Demo (28 page)

The lassie claps Farkhanda on the back and I see her lookin about for me, so I sorta step forward.

Clare, she says, I'm goin to go with Shenaz and her pals to a meetin after the vigil. Will you be OK getting the bus yourself?

Can I no come to the meetin too?

It's in the mosque. It's for Muslim girls. There's dark blotches round her eyes with cryin.

Oh, right, I says. Aye, of course I can get the bus mysel. Are you OK? Why were you cryin?

Aye, I'm fine. It's too hard to explain, Clare. See you in school tomorrow?

Oh. Alright. You goin the now, then?

Yes, they're waitin on me.

I look over at the lassies. They're all talkin among themsels except Shenaz. She's standin watchin. She gives me a wave and I wave back. I feel daft but; she's only five feet away.

Bye, then, Farkhanda says.

Bye.

She walks over to the group and I go to turn away, but she runs back to me and says in a quiet voice, I'll phone you later about the
Sunset Song
essay, OK?

If you like, I says.

She gies one of my dreads a wee tug. I like, she says, and goes back to Shenaz.

It's nearly dark when I turn and cross the square, and most folk are driftin away. The boy with the papers reaches into his pocket and scatters somethin for the pigeons. They all run about his feet like mad, peckin, peckin. It looks as if he's got the same amount a papers as before, held up against his chest.

I don't know why, but I start to run. The pigeons explode into the cold air like a burst of applause and my dreads are flyin, whackin me in the face and thumpin on my back. I keep on runnin till I jump on the bus.

You been runnin? my ma says, when I get in.

My heart's pure thuddin. Aye, I says. Fae the bus stop.

She's sittin cross-legged on the sofa with a pair of my da's big woolly socks on her feet. The TV news is on with the sound turned down. I never understand why she does that. Dubya's on the screen, mouthin like a fish in a tank. My ma looks at me for a minute ower the top of her book, then carries on readin. We've no been gettin on so well, me and my ma,
since I got the dreads done; since Danny moved out even, no long after the Florence demo.

There's some spaghetti bolognese in the pot for you, she says, and she turns her page. You can heat it up in the microwave.

I'm no that hungry, Ma, I says. What you readin?

She holds up her book so I can see the title:
Persuasion
by Jane Austen. She ayeways reads right through the complete novels of Jane Austen when she's stressed, my ma, startin wi
Sense and Sensibility
. I think
Persuasion
comes near the end. Her nails are pure bitten right down to the quick, since my da and Danny had that fight. I notice her daein it when she thinks I'm no lookin. If it was me, she would give me a right bollockin. At least she's no started smokin again; my da would go through the roof.

How was the vigil?

Aye, OK. The usual suspects. Farkhanda went to a meetin in the mosque wi her sister and her pals, so I just came away.

How's she gettin on since she started wearin the veil?

It's no a veil, Ma, it's a hijab. She doesny wear a veil.

Well, the hijab, then. How's she gettin on?

What d'you think?

I don't know; that's how I'm askin. Jeezo, Clare, you're a right nippy wee besom sometimes. She lays the book down open on her lap.

Aye well, who do I get that off?

I was only askin a civil question. Is it beyond you to gie me a civil answer these days?

I sit down on the chair across fae her. Our glorious leader, as my da calls him, is fillin the screen now; on his hind legs in parliament at the dispatch box, giein it laldy. Weapons of Mass Destruction, I'll bet you.

I don't know, I says, she has to put up wi a lot more crap off some a the boys. It upsets her sometimes.

What sort of crap?

I don't know, Ma, names and things. The usual.

Has she talked to any of the teachers about it?

No, I don't think so. No, definitely no.

Maybe you should persuade her to tell Mr Perry, offer to go with her to his office.

No way is Farkhanda goin tay Perry! It's bad enough the now, without him jumpin in with baith feet. Her life wouldny be worth livin.

Well, you canny just stand by and watch your friend bein made miserable by a bunch of ignorant boys.

Aye, Ma. Whatever, I says. I jump up before she can see me startin to cry, and run through to my room.

