Beauty (9 page)

Nice one.

Later, in the taxi, Peter pressed himself against Louise’s thigh and rested his hand on his knee, hoping she might do the same, and by the time they had reached the Newhampton Road their fingers were brushing. A surge of desire filled him. But as the car pulled up in Prole Street she pressed his hand and said she would stay in the taxi and go home. She was on an early in the morning and her mum would be waiting up for her. She’d see him again if he went to Flanagan’s next week. Peter wasn’t disappointed. She’d given him enough to fill his thoughts later.

Peter and his neighbour exchanged a meaningful handshake while Kelly leaned through the window of the cab and kissed Louise goodnight.

She was just popping into Mark’s for a bit, she said.

At six o’clock the next morning Beauty opened her eyes. The dawn was grey beyond the sitting-room windows. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been lying on the sofa, or if she’d even been asleep. She went to the bathroom, washed quickly, and instead of returning to the sitting room to pray, crept upstairs to her sister’s bedroom where her clothes were kept.

You can’t use a bag, the old man will see it.

I can wear three pairs of knickers and a pair of jeans under two salwars. I’ll wear the black kameez, the one that’s too big. I can fit another two under it and a couple of T-shirts.

What about the old man? He’s always staring. He’ll notice.

Beauty’s mother and sister were fast asleep, their faces lost in each other’s hair on the single bed, her ama’s breath catching in her throat.

I might not see them again.

She slid open her drawer as quietly as possible and picked out the clothes she wanted. Her mum would notice they were missing, but not until later. She’d be gone by then.

What if she tells Bhai-sahb when he gets back from work? They’ll come looking for you at that place.

They aynt gonna go down there. There’s too many white people. They can’t drag me off the street.

Can’t they?

‘Sis, what you doing?’

‘Nothing. Go back to sleep.’ Beauty moved quietly to the bed, took Sharifa’s face in her hands and kissed it.

‘What’s going on, sis?’

‘Nothing – go back to sleep or you’ll wake Mum.’

‘You OK?’

‘I’m fine. I’ve got to go out early. The old man will make you breakfast. I’ll see you later, after school.’

She picked up the small pile of clothes, took a last look at the sleeping forms and closed the door behind her.

She held the door handle, reluctant to let go, and listened to the sound of the old man’s snoring coming from his room opposite.

What about taking some jewellery?

They’ll kill you. And stealing’s a zinna.

That stuff’s mine. They was wedding gifts. I can sell them.

The clothes were tight but she managed to put on three pairs of knickers, three salwars, a pair of jeans, two kameez and three T-shirts, and went to the kitchen to take some money from her mother’s purse.

How much money shall I take?

Enough for a few days in a hotel.

Fifty pounds?

Thass too much, aynit?

The old man shuffled into the kitchen in his slippers and his crumpled
longhi
as Beauty was setting the table for breakfast.

‘I have to go into town early today. Can you wake the little ones up and make the toast, please?’

It was the most she had spoken to him in weeks. He grunted, but didn’t seem suspicious. She put some tea before him and went to the sitting room. It was too early to go. Faisal might get up and wonder where she was.

Money, phone, cashpoint card?

In my jacket.

They’ll go mad when they find your passport’s gone.

She returned to the kitchen and told the back of the old man’s head that she would see him later. Wisps of grey hair stuck out from underneath his
tokhi
but he made no sign of having heard her. Beauty took her jacket, heavy with her belongings, from the hook in the passage and listened to the silent flat.

Go.

She tugged her scarf and hurried to the stairwell. Her boot heels echoed as she clumped down the steps.

From the bus stop she looked up at the bedroom windows of her family’s home. The curtains were still closed.

Am I gonna see them again?

The bus crawled up Cannock Road in the early morning traffic, past red-brick factories with broken windows and dead chimneys.

Mark looked up at the fit little Paki bird as she came in late, carrying a bag. Everyone was drifting in whenever they liked. He was fucked if he was coming in on time tomorrow. It damn near killed him getting up in the morning
.
Kelly had left him drained at six o’clock.

Give ’er a right good seeing-to, dey I? I ay no two-stroke: two pumps an’ a squirt.

But he knew it hadn’t quite been like that, and he was glad when she’d gone; her visit had left him feeling uneasy. At first she’d seemed normal. She’d sucked him off in the armchair and done a little strip. Had even offered to play with herself in front of him. Later, as he was giving her the good seeing-to over the arm of the sofa, she had urged him to push harder. She’d sounded frustrated, and howled at him to stick it up her arse. The lights were on, and her arse, which he parted to oblige her, hadn’t looked that inviting.

He’d done it anyway and it seemed to satisfy her. The noises she made excited him and within a few strokes he came.

‘Ooh, it feels like I shit misself,’ she’d said, laughing as he pulled out. She turned over on her back and joked about the spunk running out of her arse on to the sofa.

