Kate Tempest - The Bricks that Built the Houses

Graham, seeing his son switch, runs drunkenly to help and falls into the mess. He knocks over a row of glasses and drenches himself with beer. He slips on the beer he spilled and knocks a bottle off the bar. As he falls, the bottle lands on his head and he sits, stunned, where he lands, shouting drowsy encouragement at his son until he finds the strength to stand and launch himself at Dale.

David is outraged to see Graham trying to get involved. He throws himself towards the falling Graham and stands over him feeling his heart beating hard in his chest.

‘Go on!!’ Graham says. ‘Hit me!! You can’t hurt me!’ He staggers to his feet and swings a blow that knocks David against the jukebox and makes Chaka Khan start again from the top.

Graham moves over towards him and is ready to kick his head in when he sees Miriam, horrified, emerging from the toilet.

Ron is firm and focused. Harry can see the curve of his eyeballs, two bloodshot moons.

‘So, go on back inside and raise a glass with your old man and celebrate your baby brother getting another year older. But. ’ He stares at Harry, hard. ‘But, Harry, you need to lay your hands on that cash you took and that gear you took, and you need to bring that cash to Giuseppe’s — and leave it with me. That’s what you need to do.’ Ron holds one massive hand up in front of Harry’s face, index finger extended, pointing upwards. ‘I know who you are, Harry. I know where your dad lives, I know your little brother’s National fucking Insurance number. OK? I’m not fucking around, you with me?’ His other hand reaches for Harry’s neck. Ron holds Harry’s throat for a brief moment, squeezes it. A slight smile curling around his lip.

Harry’s getting dizzy, shooting pains are wrenching her insides. ‘Fuck off, mate, you’re all talk,’ she croaks. Her head is pounding with the lack of oxygen. Her throat hurts from his grip. She stares him out, trying to keep calm, holding her breath.

Ron squeezes harder, enjoying himself. Looking at Harry like a cat with a wounded bird. He loosens his grip on her throat, lets her get a breath, takes her shoulder in his other hand and grips it hard. Pushes his fingers down into her muscle, pinching the bone. Smiling.

Becky runs out of the pub, falling towards the road. Sees Harry talking to Ron. Sees the face on her uncle, the menace at the edges of his mouth. Harry is holding herself together, or at least trying to. She hurries over, threads her arm through Harry’s and smiles at Ron.

‘What’s this?’ she says. ‘Mothers’ meeting?’ She walks Harry off. ‘Sorry, Ron,’ she calls back over her shoulder. ‘I need her for a sec.’

Harry says nothing. Where’s Leon? Ron stands merciless and still like an iceberg.

Becky’s breath is tearing in and out of her lungs. They turn the corner, slow the pace.

‘Are you OK?’ Harry asks. Becky shakes her head. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ She holds Harry’s arm tighter, leads her across the road and on to the high street. After a hundred yards or so Harry stops walking, ducking under the awning of a closed greengrocer’s, pulling Becky to a stop beside her. Rubbing her throat.

‘Why’ve you stopped?’

‘I need to tell you something,’ Harry says, looking around for Ron, for Leon. Staring back behind her over her shoulders, looking down the street the way they’ve just come and then swivelling to stare ahead at every figure, shrinking from every face that passes. Her eyes as wide and crazed as a panicked factory calf.

‘What’s wrong?’ Becky watches Harry’s screwed-up face. Harry stares dumbly at the sky, tears prickling. ‘You got yourself in trouble with my uncle?’ she offers.

‘Yeah,’ she says, reaching for a cigarette, putting it into her mouth the wrong way round. Becky stops her hand before she can strike the lighter. Harry looks at her, confused, and Becky takes the cigarette out of her mouth and turns it the right way round. Harry nods her thanks, looking worried, grateful. ‘I think he’s going to kill me,’ she says as she lights up.

‘What have you done?’

Harry can feel herself sweating despite the cold wind. The cigarette churns her stomach. She wobbles a little. ‘I need to get out of here,’ she whispers. Becky leans close so that she can hear her above the street sounds. ‘I need to leave town.’ Becky narrows her eyes. ‘Tonight.’ She tries not to be too dramatic about it. Becky stands with her, watching the trouble on her face. Harry pushes her knuckles into her forehead, holds the back of her skull.

‘It’s OK,’ Becky tells her and Harry nods grimly. Stares around the street for looming silhouettes, aware of every dark doorway.

She looks back at Becky and feels the punch to the throat she always feels when she looks into Becky’s face. She fights for breath, clambers off imaginary ropes and claws her folded body back to standing. Her heart rattles her ribs. The storm’s coming; she can smell it rising up from the tarmac.

‘Will you come with me?’ She tries to say it quiet but it comes out fast and loud. It’s been a long time coming but now there’s no more time. She holds her breath, and waits. Everything is very slow. She watches Becky’s chin, Becky’s ears, Becky’s left shoulder. She can feel Becky’s eyes on her like cameras. Time is passing cruelly, every second bringing greater danger.

Becky notices the little curves beside Harry’s nostrils, the smile lines, scared eyes as bright as wet stones. The sharpness of her cheekbones, the roundness of her cheeks. The little open face, small and tough and pretty. Stood there biting her bottom lip, back straight, holding her fag, knuckles pressing into her forehead. Becky walks towards her slowly. She gets up as close as she can and stands an inch from Harry’s body, breathing, looking at her neck, her cheek, her eyebrows. They hug for a thundering minute, holding tightly to each other, like they’d fall down if they let go. Harry pulls away. Stares around her. No one’s coming. She looks back, breathless, at Becky’s lips, and everything evaporates. She sees Becky’s kiss before she feels it. Slowly at first. A searching kiss, hot small tonguefuls of each other’s mouths. Becky’s hands on Harry’s collar like Harry always dreamed of, fingertips across her neck, finding her ears, the tops of her small cheeks. They stand there kissing in the glow of the shopfronts and street lights, not blinking, the two of them breathing like animals.

The clouds open. The rain falls out all over the street.

Becky laughs then, and it takes Harry by surprise and she wants to kiss more, but before she can try Becky grabs her hand and they are running, up towards the roundabout. They take a breathless left and there’s Leon, sitting in the car with the motor running. The money in the case on the back seat.

She lets go of Harry’s hand, walks round to the passenger side, smiling a quick, dark smile that shakes Harry’s blood before she gets in the car and closes the door behind her.

Harry tries to make sense of it, feels the clouds throwing their darts at her back. She glances over her shoulder towards the shouting voices outside the pub. She holds her forehead, taps her fingers against the drum of her skull. To run? Or stay and try and sort this out? Either way, they risk losing everything. Even if they give it all back, it’s not safe here any more. She looks at Becky in the car. Thinks of her brother. Her arm pounds from where Ron had gripped it. She can still see his eyes burning down, feel his thumb on her windpipe. What will he do to them? She can’t think. She opens the door and gets in the back, next to the suitcase.

They pull up outside Becky’s flat. She lets herself in and runs to her room, looks at all the things that she has that she doesn’t need or want or understand the use for any more. Passport. Underwear. Phone charger. Wash stuff. How many clothes? These jeans? Phone charger. Passport. Where’s that blue jumper? Which coat? Underwear . She gets a bag and fills it quickly, moving round her room, seeing everything as if for the first time; all the things that are Pete’s things, and all the things that are her things, that were either from him or about him or hold some spiteful memory. The phantom Pete follows her around while she packs; she can sense him there, sobbing in her knicker drawer as she digs around for socks. She’s getting out. She’s leaving.