Love in Revolution (19 page)

When I pushed the door open Skizi was in a nest of blankets in front of the hearth. The air was thick with smoke – the chimney didn’t draw properly – and it smelt acrid and resinous. The fire was spitting and hardly seemed to give out any heat.

Skizi looked up. Her face was pale and blank, as if the muscles had frozen. She blinked. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘They sent us home.’

‘This isn’t your home.’

I shrugged. I stood where I was for a moment, waiting for her to invite me in. I wanted her to ask what had happened, but she didn’t.

Skizi went back to staring into the fire. I came into the hut, feeling the smoke sting my eyes, and sat down next to her without taking my coat off. I wanted to reach for her hand, but it was hidden inside the knot of blankets.

There was silence. I wondered how long Skizi had been like this, sitting staring into the fire, motionless.

I said, ‘Are you all right?’

She nodded, without looking at me. After a while she said, ‘I’m cold.’

I put my arms round her, rubbing her back through the blankets. She seemed to shrink away from my touch, and I stopped. The blankets smelt damp, as if they hadn’t been properly dry for months.

In the end I said, ‘One of the guards shot someone. Sister David, who teaches maths. There was a sort of – well, a sort of fight, and –’

Skizi stiffened, but all she said was, ‘Dead?’

‘No, only in the stomach, but –’

‘She’ll die, probably. People do, from stomach wounds. Everything leaks out and poisons them. You should know that; you’re a doctor’s daughter.’

I swallowed. All I could think of to say was, ‘Oh.’

She leant her head on my shoulder, and I felt her breath come and go on my neck. After a while she said, ‘Sorry.’

I tightened my arm round her. I wished I had something to say – something to make her laugh, or take my hand, or just look at me. The way I felt about her made me ache, worse than the cold. I felt my throat start to hurt, but I was scared to cry, in case she said something scathing – or worse, nothing at all. I clenched my teeth and tried to remember what it had been like in the summer: long lazy days when we hardly said anything at all, and it didn’t matter. Now it felt as though the silence was a reproach.

I said, ‘Have you been here all day?’

‘Of course,’ she said, and huddled closer into her blankets. ‘Where else would I be?’

‘Well, you might’ve . . . gone into town for food, or . . .’ I looked up at her shelf of tins. It was almost empty. She’d need some more, soon.

‘I don’t like going into town,’ she said. ‘People won’t serve me, even when I can pay.’ She wasn’t complaining, but I knew she was telling the truth. ‘Anyway, there’s nothing to buy. The shops are all empty.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said, hating the way my voice came out. ‘Of course the shops aren’t
empty
. We have loads of food at home. I’ll buy you food. What would you li–’

‘Bloody hell!’ Suddenly she threw me off, and she was on her feet, wrapped in blankets. She stared at me, her top lip drawn back, showing her teeth. ‘When was the last time you were in a shop, Esteya? So
you’ll buy me food
, will you?’ She mimicked my voice, high and pathetic. ‘The shops are empty. The only reason you and your bloody family have food is because your brother is a bloody Communist. Take a look around, for God’s sake!
You
have meat and cheese and bread and potatoes and . . . and
chocolate
– but who the hell else does? Your friends at school? The priest? Just think about it. No one wants to get on your bad side, in case you go running to your pet Minister of Information or whatever he is. And don’t you –’ her voice cracked – ‘don’t you
dare
tell me not to be
silly
. You stupid, self-absorbed,
lucky
little –’

She stopped, breathing hard, as if she’d nearly said something terrible. For a moment we stared at each other. My insides felt frozen, heavy and rigid.

Then, like something finally breaking under a weight, she dropped to a crouch on the floor and put her hands over her face.

I heard myself say, ‘I didn’t know. You’re right, I’m stupid.’

She laughed, and went on laughing, until I realised she wasn’t laughing at me. I got up, knelt next to her and put my arms round her. When I squeezed she flinched, and hissed as if I’d hurt her, but when I went to pull away she caught my hand and held me there. I wasn’t sure, but I thought she was crying.

