Toffee

  It is still hot.

  Shed

  The air is bruised by the blast of fireworks

  and the dusk smells faintly of gunpowder

  though it’s weeks until Guy Fawkes.

  Straight ahead

  a gravelly lane separates

  two rows of gardens,

  and despite Google Maps telling me to

  turn right,

  I cut through it, back into town,

  down towards the sea.

  In one garden,

  a greenhouse with mouldy windows.

  In another,

  a collection of toys piled into a pyramid.

  In the next,

  a stack of deckchairs and folding tables.

  But near the end of the lane

  is a ramshackle shed,

  its door ajar,

  overshadowed by an abandoned house –

  no lights on inside,

  ivy like lace across its windows.

  I slip through a gap in the fencing,

  push open the door to the shed,

  slip inside.

  It is strewn with rusting cans of paint,

  a split bag of cement.

  Heavy tools hang from hooks;

  the one small window looking on to the lane

  is curtained over with a torn cardigan.

  I can use my jumper as a pillow.

  I can lie with my feet against the door.

  There are worse harbours.

  Nothing

  I check my phone

  though I haven’t switched off the sound,

  would easily have heard a ping,

  but still nothing from Kelly-Anne.

  And nothing from Dad either.

  I try lying down,

  imagining tomorrow’s sun

  and pleading with sleep to swallow me

  before the night rushes in with full force

  and switches on the fear –

  not of rats or mice

  that might, in the night,

  nibble away at my burn

  like it’s barbecued meat,

  tender and theirs for the taking,

  but of people

  and how they could hurt

  an already damaged girl

  hunkering

  alone

  in the dark.

  I reach for a rusty spanner,

  feel its weight in my hand,

  then

  swing with all my might

  at an invisible stranger,

  at looming danger.

  My face stings.

  I drop the spanner and close my eyes.

  My phone remains silent.

  During the Night

  Shuffling, scuffling noises outside the shed

  like boots on gravel.

  I sit up, surprised I’ve slept.

  The door creaks,

  I squeak,

  and slinking into the shed

  like silk

  comes a grey cat

  with luminous mini-moon eyes.

  Pss-pss-pss-pss-pss, I hiss,

  tapping my fingertips together,

  offering an empty hand.

  The cat noses the air,

  then turns,

  tail aloft,

  arse exposed,

  shunning my affection.

  Popcorn

  He suggested a

  Movie Night,

  said we’d watch anything I wanted

  after he’d had a

  quick shower.

  He loved

  The Full Monty,

  it made him laugh out loud,

  so that was what I chose,

  what I wanted for us both,

  had the TV ready and everything.

  He also liked salty popcorn,

  fresh,

  so I made some

  in a pan on the hob,

  the corn

  pop

  pop

  popping into puffs.

  But I popped so much

  the oil got too hot,

  the kitchen too smoky

  and the alarm was raging,

  filling the house with

  noise.

  Dad ran into the kitchen, hair wet.

  Jesus hell! he shouted,

  and before I could

  explain about his

  popcorn

  surprise

  he had me by the wrist

  and was twisting it,

  twisting it,

  and hurting me into the garden,

  where I was made to

  sit

  for several

  cold hours

  and think carefully

  about my behaviour.

  Bruised

  I cannot get back to sleep,

  so pull a banana from my bag

  and peel it.

  Brown spots

  dot its length.

  I throw it aside.

  I have never

  been able to eat

  bruised fruit.

  Cover Up

  There wasn’t much I couldn’t hide

  with sleeves, a pair of tights

  and a forged note from home:

  Allison can’t do PE today

  because blah blah blah.

  The teachers rolled their eyes

  (unsympathetic to period pain)

  and let me sit on the sidelines.

  My classmates trampolined in their shorts and T-shirts,

  front dropping,

  somersaulting,

  soaring

  into the roof of the gym,

  howling from the fun of it,

  the freedom,

  while I had time to plot

  how to stay out of Dad’s way

  that day

  and give the blue bruises a chance

  to fade to yellow.

  Breakfast on the Beach

  Waves steamroll the sand

  while toddlers eat fistfuls of it.

