The Ballerina and the Revolutionary (6 page)

15

(Bristol, England - 2013)

A cool breeze washed over my forehead and I opened my eyes. In the half-light, I saw two familiar faces smiling down at me. I wondered whether I was dreaming. The man’s face soothed me and I drifted happily between the reality of lying on a lumpy sofa in a darkened room and another place, equally real, beneath the boughs of an oak tree, surrounded by fallen leaves of gold and red.

‘You fainted.’ The warm voice of Scott penetrated my consciousness. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Fine.’ I struggled to sit up, but felt light-headed and heavy-bodied.

His hand hovered an inch from my skin. He smelled of earth and soap, with a gentle base of musk. Feeling like a child in my nanny’s arms, I sensed I was safe. In a fluid movement, he moved the air around me from my throat to the crown of my head. I pushed myself into a seated position.

‘Drink this.’ He passed me a frosty looking glass of water.

With a desperate thirst, I gulped down the cold liquid, hardly pausing for breath. I studied his face, memorising every detail from a small mole at the centre of his shaven chin to the laughter lines around each eye. ‘Do I ... do I know you?’

His gentle laughter unsettled me. ‘I must have one of those faces.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He shook his head. ‘Chrissie told me you guys live in London and you’re here to see your mum.’

‘Huh? How long was I out for?’

‘About ten minutes,’ Chrissie answered. ‘Any longer and we might have called an ambulance.’

Scott rolled his eyes.

‘Could I have some more water?’ I asked.

Scott took the glass and left Chrissie and me alone in the room.

‘He’s lovely. If you want to hear all the romantic details, he picked you up in his manly arms and carried you over the threshold.’ Chrissie giggled.

‘Stop it. You know I’m not interested.’

‘Right, course not. Me neither.’

Turning away from her, I noticed the details of the room. The wall opposite had an ugly, bronze-coloured electric fire at its centre. On either side and above this, the wall was covered with chunks of beige and grey rocks which jutted into the room with practised audacity. In small nooks, between some of the stones, nestled cute china unicorns in a myriad of pastel shades. The deep-piled carpet was red with an orange swirling pattern. I felt submerged in dizzyingly 70s kitsch. Wondering what sort of man could tolerate such a room, I lay back on the settee and closed my eyes. Claws pierced my combats and a weight pinned my legs. Startled, I watched as a large reddish-black cat rubbed itself on my shins, purring.

‘Ahh, Kitty!’ Chrissie stroked its nose.

‘Mandala, don’t bother our guests.’ Scott strode through the door.

Mandala stared at me for a moment then leapt onto the floor. After a few circuits of possessive weaving, between and around Scott’s legs, he jogged out of the room, tail held high.

‘I’m sorry we disturbed you,’ I said.

‘Not at all. It’s hot outside, maybe you were just dehydrated.’

‘Yeah, probably, but what I meant was, just turning up like that.’

‘Like what?’

I looked at Chrissie. She shrugged.

‘Umm, well we met with Clive, at Healing Ways.’

He cocked his head to one side and sat on the sofa beside my legs. I watched him, silently until he nodded for me to continue.

‘My mum had your photo. I’m Vivienne Nightingale’s kid, Crow.’

I thought I caught the flush of pink in his cheeks, but he didn’t answer.

‘Did you know her?’

‘Your mum?’

‘Yeah, my mum, Vivienne.’

He nodded and sighed. ‘How is she doing?’

‘I don’t think she’s doing well at all. Why did she have your photo?’

‘I don’t know,’ he answered. He glanced at a clock on the wall. ‘Sorry, I have to cook ... before my mum gets home. If you want, you can come back tomorrow, but I don’t know how much help I can be. Clive knows her better than I do.’

‘Why don’t you come to Vivienne’s house tomorrow?’ Chrissie asked.

Scott looked hesitant. ‘I haven’t been there since Vivienne ...’

‘What did she do?’ I asked.

