Inner Fire

1

Textiles

It pays to think carefully about the subjects you take at school. Look at me — if I hadn’t chosen Textiles, none of this would have happened. I guess none of us know in advance the importance of our decisions.

Deepti and I didn’t see each other much during the day because we had different classes, so after school we often met outside Archway Station for a gossip-cum-vent session.

Deepti poked me in the arm. ‘Hey, did I tell you? Jonty asked me out.’

‘No way! Jonty MacFarlane? I didn’t even knew you fancied him.’

‘Well I do. Maybe. Anyway, we’ve been messaging each other all week. So romantic!’ She sighed, sounding like a dreamy heroine.

I did not get this. Deepti had been angling for a boyfriend for ages, but why Jonty? He never stops talking; he's like a radio without an off switch. How could she even like him, let alone go out with him? Plus, he has enormous zits on his neck.

‘Come on, Corinne. Isn’t there someone you like?’ she asked.

I shook my head. ‘No.’

Deepti riffled through her bag, hunting for her smokes. ‘You know what your problem is? You’re too fussy.’ She lit up, blew out smoke. ‘Anyway. So. How was your day?’

I slumped against a bollard and groaned. ‘Remind me again — why did I take Textiles?’

‘Ah, because you thought it would be about fashion and clothing and stuff? And because it’s better than maths?’

‘Yeah. There is that, I guess. Do you think I could change to another paper?’

‘Why? Would another paper be any better?’

I sighed. ‘Probably not.’ All the options at Islington Girls Grammar (Today’s Education for Tomorrow’s Leaders) seemed fairly dismal. Besides, we were nearly halfway through the term. It was a little late to change.

‘I don’t get it,’ Deepti said. ‘I thought you liked Textiles.’

‘I like fashion. And I don’t like assignments.’

‘Oh, yes.’ She nodded. ‘Assignments are definitely a downer.’

I groaned. ‘This one’s horrible. I have to design a fashion-forward item of clothing for a high street store, using an item of clothing from another culture.’

‘So? Easy. Make a skirt.’

‘Deepti – it’s worth sixty-five percent! Whatever I make has to be… I don’t know. Exotic. Exciting. Different. More than just a simple skirt. And it has to be good – something you or I would actually pay money for.’

‘Okay then,’ Deepti paused. ‘What about a sari?’

‘A sari?’

‘Yeah. Saris are from another culture. There’s loads of Indian stores near here. And a sari is just basically a big sheet of material — it would be easy to sew.’

I blinked. That might actually work. ‘Wow! You’re amazing.’

‘I know. I’m incredible.’ She pointed across the road to a rundown-looking shop with a faded photo of an Indian woman in the window. ‘We could get the fabric now. Once I’ve finished my smoke.’

Inside the shop a fat man sat behind the counter, watching a Bollywood movie on an old TV. He totally ignored us, his gaze fixed on happy little Indian dancers. The place reeked of incense.

‘The saris will be at the back.’ Deepti said.

The store was a weird mix of exotica and banal: pots and pans and spices and henna.

‘Isn’t this awesome?’ I held up a plastic Buddha. He had a light bulb growing from his head.

‘You’re getting distracted by tat, Corinne. Put it down.’ She punched my shoulder. ‘Come on, focus!’

I followed her, grumbling. ‘I really liked it. I could give it to Gran, just to piss her off.’

‘Here they are.’ She looked about her, at the mirror leaning against the back wall and the fabrics folded onto shelves. ‘I haven’t been in here in ages. I don’t think the place has changed at all.’ She ran her finger along a shelf and wiped the dust onto her sweater. ‘Yep. No change.’

I lifted out a pile of brightly colored fabric. ‘Is this them? They’re really pretty, Deepti.’

Here in this dusty, over-full shop the saris looked as soft and colorful as butterflies. We pulled a few out, just to have a look at them, while Bollywood played on the TV. It was like listening to a fork running across a plate.

