Disconnected Read online

  “Are you still hungry?” I asked you, once you’d finished your sandwich.

  “I’m always hungry,” you said.

  “Hold on.” I brought Lucy’s egg out of my bag and began to unwrap it. I saw your eyes light up. I wanted some chocolate too, to take away the taste of the coffee. I broke you off a huge fragment and you shoved it in your mouth the way boys do.

  “Oy!” said the woman from behind the counter. “You can’t eat that here!”

  She was looking at you, although I was eating too.

  “Sad old cow,” I said.

  “Bugger off, the pair of you!”

  You were on your feet in an instant. I was cooler than you and collected my things together dead slow on purpose. I thought she didn’t have any right to talk to me like that. In a few moments we were pushing our way through the market eating chocolate and laughing, dissing the woman in the snack bar. It sounds corny but being told off had brought us together. Not in a romantic sense, but we’d both been victims. We stopped at a second-hand tape stall and you told me about some of the bands I hadn’t heard of. I asked you about Transponder.

  “No,” you said. “They’re not heavy metal. They’re more – have you ever listened to Pink Floyd?”

  I hadn’t, but resolved to.

  “Like that. Not that they’ve been signed up yet. But they’re effing brilliant.”

  You went on about them and it was great to see you being so enthusiastic. Like a kid. To look at, you were quite hard and threatening with your leathers and punk hair. You were twitchy, like they were out to get you. And it didn’t sit right to me, because all the Asian boys I knew hung round together and were into hip-hop and rap and bhangra. You were by yourself but looked like them. We passed an Asian posse just outside the market and they eyed you oddly too. You walked straight past them. Maybe that was because you were with me, a white girl.

  Part of me was wondering what was going to happen next between us. I felt really comfortable with you, and liked the person I was when I was with you. I was pleased you weren’t all over me and just seeing me as a girl. I sort of fancied you then, but I didn’t want to risk having a relationship as such – I knew relationships came with sell-by dates. I wanted more that that; I wanted to have you securely in my life. I was interested in you. I hadn’t met anyone like you before. You were the only good thing to have happened to me for months.

  When we got to the bus station there was an embarrassing silence.

  “Where are you going now?” I asked you.

  “Home. Then down the pub.”

  “Yeah. Me too. I mean home.”

  “We’re going into town on Saturday night. We’re meeting in The Pickled Rat at nine. Do you know it?”

  “Yeah, I think so. By the Odeon.”

  “Can you come?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Great,” you said. “See you there.” And waved as you walked off to your bus stop.

  It was enough. We were going to see each other again. It would be easy to lie to my parents. At last I had something to look forward to.

  To Taz (3)

  That Saturday night luck was on my side. My parents were going out for dinner and Mum was nagging Dad to get out of the bathroom. She wasn’t paying any attention to me. That meant I could be vague about my plans. I told them I was seeing my friends, and going on to a party, so could I take some booze with me?

  “Whose party?” Mum shouted down from the bedroom.

  “A boy at school. A friend of Lucy’s boyfriend, Brad.”

  “She should be buying her own booze,” came Dad’s voice from behind the bathroom door.

  “With what?” questioned my mother, for once sticking up for me. “Since we won’t let her get a Saturday job, she doesn’t have money of her own.”

  “Thanks, Mum,” I shouted back.

  I went to the drinks cupboard and saw an unopened half bottle of vodka. Perfect. I put it in my bag together with some miniature bottles of Greek spirit that had been there for ages. Then I scrawled a note and left it on the kitchen table saying I didn’t know what time I’d be in, but Lucy and I would share a taxi. I told Mum about the note, unlocked the front door and breathed in gallons of chilly, fresh air. Freedom.

  Of course I was a bit nervous about meeting you in The Pickled Rat. There was a chance I wouldn’t get in, and then what? But otherwise I felt good. Now we’d broken up my problems there were on hold, almost non-existent. I was living for the moment. I loved being on my own, accountable to no one.

  The bus dropped me off quite near The Pickled Rat. As I entered, the sour, beery smell hit me. It was quiet, nothing playing on the juke box, just some old punks over in a corner and a few couples. No sign of you. I checked my watch and decided not to worry. I was five minutes early.

