Ness heard the astonishment in the social worker’s voice, and she did not take it well. She shifted her weight onto one hip, that belligerent pose so common to girls her age. “Wha’ if I do?” she asked, although designing the huge and often nonsensical pieces of headgear worn by posh white ladies during that annual period of horseracing was the last thing on her mind. Indeed, she hadn’t even considered it and barely knew what Royal Ascot was, aside from a source of tabloid pictures of champagne-drinking, skinny females with titles in front of their names.
Fabia Bender was hasty in her reply. She said, “Forgive me. That was completely inappropriate of me. Tell me how you arrived at millinery and what plan you have to pursue it.” She examined Ness and took the measure of her determination. “Because you have a plan, haven’t you? Something tells me that you wouldn’t have come here without a plan.”
In this she was correct, and the fact that she’d acknowledged Ness’s farsightedness pleased the girl. Assisted by Majidah and Sayf al Din, she’d done her homework. While she didn’t answer the first part of Fabia Bender’s query—her pride prevented her from admitting that something good might actually be coming out of her stint of community service—she did tell her about courses offered at Kensington and Chelsea College. Indeed, she’d discovered a veritable treasure trove of opportunities at the college to explore her newfound interest in millinery, even a yearlong national certificate course that she pronounced herself “dead keen” on taking.
Fabia Bender was pleased, but cautious. This change in Ness was sudden enough to give her pause and to remind her not to count her chickens. But since hers was a difficult and often thankless job, to have one of her troubled clients actually taking steps to alter what would otherwise have been the unswerving course of a life heading towards perdition did make her feel that her own career choice had perhaps not been in vain. Ness needed encouragement. Fabia would provide it.
She said, “This is outstanding, Vanessa. Let’s see where you need to begin.”
AFTER HIS FUTILE confrontation with Neal Wyatt, Joel found himself at what he believed was the point of no alternatives. He heard the clock ticking, and he needed to do something to stop it.
The irony of his situation was that the one change in his life that he had once so feared was now the one change he most desired. If Toby could be sent away to a special school, he would be safe. But that possibility did not seem likely, which meant that Toby would not be leaving the near clutches of Neal Wyatt.
That put Joel on constant alert. It also necessitated never letting his brother out of his sight unless someone else was with him or he was at Middle Row School. As the weeks wore on—weeks in which Neal and his crew went back to following, hooting, snickering, and making low-voiced threats—this constant vigilance took its toll. His schoolwork suffered, and his poetry dwindled. He knew things could not go on like this without his aunt finding out and taking steps to deal with the situation in a way that would only make it worse.
So he had to deal with it himself, and there appeared to be only one avenue left open. He could feel it in the weight of the flick knife that he carried in his rucksack or in his pocket. Neal Wyatt, he decided, wasn’t going to listen to reason. But he would very likely listen to the Blade.
Daily, then, after Joel took Toby to the learning centre, he sought out the Blade. He began by asking Ness where he could find her erstwhile lover, but her reply was unhelpful. “Wha’ d’you want wiv dat blood?” she asked him shrewdly. “You gettin up to trouble or summick?” And then more pointedly, “You smokin weed? Shit, you snorting?”
To his protestations that it was “nuffink like dat,” she said, “Better not be,” but that was all she said. She wasn’t about to tell him how to locate the Blade. No good had come out of her knowing him, so how could good come out of her brother’s having anything to do with the man?
Thus, Joel was on his own to find him. Hibah was no help. She knew who the Blade was—who, with eyes and ears in North Kensington, didn’t know who the Blade was?—but as to where he might be found…It was more a case of the Blade finding you than you finding the Blade.
Joel knew of only one place that the Blade actually went, so he went there, too: to the block of flats on Portnall Road, where Arissa lived. Having found him there once, it seemed reasonable to conclude that it was only a matter of time before he might find him there again.
Cal Hancock would be the sign. Joel would not have to knock upon doors. He would merely have to wait until he saw Cal lounging in the entryway of that building, doing guard duty.
