As Dust Dances ~ Samantha Young Page 4

  Outraged pride suffused me. “You condescending, pain in—I washed my hair this morning.”

  He strolled around the table and stopped to stare down at my head, making me squirm. When he finally met my eyes, the hardness in his didn’t soften as it clashed with the fierceness of mine. “In a public shower somewhere. Let me guess . . . a swim center?”

  Shame prickled my cheeks, and in that moment, I hated him for mocking me. “What kind of man shames a homeless person?”

  “I’m trying to shame someone who doesn’t need to be a homeless person, unlike the thousands of other poor souls in this country who don’t have a choice but to sleep rough. You think I’m mocking you. You mock them every day.”

  I flinched. “Bullshit.”

  “No? They don’t have a choice. You do.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I just offered you one.” He grabbed my hand and slapped his business card into it. “Do with it what you will.”

  And then he was gone, leaving me sweating hot and cold in TGI Fridays. My legs felt like jelly and my head swam with lightness. I refused to put it down to his harsh words and instead stumbled for the booth, slumping into it. It was just the food and excitement of the day—that was all.

  Still, my fingers trembled as I reached for the money he’d thrown on the table.

  “Would you like the bill?”

  The new voice made me clench my hands around the money in a panic that took me by surprise. I nodded at the waiter as I drew my hands under the table so the cash was out of sight. When the bill came, I counted out what we owed along with a nice tip, and I felt the burn of tears when I realized what was left.

  The bastard had given me two hundred pounds. Small change to some, but it meant I wouldn’t have to worry for a few weeks about making money busking.

  I hated him even more for his charity. Why give me money if he thought so little of me?

  Try as I might, I couldn’t get his voice out of my head as I took the bus out of the city center. And that night as I layered up in my tent, I tucked the money into a hidden compartment in my guitar case and then pulled out a notepad I hadn’t touched since arriving in Scotland.

  When everything went to shit, I’d taken off. I left everything behind and I backpacked through Europe for over a year. The whole time I’d written new music. Music that was unlike anything our band had produced. It wasn’t about looking for a new sound or a new hit. I didn’t want that life anymore. But music would always be the way I expressed myself and I’d hoped that the songs I was writing would bring me peace somehow.

  They hadn’t.

  I knew then if music couldn’t help me, nothing would.

  So I stopped when I got to Scotland. I used the last of my money on a cheap flight from Paris to Glasgow. And for five months I’d kept singing, but I didn’t write.

  My visitor’s visa was about to run out. Although I had the money from O’Dea, soon there would be nothing. No money to get home. Frankly, I didn’t want to go home.

  Staring down at the notepad, at the lyrics I’d written, at a song that was too honest for me to sing while I busked, I felt an urge I hadn’t felt in months. I’d spent all my time here trying to forget, forcing all the bad stuff out so I could pretend I was someone else. Yet . . . I wanted to finish what I’d started.

  After fumbling for a pen, I began frantically making changes to the lyrics. I stopped when the song was half finished, needing to hear how it sounded.

  Then I opened my guitar case and pulled out my Taylor.

  And I sang.

  “No, I didn’t understand then

  That your soul was part of mine and

  When yours faded out

  Mine broke down to du—”

  My voice broke before I could even get the last lyric of the first verse out. I lay back in the tent, curled around my guitar, my song discarded beside me and for the first time in months, I fell asleep with tears on my cheeks.

  * * *

  DURING THE SUMMER THE CITY had a distinct smell, a homogenized scent that was difficult to describe until you broke it down into all its separate parts. One of those parts was hot asphalt. The summers here were nothing compared to back home but on those elusive warm days, the many buildings, people, and traffic built up the heat until the sidewalk was so warm to the touch, it gave off that distinct smell of hot concrete.

  Now as the temperatures dropped, I found myself surprised at the underlying smell of wet concrete everywhere, even when it hadn’t rained for days. Scotland was damp in the fall no matter if those gray clouds overhead deigned to stay full.

  It was the kind of damp cold that seeped into your bones.

  The following Saturday, Killian O’Dea didn’t show up to hear me sing. I’d like to say it didn’t bother me, but I knew there had to be a string attached to the money he’d given me. I was so desperate, I’d taken it, but that didn’t make me naive. It wasn’t really kindness that had caused him to leave it. So I was on edge. Waiting. I wanted to return to being invisible. Yet my eyes searched for him beneath the brim of my fedora and I had an unpleasant restless feeling itching in my fingers and toes as I packed up for the day.

  But it wasn’t Killian O’Dea himself that was the cause for the feeling. He’d merely helped unveil them. Popping open my emotions like one of those joke snakes in a can. They’d jumped out in an unraveling mess and now I couldn’t figure out how to neatly fold them back in. Instead I swept them under an imaginary rug. A lumpy, untidy rug that reminded me every day those feelings were there.

  Along with a now dawning fear of approaching winter.

  It really hit me the next evening.

  After a fitful sleep of hugging myself and attempting and failing to keep my teeth from chattering, I got up on Monday morning feeling like hell. Even with the money O’Dea had given me, I was hungry. The goal was to make that money last as long as possible, so I ate cheaply and sometimes sporadically. That meant I was used to the gnawing hunger pangs and the constant ache in my stomach when I woke up. But that morning it was the queasiness of a lack of sleep mixed with the damp chill in my bones that really killed.

