The Hiding Place (22 page)

I’ll go first, she says. She throws the coal out in front of her, skips and jumps.

One fuck, two three, four shite five, she yells. She bends over to pick up the marker, legs twisted at the knees.

This is a Crip’s game! Pupsy!

and throws the lump of coal into the long grass.

I’m going to play a
hard
game, she says ominously, Come on!

And she turns back into the house. There’s this feeling twizzling away in the back of my head, which I get when Luca’s up to something. It’s bound to be
unpleasant. But it’s almost midday; Carlotta will be here soon. I’ll be safe then.

~

Carlotta sits in her parlour with her hands tucked between her knees; she’s sobbing. Above her, the footsteps of the men cross the room. Tearing sounds, the scrape and
crash of furniture overturned, then the brittle snap of shellac as they work their way through Salvatore’s record collection. Opposite her, in Salvatore’s armchair, Ilya the Pole keeps
up a steady monologue.

Awful, eh, this business, Mrs Capanone. I’m very sorry for it. But Joe is crazy, you understand. He’s mad. If he finds Salvatore – he’s a Dead Man.

Salvatore would not do this, she says, To steal from his own business!

Ilya closes his eyes, nodding.

I know it – we know! But where did he
go
?

Carlotta pulls her handkerchief from her sleeve and crumples it over her nose.

To The Moonlight. Of course. I tell the police this! They don’t believe!

On Seguna’s
wedding
day?

Even to Ilya, it sounds preposterous.

To fetch the biscotti for Mary, Carlotta says, sick of explaining, He
tell
me this.

Ilya doesn’t really care for the conversation. He’s just being polite. Keeping her out of the way. He searches in his pocket for his cigarette case, raises his
eyebrows at her,

Do you mind?

Carlotta gets up to fetch the ashtray from her cabinet. It’s made of onyx, a large yellow agate with a rough edge. She stands behind him, holding the cold chunk to her
breast.

Where is he?
she says to herself. Fifteen years married and not a single day without him. Carlotta isn’t fooled by Ilya’s smile. He knows how it is: the men leave the wedding
and they go to a bar. And they drink, and they play poker. And they come home. But he didn’t come home. Salvatore
always
came home. But he didn’t come home.

She could smash the ashtray there, right in the middle of the shiny pond of Ilya’s head. Carlotta takes a breath, places it carefully on the floor near his feet.

Nothing, Boss, says a young man, pushing the door open, We’ll check the back, alright?

Carlotta follows them into the kitchen. This room is hers. The two men turn out the cupboards and drawers with expert skill, rattling tins, popping open her jars of pickle and preserved fruit.
One of them hooks a lump of jam into his mouth and sucks it off his finger.

Cut it out, Roy, says Ilya, Get on with it.

Here – this only, says Carlotta, taking the tea-caddy off the shelf and banging it on the table, My savings.

Inside the tin are a few rolled-up notes, some Green Shield Stamps, a dusty collection of sixpences.

Come on, Ilya says, Let’s go.

The two men stop immediately. They wipe their hands in unison, as if everything they touched was dirty. Ilya pauses at the door,

Don’t forget that, he says to Roy, nodding at the tin on the table.

Carlotta sits still in the kitchen, with the cupboard doors gaping and the mess of pots and sticky lids all around her. She presses her hand against her heart. No, she thinks,
No Salvatore, you are not a dead man. I would feel it.

~

Luca takes up my father’s rabbity knife, licks her finger and runs it on the edge; she’s about to skin me.

Not that one! I shout, as she positions the point. Luca lets out an exaggerated breath. She steals my mother’s voice.

Do you want to be hard or not? she says, flicking the blade at my face, You know what Fran said about the Homes, Dol! I nod, miserable; not at the prospect of going into the Homes, but because I
want to be hard and I don’t think I’ll manage it. Fran says I’m too little; I’ll get beaten up.

Well then, Luca says. She starts to cut. I don’t feel a thing. This is easy, I’m thinking, and then she stops. When I look there’s no blood, just a faint scoring of white on
pink. Luca leans over and pulls a pen out of the Toby Jug on the table. Toby is laughing at me, both his eyes are closed in mirth, or maybe fear.

I’ll need to draw it on first, so I know where I’m going, says Luca. With her tongue in the side of her face, she writes a big D: then she pauses. Luca is crackling with power.

