Under a Hackney Sky

By I. R. Charles

In Ruths world everyone keeps secrets.
To make their lives smoother. To protect others.
To store away for future, advantageous use.
In Ruths world everyone lies, because sometimes, its just easier.
Hackney streets and parks mirror the strangeness of Ruths world.
The long, roman roads lead off optimistically, and end nowhere.
The large, flat parks and fields add colour and hope by day, but mystery and danger by night.
After a violent attack, Ruth has to travel back to her life.
Gay neighbours and singing, black belt sisters; melancholic drunks and love drunk shop assistants; mysterious greengrocers and an old wise street person change Ruths life and help her to find the person she lost a year ago.
In Under A Hackney Sky, street markets offer hope, dogs push you towards acceptance and healing, the dead protect the damaged and the heartless never leave a job half murdered. The streets of Hackney have something for everyone; whether they want it or not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 12, 2009
• ISBN: 9781477251607

I. R. Charles

Seeking adventure I R Charles moved to Italy but, became homesick for the wonderful weirdness and diversity of London! She trained as a journalist and spent a few years writing about music, sewers and taxes before listening to her gut and writing for herself. She has published a collection of poetry and short stories and is at present working on a TV script. Words, like colours, fly out of her daily life and end up in stories reflecting life as it is not. Her dream is to travel the world and conquer it with words.

Book preview

Under A Hackney Sky

I R Charles

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AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd. 500 Avebury Boulevard Central Milton Keynes, MK9 2BE www.authorhouse.co.uk Phone: [phone]

© 20091R Charles. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 7/6/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4389-7585-6 (sc)

To those who believed, thank you. To my light & my love LCP, thank you.

Contents

One Year Ago

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

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Blue Sky Tree-Park by Day

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Bus Stop-Waiting for Mabel

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Window View

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Market Grapes

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Church Tower

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Midnight Tree-Park by Night

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Creeping Tree Shadow

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Railway Spires

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The Square

ONE YEAR AGO

Ruth ran, weaving her way through the slow moving traffic. An old Mini rattled to a stop in front of her and she skipped around the bonnet, grinning at the driver.

The window slowly wound down and a shiny, bald head popped out. Hey gorgeous! Anywhere ya wanna go, I’ll take ya!

I bet I can get there before you get to the lights.

Nah. What’s the bet?

Just the joy of me winning! Bye.

Bald head groaned comically as Ruth waved and turned the corner.

She walked slowly down Hoxton Market to the theatre where she had been volunteering for six months. As she approached the metal doors she smoothed her long black hair, straightened her army-style clothes and took several deep breaths. She banged on the doors and prepared her best smile. It was hard to believe Raul ‘I, alone, built this from nothing’ Rossi had sent her a text requesting her presence and input at the bi-annual finance meeting. True, his original, flamboyant style had initially brought in the backers, but after working with him, they soon found other financial outlets for their social conscience.

She knocked heavily on the doors a second time and walked up and down the front entrance. The noise echoed throughout the old building. She kicked the bottom of the door; sure that vandalism would have Raul running to stop this outrage to art. Nothing. The metal fire doors rattled when heavy lorries passed, but all inside was still. She checked her phone, re-read the message, stared at her watch then turned to go.

Ruth entered the Café on the Corner, ordered her usual double espresso and sat facing the theatre front. She drank her coffee slowly and tried to ignore the stooped shoulders of the man cleaning the table next to her sighing and looking at the clock.

OK, OK. I can take a hint. She laughed and rummaged in the bottom of her bag for change. Her hand grasped a key with a tag attached and four numbers. She stared at the long metal tube a long time before the man broke his silence.

Please, £1.10. Is late.

Oh, yep, sorry. She paid and left the café staring at the key.

Ruth had never been given her own key to the main door, yet here it was. She headed back to the theatre and banged on the doors one more time. She inserted the key and the metal doors slid open. An alarm sounded and she raced to the side panel and inserted the four numbers. The lights came on and the lift pinged on the ground floor.

