You'd better not be threatening me, Mickey. Your little
fucking hangers-on might be shit-scared of you, but I'm
not one of 'em. Now do me a favour, will ya? Don't ever
fucking contact me again. I don't wanna see or hear from
you until the day I die - and that includes turning up at
me funeral.'
Debbie shook with anger as she replaced the receiver.
How dare he say all those terrible things about her son?
The names he'd called Charlie were unforgivable, and as
for saying her boy had been born evil . . . that had been
really below the belt.
Noticing her son standing in the doorway, Debbie
wondered how much of the ten-minute slanging match
he'd heard.
'You all right, love?' she asked guiltily.
Charlie nodded. 'At least I know now why Lois hasn't
answered any of my calls or returned my texts. Why does
Uncle Mickey hate me so much, Mum?'
Looking at her son's forlorn expression, Debbie felt
that her heart was about to break. She pulled him to her
and hugged him tight.
'He doesn't hate you, love,' she lied. 'But he thinks of
you and Lois as cousins, that's why he's so against the
idea of you going out together.'
Not one for cuddles, Charlie loosened his mother's
grip. 'But we're not even related, Mum,' he said, moving
out of arm's reach.
As she lit up a cigarette, Debbie searched for the right
thing to say.
'It wouldn't have bothered me, love, if you and Lois
had got together, but Mickey's old-fashioned and dead
against the idea. Just forget about her, Charlie. There's
plenty more fish in the sea, and a good-looking boy like
you can get any girl he wants.'
Charlie left the room without answering. Walking up
the stairs, he allowed himself a wry smile. He'd pretended
to his mother that he'd been really upset when secretly
he'd been pleased. His Uncle Mickey had hated him for
as long as Charlie could remember. The feeling was
mutual, and he couldn't give a shit what his mug of an
uncle said about him. The thing that pleased him most
was that he now knew the reason why Lois had not
responded to his calls and texts. It wasn't because she
wasn't interested in him. Obviously she'd either had her
phone confiscated or had been forbidden to talk to him.
Charlie had convinced himself, from the moment Lois
had tapped on his door on Christmas Day, that she wanted
him badly. Today's argument only confirmed he was right.
Lois must have told her mum and Mickey that they were
going out together.
Snuggling up under his quilt, he decided to drag Kevin
down to Romford on Saturday. With luck, he might bump
into Lois there. He daren't ring her any more in case
Mickey had her phone.
Thinking of her fit body and pert tits, Charlie put his
hand down his tracksuit bottoms and pleasured himself.
He imagined he was fucking her and had one of his best
wanks ever.
Steve arrived home at teatime to find Debbie furious
again. Fortunately, they'd made up a couple of days ago
and he was determined to be careful what he said in
future. He hated arguing and didn't want another slanging
match with his beloved wife.
'I'm telling ya, Steve, Mickey's a fucking cunt! Me
and him are finished this time, and I really mean that.'
'Don't fall out with him, Debs. He's your brother and
he loves you dearly. Give him a call in the week, when
he's calmed down. Sort things out, like.'
'Over my dead body,' she screamed. 'I mean it, Steve.
I don't ever want to see him again, not after what he said
about my son. I mean, how would he like it if I spoke
about Alfie that way?'
Shrugging his shoulders, Steve decided to keep his trap
shut. She was a fiery one, his Debs, and if agreeing with
her kept her happy, then he'd nod at all the appropriate
times.
New Year was quiet and came and went without incident.
Debbie and Steve had originally planned to go away with
Mickey, Karen and the kids, but for obvious reasons the
mini-break had been cancelled and their New Year's Eve
was spent at home with Gracie, Rosie, and a Chinese
takeaway. Charlie decided not to join in with the celebrations
and stayed in his bedroom.
Steve was glad when the holiday was over. It had been
a poxy Christmas and New Year, and he couldn't wait to
get back to normal. The row between Mickey and Debs
showed no signs of repairing itself and Steve was pissed
off with the whole situation. 'Awkward' was the only way
he could describe how he felt. He seemed to get it in the
ear from all angles, when all he really wanted was a quiet
life.
Doing things as a family was what he missed the most.
He, Debs and the kids used to spend almost every weekend
doing stuff with Mickey and his family, and it just wasn't
the same without them. It was also unfair on Rosie and
Gracie who missed their cousins dreadfully, especially
little Alfie, and were continually asking when they could
see them again.
Steve had tried to make Debbie see sense and sort
things out, but she was having none of it. 'It ain't fair on
the girls, Debs. They love Alfie and Lois, they're heartbroken.'
'Tough
shit,' Debbie said, her obstinate nature
preventing her heartstrings from being tugged.
It was only when the kids went back to school the
following week that the enormity of the situation hit home
to Debbie. Usually when the boys were at work and the
kids at school, she'd spend her days with Karen, either
lunching, shopping or going to the gym. Since the argument,
they hadn't spoken. All of a sudden, Debbie realised
there was now a major gap in her life. Determined not
to mug herself off by phoning her sister-in-law, she headed
off to the gym at their usual time, hoping Karen would
do the same.
Charlie hated being back at school. As the bell signalled
lunchtime, he quickly gathered his belongings and dashed
off to meet Kevin.
'Oi, watch it, Weirdo!' he heard a voice say as he
barged his way through the corridors. Opening his mouth
to answer back, Charlie quickly shut it when he came
face to face with Dean Summers.
'Sorry,' he muttered, eager to get away.
'So you should be,' Dean replied cockily, giving him
a shove for good measure.
Charlie hated Dean Summers more than life itself and,
as much as he refused to admit it, jealousy was the main
cause of his hatred. A blond, good-looking, popular pupil,
Dean was the leader of the pack and Charlie despised
him for being everything he himself wasn't. Girls hung
around at the gates and fell at Dean's feet. Everything he
touched turned to gold, and apparently he had a promising
future as a boxer to look forward to. Normally, Charlie
wouldn't take shit off anyone and had personally bullied
many of the weaker lads in his class, but Dean Summers
was a different kettle of fish. Charlie was extremely wary
of him and kept out of his way as much as he possibly
could.
'Shall we go to the chip shop?' Kevin asked when he'd
met up with his pal.
'Might as well,' Charlie replied unenthusiastically. He
was still inwardly seething that Summers had made a mug
of him in front of everyone.
'I wish I could order a murder weapon off the internet
and do away with him,' he confided to Kevin.
Stuffing a handful of chips into his oversized mouth,
Kevin nodded. He loved talking about doing away with
people. He and Charlie had spent many hours flicking
through websites about murderers and fantasising about
carrying out the perfect crime themselves.
As they walked down the street, Charlie chucked his
chip wrapping into the kerb. He was totally oblivious of
the man sitting inside the tatty blue Escort, watching his
every move. The man in the car waited until Charlie was
out of sight then started the engine and drove off.
Debbie was on the treadmill when she noticed Karen
come into the gym. Turning the speed down, she glanced
around and waved. Her sister-in-law smiled, she wasn't
the type to hold grudges. This argument had nothing to
do with her. As long as Charlie kept away from Lois, she
couldn't be angry with Debbie.
'All right?' she said as she got on the treadmill next
to Debbie's.
'Yeah, I'm fine. You?'
The conversation between them was slightly stilted at
first with neither of them wanting to mention the fallout.
An hour later, workout finished, Debbie decided to
take the initiative. T dunno about you but I could kill for
a glass of wine.'
Karen smiled and linked arms with her sister-in-law
as they headed to the bar. Three glasses of wine later,
Karen decided to bring up the inevitable.
'I'm sure Mickey didn't mean what he said about
Charlie, Debs. He only said what he did in temper. He's
so protective of Lois. She's really shy and naive in a lot
of ways and definitely not ready for the dating scene.'
'He said some terrible things, Karen. Unforgivable, in
fact. Charlie's my flesh and blood at the end of the day,
that's what hurts me.'
'Honestly, he didn't mean it,' Karen repeated, squeezing
Debbie's hand. 'His temper got the better of him. Mickey's
such a hot head when he loses it.'
Debbie sighed. 'Don't I bleeding know it? Then again,
I'm no different. Me and Mickey both have a temper on
us. As kids we'd fight like cat and dog.'
Karen smiled. 'Look, let me have a word with him. I
dunno about you, but I really miss meeting up as a family.
Weekends aren't the same any more without you and
Steve.'
T miss it too,' Debbie admitted. 'And the girls are
pining dreadfully for Alfie.'
'Leave it with me and I'll have a chat with him. I've
got to go now, Debs, I've got a nail appointment at two.
I'll meet you here same time on Monday.'
'I'll see you then,' Debbie said happily.
Charlie picked up his pen and doodled on the inside of
his exercise book. Mr Brooks was rambling on about fractions
and Charlie couldn't be bothered to listen. Maths
was his least favourite subject and bored him rigid.
Glancing around the classroom, he momentarily locked
eyes with Dean Summers.
'What you looking at?' Summers mouthed at him.
Charlie quickly looked away. Hearing the bell go, he
waited till Summers had left the classroom before he
made his way to meet Kevin.
The driver of the tatty blue Ecort looked into his mirror
to check his appearance. He'd been told many a time that
he was the spitting image of the actor Robert Carlyle. He
loved being compared with the popular actor, and had
recently had his hair cut exactly the same way, to enhance
the likeness.
'What shall we do now then?' Kevin asked, willing to
do whatever his friend suggested.
'Look what I've got,' Charlie said, taking a lump of
cannabis out of his school bag. Laughing, he waved it in
his friend's face.
'Cor, that's a big bit, where did ya get it from?'
'I've got loads of contacts,' Charlie said cockily. 'I've
been playing me mum, ain't I? She felt sorry for me,
'cause she thought me Uncle Mickey had upset me, so I
milked it and managed to get fifty quid out of her.'
'You're so cool, Charlie,' Kevin said, his eyes gleaming
with admiration.
'I'm the bollocks, ain't I?' Charlie agreed. He loved
nothing more than blowing his own trumpet.
The man in the blue Escort stared in his wing mirror
and watched Charlie approach. He downed the can of
Strongbow he was holding, took a deep breath and opened
the driver's door. It was now or never. He had to do what
he had to do, before his bottle went. 'Charlie!' he shouted.
'Can I talk to you for a minute?'
Charlie turned around.
'Who's that, Charlie? Do you know him?' Kevin asked,
nudging him.
'I don't fucking know who it is,' he replied, agitated.
Charlie was glad he had Kevin by his side. Even though
his mate was grossly overweight and couldn't fight his
way out of a paper bag, he was still a bit of back up.
'You are Charlie, aren't you?' the strange man asked,
in an odd kind of accent.
'I might be,' he replied, trying to sound calm even
though he felt unnerved. 'Who wants to know? Who are
you?'
The strange man's eyes filled up with tears. Trembling,
he held on to the door of the car for physical support.
'I'm your dad, Charlie. I'm your dad.'
TWENTY-NINE
Charlie remained quite still and showed little emotion as
he stared into the eyes of his creator. He could feel his
heart starting to race, but was determined not to show
the way he felt inside.
He had no memories of his father, none whatsoever,
and over the years he had invented a picture in his head
of what his dad would look like. The stranger standing
in front of him looked nothing like the handsome, strapping
man he'd spent hours visualising and dreaming about.
The time father and son stood sizing one another up
seemed like an eternity. Billy was the first to break the
ice. 'It's wonderful to see you, Charlie. I've waited for
this moment for years, son.'
Charlie glanced at Kevin, standing silently next to him,
agog. Suddenly he felt angry, very angry. He'd needed
his dad when he was younger, not now when the worst
was over and he was starting to make his own way in
life. 'What took you so long to fucking find me then?'
he asked aggressively.
Billy shrugged his shoulders. 'I'm sorry, son, but a lot
happened. Things were awkward.'
Charlie could feel the hatred bubbling through his
veins. 'Awkward? fucking awkward! My whole life sheen awkward, thanks to you.'
Billy averted his eyes. 'Look, we need to talk and we
cannae do it here. Get in the car, son, and we'll drive
somewhere, have a wee chat, try to sort things out.'
Charlie stared at his father defiantly. 'I ain't getting in
that shit heap. I don't even fucking recognise you. You
could be anyone, for all I know. You can't just turn up
out the blue and expect me to come running into your
arms. Anyway, I'm busy, I've gotta be somewhere.'
Realising that things weren't going to plan, Billy
rummaged around inside the car for a pen. He scribbled
his mobile number on to an old cigarette packet and
handed it to his son.
'Look, Charlie, I know this has been a shock for you,
but please call me. I really wannae get to know you, and
I'm sure you must have a lot of questions for me. You
can ring me, day or night, but you must promise me one
thing.'
'What?' Charlie asked stroppily.
'You cannae tell your mother that I came to see you,
nor your Uncle Mickey. Can you promise me that?'
'I suppose so.'
Smiling, Billy stepped forward to shake his son's hand.
'I'll look forward to hearing from you then, Charlie.'
Seconds later the tatty blue Escort had disappeared
from sight.
Charlie rang his mum to ask her if it was okay for him
to stay at a mate's. Not wanting him staying at a stranger's
house, but overjoyed that he'd finally found a friend,
Debbie reluctantly agreed. 'Okay, love, but only because
it's a Friday and you don't have to get up for school. What
time will you be home tomorrow?'
'Dunno.' He desperately needed some time alone, to
think, and couldn't face being around his mum, Steve and
the two spoilt brats. A small part of him felt he should
tell his mum that his dad had turned up, but intuition told
him there was bad blood between his parents and he'd be
wiser to keep his trap shut. His mum had blatantly refused
to discuss his dad over the years, insisting that Charlie
forget he existed.
'You're better off not knowing him, love. Unfortunately
he's not a very nice person,' she'd drummed into him.
Throughout his childhood Charlie had suffered recurring
nightmares that his dad was trying to kill him. He
would often wake up, sweating and shaking, but could
never picture his dad's face during these dreams. The man
attacking him was faceless, with a large hood over his
head. His night-time experiences had got so bad at one
point that he'd cried to his mum about them.
'All kids have nightmares. It doesn't mean anything,
Charlie, it's all part of growing up.' Debbie had lied, determined
to protect her son from the awful truth. The night
frights finally stopped when he was about ten years old
and had never returned since.
Billy McDaid sat on a barstool in one of his old haunts
in Barking, quietly supping a pint. He'd been back in the
area just over a week now and was feeling braver by the
second. He'd been wary about coming back at first, but
after a discreet bout of snooping had been pleased to learn
that Debbie and all her old cronies were long gone from
the area.
He'd heard through the grapevine that she had got
married years ago, but no one seemed to know who she'd
ended up with. Some poor, desperate bastard, Billy mused,
chuckling at his own wit.
The years hadn't been kind to Billy. Prison had seen
to that. His face was gaunt and lined, and he looked old
for his years. His stint in Pentonville had been the hardest
one to endure. There'd been a lot of blacks in there. For
some unknown reason, they'd hated his guts and made
his life a complete and utter misery. On being released
from the 'Ville, he'd moved back to the North, this time
to Manchester, and made a new life for himself there.
Drugs was the only game Billy knew and he soon
found a pub to deal from profitably in the heart of Moss
Side. With business doing well, he made the fatal mistake
of falling in love once again. This time with a seventeenyear-old
wild child called Angela.
Things went pear-shaped within six months of them
moving in together. They began to row constantly because
Angela could not deal with Billy's possessiveness and
his violent, jealous tantrums. Billy was distraught when
she finally kicked him out. Refusing to believe their relationship
was over, he pestered her constantly and stalked her every time she went out.
Finding out that she was
dating a twenty-one-year-old musician was the final straw
for him. High on drugs one night, he'd lain in wait and
stabbed her new beau seven times in a frenzied attack.
Once again, his temper had got the better of him.
Unfortunately for Billy, the drummer survived and he
was arrested.
Billy was made to pay by spending the next seven years
in Strangeways. Being back in prison was tough for him,
but he kept his head down and did his bird with pride.
Being in prison in the North was much better than down
South. The lads were friendly and the banter between
inmates was good. There were a lot of lads in there from
Scotland and having some of his countrymen around him
made him feel much more at home than he ever had in
the 'Ville.
Billy had too much time to think while on the inside
and his son had been at the forefront of his mind for years.
Towards the end of his stretch, he heard via his aunt that
his mother had died. Instead of feeling sad, he felt only
relief and a new determination to make something of his
life finally. It was his mother's death that helped him decide
to make amends with his own boy. He had to find him,
get to know him, build some kind of a relationship before
it was too late.
Two days after he was released, Billy bought a train
ticket and ventured to London to track down his flesh
and blood. Walking towards the Gascoigne Estate was
like taking a trip down Memory Lane. As Billy approached
the tower block, he felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation.
Finding Andy was still living there was a relief
to him as without his old pal he'd have been at a loose
end for somewhere to stay.
'Billy! Fucking hell. Come in, mate, it's great to see
ya,' Andy yelled, pleased to have someone to get stoned
with. Billy had spent the rest of that first day puffing,
downing cider and listening to Pink Floyd's Dark Side of
the Moon.
After spending two days drunk, stoned and catching
up on old times, he got his arse into gear and started the
hunt for his son. Thankfully, tracking Charlie down had
been a lot easier than he had envisaged. After a tip off
that the boy attended a school in Upminster, Billy struck
gold on the second one he visited.
'Do you know Charlie McDaid?' he'd asked a gang of
cocky-looking lads who were having a cheeky fag outside
the gates.
'Nah,' they'd replied, barely looking at him.
'What about Charlie Dawson?' Billy asked. He guessed
Debbie might have changed the kid's name to hers, considering
what had happened.
'What's it worth?' one little squirt asked.
Fishing in the pocket of his trousers, Billy pulled out
a scrunched up five-pound note.
'Point him out and I'll give you this fiver.'
The squirt scanned the playground and pointed out a
lad, exclaiming, 'That's him. The weirdo over there in the
woolly hat.'
Billy wanted to beat up the little squirt. How dare he
call his son a weirdo? Chucking the money at him, he
decided not to kick off. Seeing his son was more important
to him.
Ordering another pint, Billy smiled to himself as he
remembered today's encounter with his offspring. He was
definitely a chip off the old block. A cocky little sod who
didn't take shit off anyone. Charlie didn't look as Billy
had imagined he would. 'Lumpy and gawky' was the best
way to describe him, and he seemed a lot older than his
fourteen years. Facially he looked more like his dad than
Debbie, which pleased Billy no end. He was positive that
the boy's natural curiosity would get the better of him
and he'd call. Billy was also sure Charlie wouldn't break
his promise and tell his mother or uncle that he had seen
his dad.
Glancing at his mobile to make sure it was switched
on and that service was good Billy moved away from the
bar and sat at one of the little tables, feeling pleased with
himself. He put his feet up on a chair and made himself
comfortable. He'd done all the hard work. Now it was
just a case of waiting for that all-important call.
Charlie woke up the following morning with a bee in his
bonnet. 'Come on, Kev. Get up, mate. I wanna go down
to Romford see if I can bump into Lois.'
Unwashed the boys left the house within minutes. Four
hours later, after searching all the places she'd said she
usually went to, Charlie was about to give up.
'This is bollocks, Kev. It's so packed down here, we'll
never find her amongst these crowds.'
Kevin, who was not usually one for bright ideas, came
out with a beauty. T know Lois ain't allowed to take calls
from your phone, Charlie, but why don't you ring her
from mine? If her mum or dad answer, you can pretend
it's a wrong number. If she answers, then bingo. Tell her
you're down in Romford and wanna meet her. And ask
her if she's got a mate for me.'
Charlie patted his mate on the back. 'Kev, that's a
blinding idea. Why didn't I think of that?' he said,
snatching the phone.
Charlie's heart leaped as the call was answered immediately.
'Hello, Lois. Guess who this is?' he said, putting
his thumbs up at Kevin.
'I've no idea. Who is it?' she replied truthfully. She
didn't recognise the voice at all. The next sentence made
her blood run cold.
'It's me, babe, Charlie. I'm in Romford, standing by
the cinema. I've been here hours searching high and low
for you. Do you fancy meeting up? Are you in Romford?'
T can't, Charlie,' Lois replied, unable to think of
anything else to say. Undeterred, he carried on talking.
'I've been dying to get together with you, you know.
Why didn't you take my calls? Was it because your mum
and Mickey found out about us?'
Lois felt like screaming 'There is no us', but instead
tried to be diplomatic. 'Look, Charlie, I really like you
but we're cousins and I'd rather you didn't ring me again.
I've got a boyfriend now, so it's a bit awkward if I get
calls from other lads. I don't want to fall out with you
but it's best this way'
He could feel his face redden with anger. 'A boyfriend!
Whaddya mean you've got a boyfriend? How can you do
this to me? You two-timing fucking slag!'
Lois couldn't believe what she was hearing and was
determined to get him off her case once and for all. 'You've
got to leave me alone, Charlie. There never was a me and
you, it was all in your mind. I just look upon you as
family, nothing else, and you have to accept that. If you
contact me again, I'm going to tell my mum and dad.
And I mean that.'
'You fucking whore!' he shouted, before ending the
call. He was fuming. How dare she make a mug out of
him? Especially in front of Kevin.
'What's the matter? What did she say?' his friend asked
innocently.
'Fuck off, you fat cunt! I don't wanna talk about it,'
Charlie shouted, before running off and leaving his astonished
mate standing in the middle of Romford.
Debbie was dishing up spaghetti bolognese for the girls
when she heard Charlie come in.
'Hello, love. Did you have a nice time? There's plenty
of spag bol here if you want some.'
'Leave me alone,' Charlie shouted as he ran up to the
tranquillity of his bedroom.
Gracie and Rosie shot one another knowing glances.
They'd avoided their brother like the plague since the
night they'd been left alone with him. Thankful that he
wasn't about to join them, they shared a secret smile and
tucked into their meal.
Charlie lay on his bed. Thinking of Lois, obscenities
spewed from his mouth.