‘Nothing, not really. Guess I should go back, dispel some negative energy.’ He paused. ‘But I think I might struggle to get there until Monday.’

‘Okay, Monday it is,’ Chrissie said with an air of finality.

‘I’m not sure we’ll still be there,’ I said. I thought of my backpack, everything packed ready to run. I didn’t want to be anyone else’s rock. I was a raging river - pushing, rushing.

‘Of course we will. Come on Crow, big house, bigger mysteries. We can’t leave yet.’

I looked at her and saw her face beneath a heavy boot. Didn’t she realise I couldn’t be squeezed like that? Movement was my medium, my life blood. No roots. No history. No voices in my head to be pushed away. Silently I told myself I could leave. I could grab my backpack and head ... anywhere. My choices were infinite. Yet standing still ... could that be a choice and if so was it a choice I could make? Two steps forward, one step back.

Chrissie kissed Scott’s cheek as we left. I waved and Scott simply smiled. I followed her, placidly, my head bowed and full of turmoil. As we turned the corner Chrissie mouthed the word Mum in disbelief. I shrugged, thinking instead about how I could have dreamed of someone I had never met.

16

(London, England - 2013)

I had spent another night in a cell - disturbing the peace, this time. Apparently moving towards a police officer who is trying to crush your friend’s skull with his boot can be deemed as intimidating behaviour, poor piggies.

The squat wasn’t far away. I walked the distance even though I felt a sharp pain in my hip every time I climbed steps or stepped on or off the kerb. It was impossible to sleep in a police cell and I felt so tired and sore I had to stop every ten minutes to roll a cigarette.

When I reached the squat everyone was already awake. Chrissie had arrived there a few hours before. They cheered as I walked into the living room and I took a deep bow, wincing with the effort. Apparently, only Chrissie and I had been nicked; the rest had made it out of the affray without arrest. Mitch, Wendy and Si lifted their cans of beer and toasted our return. Matty and Harv disappeared to the kitchen and Chrissie waved weakly from the floor. I grabbed a can of warm beer and gulped it down while my eyelids grew heavier. Exhausted, I lay on the floor alongside Chrissie.

The seven of us had lived together in this dark, damp squat for a little over a year. We were soldiers, idealists and wastrels. It was the closest I’d come to living life as a freedom-fighter, like my father. Sometimes it felt important, but at others I would look at my friends, listen to their inane chatter and wonder whether we were less a bunch of revolutionaries and more a group of children playing at non-conformity. One step forward, two steps back.

Matty and Harv returned to the room and nodded off in the corner, surrounded by burnt silver foil and the sweet smell of death. It sounded as though Mitch was puking in the bathroom again and, from their grunts and groans, I guessed Wendy and Si were at it on the stairs.

I turned around to face Chrissie. She held a pen in her left hand and sucked on her knee with a glazed expression in her eyes. I watched her as she faded in and out, sucking then scribbling in her red notebook. Her long blonde hair was twisted into dreads and a kitsch scarf, with a pink kitten motif, pulled it back from her freckled face. I left her to her thoughts and stared at purple and green islands of bruises on the ocean of my skin. My cheek bone throbbed and I wondered whether the bone had chipped on impact.

Chrissie looked across and smiled. ‘My hero.’ She closed her notebook and put down her pen.

‘I tried, but failed,’ I replied.

‘I saw the blow. That was cold, Crow.’

I nodded and my cheek throbbed even more.

‘Thank you.’

I tried to grin, but the pain was unbearable. ‘Ta nada.’

‘Looks like you got another letter.’ She reached behind her.

I tried to sit up, but failed. ‘It’ll be from Tom.’

‘About Vivienne?’

‘Probably. That seems to be his subject of choice these days.’

Chrissie sighed, passing me the envelope. ‘Families.’

‘Uh, huh.’ I turned it over in my hand.

‘Will you go?’

I shook my head. ‘There’s nothing there for me.’

‘I know.’ Chrissie’s voice was soft.

