‘I’ve been watching your caravan,’ she says pointedly, ‘really closely.’ She leaves the statement hanging. It’s like a tiny bomb, sitting there, just waiting to go off.

  I try to remember I’m the adult here. I shouldn’t let a child intimidate me. Then again, I let everybody boss me around. I square my shoulders inside my suit. Dad says a defined shoulder projects authority. I swallow the dry lump in my throat. ‘And, what have you seen?’ I ask.

  The girl consults her notebook. I’m waiting for her to list the men I’ve brought down late at night, all their worldly possessions shoved into Tesco carriers. Any second now she’ll ask who they are, where they’ve come from and how on earth they’re all fitting inside that caravan. But she doesn’t. She just fixes her big, serious eyes on me and says, ‘I’ve not seen anything yet. But I’m still watching.’

  The relief makes me cocky. ‘Watch away. You’ll not see anything suspicious,’ I say. ‘It’s just an ordinary caravan.’ I’m tempted to invite her inside to see for herself. I’m certain the caravan won’t let me down. It’ll pull whatever magic manoeuvre’s required to convince the girl that this is an ordinary static with perfectly plausible dimensions and nothing at all to hide. No shapeshifting walls. No expanding ceiling. No homeless men hiding. We’re on the same team, me and the caravan. It understands what I’m doing with the clients. This is who I am.

  The girl’s lost interest, or maybe the cold is getting to her. She goes back inside and closes the door. The caravan still looks cavernous. I could measure again but I’m running late. I tell the clients to be more careful. Stay inside and watch out for the nosy kid next door. I’ll be back with food tomorrow evening. I go to grab my briefcase from the table. It isn’t there. I look all around the caravan. It’s disappeared. Dad’s going to ask me where it’s gone. This could be my chance to level with him. I could say, Dad, there’s something I need to tell you. I’m never going to be like you. Or I could just tell him I’ve left it in the office. Office it is. I haven’t the energy for a scene. All sixteen of the clients are adamant they haven’t touched my briefcase. I want to believe them. I honestly do.

  4

  Anna

  Pointless has just started when somebody hits the caravan door a wild clatter. ‘Who’s that?’ snaps Mummy. I want to say, how should I know? What I actually say is, ‘I’ll just go and see.’ I’m forty-seven but I still wouldn’t dare give her lip. Mummy gives me a right pissy look. She hates being disturbed during Pointless. She used to time the dinner round it. We’d sit on the sofa eating off trays while she shouted her answers at the screen. If I sat too close, I’d get showered in mashed potato; too far away, and I couldn’t reach to feed her. Mummy doesn’t eat dinner any more. She’s had no appetite since she died. Doesn’t stop her watching Pointless, though, or insisting I have my dinner while it’s on.

  It’s only five o’clock. Nobody wants their dinner at five. On the Continent they’re just rising from lunch. Not that I’ve ever been to the Continent. Mummy didn’t approve of it. We always took our holidays in Ayr. She liked Ayr. It was just as bleak as Ballycastle but they’d a sea you could look at through the rain. Now she’s gone, there’s nothing keeping me from the Continent. Only she’s not really gone, is she? She’s still here, following me round the bungalow, nagging. Dragging me to church. Demanding we head down to the caravan every weekend. Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s ever going to change. Nobody else can see Mummy. But I can. And she’s doing my head in.

  I set my tray aside. I cross the caravan to the door. Maggie waddles behind me, winding her fat body round my slippers. She’s not as fast as she once was, though she stills manages to trip me up two or three times a day. That wee dog has a murderous streak in her. She’s made it abundantly clear I’m no substitute for Mummy. She’s called after Maggie Thatcher. Mummy was a big fan of the Iron Lady; she’d the hair done like her and all. The dog takes after her namesake. She won’t do anything she doesn’t want to, dying being the first thing that comes to mind. Maggie’s nineteen now: human years, not dog ones. That’s ancient for a Yorkie. I’m starting to wonder if she might be immortal too. If it wasn’t for Maggie, I wouldn’t be tied to Seacliff. I could go anywhere I wanted: Spain, Portugal, even the States. I’ve a cousin out there, in Kentucky. I could finally be shot of Mummy. But I can’t leave. I promised her I’d take care of Maggie. I thought she’d go soon after Mummy. Here we are, three years later, two bitter old bitches in a caravan, pandering to a dead woman’s every whim.

