Respect (Mandasue Heller) (4 page)

She woke with a start some time later to the sound of someone hammering on the front door. Disoriented by the cotton wool in her ears, it took her a few moments to get her bearings. Then, jumping up, sending the books that had been on her lap flying onto the floor, she ran out into the hall. Leon’s music was still pumping out loudly from behind his door. Banging on it as she passed, she peered out through the spyhole and groaned when she saw the irate next-door neighbour standing there.

‘I know,’ she said apologetically when she opened the door, pre-empting the complaint that she knew was coming. ‘I’ll make him turn it off.’

‘Do you know what bloody time it is?’ Stuart Price barked, refusing to be placated before he’d had his say. The music had been booming through the wall since earlier that evening and he’d had a gutful of it. He and his wife were decent, hard-working people, and they shouldn’t have to put up with this kind of anti-social behaviour. He’d complained to the council – anonymously – on numerous occasions to no avail; and the police had been no better. This girl had given him a fair few dirty looks over the years but, unlike her mother and brother, at least she had never resorted to being outright abusive. It was the boy who was behind the noise, he was sure. The little bastard was a foul-mouthed, destructive, sly little thug-in-the-making who strutted around the estate as if he owned it. He needed a bloody good slap – and the mood Stuart was in right now, he’d have loved to be the one to administer it.

‘I’m sorry,’ Chantelle apologised again. ‘I was asleep.’

‘Lucky you!’ snapped Stuart. ‘Six hours we’ve been putting up with this racket –
six … bloody … hours!
’

‘I know,’ Chantelle repeated guiltily. ‘And I—’

‘Have you any idea what it’s doing to my poor wife?’ Stuart continued, gesturing angrily back towards his own flat. ‘She’s ill in there, and the doctor said she needs complete rest. But how the hell is she supposed to rest with this going on?’

‘I’ll sort it out,’ Chantelle assured him when he paused to draw breath.

‘You’d better,’ Stuart warned, ‘because I’m this close to calling the police.’ He held up his hand and squeezed his thumb and forefinger together, before adding, ‘And then I’ll report you to the council, because you’re making our lives a living bloody hell!’

His voice had risen in pitch and his face was so red that he looked like he was going to have a fit. Chantelle had never particularly cared for him, because he was such a miserable old git, but she genuinely felt sorry for him and his wife right now.

‘I’m really, really sorry,’ she told him sincerely. ‘I’ll make sure it goes off. And it won’t happen again – I promise.’

Stuart wanted to go on, but he sensed from the pained look in her eyes that the girl was as distressed as he and his wife were, and it pierced his bubble of anger. Exhaling wearily, he said, ‘Yes, well, just make sure it doesn’t. I know it’s not your fault, and I really don’t want to cause trouble, but this is unacceptable – you must see that?’

Chantelle nodded and, promising again that she would sort it out, closed the door. Then, gritting her teeth, she marched into Leon’s room. Furious to see that he had pulled his quilt up over his head and gone to sleep, leaving his CD on repeat play, she switched his hi-fi off and stood over him. The temptation to wake him and give him what-for was overwhelming, but she knew that would only end up in another row, which was the last thing she needed with Stuart already on the warpath. So, resisting the urge, she went back to her own room, telling herself that their mum could deal with him in the morning.

3

When she woke the next morning, Chantelle wasn’t impressed to see that her mum still hadn’t come home or switched her phone back on. Determined not to have a repeat of yesterday when, thanks to Leon, she hadn’t been able to properly concentrate on her revision, she got dressed and pulled her coat on, all set to march round to Tracey’s and drag her mum back.

Before she went, she popped her head around Leon’s door and sighed when she saw him spreadeagled across the bed. As much as he’d been annoying her lately with his smart mouth and cocky attitude, he was still her baby brother and she loved him to bits. She always had – from the first time she’d ever clapped eyes on him when his dad, Glenroy King, had brought him and their mum home from hospital. He’d been a living, breathing dolly, and Chantelle had insisted on changing his nappies and feeding him his bottles – which had delighted their mum, because it had left her free to run after Glenroy. Not that it had worked, because he had walked out soon after.