Turning away, I put the unopened letter on the floor beside my head, feeling angry and powerless. First Mum then all these stupid bruises, the arrest and the sleepless night, none of it seemed fair. I wanted to rage, not at Chrissie, but at the world, which had let me down so badly.

‘She’s a slut-psycho-bitch!’ I said suddenly, shocking myself. Did I really feel that way? What right did I have to judge her choices? My body shook. Concentrating on my breathing, I tried to calm myself. ‘She hates me.’

I felt Chrissie’s hand brush the stubble on my crown then quickly withdraw. ‘You know, Crow. Maybe you need to go back ... discover what skeletons lurk behind the stage curtains.’ She grabbed my shoulder.

I recoiled and stared at her.

She blushed and let go. ‘Sorry.’ She shook her head and frowned. ‘You can run away from your family, but not from yourself. You’ll take your pain wherever you go, until you face your demons.’

I shrugged. ‘The only pain I feel is from the beating I got, flower. I know what happened and I’d rather stay far away.’

She snorted but didn’t argue the point. Instead she picked up her notepad and pen again. I lay on my back staring at the yellow and black ceiling. This place was a dump.

17

(Bristol, England - 2013)

‘Morning,’ Chrissie called through the open door.

‘Wa, what time is it?’ I yawned.

‘Eleven. I found some things I want to show you.’

‘Huh?’

‘Sorry, Crow. Come, have coffee, I’ll tell you later.’

I sat up in bed. Flashes from my dream raced through my head. I tried to hold onto them, but only clutched at the edges of fragments. Scott again, or at least his eyes, and a bird soaring beyond his narrow shoulder, a black bird, a crow or a raven, perhaps. I looked for more, but couldn’t find it. Squeezing my eyes shut, I sent the memories away and pulled myself out of bed.

I felt Chrissie’s eagerness the moment I walked into the kitchen. I accepted the black coffee placed in front of me, rolled and lit a cigarette, and rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand. The coffee was too strong. It coated my tongue as I sipped it, but it helped me shake off a little of the tiredness I felt.

‘What were you dreaming about?’ Chrissie asked.

‘A bird. I can’t really remember.’

‘You were shouting, “leave him alone.”’

‘Sorry, Chrissie. Did I wake you?’

She gripped my hand and squeezed. ‘It’s okay. I’m here for you, sweetie.’

I grimaced. ‘What have you found?’

‘A stack of your old drawings in Vivienne’s desk. I’ve popped them on the dining table. Come and see.’

The papers were yellowed, creased and had fingerprints around their edges. Most of the pictures were portraits. Amongst the pile there were a few of Tomas; in all of them he was smiling. There were a selection of self-portraits and two of Vivienne – in one she looked beautiful, her dark hair draped around her shoulders and her mouth smiling benevolently; in the other she looked frightening, her mouth twisted, her hair wild and her eyes dark and cruel.

Rifling through them, I discarded the ones of myself and lingered over the two of my mother, remembering each face in turn and how swiftly one could change into the other. Chrissie picked up some of the discarded portraits.

‘Have you looked at these?’ Chrissie asked. ‘There’s a hand on your shoulder in three of the four drawings.’

I held out my hand to take them. Looking again I saw large fingers, resting on my shoulder. The nails were closely cropped. The hand looked strong, but it was impossible to tell whether it was holding me in place or encouraging me onwards. I shook my head. The drawings were mine, but I had no recollection of what the hand represented, or even whose hand it was.

‘You don’t remember?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve found loads of stuff: Vivienne’s diaries ‘n’ letters. There’s loads about her boyfriends; a little about you and Tomas, basic stuff though, school etcetera, you know.’

‘Found anything more recent?’

‘Not yet. They don’t seem to be filed in any order. I’ll get there. She’s written loads. Can’t imagine she stopped. One thing is weird.’ Chrissie raised her eyebrows. ‘Her handwriting keeps changing, like the diaries were written by more than one person.’