Once Joel made this decision, it was three more days before he had a payoff. On an afternoon that blustered with the promise of an autumn rainfall, he finally saw Calvin in position, toking up on a spliff the size of a small banana, his knitted cap pulled low on his brow. He was stretched across the red and black tiles, his legs the only thing preventing anyone’s entrance to the building. A closer look, though, showed Joel that Cal meant business after his own fashion: A length of chain was wrapped around his wrist and the butt of what appeared to be a pistol stuck out from the waistband of his jeans. Joel’s eyes widened when he saw this last item. He could not think it was real.
Joel said to him, “Happenin, mon?” He spoke from a few feet away, having come up the path from the pavement without Cal’s knowledge. So much for guarding, was what Joel thought.
Cal came around from his meditative state. Dreamily, he nodded at Joel. “Bred,” he said. He toked up again.
“You s’posed to be guardin him like dis? I could’ve jumped you, blood. He see you…” Joel let his voice drop meaningfully.
“’S cool man, innit,” Cal replied. “Ain’t no one vexin the Blade while Calvin’s watchin. ’Sides, he ain’t in a mood to cause me aggro, he don’t like wha’ I do.”
“Why’s ’at?”
“Know V’ronica over Mozart Estate?” And when Joel shook his head, “She popped out a kid f’r him dis morning. A boy. His third, disis. He tol’ her to get rid ’f it months ago, but she wouldn’t an’ now he’s pleased as punch. Three sons make him the mon, innit. He celebratin with Rissa.”
“She know about V’ronica, den?”
Cal laughed. “You mad all th’ way? Course she don’t know. Dumb bitch prob’ly t’inks he jus’ happy to see her. Well, I ’spect he’s happy enough. She got rid ’f hers like he told her.” Cal took another hit and held it in. “So what you want?”
“I got to talk to the Blade. I got summick for him.”
Calvin shook his head. “Bred, dat ain’t a good idea. He don’t like remindin ’bout you and yours.”
“Cos Ness—?”
“Le’s not go there. Less said ’bout your sister, better it is. Bu’ I tell you dis,” Cal leaned forward, drawing up his legs and resting his elbows on his knees as if to emphasise his next words. “No one throws the Blade over, bred. He the one does the throwin when he feels like the throwin time’s come, y’unnerstan what I say? ’F some woe-man makes a move on her own, an’ turns out there’s another swack involved and she lie about it…” Cal tilted his head to Joel, a movement that said Finish the thought for yourself. “You jus’ keep distance ’tween you and the Blade. Like I say, dis ain’t a good place for you to be.”
“Ness di’n’t have no other bloke,” Joel protested. “The Blade t’ink she did?”
Cal flicked ash off the spliff. “Don’t know, don’t want to, don’t intend to ask. And don’t you neither.”
“But he got Arissa,” Joel pointed out. “Can’t she take Ness’s place?”
“Ain’t ’bout taking nobody’s place. Dis’s about respeck.”
“Dat’s how he sees it?”
“No other way.” Cal played with the chain wrapped around his wrist, moving it to wrap around his knuckles. He flexed his fingers to see how they worked thus bound. “So right now…?” he said. “Best not to break up the party, y’unnerstan. Long as he’s doin Arissa, he’s gettin b’yond Ness Campbell, and dat’s a very
good place for him to be.”
“But dat was months ago!”
Cal sucked his teeth. There was nothing more to say.
Joel’s shoulders dropped. The Blade was the only real hope he had. Without his help, Joel didn’t see how he could manage to keep Toby safe. If Neal had been after him only, he would have trudged back where he’d come from, knowing that a serious battle with the other boy was inevitable. But the fact was that Neal knew his real weakness, and it had nothing to do with his fear for his own safety and everything to do with Toby.
Joel thought about his alternatives. They came down to one thing. He said, “Okay, but I got summick for him. You give it him from me? He’s gonna want it and I want him to know it come from me. You promise dat, I hand it over and bunk off.”