‘It’s such a mess – it was supposed to get better – and I thought, I really thought . . .’ Her voice was thick and blurred.

‘It will get better,’ I said. ‘It will. I promise.’

‘Oh yes?’ She was laughing again, sobbing with laughter as if she was in pain. ‘You know there’s still a notice in the town hall that says: no dogs, no alcohol, no Zikindi? And in one of your brother’s pamphlets it says we’re a problem the Communists are going to solve. And the bloody guards – now they’re shooting nuns . . .’ She sobbed helplessly, and this time it definitely wasn’t laughter. ‘And I’m freezing cold, I’m
dying
of cold, and I’m hungry, and –’

She stopped, shaking her head, and rubbed her face against the cloth of my coat, like a cat. Her cheeks left wet marks on my lapel.

I held her tighter, and she winced. She glanced up at me quickly – almost warily, I thought – and then away again. She stroked my hand with a fingertip, her mouth softening as if she could feel my gaze.

‘What’s wrong?’ I said.

‘Nothing,’ she said, too quickly. ‘Well, I’m hungry and cold, like I just said.’

‘Why don’t you want me to touch you?’

‘I do,’ she said. ‘I’m just shrammed, that’s all. A bit stiff. You know. It’s so
cold
. . .’

I twisted to stare her straight in the eyes. She looked away. I pulled the corner of the blanket gently away from her neck, and bent to kiss the skin I could see. It was cool and smelt sour and smoky. Then I tugged at the blanket again, and at her collar, until I could see the contours of her collarbone, and the edge of a bruise blooming purple and blue between her breasts. My stomach turned over. I started to unbutton her shirt, but she pulled away. She said quietly, ‘Don’t. It’s cold.’

‘What happened?’

‘A couple of men from the town. The butcher wouldn’t serve me, and then when I came out of the shop, they were there, and . . .’ She shrugged.

‘Did they . . . ?’ I stopped. I couldn’t breathe.

‘No. Don’t worry. It wasn’t . . . it happens. It’s not the end of the world. It’s not like it happened to
you
.’ She wasn’t being sarcastic; she really meant it.

‘When?’

‘A couple of days ago. There were some guards there, but they didn’t do anything. I mean . . . they didn’t help.’

‘Let me see,’ I said, and this time she let me unbutton her shirt. She was shivering, and her nipples were puckered and sticking up. There was a bruise – a chain of bruises – twisting across her ribcage like a purple scarf, ending in the middle of her collarbone. Here and there the skin had been broken, and the scabs looked thick and painful. It made my own skin tingle to look at them. I laid my hand on the bruise, very gently, and Skizi caught her breath and hissed through her teeth. For a moment I felt a surge of guilt that was so strong I couldn’t speak. This was all my fault, somehow. I should’ve been able to protect her. How could I have let this happen?

I said again, ‘It’ll get better. I promise, Skizi. I’ll make sure it gets better.’

‘Course,’ she said, with a hint of a smile. ‘With you on my side . . .’

I swallowed. She was right: there wasn’t anything I could do. For a moment I wondered whether I could get Leon to send a box of food, like the one he’d given us at Twelfth Night – a leg of lamb, bars of chocolate, jam, potted shrimps, a pineapple . . . I knew it would take days to get to us, and then Mama would ration it out, at mealtimes; but just for a moment I let myself imagine turning up with the food in my arms, and Skizi’s face lighting up.

I said, ‘Wait here.’ I buttoned up her shirt again and wrapped the blanket round her, pulling the folds gently up to her neck.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m . . . Just wait here,’ I said.

‘You’re coming back?’ Something in her voice tugged at me. She sounded younger than normal, helpless, like an animal.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Just wait here. Keep warm. I’ll be back soon, I promise.’

I got up, went out into the field and ran down the hill, towards home.

