Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [31]
Our new place was back in the Preston Park area. A one-bedroom flat this time, a bit tattier than the last one, but quite high up in the block, with a lovely view of St Peter’s Church in the town centre. Everyone in Brighton called it ‘the cathedral’. I remember staring out at the four gothic spires rising from the top of that majestic building, thinking how beautiful they were, reaching up to the sky. Little did I know they would soon become the source of my worst nightmares.
Seven years old and back with my mum – I couldn’t have been happier. Three months is a long time in a child’s life and part of me fretted that Mum would have forgotten me somehow. I needn’t have worried. We soon slotted back into our old routines. I couldn’t do enough for her. Our meals wouldn’t win any awards, but I did my best. The flat was a bit grubby, with tattered lino on the kitchen floor, and we didn’t have much in the way of cleaning equipment, but I scrubbed and brushed as much as I could. Sometimes Mum would chat to me while I did it. Sometimes she’d say, ‘Leave that and come and sit down,’ but I needed to do it. On some level, I worried that if the home didn’t look nice, the police would take me away again.
I’m not going to let that happen.
For a while Mum and I were inseparable. Then she went out one night and I didn’t see her for two days.
Was I worried? Of course I was. But only about her. The only thoughts going through my head were Who is cooking for her? Where is she sleeping? Who is looking after her?
It never occurred to me to be worried about myself. I had my own bed, I had our few possessions around me, I could cook any groceries I could slip into my pocket in the shop and play records whenever I liked. The only thing that would have made it better was having Mum to talk to. I was content enough on my own, though.
Mum’s nights out weren’t the only familiar thing. We were home one afternoon when there was a knock on the door. Before I could get up, it swung open.
Apart from the times Granny came to visit, no good ever came of that door opening. I couldn’t hear a knock without fearing the police had come to take me away. On this occasion it wasn’t the boys in blue or social workers. It was Mark and another man.
I said hello and went back to sit with Mum. I hadn’t quite reached the seat when Mark said, ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ His voice was firm.
‘Leave her alone,’ Mum said. That’s when I realized he was talking to me.
‘She knows her job,’ he said, walking over. ‘Don’t you, Cathy?’
I did. How could I have forgotten? I started to head to the kitchen, ready to begin rolling. As I stepped out of the lounge, I glanced back at Mum. She wasn’t smiling.
She doesn’t want them here.
It was the first time I’d ever noticed.
Mark’s friend gave me the stuff to make the cigarettes. He wasn’t as nice as Mark, but he was all right. He didn’t raise his voice. In fact, he just stared silently. I don’t think he trusted me to do a good job. Feeling someone’s eyes burning into you is enough to make anyone all fingers and thumbs.
An hour or so later, there were about six men in the tiny flat. By then someone had brought the bong, so I was kept busy preparing that. Mark watched me this time. It was the first time he’d been in the kitchen of our new flat.
‘Christ, this place is a tip,’ he said, kicking the loose flaps of the well-worn lino. ‘We’re going to have to do something about this.’
‘Yeah,’ I replied, not really knowing what he was referring to, and carried on getting the bong ready.
Just then, another man came in. I’ll call him Brian.
‘We going to get started, or what?’
Mark looked at me, then back at Brian.
What else do they want me to make?
It turned out they didn’t want me to do anything.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ Mark said, and he fished a small packet out his pocket. It looked like a little paper bag.
‘What is it?’ I asked nervously.
‘It’s a sweet.’
I wasn’t convinced.
‘I’ll ask my mum.’
As I went to leave the kitchen, the