Beauty Page 8

  ‘Hiya, mate!’ Kelly’s voice was deep and rasping. She had long dark hair and pale skin, thick-lensed glasses and a chest that swelled under a tight top.

  The girls resumed their chat. Peter took off his jacket, made space for his drink on the crowded table, and unwrapped a packet of twenty Benson and Hedges.

  ‘Fookin’ ’ell, ’e muss be loaded! Giss one a them fags.’ Kelly’s outstretched hand got a slap from Louise.

  ‘God, Kells, y’m awful! Give the poor bloke a chance to offer!’ she said, and they both laughed.

  ‘Do’ mind her, her’s fookin’ rude!’

  Peter noticed their cheap supermarket brands of ten Superkings, mumbled something in reply, and offered the pack round the table. Everyone took one.

  Kelly lit the cigarette and inhaled the smoke appreciatively.

  ‘Thass a proper fag that, ay it? Not like them roll-ups. We only smoke straights when we’m in towun,’ she told Peter. ‘Just in case you thought we was posh all the time.’

  Mark patted his pockets and said he’d have to nip out and get some fags in a minute. He didn’t want to look skint. That Kelly was fit. He’d seen her in Flanagan’s before and reckoned she’d be up for it. If he could get past the fat one.

  ‘Pete’s me neighbour,’ he explained, leaning forward and shouting over the music. ‘He asked me to fix his motor cuz he sin me working on loads of others, and he knows I’m pretty good wi’ me hands. Ay that right, Pete?’

  ‘Er … yeah. He’s a really good mechanic.’

  ‘An’ he wants one of me pups when Honey gives birth. Reckons they’re the best damn Staffies ’e’s ever sin.’

  He sat back and drew on his cigarette, satisfied that he had caught Kelly’s interest. Birds loved dogs.

  Peter watched and listened and snatched sideways glances at Louise. Kelly seemed to be asking Mark the right questions about the dogs: Kennel Club registrations, their back legs and mange. Why shouldn’t Peter try chatting someone up? A little gentle flirting would help get him back into practice.

  ‘Y’m not from rowund here, am y’?’ Louise asked, turning to him.

  From near London, he told her. He’d come here for work. What did she do for a living? He could think of nothing else to ask. But the girl took the cue and chatted freely about her job in a care home.

  Was she boring him?

  No, not at all.

  Louise asked him about himself and he answered briefly, as he usually did, conscious of his dull answers. She seemed impressed, however. He had a proper job. He realized he looked successful and sophisticated in her eyes, and, for the first time in years, felt free of the need to exaggerate, or apologize for his failures in life. Kate had always told him he was threatened and challenged by what she called ‘strong’ women, presumably like herself. What she meant by a strong woman, he didn’t know. And so what if he didn’t want to be threatened?

  He studied Louise between answers, sips of beer and puffs on his cigarette. She had the fresh complexion of a young woman, with blue eyes and thin red lips. Her eyebrows were slightly darker than the fair hair tied back in a ponytail. As she leaned across the table to reach the ashtray, her football shirt stretched across her chest, revealing the outline of her small breasts. But her fingernails were bitten down, her hands chapped red, and the veins showed through the skin on her pale forearms, which were bruised by the pinching and punching of the service users with severe learning difficulties for whom she cared. Kids with mental problems, she said. She loved her job and the children, but couldn’t survive on the wages and had had to take on some more hours in an old folks’ home.

  How old was she, if she didn’t mind Peter asking?

  Twenty. It was young to be married, waar it?

  Maybe a little.

  How old was he? she asked Peter.

  Twice as old as her, basically.

  Really? He didn’t look it, she said. Honestly, blokes she knew of his age looked like old men.

  As he inched towards her and leaned unnecessarily close to catch her words, he caught glimpses of her slightly plump thighs in the charcoal grey tracksuit, and of the fabric creasing between her legs. She gave Peter a sense of womanly warmth. She’d had a rough life, he fantasized, and he would be the first sensitive man to caress her. The movement of her small breasts under the nylon of the football shirt was an inspiration. Like fresh apples.

