How to Find Home

  How to Find Home

  MAHSUDA SNAITH

  CONTENTS

  Home

  The Council with Jules

  The Cyclone

  The Road to the Station

  The Dainty Land of Bingham

  The Discovery of Manor Cottage

  The Deadly Row of Cars

  The Magic Art of the Psychotic

  The Guardians of the Gate

  The Queen of the Wheat Field

  Molly Becomes King of the Beasts

  The Cowardly Lions

  Escape from the Guardians

  The Wonderful Town of Skegness

  The Rescue

  The Discovery of Luca the Terrible

  Attacked by the Wicked Wolves

  Away to the Sea

  Molly’s Wish

  Home Again

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Mahsuda Snaith is the winner of the SI Leeds Literary Prize 2014, Bristol Short Story Prize 2014 and was an Observer New Face of Fiction in 2017. She lives in Leicester, where she teaches creative writing and tries to find the time to read.

  Also by Mahsuda Snaith

  THE THINGS WE THOUGHT WE KNEW

  For more information on Mahsuda Snaith and her books, see her website at www.mahsudasnaith.com

  To those without homes.

  We see you.

  No matter how dreary and grey our homes are, we people of flesh and blood would rather live there than in any other country … There is no place like home.

  The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum

  Home

  This is a happy story. This is an adventure.

  It began the night Rusby was released. Word got round that Jules was having a few bevvies at her squat and, by the time I got there, it was crammed with half the homeless of Nottingham.

  It was kind of electric, the air that night. I could see it as soon as I stepped in: bundles of energy hanging from the ceiling, little sparks flickering from the living-room doorway and on to the stained carpet in the hall. I decided to hover near the entrance, hanging up coats that had been dropped on the floor; I’m not a large-groups type of person. But then Big Tony craned his neck into the hallway. His bald head was shining with sweat, eyes so wide you could see the whites circling his irises.

  ‘Molls,’ he hissed.

  I smoothed down the back of a sheepskin coat and hooked it over a peg.

  ‘Hi, Tony,’ I said.

  He reached for my arm, nodding back towards the party.

  ‘Quick.’

  He’s a strong, beefy man is Big Tony, neck thick as an ox. But his grip was gentle as he led me through the dancing bodies and past those slumped against walls peppered with graffiti. Sweat and alcohol soured the air, lights low, music thumping through boxy speakers. I walked on tiptoes to avoid the debris and then spotted Jules by the boarded-up windows. She was jumping up and down with a can in one hand, her other hand slicing backwards and forwards to the beat. Her chestnut hair, usually pulled tight in a ponytail, had come loose on the sides. Ash fell down her camouflage jacket as she puffed away on a cigarette. She didn’t seem bothered by it. That’s the thing with Jules: when she’s in the zone, she’s not bothered by anything.

  I wanted to get her attention so we could talk but Big Tony was taking me over to the corner of the room where a lava lamp, purple with fluorescent pink wax, sat crooked on a beer carton.

  ‘Speak to this fella, Molls,’ he said. ‘I can’t handle him.’

  I looked down at the lad sitting cross-legged on the floor. He can’t have been much older than me – early to mid twenties – and was wiry, like one of those dolls with legs and arms that stretch into spaghetti. His skin was a pale caramel brown, his Afro square like Lego. ‘LOGIC’ was stencilled in bold letters on his canary-yellow T-shirt. I looked at Big Tony: mid-forties, six foot four, convicted of grievous bodily harm at least four times in his youth. He looked back at me, dabbing the sweat from his head.

  ‘Bloody teetotallers,’ he said, sticking a cider can in my hand before stumbling off to the bathroom.

  I sat down next to the lad and crossed my legs, feeling my phone vibrate against my thigh. I knew it was a text because of the short single buzz but I didn’t want to read it. Not then. Instead I asked the lad his name. He stuffed a lime jelly baby in his mouth and looked at me with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Why?’ he said.

  His face was dead straight but I smiled anyway.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why do you want to know my name?’

  His voice was airy and light like a BBC news reporter’s. I tried not to let it distract me.

  ‘So I know what to call you,’ I said.

  I stretched my neck high and grinned, happy with my answer. He carried on staring at me, Afro glowing lavender in the lamplight, then stuffed a red jelly baby in his mouth. When I looked down I saw he was barefoot, a line of socks laid out across the floor in front of him. They’d been flattened into J-shapes, spaced out equally, each sock a different colour and pattern from the rest. One of them had little scurrying turtles; another pineapples.

  It didn’t seem as though the lad was going to say much else so I looked back at Jules, who was still dancing like she’d been possessed. The cuffs of her oversized jacket were flapping as she swung her arms, the too-full pockets of her cargo pants threatening to empty with each jump. I wanted to talk to her about the whole Rusby situation; I’d heard nothing from him for three years and now he was messaging me non-stop. His words had an intensity that made it hard to breathe. I sipped my cider as the music pounded. It was a throbbing track that made me want to get up and dance with Jules, to dance so hard that I’d forget Rusby, to dance so hard that I’d forget everything.

