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‘Caleb,’ comes the greeting.
‘Where the fuck is she?’
‘She’s at the Royal. Kayleigh says it’s a nice ward—’
‘I’m not talking about your wife. I’m talking about Ariella.’
‘Lovely girl. She just left to go back to her hotel. We’ve had a good day. She’s not like them.’
‘Them?’
‘She’s half-caste, isn’t she? Fine by me…’
I don’t get into how offensive his language is, because I wouldn’t expect anything less from the racist bastard.
‘Do you know where she’s staying? I’ve been trying to reach her.’ I am sincerely hoping the answer is a flat no.
‘She was looking for her phone earlier but she said she was staying at the Razzmatazz, Lazpaz or something – it’s right in the centre, though.’
I immediately know where he means. Thank God. If she was looking for her phone in that house, though, I know exactly what has happened to it.
‘How is she?’
‘She’s been wonderful. Took us all for a big food shop. Bought the kids some toys, did some laundry and cleaned the front room and kitchen. You know Kayleigh’s had to leave the children here, and with my back it’s hard—’
‘I meant your wife.’
‘Doing as well as can be expected. The ambulance came very quickly—’
‘I’ll be down in the morning.’
‘Gracing us with your presence, are you?’
I don’t rise to it.
‘You can tell Kayleigh’s little shits that Ariella’s phone better be found by the time I get there tomorrow morning or there’ll be hell to pay.’
I don’t wait for a response. I hang up, livid. I look up train times. The first one is at 5.30a.m. I’ll be on it.
I try the Andaz and ask to be put through to Ariella’s room. It rings out, so I leave a message, trying to sound as calm as possible.
‘Ariella, it’s Caleb. I’ll be on the first train tomorrow, so I’ll be at your hotel before nine. Stay there. Don’t leave. Don’t let anyone in apart from me.’
I hang up and pace the apartment. No one checks their hotel voicemails. So I call back and leave a message with the worried night manager. After alerting work that I won’t be in, I try to control my worry. Not for my mother, who was never a mother to me; for Ariella. She’s just spent the day in close proximity to a senior National Front member who put his own son in hospital for two weeks when he found out that I had been working on Jerry’s stall. I will never forget the sound of my nose breaking, my jaw crushing, my teeth coming loose and my skull cracking as the rings on his massive knuckles connected with the bones in my face. The beating was so bad, I was kept away from school and the hospital, and forced to heal at home until I passed out. My jaw still clicks to this day.
Ariella had just spent a day around this beast, the man who not only inspired me, but made it absolutely necessary for me to learn a martial art, to ensure my survival from his brutal beatings.
I don’t hear from Ariella all night. I dash to her hotel room as soon as I get into Liverpool the next morning. She isn’t there. Next stop is the house. I make the taxi keep the meter running.
The house still makes me shiver. I remember every dark nook and haunting cranny. The National Front flag still hangs out of the top bedroom window. For the first time I can remember, the curtains in the front room are open. I am shaking as I walk up to the door, and feel like I’m going to vomit when I press the bell.
One of Kayleigh’s kids opens the door and lets me into the narrow hallway. Clearly, school is still optional in this hellhole. I am struck by how it all looks exactly the same. Ariella, standing with her back to me, is wearing a LiverpoolFC hoodie, cooking. She is chopping her ingredients into her usual little colourful soldiers ready to go into battle on the countertop.
The monster I used to call my father is standing next to her, wearing a matching Liverpool shirt and laughing. Ariella has just smacked him lightly on the arm with a wooden spoon. He seems to be enjoying it. I feel the anger rush from the base of my spine to the nape of my neck. She points to some carrots with an apologetic smile. I stand there quietly for a little while, watching as he obediently hacks carrots next to her.
He looks clean. His hair is combed. He isn’t wearing the dirty white string vest I grew up frightened of seeing every day. Maybe I don’t have so much to worry about. Then I see it. That loaded, disgusting smile as he pats Ariella on the bottom and lets his hand linger. Ariella picks up a clean wooden spoon and smacks him, much harder this time.
‘I said, don’t do that,’ she whispers loudly. ‘I’ll happily leave and head back to London if you don’t stop.’
