Verge, p.2
Verge, page 2
‘Not a good idea, I promised I’d keep an eye on you.’
Rowena licks her lips. ‘Well, what if I were to phone Tessa and tell her that your eyes were on me a bit too much, lingering on all the wrong places?’ She smiles and runs a finger over her collarbone, traces a line down her cleavage. ‘I wonder, would that be a breach of contract?’
Halim’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. Think of the money, he tells himself, think of the money.
3
‘you killed me, rowena.’
She looks down at her hand – in it, her curved skinning knife is dripping red, and below, sprawled on the floor of the truck, is a lamb with its flank heaving and pale tongue flopped out. Its slit-eye rolls up towards her, wide with terrible knowing …
Rowena’s jolted awake by a bump in the road, her head and heart thudding. It takes a moment to figure out where she is, and as she glances over at Halim he raises an eyebrow.
‘You were muttering in your sleep,’ he says.
She closes her mouth, rubs her forehead where it must have knocked the window, and realises her armpits are damp with sweat. The earlier brightness has dimmed to an end-of-day gloom as the whole Kingdom unfurls before the truck’s wheels: road signs to places she’s never heard of; hills rising and falling like fists; other people’s fences and fields, sagging under the weight of a recent storm. They must be miles from home now, she thinks. Only, Pickbury isn’t home any more, not without Pa. The tugging inside her chest and the static in her bones confirm what she already knows: she won’t be back this way again.
Halim looks over. ‘We’re approaching the border, Rowena, get your passport ready.’
She doesn’t remember him ever speaking her name before – it rolled softly from his mouth in his thick Egyptian accent, a contrast to how her mother wielded it.
‘What do I say to the Border Guard?’ she asks.
‘Nothing, let me do all the talking. I’m the one who’s secured the job contracts, and the one with the qualifications and licence, you’re simply my assistant.’
‘Whatever.’
Rowena’s never been this close to a checkpoint before. The tarmac is confettied with gum and cigarette butts, and above them the Liberty Jack snaps in the wind next to two county flags heralding the one they’re leaving and the one they’re about to enter. To the right are hitching posts for horses and a low concrete building with horizontal slits for windows. The arrow pointing towards it calls it a ‘Processing Unit’ but it looks like a cell block. A few feet away a leathery-skinned man in a torn, knee-length duffle coat holds up a sign and eyes Rowena hopefully: ‘Will work hard’ it says in slanting black letters.
The truck shudders over rumble-strips and comes to a rest at the white line, on top of a giant pressure pad that throws red numbers to a monitor in the Guards’ booth. A large, top-lit sign shouts orders at them:
PLEASE HAVE YOUR PASSPORT READY AND REMOVE ANY HELMET OR ITEM OF CLOTHING THAT COVERS THE FACE.
YOU MUST DECLARE ANY EXTRA CARGO THAT IS NOT LISTED IN YOUR E-PROFILE BEFORE CROSSING THE BORDER.
BORDER STAFF ARE LEGALLY PERMITTED TO CONDUCT SCANS AND SEARCHES OF YOUR VEHICLE. YOU MUST COMPLY.
Rowena gapes at the huge reinforced fence, striking far out into the distance like a silver blade cleaving the land in two. She remembers hearing that some landowners who can’t afford professional fencing dig cavernous ditches instead and stick them through with broken glass or spikes, like sharp-toothed mouths.
She whistles. ‘They really don’t want us in there, do they?’
‘They do if we have something to offer,’ Halim says.
There was plenty of work in construction, land registry and surveillance in the early years of the Split, when county borders were made hard and had to be monitored for access – so much so that people thought the economy might withstand being cut off from the Continent. Yet as fast as these geological surgeons could add their steel scars to the map, more bits of land were dropping into the sea or being flooded beyond salvation.
Halim clicks off the engine, lowers the window and reaches across Rowena’s knees, making her shift away as he hooks his passport from the glove compartment.