Later she’d talked about sex until he overcame his disgust and became hard again. This time she sat astride
him and rubbed herself to screaming point. He’d scrubbed himself clean as soon as she’d gone and slept for two hours before getting up to go to town – on time. His balls ached as he walked.

Beauty stuffed the small rucksack she had bought in a camping shop under the table, and sat down next to a black-haired lady with no front teeth. The attendant had looked at her suspiciously when she’d come out of the changing room with the newly-purchased bag bulging with the layers of clothes she’d taken off, but he hadn’t challenged her.

No one appeared to take much notice of her arriving late. Colin was talking, and the clients, fewer in number than the day before, looked tired and bored. Beauty was glad to be there. At least she had somewhere to go.

‘… and we need to co-elate this information and cascade it back up to the Jobcentre so they can interpretate it.’

What the fuck was he on about? Mark closed his eyes and wondered if his other bitch might be pregnant. Titan had been in the kennel with her for three days. She should start showing soon if she was.

‘… so if you’d all like to diarize your Jobsearch dates, that’ll be that, all done and dusted.’

Colin Bushell sat back, satisfied he had got through this part of the morning without the usual whining interruptions.

‘How are we supposed to look for work if we godder come yur every day?’

There were murmurs of support from around the room for the speaker: a pale, middle-aged, tracksuited man in a checked Burberry cap. Colin knew how to deal with this scrounging git of a Welshman.

‘If you’ve been claiming benefits for more than six
months, and actively seeking work, which is part of your New Deal agreement, you’re obviously having difficulty finding a job. Hence why you’ve been referred to us by the Jobcentre for training and support.’

He’d have to watch this one. Perhaps send a note to his facilitator. The man might be a troublemaker, try and whip up the others. Colin had seen his notes. Four or five kids, and he hadn’t worked for six years. Well, Colin had him by the balls now. The rules were clear. If they didn’t turn up they’d lose their dole money, housing benefit, council tax benefit and whatever else they were screwing out of him from the taxes he paid.

Colin shuffled his papers to show he was ready to continue with the morning’s programme. He still had to get their CVs done, the Equal Ops quiz and the Learning Styles Initial Assessment and Diagnostic. He’d tell them about their permitted absences later. The scum didn’t deserve twenty days’ sick and holiday over six months. That was more than he got.

‘It’s not that there aren’t any jobs. They just don’t pay enough.’

The room agreed again. A Jamaican man in ironed jeans and a checked shirt pointed to the Welshman and addressed Colin.

‘Dublin’s right. Jobs don’t pay enough in this town, gaffer.’

The black guy who had sat next to Beauty the day before began to laugh.

‘Shut your nose, George. You never worked in your life!’

The forty-five-year-old George Taylor leapt to his feet in indignation and cursed his accuser in a stream of patois and teeth-kissing,
ya’ras
,
blood-clart
and
bumba-clart
. When he had finished he pulled a Guinness bar towel from his back pocket, wiped his brow and sat
down. But the two men were friends and he wasn’t angry. And it was true, he had never worked.

Beauty stopped listening and picked at the stitching of her jacket. Had her brother found out she’d gone yet? What would he do?

Her stomach turned and her throat hurt.

The woman with no front teeth asked her if she was coming to the pub at lunchtime.

‘Thanks,’ Beauty said. ‘I’ve got to go and sort some stuff out.’

‘Coom after. Where you giwin’?’

‘I need to find a hotel or something. I left home.’

She hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Beauty looked at the white
buddhi
, but she didn’t seem shocked, or interested.

Don’t never talk about your family to no one.

‘There’s a hotel at the bottom of the road. Why do’ you try there?’

Colin Bushell waited for the talking to die down. They’d just have to lose their precious break if he couldn’t get through the paperwork. Besides, he hated the way they helped themselves to the tea and coffee. It shouldn’t have been free. And he was sure some of them filled their pockets with tea bags before going home.

‘There
are
jobs out there, and we’re here –’ he began.

‘I worked thirty years at Dunlop before they shut down,’ said a large-bellied white man with short grey hair. ‘I’m fifty-eight years old. Who’s going to give me a job at my age? Round these parts the engineering work’s all gone. What do you want me to do, stack bloody shelves in Asda for a hundred and fifty pound a week? You find me a decent job and I’ll do it.’

‘Exactly,’ said the pale Welshman, whose own working
years numbered far fewer, at least as far as the DWP was concerned. ‘How d’you expect me to live on that with five kids?’

Shouldn’t have had so many children, Colin thought, but he knew he couldn’t say it. This rat was the type to report him for ‘discrimination’ and he’d have to explain himself to the manager. Again. Would he himself find another job so easily at fifty-six?

‘You’ll be expected to provide evidence of having applied for a minimum of two jobs each week. Otherwise your Jobcentre adviser will be informed and you may lose your benefits.’ That would shut them up. It usually did. He’d give them a few seconds to digest this latest piece of information.

But the clients’ attention had been drawn to the door that had opened behind him.

