Authors: Victoria Delderfield
The bitches … traitors.
Ricki turned the corner with fire in her heels, her breath whipped by a cross-wind of winter air.
Lying, two-faced cows, the pair of them.
The house numbers were too small to see.
Idiot … Moron … Ricki Milne, thick as pig shit. Can’t tell a lie if it bites her on the arse. Can’t tell her real mum a mile off.
The house was somewhere mid-terrace. Princess Street, too run-down even for Cinderella. Ricki rapped on the door of number 28.
Please be in. Just answer this one time.
The house sat in darkness. Lowrie was probably at a party, her eyes crinkling around a joint in some smoke-filled boomer of a club.
A light came on upstairs then the door opened and Lowrie peered out. She wore a kimono from Kin-ki. It was black, with gold flowers and white cranes flying across the chest. Ricki followed the winding tracery of her veins to where they disappeared beneath the silk.
“Ricki, what are you doing here at this time of night?”
“I needed some place to go.”
“What’s happened? Your tattoo’s not gone mangy has it? Don’t tell me your parents found out?”
“It’s not that.”
Lowrie pulled her dressing gown tighter. “It’s late, kid. I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you, I promise. It’s only for a night. I’ll be out of your hair by morning.” Ricki packed her hands into the armpits of her parka. “It’s cold,” she wheezed, “getting colder.”
“You’re not in a good way, kid.”
“Families fuck you up, isn’t that right?”
“You should try reading less miserable poetry.”
Ricki’s teeth chattered. “Are you going to let me in or what?”
A voice called from upstairs. “Who is it, Lou?” A blonde appeared wrapped in a towel, she was in her early thirties, maybe younger, with a pierced bottom lip.
“Ricki, this is Esme.”
“Your bath’s getting cold, Lou. Don’t be long.”
Ricki had a sudden urge to punch the blonde goddess. “I’ll go.”
“Sorry, kid,” said Lowrie. “Why don’t you talk things through with your twin?”
Ricki gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah,” she said, turning away.
My fucking double.
She didn’t know where to go. Behind the counter of the chippy, the kebab spike was bare, a lace tablecloth hung over the fryers. Pinned above the till was a postcard:
Madonna and Child.
Mary’s flat, sad eyes met hers. She must have known from the beginning how it would end, losing her baby.
What about May? Had she known? Ricki raged inside her parka. How could May do it? What was she thinking, coming to England? Ricki glimpsed her reflection. Who was this Chinese kid staring back at her? She blew into her hands to keep them warm and hummed.
What about May’s voice? Had she sung to them in the womb? Had she talked to the bump of babies, the stump of flesh heaping up in front of her? What kind of a mother was she all those months and why didn’t she listen when people told her to scrap the babies while she could? Or did May smoke pot and sniff glue? Was she off her head half the time and couldn’t think straight? Maybe that’s why Ricki inherited asthma and Jen’s teeth turned out soft as rotting bark. Did May really – in her heart and in her empty belly – believe they would open their arms, wide as the Yellow River and let her steam on down? Pick up where she’d left off in China?
Fuck you, May.
Ricki sat for a while in the freezing bus shelter. She couldn’t feel her toes. A bus pulled up and she shook her head at the driver. The couple kissing on the backseat faded out of view. She wandered towards the park.
A bench
In loving memory of Herbert, 1919-2007
was freckled with frost. Ricki curled up on it, knees tucked beneath her chin, her parka like a fly sheet, her teeth protesting at the cold. She was woken by car headlights.
A guy whistled piercingly. “Hey, lady!”
Ricki’s heart pumped faster. The car bumped over the frozen grass and a guy rolled out with a bottle of beer, burbling about the stars, saying he could see his anus, with its mother of a ring.
“That’s Saturn and you’re talkin’ bollocks.”
A guy staggered towards Herbert’s bench. “Bit young to be here alone,” he said.
“Who’s asking?”
“Come over here will you,” called the driver. He had a thick Manchester accent. A woman in an itsy-bit of vest top sat sideways on his knee and began pouring
Woodpecker
down his throat. They fell out of the open door, and he groaned.
Ricki stared through the car headlights at the figure on all fours: the leather jacket, the biker boots, the ponytail.
“Stuart?”
Spittle hung from the corner of his mouth.
