The Cut Page 9

  JJ is chuckling quietly to himself.

  ‘And you can shut up as well!’ I snap at him. ‘Look,’ I say to Damien, leaning forward and jabbing my finger in his direction. ‘She fucked up last time. Marcie’s all wrong, she’s in the wrong time, wrong place. Wrong life. She thinks she’s something she’s not.’

  Damien, arms folded, raises his eyebrows. ‘For someone who professes not to like her very much, you seem to know her quite well.’

  ‘Well enough.’ I feel a sudden coldness and tightness, because neither of them knows about my little visit to Marcie and my arrangement with her. JJ’s still chuckling. I dart a vicious look at him, but he just pretends not to notice.

  ‘Marcie comes,’ says Damien. ‘And that’s final.’

  ‘Why?’ I’m aware that my fists are clenched, resting on the table on either side of my coffee-cup.

  Damien sighs. He shakes his head as if he is fed up with me and the rest of the world around me. Well, I’m not being put off by that. ‘Because I promised her she could. She’s feeling low. Needs to get out.’

  Oh, brilliant. So now Damien, too, has taken on the role of decorator in Marcie’s life, painting over the cracks in her existence. Matt or gloss, my love? Roller or brush?

  JJ leans forward. ‘I’m still going out with Imelda, by the way,’ he says mischievously. ‘Sorry. She’s promised the girls they’re going to meet me.’

  I’m feeling let down, so I glare at him. ‘Isn’t that a bit like promising to take a vegan to a kebab bar?’

  He grins. ‘Maybe some of them are part-timers.’

  ‘Don’t forget your mirror,’ I snap at him.

  ‘Oh, I won’t.’ He doesn’t look at all perturbed that I might be about to reveal his little secret in front of Damien.

  ‘You still want to come?’ Damien inquires, smiling.

  ‘I’m coming all right. You can’t stop me.’ I lean forward again. ‘But you keep your dog under control, or I might just be forced to shoot it.’

  There is a long, cold silence, in which even I realize that I may have gone too far. Damien opens his mouth for a sharp riposte, then closes it again and hardens his jaw. My bowels go watery, pumped into action by the realization that he’s definitely not happy now. He’s not going to give me a verbal parry, with which I’d have been safe. He’s really going to give me an answer, one based on the real world and not on our little construct.

  Damien flares his nostrils.

  Go on, then. Hit me. Hit a woman. I’m sure it’s not the first time. I wonder if JJ will leap to my rescue?

  He slaps his fist into his palm.

  ‘Right, then,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you Saturday. Down at the Star?’

  ‘Yeah. Right.’ I’m not shaken. No way. Not going to show it, anyhow. I’m going to save up my adrenalin for a good occasion.

  Chapter Ten – Playtime

  ‘I knew you’d come,’ says Marcie, her eyes like little oysters in their midnight-blue shells. She shifts position in her dress of mermaid green, extends a hand to me to sit down.

  *

  Let’s go back a bit.

  *

  ‘That you, Bel?’

  ‘Yeah, what? Who’s this?’

  Whoever it is has called me at 9.30 in the morning. Dad’s left, Kate’s out at a church bazaar or something, and, as is normal on a weekday, I’m under the duvet in the middle of listening to Hits Hour. I’ve just missed out on three points for not remembering ‘Miss America’ by the Big Dish, and now someone has to go and phone me, for Christ’s sake.

  ‘It’s Marcie. I just wanted to say thanks for the money.’

  ‘Uuuh. Yeah, all right.’ My eyes feel stuck together. I poke around the edges and come out with some little granules of greenish-yellow stuff. It’s interesting, actually. I sometimes wish I could collect it in a little pot and use it for seasoning. I pop it in my mouth and chew on it, enjoying the salty crunchiness.

  Marcie is wittering. ‘It’s just that, well, maybe you didn’t get me.’

  ‘What?’ It’s too early for this.

  ‘We said a hundred, Bel. Just so I can cover any potential costs. A hundred.’

  This doesn’t sound like Marcie. It sounds like someone talking through Marcie’s voice, using it for their own ends. I’m jolted awake, now, sitting up with the duvet round my sweaty body. Alert, like after the morning caffeine hit, and suddenly the radio doesn’t seem so important any more.

