Beauty Read online

  The only other time she’d been out of the house since she’d got back from Bangladesh was to the Jobcentre the week before, to sign on. They’d given her a reading and writing test. She’d told them she had a problem with her reading, but they still made her do it. If she had a reading problem, they said, she’d have to go on a course if she wanted to carry on claiming Jobseekers’ Allowance. She’d managed to fill in her name, so they set her a date to turn up somewhere in town two weeks later. Bhai-sahb hadn’t liked it, but they needed the forty-four pounds a week and the housing benefit; and if they wanted her to bring the mullah into the country she’d have to show the Home Office that she had a job and could support him. If she went on the course, it would mean letting her out every day from half-past eight to half-past four for six months, or until she got a job. They didn’t like that either. They’d think she was flirting with boys, bringing shame on the family, and they’d soon start talking again about bringing Habib Choudhury into the country. The old man didn’t speak of these things in front of her any more, but she knew he still had a hold over Bhai-sahb. If her brother Dulal wanted to get married himself, he’d need the old man to arrange it.

  Houses and flats slipped past the window. White people and schoolchildren got on and off the bus, but nobody sat next to her. She dreaded someone speaking. Apart from at the Jobcentre she hadn’t spoken English to a white or black person since her first year of secondary school in London. There she’d only had black girls as friends. Not black boys. They were thieves.

  Perverts too. Arx anyone.

  When she first came from Bangladesh, the Asian children in the primary school in Bethnal Green used to laugh at her accent. The boys liked her, she knew, but the girls locked her in the toilets and pinched her in class. She was often sent home for slapping her tormentors. Her cousins, too, laughed at the way she spoke. Typical freshie from back home. The bullying was worse at the comprehensive, so she bunked off and spent her days catching the bus to Hackney and wandering the streets with older black girls. Her parents couldn’t read English, and they ignored the letters from the headteacher. When inspectors came to the house, the old man told them that she’d gone back to Bangladesh; and she didn’t go to school again. The mullah’s pervert brother, who lived near-by, offered to teach her to read English and Arabic, and her father trusted his future son-in-law’s brother. When the man started touching her – down there – she acted dumb and refused to learn any more. She was twelve years old and he told her mum that he’d seen her with boys in the street, that she flirted with grown men in Commercial Road. She’d become hobiss he said, bad like a white slapper, a sinnal-fourri. The best thing to do would be to send her back home to get married, before she did it with anyone – if she was still anamo’ot or ful, a flower untouched – and he offered to take her.

  They’d be expecting her back from the course at half-past four. Beauty got off the bus in the town centre and followed the simple map, which the lady at the Jobcentre had given her, to the doors of the RiteSkills building.

  2

  Mark Aston woke up and turned over in bed to look at the light coming through the ragged curtain. He got up and stepped over to the window to tug the material back along the wire he had nailed to the frame; the sky was grey over the roofs of the terraced houses opposite, the dark slates polished by the rain.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and stared blankly at his thin, pale legs against the mauve pile carpet, his head still heavy. A black Nissan Sunny Pulsar GTI-R accelerated past the house, its dump valve sneezing loudly at each gear change.

  The nigger from down the road. Must be eightish.

  Mark had to be up town for nine. What was the place called? Skillssomething … SkillsRite? He stretched and looked around the room for something to put on his feet. Half-filled bin-liners and broken video recorders, cigarette ends, crumpled socks and empty beer cans lay scattered about the floor, but he couldn’t see any shoes.

  He took care on the landing. The bulb had gone and the door to the kitchen at the bottom of the stairs was open.

  Basstud dogs might’ve come up in the night and shit.

  He peered down at the floor to make sure of the few steps to the bathroom and shoved against the door to force back the pile of dirty clothes behind it. The brown smears in the toilet bowl hadn’t moved in a week; he’d used the bleach to clean the backyard, and the brush, clogged with dried paper, had gone brown and lay buried under the clothes behind the toilet. Mark gave up trying to remove the stains and let his stream hit the water, until the noise reached the dogs in the yard and they barked into life.

  ‘PACKIDDIN!’ His voice carried through the open window; the dogs caught the menace in it and fell silent.

