Beauty Read online

  The rest of the afternoon passed slowly for Beauty. The boring old white guy banged on for hours and gave out pieces of paper she couldn’t read. At half-past three she followed the other newly inducted clients out into the rapidly filling stairwell, merging with the Iraqis, Kosovans, Somalis, middle-aged Asian women and native black, white and Asian youth who poured from doorways above and below her. The noise of different languages was deafening and she kept close to the wall as bodies brushed past. Young Iraqi men, drawn by her looks and headscarf, stared and waited on the landings for her to pass, smiling and nudging one another.

  Perverts, them Iraqis. B’dmaish number one.

  On the pavement in front of the building, people stopped to light cigarettes and chat. Most weren’t in a hurry to go anywhere. Beauty stood next to Lesley, but waited until the Indian buddhis had all gone before she lit one up. Nicola gave Beauty her phone number on a strip of paper torn from one of the forms they’d completed. Yes, she’d give her a ring some time and go out.

  She told Lesley she had to go home and turned down the offer of a walk round town. Her mother wasn’t well, Beauty said, she had to get back. Something wrong with her thingy. They’d see each other tomorrow.

  As she tugged her scarf down and headed up the incline towards the church at the top of the road, the phone rang in her breast pocket. She pressed the green button and held the phone to her ear.

  ‘Sis?’ Faisal’s voice said. She didn’t answer. Her brother never called her Afa.

  ‘Sis?’ he said again. ‘Is that you?’

  Let him worry a bit more.

  ‘Who did you think it was gonna be?’ she said finally.

  ‘Why didn’t you fucking answer?’ he demanded. ‘And who was that black bitch you were talking to?’

  Beauty hung up and looked around her. As she reached the corner a hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist. Faisal pulled her towards him.

  ‘Get your hands off me, you freak,’ she shouted, wrenching her hand free and walking away from him.

  ‘You were smoking!’ he said, hurrying to catch up. ‘I saw you. Wait till I tell Bhai-sahb and Dad.’

  ‘Tell them whatever you want. Go to hell with yourself,’ she said, quickening her pace.

  ‘So who was that halla you were talking to?’ he insisted, keeping up with her.

  ‘Why? Did you like her arse?’ she said. ‘You gonna think about it later in bed?’

  They rounded the corner and headed towards the centre of town.

  ‘And keep your hands off me or I’ll scream.’ She spoke loudly enough for the people outside the Child Support Agency and the yellow-fronted discount supermarket to hear.

  Too many white people for you here, Faisal? What you gonna do, beat me up in the street?

  Faisal hung back and let his sister walk ahead. She’d start limping soon enough. Her foot had never got better after Bhai-sahb kicked her that time.

  4

  Mark paused to light the rest of the roll-up he’d put out earlier. He watched from the other side of the street as a boy grabbed the Paki bird’s wrist. He heard her shout and saw her pull away. Boyfriend maybe? Brother, more like.

  It was Asian shit, none of his business.

  On his way home he stopped at Dinesh’s. He sold the mobile phone for twenty quid and bought a broom handle for two pound thirty. He walked to Pet Land on the Stafford Road to get a ten-kilo bag of dog biscuits and carried it home on his shoulder. He’d be all right for a few days. He could even fetch a five of weed and still have enough for five pints up town later. Four, if he bought one for that fat bird Nicola, if she was there. That wouldn’t be until eleven o’clock.

  Feeding the dogs, doing the backyard and having a bath would take up some time, but the rest would weigh heavily. Without the internet he couldn’t get on MSN and talk to Julie – the woman from Newcastle he’d met in a chatroom after he’d seen her profile and photo online. They’d both leave microphones switched on in their living rooms all evening. Mark would spend his time hunched over the computer, downloading films, listening to music, smoking and drinking coffee or cans of beer if he had enough money. She was there, over the speaker, occasionally talking to her kids in the background, and chatting to him like they were in the room together. After three weeks she’d sent him a picture of herself topless holding up heavy breasts, and another, bent over a kitchen table in a thong and sagging stockings. She convinced him to play with himself while looking at the photos. Her fat didn’t put him off, and at least she couldn’t see him, although she must have heard him groan as he came. They’d talked about getting webcams, but that was before the line got cut. Since then they’d not spoken and the house had fallen silent of human voices. At least the dogs were there to welcome him when he opened the front door.