  ‘You said fifty. You said you’d take the blame for fifty!’ I’m aware that I’ve raised my voice rather more than I’d like. Get a grip, Bel. You don’t do this. You don’t go over the top and let yourself get worked up on account of some stupid little bitch who doesn’t know what a credit card is.

  ‘Fifty first of all, that’s what I said. Just for the blame, like. I wanted somethin’ to keep by in case of costs. Like I said.’

  ‘Has anyone been asking anything?’

  ‘No. Course not.’

  ‘Then what’s your bloody problem, Marcie?’ I hiss at her.

  ‘Money, right? Things you don’t have to worry about, like council tax and the rent going up.’

  She sounds quite desperate. I’m hoping I’ve got her on the run. ‘Look, Marcie, I don’t have any money.’

  ‘Don’t bullshit me. You’re loaded, the fuckin’ lot of yer. Comfy, anyway. Damien, JJ, you.’

  ‘That’s the point.’ I’m sounding agonized now. It’s genuine, right? ‘I don’t have money of my own. I get an allowance in cash and I can’t touch the rest till I’m twenty-one.’

  There is a brief, disgusted silence.

  ‘Yes, Marcie,’ I tell her, answering the unasked question, ‘I’ve got a trust fund. And if I want any cash up front, the bottom line is that I have to ask for it. Why can’t you ask Damien?’

  There is a strange, scrabbling noise at the other end of the line. For a moment I’m convinced that the connection has been lost.

  ‘Hello? Marcie?’

  ‘Still here. Don’t worry.’ She is breathing heavily. ‘Damien won’t lend me nothin’. I’ve got to have some more money, Bel. I’ve got to have it today. Please!’

  ‘Look –’ I’m floundering. It seems the truth wasn’t enough to deflect her. Christ, how do I get her off my back? ‘Look, Marcie, don’t panic. I’ll get it. I’ll get you the money, all right?’

  Why do I say that? Why the hell do I have to go and say that? Because it’s the easiest thing, that’s why.

  There is some more breathing, and then, just for a second, I think I hear a man starting to say something. And then she hangs up.

  I sit and hold the phone for half a minute, thinking, wondering.

  I call her back, and get the engaged signal.

  Fuckity fuckity fuck. Now what do I do?

  *

  Only thirty-six hours till our big night, and I’ve still got no more ideas. I’m just going to have to ask for some money, I suppose. I’ve done it often enough before.

  With a little mental shrug, I stagger into the kitchen – the tiles are cold against my feet – and pour some cereal into one of Kate’s ridiculous glass bowls. She has told me repeatedly that they’re kept for special use, which is why I try and have my cereal out of them as much as possible. She’s dead proud of her Le Creuset saucepans, too, so I try and scar them with ugly, black lumps of burnt porridge as much as I can. It’s a futile exercise, because Kate never sullies her hands with soapy water – she snips a bit more of Jon’s money to buy a Woman Who Does from the commune. She’s called Liza Witherzedd (that’s not her name, it’s just how she always introduces herself). She has bangles all up her arm and the most amazing earrings. Apart from the fucking stupid New Age crap she believes, Liza’s pretty much all right, so I feel a bit guilty about the porridge sometimes. I want to tell her not to bother with the saucepans, but she always does, without question.

  I chew mechanically on my cereal.

  I’m thinking.

  *

  Hi, I’m Bel.
/>
  I’ve got a knife in my pocket.

  It’s half-past ten on an autumn night, and I’m strolling down Canterbury High Street. Clothes, for the record – black wool jumper, leather biker’s jacket, black jeans, black boots. Not kinky Honor Blackman style – these are thick-soled boots, made for running. And to complete the ensemble, black shades.

  No way was I going to try this where people knew me. I told JJ I was staying in, and I told my dad I was going out with JJ. I jogged to the main road and hitched. Looking like this, I knew it’d take me less than five minutes. It did. Three guys in a creaky Metro, on their way to a gig at the Penny Theatre, dropped me down by the Westgate. One of them pinched my arse as I slipped out of the car, so I screamed abuse at him and gave the door a hard kicking as they drove off. I was looking around for a brick, but they were halfway round the ring road already, and there were a few people around staring at me in disgust.

  My foot still aches, but it was worth it.

  So I’m strolling down the street. These shades look jet-black, but it’s deceptive – you can see through them really well. They’re designed to cut out the glare of the street lights but not their illumination.

