Love Me (29 page)

‘That's exactly how it feels.'

‘It's just not safe,' he said. ‘One day, it's bound to happen . . .'

‘What?'

‘SPLAT!' he replied.

IT'S A LAWLESS
night.

Out in the streets we clot together like blood in a scab, all conflict suspended. The underworld has flooded Flatbush Avenue; an urban purgatory populated by calypso zombies and devils. On one side I hold Zed's hand, in the other Spanish's. One has a light, caressing touch, the other's is tight and steady. Both Max and Spanish have one hand swinging free. There are no more arguments out here. Even if we did argue, we wouldn't be able to hear ourselves over the drums and the steel pan, the shouts of the revellers. The music overwhelms our thoughts, the night infects us. We are surrounded by a parade of the undead, all coasted in layers of coloured mud and flour, as are we. All of us grey. All of us a little like The Woman in the clip frame. The men wear their clothes baggy and hide their faces behind rags, eyes shining in the streetlights. The women wear very little regardless of their build or age, squeezing into cut-off shorts and bra tops and tanks in army patterns or in the colours of their particular Caribbean flag. They shake and jiggle that flesh; stretch marks, love handles, cellulite and all. They apologise for nothing. They wind their bodies down to the floor in moves that simulate the kind of sex that could make a grown man cry and the kind of hips to make babies pop right out like champagne corks.

We hold tight to each other because if we let go, we don't know if we'd be able to recognise each other anymore. There's a feeling that if you got lost here, you'd be lost for ever.

We dance, we laugh. We drink, all of us, from the same bottle of mineral water. I begin marching in time too, letting my hips roll with the music, overwhelmed by all the noise and all the voices. I shout the words of the songs I know.

J'Ouvert
. Daybreak. The youngest descendant of
canboulay
where ex-slaves celebrated the end of their bondage with satire, bacchanal, and masquerade. A dark tide rushing and pooling before the dawn, revelling in their freedom. But there is no sign of the sun yet. A half-naked man emerges amongst the wild crowds, slathered in tar, wearing very convincing horns and wielding a pitchfork. He dances uncontrollably while women dressed as red imps constrain him with chains.
Jab mollasie
. A mollases devil, so finely rendered he might be the real thing pretending to be a man pretending to be a thing. I giggle and scream and clutch at Spanish and Zed, feeling transported.

‘This is bloody amazing!' I scream, but can barely hear my own voice. Some hard, fast soca comes over the sound system.

‘Come on! Shake that ass, girl!' says Zed in my ear. He's smiling wide, dancing like a true island boy in the hot crush of people. Splashed in green paint and flour, a grinning
jab jab
. ‘That's the best you can do? You need some snake oil, baby girl!' And then both of his hands are on my hips, and he is close behind me, breathing on my neck, gyrating, pushing up on me, smelling the way he smells. My hand slips out of Spanish's hand and I whirl about. Anything goes. Anything is permissible here.

I watch Max do her stripper dance all over Spanish, backing up her skinny little bumper. He scoops some mud out of a passing bucket and dumps it in her hair.

‘You wanker!' she shouts.

Zed's hands slide up and down my waist, over my hips and my ribs. I try to sing along with the tune but no sound
emerges. It's the way it always is when he touches me. He's hard through his trousers.

‘Can I keep you?' he says right into my ear, and my heart clangs and turns over like a tired engine. My body is a mass of tingles. I'm singing between the thighs. I'm about to turn round to face him when the first cloud breaks. A few large drops of rain splashing down on our hot faces. It could be tears on his cheeks. A light veil of drizzle sprinkles the crowd. A few rivulets running down over tattooed biceps, between pushed-up bosoms, standing in our hair. Wet bodies push together.

And then, in a single, shuddering moment, the sky empties itself all over us.

Spanish grabs my hand hard and we swear and try to find a way out of the mêlée but everyone running means no one gets anywhere. Soon we're all soaked to the bone and completely clean of flour, make-up, paint or sweat. The crowds knot and heave. Thunder starts and it's louder than the music. Lightning flashes across the dawn-ripe sky and the panic escalates. Being struck by a stray bolt of lightning may not happen often but it's possible and that's enough for most.

‘Come on!' says Zed, trying to push through to a kerb where people seem to be moving successfully. His slippery fingers tangling with mine.

