I’m at the hob making oatmeal porridge. The electric tends to be erratic these days. We’re not supposed to be on the grid, but for a king’s ransom there’s a guy on the estate who can sort it. Tethers you into the giant pylons running into town. It’s fairly safe; only one trailer’s blown up because of it so far.
Still a wee bit grim outside. The sun’s hidden behind thick grey clouds blanketing the sky. Someone bangs on the door, brutal like. I look through the porthole window and see the troll, as we like to call him, outside.
‘Alright, alright. Don’t break the blooming door down,’ I grumble.
I turn down the heat and go into the cupboard where I keep my jar and count the cash I keep in there. Not much, but it’ll do for now.
‘I’m coming already, shish,’ I yell, ’cause the knocking resumes with even more vigour.
‘Who is it?’ Gran asks from her berth.
‘It’s no one, Gran. Go back to sleep.’
Some people. He already knows I’m coming out but he’s still making a racket. If I ever raise enough dosh, we’re outta here. Hasta la vista, morons, smell you later. No forwarding address.
I open the door. The morning air’s a bit hazy and fresh. Birdsong and breeze. The troll’s greasy green tractor’s parked up front. I hand over my jar and stand with both hands on the doorframe, blocking the troll so he can’t come in. He’s our landlord in the purest sense of the word. He doesn’t own our caravan, but he owns the land beneath it. I’m pretty sure this means we owe him ground rent. That means, technically and informally-illegally, we have a leasehold, which is more an English thing, really. Farmer McAlister figured out one day that he was sitting on prime real estate, after the first squatters moved in Hermiston way. Whereas a less savvy man might have called the law, he saw an opportunity – to leech money off us. It’s easier than getting up mornings and tending the fields, which is what real farmers ought to do. The long and the short of it is that this is how His Majesty’s Slum at Hermiston was born.
We call Farmer McAlister the troll not because he skims money off us, but because he actually looks like one. He has a big, bulbous red nose, pitted, with hairs spiking out of it. His ears are the bushiest this side of the equator, and his face is marked by deep lines. He’s short and squat, spindly legs on a broad torso. I’m pretty certain he’s the missing link.
‘That’s only half,’ he says with a snort.
‘The rest’s coming,’ I reply.
Would have had all that and then some, if it weren’t for the fuzz last night.
He pretends to look around and scratches his temple.
‘From where? I dinnae see it,’ he says. ‘I’m not a charity. Could be growing wheat and barley on these here fields. You want you and your nan to go on living here? Get it sorted.’
‘You’ll get your money,’ I say.
‘Aye, you’re right about that, lassie. You’d be out on the streets if it weren’t for me and dinnae forget it.’
The troll empties the cash into a little sack and tosses the jar back my way. He goes to his green John Deere, a yellow stripe running down the middle of its belly, and hops in. He’s agile as a young man. He turns the engine on, cranks the gears and is off, the diesel engine roaring as he goes.
I’ve lost my appetite, but I still have to make brekkie for Izwi before she goes to school. Gran can’t take her tablets, either, before she’s had some of the hot stuff down her belly. I return to the hob and stir. I add peanut butter to the oats. Best way to make ’em.
‘Have they found the boy yet?’ Gran asks. ‘Willie Matthews – they came around here yesterday looking for him. Been missing weeks now.’
‘He’s probably off sozzled somewhere,’ Izwi replies.
‘And what do you know of it?’ I say. ‘Hurry up and finish your porridge.’
I know Willie, nice kid, not a bad bone in him. The Matthews live in a trailer on the opposite side of the canal. Used to go to school with him back in the day. It’s not like him to go off like that. But, hey, not my problem. My problem right now is getting my little sister to school on time. I tell her to take her satchel and kiss Gran goodbye before we set off.
Our cara’s small outside and in. It’s an ’89 Rallyman from the days when they built things to last. It’s a really small caravan, but still dope. Painted daisies and sunflowers on the sides that give it a cheery look. The tyres are flat and the grass around them’s grown tall. The rims are rusted to hell. We’re not going anywhere anytime soon. I place a bowl of leftover vegetables with a dollop of peanut butter next to one of the wheels for River and hope I don’t get my arm chewed off. I hear her sniffing the air from her burrow.
A few folks are wandering about. The day starts later when you’ve got no job and no school to go to. Most people are probably inside snoring or watching telly. Eddie, Izwi’s friend, says morning. He’s been waiting on us with an oversized rucksack which is his schoolbag. The thing goes all the way down to the back of his knees. Him and Izwi are both in Year 6; some days his maw takes them both, but today it’s my turn.
Power lines reach down over our heads from the pylons above, like a giant way up in the sky’s fishing down in our little houses. When it’s windy the lines sway, and if they touch they spark and zap.
We make a steady pace to the roundabout and cross into the Calders.
Something moves in the trees ahead.
‘Shush,’ I say to the kids.
The birches are shorn of their leaves, but it’s hard to make out what’s in there. Then I see the squirrel clinging to the narrow trunk of one of the trees. Its grey coat blends in with the silver bark. I reach into my back pocket and take out my katty. Made it myself using dogwood. Used a nice Y-shaped branch, thick as a grown man’s thumb. The wood’s pale like bleached bone with lines running down it. I have two even lengths of rubber tubing attached, with a leather pouch at the back. The thing’s top of the line. A real zinger.
I take a rock from my pocket and load it.
‘You guys should look away,’ I whisper to the kids. They don’t ’cause that’s how curiosity gets the cat every bloody time.