  I’ve just been sitting for two hours outside a pub called the Olive Branch, right by the cathedral gate. It’s that time of year when they haven’t quite dared take the tables and sunshades in yet because there’s still the occasional warm night and it’s good for custom. The cathedral, picked out in gold, glitters high above this small city, and the gate, in silver, stands in front of it like the entrance to an enchanted land.

  Now, I’m strolling down the street. Groups of crusties are laughing and smoking in the square in front of Our Price. They turn and stare at me, so I stare back. I’m heading for the far end of the street, where it joins the ring road at the city wall. You can walk up on the wall, and there’s an embankment that drops at quite an angle down to some gardens – I vaguely remember rolling down that when I was younger. This side, there’s the bus station. I walk through the concourse – it’s ghostly still, with just a couple of double-deckers chugging quietly to themselves. On the other side of the concourse, taxis are waiting, coffin-black and shroud-white.

  The cashpoint is tucked round at the side entrance to one of the department stores, next to a bus shelter. I’ve picked my time right, so there’s no one waiting yet. I sit on the wall, cross my legs and wait.

  Before long, someone comes. It’s two blonde girls, giggling and gossiping, their skimpy dresses stretched across lardy thighs. I wrinkle my nose in disgust. I watch them take out their money and stuff it into white-and-gold handbags, and head off in the direction of the taxis, cellulite in sharp relief under the street lights. Probably off to Luigi’s in Herne Bay. A total dive, but it has a lot of attractions for the plebs – they let anyone in, stay open most of the night and serve cocktails at pub prices.

  Now, here’s a better candidate. Young, male, anaemic-looking. He’s about eighteen, on his own and wearing a grubby denim jacket. He casts a few nervous looks from side to side – good, good, I like it – before getting his card out.

  I wait until he’s punched his number in before I slip from the shadows. My hand is tight against the handle of the knife. The night gathers around us. From somewhere deep in the old city, a siren sounds. Cheering echoes through the ancient streets.

  I grin at him. ‘Hello, my love.’

  He smiles back, nervously. He’s about to cup his hand over the keyboard. I like that. It’s like the way a lot of men feel about their testicles.

  ‘I wonder,’ I ask him, leaning back without really looking at him, ‘if you could do me a bit of a favour? It’s just that I need fifty quid in a bit of a hurry.’

  He’s looking me up and down. I know what he’s doing. He’s looking at my designer shades and the smoothness of my jacket. I gesture with one hand, inviting him to look down.

  My knife is resting gently on top of his belt.

  ‘If you’d be so kind,’ I add politely.

  *

  Now it’s Saturday, at the Edge of the World. Eight-thirty. The houses and flats are vomiting their young, their disillusioned, their losers. Their faces are as white as Anthea Turner’s grin. They will pour into the pubs and clubs, spend their easy-earned cash on sharp, fizzy lagers and complain that yet more of their precious lottery money – which, of course, they had to spend – is being put into a London opera house. I’m sure they’d all protest that they ain’t philistines, neither, went to see Pav in the park, but at the end of the day it’s all sang in fuckin’ foreign, wop innit? or dago? no fuckin’ difference, mate, but next week I’m gonna winnit. Nuvver four pints over ’ere, darlin’.

  I leave the house at quarter to ten. Marcie, her eyes black-rimmed with five-hour nights, etched in midnight-blue mascara, is sipping a gin and tonic at the window of the Bull. I have arranged to meet her at ten, half an hour before the others arrive, and I told her explicitly not to be late, so it looks as if she’s listened, at least. She smiles when she sees me, in a worryingly sophisticated way.

  ‘I knew you’d come,’ she says. ‘Want a drink?’

  I stand there with my hands on my hips, trying to muster as much contempt as I can, thinking, I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, and here I am doing your bidding. And she has stood up, would you believe it? And smiled, and smoothed down the green silk dress she’s wearing. Normally, given something that colour, Marcie would have gone all out for matching emerald lipstick and eye-shadow, with jade earrings. But she’s lightly, almost perfectly made-up in subtler, nutmeg shades. I’m perturbed. I have to remind myself that this is the same stupid little slut who, just last week, was curled up in a ball on the beach, stinking of bile and lager, whimpering and fishy-pale.

