The Name I Call Myself (13 page)

“Why weren't you allowed to go?”

“I knocked one of the teachers out cold.”

“Knocked them out?” Uzma boggled. “How?”

“Punched 'em. They were windin' me up. I used to have a right temper on me, then. Didn't know what to do with all that stress before Hester taught me to sing it out.”

“Well, school can be quite stressful.” Mags raised her eyebrows while trying to keep her head still.

“Nah. Annabel, my social worker, said it was the baby messing with my emotions. By nine months they're takin' over, like an alien, she said.”

“You punched your teacher when you were nine months pregnant?” Uzma's eyes were complete circles.

“Yeah. So I think they should've allowed me to the prom, really. Extenuating circumstances. My nan got me one of those baby slings, in red so it matched my dress and everything. I could've taken her with me. It wasn't fair.” She pinned up the last twist of Mags's hair and sat back to inspect her work.

“Perhaps you should train properly, if you enjoy it. Go to college, or get an apprenticeship in a salon?” I said.

“I could, but paying for the childcare would leave me skint. My mum watches Callie for me enough as it is. And it would only interfere with my music career.”

“You have a music career?” Mags stood up to go and look in the mirror.

“Not yet. But you can't give up your dream.”

Rowan spent a long time on my hair, taming the copper curls into glossy ringlets, then pinning most of them up so I resembled a heroine from a Jane Austen novel.

“Rowan, would you come and do my hair for my wedding? I'll pay you, of course.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, s'pose.” But I saw the gleam of joy in her eyes when she turned to pick up the comb.

“And my bridesmaids. There's three.”

“And what about my work Christmas party?” Yasmin asked. “Will you do my hair for that?”

By the end of the evening Rowan had four bookings. We had a quick run through of “O Holy Night” as we cleared up, flicking our fancy locks and smiling at our new, more beautiful selves. I walked home through crisp moonlight back to my little terraced house, and made it nearly all the way there before realizing with a shock that I hadn't once looked over my shoulder for Kane.

The summer I sat my school exams resembled a car crash. How could I concentrate on French verbs and simultaneous equations while struggling to survive? Waking up every morning wondering if my brother would still be alive. Waiting for the police to bash down the door, or social services to come and take me away. How could I find the time or energy to revise when I worked five nights a week, spending my nights off and weekends cleaning up filth, washing my clothes in the bath, and trying to stretch pennies into pounds so I could quell the constant hunger?

When all I thought about was avoiding the Snake.

My exam results were a disaster. I spent the summer washing pots, trying not to think about my prospects, and sinking deeper and deeper into a murky pit of despair.

At some point during the summer, I caught Snake's attention. He started offering me drugs or alcohol. I declined. Any flicker of temptation I may have felt at the chance of temporary oblivion was quickly stamped out by the up close and personal knowledge of what that oblivion cost.

So he backed off a little, and began making me cups of tea. Or a sandwich. Bringing me a take-away. More than a little weird – cosying up in front of a rom-com and sharing a curry with my spaced-out brother and his dealer.

Sometimes I would come home to find he'd cleaned the kitchen. He paid me compliments – not creepy ones, but crafty ones about
my smile, or how clever I was, or how he wished he had a sister like me. He told me time and time again that I wasn't like the other girls – he admired my choice to stay clean and work hard. He would give me a lift to the pub if the weather was bad, and wait for me at the end of a late shift in his rusty car.

It took weeks, months even, but my life had shrunk to a very small world with few inhabitants. At nearly seventeen, desperate for any kind of meaningful connection, woefully starved of affection, with no idea of what a real man was like, no compass to assess normal behaviour, I slowly let Snake twist his evil lies around me.

I hated myself for it, but I began to enjoy the feel of his arm when he casually draped it around my shoulders, like Sam had once done. I let him hug me, squealing as he span me around when feeling playful. A couple of times he stuck a CD on and cajoled me into dancing with him in the living room while Sam beat time on the table. I had never danced with a boy before. Never really danced before. He started kissing me goodbye on the cheek before he left, or held my hand as he pulled me out of the pub door and into his car in a rainstorm, knowing my poor, starving heart would take the fake love of a wicked man if it meant I could for a few moments believe somebody actually cared about me.

