‘Sue! What are you doing here?’
‘Danny gave me your address. I just wanted to see how you were doing.’
‘Oh.’ She looks delighted and worried at the same time. ‘That’s very kind of you. Come in.’
I follow her into the living room and, when she tells me to sit down, I sink into a black leather armchair. Keisha crosses the room to the window and reaches for the blinds. For a second I think she’s going to open them – it’s a beautiful day outside – instead she parts two slats with her fingers and peers outside.
‘Did anyone see you, Sue? Come here, I mean.’
‘Not that I noticed. Why?’
‘No matter.’
She lets go of the blinds, jumping as the slats clack back together and rubs her hands over her arms. She looks cold but her basement flat is boiling. I’ve already removed my coat and cardigan.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Sue?’
‘No, thank you, I just—’ but she’s already gone, padding along the carpet towards the tiny galley kitchen at the other end of the flat.
‘Keisha.’ I go after her. ‘Is everything okay?’
She glances towards the front door then motions for me to step into the kitchen and shut the door behind me. As I turn to pull it to I hear the swish of curtains being pulled and the room dims.
‘Keisha, what is it?’ She moves from the curtains to the counter and reaches for the kettle. She fills it and turns it on then reaches into a cupboard and starts rummaging around.
‘Where’s the damned tea? Ester better not have used up the last of it.’
I stand silently by the door as she moves jars, cans and packets from one side of the cupboard to the other then begins lining them up on the counter.
‘It’s okay,’ I say as her movements become more frenzied. ‘I don’t need a tea. Coffee would be fine.’
‘Fuck!’
A jam jar tumbles from the cupboard, it hits a glass which rolls off the counter and explodes onto the tiled flooring showering Keisha’s bare feet with a thousand tiny shards.
‘Fuck!’ She hops backwards but there’s nowhere to escape in such a small kitchen and a large piece of glass sinks into her heel.
‘Have you got a first-aid box?’ I ask as she stares in horror at the blood pooling around her foot.
She shakes her head.
‘Clean tea towel?’
She points at a drawer to the right of the sink.
‘Antiseptic cream?’
‘There might be some in the bathroom cabinet.’
Fifteen minutes later and we’re back in the living room, Keisha is in the armchair, her injured foot dressed as best I could in a clean Coronation Street tea towel and raised on a couple of stacked Amazon boxes I found in the backyard.
‘I appreciate your help, Sue,’ she says as I perch beside her, ‘but I’m not going to A&E.’
‘But it’s a deep cut.’ I think of the pool of blood I mopped up in the kitchen and the deep laceration in the sole of her left foot. ‘You might need stitches. It’s stopped bleeding but the second you put your foot down and your circulation returns you could be in all kinds of trouble.’
‘I already am.’
‘Sorry?’
She glances away. ‘Nothing.’
‘I’ve got my car,’ I gesture towards the window and the street outside. ‘It wouldn’t be any trouble. It would only take—’
‘I told you I’m fine.’
‘Keisha, I couldn’t forgive myself I left you here and—’
‘I’m not going to the fucking hospital!’
Neither of us say anything for a couple of minutes. I twist my hands in my lap and stare around the living room – at the ugly gas fire, the vase of wilting roses above it, the mountain of DVDs stacked up by the television next to a framed photo of a woman I don’t recognize standing in front of Buckingham Palace. Is that her flatmate?
‘I’m sorry, Sue.’ Keisha raises her face to look at me. ‘You didn’t deserve me to swear that.’ She glances at the blinds and slips lower in her seat.
‘Is everything okay?’ I glance towards the window too but see nothing, ‘you seem a bit jumpy today.’
‘Do I?’ She laughs. ‘I’m just a bit clumsy that’s all. You ask Danny. I’m forever dropping and breaking things. It’s a surprise I didn’t brain myself sooner.’
‘Anyway,’ she pushes her hair back from her face. ‘How are you, Sue?’
‘I’m okay.’ I reach for my cardigan and pull it into my lap. Without a cup of tea to hang onto I need something to do with my hands. ‘Keisha, why would someone accuse you of being a prostitute?’
I expect her to gasp in protestation. Instead she reaches for a cigarette and lights it. She inhales deeply but her hands don’t stop shaking.
‘Does he know?’ Her voice is so quiet I can barely hear her.
‘Who?’
‘Danny.’ She looks at me, her eyes wide and beautiful and brimming with tears. ‘Have you told him?’
‘Danny?’ I shake my head. ‘I … I don’t understand. I thought he was your pimp.’
‘My pimp. You’re kidding me, right?’ She gives a little laugh. ‘Danny thinks I’m an angel. That’s what he calls me – his precious, perfect angel. Can you imagine what he’d call me if he knew what I do,’ she covers herself, ‘what I did.’
‘Did?’
‘I gave it all up when I met him. I don’t want to work behind the bar in the club but it’s the only way I can pay my rent ever since …’
‘Ever since what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It’s not nothing.’ I look at the cigarette quivering between her fingers. ‘What happened? Why were you so scared to answer the door just now? And why were you so jumpy outside the club the other night?’
She glances looks down at her hands. There’s bruising around her wrists. She catches me looking.
‘It wasn’t Danny if that’s what you’re thinking.’
I stand up from the sofa and crouch down beside her. The bruises on her wrists are purple, perfectly-shaped fingerprints. Whoever attacked her had a strong grip.