  As long as they ay shit in the kitchen.

  They hadn’t, although one of them had pissed somewhere. Still, they’d been locked up all day, so fair play to them.

  Mark went outside to do the yard while it was still light. The drizzle had stopped, and even though the shit hadn’t hardened, some of it could be shovelled into the black bin-liners stacked up against the back fence. He’d have to find someone with a car soon to take him on a bin run to the tip. Who?

  He grabbed Titan’s face, showed him the new broom handle and raised his fist.

  ‘Goddit?’ he asked. ‘Touch this and I’ll lob a fookin’ brick at yer head.’

  Mark scattered a bottle of bleach over the yard and hosed the filth under the fence. It would run down the passageway and collect on the pavement between his house and the neighbours’.

  So what? Iss clean out here, ay it?

  He did the kennels, scraping three days of shit from each stinking hole, and replaced the newspaper on the floor. He left the dogs to run around the yard, went to the kitchen and filled five bowls with biscuits, putting one in each kennel. He shoved Titan into the kitchen to eat alone and shut the excited English bull terrier in the backyard. He’d have to let Satan out later. That damn dog would kill the others. And ’e ay no Staffy like Bob said.

  Mark washed his hands over the plates in the sink, wiped them on his trousers and flicked on the kettle, emptying his pockets of the loose tea bags he’d taken earlier that day from the clients’ beverages facility. He made a cup and went through to the front room, sat down, and slurped at the steaming liquid in satisfaction. The tea tasted better for having been pinched from that place. He put on some music and switched on the TV with the sound turned down. It filled part of the emptiness, but the urge to talk to someone grew. Flanagan’s closed at midnight and if he went too early his money wouldn’t last. He could go to the club to see Bob, but he’d have to buy a drink, and if he was going to pull that fat bird later, if she was there, he’d need the time it’d take to drink four pints. An hour should do it.

  A knocking at the door brought him to his feet. The dogs barked in the backyard. He remembered who it would be as he opened the door – the man from Tenant Loans come for the repayments on the fifty quid he’d borrowed. He had to pay back seventy-five pounds at a fiver a week, and they came to the door to get it.

  The Ghanaian gave him a receipt, closed his folder and left without saying a word.

  Cheeky basstud. I’m payin’ his fookin’ wages.

  As he closed the front door, he spotted the new neighbour from two doors down standing by the side of his Fiat Punto, its bonnet open. The man had a neat haircut and was wearing expensive-looking clothes, a clean shirt and proper shoes. Mark watched through the rip in the grey net curtains as the man looked from the engine to a manual in his hand. They’d nodded to each other a couple of times in the street, but the bloke had seemed scared of his dogs. I told him they dey bite. Not recently at any rate.

  Mark went out into the street, pretended to look in his bin and let the lid fall shut. Now was a good opportunity to be neighbourly and kill some time until he went out, even if the bloke did look a bit posh. Besides, he was white, and not one of them
new lot of foreigners coming here. Poles ’n’ that.

  ‘Y’oright, mate?’ he called out when the man turned at the noise.

  Peter James Hemmings saw the neighbour with the dangerous dogs standing outside number eleven. What were they … pit bulls? He’d returned the nodded greetings thrown his way on the few occasions he’d encountered the thug, and had jumped back in alarm from the squat beasts straining at their lead and clawing at the pavement to reach him.

  ‘Do’ worry, they do’ bite.’

  Peter hadn’t been convinced.

  ‘Er … hi,’ he said and turned back to the diagram in the manual.

  Christ! How had he ended up in a place like this? Just to get away from her?

  ‘Are me dogs bothering you, what with the noise ’n’ that?’

  Peter caught the smell of long-unwashed clothes and dogs. He risked a sideways glance at the man next to him: his closely shaven dark hair and sideburns; sharp jaw and cheekbones; cap tipped to the back of his head; large fists hooked to the pockets of filthy jeans; battered trainers.

  ‘I hadn’t really noticed,’ he said. It was better to lie. Safer. You never knew with types like this. Not that he’d ever known any types like this.

  The thug was grinning at him with yellow teeth.