  He looked over at Mark and felt a beery warmth towards him, too. He was glad he’d come out.

  When Nicola went to the bar, Mark moved next to Kelly. Pete looked well in there with that Louise bird and no one in the pub was staring at them either. You never knew at Flanagan’s on pound-a-pint night. There was always the odd mouthy kid with something to prove. Mark would have to keep his eye on Pete. The bloke didn’t know how to look after himself, and it wouldn’t do to have him kicked in the first time they went out. He’d remind him it was his round again in a minute.

  Kelly was gagging for it. Looked like a right dirty bitch. Small, with big tits. She seemed to like hearing about his dogs too, although she had allergies, she said. Mark assured her that cat hair was different to dog hair, and that his dogs never came in the house anyway. She moved her leg against his. Perhaps he could invite them all back to his house for a smoke – that would sound casual enough, and if they said no he wouldn’t feel he’d been blown out. Better still if they went to Pete’s. He had tea and coffee, and dog hair wouldn’t be a problem. He couldn’t expect to shag her in Pete’s house though. A couple more pints, mind, and she’d be well away and it wouldn’t matter where he took her. He worked out a plan to get rid of Nicola. If Pete offered to pay for a cab then Kelly and Louise’d be more likely to come, and there wouldn’t be enough room for her.

  Nice one.

  Later, in the taxi, Peter pressed himself against Louise’s thigh and rested his hand on his knee, hoping she might do the same, and by the time they had reached the Newhampton Road their fingers were brushing. A surge of desire filled him. But as the car pulled up in Prole Street she pressed his hand and said she would stay in the taxi and go home. She was on an early in the morning and her mum would be waiting up for her. She’d see him again if he went to Flanagan’s next week. Peter wasn’t disappointed. She’d given him enough to fill his thoughts later.

  Peter and his neighbour exchanged a meaningful handshake while Kelly leaned through the window of the cab and kissed Louise goodnight.

  She was just popping into Mark’s for a bit, she said.

  10

  At six o’clock the next morning Beauty opened her eyes. The dawn was grey beyond the sitting-room windows. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been lying on the sofa, or if she’d even been asleep. She went to the bathroom, washed quickly, and instead of returning to the sitting room to pray, crept upstairs to her sister’s bedroom where her clothes were kept.

  You can’t use a bag, the old man will see it.

  I can wear three pairs of knickers and a pair of jeans under two salwars. I’ll wear the black kameez, the one that’s too big. I can fit another two under it and a couple of T-shirts.

  What about the old man? He’s always staring. He’ll notice.

  Beauty’s mother and sister were fast asleep, their faces lost in each other’s hair on the single bed, her ama’s breath catching in her throat.

  I might not see them again.

  She slid open her drawer as quietly as possible and picked out the clothes she wanted. Her mum would notice they were missing, but not until later. She’d be gone by then.

  What if she tells Bhai-sahb when he gets back from work? They’ll come looking for you at that place.

  They aynt gonna go down there. There’s too many white people. They can’t drag me off the street.

  Can’t they?

  ‘Sis, what you doing?’

  ‘Nothing. Go back to sleep.’ Beauty moved quietly to the bed, took Sharifa’s face in her hands and kissed it.

  ‘What’s going on, sis?’

&nb
sp; ‘Nothing – go back to sleep or you’ll wake Mum.’

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’ve got to go out early. The old man will make you breakfast. I’ll see you later, after school.’

  She picked up the small pile of clothes, took a last look at the sleeping forms and closed the door behind her.

  She held the door handle, reluctant to let go, and listened to the sound of the old man’s snoring coming from his room opposite.

  What about taking some jewellery?

  They’ll kill you. And stealing’s a zinna.

  That stuff’s mine. They was wedding gifts. I can sell them.

  The clothes were tight but she managed to put on three pairs of knickers, three salwars, a pair of jeans, two kameez and three T-shirts, and went to the kitchen to take some money from her mother’s purse.

  How much money shall I take?

  Enough for a few days in a hotel.

  Fifty pounds?

  Thass too much, aynit?

  The old man shuffled into the kitchen in his slippers and his crumpled longhi as Beauty was setting the table for breakfast.