Raul! It’s me. I know I’m a bit late. But... Raul.

A scratching sound came from behind the closed stairway. Ruth pushed at the door.

Tut, I knew we had mice. The door stayed shut.

The lift pinged again.

OK, I get it.

She got in the lift and pressed the only other button. The lift doors reluctantly started to come together.

Two large white hands stopped the lift doors and pulled them apart. Ruth jumped, key in hand.

I have a meeting with Raul. And you? His voice was as devoid of expression as his face.

Oh, I’m Ruth. Mr... erm. Sorry, I don’t know your name. Raul asked me here.

Guy Silvestre. But, hmm, I just use Guy.

Like Maradona or Picasso? Ruth laughed nervously.

Yes, well. Could you... erm, the weapon?

Ha, oops. Ruth dropped the key in her bag. Just going to see if Raul’s up on second.

Guy shrugged, looked at the door to the stairway.

Something’s blocking it. Ruth said as he stepped into the lift. Did I leave the main doors open?

I closed them behind me. That ok? Are you expecting anyone else?

I don’t know who Raul invited.

Ruth took her finger off the open door button and the lift jerked its’ way up.

It groaned as the metal box shuddered to a halt and they stepped out into the engulfing darkness. The doors slammed together and the lift raced back down. Silent shadows stretched across the long room and whispers menaced in the corners. Guy switched the lights on and stood behind Ruth. She moved aside. He moved to stand behind her again. She turned to face him and he looked over her shoulder towards the window.

No one’s here. He slowly stepped around Ruth and walked to the window.

Obviously. She punched the lift button and waited.

No one’s been here in a long time, he added.

Why would Raul say to come today? I have other things to do. She punched the lift button repeatedly. Come on stupid lift.

In a hurry, Ruth?

Well, yes actually. I’m meeting my sister.

But you had a meeting scheduled here, so you’re not late now. Are you?

I might as well go, seeing as this isn’t happening.

The small square light in the lift doors came on and Ruth jumped in. Guy walked to the doorway and looked from corner to corner of the long empty room.

Ruth tapped her foot. You staying?

A tight smile flickered across his face as he stepped into the lift. Ruth pressed the down button. They rode down in silence.

Ruth locked the main door and studied the hard profile of the man standing next to her.

You seem familiar.

You’ve seen me here. He shrugged.

Before that.

Been thinking about me?

No. I mean, your name seems familiar. She shrugged and starting walking back through Hoxton Market towards the main road.

A large pair of Timberland boots kicked helplessly at the locked doors on the ground floor of the theatre. Every movement produced a whimper. Raul’s head lay crooked between the bottom stair and the floor. His left eye was purple and closed. His right, swollen and bulging. He struggled to release his arms tied behind his back to his ankles with his own belt. A few inches away his mobile flashed ‘7 missed calls: Ruthie’. He tried to shout and red spit splattered down the front of his

Ted Baker pink pinstriped summer shirt. He closed his right eye and cried as a large rat sniffed his bloody hair.

Guy rubbed his knuckles against the seam of his black jeans and walked quietly behind Ruth.

She stopped suddenly and he crashed into her back. You weren’t born in this country were you?

What?

Personal space, Guy. Two foot in every direction. Every English person knows that. You stand far too close.

I was born in Monte Carlo.

Well, that explains it. Ruth laughed.

Explains what?

You have the metric system.

Hmm?

Joking! But you do stand too close.

He stepped back. Would you like a lift to meet your sister?

Thanks, but no thanks. Too many one way streets and no entry etc. It’d take too long. A bus is better.

We could discuss the theatre’s financial support for next season and... He looked at his hands. Whatever Raul’s reasons were for not making the meeting, you could feedback the information to him. I am a busy man, Ruth. I don’t really ‘do’ Hackney.

Ruth thought about the Telesales job that was killing her. She thought about being able to work at the theatre full time and receive a salary. Raul was always telling her how they survived on lottery hand outs and Arts Council grants, and lowering himself to bid for funds was destroying him. If she could do this one thing for him, for Hoxton Theatre. She got into the silver Daimler and the doors sshed automatically as they locked.

