💸 MAD MONEY 🔥

Chapter One

Monie

South Norwood was sweating.

Proper sweating. Pavements breathing up old beer and fox piss. Weed smoke trapped between the industrial units. Wigs lifting. Tempers thinning. Even the cats looked one wrong glance away from violence.

Bass travelled through the night like gossip.

DOOF.

DOOF.

DOOF.

Window frames trembled. Car alarms chirped in surrender. Somewhere down Portland Road, a man screamed, “PULL UP!” with the passion of a Pentecostal preacher catching the Holy Ghost.

The DJ dragged the tune back.

The crowd lost its mind.

Simone Walters climbed onto the railing beside the speaker stack.

“AYYYYYYY!”

Gold bamboo earrings slapped against her cheeks as she threw one arm into the air. Her purple lace front had started lifting at the corners, her fishnet tights were already laddered and one furry slider looked ready to abandon her foot completely.

Monie did not care.

The riddim switched to old-school Elephant Man and whatever sense she had arrived with packed its bags and left.

“REWIND DAT BLOODCLAAT!”

A plastic cup appeared in her hand.

She drank from it without asking who it belonged to, what was inside it or why the cloudy red liquid smelled strong enough to strip varnish.

Terrible decision.

Too late now.

The whole industrial estate moved as one hot, sweaty organism. Men skanked in Clarks with bottles of Guinness pressed against their chests. Women dropped low enough to wake injuries from 2012. Smoke curled above heads, thick with jerk seasoning, cigarette ash and hot engine fumes.

Monie stood above it all, thick thighs shining beneath the blue security lights, laughing like the night had been organised in her honour.

Then Snake Man appeared behind her.

Of course he did.

Tall. Lean. White mesh marina rolled halfway up his stomach. Skin glistening. One gold tooth flashing whenever he smirked.

The man moved like his spine had no bones in it.

Hence the name.

His hand slid around Monie’s waist.

“Yuh look good tonight still.”

She turned slowly.

“Only tonight?”

Snake Man’s face dropped.

“Here yuh go.”

“Here I go where?”

“Wid di foolishness.”

“I asked you a question.”

“You always look good.”

“How always? Last week you said my wig looked hot.”

“I said it looked hot because it was orange.”

“It was copper.”

“It was orange.”

Monie pushed his shoulder, already laughing. She laughed with her whole body, mouth wide, head thrown back, one hand pressed against her chest as though somebody had performed for her personal entertainment.

Every emotion arrived loudly with Monie.

Happiness kicked down the front door.

Anger smashed the windows.

Sadness called everybody she had ever met and demanded to know why they had abandoned her.

Snake took the cup from her hand and drank.

Monie watched his throat move.

“You better buy me another one.”

“This weren’t yours.”

“It was in my hand.”

“That don’t make it yours.”

“Possession is nine tenths of the law.”

“You ain’t opened a council letter in six months and now you know law?”

Monie stared at him.

Snake smiled.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know.”

“See, that’s your problem. Too facety.”

“Come dance.”

“You too hype.”

“And?”

“Yuh nearly kick one man in him chest already.”

“He was standing too close.”

“You climbed pon railing.”

“And?”

“That railing not for dancing.”

“Who made you health and safety?”

The riddim changed before he could answer. Old-school dancehall rolled through the speakers and grabbed Monie by the hips. She caught Snake by the front of his marina and pulled him against her.

The crowd tightened.

Monie moved like rent had been cancelled.

Her body dipped, rolled and climbed again. She wound against Snake with reckless confidence, one hand braced against his shoulder while the other lifted her drink above the crowd. She nearly caught a woman behind her in the face with an elbow.

“Watch yourself!” the woman snapped.

Monie stopped dancing.

Snake closed his eyes.

He knew that pause.

Everybody who knew Monie knew that pause.

It was the tiny patch of silence before thunder split the sky.

Monie turned around.

“No, babes. You watch yourself, cah why you standing so close behind me?”

The woman stared at her. “Me deh yah first.”

“And?”

“And you nearly box me.”

“Nearly.”

“You drunk bad.”

Monie’s eyebrows rose.

The crowd around them began to loosen, creating the kind of space people made when they wanted to claim they were avoiding trouble while ensuring they could see every second.

“Me drunk,” Monie said, pointing at herself. “And yet still me sexier than you.”

A man nearby choked on his drink.

The woman sucked her teeth. “Who told you dat?”

“Mirrors.”

“Simone,” Snake said quietly.

Wrong move.

Monie swung towards him.

“Don’t Simone me in public.”

“You doing too much.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“She been preeing you from earlier.”

The woman laughed. “Nobody don’t want him.”

Snake frowned. “Why am I involved now?”

“She lying,” Monie said. “She want you.”

“You think every gyal want me.”

“Dem do.”

“That part true still,” somebody called from behind them.

Snake pointed into the crowd. “Lowe me.”

Monie’s eyes shone brighter beneath the blue lights.

Her words began coming faster. Her body tightened with restless electricity, fed by rum, music and every pair of eyes turning in her direction.

Anybody who knew her properly would have recognised the change.