The man in the booth narrows his eyes as he’s handed it, possibly surprised that it’s in the Kingdom’s colours. The Guard licks his fingers and turns each page, poring over the stamps, taking his time before actually scanning the chip. The other Border Guard ignores them, his balding head bent over a newspaper. Rowena notices the headline: ‘Expect More Carving as Sea Levels Rise’. How long before we’re all pushed further inland, piled on top of each other like pigs in the back of Halim’s truck? she wonders.
‘This vehicle is registered to a Mr Halim Hosny?’
‘Yes, that’s me,’ Halim replies.
‘And you’ve secured work in Wellshire.’
‘Yes. It should come up on your system.’
The Guard sucks his teeth.
Rowena can sense Halim’s body tense next to her.
‘I’m part of the Seasonal Agricultural Workers’ Scheme,’ he says in a monotone. ‘I’ve secured work with Mr J. Shand, and also Swanleigh Farm. Here are the references.’ Halim holds up his phone for the man to see – one of the fancy smartphones, nothing like Rowena’s vintage handset.
‘Hmm. And so is this …’ the man leans forward, the computer sheen highlighting the pores in his face, ‘… Miss Rowena Murray?’
Rowena passes Halim her passport and sits on her hands, trying not to look shifty as the Guard scrutinises first it and then her.
‘Miss Murray, do you confirm that you’re working for this man under your own free will?’
Halim frowns. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
The Guard raises his hands as if Halim – through two sheets of glass and metal – were somehow a threat. The other Guard looks up from his paper.
‘These are standard questions, sir, we’ve had a lot of child trafficking for cheap labour in these parts, a lot of Land Boys and Girls coming from—’
‘I’m not a child!’ Rowena yelps, making Halim flinch as she leans over him. ‘If anything he’s working for me, for my family. Jesus, what’s your problem?’
Halim darts her a look but she stays where she is.
The Guard purses his lips and hands back their passports before pressing a button to turn the light green and raise the barrier. Halim starts the engine and the truck lurches away.
‘Twat,’ Rowena mutters. She sticks two fingers up at the security camera as they pass.
‘You need to let me do the talking,’ Halim growls once they’ve sloshed through the wheel-wash and passed the ‘Welcome to Wellshire’ sign, its ‘Twinned with’ part scrubbed out.
‘Child trafficking?’ Rowena sneers. ‘I’m seventeen!’
‘If you want to be treated like an adult you should start acting like one. I can’t have you insult officials and risk my permit. If I lose my travel privileges, I lose my income and my truck, do you understand?’
She glares at him, puts bite in her voice: ‘I might not know as many fancy words as you but I know how to speak to small-minded button-pushers like that. I know my way around those kind of people, I grew up with a bunch of them.’
‘You sound almost nostalgic.’
Rowena curls her lip and turns away.
Halim flicks on the headlights in the yellowing dusk and turns the world into an etching. The truck bumps over something, throwing them both into the air, and he brakes hard.
‘What the hell was that?’ Rowena asks, a steadying hand on the dashboard.
They climb out of the cab to find a hare lying broken in the road, its hind leg in spasm, its domed eye flashing orange from the hazard lights.
It’s another sign, Rowena thinks with a shudder. Coldness slides over her and the shadows become elastic – reaching out from the branches and thickets, creeping closer in the periphery of her vision.
‘It’s in pain,’ Halim mutters. ‘Step back.’
Rowena silently counts the number of times the hare’s leg kicks out in spasm – one, two, three … Her mother always said to pay attention to these things … Seven, eight, nine. A beeping makes her look up – the truck is in reverse and heading towards her. She jumps back into the nettles.
The wheels crunch over the hare again, finishing the job they started. Rowena walks over and stares down at the mess left behind. The hare’s body is split wide, a rib spikes through soft fur as if it were the dagger that tore open the rest of it, spilling its steaming guts onto the road and exposing the clutch of pink-jellied leverets she was carrying. Rowena watches the hare’s silk-white belly turn crimson with blood. She crouches, grazes her fingers across the glistening tarmac. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers, as her own belly becomes wracked by sobs that rattle through her spine. She doesn’t know why she’s crying – she’s handled and skinned countless animals before – but she can’t stop.
Halim sounds the horn and calls out the window. ‘Are you coming?’
