Bad II the Bone (9 page)

Y’s crib, Acton, West London

13.40

Monday July 8th

Patra’s mouth fell open slackly as she held up her ten fingers and nodded her head in deep appreciation.

The workmanship here just did not come any better.

Before they ever met and became friends she had experienced many talon technicians here and across the pond - Atlanta in particular - but Y was a true artist. A Whitney, hell no, an Aretha Franklin of nails. The end product, even with no nail polish applied, was immaculate enough to be worn as is, buffed and polished to perfection. Daaayum! If she hadn’t seen her apply the tips herself with the acrylic overlay, she would have thought Y had patented some new super slick nail application procedure. But it was nothing as dramatic as that. This was the product of sheer skill, brilliance and genius.

Even her converted sitting room was created by someone with an eye for quality and detail. Y had moved about the co
ntents of her lounge for maximum effect. The objet’s d’art and any of her personal effects that did not match up with the image of how the work area should be were banished to her bedroom. Her trophy stand that contained all her Kendo awards was converted to displaying products; the photographs of the posse and family were replaced with product posters. Being severely limited with what could be done to the place didn’t stop a keen appreciation for colour and space, transforming it from what it had been to the elegant beauty salon it now was.

After a few minutes of drooling admiration Patra placed both hands down on the work station her fingers outstretched.

“What colour do you think I should wear?” Patra asked.

“So you want consultation too?” Y gave an understanding nod. “That will be an extra ten pounds please.”

Patra laughed.

“You money grabbing bitch, I’m paying you nearly double what some of these other salons charge and hell, you’re not even a salon.”

“I’m worth every penny. Aren’t you satisfied with the quality of my work?” Y asked feigning shock. Patra nearly gave away the game with a knee jerk response`of course I am boo’ but held herself back at the last minute, wagging her finger accusingly to say she was not so easily duped.

Y grinned, took Patra’s forefinger and used a large fluffy brush to flick particles of dust from it.

That was the price you paid – with corny clichés aside – for the best in the west. It had taken one of Y’s old dumbass Jamaican adages ‘Business and friendship don’t mix’ to keep things on the straight and narrow. Patra had been tempted on more than one occasion to play the friendship card to jump the long queues that were forming lately but she had to remain cool. It was her own fault most of the time anyway because a simple call or a reminder when they met for training would be enough for Y to block out a time slot for her. But obviously that lacked the element of challenge for Patra’s sensibilities. As usual she paid the price for her risk taking mentality and that meant wading through Ebony, The Pride, assorted female magazines dedicated to dissecting the Black male while waiting for some old dear in a pearl necklace Um-ing and ah-ing over a perfectly formed eyebrow shape.

Inconveniences aside, it was worth every damn minute.

“Don’t you think they’re too long?” Y said after appraising them thoroughly.

“These?” Patra asked spreading her fingers again to take a better look herself. “No way, they’re perfect.” She then stared intently at Y. “You dissin’ me?”

“Would I do that?” Y asked innocently. “Okay I know before they invented dishwashers you used to throw your plates in the bin and I suppose you can get away with riding your bike but how are you going to put on gloves and box without shattering them?”

Patra nodded, smiling slyly.

“Don’t worry I’ve got it all worked out, sugahhh.”

“Have you now?”

“As a matter of fact, yeah, I have. All my training for the next two weeks will be shadow boxing so they’ll be safe. What’s worrying me is being away from my baby for all that time. It’s gonna be hard without all that power between my legs.”

“I believe yuh.” Y burst into raucous laughter. Patra’s am
orous references to her Kawasaki Ninja ZX would make a casual listener blush. “That brings me on to my next point. You not having a man for so long and by now forgetting what bit goes where, I can think of somewhere else those claws are going to be dangerous.”

Patra’s face brightened with a sense of understanding.

“Daaayum!” She emphasized. “You know, that just up an’ slipped my mind. You’d better soak those babies off girlfriend because I want nothing to come between me an my clit.”

Y couldn’t contain herself as Patra’s contrived deep south accent fizzled out.

“Try getting it on with those deadly weapons at the tips of your fingers. That could be messy.” Y made a funny face and shivered.

“Nasty!” Patra
emphasized then looked over to Y’s hands. All neat and more importantly long.

“Hey bitch! Practise what you preach,” Patra pointed accu
singly at Y’s fingers although not as long as her own but growing.

Y flinched.

“Si yah! I’m only making my real nails grow out, giving them a breather from the extensions.”

“Yeah, right!” Patra shook her head and spoke to the cei
ling. “She’s fucking wid me and we’re both in the same shit.”

“Speak for yourself gal. I’ve got something stiff and black waiting for me later,” Patra nearly fell off her swivel chair with the hilarity of that lying statement.

“It’s waiting for you alright. Black, ten inches long and vibrating like a motherfucker.”

“Shhhhh!” Y chided. “There are virgins present in the room.”

“Where? I ain’t seen none.”

They laughed some more and then Y settled back to finish what she had started.

Armed with Patra’s chosen design of the bust of Queen Nefertiti, she stood up and walked over to assorted pieces of equipment she stored beside the far wall. On a trolley, neatly set on a fluffy towel was the air gun and its component parts.  They sat there gleaming on a bed of white, like tools to be used by a punctilious surgeon in an operating room. She started to assemble her air gun where she stood and soon felt an uncha
racteristic silence descend on what was before a boisterous vibe.