‘This way!' contradicts Spanish, moving in an opposite direction. The crowds swirl between us and carry me in a third direction.

‘Zed!' I yell but my voice is swallowed in all the noise.

‘Where's he gone?' screams Max in my ear, and I realise that we've managed to hold onto each other. Soon we can't even remember where we were, and both Spanish and Zed have vanished.

Eventually, after several loud minutes of rain thundering down and running people shouting at each other, we find
ourselves shivering, beached on the kerb. It doesn't feel like there was ever a party. A riot, maybe. The streets have regained their edge, the music has faded, rain is still falling.

Max and I begin looking for the guys amidst falling temperatures and ex-revellers who now just look like strangers. Scary ones.

A fight starts amongst some stragglers across the road, one group of men squaring up against another. Far away but not far enough away for comfort we hear a loud POP POP POP.

‘Fuck this,' I say, grab her hand and start running.

‘Where are we going?' Max shouts, breathing hard, hair and rain in her face.

‘Home.'

‘Are you mad?'

‘Madder . . .' I say, struggling to breathe, ‘to stick around here!'

‘Eden! Hang about . . .'

‘Race you!'

We charge down the dim streets as fast as we can, dodging tired, soggy people. Doesn't feel like much can happen to you when you're running. And we are too fast for the cold. The sight of our mad dash is enough to elicit cheers from groups of men walking home or back to their cars, but they're part of the reason why we're running so we ignore them. We don't stop until my chest burns and my feet are sore. I can't go any further. Max whizzes past me, carried along about three steps by her momentum, and then comes back to stand next to me.

‘Oh my God!' she pants, cheeks close to fluorescent pink. ‘You have mental issues! I almost . . . I almost died, mate!'

‘I think I did!' I croak. ‘Is this hell?'

We look into each other's ravaged faces and crack up laughing, hands on our knees, struggling to catch our breath.

‘Look,' says Max when she can speak. ‘Should we go in there for a minute? Warm up before the rest of our walk home? I think I might have a stroke if I don't sit down!' We're standing in the window glow of what looks to be a little Caribbean takeaway.

‘You got any milk?' I ask her, channelling Juliet.

‘What?'

‘Milk and honey, girl, dinero . . .'

‘Oh right! Yeah, come on.'

Inside the joint is decorated in a tropical theme, with a wooden bar painted turquoise and walls hung with seascapes and faded calendars advertising Bounty Rum. It's much warmer than outside; still feels like summer in here. A small, brown-skinned man with freckles and rust-coloured hair greets us when we come in.

‘Good morning, ladies,' he says.

‘Hey . . .' But then I don't say anything more to him because: ‘Oh my God! Aunt K!'

‘
WHEN DID YOU
get back?' I say, loud with surprise. What are the odds of catching her like this at five thirty in the morning in a random West Indian takeaway eating a Jamaican pattie? I don't know how to feel. ‘What are you doing here?'

Aunt K smiles and finishes chewing. ‘A-a!' she laughs. ‘You think I'm too old for J'Ouvert?' She doesn't look too old for anything, except maybe foolishness. Her long multi-coloured dress is cinched in the waist with a copper belt. Copper sandals peep out from the hem. Her skin is smooth and shiny, glowing from the sun; her locs tumble free to the middle of her back, snaked with purple.

‘Of course not,' I say, shivering, ‘I'm just surprised to see you. You didn't say when you were coming back . . . So. Um. Anyway, Aunt K, this is Max.'

Max looks petrified. ‘Maxine,' she expands.

‘Nice to meet you, Maxine,' smiles Aunt K. ‘You guys look like you've been through a couple of civil wars.'

‘It was fine,' I say.

‘It was great until the storm ruined it!' bubbles Maxine. ‘We lost Zed and Spanish. I don't know what happened. It was supposed to be dry today.'

Aunt K snorts, ‘These weather people know nothing! They just want you to think they know, which is almost as powerful.' She brushes the crumbs off her hands and takes a sip of her drink. ‘Don't worry about the boys. They'll be OK. You girls should have a ginger tea, then I'll give you a ride home. Alright?'