Deepti hummed along with the music. ‘You just need a pallu. If you want, you can buy the choli and petticoat another time.’

Turned out a choli was the top, the skirt was the petticoat, which made sense I guess, and the big drapy bit was called a pallu. We shook them loose, holding them up against ourselves. In the mirror, our reflections grinned at each other — brown skin, white skin.

‘I love the way you Indians use color.’

‘You Indians? What do you mean by that?’

The light caught on the metal of my medic-alert bracelet. Last year Mum bought me one that’s all leather bands and beads, kind of goth-grunge. I pushed it up under my sleeve. ‘It’s a compliment, Deepti.’

‘Huh!’ she unfolded a length of jade-green fabric. It was shot with threads of gold and seemed amazingly exotic. It would look great as bed curtains or a duvet cover. Or, maybe a floaty summer dress… This is the best part of designing, when you can almost see the garment in your head.

Deepti inspected the fabric critically, like a teacher looking for faults in an essay. ‘This is a festival sari. You can get wedding ones, too, but they’re usually bought on-line.’ She looked down the shop, towards the counter and the fat man. ‘You won’t get many brides coming in here. Mr Patel is a bit of a turn off.’

My favorite fabrics were the silk ones with the gold embroidery, but the plainer muslins would be cheaper and easier to sew. I hovered between them, staring down at them. Oh my God! Which ones?

Deepti sighed and sat on the floor. ‘If I’d known you’d take this long, I would have bloody made you come by yourself.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry! They’re just so pretty.’ Finally, I chose three silks in bright colors: yellow, orange and the green. ‘And I’ll get a plain muslin, too, so I can make mock-ups.’

Deepti stood up quickly. ‘Okay, good. About time. Can we go now?’

And then I spotted the price tags, half-hidden on the corner of the fabric. Twenty-five pounds! ‘Deepti! I can’t afford this!’

‘Not even one?’

I checked the other fabrics. At least the muslin was only a fiver. ‘I could get the muslin now, I guess. I can always come back for the silk.’ I stroked the green-and-gold material. It was so beautiful.

Deepti shook her head. ‘You don’t want to do that. There’s a festival coming up; those ones will sell out quickly. You ought to get them today.’ She looked around, towards the front of the shop, then back at me. Then she grabbed the silk from my hand and stuffed it into her school bag.

‘What are you doing?’

She put one finger to her mouth, ssh, and smiled at me, her eyes sparkling. ‘Go on,’ she hissed. ‘Buy the plain one. You can afford that, can’t you?

Five pounds. ‘Yeah,’ I whispered, ‘but …’

She nodded at the front counter. ‘He’s not even looking.’

She was right. Mr Patel was watching the television. The news was starting.

‘You go up to the counter. Distract him, I’ll …’ she nodded at the door.

‘Deepti?’

‘Go on,’ she urged. ‘He won’t even notice it‘s missing.’

I have no idea why I agreed to steal the fabric; maybe I was seduced by the whole weirdness of the shop, or perhaps it was just that I really wanted to get that bloody assignment out of the way. Anyway, I nodded, picked up the muslin and walked to the front of the store.

The TV was so loud that the newsreader seemed to be shouting. ‘In a world first, SecurEYEs has been activated.’

‘Yes, Miss? What do you want?’ The storekeeper was breathing heavily, as though he had asthma or something. This must be Mr Patel.

I handed him the lengths of fabric. ‘Um, this, please.’

Behind me, Deepti sidled towards the door. When she opened it, a bell tinkled. Mr Patel didn’t even look at her.

Beside me, the newsreader yelled. ‘Using facial recognition software, SecurEYEs will link all public and private security cameras within Greater London.’

With a grunt Mr Patel switched off the TV and looked at me. ‘Hmm. European girl, buying a sari. What do you want it for?’

‘My school work.’

