A shadow fell over her from behind. ‘All right, Cheryl?’
Carlton! She rose, losing her balance. He shot out an arm, catching her elbow. ‘Easy now.’ He smiled, a quick easy glint of white teeth, one gold cap. Carlton was a big man, pumped up from time spent at the gym and the regular use of steroids, according to Vinia. He wore a plain white tee and a thin leather and linen jacket, double-breasted, elaborate, expensive. His trainers were gold Pumas, like the ones Usain Bolt, the fastest runner in the world, won the Olympics in.
He let go of her elbow. ‘Where ya bin hiding?’
Cheryl laughed. ‘No place.’ What if he took her phone? Found the number? ‘Just taking Milo to Storytime.’
‘Ya don’t come round no more.’
When she did use to call on Vinia he’d leched her with his eyes, passed ripe comments, smacking his lips. It made her squirm. She’d always made sure to stick close to Vinia, not be caught alone with him.
Cheryl felt the hairs on her arms rise. She knew she must be very careful, and sly and sweet. ‘Responsibilities now. No partying no more.’
‘That right?’ He locked his eyes on hers. His were bright, glassy, a seed of anger sharpening them. She forced a glow into her own, giggled, girlish.
‘Milo, he keeps me busy.’ She edged aside a little so Carlton could see her son.
Carlton hunkered down, his great hand outstretched, cupped, rested like a cap on Milo’s curls. ‘Hey, lickle man.’
Cheryl’s throat closed. She wanted to slap him away. He waggled the child’s head a little.
‘Yah!’ Milo made some sort of greeting.
Carlton laughed, a guffaw that crackled in the air, sudden and loud. ‘Yah! I hear you, man. Fine soldier you make someday. Yes!’
Over my dead body, vowed Cheryl. She felt bile in her throat. Recalled Danny, his fist bumping Milo’s. She stretched her face to frame a smile for Carlton.
‘What’s Mama say?’ He turned from Milo to her, beamed up at her, his eyes fierce, dangerous.
Cheryl laughed as though the thought of Milo being one of his foot soldiers was the funniest thing on the planet. Laughed way too long, high and brittle, but dared not stop.
Carlton stood, nodded to her. ‘Don’t be a stranger, you hear me?’
She nodded. Was still nodding and grinning like some ventriloquist’s dummy as he strode away, his bulk rolling from hip to hip, his head swaying on his neck.
Cheryl imagined Milo grown, a gun under his bed, his arms engorged with muscles like Carlton’s. Milo shot up and bleeding. Herself, like Paulette, burying her boy.
In a corner of the park, while Milo clambered on and off the little play-boat structure, Cheryl punched in the number for the police. She listened to it ring once, then twice, then a voice came on the line. Cheryl didn’t speak, she listened to the voice, all the reassurances it gave, listened to the silence, watched Milo steer the captain’s wheel. Her jaw was rigid, her belly ached, her knees trembled, she was so frightened. Then she ended the call. Deleted the number, feeling shaky and sick, and her eyes hot with angry tears.