'Slut. Whore. Cunt. Slag,' he muttered viciously.
Putting on one of his special films, he stood a chair
against the door handle so that he couldn't be disturbed.
As he watched the three men take the girl by force, he
fondled himself and came within seconds. All women
were slags and they all deserved to be fucking raped.
Turning off the film, he put on his Slipknot CD. His
jacket was hanging on the wardrobe and he stared at it
for ages before taking the empty cigarette packet out of
the pocket. Three times he punched the number into his
phone, and three times he erased it. On the fourth attempt,
he plucked up the courage to let it ring. It was answered
immediately.
'All right. It's me, Charlie,' he mumbled. Billy McDaid ended the ten-minute
call smiling to
himself. He was meeting his boy tomorrow and taking
him out for the very first time. He was so excited, he
could hardly wait.
Charlie lay awake for hours that night, thinking about
his dad. Their conversation had gone well and he was
now looking forward to the meeting. Desperate not to be
tired for his big day, he tried to force himself to sleep.
Other people counted sheep to nod off, but not Charlie.
He counted rape scenes that he'd watched in his special
films. It never failed.
Tonight was different, though. Nervous, apprehensive
and incredibly excited, Charlie tossed and turned all night.
Billy McDaid left the pub early and staggered towards
Andy's. Charlie was half of him, they shared the same
blood, and together they would set the world alight.
'Who's the Daddy?' Billy shouted happily. 'I'm the
fucking Daddy!'
THIRTY
'You're up early, love. Where you off to? Anywhere nice?'
Lying came easy to Charlie; in fact, he was an expert
at it. 'Romford, Mum. I'm meeting me mate Kevin and
we're going to watch a film.'
'That's nice, love.' Debbie was as pleased as punch
that Charlie had finally found a friend. Being a protective
mum, she wondered what the lad was like. 'Why don't
you bring Kevin round one night for tea, Charlie, so I
can meet him?'
Snatching a bit of toast off Rosie's plate, he looked at
his mum in horror. 'Why would I wanna do that? It's
better where he lives, there's more to do there. It's boring
round here.'
'Okay, love, it was only a suggestion,' Debbie said,
deciding to shut up quick.
After cadging a lift off his mum to Brentwood station,
Charlie sat on the platform, feeling nervous but excited
at the same time. He was meeting his dad at eleven at
Romford station. After originally feeling dubious, he was
now looking forward to the rendezvous.
Billy leaned against the car door and lit up a fag. Dressed
in light denim jeans, a black leather jacket, white Reebok
trainers and a black baseball cap, he felt good but in
reality looked completely ordinary 'All right, son?' he
said as Charlie walked towards him.
Charlie smiled and got into the passenger seat of the
Escort. His heart was beating like a drum, but he was
determined not to show his nervousness. He wanted to
impress his father, not make a prick of himself.
'What do yer fancy doing then, Charlie?' Billy asked,
flicking the ignition into life.
Deciding to speak the truth, but not knowing if he was
doing the right thing, he decided to chance his luck.
'I wouldn't mind going for a beer.'
Billy looked at this son and smiled. Apart from the
kid's attitude, his first impression of Charlie had been
neither here nor there. His son's answer had just washed
away any fears he may have harboured about the lad.
'We'll go over my way, Charlie. No one will ask questions
about your age there.'
Billy flicked through the radio channels, found an
illegal rave station and turned the sound up full blast. 'Do
you like this type of music, son?' he asked, banging his
hands against the steering wheel.
Charlie nodded. It wasn't the kind of music that usually
floated his boat, but he pretended to like it. The more he
and his father had in common the better.
Billy drove as fast as he could to Barking. He wanted
to impress the boy, show him he was with it rather than
past it. Screeching to a halt in a side road, he turned the
engine off and led his son into a rundown-looking
alehouse.
Charlie felt all grown up as he sauntered in behind his
father. He'd been drinking for ages, but only when alone
indoors or in the privacy of Kevin's bedroom. Pleased
that this father was treating him like an adult rather than
a child, as his mother did, he was now more than willing
to give Billy a chance.
As father and son sat face to face for the very first
time, conversation was awkward to say the least. They
knew nothing whatsoever about each other and managed
only to talk about music, films and football for the first
half an hour. Billy was a big Glasgow Rangers fan and
was quite disappointed that Charlie had little knowledge
of the beautiful game. He shouldn't blame the
kid, mind, he'd had no dad there to teach him the basics.
Things would've been very different if only he'd stayed
around.
Three pints later both of them started to open up.
'How's your mum, son"?' Billy asked cautiously.
'Okay, I suppose. I don't have that much to do with
her, really. I can't stand Steve. He's the bloke she married.
They're both too wrapped up with me little sisters to
worry about me, so I spend most of me time in me
bedroom.'
Billy looked intently into Charlie's eyes. He could tell
by the way he spoke that the boy really wasn't close to
Debbie and that pleased him immensely. Fucking bitch!
It was her fault he'd missed his son growing up in the
first place.
'Who's the dude that your ma married?'
Ramming cheese and onion crisps into his gob, Charlie
spoke between mouthfuls. 'He's a wanker. He hates me.
He was Uncle Mickey's best mate, apparently, and that's
how she met him.'
Billy's blood ran cold as memories of Uncle Mickey's
best mate came back to haunt him. Surely not? It
couldn't be the same geezer who had nearly killed him,
could it? Trying to keep his voice calm, Billy asked the
all-important question. 'Is this Steve a fat bastard, by
any chance? I remember some of Mickey's mates. The
one I'm picturing was a big bloke. He used to have
cropped hair.'
'That's him,' Charlie replied instantly. 'He's still got
cropped hair now. I hate him, and I hate my sisters. I
don't like my nan much either, or Granddad Peter. In fact,
I hate them all'
Making the excuse that he needed to use the loo, Billy
dashed off. He needed five minutes alone to recover from
the shock he'd just had. Memories of the day he'd nearly
died often come back to plague him. He couldn't believe
that Debbie had ended up marrying the same brutal bastard
who had helped to terrorise him that fateful day. After
dousing his flushed face in cold water, he stared into the
filthy, cracked mirror.
He couldn't tell Charlie the whole story, that was for
sure. He would only make himself look like some weak
cunt, and he couldn't risk Charlie blurting something out
to Steve or his Uncle Mickey either. Billy would be dead
meat if that were to happen, that was a dead cert.
By the time he'd pulled himself together and headed
back to the table, his son had thought of some questions
of his own.
'I've got some things I wanna ask you now. Like, why
did you walk out on me when I was little?'
Billy could barely answer, such was his guilt. Not for
the way he'd treated Debbie - that bitch had deserved
everything she got - but because of the way he'd treated
his son.
The and your ma never got on, Charlie. We used to
fight a lot. I loved you more than words can say, but
her . . . she was no good. I wouldnae have abandoned
you, you know, but after I split up with your ma, I got
arrested and then put in prison. By the time I was
released, your ma had moved on. I tried to track you
down, but I was skint at the time. When my money ran
out, I had no option but to move back up North to sort
myself out.
'You have to believe me, Charlie, when I say this.
There wasnae a day went by that I didnae think of you.
In fact, when I was in prison, the only thing that kept
me going half the time was the thought of meeting up
with you again one day. To be honest, son, I cannae
believe that day has finally come. I wanted to contact
you before, but I had to wait till you were old enough.
I couldnae have got you on your own when you were
younger. I had to wait till you were at an age where you'd
understand.
T swear, Charlie, if your mother, Uncle Mickey or
Steve got wind of me meeting up with you, there'd be
murders. You must promise me, whatever happens, you
never breathe a word to them that you've seen me. Can
you promise me that?'
T promise,' Charlie said, liking this man sitting in front
of him more and more. He was well impressed that his
dad had done a bit of bird. He couldn't wait to tell Kevin.
'What did you go in prison for?' he asked excitedly.
'Violence, son, fighting. I did someone over real badly.
Two stretches I did for the same thing.'
Charlie looked at his dad in awe. Obviously, he had
no idea that one of this father's victims was his own
mother. Feeling that they had more in common than he
could ever have dreamed, he confessed to his dad about
his own love of violence. 'I've beaten up loads of lads at
school and I've got a stash of really brutal films and
computer games.'
Billy smiled.
Desperate to impress, Charlie carried on. 'And I love
a good porno, I've got loads of them. I'll lend 'em to
you, if you like.'
'Good lad,' Billy chuckled, amused to find that his son
had plenty of the old McDaid spirit. 'One thing you must
remember, Charlie . . . women are slags. They fuck you
and then they fuck you up. Do yourself a favour, son.
Pull 'em, shag 'em, then get rid.'
'I totally agree with you,' Charlie said excitedly.
'There's this girl, Lois, and she's a prick tease. One minute
she's all over me, and the next she don't wanna know.
She's Uncle Mickey's stepdaughter, but me and her ain't
properly related. I know she's gagging for it. What should
I do about it?'
Billy thought long and hard. Uncle Mickey's stepdaughter?
What a result. What an opportunity for revenge.
'How close is Mickey to this Lois?'
Charlie swigged his pint. 'He proper idolises her. He's
adopted her and everything. Apparently her real father
was an arsehole - that's what I heard me mum say
anyway.'
'Really?' Billy said with interest. 'You leave it to me,
son. I'm blinding with birds and can get my wicked way
with anyone I want. I'll give you some tips, show you
how to reel her in.'
'Cheers, Dad,' Charlie replied, holding his pint aloft.
Realising that this was the first time he'd said the D
word, Billy smiled with happiness. Acceptance was a
wonderful thing and he'd waited a long time for it.
'Do you like to have a puff, Charlie?'
'Yeah. Why, you got some, Dad?'
Patting his son on the shoulder, Billy picked up his
car keys from the table. 'Come on, I'll take you round
my mate Andy's. I'm staying there at the moment. We'll
go round there for a smoke, eh?'
Charlie was in his element as he followed Billy out of
the pub. His dad was well cool. He was almost bursting
to tell Kevin what a dude he was. He'd never felt like he
belonged at home, felt almost alien somehow to his
mother, sisters and big wanker Steve. Well, now he
belonged. Not only that, he had the coolest dad in the
whole wide world and was loving every single minute of
being with him.
Andy was as stoned as stoned could be, but still
managed to welcome the boy with open arms. Charlie
thought he was pretty cool as well. Andy reminded him
of Ozzy Osbourne, and he'd always been a big fan of him
and Black Sabbath. The way he'd bitten the head off live
bats made Ozzy a hero in Charlie's eyes.
The rest of the evening passed in a drunken, drug
induced blur. Having run out of lager, Charlie started
on his father's cider and by ten o'clock was knocked for
six.
'You cannae go home like that, son. Your mother'll go
mental. Ring her and say you're staying at a friend's. You
can stop here and I'll drop you home tomorrow.'
T can say I'm staying at Kev's, she don't know where
he lives,' Charlie slurred.
'Do it now before you crash out then,' Billy urged,
noticing his son was fading fast.
Incapable of stringing a text together, Charlie handed
the phone to his father and told him what to put. The
message read: Staying at Kev's. I'll be home early to get
ready for school.
A return text came back in seconds. want you home
2nite, Charlie. You know you 're not allowed to stay out
when you've got school the next day.
Billy laughed as he read Debbie's text. 'Your mother
hasnae changed, son. Still a fucking moaner, after all these
years.'
Charlie propped himself up against Andy's threadbare
sofa. Eyes rolling in his head, he tried to focus on his
father. 'What shall I do, Dad? She really gets on my
nerves. Shall we wind her up for a laugh?'
'Let me do it, son. It'll give me great pleasure to wind
your fucking mother up.'
All three of them giggled as Billy typed in a reply. Mum,
I'm busy shagging a bird. I'll be home tomorrow, OK?
Debbie was sitting on the sofa with Gracie and Rosie
as the second text came through.
'Who's that, Mummy? Can I read it out for you?' Gracie
asked.
Debbie quickly shoved the phone into her handbag,
away from prying eyes. Steve was in the kitchen, dishing
up the Indian takeaway that had just been delivered.
'Just popping upstairs, love,' she shouted, as she ran
upstairs with her bag. Hiding in the bedroom, she rang
Charlie's number. No answer. She tried again. After the
fifth go, she gave up and decided to text him instead.
Billy snatched at the phone as Debbie's text bleeped
through. He was in hysterics as he read it out loud. lOK,
love. Don't be late in the morning as you have to go to
school. And please be careful, you don't want to catch a
disease or get anyone pregnant. Don't forget to use a
condom. Love you.'
Debbie ventured downstairs to eat her Indian takeaway.
She felt worried, but was also very happy. Her son was
underage, but so what? At least now she knew that her
Charlie was growing up into a normal, hormonal teenager.
Many a night she'd worried about him being abnormal,
but it must just have been a teenage phase he was going
through. He had mates now, and girls were on the scene,
so surely the worst was over. Tucking into her chicken
korma, Debbie felt more content than she had in ages.
Billy helped Charlie into Andy's bedroom. 'Goodnight,
son,' he said as he chucked the filthy, drink-stained quilt
on top of him.
'Night, Dad. Love you.'
Billy smiled as he left the room. The words he'd just
heard were music to his ears. Not only had he acquired
a son, he'd also acquired an ally. Between them they could
hatch a perfect plan. Get their revenge on every bastard
who had ever upset or come between them. The thought
made him laugh. An evil, nasty, vindictive laugh. For the
first time in ages, Billy's cold, cold heart was filled with
excitement and passion at what was to come.
THIRTY-ONE
The newly decorated changing rooms reeked of a mixture
of paint, sweat and feet, and Charlie felt nauseous as he
changed into the ill-fitting shorts which his teacher had
demanded he wear. Charlie hated PE and rarely participated,
but due to the excitement of meeting his father
the previous day he'd forgotten to ask his mum for the
usual letter saying he couldn't take part.
His PE teacher, Mr Marshall, was having none of
his lame excuses and had found him some kit to wear
from the lost property box. 'Come on, lads, chop-chop.
I want you to sprint three times around the football
pitch. Whoever's last can stay behind and clean the
showers.'
The first to finish was Dean Summers, who broke into song as Mr Marshall patted
him on the back.
'Championee, Championee, o-lay, o-lay, o-lay.'
Charlie felt sick as he tried to keep up with the rest
of the lads. He was only slightly overweight, but terribly
unfit. By lap two, he had given up the ghost and decided
to jog instead.
'Come on, Dawson. I've seen hippos move faster than
that,' Mr Marshall shouted at him, much to the amusement
of the other lads.
Finishing last, Charlie flopped on to the grass, holding
his sides. 'I don't feel well sir. I feel really sick,' he told
his teacher.
'That's because you're a lummox, Dawson,' came the
sarcastic reply. Charlie was then forced to join in with
one of the five-a-side football matches that were in
progress. After showering and dressing, he sat on the
wooden bench in the changing rooms, waiting for the bell
to go. Pretending to be engrossed in a magazine he was
flicking through, he couldn't help but listen to Dean
Summers going on about his latest conquest.
'Honestly, she's well fit and she's a really nice girl.
She looks a bit like a younger version of Jordan,' he
bragged.
'Where did you meet her? What's her name?' asked
one of the lads.
Charlie's ears pricked up.
T met her at a party. Her name's Lois. She's a right
sort and she's well into me. I've seen her every night
since I met her.'
Desperate to hear more, Charlie was annoyed when
the bell rang to signal home time. Picking up his school
bag, he fell into step behind Summers.
'Where do you think you're going, Dawson?' Mr
Marshall shouted. 'You're on shower duty for finishing
last, son.'
Chucking his bag to the floor in exasperation, Charlie
removed his socks and shoes, rolled up his trousers, and
for once did as he was told. Mr Marshall was a well
known ogre and Charlie knew if he refused the task he'd
been given, he'd be on detention for weeks on end. He
set to work silently, one thought going over and over in
his mind. Surely Summers hadn't been referring to his
Lois? It couldn't be, could it? It had to be a coincidence.
His Lois wouldn't be going to parties. His Uncle Mickey
wouldn't allow it.
'I've finished, sir,' he shouted.
After a brief inspection, Mr Marshall gave his grudging
approval. 'It's passable. Off you go, Dawson.'
As if Charlie's day hadn't been bad enough, he was in
for more unwelcome news on his arrival home.
'Granddad Peter's organising a surprise anniversary
party for Nanny and I insist you come,' his mother
informed him.
'Why do I have to go, Mum? I hate family parties,
you know I do. Can't you just take the girls with you?'
But Debbie wasn't taking no for an answer and, for
once, stood her ground with her son. 'Look, Charlie. If
it wasn't in honour of your nan, I wouldn't make you go.
But she's been good to you over the years, the only one
apart from me who has stuck by you through thick and
thin. Please, love, don't argue with me. Come, if only for
my sake.'
'When is it?' Charlie asked unwillingly.
'It's this Saturday, love. Peter's booked a hall in
Upminster, not far from your school. I'm sure you'll enjoy
it when you get there, and I think Lois is coming.'
The last sentence swung it, as Debbie had known it
would.
'Okay, I'll go, but just for your sake,' Charlie lied.
Debbie smiled. She knew she shouldn't encourage the
Lois situation, but her son had a girlfriend now and she
would take great pleasure in informing Mickey of this
fact if he kicked off on Saturday night.
'So, who's this girl you spent the night with? What's
her name?' Debbie asked her son excitedly.
'Samantha,' Charlie said, thinking of the first name
that came into his head. He'd watched a porno recently
and the bird on that had been called Samantha. Right
dirty bitch she was, as well.
'And where did you meet her?' Debbie asked. She
was ever so happy for him and couldn't wait to meet
the girl.
'Romford.' Lying came easy to Charlie.
'Why don't you bring her with you to Nanny's party?'
Debbie suggested.
Charlie looked at her in horror. 'Nah. I've only just
met her, Mum. It's way too early for introductions and
all that.'
Desperate to avoid further interrogation, Charlie
escaped to the quietness of his bedroom. He was dying
to ring his dad to tell him how much he'd enjoyed
yesterday and find out when they were meeting again.
The rest of the week passed quickly and pleasantly
for Charlie, who spent three out of the next four
evenings in the company of his father. His mum had
become a complete pushover since he'd lied to her
about having a girlfriend, and gave him far more leeway
than before.
T know you're courting now, love, so I'm gonna let
you stay out until midnight on school nights. And if you
want to stay over your girlfriend's house at weekends,
as long as her parents don't mind, then I don't either.'
'Thanks, Mum,' Charlie said, smirking to himself.
He'd have told her he had a bird ages ago if he'd had
known it'd turn her into a total sucker. He used to have to
be indoors by ten on school nights and had rarely been
allowed to stay out all night before. Now she thought he
was indulging in tits and fanny, she was a different person,
and Charlie and his dad succumbed to many a laugh at his
mother's expense.
Billy loved it because it was his jokey text that had set
the ball rolling in the first place. Charlie loved his
newfound freedom and exercised it to his own advantage.
'I'm staying round me girlfriend's on Friday, Mum. I'm
taking her out for a meal.'
'Take that, love, and treat her,' Debbie said, chucking
fifty quid his way.
Charlie had spent the night pub crawling with his father
and then dossing round Andy's flat, puffing until the early
hours.
'Did you have a nice time, son?' Debbie asked him
when he arrived home, looking rather dishevelled, on
Saturday afternoon.
T had a lovely time, Mum, and Samantha really enjoyed
it,' he replied, escaping upstairs before she could clock
the state of his drug-induced hangover.
The Silver Wedding anniversary party was a complete
surprise to June and her face was an absolute picture as
she was led into the packed hall, to be greeted by all her
friends and family. Peter had pretended to his wife that
they were attending a friend's fiftieth and June was more
shocked than anyone to find out that she was the real
guest of honour.
'Oh, Peter. This is the nicest thing that anyone's ever
done for me. Thank you so much,' she said, as her eyes
filled up with tears.
'You're worth it, my darling,' he replied truthfully.
Debbie sat down at a table with Gracie and Rosie.
Spotting Karen, holding Alfie by the edge of the dance
floor, she gesticulated for her to come and join them. Mickey
headed towards the bar to help Steve carry the drinks.
'Where's Lois?' Debbie asked her sister-in-law.
'She's coming later. She's gone to a friend's sixteenth
birthday party'
'Charlie's gone out. He's got a girlfriend now. He'll be
here later as well,' Debbie said proudly.
'They grow up so quick, don't they? Lois has recently
fallen in love for the very first time. She's bringing him
with her later. He's such a lovely lad, even Mickey
approves. Is Charlie bringing his girlfriend with him?'
'No. He's only been with her a couple of weeks. I told
him to bring her, but you know what lads are like, he got
all embarrassed.'
Karen smiled knowingly and agreed.
Taking the glass of wine that Steve handed her, Debbie
took a large gulp as she saw her brother approaching the
table. The argument they'd had had never been sorted and
tonight would be the first time they'd come face to face
in weeks. Karen nudged Mickey as he sat down. She'd
had words with him before they left home and had no
intention of letting him forget.
'All right, Debs?' he muttered, unable to look his sister
straight in the eye.
'Fine, thanks. You?'
The Mexican stand-off looked set to continue until
June intervened. 'Excuse me a minute,' she said to Steve
and Karen. 'Right, outside you two. Now,' she demanded,
scowling at Mickey and Debbie. Once they were in private,
she let rip at them.
T have never seen such childishness in the whole of
my life. You're brother and sister, for goodness' sake. So
you had an argument - so what? For fuck's sake, be adult
about it and make it up. You've got lovely partners, the
pair of you, beautiful children. It's not just you this affects,
you know, it's your families as well. We're an East End
family and East Enders stick together. The pair of you
both need to get down off your high horse and sort things
out, once and for all, because I'm sick of it.'
Before she walked back inside the hall, June fired a
parting shot. 'If you can't sort things out between you,
do me a favour and both go home. This is my party and
I'm not having it spoilt by anyone.'
