She’d been surprised to return to an empty flat. Sharon should have been home two hours ago. Tenille assumed her aunt had gone shopping. Hell, she hoped so, because there was fuck all to eat or drink in the place. She’d turned on the TV and slumped on the sofa, too pissed off and hungry to read. The sound of the front door opening barely registered, but the sound of muffled giggling and the deep rumble of a man’s voice set her senses on alert. She scrambled to her feet, ready for flight, but there was nowhere to run to.
The living-room door opened on Sharon weaving in an unsteady shimmy, a man’s arms locked around her waist, the silly smile of drink plastered on her face, her café-au-lait skin flushed scarlet. Seeing Tenille, a scowl wiped the cheerfulness from her face. ‘Whatchu doing here?’ she demanded.
‘I live here,’ Tenille muttered.
A face appeared over Sharon’s shoulder, the expression a mix of curiosity and impatience. ‘Who’s this?’ he said, a slur in his voice and the seeds of lechery in his smile.
‘My niece. I told you, remember?’ Sharon was pissed off, there was no mistaking it.
The man dropped his hands from Sharon’s waist and sidestepped her so he could fully enter the room. Tenille recognised an expression she’d seen directed at others but not so far at herself, probably because the anonymous clothes she chose for the street hid rather than flattered her recently developed figure. But here in the privacy of her own home, she was stripped down to T-shirt and hip-hugging jeans. And this man was drinking it in as deep as Sharon had obviously drunk in some afternoon shebeen. Tenille didn’t like it one little bit.
‘So, little niece, you got a name?’ He stepped closer, one hand carelessly draped on Sharon’s hip.
‘Tenille,’ she muttered reluctantly.
‘Pretty name for a pretty girl.’
‘What’s yours?’ Tenille demanded abruptly.
He grinned, revealing a gold canine. ‘I’m Geno,’ he said. ‘Like Geno Washington.’
Tenille wondered if she was supposed to be impressed by a name she’d never heard before. She raised her eyebrows in a faint gesture of contempt. ‘Who he, man?’
He faked astonishment. ‘You never heard of Geno? Girl, you know nothing. Geno was only the greatest soul singer this godforsaken country ever produced.’
Sharon, impatient at so much attention directed away from her, butted in. ‘Donchu got some shit of your own to be getting on with?’ she said petulantly.
Grateful for the chance to escape, Tenille edged nearer the door. But Geno wasn’t for moving. Tenille had to go round him, Sharon moving to one side and kissing her teeth in irritation. Then she was free, out in the hall and suddenly aware of the heightened rhythm of her breathing.
That had just been the start of it. Discomfort and unease attended Tenille whenever Geno was around and she couldn’t make a quick getaway. Generally she managed to keep out of his way, but that was getting harder and harder as the weeks passed and it became clear he wasn’t about to abandon Sharon any time soon. After three weeks, he had virtually moved in, always around when Sharon was there and sometimes hanging out even when she was at work. Tenille’s life came to be lived more and more outside the flat; at Jane’s when she could manage it, or on the windswept galleries and dank stairwells of the estate when she couldn’t. She pretended even to herself that her actions were the result of choice; it was better than naming the fear she didn’t want to acknowledge.
But she couldn’t kid herself for ever. Sharon had to do nights sooner or later, and when that week rolled around, Tenille felt no surprise when her aunt announced that Geno would be sleeping over to keep an eye on her. No surprise, just a hot spurt of fear in her stomach. ‘I never needed no minder when you did nights before,’ Tenille had protested.
‘You think it felt right, me leaving you on your own?’ Sharon challenged.
‘I’m not a baby, I don’t need no babysitter.’
‘You still not legal alone, girl. It make me feel happier knowing there’s somebody here with you.’ Sharon gathered her make-up, shovelling it into the fake Louis Vuitton bag Geno had presented her with. He’d preened like a peacock while Tenille had looked on with contempt, knowing he’d picked it up on some market stall for buttons.
‘It never bothered you before. You been leaving me shut up in here since I was eight year old.’
‘And I was wrong. Geno made me see that. He tol’ me about bad things happening lately to girls round here.’
Tenille shivered. ‘Nothin’ goan happen to me. I don’t need Geno to protect me. I don’t like Geno,’ she tried desperately, feeling somehow ashamed to articulate what really bothered her about him.
‘He’s a good man,’ Sharon said. ‘So donchu piss him off, you hear?’ There was an air of finality in her voice that Tenille knew better than to argue with. She swept her coat off the chair and made for the door. ‘He’ll be round later. Donchu mess with his head. You hear me, girl?’ she added, whirling round with a look of dark suspicious anger on her handsome face.
Tenille scowled. ‘I hear you,’ she mumbled. The door had scarcely closed behind her aunt before she was on her feet, pulling on her own coat, throwing her MP3 player and a couple of books into her backpack and heading out into the early evening gloom. She made straight for Jane’s flat, but the lights were out and her knock met with no response. Tenille thrust her hand in her pocket and fingered the uneven contours of the key. She’d ‘borrowed’ the spare from the kitchen drawer months before, had it copied and returned it before Jane even noticed its absence. But she was cautious about its use. It would only be an insurance policy for as long as Jane didn’t know she had it. When that useless wanker Jake had still been on the scene, she’d never dared to sneak in, unsure of his comings and goings. She’d only chanced it a couple of times since, both occasions when she’d seen Jane off on the bus and known for sure she’d be at the Viking for the next four hours. Tonight, she had no idea where Jane was or when she’d return. It was too risky.
With a sigh, Tenille turned away and trudged back to the stinking stairwell. A scatter of rain caught her in the face as she turned off the gallery and she swore under her breath. For once, she wished she didn’t despise everyone in her peer group. Tonight, the idea of watching some stupid DVD with Aleesha Graham and her crew almost made her wistful. Tenille turned out her pockets. Enough for a couple of regular Cokes. If she carried on past the local Burger King to the one a mile or so away, the chances were there would be nobody she knew inside. With luck, it would be quiet enough for them to let her skulk in a corner for a few hours, nose in a book.
Lost in Byron’s Childe Harold, the time raced away, and Tenille was surprised when the skinny, acned counter boy leaned on his brush opposite her table and said, ‘We’re closing.’ She grabbed her stuff and made for the door, checking her watch. Half past ten. And the rain had stopped, which meant she could dawdle home, hoodie pulled tight round her head against the wind.
It was quarter past eleven when Tenille inched her key into the lock and opened the front door without a sound. She slid into the darkened hall silent as a shadow, her senses sharpened by the prickle of fear. A cone of faint flickering light spilled into the hall from the half-open living-room door. She could hear the muted drawl of American accents from the TV. Her nose screwed up in a grimace, identifying the sweet of dope smoke and the sour of beer. She risked a quick peek round the door frame.