The sharper movements.

The louder laugh.

The ideas arriving before the previous ones had finished leaving her mouth.

Monie could feel herself becoming larger by the second, more alive, more beautiful and impossible to ignore.

“I could get any man in here if I wanted.”

Snake shrugged. “Go on then.”

A tiny silence opened between them.

Dangerous little thing.

Monie’s face changed.

Now she had something to prove.

“Aight. Cool.”

She climbed down from the railing, nearly lost one slider, recovered with a spin and strutted towards a bald man drinking Guinness punch near the gate.

The man watched her approach with the alarmed expression of somebody who had seen trouble coming and understood there was no longer enough time to move.

Monie stopped in front of him.

“Yuh single?”

He nearly inhaled his drink.

His bredrin folded over laughing.

“Sorry?”

“You deaf?”

“Nah.”

“You got gyal?”

“Sorta.”

“Sorta?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Complicated means yes.”

“She ain’t really my gyal though.”

“Then why you frightened?”

“I’m not frightened.”

“You look frightened.”

“I don’t even know what’s happening.”

Monie kissed her teeth and walked away before he could gather himself.

His bredrin slapped the wall, wheezing.

Snake muttered something beneath his breath.

Monie caught one word.

“Mad.”

She spun around.

“What you say?”

“Nothing.”

“No, say it with your chest.”

“I said nothing.”

“You think I can’t get man?”

“I never said dat.”

“You implied it.”

“I told you go home before we even reach here.”

“So why you come?”

“To make sure you don’t end up in Birmingham.”

The crowd laughed.

Monie did not.

The whole dance had started irritating her now. The music was too loud. The woman behind her was ugly. Snake Man thought he was funny. The rum punch tasted cheap. Everybody was preeing her.

Five minutes earlier, the night had belonged to her.

Now the night was moving funny.

Her phone vibrated inside the tiny silver bag resting on the railing beside the speaker.

She ignored it.

The phone vibrated again.

Still ignored.

Snake looked at the bag.

“A who dat?”

“Nobody.”

“It ring twice.”

“It’s not ringing. It’s vibrating.”

“Same difference.”

“It’s not.”

The phone began ringing properly.

Monie rolled her eyes and reached into the bag, knocking aside lip gloss, lighters, receipts and a child’s sock before finding it.

Aaliyah.

She silenced the call.

Snake watched her.

“Why you cut it?”

“She dramatic.”

“At this hour?”

“She likes attention.”

The phone rang again.

Snake’s expression settled into something Monie did not like.

“You left dem alone?”

“Dem sleeping.”

“All three?”

“What kind of question is dat?”

“A normal question.”

“Oh my days, stop moving like social worker.”

She laughed after saying it.

The laugh landed badly and died between them.

Snake did not join in.

The phone stopped.

Started again.

Monie answered with the aggression of somebody who had already decided the caller was wrong.

“What?”

Aaliyah’s voice reached her through the bass, small and tense.

“Mummy, the electric’s gone.”

Monie shut her eyes.

“Put the torch on.”

“I did.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“My phone’s on twelve percent.”

“What you want me to do from here?”

A pause.

Monie hated Aaliyah’s pauses.

They felt judgemental.

“Mummy, Tyrese is hungry.”

“He ate before I left.”

“He said he didn’t.”

“Well, there’s food there.”

“I checked.”

“There’s noodles.”

“No there’s not.”

“Check the cupboard properly.”

“I checked it twice.”

“What about cereal?”

“No milk.”

“Bread?”

“Three slices.”

“So make toast.”

“The electric is off.”

Monie pressed two fingers against her temple.

The music had become unbearable. Every beat struck the side of her head.

“Mummy, Kiara’s crying.”

“Why?”

“Her back hurts.”

“She always says that.”

“She can’t sleep.”

“Give her Calpol.”

“There’s none.”

Frustration burst through Monie before the guilt could settle.

“So why yuh wait till now fi tell me all of dis?”

Several people turned.

Aaliyah went quiet.

The wrong kind of quiet.

No sulking. No crying. No childishness.

A calm, closed silence that belonged inside offices where professionals took notes.

Monie tightened her grip around the phone.

“Aaliyah?”

“Mummy, can you come home please?”

For half a second, Monie heard the child beneath Aaliyah’s careful voice.

The frightened little girl who had learned to sound calm because panic never helped anybody in Flat 42.

Monie looked towards the speakers, then at Snake.

“Aight. Lock the door. I’m coming now.”

“And food?”

Monie closed her eyes.

“I’ll bring something.”

“You said you were coming soon before.”

“Well, I mean it now.”

She ended the call before Aaliyah could answer and shoved the phone back into the silver bag on the railing.

Snake watched her.

“Go home.”

Monie’s face tightened.

“What?”

“Yuh heard me.”

“You trying fi embarrass me?”

“I’m telling you fi go home to yuh children.”

“Who asked you?”

“Nobody.”

“So mind your business.”

“Your daughter called three times.”

“Because she dramatic.”

“She sounded scared.”

“You couldn’t hear her.”

“I heard enough from you shouting.”