  There are three children at the door: two girls and a sullen-looking lad. They belong to the woman in the through-other caravan next to John and Martha’s. She does something at Queen’s: research into weird myths. Mummy says it’s satanic. She used to make me shove Bible tracts under their door. The children certainly aren’t Protestant-looking. The wee one hasn’t seen a comb in weeks. I hold the door at an angle and peek at them through the slit. I don’t want them seeing into the lounge. I’m pretty sure Mummy’s only visible to me, but you never know with children. They’re more susceptible to the things beyond.

  The wee one speaks first. ‘Can your dog come out to play with us?’

  I glance down at Maggie. Never has a dog looked less interested in playing. ‘Maggie’s very old,’ I say. ‘She doesn’t really play any more.’

  ‘Can we take her for a walk, then, just up to the bench and back?’

  I’ve no weans myself – that boat sailed years ago – but I know it’s not safe to let children go wandering about in the dark, especially with the cliff in the state it’s in. I try to sound friendly, explaining this. Even though they’re only here for Maggie, it’s nice to talk to somebody who isn’t dead or halfway there. When I’m not stuck in the caravan with Mummy, I’m next door keeping an eye on Martha. You don’t get much sense out of her these days.

  If it wasn’t for Mummy, and the creeping suspicion I might look like a paedophile, I’d ask the weans in. We could raid the biscuit tin, maybe play I Spy, for there’s no playing cards in our caravan. Mummy calls them the Devil’s cards. She lost an uncle once to gambling and afterwards banned all associated activities. Everything from Snap to Seacliff’s summer bingo sessions was outlawed. We’d sit in our caravan with the windows open, listening to country gospel tapes while all the normal people played bingo in the rec room. I was jealous of the bingo people, even though I knew they were going to Hell for it. They sounded like they were having fun. Mummy doesn’t approve of fun. Not even on holidays.

  The children have no interest in spending time with me. They’re bored, but not that bored. The wee one says she’ll come back for Maggie tomorrow. It’s a statement, not a question. I can’t get over the cut of her, standing here talking down to an adult. She’s still got cartoon ducks on her wellies. She can’t be much more than ten. Mummy despises children like this. Bold children. Forward children. Children with notions. Not me. I wish I’d an ounce of her confidence. I’d turn on my heels and go back inside and tell Mummy I’d had enough. I’d move out. Sell the bungalow. Sell the caravan. Do something about the stupid dog.

  Maggie’s itching to get out. She’s looking for a walk. I take her out to do her business after Pointless so she’s in and settled before the news comes on. Mummy never misses the news. She says it’s so she can pray more effectively for people suffering in the world. Mummy’s not interested in the suffering people anywhere further south than Newry. She makes a point of switching from UTV to BBC so she gets two doses of the local news. Everybody round here’s the same. They can’t see past the end of their noses. I suppose I’m no better myself. I’ve been stuck in a rut since the day I was born. In the lounge behind me, I hear Mummy fumbling for the remote. Any second now, she’s going to shout, ‘Close that door, Anna! You’re letting all the heat out.’ I can’t risk the children hearing. The wee one looks like the sort of child who asks a lot of questions.

  I mumble something about having to look after the dog myself. I say I’m sorry. I try to close the door and, simultaneously, push Maggie back inside. The child wedges a single yellow boot in the door. She looks ferocious, not unlike Mummy in one of her moods. ‘Things are going missing round here,’ she says. ‘If I were you, I’d keep a close eye on that dog of yours.’ Then she pulls her foot out sharply and the door slams shut. I stand there for a second, mesmerized. I can still see the pink blur of their faces, pixelated behind the frosted glass. Have I just been threatened by a ten-year-old? I think I have. The disturbing thing is I feel no inclination to stand up for myself. Mummy has me worn down. Anybody can have a punt at me now; anybody at all.

