Red Ink (11 page)

That’s all I want. I want her to talk.

Chick thinks she’s not allowed to smile. She’s terrified that something is going to make her laugh and this will be disrespectful to my mum. Rubbish. Now I’m stuck in the middle of it all, I see that there are no rules about how to behave around death. The Lacey household have made their own rules.

1. Y
   OU MUST ACT SOLEMN AT ALL TIMES EVEN THOUGH YOU DIDN’T REALLY KNOW THE PERSON WHO DIED.
   
2. I
   F YOU WANDER INTO A ROOM WHERE THE DEAD PERSON’S DAUGHTER IS, YOU MUST EXIT, QUICK.
   Y
   OU WILL HAVE NO CLUE HOW TO ACT OR WHAT TO SAY.
   
3. T
   HIS IS THE LAW.
   

Every time she thinks I’m out of earshot, Mrs Lacey says something like, ‘I don’t know what to do with her. Why should I know what to do with her?’ Mr Lacey will tell her, ‘Please keep your voice down, Rowena.’ Never anything constructive, always the same line: ‘Please keep your voice down, Rowena.’ I wish people would speak up. Yell a bit. That would be better than the crushing silence.

I’m waiting at the tube station. It’s good to be outside. Men in orange overalls are working on the tracks beyond the end of the platform. From this perspective, they look like midgets. Oompa Loompas. Chick played an Oompa Loompa in one of her Christmas ice skating things. She had to wear hideous orange tights and paint her face with this stuff that made her skin break out. Two of the little orange men are carrying what looks like a stretcher with a body on top. Must be sand bags. Must be.

I’ve heard Mr and Mrs Lacey badmouthing Mum too. Mostly Mrs Lacey. She’ll huff and go, ‘Lord knows how she brought that girl up. Am I expected to right all the wrongs?’ I don’t like that. Only I am allowed to slag off Mum.

The least Chick can do is lend me her credit card. I haven’t got near enough to Chick to ask her permission. She’d probably say ‘yes’ if I did, anything to make me go away. No, actually, she wouldn’t, because she knows her mum would go spare. That would be ace. To make Mrs Lacey go spare. A reaction. Something real.

Four minutes until a train. An age. I want to get out of here. I feel like I’m skiving and I’m going to get busted any minute. It’s Thursday morning. A school day. I’ve never skived off. Ever. Of course, I’m not really skiving now. ‘Compassionate leave.’ That’s what they call it. I’m not sure what’s more compassionate: making me stay at Chick’s home with Mrs Lacey, or sending me to school to get stared at by everyone. Mrs Lacey is taking time off work to look after me. She’s not doing much ‘looking after’. She’s done plenty of cleaning and read enough magazines. The best I get is a stiff, ‘Are you okay?’ She looks terrified of what I might say back so I daren’t ever go, ‘No, actually.’ I just say, ‘Yeah, fine.’ Sometimes Mrs Lacey goes, ‘You must miss her very much,’ or, ‘We must be thankful that she didn’t suffer’. They sound like sentences she found in the middle of a greetings card. She says them under her breath, without looking me in the eye. Mrs Lacey has gone to the doctor this morning, and I took the chance to escape. I’d rather be at school, though it would be bad to carry on like nothing had happened. Plus, no one else at school has had a parent die. I am now officially even more of a freak than I ever was. Brilliant.

There’s the sound of a Coke can being kicked down the stairs onto the platform, then the scuffle of shoes trying to get at it first. I look up.

Ian. Ian Grainger. The last thing I need right now.

I’m doing well holding things together, but if Ian starts on me, I don’t know what will happen. I might cry, wail, faint, explode. Literally. Pieces of me flying everywhere.

I may not be skiving but Ian definitely is. Eleven thirty. He should be in English now. He’s in uniform, so I’m guessing he did Maths first thing then decided to sack it off for the day. Ian’s with Murray Bulger who is fat yet somehow manages to be worthy of Ian’s friendship. Dylan is with them too. Puny, stupid Dylan.

Dylan kicks the can onto the gravel of the tube tracks.

“Fuckhead,” goes Ian. He gives the back of Dylan’s head a proper whacking, then walks off ahead of the others. Limping. It’s funny how the limp isn’t there when he plays football.

