7 Evie
7
I used to be good at keeping my own company, but I've become spoiled or needy because of Cyrus. That's what bothers me about him finding a girlfriend. One day he will get married and I'll be surplus to requirements, the wonky spare wheel.
I'm hungry, but I want to wait for him. There must be an off-licence or a supermarket nearby where I can buy snacks and bottled water. As I leave the guest house, I pass the lounge. The same three men are playing snooker. One of them is leaning over the table, ready to take a shot. He pauses and straightens, watching me, which makes me self-conscious. Why do men stare at women the way they do – like they're hungry or hunting?
I walk as far as a rocky beach, which stinks of seaweed. Nobody is swimming because the wind has made it too cold. Instead, children are playing on a climbing frame and slippery slide. Two older girls are paddling on the edge of the water. Their pushbikes are resting on the grass. Both are wearing denim shorts and T-shirts, not feeling the cold. I recognise one of them – the would-be thief from the guest house. Addie. She's with another girl about her age, with frizzy hair and freckles.
Miss Frizzy pulls a packet of cigarettes from her pocket. Four hands are needed to shield the flame from the wind. White smoke surrounds their heads and vanishes just as quickly. Addie notices me watching and gives me the stink-eye. I turn away and walk back the way I came.
I pass a group of people getting off a bus outside a factory gate. At first, I think it might be a tour group, but they're dressed in shabby clothes and look more likely to be queuing for food than sightseeing. They wait for a security man to unlock the metal gates. I step onto the road to move past them. A different guard yells, ‘Hey, where are you going?' He grabs the back of my hoodie and almost yanks me off my feet. ‘Get back in line.'
‘I'm not with them,' I say.
‘What?'
I say the words slowly as though I'm talking to a moron.
A woman from the same bus says something to him in a language that I don't understand.
‘I wasn't talking to you,' he says, and without warning he backhands her across her face. It is so sudden and violent that she doesn't have time to protect herself. Stumbling backwards, she sits on the kerb, holding her cheek.
‘You can't do that,' I say, protesting. ‘Leave her alone.'
He takes a step towards me and raises his hand. ‘You want some too?' I move further away. ‘Yeah, I thought so. Piss off!'
The woman is still sitting in the gutter. She's Asian, in her forties, with her right arm in a blue sling that is knotted around her neck. The others from the bus are being herded through the open gate into the factory. A different group is leaving, getting on the same bus. Shift workers.
The security guard is standing over the Asian woman. ‘What's wrong with your arm?'
‘I work,' she replies in broken English.
‘Not with one hand.'
‘I work hard. One hand or two hand.'
‘This isn't a sheltered workshop.'
‘No. Please, I good worker. I show you.' She reaches up for his arm, begging.
‘Get back on the fuckin' bus.'
Tearfully, the woman is helped to her feet, and I lose sight of her as she steps on board. A guard padlocks the metal gate. I'm on the far side of the road as the bus pulls away. I study the factory, which has cement walls and a tin roof and security cameras. A small painted sign is propped in one of the windows: ‘Polaris Pelagic'.
I'm still thinking about the Asian woman when I reach the supermarket, which fronts a cobblestoned square. Boxes of fruit and vegetables are displayed on the footpath outside and the front window is plastered with discount banners and special offers. Inside, the aisles are barely wide enough for two people to pass and the shelves are crammed from floor to ceiling.
As I wander down the first aisle, I notice Addie and her frizzy-haired friend, near the canned goods. Their pushbikes are leaning against a lamppost outside. As I round the corner, Addie glances at the CCTV camera above her head and turns her back. At the same time, she slips something under her T-shirt, which she tucks into her shorts.
Later, at the checkout, Addie counts out coins to pay for a packet of chewing gum. A store guard is watching her – a young guy in a grey uniform with front teeth that push out his top lip.
As the girls leave, he stops them. ‘What yer hiding beneath yer top, Addie Murdoch?'
‘None of your business, Declan O'Keefe,' replies her friend.
‘I'm not talking to you, Shona.'
