TODAY, WE ARE THRILLED TO INTRODUCE OUR GUEST AUTHOR, HILLY BARMBY, WHO IS SHARING CHAPTER 1 OF HER NOVEL 'GOT WHAT WAS COMING' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat

GOT WHAT WAS COMING' by Hilly Barmby is a gritty, coming-of-age, domestic thriller.

Got What Was Coming alternates between past and present.

'Three young women, Mali, Star, and Abeba, receive an email from the school they attended as kids. It is an invitation to the tenth anniversary of the inauguration of ‘The Second Chance Cafe’, which they’d set up to help disenfranchised kids.

It is an exciting yet ultimately tragic story that explores the complex lives and interrelationships of four teenage girls and their mothers. The book reaches its climax with the death of another girl and the realisation of the role the others all played in her death and the impact on their lives through to adulthood. 

From reviewers: ‘An interesting and often highly poignant story.’

‘A riveting journey into the dark heart of guilt.’

__________

Chapter One

MALI – FRIDAY MORNING

AS A TEACHER, MALI KNEW that the best form of defence was not to be there. Catching the nearly empty crack-of-dawn bus entailed no kids to deal with and time at school to prep for her day. She missed the journey in with Murphy, but that was life, and they both had to move on.

Then there was the morning ritual. Wait until she sat in her seat to look at her emails first, and then, if time, peek at Facebook. That was what was allowed. The bus journey to work and no more than that. Mali had effectively banned herself from social media as it was eating into her life, sucking her into a world of stupid memes, hearts, and thumbs, and then all that anger and derision, all those trolls. Thank goodness it was Friday, as her batteries were well and truly run dry. She hoped she wouldn’t keel over, steam hissing out of her ears, in the middle of teaching the Year 10’s how to weld two pieces of metal together without setting fire either to themselves or the room.

As she scanned the eight new emails, Mali’s eye caught one message in particular. From the school she’d attended as a kid. What could they want? It was like someone had trailed cold fingers down her neck. Her hand trembled as she opened it and read:

Dear Mali,

As one of the co-founders of ‘The Second Chance Cafe,’ we would be delighted if you could make it to the tenth anniversary of its inauguration. There will be a ceremony led by the current Head Teacher, Mrs Wilkes, and a commemorative plaque will be presented to the school by the Mayor, Mr Hawthorne. Mr Crane, who you remember retired the year you all left, will also be there, and many ex-pupils who have benefited from the cafe are invited. All of us at the school hope you can attend this celebration.

Please feel free to invite your parents if they are available. Further details are below.

Yours sincerely,

Mrs Goldstein.

Head’s Secretary.

Mali fumbled to catch her phone before it hit the bus floor. What? The Second Chance Cafe? Was that still going? It had taken time, but she’d managed to blot it from her mind like she’d erased that part of her memory. But it was there in some backup hard drive in her limbic system, neurons already firing together to recreate those memories, those horrible echoes of her past. She didn’t want to remember, but it was like the last ten years had never existed.

She was back there…

TEN YEARS EARLIER

‘Oh my God! What is that terrible stink?’

Mali recognised the unmistakable voice of Abeba. She froze.

‘Smells like someink died in here.’ That was Chantelle.

Stuck in the first cubicle of the Year 9 girls’ toilet was not a great place to be when Abeba and Chantelle were around, especially when it was after school, and no one was near but the cleaners. Still sat on the toilet, where she’d gone after attending one of the myriad homework ‘catch-up sessions’, Mali pulled her thin legs up as quietly as she could. She was terrified of any sound that might give her away, as they might peer under the toilet door and spot her incriminating feet in her well-worn trainers dangling down. They’d break down the door. Find her, like a raggedy furred bear in its cage, with a massive collar round its neck, to be sharply prodded at and made to dance while they laughed, holding tightly to her chain, yanking hard.

‘Oh look, it’s fatty,’ said Abeba, ‘wiv a face like yours, you shouldn’t be allowed out in public.’

