What's Yours Is Mine (2 page)

It never occurred to me then that my mother was trying to give Susannah something to be good at. Something I hadn't already claimed.

For years, I bought into the accepted family version of history. I wasn't domestic. I couldn't cook. I wasn't good with children. I was good at passing exams and earning money and achieving professional success. Even when I met Tom, and discovered that I could, after all, whip up an omelet and manage a vacuum cleaner, the thought of children still terrified me. Until, all of a sudden, two years ago, it didn't.

The little girl drops her stuffed animal onto the ground, and reaches impotently for it, fat starfish fingers opening and closing in frustration. Her mother ignores her, drifting towards a shop window a couple of feet away. She presses her palm against the glass like a Victorian street urchin at a bakery and gazes at the display of studded urban jeans. She's little more than a child herself, scarcely out of her teens. Her hair is scraped back from her face by a white
plastic hair-band, and she's wearing a short, tight cotton skirt and a pink denim jacket, both far too thin for this weather. A large blue-and-green tattoo of a dragon snakes around her bare calf. She reminds me of my sister.

I don't often think about Susannah. To do so is to give in to the regret and guilt that have stalked me every day for the last five years; to admit that despite everything my sister has done, all the hurt and pain and damage she's caused, I still miss her.

The signal beeps, announcing it's safe to cross. I glance around for the little girl's mother, but she's chatting to a boy sweeping the shop doorway and hasn't noticed the light has changed. The crowd behind us plunges across the road, swirling around the stroller and kicking the child's toy out of sight. The baby's face crumples as her mother is blocked from her view, and she strains against her safety harness, her body arched in a rigid, distressed bow.

I reach beneath the stroller wheels and pull out the flannel rabbit, dusting it quickly. “Here you go, sweetheart. Is this what you wanted?”

She flings it away, screaming red-faced for her mother, who's still too busy flirting to pay any attention to her child.

Anger whips through me. Some women don't
deserve
to have babies.

The toddler's heels drum frantically against the footwell of her stroller. No one even gives her a second glance as they hurry past. How can her mother leave her
like this? Her stroller is just inches from a four-lane road. It could roll forward into the path of the traffic. No one's watching her. Anything could happen.

I tuck the soft toy into the basket beneath the cheap stroller, and jiggle the handle, murmuring soothing noises. The little girl's face is shiny with tears. What kind of woman would abandon her child to the mercies of a stranger? Doesn't she know how precious her baby is? Doesn't she realize there are women who'd give anything to have what she has?

No doubt she sees her child as an inconvenience, an obstacle to her social life. I doubt the baby was planned. Her mother's palmed her off on anyone who'll keep an eye out for half an hour ever since she was born. It's only a matter of time before she abandons her child altogether.

I'll never forgive Susannah. Never.

I stroke the poor mite's frozen cheek, wiping away her tears, and then tuck a threadbare fleece blanket around her, trying to protect her from the freezing rain. She deserves so much better than this. What chance does she have in life? A different roll of the dice, and she could have had access to private schools and 4-H clubs, ski trips to Italy, a mother and a father who put her at the center of their world. Instead, she'll be lucky if she isn't pregnant herself by the time she turns sixteen.

The child sucks in a ragged breath, hiccupping, and her sobs slowly begin to taper off. The traffic starts to flow again, and a new crowd of impatient shoppers build up around us as we wait once more for the green man.

Her mother glances briefly in our direction, carelessly catching my eye, then turns back to the handsome boy making her laugh. I'm sure she loves her daughter, in her own way; but don't babies need to be loved their way, not just on your terms? They can't come second to nights out and strangers in shop doorways. If this precious little girl were mine, I wouldn't leave her side for a second. I'd put my business on hold, hire a temp, spend every second with my daughter, teaching her what it means to be loved.