“Stuart what are you doing? I thought you were with Jen?”
His eyes were unfocused. “I’m letting off steam.”
“Letting off steam? You piece of shit. Who’s that slapper with you?”
He wiped his mouth. “I don’t see you holding Jen’s hand.”
Ricki hugged herself, overcome by the cold inside her. She was miles from home. She couldn’t even remember the way back.
“You want to sleep in the car? There’s room in the back if you can put up with Dave trying to have a feel.”
“Do I look that desperate?”
When she woke, the slapper had gone. Stuart wound down the window and spat a gigantic gob that twinkled on the frosty grass. Ricki caught his eye in the rear-view mirror and looked away.
“Alright?” he said.
“What do you think?”
He got out and scraped the frost off the windscreen with his fingers. She could see tyre tracks in the desolate park. Stuart reversed, wheels crunching, towards a track and an exit leading to a terraced street.
He drove to ASDA and disappeared off in search of breakfast. Dave trailed after him. Ricki stayed in the car and checked her mobile. There were ten missed calls and a text from Jen,
Plz, call NOW.
The first voicemail was from her dad, telling her to
Get yourself home, your mother’s beside herself.
The next was from her mum, sobbing into the phone, saying she was sorry, she didn’t mean to hurt her, she didn’t know what to do … Ricki deleted them. The final voicemail was from Jen.
Ricki, I know how you’re feeling. I’m shocked too. I need you. We need to talk right now. I promise I won’t pretend everything’s okay. No-one else understands me. You’re my twin sister.
Ricki’s fingers hovered over the green button to call her back, when something caught her eye. It was a policeman, passing in front of the car on his way into the supermarket. She shrank back in the seat. No doubt her parents had reported her missing. Her mum had probably declared a national state of emergency because she’d stayed out for one poxy night. Abandoned babies aren’t supposed to run off, they’re supposed to be eternally grateful, loyal as rescued puppies.
Ricki watched the policeman hand over what looked like
Wanted
posters to a member of staff. She waited until the policeman left then went to see what was was going on. A woman from customer services had pinned a poster to a community notice board.
“At least it’s not another shooting,” she said.
Ricki stared at May’s face in the witness appeal poster. It was like a creepy Scooby Doo painting, the kind with moving eyes. So this was her Chinese mother. They even had the same dimples … No wonder May always seemed so lost and out of place in Manchester. She was never meant to be here, never meant to find her and Jen. That’s what the authorities would have said: the adoption agency, the Home Office, the Chinese government. Was a clean break too much to ask? She’d left them once, in China, wasn’t that enough?
“Can I take one?”
The woman gazed at Ricki. “Why don’t you go and have a nice cuppa, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Stuart appeared at her side. “She’s coming with me,”
At the car, he prised away the poster.
“That’s her innit? Jen’s teacher. Don’t tell me she’s snuffed it? Should have been watching where she was going.”
Ricki looked into his pasty face and wanted to smash it into orbit.
“What did I say wrong?”
“What do you ever say right, wank-stain?”
She snatched the poster and stormed off, to who knew where or how long it would take her … she just wanted …
To be.
Anywhere.
But there.
“And stay away from my sister or I’ll tell my parents you’ve been trying to get her laid.”
“Oooh, big fucking deal,” she heard him laugh.
Oh, Mrs Nie, his hands are soft, his thumb graceful as a swan’s neck. Last night, when he touched me, I thought I’d float away. His name is Manager He. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve his attention. He says I am the future. He held my hands, those I thought were ugly, and told me I could inspire others. “You are the light,” he said, “shining the way to a brighter future …” Oh, Mrs Nie, how can I work when my hands won’t stop trembling at the thought of him?
Clang-a-lang-a-lang-a-lang-a-lang-a-
I bundled Mrs Nie into my pillow case. Ren was first to the pipe and brought me a share, as she often did. We hurried to the sanitary room to fight for a place at the sink. There wasn’t a chance to show off my pink satin shoes, but that time would come. Soon they’d all want to be rewarded like me, even cynical old Ren.
I was getting the knack of the circuit boards; although not quite up to Xiaofan’s speed. I completed most of them before the klaxon. The time analysts no longer checked my efficiency or whispered to Xiaofan. My study of basic English was also paying off. I recognised words like
quit
and
defect warning
without having to refer back to the instructions. I’d prove to the shoe assistant in the department store, as I did to Madam Quifang: not all peasants are dumb pigs.