  I buy a bag of open chips

  with my last bit of cash,

  Dad’s card declined already,

  and drown them in vinegar,

  finish them off with a pink lollipop

  like I am eight years old.

  Then the sky starts to spit,

  dotting the sand into darkness,

  and I’ve nowhere to hide but back in the shed.

  So that is where I head.

  The Empty House

  The wide windows are shut tight

  but much cleaner up close than they seem from the

  end

  of the garden.

  With cupped hands against the back door,

  I peer into the kitchen:

  brown cupboards and a tin draining board

  make it look like it was built before I was born,

  and on the hob, a kettle.

  A kettle boiling,

  whistling for someone to

  come quick, come quick,

  and stop the steam from screaming.

  Then I see her,

  emerging from behind the fridge door,

  face fragile and

  filled with fear

  when she spots me.

  We stare.

  And do not move.

  An Invitation

  I bomb it

  back down the garden

  into the shed,

  grab my bag

  and

  go

  go

  go.

  I’m scrambling to get away

  because I can’t stay.

  But.

  Toffee?

  A voice as quiet as pencil on paper.

  The fencing won’t let me through

  no matter how hard I push,

  pull,

  and then

  the voice again –

  louder, possibly Irish.

  Come back for the love of Christ!

  Toffee!

  The woman holds up one hand

 
; like a child in a classroom.

  Toffee? she repeats for the third time,

  an invitation, probably,

  to come inside and eat something sweet.

  Desperation spikes her tone.

  And I know that feeling –

  pleading with someone not to flee.

  So.

  Overflowing

  The kitchen smells of toasted hot cross buns.

  There’s an empty plate of burned crumbs

  on the counter.

  I’d love one smothered in butter.

  I can’t turn off the water.

  The woman

  points with her whole hand,

  knotted fingers curled into her palm.

  I can’t turn the tap, she explains.

  You’d think they’d make it easier.

  We’re not all beef cakes

  but I wouldn’t say no to one coming in

  on a daily basis to turn those taps.

  Jesus, let’s be honest, he could turn more than my taps.

  She winks, chuckles,

  leads me through the kitchen

  to the hall,

  then a bathroom

  where a tub is

  about to overflow on to the carpet tiles.

  I pull the plug, turn off the tap.

  Water burbles and glugs.

  A light bulb flickers.

  I wanted to wash the nets.

  But, you know, I’ll throw them out.

  I’d rather throw them than wash them.

  Sure, who needs nets?

  Not-quite-white net curtains rolled into a ball

  are piled high in the sink.

  I gotta go.

  I step back,

  eyeball the front door.

  The woman tilts her head to the side.

  Can’t you stay? she asks.

  I’ll get Mammy to do another plate.

  It’s not like there’ll be much to eat at your place.

  Huh? No, I’ve got plans, I try,

  but don’t move,

  my body knowing more than my brain:

  I have no money and nowhere to go

  and leaving will mean traipsing in the rain.

  The woman smiles,

  showing off a set of tiny yellow snaggle-teeth.

  She is examining my face.

  Does it hurt? she asks.

  I touch the burn.

  Yes, I admit. A bit.

  She doesn’t really look all that sorry but says,

  I have ointment … Let me find it …

  and shuffles back to the kitchen,

  roots in a cupboard

  and hands me a bottle of factor 30 sunscreen.

  Is that what you were after? she asks.

  I turn the bottle over, smile.

  Um. Not exactly the weather for it, is it?

  She looks irritated all of a sudden

  like I am to blame.

  My stomach pinches with hunger pangs.

  Can I have a hot cross bun? I ask.

  Oh yes,

  it’s just like you to come over when you’re hungry.

  She pulls out a chair.

  Now sit there.

  Go on, sit there.

  Hot Cross Buns

  The crunch of the bread, juice of the raisins

  and melted butter all mingling

  in my mouth at once. I’ve never tasted

  anything so good.

  I Am Marla

  What’s your name? I ask.

  She wags a finger accusingly,

  then clouds over,

  contemplating the question.

  I’m Marla.

  Yes.

  I am Marla.

  Now …

  did you hear back from Connor

  about the hurling on Saturday?

