In the Heart of the City (2 page)

Certain things make me fearful: crowds, sudden noises, movement. Someone waves and I flinch. The bruises have bloomed and faded, though my rib still aches and when I laugh I feel a stabbing pain. A hairline fracture? I am riddled with currents of anxiety and then thick and dull with lack of energy or purpose. And there are high, clear moments of anger – the anger helps me cry. Hot, salty tears, impotent fury. I ball my fists and hit my thighs till I have bruises there too. I am angry at the boys, at the fact that they had no care for me. At the damage they have done. But I am far angrier at those with power and wealth and influence who do not see the poor as equals. Who rant about pure criminality, broken homes and moral bankruptcy, deeply ignorant of the society beyond their privileged enclave.

I miss my mates and my mum and I’m scared all the time, but you have to hide it cos it’s worse if they can tell you’re bricking it. You can’t grass if people mess with your shit or do you over, you have to take it. Someone said they can get us some drugs and that might help. Just escape for a couple of hours, head in a different place.

We have raised the poorest children in Western Europe. We are the seventh most unequal country in the developed world. And the policies in place will make it even worse: penalising the poor and the young, pandering to the rich. How can they understand, these people who have never known deprivation? Never known the nip and sting of poverty, the relentless grind of struggling, always, to pay each bill, to keep the wolf from the door. Who have never waited in the rain for a bus that doesn’t come, or gone hungry. How can they understand that our children, our future, are being destroyed by poverty – not just poverty in the material sense, but louder than this, darker than this, the poverty of hope? This may be a democracy, but there’s precious little fair about it.

I don’t know how I’ll manage in here and my mum – I don’t know how she’ll manage out there without me. Most nights I lie awake listening for any sound of trouble and fighting not to cry in case my cellmate hears and tells. I think about Stella, holding her hand and racing down Shude Hill. The way she laughs. And I try to bring back that feeling – like we were flying, all of us strong and together, flying down the streets, arms full of gear and dizzy with it all. That night when we belonged, when the city was ours.

Now read on for the first chapter of the new novel by Cath Staincliffe

SPLIT SECOND

Available in hardback and ebook from April 19, 2012

www.constablerobinson.com

T
hey burst on to the bus shoving and yelling; all energy and an edge of menace. Emma felt her stomach cramp, and along with that came a wash of resentment at the likelihood of disruption, the prospect that the rest of her journey home would be ruined by the chavs. Three of them. A girl: pretty, flawless milky skin and dark eye make-up, her white hooded jacket trimmed with fake fur; and two lads, a runty-looking one with thin lips and a tattoo like barbed wire on the side of his neck, and a bigger lad, red hair visible as he swiped his hood back, shaking the snow off. He had freckles and round baby-blue eyes.

The trio swung past the stairs and swayed along the central aisle, led by the big one telling some story at the top of his voice, swearing. The foul language, a sally of ammunition, fell through the air, hitting the passengers, who shrank and tensed. The girl was giggling and echoing half-phrases in a high-pitched squeal.

The teenagers scoured the passengers, waiting for anyone fool enough to make eye contact. Emma prayed none of them would sit next to her. The bus was almost half full, maybe ten people on the lower deck; the back seats just behind her were free. Would they sit there?

They didn’t even pay, she thought. And none of them showed a travel card. What was the driver playing at? Why let them on? Couldn’t he see they were trouble? He could have just closed the doors and driven on.

Emma tried to think about something else, shifted the bags of Christmas shopping at her feet. Nearly all done; got the ones to take home for Mum and Dad and the rest of the family in Birmingham, just need a couple for the girls at work.

‘Shit!’ The redhead broke off his tale and crowed at the top of his voice. ‘Look who’s here – Pukey Luke!’

He homed in on a mixed-race boy sitting a couple of rows in front of Emma on the other side. Short curly dark hair, skin the colour of toffee. There was a muttered curse by way of reply, then the clap and rustle of scuffling as the boy tried to get up.

‘Going nowhere, pal,’ the big guy said, and shoved him back down then knelt on the seat beside him. The girl and the weedy one flanked him. Now the cornered lad was looking away from the chavs out of the steamed-up window.

The bus clattered to a halt; an old couple got off and a woman with a baby in a buggy got on, wheeling the pram to the space opposite the bottom of the stairway.

