“Hi. I’m Jak.”
“Come in Jak,” Sticks is wearing a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows revealing a raised fist tattoo on his left arm and a phoenix on his right, with a pen poking out the top of a breast pocket, black suit trousers and shiny black leather shoes. He stands aside to let her through the door into the living room, “I thought you might come.”
Sticks leads Jak through to the living room. She leans on the mantelpiece and takes off her helmet, sweat-damp hair falling limply against the side of her face. Sticks passes her a box of tissues and offers, “a cold drink, Jak?”
“Yes please.”
Sticks walks with a slight limp, his left leg held a little stiff, through a door to the kitchen. While he is out of the room, Jak inspects a row of cups and medals on a shelf: ‘Oxford & Districts Under 18s Lightweight Champion’, ‘All Services Rookie Lightweight Champion’, ‘Northumberland County and Forces Welterweight Champion’, ‘Hexham Congress Major – Winner’, ‘South Oxfordshire League – Best Individual Game’.
“I was good at boxing when I was young,” says Sticks, returning with two glasses clinking full of ice, “but I got too old to fight with my fists. Chose to do it with my brain instead.”
Jak sips her drink and looks round the room. On two of the walls are large perspex frames with photo montages of soldiers in uniform and groups of men with drinks in their hands. On a side table, facing the window, is a photo of a young Carly, maybe 12 or 13, with Sticks on a beach.
“Where’s that picture from?”
“We went on a holiday together: me, my sister Janine and Carly, her daughter.”
Jak picks up the photograph to take a closer look. Carly and Sticks are wearing almost identical t-shirts, shorts and flip-flops. She puts it back on the side table but Sticks immediately turns it to face the window and moves it back slightly, so that it is exactly where it was before.
“Is these soldiers you served with?” Jak waves her hand at the photos on the walls.
“Yeah, mostly. Me and the lads at the barracks, and on nights out.”
“Where did you serve? Was there fighting?”
“I can’t talk about that. Sorry Jak, it’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that it won’t help either you or me by sharing those memories.”
He stares into space for a second. Jak feels his tension, an awkwardness, ‘right Jak, enough of the small talk. I mean it was rubbish as small talk anyway, ‘where did you serve’? C’mon Jak, he’s a serious guy so get real and stop wasting his time.’
She looks Sticks in the eye, “what’s going to happen to Carly?”
He flinches slightly, involuntarily, “Jak, I don’t know. If they insist on charging her with terrorism… I wish I could be more positive.”
“If they don’t insist on her being a terrorist?”
“Probably a short sentence, maybe suspended.”
“Can I see her?”
“Not at the moment, I’m afraid Jak,” Sticks shakes his head and looks at the floor, “family only.”
“What other family has she got, apart from you?”
“Well, Jani passed a few years ago, as I’m sure you know. And her father… who knows,” Sticks lowers his voice and looks sideways at Jak, “Carly’s father and your father are quite similar. Unreliable. Do you know about me and our side of Carly’s family?”
“Not much, just about her mum and a little about you.”
“I… we come from old Welsh mining stock. The owners of the mines were ruthless, heartless bastards, you see. My great grandfather walked, in worn out boots, from Pontycymer in South Wales to Cowley in order to find work. Arthur Griffith. He was one of many from the valleys. He worked for Pressed Steel for the rest of his life, most of it as a shop steward in the union. The local union leaders were in the pocket of the owners until the Welsh workers arrived in town. They didn’t stand for any of that, you see.”
Sticks smiles to himself, “Arthur was Carly’s great, great grandfather. I reckon that’s where she gets her gobbiness from. It can get you into trouble being like that but my God it’s better than just following orders all your life. As I discovered for myself, eventually.”
“Is that why Carly’s name is Griffith?”
“Yes, that’s our family name. You know, probably half of east Oxford are Welsh really. Florence Park was built by a man from Merthyr Tydfil, named it after his sister who had passed away. Loads of Welsh men got houses there, brought their wives and kids from the valleys, or married Oxford girls.”
Jak sits down and gulps the rest of the cold water in one. She picks an ice cube out of the glass and runs it across her brow. She shivers.
“Have you heard of people being abducted?” she looks up at Sticks, “and then, like, kind of released. I mean does that, kinda…”
Sticks laughs, “no, I mean I guess stuff like that happens. Why do you ask?”
“Just sort of wondering if you knew anything, like girls going missing in East Oxford, getting drugged and you know…”
“Listen,” Sticks leans forward with furrowed eyebrows, staring at Jak, “no I don’t know about that. And I don’t know why you’d think I would.”
“Oh just, you know, Carly said you know people in Oxford. You do, don’t you?” checks Jak, “So they might know something?”
