The Mall by S L Grey Page B

ravaged croak.
    ‘I, I. Uh, she…’ I try to point out Rhoda, who is standing a little way back from us.
    ‘Why are you here?’ the woman insists, letting out a barking fit of lung-scouring coughing. A gob of phlegm spatters just past my head, and I crick my neck trying to avoid it.
    Finally I pick myself up off the floor, rubbing my throbbing head. It’s so fucking sore I want to cry or scream or both.
    ‘We’re looking for a kid,’ says Rhoda. ‘A small boy who came down here. He—’
    ‘There are no children here. Get out. It will follow you.’ The woman raises her voice, and I can hear the fear around its edges, underneath the wetness.
    ‘Can you help us?’ Rhoda presses. ‘We can help you.’ She disgorges her pockets onto the table: a few coins, keys, tissues, two half-smoked cigarettes, her cellphone. She
doesn’t empty her jacket pockets, where I know she keeps the other cigarettes and her stash.
    ‘You must get away,’ the grey woman repeats, her eyes darting between the far side of the food court and the booty on the table.
    ‘We’ll leave you alone as soon as you tell us where the kid is,’ says Rhoda.
    The grey woman looks at the pockets of my jeans. The outlines of my phone, my wallet and my keys bulge out blatantly.
    ‘Come on,’ hisses Rhoda.
    ‘Fuck, I need this stuff,’ I complain as I dump everything on the table.
    ‘For this, food.’ She picks up Rhoda’s phone. The woman rifles her grimy fingers through the wallet Mom gave me for my birthday. I’ve only got fifty bucks and a few
coins. She takes it all, leaving a dusty smear in its place.
    ‘We don’t want food,’ Rhoda says. ‘Just tell us about the kid and we’ll be on our way.’
    The woman ignores her and walks back towards two braziers across the lot, trailed by the men. We just stand there, Rhoda cursing under her breath.
    ‘Hey,’ I say, too late to make any difference, ‘that’s my stuff.’
    ‘You want food?’ the woman calls back at us. ‘Something fresh today.’ She lets out a dry cackle that sounds as if it hasn’t been exercised for centuries. The men
chuckle to themselves, their laughter ricocheting hollowly through the silent space.
    ‘So. You want food?’ Rhoda says to me, doing a pretty good impression of the old hag.
    My stomach grumbles. I’m fucking starving. I wonder if she’s got any chips. I’m really hungry for chips.
    ‘I’d think there’s more important things to worry about tonight, but come on,’ she shrugs.
    We follow.
    The woman leads us into a stinking alcove, walls scuffed with person-filth up to waist height, flattened cardboard boxes and plastic sheeting layered into a nest. The men feel their way to the
fire, shuffling with tiny steps as if it’s pitch dark. The grey woman digs behind a wall of cardboard for a plastic bag, barks a phlegmy series of coughs into her hand then rummages in the
bag.
    I hope to God that the seeping wax-wrapped package she pulls out isn’t the meal we’ve just bought. But no gods are listening: it is. In addition, she finds a bottle of water and an
unwrapped half-loaf of white bread, which she wipes on her top before handing it to us.
    ‘Eat there,’ she says, indicating the tables at the food court where we spoke. ‘Then you go.’
    ‘There’s no way I’m eating—’ I start, but Rhoda nudges me.
    ‘Thanks,’ says Rhoda. I thought at least she’d argue.
    We walk back across the parking lot to our table.
    ‘This shit is not a meal. Come on. You’re prepared to fight about everything else. Why couldn’t you…’ But I know I’m wasting my breath.
    ‘I didn’t hear you complaining.’
    ‘Well, you’re the one with the street experience, aren’t you? You should know what’s normal in this sort of situation.’
    Rhoda spits out a laugh. I can’t tell if it’s sarcastic or genuinely amused. ‘Normal? Okay, tell me. We’re lost underneath a mall that keeps on changing direction, buying
food from a grey woman in a