‘You ignoring me, wog boy?’

The word hung in the air, resounded around the space. Emma bit her tongue, felt her face heat up. The bus seemed to hesitate, to wait shivering, its panels rattling by the roadside, and Emma wondered if the driver was going to chuck the troublemakers off. But then with a defeated sigh the doors closed and the bus shuddered into motion.

It probably looks worse than it is, she thought. They obviously knew the boy – Luke, presumably. Could just be mucking about; they do that, don’t they, play-fighting and next minute they’re all friends. She didn’t really know what was going on.

‘Talking to you, dickhead.’

‘Tell him, Gazza,’ the girl giggled, egging her friend on. ‘Black bastard.’

Ahead of her, Emma could see the latest arrival bending her head to focus on her sleeping child, an expression of dismay and the tug of anxiety in the way she bit her lip.

Emma’s stomach hurt and she felt thirsty, a bit dizzy. Maybe she should say something. But no one else was doing anything. If it really was serious, someone else would say something, wouldn’t they? What about the really big bloke sitting near the front, looking like a rugby player? He’d not done anything and he’d got size on his side. Or the group of studenty types, four of them, with long hair and funky clothes. They were just huddled together ignoring it.

What could she say, though?
Stop it.
Something friendlier?
Please leave him alone
. The words sounded pathetic in her head, weedy. She’d look ridiculous. Let alone the fact that the group might turn on her, she could get attacked. People did. What if she asked them to stop; then the boy, the ringleader, she could imagine him swivelling his gaze at her, those big marble eyes set off among his freckles, pushing himself away from the seat, homing in on her. ‘You talking to me?’ Then calling her names: ‘Fat slag, stupid cow, keep your nose out.’

And what about the driver? He’d done nothing. This was his bus, his job; if anyone had a responsibility to do something, it was him.

She could ring the police, report the abuse. But if she did it now, everyone would hear. Besides, they’d probably snatch her phone as soon as they noticed. If the lad kept on ignoring his tormentors, maybe they’d lose interest. No one else was saying anything. Perhaps they knew it wasn’t worth it, or that it was just chavs messing about, bored, maybe on drugs too.

‘He’s shitting himself,’ the runty one cackled.

There were two women in front of Emma: middle-aged, dressed up well against the weather. Now she saw them exchange a glance, share a tiny shake of the head, caught the muscle in one woman’s jaw tighten with disapproval. Shocking, dreadful, but what can you do?

There was a sharp crack and a tremor through the floor as the one called Gazza kicked the seat next to his quarry. Emma startled.

‘Hah,’ yelled Gazza. Another thump. ‘You want a kicking? That’ll sort you out,’ he shouted at the boy at the window. ‘You dirty nigger.’

The woman in the aisle seat in front of Emma pressed the bell, and she and her friend got to their feet, made their way to the front, standing near the driver as they waited for the lights to change. The large windscreen wiper was pushing slushy snowflakes in an arc across the glass. One of the women peered at the driver, but the man, grey hair, grey complexion, stared steadfastly ahead. She coughed; the driver glanced into his offside wing mirror and drove the bus across the junction, drawing in to the kerb with a whoosh of brakes. The doors folded back, letting in the cold air and a swirl of snow as the women got off. The bus moved on.

‘I’ll do you,’ the bully said, his tone intense with pent-up rage. ‘I’ll have you. I’ve got a knife. Tell him.’

‘He has,’ barked the runty one. ‘He’ll shank you.’

‘He’ll cut you,’ threatened the girl.

The air hummed with tension, the prospect of danger. Emma felt her neck burning, a band of pain around her head. They’re just boasting, she thought, winding each other up. It’ll all fizzle out in a minute. Just playing macho, aren’t they? The passengers were mute, the atmosphere thick with shame and fear. They all sat cocooned, eyes cast down or out of the window.

The girl giggled. ‘He’s shaking, Gazza. Look at him.’

The bell dinged and the red bus-stopping sign illuminated. A lad stomped down from the upper deck, hair down to his shoulders, zipping up his olive-green parka, one of those bright woolly hats on with ear flaps.

‘Knobhead.’ Gazza slapped Luke; the boy’s head banged into the glass.

The lad in the hat saw it; he flushed, moved down the bus. ‘Leave him alone.’