Thirteen, she thinks as she takes her seat and slams the door. Her leg kicked thirteen times.
‘I thought you were about to kneel down and skin it,’ Halim sniffs as the truck pulls away.
Rowena keeps her tear-stained face away from him and levels her voice. ‘You should never skin a hare, everyone knows that.’
The TV light glints off Rowena’s pale eyes as she lies across the hotel bed with its too-tight bedding and takes another bite of burger. She nods to the tiny bathroom in the corner.
Halim clenches his washbag, heads inside and checks the lock twice. He leans over the sink and takes a few synchronised breaths with the guy in the mirror. A year and a half has changed the city boy, he thinks, roughed him up a little – but he’s still not the right Halim. Underneath the grime and stubble, the forearms tanned from driving, he’s just a soft fruit with no stone, at risk of splitting and spoiling. I’ll give it a bit longer, he thinks, I’ve come this far.
He unpicks his laces, places each sock in its corresponding boot, peels off his cable-knit jumper, jeans, boxers, the T-shirt that used to be a crisp white. He unclips the chain from around his neck and runs his thumb over the nine-carat-gold disc that was destined for the collar of a dog that never was. Then he sets the shower going, blasts away the stray pube in the corner and steps into the flimsy cubicle, letting the water press his eyelids shut. He stands there for a few minutes, steaming up the glass, feeling his skin breathe, the extractor fan purring in his ears. Then he unwraps the hotel soap, lathers his hands and reaches down to stroke himself.
The bathroom mirror whines as Halim swipes away condensation and leans closer to guide the razor across the contour of his jaw.
There’s a knock. ‘You done wanking off in there? I need a piss.’
He winces as the blade catches, his face turning almost as red as the blood dripping onto the porcelain.
When he opens the door Rowena is standing right there, an empty sort of look on her face. ‘Thank you for letting me use your bathroom,’ he says, nudging the damp hair from his forehead.
She ignores him, heads past and locks the door.
‘Okay, well, I’ll be in my truck.’ The tap gushes inside. ‘See you in the morning.’
As he turns to leave, Halim’s phone rings: an international number. His mother, choosing to ignore the time difference again. He can’t face her – and knows what she’ll say – so he lets it ring out. His eyes catch on the soft dent Rowena’s body left in the bedspread, and then wander over to the three Tarot cards laid out on the formica side-table; grim images of a stabbed man, someone crying into their hands, and Death riding a white horse. He’s never considered himself a superstitious man, yet for some reason there’s a bad feeling scratching at his bones.
4
backstabbing. torment. death. Rowena bites the inside of her cheek as she looks down at the three Tarot cards still lying there on their silk square, tainted by the TV light as Botoxed bikini girls spit curses at each other over her shoulder. Her mind races: it’s a warning, like the shadow I saw at the edge of Pickbury, the hare that we killed … Something’s close, watching, waiting for me to screw up again. Is it the one who cursed me, or the curse itself? Maybe It wants me this time?
She perches on the edge of the bed, knocks on the table three times and turns over another card from the deck, hoping for some kind of consolation. A prickle shoots up her spine, followed by a hot flood of adrenaline. Death. Again? She shakes her head, rubs her eyes and turns over another: Death, the skeleton rider. She throws the silk over the cards with a quivering hand and they scatter to the floor. Were there really two too many? She doesn’t linger to find out – without looking, she can sense something crossing the room, a distortion in the air. ‘Halim?’ Her voice catches: she knows it’s not him. There’s a grey flicker behind her in the full-length mirror, and now the beige walls are closing in and her mouth seems filled with woodsmoke, making her gag. She leaps up, pressing one fist to her chest as if that might stop the pounding as she reaches for the door handle and fumbles it with sweat-slick fingers. Behind her the TV blinks and then cuts out, leaving the room dark and silent. Silent, but not empty.