  ‘I have to go into town early today. Can you wake the little ones up and make the toast, please?’

  It was the most she had spoken to him in weeks. He grunted, but didn’t seem suspicious. She put some tea before him and went to the sitting room. It was too early to go. Faisal might get up and wonder where she was.

  Money, phone, cashpoint card?

  In my jacket.

  They’ll go mad when they find your passport’s gone.

  She returned to the kitchen and told the back of the old man’s head that she would see him later. Wisps of grey hair stuck out from underneath his tokhi but he made no sign of having heard her. Beauty took her jacket, heavy with her belongings, from the hook in the passage and listened to the silent flat.

  Go.

  She tugged her scarf and hurried to the stairwell. Her boot heels echoed as she clumped down the steps.

  From the bus stop she looked up at the bedroom windows of her family’s home. The curtains were still closed.

  Am I gonna see them again?

  The bus crawled up Cannock Road in the early morning traffic, past red-brick factories with broken windows and dead chimneys.

  11

  Mark looked up at the fit little Paki bird as she came in late, carrying a bag. Everyone was drifting in whenever they liked. He was fucked if he was coming in on time tomorrow. It damn near killed him getting up in the morning. Kelly had left him drained at six o’clock.

  Give ’er a right good seeing-to, dey I? I ay no two-stroke: two pumps an’ a squirt.

  But he knew it hadn’t quite been like that, and he was glad when she’d gone; her visit had left him feeling uneasy. At first she’d seemed normal. She’d sucked him off in the armchair and done a little strip. Had even offered to play with herself in front of him. Later, as he was giving her the good seeing-to over the arm of the sofa, she had urged him to push harder. She’d sounded frustrated, and howled at him to stick it up her arse. The lights were on, and her arse, which he parted to oblige her, hadn’t looked that inviting.

  He’d done it anyway and it seemed to satisfy her. The noises she made excited him and within a few strokes he came.

  ‘Ooh, it feels like I shit misself,’ she’d said, laughing as he pulled out. She turned over on her back and joked about the spunk running out of her arse on to the sofa.

  Later she’d talked about sex until he overcame his disgust and became hard again. This time she sat astride him and rubbed herself to screaming point. He’d scrubbed himself clean as soon as she’d gone and slept for two hours before getting up to go to town – on time. His balls ached as he walked.

  Beauty stuffed the small rucksack she had bought in a camping shop under the table, and sat down next to a black-haired lady with no front teeth. The attendant had looked at her suspiciously when she’d come out of the changing room with the newly-purchased bag bulging with the layers of clothes she’d taken off, but he hadn’t challenged her.

  No one appeared to take much notice of her arriving late. Colin was talking, and the clients, fewer in number than the day before, looked tired and bored. Beauty was glad to be there. At least she had somewhere to go.

  ‘… and we need to co-elate this information and cascade it back up to the Jobcentre so they can interpretate it.’

  What the fuck was he on about? Mark closed his eyes and wondered if his other bitch might be pregnant. Titan had been in the kennel with her for three days. She should start showing soon if she was.

  ‘… so if you’d all like to diarize your Jobsearch dates, that’ll be that, all done and dusted.’

  Colin Bushell sat back, satisfied he had got through this part of the morning without the usual whining interruptions.

  ‘How are we supposed to look for work if we godder come yur every day?’

  There were murmurs of support from around the room for the speaker: a pale, middle-aged, tracksuited man in a checked Burberry cap. Colin knew how to deal with this scrounging git of a Welshman.

  ‘If you’ve been claiming benefits for more than six months, and actively seeking work, which is part of your New Deal agreement, you’re obviously having difficulty finding a job. Hence why you’ve been referred to us by the Jobcentre for training and support.’

  He’d have to watch this one. Perhaps send a note to his facilitator. The man might be a troublemaker, try and whip up the others. Colin had seen his notes. Four or five kids, and he hadn’t worked for six years. Well, Colin had him by the balls now. The rules were clear. If they didn’t turn up they’d lose their dole money, housing benefit, council tax benefit and whatever else they were screwing out of him from the taxes he paid.

