Life Class (24 page)

According to Michael at life class, that’s all it
did
take. Dom had overheard him one day, explaining his theories to the old woman, the one who wore the floaty clothes – Rachel. Dom couldn’t remember how Michael had put it exactly, but he’d got the gist. It was something like,
picture
the life you wanted, and then just
believe
you’d get it. All right for him. He’d been lucky … only he wouldn’t admit it. Michael would say, ‘You make your own luck’, whatever that meant.

Dom liked Rachel. Even though she claimed to be a family friend, she had argued with Michael. Said he was complacent and right wing. Rachel said that what he thought he’d achieved by the power of positive thinking was actually just down to chance. Though Dom hadn’t joined in the conversation, he’d agreed with her. It was like believing in God and thinking your prayers had been answered when one time in a million the right thing happened. There might be billions of people round the world ‘picturing’ as hard as anything, but
never
getting what they wanted. Only the few, the ones who’d have probably made it anyway because they knew the right people, would be able to say, ‘Look at me, you losers! All I had to do was believe in myself!’

Anyway, Dom didn’t want a Maserati, or a penthouse. He just wanted to do art. And a family would be nice. But a proper family was the one thing he’d never have. No one knew who his father was, least of all his waste-of-space mother. He’d asked her about it once, but she’d simply shrugged. He had to face it. His dad was one of many, though why anyone would have wanted to shag her, or paid for the privilege, he couldn’t imagine. And then there’d been the foster families, but they all made it clear he was a disappointment, that he wasn’t what they’d wanted. Well, that was all right. They weren’t what
he
wanted. Families weren’t just about rules and manners and doing what you were told, were they?

The nearest thing to a family he’d ever had was Stefan, but even he had expectations. Why couldn’t people just let you be? Why did they want to interfere, and tell you what you should and shouldn’t do?

It was his fucking life! If he wanted to live it sniffing glue and selling his bum, it was up to him, wasn’t it?

Dom shivered. He was sitting on a low wall, looking over the still, dark waters of the canal basin. On the far side the dawn light was just beginning to reflect off its surface. He felt a bit sick, and his head was splitting. In fact, if he thought about it, even his bones ached. His nose stung and his chest felt like there was a tight band around it. It kind of worried him that his brain was so sluggish and fogged that most of what had happened for days was a blank. The only thing he knew was that he hadn’t found a bed.

Patting his pockets, he could find no money. Not surprising. He’d been spending it like water ever since Stefan gave it to him. A pocket suddenly full of dosh would have been a sure indicator he’d been paid for something, but empty pockets didn’t mean the reverse. But his iPhone had gone, and when he felt inside his boot, his knife too. He only ever took one with him out of self-preservation, but had so far never remembered it in time to get out of trouble. While he was out of it, he’d obviously been turned over for everything he had. One of his so-called mates had got a phone, a weapon, and maybe even a shag out of it.

He sniffed and rubbed at his stiff neck. Why did everywhere hurt? If he’d had sex last night, it must have been rough. He hugged his arms around himself – even his ribs felt tender – and rocked back and forth. Maybe it was time to go home and face the music, but … It wasn’t so much what he’d done, but the prospect of admitting it to Stefan that bothered him. He didn’t want to let him down, but that’s all he ever did. He wouldn’t be surprised if Stefan washed his hands of him. It was a mystery why the man had stood by him so long. All he did was spend his money, giving him nothing but grief in return.

A car turned off the road and crunched over the rough ground. It stopped, and a door opened and closed. Then it was on the move again, turning a circle and speeding away from the bleak dockside. The gentrified part of the docks was a mile or so back towards the city. This was the rough end, the end where you could hang about among the derelict buildings and rusting hulks without being moved on. It was the area where people did their business, drug deals or cruising for sex.

A small woman was stood alone in the middle of the waste ground. It was growing steadily lighter but the scene remained bleak. She rubbed at her arms – not surprising she was cold: her skirt was up around her bum and she was only wearing a short jacket over something skimpy. Her blonde hair draggled down from under a large, shiny gold cap. Black fishnet covered her pale, stick-like legs, her feet encased in red shiny ankle boots with very high heels.

‘Sis!’ he said, standing up. He began walking towards her. The woman looked confused and then a dawning smile stretched her mouth. Her cheeks corrugated into vertical wrinkles.