  Time goes slowly when you’re waiting. I stood near the door hoping no one would tell me to go. Every time someone came in a blast of cold air hit me. The barman looked at me curiously. I focused on the spirits behind the bar, the huge bottles of Teacher’s whisky, Gordon’s gin, Vladivar vodka and Bacardi suspended upside down. When Mac, Steve and the crowd came in I was relieved and looked for you among them, but you weren’t there.

  My stomach felt hollow. I wasn’t sure what to do. At that stage I’d never spoken to Steve or Mac and was too shy to go up to them and ask where you were. I thought I’d hang on for you, maybe get myself a drink or something. I waited until they’d been served, and got myself a vodka and Slimline tonic. That was nearly half my money, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by stopping the order.

  I sat in a table by a corner where I could see the door. I was glad I was served without any fuss. I decided that if you didn’t turn up soon, I would speak to your friends, but not immediately, not now.

  Then some revolting old bloke in a suit with wispy, greasy hair came over, leering at me. He asked me if I was on my own, and I said I wasn’t, but I think he could tell I was lying. He said he owned a club across the road and if I liked I could get in free. I said I wasn’t interested. I got hot and bothered as he looked me up and down, his eyes resting on my boobs. I willed him to go away but I didn’t want to cause a fuss. I glanced over desperately to Mac and Steve, but they were all laughing at some joke. So I drained my vodka and left the pub.

  I looked down the road. Still no you. This was all going wrong. Only the last thing I was going to do was go home. So I wandered up to the late-night chemist and spent ten minutes or so in there, looking at the make-up and hair dye. Then I went back to The Pickled Rat, not feeling too cheerful. Steve and Mac had gone, so had the creepy bloke, but you still weren’t there.

  I left The Rat and stood outside on the street, watching people get off the bus opposite, in case you were on it. A girl stared at me. She was alone too. I thought she must be cold as her legs were bare and her coat ridiculously short. Then her gaze left me and she wandered along the road.

  I wasn’t scared, being alone like that. There were lots of people on their way to the Odeon and it was only quarter to ten. I was just upset that you’d stood me up. I thought you’d liked me and that we had already started being friends. Part of me was still sure you’d turn up. Another part of me liked just standing there watching everyone. It was a kind of escapism. Because when you look at other people and think about them, you forget yourself.

  My hands were stuffed deep inside my coat pockets. I wiggled my toes so they wouldn’t get too cold. I read the titles of the films being screened at the Odeon and tried to decide which one I’d choose if I had to see one of them. I tried to see if I could read the films backwards. But how do you pronounce ‘eht’? ‘Et’? Or ‘e-h-t’ – are there rules? An ambulance with its siren blaring and lights flashing parted the traffic and swerved round the corner. I watched it as far as I could.

  Another bus poured out passengers who had reached their destination. I walked towards them, a gush of warm air billowing round my feet as I passed a basement kitchen. I resolved to go bac
k and stand there, but it turned out not to be necessary. Because there you were.

  You saw me immediately and apologised. I could tell straight away something was wrong, and knew that I wasn’t the problem. Your face was tense and hard and your eyes wild. Your hair was messy and you’d slung on an old parka. Then you told me there was trouble at home.

  “What trouble?” I asked.

  “I just want to effing forget about it,” you said. I could relate to that.

  “Shall we go back to the pub?”

  You consulted your watch.

  “No – we’ll go on to The Revolution.”

  I’d never been to The Revolution. Last year at school it was the in place to go. That is, if you liked heavy metal. Last year, though, I was busy working for my GCSEs, ten of them. As well as Grade 6 on the oboe. There wasn’t much opportunity to go out, and anyway, I used to be a little scared of those sort of places. Like, people took drugs!

  When we got there I realised I didn’t have enough money to get in, as it was a fiver. You didn’t seem to care and gave me the extra. Your face was still tight and you hadn’t really looked at me. Whatever it was that had bothered you had really got a grip.

