Beauty (7 page)

Mark Aston sat on his new sofa in the warmth of the halogen heater. The mess in his front room didn’t look so bad in its glow. That bloke Pete seemed all right, and it was good to have a white neighbour you could borrow a smoke off of. Pete’s house was much better, too. Clean and well-decorated. Mark’s was shit. He’d laid the carpet himself, but after a few months the dogs had pissed on it that many times he’d had to take it up and stuff it in the cupboard under the stairs until the smell had dried out. He’d put it back down three weeks ago and it was all right. The rest of the house was fucked, though, apart from the back room, which he never went in. He was saving it for Honey and her pups. This time, he couldn’t afford to lose any. Last time it had been that Paki landlord’s fault. He’d given Mark a shit house. No central heating or double glazing either, and three of the puppies had died from the cold.

Still, at least he ay been round to pick up the top-up on me rent what the housing benefit do’ cover.

Missing that appointment at the Crown House Jobcentre had been a real choker. The bastards had signed him off and cut all his money, without any warning. He’d gone straight up there as soon as he’d discovered he hadn’t been paid. It looked like others had missed appointments,
too. People were shouting at every desk, demanding their money immediately. The two feeble security guards couldn’t cope and had called for back-up over their radios.

He’d had to reapply for his housing and council tax benefit, as well as his Jobseekers’ Allowance, which they wouldn’t pay until his new claim had gone through the system. In the meantime he’d had to make do with a hardship allowance of thirty-seven pounds a week until he’d served a six-week sanction period for missing the start of the course at RiteSkills. The housing benefit for the six weeks might not get paid either; they were deciding that at the minute. Just for missing an appointment!

Still, he’d started the course now. The JSA would get paid from next week, plus the extra tenner, and he had enough money from selling the phone to get a five of weed before he went up town that night.

He waited until it was darker before going to the phone box at the bottom of the street to call Paula. She’d been raided again recently and didn’t like giving you the weed in daylight. The cops hadn’t been able to do her though; she never kept anything in the house. She knew one of the neighbours had grassed her up, but not which one, so two nights after the raid she’d slashed all the tyres of every car on the street.

Fair play to ’er.

Mark hoped she wouldn’t send her son Darren out to bring him the weed. You could always tell he’d pinched a bit by the way he never wrapped the clingfilm like she did. He was only twelve, so what could you expect? Mark had done worse by his age.

At the phone box some Kosovan was shouting down the line in a foreign language. Mark waited impatiently for
less than a minute, wishing he’d brought Titan with him, then decided he didn’t need the dog. He opened the door and asked the startled man if he was going to be long, mate, because he had an important call to make.

The Kurd hung up and made way for the white man.

‘Ta,’ said Mark.

Paula’s number rang. She only lived up by the shops but didn’t want people coming round to the house.

‘Oright Paula? It’s Mark.’

‘Ullo bab! Am y’oright, am y’?’

‘Ar, sowund.’

‘What d’you want?’

‘Can I come and fetch a five?’

‘Where am you?’

‘At the phone box on Dunstall Road.’

‘Darren’ll bring it. There’s too many five-oh rowund ’ere.’

‘Nice one, Paula. See you.’

‘Ar, see you, bab. Tra.’

‘Tra.’

Mark kept the phone pressed to his ear. He might as well stay out of the cold. The Kosovan could wait for a bit. Darren would be there soon anyway.

Two minutes later he hung up as he saw the boy’s white cap rounding the corner at the end of Leicester Street. He left the phone box and walked towards him, stopping in the darkness between lamp posts.

‘Oright Daz?’ Mark said.

‘Sowund.’
Prick
, the boy thought.

Mark gave him the five-pound note and the twelve-year-old took a small cellophane wrap from the pocket of a new Bench jacket. Mark held the weed in his fist. It felt all right.

‘Say hello to yer mam for me,’ he said.

‘Yeah, sure,’ the lad answered, wheeling away on his bike. He didn’t like Mark. He was too friendly.

Back at home Mark inspected the clingfilm. It was untouched. He’d roll a fat one, get a can from the fridge and listen to some music in the bath. That would kill some time before he went out. He’d need to iron some clean clothes dry, too. He could do that in front of
EastEnders.

