life to crawl back in.
Your hands are on me. I try to fight them off but my limbs are heavy and slow. I hoist up my eyelids and see you at the end of a long long tunnel. I am shocked to see your cricket whites are covered in blood and your mouth is movingbut I hear nothing.
Nothing.
Just Jessie’s heartbeat.
11
The music throbbed through Jessie’s veins. It took her to new places that set her pulse racing. Up to cliffs she could leap off and all the way down to velvety whirlpools she could dive into. She took a swig of the whisky on the table in front of her and felt it burn away the day’s images that were imprinted on the underside of her eyelids. She started to relax. Stretched out her legs in the small booth, elbows on the table, chin settled on her hand as she listened.
Something by Duke Ellington, she reckoned, something nice and low. Something to break your heart. The nightclub enveloped her in its twilit world, and she narrowed her eyes with pleasure as a sudden swoop of discordant notes chased each other around the crowded room. It sent a shiver down her spine. Shook her up. Dislodged her thoughts with its strange startling rhythms and sharp spiky edges. She liked it. Liked jazz. Liked the club with its smoke and its laughter and its salty hidden tears.
And she liked watching Tabitha play. Her flatmate knew how to handle a saxophone: as if it were her lover, caressing it, swaying her slender body close to it, her fingers darting over its silvery skin, her lips pressed to its mouth. Jessie often came to see her friend perform, to admire the way she laid out her soul forall to see, unafraid that it would be trampled on. Tabitha was the only girl on stage, the only white face in the band. The other musicians – on double bass, piano and trumpet – boasted varying shades of dark gleaming skin, as did many of the audience at the tables and tucked into the booths.
‘My black brothers,’ Tabitha always called them, flashing her small white teeth.
‘Brothers,’ Jessie told her whisky glass, ‘are a commodity worth holding on to.’ She took another stiff swig of the drink. Why was Tabitha clearly a whole lot better at holding on to them than she was?
‘Can I bring you a drink?’
Jessie glanced up. A face hovered close. Too close. Male, with a loose self-indulgent mouth and blue eyes. She was always a sucker for blue eyes.
‘No, thanks.’
‘I don’t like to see a lovely young lady on her own.’ The blue eyes sparkled at her.
‘I’m not on my own.’
He looked pointedly at the empty bench opposite her in the booth.
‘I’m with a friend,’ she told him and tapped her glass. ‘My whisky.’
This struck her as so funny she started to laugh and once she’d started she couldn’t stop. Everything seemed to break loose inside her and got all jumbled up. She laughed until fat tears were sliding down her cheeks and her hands flapped the man away from her booth. An elderly waiter waddled over and grinned at her, his curly hair stark white against his black skin.
‘You okay, Jessie girl?’
‘I’m just fine, Gideon.’ But she accepted the napkin he gave her to mop her face and she hiccupped into it while he went off to fetch her a glass of water. ‘Make it a beer,’ she called after him but he shook his finger at her and chuckled to himself.
Jessie closed her eyes and let her mind drift on the tide of the music. But however hard she listened, howevermany times she ran with the notes in an escalating wail of longing, nothing was going to fill the brother-shaped hole inside her. It was too deep. Too turbulent. Too blood-stained. How long she remained like that she had no idea, but when she opened her eyes again a beer stood in front of her and Tabitha was seated on the opposite bench. Someone was playing ‘It Don’t Mean a Thing’
.
Jessie picked up the beer.
‘You got style,’ she told Tabitha. ‘Real classy finger-work.’
In the near darkness, Tabitha’s pale face seemed to
Your hands are on me. I try to fight them off but my limbs are heavy and slow. I hoist up my eyelids and see you at the end of a long long tunnel. I am shocked to see your cricket whites are covered in blood and your mouth is movingbut I hear nothing.
Nothing.
Just Jessie’s heartbeat.
11
The music throbbed through Jessie’s veins. It took her to new places that set her pulse racing. Up to cliffs she could leap off and all the way down to velvety whirlpools she could dive into. She took a swig of the whisky on the table in front of her and felt it burn away the day’s images that were imprinted on the underside of her eyelids. She started to relax. Stretched out her legs in the small booth, elbows on the table, chin settled on her hand as she listened.
Something by Duke Ellington, she reckoned, something nice and low. Something to break your heart. The nightclub enveloped her in its twilit world, and she narrowed her eyes with pleasure as a sudden swoop of discordant notes chased each other around the crowded room. It sent a shiver down her spine. Shook her up. Dislodged her thoughts with its strange startling rhythms and sharp spiky edges. She liked it. Liked jazz. Liked the club with its smoke and its laughter and its salty hidden tears.
And she liked watching Tabitha play. Her flatmate knew how to handle a saxophone: as if it were her lover, caressing it, swaying her slender body close to it, her fingers darting over its silvery skin, her lips pressed to its mouth. Jessie often came to see her friend perform, to admire the way she laid out her soul forall to see, unafraid that it would be trampled on. Tabitha was the only girl on stage, the only white face in the band. The other musicians – on double bass, piano and trumpet – boasted varying shades of dark gleaming skin, as did many of the audience at the tables and tucked into the booths.
‘My black brothers,’ Tabitha always called them, flashing her small white teeth.
‘Brothers,’ Jessie told her whisky glass, ‘are a commodity worth holding on to.’ She took another stiff swig of the drink. Why was Tabitha clearly a whole lot better at holding on to them than she was?
‘Can I bring you a drink?’
Jessie glanced up. A face hovered close. Too close. Male, with a loose self-indulgent mouth and blue eyes. She was always a sucker for blue eyes.
‘No, thanks.’
‘I don’t like to see a lovely young lady on her own.’ The blue eyes sparkled at her.
‘I’m not on my own.’
He looked pointedly at the empty bench opposite her in the booth.
‘I’m with a friend,’ she told him and tapped her glass. ‘My whisky.’
This struck her as so funny she started to laugh and once she’d started she couldn’t stop. Everything seemed to break loose inside her and got all jumbled up. She laughed until fat tears were sliding down her cheeks and her hands flapped the man away from her booth. An elderly waiter waddled over and grinned at her, his curly hair stark white against his black skin.
‘You okay, Jessie girl?’
‘I’m just fine, Gideon.’ But she accepted the napkin he gave her to mop her face and she hiccupped into it while he went off to fetch her a glass of water. ‘Make it a beer,’ she called after him but he shook his finger at her and chuckled to himself.
Jessie closed her eyes and let her mind drift on the tide of the music. But however hard she listened, howevermany times she ran with the notes in an escalating wail of longing, nothing was going to fill the brother-shaped hole inside her. It was too deep. Too turbulent. Too blood-stained. How long she remained like that she had no idea, but when she opened her eyes again a beer stood in front of her and Tabitha was seated on the opposite bench. Someone was playing ‘It Don’t Mean a Thing’
.
Jessie picked up the beer.
‘You got style,’ she told Tabitha. ‘Real classy finger-work.’
In the near darkness, Tabitha’s pale face seemed to
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