As Sam grew worse, Snake shared his concern. My brother barely left his bedroom, rarely ate, or changed his clothes. He had lost any remnant of control, and my worry for him was a gnawing beast on my back. Snake suggested he take him to a doctor. I agreed, anxious beyond words to do something, anything. I don't know what he said, or even whether it was the right decision or not, but Sam got admitted to hospital. I now lived alone with Snake.

It was November. The week of my seventeenth birthday. Snake was thirty-two.

For three days I got up, went to work, tried to eat and sleep. My lodger lay low, made sure there was food in the house, and kept the chaos to a minimum. He invited me to eat with him at lunchtimes,
which I did, on edge but still pathetically grateful for the attention.

He's not so bad
, I thought.

Wrong. He was worse.

On the fourth day, I had an early shift. I came home to find dinner on the table. Not a sandwich this time, a proper meal. There were candles and a vase of flowers. He had laid out napkins and a bottle of wine.

My heart began to thump, either with nerves or anticipation, I had no idea.

“Happy birthday, Faith.” He entered the kitchen, holding out a gift bag.

“How did you know?” I took the bag with trembling hands.

“How could I not know? I care about you, Faith. Open your present.”

I obeyed him, unwrapping the tissue paper to find a dress. Bottle green, stretchy, short, and strapless. A dress those other girls would wear – the ones Snake said I was better than.

“Don't you like it?”

“No, it's really nice. Thanks.”

He smiled, appearing genuinely pleased. As if it mattered to him what I thought.

“Well, food is nearly ready. Why don't you go and put it on, and I'll dish up?”

I took my time removing my worn jeans and sweatshirt, pulling the dress on and zipping it up before wriggling out of my bra. I shut my brain off, not able to comprehend what Snake might be expecting from all this. Knowing he always took what he wanted, but still desperate to keep pretending that I was different, that I was special. He might even love me. I might even be loveable.

Brushing out my frizzed-up hair, I heard a sound behind me.

Turning, I found him leaning on the doorframe, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, well. Look what's been hiding under those jumpers. You're gorgeous.”

He stepped inside, carefully closing the door. My breath jammed in my throat. Snake, in my bedroom, his eyes glinting. Would I do what he wanted? Would I have any choice?

“I thought dinner was ready.”

“Not yet.” He sat on my drooping single bed. “Come here.”

All those touches, the kisses, the compliments, the gifts tumbled around my brain like litter in a storm. With the twisted logic of a neglected child, I felt I owed him this.

I sat down. He put out one hand and stroked my face. “Don't be afraid of me, Faith. I'm not going to hurt you.”

He lied.

Wednesday, I went round early to Sam's to drop off some shopping and clean up a bit before taking April to choir practice.

When I let myself in, the flat appeared tidy. Slightly disconcerted, I went into the kitchen. The Formica work surfaces gleamed. New tea and coffee pots lined up smartly next to the sparkling kettle. Even the floor had been mopped.

I dumped the shopping on the table, and opened the tiny fridge door. It was already full. A half-eaten cottage pie took up one shelf. The others were stuffed with salad, vegetables, a packet of chicken breasts, cheese, fresh juice, eggs, and a chocolate cake.

Oh.

A prickle of irritation skittered up my spine and lodged at the base of my skull.

Squeezing a box of cereal and some tins into a well-stocked cupboard, I left the rest of the shopping and went to find Sam, ducking my head into a spotless bathroom on the way.

I found him in bed, conked out.

“Sam.” Shaking his shoulder, not a little roughly, I woke him up.

“Faith. What time is it?”

“Nearly one. Have you been in bed all morning?”

“No.” He pulled himself up to a sitting position, running his hand over thick beard. “I went out with April.”

“Where?”

“For a walk. The nurse told April I need to get out the house every day, so we walk now. To the river and back. It knackers me out.”

“Maybe you shouldn't go so far, then?”

He shrugged. “I like it. It's peaceful by the water. And if I didn't I'd still be knackered.”

I tried to squish down my annoyance.

“Have you eaten? I brought some bacon.”

“Uh, yeah.” He rubbed his head, as if trying to get his mind going. “We had a salad thing, with fish. April's been reading about a diet that can help your mood.”