‘Dom? Is that you, darlin’?’

‘Like your hat.’

Up close, he saw the fabric of the jacket was a leopard-skin print. Underneath was a black lacy thing that looked like underwear. The black skirt might have been suede, but it was shiny from wear, and ridged into greasy concertina creases. There were holes in the black fishnet stockings. He knew they weren’t tights. They looked loose round her knees and he could see the clasps of the suspenders. She was even smaller than he remembered, almost shrivelled – or perhaps he’d grown taller – and the gold hat looked ludicrous and out of proportion with the rest of her, like the cap of a toadstool. She gave the brim a little tug, and glanced up at him with what she must have thought was a flirty smile.

‘It’s a baker boy cap. Good, innit?’

The whites of her eyes were yellowed against the smudged black liner that outlined them, and layer upon layer of mascara clumped the lashes. Under the remains of heavy foundation her skin looked as if it had shrunk tight against the underlying skull, veined and flaky looking. A brown line was drawn beyond the outline of her lips, the shape filled in with a magenta lipstick. When she spoke there was a skid of pink on her dingy teeth.

‘Well, fancy seein’ you here! Oh! darlin’, that’s a nasty bruise on your cheek.’ Until she touched his cheekbone, he hadn’t realised it was sore. ‘What’ve yer been up to? You’ve not been fallin’ down drunk, ’ave you?’

He shrugged. ‘You’ve got to have a drink at New

Year.’

Her face brightened, her mouth pulled back into that stretched smile. ‘Oh yeah. New Year. But that was …?’ She frowned briefly then smiled again. He couldn’t help staring at the lipstick on her teeth.

‘Happy New Year, darlin’. So what are you doin’, hangin’ round here?’

‘Came to see you, Tash.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

He shrugged. He couldn’t really claim he was here to see her. ‘I’ve been looking. I thought …’ Even if Tash knew where their mother was living, he’d accepted, deep down, that his quest was doomed. He was after something she couldn’t provide. ‘I’m here for the same reason you are, I expect,’ he improvised.

‘No!’ Momentarily, she looked aghast. ‘No, not you! You mustn’t. Mum always told you. I
always
told you not to!’

It was true. They’d both told him many times not to follow their example – to make a better life for himself than they had managed. But there had never been any suggestion about how he was supposed to do it. Anyway, it was advice only given when his sister was lucid. As often as not she’d be out of her head and urging him to ‘try a taste of this, darlin’, it’s good stuff.’ After he’d been taken into care, his sister had sometimes contrived to see him, but it was once in a blue moon, and if asked, he’d have said that’s how he preferred it. Now she scrabbled in her plastic shoulder bag, but was unable to find what she was looking for. She sighed and muttered.

‘So, you
are
turning tricks?’ Tash asked, looking up at him again as if she needed to hear him spell it out.

‘Sometimes, just to make a bit of money.’

‘Don’t do it, darlin’. It’s a mug’s game. D’you want to end up like me? Twenty … something. What year is it, darlin’?’ Her eyes became vague and unfocused. ‘Thirty. And already on the scrap heap? You can do better with your life.’

‘How? I’ve got to get money from somewhere. I’m not exactly equipped for a career, am I?’

‘You shouldn’t have left school darlin’. Yer a clever boy. You could have got qualifications.’ Throughout the conversation, she rubbed and scratched at her arms, and looked around towards the open gate to the docks as if expecting someone.

‘Course I could,’ he agreed with a strained laugh. ‘The school couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Better to expel the no-hopers before GCSEs than to let them fail everything and drag the school down the league table. Wouldn’t even let me do art.’

‘Well …’ She seemed increasingly distracted, continually looking round for something or someone. ‘Yer a good-looking boy. You could get yourself a rich … find yourself someone to look after you. That’s the way to go in our business.’

‘Why didn’t
you
do that?’ As he spoke the stupidity of the situation struck him. Hadn’t he got that already? Stefan might not be rich but he’d given him a roof over his head. Food when he was hungry. Why was he sleeping rough? ‘If you know so much, why didn’t
you
find yourself a rich bloke?

‘I’m too trustin’, darlin’. I believed what I was told. Thought I was going to be looked after. It was just the wrong sort of looking after.’ She looked over her shoulder again, rubbing at her arms even more ferociously. ‘Yer usin’, are you darlin’?’ she abruptly asked. ‘You hangin’ round down here to score?’