Y immediately involved her in a topic she knew she felt pa
ssionately about.

“I can bet Daddy must be feeling pleased his daughter has given up the idea of being a dispatch rider for the more gla
morous world of modeling.”

Patra kissed her teeth with unshielded disgust, a tableau of all the family conflicts boldly coming to the forefront of her mind.

“I’ve told my mama about my plans so I suppose he knows where I’m coming from. They sleep in the same bed. But I wasn’t going to tell him, shit. Hey Pop’s, let’s have a father to daughter talk. What do you say? Shit man.”

The dredged up angst was self evident in her voice and Y felt like pond scum for nudging the conversation in that dire
ction but Patra didn’t talk much about it. And Y being the person she was felt concerned about that.

Y walked back over to her work station with the air gun fu
lly assembled and turned to face her again.

She asked her.

“Do you ever think he will ever accept you, for you?”

Patra shook her head.

“No fucking way. Unless I suddenly decide to complete my MA in Business Studies, find what he considers a respectable job, marry into a known family of good breeding in Atlanta and have two point five children he could dote on and doing that shit on my hands and knees, begging for forgiveness while I kiss his black ass, no way!”

Y leaned back into her chair and looked at the glow of r
esolve shining in her eyes and those firm set lips, understanding why this family feud would remain at stalemate. She was much more like her father than she would choose to admit and both being the star sign of Taurus meant neither would give in without a fight.

Ms Ramona Cleopatra Jones left the US almost begging the UK for political asylum. The States were suffocating her with its conservative views on being a woman, in particular a Black woman with her own set of values that weren’t considered acceptable. From what she had read before coming here about Europe’s open mindedness and her thirst for adventure, Britain was a no brainer. It had become home very quickly and, although it broke her mama’s heart to see her go, preacher Jones was relieved. Ever since then Patra was in a constant state of rebellion against everything her father stood for. When the posse sat and talked about their childhoods, the issue of Patra’s preacher father’s lack of love for her was expressed with anger and bitterness. The girls shared an empathy with her.

The entire direction that Patra’s life took was meant to be the antithesis of everything her father believed in and repr
esented.

Mr Ignatius Jones was a self-made millionaire who had e
migrated from Barbados to the States in the days when it wasn’t the fashionable thing to do. Over the years he had worked his way up to a level of prominence and as well as being a wealthy businessman, he was a Baptist lay preacher and community leader.

A goddamn hypocrite, were the words his daughter used to describe him and justifiably in her eyes. For a father to treat a child with such contempt through her formative years because of his grief that his only two sons were conceived still born was unforgivable. Yet on a fundamental level she was trying to fo
rgive herself, for heaping the blame for her father’s actions on her shoulders and not where they should have been. She was making it right for herself and nobody else. It just so happened that what made her feel genuinely free and alive were affronts to everything her father had worked hard to achieve. Thank God for Mama Jones.

Patra was never left in the dark concerning her family back in the States and she talked to her mother once a week at least. Only Mama Jones remained proud of her opinionated, adrenaline junky, bi-sexual daughter.

Regrets.

Hell no!

Patra wouldn’t change a thing.

Y and Suzy were her family here and they accepted her for who she was. Back home they would have to deal with the
naked truth or kiss her svelte Apple Bottom ass.

Y snapped on her face mask and took Patra’s index finger and applied oil to its edges. Placing it gently on a plastic column, she held the template in place over the nail bed and made a sweeping blast with her air gun. The Kemetic Queen’s image stood bold on Patras nail. Y nodded with satisfaction at the first stage and reached for another gun loaded with gold.

A loud slam on her front door made her pause in mid applic
ation.

Who the hell was that knocking on her door like they owned the
damn place?

Usually the doorbell was used by most visitors; it was so outrageous and in your face - shaped like a hairy bum and the
tune it played was rather tacky Hawaii-Five-O theme - no one ever thought of gaining her attention in any other way.

It had to be someone with no sense of
humor, an inflated sense of their own self worth or someone believing their own hype. Mam’s choice Jamaican colloquialism rang in Y’s head,
smelling dem arm, an tink a charm.

A second barrage of bangs from her Victorian knocker r
everberated through the house.

Who is this?

Y stood up about to storm out to her hallway but decided before she did anything rash, like alienating a potential client in the process, to check her appointments. She activated her Smartphone and her digital diary app. It was clear. No one was due for the next forty five minutes and that client was a regular who didn’t like waiting around.

This was unannounced company.

Y excused herself, just as Patra’s mobile went off and her friend expertly flipped it open and was away in verbal fourth gear as she left the room.

Y grabbed a jumper on her way out and slipped it quickly over her head, concealing most of her formal uniform. She looked through the peep hole first and saw the distant image of two men in suits peering in at her.

She opened the door part way and peered out.

“Can I help you...gentlemen?” She said icily.
And it better be friggin’ good, was the thought.

One of the men - slender, effeminate with an air of pe
rceived superiority about him - stepped forward and said.

“Are you Ms Yvonne Sinclair, resident of this address?”

“Who wants to know?” Y asked.

One of the officials obviously told by some deluded female that he was smooth - worst of all he believed it - reached into his jacket pocket and ran his business card along her field of vision sarcastically.

Windsor Housing Association stood out in bold gold letters with his name and credentials.

Y said nothing while smooth
bwoy consulted a clipboard he had taken from under his arm.