War Bird

2. Pay No Attention to What's Said

Bev arrives at two on the dot, raising an over-plucked eyebrow at me as I open the door.

"No school today then?" Is all I get as a greeting. I don't say anything. It's August. School holidays. You'd think someone as old as her would have managed to work that out. She stomps in, smelling of cheap perfume and cigs. She removes her hat and hoodie, then heads into the lounge where she instantly starts cooing over Ribs. My little sister, because she doesn't know any better, rewards her with a gummy smile and waving arms. "Little princess!" Bev chucks her chin.

"So I'm off out.” I’m already dragging my coat off the hall rack.

"Where will you be if your mum calls?" Bev slowly stands up and comes to watch me put my coat on.

"Asher's," I say.

"Your boyfriend?"

"As if. You know he ain’t.”

“Mind your manners,” she snits, leaning against the wall. “Just like that Dad of yours. Acting like you’re too good to be polite.”

“No I ain’t!” I zip my coat up and glare. “And can you stop banging on about him? It’s been a million years since he left.”

“He’s probably back in Dubai or wherever it is he’s from, living it up in the sun.” She shakes her head. “He must owe your mum thousands in child support.”

“He’s Iranian.” I grit my teeth. “And we manage fine without him.”

“I say what I see.” She purses her lips prissily.

Wah, wah, wah, shut your trap, I want to say, but I know Mum will give me what for if I do. Politeness costs nothing is pretty much her favourite saying. “Just leave it, yeah?” Bev’s still so desperate for me to tell her everything about that night all those years ago. I make a big deal about snapping my pockets shut, concentrating on that and not the words that float through my mind; I have to get as far away from Marla as I can.

"Eh.” Bev flaps her hand and shuffles to the kitchen. "Dinner at six."

Great. That oven pizza Mum left will be reduced to a pile of cinders if Bev gets her hands on it. I blow a kiss at Ribs and make a run for it. I take the stone steps down, two at a time, breaking into a jog across the courtyard of the estate. All around me, Clifton's four towers rise tall, concrete fingers scratching the clouds. Some kids on bikes circle around the estate entrance, their laughter echoing up into the sky.

I approach the entrance to Asher's building and I can feel Mr. Pelham trying to get my attention, so I keep my eyes on the ground. I never know what to say to old people, my grandparents died when I was a baby so it’s not like I’ve spent a lot of time with oldies. All the other pensioners on the estate keep to themselves and roam around in packs. But this one’s different and they all seem to keep away from him. Maybe it’s his eyes. They’re like, weirdly green, too bright for his old face. They look at you as if they’re about to burn right through you. No, I don’t want to stop and talk, besides, he's put the music back on now. It's a song he listens to a lot, a dreary old tune:

Yes, I may dream a million dreams/But how can they come true/If there will never, ever be...Another you?

There’s a funny gargling sound and before I can help it, I lift my head. He’s raising an arm at me, trying to wave. At least I think he is. Those crazy eyes blink at me, just as a trail of drool strings its way down his hanging jaw. Yuck. I pick up the pace.

"Time," he says. Or at least I think that's what he says. His hands grip the handles of his wheelchair tightly and he wobbles, like he wants to stand.

“What is it?” Maybe he’s having another stroke or something. “Where’s Bridget, man?” As much as I don’t like her, if she was around her batty old dad probably wouldn’t bother me. Mr. Pelham smiles, but his face is so rumpled his mouth just looks like a wet, raggy hole. Yuck, again.

“Years and years ago,” he says, shaking his head. “Years and years.” 

“Are you um... do you need anything?” I look at the kitchen door, hoping to see Bridget come out and calm him down. “Maybe I should find your daughter.” His eyes dig into me, like he’s waiting for me to tell the punchline to a joke or something. I need to get out of here and now. “Um, I need to go.” And I turn to leave. But then damp fingers clamp around my wrist and he’s in my face, gumming up at me. 

“Nuhhh...” He gargles, eyes filing with tears.

"Get off me!" I yank my arm back, but he clings on. For an oldie, his grip is really tight. I pull at his fingers, peeling them off one by one. He smells. Not bad, just old and musty. His yellowed teeth click, eyebrows waggling. Ugh, if I don’t move now, I will actually vomit all over him, so I pull back as hard as I can and he finally lets go. “Just leave me alone, creep!” 

"The time, the time it is," Mr. Pelham whispers and a tear leaks down his crinkly cheek. He stretches out his hand towards the record player, and it weirdly stops at exactly the same time. Like magic. I shake my head. Now I’m sounding as mental as him.

“I don’t know what the hell your problem is, but stay away from me!” I yell. He opens his mouth again, shaking his head like he can’t believe I’m saying these things. I stomp off,  his sad little face imprinted on my mind.

 *Dedicated to the talented @MeghanMRiley because her story Anna is really quite wonderful and for her fanning and voting for me. Thanks!*