Do you want Dol, or Dolores? she asks. Her voice is high and slight. Outside the window the birds aren’t singing. Perhaps there’s a cat in the yard.

How about DG? I venture. There’s a flip of disgust on her face, so I rush on, Or maybe DSG?

Luca takes up the knife, draws the edge across my arm. The first cut is ragged, I can feel the resistance of skin. I lean across her just in time to watch my blood bobble out in a long line. She
goes in again, tracing the arc of the D with my father’s best cutter, and the snagging races up my arm and into my head. I start to hum, with a noise like pain escaping through my nose. Luca
suddenly stops to look at me.

I said close your eyes.

The sun is behind her, falling against her head and the taps which waste my blood, and Luca’s face is black and flecked with barbs. I’m seeing neon rip across the
air.

Keep still, will you, she says. The tension in her voice tells me she’s scared too. I want to cry.

Let me have a look, I say, casual going up into a wail.

Luca has scratched a crooked D into the flesh, raised and open like the gills of a fish. I pretend to examine it, but my arm is jolting up and down, or the sunlight is flickering, or I am. She
lets go then, the thick white imprint of her grasp remaining on my skin.

Just D will do, I say, before the walls skid into floor.

~  ~  ~

Eva’s got me by the hand; she’s wearing her gloves again but I haven’t got mine any more. I don’t know where they are. None of us knows where anything is
any more.

Carlotta comes in the mornings to clean the house and cook for us, dripping her tears into the big aluminium pan which she uses for stews, soups, frying bacon. But she hasn’t got a clue
where to put things. The airing cupboard is a mess of fighting stockings and slumped towers of underwear. At least when my mother was here, we knew where to find our clothes – on the chair in
the living room.

My mother is in Whitchurch Hospital. She’s not coming out, so I’m going with Eva to visit her. Eva takes me everywhere with her these days.

You’re my little lucky charm, she says, jangling her bracelet and smiling, you could come and live with me, Pet, but Mr Amil – her voice goes down to a whisper – He’s
funny about it, Dol. Old-fashioned.

What she really means is that he’s superstitious about my bad hand; I heard her tell Martineau. He comes round at night to help her look after us. He uses the back door,
just like my father did. Martineau swears he knows nothing about my father, or Salvatore, or why The Moonlight has got boards up at the window and a For Sale sign above it.

Silent as the grave, says Eva, when she tells me these things, But I like ’em silent, Dol. Can’t stand a nattering man. Mr Amil, you know – and she pulls a face just like him
– Yak-Yak-Yak all day long! Gives me such a head!

We’ve all seen The Moonlight, so I know that bit’s true. Me and Rose and Luca stood outside while Eva went into the grocer’s next door to the betting shop and bought us all an
ice-cream. We’d just said goodbye to Fran. I licked my Whippy and the cream ran down my hand. I should have been thinking about how Fran would’ve liked an ice-cream, especially with a
Flake, but all I could think of was how my one hand suddenly looked like the other, with the fingers hidden behind the cone and the thick drips running down. Rose had finished hers. She had her
face pressed right up against the window of The Moonlight, cupping her hands over her eyes.

D’you think they’ve left any pop? she said.

Eva had finished her lolly and was wiping her hands with a handkerchief. She bent over and smeared it across my mouth, once, twice.

There you go, Dol – Clean as a Whistle! Come on, Rose! she shouted, grabbing Luca by the hood of her raincoat. I licked all around my mouth. It tasted of vanilla and Eva’s scent.

~

Whitchurch Hospital has big gardens, and a long winding road running up to the front door. We go through the reception and into a summerhouse at the back. My mother is sitting
in a deckchair behind the palm plants. Her hair’s gone grey.

Look who I’ve brought to see you! Eva says. I try to edge on to my mother’s lap, but I can tell she doesn’t want it. She lets me sit there for a second and then she eases me
off again.

Her legs are a bit sore, Dol, says Eva, watching my face. I look down to my mother’s legs; they’re like two huge sausages sticking out from under her skirt. One of them is wrapped up
in a thick bandage.

What have you done? I say, Who did it?

No one did it, Dol – Eva’s talking for my mother – Your mam’s still a bit poorly.

My mother smiles and at this, and for a second, her face looks normal. Then it closes itself up.

Pretty little girl you’ve got, she says to Eva, Whatever happened to her hand?

