wouldn’t want to take it further.’
She shook her head, denying that. She wanted her mother to go by, coming back from the betting shop, where the man Holby didn’t know about worked. Holby was pathetic, her mother said, another mistake she’d made, same’s the one with Jasmin’s father. She had got into a relationship with the betting-shop man and the next thing would be he’d be a mistake too, no way he wouldn’t.
‘I’d never,’ Jasmin heard herself protesting. ‘I’d never have said no.’
She shook her head to make certain he was reassured. He’d lowered his voice when he’d said he had worried in case she’d say no. She didn’t want anything spoiled; she wanted everything to go on being as good as on the chat line, as good as it was now.
‘You at a loose end, Jasmin? You got the time today, come round to my place?’
Again there was the ripple of excitement. She could feel it all over her body, a fluttering of pins and needles it almost felt like but she knew it wasn’t that. She loved being with him; she’d known she would. ‘Yeah,’ she said, not hesitating, not wanting him to think she had. ‘Yeah, I got the time today.’
‘Best to walk,’ he said. ‘All right with a walk, Jasmin?’
‘Course I am.’ And because it seemed to belong now, Jasmin added that she didn’t know his name.
‘Clive,’ he said.
He liked that name and often gave it. Usually they asked, sometimes even on the chat line, before they got going. Rodney he liked too. Ken he liked. And Alistair.
‘I never knew a Clive,’ she said.
‘You’re living at home, Jasmin?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘You said. A bit ago you said that. I only wondered if you’d moved out by now.’
‘I wish I’d be able to.’
‘Arm’s length, are they?’
She didn’t understand and he said her mother and whoever. On the chat line he remembered she’d said she was an only child. Her mother she’d mentioned then, the man she’d referred to in the bus station. He asked about him, wondering if he was West Indian, and she said yes. Light-coloured, she said. ‘He passes.’
They had turned out of the busy streets, into Blenheim Row, leading to Sowell Street, where the lavatories were, the school at the end.
‘A West Indian kid got killed here,’ he said. ‘White kids took their knives out. You ever see a thing like that, Jasmin?’
‘No.’ Vehemently, she shook her head, and he laughed and then she did.
‘You ever think of moving out, Jasmin? Anything like that come into your thoughts? Get a place of your own?’
All the time, she said. The only thing was, she wasn’t earning.
‘First thing you said to me nearly, that you’d got nothing coming in.’
‘You’re easy to talk with, Clive.’
He took her hand; she didn’t object. Her fingernails were silvery he’d noticed in the McDonald’s, a couple of them jagged where they’d broken. No way she wasn’t a child, no way she’d reached sixteen, more like twelve. Her hand was warm, lying there in his, dampish, fingers interlaced with his.
‘There used to be a song,’ he said. “‘Putting on the agony” was how it went. “Putting on the style”. Before your time, Jas. It could have been called something else, only those were the words. “That’s what all the young folk are doin’ all the while”. Lovely song.’
‘Maybe I heard it one time, I don’t know.’
‘What age really, Jas?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘No, really though?’
She said fifteen. Sixteen in October, she said.
When they were passing the Queen and Angel he asked her if she ever took a drink. It wouldn’t do for him to bring her on to licensed premises, he explained, and she said she wasn’t fussy for a drink, remembering the taste of beer, which she hadn’t liked. He said to wait and he went to an off-licence across the street and came back with a plastic bag. He winked at her and she laughed. ‘Mustn’t be bad boys,’ he said. ‘No more than a few sips.’
They came to
She shook her head, denying that. She wanted her mother to go by, coming back from the betting shop, where the man Holby didn’t know about worked. Holby was pathetic, her mother said, another mistake she’d made, same’s the one with Jasmin’s father. She had got into a relationship with the betting-shop man and the next thing would be he’d be a mistake too, no way he wouldn’t.
‘I’d never,’ Jasmin heard herself protesting. ‘I’d never have said no.’
She shook her head to make certain he was reassured. He’d lowered his voice when he’d said he had worried in case she’d say no. She didn’t want anything spoiled; she wanted everything to go on being as good as on the chat line, as good as it was now.
‘You at a loose end, Jasmin? You got the time today, come round to my place?’
Again there was the ripple of excitement. She could feel it all over her body, a fluttering of pins and needles it almost felt like but she knew it wasn’t that. She loved being with him; she’d known she would. ‘Yeah,’ she said, not hesitating, not wanting him to think she had. ‘Yeah, I got the time today.’
‘Best to walk,’ he said. ‘All right with a walk, Jasmin?’
‘Course I am.’ And because it seemed to belong now, Jasmin added that she didn’t know his name.
‘Clive,’ he said.
He liked that name and often gave it. Usually they asked, sometimes even on the chat line, before they got going. Rodney he liked too. Ken he liked. And Alistair.
‘I never knew a Clive,’ she said.
‘You’re living at home, Jasmin?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘You said. A bit ago you said that. I only wondered if you’d moved out by now.’
‘I wish I’d be able to.’
‘Arm’s length, are they?’
She didn’t understand and he said her mother and whoever. On the chat line he remembered she’d said she was an only child. Her mother she’d mentioned then, the man she’d referred to in the bus station. He asked about him, wondering if he was West Indian, and she said yes. Light-coloured, she said. ‘He passes.’
They had turned out of the busy streets, into Blenheim Row, leading to Sowell Street, where the lavatories were, the school at the end.
‘A West Indian kid got killed here,’ he said. ‘White kids took their knives out. You ever see a thing like that, Jasmin?’
‘No.’ Vehemently, she shook her head, and he laughed and then she did.
‘You ever think of moving out, Jasmin? Anything like that come into your thoughts? Get a place of your own?’
All the time, she said. The only thing was, she wasn’t earning.
‘First thing you said to me nearly, that you’d got nothing coming in.’
‘You’re easy to talk with, Clive.’
He took her hand; she didn’t object. Her fingernails were silvery he’d noticed in the McDonald’s, a couple of them jagged where they’d broken. No way she wasn’t a child, no way she’d reached sixteen, more like twelve. Her hand was warm, lying there in his, dampish, fingers interlaced with his.
‘There used to be a song,’ he said. “‘Putting on the agony” was how it went. “Putting on the style”. Before your time, Jas. It could have been called something else, only those were the words. “That’s what all the young folk are doin’ all the while”. Lovely song.’
‘Maybe I heard it one time, I don’t know.’
‘What age really, Jas?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘No, really though?’
She said fifteen. Sixteen in October, she said.
When they were passing the Queen and Angel he asked her if she ever took a drink. It wouldn’t do for him to bring her on to licensed premises, he explained, and she said she wasn’t fussy for a drink, remembering the taste of beer, which she hadn’t liked. He said to wait and he went to an off-licence across the street and came back with a plastic bag. He winked at her and she laughed. ‘Mustn’t be bad boys,’ he said. ‘No more than a few sips.’
They came to
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