Ten

I didn’t know where Mama was, but the house was empty. I stood in the hall, listening to the silence. The air seemed to taste of dust and damp, and everything was still. For the first time I was glad that we’d had to send Dorotea away. I went into the pantry, and started to gather things into a tea towel. My heart was pounding, but my hands were so cold it was hard to pick things up. The last dregs of a jar of honey had crystallised. I wondered how long it had been since Skizi ate something sweet and put it into my bundle.

Once I thought I had enough – or rather, once I’d taken everything I thought I could get away with – I ran upstairs to collect a cake of soap and a towel. Then I came back downstairs again, and filled a bucket with coal. There wasn’t much left, but Papa could always get more, and Skizi needed it more than we did . . . Finally I was ready. I eased myself out through the front door, trying not to drop anything, my arms full and already aching from the weight of the coal.

Ana Himyana was at the corner, talking to another guard. She’d changed out of her school uniform: now she was in brown workmen’s trousers and a thick jumper, her hair pushed up into a red beret. She looked unreasonably glamorous, like the star of a film. I pulled back into our doorway, squeezing my eyes shut and hoping she hadn’t seen me.

‘Hey! Esteya!’ Her voice had a familiar, amused note in it, as if we were friends. ‘Are you running away to seek your fortune?’

I was going to have to walk past her. I gritted my teeth and hurried down the street so that she wouldn’t be encouraged to go on talking to me. As I passed her I said, ‘No, I’m – I’m just visiting a – a friend of mine . . .’

Ana laughed again, and stepped out in front of me. I stopped, because she was in my way, but she didn’t move. She reached out and plucked the soap off the top of the pile of things in my arms. ‘Oh, rose,’ she said. ‘How lovely. Do you always take soap to your friends, or is this one particularly dirty?’ She gave me a radiant smile.

‘It’s none of your business,’ I said.

‘Oh, Esteya! Your repartee is so
withering
,’ she said, putting a hand on her heart and pretending to swoon. The guard – he had a dark, narrow face and a thin moustache, and I disliked him already – chuckled and wiped his nose with his forefinger.

‘Get out of my way.’

‘There’s no need to be so –’

‘Get out of my way, or I promise you’ll regret it.’ I just meant that I might lose my temper; but something like fear flashed in her face and she stepped sideways.

‘Sorry, Esteya,’ she said, ‘I was only teasing,’ and handed the soap back to me.

I stared at her, and suddenly I remembered what Skizi had said:
no one wants to get on your bad side, in case you go running to your pet Minister of Information
. . . I swallowed. ‘You watch yourself, Ana Himyana,’ I said, hardly recognising my own voice. ‘If you put a foot out of line – if you do
anything
– I’ll tell Leon, and the Party will know about it. So be very, very careful.’

She held my gaze for a moment, and then her eyes dropped. She said, ‘I didn’t mean . . .’ Her voice tailed off. The guard wouldn’t meet my gaze either.

I walked straight past them, feeling my blood buzz in my cheeks. I felt like a witch who’d called down a curse on someone. It made me feel queasy and excited at the same time.

Then I turned left, past the church and into the alleyways, and I was so eager to get to Skizi that I forgot all about Ana.

Skizi was curled in her blanket in front of the fire, but now even her head was hidden, and only a tuft of greasy-ish hair was sticking out of the folds. She was shivering. The fire had almost gone out, and the smoke was hanging in the air like a cold fog. She didn’t move, even when I said her name. It was only the crash of the bucket of coal dropping on to the floor that made her emerge, blinking.

I smiled at her, crouching to put down the bundle of food. I flipped open the corners of the tea towel, like a pedlar displaying his wares. ‘Look,’ I said, and I could hear the pride in my voice. ‘Cheese and sausage and a tin of sardines and olives and half a loaf of bread and – well, this
was
honey, once, but I’m not sure what it is n–’

Skizi sat up. She said, ‘What’s in the bucket?’

‘Coal.’ I waited for her to smile, but she didn’t. ‘I thought – I know the hearth in here is a bit small, and it’ll take ages, but we can heat enough water to fill the hip bath, and then you can – I brought some soap –’

‘How kind,’ she said.