Monie looked around.

Faces turned away too late.

A woman pretended to adjust her shoe. Two men stared deeply into an empty cup. The woman Monie had argued with folded her arms and watched without smiling.

Pity sat worse on Monie than disrespect.

She could fight disrespect.

Pity crawled beneath the skin.

“I do everything for dem kids.”

Snake rubbed his forehead.

“Nobody said you don’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Everybody always got something fi say about me. Every single person. Nobody asks if I’m alright. Nobody asks what I need.”

“Monie.”

“I’m a single mother. You know how hard dat is?”

“I know it’s hard.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You’re high and drunk.”

“And?”

“And your daughter asked you to come home.”

“And I said I’m going.”

“So go.”

The bluntness hit her like a slap.

Monie grabbed her drink from the speaker and climbed down from the railing.

“You know what? Everybody can suck their mum.”

“Go home,” Snake repeated.

“I was going anyway.”

“Good.”

“Not because you told me.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“I said okay.”

“You think you’re too nice.”

“I never said dat.”

“Your face said it.”

Monie marched away from the speaker stack in furry sliders, fishnets and wounded pride.

She made it halfway down the road before reaching for her phone.

Her shoulder felt strangely light.

She patted her side.

No bag.

“Raaasclaat.”

She spun around and stormed back through the crowd.

Snake stood in the same place holding the silver bag by its strap.

He passed it to her without speaking.

Monie snatched it.

“I wasn’t coming back for you.”

“Sure.”

“I came for my property.”

“Okay.”

“You think I’m obsessed with you.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to.”

Snake’s mouth twitched.

“See why man call you Mad Monie?”

“Who call me dat?”

“Everybody.”

“Name one.”

“Me.”

She shoved him.

He laughed.

Monie tried to keep her face straight, failed and started laughing too.

That was the irritating thing about Snake. He could pull laughter out of her while she was still deciding whether to fight him.

He caught her hand.

“Text me when you reach.”

“Why?”

“So I know you reach.”

“You care about me?”

“Go home, Monie.”

“Say you care about me first.”

“I care about you.”

“How much?”

Snake stared at her.

“Enough to want your children fed.”

The smile slid from her face.

Snake released her hand.

“Go.”

Monie adjusted the bag on her shoulder.

“Waste man.”

She walked away before he could see the tears threatening again.

The roads were still alive.

Chicken shop signs glowed against the darkness. Men leaned over motorbikes chatting rubbish. Uber drivers idled outside off-licences. A fox sprinted across Portland Road carrying what looked suspiciously like an entire lamb chop.

Monie stopped walking.

“Where you get dat?”

The fox disappeared between two parked cars.

“People starving and fox living luxury.”

She continued towards Morley’s with the angry speed of somebody who knew she had behaved badly and planned to stay defensive until further notice.

One slider made a faint farting noise against the pavement.

Pffft.

Pffft.

Pffft.

Monie looked down at it.

“Don’t start.”

Her phone vibrated.

Aaliyah.

Monie opened the message.

ARE YOU COMING

Another appeared beneath it.

KIARA SAID IT HURTS MORE

The guilt tried to climb into Monie’s chest.

She shoved it back down.

She was going home.

The children were inside. The door was locked. Aaliyah was sensible. Nothing had happened.

Nothing ever happened.

That was the story Monie told herself whenever she went out.

Inside Morley’s, two schoolboys clocked her before the door had finished closing.

“Rah. Tyrese’s mum.”

“Safe, aunty.”

Monie lifted her chin like local royalty acknowledging the public.

“You lot ain’t too young fi be out?”

One boy blinked. “Aunty, you’re out too.”

“Watch yuh mout.”

They laughed.

Monie approached the counter and examined the menu as though she had never entered a chicken shop in her life.

“Give me six wings, large chips, one burger meal, extra gravy, two Tango Ice Blasts and a Magnum.”

The cashier looked at her.

“You feeding a football team?”

“My kids hungry.”

“Fair enough.”

“And put cheese in the burger.”

“Cheese is extra.”

“Everything is extra nowadays.”

The cashier said nothing.

Monie searched her bag.

Lip gloss.

Three lighters.

A broken charger.

Half a strip of paracetamol.

A crumpled Croydon Council letter.

One child’s sock.

A condom in a gold wrapper.

No bank card.

“Nah, man.”

She checked again with rising aggression, as though the card had hidden itself deliberately.

Receipts.

Chewing gum.

A single hoop earring.

Another lighter.

No card.

Then she remembered.

Her bra.

Last month she had become too drunk at a session and sent eighty-five pounds to a DJ while trying to order wings through Apple Pay. Since then, important cards travelled beside her left breast.

She reached inside and pulled it free.

The schoolboys watched in fascination.

“Good gyal,” Monie whispered to the card.

The cashier passed her the machine.

She tapped.

Declined.

The word appeared in hard red letters.

Monie stared at it.

The machine stared back.

She tapped again, pressing harder.

Declined.

“Move the card away and try again,” the cashier said.

“I know how machine works.”

“Okay.”

She tapped for a third time.

Declined.

