One
Mama Gala’s,
London
She hit him with the flat of her hand as he walked in the side door. The blow was strong enough to send him backwards into the counter, her massive head jutting towards him. Shaken, he stared at her, at the pale eyes in the dark face, the force of her malice unexpected and terrifying.
‘Don’t,’ she said warningly.
He was trying not to wet himself, trying to remember that he was eighteen years old. Not a child any more. And yet a child now. Oh yes, back to a child now. He had pushed his luck and knew it. Shouldn’t have mocked her son. Shouldn’t have taunted Emile Dwappa. No one did that. No one with any sense.
‘
Don’t,
’ she repeated.
A mammoth in a print dress. Nigerian by birth, Londoner by choice. Proprietor of Mama Gala’s Health Shop. Babysitter for the local children, crooning to them as she nursed them in the barley-sugar-coloured rocking chair.
But now he remembered all the rumours he’d heard about Mama Gala and her son. Wondered if, perhaps, they weren’t rumours after all. And the chair in the corner by the window seems suddenly skeletal, malignant, a corpse on rockers.
It’ll do you no good to say sorry, Hiller thought. She’s not having it.
One of Mama Gala’s hands was resting on the counter beside him, her bulk blocking any escape. And now he could see the rumour coming alive, a vision of evil taking shape in front of him. Her face was waxy, like bruised fruit a day before rotting, her skin giving off an odour of sweat and dead meat.
Hadn’t his uncle warned him? Said, ‘Don’t go to work at Mama Gala’s. She’s not what you think. She’s Emile Dwappa’s mother. If he’s afraid, so should you be.’
But he’d been cocky, sucked in by the promise of easy money and an association
– however remote – with the most notorious man in London. Even if he
were
just
an errand boy, humping sacks of meal around and sweeping up the remnants of the herbs
Mama Gala sliced on her great chopping board. A board notched with a thousand knife
cuts, indented with the numerous blows she had delivered over the years. A board
scourged like the back of a flagellant.
She was staring at him now, and his body was pressing against the counter. He didn’t think, just said it. No, he’d been saying brainless things for weeks. Ignoring her warning looks, trying to laugh off the remarks he’d made. And then Hiller, because he was stupid and young, pushed it. Mentioned something said by his uncle –
Was it his uncle? Jesus, he couldn’t remember anything while she was staring at him like that –
something about Emile Dwappa being gay.
And he had repeated it. Like it was a joke. But as the words touched the air, Mama Gala had moved. She left the rocking chair, crossed the wooden floor and, all in an instant, had hit him. The blow, with all her weight behind it, had cracked against his head, his ear deafened.
But it wasn’t the attack that had him wet with fear now. It was Mama Gala
herself, huge and threatening, shape-shifting into the rumours he should have listened
to but had ignored. When she struck him again he fell down, limp-legged, and, lying on
the wooden floor, saw one of her gnarled feet – dusty in sandals – aiming straight at
his face.
And then he remembered what Mama Gala had done just before she attacked him. Before the first strike, she had gone to the door and turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.
Two
It was raining, the kind of rain that bores through clothes in an instant, as Jimmy Shaw took a left turn and drove into the supermarket forecourt. He was thinking about his stomach. Thinking that what he needed were some Snickers and a bag of Kettle Chips. He should, he thought, always make sure there was food in the car. In the glove compartment, because what the fuck else was it for? Not gloves. Who wore gloves any more?
Choosing a space close to the entrance, Shaw parked. Heaving himself out of the car, he fastened his jacket and noticed that he
Mama Gala’s,
London
She hit him with the flat of her hand as he walked in the side door. The blow was strong enough to send him backwards into the counter, her massive head jutting towards him. Shaken, he stared at her, at the pale eyes in the dark face, the force of her malice unexpected and terrifying.
‘Don’t,’ she said warningly.
He was trying not to wet himself, trying to remember that he was eighteen years old. Not a child any more. And yet a child now. Oh yes, back to a child now. He had pushed his luck and knew it. Shouldn’t have mocked her son. Shouldn’t have taunted Emile Dwappa. No one did that. No one with any sense.
‘
Don’t,
’ she repeated.
A mammoth in a print dress. Nigerian by birth, Londoner by choice. Proprietor of Mama Gala’s Health Shop. Babysitter for the local children, crooning to them as she nursed them in the barley-sugar-coloured rocking chair.
But now he remembered all the rumours he’d heard about Mama Gala and her son. Wondered if, perhaps, they weren’t rumours after all. And the chair in the corner by the window seems suddenly skeletal, malignant, a corpse on rockers.
It’ll do you no good to say sorry, Hiller thought. She’s not having it.
One of Mama Gala’s hands was resting on the counter beside him, her bulk blocking any escape. And now he could see the rumour coming alive, a vision of evil taking shape in front of him. Her face was waxy, like bruised fruit a day before rotting, her skin giving off an odour of sweat and dead meat.
Hadn’t his uncle warned him? Said, ‘Don’t go to work at Mama Gala’s. She’s not what you think. She’s Emile Dwappa’s mother. If he’s afraid, so should you be.’
But he’d been cocky, sucked in by the promise of easy money and an association
– however remote – with the most notorious man in London. Even if he
were
just
an errand boy, humping sacks of meal around and sweeping up the remnants of the herbs
Mama Gala sliced on her great chopping board. A board notched with a thousand knife
cuts, indented with the numerous blows she had delivered over the years. A board
scourged like the back of a flagellant.
She was staring at him now, and his body was pressing against the counter. He didn’t think, just said it. No, he’d been saying brainless things for weeks. Ignoring her warning looks, trying to laugh off the remarks he’d made. And then Hiller, because he was stupid and young, pushed it. Mentioned something said by his uncle –
Was it his uncle? Jesus, he couldn’t remember anything while she was staring at him like that –
something about Emile Dwappa being gay.
And he had repeated it. Like it was a joke. But as the words touched the air, Mama Gala had moved. She left the rocking chair, crossed the wooden floor and, all in an instant, had hit him. The blow, with all her weight behind it, had cracked against his head, his ear deafened.
But it wasn’t the attack that had him wet with fear now. It was Mama Gala
herself, huge and threatening, shape-shifting into the rumours he should have listened
to but had ignored. When she struck him again he fell down, limp-legged, and, lying on
the wooden floor, saw one of her gnarled feet – dusty in sandals – aiming straight at
his face.
And then he remembered what Mama Gala had done just before she attacked him. Before the first strike, she had gone to the door and turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.
Two
It was raining, the kind of rain that bores through clothes in an instant, as Jimmy Shaw took a left turn and drove into the supermarket forecourt. He was thinking about his stomach. Thinking that what he needed were some Snickers and a bag of Kettle Chips. He should, he thought, always make sure there was food in the car. In the glove compartment, because what the fuck else was it for? Not gloves. Who wore gloves any more?
Choosing a space close to the entrance, Shaw parked. Heaving himself out of the car, he fastened his jacket and noticed that he
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