By eight o’clock Peter had only got as far as P for Panties. The tightly stretched white cotton made his chest ache and he saved some of the images for a soft-to-hard full-screen slide-show of the evening’s findings. He ignored Pantyhose – the word made him cringe – and left Peeing and Puffy Nipples for later.

EastEnders
was dull. It had been ever since Sharon had died in a ball of flame on Tracey Fowler’s bench in the park. Peter picked up the TV guide to see if there was anything else that would help draw out his internet research. He didn’t want to have to do it twice just to fill up the evening. But there was nothing to watch, apart from DIY programmes, chat shows with special guests who were the presenters of other chat shows, repeats of unfunny sit-coms, opinion-as-fact on the news, or lurid documentaries with titles like
Half Ton Man, The Boy With A Tumour For A Face,
and
The Woman Who Lost Forty Stone And Put It Back On Again.
Or there was a two-part thriller that had started the day before.

Peter stood up and went back to the computer.

Mark found himself with nothing to do
.
If it had been Wednesday or Thursday
The Bill
would have been on. He brought the iron and board in from the kitchen and ran upstairs to fetch a discoloured and misshapen jumper
from the cold spare bedroom. He sniffed at it but couldn’t tell if it was mildewed. He’d know when he ironed it, and if he left it in front of the fire it should be ready for later. He thought about knocking on that bloke Pete’s door to see if he wanted a smoke. Pay him back for earlier on.

The file was building up as Peter passed through Peeing Lesbian Secretaries (English sites mostly), Rope Bondage (alarming and Japanese), Shemale Blowjobs (Brazilians with perfect breasts, large hands and Adam’s apples), and Weird Insertions (painful-looking German gynaecology and pictures of feet up men’s arses). Ignoring some of the more disturbing elements, he reordered the pictures to build up to a finale. Satisfied with the arrangement, he settled back to watch the slide-show. He’d finish off at the second viewing. After two hours he was aching and the relief would be huge, heightened by the light-headedness from smoking.

The doorbell rang as he reached the last three slides and his final throes. He looked round as the release came, his enjoyment of the delicious relief wrecked by the interruption. He cleaned up hurriedly, slammed the laptop shut and went to the door, breathing heavily and stuffing himself back into his trousers.

He looked through the spyhole and recognized – Mark, was it? Jesus, what did he want?

‘Oright Pete! Thought you said you were coomin’ rowund.’

‘Oh … sorry, I didn’t realize.’

‘I fetched some weed jooss. You skinned up earlier, so I thought I’d offer. If you want.’

‘Actually … erm, I’m sort of falling asleep on the sofa. I’ve got to get up early in the morning.’

‘Oh well, I won’t stop for long in that case. I’m off up
the town soon anyway.’ Mark looked at Peter, waiting for him to stand aside and let him in.

‘Sure. Come in,’ Peter said. He’d need the weed.

Beauty lay on the sofa, exhausted and aching. Her arms and wrists hurt where she’d been pulled and punched. They hadn’t hit her as much as in the past, because now she had to go out every day. She’d got two hard slaps across the face, but the stinging would be gone by the morning.
Bhai-sahb
had done most of the shouting and hitting, while the old man stood at the door, his eyes shining as they always did when she got beaten. She’d have to go back to Bangladesh, Dulal said, marry the mullah legally and bring him back to this country. She only had to live with him for a year to make it look good for the Home Office. Once he was allowed to stay in Britain she could divorce him.

That’s what they said, but would it be like that? And if she didn’t want to marry him then they would send her to live with the old man’s brother in Saudi Arabia. His sons were looking for wives, too.

The choice was hers.

Beauty had refused, and got the first slap across the face. The old man told his son not to hit her where it would be noticed. Like at primary school when Miss McKenzie had asked her about the bruises on her back
.
Beauty saw the anger in her brother’s eyes. She tried not to flinch at the blow, but she knew they would probably hear her sobs that night when the fight had ended. And
he did slap her face again, harder, catching her cheek with the ball of his open hand. The blow knocked her sideways, but the sideboard was there and she managed to stay on her feet.