“I got money.”

“Okay.”

“I do.”

“I never said you didn’t.”

“Your face said it.”

The cashier looked towards the ceiling.

The boys whispered behind her.

“She always arguing.”

Monie spun around.

“And?”

Both boys arranged their faces into innocence.

The cashier pushed the machine aside.

“Miss, please.”

Monie unlocked her banking app.

Nine pounds and sixteen pence available.

She stared at the figure until it blurred.

Her overdraft had finally collapsed beneath the weight of her own decisions.

Three Klarna payments.

A hair appointment.

Two party outfits.

Takeaways.

One hundred and forty pounds’ worth of hookah flavours she had planned to resell.

An enormous LED mirror bought during a week when Monie had decided she was going to become a beauty influencer, despite owning four makeup brushes and having no idea how to edit videos.

Her savings pot contained twenty-seven pounds.

The label read:

EMERGENCY. DO NOT TOUCH.

Monie transferred twenty.

“See why me hate banks.”

The cashier glanced at her wig. “Nobody forced you to buy a three-hundred-pound wig.”

Monie looked personally wounded.

“That wig changed lives.”

“Didn’t change your bank balance.”

The boys burst out laughing.

Monie pointed at them. “You two are too comfortable.”

The payment went through.

Outside, she balanced the greasy paper bag against one hip and started the walk towards the estate.

Her phone battery sat at three percent.

Three missed calls from Aaliyah.

One voicemail.

A message from the gas company.

FINAL NOTICE

She deleted it without opening the full message.

The estate blocks rose ahead of her, all grey concrete, narrow balconies and tired windows. A hallway light flickered on the fifth floor. The downstairs buzzer had been broken for so long that residents treated the repair sign as part of the building’s permanent decor.

Monie stopped outside the gate.

The bag of food warmed her forearm.

Her head felt heavy now. The rum had begun settling badly, leaving her mouth dry and her thoughts too close together.

She searched the bottom of her bag and found half a crushed spliff wrapped in tissue.

“Thank you, universe.”

The lighter took three attempts.

She leaned against the railings and inhaled.

Her mother used to stand like this.

Outside buildings at foolish hours, smoking, talking to herself and promising she was about to change her entire life.

Pearline Walters.

Bajan. Beautiful. Loud enough to frighten electricity back into dead appliances.

Pearline could cook for fifteen people while cussing the neighbours, the church and the Prime Minister without losing her place in the recipe. She could make one pot stretch across three days and nine children, then slap somebody’s hand for taking too much gravy.

There had always been people in Pearline’s flat.

People sleeping on sofas.

People bathing babies in washing-up bowls.

People arguing through doors.

Somebody was always frying dumplings. Somebody was always pregnant. Somebody was always crying.

One of Monie’s brothers had attempted to cook saltfish on an iron after the cooker broke.

Another shaved off one eyebrow during what Pearline called a spiritual attack.

Monie could still remember the whole family gathered in the kitchen, trying not to laugh while he stared into a handheld mirror and whispered, “Mummy, it gone.”

Even poverty had comedy in it.

Sometimes comedy was all they had.

Pearline’s moods ran through the flat like faulty wiring.

One week she would repaint the kitchen at three in the morning, singing gospel in a nightdress with no underwear and announcing that the Lord had given her a vision involving yellow cabinets and a catering business.

The next week, she would lie in bed with the curtains closed, accusing everybody of conspiring against her spirit.

Nine children lived inside those changes.

Nine children learning when to laugh, when to hide and when to stay close enough to make sure their mother was still breathing.

Monie’s two older brothers had struggled the worst.

Devon and Curtis.

Both seriously unwell long before anybody in the family had language for it.

Devon used to stand outside Iceland warning strangers that demons had entered the Lucozade bottles.

Curtis once stole a mobility scooter and drove it from Norwood to Brixton because he believed MI5 was tracking his thoughts through toothpaste.

Pearline refused to hear anything about psychiatrists.

Everything was bad mind.

Obeah.

Envy.

Wickedness.

Spirits.

White people trying to suppress Black excellence.

Sometimes all within the same breath.

Monie smiled, remembering the Saturday Pearline had become convinced that a woman from church was attacking the family through seasoning cubes.

“For months me telling unnu, do not eat from Sandra!”

Pearline marched into the kitchen and threw an entire box of Oxo cubes into the bin like she was disposing of narcotics.

The family watched in silence.

Curtis leaned towards Monie and whispered, “She seasoning us to death.”

Nobody laughed.

Pearline had a frying pan in her hand.

Monie drew on the spliff and looked up towards Flat 42.

Truthfully, she barely remembered her father.

Jamaican. Tall. Smelled of Guinness and cigarettes.

Gone by the time Monie was two.

Pearline’s version was that he had run because he could not handle a powerful woman.

The older children claimed he had run after Pearline threw hot soup at him and threatened to bury his name in a graveyard.

Both stories sounded plausible.

Pearline fully believed she could practise obeah despite becoming aggressively Pentecostal every few Thursdays. She would pray over the house in tongues, then threaten to deal with Sandra spiritually before lunchtime.