Gazza turned. ‘Or else? Fuck off.’

But the young man wasn’t cowed; his face darkened with outrage, ‘Just leave it.’

With a malicious snort, Gazza swivelled out of the seat and lunged at him, pushing him back and on to the lap of an old Asian man with bags of shopping.

Luke seized the distraction to leap into the aisle and run to the doors as the bus drew in to the stop.

‘Get him!’ Gazza roared, and the three of them scrambled after Luke. Pandemonium. Shouts of outrage and curses as they spilled off the bus.

The lad in the hat righted himself and followed at speed.

Emma felt sick. The doors closed, and she saw the woman with the baby shake her head at an old man on the disabled seats at the other side. But still no one spoke.

Emma looked out of the window as the bus drove away, tyres hissing on the wet tarmac, and saw Luke trip and recover and dart into a garden. The kids were close on his heels and the one in the hat behind them. It was the first house with lights on and there was a car parked at the side. Luke would be able to knock on the door, get help.

Should she ring the police now? And say what? There were some youths on the bus shouting abuse and making threats and now they’re chasing this lad? It would be hard to make the call on the bus with all the noise and people earwigging, and by the time she got home there wouldn’t really be any point. And they’d probably tell her they’d look into it but it wasn’t like anything definite had really happened. Well – one slap and the insults. It wasn’t up to her, really; perhaps the driver would report it when he reached the terminus. Maybe he’d not done anything because he knew it wasn’t actually worth reporting.

The bus trundled on and she sat, just like the rest of them, isolated and dumb, wanting to be anywhere but there.

‘Brilliant!’ Louise clapped as her daughter’s voice faded along with the backing track. ‘Dead good!’

Ruby was flushed, her brown eyes glittering, a sheen on her face from the exertion making her coppery skin glisten.

‘Yer nan’d be proud of you.’ Louise got up from the sofa, ready for a cup of tea.

‘You always say that.’ Ruby switched off the sound system.

‘’Cos it’s true.’ Louise had spent half her childhood applauding her mother, who’d made a living as a singer, fronting a twelve-piece band and crooning ballads or belting out show tunes. She’d spent the other half of it pining for the woman off criss-crossing the ocean singing for her supper on the cruise ships. Now she was here cheering on her daughter; the musical gene, the exhibitionist gene, had skipped a generation.

‘Did Dad sing?’ Ruby asked quietly.

Louise paused in the doorway to the kitchen. It had been ages since Ruby had spoken about her dad Eddie, who’d died suddenly at the wheel of his taxi when Ruby was only four years old. Heart attack.

‘Yeah, he did, he loved it. Couldn’t hold a tune for toffee, though.’

Ruby grinned.

Louise went on, ‘He’d sing hymns and football songs. Didn’t matter to him which. He’d sing to you – d’you remember?’

Ruby shook her head, disappointed. Four was so young to lose him, Louise thought, so few memories to cling to.

‘What did he sing to me?’

‘Hymns and football songs,’ Louise said wryly.

Ruby laughed, then swung round to face the mirror on the wall. ‘What about my hair?’ Her voice now leaking frustration. In the gene stakes, she had won her dad’s Caribbean features: dark brown eyes, a wide nose and full mouth and tightly crinkled hair that she regarded as a total nightmare. They spent a small fortune on hair products: relaxing treatments, straighteners and the like. Louise, of Irish descent, with blue-white skin, wore her own wavy dark brown hair scooped back in a barrette. She saw little of herself in either of her children. Though they both had her fingers, thin and spidery, and her large feet.

‘You could get it plaited, cornrows, like before.’

‘Then I’d be stuck with it.’

And we’d be sixty quid worse off, Louise thought. But she didn’t want to play that card now. Ruby was auditioning for stage school. She had wanted to act, to sing and dance all her life. Every spare penny, the precious few they had, went on ballet and tap and modern dance lessons, leotards and pumps. Now fourteen, Ruby was stunning, slender and gamine, with Eddie’s high cheekbones, her teeth naturally white and straight. She moaned about being flat-chested, but all Louise saw was her beauty. And her drive, the ambition that Louise supported to the hilt.

‘In a bun, then? Like it is but higher?’ Louise suggested.

‘A chignon?’