Sticks glares at her, “old army mates in Oxford, nothing to do with anything like that.”
Jak changes the subject, “can you take another message to Carly?”
“Sure, but I don’t know when…”
“Great,” she stands up and pushes an envelope, with ‘Tabs’ written on it, into Sticks’ hand, “thanks.”
“I was just going to say, Jak, before you go. Carly did appreciate your note. And also don’t tell your mother about this conversation…”
“I told her I was coming here, she worries about me…”
He hands Jak her bike helmet, “sure, but maybe tell her I was out when you got here and you had to leave a note again. Whatever, don’t tell her about our chat. And also, enough of those strange questions, okay. I’ll try and help you with Carly, but just Carly. Whatever else you’ve got going on, I don’t want to know.”
“Okay.”
As she turns to leave, Jak sees that the back wall of the room is covered in black and white photos, separated in some cases by brightly coloured post-it notes with short scribbled writing on them.
Jak steps towards them. The writing is indecipherable, the pictures modern despite their lack of colour: factories, warehouses and houses, rows of ordinary terraced houses.
“Where’s that?” Jak points to an old looking church with a central tower.
“I already told you,” growls Sticks, “it’s time you were going. I have work to do.”
He ushers Jak out of the door and walks her to the bicycle, which is chained to the ‘Clumps View’ street sign.
—
Robbo opens the bright orange shop door and peers inside. A fluorescent light flickers. Large bags of rice, decorated with lions and dragons, are stacked in piles in the middle of the room. Next to them are similarly large bags of lentils and gram flour. On the opposite wall, are shelves with jars, tins and small packets.
A woman, in a long sparkly green dress and loose yellow headscarf, stands behind a cash till and gazes out the window at the sunny street.
Either side of the door are trays of vegetables. Beyond the vegetables is a butcher counter, where a man, wearing a dark blue apron, watches on.
Robbo looks at his phone, ‘chicken 1kg’. He walks towards the man, “got any chicken, please?”
“Yes, sir. A whole chicken?”
“One kilogram, please.”
“Do you want fillets or on the bone, sir?”
“Dunno. What’s best for a curry?”
The man laughs, “well, sir, how long have you got? But if you’re following a recipe, I would suggest fillets would be easier. Any preference on cuts?”
“What’s that?”
“Thigh? Breast?”
Robbo stares at the man, who smiles to himself and continues, “I’ll do you mixed cuts, sir. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll shout when they’re ready. I’m sure Prisha will help you with any other items you require.”
Robbo walks over to the cash till and shows Prisha the recipe on his phone: ‘Chicken 1kg, Tamarind 25g, Curry leaves (dry or fresh) 12-15, Medium onions 3, Garlic 5-8 cloves, Thumb of fresh ginger, Green chillies 10, Large tomatoes 2, Ground turmeric 1 tbsp.’
“And rice. And Indian sweets, the cheap ones,” adds Robbo, staring anxiously at the card reader on the till. But the payment goes through, his week’s work – two new garden fences, a wall repair and painting a stairway and landing – has been worth it.
“Thank you, sir. Hope to see you again soon,” says Prisha with a smile. And Robbo, a bagful of ingredients in either hand, feels good about himself.
He crosses Cowley Road and walks up to a shop with a display of brightly coloured plastic buckets, spades, children’s windmills and sunglasses that spills out onto the pavement. A large sign, above a hexagonal wooden sandpit with castles at varying stages of crumbling away, says ‘Cowleyfornia Dreamin’ in yellow on a deep blue background.
Inside the shop, past flat-packed sandpits and more holiday gear, is a shelf of joss sticks, scented candles and an orange lava lamp, plugged in and slowly doing its thing.
“Got any ordinary candles, please?”
The woman shopkeeper pulls out a bag of tealights from behind the counter.
“No, the tall kind.”
—
Jak attempts to slip into the house unnoticed. But her mum is waiting for her.
“Where’ve you been? You look like you’ve run a marathon.”
“Birdwatching, borrowed Mrs Mountjoy’s bike,” Jak wipes a sweaty strand of hair back behind her ear.
“Okay. You sit yourself down, babe. I’ll pour you a cold drink. I’ve been making lemonade.”
Jak slumps down on the sofa. Sylvie returns carrying a tray with two glasses of cloudy, pale yellow lemonade. And chocolate biscuits.
Sylvie tuts at Jak, “bad posture, my girl, bad posture. You might not feel it now but you’ll regret it if you get a bad back when you’re older.”
Jak sits up, “sorry mum.”
“That’s okay babe,” Sylvie tenderly touches Jak’s arm, “I don’t suppose sweet drinks and chocolate are all that great for your health either. But what the heck, you’ve been through a lot – are going through a lot – and it’s now officially my job to be nice to you.”