It’s just off Oxford Street. One of the side roads.

Guy stared straight ahead as the westbound traffic rushed the other way.

It’s in the west end, Guy.

Hmm.

So why are we going east?

Shortcut? He laughed suddenly.

Yeah, funny. Let me out.

Stop being dramatic. You’re not one of the actresses, just a little volunteer.

I don’t know what your problem is. Let me out.

PROBLEM? ME? The car screamed to a stop in the bus lane. Do you know who I am?

Guy watched Ruth as she scrambled to find the door handle. He started the car again.

Customised doors, Ruth. Don’t waste your time. You’re bloody mad.

Do you know who the Silvestre family are? What we have done? Created?

I don’t give a shit. Open this door!

You cannot give me orders Ruth. I have watched you and spoken to you, nicely. How lucky you were. Yet, you don’t remember me? Games?

Games? Open the door now!

He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. Try to give me another order Ruth.

She pushed against him. You’re hurting me. That is the intent. Listen. He held her face with his free hand. You don’t know who I am, what I have achieved. And I chose you, to talk to, to meet.

She stopped struggling and sank into the seat. He dropped his hands and smiled.

She nodded to herself and smiled sadly. There was no meeting with Raul.

"Oh, Little Ruthie. His kind don’t respond to ... words."

Did you hurt Raul?

Hmm. Did I hurt Raul? He shrugged.

And the keys?

There was always a chance you wouldn’t look in that rubbish tip of a bag you leave lying everywhere.

Ruth slid her hand into her bag as they sped through east London and clutched her flat square mobile. At the traffic lights Guy opened the windows, grabbed Ruth’s bag and threw it into a dirty water bucket lying at the feet of a group of car cleaning beggars. Ruth put her hands on the windows’ edge and one of the cleaners flicked his wet rag sending grey droplets into her face. Guy smiled and revved the car at the cleaner. He pushed the button to close the windows. Ruth pressed hard on the windows’ glass.

Move it or lose it, Ruth.

Fuck you.

The window shot up as Ruth moved her hands. She watched the cleaners fish her bag out of the bucket and go through her purse, throwing receipts, photos and tampons at the now speeding car. She hung her head and waited for her chance. Guy grabbed the back of her neck and held her head down as he slipped a hand over her mouth. She fought against the strange minty aura engulfing her senses. Blackness took over.

She felt the loud swoosh of the overground trains before she heard it. She turned her head away from the noise and stared at a half naked Guy sitting on a rock in the fading light. His pale skin shone and two dark holes sparkled menacingly where his eyes should have been. She knew she couldn’t move, but wasn’t tied, knew her only weapon and her only hope was her tongue.

Ruth. You let me down Ruth. He shook his head sadly and stretched up. All I could’ve done for you.

Fuck you.

He knelt down beside her and stroked her face with a large blade.

It’s not too late. I could set you, hmm, free.

What do you want?

He licked the tears rolling down the side of her face.

Hmm, hmm.

He lifted her head and she butted him hard. They both started to scream as the blood poured from his nose and he banged her head on the ground. She fell silent. He laughed and screamed wildly.

I heard your thoughts. You wanted what I wanted.

Let me go. I won’t tell the police. Just let me go.

He sat across her chest and forced his weight down. He slapped her face gently, left, right, left. Nettles stung her cheeks. He cut open her shirt and ran the blade along her collar bone.

Her voice squeezed out. Guy. Stop this.

He leaned forward and whispered in her ear.

Giving orders?

Please.

The blade stayed at her throat as the slaps became harder. Her head tossed from side to side. In between the slaps she tried to speak and stare into his empty eyes. His hands closed into fists and pummelled her sides. Air fled her lungs with each blow. She hissed blood. Guy used her hand to wipe the sweat off his torso and laughed as it dropped. He pressed down on her. Knees on legs. Fists on shoulders. She screamed. She felt a weight on her throat and the screams stopped midway. His mouth covered hers and the light left her body. Her eyes fluttered to a close.