Mickey and Debbie stood looking at one another in
shock. Bursting into laughter as her mother stomped off,
Debbie was the first to break the ice. 'I'm sorry, Mick.
Things ain't been the same without you about. Can we
put all the shit behind us?'
Pulling his little sister into his arms, Mickey hugged
her tightly. 'I'm sorry, too. I should never have said them
things about Charlie. I didn't mean 'em, sis. I just lost
me temper.'
'Shall we let bygones by bygones?'
'Definitely' Mickey replied. Linking arms with his
sister he led her back into the packed hall.
Steve nudged Karen as he watched their respective
spouses walk towards them. 'Well, thank fuck for that.
Yous pair want your bleeding heads smacked together,'
he chuckled as they reached the table.
'It's her fault, innit? Obstinate little cow, she is,' Mickey
said playfully, cuddling Debbie at the same time.
'Don't you blame me, it's your fault, you tosser,' Debbie
replied, enjoying the banter.
June smiled to herself as she spied on her children
from the other side of the hall.
'You look happy, my dear. Are you enjoying yourself?'
Peter enquired.
'I'm having the best evening ever,' June replied,
squeezing his hand.
'All right, Mum?'
Debbie had been that busy mucking about with Steve
and Mickey, she hadn't noticed her son approach the table.
'Sit down next to me, love,' she ordered, patting the seat
next to her.
Gracie and Rosie exchanged glances as their brother
plonked himself next to them. They hadn't known Charlie
was coming tonight. He'd kept well out of their way since
Gracie had threatened to tell on him, and his absence from
their lives had brought them both happiness and relief.
'How's your girlfriend? Did you have a nice evening?'
Debbie asked loudly, hoping everybody could hear.
'She's fine thanks, Mum,' Charlie lied, scanning the
hall for a glimpse of Lois.
'Mummy, I need to go to the toilet, will you come with
me?' whined a tired Rosie.
Not wanting to sit there alone with her brother, Gracie
followed her mum and sister.
Karen smiled at Charlie. 'Your mum tells me you've
got a girlfriend now?'
'Yeah, Samantha.'
'Lois has got a boyfriend, too. You'll meet him later.
She's gone to a birthday party with him first and they're
coming here after.'
'That's nice,' Charlie managed to mutter before
excusing himself from the table. Needing some fresh
air, he left the hall and wandered into the nearby playing
fields. After checking no one was watching, he sparked
up a ready-rolled joint. His dad had made him a couple
of extra-strong ones, to get him through the evening.
'Fucking slag. Slut. Whore,' Charlie spat. The thought
of seeing Lois parade her new bloke was enough to do
his head in.
Wandering into the hall, he plonked himself back at
the table, his face like thunder.
'You all right, love?' Debbie asked, noting his dark
expression.
'I'm fine,' he replied abruptly, wishing he could think
of some feasible excuse to leave and go home.
'Get Charlie a lager,' Debbie urged Steve as he headed
for the bar once more. She was desperate to cheer
her son up. Maybe treating him like an adult would
help.
Charlie noticed Lois with her long flowing hair, as
soon as she entered the hall. She was wearing a figure
hugging green satin dress, silver sandals, and had a
squashy silver handbag slung over her shoulder. Noticing
she was alone, he breathed a sigh of relief, stood up in
a gentlemanly way and offered her his seat.
'No, thank you. I'd rather stand,' she replied, barely
glancing at him.
'Where's my future son-in-law?' Mickey asked,
tormenting her.
'Talking to someone. Oh, here he is,' Lois gushed
proudly.
Charlie hadn't heard Mickey and Lois's conversation
due to the loudness of the disco. The first realisation of
what was happening hit him like a ton of bricks. Standing
next to Lois, with his arm slung casually around her shoulders,
was none other than Dean Summers.
Determined not to mug himself off, Charlie plastered
a false smile on his face. He had to pretend to enjoy the
rest of the evening, there was no other way.
'All right, Weirdo?' Summers asked him at one point,
when everyone else was out of earshot.
Charlie bit his lip and kept up the facade. Inwardly,
he was seething. He'd never felt so angry or been so
humiliated in the whole of his life. He excused himself
politely and headed outside for another joint. As he lay
flat on the damp grass, his thoughts were all over the
place. How dare that slag Lois bring the fucking school
bully with her to ruin his nan's party for him? Flicking
the last of his joint into a nearby bush, Charlie summed
up his options. He could either disappear early, and let
them win, or stay the distance and front it out. Deciding
on the latter, he headed back into the hall with only one
thought on his mind: revenge, no matter what it fucking
took.
As the next few months flew by, Charlie was either on a
real high or a complete bloody low. The highs came in
the company of his father with whom he now spent more
and more time.
Charlie now knew what it felt like to care about somebody
other than himself. His mum, nan, even Kevin, he'd
sort of liked, but hand on heart, he probably wouldn't
have shed so much as a tear if any of them had been
wiped out overnight. With his dad, things were different.
He adored Billy, respected him and would be devastated
if anything bad were to happen to him. He could
sense that the feeling was mutual and, for the first time
in his life, Charlie had met someone he truly loved and
couldn't live without.
His low moods were a different kettle of fish. He
seemed to suffer from them as soon as he walked through
the school gates. Listening to Dean Summers going on
about Lois was bad enough, but he also had to listen to
him brag about the other girls he was getting it on with
behind her back.
Charlie was furious that Dean was cheating on Lois. If
she'd been his girl, he'd never have done that. He'd have
been faithful to her. If it was his cock she was sucking, he
certainly wouldn't have felt the need to look elsewhere.
The personal abuse he suffered from Summers had
become far worse since his nan's party. Lois had clearly
told Dean about Charlie's crush on her and the texts he'd
sent her. His love rival had now informed the whole school
that he was a sex-case who had hit on his own cousin.
He was now commonly referred to as 'the nonce' or 'the
pervert'.
Charlie was used to being called a weirdo, he'd had it
his whole life, but he hated his new names, and things
had got so bad that he dreaded going to school. Now that
the Easter holidays were coming, he couldn't wait to take
a rain check from the building and the pupils he'd grown
to despise.
His dad had promised to take him up to Scotland for
the first time and Charlie was well excited at the thought
of going away. The only problem was his mother who
seemed determined to stick a spanner in the works. He'd
told his mum that he was going to a caravan site in Clacton
with Kevin and his nan.
'I'm happy for you to go away, love, but I want to
meet your friend and his nan before you go.'
'Don't embarrass me, Mum,' an agitated Charlie
pleaded with her.
Tm not trying to embarrass you, Charlie, but I'm not
letting you toddle off with people I've never even seen.
That's not what good mothers do, love.'
Charlie reluctantly agreed to introduce her to them and
clued Kevin and his nutty old bat of a nan up on what
to say.
Now deep in thought about his impending holiday,
Charlie failed to hear his English teacher shouting his
name.
'Are you with us, Dawson, or on a different planet?'
the teacher asked sarcastically.
'Sorry, Sir. I was miles away'
'Probably dreaming about shagging his own cousin,'
Dean Summers muttered, making sure he'd said it loud
enough for the rest of his classmates to hear.
A few of the lads sniggered.
Putting his head down, Charlie pretended not to notice.
He took a deep breath to quell his temper and carried on
writing his essay about serial killers.
The rest of the week was purgatory for him. As the
bell went on Friday afternoon to signal the start of the
Easter holidays, he breathed a sigh of relief that he had
a couple of weeks away from the hellhole formally known
as school.
Lagging behind the other lads, so that he couldn't get
picked on further, he dawdled his way to meet Kevin at
their usual rendezvous.
'Is your mum here yet?' his friend asked, excited to
be meeting Debbie for the very first time.
'Dunno, I suppose so. Now you know what you've
gotta say, don't ya?'
"Course,' Kevin replied confidently.
Spotting his mum's motor, Charlie led Kevin towards
the vehicle. He didn't need all this shit, but his mum had
been adamant about picking them up so that she could
meet Kevin and have a quick word with his nan when
she dropped him off.
'Mum, this is Kevin,' Charlie mumbled, shoving his
fat friend into the back of his Mum's X5.
Debbie smelt the BO long before she saw the lad it
belonged to. 'Hello, Kevin,' she said politely, opening her
window to get some fresh air.
'Nice car, ma'am,' Kevin replied, desperate to make a
good impression.
Kicking his friend in the leg, Charlie took over the
conversation. 'Tell Mum about the caravan holiday,
Kevin.'
Debbie listened intently as the boy rambled on about
Clacton and his nan.
'So when you meet her she might not come across as
normal. Some people can't understand her properly
because she's a bit senile,' he explained, in a clumsy
attempt to reassure Charlie's mum.
Pulling up outside a rundown house that had a jungle
instead of a garden, Debbie switched her car's engine off
and followed the boys up the path. As she glanced at the
filthy-looking bit of net that was hanging at the window,
Debbie noticed a little doll-like figure of what seemed to
be a plastic witch hanging behind it.
'Would you like a cup of tea?' Kevin asked, his fat
body glistening with sweat at the excitement of having
being driven home in a brand new BMW.
'No thank you, love. Just get your nan so I can have
a quick word and I'll be on me way'
Glancing around, Debbie noticed a gang of street
urchins looking at her from the other side of the street.
Good job she'd refused the cup of tea, she thought. She'd
have come out to no wheels on her car, by the look of it.
'Hello, my name's Doreen,' said the wizened-looking
old woman who appeared at the front door then.
'I'm Charlie's mum - Debbie.'
Doreen rebuffed the hand that was offered to her. 'I
don't shake hands, it's unlucky,' she cackled. 'Now, what
do you want?'
'Oh. I'm just checking that it's okay for Charlie to go
away with you and Kevin for the weekend? He keeps
talking about this Clacton trip and I know boys can be a
handful.'
Doreen smiled a gappy smile at her visitor, while trying
to remember what her grandson had told her to say. She
couldn't remember jack shit so kept her reply short. 'That's
fine. Now is there anything else you want?'
'No, that's all,' Debbie replied, rather taken aback by
the obvious madness of the old woman. A heavy rain had
started to fall, so Debbie said goodbye and nudged Charlie
towards the car.
'"I'm singing in the rain, ha ha ha, singing in the rain,
he he he,'" Doreen sang after them as they walked down
the path.
Putting her foot on the accelerator, Debbie waited till
she'd pulled out of the turning before glancing at her son.
'I'm not happy about you going away with them, Charlie.
They're notrights, the pair of 'em.'
'Oh, please, Mum.'
'Haven't you got any normal friends, with normal
parents, who you can go away with?'
Charlie could feel his trip to Scotland slipping out of
his grasp and decided to play his trump card. He rarely
ever cried and knew how much his mum hated to see him
upset. 'Please let me go, Mum. I know Kevin's a bit odd,
but he's the only friend I've got at school.'
Noticing his mum's pained expression, he forced the
tears to roll freely as he carried on. 'Honestly, Mum, you
don't know what it's like for me. All the boys there hate
me. Lois's boyfriend told them that I used to text her.
Now they call me a nonce and a pervert. No one will talk
to me apart from Kevin. Please, Mum, I really need a
holiday. Please say I can go.'
Kerbing the car, Debbie pulled a tissue from her handbag
and handed it to Charlie. 'Look, son, it's not Kevin I'm
worried about, it's the old girl. She's not the full shilling,
love. How are you and Kevin gonna take care of her?'
'Oh, she's no trouble. Just a bit barmy, that's all. Please,
Mum, say you'll let me go. I'll be on my best behaviour
and I promise I'll ring you every day.'
Looking at her first-born and seeing him so upset,
Debbie didn't have the heart to say no. 'All right, you
can go. On one condition, though. I want you to leave
your mobile switched on all the time and ring me morning,
noon and night.'
'Okay, Mum,' Charlie said, relieved that his crocodile
tears had worked.
As he looked out of the window, he covered his face
with the tissue and smiled.
Scotland here I come, he thought happily.
The trip to Scotland turned out to be everything Charlie
had wished for and more. He loved it up there, and felt
more at home in Glasgow than he ever had in London.
His dad's Auntie Mary, with whom they stayed, was a
lovely woman. Within the first couple of days of meeting
her, Charlie felt as if he'd known her all his life. She was
a very funny lady, and her stories about his dad when he
was a young boy entertained Charlie no end.
'What about my nan and granddad?' Charlie asked her
one night. He'd asked his father the same question once.
Billy had told him they were dead, and never to mention
them again.
'Your granddad was unknown. Your nan was a nasty
woman, pure evil. Do yourself a favour and forget they
ever existed, Charlie,' his aunt insisted.
The rest of the holiday was one almighty piss-up and
Charlie loved going from pub to pub, meeting friends and
acquaintances from his dad's past. Being introduced to
all and sundry as Billy's son made him feel extremely
proud. He even enjoyed going to footie, watching Glasgow
Rangers play, much to Billy's delight.
'My door is open to yous boys anytime you want,'
Auntie Mary said as she waved goodbye to father and
son.
The train journey home was a long one and Billy and
Charlie amused themselves by drinking cider and tucking
into Auntie Mary's packed lunch. As more and more
alcohol went down, their conversation turned into a heartto-heart.
'What really happened between you and Mum? Why
did you actually split up, Dad?' Charlie was desperate to
know the truth.
'It's a long story, son. Let's not go into it, eh?'
'Please, Dad, tell me. I know there was a fight and
you hit Mum and got put in prison, because I overheard
someone talking about it in one of the pubs we went
in.'
Unable to look at his son, Billy kept his head bowed
as he told him the whole sorry story of the time he'd
spent with his mother. The only part he left out was the
fact that he'd dangled Charlie out of the window to save
his own skin. He couldn't tell his boy that, it was too
despicable. T was out of order, Charlie. I was taking so
many drugs at the time, I was out of my head, wee man.
I didnae know what I was doing.'
T understand, Dad. I don't think badly of you.'
'I'm so pleased to hear that, Charlie. I love you, son,
and I never, ever want you to think badly of me.'
With his guts already spilt, Billy decided it was the
right time to tell his boy about the ordeal he'd suffered
at the hands of Mickey and Steve.
T never wanted to leave you, son, but they ran me out
of town. I nearly died that day. The injuries took months
to heal.'
Charlie couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.
He'd always hated Steve and Mickey and now he hated
them even more. How dare they try and kill his dad and
leave him for dead?
'You shouldnae really blame Steve,' Billy said, determined
to put his son straight. 'It was your Uncle Mickey's
idea. He was the one who beat me to a pulp and wanted
to leave me tied up to the tree, to die slowly. It was Steve
who stopped him from leaving me there.'
'I hate Uncle Mickey! I wish we could get our own back
on him, Dad. He threatened me when I was a kid ... he's
always hated me, you know.'
Cracking open two more cans of cider, Billy handed
one to Charlie. 'It's probably not personal. He just hates
you 'cause you're my boy. That's why I told you I didnae
want no one to know you were seeing me. Mickey said
if I ever came back to the area, he'd kill me. I only came
back because of you, Charlie. I'll hang about now till
you're sixteen, and old enough to leave home and live
with me.'
T wish we could move to Scotland, Dad. I hate it at
home and I hate school. That boy I told you about, the
one who's going out with Mickey's daughter, is making
my life a misery.'
Billy slammed his can down on the table between them.
'What's this kid been saying then? What's he been doing
to yer?' he asked in a raised voice.
'Just taking the piss out of me all the time. He's told
the whole school I'm into incest. That bitch Lois must
have told him I asked her out and obviously all the lads
at school believe she's my real cousin. They don't know
we're not even fucking related.'
'Why didnae yer give him a good hiding, son? Show
him who's boss.'
Charlie smiled. T would, normally. If it was anyone
else I'd have thumped 'em by now, but this Dean's a shit
hot fighter. He's been boxing since he was ten and he's
never lost a fight.'
Billy sat silently for a few minutes, deep in thought.
'Look, son, you're sixteen next year. Why don't me and
you fuck off up to Scotland then? It'll be a new start for
the both of us. In the meantime, just put on a brave face
at home and at school. And if you want me to come down
and have a word with this Dean, I will. He willnae fuck
with me.'
'Nah, it's not worth it, Dad. It'll make me look like I
can't stick up for meself. Are you really serious about us
moving to Scotland?'
'Of course I am,' Billy said, smiling broadly. 'But first
we've got to think of a plan to get your Uncle Mickey
back. What do you say?'
Charlie grinned at his dad. 'Definitely. I'm up for it.
What we gonna do?'
Laughing at his soft's eagerness, Billy handed him the
last of the sandwiches. 'You leave it with me. I'll think
of something that your Uncle Mickey won't fucking forget
till the day he bastard well dies. We'll have the last laugh,
Charlie boy, you'll see. No one fucks with Billy McDaid
and gets away with it. No one.'
Summer 2006
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, dear Charlie
Happy birthday to you.
Charlie sat at the dining table, feeling embarrassed. He
hated birthdays, especially his own. As his mother
presented him with a cake, he obeyed her orders and made
a wish as he blew out the candles. Shutting his eyes, he
wished for Dean Summers to get knocked out in his next
bout and never regain consciousness.
'Time for your presents now, love. You give him ours,
Steve,' Debbie said.
'Happy birthday, Charlie,' Steve muttered through
gritted teeth.
'Thanks,' Charlie said, as he snatched the gift bags off
of the stepfather he hated.
After politely thanking his mum and Steve for the iPod,
new mobile phone and J.D. Sports vouchers, he took the
bag that Gracie had been forced to hand to him.
'Thanks, girls,' he said falsely, smiling at her and Rosie
as he pocketed the HMV voucher.
'Can I go out now, Mum?' he asked, following her into
the kitchen. He was desperate to get drunk, stoned or
both.
He was fifteen today and too old for all this birthday
bollocks his mum was forcing upon him. It wouldn't
surprise him if she handed him a bowl of jelly and fucking
ice cream or demanded he participate in a game of Pass
the Parcel.
Debbie was disappointed that he was going out so early
but forced a smile. "Course you can, love. Oh, and while
I remember, we're going away next weekend with Mickey
and Karen. Nanny and Peter are coming as well. I thought
it might be nice if you came with us.'
Charlie looked at his mum in horror. He couldn't think
of anything worse. 'I'm a bit old for going away with me
family now, Mum. Can't I stay here?'
'Well, I suppose so. Will you be all right here on your
own?'
'No, Mum, someone might break into the house and
murder me,' he replied sarcastically.
'I'm sorry, Charlie. I know you're a big boy now. I'll
have a word with Steve, see what he says. I am your mum,
I can't help worrying about you, love.'
'Well, don't,' Charlie insisted. Stupid cow, he thought,
as he slammed the front door and marched down the road.
He was meant to have met his dad at seven and now he
was going to be late.
'Happy birthday, son,' Billy said as Charlie finally made
it to the pub. Handing him a carrier bag, he smiled at his
boy's delight as he pulled out a Glasgow Rangers shirt.
'Thanks, Dad. I love it. I can't take it home, though.
Mum will be well suspicious where I got it from.'
'I'd already thought of that. Just wear it when you're
with me and you can leave it at Andy's. Right, come on,
birthday boy, let's get langered!'
Charlie enjoyed that birthday more than any he had
had before. He'd told his mum that he was staying round
at his imaginary girlfriend's house. Being able to spend
the whole night with his dad made it extra-special to him.
At school the following day, Charlie got an even bigger
treat when he heard Dean Summers telling a couple of
the lads that Lois had dumped him.
'She scrolled through my phone and found them texts
and pictures that Gemma bird sent me.'
Summers stopped talking as soon as he noticed Charlie
standing nearby. 'Fuck off, Nonce Case,' he shouted.
Charlie smiled to himself as he slouched away Lois
had always been too good for an arsehole like Dean
Summers. Briefly, Charlie wondered if she had fucked
Dean. He hoped not. If she had, then she was nothing but
a fucking slag.
The rest of the week dragged by for Charlie. He'd never
been left in an empty house before and by the time Friday
morning arrived, he was doing buttons to have the place
to himself.
When he'd waved his mum, the brats and Fat Bollocks
off, Charlie slipped out of his school uniform and changed
into a pair of Nike shorts and a T-shirt. He'd pleaded with
his mum to let him have the Friday off school but she'd
refused, so he was going to forge a letter himself, saying
he had a hospital appointment. There was no way he was
sitting in a boring classroom when he had this gaff to
himself.
He fished under his bed and pulled out the crates of
lager he'd hidden. Armed with his most obscene porno,
skunk and Rizlas, he wandered downstairs to watch one
of his special films on the large plasma screen.
Six lagers, five joints and three pornos later, Charlie
was bored shitless. His cock was sore from wanking and
he'd also come all over his mum's Persian rug and stained
the bastard thing. Fed up, he decided to go for a beer
with his dad. He scrolled through his phone and rang
Billy.
'I'm sorry, son,' he said sheepishly. 'I've gotta date
tonight. I'm taking that little barmaid out . . . you know,
the one who works behind the ramp in the Spotted Dog.'
Charlie was fuming as he ended the call. He always
spent Friday nights with his old man and now he was
being blown out, because of some silly tart. Rolling
another joint, he lay back on his luxurious sofa, wondering
what to do with himself.
Lois Dawson sat at a secluded table in a corner of
Nando's and pushed her plate of food towards her friend
Marie.
'Come on, Lois. You've got to eat something. You've
barely touched your chicken and no boy is worth wasting
a Nando's for.'
Lois forced a faint smile. 'I don't feel hungry, Marie.
I feel like shit and I just want to go home. I really loved
Dean, you know. I'm so upset. How could he cheat on
me? How could he do that?'
Leaning across the table, Marie squeezed her best
friend's hand. 'Look, Lois, it could be worse. Thank God
you never slept with him. Imagine if you'd lost your
virginity to him, you'd have felt far worse than you do
now.'
Lois fiercely wiped the tears away from her eyes. T
know you're right, but part of me wishes I had slept with
him. I think that's the reason he wandered, because I
wouldn't give him what he wanted.'
