The Edge of Me (5 page)

This must be what he was doing the day I found the photograph.

My hands are still smarting from the broken glass, and one is bleeding again. When I lift out the Prince Charles tea towel to swab it, I notice something folded underneath: a yellowing cutting from a Serbian newspaper. I turn it over and on the back is a grainy photograph of a band of men in front of a truck. Some are standing, some kneeling on one knee – and in their hands are guns, large rifles. One man carries a scythe. They’re wearing army- type camouflage jackets, some wear berets, some balaclavas, their faces hidden. They look proud, resolute: like they belong to each other.

In the front row in the middle, looking straight at the camera from under heavy brows, I see my father as a young man. He looks kind of fierce: like someone you wouldn’t want to mess with, like he can’t take a joke.

The picture makes my flesh crawl. For a while I’m distracted from everything else while I peer at it.

Underneath, there’s a list of names corresponding to the men but the name under my father’s picture isn’t his.

Along with the names, is the word Škorpioni – Scorpions. I lift the cutting out carefully and put it to one side. Beneath it are a few other papers, bills, some old pamphlets in Serbian but nothing else that feels important.

I pick up the cutting, fold it and tuck it into the pocket of my jeans along with the photo.

Silence.

Then a car horn blasts on the road below and a man’s voice shouts a rebuke. Something about the ordinariness of it makes me want to cry again.

And as I squat in the dim light, there’s a sound from downstairs. A scraping, then a couple of thuds, something splintering. Then footsteps. Voices. Men.

5

My first thought is that it’s the police come to look for me, to take me to my parents where this whole thing will be explained. I get to my feet knocking the bulb which swings angrily from side to side, then goes out, leaving me in darkness.

They’re coming upstairs now. They aren’t police. They’re speaking Serbian.

I shift back on to my knees as quietly as I can and I wait.

I couldn’t close the hatch behind me as it was too stiff. I have to hope they won’t notice. They’re directly below me now, and through the crack I can see one of the men quite clearly. I recognise him at once: short and broad with huge forearms: it’s Andrija from the other night. Andrija, who talked about
tomorrow
. Is this what he meant?

He seems agitated. Uptight. He keeps patting at his face and neck like he’s putting on aftershave. It’s funny but without knowing why, I know I should fear this
man. I remember the way he stood in the doorway with Mum as I spoke to my father. He’s used to having people afraid of him.

I can only see the back of the man he’s talking to. They’re speaking in low voices and I can’t catch what they’re saying. The other is taller, with a shaven head and a tattoo of what looks like a crab on the back of his neck. They go quiet for a moment, then I hear them tramping downstairs. There is the sound of doors banging, then nothing.

A sudden buzzing in my pocket makes me jump. I pull out my phone and see it’s a text from Lauren. A little bleep from across the ocean in the world of Normal, but I’m way too upset to cross over from where I am right now. I shut it without looking at the words and I’m just thinking what to do when it rings in my hand.

Without checking the caller, I answer it in a whisper, ‘Mum?’

‘Er … No … it’s Joe. Are you OK?’

‘Joe. Oh Joe. Yeah …Um …Yeah. How are you?’

‘It’s just, I texted you? After … Did you get it?’

‘Er … er … No. I …’

‘Oh right. OK.’

He sounds annoyed. Disappointed?

‘Joe, no. It’s not that … I haven’t … I … it’s just something’s happened and I just don’t know what to … I mean, I got home from school and I …’

That’s it. Right there. I can’t say any more just then.

‘Sanda?’

It’s nice to hear him say my name. Kind of comforting. I force myself to speak and, in fits and starts, I tell him what’s happened.

‘Jesus! Where are you now?’ he says.

‘I’m hiding in the loft.’

‘I’m calling the police.’

Dad’s in my head now. ‘No! No police. I don’t … I just don’t want to …’

There’s a pause and I can almost hear him thinking then he says, ‘Don’t move. I’m coming over.’

‘No … I … um … I’m sure it’ll all be fine. Don’t worry. I don’t want …’

I try to sound like I’m on top of it but I don’t think it’s fooling him.

‘Shut up Sanda. I’ll be there in ten.’

He hangs up. Almost immediately my phone goes again and it’s the text from Joe – sent at four o’clock.