It was like a great cooling wave washed over her; she knew their viciousness wouldn’t be directed at her today, as it could only be Jessica they were speaking to at the back of the toilets. Guilt at the thought that they’d found Jessica before her bit at her like she’d sat in a nest of red ants. She’d heard someone thud in just a moment ago so Mali reasoned Jessica had probably been trying to hide from them here in the first place.

Keeping quiet, she wiped a hand across her face. It was sticky with sweat. What’d it be like to be Jessica? Oh no, she pushed that thought out of her head, kicked it out quick before it had time to form in her mind, ‘cos she didn’t ever want to experience anything that Jessica might. Never, ever! It made her shudder with revulsion. How could she stand it? Being like that? It was horrible. Then she felt bad. Her Buddhist upbringing kicked in and kicked her one. Where was her compassion? Fled in fear under the toilet door?

‘Or’, said Chantelle, ‘you should be in a circus, ‘cos people would pay good money to come and see an ugly monster like you.’

Mali held her breath, wondering if she could escape from the cubicle and run out through the girls’ changing room into the main school corridor without them seeing her. She knew they didn’t like being observed when they were doing their ‘thing’.

‘Leave me alone,’ said Jessica.

Mali grimaced. There was no way out for her.

The two girls laughed. Abeba’s voice came closer to the cubicle door; she must’ve been right outside it. If she leant on it now, she’d realise that the door was shut and that there might be someone else listening in to this conversation. Mali hoped they’d assume it was out of order, locked by the janitor, as so many were, blocked and often flooded by kids flushing entire toilet rolls down at a time for a laugh.

Mali screwed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to be a witness. In fact, she’d rather poke her eyes out with a burning stick rather than be a witness, which was probably what Abeba would do to her if she were discovered.

‘Oh, it speaks, does it?’ Abeba laughed, but there was no mirth in it. The sound of it made Mali tremble, and her fingers went icy cold. ‘Anyone else in here?’ She tapped on Mali’s door, and Mali could picture one of her long, brightly painted false nails tap-tapping, a nail that could do a lot of damage on the end of the wrong hand, which, of course, it was.

‘No, there’s no one else, only me. Just leave me alone.’

‘Like that’s going to happen.’

‘I said leave me alone…’

‘Or what?’ said Chantelle, ‘what is Miss hippo going to do?’

‘Apart from gas us to death with her terrible stench.’

‘And frighten us with her ugly splotched face.’

‘Yeah, Halloween’s coming up soon. You don’t need to find a costume ‘cos you’d frighten the little kids just as you are. I mean, you’re right creepy, you are.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Oh, are you going to cry? Poor fat ugly cry-baby.’ Abeba had a tone to her voice, which Mali knew well. ‘I mean, you black or you white, girl? What jer think, Chantelle?’

‘Looks like she all mushed up, a bit of black there, a bit of white here.’

‘Why are you so horrible to me? What have I ever done to you?’

‘Well, let’s see.’ There was a long, drawn-out pause where there was no other sound but the juddering breathing of one of the girls outside, who Mali guessed must be Jessica. ‘Oh yeah, just being born, that’s what you’ve done to us. You’ve, um, offended our sensibilities, so to speak.’

‘You’re not exactly Tyra Banks yourself.’

Mali could hear the fear and the exultation in Jessica’s voice. She clamped her hand over her mouth. They’ll kill her for that. It was true, although Chantelle was thin, in a half-starved, bow shouldered way, and fairly light skinned, she had a scary feral look about her. And as for Abeba, she had pock marks from terrible outbreaks of spots that marred her round face, her skin was midnight dark, and she was distinctly chunky and solid, definitely more of a heavyweight boxer type than a supermodel. 

There was some kind of movement outside, but Mali couldn’t tell what it was, except that there was a thud, a toilet door banged open, some muffled shouting. Then, the sound of someone’s head being repeatedly cracked against the once white tiles, now liberally and artfully covered with witty and lurid graffiti.