“What you got he want?” Cal said with a smile. “You write him a pome? And yeah, we know you goin to dat word t’ing Ivan put on. The Blade know everyt’ing go down in dis place. Dat’s why he’s the Blade. And listen”—he showed off the pistol tucked into his waistband—“you wonder why I carry dis piece wivvout worry bout the cops haulin me into the Harrow Road station? T’ink bout dat one, too, m’friend. It ain’t rocket science, innit.”
This point seemed irrelevant to Joel. He chose to bypass it, which would not be the first of his mistakes. He said, “It ain’t a poem I got for him. I ain’t stupid, y’know.” He dug the flick knife out of his rucksack. He clicked it open, then closed it on his thigh.
Cal looked impressed enough. “Where’d you get dat?”
“He used it on Ness. Cut up her head and lost it in a bang about wiv Dix D’Court right after. You give him dis, okay? You tell him I need his help wiv summick.”
Cal didn’t take the knife, which Joel held out to him. He said with a sigh instead, “Blood, wha’ c’n I tell you? You got to keep the Blade out of your life. Dat’s it.”
“Didn’t hurt you none to have him in yours.”
Cal gave a soft laugh. “Lemme tell you summick. You got Ness, right? You got your bruv. You got Auntie an’ Mum, an’ I know ’bout her being in the nuthouse, but still she’s Mum. You don’t need dis blood here. Trust me, you don’t need him. An’ if you want him, mon, he’s gonna name a price.”
Joel said, “Jus’ give him the knife for me, Cal. Tell him I give it back cos I need his help wiv summick. Tell him I could’ve kept it and that means summick. I di’n’t set up no trade wiv the knife. I handed it over. Take it and tell him, Cal. Please.”
While Cal thought this over, Joel considered yet another approach to his problems—that Cal himself might help him—but he dismissed this quickly. Cal without the Blade nearby would intimidate no one. He was just Cal: right-hand man and graffiti artist, spaced on weed. If he had to fight, he probably would, but going at Neal Wyatt wasn’t about fighting. It was about drawing a line in the sand. Cal couldn’t do that for Neal Wyatt or for anyone else. The Blade, on the other hand, could do it for everyone.
Joel thrust the knife at Cal once more. “Take it,” he said. “One way or ’nother, you know the Blade want it back.”
Reluctantly, then, Cal took the flick knife. “I ain’t promising—”
“Jus’ talk to him. Dat’s all I’m asking.”
Cal put the knife in his pocket. “Be in touch ’f he want to help out,” he said. And as Joel prepared to walk off, he went on, “You know the Blade do nuffink wivout there being a price attached to it.”
“I got dat,” Joel said. “You tell him I’m willin to pay.”
Chapter
19
The seed of Ness’s millinery idea did not bear immediate fruit. Things were not easily arranged, and she’d not anticipated facing difficulties. She wanted the courses; they would be hers for the taking. Anything else was inconceivable to her. Thus, at the first stumbling block—a considerably sized monetary one—she did just that: She stumbled. She shimmered with hostility, and she directed it at the children with whom she was supposed to be making jewellery at the drop-in centre.
Making jewellery was an umbrella term, a euphemism for stringing brightly coloured wooden beads on equally brightly coloured plastic cords. Since the children engaged in this activity were all under four years of age, with the limited eye-hand coordination that one might expect of this age, making jewellery consisted largely of spilling more beads than stringing them, and an expression of frustration at such spillage consisted largely of throwing beads rather than replacing them in their containers.
Ness didn’t handle any of this well. She grumbled at first as she scrambled around the floor, rescuing beads. Next, she smacked her hand on the table when the uplifted arm of a child called Maya indicated another palmful of beads was about to be launched. Finally, she resorted to swearing. She snapped, “Fuck it all, you lot. ’F you can’t hold on to ’em beads, you c’n just forget ’bout stringin ’em at all cos I ain’t playin dis stupid game wiv you,” and she began to gather up containers, cords, and round-nosed scissors.