  As he bent over the sink to splash water on his face he could just make out his newly shaven dark hair in the piece of broken mirror propped up behind the taps. With the palm of his large hand, he stroked his skull from crown to brow. Stubble was beginning to show along his jaw and chin, but not enough to bother shaving until he went up town that night. He made a triumphant face in the mirror at the thought of getting laid later, sticking out a tongue pierced with a Union Jack barbell. Any slag would do.

  Mark pulled on a pair of shorts and thundered down the steep, dark staircase. He stopped in the doorway of the kitchen.

  ‘WODD’VE YOU FOOKIN’ DONE TO ME KITCHIN, YOU LITTLE BASSTUDS?!’

  Titan, a brindle Staffordshire bull terrier, edged along the wall towards the back door. A week’s supply of dog meat had been pulled from the freezer and eaten, or left to thaw amid the rubbish dragged from the bin. The air was thick with the smell of dog shit and ammonia.

  ‘LOOK AT THE STATE OF ME FOOKIN’ CARPET! I’LL BUST YER FOOKIN’ HEAD!’ he promised the dog.

  Mark picked his way through the debris to the front room to look for his trainers. His old Staffy bitch, Bess, thumped her tail on the sofa, ears back and head lowered.

  ‘IT WAAR HIM OUT THERE, IT WERE YOU! AND GERROFF THE FOOKIN’ FURNITURE YOU BASSTUD!’

  Bess slipped reluctantly from the sofa, circled near the front door several times and slumped to the floor. Mark stamped his feet into a pair of once-white trainers.

  They’ve trashed me fookin’ house again.

  But his rage was directed against his stud, Titan, who was staying out of harm’s way in the kitchen.

  He went through to the kitchen to kick the dog into the yard. As he opened the back door the creature suddenly forgot its crime and jumped up, scratching claws down Mark’s bare legs. He roared in pain and anger, whirled round and grabbed the beast by the thick skin of its neck, raising a huge and terrible fist. The dog dropped to the ground and struggled for the gap in the door, yelping as the fist smashed down, catching it behind an ear. Out in the safety of the yard it shook off the grazing blow, looking back at Mark warily.

  But Mark wasn’t going out there. He hadn’t done the yard for a few days and the rain had turned the shit to mud. Another two Staffy bitches and his English bull terrier, Poppy, scratched at the doors inside their breeze-block homes. Satan was quiet in the end kennel.

  Mark resentfully eyed the work that needed doing, but stopped when he saw pieces of chewed wood.

  ‘AAAWWW! WHO’S BIN AT THE FOOKIN’ BROOM HANDLE AGAIN?’

  He turned away and slammed the door. The dog looked at the silent house, bent its head and sniffed at the shitty paving.

  In the kitchen, Mark gagged as he picked up the turds in a plastic bag. Using a bucket of dark brown water, he mopped at the pools of piss and scraped up the rubbish with his foot. He’d have to go to the Poundshop on the way back from town and get another broom. If they had them. Otherwise it’d have to be Dinesh’s, which might cost him two quid, two quid fifty. Without a broom, doing the backyard would be impossible.

  He found a cup and a sponge under a pile of plates in the sink, made coffee and went into the front room. He switched on the computer he’d bought for a tenner from the recycling centre. He’d never ha
d one before but had mastered it quickly. He’d added new hardware and downloaded the software for encoding DVDs and unlocking mobile phones, before the internet bill went unpaid and they cut the line. His film collection was looking good, though. Once his dole money came through he’d be able to get tons more music as well.

  Ye’man. Nice one.

  But that wasn’t till Thursday. For now, he had enough for ’bacca and a bag of dog biscuits, if he used the twos and ones from the jar on top of the telly. Baz, up Graiseley, would do him fifty grams of Golden Virginia for a fiver, but there’d only be pasta to eat later, with nothing on it. Unless he gave that to the dogs, mixed with a three-quid bag of biscuits. Now that the dole had sent him on that fucking course to look for a job – full-time for six months! – he’d have to give up the cash-in-hand jobs to make sure the housing benefit still got paid. He could stop at Bob’s and see if the back-box on his Karen’s Mondeo wanted fixing. That might be a fiver and a couple of drinks at the club. The only thing he had left to take to Cash Converters was his mobile phone, which he’d have to sell if nothing else came up by tomorrow.