I'll say this for my ma: she knows to leave me alane whenever I go into my room now. It used to drive me mental when she would come in durin the day if I was away at school and tidy things up, make my bed and stuff. But since Florence, she's gave me a bit more space. She let me paint my walls again, even though it wasny that long since they were done afore. I couldny live wi that peachy pink any mair, and the frilly bed mat and the matchin curtains. So she let me choose my own colours and got me a blind and I bought an Indian throw for the bed. It took me a while to get the right paint; I wanted the same colour a yellow as Julian's room in the
pensione
, so the sun would be shinin in it, even when it was dark and rainin outside. But the funny thing is, it's only really the right colour when the sun
is
shinin in the windie. The rest a the time it's kinda dull, especially at night, the colour a brown paper. I'm wrapped up in a brown paper parcel.

The throw's good but; all gold and ginger and like… russet, wi embroidery and wee mirrors that catch the glow fae the lamp and scatter it into seeds a light all round the walls.
I thought Farkhanda would love it, but she says, It's alright, I suppose. Very Indian.

And my ma says, You realize, of course, it'll have been made in a sweatshop by twelve-year-olds for a few cents a day.

How was I supposed to know! It wasny on the label.

You know because if the work that's went into it was paid at a decent rate, you wouldny be able to afford it in a million years.

Aye, OK, Ma. I've bought it now, so it's goin on my bed, right?

I'm just tellin you.

Och, leave her alane, my da says, she's a young lassie; she's got plenty a time to get intay all that.

Aye, is that right? If you were even half as understandin of your son, it would be somethin.

I don't know who I'm madder at, my ma or my da. I just picks the cover up off the sofa where I've opened it out, fold it and take it away intay my room. I can hear them still at it when I've shut my door.

Anyhow, I like my throw. I spread it over the duvet and put all the cushions on – the colour a pomegranate, the woman in the shop says – and my bed turns intay a big sofa. When I'm sittin on it, I can see mysel in my granny's dressin table mirror. It's dead old-fashioned, but it was my granny's, so I'm no gonny part wi it, even if it is a bit big for my room. It's got two side bits, wings that move, so's you can see yoursel fae every angle.

Which came in very handy when I done my dreads. I shut mysel in my room one Sunday wi a tub a beeswax, and twisted and waxed and back combed, till I had did the two sides a my hair. The only bit I couldny really do mysel was the back. So I waited till my ma and da went out to dae the shoppin and I
phoned Farkhanda and she said she would come ower and help me.

I never telt Farkhanda what happened in Florence – well, wi Julian, anyhow; I telt her about the demo. Sometimes I thought if I didny tell her, it would be hard to stay pals. And sometimes I thought if I did, it would be even harder.

Afore she arrives, I take Julian's dread out the back a my drawer where I keep it wrapped up in a poly bag inside my red T-shirt. One time I thought my ma must've saw it, cause the T-shirt was folded different. I'm nearly sure it was. But, if she did, she never let on, didny say nothin. So, I takes it out and lays it on my dressin table. Funny how it brings everythin back! I hold it beside my new dreads; it looks dead scabby beside mine; frayed and tatty and a bit dirty. Probably cause I slept wi it under my pillow and carried it around for ages in my pocket, so's I could rub it between my fingers under my desk at school. It's a bit of a funny colour too. I used to think it was dark blond, but no now. It's hard to describe the colour really: a kinda no-colour colour.

The basin's ready. I take one last look at the lock the way it is, hold it up to my nose. Even the smell's faded a lot, the beeswax and patchouli. It's mair like – I don't know – old matted hair, just. But I can still see Julian the way he was when he had dreads; afore that cow got tay him wi her scissors.

I put on the rubber gloves, lift the dread and lay it lengthwise in the basin, makin sure it's totally covered; I don't want any a the original colour comin through in case somebody guesses. How long does bleach take? Half an hour should be long enough; another half-hour to get it dried wi my hairdryer. By that time, Farkhanda will be here. First it was gonny be the same colour as mine; then I thought I would never know what one it was if I done that, except for where I fix it at the roots. So I decided on bleach instead.

By the time Farkhanda's came, the whole room's stinkin of it. Piss and chlorine.