Hi – It’s Joe. Looked for you after school. See you later x

It’s beyond mad, but I’m suddenly gripped with a pressing need to look at myself in a mirror.

Gingerly, I push the loft ladder down and descend. The house is quiet. A quick peep in the bathroom mirror confirms my suspicions. I
do
look dreadful. My hair is a mess and my face is streaked with black from my eye liner. I smooth down my fringe and wipe my face. Just then, I think I hear something downstairs.

I go down into the hall and see where the front door has been shouldered open and wedged back into place. Little spines of split wood poke at angles from the frame
and decorate the floor under my feet.

The emptiness hits me again. It’s so alien, so completely altered that I can’t even see the room it used to be. It’s gone: that shell, that rind that I could crawl into, and all that’s left is me, standing in some vacant room, and everything that ever made sense is gone.

That’s when I realise they’re still in the house. A noise from the kitchen makes me jump and I make for the broken door. Andrija’s too quick for me. He pins me in a powerful hug and the strength of him winds me. I curl over like a prawn, my skin tight over my bones.

He wheezes into my ear the words in English: ‘Steady, steady Sanda. No need to worry. I not going to hurt you.’

He smells of garlic and it’s making me gag.

‘Let me go!’

He loosens his grip a little and propels me into the front room, claps me on both shoulders and steps away. The other man hovers by the door. I’m breathing hard and a kind of sick dread is pushing its way through my body and pricking at the ends of my fingers. My mouth is dust dry.

‘Who are you? What’s going on?’

He considers me calmly for a minute, patting at his face so his jowls shudder.

‘You know me? I was here … and this is Boris. Your parents have gone away. No problem. No problem. I’m come for you.’

I stare at him, ‘Sorry? What? I don’t understand …?’

Boris picks his nose and watches us impassively.

Andrija goes on: ‘Is simple. They have to go away, don’t want to be found right now. I help them. I help you.’

He opens his mouth to smile. I can see a mesh of fillings in his teeth.

‘Where are they? Dad said you were helping them with their papers, something to do with immigration?’

There’s a pause. His blue eyes are on me. Boris coughs, spits on the floor and the little gob of phlegm catches the light.

‘Where are they?’ I say again.

‘Mmm?’ He seems distracted. Boris brings over a small rucksack and pitches it at Andrija’s feet. Andrija squats down to open the bag. ‘Home. They’ve gone home.’

‘To Serbia?’

He looks up, nods and pushes himself up. In his hand is a half-empty bottle of Coke. ‘Have a drink. You coming for a ride.’

‘I don’t want a …’

They’re slow but they’re quick and as I go to run past them, Andrija pulls my hair and I’m jerked back against the wall.

‘Yes, yes. Everyone disappearing. Like magic show. Come on Sanda. Open your mouth. Open it.’

‘I don’t want to drink it!’ I’m shouting now.

He motions to Boris to hold me and he takes my jaw in one hand and squeezes until I have no choice but to open my mouth. I spit and gag and bite but a fat finger pushes on my tongue and the liquid is poured into me. My body stiffens and I retch but it reaches my stomach
all the same. Cold and sharp. He doesn’t stop until I’ve choked down the lot and I’m reeling. He loosens his grip and I find I can’t stand up straight. I start to keel over. Andrija pulls down the upturned sofa and shoves me onto it. He pats me on the head: ‘That’s it. Good, good. Will help you sleep.’

Pins and needles in my legs. My palms tingle and my stomach gurgles and bloats. My head’s fuzzy like I’m under the water in the bath. The walls are water and the floor is water and it’s lapping at me, pulling me, swallowing me.

I dream about Joe. We’re in a Western film, being chased on horseback, high in the Rocky Mountains. But I’m not on a horse at all. I’m on one of those rides they have outside the supermarket: a jeep thing. All it can do is buck to and fro, and in the meantime, Joe is riding off into the distance and I have to watch him go. I’m going to be caught. The bad guys are closing in on me. I see their hands tight on the cracked leather reins, their smiles: stale food between their teeth. Joe is far away in the mountains now. I’m calling for him but no sound comes out. I’m kicking out in frustration but the car is still bouncing back and forth.

I wake up and the bouncing doesn’t stop, and I realise I’m sitting up wrapped in a blanket with my back bumping against a ridged metal surface. We’re moving.

