I have to get out of here.
I SPY
At bus shelter
we hide from England rain.
Two people
too close
that we make connect with
shoulder and thigh.
Jess crush closer
like I am cosy cushion.
She cuddle tight
like she fear this rain too much.
She squeeze my arm
like priests hold bibles.
I thinking,
this body talk is not because of England weather.
So I try to cheer
with game she teach me.
I search.
I looking.
I seeing,
one Ford car,
one flag of England
and
one flower shop.
‘Jess?’ I say.
‘What?’
‘I spy with my little eye something beginning
with … F.’
Jess don’t do eye spying.
She look at feet.
‘Fucking family.’
I want to reaching her hand,
be her calm.
Because I knowing who she speak about.
‘You mean Terry?’
And she lift her
face from feet.
The Things He Does
‘See, he’s not really a normal person.
He’s an animal
and you can’t tell when he’s gonna bite.
Not that he ever fights with me.
Not, like, directly.’
Nicu listens
without looking shocked,
without interrupting,
without making me feel like
a freak.
‘It’s Mum who gets it.
You wouldn’t believe the things he does
to hurt her –
the punching and kicking –
and he makes me film everything
like he’s making a bloody documentary.’
Now Nicu winches.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says,
and reaches for my hand.
IN THE FEAR
When Jess tell me things
he do –
smacks Mum around
and
punches her black and blue
and
boots her like a football
– I wanting to wrestle him hard.
Wrestle him to ground,
wrestle him to pain,
to pieces.
For Jess
Terry equal terror,
Terry equal terrible.
Jess should not be in this fear.
Nothing Like Him
I don’t tell Nicu
about Terry
sitting on my bed
and
offering to be my best mate
cos
I can’t really explain
what it was
that made me so afraid.
Not in actual words.
And when Terry’s out
and I try to tell Mum,
mumbling and getting confused
about exactly what he said,
she frowns and scratches her forehead
like I’ve asked her an impossible
University Challenge question.
‘He said he wanted to take you swimming.
So what?’
‘So, it’s weird, Mum.’
‘Is it? He’s like your dad, Jess.’
‘No. No, he isn’t like my dad.
He’s nothing like Dad.
Dad wasn’t a total prick.’
She sighs.
‘He was to me,’ she says.
‘Mum …’
I can see she knows what I’m trying to say
but she doesn’t really want to hear it.
She can’t hear it
cos of what it’ll mean
for both of us.
‘If we keep our heads down, Jess …’ she whispers.
‘Look, he hasn’t laid a hand on me for ages.’
She bites into a custard cream.
There’s a yellow bruise on her forearm.
‘You’re never gonna leave, are you?’
I ask.
She stops chewing the biscuit,
blinks hard.
‘We’ve nowhere to go,’ she says.
‘And even if we did…
he’d find us.’
STUPID THINGS
Tata say stupid things:
‘You’ll soon be the head of your own family.’
‘A good wife should always make you feel strong in the stomach.’
‘Only ten days to go.’
He point to X on calendar.
Mămică also say stupid things:
‘She’s so lucky to be getting someone like you, Nicu.’
‘A good wife should always make everything happier.’
‘Ten days will fly by.’
She point to X on calendar.
I hate this bloody calendar.
An Idea
He sits next to me in detention
and pulls his chair really close.
He smells of salt and vinegar crisps.
The sleeves of his blazer are
too short.
‘What do you want?’ I murmur.
But it isn’t his fault everything looks like hell.
He’s the only thing in my life
I even like.
Nicu stays where he is.
‘Why you being not my mate
all of a suddenly?’ he says.
Mr Tierney looks up,
points a red ballpoint pen at Nicu.
He didn’t notice him walk in.
‘Who are you?’ he asks.
‘My name is Nicu.
P.E. teacher tell me I must to come
because I not have proper football shoes.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,
but just sit down.
And sit away from her.’
Mr Tierney circles his pen in my direction
like a wand.
‘You act like tough cookie.
But you not cookie,’ Nicu says.
I can’t help laughing.
Even when I’m fed up
he breaks me down
somehow.
Nicu takes the seat in front,
opens his bag and pulls out a book.
I stare at the back of his head,
his neck
brown and freckled,
his hair
hardly even brushed.
‘Oi,’ I whisper.
He turns.
‘I’ve got an idea.’
AT THE BACK GATES
So when she whisper
‘Oi’
I feel the blessing in my
bones.
Jess has the serious face on.
No smile,
no teeth,
no eye diamonds.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ she say.
‘What idea?’ I say.
‘I’ll tell you after this crap,’ she say.
‘OK.’
‘TURN AROUND, BOY!’
Teacher shouting at me.
So tell me the new.
I stare at clock –
tick-tock.
It is longest twenty minutes
in life.
‘Right, you can both beat it now.’
We sprinting to back gate.
‘God, it’s bloody Baltic.’
Jess cuddle her body.
But it not too cold.
I know cold.
When blood is frosty inside you.
When it hurting to walk.
When it better not to wash.
Jess blow
little cigarette circles.
I try to pop them with my
finger.
‘What is big idea, Jess?’
She does shuffle foot da
nce,
flicks fag
far in distance.
‘What is idea?’ I say.
‘OK, you hate this school, right, Nicu?’
‘In most times, yes,’ I say.
‘But you don’t want to go back to where you came from
to marry some stupid girl
you’ve never met either, right?’
‘Not in the chance.’
‘Well, you’re running out of time, Nicu. You’ve only got, like, a week.’
‘Not week, Jess. Eight days.’
‘And your dad’s basically forcing you to do it.’
‘He force.’
‘Being a bit of a dick, if you ask me.’
‘He is dick when talking of wife for me.’
‘Well, that’s just like me too, innit?’
‘What?’