I still myself, breath slow and quiet. My arm’s light as a feather. I draw the sling, adding tension as far back as the rubber will allow. My left hand’s steady on the stem of the Y-wood. Doesn’t even feel like I’m here. I’m not even thinking when I let fly the stone. It’s like the katty picks the moment herself. The rubber goes srrrrup.
‘Blimey, you got it,’ Eddie shouts. He runs to the thicket where it’s fallen. ‘Cracking shot.’
My left arm’s still outstretched, rubber dangling. My right hand’s open like I’m Artemis let loose an arrow. Izwi’s quiet. She doesn’t like killing stuff. Kid’s a vegan. Skinny as a needle for it, too. She turns away when Eddie comes back holding the dead squirrel.
‘Will you teach me?’
‘Nope,’ I reply, taking it off him.
‘Pleaaase.’
‘Not gonna happen. You want your mum on my case when you take out your eye?’
Eddie pouts, but he’ll live. I inspect my kill. Clean shot, got it right in the head. There’s a bit of blood there. But the fur’s alright. Gran will want to cure the pelt. Given enough of them, they’re good for a lot of things – like small bags, linings for mittens, or adding detail to her knitwear. She’s crafty like that. And this critter’s a grey so I think I’m doing some conservation work. Protecting the red squirrels that are endangered and all that. I put the thing in my backpack.
‘You know I have to,’ I say to Izwi and put my hand on her shoulder.
She gently shrugs it off. This kid’s softness gives her some hard principles at times. I’m just afraid the real world will chew her up if she carries on like this. No one can afford such strong morals. Life will break you in half.
Folks in the Calders don’t like us lot from HMS. They look down on us. We only live across the bypass from them. Might as well be a mile away. They’re, like, a council estate, the rough end of town, junkieville central, yet they still think they’re better than us. Don’t like their kids playing with us either. That’s fine by me, but Sighthill Primary’s still the nearest school and we’ve all got to share it. It’s all proper flats around here, a whole estate of them. Three high-rises dominate the skyline. I’d give a kidney and half my liver for a place out here. But it’s not like where I live. No one says morning or hello as we walk up to the school gates.
‘Be good, alright, Sis,’ I say as Izwi and Eddie enter the crowded schoolyard.
The fence around them, the barrier meant to ring the school from the outside world, was stripped and stolen during the great scrap metal boom. There was good money in it then and I made a duke or two off copper on the old railway lines. But I’d never have thought to hit a school like that. You gotta have boundaries. Ethical standards. Lines you simply don’t cross, else you’re just a douche.
The bairns make noise with their high-pitched voices. I watch my two merge into the sea of preadolescents and then carry on. At least I can already tick one thing off my list today.
The bridge that runs between Sighthill and the Plaza’s collapsed. Nothing’s left of it but rubble. Now and again there’s talk of fixing it, but it’s just hot air, enough to lift a lead balloon. The pillars lie on the road like collapsed Greek columns. A ghostly wisp lingers in the shadow of a block of tar resting at an angle. It’s watching me, shifting like steam from a kettle. Must be desperate for a deado to come out this time of the day. I ignore it and move on. Not on duty yet, and I don’t have my mbira with me anyways.
I’m headed off to the pharmacy, see if I can get meds to fill Gran’s prescription. She takes water tablets and simvastatin for her ticker. Then there’s metformin for her diabetes. Went there last week and they said they’d run out of the cheap generic pills. Can’t afford anything but that, so I’m hoping they’ll have them today.
‘Roparistic!’ a voice calls from behind me.
‘Jomo?’ I turn around. He’s walking with a small group of boys in black dress pants, white shirts and jackets, the uniform at the secondary section of the Wester Hailes Education Centre. ‘Been a minute.’
‘God save the king,’ he says, suddenly remembering he’s with people.
‘Long may he reign,’ I reply.
‘I’ll catch up with you guys later,’ says Jomo, breaking off from the group.
‘Jomo’s got a girlfriend,’ one of them jibes and they snigger like hyenas as they head towards the blocky building that’s their school. I used to go there once too – well, I only did a year of secondary and that was enough for me. No, sir, as long as you can plus or minus your shillings, you don’t need none of that nonsense in your noggin.
Jomo’s had a spurt since I last saw him. He stands a wee bit taller, accentuated by his overlong afro, which no comb could ever run through. He’s still a dork, though, with his glasses and acne all over his forehead. I got bumped up two grades in primary school and he was my bestie right up until I said sayonara to the system and split. Everyone in the class was older than me, and they were nice, but I got along with him best. Not seen him in a while, though.
He trips on his shoelaces coming towards me and I catch him.
‘You might wanna tie those,’ I say. ‘Where’ve you been?’
We fist bump.
‘I’m sorry, I should have called and told you. A lot’s been happening and I haven’t had the time to catch up. I got a gig at my dad’s library in town. This is, like, the coolest place in the world. I’m surrounded by gazillions of books. It’s only part-time, but still, I have to work weekends and after school sometimes.’
‘You know that thing in your pocket that’s masking your microscopic wang? It’s called a mobile. You can use it to call or text from time to time.’
‘I’m sorry, man.’ His voice is uneven and screechy.
‘Proud of you, Jomo. Maybe you can take me there one day, show me round.’
He winces and half smiles, sucking in air.
‘I’m sorry, I would love to, but it’s a members-only kind of place. They made me sign a confidentiality contract. Sorry.’
‘You taking the piss? It’s a bloody library.’ He shakes his head and looks down at his feet. ‘Whatever, eat my vag. Your class is about to start – text me and we can meet up or something.’