J. Rowling - The Casual Vacancy

‘Why intcha changed?’ demanded Krystal.

‘I ain’t goin’,’ said Terri, pushing past her son and daughter into the kitchen. ‘Changed me mind.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’ wanna,’ said Terri. She was lighting a cigarette off the ring of the cooker. ‘Don’ fuckin’ ’ave to.’

Krystal was still holding Robbie’s hand, as he tugged and swung.

‘They’re all goin’,’ said Krystal. ‘Cheryl an’ Shane an’ all.’

‘So?’ said Terri aggressively.

Krystal had been afraid that her mother would pull out at the last minute. The funeral would bring her face to face with Danielle, the sister who pretended that Terri did not exist, not to mention all the other relatives who had disowned them. Anne-Marie might be there. Krystal had been holding on to that hope, like a torch in the darkness, through the nights she had sobbed for Nana Cath and Mr Fairbrother.

‘You gotta go,’ said Krystal.

‘No, I ain’.’

‘It’s Nana Cath, innit,’ said Krystal.

‘So?’ said Terri, again.

‘She done loads fer us,’ said Krystal.

‘No, she ain’,’ snapped Terri.

‘She did,’ said Krystal, her face hot and her hand clutching Robbie’s.

‘Fer you, maybe,’ said Terri. ‘She done fuck-all for me. Go an’ fuckin’ bawl all over ’er fuckin’ grave if yeh want. I’m waitin’ in.’

‘Wha’ for?’ said Krystal.

‘My bus’ness, innit.’

The old familiar shadow fell.

‘Obbo’s comin’ round, is ’e?’

‘My bus’ness,’ repeated Terri, with pathetic dignity.

‘Come to the funeral,’ said Krystal loudly.

‘You go.’

‘Don’ go fuckin’ usin’,’ said Krystal, her voice an octave higher.

‘I ain’,’ said Terri, but she turned away, looking out of the dirty back window over the patch of overgrown litter-strewn grass they called the back garden.

Robbie tugged his hand out of Krystal’s and disappeared into the sitting room. With her fists deep in her trackie pockets, shoulders squared, Krystal tried to decide what to do. She wanted to cry at the thought of not going to the funeral, but her distress was edged with relief that she would not have to face the battery of hostile eyes she had sometimes met at Nana Cath’s. She was angry with Terri, and yet felt strangely on her side. You don’t even know who the father is, do yeh, yer whore? She wanted to meet Anne-Marie, but was scared.

‘All righ’, then, I’ll stay an’ all.’

‘You don’ ’ave ter. Go, if yeh wan’. I don’ fuckin’ care.’

But Krystal, certain that Obbo would appear, stayed. Obbo had been away for more than a week, for some nefarious purpose of his own. Krystal wished that he had died, that he would never come back.

For something to do, she began to tidy the house, while smoking one of the roll-ups Fats Wall had given her. She didn’t like them, but she liked that he had given them to her. She had been keeping them in Nikki’s plastic jewellery box, along with Tessa’s watch.

She had thought that she might not see Fats any more, after their shag in the cemetery, because he had been almost silent afterwards and left her with barely a goodbye, but they had since met up on the rec. She could tell that he had enjoyed this time more than the last; they had not been stoned, and he had lasted longer. He lay beside her in the grass beneath the bushes, smoking, and when she had told him about Nana Cath dying, he had told her that Sukhvinder Jawanda’s mother had given Nana Cath the wrong drugs or something; he was not clear exactly what had happened.

Krystal had been horrified. So Nana Cath need not have died; she might still have been in the neat little house on Hope Street, there in case Krystal needed her, offering a refuge with a comfortable clean-sheeted bed, the tiny kitchen full of food and mismatched china, and the little TV in the corner of the sitting room: I don’ wanna watch no filth, Krystal, turn that off.

Krystal had liked Sukhvinder, but Sukhvinder’s mother had killed Nana Cath. You did not differentiate between members of an enemy tribe. It had been Krystal’s avowed intention to pulverize Sukhvinder; but then Tessa Wall had intervened. Krystal could not remember the details of what Tessa had told her; but it seemed that Fats had got the story wrong or, at least, not exactly right. She had given Tessa a grudging promise not to go after Sukhvinder, but such promises could only ever be stop-gaps in Krystal’s frantic ever-changing world.

‘Put it down!’ Krystal shouted at Robbie, because he was trying to prise the lid off the biscuit tin where Terri kept her works.

Krystal snatched the tin from him and held it in her hands like a living creature, something that would fight to stay alive, whose destruction would have tremendous consequences. There was a scratched picture on the lid: a carriage with luggage piled high on the roof, drawn through the snow by four chestnut horses, a coachman in a top hat carrying a bugle. She carried the tin upstairs with her, while Terri sat in the kitchen smoking, and hid it in her bedroom. Robbie trailed after her.

‘Wanna go play park.’

She sometimes took him and pushed him on the swings and the roundabout.

‘Not today, Robbie.’

He whined until she shouted at him to shut up.

Later, when it was dark – after Krystal had made Robbie his tea of spaghetti hoops and given him a bath; when the funeral was long since over – Obbo rapped on the front door. Krystal saw him from Robbie’s bedroom window and tried to get there first, but Terri beat her to it.

‘All righ’, Ter?’ he said, over the threshold before anyone had invited him in. ‘’Eard you was lookin’ fer me las’ week.’

Although she had told him to stay put, Robbie had followed Krystal downstairs. She could smell his shampooed hair over the smell of fags and stale sweat that clung to Obbo in his ancient leather jacket. Obbo had had a few; when he leered at her, she smelt the beer fumes.

‘All righ’, Obbo?’ said Terri, with the note in her voice Krystal never heard otherwise. It was conciliating, accommodating; it conceded that he had rights in their house. ‘Where you bin, then?’

‘Bristol,’ he said. ‘How’s you, Ter?’

‘She don’ wan’ nuthin’,’ said Krystal.

He blinked at her through his thick glasses. Robbie was clutching Krystal’s leg so tightly that she could feel his nails in her skin.

‘Oo’s this, Ter?’ asked Obbo. ‘Yer mum?’

Terri laughed. Krystal glared at him, Robbie’s grip tight on her thigh. Obbo’s bleary gaze dropped to him.

‘An’ ’ow’s me boy?’

‘He ain’ your fuckin’ boy,’ said Krystal.

‘’Ow d’you know?’ Obbo asked her quietly, grinning.

‘Fuck off. She don’ wan’ nuthin’. Tell ’im,’ Krystal virtually shouted at Terri. ‘Tell ’im you don’ wan’ nuthin’.’

Daunted, caught between two wills much stronger than her own, Terri said, ‘’E on’y come rounda see—’

‘No, ’e ain’t,’ said Krystal. ‘No, ’e fuckin’ ain’t. Tell ’im. She don’ wan’ nuthin’,’ she said fiercely into Obbo’s grinning face. ‘She’s bin off it fer weeks.’

‘Is tha’ right, Terri?’ said Obbo, still smiling.

‘Yeah, it is,’ said Krystal, when Terri did not answer. ‘She’s still at Bellchapel.’

‘Noffur much longer,’ said Obbo.

‘Fuck off,’ said Krystal, outraged.

‘Closin’ it,’ said Obbo.

‘Are they?’ said Terri in sudden panic. ‘They ain’t, are they?’

‘Course they are,’ said Obbo. ‘Cuts, innit?’

‘You don’t know nuthin’,’ Krystal told Obbo. ‘It’s bollocks,’ she told her mother. ‘They ’aven’ said nuthin’, ’ave they?’