  Mummy asks who was at the door. I lie. I’m not sure why I lie. Maybe I’m scundered that I’ve let myself be bullied by a child. I tell her it was Pete, the caretaker, warning me about burglaries on site. I get a mouthful then, a five-minute rant about slipping standards. Seacliff isn’t what it used to be back in the day, when it was full of nice Christian families and they’d open-air meetings on the bowling lawn. Mummy says there’s a wicked presence about the place. She says she’s seen foreign fellas sneaking about. She must be delusional. There’s no foreign fellas in Seacliff. Sure, what would they be doing in Ballycastle, in February, in the rain? She turns her attention back to the telly. There’s a round on Agatha Christie. Mummy’s in her element. As soon as Pointless is over she tells me to take Maggie out. As always, I do exactly as I’m told.

  I don’t put her on the lead. Maggie’s the only dog on site and she’s too old to wander far. I walk behind the caravan and along the cliff, keeping away from the edge. Even in the dark I can see the ground is crumbling. It’s getting closer and closer to the caravans. The empty one, at the end of the row, is only a few feet from the edge now. There’s something weird about that caravan. There’s nobody in it, but when I’m up there, I always feel like I’m being watched. I’m probably just paranoid. Though Mummy’s right, there’s a rougher element in Seacliff these days. You should see the big beefy fella in Marty McClintock’s van. He’s absolutely covered in tattoos.

  Maggie toddles along behind me, sniffing and pausing to dribble on the grass. Sometimes she veers dangerously close to the edge. I’ve nothing against her. As far as dogs go, Maggie’s grand, and there’s been times when Mummy’s tearing strips off her that I’ve even felt a bit of solidarity. But, if she were to totter over the cliff’s edge, would that be such an awful thing? There are worse ways for a nineteen-year-old dog to go. On a selfish note, it’d free me up. At least, I tell myself it would.

  Would it really? I doubt it. The problem is Mummy’s got to me. She’s spent so long telling me I can’t manage myself I’ve actually started believing her. I’m a homebird. I’m not cut out for socializing. And, when it comes to men … Well, Mummy says there’s no point setting myself up for a disappointment. I’d like to have got married, maybe even had weans. For a while I was seeing Leonard from church. He wasn’t good-looking or anything, but he was awful kind. And he’d his own house and the plumbing business. I could’ve been happy with Leonard but he wanted to get married right away. I couldn’t abandon Mummy. It wouldn’t have been right. Those last few years she needed me for everything. Feeding. Bathing. Helping her to the toilet. Leonard said I needed to draw a line. Mummy was asking too much of me. Leonard’s with Michelle now. She’s younger. They’ve a wee one on the way. I’m happy for them. At least, I’m trying to be. It’s too late for me to be happy myself. I’ll be fifty soon. I’ll hardly be making any big changes now.

  There’s a word for the day after tomorrow: overmorrow. It was on Eggheads yesterday. I’m forever accumulating useless facts off Mummy’s programmes. I’ve been thinking about overmorrow all day. It’s depressing me. Nothing’s going to change tomorrow or the day after or any time soon. What have I got to look forward to? Work. Church. Home. Caravan at the weekend. Same old, same old for the next thirty years. Then eternity with God and Mummy. Hopefully God’ll stick us in different bits of Heaven. Knowing my luck, we’ll be sharing a caravan.

  I’m standing on the clifftop, right in front of poor Lynette’s bench, feeling sorry for myself, when the foreign fella grabs me from behind. I don’t hear him. I don’t see him. One second I’m alone in the dark, the next I’m being dragged backwards by the shoulders. Everything happens so quickly I don’t even think to scream.

  ‘I got you,’ says the man. He speaks English with an accent: Polish maybe, or Romanian.

  I turn to look at his pale face looming out of the dark. He looks straight at me. I recognize that look. It’s the way people always look at me: Leonard, Michelle, the girls in work. This stranger pities me. He sees a frumpy, middle-aged woman standing alone on a cliff edge looking sad, and he’s made the assumption most people would make. I’m mortified. I begin to mumble incoherently. ‘I wasn’t … I wouldn’t … I’m just out here walking my dog.’

  The man’s embarrassed too. He’s misread the situation. Or perhaps he hasn’t. He doesn’t know how you move away from a cliff edge. He seizes upon the dog.

  ‘You’re walking dog?’ he repeats desperately. We’re both clinging to this line.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Maggie. My mother’s dog.’

  ‘Where is dog?’