  We went through the foyer into the room where the music was coming from. I thought I recognised Korn playing. I saw a pile of coats and bags in one corner and I was surprised that people just left them there. But no one was dancing. I always thought it would be really wild, really manic in The Revolution, but there were just a lot of moshers sitting around on the floor. There were chairs and benches along a wall, but some of them were broken and tatty, the kind of old, wooden chairs you’d expect to see in a church hall. There was a DJ on the stage but even he looked bored. The floor was filthy and old plastic bottles rolled at my feet. The people in the club seemed quite young. I wasn’t sure what to do now. It was all a bit depressing. I guessed you were looking for your mates, but I couldn’t see them. The music was too loud for us to talk. Eventually you went to sit on one of the chairs. I sat by you, undoing my coat.

  I thought about offering you some of the vodka I had with me, but I guessed we wouldn’t be allowed to drink it. I stole glances at you and saw your face was like thunder. I was at a complete loss. After a while I reached out and held your hand, just to reassure you someone else was there. I was glad that you gave my hand a small squeeze. I knew my gesture of support had been accepted.

  I forget how long we sat there. Half an hour? Three quarters? Eventually you said, eff this, and I followed you out of the club. To be honest, I was glad to get out on to the street. The Revolution was a bit of a dump. You seemed to read my mind.

  “It’s crap there now,” you said. “Full of kids and old rockers.”

  “Do you wanna go somewhere else?”

  “No cash,” you said. I felt guilty, then remembered my vodka. I opened my bag and showed you and your face held a glimmer of interest.

  “I know where we can go,” you said. You took my hand and hurried me along the street. We left clubland and passed the garish yellow lighting of McDonalds. We turned left and climbed up a narrow street to the old railway station. You knew how to get round the back and we clambered over planks and crushed Coke cans and squeezed sideways through a break in the wall. Then we climbed some more through some weeds and stuff until we reached the place where the line used to run. Luckily the wind had dropped a little so we weren’t so cold. We sat down. Below us were all the roofs of the office buildings, the Odeon, street lights. I could imagine all the people beneath them, intent on their own business. We were alone and apart from it all. Down there all the people were doing their crazy stuff. Up here we were forgotten about. I took out the vodka, opened it, and passed it to you.

  “You first,” you said, smiling at me. It was the first time you’d smiled that night. I took a large gulp. It was vile and brilliant all at once. I passed the bottle to you and you did the same. The distant hum of traffic. A rustle as a slight breeze bothered the branches on the nearby trees. You passed the bottle back to me. I welcomed the punch and lift of the alcohol. You snuggled up against me and I had a moment of pure contentment, of belonging.

  “Thanks, Cat,” you said.

  To Dave (2)

  Bit by bit Taz explained what had happened. You see, his grandma had died.

  Not that he knew his grandma at all. He’d seen photos but that was it. Because when his mum decided to marry his dad, the family cut his mum off. Like, they didn’t want to have anything to do with her. It’s hard to get your head round that. To them, she was throwing away everything: her religion, her culture. She was rejecting them in favour of this bloke who worked in a factory, who drank in a pub, ate pork. They mourned for her as if she was dead. That’s what Taz told me.

  But I can see why she would have wanted to do that. Just because you’re born in a family it doesn’t mean they’re going to suit you, does it? Like, you can’t choose your family. But anyway, Taz’s mum was regretful, but she was really into his dad, so it was OK. So Taz had grown up knowing about this other family he never saw, the ones that were responsible for the colour of his skin and the fact his mum got this faraway look in her eyes sometimes, or made chapattis for a surprise. His dad is all right, Taz said, but just a bit quiet. The sort of person who watches telly, reads the paper, doesn’t say much, just sits there. His mum tried to teach Taz stuff about his religion and when he was little he liked the stories. And at school the teachers just assumed he was Muslim and it was easier for him not to say anything. At secondary school, though, he did normal RE and he just reckoned all of it was rubbish. Well, you can understand that. I noticed you had a cross tattooed on your arm, Dave. Does that mean you’re a Christian? Weird.

