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Authors: Susan Hill
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shut.
‘Stop doing that, will you? I haven’t got any bottles – you want to bring your own.’
He switched on the television which sat above the worktop. The picture was fuzzy but he sat down and started watching anyway.
‘I could do with a brew.’
‘Brew it then.’
But when he caught Marie’s eye, she put the kettle on the hob, not wanting to start anything, which with Jonty was never difficult.
She had the beginning of a cold, her mother was still on the run which meant she had the van to herself, and she had planned to lie down under her blankets and watch both episodes of Corrie and EastEnders . She had a boil-in-the-bag curry and a block of Galaxy. She was sorted.
Only now he was here, sprawling his legs out, tripping her up, filling the small space. But she was frightened enough of him to say nothing. She handed him his mug of tea and found a half-packet of Custard Creams.
‘When you going out?’ he asked, looking at the screen. The voices and the laughter coming out of it were fuzzy like the picture.
‘I’m not.’
He looked at her then, a long, steady expressionless look, dunking his biscuit as he did so.
‘I was out last night and my throat’s sore.’
‘Sounds all right to me.’
‘Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel all right.’
‘When’d a sore throat stop anyone?’
She hesitated, wondering if she would bother making herself tea and deciding against it. She just stood, staring out of the plastic window into the darkness.
‘I need to pay someone,’ Jonty said.
His dealer. There was never anyone else he had to pay.
She said nothing.
‘Or else I won’t get any gear.’
She wondered if anything was beyond the window in the dark field. Rabbits or a fox or someone’s cat. Funny thing, but she was never bothered here on her own at night, though she put the bar on the caravan door. She was more bothered by having him here.
‘So get yourself done up. I’ll mind the van.’
Marie shivered. She would have to go. The best she could hope to do was keep some money back for herself, but most of it she’d have to hand over. When Jonty was around he called the shots, he was the one she worked for. She remained looking into the darkness, thinking about what Abi had said – that she was getting out, saving up, looking to the future, this was the last year. She wouldn’t make it of course, none of them ever did. Marie would watch her struggle and sink under, watch her kids go into care and her hopes blotted out. All the same, she wished she had some of Abi’s guts even to think of it, make the plans in her head that were never going to come to anything. Because the difference between them was that she had long since given up on anything except getting from one day to the next and sometimes dreaming that Jonty Lewis would be found dead in a ditch with his head kicked in.
He had turned up the television. The hissing, crackling laughter blasted out of the set and filled the fetid space inside the van, along with the sound of him slurping tea. He had finished the biscuits.
She went to the cardboard box where she kept her clothes. She couldn’t wait to get out after all.
It was a busy night. By half past eleven she had been picked up by four punters, the last of whom must have been high on something, though he hadn’t seemed it, because he gave her £90. She stood on the corner at the top of Old Ribbon Street. It was mild. There was a moon. Traffic was quiet. But it didn’t matter, she’d earned plenty. She’d go back. The only thing stopping her was that Jonty would be there, feet up, guzzling everything there was to guzzle, filling the van with smoke, and waiting. If she had a place she could stash the extra money she’d do that, but there was nowhere that someone wouldn’t find. A couple of other girls had been out working but she wouldn’t trust them, and anyway, they’d gone now. The road was empty.
She started to walk, not going down onto the canal towpath and over the
‘Stop doing that, will you? I haven’t got any bottles – you want to bring your own.’
He switched on the television which sat above the worktop. The picture was fuzzy but he sat down and started watching anyway.
‘I could do with a brew.’
‘Brew it then.’
But when he caught Marie’s eye, she put the kettle on the hob, not wanting to start anything, which with Jonty was never difficult.
She had the beginning of a cold, her mother was still on the run which meant she had the van to herself, and she had planned to lie down under her blankets and watch both episodes of Corrie and EastEnders . She had a boil-in-the-bag curry and a block of Galaxy. She was sorted.
Only now he was here, sprawling his legs out, tripping her up, filling the small space. But she was frightened enough of him to say nothing. She handed him his mug of tea and found a half-packet of Custard Creams.
‘When you going out?’ he asked, looking at the screen. The voices and the laughter coming out of it were fuzzy like the picture.
‘I’m not.’
He looked at her then, a long, steady expressionless look, dunking his biscuit as he did so.
‘I was out last night and my throat’s sore.’
‘Sounds all right to me.’
‘Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel all right.’
‘When’d a sore throat stop anyone?’
She hesitated, wondering if she would bother making herself tea and deciding against it. She just stood, staring out of the plastic window into the darkness.
‘I need to pay someone,’ Jonty said.
His dealer. There was never anyone else he had to pay.
She said nothing.
‘Or else I won’t get any gear.’
She wondered if anything was beyond the window in the dark field. Rabbits or a fox or someone’s cat. Funny thing, but she was never bothered here on her own at night, though she put the bar on the caravan door. She was more bothered by having him here.
‘So get yourself done up. I’ll mind the van.’
Marie shivered. She would have to go. The best she could hope to do was keep some money back for herself, but most of it she’d have to hand over. When Jonty was around he called the shots, he was the one she worked for. She remained looking into the darkness, thinking about what Abi had said – that she was getting out, saving up, looking to the future, this was the last year. She wouldn’t make it of course, none of them ever did. Marie would watch her struggle and sink under, watch her kids go into care and her hopes blotted out. All the same, she wished she had some of Abi’s guts even to think of it, make the plans in her head that were never going to come to anything. Because the difference between them was that she had long since given up on anything except getting from one day to the next and sometimes dreaming that Jonty Lewis would be found dead in a ditch with his head kicked in.
He had turned up the television. The hissing, crackling laughter blasted out of the set and filled the fetid space inside the van, along with the sound of him slurping tea. He had finished the biscuits.
She went to the cardboard box where she kept her clothes. She couldn’t wait to get out after all.
It was a busy night. By half past eleven she had been picked up by four punters, the last of whom must have been high on something, though he hadn’t seemed it, because he gave her £90. She stood on the corner at the top of Old Ribbon Street. It was mild. There was a moon. Traffic was quiet. But it didn’t matter, she’d earned plenty. She’d go back. The only thing stopping her was that Jonty would be there, feet up, guzzling everything there was to guzzle, filling the van with smoke, and waiting. If she had a place she could stash the extra money she’d do that, but there was nowhere that someone wouldn’t find. A couple of other girls had been out working but she wouldn’t trust them, and anyway, they’d gone now. The road was empty.
She started to walk, not going down onto the canal towpath and over the
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