couldn’t stay. Irene’s chillingly blank stares and constantly furrowed brow sapped Vanessa’s strength, and she wanted to be shot of her. Vanessa pulled a fiver from her purse – her only punter the previous afternoon.
‘Here,’ she said, holding it out. Irene didn’t hesitate.
‘Vanessa, I swear …’
‘Forget it, luv.’
Irene quickly combed her tangles of thick hair wi’ a hairbrush she’d found lying under a chair, then left without another word.
The next night she booked hersen into a grotty rooming house in Cowper Street. The papers said so. She dumped her bag of meagre belongings on t’ bed, spruced hersen up hurriedly and left, telling someone that she wor headed for Tiffany’s disco in t’ city centre.
A jogger found Irene Richardson’s body on nearby Soldiers Field, not a hammer’s throw from where Wilma McCann wor topped.
When we called on Vanessa the next week she’d gone. Eric pressed his nose up against her window and peered in. I put my hands to t’ sides of my face like a horse’s blinkers and peered in also.
There wor nowt but a mucky sock on t’ bare floor, a sun-faded print of a kitten in a basket of flowers on t’ wall, and a wooden chair wi’ t’ seat missing.
‘She’s scarpered,’ Eric said.
‘Looks like it.’
‘Moved on, like they all do. Best strike her from t’ round-book.’
All in all, I wor relieved that we worn’t having cuppas at Vanessa’s no more. Her teasing and questioning had always made me squirm inside. Like she knew really.
Mid-morning tea break now wor wi’ Lourdes, a big West Indian woman, big, springy hair, big hips, big, unruly breasts. Lourdes wore knee-length striped stockings and played scratchy ska records. I asked Eric why all our breaks were wi’ prozzies. He said prozzies make better tea.
Lourdes flashed her teeth a lot while she blathered, and her tea tasted like wrung-out dishcloth. She danced around t’ room to her ska music, her buttocks shimmying like maggot-filled medicine balls.
‘You dancin’, bwoy?’ She meant me.
‘I can’t dance.’
Lourdes yanked me out of my seat. ‘Mi teaches yuh!’ She took hold of me wi’ both hands. I tried a few unwilling plods on t’ spot and kicked out a leg.
‘Bwoy, you ain’t trying to shift a fridge! Use dem hips!’ She slapped her own buttock.
I shuffled like someone wriggling out of wet jeans. She tossed her head back and laughed.
‘Dat is duh ting!’
Eric wor grinning at me like he wor seeing another story for t’ lads back at the depot.
Lourdes said, ‘You’s like ska and reggae, bwoy?’
‘Punk!’ Eric shouted over t’ pulsating lilt blooping out of Lourdes’ stereo speakers. ‘He’s into all that punk stuff!’
Lourdes’ face crumpled. ‘Punk? Wat dat? Mi nah nuttin’ about punk. How’s I dance dat punk?’
‘You pogo!’ Eric yelled. ‘You jump up and down on t’ spot and gob a lot. Go on, Rick, show Lourdes how to pogo.’
‘Shut it, Eric. I can’t do it wi’ no music, can I?’
‘Music?’ echoed Eric derisively. ‘You call that Sex Pistols shite music?’
‘Spit? Nah, man. Real dance ga like tis.’
Lourdes locked her arms around my waist, pushing my leg between hers. Her clothes smelt of old smoke and school cabbage and she had sweat patches under her armpits.
‘Move like you’s making it wit’ sum girl,’ she gleamed. She put her mouth to my ear. ‘I teaches you, bwoy, mi’s a good teacher.’
She cackled, tossing her head again. I glimpsed two gold caps. She thrust her full hips against my thigh bones, using her weight to shunt me around t’ room. I shut my eyes, trying to concentrate on t’ choppy backbeat. Then, almost unwillingly, I felt t’ two of us flowing together in harmony, while Eric looked on, bemused, at the West Indian prozzie, as wide as a dinner plate, dancing wi’ a young white boy, as thin as a spoon.
