Page 87 of The Flowers of Bay C
He stands in the doorway of the caravan, baring his teeth at us like a caged zoo animal. He has the knife in his hand again and wields it at us, a vein in his temple bulging almost as much as his eyes. ‘I told you not to interfere in my caravan.’
Violet takes hold of the walker then starts backing towards the car.
‘Stop.’
My pulse pounds at my throat.
‘Get over here. You, give me that phone.’
Kat has her phone out, her brow all crinkled up as she searches for a signal. She holds it to her chest and glares at him. I nudge her. ‘Give it to him.’
‘He won’t do anything,’ she says, loudly enough for him to hear. He jumps down to our level, almost tripping over the step, and holds the knife out towards her, his hand quivering. She flinches but doesn’t avert her stare. ‘He wouldn’t hurt a bunch of sick women.’
‘Give me your phone. I’m not having you calling the pigs soon as I’m out of here.’
Jodie grabs Kat’s phone and places it in his upturned hand. He looks at it and sneers. ‘Can’t get much for this piece of shit.’
Kat shrugs. ‘Needed a new one anyway. You’re doing me a favour.’
His face darkens further, mottled patches of purple livid against unhealthy grey. ‘Any other phones? Turn out your pockets.’
Jodie says, ‘None of us have any.’
‘Expect me to believe that? Think I was born yesterday?’
We shake our heads and show him our turned-out pockets. He grabs Amina’s hijab and yanks it up. ‘Got one under this thing, have you? Hiding it from me?’
She blanches and cringes away from his touch. Violet grabs his arm and shoves him away. ‘Leave her alone. She doesn’t have one.’
‘What about the old bat in the car?’
‘She don’t even know how to use one of them things. And neither do I,’ Violet says. She is almost spitting with rage.
He shoves Kat’s phone in his back pocket and stands there staring at us, scratching his head like he doesn’t know what to do next. He looks slightly lost and out of his league, like a little kid caught stealing from the corner shop because his mates dared him to.
I swallow. ‘Look. You can go. It’s not like we can tell anyone, is it, not right now, out here.’
‘But you’ll tell the pigs when you get home.’
‘Yes,’ Kat says, ‘we will.’
He rakes his hand through his hair. I notice that the knife is lowered now in his other hand, and feel sure that this man will not hurt us further than leaving us stranded at a bus stop at dusk, out in the sticks of nowhere in a snowstorm in sub-zero temperatures. Perhaps he hopes we will merely perish out here and take his secret with us, perhaps he thinks he can wash his hands of us now because he’s done his bit.
Something bright behind him in the caravan catches my eye, and I edge towards the door, ignoring Kat’s hand on my arm and the vehement shake of her head. I square up to him. ‘Now we know all about what you’re up to with this whole get-up here you’ve got, I think you owe us something else, seeing as you’re leaving us out in the cold.’
He squints through the shadows at me. ‘What are you talking about, woman?’
I push past him and he grabs hold of my sleeve, but I shake him off and scramble into the caravan. It reeks of mould and damp and something more; something living, or maybe dead. Its loud floral curtains clash with yet another floral design in orange and brown on its seats, frayed and torn with foam spilling out at every corner. Stacks of iPads teeter haphazardly under the table between the two long seats, and great clear bags full of smaller bags packed with marijuana lie scattered on the seats and the floor. This is no professional crook. On the seat to my right is a bright orange sleeping bag and a fleecy green blanket. ‘I think we’ll take these.’
It’s like all his spirit has drained out of him. ‘Whatever. But hurry the hell up.’ He glances from side to side as if suddenly a whole convoy of police cars will come screaming out of the frozen silence and bear him away.
I smile to myself as I gather up the sleeping bag then drape the blanket around my shoulders. It’s even bigger than I thought and trails down onto the floor, so I scrunch it up and double it over.
As I move towards the doorway a sound stops me still and I whirl around. It’s high pitched, like a squeak, and my first thought is that Barbara’s plaintive prophecies about rats are at last coming true in this battered-up old van that clenches me so tightly in its mildewed, time-slipped grip. But then the squeak turns into something longer and more pitiful.
‘What on earth—’
‘Get out of my caravan.’