Marie shook her head. 'Don't blame yourself. You're
looking at him through rose-tinted glasses. He's a boy, at
the end of the day, and they all think through their willies.'
Unable to take any more of the truth, Lois put her
jacket on. 'Marie, do you mind if you don't come round
mine tonight? Don't take it personally, I love you to death,
but I just want to be on my own.'
'Are you sure you're gonna be all right?'
'I'll be fine,' Lois replied. 'I'll ring you tomorrow.'
After leaving the restaurant, she headed towards the
nearest cab firm. All her mates had hated Dean, said he
was a flash bastard. Well, it was her choice and she was
determined to sort things out with him, maybe even give
him another chance. Deciding to ring him as soon as she
got home, she broke into a run.
As he watched the next porno flicker into life, Charlie
switched it off. He was bored with pussy now, especially
with watching it. What he needed was a bit of the real thing.
Ringing his dad again, he was disappointed when the call
went on to answer phone. He'd wanted his old man to change
his mind, blow out the bird and take him clubbing.
He debated whether to ring Kevin, but decided against
it. Since he'd been reunited with his father, Kevin had
begun to bore the arse off him, and although he was an
ally at school, Charlie felt as though he didn't really need
him in his life any more. Picking up his phone once again,
he scrolled through the dozen or so numbers he had, and
stopped at Lois's. Now, should he text her or should he
not? He knew she was home alone because he had overheard
his mum talking to Karen on the phone. Now she'd
split up with Dean, maybe she could do with a bit of
company. With the skunk and lager clouding his judgement,
Charlie planned his text with precision.
'Thank you, driver,' Lois said, as she paid the nice Asian
man his fare.
Scurrying up the driveway, she let herself indoors and
headed to her mum and dad's drinks cabinet. Lois was a
good girl and rarely touched alcohol, but the thought of
contacting Dean filled her with dread and she needed a
bit of Dutch courage. What if he was no longer interested
in her or had another proper girlfriend? She poured herself
a vodka and she held her nose as she swallowed it.
Charlie opened another can of lager and rolled yet another
joint. He was out of his nut now, but felt lively and boisterous
with it. In fact, he felt on top of the world. Three
times he'd printed a text, but three times he'd erased it.
Now he had come up with one he was ready to send.
Putting his lager down, his big stubby fingers went like
the clappers as he tapped it out.
The vodka made Lois feel calm, but also woozy. Hoping
she was doing the right thing, she checked her text.
Dean, I have a 3 house n realy need 2 c u. I'm sori 4
us splitin up, plz txt bk x
Feeling brave, she pressed Send.
Dean Summers was at a pal's boxing presentation. He
was two sheets to the wind, happy as Larry and, unfortunately
for Lois, had left his phone at home.
Her heart jumped when she heard her phone bleep.
realy wana fuk u. We both on r own, so how bout I
come round?
Dean's name never came up. How strange, Lois thought,
as she typed in her answer.
Hury up, I'm w8in 4 u. p.s. Bring sum johnnies.
Heading back to her mother's drinks cabinet, Lois
poured herself another vodka. She was as nervous as hell,
but even though he'd been a sod to her, she knew Dean
Summers was the one she wanted to do it with.
All her friends who had already done it told her that
you knew when the time was right, and Lois knew that
her time had come. She was also desperate not to lose
Dean and that was a major part in her decision. Her mum
and dad would go apeshit if they knew, but this was her
choice and hers alone. She quickly ran upstairs to get
changed. She was unsure what to wear, but finally chose
a denim mini-skirt and pink basque. Tonight was special
and she was desperate to look sexy for Dean.
Charlie saw the text come through and couldn't believe
his luck. Bring some johnnies? What a result! Searching
through his mum's address book, he scanned the pages
for Mickey and Karen's address. He knew they lived in
Parkstone Avenue, but wasn't sure of the number.
Spraying some Lynx under his arms, he rushed to the
bathroom to wash his sweaty cock. Not one for cleanliness,
he rubbed a bit of Dove soap around it, dried it with
a towel and raced down the stairs to ring a cab.
The cab seemed to take forever to arrive and the journey
even longer. 'Can you stop in a garage for me on the
way?' he asked the driver.
When they pulled up at an Esso garage, Charlie leapt
out and stood in the queue.
'Condoms, please, mate,' he whispered.
'Vot? I cannot hear you,' said the Indian assistant.
'You know . . . johnnies,' Charlie said quietly, embarrassed
and all too aware of the posh-looking woman who
happened to be standing behind him.
Ranjit smiled. Finally he understood. 'Johnny no work
here,' he said, smiling.
Charlie couldn't get out of the garage quick enough.
Fuck the condoms, his dad had always told him it felt far
better bareback anyway.
Lois put on her Busted CD and lit one of her mother's
scented candles. Nervously, she poured another drink.
'Pull over here, mate,' Charlie said, recognising the enormous
black wrought-iron gates. Chucking the driver a
score, he leaped from the car and rang the buzzer. Lois
released the intercom and checked herself in the mirror
one last time, adding a bit more lip gloss. Then she
unlocked the front door, left it ajar and made her way
into the lounge. Flustered, she picked up her glass and
lay down on the sofa. She was desperate to come across
as cool as possible even though her heart was telling her
different.
Charlie thought that all his Christmasses had come at
once as he closed the front door behind him.
'I'm in here, babe,' he heard Lois say as he made his
way towards the lounge.
What a result, he thought, taking a deep breath to quell
his growing excitement.
Glancing up from the magazine she was pretending to
read, Lois's smile froze in shock.
The glazed expression on Charlie's face told Lois all
she needed to know. Her very worst nightmare was about
to become reality.
'Now come on, girls, don't mess me about. Bedtime . . .
pronto.'
'Oh, Mum,' Gracie and Rosie answered in unison with
sulky looks on their faces.
'Now,' Debbie said in her no-nonsense tone.
Gracie grabbed Rosie's hand and the pair of them
stomped towards their temporary bedrooms.
'Little mares they've been on this holiday,' Debbie said,
looking at her mum and Karen for some sort of sympathy
vote. Little did Debbie know that the reason for her daughters'
outlandish behaviour was their relief at being miles
away from their brother. Without Charlie present, the girls
could be themselves and let off steam.
June couldn't help laughing. 'They're like clones of
you and Mickey at that age, Debs. Both of them have
inherited the Dawson stubbornness.'
'Thanks, Mum. Blame me, won't ya?' Debbie replied,
laughing in spite of herself.
'It's good they've got a bit of spirit,' Karen piped up. T
wish my Lois was more like them. At least they stand up
for themselves. My Lois is so quiet and shy. Alfie's not so
reserved, but Lois worries me sometimes. She came out
of her shell when she met Dean, but I think he's cooled it
a bit and she's hardly been out of her bedroom since.'
Debbie put her empty glass on to the table. 'Young
love, eh? Listen, I'd rather your Lois any day than them
two little fuckers. Now, who's for another glass of wine?'
'Yes, please,' June and Karen answered together.
The holiday was proving to be a great success. The kids
loved Centerparcs, there was so much to do there, and the
adults were loving it just as much. Even Peter, who
normally walked around with a face like a smacked arse,
was joining in with things and being jovial. Debbie felt
she'd made a great choice in hiring the villa for a mini
break. It had been her idea to go there in the first place.
'Wey-hey!' Mickey shouted, amused to see Steve
wobbling about, struggling to stay on the bike he'd hired.
'Fuck this for a game of soldiers,' Steve cursed, desperately
trying to keep his balance. He hadn't ridden a bike
for years. Trust him to lump up at a poxy place where
cars were banned.
Hearing a commotion behind him, Mickey looked
around, fully expecting to see that Steve had taken a
tumble. Noticing it wasn't his friend but Peter who had
ridden head first into a tree, Mickey couldn't control his
laughter.
'You all right, mate?' he asked, trying not to giggle.
'No, I'm bloody not,' Peter replied, clutching his left
ankle.
Wobbling over to where Peter lay and Mickey stood,
Steve took one look at his brother-in-law's expression and
pissed himself laughing.
'It's not funny, you know. I think I may have broken
something,' Peter complained.
'You have, you've broken the fucking bike,' Steve chortled,
as he clocked the buckled front wheel.
Unable to control their laughter, he and Mickey fell to
the ground in hysterics.
Peter sighed. He should have known better than to
spend the evening drinking with his stepson and friend.
They both drank like fish and he'd spent the entire night
forcing himself to keep up with them. As soon as he'd
hit the fresh air he'd felt drunk, and now this had happened.
It was all June's fault. She'd made him go out, was adamant
that some male bonding would do him good. 'You go out
with the boys, Peter. I'm having a girlie night in with
Debbie and Karen,' she'd told him.
Looking disdainfully at the two laughing fools rolling
about on the floor, Peter picked himself up and dusted
himself down. This was going to be one hell of a weekend
and he needed it about as much as he needed Tony Blair
in power.
Lois sat on the sofa and felt sick with fear. It had been
almost an hour now since Charlie had entered the house,
and it had been the longest hour of her entire life. Feeling
virtually naked, thanks to her stupid choice of outfit, she
grabbed a big cushion and hugged it to her.
'Don't do that, you've got nice legs,' Charlie said indignantly.
Not
wanting to upset him, Lois moved the cushion
away.
'Let's have another drink, eh? We're in no rush. We've
got all night, ain't we?' he said, picking up a bottle of
Scotch.
Lois nodded. She was on autopilot now and knew that,
whatever she did, she must not upset him. He had gone
mad earlier when she'd tried to explain that the text
messages she'd sent were meant for Dean, and not for
him.
'Slag, whore, prick tease!' he'd screamed while pacing
the room, eyes blazing with anger.
As frightened as she was, Lois found a strength within
herself that she hadn't known existed. Instinct told her
that Charlie was far more dangerous than she could ever
have imagined, and she guessed from his glassy expression
that he'd been experimenting with drugs of some
kind. Deciding that her best, and probably only, way out
would be to be nice to him and play him along, she held
her glass aloft.
'I'm ready for a top-up now, Charlie. I was just thinking
. . . maybe next week me and you can go on a proper
date, if you like? Do you fancy the pictures or something?'
Charlie
knocked back a large gulp of his Scotch and
smiled. What did she think he was, fucking stupid? She
was trying to play him, give him false hope by being nice.
He could see her true opinion sketched across her face. She hated him. He
repelled her. Eaten up with anger, he
stood up and walked towards her.
'Do you think I'm silly or something? Do I look like
some fucking div?'
'Charlie, you've got me all wrong. I really like you. I
want . . . '
He lunged at her and covered her mouth with his hand.
'Shut the fuck up, you silly slag.'
Realising her plan hadn't worked, Lois lashed out with
her fists. As she struggled and fought with him, Charlie's
excitement grew along with his hard-on. 'I'm all turned
on now. Look what you've done to me, you horny bitch.'
As Charlie grabbed both of her hands and held them
against his penis, he let out a sigh of pleasure. Overcome
by hysteria, Lois let out a piercing scream.
With the exception of Peter, who had hobbled off to bed
in one of his moods, the party at Centerparcs was still in
full swing.
'I was a good tap dancer in my younger days,' June
informed her son- and daughter-in-law.
'She's off,' Mickey laughed, nudging Debbie. They'd
had years of listening to their mother droning on about
her years in pantomime. Now it was Karen and Steve's
turn.
Winking at her brother, Debbie decided to get her
mother at it. 'Don't just tell 'em Mum, show 'em your
moves.'
June didn't need asking twice. 'Wooh!' she screamed
as she broke into both dance and chorus. '"Any time
you're Lambeth way, any evening any day . .
'Go on, girl, get stuck in,' Steve shouted above the
laughter and applause that her act was receiving.
"'. . . Everything's free and easy, do as you darn' well
pleasey . . . "'
'Go on, Mum,' Debbie screamed.
'"You'll find yourself, doing the Lambeth Walk - oi!'"
Finishing off her party piece with a handstand against
the door, June fell into a drunken heap on the floor. The
ensuing laughter was so noisy and raucous that unluckily
for Lois her mother did not hear the phone ringing in her
handbag.
'Give us that fucking thing here,' Charlie snarled,
snatching her mobile out of Lois's shaking hand.
'Please don't hurt me, Charlie,' she whimpered as he
pinned her down once again on the sofa.
The fear in her voice and eyes only added to Charlie's
ecstasy. Unable to contain himself, he released his rock
hard cock from his tracksuit bottoms. His sloppy kisses
and the feeling of his tongue exploring her mouth made
Lois feel physically sick. Gagging, she started to pummel
him again with her fists.
'Get off me, you bastard!' she screamed hysterically.
'Wanna play rough, do you, bitch?' Charlie asked. He
was too far gone now even to think of the consequences
of what he was doing. This was like every porno he'd
ever watched, but ten times better. He'd always got off on
watching men forcing women, but the reality of doing it
for real was the best feeling he'd ever experienced in his
life.
He tried to enter her, but had no joy. Lois was wriggling
away like an eel beneath him and, being inexperienced
and reasonably well-endowed, he couldn't fit
himself inside her. Desperate to relieve himself, he opted
for a different tactic. Moving up her body he pinned her
shoulders down with his knees, opened her mouth with
his hands and shoved his throbbing cock inside.
'Suck it, you fucking whore,' he said, over and over
again.
Trying to ring her daughter for the third time and getting
no reply, Karen temporarily gave up and put the phone
back into her handbag.
'What's the matter?' Mickey asked, clocking his wife's
worried expression.
'I can't get hold of Lois. I got a missed call earlier
from her, but I've tried her mobile and the landline and
there's no reply'
'Have you spoken to her at all today?' Mickey asked,
concerned.
'Yeah, this morning and this afternoon. She was going
out for a meal with one of her friends.'
'Well, there you are then,' he replied, panic subsiding.
'She's probably having a whale of a time.'
'Yeah, you're right,' Karen said, sipping her drink. 'I'll
try her again later.'
Feeling himself about to ejaculate, Charlie was furious when
Lois bit the end of his penis with such force, it left him
doubled up in pain with his eyes streaming with tears.
'You bitch! You cunt!' he screamed, as she struggled
to get away from him.
Hyperventilating, Lois tried to make a dash for the
front door. She was trembling from head to foot and
running wasn't easy. Panic seemed to have paralysed her.
All her movements felt too slow. She grabbed the door
handle, safety only seconds away.
Unfortunately for her, Charlie had locked the door on
his arrival.
As soon as he arrived home from his boxing presentation,
Dean Summers galloped towards his bedroom to
locate his mobile. He'd been surrounded by females all
night, as per usual, but none of them had interested him.
He really liked Lois and was determined to put things
right with her. Seeing the text message she'd sent him
earlier, he cursed himself for forgetting the bastard thing.
He tried to ring her, and slung the phone down in temper
when he realised he'd used up all his credit. Slipping his
shoes off, he bunged his trainers on. He was a fast runner.
If he sprinted, he could be at hers in ten minutes flat.
After failing to unlock the front door, Lois managed to
run upstairs and grab the landline phone from her mum's
bedroom. She didn't know her mum's or dad's mobile
numbers off by heart, so 999 was her only option.
Despite the pain he was in, Charlie forced himself up
the stairs after her. Just as she was about to dial, he yanked
the wire from the wall, ending her call before it had begun.
He grabbed Lois's hair and shoved her on to her mother's
bed. His penis was limp by now. Desperate to revive it,
he ripped off her knickers and shoved his grubby fingers inside her.
Unable to defend herself any longer, Lois just let him
do it. All the fight had gone out of her now. She wished
he'd just kill her and get it over with. If he raped her, she
wouldn't want to live. She knew without a doubt that her
life would never be the same again after tonight.
With Lois no longer able to struggle, Charlie failed to
get an erection. Feeling embarrassed by his own failure,
he made a suggestion. 'Let's go downstairs and have
another drink, eh?'
Lois felt too weak and disgusted even to answer.
Dean put his hands on his knees and caught his breath
after his mad sprint. Luckily he knew the security number
to open the gates off by heart, so punched it in and jogged
up to the house.
Charlie was pouring himself a Scotch when he heard
Dean Summers's booming voice.
'Lois, open the door, babe! I'm sorry I never called
you earlier, but I've only just got your text.'
'Help! Help! The doors are locked. I've been attacked,
Dean . . . please help me!'
A strong lad, he easily snapped a big branch off a
nearby tree. With all his might he smacked it against a
front window, over and over again, until the glass finally
cracked.
Charlie knew then the game was up. He was no match
for Dean Summers, that was for sure. Deciding escape
was his only option, he ran to the front door, unlocked
it, and as he heard Summers climb in through the living
room window, ran for his goddamn' life.
Dean could not have been more shocked when a
partially naked Lois threw herself sobbing into his arms.
'You're safe now, Lois, I'm here to protect you,' he
soothed, trying to comfort her. 'What happened? Who
did this to you?'
'It w-w-was Ch-Ch-Charlie.' Deep in shock, she was
unable to get her words out properly.
Dean held her close. 'How did he get in here? Did he
break in?'
Lois sobbed. 'I opened the d-door. I thought it was
y-you.'
'I'll fucking kill him! Where is he? We've gotta ring
the police.'
'Nooooo!' Lois cried. 'No police. I can't handle it. Just
ring my mum and dad, they'll know what to do.'
'Where's your phone?'
'I don't know,' she sobbed hysterically. 'He took it off
me.'
Dean led her into the lounge and sat her down on the
sofa. He'd have liked to chase after Charlie fucking
Dawson and give the freak the beating of his life, but he
couldn't leave Lois. She was way too distressed.
'Did he . . . you know?'
Shaking her head, Lois looked at the floor. 'Nearly. He
tried to,' she managed to say.
Spotting her phone under the chair, she pointed it out
to Dean. 'I want my mum,' she sobbed.
Karen had been asleep for almost an hour before the shrill
sound of her ring-tone awoke her. Reaching into her
handbag, she fished for her mobile.
'Hello,' she said, still half-asleep.
As the realisation at what had happened to her beautiful
daughter hit her, Karen pinched herself to check she
wasn't dreaming. When she realised she wasn't, she
opened her mouth. Her screams could be heard the length
and breadth of Centerparcs.
'For fuck's sake, Karen, stop screaming.'
Slapping his wife's face seemed to bring her to her
senses. They were in bed, he wasn't even sure what was
going on.
'Lois has been attacked,' she mumbled, between sobs.
'Attacked? What do you mean? Has she been in a fight
or something?' Mickey asked.
Karen shook her head.
He stood up decisively. 'Look, get dressed, babe, and
we'll be home in a couple of hours. Come on, that's my
girl'
He was annoyed but calm. Karen was probably overreacting,
but if anyone had hurt Lois, his pride and joy,
Mickey would fucking well kill 'em. But surely it was
nothing like that. She'd probably had an altercation with
a gang of girls around Romford or something, maybe
ended up with a cut lip or a black eye for her trouble.
'What exactly did she say, love?' he asked as he slung
his jeans on.
Karen was still on the bed, rocking backwards and
forwards. T should never have left her,' she said over and
over again. The shock seemed to have thrown her into a
trance.
Mickey knelt down beside his wife and squeezed her
hands. When angry, patience wasn't one of his virtues.
He was getting wilder by the minute at Karen's total lack
of communication. 'I need to know what she said.'
'She said it was Charlie,' Karen whispered, knowing
the words she'd just uttered would rip their wonderful
family apart forever.
The fury and hatred that Mickey felt at that moment
would live with him forever. The thought of his evil,
perverted scumbag of a nephew laying one finger on his
beautiful, kind daughter made him want to commit first
degree murder. Eyes blazing, he snatched the phone off
Karen and frantically dialled their home number. His blood
ran cold when Dean explained what had happened to her.
Steve, June and Peter had all been woken up by the shouting and screaming and,
along with the kids, were
now wide awake. Knocked for six by all the wine she
had consumed that evening, Debbie was still out for the
count and hadn't heard a thing.
Throwing on a hooded sweatshirt and shorts, Steve
ushered the wide-eyed kids back into their bedroom and
tapped on Mickey and Karen's door. 'Are you two all
right in there?'
Mickey yanked the door open with such force it nearly
flew off its hinges. 'No, we're not. That evil fucking
stepson of yours has just attacked our baby . . . our Lois.
I swear to you, Steve, nephew or no nephew, when I get
my hands on that little cunt, I'm gonna kill him!'
Steve was still half asleep and had no idea as yet of the
enormity of the situation. 'Calm down, Mick. Don't do
anything rash. You don't know exactly what's happened yet.'
'Don't do anything rash? You cunt! Are you fucking
serious? That perverted little piece of scum has just tried
to rape my fucking daughter and I will deal with it exactly
how I like. Now move out of my fucking way so I can
go and get the motor.'
June, standing behind Steve, burst into tears and went
into the bedroom to comfort Karen. She'd always known
that one day Charlie would show his true colours, but this
was just too awful for words.
Not knowing what to do with himself, Peter put the
kettle on. Sometimes he wondered what type of family
he'd got himself involved with. Thank God he'd stood
down from the Council. He could just see the headlines
now: 'Councillor's Grandson Rapes and Attacks Cousin'.
That would have done his political career the world of
good.
Shutting the door of the Villa, a shocked Steve followed
Mickey outside. T just want you to know, mate, that I'm
on your side. Whatever you decide to do with Charlie,
I'm with you all the way. I've always known deep down
that the little shit was an accident waiting to happen, and
Pve only ever suffered him because I love Debbie so
much.'
Looking into the eyes of his best pal, Mickey knew
he was telling the truth. 'The kid's a goner, Steve. There's
no other way. I ain't letting this one go.'
T understand. I'd do the same if it were Rosie or
Grade.'
Throwing his big arm around his pal, Steve led him
back into the villa.
Debbie was still dead to the world. It took five minutes
of Steve shaking her to rouse her from the drunken coma
into which she'd fallen. Sitting up, she rubbed her tired
eyes. 'What's happening? What's the time?'