A muscular bald-headed Jamaican with a dazzling smile, a husky voice and a smooth line in patter, Glenroy had spread his love freely around every willing female on the estate – Mary’s friends included. He’d also had a vicious temper and, as young as she’d been back then, Chantelle still remembered how scared her mum used to be when he’d get in a mood. His eyes would blaze as if there was a fire burning behind them, and his fists would fly with the slightest provocation. Unfortunately, Leon had inherited that temper along with the good looks, and Chantelle sometimes wondered how their mum was going to cope with him when he got bigger and started hitting out – and he would, she was sure, because it was in his genes.

But she didn’t want to think about that right now. So, quietly closing his door, she let herself out and walked quickly over to Tracey’s flat. After knocking several times and getting no answer, she gave up and headed over to the Saturday market in Moss Side to pick up a few cheap bits for dinner. But if her mum thought she was going to walk in later in the day and find a plateful waiting for her in the oven, she had another think coming. And God help her if she’d spent the rest of the benefit money on booze and whatever else she’d necked with Tracey last night, because then Chantelle would have her guts for garters.

Kermit was on the other side of the Princess Parkway when he spotted Chantelle heading into the market. His mum had made plans to take the younger kids to the carnival in Alexandra Park, but she was skint, so she’d sent Kermit to borrow twenty quid off his nan. He’d begged her to send their Jimmy instead, but she’d said Jimmy was too young to cross the road on his own. And, anyway, Kermit was his nan’s favourite so he had the best chance of making the old girl cough up.

Kermit didn’t like his nan. She had see-through skin, a sloppy, toothless mouth, and her room in the sheltered housing unit stank of cat piss even though there were no cats living there. She herself stank of human piss and talc, and she always made him sit next to her so she could
stroke
him and
kiss
him.

The feel of her flesh touching his made him gag, so he’d been in and out of there as fast as was humanly possible today – the £20 note for his mum in one pocket, the half-bottle of whisky he’d swiped off the dresser when his nan turned her back to get her purse in the other. His mum would go ape-shit if she found out, but he considered it payment for the disgusting trail of slime his nan had left on his cheek when she’d kissed him goodbye. Anyway, the old cow was so batty that she’d probably think she’d lost the whisky – if she even remembered she’d had it in the first place.

When Kermit saw Chantelle now, he grinned to himself. She was one of the most beautiful girls he’d ever seen, but she had a way of looking at him that made him wonder if she could read his thoughts and see the dirty things he sometimes thought about her when he was in the bath. He always avoided going round to their place if he knew there was a chance of bumping into her, but it was safe right now so he darted through the morning traffic and ran all the way home.

‘Where are you going?’ his mum asked when he barrelled through the door and chucked the money at her. ‘Aren’t you coming to the carny?’

‘Nah,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘I’m going to see if Leon wants to come round and play on my game.’

‘Well, don’t make a mess,’ his mum yelled after him. ‘I’ve got that woman coming round from the council on Monday, and I don’t want to have to spend all day Sunday cleaning up after you.’

Kermit waved over his shoulder and slammed the door.

Leon was woken by the sound of someone knocking insistently on the front door. Too cosy to move, he pulled his quilt over his head and waited for his sister to answer it. When she didn’t, and the knocking continued, he reluctantly got up and stomped out into the hall in his underpants, all set to give the unwelcome caller a piece of his mind.

‘What you doing here so early?’ he complained, rubbing the sleep from his eyes when he saw Kermit on the step. ‘I was having a boss dream, and you’ve ruined it.’

‘Soz,’ Kermit apologised. ‘Me ma’s taking the brats to the carny, and I’ve just seen your Channy going in the market, so I thought you might wanna come round and get back on the game. I got to level four after you took off last night. It was well hard, but I proper smashed it.’

‘Why didn’t you wait for me?’ Leon protested, gesturing for his friend to come inside. ‘I’m gonna have loads of catching up to do now.’

‘Yeah, well, hurry up and get dressed,’ said Kermit, following him into his room. ‘I’ve got a surprise for ya.’

‘What?’ Leon pulled on a pair of jeans.

Kermit reached into his pocket and brought out the stolen bottle.

‘Where’d you get that?’ Leon’s eyes widened. ‘Giz it.’

‘Not here.’ Kermit stuffed it away again. ‘I just nicked it off me nan.’

‘Like your style, bruv.’ Leon grinned his approval and pulled a jumper over his head. Then, stuffing his sockless feet into his trainers, he said, ‘Come on, let’s get out of here before our kid gets back. Me mum went out last night and our Chan was in a right one. Bitch is lucky I didn’t slit her throat, the way she’s been talking to me lately.’

