across the concourse. She appeared on the first-floor balcony and after a brief pause, opened a door and went inside.
Zara switched on the air conditioning and dabbed at her brow, careful not to smudge her makeup. She felt a wiry sense of unease and instinctively reached for her bag, a tan Céline tote preserved from her days in chambers. She glanced up at Jodie’s flat, then took out a brown glass bottle. She shook it once to gauge the number of pills inside. Satisfied with the dull clink of a healthy supply, she lay it on her lap for later. Calmed by the soft weight resting against her legs, she put the car in gear and moved smoothly off.
Jodie closed the door, lifting the handle as she pushed it back. She hated the long whine of the hinge for the way it announced that she was home; the way it would draw her mother to the corridor, can in hand and scowl fixed on.
Sure enough, Christine Wolfe shuffled from the living room, white-blonde hair in a mane of tangles. She regarded Jodie for a moment. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked, her tone already angry.
Jodie felt her nerve desert her. She had hoped to do this on her own terms: in the living room by the TV with a fresh can of Scrumpy and a cushion on the table for her mother’s feet – the happiest Christine Wolfe would ever be. Instead, Jodie stood between the chipped grey walls, caught like a deer in the headlights.
‘Well?’ Her mother stepped forward, the low light casting shadows on her face.
Jodie swallowed. ‘Police station.’ She said it blankly, without emotion as if it were a fact that could not have been changed.
Her mother jolted in shock. ‘You went to the police with your story?’ The bluish whites of her eyes grew wide.
Jodie felt the sting of her mother’s doubt. ‘Mum, it’s not a story.’
Christine smacked her palm against the wall. ‘Like you ain’t punished me enough?’ Her raspy voice struggled to climb. ‘What’d I do to deserve you?’
Jodie flinched. The snarl still hurt after years of wear. She knew what was coming next.
‘I was happy,’ said Christine. ‘And then you came along. Your father took one look at you and fucked off out the door – and I let him go ’cause of you.’
Jodie remained calm, knowing that her features in anguish would anger her mother further. ‘Mum, please. It’s the truth.’
‘I can’t fucking believe this. You’re telling me the police will be here asking questions?’
Jodie recognised the stirrings of a storm. The best thing to do was retreat but her mother stood between her and her room, simmering now in fury. Tears would provoke her further so Jodie stood still and listened.
‘You’re telling me I have to talk to the pigs? I ain’t tellin’ them nothin’.’ She threw up a hand in disgust. ‘Why does every fuckin’ thing always come down to me? This is your story, Jodie. This is your mess. Jesus Christ. I clothe you and feed you and take you to all your fuckin’ appointments. Do you know how much them bus fares cost?’ Christine smacked the wall again. ‘I do everything round here and you’re gonna stand there and tell me I have to do this too? I ain’t talkin’ to no pigs. They can fuck off. You hear me? They can fuck right off.’ She scowled. ‘Why couldn’t you just talk to your teachers like any other normal girl? Why’d you have to go to the pigs like some kind of idiot?’
Christine Wolfe was angry at Jodie, but angrier still at life, using the first to rail against the second. The indignity of it was too much. Unemployment. Alcoholism. Poverty. The stench of failure and being unable to climb out from under it. It was all too much. The only thing you could do was surrender and Jodie’s resoluteness made her livid. You couldn’t stand up to life. It would always beat you down. She shouted this at Jodie, hopelessly angry at her ugly, stolid face, needing something or someone to blame.
When the wind finally blew from her rage, she jabbed a finger at Jodie. ‘I ain’t havin’ no part in this,’ she warned. ‘You’re on your own, you hear me?’ Can in hand, she shuffled to the living room. ‘You’re on your fuckin’ own,’ she called back as she sank to her spot by the TV and propped her feet up on the table.
Jodie felt the adrenaline drain, leaving her hot and empty. She was motionless for a moment to make sure the rage had calmed. Then, she leaned against a wall and placed two hands over her head, not quite touching the scalp, the way she used to as a child pretending to wear a knight’s mail armour. The tiny rings of metal were extraordinary in deflecting pain. These were, after all, just words. She stood like that for a long while, working through the words, letting them bounce off her. Only a few remained by the time she reached her room: you’re on your own, they said. You are on your own.
Zara leaned on the kitchen counter, still drowsy from the Diazepam. Some days, the pills brought her peace, on others, only senseless fog. Often, she craved something stronger but was too wedded to her past and the sensible, overachieving version of herself to screw up her life that badly. The first time she tried cocaine, in an illicit huddle at a Bar Council conference, it was like pulling back the curtain on the Wizard of Oz. All the myth and notoriety, the unfettered hyperbole, crumbled in the face of reality. Instead of the giddy, addictive rush of lore, she just felt alert and happy. It was almost anodyne in effect. And so she tried it again, this time with a peer at a party, and came to appreciate the sense of wellbeing. And so she tried it again – and that’s when she understood how addiction took hold. It wasn’t a bolt of lightning that fused you to your poison but a mellow descent into its seductive grip. That was the last time she touched it. East London didn’t need yet another junkie.
She poured herself a glass of water and drank it without pausing. The doorbell rang and she remembered that Luka said he would visit. She placed the glass down next to the Diazepam and let him in with a smile.
He kissed her lips, noting the lazy curve of her mouth. He raised the bottle in his hands. ‘Colorado’s finest Syrah,’ he said with a grin, knowing that Zara liked it despite what she said about American wine. He walked to the kitchen and placed it on a counter, his gaze catching on the bottle of pills. He exhaled slowly. ‘I thought you were going to stop.’
She blinked. ‘I am. When I’m ready.’
He turned to her with a sigh. His right index finger tapped against his leg the way it did when he was lost in thought: two quavers with a rest in between. ‘Zara, it’s not even seven. You’re taking pills in the afternoon now?’
‘So? I have a stressful job.’ Her voice took on a steely edge. ‘You don’t need to worry about it.’
‘But I do worry about it.’ He threw up two hands. ‘Seriously, this makes me so uncomfortable.’
She scoffed. ‘It’s not my job to make you comfortable, Luka.’
‘You could give it a try once in a while.’ He picked up the bottle and tossed it in the bin. ‘Zara, seriously, you’ve got to stop.’
She bristled. ‘Listen to me, Luka. There’s only one man who could tell me what to do and he’s dead.’
Temper sparked in his eyes. ‘Yes, and even he couldn’t stand you by