He wrapped the muslin in brown paper as I waved my phone over the debit machine. Sometimes this makes me feel like a magician casting a spell, but not today. Today, I just felt sick. Calm down, Corinne.

When he handed me the parcel, my smile felt like it was stuck on. ‘Thank you.’

I took a deep breath and opened the door.

‘Miss. Just a moment, please.’

I stared back at him, trying to look innocent.

He lifted his head so all his chins wobbled and looked down the shop at the security camera. It was attached to the roof, just above the fabric aisle.

He shook his head. ‘I watched you from my office. Do you girls really think I am so foolish that I do not keep an eye on my own store? If you call your friend back in, we can settle this between us. Otherwise,’ he stretched out a hand for the telephone. His fingers looked like breakfast sausages. ‘I will call the police.’

‘The police?’ I could feel the heat creeping up my neck, into my chin, across my cheeks. Oh my God! The police!

Deepti pushed open the door. ‘Corinne. You’re taking ages. What’s wrong?’

Mr Patel came out from behind his desk. He wore a loose top over a sarong that showed off his belly and smelt musty, like a blocked drain. ‘Miss Jalali. I thought I recognized you. Tell me, do you remember what I said last time you were in here?’

Deepti stared at him. Her eyes filled with water, and for a moment I just stared — I mean, Deepti never cries.

Mr Patel reached out with one sausage finger and touched the tear. ‘Now, now,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t cry. I’m sure we can come to some … arrangement.’ And then he put his wet fingertip to his mouth.

Oh my God that is so gross. And then I thought: what does he mean ‘arrangement’?

Mr Patel reached out and grabbed Deepti by the shoulders. She tried to shake him off. ‘Let me go!’

He smiled and leant even closer.

This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. What the hell am I doing in this grotty, smelly shop?

My heart began beating, faster and faster. And then I could feel it: the heat rising, rising.

‘Please,’ Deepti said, so softly I could barely hear her. ‘Let me go.’

‘Don’t worry, my dear. Everything will be just fine.’ Holding her around the shoulder, Mr Patel slipped off her school bag. Deepti didn’t even try to stop him; she just stood there, letting him move her around. He passed me the bag. Automatically, my hand reached out and I took it.

‘You can leave,’ he told me, staring at Deepti. ‘Deepti and I have something to discuss now, don’t we dear?’

‘Don’t touch her!’ My voice sounded weak, afraid.

He said nothing, just turned away from me, as though I didn’t exist, as though Deepti was the only thing in the world to him, like she was his own personal private present.

I held her bag to my chest, fighting for breath. Worse than the nausea was the heat. This is not happening. This is not happening.

‘Stop it!’ I could feel my anger, almost taste it on my tongue.

Mr Patel looked at me, his face mildly surprised, as though he wasn’t doing anything wrong. ‘But Miss Jalali and I have an understanding.’ He smiled at me. His skin was olive-gray and his eyes had tiny red veins in them. ‘The last time I caught her lovely hands stealing my stock, I warned her. Didn’t I, Miss Jalali? I told you I would demand payment of you.’

Deepti turned her head away. ‘No! No!’ She struggled against him like a pinned fly. ‘I didn’t. I didn’t. Please let me go!’ She was crying now, really crying.

‘Let her go!’ But my voice sounded small and weak, and he ignored me.

Oh my God. What do I do? Then, quite suddenly, I wasn’t scared – I felt angry. The walls of the grotty shop seemed to pulse in time with my heart. Who the hell did this man think he was? I heard a distant roaring, the sound of fire and heat and red-hot flames.

I shouted, ‘Leave her alone!’

My muscles started to spasm as the heat began building, building, running down my veins: a river of fire spreading into my hands.

I should find cold water. I should think calm thoughts until my temperature settles and I am safe again. But there was no water here, and really, I didn’t want to get all serene and calm.

Or I could do something I’ve not done since I was twelve: ride the anger, let it free. Let the fire out.

