‘Yo! Who you calling stupid?’ Acky demanded.
‘I’m right, though, innit?’ Dubz stood up and brushed the dust off the back of his jeans. ‘He’s treating us like joeys, and we’re gonna be the laughing stock of the Moss if we keep rolling over every time he whistles.’
Acky sucked his teeth loudly. ‘Fuck you, man. I don’t roll for
no
one. We’re building cred here, and if you don’t like it, you can fuck off.’
‘Man, you’re deluded,’ Dubz said bluntly, looking Acky in the eye. Then, turning to Leon, he said, ‘You wanna get out while you still got a chance, kid. This ain’t for you.’
‘Aw, there he goes pulling the old race card,’ scoffed Acky. ‘See how he’s only bothered about the
black
kid? Talk about looking out for your own, eh?’
‘That don’t even come into it,’ Dubz argued. ‘He’s a baby, that’s all I’m bothered about. He don’t need to be getting tangled up in all dis bad-man shit.’
‘He ain’t no baby,’ Damo countered, grinning at Leon as he spoke. ‘Might be little, but he’s got heart.’ He clenched his fist and bounced the back of it on his chest. ‘Good little lookout, he is. Loyal. More than I could say for
some
,’ he added, switching his gaze back to Dubz.
Dubz looked from Damo to Acky to Leon. Then, kissing his teeth, he turned and dragged the sink unit away from the door.
‘Man best watch ’im back,’ Acky warned. ‘If’n him ain’t with us, ’im against us, innit.’
‘You sound like a knob,’ Dubz jeered, flashing Acky a dirty look before yanking the door open and strolling out.
Leon saw something on the floor where Dubz had been sitting and reached for it.
‘What’s that?’ Acky demanded.
‘A knife,’ Leon told him, standing up. ‘Dubz must have dropped it. I’ll go after him and give it him back.’
‘Fuck that,’ Damo snorted. ‘If he can’t look after his shit, he don’t deserve to have it. It’s yours. Put it away.’
‘You deaf, y’ muppet?’ Acky said when Leon hesitated. ‘He said put it away.’
Leon slipped the knife into his pocket. He liked Dubz, and appreciated the way he’d spoken up for him just now. But he also kind of liked the thought of having his own knife. He’d had one once before that he’d nicked from the corner shop: a tiny penknife with a pearl handle that doubled up as a nail file. He had thought he was the hardest kid on the estate with that knife in his possession – until it had snapped the first time he’d ever tried to use it. But there was no danger of
this
knife snapping, because this was the real deal. Heavy, with a cool black rubber-grip handle: a man could do some serious damage with a knife like this – and Leon already felt powerful just having it in his pocket.
9
‘Leave him alone!’ Chantelle screamed, struggling to break free from the policeman who was holding her arms behind her back. ‘Get off me! I need to help my brother!’
‘You know it’s for the best,’ the social worker said as she ushered Leon out onto the landing where a policewoman was waiting to escort him to the car that was parked below. ‘If you’d told us what was happening, we could have helped you. But you lied, so now we’ve got no choice.’
‘Nooooo …’ Chantelle wailed. ‘I can look after him! He’s my responsibility.’
‘He’s ours now,’ the woman replied firmly. ‘And so are you, so stop being silly and come along quietly, or we’ll have to—’
Chantelle didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. Woken by the sound of heavy knocking on the front door, she jerked upright in her bed and swiped at her tear-soaked eyes. It was almost a week since her mum had called and there had been no word from her since – and no sign of the money that she had promised to send. Chantelle had resigned herself to the thought that they might never hear from her again, and was numbed by the realisation that their mum cared so little for them. But now she was having these horrible recurring dreams about Leon being taken into care, and it was killing her.
Terrified that it might be her mum’s dealer, Ricky, when another round of knocking echoed through the hall, she pulled on her dressing gown and crept out of her room. She jumped when the letter-box flap was pushed open and pressed herself back against the wall.
‘It’s
E.ON
,’ a man’s voice called through. ‘We’ve got a warrant to enter, so you can either let us in or we’ll break in. And if you try to obstruct us we’ll call the police. You’ve got two minutes to decide how you want to do this.’
