Beauty (11 page)

Beauty lay on the bed in the spare room. It was six o’clock and Dulal hadn’t rung back yet. What did that mean? That they expected her? Surely they’d noticed the missing money by now, and would know she had enough to stay somewhere for a night. Maybe they thought she’d go back when it ran out. Perhaps they hadn’t decided what to say and were arguing about it. Her mum would be worried, wouldn’t she?

Good they don’t ring. I aynt gonna answer. They’ll try and make me go back.

What they gonna say if the mullah’s pervert brother phones them?

Nothing. They’ll just tell him I’m still not well. They done that for years.

She sat up at the sound of the front door opening and the low voices of men in the corridor. She took some cotton wool and cream from her bag and began to wipe off her makeup. She didn’t want any men to think she had put it on for them. Had they at least
salaam
’d each other? Beauty wouldn’t have minded if they had been white. At least a white person wouldn’t think she was doing anything bad.

Hana called her name from outside the bedroom. Beauty looked at herself in the mirror in the cupboard.

Her mother’s pale face looked back at her, and was gone.

Bismillah hir Rahmaanir Raheem.

Al-l
h, Don’t let them stay long!

She could see one of the men at the end of the corridor.

Iraqi!

The other two stood up and greeted her when she came in to the sitting room.

They were all Iraqi! Beauty didn’t like Iraqis, or others who looked like them.

They were like
freshies
, straight from back home. They weren’t used to seeing women alone, and perved in the streets.

The three men sat down. They were wearing flared faded two-tone jeans, tight ribbed jumpers and heavy jewellery. Cheap gold shone against the thick black hair poking out of their collars and sleeves.

Hana told her their names but Beauty didn’t listen. She returned their greeting, eyes down. The place stank of their perfumes.

‘
Alaikum salaam
.’

She sat down on one of the armchairs and looked at her hands on her knees
.
As long as no one spoke to her they would get on fine. On the coffee table were three neat piles of keys, foreign Marlboro Lights and mobile phones. Nothing fitted in the pockets of their trousers.

The broken chat continued around her. The youngest Kurd, Darav, or something like that, smoked and tapped his lighter on the table. He caught Beauty’s glance and offered her a cigarette. She sneered at him and stood up.

Her phone was ringing, she told Hana.

Al-l
h! What am I doing with this magi and three Iraqis?

Beauty stayed in the bedroom until the Somali woman came and asked her for the money for the pizza. It was in
her jacket pocket on top of her bag by the door, she told her.

When she went to the living room the food had been set out on the low table. She took a plate and the smallest slice of pizza and sat in an empty chair. She tore off pieces of the greasy dough with her fingers and covered her mouth with her hand as she chewed. A man shouldn’t see a woman eat. She tried not to look at the others but was drawn to watch each in turn. They all ate like animals.

Hana’s worser. Why doesn’t she close her mouth?

Beauty waited until someone else had finished eating before returning to the bedroom. She knew she couldn’t stay there another night. She’d go to the Jobcentre tomorrow and talk to her adviser. The lady there might help her find somewhere to live.

She lay on the bed, closed her eyes and imagined what it might be like to live on her own, unmarried and away from home. No one she knew, or had heard of, had ever done it. Not alone. They always had a boyfriend. What had happened to them? Sweetie went to Wales, and Safia … where was Safia now?

When she opened her eyes again Beauty could no longer hear voices or laughter. How long had she been asleep? Had everyone gone?

She got up and went to the living room.

The youngest Iraqi was sitting in an armchair, smoking.

‘Where are the others?’ she asked.

‘Huh?’

‘Where’s Hana, and your mates, cousins, brothers, or whatever they are?’

‘Ah … Telan he go to petrol station shop for to buy cigarettes,’ he said, smiling.

‘Where’s Hana?’

‘She go …’ he pointed vaguely towards the door.

Beauty didn’t wait for the answer. She couldn’t sit in a room alone with him.

As she passed Hana’s bedroom she heard the woman’s voice cry out.

Beauty tapped on the door, pushed it open and stared at naked limbs twisting and writhing on the double bed, at a man’s hairy
hombol
rising and falling, at a wrinkled sack of skin swinging beneath.

She fled to the spare bedroom, pressed herself against the door and shut her eyes.

Al-l
h, where am I? Why have You let this happen to me?

Let me go home.

You can’t – they’ll kill you.

