J. Rowling - The Casual Vacancy

‘Cuts,’ repeated Obbo, patting his bulging pockets for cigarettes.

‘We got the case review,’ Krystal reminded Terri. ‘Yeh can’t use. Yeh can’t.’

‘Wha’s that?’ asked Obbo, fiddling with his lighter, but neither woman enlightened him. Terri met her daughter’s gaze for a bare two seconds; her eyes fell, reluctantly, to Robbie in his pyjamas, still clinging tightly to Krystal’s leg.

‘Yeah, I wuz gonna go ter bed, Obbo,’ she mumbled, without looking at him. ‘I’ll mebbe see yer another time.’

‘I ’eard your Nan died,’ he said. ‘Cheryl wuz tellin’ me.’

Pain contorted Terri’s face; she looked as old as Nana Cath herself.

‘Yeah, I’m goin’ ter bed. C’mon, Robbie. Come wi’ me, Robbie.’

Robbie did not want to let go of Krystal while Obbo was still there. Terri held out her claw-like hand.

‘Yeah, go on, Robbie,’ Krystal urged him. In certain moods, Terri clutched her son like a teddy bear; better Robbie than smack. ‘Go on. Go wi’ Mum.’

He was reassured by something in Krystal’s voice, and allowed Terri to take him upstairs.

‘See yeh,’ said Krystal, without looking at Obbo, but stalking away from him into the kitchen, pulling the last of Fats Wall’s roll-ups out of her pocket and bending to light it off the gas ring. She heard the front door close and felt triumphant. Fuck him.

‘You got a lovely arse, Krystal.’

She jumped so violently that a plate slipped off the heaped side and smashed on the filthy floor. He had not gone, but had followed her. He was staring at her chest in its tight T-shirt.

‘Fuck off,’ she said.

‘Big girl, intcha?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘I ’eard you give it away free,’ said Obbo, closing in. ‘You could make better money’n yer mum.’

‘Fuck—’

His hand was on her left breast. She tried to knock it away; he seized her wrist in his other hand. Her lit cigarette grazed his face and he punched her, twice, to the side of the head; more plates shattered on the filthy floor and then, as they wrestled, she slipped and fell; the back of her head smacked on the floor, and he was on top of her: she could feel his hand at the waistband of her tracksuit bottoms, pulling.

‘No – fuck – no!’

His knuckles in her belly as he undid his own flies – she tried to scream and he smacked her across the face – the smell of him was thick in her nostrils as he growled in her ear, ‘Fuckin’ shout and I’ll cut yer.’

He was inside her and it hurt; she could hear him grunting and her own tiny whimper; she was ashamed of the noise she made, so frightened and so small.

He came and clambered off her. At once she pulled up her tracksuit bottoms and jumped up to face him, tears pouring down her face as he leered at her.

‘I’ll tell Mist’ Fairbrother,’ she heard herself sob. She did not know where it came from. It was a stupid thing to say.

‘The fuck’s he?’ Obbo tugged up his flies, lit a cigarette, taking his time, blocking her exit. ‘You fuckin’ ’im too, are yeh? Little slapper.’

He sauntered up the hall and was gone.

She was shaking as she had never done in her life. She thought she might be sick; she could smell him all over her. The back of her head throbbed; there was a pain inside her, and wetness seeping into her pants. She ran out of the room into the living room and stood, shivering, with her arms wrapped around herself; then she knew a moment of terror, that he would come back, and hurried to the front door to lock it.

Back in the sitting room she found a long stub in the ashtray and lit it. Smoking, shaking and sobbing, she sank into Terri’s usual chair, then jumped up because she heard footsteps on the stairs: Terri had reappeared, looking confused and wary.

‘Wha’ssa matter with you?’

Krystal gagged on the words.

‘He jus’ – he jus’ fucked me.’

‘Wha’?’ said Terri.

‘Obbo – ’e jus’—’

‘’E wouldn’.’

It was the instinctive denial with which Terri met all of life: he wouldn’t, no, I never, no, I didn’t.

Krystal flew at her and pushed her; emaciated as she was, Terri crumpled backwards into the hall, shrieking and swearing; Krystal ran to the door she had just locked, fumbled to unfasten it and wrenched it open.

Still sobbing, she was twenty yards along the dark street before she realized that Obbo might be waiting out here, watching. She cut across a neighbour’s garden at a run and took a zig-zag route through back ways in the direction of Nikki’s house, and all the time the wetness spread in her pants and she thought she might throw up.

Krystal knew that it was rape, what he had done. It had happened to Leanne’s older sister in the car park of a nightclub in Bristol. Some people would have gone to the police, she knew that; but you did not invite the police into your life when your mother was Terri Weedon.

I’ll tell Mist’ Fairbrother.

Her sobs came faster and faster. She could have told Mr Fairbrother. He had known what real life was like. One of his brothers had done time. He had told Krystal stories of his youth. It had not been like her youth – nobody was as low as her, she knew that – but like Nikki’s, like Leanne’s. Money had run out; his mother had bought her council house and then been unable to keep up the payments; they had lived for a while in a caravan lent by an uncle.

Mr Fairbrother took care of things; he sorted things out. He had come to their house and talked to Terri about Krystal and rowing, because there had been an argument and Terri was refusing to sign forms for Krystal to go away with the team. He had not been disgusted, or he had not shown it, which came to the same thing. Terri, who liked and trusted nobody, had said, ‘’E seems all righ’,’ and she had signed.

Mr Fairbrother had once said to her, ‘It’ll be tougher for you than these others, Krys; it was tougher for me. But you can do better. You don’t have to go the same way.’

He had meant working hard at school and stuff, but it was too late for that and, anyway, it was all bollocks. How would reading help her now?

’Ow’s me boy?

He ain’ your fuckin’ boy.

’Ow d’you know?

Leanne’s sister had had to get the morning-after pill. Krystal would ask Leanne about the pill and go and get it. She could not have Obbo’s baby. The thought of it made her retch.

I gotta get out of here.

She thought fleetingly of Kay, and then discarded her: as bad as the police, to tell a social worker that Obbo walked in and out of their house, raping people. She would take Robbie for sure, if she knew that.

A clear lucid voice in Krystal’s head was speaking to Mr Fairbrother, who was the only adult who had ever talked to her the way she needed, unlike Mrs Wall, so well-intentioned and so blinkered, and Nana Cath, refusing to hear the whole truth.

I gotta get Robbie out of here. How can I get away? I gotta get away.

Her one sure refuge, the little house in Hope Street, was already being gobbled up by squabbling relatives…

She scurried around a corner underneath a street lamp, looking over her shoulder in case he was watching her, following.

And then the answer came to her, as though Mr Fairbrother had shown her the way.

If she got knocked up by Fats Wall, she would be able to get her own place from the council. She would be able to take Robbie to live with her and the baby if Terri used again. And Obbo would never enter her house, not ever. There would be bolts and chains and locks on the door, and her house would be clean, always clean, like Nana Cath’s house.

Half running along the dark street, Krystal’s sobs slowed and subsided.