  Colin shuffled his papers to show he was ready to continue with the morning’s programme. He still had to get their CVs done, the Equal Ops quiz and the Learning Styles Initial Assessment and Diagnostic. He’d tell them about their permitted absences later. The scum didn’t deserve twenty days’ sick and holiday over six months. That was more than he got.

  ‘It’s not that there aren’t any jobs. They just don’t pay enough.’

  The room agreed again. A Jamaican man in ironed jeans and a checked shirt pointed to the Welshman and addressed Colin.

  ‘Dublin’s right. Jobs don’t pay enough in this town, gaffer.’

  The black guy who had sat next to Beauty the day before began to laugh.

  ‘Shut your nose, George. You never worked in your life!’

  The forty-five-year-old George Taylor leapt to his feet in indignation and cursed his accuser in a stream of patois and teeth-kissing, ya’ras, blood-clart and bumba-clart. When he had finished he pulled a Guinness bar towel from his back pocket, wiped his brow and sat down. But the two men were friends and he wasn’t angry. And it was true, he had never worked.

  Beauty stopped listening and picked at the stitching of her jacket. Had her brother found out she’d gone yet? What would he do?

  Her stomach turned and her throat hurt.

  The woman with no front teeth asked her if she was coming to the pub at lunchtime.

  ‘Thanks,’ Beauty said. ‘I’ve got to go and sort some stuff out.’

  ‘Coom after. Where you giwin’?’

  ‘I need to find a hotel or something. I left home.’

  She hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Beauty looked at the white buddhi, but she didn’t seem shocked, or interested.

  Don’t never talk about your family to no one.

  ‘There’s a hotel at the bottom of the road. Why do’ you try there?’

  Colin Bushell waited for the talking to die down. They’d just have to lose their precious break if he couldn’t get through the paperwork. Besides, he hated the way they helped themselves to the tea and coffee. It shouldn’t have been free. And he was sure some of them filled their pockets with tea bags before going home.

  ‘There are jobs out there, and we’re here
–’ he began.

  ‘I worked thirty years at Dunlop before they shut down,’ said a large-bellied white man with short grey hair. ‘I’m fifty-eight years old. Who’s going to give me a job at my age? Round these parts the engineering work’s all gone. What do you want me to do, stack bloody shelves in Asda for a hundred and fifty pound a week? You find me a decent job and I’ll do it.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the pale Welshman, whose own working years numbered far fewer, at least as far as the DWP was concerned. ‘How d’you expect me to live on that with five kids?’

  Shouldn’t have had so many children, Colin thought, but he knew he couldn’t say it. This rat was the type to report him for ‘discrimination’ and he’d have to explain himself to the manager. Again. Would he himself find another job so easily at fifty-six?

  ‘You’ll be expected to provide evidence of having applied for a minimum of two jobs each week. Otherwise your Jobcentre adviser will be informed and you may lose your benefits.’ That would shut them up. It usually did. He’d give them a few seconds to digest this latest piece of information.

  But the clients’ attention had been drawn to the door that had opened behind him.

  Beauty looked, too, at the tall, slim black man standing in the doorway.

  Al-lh! What is this?

  Delford Johnston’s black combat trousers were tucked into his eighteen-hole black Dr Martens boots. A heavy gold chain hung round his neck and rested on a tight black jumper under a thigh-length black leather jacket. His freshly-shaven and polished brown skull shone. He came into the room, raised a hand heavy with gold sovereigns and pulled his sunglasses down his nose to look at the faces around the room. Those who knew him looked away.

  His eyes widened as they came to Beauty and her headscarf at the end of the row of chairs. He held his palms out and greeted her with the shahada of the convert to Islam.

  ‘Ash-hadu anla elaha illa-Allah. Wa ash-hadu anna Mohammadan rasul-Allah. Asalaam alaikum.’

  ‘Alaikum salaam.’ Beauty returned the greeting in a low voice.

  ‘Let me go and sit next to my sister,’ he said to Colin and his audience, and slipped into the empty seat beside her. ‘Hello, my little beauty! And what have we got here?’