Clare, for goodness' sake, what you doin? she says. And she coughs and covers her face wi her hijab. And then she laughs, You're mental, she says. Mad. Wired to a Mars Bar!

I'll open the windie, I says.

Too right. I don't want to be asphyxiated.

Is it that bad? I've no noticed it so much, cause I've been in here all the time.

It's that bad, Clare. She coughs again. Oh God, it's a wonder your mother and father haven't smelt it.

They're out gettin the messages. And they'll likely go for a pub lunch after. Aye, so my da's no here; you can take off your headscarf if you want.

It's a light blue one the day; goes wi her jeans. She unravels it fae her shoulders. It's got weights sewed into the hem to keep it down, to make sure it doesny blow off in the wind. Tiny wee weights. Farkhanda squeezes one out through the stitchin to show me; a wee silver ball bearin.

Weird, I says.

No as weird as they matted bits a rope hangin fae your head, she says.

I think I've offended her. But then she laughs and pulls her scarf right off and throws it on the bed. All her lovely hair comes tumblin down.

Oh, Farkhanda, I says.

What?

I don't know… just your hair… it's…

Are you cryin?

No.

Don't cry, Clare, please; you'll set me off. Come on, let's get started. She puts her hands on my shoulders and looks at me dead serious. Her eyes are back to how they should be,
dark, dark brown and shinin, with her thick dark hair round about.

I'm OK. Let me empty that basin first. Your hair smells of honey and ginger; don't want it to end up stinkin a bleach!

When I've came back in, Farkhanda's sittin on the bed, wi Julian's dreadlock in her hands, turnin it round and round, examinin it. It's near pure white now, and the fuzzy bits are like wee strands of light.

She looks up at me. So what's the story with this one? she says, and holds it out to me. Why one white dreadlock among the red?

When I take it out her hand, I'm thinkin, Should I tell her, should I tell her; no, probably no. Then I says, It's Julian's.

Sometimes I don't know what I'm gonny say till it's out my mouth!

Julian's?

Aye, that friend a my brother's I telt you about, that I met at the demo in Florence.

I know who Julian is, Clare; you're never done talkin about him. I mean, what are you doin with one of his dreadlocks?

Well, his girlfriend cut them off after the demo and… I got one.

His
girlfriend
gave you one?

No exactly.

No exactly?

I just took it.

She's lookin at me like a wee owl; big round eyes.

And you're goin to do what with it?

Questions, questions! You're as bad as my ma.

I need to know what it is I'm involved in here. She pulls her mouth intay a pout like she disapproves.

Naybody's forcin you to help me.

Theft of a dreadlock's a serious matter, she says.

I notice her lips are twitchin at the corners.

In some cultures it would be seen as an act of witchcraft.

Aye right, I says. I could stick pins in it and gie him a sore heid.

And she laughs, thank goodness, like clear water runnin ower stones.

We better get a move on before your parents get back, eh?

Yes. Listen, thanks, Farkhanda. I really appreciate this.

She pulls her eyebrows up and dimples her cheeks. Don't mention it.

Still, I don't think I could tell her about Laetitia's diary.

I sit in front of my granny's mirror, wi Farkhanda standin behind me, and we start. The sun's shinin in and the yellow walls are pure Florence. Julian's dread looks silver in my hand.

So, I just kinda twist a few strands of hair together first? Farkhanda says.

Aye, and then take the comb and backcomb it. Right up to the roots. And seal it all in with some a the wax.

Easy peasy, she says, and I feel the tug of the comb like a burst of pain on my scalp.

Ooh, ya!

Sorry! She looks at me in the mirror and smiles. I've never noticed afore, her mouth goes up more at one side than the other. I gie her a smile back and wonder if she sees me different too. And then I catch sight a my dreads. I mean,
really
look at them. My head goes hot and I pure panic! I pull Julian's dread tight between my hands.

Maybe this is no such a good idea.

What?

The dreads. Do you think they're a good idea?

Too late now! Farkhanda steps back a bit and bends down to look at me in the mirror. She has to haud her ain hair back wi her hand, so it doesny fall all over mine. It makes your hair shorter and thicker, she says. More sticky out.