‘Yeah, but she’s fit,’ Kermit said as he followed him out of the bedroom. ‘I’d slip her a stiff one.’

‘Shut your gob, y’ mong!’ Leon pulled a disgusted face and shoved his friend out onto the landing.

Chantelle assumed that Leon must still be sleeping when she got home a short time later. Glad of the peace, she decided not to disturb him and quietly put the shopping away, leaving out the two pieces of chicken she’d bought for tonight’s dinner. Leon claimed to hate her cooking, but he’d always loved her curried chicken and rice so she’d thought she would treat him to make up for their row yesterday. And if he was really good, she might make a batch of his favourite home-made macaroni cheese.

Confident that there would be no more trouble from Leon once he saw that she was making an effort, she made herself a cup of tea and went to her bedroom to resume the revision that she’d fallen asleep over the night before.

Leon had never tasted whisky in his life before. But he was a man, and men didn’t admit shit like that. So when Kermit – lying through his teeth and claiming to have done it loads of times – offered the bottle to him for first dibs, he fronted it out and took a big swig. His eyes watered when the sharp, bitter alcohol hit his tongue, and he almost choked when it went on to assault his throat. But he forced himself not to spit it straight back out and handed the bottle over to Kermit.

‘You all right?’ Kermit asked, eyeing him excitedly.

‘Yeah, course.’ Leon shrugged. ‘Go on – your turn.’

Kermit took a tentative sip and pulled a face.

‘Ah, you fuckin’ lightweight!’ Leon crowed, snapping his fingers in the air in a gesture of victory.

‘I’m gonna get some pop.’ Kermit jumped up and rushed out of the room.

Leon scraped at his tongue and coughed to clear the heat from his burning throat when his friend had gone. Composed by the time Kermit came back with a bottle of lemonade and two plastic cups, he gave a nonchalant shrug when Kermit asked if he wanted his next shot neat or mixed, and said, ‘Not bothered.’ Then, pursing his lips, he added, ‘But I suppose I’d best have a bit if you’re having it. Don’t wanna get pissed on me own while you’re having
baby
drinks, do I?’

Kermit ignored the jibe and sloshed two large helpings of lemonade over the inch of whisky he’d already poured into the cups. Handing Leon’s to him, he grinned. ‘You go first.’

Leon braced himself and downed his drink in one, then wiped his sleeve across his mouth and held out his cup for a refill. He might be the younger by two years, but he wasn’t about to let Kermit get one over on him.

Light-headed by the time they had finished their second drinks, the boys fired up the PlayStation. But it wasn’t long before they started squabbling.

‘I haven’t fuckin’ cheated,’ Kermit insisted when Leon accused him for the third time. ‘Ain’t my fault I’m better at it than you.’

‘Are you fuck!’ Leon argued. ‘I’m way better than you, and if I had my own console and was on it twenty-four-seven like you, I’d mash you the fuck up.’

‘I’m hardly ever on it when you’re not here,’ Kermit lied. ‘I’ve just got skills – and you’re just jealous, ’cos you know you can’t touch me.’

‘That right?’ Leon punched him in the arm. ‘Touched you then, though, didn’t I? So what you saying now, shithead? Eh? Eh? Not man enough to fight back?’

Infuriated when Leon started punching him repeatedly in the arm, Kermit threw down the control pad and jumped on him. They rolled around on the bed for several seconds before falling onto the floor in a tangled heap. Then, grunting and wheezing for breath, they grappled until they got themselves wedged between the end of the bed and the chest of drawers. Unable to move, they looked into each other’s eyes and burst out laughing.

‘Let’s have another drink?’ Kermit suggested when the laughter had subsided.

‘And a smoke,’ added Leon, pushing his friend towards the door. ‘Go grab some of your mam’s dimps.’

Kermit did as he’d been told, and came back with a packet of Rizla papers and a handful of crumpled, black-tipped dog-ends from his mum’s bedroom. It was the only room in the flat that she ever smoked in, because she didn’t want to pollute the younger kids’ lungs, and the place might as well have been a giant ashtray given how many dimps were lying around. Kermit wished she hadn’t switched to roll-ups, because he preferred the taste of the proper cigs she used to smoke. But she reckoned she couldn’t afford them any more, and beggars couldn’t be choosers, so he tore a couple of papers out of the pack, then carefully rolled a couple of fresh smokes from the ashy remnants.