Steve was a big softie at heart. His eyes filled up as
he struggled to break the dreadful news to his beloved
wife.
T don't know the exact story, Debs, but apparently he
attacked Lois and ... I dunno . . . tried to rape her by
all accounts.'
'Never in a million years,' Debbie cried, leaping from
her bed. 'I know my Charlie's no angel, but he wouldn't
do that. He's just a kid, for Christ's sake.'
Steve looked at her in despair. She just didn't have a
fucking clue when it came to her beloved baby boy.
'I shouldn't think Lois made it up. He's obviously done
something, Debs, ain't he?'
Grabbing her phone, Debbie frantically dialled her
landline and then Charlie's mobile. With no reply from
either she grabbed her suitcase and started packing. Her
son needed her. She had to get home to him, fast.
By the time Debbie had finished packing, Mickey and
Karen were long gone. Alfie was still fast asleep and June
had kindly offered to take care of him while they tended
to Lois. 'Don't worry, son,' she told Mickey. 'He can stay
with me and Peter. I've got loads of clean clothes for him
at home, he'll be fine with us.'
Mickey had nodded, led his distraught wife outside
and left immediately.
The stony silence in Steve's people carrier on the
journey home was broken only occasionally by the sound
of June's muffled sobbing. Peter clasped his beloved wife's
hand tightly and, for the first time ever, had no words of
comfort for her.
Rosie and Gracie sat huddled together in the back.
They'd heard the adults talking and knew that something
awful had happened, involving their brother. Rosie was
innocent and far too naive to understand the actual gist
of the conversation. Gracie was more streetwise. She
understood completely.
Noticing her big sister start to sob and shiver, Rosie
did her best to comfort her. 'Please don't cry, Gracie. It's
not us in trouble - we've been good girls. It's Charlie
who's been naughty. He's been a bad boy to Lois and now
he's upset her.'
The mention of her brother's name made Gracie feel
nauseous. Unable to reach the window in time, she
vomited into her lap.
It was Steve who stopped the car, cleaned his daughter
up and tried to soothe her.
Debbie spent the whole journey with a blank expression
on her face, staring lifelessly out of the window. She
wanted to hear her son's side of the story before she had
him hung, drawn and quartered like everybody else
planned to do.
Karen was shaking like a leaf when Mickey screeched to
a halt on their driveway. Dean opened the door and briefly
summarised all he knew before ushering them into the
lounge.
'Oh Lois, my baby! It's okay, Mummy's here now.'
Karen sobbed as she pulled her fragile daughter into
her arms.
Lois was trembling so much she could barely speak.
The sight of her adoring parents made her feel dirty,
embarrassed, and incredibly stupid for having got herself
into such a terrible situation in the first place.
'Did you ring the police?' Mickey asked Dean.
'No. I wanted to, but Lois wouldn't let me. She was
adamant she didn't want them involved, and I didn't want
to upset her any more. I thought I'd best leave that to
you.'
The mention of the word 'police' made Lois howl like
a wounded animal.
'Please don't call the police! I won't talk to them. I
swear, if they turn up, I won't tell them anything. I feel
so embarrassed and I can't talk to strangers. Please don't
call them . . . please. Tell them, Mummy, I can't tell the
police, I just can't!'
Karen looked at her husband in despair. They couldn't
let an evil little bastard like Charlie get away with this,
surely. Walking over to his daughter, Mickey crouched
down and took her quivering hands in his. 'Shhh, stop
crying now. Everything's gonna be okay. We won't call
the police. They're useless bastards anyway. Daddy will
deal with this for you. You have my guarantee, as God's
my judge, that Charlie will get his comeuppance.'
'Thank you, Daddy,' Lois said, filled with relief.
She had been absolutely dreading her parents and the
police finding out about the drunken text message she'd
mistakenly sent to Charlie instead of Dean. 'Bring some
johnnies' would make her look just awful, and she couldn't
face seeing the disappointment of her parents or the 'she
asked for it' looks from the police. She had managed to
erase the message sent from her own phone, but was as
sure as hell that Charlie would have kept his and would
use it as evidence against her, if needed.
Noticing he'd picked up his car keys, Karen asked
Mickey what he was doing.
'I'm going to find that evil little bastard, that's what
I'm fucking well doing.'
'Not tonight, please, Mick. We need you here with us,'
Karen pleaded.
With a face like thunder, he slung the keys back on
the table, sat down and put his head in his hands. T won't
rest until I find him, Karen. He's finished, when I get my
hands on him. I'm telling ya, that boy's fucking dead
meat.'
T know, love,' Karen said soothingly. 'But, please, look
for him tomorrow. Lois needs you here tonight, and so
do I.'
Looking at his two lovely girls sitting opposite him,
Mickey could have cried with the unfairness of it all.
Lois was still in no fit state to tell them exactly what
she'd been through. But just the thought of that perverted
little bastard going anywhere near his beautiful daughter
made Mickey feel sick to the stomach; he didn't want to
hear the sordid details. Couldn't deal with that side of it.
That would have to be Karen's job. Feeling a tear roll
down his cheek, Mickey fiercely wiped it away. He never
cried and hated men who did. It was a sign of weakness,
and weak was the one thing Mickey Dawson wasn't.
Determined to pull himself together, he stood up, picked
up his mobile and left the room.
He needed to talk to Steve. His mate would understand
how he felt and together they would sort out Charlie's
demise. Pressing the Call button, he listened to the ringing
tone and willed his pal to answer.
Steve saw Mickey's name flash up on his phone and
rejected the call. He'd just dropped June and Peter off
with little Alfie, and could hardly have a proper chat with
his best pal in front of Debbie and the girls.
'Why didn't you answer it?' Debbie asked angrily. She
guessed the caller had been her brother.
'I'll ring him later,' Steve replied, annoyed by his wife's
stroppy attitude.
He would rather she had been in floods of tears than
sitting there, with a face like a smacked arse, in complete
denial. This was all her fucking fault. He'd told her that
Charlie shouldn't stay in the house alone. She'd argued
and insisted, and now this had happened.
'Look, Debs, you must start facing facts,' he told her.
T know he's your boy and you love him and that, but
the kid's a complete wrong 'un. What he's done to Lois
is despicable. Surely, even you can't condone such
behaviour.'
'I'm not condoning it, but there are two sides to every
story. I mean, we don't even know what did happen yet.
For all we know, Lois may have led him on.'
Feeling his temper rising, Steve couldn't help but shout
at her then. 'So what you trying to fucking say, Debs?
That Lois is a lying cunt or something? Is that what you're
trying to say? Well, is it?'
'Don't put words in my mouth, Steve. I ain't said she's
a liar. I'm just saying that, until we know the full story,
we shouldn't judge. I mean, come on, Mickey's got security
gates like Belmarsh fucking Prison. Lois must have
let Charlie in else how the fuck would he have got in
there? You know what teenagers are like, Steve. I bet she
invited him round. They probably got on the drink, and
things got out of hand.'
Slamming his foot down on the brakes, Steve mounted
the kerb with such force that Rosie and Gracie both
screamed. Eyes blazing with anger, he ignore his by now
hysterical daughters and turned on his wife.
'I've had enough of this, Debs, and I ain't putting up
with no more of it. That son of yours is the black sheep
of the family. He's evil. Slowly but surely he's managed
to rip this family apart. Well, I'm putting my foot down
from this moment on, so best you listen carefully. If what
he's been accused of is true . . . and I personally would
bet a pound to a piece of shit that it is ... I am not having
him in our house around our little girls.'
Debbie couldn't quite believe what she was hearing.
Desperate to stand her ground, she yelled at him, 'So
what you trying to say then, Steve? That Charlie's a nonce
case and liable to fiddle with his own sisters. Is that what
you're trying to say?'
Smacking his hand against the steering wheel to stop
himself losing it with her completely, Steve shouted back.
'What I'm trying to get into your thick fucking skull is
that them little girls in the back are my babies, my flesh
and blood, and I will do whatever it takes to fucking
protect 'em.'
Furious, Debbie pummelled him with her fists. 'You
fucking bastard! As if I'd ever let anything happen to our
girls.'
'Please, Mummy . . . please, Daddy, stop it! Stop
fighting,' Rosie screamed. She was desperately trying to
comfort her big sister by putting her hands over her ears
to drown out the sound of their parents arguing, but Gracie
was hysterical.
The sound of his eldest daughter's panic-stricken
screams jolted Steve back to reality. 'It's okay, girls.
Mummy and Daddy are fine now,' he said as he turned
the engine back on.
Outwardly, Steve chatted happily to his daughters on
the rest of the journey home. Inwardly he was seething.
Mickey was right, Charlie had to be got rid of, and if
killing the little bastard and disposing of his remains was
the only way, then so fucking be it.
Mickey opened his eyes and glanced at his watch. He'd
lain awake most of the night but must have dozed off for
the last hour or so. Sitting up, he rubbed his tired eyes.
Last night seemed like a bad dream. If only it fucking
was, he thought to himself as he crept out of bed.
'Did you get any sleep, love?' he heard Karen whisper.
'Not much. How about you?'
'Hardly any,' she replied, her eyes filling with tears.
'Come here,' Mickey said as he leaned across the bed
and hugged her tight. 'We'll get through this, babe, I know
we will.'
Karen smiled weakly. He was her rock, was Mickey,
and was usually right about most things. Her instincts
told her, however, that this wasn't one of them. Deep
down, she knew that their lives would never be the same
again.
'What's the matter, Gracie? Why are you still crying?'
asked Rosie, her face full of concern.
Usually they slept separately, but such was Gracie's
distress the previous evening, they had huddled up together
like two newborn puppies.
Gracie was saved from answering by her dad appearing
then. 'Are you all right, Princesses?' he asked, as he
crouched down beside his daughters. 'Shall Daddy make
you some breakfast?'
'Not hungry,' Rosie said, sucking her thumb.
'Are you and Mummy going to split up?' Gracie asked
him, tears clouding her eyes.
'Of course not,' Steve replied, hoping he was speaking
the truth.
'Have you stopped fighting now?' Rosie enquired.
Feeling himself getting emotional, Steve stood up and
walked towards the door.
'Be downstairs in ten minutes, girls, and Daddy'll have
your favourite ready for you - spaghetti hoops and waffles!
You up for that?'
'Okay,' the girls replied half-heartedly. Neither of them
were hungry, but they didn't want to upset their father by
not eating.
Hearing Steve bashing about in the kitchen, Debbie
leaped out of bed and headed for the shower. She'd slept
in the spare room last night and hadn't spoken a word to
her husband since the row in the car. Unable to sleep,
she'd had a lot of time to think about things and knew
she had to get to Charlie before Mickey did. With a plan
already in mind, she quickly got dressed. Her son needed
her and she was determined to be there for him.
Steve had just served the girls their breakfast when he
heard the front door slam. Looking out of the window,
he saw the back end of Debbie's X5 disappearing off the
drive.
'Bollocks,' he muttered, realising she'd sodded off and
left him with the kids.
'Where's Mummy gone?' Rosie asked innocently.
He was saved from answering by the shrill tone of his
mobile.
'I'm ready to go looking for the cunt. Are you with
me?' Mickey asked bluntly.
'Debbie's just fucked off out. I'll ring June and get her
to have the girls. I'll be round within the hour.'
'See you then.'
Hearing a noise, Mickey turned round to see Karen
helping Lois down the stairs. She looked dreadful, just a
shadow of the pretty, carefree teenager she'd been a couple
of days ago.
'Are you okay, sweetheart?' he asked, realising full well
she wasn't, but not knowing what else to say.
Lois nodded and forced a brave smile. 'Is Dean still
here?'
'He's in there,' Mickey said, nodding towards the
lounge. 'Do you want him to stay here all day with you,
or shall I drop him home as I go out?'
'I think I just want to be with Mum today,' Lois said
weakly.
'He'll understand. Go and say goodbye to him, though,
Lois.'
Mickey watched, heartbroken, as his damaged daughter
did exactly as he'd asked. Seeing her the way she was made
him want to break every bone in Charlie's evil fucking body.
Debbie drove slowly along Kevin's street, searching for
the right house. Seeing the plastic witch dangling at a
window, she got out of the car and ran up the path.
'Is Charlie here? Have you seen him?' she asked the
boy when he opened the door.
'No, I haven't heard from him for a couple of days,'
Kevin replied truthfully.
'Look, love, Charlie is in a lot of trouble and I desperately
need to find him. You know him better than anyone
- where else is he liable to be? Don't worry about getting
him into trouble. I swear, you'll be doing him a favour if
you tell me. Now, I know he's got a girlfriend. Do you
know where she lives?'
Kevin looked at the floor, debating what to do for the
best. He didn't want to grass his mate up, but he could
tell that something serious had happened. He'd never been
a good liar, especially when it came to adults. Shuffling
his feet, he stayed silent.
'Kevin, you must tell me where he is. His Uncle
Mickey's looking for him, and if I don't get to him first,
you'll probably never see Charlie again.'
Kevin's eyes bulged. Charlie was the only friend he'd
ever had and the prospect of losing him didn't bear
thinking about. 'He hasn't really got a girlfriend,' he
mumbled. 'He lied to you because he's been spending
time with his dad.'
Debbie felt a wave of shock go through her as the
words hit home.
'His dad! No, it can't be. Are you sure, Kevin?'
'I've seen him with me own eyes, so I know it's true.
He turned up one day at school. Charlie didn't want to
know him at first, but then he started seeing him. That's
why he said he had a girlfriend, so he could get out and
meet Billy.'
'Where does his dad live? Has he told you? You must tell me.'
T don't know the address, he's never invited me round
there. I know it's in Barking, in a tower block, but that's
all I know. I swear that's the truth.'
Andy's! Debbie thought. He has to be at bloody Andy's.
Thanking Kevin for his help, she ran back down the path,
leapt in her motor and headed towards the Gascoigne Estate.
Charlie opened another beer and paced up and down in
the living room of Andy's flat. His dad hadn't come home
all night and had his mobile switched off. Charlie was a
bundle of nerves as he had no idea how else to contact
him.
'Sit down, son. I'll put some music on. Chill out with
your Uncle Andy.'
Charlie declined the offer of a puff. He was paranoid
enough as it was, and being stoned would only make him
feel ten times worse.
'Try me dad again, Andy,' he demanded, unable to
relax. The call went straight on to voicemail.
Mickey kissed both Karen and Lois goodbye. Neither of
them asked where he was going as neither of them had
to. 'Now, remember what I said, don't let anybody in,' he
told them. 'Don't go out at all, and if you're worried about
anything in the slightest, just ring me. I've patched the
window up and me mate Tony's gonna fix it properly
tomorrow.'
'We'll be fine,' Karen said, pushing him towards the
front door. She was desperate to have some time on her
own with her daughter and, until now, this hadn't been
possible.
"Bye, Lois, I'll call you later,' Dean said as he bowled
out behind Mickey.
Dean's house was less than a five-minute drive away.
Mickey thought now was the best time to have a quiet
word with the boy.
'Thanks for everything you've done, son, you've been
a star, but you've gotta promise me one thing. I don't
want one word of what happened yesterday getting out
to no one. You mustn't say jack shit - not at school, your
boxing club, not even to your parents. Do you understand
where I'm coming from, Dean?'
The boy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Mickey
might be putting things in a nice way but there was no
mistaking the threat behind what he was saying.
T promise you faithfully, I won't say a word.'
'Good lad,' Mickey said, ruffling his hair before he got
out of the car. 'You look after me, Deano, and I'll look
after you.'
"Bye, Mr Dawson,' Dean shouted as he legged it up
the path.
'Where to now?' Steve asked as Mickey got back into
the car.
'Go to the lock-up first, I've got some rope there and
tools, then head to the club and we'll get the gun out the
safe.'
Steve put his foot down and they sped along in eerie
silence.
Debbie turned the engine off and sat facing the tower
block. She felt weird and her heart-rate was rising by
the second. She hadn't thought about Billy or what he'd
done to her for years. She'd believed she was completely
over her past experiences. But hearing his name earlier,
and sitting here now, somehow told her differently. She
would never forget what the bastard had done to her,
and the thought of walking into the flats and coming
face-to-face with him again filled her with absolute
terror.
Billy McDaid lit up a fag, lay back on the bed and stretched
out like a starfish. Cindy the barmaid had turned out to
be a cute little sort. Twenty-five, funny and tarty, she was
Billy's type of bird. When she dragged him home and
treated him to the bunk-up of a lifetime, he thought he'd
died and gone to heaven. The gaff she lived in was a
palace compared to Andy's dive. The only downside was
that she lived with her three little nippers whom she'd
just shot out to collect from her mum.
Finishing his snout, Billy jumped up and decided to
have a snoop around before she returned.
After picking up the tools and gun, Mickey and Steve
were at a loose end as to where to start looking.
'Charlie's got one mate called Kevin who I've never
even fucking seen but apparently he lives in Harold Hill.
Debbie reckons he's also got a girlfriend, but I don't
believe that in a million years.'
'What's the bird's name?'
'No idea,' Steve replied, shrugging his shoulders. 'She's
invisible, no cunt's ever seen her. Listen, forget the bird,
there is no bird. Concentrate on the mate.'
Mickey nodded. 'Harold Hill it is then.'
Billy's hopes and dreams of getting his feet under the
table in a new abode were blown up in smoke as soon as
the kids arrived home. Monsters, they were, in every sense
of the word. They were that bad, they made Charlie as a
child look like a choir boy.
Switching his phone on, he prayed that someone had
contacted him. The bleep of a message would allow him
to make a quick escape. As luck would have it, his phone
bleeped numerous times. Twenty-one, in fact. Something's
fucking happened, he thought. No bastard ever rang him,
only Charlie here and there, his aunt once a month, and
a few druggies wanting gear. The first couple of messages
gave nothing away.
'Dad, where are you? Ring me, it's urgent.'
The next few followed suit. Although the panic had
heightened in his son's voice, he revealed little more. It
was message number ten that made Billy pay proper
attention.
'Dad, please help me. I'm at Andy's. I've done something
really bad ... I've attacked Lois and sort of. . .
raped her.'
'Where's the nearest cab firm?' Billy screamed at Cindy.
'Top of the road. Do a right and then first right again.
You're not going yet, are you, Bill? When am I going to
see you again?'
Without answering, Billy bolted out of the door. As he
got to the end of the road, he stopped running and started
walking. He needed to plan things and running stopped
him from thinking straight. Getting Charlie out of the
area had to be his first priority. Billy had had first-hand
experience of Mickey's fury and was damned if he was
letting the same happen to his boy. Problem was, money
was tight. He'd been surviving by selling a bit of smoke
in a couple of the local pubs, but he'd been working it
on a very small basis, earning just about enough to get
by on.
Billy sat in the cab and rang Charlie. Guessing by the
answer-phone message that the kid had switched his phone
off, he rang Andy and asked to speak to his son.
'Look, Charlie, keep calm and don't panic,' he told the
boy. 'You'll be fine, trust me. I'll be home in ten minutes
and then we'll put our heads together and work out what
to do next.'
'Okay, Dad,' said his relieved son.
Billy tucked his mobile into his jacket pocket, threw
his arms across the back seat and allowed himself a wry
smile. Things just couldn't have worked out better. His
boy, his own flesh and blood, had come up trumps for
him. In fact, the kid had played an absolute blinder. Billy
let out a nasty, evil laugh. Revenge was sweet and he was
determined to enjoy every second of his. After years of
waiting, thanks to Charlie he was finally going to have
the last say.
'All right, Missus? Nice motor. What you after? We can
get you whatever you want. Just name it and we'll sort
it.' '
Debbie opened her window and stared at the four little
lads standing nearby. 'I'm not after anything, lads. I'm
just here to visit someone and you wanna be careful who
you try and sell stuff to. I could be anyone, for all you
know'
'You're not old bill, are you?' the dirty-faced boy asked.
He was the mouthpiece, the ringleader.
'No, I'm not. Far from it, in fact,' she replied, smiling
at his cockiness.
Chatting with the lads was a welcome distraction. She
became so engrossed in the bit of banter that she failed
to notice Billy McDaid get out of a cab and stroll into
the tower block.
Mickey and Steve's search was proving fruitless. They
had no success at all as they scoured the streets of Harold
Hill, asking everybody and anybody if they knew of
Charlie or a lad called Kevin.
'This is fucking bollocks,' Mickey said, looking at his
watch.
Steve shrugged his shoulders. 'What else do you
suggest we do? The cunt's got no mates, no hobbies . . .
finding him was never gonna be easy, Mick.'
'I know it weren't, but driving round here like a pair
of prize pricks ain't exactly helping, is it? What about his
bedroom, Steve? Can't you have a snoop round, see if
you can find any clues as to where the cunt goes?'
T could try. It all depends if Debs is in.'
Sparking up a fag, Mickey stared at the big splashes
of rain, pounding against the windscreen. The weather
was dismal. It matched his mood perfectly.
'Drop me off at the nearest pub. You go home, search
for clues, and pick me up when you're done.'
'Come with us, if you want. I doubt Debs is in, and
even if she is we'll make some excuse,' Steve said, doing
a U-turn.
'You're having a fucking laugh, ain't you? I can't be
near her at the moment,' Mickey said honestly. 'Things
are never gonna be the same between me and Debs. And
once that perverted son of hers disappears into thin air,
she'll be gunning for me anyway'
Feeling as if he was torn between the devil and the
deep blue sea, Steve made the rest of the journey in silence.
'Oh, Dad, I'm so pleased to see you,' Charlie exclaimed
as his wanderer of a father returned.
'We got any cans?' Billy asked Andy.
'Nah, we've drunk the last of 'em.'
'Do us a favour, mate. Go down to the offie and get
us some.'
Billy handed Andy a score, glad to be rid of him so
he could talk to his boy alone.
'What exactly happened, son?' he asked solemnly, not
wanting to show the glee he was feeling inside.