One night, Jesus was Lord.

By morning, Sandra’s name was inside a jar.

Monie laughed aloud.

The sound bounced off the concrete.

Then the laughter faded.

Underneath every funny family story sat something that had never been funny.

Nobody in that flat had been well.

Everything had been loud, extreme and unnamed. People were angry, depressed, frightened, manic or pretending. The family created jokes for illnesses nobody knew how to treat.

Dramatic.

Crazy.

Hard ears.

Attention seeking.

Possessed.

Anything except unwell.

Monie looked down at the dying spliff between her fingers.

Hannah, the social worker, had asked about her family history during their last visit.

Monie had laughed.

“What you want, a family tree of madness?”

Hannah had not laughed back.

Monie hated people who refused to laugh.

Her phone buzzed.

One percent.

Aaliyah had sent another message.

WHERE ARE YOU

Monie dropped the spliff, crushed it beneath her slider and picked up the food.

“I’m here, man.”

The lobby door opened after she shoulder-barged it twice.

Inside, the lift was out of order again.

She stared at the handwritten sign.

“Of course.”

Flat 42 sat five floors above her.

Monie began climbing.

By the second floor, the food bag had started cutting into her fingers.

By the third, her thighs burned.

By the fourth, she had decided the council was personally responsible for everything wrong with her life.

The hallway light outside the fifth floor flickered as she approached.

She could hear a tablet playing inside the flat.

A child coughing.

Another voice whispering.

Monie stopped outside the door and tried to straighten herself.

She pressed down the lifting edge of her wig.

Wiped beneath her eyes.

Pulled her skirt lower.

The smell of rum clung to her skin. Smoke lived in her clothes.

For one quiet second, she stood outside her own home holding fried chicken and shame.

Then she pushed the key into the lock.

It missed.

She tried again.

Missed.

On the third attempt, the lock turned.

Monie lifted her chin, arranged a smile and entered Flat 42 like she had been expected all along.

Chapter Two

Aaliyah

At 2:35 in the morning, the electric ran out.

The television died first.

Then the fridge stopped humming.

The lamp beside the sofa blinked once and surrendered.

Darkness dropped over Flat 42 so quickly that Kiara screamed.

Aaliyah was already moving before Tyrese started swearing.

She knew where the emergency torch lived because she knew where everything lived.

Top kitchen drawer.

Behind the dead batteries.

Beside the unopened letters.

Her fingers closed around it in the dark.

The torch flickered twice, then produced a weak yellow circle.

Kiara sat curled at one end of the sofa wearing her school cardigan despite the heat. One shoulder sat higher than the other beneath the burgundy fabric. Tyrese remained on the floor in his shorts, holding the dead tablet like somebody had personally murdered it.

“Raaas.”

“Don’t swear,” Aaliyah said.

“Mummy says it.”

“You’re not Mummy.”

“Neither are you.”

Aaliyah ignored that.

She checked the meter.

No credit.

She pressed the button again.

Still no credit.

Sometimes the meter took a moment to update. Sometimes Monie said she had topped it up and the payment had failed. Sometimes Monie had never topped it up in the first place.

Aaliyah checked six times.

The answer remained the same.

Flat 42 smelled damp. The patch above the living-room window had spread across the wall, grey around the edges and black in the middle. Monie had sprayed it with bleach the week before and announced the problem solved.

The mould returned before the bleach smell disappeared.

Outside the flat, the hallway bulb flickered through the blinds, making the room flash every few seconds as though the building itself was struggling to stay conscious.

Tyrese slapped the side of the tablet.

“It ain’t gonna come back on,” Aaliyah said.

“You don’t know.”

“The electric’s gone.”

“It might have battery.”

“It was on two percent.”

“So?”

“So two percent is finished.”

Tyrese pressed the button again.

Nothing happened.

He looked personally betrayed.

“Mummy gone party again, innit.”

Aaliyah walked into the kitchen.

Three slices of bread sat in the bag.

There was ketchup in the fridge, though the fridge had stopped being cold.

A jar of mayonnaise.

Half an onion.

Two sugar sachets Monie had taken from McDonald’s.

Aaliyah opened every cupboard.

No noodles.

No cereal worth eating.

No tins.

She checked again in case food had appeared through prayer or desperation.

Nothing.

Tyrese followed her.

“I’m hungry.”

“You ate earlier.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“There was pasta.”

“Kiara ate it.”

Kiara called from the sofa. “No I didn’t.”

“You ate mine.”

“I ate my own.”

“You had bare.”

“There were four pieces.”

“You had five.”

Aaliyah turned around.

“Both of you, shut up.”

Tyrese leaned against the doorframe.

“Mummy said she was getting food.”

“When?”

“Before she left.”

“She said she might.”

“That means yes.”

“With Mummy, it means nothing.”

The words left Aaliyah’s mouth before she could soften them.

Tyrese’s face changed.

Aaliyah looked back inside the cupboard.

She hated when he looked hurt because of something true.

At 2:41, she called Monie.

No answer.

She called again.

The call rang until voicemail.

She called a third time.

