Beneath the Skin(102)

‘It’s raining,’ she replied.

‘The dog still needs a walk.’

‘Why don’t you take her?’

Chinue had become braver since starting work. The pay wasn’t good but it was money. Money she was squirrelling away.

‘I would if I wasn’t in fucking pain. Just do as I tell you and don’t argue.’

Chinue took the lead from the hook on the door and slipped on her mum’s cagoule, nearly too small now. She’d pushed it with her dad as far as she could for today, but she was close, very close to walking out for ever.

‘I’m in fucking pain.’ That’s all her dad ever said. He took pills and crushed them in his rotten teeth but there was no pain as far as she could see, just excuses.

Other people’s dads didn’t stay in the house all day smoking roll-ups and feeling sorry for themselves, ranting endlessly about politics or a football transfer or the price of beer. Other people’s dads didn’t start on the Guinness after breakfast and progress to whisky by tea-time. The rest of it too. It was the rest of it she didn’t want to think about. If she left, her mum would be on her own. With him.

Chinue enjoyed walking once she was away from the housing estate and used to the cold and the rain. If anyone asked, she’d say she hated Sacha, the dog. But that wasn’t true. She was a good old girl, a sweet-natured dog. It wasn’t Sacha’s fault she was Jimmy’s. It wasn’t Sacha’s fault that Jimmy would scream at her mum when he was pissed, that he would raise his fist to his wife but not to a dog.

The rain had relaxed into drizzle by the time she and Sacha arrived at the gardens. Wythenshawe Park always gave her a buzz, the haunted mansion at its centre drawing her in. She had picnics and pear cider there with Sophie. They’d stroll around the farm, coo at the small piglets, christen the ugly adult pigs with the names of old teachers, stare at the well-hung bull. Or go to the swings, hang out with lads, sometimes kicking a ball, sometimes snogging the bolder boys in bushes. She did sports there too, was part of a club. Chinue was good at athletics, sprinting and hurdles in particular.

‘Well, you don’t get the sporting gene from me, that’s for sure,’ her mum would laugh, clapping proudly when Chinue won yet another race by a head.

But of course Jimmy never came to watch. ‘Not interested in sport,’ he’d say.

‘Come on Sacha,’ Chinue said on that Sunday, smoothing the damp fur from the dog’s eager eyes and removing the lead. ‘Never mind the drizzle. Let’s run!’

‘You were a long time. Your dinner’s cold,’ Jimmy stated when she returned from the park.

Taking off the wet cagoule, Chinue glanced at the table. The stew was on a plate, its greasy yellow edges beginning to solidify.

‘Why didn’t you leave it in the oven? It looks disgusting.’

‘Don’t be so ungrateful. Mum put it there.’

Chinue frowned. ‘Did she?’

‘She’s been and gone back. So, you’ll eat it.’

Avoiding eye contact with her dad, she sat down. She could tell from the tone of his voice he was annoyed with her mum for being at church too much.

‘Where’ve you been all this time anyway? Slagging with some boy?’

‘No. Walking Sacha, obviously.’

His voice was just a touch slurry at the other end of the table. No one else would have noticed. She didn’t need to look for the empty cans. She wondered how many were gone.

‘Eat your food.’

Breathing deeply, she stared at the congealing food, the fury slowly rising from her feet to her chest. It looked disgusting. He’d left it out on purpose, just to pick a fight. He was so, so pathetic.

‘Eat your fucking food,’ her dad said, his voice deliberate and quiet.

Pathetic, pathetic, you’re so pathetic, she thought, still staring at her plate.

Her dad abruptly leaned forward. ‘What have you done with your hair?’ he asked, his sour breath smacking her face.

Chinue touched her head and tensed. ‘Pathetic, pathetic,’ she chanted inside.

‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘I was running; it was raining. It just curls a bit when it rains.’

‘Black hair. Fucking black hair. Are you black, then?’

‘No. I was running. It fell out of its bobble. That’s all.’

But the fire was still rising inside her. Anger, hatred and loathing, bubbling up to her mouth. ‘Pathetic, pathetic’, still chanting. She lifted her head and stared.

‘You are so pathetic, Dad.’

The words blistered out.

‘Just look at you sitting there. Spiteful, pathetic and drunk. Feeling sorry for yourself all the time. Drinking the money Mum brings home because poor you, you only get benefits. Look at you with your bad teeth and dribble. You stink, you disgust me. Change your clothes, brush your teeth, get a job. Get a life like everyone else has to.’

There was silence for a moment. She could hear the tap dripping.

‘Have you finished?’ he asked, his voice steely and calm.

He turned and opened the cutlery drawer behind him. The tap was still dripping. Then he slowly rotated back. His eyes were bloodshot. There were scissors in his hand.

‘You’ve had your say about me. Let’s look at you now, shall we?’

Lurching before she could move away, he trapped her against the table with the weight of his body. Then he gathered her hair in his hand, dragging her off the chair and into the living room, her long mane still tight in his fist. Hauling her towards the mirror above the fireplace, he breathed heavily, grunting. Then he lifted the scissors and chopped, pulling and hacking, the blunt kitchen scissors tugging painfully at her roots. Furious and indiscriminate, he continued to cut, the long wads of wavy hair floating to the floor.