Beauty looked, too, at the tall, slim black man standing in the doorway.

Al-l
h! What is this?

Delford Johnston’s black combat trousers were tucked into his eighteen-hole black Dr Martens boots. A heavy gold chain hung round his neck and rested on a tight black jumper under a thigh-length black leather jacket. His freshly-shaven and polished brown skull shone. He came into the room, raised a hand heavy with gold sovereigns and pulled his sunglasses down his nose to look at the faces around the room. Those who knew him looked away.

His eyes widened as they came to Beauty and her headscarf at the end of the row of chairs. He held his palms out and greeted her with the
shahada
of the convert to Islam.

‘
Ash-hadu anla elaha illa-Allah. Wa ash-hadu anna Mohammadan rasul-Allah. Asalaam alaikum
.’

‘
Alaikum salaam
.’ Beauty returned the greeting in a low voice.

‘Let me go and sit next to my sister,’ he said to Colin and his audience, and slipped into the empty seat beside her. ‘Hello, my little beauty! And what have we got here?’

Beauty flinched at the insult. ‘Have some fucking respect!’

George Taylor winced. You didn’t cuss Delford Johnston and get away with it. The girl didn’t know who he was.

Delford laughed off Beauty’s reproach.
‘Bismillah hir Rahmaanir Raheem,’
he said.

‘Yeah, yeah. You’re a good Muslim,’ said Beauty and tugged her scarf down.

She remembered his sort from Hackney
.

He’s a gangster, aynit. A gundha, sharabi and a pervert ganjuri.

‘Sorry, Colin. Do carry on,’ Delford said, with exaggerated politeness. ‘I won’t be staying long anyway,’ he added. He laughed and slapped the table. He’d like to see this bearded prick try and stop his benefits. He looked round at the younger men, used to hearing laughter when he said something funny.

Mark Aston stayed under the peak of his cap. He’d been padded up with niggers like this before.

Thinks ’e’s ten men.

Fair play to the Paki bird though! Nice one!

‘Good to have you back with us, Delford,’ said Colin. We were just about to have a look at your
curriculum veetees
.’

‘You ain’t looking at my teepee!’

Delford nudged Beauty and laughed at his joke.

While the man explained what it was, Beauty returned to picking at her jacket, throwing quick glances at the others in the room.

What was it like to be one of these people?

If she stayed out, would she become like them?

At least they didn’t have to worry about marriage stuff. They were free from that.

She studied the tall Somali woman. Her scarf was done in a bun at the back, and she wore a long beige skirt with flat-soled boots and a loose red polo neck jumper. She caught Beauty’s eye and smiled.

Pretty lady.

Big, too.

That’s how they are sometimes, hallahol.

At eleven o’clock Beauty hurried out of the building and headed along School Street to the hotel she’d been told about. As she walked across its carpeted lobby she felt the eyes of the uniformed receptionists on her. What would they think, seeing an Asian girl on her own?

Nothing. They’re white. They aynt gonna think nothing.

‘How can I help?’ asked the older one, looking down from the raised platform behind the counter. The other woman disappeared through a side door.

‘I need a room for a few days,’ Beauty said.

‘Certainly. Would that be a single, or a double?’

‘Single or double what?’

‘Room.’

‘A single,’ she said, and reddened.
I am dumb.

The woman tapped computer keys.

‘We have a single room free. That will be sixty pounds a night, payable in advance.’

‘Sixty pounds? For one night?’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’

She didn’t have enough, and the woman was waiting for an answer.

‘I’ve only got fifty pounds,’ said Beauty. ‘Less now.’ She blushed. Why did she keep saying things aloud? Was she going loony?

‘Have you tried the George on Darlington Street?’ The woman’s voice was friendly. Beauty shook her head.

‘Maggie, how much does the George cost a night?’ the woman called to her colleague.

Beauty’s cheeks burned. Did she have to shout?

‘Forty-five pounds,’ came the loud answer.

The woman looked at her sympathetically.

‘Have you tried a B&B? They’re usually cheaper. I can …’

‘Thanks, I’ll find one,’ Beauty said and turned away.

As she shuffled through the revolving door and out into the street she felt light-headed. She didn’t even have enough money to stay out for two nights. How could she go home after two days? Better to go now and avoid getting beaten up.

The noise of the traffic streaming round the island was too loud. She stood on the pavement, the wind fluttering her salwar around her legs.

When she got back to the first-floor room the only person there was Horace, an old Jamaican. She twitched the corners of her lips in greeting, kicked her bag under the chair and unwrapped the chips she had bought. The smell of vinegar rose with the steam and filled the room.

‘Wh’appen, me girl?’ Horace greeted her.

‘Mm-huh,’ she answered, through hot chips.

‘Ya ahright now? Ya have somewhe’ f’ tahn?’

Beauty swallowed. ‘Eh?’

‘Somewhe’ to live?’ Horace repeated.

Al-l
h – how does he know?