Monie answered as though Aaliyah had interrupted something important.

“What?”

Behind her voice came music, shouting and bass so heavy it distorted the speaker.

“Mummy, the electric’s gone.”

“Put the torch on.”

“I did.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“My phone’s on twelve percent.”

“What you want me to do from here?”

Aaliyah looked at Tyrese.

He rubbed his stomach.

“Mummy, Tyrese is hungry.”

“He ate before I left.”

“He said he didn’t.”

“Well, there’s food there.”

“I checked.”

“There’s noodles.”

“No there’s not.”

“Check the cupboard properly.”

“I checked it twice.”

“What about cereal?”

“No milk.”

“Bread?”

“Three slices.”

“So make toast.”

“The electric is off.”

Aaliyah heard Monie breathing heavily on the other end.

“Mummy, Kiara’s crying.”

“Why?”

“Her back hurts.”

“She always says that.”

“She can’t sleep.”

“Give her Calpol.”

“There’s none.”

Monie’s voice rose.

“So why yuh wait till now fi tell me all of dis?”

Aaliyah went quiet.

There were moments when she could feel herself stepping away from her own age.

Fourteen disappeared.

Something older took its place.

A calm voice.

A blank face.

Words chosen carefully enough to avoid making the adult angrier.

“Mummy, can you come home please?”

The bass continued behind Monie.

For a second, Aaliyah thought the call had disconnected.

Then Monie spoke.

“Aight. Lock the door. I’m coming now.”

“And food?”

“I’ll bring something.”

“You said you were coming soon before.”

“Well, I mean it now.”

The line went dead.

Aaliyah stared at the phone.

Tyrese watched her.

“She coming?”

“She said she is.”

“With food?”

“She said.”

Tyrese smiled.

Aaliyah did not.

Monie said many things.

Some were true when she said them.

Aaliyah returned to the kitchen and searched again.

She pulled everything out of the freezer this time.

A bag of ice fused into one solid block.

Half a packet of peas.

A plastic container with something grey inside.

A freezer bag filled with breadcrumbs.

Beneath the peas, four sausages had frozen together in a thin layer of ice.

Aaliyah held them beneath the torch.

Freezer burn covered the skins.

They looked older than Tyrese’s last pair of school shoes.

Still food.

She placed them in a bowl of warm tap water and waited for them to separate.

The cooker ignition had stopped working months ago. Monie kept saying she had reported it, though the housing association never seemed to know anything about the call.

Aaliyah took a lighter from the drawer.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Nothing.

“Aliyahhhhh,” Tyrese whined.

“It’s Aaliyah.”

“You don’t answer when people say it properly anyway.”

“Shut up, Tyrese.”

He grinned.

Even hungry, that boy found nonsense funny.

Aaliyah tried the lighter again.

The flame jumped.

Gas caught with a soft whoomph.

She pulled her hand away.

“Finally.”

Kiara shifted on the sofa and winced.

Aaliyah watched her.

One shoulder sat higher than the other now. It had become more noticeable over the past year.

Aaliyah had seen it.

Teachers had seen it.

Women at church had seen it.

Their neighbour Miss Claudia had once pulled Monie aside outside the block and told her Kiara needed to see somebody.

Monie came upstairs furious.

“She think she’s doctor now?”

Nobody needed to be a doctor to see Kiara’s back was changing.

She leaned to one side when she walked. Her school dresses hung unevenly. Some nights the pain woke her crying.

Monie kept explanations ready.

Doctors chatted rubbish.

Doctors only wanted to cut people open.

Kiara got it from her father’s side.

Nobody knew for certain who Kiara’s father was.

South Norwood had theories.

South Norwood always had theories.

Aaliyah placed two sausages into the pan.

The other two went back in the freezer.

Tyrese stared.

“Why you putting them back?”

“For tomorrow.”

“I could eat two.”

“You can eat one.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It’s enough for tonight.”

“What you eating?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Tyrese narrowed his eyes.

“You always say dat.”

“Because I’m always not hungry.”

“That don’t make sense.”

“Neither does your face.”

He laughed.

Kiara managed a small smile.

That was the thing about the Walters children.

Humour survived wherever stability failed.

The sausages hissed in the pan. The skins split down the sides.

Aaliyah divided the bread.

One slice for Tyrese.

Two for Kiara because she ate slowly and often left some behind.

Nothing for herself.

Tyrese watched her place the plates down.

“You ain’t eating?”

“I ate earlier.”

“What did you eat?”

“Food.”

“What food?”

“Why you interviewing me?”

“Because there weren’t no food.”

“I ate at my friend’s.”

“What friend?”

Aaliyah stared at him.

Tyrese took a bite of sausage.

“Alright.”

Kiara picked at the bread.

Her face tightened every time she shifted.

“Does it hurt bad?” Aaliyah asked.

Kiara shook her head too quickly.

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Tyrese pointed at her.

“She was crying earlier.”

Kiara snapped towards him.

“I was not.”

“You was.”

“Shut up.”

“You said your back feels like somebody standing on it.”

Kiara’s eyes filled.