  Are we going or not?

  I can’t stand the way he messes us ’round.

  Every bleedin’ week it’s the same old shite.

  He’s a messer all right though. You know?

  A pause. A glance at the window.

  The weather’s turned, hasn’t it?

  Felt like summer yesterday.

  I was meaning to plant some mint.

  Can you smell something burning

  or is it just me?

  Hailstones, like little glass beads,

  patter against the window panes.

  Marla hands me a cherry ChapStick

  and points to my cheek.

  Try that.

  Can I have another hot cross bun? I ask.

  I Am Toffee

  I tell Marla my real name,

  twice:

  Allison. Allison.

  And she uses it for a while,

  not looking at me,

  then continues to call me Toffee.

  She thinks that’s who I am,

  so I stop correcting her,

  and anyway,

  I like the idea of being

  sweet and hard,

  a girl with a name for people

  to chew on.

  A girl who could break teeth.

  Bacon

  I stare into Marla’s bathroom mirror,

  focus on my cooked and battered cheek.

  I thought the redness would have faded by now,

  the mark dissolved a bit,

  but there it is,

  blazing,

  less like I’ve been burned

  and more branded,

  the colour and shape of a slice of bacon

  slapped against my face.

  Behind me in the mirror Marla is

  watching,

  her almost-not-there eyebrows furrow.

  It looks awful. Let me help.

  No, I snap,

  not knowing what to do with her concern,

  turning away so she sees less

  of my wincing face in the mirror.

  I don’t need pity from this stranger.

  The hurt is half my doing anyway.

  Stupid me.

  Stupid mouth.

  Stupid fault.

  It’ll fade.

  Her voice is dashed with anger.

  I don’t remember it so brutal.

  She is wearing a ring with a bright blue

  sapphire.

  Her ears are studded with pearls.

  Both would sell for a decent amount.

  My mouth gets stuck.

  I blink.

  I better go, I tell her.

  I step into the hallway.

  A leather handbag is hanging

  unbuckled

  from the

  newel post.

  Marla shakes her head. Looks sad.

  It’d be deadly if you stayed.

  We could play poker. Ah, don’t go, Toff.

  I’ll stay until the worst of the weather passes.

  A mound of loose change is

  lying in an ashtray.

  The forecast

  predicts rain

  for days.

  Hobnobs

  We watch a talk show, the news,

  eat Hobnobs and drink tea.

  At ten o’clock Marla’s phone beeps.

  That’s me, then.

  She switches off the TV.

  When I was doing my exams

  I used a reminder to tell me

  to go to sleep too, I say,

  speaking more than I have all evening.

  Oh, I have reminders for everything.

  I mightn’t remember otherwise, she says.

  She peers at the phone.

  Peggy put them in.

  Goodnight then.

  Are you going now?

  I’m shattered.

  Yes, it’s late.

  She nods and leaves,

  switching off the lights on her way to bed.

  Without knowing why,

  I tiptoe up the stairs

  after Marla,

  my ear against her door,

  listening,

  pushing on another door, where
<
br />   a bedroom is revealed –

  the bed stripped bare,

  walls painted avocado.

  No one else lives here.

  That’s obvious.

  So I could have one night.

  What harm would one night do?

  I dash downstairs

  and in the kitchen stare out at the shed.

  But instead of leaving,

  I lock the doors

  and return

  to the avocado

  bedroom.

  Victory

  Every hour I do not call my father

  is a victory,

  a declaration:

  I do not need you.

  I do not want to be with you.

  Although,

  the longer it goes on,

  the more I get to wondering

  whether his silence

  means

  exactly the same thing.

  Alarm Bell

  I am blasted out of sleep by an alarm

  and scramble downstairs

  in only a T-shirt and knickers.

  Nee-awwwwwwwww,

  nee-awwwwwwwww.

  The kitchen is a fog of toasty smoke.

  Marla is in her nightie, teetering on a stool,

  frantically flapping a tea towel at a fire alarm

  on the ceiling.

  I grab a newspaper,

  wave it around

  until the noise stops,

  then grab Marla by the wrist, help her

  hobble down from the stool.

  Who in blazes are you? she asks.