Chantelle’s legs were shaking so badly that she thought she might collapse. But she knew she had no choice but to let them in. If they broke the door, she and Leon really would be in trouble because there was no way she could afford to have it repaired.
‘Mrs Booth?’ one of the two men who were standing outside asked when she opened the door.
‘No, she’s out,’ Chantelle told him quietly. ‘I’m her daughter. Can – can you come back later?’
‘Sorry, love, we’ve got a warrant.’ He showed her the paper he was holding and then flashed his ID card. ‘If you’re on your own and would feel safer having the police here, we don’t mind waiting outside till they come.’
Chantelle sighed and shook her head. ‘No, you might as well just do it,’ she murmured, stepping aside.
‘Sorry about this.’ The man gave her a sympathetic smile as he walked in. ‘I hate this part of the job, but there’s nowt I can do about it once it’s gone to warrant stage, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s all right,’ Chantelle said miserably, opening the meter-cupboard door for them. ‘It’s my mum’s fault, not yours.’
As his colleague quickly got to work ripping out the old meter and fitting the new one in its place, the man gave Chantelle the electronic card and explained how it worked. She nodded as if she was taking it all in, but her mind was reeling as he told her that the portion of the payment that represented the debt was to be set at ten pounds per week. On top of that, she would have to put in at least the same again in order to maintain the supply – and choosing to go without wasn’t an option, because missed payments would clock up a whole new debt, which would result in a new warrant, only this time it would be bailiffs who executed it.
‘And, believe me, they’re a lot less understanding than us,’ the man warned. ‘Proper heartless bastards, that lot – pardon my French.’
Thoroughly depressed by the time the men had cleared up and gone, Chantelle went into the kitchen and sat at the table with her head in her hands. The local free newspaper was lying in front of her, and when her gaze fell on it she had a sudden vision of her mum and Tracey sitting here indulging in the weekly pastime that they had used to enjoy: taking the piss out of the ‘sad bastards’ who posted in the lonely-hearts column. Those ads, she remembered, were in the same section as the job vacancies. But while her mum and Tracey had never been remotely interested in
those
ads, it occurred to Chantelle that a job might be the answer to all her problems.
After scouring the vacancies and jotting down the numbers for the four she’d found which hadn’t asked for experience or qualifications, her eye was drawn to the
For Sale
ads and another thought occurred to her. A thought that brought her to her feet and made her run into her mum’s room.
She had already long ago found all the loose change that had ever fallen down the sides and backs of the sofa and chairs, and had emptied every pocket and old handbag in the flat. But it had never even crossed her mind to think about selling her mum’s old jewellery. And, for a woman who had always claimed not to have enough money to feed decent food to her kids, she sure had enough of the stuff. By the time she’d finished gathering it all together, Chantelle had bagged three gold chains, a couple of chunky sovereign rings, another ring with a chipped amethyst in its centre, four pairs of Creole earrings, and numerous studs and sleepers. None of it was particularly good quality but it was all gold, so she was sure she would get
some
thing for it.
After getting dressed, she rushed over to a pawnbroker in Moss Side. A tiny twinge of guilt flared inside her as she accepted the £120 that the old man had offered her for the lot, but she pushed it firmly out of her mind, reminding herself that she wouldn’t have had to do it if her mum hadn’t left them to fend for themselves.
Chantelle stashed the money in her bra before she left the shop, determined not to let Ricky get his hands on it if he came round again. Then, feeling more positive than she had in a long time, she headed over to the market to do some shopping before walking home with a new spring in her step.
A few days later, Chantelle got up early and ironed her best skirt and blouse before polishing her least-scuffed shoes. After making the mistake of telling the first of the employers whose ads she had answered that she was only fifteen and currently on holiday from school, she’d lied to the other three and had managed to secure interviews with them all. It was going to be a bit of a mad dash, because the first two were in Chorlton while the third was in Cheetham Hill. But she wasn’t going to complain about a little thing like that. She was just grateful that they had all agreed to see her on the same day.
Dressed, she went into her mum’s room and picked through the clutter of make-up on the dressing table until she found mascara, lipstick and foundation. She had never been one for wearing make-up, and she felt awkward as she applied it. She didn’t want to cake it on like her mum did and end up looking like a clown; she just needed to look eighteen.