'I'm sorry, Dad, but it weren't my fault. She asked me
round and told me to bring some johnnies. I'd had a beer
and a puff and that. I just thought me luck was in, and I
suppose I got a bit heavy-handed with her. She reckoned
the text was meant for someone else, not for me. I was
so angry with her, I just lost it, Dad!'
'It's nae your bloody fault! She's a prick teaser and
deserves all she got. Don't blame yourself, laddie.'
'Do you reckon they've called the police? 'Cause if
they have, I've got the text message she sent me on my
phone. That'll prove me innocent, won't it, Dad?'
'Mickey willnae want the police involved,' Billy said.
'He's always been a dodgy bastard and he wouldnae want
the filth sniffing round. What was the outcome? Did you
actually rape her, Charlie?'
'Sort of. I forced her to do things and stuff.'
Ruffling his boy's hair, Billy smiled at him. 'Serves
her fucking right. And Mickey as well. Look, Charlie,
you've told me Mickey's always despised you, and
remember what he did to me. He nearly killed me, the
cunt. Dinnae feel bad about what you did, I'm proud of
you. You've paid him back for the both of us, in the best
way possible.'
Charlie locked eyes with his creator and smiled. He
and his dad were two of a kind, and he was glad now
he'd done what he had. 'What do you think will happen,
Dad? I can't go to Mum's. Mickey and Steve'll kill me
if I go back there.'
Handing his son a fag, Billy lit one himself and took
a deep drag. 'You willnae have to go back to your mother's.
Look, no one knows we're here at Andy's. We'll just class
here while I get some money together, and then fuck off,
as far away as possible.'
T love you, Dad, and I'm so glad you found me.'
T love you too, son,' Billy replied, his voice filled with
emotion.
Debbie sat in a pub along the A13 and ordered her third
large glass of wine. After chatting to the four scallywags,
her bottle had gone and she'd decided she needed a drink
if she were to risk coming face-to-face with Billy McDaid.
Sitting outside the tower block, knowing that her ex was
back on the scene, had filled Debbie with emotions and
memories she'd buried long ago. The thought of raking
up the past filled her with dread.
Gesticulating to the barman to bring her a fourth, she
decided to make this the last. The drink had started to
make her feel calm, courageous in fact, and she knew
she had to go to that flat, whether she liked it or not.
Fuck Billy McDaid, she thought. Charlie was her son,
and she'd be the one to decide what happened to him
now. It'd been she who had fed him, clothed him, soothed
him through his illnesses, comforted him through his
nightmares, and stuck by him through thick and thin.
Charlie was her responsibility, always had been and always
would be, and she wasn't going to let his arsehole of a
father, who had turned up like a bad penny, stop her from
performing her parental duty.
Chucking the last of her wine down her neck, she stood
up, grabbed her handbag and strolled confidently out of
the pub.
'Please let me make you something, Lois. I know you're upset but you must eat,
love. You'll be ill if you don't.'
T can't eat, Mum,' Lois whispered. Unable to keep her
experience to herself any longer, she burst into tears. 'He
made me suck his thingy! Oh, Mum, it was awful.'
Karen hugged her daughter tight and cried with her.
It had been a terrible day for the pair of them. She'd
tried to encourage Lois to talk about what had happened,
but until now her daughter had just clammed up and
trembled from head to foot. Karen felt indescribably
angry to see the state Lois was in and for the first time
in her life, she wished the worst for Charlie. Hopefully,
her Mickey would be able to oblige and make that wish
come true.
Debbie patiently waited for the lift doors to open. Stepping
inside, she breathed in the familiar smell of urine and
filth. The journey to Andy's floor was short but seemed
to take forever. Reaching her destination, Debbie took a
deep breath before rapping on the door.
'Shhh, keep quiet. Dinnae answer it,' Billy said immediately.
'Charlie,
I know you're in there . . . Kevin told me.
Open the door, love. I know you're with your dad and
I'm not angry, but I really need to talk to you. I'm here
to help you, nothing else. Please, son, let me in.'
'Fucking hell,' Billy grunted angrily.
Walking into the hallway, he peeped through the spy
hole to check that Debbie was alone.
'Open it, Dad,' Charlie whispered. 'There's no way
she'd bring Steve or Mickey here with her, and we might
get some money out of her.'
Forever the coward, Billy urged Andy to do the honours.
'All right, Debs,' he said awkwardly.
Coming face to face with Billy was something Debbie
had always feared. One look at him now told her differently.
She realised that the hold he'd had over her was
long gone. She felt zilch. No dread, no emotion, nothing.
It was almost as though he'd never been a part of her life.
'Long time, no see,' she said boldly.
'You look really well,' Billy replied, unable to make
direct eye contact with her.
Glancing at her surreptiously, he was taken aback by
how good she looked. Her new, improved image was a
far cry from the way she had been when she'd lived with
him. Unnerved by her presence, Billy made a quick exit
to the kitchen, dragging Andy with him.
'We'll leave you to it,' he said, shutting the door.
'What happened, love?' Debbie asked, turning her attention
to Charlie.
'She invited me round there, Mum, honest she did.
"Get some johnnies" she put on her text, and then when
I got there she bottled it, pretended the text was for
someone else. We were both quite drunk. She was drinking
her dad's vodka and I was drinking his Scotch.'
'And I suppose things just got a bit out of hand, love,
didn't they?' Debbie urged, holding the boy's hands and
finishing his story for him.
'Yes, Mum, but I'm telling the truth, I swear. If you
don't believe me, you can look at my phone. I kept her
text message on there.'
Debbie glanced at it. 'I never doubted you anyway,
Charlie,' she said without hesitation. 'I knew there'd be
a simple explanation. The thing is, what are we gonna do
next? It's Mickey I'm worried about. He's a lunatic when
he loses it and I'm scared of what he might do to you,
son.'
T don't wanna come home, Mum. Please don't make
me. Can't I live with my dad for a bit?'
Unable to think straight, Debbie stayed silent. Her
precious baby living with Billy was the last thing she
wanted, but what other option did she have? He couldn't
stay at home now, not after this. For a start Steve wouldn't
allow him to be around the girls, and Mickey would never
forgive or forget.
Finally she spoke. 'I'm not happy about you living
with him, Charlie. And where would you go? You can't
stay here, love.'
T wanna move to Glasgow with him, Mum. He has a
nice aunt up there and she said we can stay with her. I hate
it round here. I'm bullied at school, Steve hates me, and
now Mickey's gonna kill me. Please, Mum, say I can go?'
'Go and get your dad, I need to speak to him alone
for a minute.'
Doing exactly as he was told, Charlie smiled as he left
the room. Ever since he was a baby, he'd sensed he could
wind his mother around his little finger and today was
no different. Telling Billy to go and speak to his mum,
he opened up a can of cider and chatted to Andy.
Billy felt awkward as he walked back into the lounge
and faced his ex.
'You look lovely, Debs. Your nose looks different. Have
you had it done?'
She looked at the piece of shit standing opposite her
and felt nothing but contempt for him. She would never know, till the day she
died, what she'd ever seen in Billy
McDaid. Determined to get the better of him now, she
looked him straight in the eye.
'Yes, I had to have it done, Billy, as the last time you
beat me up you smashed it to smithereens. Oh, and by
the way, have you ever told your son that you dangled
him out the window and threatened to kill him?'
Billy shook his head and looked down at the threadbare,
drink-stained carpet.
Knowing she had him by the short and curlies, Debbie
carried on.
'Let's cut the shit, Billy. Charlie said he wants to move
to Glasgow with you, and as much as I hate that thought,
I don't see I have any real choice. It's either that or
Mickey's gonna kill him. Now the punchline is, can you
look after him?'
Billy answered her as truthfully as he could. 'I'm nae
perfect, Debs, but I love the wee man. I'll do the very
best I can.'
'Where will you live?'
'I'll take him to my auntie's. She's got plenty of room
in her house and she'll spoil him rotten.'
'What about money, Billy? Have you got any?'
He felt a complete loser as he answered, 'No, I'm skint.
I've spent all my money while I've been living here.'
Debbie enjoyed watching him squirm. 'Look, I'll sort
some money out for you, but you have to promise me
you'll take good care of him.'
'I will,' Billy agreed.
Calling Charlie back into the room, Debbie explained
what had been decided. 'Now, I'm gonna give you and
your dad some money and I want you to promise me that
you'll buy a new mobile out of that and text me the
number. I'll take your old phone with me and keep it as
evidence, just in case the police get involved.'
'Okay, Mum,' Charlie said. He was ecstatic. He had a
new life with his dad to look forward to and couldn't wait
to start it.
'You need to get away from here as soon as possible,'
Debbie urged. 'The bank will be shut today but I'll go
there first thing tomorrow and draw out some money. In
the meantime, I'll pack some of your stuff from indoors
and bring it to you when I pick you up tomorrow. I'll be
here by half-ten.'
'Thanks, Mum,' Charlie said.
Debbie didn't answer, she couldn't. She could never
remember feeling so sad in the whole of her life. Her
only son, her baby, and she was having to say goodbye
to him for the sake of his own safety.
The situation was soul-destroying, totally horrendous,
and all she could do now was hope and bloody pray that
she'd made the right decision. Sobbing her heart out as
she left the flat, she clambered back into her car and
headed home.
Charlie and Billy couldn't stop laughing. 'I cannae believe
she's gonnae bung us the money,' Billy said excitedly.
'I told you, Dad, she adores me. I can get anything out
of her I want.'
Billy broke into song, holding his son's hands and
swinging him around the room. '"I belong to Glasgow,
dear old Glasgow town.'"
'Sing some more, Dad,' Charlie pleaded.
'"But what's the matter with Glasgow, for it's going
round and round. I'm only a common old working chap
as anyone here can see. But when I get a couple of drinks
on a Saturday, Glasgow belongs to me!'"
Mickey had sunk half a dozen drinks by the time Steve
arrived back at the pub.
'Well?' he asked expectantly.
'No good,' Steve replied, shrugging his shoulders. 'I
looked everywhere, Mick, but there's nothing. I found
some dodgy-looking films, Rizlas, that type of stuff, but
nothing that's liable to help us find the little shit.'
While Steve went to get himself a beer, Mickey
pondered over what to do next. In usual circumstances,
he'd have had no trouble hunting someone down. Charlie,
though, was a different ball game. He was a creep, a waste
of fucking space, so unpopular he had no regular haunts
to visit or mates to threaten. Mickey didn't have the first clue how to find
the evil little bastard.
'What's plan B, then?' Steve asked, as he rejoined his
ally.
'I'm fucked if I know,' Mickey replied, taking a sip
from his bottle of Bud. 'The only lead we've got so far
is this Kevin kid and if he's Charlie's mate, then he's
bound to be a weirdo. Therefore no cunt we stop and ask
in Harold Hill is gonna know him. It's a shame it's the
school holidays, or we could suss him out there. At least
get an address for him.'
'Why don't we break into the school?' Steve suggested.
'No point,' Mickey replied. 'Not without a surname.
Knowing our luck, we'll only set the fucking alarms off,
and besides there'll be about fifty Kevins at the poxy
place.'
'What about Lois's boyfriend, wouldn't he know where
this lad lives?'
Mickey shook his head. 'I already thought of that one.
I tapped Dean this morning but he ain't got a clue. He
said the kid's a complete freak. I left him my number,
told him to ring round everyone he knows, see if he has
any joy'
Mickey slammed his bottle down on the wooden table.
'Debbie would know where the cunt lives, but she ain't
gonna tell us, is she?'
Steve shrugged. 'I'll have a word with her later. She
may tell me, you never know.'
'Don't waste your fucking time,' Mickey said sarcastically.
'Listen,
I'm gonna ring Dean back and tell him I'm
offering five hundred quid for this fucking Kevin's
address. In the meantime, you have a scout round indoors.
If Debbie leaves her handbag lying about, have a nose
inside, see if she has a number for the cunt.'
'Will do,' Steve said, keen to help, even if it meant
betraying his beloved wife.
Debbie zipped up the large Adidas sports bag, lugged it
down the stairs and put it straight into the back of her
X5. She hid it under her yoga mat, then returned to her
son's bedroom to check for anything important she might
have forgotten.
Pants, socks, T-shirts, trackie bottoms, his new Reebok
trainers . . . she'd even remembered to pack a couple of
the videos and DVDs he'd specifically asked for. How
she was keeping herself together, she didn't know. All she
really wanted to do was lie on her son's bed, hug his
pillow and cry, but she had to get his stuff together and
out of the house before Steve and the girls returned. She'd
been careful about what she packed. She didn't want to
give Steve an inkling of what she was doing. If she took
Charlie's computer, for instance, it would stick out like a
sore thumb, so she'd left it there, along with many other
things whose absence might be noticed.
Hearing the front door slam, she quietly closed Charlie's
bedroom door and made her way downstairs to face the
music with Steve.
'You all right?' he asked, hoping she was now talking
to him.
'Not bad. Where are the girls?'
Knowing by the tone of Debbie's voice that she still
had a cob on, Steve ignored her and chose to head to the
kitchen for a cold beer rather than walk head first into
yet another poxy argument.
'Don't fucking ignore me, Steve. I asked you a simple
question. Where are my girls?'
Steve took a large gulp from his can, then took a deep
breath to try to control his temper. It didn't work.
'Your girls. Your fucking girls? Are these the same girls
you fucked off and left this morning, Debs, without saying
so much as a bastard word to them?'
'You were here. You're their father. Too much trouble
for you to have 'em for once, was it?'
'No, it weren't, Debs, but I had stuff to do, right? If
you'd given me a bit of notice, I could have cancelled
what I had on. But no, not you. You just fuck off and
leave everyone to it.'
T had things to do as well,' Debbie screamed at him.
'Important fucking things! And you still haven't bloody
well told me where they are!'
'At your mother's, all right? Where else would they
fucking be? And if your important things included running
round after that bastard son of yours, I hope you remembered
to tell him he ain't welcome in this fucking house
no more. 1 ain't having it, Debs I swear on my mothers
grave, he ain't coming back in here.'
'Bollocks, you cunt, and you can leave my Charlie out
of this.'
Steve stood up, his eyes blazing with anger. Pointing
his index finger at his own forehead, he told her her
fortune. 'See you? You're mental, a fucking head case.
Leave your Charlie out of it! Are you 'having a laugh? Your
fucking baby boy is the cause of all this, and he'll probably
be the break-up of our marriage as well. Why can't
you see what's in front of your eyes, Debs? He's evil and
he's scum. Everyone else can see it, why can't you?'
Screeching like a lunatic, Debbie lunged at him, hitting
him as hard as she could. 'Because I'm his mother, you
stupid bastard! Don't you understand that? I gave birth
to him.'
Steve had never hit a woman in his life and had no
intention of starting now. Holding her wrists, he tried to
calm her down. 'Stop it, Debs, come on. I don't wanna
fight with you, I just need you to see sense. I love you,
for fuck's sake, that's why I married you.'
His final sentence jarred Debbie back to reality She
sank against his chest and sobbed her heart out.
'Shhh. Come on, don't cry,' he said, holding her tight
and kissing her hair.
'I'm sorry, Steve. It's just everything. Charlie . . .
Mickey, you and me. I'm going off me head with it all.'
Leading her into the lounge, Steve sat her on the sofa
and headed back into the kitchen to open a bottle of wine.
Debs could be the biggest bitch in the world sometimes,
but he loved her dearly and always would. If she left him
tomorrow, he'd never look at another woman, he'd swear
to that. He handed her a glass of Chardonnay, put his own
on the table and took her free hand in his.
'You've gotta stop bottling things up, Debs. You'll end
up having a breakdown if you don't.'
Debbie looked at him and smiled through her tears. 'I
know you're right, but please, let's not talk about it tonight.
I can't face it, Steve. I've no more fight left in me body,
I can't deal with it right now'
Putting his big arm around her, Steve held her close.
'I won't make you talk about anything but me, you and
the girls. How does that suit ya? Now ring your mum and
ask her if she can look after Gracie and Rosie for a few
days. It'll give us a bit of time on our own.'
Debbie handed the phone to him. 'You ring her, Steve.
I haven't spoken to her since we came back from
Centerparcs. You'll have to ask.'
Understanding her embarrassment, Steve made the all
important call. 'Sorted,' he said as he laid the phone on
the sofa next to him.
'Did she say anything about me?' Debs asked anxiously.
'No,' Steve lied as he jumped up to put a CD on.
Dimming the lights, he sat back down and snuggled up
to his wife. They needed time alone, to try and repair the
damage Charlie had caused in their relationship. Steve
was determined to get things back on track.
Mickey rubbed Lois's back for what seemed liked the
tenth time since he'd returned home. She'd been that ill,
they'd brought a bucket into the lounge to save her from
frequent trips to the toilet. She couldn't stop being sick,
but seeing as she was unable to eat, had nothing to bring
up but bile.
'Shhh. Stop crying, angel. Come on, Daddy's here now.
Everything will be fine, trust me. I'll sort everything out
and you'll be okay, I promise you.'
Wiping her mouth with a tissue, Lois turned to the
man she'd grown to adore and forced herself to smile.
'I love you, Daddy.'
As he looked into his daughter's tearful eyes, Mickey
felt his heart break in two. The poor little mite was
suffering beyond belief. He would not rest until he got
revenge for her. As he stroked her hair, he mused on
whether or not to burn Charlie alive. He could quite easily
set him alight and watch him go up in smoke. Telling
Karen to swap places on the sofa with him, he headed to
his shed to search for paraffin. He found some, took the
cans round to the alleyway and, for the first time that day,
allowed himself to smile.
A cremation was exactly what Charlie deserved, and
Mickey was determined that was exactly what he was
gonna fucking get.
Steve uncorked the third bottle of wine and danced back
into the living room, doing an impression of Barry White
singing 'My First, My Last, My Everything'.
'Sit down, you silly bastard,' she said, smiling at his
antics. She'd enjoyed tonight even though she felt sad and
empty after the shock of yesterday. In her heart, she knew
it was time to let Charlie go and concentrate on the girls
and her marriage instead.
'Thanks for tonight, Steve,' she said, her eyes almost
closed with tiredness.
'You've welcome, babe. We should do it more often,
eh?'
Receiving no answer, he realised she'd fallen asleep in
his arms. Moving his left arm from behind her, he gently
laid her head on his lap. As he noticed her handbag next
to the sofa, he fleetingly remembered Mickey's request,
sighed, and erased the thought from his mind. He couldn't
do it. There was no way he'd be able to search through
his wife's bag without her permission. It didn't belong in
his rule book and as much as he wanted to help Mickey,
there was no way he was going to ruin his marriage in
the process.
Steve sat there for ages, deciding what to do for the
best. As he watched Debs lying across his legs, he took
in her pretty features and her gentle snores. His decision
was made there and then. He just couldn't betray her. If
Mickey wanted to dispose of Charlie, he'd have to do it
alone.
Steve hated his stepson more than life itself, but not
enough to kill him. How the hell could he ever face Debs
again if he'd contributed to the demise of her only son?
He'd break his decision to Mickey in the morning. He
would still go with him and look for the kid, but once
they found him, that was it, Steve was bowing out. What
happened from then on was Mickey's call.
Looking down at Debs, Steve smiled to himself. He'd
married her for better or for worse and he wasn't about
to break his vows. Not now, not ever.
Unable to sleep well, Mickey rose early the next morning
and by seven o'clock was raring to go. He realised it was
far too early for Steve to be out of his pit so spent the
next couple of hours pottering about downstairs, desperate
to keep himself busy. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, he
was surprised to see Lois standing at the kitchen door
rather than Karen.
'Hello, angel, you're up early. How do you feel today?'
She flashed him a fragile smile. 'I'm a bit better, thanks,
Dad. I feel hungry. Will you cook me some breakfast?'
'That's my girl,' Mickey said as he hugged her tight.
Now, what shall I rustle you up? Beans on toast . . .
omelette ... or how about a full English?'
'Beans and cheese on toast, please, Dad.'
Mickey winked at her. She had a bit of colour back in
her cheeks and he was relieved to see her looking brighter.
'It'll be ready in five, my little darling. Now, pop
upstairs and ask Mummy what she wants.'
Half an hour later, with the breakfast plates cleared,
Lois excused herself from the table and headed back to
the privacy of her bedroom. She hadn't eaten since before
the attack and breakfast had made her feel sick and
lethargic.
T was thinking, Mick. We should go and pick Alfie
up today. I miss him and it's not fair on June to leave
him there any longer. Shall I give her a call?' Karen
suggested.
The piercing ring of his phone stopped Mickey from
answering his wife's question. 'Hello,' he said, recognising
the number of his daughter's boyfriend.
'I've got the address for you,' Dean told him excitedly.
'Fire away, kid.'
Steve was in the middle of making love to Debbie, for
the first time in weeks, when his 'I'm Forever Blowing
Bubbles' ring tone spoiled their intimacy.
'I'm sorry, babe,' he said, reaching across to the bedside
cabinet to turn the bastard thing off.
'Answer it, Steve,' she said, looking at the clock. 'I've
got to pop out anyway, then I'm gonna sort the girls out
and that.'
'Bollocks,' he muttered as he felt his hard-on deflate.
Mickey's dulcet tones telling him he'd got the address
made Steve feel nothing but guilt. All of this was bollocks,
he'd be glad when he was out of it. How could he be
making love to his wife one minute then plotting the
downfall of her only son the next? Thoroughly pissed off,
he lay back on the bed for a minute.
'I'll see you later, Steve,' Debbie shouted to him.
'Where you going?' he yelled.
She hadn't been up ten minutes and had only just got
out of the shower. Surely she hadn't gone out already.
Not getting an answer, he ran down the stairs in his
birthday suit. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck,' he muttered as he peered
out of the front door, just in time to see the back of her
X5 disappear down the drive. Stomping back upstairs
with the hump of all humps, he quickly got dressed,
grabbed his keys and shot off to pick up Mickey.