Beauty’s mother screamed from the open doorway for him to stop.

‘Ar ita horissna!’

The old man cursed his wife and slammed the door in her face.

‘Ama!’ Beauty cried. But what could her mother do?

The old man stood at the door, trembling with rage.

‘Which is it going to be?’ Dulal Miah asked her.

She refused again. And so it went on. Eventually Dulal tried to reason with her.

‘Who else is gonna marry you? You ain’t gonna find anyone – you’re ugly, dark and dumb – who’s gonna look at you? Anyone marries you’s gonna drag you by the hair and kick you out the kitchen door.’

She’d heard it before, but her brother’s words always hurt more than his punches. And what if he was right? With a broken marriage behind her, who would look at her? And it was true, she was dark-skinned; darker than anyone else in the family.

The men left the room. Beauty’s mother pushed past them to comfort her child, and persuade her to do what was right. It wouldn’t be so bad, she said. Once she’d spent a couple of years with Habib Choudhury and divorced him she would be free to come back home and look after the family.

Later on, after they’d eaten the food Beauty had prepared, Dulal told her to stay downstairs and not go up to Sharifa’s room where their mum would be explaining everything to the little girl. That her big sister would be going away again soon. Back home or to Saudi Arabia. Beauty would have liked to have gone upstairs to lie
down with her mother and sister, and feel their warmth on either side of her, but
Bhai-sahb
and the old man rarely let her do that.

Beauty got up from the sofa and went to the window to look down on the estate. There was more life outside at this time of night. Scary black blokes in hooded tops and young Iraqis moved about in the darkness below her. She’d be on a flight back to Bangladesh, or Saudi Arabia, as soon as they’d fixed everything. How long? In two weeks? A month?

They were all tired of fighting now. Tonight had been the last time.

I’ll go there, get married, and come straight back, aynit?

No, you won’t. They’ll keep you there until you do what everyone wants. You’ll give in eventually.

Al-l
h, I gotta get out.

How? You got no money. Where you gonna sleep?

In the station.

You’ll get raped by black blokes.

They got places for Asians in London.

They’ll find you wandering about and stick you in a loony bin, the same way what happened to Fatima.

I am faggol like her. Crazy.

Outside, the rain fell through the glow of the street lamps. Beauty looked at the squat buildings below her in the darkness, and across the road to the tower block. What would it be like to live there, alone, and look down from its windows? Free.

To do what?

Stuff. Like walk to the shops on my own and talk to people. I won’t have to stay in, looking out of the
window. I won’t have to listen to the old man shouting at my mum. I won’t have to turn the TV over when they kiss on EastEnders
.

You can’t watch people kissing on TV. Thass gross!

OK then, I won’t have to cook and clean for them again, ever.

But Mum can’t do it; she’s ill.

She aynt ill, she just says that to make me do everything. Anyway, Sharifa can learn how to do them stuff. She’s old enough.

She’s only nine.

So? I started when I was that age.

Thass a different story. You were born back home. Nowadays-girls don’t learn to cook.

So the old man can help out. Mum won’t have to do it all. Bhai-sahb’s a good cook, too. And at Eid I won’t have to cook for everyone and sit alone.

You’ll always be alone.

I’ll meet people. Not everyone out there’s a monster.

Who’s gonna be friends with a dumb corner-girl?

Maybe I’ll stop being dumb. I could try the reading thing again.

That aynt gonna work. They tried everything.

Like what, the mullah’s pervert brother?

What else you gonna do?

I’ll be able to … to go out at night.

Thass for Sikhs. You’re a Muslim girl.

Muslim girls don’t go out? I saw what they were like in Dhaka. I’ll be able to wear what I want, too.

What about Mum?

She’ll be OK. They can tell people I’m ill. Gone to hospital. And the fighting’s gonna stop if I go. It’s gonna be better for the kids too. Fa ranná. This aynt good for them.

*

It’s a zinna though, aynit?

Sleeping with a bloke – thass a zinna.

Parents come first and Allah comes second – thass in the Qur’an.

I aynt never going back to Bangladesh. I aynt living with no mullah. And I aynt going to that other place … Saudi Arabia … neither. No one comes back from there.