  ‘Luca,’ the lad said.

  His back was still straight but his shoulders had slackened, eyes looking square into mine. It was like he could see right inside to the wires feeding round my body, the lump of my heart pounding in my chest, the ball of my mind rippling with activity.

  I licked my lips.

  ‘Luca’s a nice name,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Do you like jazz?’

  I frowned.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve heard much jazz.’

  His lips curled as if I were twisting his fingers back.

  ‘But yeah,’ I said. ‘I guess so.’

  His face relaxed.

  ‘Do you have any special skills?’ he said.

  ‘Like qualifications?’

  His expression flickered with irritation.

  ‘No, not like qualifications.’

  I fiddled with the ring-pull on my can.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

  He sighed and looked away; whatever test he’d put me through I’d failed. I stretched my legs, ready to push myself up.

  ‘Do you believe in fate?’ he asked.

  The lavender light illuminated the side of his face as he waited for my answer.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  His face relaxed, lips pursing into an ‘oh’.

  ‘Do you?’ I ventured.

  His expression became serious again.

  ‘Belief is an illusion created by humans to legitimize a totally meaningless existence,’ he said.

  Bundles of energy crackled around us. I could see why Big Tony couldn’t handle this but I was finding it funny. Not funny ha-ha or funny strange, but funny interesting, funny surprising.

  The skin between Luca’s brows shrivelled up like a popped balloon.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  He fiddled with a rainbow-striped sock.

  ‘Why are you sorry?’ I asked.

  ‘For being weird.’

  I looked down at the
socks; there were eight in total, all of them the same size but none of them matching.

  ‘It’s not weird,’ I said. ‘It’s interesting.’

  He laughed. Not a nice laugh, sort of mocking.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It isn’t.’

  He stared straight ahead as though I wasn’t there any more, as though he was in an empty forest on a winter’s day and not a room full of sweaty bodies.

  I felt another buzz in my pocket. When I pulled my phone out I had twelve messages from Rusby. The last one rolled across the top bar of the screen.

  Remember what we’ve been thru darlin x

  I put the phone away, hoping that, if I ignored the messages, Rusby would figure I’d lost my phone or had it nicked or that it was just plain broken. That he’d give up. But I also knew that, when he really wanted something, Rusby never gave up.

  The room grew darker. Nobody noticed but me.

  Things you should know about me:

  My name is Molly Jenson.

  I’ve been homeless since I was fifteen.

  My favourite book is The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

  My favourite place to sleep is in hospital chapels.

  Sometimes, I see things that other people don’t.

  I try not to think about the last thing too much.

  ‘Can I tell you a secret?’ asked Luca.

  Jules was across the room, collapsed on a children’s beanbag, fuzzy strands of hair in a mane around her blotched red face. Private Pete was sat beside her delivering an intense monologue and sloshing Special Brew all over the already-stained carpet. He swayed from side to side, the hood of his coat draped over his forehead, his three-legged Border terrier dozing on the floor in front of them. As he spoke, his hood crept backwards, revealing the psoriasis that covered his scalp.

  ‘Can’t get a break, Jules,’ he yelled.

  Slosh!

  ‘Can’t get a fucking break.’

  Slosh, slosh!

  Luca’s expression was wide and expectant.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You can tell me.’

  Luca leant in so close that the curls of his hair tickled my cheek. I could feel the energy again, hovering above us.

  ‘I’m going on a mission,’ he said.

  ‘I mean really, Jules!’ Private Pete was shouting now, Special Brew shooting out of his can. ‘You wouldn’t believe what I’ve got now.’

  Slosh!

  ‘Have a gander.’

  Sllloosh!

  He pulled on the elastic waist of his jogging bottoms. We call him Private Pete because he can’t keep anything private. It’s what you call an ironic name (unlike Dodgy Mike’s, which is based on fact). One of the things Private Pete shares is his skin infections. Not literally, of course, though I’m sure there’ve been cases. He’s had it all: scabies, street feet, gangrene and – what seemed to be the case this time – crotch rot.

  Jules was so far gone she didn’t even realize Pete was showing her the contents of his underpants until it was there right in front of her. The look on her face suggested it wasn’t a pretty sight. Her body jolted so hard that her right foot jerked out, kicking Pete’s three-legged Border terrier in the back. Pete had found the dog a few weeks earlier, abandoned in a shoebox by the canal. He’d named the dog ‘Boy’, even though she was a girl, in order to make himself seem harder on the streets. His theory was people treated females like delicate little things while males were to be steered clear of. Of course there was no logic in this; Pete was a man and soft as a pile of feathers. And you couldn’t really be afraid of Boy, so small and scraggly with wide floppy ears and one leg missing. Even when she leapt up and barked at Jules, everyone just looked over and smiled soppily. Everyone except Jules.

  The thing with Jules is she’s the competitive type, so as soon as she clocked Boy she was down on all fours yapping like a Pekinese. She would’ve been more convincing without the camo jacket. She looked like a soldier in one of those war films who’s shot one too many villagers, running off into the jungle to go mental.