Rowena sits barefoot on the low wall outside the hotel, waiting for her breath to steady. A witch mark is scratched into the brick pillar next to her, shaped like the swirl of a marble. A failed attempt to ward off bad spirits and evildoers, she thinks, gripping her rabbit’s foot tight. Who would have cursed a baby? And why me? She presses her thumb on the leathery paw-pad and looks up at the pinprick of stars, wondering if her gran is as good a healer as Tessa claims. When she looks back down she catches Halim’s eyes from the cab of the truck where he’s sat reading. He goes back to his book. Rowena shivers, pulls her cardigan tighter across her thin floral summer dress and slips off the wall.
‘Shit!’ Halim jumps when she taps on the window. He leans over, opens the door and Rowena climbs into the passenger seat. They sit there for a while in silence.
‘Bad dream?’ he asks, his question tinged with sarcasm.
‘I left my boots in the room.’
Halim shrugs. ‘From what I’ve seen, you like running around with no shoes on.’
Rowena looks over at the hotel – a converted old town house with a modern extension stuck onto it like a concrete barnacle, sucking out all the charm. ‘Still can’t believe you sleep in this poky truck most nights.’
‘It’s free, and – usually – it’s private.’
‘Sorry, but I can’t sleep in that room, it reeks of cheap fucks and hairspray,’ Rowena says, too embarrassed to tell him how scared she is to go back in there.
Halim clears his throat. ‘Okay. Well, if you don’t want it I’ll have it – no point wasting the booking.’
‘What? But I thought you’d …’
He holds out his hand for the key.
Rowena frowns at him. ‘I paid for it!’
‘Are you going to use it then?’
She bites her lip, places the key in his palm and grasps the sleeve of his expensive-looking sweatshirt: she wants to ask him to stay, to tell him that she doesn’t want to be alone – but he might take it the wrong way and that would be worse. ‘Can you get my stuff, please?’ she asks instead.
He must see something in her face because rather than protest he gives a quick nod and heads for the hotel.
Rowena puffs out her cheeks and sinks low in the seat. She looks around the cab. A half-eaten banana – a luxury import – lies discarded on the dashboard between a cup of something that smells and looks like pond-water and a book, A Complete Woodworker’s Manual, canyoned up its spine from heavy use. Turquoise beads are looped around the driver’s headrest, a striking contrast to the sea of grey-and-black plastic and metal. She exhales over the window and draws a large eye on the glass.
A while later, Halim opens the cab door and drops Rowena’s boots and backpack onto the seat. ‘If you pull this lever the seats recline all the way back, there are curtains on the side windows, an eye mask if you want it and blankets underneath. Don’t run the battery down and remember: no smoking.’ He grabs a few of his things, eyes her sidelong, then clicks open the glove compartment to swipe its contents into his bag.
Rowena tuts.
Crossing the tarmac, he looks back once and then melts into the gloom of the lobby. Rowena turns the rear-view mirror and wing mirrors as far out as they can go, in the hope that they’ll reflect any negative energy, and then draws the curtains so that she can’t see the jagged elbows and arms of the trees. As she reaches over to click on the radio her toes brush against something in the footwell. A square of white. She picks it up and turns it over. It’s a photo of Halim as a boy with what must be his parents: a handsome duo looking stiffly at the camera, Dad with his hand on Halim’s little shoulder, Mum trying out a smile. It looks like an evening do, full of twinkling lights and starched tablecloths, the sort of special-occasion photo you’d stick in a frame above the sofa. With a stab, Rowena feels the absence of her own photos. They were considered an extravagance in her family, reserved for births and weddings, and they had none of those in seventeen years. The only non-practical thing that hung on the wall of the bungalow was a small painting of the Murray family farm in Culcrith, amateurish in its brushstrokes, though probably accurate in its ruggedness, according to Tessa’s descriptions. It always struck her as strange that her parents never bothered decorating the bungalow; it felt like a featureless stone shell, a practical temporary shelter and nothing more. Her mind turns to the pig heart she wedged up the chimney when she was eight, stuck through with pins – a protection against all the bad omens that Tessa kept finding and attributing to her daughter. It must be a shrivelled-up fist by now, Rowena thinks. She turns up the radio, grabs all the blankets and cocoons herself against the long hours of night that lie ahead. At 4.40 a.m. she finds herself rifling through the tourist leaflets in the enclosed porch of the hotel, a cigarette hanging from her lips.