  I look around. Maggie’s nowhere to be found. I call her name. She usually comes when I call. Tonight, she doesn’t. I know, instantly, we won’t find her. Maggie’s gone. She’s toddled over the cliff or those horrible children have taken her. Still, I let the man help me search. Anything to delay the moment when I have to tell Mummy I’ve lost her dog. She’ll go ballistic. Even The One Show won’t be able to distract her and Mummy never misses The One Show, although she says it’s not the same since Christine whatsername went over to Loose Women. (Mummy doesn’t approve of Loose Women, neither the concept nor the show.)

  We spend ages searching for Maggie. We go all the way around the site. The man’s English isn’t great and I’ve no idea what he’s doing here. But he is kind and I am grateful for this. I won’t tell Mummy about him. It’d be nice to have something of my own. Beneath my anorak, my shoulders are still throbbing where he grabbed me. It is years since anyone touched me. Literally years. I wonder if he’s left a mark.

  5

  Vidas

  The second I empty my backpack I notice Tetis’s tool belt is missing. It’s not hard to keep track of my possessions. Everything fits in a single bag. My passport, with its burgundy cover. The picture of my parents’ wedding. Clothes and toiletries. Two fat Stephen King novels Richard lent me. My English isn’t bad, but there’s room for improvement. Richard keeps telling me to read more. There’s nothing else to do in this place. We must stay inside the caravan. He’ll get in trouble if anyone spots us. I feel bad. I have not been careful. I get bored and go walking late at night. Richard’s all about helping people. I could tell him I’ve been helping too: poor old Frankie and that sad-looking lady last night on the cliff. If I hadn’t been there to stop her, who knows what she’d have done. The truth is I can’t breathe inside this caravan. Every day the walls keep coming in. Will I ever get away from here?

  The other men are better at passing the time. They play cards or write in the journals their caseworkers have given them. They tell us writing’s good for our mental health. Writing. Drawing. Talking about our feelings. What’s the point? A job’s the only thing that would make me feel better. A good job and a decent place to live. I’m not complaining about the caravan. Richard’s risked his job, sneaking us on to the site. It might be cramped and smelly, but it’s no worse than the hostel and a million times better than sleeping outside in February. And there’s the sea. Every morning I wake to the waves crashing against the cliff. God, I’ve missed the sea. When you grow up in a city like Klaipe˙da the ocean’s in your blood. It soothes you.

  I check under my sleeping bag. I turn my backpack inside out, just to be sure. Yusef is dozing next to me. I ask if he’s seen the tool belt. ‘It’s important,’ I say. ‘My grandfather gave it to me.’ He shrugs, pretending he doesn’t understand, then goes back to sleep. I don’t blame him. I’ve done the same myself. The shrug. The baffled look. Sorry, no English. Sometimes, it’s easier this way. Yusef isn’t the problem. He’s dead on, as they say in Belfast. We worked together on the building site and got laid off on the same day. I’m not so sure about the others. I don’t trust them yet. Tetis brought me up to see the good in everyone. He always gave his workers chances they didn’t deserve. He used to take men on straight out of prison, no references required. People thought he was soft, but he wasn’t. He saw potential in his workers, sometimes before they saw it themselves. I used to be more like Tetis. It was easier to trust people back home.

  It’s hard to trust these men. They’re from nine different countries, none of them mine. How can they be anything but strangers when we can’t talk? We’ve only got a few shared words. We do our best. Pointing. Signing. Scribbling pictures on paper like children playing a game. Down here, I feel a child. It’s like being on holidays; a horrible, never-ending holiday. Sleeping on the floor. Washing out of a bucket. Playing cards. Endlessly playing cards. If I play one more game of poker, I’m going to scream. Something about this place is stuck. This is not a useful way to live. It is wrong to make a person feel this useless. I should write that in my journal. It is exactly the kind of shit caseworkers love.

  My journal’s long gone. I swapped it with a Syrian man for a thing of shower gel. Minty fresh. The shower gel ran out weeks ago. Now I’m using dish soap. My hair feels like it doesn’t belong to my head. When you’re homeless in somebody else’s country, nothing feels like it belongs to you. You don’t even belong to yourself any more. You’re not allowed to settle. You can’t point to the past and say, look at my roots running deep in this place; don’t even think about moving me on. Even here, by the sea – the same sea that runs into the Baltic – I don’t belong. It is not my place. I am nothing here. The things I’ve brought from home are all that’s left of me.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7