She touched her cheeks nine times
– nahuz ub’illa min zalik –
but the image of what she had just seen remained
.
Her head spun and she felt sick. She wanted to lie down but didn’t dare move away from the door. There was no lock on it. What if the other one in the sitting room had the same idea? She knew she couldn’t stay there a moment longer, but where could she go? Hana had spent Beauty’s money on the pizza. How could she ask for it back now?

She wanted to throw up the food she’d eaten. It was poisoned by the woman’s sin and the Iraqi’s naked body.

I should have phoned Nicola.

Maybe it’s not too late. Call her.

What if the Iraqi attacks me?

Beauty opened the door slowly. Her jacket was eight or nine steps away. She held her breath and inched forward, straining her ears for sounds of movement from the living room, leapt to grab her jacket and bag and flew back along the corridor to the bedroom.

She blocked the door with her foot, panting and listening for approaching steps. If he came anywhere near her she’d scratch his face off. She tore open her bag, pulled out a pair of jeans and struggled into them, found the crumpled piece of paper and pressed in the numbers on Faisal’s phone, praying that Nicola would be at home.

She was!
Shoban shukor alham dul’illa.

Could Beauty come round? She was a bit stuck.

Yeah,
shooer
.

It wasn’t too late?

Nah, man.

Thanks. She’d be round as soon as she could.

Raby Street in All Saints. R-A-B-Y, number 37. Where was she? Parkfields? A taxi wouldn’t cost more than four quid from there. Did she have a number for a cab? Nicola would call one for her and text her the details. Tra-a-bit.

Beauty closed the phone and asked God to bring the white girl peace.

Al-l
h tairay shanti horrio.

*

A taxi would be there in five minutes, but she still had to get past the pervert in the sitting room. Maybe if she got Hana out of her room it would provide some protection. But she didn’t want to see the woman again, or the man with the hairy
hombol
. She didn’t even know which of the two he was. Did it matter to Hana?

Beauty put on her jacket and pulled the rucksack onto her back. She’d need both arms free to slap the Iraqi if he tried to stop her from leaving. She opened the door enough to peer through the gap. The bastard had moved to this side of the table. She couldn’t see his face but she wouldn’t be able to get very far before he saw her. There was nothing for it but to walk towards the front door. The key was in the lock. It would take her five seconds.

She got halfway before the Kurd saw her. Beauty stopped, but he didn’t get up. She took another two steps before he spoke, and she froze again.

‘You go now?’ Darav said.

She kissed her teeth in answer and kept her eyes on the key in the door.

‘Home?’ He sounded surprised. How much had the
magi
told him?

‘A friend’s house.’

‘Now?’ he asked.

‘What’s it to you?’

He stood up slowly.

‘You are fear of me?’ he asked.

Beauty took another step towards the door and lifted her hand towards the key. There was a latch to turn, too. She’d need both hands. Darav edged sideways around the armchair towards the door.

‘Stay away from me,’ she warned him.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, and stopped. ‘Hana say you need help … maybe some money … so I think …’

‘You think what?’

‘That, you know, maybe I give …’ He waved vaguely with his hands; a gesture that took in the whole flat. ‘And you …’

‘Do you want to go back to your country?’

Beauty said it slowly and clearly so that he understood. It was a simple threat.

‘OK, OK.’ He raised his hands in surrender.

‘Hana got it wrong. I don’t need no one’s help.’

Beauty glanced at the door, not wanting to take her eyes from him, and reached out for the locks. The key turned easily but the catch above it wouldn’t budge. She brought her other hand up to help, and sensed his sudden movement towards her.

‘Don’t go like that. I …’

His hand reached out to the lock. She slapped his arm down and the catch clicked open. Beauty pulled at the door but his foot jammed it shut again. She turned to the Kurd and slapped his face as hard as she could with the ball of her open hand, like they did to her at home. It caught him on the cheek and his head banged against the door. He cried out in pain and stepped back. Beauty tore open the door, slammed it behind her and held on to the handle in case he tried to get out. She looked over her shoulder at the light above the lift. It was far below her on the ground floor. The neighbours? Who would open their door at this time in a place like this?

Beauty let go of the lock and ran to the staircase.

After six flights she stopped to rest her foot and listen for sounds from above.

Voices echoed up from the stairwell.

Doors slammed far beneath her.

But there was no noise of footsteps following her. Beauty looked around. This wasn’t a good place. The walls were damp and the lights flickered.

On the twelfth floor she called the lift, pressing the button repeatedly as it climbed slowly. She squeezed past the opening doors, then stood unprotected, her eyes fixed on the exit to the staircase, until the doors slid shut.