We thank her and gratefully sit down. ‘Russell!' she says to the man behind the counter. ‘Can we have two ginger teas with lemon, and two slices of carrot cake, please?' Then she turns to us and says, ‘I'm having a party at the house tonight, so invite your little friends.'

‘Really?' I say, even though I'm quite profoundly partied out.

‘Yes really. Ask everyone to come.'

I turn to look out of the window. Across the street, Zed is looking anxiously one way, Spanish the other.

‘We're here, you pillocks!' screeches Maxine, rushing outside the cafe. I watch until her performance is mute beyond the glass; she throws her hands in the air a few times and puts her hands on her hips. I wait. I haven't figured how to act yet. I don't know what face to put on. Moments later, she's dragged them into the shop.

‘What the hell were you doing, leaving us like that!' she's saying to them as they come through the door. ‘We were scared.'

Spanish makes a doomed attempt to straighten up his muddy, wrinkled clothes and frizzed-out curls. ‘Doesn't that woman of yours ever shut her big mouth?' says Spanish, coming straight for me.

‘Yeah, shut the fuck up, woman,' says Zed angrily. ‘I was looking everywhere for you.' And when he says ‘you' his eyes are on me.
Can I keep you?

‘Zed,' says Aunt K.

He jumps out of his skin. ‘Oh God! Aunt K! Shit! I mean, I'm sorry for my language! Damn!' he gives up and laughs.

Aunt K smiles. ‘So you guys made it back to civilisation.'

‘Yeah we did! Thank God. You look good, Aunt K. I like your hair.'

‘Thanks. Them Lucian girls can twist some locs!'

‘Good trip?'

‘Very good,' she says. ‘It was the right place at the right time. But,' she kisses her teeth, ‘what were you doing, Zed, not taking care of these girls here? They came running in this place like hell was chasing them!'

‘It was crazy out there . . .'

‘Circumstance doesn't make the man! They only reveal him to himself.
As A Man Thinketh
by James Allen,' she snaps. ‘Read it! Anyway, let's get back to the house. We have a party to get ready for.'

ON THE SUBWAY
with Zed from Harlem to Brooklyn, I was still tingling, tingling and sore, and proud because my first time was beautiful and I was in love.

Ten years ago, almost to the day. We walked up the street to Aunt K's house hand in hand. My mother and Dominic were taking me, Zed, Uncle Paul and Aunt K out that night for a meal at a nearby restaurant. We were almost an hour late and breezily unrepentant.

‘Eden. Baby girl. You OK?'

Zed put his arm around me. I looked up at him and smiled but suddenly I felt weird. I thought I was just nervous after what had happened, or because we were late, or because we were bound to get in trouble. But maybe I felt a note of discord, the way animals do before a storm.

‘Come on,' he said, smiling in that cute, crooked way, pushing me playfully. ‘We cool. We can just say we, uh, lost track of time. Playing video games or whatever.'

I pushed him back and returned the grin, but my face was inexplicably tight. Zed went through the door first, using my key. I liked how strong he was, not sheepish at all.

‘Hello?' he called up the stairs. There was no answer so we went and sat on the couch. After a moment of silent grimacing, he said: ‘Uh-oh. I hope this doesn't mean they went out looking for us.'

Suddenly I noticed my mother's favourite, delicate little gold sandals capsized on the rug. She was there?

‘Zed . . .' I pointed. Gave him a puzzled look. A light was flashing on the answering machine and sneakily I checked it, hoping it wasn't a message about us. It was Aunt K, calling to say she'd got held up at work and couldn't make it to dinner.

When I hung up the phone, I noticed a scrap of something poking out from under the couch, between Zed's white Air Jordans. He followed my gaze and looked down, pulled a face halfway between glee and disgust. He took the scrap of fabric between his fingers, a black lacy thong, dropped it like it was an oversized bug. Then I noticed the half-empty glasses on the coffee table, my mother's handbag flung in the corner, overflowing with its ever-present junk.
Oh
, I thought, blushing but also faintly triumphant because I was part of the club now.
Dominic must be here.

I stood up. Zed had an odd look on his face. I wasn't sure what to do. ‘Mum?' I shouted out. Nothing. Something was very wrong. Fair enough, it was all very
nudge nudge wink wink
but the room felt cold. It didn't feel like people had been here recently, stirring each other, wanting each other. The handbag could've sat there for a hundred years.