My God! Oh my God. It’s ok. I’ll get help. Help’s coming. Footsteps faded away. A black, furry shape loomed into focus and nuzzled her neck. It lay down beside her and placed a warm, protective paw over her legs.

She felt herself floating, being carried away. Voices barked orders. More hands touching, pulling at her. Something soft and rough licked her face.

She opened her eyes.

Name love? Who can we contact?

Quick Sam! We need to get her in.

Her mouth formed the words. Ruth. Roberta.

Which one’s your name? She touched a hard square in her front pocket and blinked.

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The shouts woke her.

Ruth’s sister, Roberta ran into the white room and stopped before reaching the bed. She dropped her jacket and bag then fell to the floor on the pile. A large, very dark man in a short white coat picked her up and placed her on the chair next to Ruth’s bed. He touched Ruth’s head, took her temperature and placed a straw in her mouth. She sucked on the straw and grabbed her throat.

He smiled gently. I know it hurts, but you have to drink.

He lifted her head and she drank as the tears rolled down her cheeks. He wiped her face and placed her head back on the pillows.

Ruth is it?

She blinked.

This your sister? Looks like you.

Ruth looked at Roberta unconscious in the chair.

She’s been waiting outside a long time and she’s very, very angry... Understandably. She’s ok. Just fainted.

Ruth looked at the clock.

You’ve been here 36 hours. I’ll tell you more later. I put something in your drink to help you sleep.

She struggled to blink the questions.

The doctor tucked the sheets tightly around her, fiddled with the beeping machines at the side of her bed, and then left the room.

Ruth reached out and held onto the edge of Roberta’s coat. She fought against the oncoming grey for as long as she could. Her hand drooped limply as she gave in.

Ruth had been in her hospital bed silent, for three weeks. Staring into nothing, listening to Roberta and the doctors talk about her smashed ribs, her bruised, crushed throat and her broken spirit. She spent her days watching the nurses smile, coax and bribe. Ruth stared at the join in the curtains surrounding her hospital bed. The join flapped then scrunched together. It slowly separated and long, white, fleshless fingers gripped the edges trying to pull them together. Ruth opened her mouth and screamed. She kept on screaming when the small Malaysian nurse ran to her. She screamed while the sad faced Kenyan doctor, with the unpronounceable name, wiped her forehead repeating her name like a mantra. She stopped screaming when they pushed a needle into her arm and warm liquid cruised her insides. Her last thought was at least she wouldn’t always be silent.

Roberta had spent the last three weeks sleeping on different plastic chairs, shouting at people and talking into her sister’s sleeping face.

Now she stood on a hill in the City of London Cemetery watching a small procession wind down one of the tree lined avenues.

More than you deserve. She mumbled to herself.

She watched them bury Guy Silvestre. She watched the two policemen and the white haired solitary mourner as he talked on his mobile. The gravediggers stood back to admire the hole and a crane hoisted the coffin in place.

She left before the first shovelful of dirt hit the coffin. She sat on a bench near the exit and took out her phone. An old woman rattled a trolley past her and tried to catch her eye. Roberta’s hard eyes avoided human contact and stared into nothing.

Buried. Now what? She spoke harshly into her phone. How can it be over...? What about the family...?

She watched the police car drive past and the elderly mourner saluted her and smiled sadly.

She walked back into the cemetery passing the ‘beloved’s and the ‘greatly missed’ and stopped in front of the mound of freshly dug earth. A small wooden cross stood near the top. ‘Guy Silvestre June 1966-August 2006’. Roberta spat on the ground and wiped the angry tears off her cheeks.

Miss Desabaye. She turned around sharply and faced the man who had been with the police moments earlier..

I am truly sorry, truly, truly sorry.

Who are you?

I represent the Silvestre family. Grant Warner, solicitor. He handed her a gold embossed card.

"What