or sold to a sex shop, and all for nothing.
‘Oi, Steve, do “Thunder Road”.’
I looked up as one of the record stallholders closest to me yelled over the crowd.
‘What’s that, Tel? “Thunder Road”?’ the singer replied over his microphone.
‘Yeah,’ the stallholder yelled back. ‘I could do with a bit of Springsteen.’
But I wasn’t listening to what he was saying any more. He’d called the singer Steve. How many Steves could there be performing in Spitalfields at lunchtime? A shaft of sunlight spilled through the glass roof of the market and fell hot on my face. From the centre of the crowd I heard the sound of a harmonica and then that husky voice again. This time he was singing a lot more softly, and strumming gently on an acoustic guitar. The whole crowd fell silent and stood motionless as they listened. It was a beautiful song all about a man trying to persuade a woman called Mary to come for a drive with him to this place called Thunder Road. He wanted her to just climb into the car and see where they ended up. It reminded me of the first time I bunked off school and ended up at the Southbank. On the day Tricia had changed the words to a Britney Spears song to be all about me and my limp, and Miss Davis had laughed along with the rest of the class. Just like today, I’d been so desperate to get out of school I’d walked out of the nearest fire exit and gone straight to the tube, not caring where I ended up, just as long as it was miles away from Rayners High.
I stood up, as if I was in a trance; as if the beautiful words of the song were drawing me forwards like a spell. I started edging through the crowd, past the men in their tight jeans and pointy boots and the girls in their summer dresses and flip-flops.
‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ I muttered as I went.
And then there was just one row of people in front of me. I stopped behind a couple of women wearing business suits and trainers and I tried to swallow but my mouth was too dry. Through a gap between the women I could just make out a pair of tanned hands playing a guitar. The singer was wearing a faded black T-shirt and torn jeans but I still couldn’t see his face. All I had to do was move slightly to my left and stand on tiptoe, but I was scared he would see me. Even though he didn’t know me and wouldn’t recognise me I was worried I’d do something to give myself away. My heart was thumping and the palms of my hands were sticky with sweat.
A massive cheer rang out as the man in the song begged Mary again to come with him so they could escape from their town full of losers and go somewhere they’d be able to win. I thought of Rayners High and Magnolia Crescent and my eyes went glassy with tears. Then suddenly the women in front of me turned to leave and one of them swung her huge shoulder bag right into me, catching me in the face. I stumbled sideways and on to the ground.
‘Are you all right, darlin’?’ I heard the singer ask over the mic as I scrambled to my feet.
I had to get out of there. I didn’t want him seeing me like this, like everyone else always saw me: clumsy and awkward and embarrassed. I grabbed my bag from the floor but then, just for a split second, I looked in his direction.
He was staring straight at me, holding his microphone in one hand and his guitar in the other. He was short and thin and had shoulder-length dark brown hair, held back by a red and white bandana. His face was tanned and his eyes dark brown. He looked like a rock star from the eighties. The kind who would have gone out with one of the original supermodels and thrown televisions and toasters and stuff from hotel room windows. And had the vanilla-ice-cream-haired girl for a daughter, instead of me. The tears that had been building in my eyes spilled on to my cheeks. I turned round and started pushing my way back through the crowd. It had all been a massive mistake. I should’ve stayed in school. I should’ve realised it would never work out. My life isn’t worthy of being a stupid novel – not unless they bring out a new genre called Disaster Lit. Nothing ever goes the way I want it to.
I finally made it through the crowd to the edge of the market. I took a deep breath and started marching towards the gate. I didn’t care that this made my limp look even worse – I had to get out of there. I had to get back to my boring, crappy life in Rayners Lane and forget any of this had ever happened.
But then there was a loud squeal of feedback over the speakers. I stood still for a second.
‘Cherokee!’ His voice rang out over the microphone, full of concern. ‘Cherokee, come back.’
Chapter Five
‘One of the crassest mistakes a new novelist can make is to waste acres of paper telling their reader all about their characters and their motivations. You must SHOW us this information, dear writer, through the character’s actions, rather than tediously tell.’
Agatha Dashwood,
So You Want to Write a Novel?
‘How did you know it was me?’
Steve – Dad – Steve looked at me. Then down at his pint. Then all around the beer garden.
After he’d called to me on the microphone I’d stood rooted to the spot. Then I’d heard footsteps running up behind me and felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned round and there he was. ‘Cherokee?’ he’d said, as if he was asking a question. I just nodded and stared. What happened next was all a bit of a blur. I followed him back to where he’d been performing, watched him pack up his things and apologise to everybody for finishing so soon. And then we’d come here. To a pub called the Water Poet at the back of the market.
‘Well, there’s the fact that you’re the spit of me,’ he finally replied, looking back at me with a nervous grin.
‘The what?’
‘The spit. You look just like me.’
‘Do I?’ I tried to study him without looking obvious. When he smiled crescents of small lines formed around his dark brown eyes like fans.
‘Yeah, course you do. And then there was the stake-out.’
‘The what?’
‘The stake-out. At your house. Last week.’
‘You staked out my house?’ I took a sip of my lemonade to try and stop myself from giggling. Nerves were bubbling up inside of me like gas.
He shook his head and sighed. ‘Yeah, man. They wouldn’t tell me where you lived so I had to follow your mum home. And then I waited outside, till I saw you.’ He took a cigarette paper from the packet on the table in front of him and a pinch of tobacco from a plastic pouch.
‘Are you serious?’ I was so shocked at what he was telling me that for a second I forgot to be nervous.
He placed the tobacco on the paper and began rolling it with his finger and thumb. ‘’Fraid so.’ He licked the edge of the paper. ‘I didn’t want to, but I had no choice. I wanted to see you.’ He looked away, obviously embarrassed.
I replayed what he’d just said in my mind. ‘Who wouldn’t tell you where I lived?’
‘Your nan and granddad.’
I looked at him blankly. He was staring at some fat men on the next table who were stuffing their sweaty faces with burgers.
‘Cheryl and Paul. Your mum’s folks. I went round to their house. Wasn’t even sure they’d still be living there to be honest but I thought I’d give it a go. I was made up when Cheryl answered the door. But as soon as she realised who I was she went all moody and told me to do one.’ He lit his roll-up and a wisp of smoke ribboned around his face. ‘So I left, but only as far as the end of their road. Then I waited for Fi – your mum – to turn up.’
‘But how did you know she would turn up?’
‘I didn’t. And she didn’t.’ He sighed and more smoke streamed from his mouth. ‘Not for days.’
‘Days?’