It’s dark but every so often light flashes upwards through torn seams along the walls. Headlights, I figure. I seem to be in the back of a large box van tightly packed with stuff: odd bulky shapes turret around me. Right next
to me is a large, long sort of cupboard. Every so often, it knocks against me as we turn a corner.

I can just hear the faint sounds of a radio: ‘Islands in the Stream’ – one of Dad’s favourites. As I come to properly, I become aware of three things in rapid succession: one, that I need the loo; two, that my throat is achingly dry; and three, that a dim bundle in a blanket, across from me, wedged in between the furniture, and what looks like one of those life-sized china dogs, is another person. I can’t see the face because the light is so bad and the body is curled away from me with its legs drawn up to its chest.

Just then we brake sharply and I hear raised voices from the cab in front. The sudden stop makes the china dog lurch forwards onto the body in the blanket which moves drowsily trying to shrug it off. As it does so, I see a mass of dark hair.

Joe
.

6

‘Joe? Is that you?’

He turns to look at me, rubs his face with both hands. ‘You’re awake at last,’ he says. In the momentary gleam of the headlights I see him clearly. His hair is stuck to his forehead. He shifts back and sits up. ‘Sanda,
what the fuck
?’

The dark presses in on us. I swallow and say, ‘What are you
doing
here?’

‘What am
I
doing here? What are
you
doing here?’ He hangs his head and laughs weakly. He looks back up at me. ‘I mean, we do English together, you
seem
normal enough. I … I ask you out, I call you and you’re trapped in your attic, and the next thing I see is you being carried out of your house by two guys and thrown in the back of a van. So, er … you first, what’s going on?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘OK.’

‘How did you get in here?’ I say.

‘Well. They slung you in. I waited till they went back
in the house and I just jumped in. I couldn’t think what else to do. Stupid, really fucking insane thing to do, but … I don’t know. Then I couldn’t wake you. I untied you but …’ he trails off. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.’

There’s a silence and I know he’s waiting for me to say something but my brain and voice just won’t catch up with the shock of the past hours.

After a while, I cough and say quietly, ‘I think they’re taking me back.’

‘Back?’

‘That guy. I know him. I mean I met him. At home. I think he helped my parents to –’

‘Back where?’

I croak, ‘Serbia. I think. Serbia.’

He slams back against the metal ribs on the van wall and the sound echoes around us.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say because that’s what I always say. I always have a ‘sorry’ ready, just inside my mouth like a wad of gum, and all I have to do is reach in and pull it out.

‘You’re sorry? OK. Why? Why are
you
sorry?’

‘Sorry. I mean … I’m sorry you got mixed up in …’

‘Right.’

We sit unspeaking for what feels like a long time. The total mortification of it all makes me dig my fingernails hard into my palms. It’s eating me alive. It’s actually feasting on my internal organs – ripping them out of my body and chowing down on them with gusto.

Eventually he says, ‘So
why
?’

I leap on it. ‘Why?’

‘Yeah, why? I mean, what’s happened? Your house –
why
was it empty? Why did they go? Why did they …?’

‘Leave me? I don’t know. My dad said there was some problem with their … status … immigration … But I really don’t know.’

‘What, like the Home Office?’

‘Maybe.’

‘But don’t they just send you a letter? Or … make an appointment … it’s not the Mafia for Christ’s sake.’

‘Joe. I don’t know.’

He must hear the crack in my voice because he slows down a bit, says, ‘Well. Yeah. Yeah. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

‘Yes.’

He says nothing more for a while although I can hear him shuffling and fidgeting. Then he looks at me and I know exactly what he’s going to say because it’s hanging in the air between us like a big neon sign. ‘Listen, Sanda. Is there something you’re not telling me? I mean, are they – were they – in some sort of trouble? Your parents, like bad stuff?’

I take a breath. ‘That’s the thing. They’re so ordinary. They’re so … dull. They don’t
do
anything. Mum works – worked in a supermarket – and Dad drove a cab. I can’t believe they were
involved
in anything.’

‘And they didn’t leave anything? Like a letter?’

‘Nothing.’ I’m not ready to talk about the little girl in the photo.

‘Nothing,’ he echoes. The silence between us just gapes. Until he lets out a sigh, says again, ‘It’ll be OK, Sanda. I’m sure.’