Aaliyah looked at the curve in her body and felt panic rising into her throat.

She pushed it down.

Panic did not cook food.

Panic did not charge phones.

Panic did not put money on electric meters.

“What side hurts?” she asked.

“Everywhere.”

“Come lie on the floor.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“It might help.”

“It doesn’t.”

Aaliyah sat beside her.

Kiara’s hair was half braided. Monie had started it the previous Sunday, completed one side, then spent three hours arguing on the phone about a woman who had liked Snake Man’s picture.

The braid pattern stopped near the crown.

The rest of Kiara’s hair had begun shrinking around it.

Aaliyah touched her shoulder.

“Should I call somebody?”

Kiara’s eyes widened.

“No.”

“An ambulance.”

“No.”

“They won’t take you away.”

“I don’t want social to come.”

“They’re not social.”

“They’ll tell them.”

Aaliyah had no answer.

Every service felt connected when you grew up under observation.

School spoke to social services.

Doctors spoke to schools.

Neighbours spoke to housing.

Adults exchanged information while children learned to keep quiet.

“I’ll tell Mummy she has to book the doctor,” Aaliyah said.

“You told her before.”

“I’ll tell her again.”

“She don’t listen to you.”

Aaliyah looked towards the kitchen.

“I know.”

Her phone buzzed.

For one hopeful second, she thought Monie had messaged.

The screen showed an email from school.

Miss Jenkins

Aaliyah’s stomach tightened.

Miss Jenkins had started paying too much attention.

At first, the questions sounded normal.

You alright today, Aaliyah?

You seem tired.

Everything okay at home?

Then the offers started.

Free breakfast club.

A quiet room at lunchtime.

Somewhere to complete homework after school.

Then came questions about Kiara’s posture, Tyrese falling asleep during maths and why Aaliyah’s blazer sometimes smelled of weed smoke.

Too many questions.

Teachers began with concern.

Social workers followed.

Aaliyah knew the pattern.

She had lived it before.

The first social worker came when Aaliyah was six.

Monie disappeared for almost two days after a Carnival afterparty in Ladbroke Grove. Tyrese was still a baby, red-faced and screaming from hunger while Monie’s friend Keisha walked between rooms saying, “She coming soon.”

Keisha said it for hours.

Aaliyah tried to feed Tyrese dry Coco Pops one by one because she did not know babies could not eat them.

He spat each one out and screamed harder.

The neighbours called somebody.

Two women arrived carrying folders. One was Black, one was white and both wore the same careful expression.

Monie returned during the visit with glitter around her eyes and one eyelash missing.

Still drunk.

Still loud.

Still able to make the Black social worker laugh before the meeting ended.

That was Monie’s gift.

Charm grew strongest whenever disaster approached.

She could cry, joke, flirt and tell a story within the same minute. She talked about racism, poverty and feeling overwhelmed. She mentioned her mental health without naming anything. She made professionals feel sorry for her while leaving them vaguely entertained.

Consequences softened around Monie.

Afterwards, she ranted for hours.

“Dem want tek Black people pickney fi nothing.”

She accused the neighbours of bad mind.

She threatened to find out who had called.

By the following weekend, she had gone out again.

Aaliyah learned the rules early.

Never tell teachers too much.

Never open the door without checking who is outside.

Hide ashtrays.

Wake Mummy before visitors enter.

Say she is in the shower.

Say she works nights.

Say she has a migraine.

Say the smell came through the window.

Protect the household.

Even while the household sank.

Aaliyah opened Miss Jenkins’s email.

Hi Aaliyah,

I noticed you seemed upset before leaving school on Friday. I wanted to check that you are safe and that everything is okay at home. You can speak to me privately on Monday morning.

Aaliyah deleted it.

Then went into the deleted folder and deleted it again.

Tyrese finished his sausage in less than three minutes.

“Mummy definitely bringing chicken though.”

Aaliyah checked the time.

2:56 a.m.

“She said she was.”

“What chicken?”

“I don’t know.”

“She better get wings.”

“Eat what you got.”

“I did.”

“Then stop talking about food.”

“I’m still hungry.”

Kiara tore her remaining bread in half and passed one piece to him.

Tyrese took it without arguing.

Aaliyah looked away so they would not see her face.

The hallway bulb flickered through the blinds.

Somewhere outside, bass rolled faintly across the estate.

Monie’s dance was far enough away to sound like another world.

Tyrese leaned against Aaliyah’s shoulder.

His body was warm and too thin.

“You think social gonna take us?”

He said it casually.

Too casually.

Aaliyah froze.

Children who grew up around social workers learned to ask terrifying questions in ordinary voices.

“No.”

“But what if?”

“They won’t.”

“But what if they do?”

“They’re not going to.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know.”

“You don’t know everything.”

“I know more than you.”

“What if they split us up?”

Kiara stopped chewing.

Aaliyah turned towards Tyrese.

“Why would you say that?”

“My friend Jayden got took and him and his sister don’t live together.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It is.”

“You don’t know.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Would you look after me?”

Aaliyah stared at her little brother.

His eyes had gone shiny.

Tyrese was frightened.