~  ~  ~

There’s an outing. Lizzie Preece escorts me and Luca and Rose into town to buy new shoes and dresses. It’s nobody’s birthday, it’s not Christmas, and
it’s not Corpus Christi.

What’s all this in aid of? asks Eva on our return. She makes us stand in a line while she inspects us. We’re a bit ashamed – we didn’t get much say in what we could have;
Lizzie Preece said we could only go to a shop that took Council vouchers. So we’re all in brown.

What she playing at? Eva says.

She soon finds out. Our next trip is to the photographer’s shop in Queen Street Arcade. Eva comes with us this time. She grabs my hand as usual, so Lizzie Preece crosses
behind me to take the other one. Then she remembers and her face goes puce.

You’d be better off keepin’ an eye on
that
one, says Eva with a nod to Luca, She’s a terror in the traffic, she is.

They walk ahead of us. Luca swings off Lizzie Preece’s wrist like an ape off a branch. Eva laughs and puts her mouth close to my ear,

Old Prissy’ll soon get tired of that!

~

The photographer’s called Mr Lovell. He takes us through a black curtain into the back room.

Now, girls, this is the Ste-u-dee-o, he says, as if we’re incapable of understanding plain English. He positions us on a long leather bench. It squeaks when we move. Rose does farting
noises by lifting her fat legs and slapping them down on the leather.

Don’t touch that! he shouts as Luca grabs the tripod.

Ex-term-in-ate! she yells, waving the legs in the air.

Mrs Preece, please try to control them! he says.

We’re so amazed, we all stop fidgeting and look at her. She’s supposed to be in charge of us? Eva takes a step back, red-faced.

What do you want these photos for? she asks, suspicious.

For their mother, says Lizzie Preece quickly, It’ll help her recovery.

Eva stands in the corner, her arms folded and her foot tapping. My mother used to do that too, when she was angry.

Mr Lovell takes my photograph first. He tilts my head slightly to the left, then moves my shoulders the same way.

Look at me, he goes, from somewhere behind the lights, and I turn back to look at him. He steps out again and repositions me.

Just move your eyes, he says tiredly,
Not
your head.

Tricky. But I get the hang of it, and it’s all over with a ssshunk. Rose and Luca’s take a lot longer; they won’t sit still, they pose and then pull faces when
the shutter goes. By the end, Mr Lovell is sweating.

Terrible, he says to Eva and Lizzie, Don’t build your hopes up – Sow’s ears and all that.

Back after two then, says Lizzie, ignoring his insults.

~

We are taken – For a Treat, says Lizzie Preece gaily – to Pippo’s Sarsaparilla Bar. Eva and Lizzie fight over who’s going to pay; they both wave their
pound notes about and push each other out of the way, going, No No Let Me, until finally Eva gives up and slides next to us on the high stools. She shrugs,

Let her pay then, she says, The fat cow.

Lizzie Preece wedges herself in between the round table and the window. I can tell by the way she shifts her body towards Eva, she wants an adult conversation. Rose does tricks
with her straws, blowing bubbles into her limeade, shooting a stream of green liquid at Luca, pretending to make a straw disappear up her nose.

Do you think
they’ll
look after them? Lizzie Preece asks Eva. She means Pippo and Celesta.

You must be joking! says Eva. She stirs the scum on her coffee, takes a hot sip.

But he’s not – he’s quite mature, isn’t he? They’re a ready-made family, argues Lizzie.

He won’t take them, says Eva, finally, They’re not even back off their honeymoon.

They know then? asks Lizzie, shocked.

Oh aye, says Eva, casually, You can see how much
they
care. And Celesta – she won’t want a whole load of kids in her posh house, will she?

Lizzie Preece looks at us and I try not to catch her eye,

Not
this
load, she says.

~

The photographs are ready. Mr Lovell hands them to Lizzie Preece in an assortment of brown cardboard frames.

I’ve done you a set of duplicates, he says, For the mother. Lizzie glances at Eva, then sighs and opens her purse. She pays this time and no one argues.

The image of me is nervous, shifty, scowling over my shoulder like a fugitive on the run. Any second now, the sniffer dogs will leap up behind me and tear me to ribbons. The pictures of the
others are even worse. Rose holds her chin high, her nostrils flared like a hippo emerging from the swamp; Luca has her eyes crossed like one of the Keystone Cops. Our group photograph makes Eva
laugh out loud.