  ‘Thass oright then, cuz they can be a bit noisy at times. D’you know woddamean?’

  Peter had heard the thug shouting at them, and he worried that the stench coming over the intervening fences would penetrate his shirts drying on the washing line.

  Mark nodded to the car. ‘Woss wrong?’

  The bloke didn’t have a clue.

  ‘Jump in and turn the engine over. I bet I can geddit giwin’.’

  His neighbour didn’t move.

  ‘Do’ worry, I know wodd’m diwin’.’

  Peter got into the car and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing.

  Mark checked the HT leads and the dizzy cap. ‘Try it again,’ he called after a few moments.

  The engine caught. He stepped away from the car and told his neighbour to leave it running.

  ‘Told you I could diw it,’ he said. ‘You wanna get them plugs looked at, though. Y’m on three cylinders.’

  Peter got out of the car and peered at the engine, unsure where the plugs were or how many cylinders he should be on.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. Was that enough? ‘I, erm … owe you,’ he added.

  Mark eyed his neighbour’s brown loafers and ironed shirt.

  ‘I’ll have a cup of coffee if y’m offrin’,’ he said.

  Mark followed his neighbour into the house and took in the front room at a glance.

  Shit TV and stereo.

  A sofa and a couple of armchairs, a coffee table and a lamp.

  Eh? Books?

  Not much.

  The lucky basstud’s got central heating, though.

  Mark had spent a fortune on the electric. If he hadn’t rewired the meter in November he would never have made it through the winter. The debt on the display stood at seventy-six quid, but so far no one had come round to check up.

  He spotted the closed laptop and the cables going to the internet box on the wall. Nice one. He might be able to get his updates.

  ‘I’m Mark, by the way,’ he said, offering his hand.

  ‘Peter. Hi,’ said Peter, taking it. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Mark was disappointed by the limpness of his neighbour’s handshake.

  ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’

  Mark followed him into the kitchen. Fridge-freezer, microwave, washing machine. Nice.

  ‘Yeah, one. Cheers.’

  He leaned against the worksurface and watched Peter take clean cups and some fancy coffee pot thing from a well-stocked cupboard.

  ‘Fookin’ ’ell! I wish my kitchen looked like this,’ he said. ‘Me fookin’ dogs’ve trashed the place!’

  Peter was aware of the thug’s eyes on him and the mocha, and wished he’d bought some instant coffee.

  ‘Everything was here when I rented it,’ he explained.

  ‘I bet yer landlord ay a Paki!’

  Peter flinched at the harshness of the word and looked at the yob leaning against the worksurface.

  ‘Mine’s a Paki and the house is a shit’ole,’ Mark said.

  ‘I think mine’s Sikh.’

  ‘Same difference, ay it?’

  Mark took the cup and went into the living room.

  ‘How long you bin ’ere then?’ he asked. ‘Few months?’

  ‘Three,’ Peter said.

  That was about right, Mark thought. He’d clocked the new car in the street just before Christmas. Taxed till July. About forty seconds he reckoned it would take him to pinch it. Not that he was going to.

  Said he sells books. A proper job like.

  Mark looked around the room again. The armchairs were comfy. Clean, too.

  The coffee tasted like shit though.

  He spotted the torn packet of cigarette papers poking out from underneath a book on the coffee table.

  ‘Have you got any boodha on you?’ Mark asked, nodding at the cigarette papers and grinning. A white neighbour who lived alone and liked a smoke! He might want company from time to time, too. Might even want to go up the town on the pull. Mark hated walking into pubs and clubs alone.

  A mobile phone rang on the coffee table. Peter picked it up and felt the familiar crushing weight of guilt at the name flashing on the display.

  Kate … Kate … Kate.

  ‘Ay you gonna answer that?’

  Peter let it ring out, putting the phone back face down to avoid seeing the reproachful: ‘Missed call’.

  ‘It’s my ex. She’ll ring later.’

  The phone rang again.

  ‘Sorry, I’ll have to answer it.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what it’s like,’ Mark said. ‘You go ahead, mate. Do’ mind me.’ He settled back in the armchair.

  The bloke’s weed wasn’t bad either.

  *

  Peter went into the kitchen to answer the call.

  ‘Hello? It’s me,’ said Kate. ‘Why didn’t you answer?’