  So maybe she’s not so green any more.

  I sit down. ‘I’m not staying.’

  ‘I know. Meeting the others in the Arcade, aren’t we?’ She smiles. She’s confident and happy. Her voice is different, too, as if she’s had her peeling accent varnished.

  Altogether, I feel quite at a disadvantage. I slam the envelope on the table in front of her. ‘Here. Take it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ says Marcie, quite unabashed. ‘Mind if I count it?’

  So how long does it take you to count ten five-pound notes? Let’s see if G C S E maths is up to it.

  A glistening pint thumps down on the table between us, and Marcie is quite adept in the way that she slips the money into her handbag. My eyes follow up along a slim female hand, an arm in brown suede. Earrings the size of table-mats glisten and spin in the dim pub light. Above the stiff collar of a white dress-shirt, an ear-to-ear grin stretches across a face which is smooth, Romany-brown. It’s edged with crisp, black hair and floppy bangs which would have been in fashion in Manchester, circa 1990.

  ‘Imelda,’ I say languidly, trying not to show my surprise. ‘Nice of you to join us.’

  ‘I haven’t, yet,’ she points out, in a voice as spiky as her hair, and lights a long black cigarette as she sits down with us. She’s wearing one of the supermarket aftershaves for men, and smells of musk.

  ‘You . . . know Marcie, don’t you?’ Somehow I feel I have to say this, and I’m hoping desperately that she isn’t going to make some predictable comment about biblical senses.

  Luckily, she doesn’t. ‘By reputation,’ she says, her big brown eyes flicking momentarily towards the girl. ‘Imelda McCann,’ she says, extending a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Marcie takes the hand awkwardly, and I’m pleased to see that she is unnerved by the firmess of Imelda’s hand, by the way that her eyes try to grip like her handshake.

  Their hands unstick with an audibly sweaty peeling sound. Marcie shifts uneasily in her seat and becomes preoccupied with smoothing down her dress again. I’m amused.

  ‘So, what happened? I thought you were off out to Dykes-R-Us tonight.’

  She chooses to ignore the put-down, and concentrates on waggling her cig
arette up and down. It’s got a strange aroma, like spices and ash. ‘He persuaded me,’ she says indistinctly, ‘that a night out with you lot would be more of a fun option, darlings.’

  ‘Hardly,’ I mutter. ‘We’re all gender stereotypes here, you know.’

  Imelda just flashes a mouthful of ivory. Maybe she’s discovered that everlasting toothpaste that the market suppressed. She raises her eyebrows at us, and leans slightly forward so that her fringe blocks my view of Marcie. ‘So, Marcia darling –’

  ‘It’s Marcie,’ she retorts – rather sharply, with her arms folded into a barrier across her little bust. It almost makes me snigger out loud to see her looking so uncomfortable.

  ‘Marcie. You’re with dear Bel here, are you?’

  I’m not quite sure what ‘with’ means. Luckily, neither is Marcie, and she just gives an indifferent grunt as an answer.

  ‘I see,’ Imelda says, her red lips closing softly over the black tube of her cigarette. She closes her eyes, so slowly that it’s kind of mesmerizing, and then they snap open, big, wide, monochrome eyes out of a thirties film, and they’re sparkling with life. ‘You look very young, darling. Did you tell your mummy and daddy where you were going to be?’

  Oh, dear. Not the right thing to say.

  Marcie is cold, quite restrained in her answer. ‘My mum went to live in Barnsley with a lorry driver. An’ my dad’s dead. He died a few years ago.’

  ‘Aaah.’ Imelda, not thrown at all, nods sagely, and shrugs. ‘I’m really very sorry to hear that,’ she offers.

  ‘Yeah, well, so was I. I mean, fuckin’ Barnsley. What a dump.’

  Imelda smiles languidly and leans back in her seat, looking cool, poised, and of indeterminate age. I think she’s thirty-two, but there’s a five-year margin of error. JJ’s granddad is dead now, but he was quite a randy old bugger, by all accounts – he sired Imelda quite some time after JJ’s dad, so she can’t be too old.

  According to JJ, his aunt inherited quite a bit from her late father. She was the favoured one, and most of the fortune went to her, but she had no problem about sharing it with the rest of the family. These days, she lives largely off the interest – although she may have a job, too; I don’t know.