‘Oy, give us a smile then.’

Mali winced. They were probably filming her. She waited, tucking her head down low, feeling sick, her feet resting on the toilet seat, trying not to breath in the pungent smells of the cleaning fluids they used, until the sounds ceased next door. The footsteps and shrieks of laughter sped away. Taking a deep breath, she unlocked the door with shaking hands, pushed the door open a crack and glanced out.

Oh no. Jessica was sat half in and half out of the other toilet, blocking the entrance with her bulk. The strange markings covering half her great jowly face were more livid than usual. White patches across her forehead, nose, and especially around her eyes contrasted against the dark of the rest of her skin. A trickle of oily blood was matted in her mass of frizzy, greasy hair and ran from her nose. Mali could see drops of glistening blood had spattered her threadbare, dark blue school jumper.

Jessica looked up at Mali, who tried not to stare too hard, but it was tricky. Where a lighter patch was around her right eye, her eyebrow was white, and one blue eye was nearly hidden in the folds of fat. On the left side her eye was brown and her eyebrow dark. ‘I knew you were in there,’ she said flatly.

‘Oh!’

‘I didn’t tell them though, did I.’ A statement, not a question.

‘No.’ Was she meant to feel grateful? What could she say? What else was she expected to say? She’ll be her friend now, as she saved her from getting a kicking? Not likely.

‘I’ll go get someone.’ Mali walked out, trying not to listen to the awful sobbing that began as she turned her back. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t ask for that. It’s not like she hated her, it’s just she could never be seen with someone like her or her life as she knew it will be even worse than it already was. Anyhow, she had enough problems of her own; she couldn’t help her too.

She wanted desperately just to run away, ignore what she’d seen and heard, stick her fingers in her ears, scream ‘la, la, la,’ and hope it all disappeared like it hadn’t happened. But she ran to find help, asking herself what she could say that wouldn’t lead to further questions and incrimination.

NOW

As the bus juddered to a stop, Mali grabbed her bag and practically fell out onto the pavement. The bag yawned widely and nearly spat out her files and school notes. She grappled it shut.

‘Are you all right, love?’ The bus driver’s face creased into a frown.

‘I’m good, thanks.’ Mali had to haul in a breath through her nose like her teeth had clamped shut.

A few early kids sat on the bus stop bench, cut short what they were doing, and stared at her. Mali saw the looks on their faces. So, what was the look on her own then?

She tried to smile. ‘Ricked my ankle getting off the bus. Silly me.’ She pretended to limp down the road towards the school’s main entrance, noticing Murphy’s lime green Fiat was already in its space. She’d always laughed at him about that.

‘Not a typical black guy’s car?’

‘What,’ he’d smiled, ‘you think because I’m black, I should be driving some souped-up heap of shit with massive speakers blasting hip-hop out the boot?'

She’d gazed at him with her sweetest smile. ‘Lime green fiat? Really?’

‘Feel free to walk or catch the bus.’ That had been the joke. Not so funny now.

He was here early, and she hoped it wasn’t a ploy to get to talk to her. Again. Even thinking about Murphy couldn’t rid her of the images swimming in her mind. Jessica. Sat at her desk, she gazed listlessly at her tea cooling in a large mug in front of her that a student teacher had given her. It had the words ‘Happy but Crazy’ and a person with a teapot on their head on it. Quite apt. Was that how they viewed her, then? Mali realised she’d been staring into space and probably dribbling. That marking wasn’t going to get done by itself, now was it? And she had to set up the room for the Year 8’s that would spill in like a slow-motion avalanche of prying fingers, inane babble, and twitchy Friday exhaustion. Year 8. That’s when it started. When Jessica arrived.

The shock and the glee.

**********

Link: https://tinyurl.com/mw73ywn2

Goodreads link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/231313348-got-what-was-coming

COMING SOON: On Monday, 6th October, we have our team member, author Eva Bielby, who will be sharing her Flash Fiction story, 'The Last Visit'.