I wor dipping into sis’s diary again, amusing mesen over sis and this friggin’ lad having
‘Here,’ she said, holding it out. Irene didn’t hesitate.
‘Vanessa, I swear …’
‘Forget it, luv.’
Irene quickly combed her tangles of thick hair wi’ a hairbrush she’d found lying under a chair, then left without another word.
The next night she booked hersen into a grotty rooming house in Cowper Street. The papers said so. She dumped her bag of meagre belongings on t’ bed, spruced hersen up hurriedly and left, telling someone that she wor headed for Tiffany’s disco in t’ city centre.
A jogger found Irene Richardson’s body on nearby Soldiers Field, not a hammer’s throw from where Wilma McCann wor topped.
When we called on Vanessa the next week she’d gone. Eric pressed his nose up against her window and peered in. I put my hands to t’ sides of my face like a horse’s blinkers and peered in also.
There wor nowt but a mucky sock on t’ bare floor, a sun-faded print of a kitten in a basket of flowers on t’ wall, and a wooden chair wi’ t’ seat missing.
‘She’s scarpered,’ Eric said.
‘Looks like it.’
‘Moved on, like they all do. Best strike her from t’ round-book.’
All in all, I wor relieved that we worn’t having cuppas at Vanessa’s no more. Her teasing and questioning had always made me squirm inside. Like she knew really.
Mid-morning tea break now wor wi’ Lourdes, a big West Indian woman, big, springy hair, big hips, big, unruly breasts. Lourdes wore knee-length striped stockings and played scratchy ska records. I asked Eric why all our breaks were wi’ prozzies. He said prozzies make better tea.
Lourdes flashed her teeth a lot while she blathered, and her tea tasted like wrung-out dishcloth. She danced around t’ room to her ska music, her buttocks shimmying like maggot-filled medicine balls.
‘You dancin’, bwoy?’ She meant me.
‘I can’t dance.’
Lourdes yanked me out of my seat. ‘Mi teaches yuh!’ She took hold of me wi’ both hands. I tried a few unwilling plods on t’ spot and kicked out a leg.
‘Bwoy, you ain’t trying to shift a fridge! Use dem hips!’ She slapped her own buttock.
I shuffled like someone wriggling out of wet jeans. She tossed her head back and laughed.
‘Dat is duh ting!’
Eric wor grinning at me like he wor seeing another story for t’ lads back at the depot.
Lourdes said, ‘You’s like ska and reggae, bwoy?’
‘Punk!’ Eric shouted over t’ pulsating lilt blooping out of Lourdes’ stereo speakers. ‘He’s into all that punk stuff!’
Lourdes’ face crumpled. ‘Punk? Wat dat? Mi nah nuttin’ about punk. How’s I dance dat punk?’
‘You pogo!’ Eric yelled. ‘You jump up and down on t’ spot and gob a lot. Go on, Rick, show Lourdes how to pogo.’
‘Shut it, Eric. I can’t do it wi’ no music, can I?’
‘Music?’ echoed Eric derisively. ‘You call that Sex Pistols shite music?’
‘Spit? Nah, man. Real dance ga like tis.’
Lourdes locked her arms around my waist, pushing my leg between hers. Her clothes smelt of old smoke and school cabbage and she had sweat patches under her armpits.
‘Move like you’s making it wit’ sum girl,’ she gleamed. She put her mouth to my ear. ‘I teaches you, bwoy, mi’s a good teacher.’
She cackled, tossing her head again. I glimpsed two gold caps. She thrust her full hips against my thigh bones, using her weight to shunt me around t’ room. I shut my eyes, trying to concentrate on t’ choppy backbeat. Then, almost unwillingly, I felt t’ two of us flowing together in harmony, while Eric looked on, bemused, at the West Indian prozzie, as wide as a dinner plate, dancing wi’ a young white boy, as thin as a spoon.
I wor dipping into sis’s diary again, amusing mesen over sis and this friggin’ lad having
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