The Canal

Excerpt:
Katie tried to keep to the shiny self she guessed Janey wanted to see. She was scared. Janey hardly spoke of the past, and all Candle’s stories were breezy. Shit on the news was just shit on the news, but stuff happened, knives were real. Katie knew girls had territory, their walks. She couldn’t see how Janey could just rock up, not after so long. “And she’s doing it for me.” Katie cuddled herself and, softly, cried a long time. If Janey made good, the boat was done. She’d be grateful forever. But if Janey got burnt … The sickening ride to some steel-lined hole to ID the body. She got her phone. But Janey’s was always off, and she’d said: “Don’t call.” Katie pressed and cancelled the number two, three times. “Poxy being in love.” (…)

She got pissed at the tourists, the out-of-towners, the gangs of girls pinching clothes. She felt so much older than them. They sat on the tube, squawking, spraying deodorant where it was hot, staring at her curiously in her black shirt and heavy make up. She knew without knowing they came from the low-rise, the Kingsburys and Beckenhams; that a stolen top and a slidy puff made them gangsters; they’d pop their cherries to nice enough lads who played football; they’d settle, get jobs, have pretty kids. A night with the girls once a month to drink white rum and remember. That would have been me, thought Katie. If I wasn’t dirty inside. (…)

Empty, lifeless Saturday night. Nothing like London. Two seconds ago, she’d been working bar, tugging Dom, slaving for the boat. Now there was nothing. She’d got a letter. Didn’t want Janey to see it. A white, starch envelope, thick, serious-seeming. She slit its skin with a kitchen knife, popping it neatly apart. “Please please please,” she whispered. She didn’t want any more hurt. ‘Dear Ms’ all that, ‘many thanks … pleased to say …’ She bit her lip. Life was beginning. So why wasn't she happy?

Got drunk at the Calthorpe and back to the ’Cross, looking for Janey. Girls were out, pacing their walks, needle-sharp for pimps, for filth, for trouble; softening, cajoling unpromising strangers. It looked a dull job, made her think of her own hungry self. She’d got hungry, where once she’d been cautious. She could go now, have that Simon kid. He kept leaving messages. But her body wasn’t grateful anymore. Like spliff, like vodka, all the thrills were gone.

Sunday, early hours, sick in her gut and no Janey. She stuck her pictures on the wall, a stab against being alone. She tried to draw Diane. Diane, so needy to make herself what Janey wanted. But obsessed with clean. Diane said selfish things, but only because she was little and wanted Janey so. “Instructions.” Katie sat up. The book was instructions. She read it again, forensic. It was all so familiar.

Ten, on another rolling bright morning, not slept, drowsy, Katie jumped with the latch. Janey walked in. Katie, The Bond House and the street were comedown Sunday morning. But Janey and the cold canal cut through each day the same. Janey was still Friday night: not crumpled, not bruised. Hair slicked, lips still red. Katie sobbed and sobbed.