  Luca was oblivious to the barking and yapping. He was gazing at me like we’d known each other fifteen years instead of five minutes. I have to be careful sometimes; I’m too good a listener. I’m not beautiful but I have these big pale eyes that draw men in. Child’s eyes, Jules says, which is why I pull in the perverts. But there was something different about this lad. It wasn’t how he looked (the worst perverts look the straightest) but how he was. Like he knew about things – both painful and beautiful – that made him kind of sensitive. Don’t ask me how I knew this; I just did.

  ‘A mission?’ I said.

  He nodded.

  There was a whimpering from the other side of the room. Boy was walking towards the kitchen, snout down, tail hanging between her leg and stump. Jules was on her beanbag, head rolled back, panting.

  ‘Do you want to come?’

  Luca was staring at me through the squares of his glasses. The energy was crackling again, brightening up the room.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

  He grinned.

  ‘Skegness.’

  The energy exploded above us, sparks showering us like confetti. Nobody could see it but me.

  ‘Are you fucking with me?’ I said.

  I must have said it harsh because his lips trembled. He shook his head.

  ‘I’m deadly serious.’

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘Why Skegness?’ I asked.

  Luca smiled.

  ‘I’ve got a map and a key.’

  I nodded even though I didn’t know what he meant. My thoughts were scattered. Skegness – Izzy. Nottingham – Rusby. Skegness – Izzy. Skegness. Skegness.

  I must have missed something because suddenly Luca was pulling at a chain around his neck.

  ‘My grandfather gave me this,’ he said.

  There was a key – small laced head; thin bronze body – attached to the chain.

  ‘I’ve got a rucksack with all the necessary equipment,’ he said. ‘I know where it is. I just need to get there.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Where what is?’

  Luca paused, then chuckled as though realizing he’d forgotten the most important part.

  ‘The fortune!’

  The music was so loud now that it rattled through my ribcage. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from life it’s this: you can’t do much about the past but you can make sure the present is filled with so many good things that they drown out all the bad. It makes sense, proportionally wise. Like how a drop of ink can turn a puddle black, but in the sea it just spreads out and becomes more sea. It was as if I had waves in me. The ink was being washed away.

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  Luca frowned.

  ‘What?’

  Sizzle. Pop. Hiss.

  ‘I’ll come!’ I said.

  The pressure built up, the energy released.

  Wheee. Zip. BOOM!

  ‘You’re messing with me?’ he said.

  My cheeks ached with how much I was smiling.

  ‘I’m serious,’ I said.

  Luca’s expression was caught between joy and disbelief, like he’d been hitchhiking for five hours and I was the first car to pull up. He lowered his head as he took the chain from around his neck.

  ‘Here,’ he said, draping it over my head.

  He put the key in my palm and wrapped my fingers over it like a present.

  ‘Welcome to the mission.’

  I felt it there, cold and solid. Luca’s face glowed and, when I looked down at our hands, I saw light glimmering through our fingers.

  ‘Wanna dance?’ I asked.

  Luca watched me stand up. You could tell he wasn’t the dancing type. Every inch of his gangly body wanted to hide in the corner of the room and disappear. He looked down at his socks, then pulled on one with balloons and another with bumblebees.

  ‘You only live once!’ he said.

  The music continued to throb. We danced lik
e crazy people until midnight.

  The Council with Jules

  If you sit by Nottingham Castle where the tourists stand with maps and baseball caps and eyes that look without seeing, you’ll hear a busker who, when he sings, bleeds his soul. You have to look real hard but, when you do, you can see tendrils of liquid light running out from the cloth of his parka and the wire of his beard. They seep into the ether like magic.

  When he batters the strings of his guitar, the earth trembles, the sky cracks into pieces and the tourists look away. They pose for pictures at the Robin Hood statue, with V-signs and forced grins. They pretend they can’t see the man with a flat cap, bleeding all over the cobbled streets below. But behind the grins you can see panic because, even though they can close their eyes, they can’t shut their ears. It scares them, this voice, because they’ve never heard singing where the heart is being drained, never heard notes bellowed from the pit of something dark and wonderful.

  Jules says the busker’s psychotic. That he glassed a man once for telling him his shoelaces were undone. She says I should quit watching him every time I pass, that my sobbing will be the undoing of us both. I tell her it’s not sobbing, just a quiet emotion. She says that’s enough.

  ‘Emotional people can’t cope with the emotions of others. Best keep your distance, doll.’

  But I can’t keep my distance. I keep going to the castle to watch the busker, to let him know someone can hear him, to let him know someone can see him. You become invisible when you live on the street. People avert their gaze when they walk past, look straight through you when you speak. I used to think this was a good thing, that this meant you could truly disappear. But now I know that when you stop being seen, you stop existing and when you stop existing, that’s when you give up.

  Luca had seen me. He had looked deep inside and found something worth taking with him on his journey.

  I guess that’s why I said yes.