her son’s sleeve. The dog growled low in its throat. Dragging her son closer, Sheena whispered, “Four hundred quid.”
“Awright then,” the boy said, shrugging her off. “He’s Charles fucking Manson. He’s the Yorkshire Ripper. He’s not some little pisshead in the nick ’cause he didn’t pay for his fucking TV.”
Frances stared at Sheena, her urgent need momentarily forgotten. She imagined her new career, not yet built, crumbling before her eyes.
“Is that true, Sheena? Is he in jail for not paying the licence fee?” She’d always thought it was an urban myth that people would be thrown in jail for not paying their television licences.
“Wasn’t just the licence fee,” said Sheena with indignation. “He hadn’t paid his council tax neither. And you should have seen what he done to the bailiff that come for him.”
Suddenly Frances felt sick — for herself, for this skiving boy, for this kindly, deluded woman.
“I need to use the bathroom, if you don’t mind,” she said, pushing back her chair.
At that moment, the mobile at Sheena’s elbow went off, the opening notes of Katy Perry’s “Hot N Cold” echoing around the kitchen. The dog began a series of frenzied leaps for the phone while Michael cursed and yanked on its lead.
“Jesus and Mary,” Sheena whispered, staring at the number. Her mouth sagged into a pink oval. “It’s like he can hear us.”
Frances, edging sideways out of the kitchen, said, “Why? Who is it?”
“It’s him,” whimpered Sheena. The phone sang, in a tinny voice, that someone was kissing and making up. The dog made another lunge and let out a strangled howl as Sheena planted her foot in its chest.
“He’s calling from jail?” Frances said.
Both mother and son turned to look at her.
“I tried to tell you, love,” said Sheena as she reached for the phone. “He’s out now. Lives the next estate over.”
“Excuse me,” Frances said as she stumbled past the boy, breathing in a cold layer of cider and cigarettes.
“Toilet’s just there,” he said, and yanked on the chain as the dog, demented now, tried to follow her, snapping and snarling.
She scurried across the hall and slammed the door on the dog’s snout, not caring if she hurt the stupid thing. Fumbling with the knob, she found the little button in the centre stiff with disuse.
“I don’t believe it,” she muttered, trying to pinch the lock closed with her forefinger and thumb. The rattling sounded ridiculously loud in her ears, though not, by some degree, as loud as the combined howling of Sheena and the dog.
“You just scared the shit out of her!” Sheena screamed, presumably to the sinister Les. “You actually did! Poor girl just had to run to the toilet.”
“No!” Frances called desperately through the door, as she struggled to get her jeans down. “No, it wasn’t him.”
She noted just before bare bottom hit cold water that the toilet seat — clear plastic embedded with a strand of barbed wire — had been left up. With one hand she yanked it down, and collapsed with relief.
“I wasn’t frightened,” she said to the poster of Rihanna that covered the inside of the bathroom door. “I just needed to pee.”
She couldn’t find a towel, so after washing her hands with a cracked bit of soap she wiped them dry on her jeans. For a desperate minute she was gripped with the desire to call her parents, to swallow the dry crumbs of her pride and ask for a plane ticket home.
If she’d had £400 she would have given it to Sheena herself, just to spare her all the shame. She could hear the woman’s voice, now reduced to a rolling sob, in the spaces between the dog’s thudding attempts on the door.
“Uh, Michael?” Frances called. “Michael, can you control the dog? I’m coming out now.”
Deep breath. She reached down to the knob, but it refused to turn in her hands. Maybe they were still wet. Frances rubbed them on her jeans and tried again, but it was no use. The
“Awright then,” the boy said, shrugging her off. “He’s Charles fucking Manson. He’s the Yorkshire Ripper. He’s not some little pisshead in the nick ’cause he didn’t pay for his fucking TV.”
Frances stared at Sheena, her urgent need momentarily forgotten. She imagined her new career, not yet built, crumbling before her eyes.
“Is that true, Sheena? Is he in jail for not paying the licence fee?” She’d always thought it was an urban myth that people would be thrown in jail for not paying their television licences.
“Wasn’t just the licence fee,” said Sheena with indignation. “He hadn’t paid his council tax neither. And you should have seen what he done to the bailiff that come for him.”
Suddenly Frances felt sick — for herself, for this skiving boy, for this kindly, deluded woman.
“I need to use the bathroom, if you don’t mind,” she said, pushing back her chair.
At that moment, the mobile at Sheena’s elbow went off, the opening notes of Katy Perry’s “Hot N Cold” echoing around the kitchen. The dog began a series of frenzied leaps for the phone while Michael cursed and yanked on its lead.
“Jesus and Mary,” Sheena whispered, staring at the number. Her mouth sagged into a pink oval. “It’s like he can hear us.”
Frances, edging sideways out of the kitchen, said, “Why? Who is it?”
“It’s him,” whimpered Sheena. The phone sang, in a tinny voice, that someone was kissing and making up. The dog made another lunge and let out a strangled howl as Sheena planted her foot in its chest.
“He’s calling from jail?” Frances said.
Both mother and son turned to look at her.
“I tried to tell you, love,” said Sheena as she reached for the phone. “He’s out now. Lives the next estate over.”
“Excuse me,” Frances said as she stumbled past the boy, breathing in a cold layer of cider and cigarettes.
“Toilet’s just there,” he said, and yanked on the chain as the dog, demented now, tried to follow her, snapping and snarling.
She scurried across the hall and slammed the door on the dog’s snout, not caring if she hurt the stupid thing. Fumbling with the knob, she found the little button in the centre stiff with disuse.
“I don’t believe it,” she muttered, trying to pinch the lock closed with her forefinger and thumb. The rattling sounded ridiculously loud in her ears, though not, by some degree, as loud as the combined howling of Sheena and the dog.
“You just scared the shit out of her!” Sheena screamed, presumably to the sinister Les. “You actually did! Poor girl just had to run to the toilet.”
“No!” Frances called desperately through the door, as she struggled to get her jeans down. “No, it wasn’t him.”
She noted just before bare bottom hit cold water that the toilet seat — clear plastic embedded with a strand of barbed wire — had been left up. With one hand she yanked it down, and collapsed with relief.
“I wasn’t frightened,” she said to the poster of Rihanna that covered the inside of the bathroom door. “I just needed to pee.”
She couldn’t find a towel, so after washing her hands with a cracked bit of soap she wiped them dry on her jeans. For a desperate minute she was gripped with the desire to call her parents, to swallow the dry crumbs of her pride and ask for a plane ticket home.
If she’d had £400 she would have given it to Sheena herself, just to spare her all the shame. She could hear the woman’s voice, now reduced to a rolling sob, in the spaces between the dog’s thudding attempts on the door.
“Uh, Michael?” Frances called. “Michael, can you control the dog? I’m coming out now.”
Deep breath. She reached down to the knob, but it refused to turn in her hands. Maybe they were still wet. Frances rubbed them on her jeans and tried again, but it was no use. The
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