  But I’m going off the point. So a couple of days ago one of his aunties rang up – the one who secretly kept up contact, auntie Shaheen. His grandma had had a stroke; she was in the hospital. Hamira – that’s his mum – was devastated. Taz said it was like she’d only seen her mum yesterday, she was that upset. And she wanted to go and visit her in the hospital. Frank – that’s Taz’s dad – said not to bother, no one would want to see her. But Hamira wouldn’t listen. Taz didn’t want her to go to the hospital by herself so he went with her.

  They made enquiries and found the right ward. Taz said they walked in past beds with screens round them not knowing which one the grandma was in, until Hamira clutched hold of Taz’s hand. He saw all these women and one of them was his auntie Shaheen. The women of the family were all around the grandma’s bed. And Hamira walked towards them, slowly, and auntie Shaheen looked shocked and welcoming all at once, and they got to the foot of the bed, and the grandma sort of raised her head and had this startled look on her face. And before Taz had time to work out what it meant women were ushering his mum away from the bed, talking in their own language but it was clear enough what they were saying – go away, she doesn’t want to see you, you’re upsetting her, you’re killing her – and Hamira began to cry in these gulping sobs. Taz said he wanted to smash someone’s face in.

  They sat in the corridor for a while and some nurses asked if they were all right, and Taz said yes, he was looking after his mum. And eventually they went home on the bus and she couldn’t say a word. But when they got home she got her Koran out and sat there mumbling prayers. Frank told her to give over, that the past was the past.

  Then that Saturday afternoon Shaheen rang to say the grandma had died. There was a big row in Taz’s house because Hamira wanted to go to her father’s house and help see to the body and Frank said she was daft, they wouldn’t let her past the front door. But she was going on about it being her fault, her mother dying so young, she had brought grief on them, and Frank said she was mad. So did Taz. Then she said she would never be at peace if she couldn’t be there. She broke away, went upstairs to find her salwaar kameez, and again it was Taz who went with her to her old family. His dad had given her up as a lost cause.

  So they went round to the grandparents’ house. The women
washed and prepared the body there, then later the men went to the mosque for the funeral. When Taz’s mum knocked on the door a couple of men answered it. Taz didn’t know who they were. At first they didn’t recognise her either, but then when they did it was terrible. They called her names, blocked the entrance, she was pleading with them, they looked at Taz like he’d just crawled out from under a stone. Taz swore at them, one of them got him by the collar and Taz was just about to lay into him when another older man came out – he guessed it was his grandad – and everything calmed down. He looked at Hamira and shook his head – there were tears in his eyes – and Hamira just turned and went. Taz went with her.

  She tried to say the prayers at home but she couldn’t for crying. Taz couldn’t help because he didn’t understand. Frank wouldn’t turn the match off so they had to go into the bedroom. He got his mum to take some paracetamol and he tried to calm her down. He didn’t want to leave her. Then later Frank came upstairs and apologised but said he knew this would happen. But he was being kinder then, and told Taz to beat it. So he got the bus into town hoping I hadn’t got fed up waiting.

  He told me all that when we were sitting on the embankment, in between gulps of vodka. I got really upset for his mum. I told Taz my grandma had died too. It was three years ago, but it didn’t affect us too much because she was living in a Home about sixty miles away. We only saw her once every six weeks when it was our turn. I was sad when she died and my mum was very brave. I didn’t go to the funeral. Mum said it was well conducted and helpful. I can hardly remember my grandmother, only her elegant handwriting on my annual birthday card. So I said to Taz that I was like him, really, losing someone I never knew I had.

  Then he was quiet for a long time. He’s one of those people who keeps things bottled up and I knew even then it was amazing that he should have told me all that. I took it that he felt close to me and I was honoured. It means more, doesn’t it, when someone opens up to you, than any success you might have, more than good grades, money, fame. So it muddled me, feeling good about being Taz’s confidante, but bad on his behalf. Only I told him a kind of lie when I said I was like him, losing a grandma. Because as I was listening to him it was really his mother I was relating to. She did the same as me. Opted out. And it spooked me that she kind of regretted it. But I didn’t want to go any further down that road. Instead I wanted to stay close to Taz, to cheer him up. It was hard to know what to do next. So I passed him the vodka again.