I don't suppose this mother would even really miss her baby, as long as she knew she was safe. Susannah never did. She's only a teenager, she'd probably be glad of the break. She could spend as much time as she wanted flirting and having fun. Poor kid. It's not really her fault any more than it was Susannah's. She's just not ready for the responsibility.

If someone were to … take … the child, they'd almost be doing her a favor.

I don't stop to think. This time, when the green man beeps, I seize the handle, reach down, and gently release the brake on the stroller.

It's lucky Dex's prick isn't half an inch shorter, or we'd both be shit out of luck. Having sex standing up isn't as easy as it looks. Frankly, it's one occasion where size matters.

He's still inside me when my mobile rings. Instantly, he flings me against the alley wall, practically breaking my ribs. “Babe! Turn that fuckin' thing off before someone hears it!” he yelps. “D'you want everyone knowin' our business?”

He says it
bidnizz
, like he's 50 Cent or Ja Rule. Seriously, who does he think he's kidding? He's a preppy white kid from Boston who drinks Diet Coke and worries about his pension. Talking like Ali G and wearing his pants so low he looks like he's crapped himself when he walks doesn't make him black. The other ink-slingers at the shop call him Wigga, and trust me, they're not laughing
with
him.

I push at his chest for air as sweat trickles between my breasts. Even in February, the Florida humidity drives me nuts. “Call me crazy,
dude
, but I think they may have guessed about us.”

“Who've you told? If my wife—”

“Gimme a break, Dex. This place isn't exactly private. There are five people working here. When two of them sneak out the back door for a quickie, it's kind of noticeable.”

“Do you have to be so crude?”

“Do you have to be so anal?”

He pulls out of me, and wipes his dick on his satiny red shell suit.
Nice
.

I check my phone to see who called, but it just says
private number
. I chew my lip. I skipped the last couple of car payments, and it's been four months since I even paid the minimum on my credit cards. But I reckon I've still got a bit of time before they get break-your-legs serious.

I pick up my knickers, shove them in the pocket of my denim miniskirt, and push through the back door without bothering to wait for Dex. Nipping into the staff loo, I chop out a quick line of blow on the cistern, check my nose for residue, and then hustle back into the shop.

Oakey's working on some guy's sleeve near the window, and there's the usual cluster of curious looky-Lous peering and pointing through the glass. He puts down his tattoo gun when he sees me and comes over.

“I'm outta goo. You got any?”

I rummage around the shelves beneath my work station for the cream we pass out to all our customers after they get inked. “Here. How's it going?”

Oakey rolls his eyes. “Dude's a total Michelangelo.” He adopts a narky tone. “
Use the passion red. I think the wings
should be turquoise
. Got to give the asshole props, though. He's taken a beating today.”

“Anything lined up for me this afternoon?”

I'm asking more in hope than expectation. Getting ink isn't like having your hair done. We hardly ever take bookings, except for really complicated work. You never turn a customer away, but no one likes a closer who walks in thirty minutes before we shut up shop and demands a two-hour tatt.

“Sorry, doll. Your B-back with the red hair from yesterday stopped in again, though. Wanted to take another look at your flashes. Said she'd come by sometime Saturday—I told her you'd be here.”

“No shit. I didn't think she'd show again.” Buzzed from the coke, I check out my design samples, displayed on the wall behind me. “Which one was she interested in?”

“The Mucha.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Sure she don't want to start with something smaller?”

“Said she was into that one.”

“Fine by me. I could use the cash.”

I grab an elastic band from my drawer and tie back my blond dreads. Behind me, Dex swaggers to the front of the shop and starts acting out for the tourists. Loser. I'd never have fucked him if he hadn't threatened to shop me to Immigration for working without a permit.

“You got time this evening, I could work on your shoulder,” Oakey offers. “Bronx canceled on me, so I got some spare hours.”