After a quick stop at the bank, Debbie drove straight to
Barking and pulled up outside the tower block. It's now
or never, she thought as she glanced at her reflection in
the mirror to see if she looked as bad as she felt. Checking
that Charlie's sports bag was well hidden in the back, she
took a quick look round to check that there were no thieves
or druggies lurking nearby. Then, taking a deep breath,
she strolled into the tower block, to rescue her beloved
boy.
'Not left, you thick cunt. Right! Turn right.'
Steve sighed as he amended his mistake. His day was
going from bad to worse and Mickey had been in a proper
foul mood since he'd told him of his decision.
'How long have we been pals? I can't believe you, you
cunt,' his friend had shouted at him.
'But Debs is my wife, Mick, I just can't do it. I'll come
round to this Kevin's with you and help you find him,
but then you're on your own.'
'Just fucking drive then, Judas!'
The rest of the journey to Harold Hill had taken place
in silence, apart from Mickey's bad-tempered directions.
'Stop here. This is it, number twenty-four.'
Steve parked the motor and turned the engine off.
Mickey ran up the path and within seconds had nearly
broken the front door down.
'Wh-What h-have I done?' asked a petrified Kevin as
he was lifted up by his scruffy T-shirt and slammed against
the filthy wall in the hallway.
'Where can I find your perverted cunt of a friend?'
Mickey screeched.
'It's n-nothing to do with me. I've told his mum everything
I know.' Kevin could barely speak, he was shaking
so much. His nan had popped round to the Co-op and
when he'd heard the ferocious banging on the door, he'd
flung it open, thinking she'd had a fall or been in an accident.
Trying to get his words out when he was nervous
wasn't easy for him, but somehow he managed to tell
Mickey that Charlie had been seeing his dad and was
probably at a tower block in Barking.
'If you're lying to me, I'm gonna fucking kill ya,'
Mickey said as he dropped the fat kid back on his feet.
Mickey ran back to the motor and leaped in. 'Andy's
flat, on the Gascoigne Estate, and put your fucking foot
down,' he barked at Steve. 'Oh, and by the way, it looks
like your darling wife has beaten us to it.'
Steve had had enough by now. He was sick of being
Mr Nice Guy. 'Whaddya mean, my darling wife? Don't
take this out on me, Mick. She's your fucking sister, you
cunt! You was the one that introduced us in the first place,
so don't take all your shit out on me. Save it for some
other mug.'
'Sorry,' Mickey said sheepishly. 'But if you'd have seen
the state of my Lois yesterday, you'd know how I feel.
Imagine if it were one of your two girls.'
T know what you're saying, Mick, but you can't take
it out on other people. Charlie's the one to blame for all
this, no one else. Now, do you remember what number
Andy lives at, 'cause I fucking don't.'
'Not offhand,' Mickey replied, trying to rack his brains.
'But, believe me, I'll find him. Even if I have to knock
on every door in the entire block to find the cunt, I will
Steve glanced at his pal. He'd never seen him as angry
as this before. He wouldn't like to be in Charlie's shoes
when Mickey managed to get his hands on him, that was
for sure.
'Now hurry up, Charlie. I'll meet you downstairs at the
car,' Debbie said, desperate to get away from Billy who
had spent the last five minutes trying to make polite
conversation with her.
Once in the car, she was relieved to find all Charlie's
belongings still intact. She started the engine, praying for
her son to hurry up. She was desperate to get him out of
the area and out of harm's way. She knew her brother
better than anyone, knew that he was quite capable of
finding her son and wiping him off the face of the earth,
without so much as a second thought.
Breathing a sigh of relief as Charlie and Billy ran
towards her, she ordered her son to sit next to her in the
front.
'I'll drive you to the station ,then 1 want you to promise
me you'll get the first available train to Glasgow'
Charlie smiled. He was so excited about moving up
North with his dad, he could barely believe his luck.
'There's a thousand pounds in here,' she said, handing
him a white envelope. 'Now, what I'm gonna do, Charlie,
is open up a new account at a different bank. Steve won't
know about it, no one will. When you get to Scotland,
all you have to do is open up a savings account, and that
way I can send you money on a regular basis.'
'No problem, Mum,' he said. What a touch! She'd keep
them in beer, fags and drugs. Result, he thought as he
turned and grinned at his dad.
Mickey struck gold within five minutes. The third person
he asked about Andy happened to be a heroin addict,
dying for a fix. Snatching the twenty quid from Mickey's
hand, the junkie gladly pointed him to the door of Andy's
flat. Receiving no reply to his frantic knocking, Mickey
kicked it down within seconds.
'Fuck,' he said, as he realised the place was empty.
'You check out the bedroom, Steve, see if they've been
here. I'll case the rest of it.'
'Any joy?' Mickey shouted, minutes later.
The place was a tip, a shit-hole. Andy obviously spent
the bulk of his life purchasing drugs rather than belongings.
'Fuck
all in here,' Steve said, closing the door that
hung ajar on the wardrobe. Just as he was about to leave
the room, he clocked something bright blue sticking out
from under the bed. He took one look at the Glasgow
Rangers shirt and knew that Billy and Charlie had been
there. Wishing it had been Mickey and not he who had
found the bastard thing, he stood rooted to the spot,
wondering what to do for the best.
Images of Debbie came into his mind. Her laughter,
her temper, the lovely evening they'd enjoyed the previous
night, their unfinished love-making this morning.
Choosing his heart over his head, Steve opened the
bedroom window and flung the Glasgow Rangers shirt
out into the murky Barking air.
'Any luck?' Mickey asked seconds later as he stomped
into the room to double-check Steve's search.
'Nothing in here, mate,' Steve lied, wondering if the
guilt he was feeling was showing on his face.
Andy strolled along happily swinging his tenner's worth
of Stella in a carrier bag. Billy had left him fifty quid as
a thank you for putting him and Charlie up, and Andy
had wasted little time in spending it. As Andy was permanently
skint, purchasing crack, puff and a crate of lager
all in one go was a fucking luxury to him. Having spent
his money wisely, he couldn't wait to get home, stick on
a bit of Hendrix, and get well and truly shit-faced.
'Oi, Andy!' little Terry Jackson called out. 'Don't go
to your flat,' he said, pointing towards the tower block.
'There's two big geezers up there and they've booted your
door in.'
'What did they look like?' asked a panic-stricken Andy.
'Dunno if they're old bill, but one's a big skinhead
geezer and the other one's tall with dark hair.'
Dropping his beers so that he could run faster, Andy
turned around and literally fled for his life.
At King's Cross, Debbie couldn't bear to let her son walk
off without seeing him safely on to the train. 'I want a
bit of time alone with him,' she said to Billy, urging him
to make himself scarce. Billy took the hint and went off
to purchase his sidekick and himself some booze for the
journey.
Sitting down on a bench next to Charlie, Debbie held
his clammy hand.
'Mum! There's people looking,' Charlie said, snatching
it away. He felt totally embarrassed by her behaviour and
open tearfulness. 'Why don't you go?' he said callously,
as he looked around for his dad.
'Don't be like that, love. 1 am your mum. I just wanna
say goodbye and make sure you get on the train all right.'
'I said I'd get on the train, didn't I? I ain't gonna leg
it, am I?'
'Don't be nasty to me, Charlie. I love you more than
anything and I've always been there for you. Don't be
like this to me.'
'Sorry,' Charlie said. She was cramping his style now.
He couldn't wait to get rid of her.
Hurt by his uncaring attitude, Debbie stood up. 'As
soon as your dad gets back, go and sit in the carriage.
The train's just pulled in and they're letting people go
through.'
'Okay' he replied, wishing his dad would bloody well
hurry up.
'Now don't forget, Charlie, as soon as you get there,
buy a mobile phone. I need you to keep in touch with
me regularly and let me know how you're doing. If you're
unhappy at all, or your dad's not looking after you properly,
I'll come and get you, love. Things are bound to die
down with Mickey in time, and you know you've always
got a home with me.'
'Thanks,' Charlie said ungratefully.
His dad was walking towards them so he stood up. 'I'd
better go, Mum.'
As Debbie put her arms around him, she felt empty
and betrayed by his obvious lack of emotion. He seemed
to feel nothing for her at all.
"Bye, Charlie. Take care, son,' she murmured.
'See ya, Debs,' Billy said awkwardly.
'Take care of him for me,' Debbie pleaded, tears
streaming down her face.
Feeling momentarily sorry for his ex, Billy patted her
on the arm. "Course I'll look after him. Don't worry,
he'll be fine with me.'
Debbie wept as she watched them get into their carriage
and then, as the train pulled away, sobbed her heart out.
Not knowing when she was going to see her beloved boy
again was pure hell, but at least this way he was still
alive. Packing him off with Billy was the last thing she
had wanted to do, but it was better than seeing him cold
on a mortuary slab.
Debbie headed back to the car park, started the engine
and switched on her mobile. She'd kept it off all day, in
case Steve rang her. She'd enjoyed last night and couldn't
face lying to him. Dialling her answer-phone, the only
voice that she expected to hear was his. The tearful
messages from her mother she hadn't expected.
Debbie pressed Call-back. 'Come on, Mum,' she
muttered, annoyed to hear the engaged signal. Heading
for home, she kept on pressing redial. 'Whatever's wrong?'
she asked when June finally answered.
'Oh, Debs,' her mother sobbed. 'I don't know how to
say this, love, but . . . it's Gracie.'
'What's the matter? Has she had an accident?' Debbie
asked frantically.
'No, worse than that. She told me something, Debs,
something terrible.'
'Oh, for Christ's sake, Mum. Just spit it out, will ya?'
Debbie's day had been bad enough. The last thing she
needed was her mother playing the drama queen.
June took a deep breath. 'Our poor little Gracie . . .
oh, Debs, she's been sexually abused!'
Debbie swerved violently. How she escaped death then
only God knew. She missed an oncoming lorry by inches.
The day had started off pleasantly for June. Peter was
out playing golf, the sun was shining, and she was
surrounded by her grandchildren. At one o'clock, she
put a tired Alfie down for a nap. A cooking lesson was
next on the agenda. She helped the girls make their very
first Victoria sponge.
'My stomach is so full, Nanny, I feel sick.'
June smiled at a pale-looking Rosie. She'd eaten half
the bloody cake, no wonder she felt so ill. 'Go and have
a lie down on your bed, darling. A little sleep will make
you feel much better.'
For once, Rosie did as she was told.
As soon as the little girl had left the room, a concerned
June turned to her eldest granddaughter. 'You've been
very quiet the last couple of days. Is everything all right,
Grade?'
Chewing her fingernails, the child nodded and looked
away.
June sat down at the kitchen table, and looked directly
at her. 'You can tell your old nan anything, you know.
Even things you can't tell Mummy and Daddy'
Gracie's eyes filled with tears. 'It's a secret, Nanny. I
do want to tell you, but I can't.'
'Why not?' June asked her gently.
'Because if I tell you, Rosie will be chopped up and
killed.'
June kneeled down next to her. 'Don't cry, Gracie. No
one will hurt Rosie, I promise you that. Now you must
tell Nanny who's been upsetting you. Is it somebody at
school?'
Gracie shook her head. Should she tell or should she
not? Unsure what to do for the best, she decided to test
the water. 'You know I was asking if Charlie did bad
things to Lois?'
June nodded. She might have known this had something
to do with her evil bastard grandson. 'Has he been
nasty to you? Has he threatened you, Gracie? You must
tell me.'
Gracie knew it was now or never. She desperately
needed to tell someone. Averting her innocent eyes from
her nan's, she stared into her lap. 'Charlie did bad things
to me, too. He used to make me play special games with
him. Is that what he did to Lois, Nanny?'
June took a deep, steadying breath. 'Tell Nanny what
special games, darling, and I'll tell you if they're the same
ones as Lois played.'
As she spoke, Gracie held her breath. 'He made me
play the willy game, Nanny, that's what he called it. He
made me put his dinkle in my mouth and kiss it until he
told me to stop.'
June felt her blood run cold. Gasping for breath, she
reached for the phone.
After her near brush with death, the drive back through
London to her mother's seemed to take Debbie forever. Her
head was all over the place and she didn't know what to
think. She felt sick, ill and emotional, and just hoped there'd
been a mix up somewhere along the line and a simple explanation
would contradict the words she'd just heard.
Pulling up on her mother's driveway, she was relieved
to see Peter's car wasn't there. Things were bad enough
without him sticking his oar in.
'Oh, Debbie!' June ushered her daughter into the living
room, her eyes red-raw from crying.
'Where are the girls?' she asked immediately.
'Peter's taken them out with Alfie. I asked him to, so we could talk.'
Biting her nails, Debbie sat down opposite her mother.
'What exactly did Gracie say to you, Mum?'
'We were in the kitchen, on our own. I'd been teaching
her how to bake a cake when she started asking questions
about Charlie. She wanted to know if he would be
coming back, and then she asked me what he'd done to
Lois. Well, I didn't know what to tell her, so I just said
that he'd been a bad boy to Lois and he was in a lot of
trouble.'
'Go on,' Debbie said, getting agitated.
June blew her nose and continued. 'She's been very
quiet for days so I asked her what the matter was. It took
a bit of persuading, but then she just came out with it,
Debs. She said Charlie made her suck his willy! After I
rang you, I gently asked her some more questions. She
said when she was a little girl, Charlie played "special"
games with her . . . used to make her touch him, you
know, down there. I froze, Debs, didn't know what to do.
I asked her if he'd ever touched her in a naughty place
but she said no and clammed up. She didn't want to talk
about it any more. Oh, Debs, our poor Gracie! What are
we going to do?'
Debbie put her head in her hands. She felt like her
whole world had just crashed at her feet. She'd spent years
walking around in rose-tinted glasses, sticking up for
Charlie - and now this. How could he do such a thing?
Worst of all, how could he do it to his own little sister?
Snatching the glass of wine offered to her, she gulped
it down in one then held it out for a refill. 'What time is
Peter bringing 'em back, Mum?' She felt sick, cheated,
and dreaded the questions she knew she would have to
ask her daughter.
'I told him I'd ring him when we'd had our little chat.'
'Did you tell him what had happened? What Gracie
said?'
'No, I didn't,' June replied firmly. 'I told him that you
and Steve hadn't been getting along and you were coming
round for a girlie chat.'
'Thanks,' Debbie mumbled awkwardly. 'You don't think
he's touched Rosie as well, do you, Mum?'
June shrugged. T don't know, love. By the sound of
it, the little bastard's capable of anything. He's never been
right, love, not since the day he was born. It's a shame,
but there's something seriously wrong with that boy'
Holding her glass out for yet another top-up, Debbie
sat in silence. She had to think now, and think quick. As
she debated whether or not to trust her mum and tell her
the story of Charlie's departure, she decided she needed
to confide in someone.
'So that's it, Mum,' she said, ending her story. 'Him
and Billy'll be halfway to Scotland by now.'
'Apart from hell, it's the best place for him.' June's
tone was vicious as she thought about her no-good
grandson. 'Listen, Debs, you can't have no more to do
with the lad, not after this. You've got to wash your hands
of him, you've no other choice. You've done more for
that boy than any other mother in the world would have,
and all he's ever done is throw it back in your face. Cut
the apron strings, love. Let him fuck off with his scumbag
of a father. They're well suited, them two. May God be
my judge, they're a match made in heaven. Or, in their
case, fucking hell!'
Debbie stared at the woman who had given birth to
her. June looked old, all of a sudden, and Debbie could
see lines of worry etched across her forehead. Determined
not to cause her any more heartache, she spoke from the
heart. 'I promise you, Mum, I'll never have nothing else
to do with Charlie, not after this. But I need you to make
a promise to me.'
'What?'
'I want you to promise that you'll never tell Steve or
Mickey what happened in our home. Or anyone else, for
that matter.'
'Surely you're not still trying to protect the boy, Debs?'
'I swear, Mum, I'm not. Charlie's history. If he's
touched my girls, I don't care if I never see him again.
Having said that, I don't want the police knocking on
my door asking me to identify his body. And believe
me, if word gets out, that is exactly what will happen.'
June nodded reluctantly. A mother herself, she understood
her daughter's dilemma.
With the subject closed, both mother and daughter
turned their attention to the girls, discussing what to do
for the best.
'Look, ring Peter now, Mum, and tell him to bring 'em
back. When he gets here, suggest he pops out for a pint
or something. I'm gonna take Gracie upstairs and have a
little chat with her. You can have a gentle word with Rosie.'
'What do you want me to say?'
'Just talk to her, bring up Charlie in the conversation.
Make it light-hearted, you know. Pretend he used to play
Doctors and Nurses with you or something, and gently
ask if he's ever played it with her. See what she says.'
June nodded and rang Peter.
'Mummy!' Rosie screamed excitedly when she saw
Debbie waiting for them at Nanny's.
'How's my two bestest girls in the whole wide world?'
she said, pulling them both close to her and hugging them
tighter than she ever had before.
'I don't fancy a drink. I'm not thirsty, my love,' Peter
said, as June attempted to get him out the house once
again.
'Please, Peter, just for an hour.'
He grabbed his car keys and stormed out in a huff. Dallas had nothing on this
bloody family! Guessing
another drama was on the horizon, he felt like J. R. as
he put his foot on the accelerator and left The Close at
record speed.
As she watched Rosie playing Hide and Seek with
Alfie, Debbie smiled at Gracie. 'Mummy needs a hand
with something upstairs. Will you come and help me?'
Opening June's bedroom door, Debbie sat down on the
bed and urged her daughter to sit next to her.
'Mummy needs to ask you something, Gracie. It's a very
important something and I need you to tell me the truth.'
Gracie braced herself. She guessed her mum was going
to ask her about Charlie.
The and Nanny were talking earlier and she told me
that Charlie used to play games with you . . . touching
games. Can you tell Mummy exactly what he did, or asked
you to do?'
Gracie stared into her lap, shaking her head. 'I can't
tell you, Mummy'
'Why can't you tell me, darling?' Debbie asked tenderly.
'Because Charlie said that if I tell you or Daddy, something
bad will happen to Rosie.'
As she took her daughter's little hand in hers, Debbie
thought her heart would break. 'Charlie's not going to be
living with us any more, darling, and I promise you that
nothing bad will happen to Rosie. But you must tell
Mummy what he said and did.'
Gracie still look dubious. Reluctantly she explained,
'He said that if I told you, he would chop Rosie up into
tiny pieces and boil her in a saucepan.'
'He was only mucking about with you, love, winding
you up. He didn't really mean it,' Debbie said, horrified.
'Really? Are you sure, Mummy?' Gracie asked innocently.
'Of
course he didn't. Now tell me about these games
he made you play?'
No longer frightened that her little sister was to be
made into human stew, Gracie opened up. 'I didn't want
to play them, Mum, but he made me.'
'What did he make you do, love? You have to tell
Mummy. And after you have, I promise we'll never
mention it again.'
'The game was called the willy game, Mummy. He
made me hold his dinkle and kiss it. He made me put it
in my mouth. He said that all sisters played the willy
game with their older brothers.'
The horror that Debbie felt at that moment would live
with her until the day she died. Her poor little girl, her
and Steve's baby, abused by the monster to whom she
had given birth.
'Are you okay, Mummy?'
Debbie somehow managed to hide her sadness and
disgust from her daughter. 'Did he touch you anywhere,
darling?' she made herself ask.
'No, Mummy, never,' the child told her. She seemed
quite calm and looked as though she was telling the truth.
'When did these games happen, Gracie. Recently?'
'No, ages ago.'
'How long ago, darling? Try to remember.'
'When I was a little girl.'
Debbie squeezed her hand. 'Just try to remember a bit
more, darling. Was it one year, two years, three?'
Gracie shrugged her shoulders. 'Don't know. More than
two years, I think. It was when we were in the old house.'
'Good girl,' Debbie said, holding her close. 'Just a
couple more questions for you to answer now, Gracie.
Where did this happen? And where were Daddy and I?'
'You were downstairs, Mummy. I remember hearing
the telly. Charlie used to come into my bedroom when
Rosie was asleep.'
Debbie hugged her daughter as tightly as she could
and kissed her on the forehead. Trying her best to protect
her daughter's innocence, she chose her next words very
carefully.
'Look, Gracie. Charlie was a naughty boy and what
he made you do was very wrong, but seeing as this
happened when he was younger, I don't think he actually
meant any harm. I think he was playing Doctors and
Nurses with you. It's not unusual. Even Mummy played
Doctors and Nurses when she was a little girl.'
'Did you have to kiss Uncle Mickey's dinkle?' Gracie
asked, surprised.
Debbie changed the subject quickly. 'Mummy promises
you, darling, that you will never, ever have to see Charlie
again.'
Gracie's eyes shone as she smiled up at her mother.
'I'm glad, Mummy. I hate him. He was always so horrible
to me and Rosie. He said he was going to kill our ponies.'
Debbie took a deep breath. 'Honestly, sweetheart,
Mummy promises, Charlie will never get the chance to
be horrible to you again. Now can you make me a
promise?'
Gracie nodded.
'What we've spoken about today must be kept a secret.
It will be our little secret, just mine and yours. We musn't
tell Daddy, or Rosie, or anyone else in the whole wide
world. Can you promise to do that for me, Gracie?'
'Yes, Mummy. I promise I will never tell anyone. But
Nanny already knows, I told her.'
Taking her daughter by the hand, Debbie led her downstairs.
'Go and play with Rosie and Alfie, darling, while
Mummy has a chat with Nanny. Your nan will keep our
secret, 1 promise you.'
Gracie smiled and let go of her hand.
Debbie dragged June into the kitchen and asked her the
question that she'd been dreading. 'Did you talk to Rosie?'
'Yes, love. He hasn't been anywhere near her. Thank
God.'
'Are you sure?' Debbie asked, frantically searching for
more alcohol.
'Positive,' June replied, handing her a bottle of Peter's
red. 'What did Gracie say?'