  They’re basstuds ’n’ all. A quid fifty they give me for that gold bracelet I found.

  Mark finished his coffee and rolled a cigarette from the scutters in the ashtray, pinching the end to stop the dusty remains from falling out. He considered the room and his possessions with satisfaction. Alan and Jean had given him the sofa three weeks before – he’d been walking past their house on his way to the shops as they were dumping it on the pavement; his PC was wired up to the stereo, the TV, amplifier and bass speakers – and the tunes he’d downloaded sounded good on it. Poppy’s rosettes and photos on the wall were looking damn good, too – another six months and he’d be able to breed off her – and even though Bess had managed to get into the house overnight, the smell of dog had basically gone. It was tidier, too, now that Titan was banished from the front room and didn’t come in and chew everything.

  May as well tek him with me to fetch ’bacca.

  The roach in the roll-up was beginning to burn his lip. He dropped it in the saucer at his feet, and got up to open the back door. At the sight of a lead in Mark’s hand, the dog bounded in from the filth and rain, ran through the kitchen and leapt onto the sofa, squirming and banging its tail expectantly.

  ‘GERROFF ME FOOKIN’ SOFA! IT’S NEW!’ He raised his fist again, grabbed the animal by the back of the neck, dragged it to the floor and, pinning it down under his knee, hooked the lead onto the collar.

  He put on his luminous hi-vis jacket over his red England top and tugged a blue baseball cap down low over his eyes. As he opened the door, the dog burst past at the sight of the outside world, pulling Mark out of the house.

  ‘WILL YOU FOOKIN’ PACKIDDIN?’

  Across the street two Kyrgyzstani peasants looked up from the open bonnet of their car. A third sat at the wheel, turning the engine over.

  Aware of the audience, Mark commanded Titan to sit in a firm voice, like the trainer had told him. The dog sat. He took his time locking the door, pretending to shift some of the junk filling the front patch of garden. The dog remained sitting.

  Betcher they ay got dogs like you in China. They’d probably eat you out there.

  He stood for a second longer to zip up his coat and enjoy showing off his control and Titan’s obedience. But the men were already peering into their car.

  As he passed the covered passageway that ran down the side of his house, Mark noticed the smell coming from his backyard. He’d have to clean it before the neighbours got back tonight. It wasn’t fair on them. Even if they were black. At least they were English, or spoke it. And they’d never said anything about the noise or smell.

  They’m all right.

  He had to watch out, too, for the old cunt across the road who’d grassed on him once for the smell. When the bloke from the RSPCA knocked on the door he’d just finished cleaning the kennels and yard. Everything had washed down the passage into the street, but at least the yard and kennels were clean. Couldn’t say fook all. Some white guy had moved in two doors down, but Mark hadn’t spoken to him yet. The Iraqis in-between didn’t count.

  Still, he had to be careful. What with breeding ’n’ that.

  He let the dog pull off towards the shops. Further up the street, an Indian woman in salwar-kameez and scarf recognized the dog and type of cap coming towards her, and took up her grandson’s hand. Mark liked it that people were scared of his dogs. Old Pakis always crossed the road.

  At the end of the street he turned away from Dunstall Park towards Graiseley and its row of shops. Up ahead, a white-robed figure was putting up a sandwich board on the pavement. PHONES NEW, USED, MOST MAKES UNLOCKED.

  The Somali looked up, recognized Mark and disappeared into his shop. Mark considered turning back to avoid him, but realized it wouldn’t make much difference. The bloke – some sort of Paki – had given him a customer’s mobile and promised Mark a fiver if he could unlock it. He’d taken the phone straight round to the indoor market and sold it to Dinesh for thirty quid. Since the dole had stopped his money, just for missing an appointment, he’d had nothing coming in – the money he’d got for the phone had mostly gone on dog biscuits. He’d avoided the shops for the last week, but had forgotten about it this morning.

  Fook ’im.

  As he passed the Somali’s open doorway, he heard a foreign voice.

  ‘Where my fuckin’ phone, man?’