When she reached the ground floor she burst through the lobby and into the car park. Through the bushes she could see the yellow light of the taxi. ‘Wait!’ she shouted.

The brake lights went off and the car pulled away.

‘Please wait!’

She took out the phone and pressed redial.

‘
You have insufficient credit for this call. Please arrange a …
’

The battery died.

Al-l
h!

Think!

Nicola had told her she lived near the centre. She’d walk towards the town, find a phone box and call another cab.

Beauty checked that there were no signs of her brothers. It wouldn’t be far to walk past the lit-up row of shops until the darkness swallowed her.

Across the street a black guy in a long padded coat, tall hat and ear flaps watched her approach.

‘Wa gwan?’ he said, and loped a few steps towards her.

‘Yeah right,’ she muttered.

‘A-where ya go?’

‘That’s my business,’ she said, not looking at him.

He bounced along beside her.

‘Rest yerself me girl. Me na trouble ya.’

‘I aynt your girl.’

She risked a quick look at him in the light of the kebab shop. His beard was greying and matted in small clumps, and the whites of his eyes were beige. He shook the nearly empty can in his hand.

‘I’ve got to go,’ Beauty told him.

‘Whe’?’

‘Er … All Saints?’ she said. Why had she told him?

‘On foot?’

‘In a taxi.’

‘Na taxi na pick ya up.’

‘I’ll walk then.’

‘Ya na wanna go down there,’ he warned. ‘Too much bullet. Ya’ll get dead, ya so.’

He walked the length of the closed shops with her and stopped, peering at her closely through a haze of Special Brew and marijuana.

‘Hey, ya dat pretty coolie-girl look up from da window dere?’ He gestured over her shoulder. ‘Whe’ ya run go?’ he asked, nodding at her bag.

She didn’t reply.

‘OK sista. Watch wa ya do. Man trouble ya, ya tell ’em ya a friend of me. Derrek. Everyone know me ’bout yah.’

He watched the small figure walk away, drained the can of beer and threw it in the bin outside the kebab shop. His woman was waiting for him.

Beauty settled the bag on her shoulders more comfortably and headed towards the town centre. The man had scared her with his warnings about All Saints. Cars passed, and some taxis, but they didn’t stop when she waved. Squinting into the darkness, she prayed for a phone box.

Was that one ahead?

Please, let it be one!

It was! She struggled in. The door was stiff and trapped her bag as it closed on her. She pulled some coins from her jacket pocket and switched on her mobile. The screen lit up, the battery icon flashed and the phone went dark again. She picked up the handset of the public phone. It
felt light and there was no noise when she held it to her ear. Frayed wires poked out of the side of the box, unconnected to the receiver in her hand. Who could she call anyway? She didn’t know a taxi number, and what was Nicola’s address? It sounded like Baby Street, but how could it be that? And where was the piece of paper with Nicola’s number?

Al-l
h!

Was this punishment already?

I aynt going home
.

She pushed open the heavy door and struggled out into the street. She’d have to try and find the train station. At least there would be lights and people.

I’ll go there. I can sit in the waiting room until morning.

What kind of people you gonna find there?

Allah’ll help me.

Will He?

Toba, toba astaghfirullah. He got me this far.

The black road glistened damp under the street lamps. Beauty shrugged the bag onto her shoulders, checked that no one was following, and peered into the gloom ahead. There was nobody coming. If anyone did, she’d cross the road. Once she got to town it would be safer. There would be people around, and police, too.

But someone
was
walking towards her. Two men. She turned left at the traffic lights on Sun Street and hurried past the Royal Mail sorting office. The sprawling depot was lit up and quiet. She reached a bend in the road and looked back at the junction. The men rounded the corner and came up the slope towards her.

She turned and hurried on. The road dipped and the street lamps ended. She stopped in the darkness under the
arches of the silent railway bridge. They were still coming. She tried to walk faster but the cobbles were slippery underfoot.

She felt safer when she reached the glow of the Bilston Road Junction, but was dismayed by the intersection of ring roads, tramlines and subways.

Which way was the station
?

Left.

She passed a signpost and tried to make out the letters.

‘A-B-C-D
.’

Was that a word?

Cars slipped along the bright street as she headed into ‘All Saints and Blakenhall Community Development’ and away from the train station, towards Willenhall. It frightened her that her brothers might be peering from every car. At least there were no people walking here. Apart from the lady up ahead. Perhaps she was waiting for someone, or a taxi. Another woman out alone at night was good. Maybe she didn’t need to be so scared. God would look after her, as long as she didn’t doubt it.