Leaning forward, I slammed into Mr Patel, hard, hard, like I was throwing my weight against a locked door. He staggered and let go of Deepti. She lurched sideways and away. I put my hand on his chest, shoved him as powerfully as I could.

‘Get away!’ I could barely hear myself screaming. ‘Get away from her.’

Deepti stared at me, like she couldn’t believe what was happening, and for a moment I wondered — What do I look like, when the fire comes?

Eyes wide and full of fear, Mr Patel scrabbled to get away. He was slow, far too slow. Because nothing is as fast as the fire, not when it’s leaping to be free. I opened my fingers and pressed them against his chest.

He screamed, a long sob of agony and terror.

‘Too late,’ I whispered. ‘Too late.’

Then the heat took me, powering through my veins, and everything turned black.

Dimly, I heard Deepti yelling. ‘Corinne! Corinne!’

And then there was nothing at all.

2

Genetics

When I opened my eyes I thought for a moment that I was in hospital. But no, above me was a skylight. Through it I could see the moon, sailing high above silver-rimmed clouds. I must be in my bedroom.

‘Corinne. How do you feel?’

Dad sat perched in my tiny chair, the one I use purely as a rack for my clothes. His knees were almost pressed against his chin and a thick book lay open on his lap. The desk lamp reflecting onto his glasses made it hard to see his eyes.

What just happened? There had been smoke and sirens and the hammering noise of Deepti knocking on the front door. And my mother’s face. She hadn’t looked very happy. After that everything was hazy.

When I breathed in, my chest ached. Had I cracked a rib?

Downstairs, the twins were arguing in high-pitched toddler voices. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out their noise, shut out the world. What had I done?

Mr Patel’s face, disappearing in a haze of heat.

‘Corinne?’

I swallowed, my throat raw. ‘Where’s Mum?’ My voice was croaky.

‘At work.’

Jamie pushed open the door, sending a line of light into my room. ‘Dad! They won’t go to bed.’

With the door open the shrieks sounded louder.

‘Jamie. I left you in charge.’

‘I don’t know why. They never listen to me.’

Dad struggled out of the chair and dropped his book on the floor. A Guide to Genetic Diseases of the Muscles. Dad works at London Met Uni as a genetics researcher and reads textbooks in his spare time — kind of sad, really. At least if I get a job in fashion I’ll be able to read magazines and call it work.

Downstairs. Bailey was screaming hard, yelling something about Olivia stealing her doll.

Dad looked at me. ‘You’ll be okay?’

‘I’m here,’ said Jamie indignantly.

Like yeah, my twelve-year-old brother will be a great asset when I’m feeling sick. But I nodded weakly, because there was a lot of noise coming from below. Hopefully it was just a toy hitting the furniture but you could never be sure with the twins. Dad took a deep breath and stood up straight, like a soldier getting ready for armed conflict. ‘Wish me luck.’

I smiled and coughed.

Downstairs, we could hear him trying to intervene in the latest doll-ownership drama. I put my head back on my pillow and looked up at Jamie. ‘When did Mum go to work?’

‘About seven. She bandaged you up before she left.’

She had used so much padding on my hands that they looked like paws.

Mum is a nurse at the John Wickliffe Emergency Department, where they are always short-staffed and madly busy with drunken cretins. I know she finds it impossible to get time off, but still, why couldn’t she make an exception, just this once?

The screaming seemed to be tapering down. It was hard to know if this meant the girls were actually going to sleep or if Dad had just closed the doors and muffled the sound. But either way the quietness was so welcome that Jamie and I stared at each other and said nothing at all for fully thirty seconds.

‘So what happened?’ he finally asked. ‘There’s all this smoke and fire engines and stuff up the road and then Deepti appears with her arm around you, almost carrying you along the street. Like something out of a movie. Pretty impressive. You want to see the photos?’

‘You took photos?’

‘Course.’

‘You haven’t posted them?’ A definition of brother: no sense of what is private