I glanced towards Manager He’s bureau. For the last half hour, the chief executive, had been laying into him. I was scared it might be something to do with me and Rule 46, the one forbidding
improper relations
. The bureau door slammed and the chief executive strode down the line, tripping over some plastic packaging. His armful of papers fanned across the factory floor.
“Which imbecile left these here? Can’t you see it’s a safety hazard?” He dusted himself down. “Star of Forwood? Pah! Just remember, it’s me who pays your wages and feeds your families back home. Now get back to work and you, pick these up.” He pointed to me.
Manager He stepped out of his bureau, his hair ruffled and his shirt marbled with sweat. “You heard! Get back to work.”
I hurried to pick up the chief executive’s papers, which were identical portraits of a young woman in a sequinned dress and pink shoes. The word
STAR
was printed in red characters at the top of each sheet. Old Artist’s portrait! I tried to catch Manager He’s eye, but he disappeared into his bureau, red-faced, like a boy who’d received a good whipping. I handed the chief executive his papers and returned to my desk.
A self-satisfied smile curled at the corner of Xiaofan’s mouth. She was onto us.
At lunchtime, Ren showed up late and slumped down next to me, her face increasingly sallow since her recent overtime in bonding. Her eyes were strained as if she’d been staring at the sun, but there was no daylight in the work rooms.
She rubbed her bad leg under the table. “Three hours’ sleep. It’s not enough, Sky Eyes.”
Ren pushed the food around her bowl. There was not much improvement to Manager He’s new menus. The pig’s blood soup contained a few more rubbery strands of noodle and a tiny portion of chicken’s feet was given to every third worker in the queue. A far cry from KFC.
“What is it that you do in bonding?” I asked. We were all trained in one process, which we performed endlessly. It was rare for anyone to venture further than their own line, let alone section.
“I stand in a cold room, gawping down a microscope and bonding minuscule dies onto a frame. My hands get so numb I can’t hold the tweezers to separate out the electronic dies. My line leader badgers me constantly because the dies are expensive and we’re told not to waste a single one.” She pushed away her tray. “I can’t eat this shit.” The blackened rice was stuck together in a clod and the knife beans had been steamed until translucent and were now falling apart.
“Maybe things will improve?” I said. “It’s pay day again soon. Fei Fei’s hoping for a rise.”
Ren snorted. “Fei Fei, the cleaner? Don’t be daft; she only started a month before us. The girl’s soft as butter, and she loiters around gossiping too much. There’s no way they’ll increase her pay.”
“She told me she’d worked here a year.”
“People say anything to gain respect. But here’s the truth: one day you’ll wake up and wish you were dead in a place like this. They call it Forwood, but this factory isn’t moving forwards or getting better. We’re going nowhere. What have we got to show for our lives spent on the line? We stay because we can’t lose face and go home empty handed.”
At that moment, Fei Fei rushed over and slapped one of Old Artist’s posters down in front of us.
“Look Mai Ling, look – you’re like a movie star! And to think, I was there when you bought the make-up. Your portrait’s everywhere. You’re famous.”
The poster showed me wearing a sequinned dress and pink shoes, standing in front of a shiny 4x4. The slogan read:
The Star of Forwood. Workers, you too can light the way to a better future
.
“Propagandist shit,” said Ren, “What will they come up with next? If they think that’s going to make me work any harder …”
Fei Fei pulled on my sleeve. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest. I’ve been helping to put them up.”
“Come too, Ren,” I urged.
We were supposed to tidy our tray away. Ren left hers on the table and followed us out of the canteen.
Fei Fei turned left, knocking into a group of workers swooning over a postcard of Andy Lau, the movie star. We followed her down an unfamiliar corridor to a large, unexpectedly sunny part of the factory. I blinked at the sudden wash of natural light. She said it was Forwood’s official visitor entrance – she knew a lot for someone who started the month before me. The reception desk was empty, music echoed dreamily from a radio in the glass atrium. All around, on the walls, shone a hundred pairs of pink satin shoes, a hundred gleaming 4x4s and my smile on a hundred posters.