“I think your illness is a bit more than a bad mood, Sam,” I snapped. “If food was the issue, someone would have mentioned it by now.”

“She's trying to help.”

“I can see that.”

Sam's girlfriends, if they could be called that, fell into two camps – those that joined him and those that tried to change him. The ones who tried to change him generally lasted a couple of weeks, maybe a month at the most. None of them had the patience, the selflessness, or the strength to persist. That was my job.

“Do you want a cup of tea? Or some cake?”

“No. Thanks. I really need to sleep.”

“Where's April now? I'm meant to be taking her to choir practice.”

“Oh, um, yeah. She said something about that. She can't come. She's got a job interview.”

Right. And how long will the lovely April stick around if she gets a job?

“Where did the flowers come from?” A vase of yellow roses stood on the bedside table.

“I sold a painting.” He rolled back over, with his back to me.

He was painting again?

“Don't tell April. She thought I should hold out for a higher price,” he mumbled through the duvet.

“Since when did you care what anybody else thought?”

He was painting?

So why did I feel peeved rather than pleased?

A couple of weeks later, Rosa came round for the first bridesmaid dress consultation. I had taken an alarming chunk out of my Avoid Returning to a Bedsit at All Costs emergency savings, and also borrowed a couple of hundred pounds from Marilyn. This would cover the price of the bridesmaid dress fabric, a good second-hand sewing machine, and all the extras like dressmaking scissors, buttons, and thread. Compared to the kind of outfits Catherine and Natasha would expect if we bought them new, it was a bargain.

I could have asked Perry to pay for the dresses. Or used the credit card he had given me. The teensy, tiny microdot of pride I had left, along with my deep reluctance to feel indebted to a man, ever, forbade it.

Rosa had taken Marilyn's vital statistics at a previous choir practice. She arrived at mine with a bag containing a mocked-up dress in cheap material, a sketch book, and a tape measure.

Catherine and Natasha arrived soon afterwards in a gaggle of flowery perfume, overlarge designer handbags, and pumpkin-spice coffee. I made Rosa, Marilyn, and me supermarket-own-brand cups of tea.

“Right.” Rosa beamed at us, perched on my little armchair. “I have some very exciting designs to show you. Marilyn's dress is already begun, but first I need information. Like – what colour is this wedding? What is the theme – the flowers or invitations or location? And – most of all – what is the wedding dress? Otherwise, I cannot make good match.”

They all looked at me with expectant smiles. Natasha clapped her hands together a few times with excitement.

I pretended it wasn't weird meeting one of my bridesmaids for the first time.

“Right. So. I haven't really thought much about that stuff yet. I thought it would be nice to have a colour that suited all of you, then we can choose everything else to match.”

Three pairs of eyes goggled at me. “You don't have your colours yet?”

“Nope.”

“I have my colours picked and I don't even have a boyfriend!” Catherine said. “Everyone has their colours, don't they?” She looked at Natasha for confirmation.

“Mint, sea foam, and yellow.”

“Fig, camel, and blush pink,” Catherine said. “See? What about you, Marilyn?”

Marilyn grinned. “I had old man underpants and rancid chicken.”

“Pardon?”

“Yellow and pewter.”

“Right!” Catherine looked back to me. “So, what are you going to choose?”

I looked at my three bridesmaids. “Umm… what colour dresses would you like?”

An hour later, Rosa had taken all the essential measurements, and they had decided they liked blue.

We chose navy for Marilyn as matron-of-honour, as it flattered her mid-brown hair and paler skin, and “dusty aqua” for the others, as they preferred a colour with a fancier name.

“That is good,” Rosa said. “I will make beautiful navy dress make Marilyn look like she very sexy lady, and dusty aqua dresses, give you girls shape. We give you nice round hips so men think you make good babies.”

“Um, I don't think men are really bothered about that.”
Catherine frowned, glancing at Marilyn's ample frame.

“Hah! That what you think. Men all modern now, talking about feelings, wearing guyliner and leggings, don't give up seat on the bus any more. But it there in old bit of brain. What you say? Caveman bit. I don't know proper word for this. Anyway, first we need see wedding dress so Faith look more gorgeous than rest of you. Faith – you go get dress and I pin Marilyn's sample while we wait.”