He stands in front of Addie. ‘How about you untuck your shirt?'
‘You're not looking at my tits,' says Addie.
He laughs. ‘Yer got nothing to look at.'
The girls try to step around him.
‘Looks like I'll be calling the cops,' he says.
Shona looks anxiously along the street. I know she's going to run even before she takes off, ducking under the guard's arm, and sprinting for the automatic doors. Outside, she grabs her pushbike, bounces it over the gutter and takes several steps before swinging her leg over the seat and pedalling away.
A beat too late, Addie also tries to escape, but the guard grabs the back of her T-shirt. A can of tuna bounces across the floor and rolls to my feet. I pick it up and put it on the conveyor belt with my other items. ‘I almost forgot this. Thanks, Addie.'
The guard blinks at me. ‘She stole that.'
‘She picked it up for me.'
‘It was tucked down her front.'
‘It was in her hand.'
He points to the CCTV camera. ‘I have proof.'
‘I bet that's not turned on,' I say.
He stammers, caught in his lie.
‘How much do I owe you?' I ask the checkout girl, who blinks at me like she's been watching a performance that has suddenly stopped in mid-act.
She scans the can of tuna. Addie steps closer to me, pretending that we're together, but only until we get outside. She holds out her hand, wanting her spoils.
‘I paid for that,' I say.
‘I'll owe you.'
‘You were pretty amateurish.'
She gives me a nonchalant shrug. ‘He's a pervert.'
‘Really.'
‘Shona's older sister went to school with him. They called him Skidmark because he shat his pants in P4.' She gives me a sideways look. ‘Are you going to tell my gran?'
‘No.'
She blows a puff of air that lifts the fringe from her eyes, before picking up her pushbike and wheeling it over the cobblestones. We're walking in the same direction. She looks older than twelve because of her ear studs and attitude.
‘Who cut your hair?' I ask.
‘Shona.'
‘What did your mother think?'
‘Don't have no mother.'
‘Who looks after you?'
‘My dad.'
‘Do you know someone called Angus Radford?' I ask.
‘He's my uncle. Why?'
‘No reason.'
Three teenagers are walking towards us. Two boys and a girl. Addie clearly knows them but crosses the road to avoid them. The girl is about Addie's age, wearing nicer clothes. She yells, making a mooing sound.
‘Scabby bitch,' hisses Addie.
‘Friend of yours?'
‘Destiny? No way. She's a mouth-breather.'
‘What's a mouth-breather?'
‘Someone too stupid to use her nose.'
We turn into a narrow lane with stone steps leading down to the waterfront. Three stray cats appear from behind rubbish bins and Addie greets them. She opens the can of tuna, peeling back the lid and turning it upside down, tapping the contents onto the cobblestones.
‘That's the mum, Flossie. And these are her children, Ziggy and Soot,' says Addie. ‘A boy and a girl.'
‘Who named them?'
‘I did.'
The cats jostle to get the food and Addie makes sure each gets a share.
‘I volunteer at an animal shelter,' I say. ‘I look after the rescues and help feed the puppies.'
Addie gets starry-eyed. ‘I love puppies, but mah dad says I'm not responsible enough and that he'd be doing all the work.'
‘Yeah, I know someone like that,' I say.
Addie looks at her phone. ‘I have to go.'
‘Where?'
‘I'm helping my auntie at the pub.'
‘Doing what?'
‘Washing dishes.'
‘Two jobs and you're still nicking stuff.'
Addie's top lip curls and she tosses the empty tuna can into one of the bins before wiping her hands on the back of her shorts.
‘That guy you're with – he your sugar daddy?'
‘No! And what do you know about sugar daddies?'
‘I know all about sex,' she says. ‘I know what boys want.'
I find that funny, but I don't want to offend her by laughing.
‘What are you doing in St Claire?' she asks.
‘I'm trying to work out if I've been here before.'
‘Don't you know?'
‘Not really.'
‘You got that anaesthesia thing?'
‘You mean amnesia. Yeah, maybe, or perhaps I was never here.'