road was softened by the orange street lights.
Shackleton had chosen the Crown because it was a Caribbean and Irish pub. Its regulars were no fans of the police, but even less keen on the Africans and Asians who were comparative newcomers, accusing them of throwing their rubbish into the front gardens and of being responsible for most of the crime on the estate.
Most of the men and all of the few women customers were older people, the men working on building sites or in the alternative economy, paving and tiling the front gardens of suburbia. Church on Sunday and a good punch-up after closing on Friday. As usual the oldest men were playing dominoes in the saloon bar.
Shackleton stood outside, looking into the estate. It was uncannily quiet, no Bangra or drumming blaring out of flats and cars. No loud, uncontrolled adolescent voices. Nothing. In the distance he saw a flash of light followed immediately by a loud bang.
âCar going up,â observed Gordon. He wasnât frightened but he quivered like a whippet. Fight or flight. With Gordon it was always fight.
Shackleton became aware of three black women sitting outside a flat opposite the pub. It was an extraordinary sight. The occupants had marked out an area on the scrubby grass as theirs. It was bordered with pots containing a riot of flowers, ivies and shrubs. All plastic.
Against the wall of the flat were oil cans, sinks, and even an oldlavatory pan filled with more plastic blooms in vivid colours undreamt of in nature. One of the women was carefully dusting them and spraying room freshener on those she felt had lost their scent. The two other women sat in fold-down picnic chairs, a five-litre bottle of sarsaparilla between them.
âHello there, Mr Shackleton. You keepinâ well?â
He was surprised to be greeted by name; he was sure he didnât know these women but stepped closer to be sure. The woman who spoke was the heaviest of the three. She sat, her knees parted by the flesh of her thighs, watching the evening with a great smile on her round, shining face.
On her head, she wasnât so much wearing as had precariously perched a pink hat made of synthetic straw and in the style of old-fashioned girlsâ-school felt hats. A wide ribbon of deeper pink went round the brim to a tight, flat bow at the back.
Shackleton wondered which would give first, the chair or the thin material of her dress, which struggled to encompass the vastness of her bosoms and belly. There was something so elementally sexual in the expanse of her; her cavernous cleavage was so unashamedly inviting he looked away, feeling inadequate and ridiculous and, above all, white.
The woman sitting next to her was as thin and dry as she was voluptuous and moist. Her legs, also apart at the knee, had high calf muscles and long ankles finishing in large flat feet which pushed out the sides of larger flatter shoes.
The feet were crossed, resting on their outers, her legs so thin they looked like crossbones and her fleshless face the skull. She said nothing but nodded amiably. Her long bony hands, the skin cracked through lack of care and sun, worked quickly at her crochet. A pile of doilies and anti-macassars lay on a newspaper by her feet.
Shackleton looked at her and recognised in the sharpness of her eye sockets and the dullness of her skin the proximity of death. He glanced away, towards the fire they had made in a small tin bath. The third woman stopped her dusting to turn and look at him.
The feelings the fat woman and deathâs companion had stirred in him were replaced by something like fear when he saw her face. It was deep black, an African colour without the friendly warmth of the West Indies. A slate-blue-black with the cheeks deeply scarred by three slashes on either side.
Her features were without a shadow of the Caucasian in size or position. She was shockingly alien, unexpected. But it was her eyes that repelled Shackleton though he was unable to look
Shackleton had chosen the Crown because it was a Caribbean and Irish pub. Its regulars were no fans of the police, but even less keen on the Africans and Asians who were comparative newcomers, accusing them of throwing their rubbish into the front gardens and of being responsible for most of the crime on the estate.
Most of the men and all of the few women customers were older people, the men working on building sites or in the alternative economy, paving and tiling the front gardens of suburbia. Church on Sunday and a good punch-up after closing on Friday. As usual the oldest men were playing dominoes in the saloon bar.
Shackleton stood outside, looking into the estate. It was uncannily quiet, no Bangra or drumming blaring out of flats and cars. No loud, uncontrolled adolescent voices. Nothing. In the distance he saw a flash of light followed immediately by a loud bang.
âCar going up,â observed Gordon. He wasnât frightened but he quivered like a whippet. Fight or flight. With Gordon it was always fight.
Shackleton became aware of three black women sitting outside a flat opposite the pub. It was an extraordinary sight. The occupants had marked out an area on the scrubby grass as theirs. It was bordered with pots containing a riot of flowers, ivies and shrubs. All plastic.
Against the wall of the flat were oil cans, sinks, and even an oldlavatory pan filled with more plastic blooms in vivid colours undreamt of in nature. One of the women was carefully dusting them and spraying room freshener on those she felt had lost their scent. The two other women sat in fold-down picnic chairs, a five-litre bottle of sarsaparilla between them.
âHello there, Mr Shackleton. You keepinâ well?â
He was surprised to be greeted by name; he was sure he didnât know these women but stepped closer to be sure. The woman who spoke was the heaviest of the three. She sat, her knees parted by the flesh of her thighs, watching the evening with a great smile on her round, shining face.
On her head, she wasnât so much wearing as had precariously perched a pink hat made of synthetic straw and in the style of old-fashioned girlsâ-school felt hats. A wide ribbon of deeper pink went round the brim to a tight, flat bow at the back.
Shackleton wondered which would give first, the chair or the thin material of her dress, which struggled to encompass the vastness of her bosoms and belly. There was something so elementally sexual in the expanse of her; her cavernous cleavage was so unashamedly inviting he looked away, feeling inadequate and ridiculous and, above all, white.
The woman sitting next to her was as thin and dry as she was voluptuous and moist. Her legs, also apart at the knee, had high calf muscles and long ankles finishing in large flat feet which pushed out the sides of larger flatter shoes.
The feet were crossed, resting on their outers, her legs so thin they looked like crossbones and her fleshless face the skull. She said nothing but nodded amiably. Her long bony hands, the skin cracked through lack of care and sun, worked quickly at her crochet. A pile of doilies and anti-macassars lay on a newspaper by her feet.
Shackleton looked at her and recognised in the sharpness of her eye sockets and the dullness of her skin the proximity of death. He glanced away, towards the fire they had made in a small tin bath. The third woman stopped her dusting to turn and look at him.
The feelings the fat woman and deathâs companion had stirred in him were replaced by something like fear when he saw her face. It was deep black, an African colour without the friendly warmth of the West Indies. A slate-blue-black with the cheeks deeply scarred by three slashes on either side.
Her features were without a shadow of the Caucasian in size or position. She was shockingly alien, unexpected. But it was her eyes that repelled Shackleton though he was unable to look
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