‘My stepdad’s an utter bastard.’
‘You tell me before, Jess. And I sorry to listen.’
‘And, this school … I can’t stand it any more.’
‘I understand.’
‘That’s why I think we should get out of here.’
‘The school?’ I say.
‘No, not just the school,
away from everything.
you and me, Nicu.’
‘You and me?’
‘We could take a train somewhere.’
‘Where somewhere?’
‘I dunno. Warwick, Bristol, Glasgow?’
‘This is idea?’
‘Yeah, we should do it.’
‘What?’
‘Do a runner.’
Do a runner?
So me and Jess together for all the days?
Shitting sake!
Madness
I mean,
he could turn out to be a Terry
once we’re together all the time.
Maybe underneath that puppy dog face
there’s a madman
bubbling with rage
and ready to do me in.
When I get home
my phone pings:
I think yoor ideer
is most Einstein
ever. Ciao Nicu xx
But that’s the thing –
running away was all my idea.
So maybe,
actually,
I’m the one who’s mad.
CHAT TIME
‘You need to wash your hair
and
put on these
clean clothes,’ Mămică say.
My white shirt with big collar
is hanging on room door.
My fresh trousers
lie straight on my bed.
‘You’ll need a bath too,’ Mămică say,
‘The water’s hot.’
Tata is silence.
His finger clicks at computer.
He get better and better
with tech work.
‘Why? What’s happening?’ I ask.
‘Tata has something he wants you to do.’
‘And I need to wash my hair for it?’
‘Don’t be a smartarse, Nicu,’ Tata say, his body swing to me on seat.
‘Just do what your mother says.’
I stare at them
like baby boy,
with teenage angst.
‘Your dad wants you and Florica to meet,’ Mămică say.
‘He thought it would be a good idea
if you both had a nice chat
before next week.’
My angst go wilder
and
every organs inside me
skip a jump.
I thinking that maybe Florica,
any seconds,
will pop
from wardrobe
or
fly
through door.
‘What? Now?’ I say. ‘She’s coming here?’
‘No,’ Tata say. ‘I’ve set up a Skype call for half seven.’
Mămică barber my hair
into Justin Bieber style,
but this not my look,
this
not me.
We wait for Skype music to
call us.
I wait to hearing Florica say,
Hi, Nicu, nice to finally meet you,
but this girl is not my desiring.
This, all this,
is
not me.
Packing
Terry knocks on my bedroom door
like a real gentleman,
like someone you could trust.
Funny that,
cos
with the same knuckles
he knocks Mum out.
Flat.
‘Yeah?’ I say.
He puts his head around the door.
‘What you up to?’ he asks.
I hold up a sock.
‘Nothing. Just sorting some stuff out.’
What I don’t tell him is that I’m packing,
getting out of here,
taking a train somewhere – anywhere – with Nicu,
and sticking two fingers up to him and
waving goodbye to life here.
On the bed I’ve got a pile of clothes:
grey knickers,
jeans
and a hoodie.
Plus, every single thing I own that I might get a few
quid for:
a couple of old phones,
a hair straightener,
gold earrings Liam got me one Christmas.
‘Where’s your mum?’ Terry asks.
His voice is sort of sing-songy,
chipper,
but I can tell from his twitching temples
he’s about to explode.
‘Dunno,’ I tell him,
which is true.
I haven’t seen her since yesterday.
She wasn’t up when I left for school,
and the house was empty when I got home.
And cold.
My gut starts to flip.
Did she leave?
Did she clear off without me?
Before me?
‘Can you see now why I get so mad with her?’
Terry asks.
His fist flexes.
Oh, God,
if Mum doesn’t come back maybe I’ll get it.
Maybe I’ll be the one with a broken rib
and bruises where no one can see them.
‘She probably went to Asda,’ I say.
‘Then why’s her phone off?’ he asks,
like I should know.
‘Dunno,’ I say again
and shrug.
‘Want a cup of tea?’
I add,
because that’s how Mum diverts him –
with food and drink,
and sex sometimes.
Keys rattle in the front door.
‘Hello?’
It’s her.
She hasn’t left at all.
And I take a deep breath,
relief,
until Terry marches into the hall,
his feet hard on the floor.
I follow.
His fingers seize Mum’s wrist
and he puts his face so close to hers
their noses touch.
And then,
very gently,
he presses his lips to her lips and kisses her.
He kisses
and kisses
and kisses.
‘Shall we put a bottle of wine in the fridge
and watch a film tonight, love?’
he asks.
‘Sure,’ she whispers.
Terry turns to me.
‘You still here?’
I squeeze my own hands into fists
and go back to my room to finish packing.
RUNNERS
This what I thinking:
Jess is exact right,
it is time to do
a runner.
Runner from Mă
mică, Tata, Pata.
Runner from Florica.
It is time to
bugger off.
This what I also thinking:
I dream of
my heart
beating
on top of
Jess heart.
So we beat
like one.
Not a Clue
In afternoon registration
I don’t even look at my so-called mates.
I sit away from them,
at the back,
with my feet up on the desk,
and roll my eyes when Ms Allen calls my name.
‘Jessica Clarke,’ she repeats, eye-balling me.
‘Well, if you’re looking right at me,
I must be here, Miss, innit?’ I say.
I want her to notice me,
see I’m in school
and definitely not call my mum to tell her I’m bunking.
A few of my classmates snigger.
Ms Allen goes red and blotchy.
‘Do you want another detention, Jess. Is that it?’ she asks.
She’s a young teacher
who doesn’t have a clue
about teenagers.
And small scuffles like this get her all hot and bothered.
I love watching it happen.
‘I don’t mind a detention,’ I say and shrug.
She can do what she wants.
I won’t be here at three-thirty anyway;
by the time the bell goes,