  Peter tried to feign innocence. ‘Sorry, I was in the kitchen. The kettle was on,’ he explained. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m not very happy atcherley.’

  Peter stifled a groan. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What’s happened?’ He tried to make his voice sound concerned. Nothing had ever happened.

  ‘I think we need to talk.’

  Oh God!

  ‘What about?’

  ‘What do you mean, what about? Fucking us!’ she shouted.

  Stupid question.

  ‘Look, please, can I call you back in five minutes? There’s someone here.’ She wouldn’t like that.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It’s the guy from two doors down,’ he said. ‘He just fixed something on the car. It wouldn’t start. We’re having a cup of coffee.’

  Did she believe him?

  ‘Oh, that’s right! Other people always come first with you. You’re so selfish. When have you ever got time for me?’

  ‘Please, can we talk about this later? I’ll phone you straight back.’ He kept his voice low so that the brute male in his living room wouldn’t hear the pleading in his voice.

  ‘You fucking better!’

  Peter felt the needle of her voice in his ear as he returned to the front room, his throat tight and his stomach clenched. He sat down heavily in the armchair.

  Mark looked at him and at the pained expression on his face.

  ‘Why do’ you jooss tell ’er to fook off?’ he offered. ‘Not that it’s any of my business.’

  Peter didn’t mind the suggestion from this stranger. Yob. But the idea was too alien to entertain.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘It’s not that simple. She’s got – you know, she gets …’

  Mark looked at him.

  ‘She suffers from depression, or something,’ Peter said. ‘It’s probably all rubbish. There’s not
hing wrong with her.’

  ‘You never know wi’ that,’ said Mark. ‘I had it once. I’m all right now. Had counselling and everything, man.’

  ‘Oh right,’ said Peter. Had he put his foot in it? ‘I mean, I know there are genuine cases.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Mark said. ‘Do’ get me wrong, lots of people blag it.’

  Mark finished his coffee, stood up to go and passed the crushed roach back.

  Peter took it from Mark’s suspiciously dirty fingertips and didn’t want to put it in his mouth.

  ‘There’s still a draw left.’ Mark waited for him to finish it. ‘Come round for a smoke when you want. I’m giwin’ to fetch some later if you need any,’ he said.

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘Or I could pop round tomorrer if you want them spark plugs looking at. It’d cost you more than a tenner in a garage …’

  Peter got the hint. ‘Yes, thanks for looking at the car earlier.’

  ‘No problems. Thass what neighbours are for, ay it?’

  Peter shut the door behind his guest and rubbed his lips clean. Wasn’t there some disease from dog shit that made you blind?

  He sat down in the armchair and closed his eyes. Five minutes, and he’d have to ring Kate back. He couldn’t face another ear-burning conversation thrashing over their differences, listening to her sobbing, the accusations and but-I-love-yous. How long would it go on for tonight? Half an hour? An hour?

  Why couldn’t he jooss tell her to fook off like that bloke said?

  What was his name? Mark?

  At least he might be able to buy weed from him, and wouldn’t have to go back to London for it. But he didn’t like the idea of someone fetching it for him. Someone like Mark would be bound to take a cut. But Peter knew he’d have to put up with it until he could get a dealer’s number, which would mean getting friendlier with the thug. Christ! Wasn’t it time to give up?

  He sent Kate a text message saying he was going to have a quick shower. That should buy him an extra half-hour before the inevitable conversation. Perhaps if he said he had to take the car to a garage he could cut it short. Then he’d have the evening free to … to … what?

  He looked round the room. A lived-in sofa, two armchairs and a coffee table left by the previous occupants. The small TV, the laptop and the old stereo he’d brought with him, along with his books and clothes. It wasn’t much to show for a decent university education and nearly forty years of life. His job selling school books wasn’t worth mentioning. He’d been able to move quickly when the transfer he’d asked for came up; he’d told Kate he’d be made redundant unless he relocated to the West Midlands and she’d believed him. It had seemed easier than having a breaking-up conversation, and he’d packed the car and fled. He knew she’d never come to live here. Surely now she’d get the message. But her constant threats to slide back into depression had paralysed him, made him reluctant to deliver the death blow to their ‘relationship’. Maybe now that he had moved, things might just fizzle out.