Debbie pretended to have a fight with the corkscrew.
This was the last lie she would ever tell for her sick,
screwed-up son and she didn't want the guilt to show on
her face.
'It's not as bad as we first thought, Mum. He definitely
never touched her or anything. He just showed her
his willy a couple of times and made her kiss it once.
Thankfully, it wasn't recently but ages ago, when he was
younger himself
'How long ago?' June asked, not sure if she was being
lied to.
Debbie took a gulp of her drink. 'Oh, yonks ago. Gracie
said she was really young. Do you mind if we drop the
subject now, Mum? I've had the day from hell and I just
wanna relax for a bit before I ring Steve.'
June didn't answer but hugged her daughter instead.
What could she say to the girl? There wasn't a word in
the world that could comfort or compensate her for what
she had just endured.
'Why don't you ring Steve, love, get him to pick
you up? You've had too much to drink to risk driving
back.'
Debbie smiled at her mum, a false, sad smile that didn't
even reach the corners of her mouth. 'I will, Mum, in a
bit. I need to get meself together first. You go in there
and play with the kids. I need to be alone for a minute,
if you don't mind.'
As the door clicked shut, Debbie picked up her drink,
wandered out into the garden and sat on the little wooden
bench. She felt so let down, so stupid. So much time,
effort and energy she'd wasted, trying to turn Charlie into
a respectable human being. And, by doing so, she'd let
down the rest of her family, the ones who should have
been the most important to her. Looking up to the sky,
Debbie prayed for forgiveness. She'd failed to protect her
own daughter. As a mother, it was the most terrible crime
she could have committed.
'Please, God, don't make Gracie suffer because of my
stupidity,' she pleaded. She cried then and her tears fell
heavier and faster than ever before.
As she spied on her through the window, June saw her
daughter crumple. Dashing out to help, she held Debbie
close while wiping away her tears.
'You can't blame yourself, love,' she said as Debbie's
sobbing finally subsided.
'But it's all my fault, Mum. I sided with Charlie. I loved
him too much. I even put him before the rest of my family
and look where it got me. All of this is my fault.'
'It's not your fucking fault! Any mother would have
done what you've done. I'd probably have done the same
if it were Mickey. You have to forget about the past now,
Debs. You need to lock all those bad memories away in
a box and concentrate on the future. You have two little
girls in there who need their mummy very much, and you
have a husband who loves you dearly. All right, you've
made mistakes, but haven't we all? Look at me - I chose
Peter over you and Mickey, and lost contact with both of
you. How do you think that made me feel? You have to
move on, Debs, like I did. You've got to pull yourself
together, forget about Charlie and concentrate on the rest
of your life.'
'I know you're right,' she said gratefully. June's words
were just the shake up she needed. 'Mum, can I ask you
a favour? I'm not just protecting Charlie, but I'd die if
Steve, Mickey or anyone else found out about all of this.
Do you think we can keep it between ourselves?'
Holding her daughter's hand, June looked into her eyes.
'Of course. Look, Debs, in life there's a mixture of people.
You've got your saints and your sinners. There's good
people out there, there's mediocre, bad . . . and then there's
pure evil. Me and you are probably in the mediocre category,
but as much as I hate to say this to you, Charlie's
in the lowest category of all. He was born evil, love, and
that's not your fault, my fault, or anyone else's bloody fault.'
Looking at her mum, Debbie found that she could
smile again. 'You're so right, Mum. I've wasted years
trying to make him into the son I wanted. I've always
blamed myself for his bad behaviour when really it's not
my fault, is it? I need to move on, don't I, Mum?'
'That's my girl.'
June offered Debbie her hand. 'Let's go inside, love,
and see what those beautiful little girls of yours are up to.'
Debbie stood up. She had two wonderful daughters, a
loving husband and a great life. Realising just how lucky
she was, she finally said goodbye to the black cloud that
had haunted her for years. Charlie was the past now, dead
in her eyes. As far as she was concerned, he could rot in
bloody hell.
One Year Later
As the cool sea breeze drifted against her skin, Debbie
sat up, carefully folded over the page of her novel, and
took a much-needed sip of the now warm lemonade in
the glass beside her.
What a difference a year makes, she thought as she
watched the tranquil waves lap against the shore.
This holiday in Tenerife had been Steve's idea. 'I'm
thinking about taking my bitches on holiday,' he'd
announced jokingly a fortnight earlier.
'When, Daddy? When?' Gracie and Rosie had screamed, jumping up and down with
excitement.
Steve then put his hand in his pocket and surprised
them with the tickets.
'Who's the Daddy?' he shouted, grinning at his daughters.
'You
are! You are! You are!' they had both screamed.
Gracie and Rosie had changed a lot since Charlie's
departure from the family home. They'd both come on in
leaps and bounds and were far happier and more confident
than they'd ever been.
'It's so much nicer here without him, Mum,' both girls
had told Debbie on numerous occasions.
Many more stories of Charlie's unpleasantness had
come to light after his departure. Nothing sexual, just
bullying, threats and downright nastiness. It didn't take a
genius to work out that he'd secretly led his sisters a dog's
life.
Debbie had felt terribly guilty for ages, but as the
months went by and Gracie showed no ill effects after
the little conversation that they'd had, she had begun to
feel better about herself.
'Boo!'
Debbie's thoughts were interrupted by Steve creeping
up behind her.
'We got you an ice cream, Mummy,' Rosie said, handing
her a half-melted cornet.
Sitting down opposite his wife, Steve polished off his
Cornetto and smiled at her. 'I'm burnt to fuck, babe. The
girls are getting a bit restless so I've told 'em we'll head
back to the hotel. They wanna go for a swim in the pool.'
'Will you take 'em back, Steve? You don't mind if I
stay here for a bit, do you?'
'You ain't met some fucking waiter and are planning
to do a Shirley Valentine on me, are ya?'
Debbie giggled. He was a funny bastard, her husband,
and never failed to make her laugh. 'I'd run off with any
bastard, foreign or English, if it meant getting rid of you,
ya tosser,' she joked. 'Go on, sod off. I'm dying to find
out what happens in this book and I've only got three
chapters left. You take the girls and I'll follow you in a
bit'
Patting her rounded stomach, Steve stood up. 'You
make sure you look after me boy for me, won't ya?'
'Steve, I'm pregnant, not a bloody imbecile.'
He kissed her gently. 'Laters, sexy'
Debbie smiled as she watched him walk away holding
a daughter by each hand. The girls looked almost miniature
beside his massive physique.
Debbie picked up her book, then put it back down.
She fancied thinking rather than reading, and sitting alone
on an emptying beach was the perfect place to do so.
Her pregnancy had come as a complete shock to both
her and Steve. Adding to their brood certainly hadn't
been a priority in their lives. Steve was immediately overjoyed
by their little mistake, though. Planned or
unplanned, he could hardly wait for another addition to
the Roberts clan.
Debbie felt differently and had been full of reservations
since the blue line had first appeared on the test.
Putting on weight, no alcohol, milk leaking from her tits,
these were all of concern to her, but nothing was as
worrying as the thought of giving birth to a son. The
prospect of that happening filled Debbie with total dread.
What if the kid looked like Charlie? What if he behaved
like him? What if he tried to rape his cousin or nonce his
fucking sister? She had done her best to keep her thoughts
well and truly hidden. Not once had she mentioned abortion,
although many times she'd wanted to, and she'd spent
the first few months of her pregnancy smiling falsely
while praying for a girl.
Two weeks ago she'd learned that her prayers had not
been answered. Her five-month scan saw her leave the
hospital clutching a picture of her unborn with the definite
outline of a willy. Steve had been absolutely overjoyed
by the news. Debbie was inwardly horrified.
Hence the holiday. Steve, being a big softie, had sensed
his wife's unease and hoped two weeks in the sun might
help her to get her head together.
As the beach ball landed at her feet, it interrupted
Debbie's thoughts. Glancing around, she saw a little blond
boy running towards her.
'I'm really sorry, Missus,' he said in a cute Geordie
accent. 'My name's Sonny. What's yours?' he asked
cheekily as he flashed her a toothy grin.
'Hello, Sonny. I'm Debbie. Where's your mum, love?'
'Over there,' he replied, pointing to a large woman in
a striped swimsuit.
Seeing his mother wave and give her a friendly smile,
Debbie carried on chatting to the lad.
'I'm gonna be a famous footballer one day and play
for Newcastle and England,' he told her confidently.
Debbie smiled as he plonked himself down in the sand
next to her. 'Are you gonna be the next David Beckham?'
He shook his head. 'No. I'm the next Gazza!'
Chatting to him, Debbie took in his freckles and cute
turned up nose, and felt a slight maternal stirring. He was
charming, friendly and gorgeous. Sonny was such an
appropriate name for him. His smile seemed to light up
the beach.
'I'm so sorry. He's not being a nuisance, is he? He
doesn't stop bloody talking,' Sonny's mother said ten
minutes later when she arrived to retrieve her son.
'No, far from it. He's wonderful company. You must
be very proud of him.'
'Oh, I am. I'm Linda by the way,' the other woman
replied, pleased by the compliment.
'Nice to meet you. I'm Debbie.'
'When's yours due? And do you know what you're
having?'
'A boy,' Debbie replied. 'I've another four months to
go. I already have two girls,' she added. Charlie no longer
existed as far as she was concerned.
'Oh, how lovely. Your first boy. I bet your husband is
over the moon.'
'He is,' Debbie said politely.
'My Sonny is the image of his dad, you know. Looks,
personality, he even pulls the same expressions . . . two
peas in a pod they are. Girls tend to be more like their
mums, but boys usually turn out just like their dads.'
Debbie watched mother and son walk away. "Bye,
Sonny,' she shouted.
He turned around. 'You're my friend now. You musn't forget me.'
'I definitely won't forget you in a hurry,' Debbie replied,
smiling at his mum who'd also turned round.
Debbie felt a sense of new optimism as she took a
slow stroll towards the hotel. She hoped Linda was right
and a son's making was all to do with his father's genes.
Charlie was a ringer for Billy, that was for sure. Surely
her unborn son would turn out to be just like Steve . . .
On reaching the hotel, she headed straight for the pool
area. Her family were easy to find, they were the noisiest
by far.
'Mummy, get in!' Gracie screamed.
'Please, Mummy. Daddy keeps tickling us,' Rosie
protested.
Steve swam to the edge of the pool. 'Is Mummy getting
in? Or does Daddy have to fucking chuck her in?'
Debbie smiled. Finally, she felt ready to enjoy the rest
of her holiday.
The traumatic phone call came three weeks before her
due date. Debbie swore it was the shock of it which made
their son arrive prematurely.
She had heard virtually nothing from or about Charlie
since he'd upped and left with his father. He'd rung as
promised in the first week, with his bank account details
and new mobile number, and Debbie had been more than
ready for him.
T know what you did to your little sister. Unfortunately
for you, Gracie has told me everything. Me and you are
finished, Charlie. I've stuck my neck out for you for far
too long. Now it's over. In my eyes you're dead, son.'
'What am I meant to have done? She's lying, Mum. I
swear I ain't done nothing,' Charlie whined as he tried
desperately to protest his innocence.
'Don't fucking lie to me!' Debbie screamed at him.
'You and your father deserve one another. Now, do yourself
a favour and don't ever contact me again.'
Twice he'd had the audacity to ring back, once begging
for money and the second time just to abuse her. Debbie
cut him short both times. 'Go to hell, Charlie,' she'd told
him on the last occasion.
The day Debbie gave birth to her fourth child started
uneventfully. She'd dropped the girls at school, Steve had
popped home for lunch, and she was just about to do a
bit of ironing when the phone rang.
'Hello,' she said, not recognising the number on the
display.
'Debs, it's Billy . . . please don't hang up!'
'What the fuck do you want?' she replied coldly.
'It's Charlie. He's in big trouble. They've locked him
up and apparently he's in a terrible state. I've been down taste the station,
but the police wouldnae let me see him.
I havenae got a clue what else taste do, Debs. I really need
your help.'
She took a deep breath and asked, 'What has he done,
Billy?'
'They're trying to charge him with rape and attempted
murder. We need to get him a good brief, Debs, someone
top-notch. I'd get one myself but I havenae the
money . . . '
Debbie dropped the iron. 'I'll call you back in a minute.
I need some time to think.'
Shaking, Debbie sank on to the sofa and held her head
in her hands. Should she ring Steve? Her mum? She
needed advice but didn't have a clue who to turn to.
Staring at the living room wall, she noticed the pictures
of Gracie in her tap-dancing outfit. As she glanced at the
mantel-piece she caught sight of a photo of Lois. She was
smiling brightly, with Mickey cuddling her.
'Bastard,' muttered Debbie. 'The evil little bastard.'
Charlie had already nearly ruined the lives of those
closest to him and now some other poor girl had borne
the brunt of his cruelty. Well, no more. Reaching her decision,
she picked up her mobile.
'Billy, it's Debs. I've thought about things and I want
you to give Charlie a message from me. Tell him that his
mum says she hopes they lock him up and throw away
the fucking key!'
Within seconds of ending the call, her waters had
broken.
Steve was in the club with Mickey, going through the
accounts, when he received a call to say that Debbie had
gone into labour.
Til drive,' Mickey said awkwardly.
The relationship between Mickey and Debs had never
truly repaired itself since the attack on Lois. Barely on
speaking terms, they'd lost all the old warmth and love
that had once bonded them together.
Debbie's action in sending Charlie away to stop him
receiving his comeuppance was unforgivable in Mickey's
eyes. He'd never been told exactly what had happened,
but guessed that his sister must have packed Damien off,
out of harm's way. Steve knew the score, Mickey was
sure of that, but they'd been such good pals over the years
that Mickey didn't want to spoil their friendship by
backing him into a corner. Steve was in an awkward situation
and, although Mickey would love to know exactly
what had happened to Charlie, in some ways he admired
his pal's loyalty. Debs was his wife, after all.
There were only two things that had kept Mickey sane
over the past year. One was the thought of his delayed
revenge because he knew that one day Charlie would rear
his ugly head, and when he did Mickey would be waiting
for him. The second was Lois. Thankfully, his daughter
was now back to her old self, and seeing the improvement
in her pleased him no end.
Dean Summers had been fantastic, a complete rock to
her, and Mickey now admired him immensely. The
memory of the day he'd turned up at Deano's house with
the five hundred quid reward for tracing Kevin would
stick in Mickey's mind for a long, long time.
'Leave it out, Mr Dawson. I don't want your money,'
Dean protested.
'Take it. You've earned it. And please call me Mickey'
'Then don't insult me, Mickey,' Dean replied. T love
Lois and I wanted to help her. Why would I want paying
for that?'
Mickey had looked at him in a special light from that
day onwards. He'd even given him a little job at the club
that didn't interfere with his training, and was in no doubt
that one day he'd be honoured to refer to the promising
young boxer as his son-in-law.
'I'd better ring June,' Steve said, aware that his brotherin-law
was daydreaming.
Cursing the traffic, Mickey swerved to the right. 'You'd
better ring Karen as well,' he replied, knowing that his
wife was still extremely fond of his sister, even if he
wasn't.
His wife was forgiving, unlike himself, and Mickey
just hoped that little Alfie, who so far seemed to have his
wife's temperament, would turn out to be more like him
in the end. Karen was too nice, and he didn't want his
boy to be trodden on in life.
The journey to the hospital seemed to take forever. As
a frantic Steve rushed through the corridors, he prayed
he wasn't too late to witness the arrival of his son. 'I'm
the father,' he declared breathlessly when he reached his
destination.
Baby boy Roberts was delivered at 6.15 p.m. exactly. A
healthy baby, he weighed in at 71b 2oz. He had a chubby
face, a mop of blond hair, and looked very much like his
father. With the birth being uncomplicated, Debs was moved
to a ward shortly afterwards and Steve wasted no time in
inviting the rest of the family to visit and share in their joy.
'Oh, he's gorgeous, Debs,' June gushed, gazing at her
new grandson. 'Can I hold him?'
Handing her baby over, Debbie smiled at Peter. 'Do
you wanna have a little hold of him?'
'I'd rather not, if you don't mind. Unfortunately I'm
not very good with babies.' Peter secretly wondered if
she'd given birth to another monster and didn't want to
touch the thing, just in case.
'I am so fucking proud of him,' Steve said, peering
over June's shoulder.
'He looks just like you, Steve,' Karen cooed as the
baby was passed to her for a cuddle.
'Is Mickey here?' Debbie asked, realising that bar him,
the rest of the family were all present.
'He's standing outside,' Karen said, nodding towards
the corridor.
'I need to talk to him. Does anybody mind if I have
five minutes alone with my brother?'
'I'll go and get him,' June said, praying that her
offspring would finally kiss and make up.
'Do you want me to leave as well?' Steve asked,
surprised.
'Yes, that includes you, Steve.'
Holding his hands up, he walked towards the door. He
might be a big old boy, but he wasn't brave enough to
argue with his Debs. She turned into a Rottweiler as soon
as she raised her voice.
'Mick, your sister wants you,' Steve called as he traipsed
out of the ward.
Being alone with Debs for the first time since the
attack on Lois made Mickey feel anxious and awkward.
'Don't just stand there, come and say hello to your
nephew,' she said, trying desperately to break the ice.
As he looked at the baby for the first time, Mickey
couldn't help smiling to see the miniature version of Steve.
'He's a belter, ain't he?'
Debbie took the initiative. 'Look, Mick. I know we've
had our ups and downs, but I think it's time for us to
bury the hatchet and get back to how we was. I miss you
so much, and it upsets Mum dreadfully that me and you
are on bad terms. The girls are lost without seeing Alfie,
and our weekends are crap without you and Karen being
part of them. Charlie's history now, Mick. In fact, he's
dead in my eyes. I promise you faithfully, he ain't ever
coming back. Please let's try to sort things out, even if
it's only for the sake of Mum and the kids.'
Mickey was desperate for some answers to the questions
that had haunted him for the past year. 'Be honest
with me, Debs. I know you sent him away. But where to?
And who with?'
'Scotland with his father. Unbeknown to me, Billy had
moved back to Barking and had been seeing Charlie regularly.
I didn't have a clue. I only found out after he attacked
Lois.'
Knowing she was telling the truth, because of his
conversation with Kevin, made Mickey feel less angry.
'Are you still in contact with him?'
'No. I've disowned him, Mick. And don't bother
heading North to look for him either because I've just
found out he's been locked up for attempted murder.'
Leaving out the words 'girl' and 'rape', she carried on.
'Billy rang me. Begged me for money to get him a good
i House G
brief. I fucked him off. In my eyes, Mick, Charlie is no
longer my son. I hope the evil little bastard rots in hell.'
As he looked into his sister's eyes, Mickey knew she
wasn't bluffing. 'Well, at least in the end you saw the
light.'
The baby's crying signalled an end to their heart-to
heart. 'Pick him up, Mick. You haven't held him yet.'
As he gently rocked the new addition to the family,
Mickey smiled. He didn't feel a bit like Rodney Trotter
this time round. He sat on the edge of the bed and handed
his nephew back to Debbie.
'Look, sis. I will never forgive Charlie for as long as
I live, and if I ever see him again I swear I will kill him.
But you and me are a different story. Now you've come
to your senses, I'm willing to give all the family stuff
another go.'
Debbie smiled and ordered him to call the rest of them
back in.
'Thank fuck for that,' was Steve's take on the matter.
'About bleeding time,' June said, determined to give
her tuppence worth. 'Us East Enders are a different breed.
We stick together, through thick and thin.'
Peter shot his wife a look. He loved her dearly ninety
nine per cent of the time, but as soon as she changed into
a Pearly Queen, his love quickly turned into a form of
hate.
'Come on, June, we must be going. It's not fair to leave
Lois with the girls any longer.'
"Bye, Mum. 'Bye, Peter. Bring the girls up in the
morning,' Debbie said, waving them goodbye.
' 'Bye, sis.' Mickey kissed both mother and baby before
turning to Steve. 'And you, you fat bastard, owe me a
night out, to wet the baby's head.'
'Tomorrow,' Steve said, ushering his best mate towards
the door.
Breathing a sigh of relief that he finally had his wife
to himself, Steve took Debbie's hand in his. 'We're gonna
have to decide on a name, girl. We can call him Bobby
after Moore, Geoff after Hurst, Trevor after Brooking.
What's it gonna be?'
'Sonny,' Debbie said immediately, T want to call him
Sonny.'
Steve was surprised by his wife's quick decision. 'Why
Sonny, all of a sudden? You never mentioned it before
when we were discussing names.'
'It's a long story, Steve, but if you don't mind I'll tell
you another day. I feel so tired all of a sudden. I can't
keep my eyes open.'
He bent over and kissed her gently. "Bye, darling.' He
turned to the baby, "Bye, Sonny. Daddy'll be back first
thing in the morning.'
Debbie smiled to herself as he left the room. Steve
was like a dog with two tails and she was glad, after all
the shit they'd been through, that she'd managed to make
him so happy.
Turning her attention to her son, she noticed him gurgle.
He was an absolute cutie, and thankfully she'd bonded
with him immediately. He couldn't be more different from
Charlie to look at. His tuft of blond hair stood out like a
sore thumb and his chubby red face looked angelic
somehow. The door opening disturbed Debbie's thoughts.
'Hello, I'm Nurse Chimbonda. I'm just checking if
everything is okay or whether you need some help?'
Debbie smiled. 'I'm absolutely fine. I'm so happy. I've
got everything I've ever wanted.'
Gas and air, the nurse thought as she smiled politely
and left the room.
Lying back on her pillow, Debbie pondered the words
she'd just spoken. It was the first time in her life that she
could truly say that and mean it. Steve and the girls had
always meant the world to her, so had the rest of her
family, but now she had the one thing she'd always craved.
A son to be proud of.
A son who was capable of accepting and returning her
love.
And, most importantly, a son who had not been born
evil.
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