Ian picks a spot by the yellow line at the edge of the platform and dumps down his bag. Dylan and Murray join him, do the same with their bags. All three of them put their hands into their anorak pockets. Ian first, the other two following. Sheep. They stand poking their toes at the line, then scan along the platform for a train. They clock me. Murray swings his head back towards the other two, lowers his voice, says something I can’t hear. They half nod, look at their feet, then pretend to find the massive poster for deodorant across the tracks really, really interesting.

They know.

One of two things must have happened. Either there was some cringeworthy speech made by the form tutors at register Tuesday morning about why I wasn’t there, or Chick has been spreading it about. Chick will earn some proper kudos at school for this – the juiciest bit of gossip since Pooja Varma got arrested for shoplifting. Or maybe this story is bigger. Someone actually died. And Chick has got firsthand knowledge – details. When Pooja nicked those clothes, we had to make up most of the story just so we could keep talking about it.

However they found out, Ian, Murray and Dylan know.

I brace myself. I’m ready for them to do the thing with my name.

But, nothing.

I look back along the tracks: a train is nosing its way into the station. I look back at the boys. Still nothing. Their turtle heads have shrunk down into their anorak shells. They’re pretending I’m not there.

The tube train clatters into the station, shouting down the silence and whipping my hair across my face. The current of air makes the boys’ fringes do a Mexican wave. They’re rooted to the spot, looking at their feet. The doors stop right in front of me and the doors nearest to the boys will take them onto the same carriage. I expect them to move along to another bit of the train, but that would mean acknowledging that they’ve seen me. Too embarrassing.

The doors open. We all get on to an empty carriage.

“Mind the gap.”

That’s where I am right now, in the gap.
Please mind the gap between the death of your mother and the edge of normal.

The doors close. I sit down. Only when the train hiccups into life do I dare check where they are. They’re on the seats by the glass panel at the end of the carriage. They’re looking at me now, but they’re not saying anything. I’m in the middle of the train, another two glass panels of protection away. I won’t need it though. They’re not going to do the thing with my name. I can feel the pity oozing off them, although they’re grudging about it at the same time. Mum dying has spoilt their game. Murray gives me a soppy look, Dylan nods. It feels like being patted on the head by an old relative. The train clangs into the dark of the tunnel. This is the weirdest thing to say but I actually preferred it when the boys took the piss.

I turn away. I feel a bit sick. I haven’t eaten yet today. Couldn’t think about breakfast. I take the bottle of Cherry Coke I bought at the newsagent’s, open it without thinking. Of course it explodes. It’s been bumping around in my bag all the way to the station. Sticky brown stuff everywhere. The smell of sugar. The eyes of Ian and his lot are on me again. This would be a perfect excuse for them to pounce. Ian is itching to, I can tell, but he swallows his laugh. Come on, I think, say something, something rude, something horrible, anything. I shake Coke from my hands, hold the bottle away like a smelly shoe. A puddle has formed on the floor of the carriage and is travelling towards my feet. I suck drips from the edge of the bottle and take a swig. Warm. Makes your teeth feel furry. I burp. Loudly. Ian looks again.
Say something. Say something
. He wrinkles his nose, pretends he’s disgusted. That’s rich, coming from him.

I put the lid back on the bottle, put it on the seat next to me. Satisfied.

I have Cherry Drops in my bag. Nothing goes better with Cherry Coke than Cherry Drops. Unwrap one, put it in your mouth, crack it with your gums so the insides come out, then take a mouthful of Cherry Coke. Gorgeous. The shell of the Cherry Drop fills the gaps in my back teeth like gluey fillings. I click my jaws together, feel the top teeth stick to the bottom.

“Oi.”

It’s Ian.

“Give us one of those,” he goes.

So I do. I lob a Cherry Drop, hard, all the way along the carriage. Ian stands to catch it. It clips him on the forehead.

“Wanker,” I mutter as he fumbles to pick it up. Dylan and Murray can’t help but crease up.

Ian looks at me, surprised. I’m shocked, shocked that I said that word out loud. So I say it again.

“Wanker,” I go. “Can’t even catch a fucking sweetie.”

Ian moves forwards along the aisle, trying to make himself look big. Big, strong Ian. I poke at the cherry film on my teeth with my tongue. He stands there looking at me, wobbling with the train, a skittle that could fall back or stay standing, ready for another strike.

“What did you say?”

Dylan and Murray have stopped laughing. Murray can’t get rid of the grin. They’ve turned in their seats to get a good view, anoraks rustling.

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

I look down at the river of Coke parting around my shoe.