“Thank you mum. I’m sorry about the other night. I had an awful day. First day of work, not knowing where Carly was. And the people at Moonies were very angry with me. As if Carly being arrested was my fault. And I’m so worried about her. What people are saying…”
“I know babe. I read those things. And then repeated them to you, which I shouldn’t have done. I’ve had time to think now and I realise there’s a lot of crazy people out there. But I know Carly isn’t one of them and you need a bit of help dealing with the situation. Not me being all holier than thou about it.”
“Thanks mum. Also, dad’s been in touch.”
“Well, never mind him for now. He can wait,” Sylvie waves her hand dismissively, “But Carly. That’s more urgent. Now, don’t get me wrong, I think Carly deserves a ticking off for what she did. And maybe a few days in a police cell will give her time to think about how she goes about things. But it wasn’t that bad, not by a long shot. And the guy who died wasn’t really harming anyone either. It was horrible what happened. I’m sorry for not being supportive.”
Jak smiles, ever so slightly, and nods.
“Now,” Sylvie continues, “what is this about not being able to visit Carly? Do you know where she is being held?”
“No. They’re saying it’s family only.”
“Really? I’m no expert but that’s not normal is it?”
“I looked into it mum. It’s because they’re saying it’s a terrorism offence.”
“Who did you ask about it?”
Jak squirms slightly in her seat and takes a sip of lemonade, “no one in particular, I just sort of found out.”
“Okay, babe. That’s a shame,” says Sylvie softly, “could you write to her instead?”
“Yeah, maybe. I’m not much of a writer but I can give it a go.”
“I’m sure she would appreciate it, babe,” and Sylvie smiles, “bad spelling or not. That really doesn’t matter. She’ll be glad you’re thinking of her.”
—
When he gets home, Robbo pours a cold glass of wine and drinks it while washing dishes and hoovering. He puts on an old CD, ‘70s groovy classics’, which his aunt Babs had got free with a magazine, many years ago.
‘Play that funky music, white boy, play that funky music right,’ Robbo mouths along to the lyrics, using the glass as a microphone, and moves his hips in time as puts away clean cutlery.
He chops the onions, chillies and garlic as finely as he can on one plate, the tomatoes into small pieces and tips them, with their seeds and juice, into a bowl, chops the chicken meat into 3cm cubes on a separate plate, and mixes the spices in another bowl.
Methodically, Robbo follows the recipe, using the alarm on his phone as an exact timer for adding each ingredient to the pot and adjusting the hob’s temperature setting. With everything added, and the sauce simmering on a low heat, he rinses the rice.
Robbo pours another glass and puts the kettle on. He sips his wine and waits ten minutes to add the water to the rice. He opens another can as he watches the saucepan of rice so that it doesn’t boil over.
Robbo gets a spoon out of the cutlery drawer and tastes the sauce, ‘little bit more salt, lovely. Nothing beats a good curry. Well done Pauly Po, nice one son.’
Paul Robertson: Nearly ready. You coming?
Robbo pours another glass, draining the bottle, and takes a sip. He puts a thin white candle into the top of the empty wine bottle, whittling the end of the candle to a point so it sits straight. And lays the table, putting mats out for plates and glasses, and making sure all the cutlery is lined up.
He tastes the rice. It’s done. He drains the water off, using the pan lid to trap almost all the rice, and – following the recipe’s recommendation – runs a fork through it until it is ‘nice and fluffy’.
Paul Robertson: Sylvs you seen Jak
Robbo tries to drink the wine slowly but takes sip after sip, glassful followed by glassful, and the second bottle is soon empty. He opens another and puts a candle in the empty one.
He checks the time on his phone. It’s past teatime. He checks for messages. None. He has an empty glass again. He fills it up.
Robbo serves the dinner, plates neatly positioned in both places at the table, and takes a photo. He moves the candles from the work surface to the table so he can get them in and takes another photo. The lighting is wrong, the candle flames are too bright and he can hardly see the food in the image. He puts the ceiling light on and moves the candles back slightly.
The image is still no good. He takes a close up of one of the plates. But it just looks like a murky brown puddle. Robbo throws his phone across the room into the sink.
Tears are welling up. He glugs down more wine and walks around the table, snuffing the candles out. There is one more bottle in the fridge. He opens it, carries it to the table, sits down and drinks.
Robbo holds his head in his hands. He wants his tears to flow but they don’t. He screams into the empty wine bottle. He wants someone to find it, someone to hear him. And to tuck him up in bed so he can sleep. But nothing he really wants ever seems to happen. The fridge is empty. And he’s got no emergency vodka left. So, Robbo stands up and goes out.