He had probably been frightened for months.

Maybe years.

All of them were frightened.

They laughed through it because laughter gave fear somewhere else to go.

Aaliyah rubbed his head roughly.

“Shut up and lick your plate.”

“I already did.”

Kiara giggled.

Tyrese smiled weakly.

Aaliyah’s phone battery dropped to seven percent.

She checked for messages.

Nothing.

At 3:03, she called Monie.

No answer.

At 3:06, she tried again.

Voicemail.

She sent another message.

WHERE ARE YOU

Then:

KIARA SAID IT HURTS MORE

No reply.

Aaliyah stared towards the front door and imagined every possible ending.

Monie in an ambulance.

Monie in a police car.

Monie asleep inside somebody’s house.

Monie laughing too loudly in Snake Man’s face.

Monie forgetting she had children until daylight.

Aaliyah hated herself for thinking the worst.

Experience taught her to prepare for it.

Kiara shifted again.

A sound escaped her throat.

Aaliyah moved beside her.

“Do you want me to call?”

“No.”

“You’re crying.”

“I’m not.”

“Kiara.”

“No ambulance.”

“What am I meant to do then?”

“I don’t know.”

The answer was so small that Aaliyah had to look away.

There should have been an adult to ask.

Somebody who knew when pain became an emergency.

Somebody who kept Calpol in the cupboard.

Somebody who checked the meter before going out.

Aaliyah picked up the phone.

Miss Jenkins’s email remained deleted.

Hannah’s number was probably inside one of the folders Monie kept beneath the television.

Aaliyah knew calling either of them could change everything.

She put the phone down.

Tyrese fell asleep against her shoulder a little after three.

Kiara lay curled against the arm of the sofa, eyes closed, breathing shallowly through the pain.

Aaliyah stayed awake.

At 3:17, footsteps sounded in the corridor.

Slow.

Uneven.

A plastic bag rustled.

Aaliyah sat upright.

The key scraped against the lock and missed.

Once.

Twice.

On the third attempt, it turned.

Aaliyah looked at Tyrese asleep beside her, Kiara curled on the sofa and the empty plates on the floor.

Then she looked towards the opening door.

Monie stepped into the dark flat carrying fried chicken, warm Tango Ice Blasts and a smile far too bright for the hour.

“See?” she announced, lifting the bag. “I said I was bringing food.”

Aaliyah looked at the clock on the wall, though the hands had stopped when the electric went.

“You said you were coming straight home.”

“I am home.”

“Nearly forty minutes later.”

“It don’t take two seconds fi walk.”

“You were ignoring your phone.”

“My battery died.”

The screen glowed faintly inside Monie’s hand.

Aaliyah looked at it.

Monie looked down.

“One percent is basically dead.”

Kiara whimpered on the sofa.

Monie’s smile slipped.

“Her back still hurting?”

“It’s worse.”

Monie put the food on the table.

“Why she lying down like dat?”

“Because she’s in pain.”

“I told you fi give her Calpol.”

“And I told you there wasn’t any.”

Monie glanced around the dark flat, taking in the torch on the floor, the empty plates and Tyrese asleep against Aaliyah.

Her eyes settled on the frying pan.

“You found food then.”

“Four old sausages.”

“So there was food.”

Aaliyah stared at her.

“That’s what you got from everything I said?”

Monie’s face hardened.

“Watch how you talk to me.”

“I called you because the electric went, Tyrese was hungry and Kiara was crying.”

“And I came home.”

“After Snake Man told you to?”

The silence changed.

Monie’s eyes narrowed.

“How you know Snake was there?”

“I could hear him.”

“You listening to my business now?”

“You answered the phone beside a speaker.”

“Don’t get smart.”

Aaliyah stood carefully so Tyrese’s head slid onto the cushion.

She was smaller than Monie, thinner too, though something in her face made Monie take half a step back.

“You promised you were coming.”

“I’m here.”

“You always say that like arriving fixes everything.”

Monie stared at her daughter.

The words landed somewhere deep.

“Who you think you’re talking to?”

“My mum.”

“Then act like it.”

“I do.”

The answer came quietly.

Monie’s mouth opened.

Nothing followed.

Aaliyah looked towards Kiara.

“She needs a doctor.”

“Tomorrow.”

“She needs one now.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“Pain doesn’t know the time.”

Monie rubbed both hands over her face.

“I can’t deal wid all dis tonight.”

Aaliyah’s expression remained still.

“That’s the problem.”

Monie dropped her hands.

For a second, neither of them moved.

The flat held its breath around them.

Tyrese asleep.

Kiara hurting.

The electric dead.

Chicken cooling inside a greasy bag.

Fourteen years of disappointment standing barefoot beneath the emergency torch.

Monie looked at her eldest daughter and saw something she had spent years refusing to notice.

Aaliyah no longer looked like a child waiting for her mother to come home.

She looked like a woman deciding how much longer she could keep the family together.

Then Kiara cried out.

The sound cut through the room.

Aaliyah turned towards her.

Monie stayed where she was.

And for the first time that night, nobody laughed.

To Be Continued....