Ian raises his voice above the noise of the train. “I said, it didn’t sound like nothing.”

“I heard you the first time.”

I meet Ian’s sticky tar eyes. There’s something different about them today. Usually they’re fiery and wet, full of the joy of being an absolute twat. Now they’re unsteady. He knows he should back off, not because he’s made my life hell for the last few years, because of my mum. My dead mum. She’s my ‘get out of jail free’ card. I hate that. I hate it because it’s a cheat.

We’re still staring at each other. Let me have it, I’m thinking, don’t you dare let me off easy.

“Yeah, well . . .” Ian wobbles, parts his legs to get stable on the train floor. Murray and Dylan are waiting for the final verdict. “Just watch your mouth, yeah?”

I nod at him. “Okay,” I say, sarcastic. “I’ll watch it.”

The lights of Highgate station appear behind Ian’s head.

“Let’s get off here, yeah?” The boys pick up their bags, start bundling towards the door, trying to knock each other over. I wonder if they’d planned to get off at Highgate or if Ian is just saving face.

“Mind the gap,” I say to the back of their heads.

“Yeah, fuck you, right,” Ian shoots back from the platform, giving me the finger.

The doors close and the platform starts moving through the frames of the window like a cinema reel getting back to normal speed. The boys are whisked away. The black of the tunnel gulps me down.

They can’t bother me now.

Nothing and no one can bother me now.

There is a bag for clothes for the charity shop. There is a box for the knick-knacks. There’s a rubbish bag. Then, on the bed, there is a pile for Paul to keep. Paul says I can have a pile too. How generous. Whose mum was she after all?

He’s also let me choose which bit of Mum’s room I want to do. He’s all give, give, give. I decide on the chest of drawers. I don’t want to watch Paul sorting through Mum’s knickers; I’ll do them. Though I’m not stupid, I know he’s already been through her knickers. If you know what I mean.

Mum’s chest of drawers is a Victorian relic like her wardrobe, but they don’t match. The chest is a lighter wood and it’s a great hulk of a thing compared to the dinky wardrobe that Paul is sorting. I’ve chosen the short straw – there’s going to be a mountain of junk in this thing. I pull open the top drawer, full to bursting with cheap lace. Nothing really saucy, but still, a drawer filled with sex. I don’t want to look. I know Mum did it – she had me, after all – but it makes that thing Mum said about Paul go round my head.
Black man’s cock, black man’s cock, black man’s cock.

When I look at Paul, I find it hard to imagine he really has a penis. He’s by the wardrobe, folding Mum’s clothes like they do in posh clothes shops: laying each top on its front on the bed, crossing the arms behind the back, folding up the bottom hem, then turning the thing over and tidying up the collar. They’re only going to Cancer Research. He’s such a dullard. So straight. I swear he’s made of cardboard.

“How about we put some music on?” he says.

Paul is dead-set that this is going to be a joyful experience, excavating Mum’s room. A ‘celebration of her’, that’s what he called it. Idiot.

“Whatever.”

“I know just the thing.” The cheerfulness is painful. I know he’s going to blub. I’m just waiting to find out which item from Mum’s wardrobe tips him over the edge.

Paul goes to the old ghetto blaster CD player by the bed. It’s a real antique with a furry coat of dust. I know what album he’s going to put on. If we’re celebrating Mum there could only be one choice. It’ll be the one with the Brazilian woman who half talks and half sings, a bit like she’s bored, or drunk, or both. Mum’s favourite.

There’s the hiss of the CD spinning into life and Paul stands over the ghetto blaster, fretting whether he’s pressed the right buttons. The man starts dum-dee-dumming, then the slurring woman starts singing her pointless song about the tall, tanned girl who does nothing but walk.

Paul turns to smile at me, does a little shimmy with his hips. I think I might die of embarrassment. I concentrate on stacking thongs and pants on top of the chest of drawers. A leaning tower of nylon. Mum never went in for fancy coordinating pants and bras, but she liked colour. Purples, pucey pinks, bright turquoise blues. Traffic-stopping underwear.

I wonder what coloured ones she was wearing when it happened. I imagine Paul bringing those knickers and her other clothes home from the hospital in a clear plastic bag. Although I have no clue if that is what actually happens. Do they give you the clothes back when someone dies? Or do they leave them on? Did they cut through her clothes when they tried to save her? Did they just throw the clothes in the bin? When they’d given up on her, did they send her to the morgue naked? I don’t know.