Oakey's, like, the only person I trust to ink me these days. He's better drunk than anyone else stone cold sober. We met four years ago at the Inkslingers Ball in Hollywood, where I'd fetched up after my last divorce, and briefly hooked up. Didn't take us long to work out we'd be better off as friends. We've hung out together ever since, working our way east from California down to Florida, never staying anywhere longer than a few months. He's come up with a really smokin' new design that'll cover my right shoulder and blend into the crappy half sleeve I had done when I ran away at sixteen. I took off with some guy to Brighton and got inked every day until my mother found me. Took her ten days, by which time the whole of my upper right arm was a pre-Raphaelite Lilith. Mum was pretty pissed, but it was Grace who had a total shit fit. She'd just got into Oxford, and no one even noticed, because they were all so busy freaking out over me.

Oakey reaches behind the register. “Here. You got some mail today.”

I kick out the stool at my station and flick through the stack of envelopes. I don't need my dickhead landlord holding my post hostage when I'm late with the rent, which is like every month, so I use the shop address.

I toss aside three airmail letters from my mother (she's never got the hang of email) and rip open the official-looking envelope from the Department of Homeland Security. My buzz evaporates as I read it.

Damon, you bastard
.

Like, I was still married to Marty, my second husband,
when I met Damon in a club in Brixton about five years ago. After Marty found out about us—well, OK, after he walked in on us in bed together—he hit me with a quickie divorce, which meant that by the time I found out what a triple-A-rated freak Damon was, I'd already married the loser,
so
burned my bridges in England, and followed him to his hometown of Kalamazoo, Michigan.

Needless to say, the marriage didn't last long. One hundred and fifty-nine days, to be precise. I don't mind a guy screwing around on me, so long as he uses protection, but I draw the line at teenage boys.

When Damon and I split, we made a deal: he'd help me get a green card so I could stay in the U.S., and I'd keep my mouth shut about his chickens and make sure he never laid eyes on me again. I've kept my end of the bargain.

I screw up the immigration letter. I didn't take a fucking penny from him. All he had to do was sign a few forms. Bastard. Now I've got thirty days to leave the country or I'll be deported.

Nervously, I twist the ring in my lower lip. I could go off the radar, but it'd mean quitting my job, and these days it's not easy to find one without papers, even in this business. No work permit's one thing; not having a visa is something else. All those damn security checks and penalties for hiring illegals. I won't be able to rent anything more than some cockroach-ridden slum if I can't provide references, and that's going to be impossible without a bank account. No credit cards or health insurance either.

“Bad news, doll?”

I smooth out the crumpled letter and hand it to Oakey. “I'm screwed. No way will I get a work visa now Damon's pulled the plug. Tattoo artists are hardly top of the heap.”

“Can't you call them and explain?”

“Doesn't work that way, Oaks. Shit. If you weren't a Kiwi, I could marry you instead.”

“So what you gonna do? Go back to England?”

I grope for my packet of lights, ignoring Dex's filthy glare from the other side of the shop. He really is a prick. “There's nothing back there for me. I'll be stuck in some crappy council flat if I'm lucky, with no job, no money, no friends, and fuck all to look forward to.”

“Don't you got family you can stay with?”

“Are you kidding? I'm public enemy number one. They'd probably shoot me on sight if I came within a hundred feet of the family home.”

“That all was five years ago, doll. They've probably forgotten all about it. I bet they're missing you as much as you're missing them.”

I suck in a lungful of nicotine.
What you've done is unforgivable, Susannah. There's no going back after this. I don't ever want to see you again. As far as I'm concerned, I don't have a sister
.

I know Grace. Once she makes up her mind, it's over. She won't back down. I don't suppose she even gives me a second thought these days, much less misses me.

I wish I could forget her as easily.

I'm sketching out some new designs when a kid of about nineteen or twenty strolls in through the door just
before lunch. Dex is all over him, but the kid isn't having any of it. “I'm looking for someone called Zee,” he calls out.

“Yo, man, I kin help you—”

“Sorry, dude. Mace said I should stick with the girl.” He points to one of my flashes on the back wall. “Like, can you do that on the back of my neck?”