Interpreting her last question as concern, Dom shook his head.

‘If you’re not here to score, does that mean you’ve a stash on yer? Got any rocks, have yer, darlin’? You couldn’t see your way clear to lettin’ me lend some off you, just a little taste, just to keep me goin’? Even a hit of skag?’

‘What?’

‘I wouldn’t ask, but I need it, darlin’.’

‘You want to blag crack or heroin off me?’

‘I’d pay yer, darlin’, course I would, but the money I’ve got, it’s spoken for. I can’t … I’ve got to give it to …’

‘I haven’t got any fucking drugs! I’m clean! I’m not a user!’ He had no compunction about making the denial. His use of drugs and other mind-altering substances was only a now-and-then thing, he told himself. He pulled up his sleeves to show her the untracked skin of his inner arms. ‘
And
I don’t deal!’

‘Don’t look at me like that! Like I’m rubbish!’ A moment ago, it was what she’d implied about herself, but the contempt, which had obviously shown in his face, had got through to what little pride she still clung to. ‘You claim to be clean but you’re a gluey, ain’t yer? Still doin’ a bit of sniffin’. I can see it, darlin’. You’re all pink round the mouth.’

It was true that many of the boys he’d been with in the care system had done it. It was a cheap and rapid way to get out of your head. Trouble was, it didn’t last long enough. Some of them – saying they’d “grown up” – had gone on to mess with more dangerous stuff. Not that solvents weren’t dangerous, any idiot knew that. You had to be careful. He’d dropped out of the system a few months ago but, somehow, had so far avoided getting sucked in too deeply. Blow didn’t count, but he’d tried this and that – X and poppers. But he wasn’t going to let himself get hooked like his sister. He had other things he wanted to do.

‘Still a child really, ain’tcher?’

‘OK.’ Dom shrugged. ‘And a child needs its mum. I thought you might know where she’s living.’

Tash stared at him and was then distracted by the sound of a car turning through the dockyard gates. Like the one before, it moved slowly over the rough, gravely ground before coming to a halt near some oily looking coils of rope, piles of empty palettes, and abandoned diesel drums.

‘That’s him, that’s my …’ Tash turned back and looked at Dom. Her pupils widened, making her blue eyes look very dark. ‘Perhaps someone should have told you before.’ She bobbed forward and planted a damp squelch on his cheek. ‘Sorry, darlin’.
I’m
your mum.’ Turning away immediately, she ran, teetering over the uneven surface in her ridiculous boots. ‘Look after yourself, darlin’,’ she called back, before climbing into the shiny black Beamer. As he wiped at the lipsticky dampness on his face, Dominic caught a glimpse of the white gleam of teeth in a black face and a glint of gold jewellery before the driver swung the car round and drove out of the dockyard.

Finding his mother had seemed so urgent. At the time he couldn’t have explained it – deep down, he’d known he could only be disappointed – but there must have been a stubborn flicker of hope. But he’d been searching for the wrong person. He’d found her. The shock and let-down transmuted into a bleak, icy acceptance. Of course Tash was his mother. It all made sense now. And there was nothing in the way of maternal comfort to be gleaned from that bony breast. Though he didn’t doubt the flesh and blood connection, it was a poor, feeble thing. No matter how much he craved it, love couldn’t be conjured out of nothing. He shuddered, clutching his arms around himself.

Chapter Twenty-five- Stefan

All that was visible was the mound of rumpled navy duvet and a fan of long, dark hair over the squashed pillow. Looking around at the chaos that surrounded the sleeping form, Stefan sighed, but it was an indulgent, relieved sigh. Was this what love felt like? It was up to Dom how he liked his room. If he preferred to wade ankle-deep through clothes, CDs, and computer games, then let him.

It had to be love, didn’t it? Why else would he allow this situation to continue? Allow himself to be a punching bag – taking the knocks, the rejection, the abuse – and yet come back smiling, forgiving, excusing? And even when he did lose it, it was a rage born out of disappointment at being let down yet again. That, or fear.

‘Don’t be so fucking stupid!’ Stefan shouted at him in the hospital car park when he’d petulantly turned away, saying he was going to find his friends. Dom flung around, eyes murderous.