Pleasantly surprised by the results when she’d finished, she stepped back to view herself in the mirror from every angle before going out into the hall and slipping her coat on. Then, reaching for her handbag, she tapped on her brother’s bedroom door.
Leon was lying in bed admiring his knife. He’d had it for a while now, and it still gave him a major buzz whenever he held it in his hand. But he knew that Chantelle would have a fit if she found out about it, so he quickly shoved it under his quilt when she knocked and looped his arms behind his head.
‘’S up?’ He smiled innocently up at her when she popped her head around the door.
‘I’ve got to nip out for a few hours,’ she told him. ‘Will you be all right on your own till I get back?’
‘Yeah, course.’ He stretched his arms and yawned. ‘Where you going?’
Chantelle had decided there was no point telling him that she was looking for a job until she managed to get one – after which they would have to have a serious talk; so she lied and said, ‘Just to the library. I’ll come straight back as soon as I’ve finished. But if anyone calls while I’m gone, don’t answer the door without checking first.’
‘I’ll be going round to Kermit’s,’ Leon told her, sitting up. ‘Can I have some money for chips?’
Chantelle took two pound coins out of her purse and tossed them onto the bed. ‘I’ll see you in a bit. Make sure you behave for Linda.’
‘Always do,’ Leon murmured, flopping back down onto his pillow after picking the money up. ‘Have fun with your
books
.’
‘Wouldn’t hurt you to start taking an interest in reading,’ Chantelle said, smiling as she closed his door.
When she emerged at the bottom of the stairwell a couple of minutes later, Anton Davis was walking past. Still mortified by her behaviour the last time they had spoken, Chantelle blushed when their eyes briefly met, but then felt strangely deflated when he just nodded and walked on. He was the best-looking boy on the estate and all her friends fancied him like crazy, so it had been kind of flattering to think that he’d been making an effort to talk to her lately. Not that she’d had any intention of trying to take it any further, or anything, because she had always vowed never to follow in her mother’s footsteps and get hooked up with a man who would inevitably cheat on her, beat her, or have the police raiding her house every two minutes. But still …
Annoyed with herself for having let him get under her skin, Chantelle shoved Anton resolutely out of her mind, raised her chin, and went on her way.
The first interview was at a small bakery in the centre of Chorlton. It was packed with customers when Chantelle walked in, and the women who were working behind the counter looked flustered and sweaty as they tried to serve without getting under each others’ feet. Chantelle waited at the back of the shop until the rush had died down, then stepped forward and told one of the women she was here to see Mrs Jones.
‘That’s me.’ The woman wiped her face on her sleeve. ‘You the girl I’m supposed to be interviewing?’ She pursed her lips when Chantelle nodded and raised the flap at the end of the counter. ‘You’re late.’
‘I’ve actually been here for ten minutes,’ Chantelle corrected her as she followed her through the shop and into a room at the back. ‘But I thought I’d best wait for the shop to clear.’
‘If I say you’re late, you’re late,’ Mrs Jones snapped, flopping down into a chair behind a messy desk. ‘And if you’re already arguing, is there any point me even interviewing you?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Chantelle murmured. ‘I’m just a bit nervous.’
Mrs Jones sniffed, then waved her hand, indicating for Chantelle to sit down on the chair facing hers. ‘What did you say your name was again?’ she asked, shuffling through the paperwork on her desk.
‘Chantelle Booth.’
‘And you’ve never worked in a bakery before, right?’
‘No, but I’m a quick learner.’
Mrs Jones gave up her search and sat back. ‘I know I wrote it down somewhere, but never mind, I’ll get what I need off your CV.’
‘I, er, forgot to bring it,’ said Chantelle, blushing, because it wasn’t as easy to lie face to face as it was over the phone.
‘What about your references?’
Chantelle clutched her bag tightly in her lap and shook her head.
Mrs Jones peered at her through narrowed eyes. ‘Have you even actually worked before?’
‘Not exactly,’ Chantelle said quietly. ‘I’ve, er, been at college since leaving school.’
‘Studying what?’
‘Art.’
Mrs Jones rolled her eyes. ‘Fat lot of good
that
’s going to do you in the real world.’ Then, sighing, she said, ‘Look, I’m sorry, love, but I can already tell this isn’t going to work out. I’ve got other people to interview, and some of them have got experience.’