The children reacted with shouts of protest, which attracted Majidah from the kitchen. She observed for a moment and picked up on some of the more colourful mutterings emanating from Ness’s mouth. She strode across the room and put an end to the jewellery making herself, but not in the way Ness intended. She demanded to know what Miss Vanessa Campbell thought she was doing: swearing in front of innocent children. She didn’t wait for an answer. She told Ness to get herself outside, where she would deal with her directly.
Ness took the opportunity outdoors to light up a cigarette, which she did with no little pleasure. She wasn’t supposed to smoke anywhere near the child drop-in centre. She’d protested this rule more than once, telling Majidah that these kids’ parents smoked in their presence—not to mention whatever the hell else they got up to in front of them—so why couldn’t she smoke if she wanted to. Majidah had refused to engage her in this discussion. The rule was the rule. There would be no bending, breaking, adjusting, or ignoring it.
Ness didn’t care at this point, on this day. She hated working at the drop-in centre, she hated rules, she hated Majidah, she hated life. She was thrilled to bits when Majidah—having reestablished the four-year-olds at their activity with larger beads this time—joined her outdoors, pulling a coat around herself and narrowing her eyes at the spectacle of Ness outrageously inhaling from the forbidden Benson & Hedges. Good for you, was what Ness thought. See what aggravation feels like, bitch.
Majidah had not raised six children to find Ness’s behaviour off-putting. She also had no intention of addressing it at the moment, which she saw as something that Ness clearly wanted. Instead, she told Ness that as she was unable to work in peace with the children on this particular day, she could instead wash all the windows of the centre, which were sadly in need of the attention.
Ness repeated the order, incredulous. She was to wash windows? In this bloody weather? First off, it was fucking too cold and second off, it was probably going to fucking rain before the bloody end of the fucking day, so what the hell was Majidah thinking because no way was Ness going to fucking wash any fucking windows.
In reply, Majidah calmly assembled the equipment required for the job. She then gave detailed instructions, as if she’d heard nothing of what Ness had said. Three steps were involved, she informed her. So were water, detergent, a hose pipe, newspapers, and white vinegar. Wash the windows inside and out and afterwards they would talk about Ness’s future at the drop-in centre.
“I don’t want no future at dis fuckin place,” Ness shrieked as Majidah headed back inside the building. “Don’t you got nuffink else to say?”
Of course, Majidah had plenty to say, but she wasn’t about to engage Ness when the girl was in such a state. She said to her, “We shall speak once the windows are clean, Vanessa,” and when Ness said, “I c’n walk straight out ’f here, you know,” Majidah said serenely, “As is always your choice.”
That very serenity was a slap in the face. Ness decided to give Majidah what for when she had
the chance. She told herself she could hardly wait to do it, and in the meantime, she’d rehearse her comments and show the maddening woman some window washing that she would never forget.
She hosed, she scrubbed, she polished. And she smoked. Outside the centre. She did not have the courage to do so when she began seeing to the windows inside. By the time the day was at its end—with the windows sparkling, the children gone, and the first drops of rain beginning to fall, just as Ness had thought they would—she had been in mental conversation with the Asian woman for a good four hours and was burning to take her on in person, given the opportunity.
This opportunity grew from Majidah’s inspection of the windows. She took her time about it. She looked over each one, ignoring the rain that was spotting them. She said, “Well done, Vanessa. Your anger, you see, was put to good use.”
Ness wasn’t about to admit to anything resembling anger. She said, with a meaningful curl of the lip, “Yeah. Well, I ’spect I got a real exceptional career in front of me, eh: window washing.”
Majidah glanced her way. “And of course there are worse careers to have, when one considers the number of windows in this city that want to be washed, yes?”
Ness blew out a frustrated breath. She demanded to know if there was anything Majidah could not turn around and make into something positive because it was getting damn irritating having to be around such a merry ray of bloody flaming fucking sunshine every day.
Majidah thought a moment before speaking, for she too had been awaiting an opportunity for a conversation with Ness, although not a conversation of the sort Ness wished to have with her. She said, “My gracious, is this not an important life skill? Is this not additionally the most basic skill an individual can develop in order to survive life’s disappointments in a healthy manner?”