  The dog turned and sprang for the shopkeeper’s legs. Mark held on as the man leaped back, but let himself be pulled to the entrance so Titan could terrorize him into his shop. He dragged the reluctant animal away towards the mini-mart further along, where Baj Dev ‘Baz’ Singh had come out to see what was going on.

  Baz liked it round here. The chippy, the bookies, his shop, the car stereo place, the park – good area, man. He nodded to Mark.

  ‘Oright, geez?’

  ‘Sowund.’ Mark grinned and nodded to Titan. ‘E’s gerrin’ nasty.’ He’d had Titan off his foster brother and the dog had been brought up mean.

  Baz didn’t like the way the animal was looking at him, its head tilted to one side. ‘Nah, he’s a good dog, man.’

  Mark asked him if he had any tobacco left. ‘You couldn’t fetch it for us, could you? I do’ wanna leave him out here.’

  Baz came back out of the shop with the tobacco, and Mark gave him a handful of copper and silver change.

  ‘Five-fifty, yeah? It’s right. I counted it jooss. I’ll catch you later.’

  Outside the bookies two black blokes stood talking loudly with a third who was leaning against the red doorway. There was enough space to pass, but he’d have to keep the lead tight in case Titan went for them. They didn’t look like they were going to move, so Mark let the lead slacken a little. The dog shot forward, but kept its nose running along the pavement as they passed. The man in the doorway kissed his teeth at Mark’s back.

  He hated that noise. Fookin’ nigger shit. He’d heard it too many times in jail, and he wanted to say something, but it wasn’t a good idea round here. These days they had guns. He’d heard the shots of an evening coming from over Sweetman Street way. Besides, he liked the Newhampton area. He’d lived here a year and a half, knew the shopkeepers and a few other people, and it was near to town.

  Too many Kosovans, though. Like them pair up ahead getting into that G-reg 405. Talking Iraqi – the ignorant basstuds. I’ve sin them lot at the car auction in Walsall driving off wi’ no tax or MOT.

  Mark hadn’t Taken a car Without its Owner’s Consent for two and a half years now; hadn’t been in jail for eighteen months. Foreigners coming over here and doing what they wanted in cars pissed him off.

  Tay right.

  Service industry and admin workers passed by on their way into town, but Mark kept Titan close and ordered him to heel whenever people were in earshot. It sounded proper.

  Outside his house, the Chinese were still listening to the downpipe on t
heir Ford Escort blowing. Mark let Titan into the backyard, thought briefly about putting on some cleaner clothes, and left the house to retrace his steps into town.

  As he reached the end of Newhampton Road he quickened his pace. He couldn’t afford to be late. The dole would give him another ten quid a week for going on the course today, and if he missed the sign-up at nine o’clock they’d restart him the following week and he’d lose a tenner. He’d been up the town the night before with his ex and she’d insisted on drinking the last of his money, before letting him shag her on the way home. But at least he’d left some money at home for ’bacca. He remembered the first time he’d fucked her, in the bushes down by the supermarket, and what a right dirty bitch she was. She’d been a dirty bitch with others, though, when he’d been in jail for twocking that Renault, and they’d split up when he got out. His mate Nige had started seeing her a few months ago.

  Dick’ead give ’er a car jooss to fook ’er and the big end went three weeks later.

  Outside the RiteSkills building on School Street, a small huddle of New Deal claimants was waiting in silence on the pavement. Mark hung back until the doors opened. He pinched out his roll-up, put it in his pocket and walked up the steps into the building.

  3

  Twelve Jobcentre clients stood in the RiteSkills reception area, waiting for whatever was supposed to happen. The older men carried their lunch in plastic bags. Black-trousered women brought forms from their desks to the clients in the open-plan office, while multicultural men and women in various work poses smiled down from posters bearing the company slogan: ‘Training People’s Skills’. The staff approached the clients in turn and asked each one to confirm their name and address, and to sign a DH15 form. The clients gave their details quietly. No one wanted to be there.

  Beauty Begum pressed herself against the wall, stuck between an old white guy with a walking stick and a youngish black bloke who’d smiled at her when she walked in scowling. She’d managed a quick glance at the other people waiting before she chose a spot to stand. A mix. White, black, young, old, a half-caste girl, a middle-aged Sikh woman, and a tall Somali woman with a big hombol. One of the young women working there was a Sikh.