I pondered this silently while staring, unfocused, out of the window.

‘Penny for ‘em,’ she said.

‘Oh nothing.’ I glanced back at the two drawings of Vivienne. More than one person, that was true enough. How many people though?

Chrissie gathered up the pictures, leaving the two of Vivienne in my hands. ‘I’ll keep looking, okay?’

‘What are you looking for?’ I asked.

‘Answers.’

I turned and looked at her blankly then placed the two portraits back on the pile. ‘What if there aren’t any?’

She shrugged. ‘Then maybe you can find peace another way.’

‘Should I help? Read the diaries and stuff.’

Chrissie sighed. ‘I dunno, Crow. It might be painful, you know? And anyway, if I’m completely honest, I love this stuff: researching people’s histories. Honestly, I’m happy to do it.’

I nodded.

‘You hungry, Crow? I’ll make lunch. Beans on toast or toast and beans?’

I laughed, sarcastically. ‘Got a problem with the larder? Then you can do the shopping today.’

She stuck her pierced tongue out at me and I giggled then I was left alone with my thoughts. Did the hand belong to Vivienne? No, it was too large and the nails too short. It frustrated me to find I had no answer.

After lunch, we visited the grocers together. Chrissie waved at Clive as we walked past Healing Ways, but we didn’t wait to check if he saw us. On the way back, we walked through the park, smoking and watching children play and young women chat.

‘Think you'll ever want that?’ Chrissie asked.

‘What kids? God no. You?’

She shrugged. ‘Almost did once.’ She brushed a tear away. ‘Mitch and I ... well we’ve never discussed it and it’s not something that will happen by accident for us, you know? S’pose being a good mum would mean settling down ... joining the rat race.’ Sighing, she stared at the children. 'No, I can’t see us managing that.’

‘Hey, maybe you’ll get published and have all the money and security you’ll ever need.’

She snorted.

Back at the house, we unpacked the lentils, pulses, vegetables and rice. Chrissie started preparing food while I ran a bath. I selected a lavender and rosemary soak and added it to the steamy jet of water. The room filled with its intense scent, making me feel drowsy. The hot water made my legs prickle. Lifting my arms, I surveyed the dark red skin.

I caught the movement of a shadow in my peripheral vision. I turned, but there was nothing there. I lifted my knee and rubbed soap onto my leg.

Something pushed against my shoulder and, before I could react, I was forced under the water. Struggling, fighting for breath, I thrashed my arms and legs under the white foam. Bubbles fled from my lips. My throat burned as did my eyes. I tried to scream, but only released more bubbles. Then, as quickly as it began, the pressure was released. I sat up, gasping for air, looking around the empty bathroom then another heavy pressure, this time on my forehead and I was choking again, on the scalding liquid. My face blistered and my eyes were on fire. Through the searing whiteness, I saw a shape bend above me; its crazed laughter echoed around the bath tub, beating like a drum against my ears.

‘Filthy, filthy.’ The words were repeated again and again. The room filled with maniacal laughter.

I was drowning and I knew it. Everything went dark then something cold grabbed me and pulled me upwards. I saw the worried face of my mother before I flopped over the edge of the bath, coughing up water. As soon as I had enough strength I pulled myself out onto the bath mat and lay there shaking and coughing until I felt able to drag a towel down from the rail and wrap myself in its warm fibres. ‘Mum?’

There was no reply. I pushed myself to my feet and peered over the rim of the bath. A shadow lurked beneath the surface of the water.

‘Mum?’ I asked again. The shadow became more defined and a teenage girl lay in the bath, not me, her skin was much paler, although her hair was black. ‘Is that you Vivienne?’

Eyes snapped open, grey and frightened.

‘What happened? Who did ...?’

The image of the teenage girl evaporated. I dropped my towel and submerged my arms into the water, but found nothing.

'Mum! Mum!' I yelled and tore at the chain to pull out the plug. My tears mingled with the draining water.