  Despite the low temperatures during the night, the sun was shining as I wearily packed up my tent. Birds twittered in the trees, a sound I usually loved waking up to but today made me irritated with envy. Those damn birds seemed so happy while I couldn’t be any more miserable if I tried.

  Knowing I needed to get some heat in me, I headed for the swim center and grabbed a hot shower. Feeling marginally better, it wasn’t until I was getting dressed and I saw the tampons in my backpack that I faltered.

  My pulse picked up a little as I tried to work out the date.

  What the . . .

  Hurrying to dress, I got myself together and stopped at reception on my way out to collect my guitar. “Thanks. Can I ask what date it is today?”

  “It’s the 24th.”

  Shit.

  My period was over a month late. How had I not noticed this?

  Feeling my skin prickle with worry, I tried not to let it show. “Do you have a scale that I could use?”

  “If you go back into the dressing room, you’ll see scales in the corner right at the far end of the room, at the last row of lockers.”

  Nodding my thanks, I hurried back into the dressing room, my pulse racing. Glad it was quiet this early in the morning, I shucked out of all my stuff, kicked off my shoes, and got up on the scale.

  Despite an average height of five foot six, I’ve always looked petite because I have such small shoulders, a slender waist, and average boobs. If it weren’t for my fuller hips and ass, I would’ve felt like a little girl.

  I was losing my hips and ass. They weren’t completely gone but it was getting to that point.

  The weight on the scales was not as bad as I’d been anticipating. I wasn’t a doctor but I didn’t reckon I was dangerously underweight. But I’d stopped getting my period.

  If it wasn’t my weight—and I wasn’t
sure it wasn’t—then was it malnutrition? Was it anemia? Was it all the walking? Hell, I didn’t know.

  All I knew was that if I didn’t have my period, there was something wrong.

  Out of what felt like nowhere, a sob burst up from my chest before I could stop it and I grabbed my stuff, fleeing to the sanctuary of a changing cubicle where I slapped my hand across my mouth to muffle the sound.

  Suddenly I could see Mandy and Ham, both waif-like, unkempt, and so obviously not taking care of themselves. I thought I was above them. That sleeping rough wasn’t affecting my ability to care for myself.

  But it was, wasn’t it.

  What the hell was I doing to myself?

  I had to stop this.

  But how?

  I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t, I couldn’t, I couldn’t . . .

  There had to be a way to survive this life better than this. And wasn’t this what I wanted? To only have to worry about basic survival?

  I laughed bitterly at the thought. O’Dea was right. My head was shoved so far up my ass, I hadn’t even realized it wasn’t on my shoulders anymore. It turned out this life was pretty fucking scary in reality when your health started to suffer.

  Shit.

  It took a while, but I finally managed to get myself together, trying not to look at how frail my wrist looked, the bone protruding more than I remembered, as I fumbled to get my gear together. As I slid my hands into the pocket of my raincoat to make sure the change I had in there hadn’t fallen out, my fingers rasped against a piece of card. Frowning, I pulled it out.

  Killian O’Dea

  A&R Executive

  Skyscraper Records

  100 Stobcross Road

  Glasgow

  07878568562

  The business card seemed to glare at me like O’Dea had a habit of doing.

  “They don’t have a choice. You do.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I just offered you one.”

  I blew out a shaky breath and for some reason, instead of crumpling the business card, I opened my jacket, unzipped the inside pocket, and slid the card in where it would be safe.

  I didn’t allow myself to analyze why.

  JUST AS I’D BEEN WARNED, the weather surprised me that day. How it could’ve been so bitter during the night only to grow into a beautiful, warm, late-September day, I didn’t know. I could only hope the heat would seep into the ground, keeping it warm for me tonight.

  I refused to let my concern about my physical health affect today’s performance on Buchanan Street. Since it was a weekday, I was the only one busking. The unseasonable weather meant those who didn’t work were milling around and those who were working wanted to be out in the sunshine during their lunch hour. Wanting to feed their need for sunshine and summer, I did a quirky, upbeat rendition of The Ramones “Rockaway Beach.” It proved to be a crowd pleaser and the coins in my guitar case began to multiply. I followed it up with “Summertime” by Ella Fitzgerald, and subsequently every summer-themed song I could think of.

  I made more cash than I would have on a normal Saturday.

  However, as I played song after song, I became aware of two young men who didn’t move on. They stood in the ever-changing small crowd gathered around me, and something about them made my spider senses tingle. There was something off about them, as if they weren’t really there to listen to me sing. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I’d been warned by Ham to watch my back after I busked if I’d had a good day. Anybody could see how much money I was pocketing by looking in my guitar case.

  Taking a break after singing “Cruel Summer,” the first thing I did was remove all the notes and pound coins from my case. The bottom of the guitar case popped off, so I put the money underneath it and clipped the base back into place so the money was hidden from sight. Then I hovered near it, guitar hanging over my shoulder on its strap, while I took a much-needed swig of water.

  I felt them approach before I saw their feet appear on the ground at the edge of the brim of my fedora. Tensing, I lifted my head and glanced between the two young guys. They both wore tracksuit bottoms and T-shirts, baseball caps pulled low over their faces.

  The hair on my neck rose in warning.

  “That a Taylor?” The tallest of the two lifted his chin toward my guitar.

  The question threw me. “You know your guitars?”

  “My dad is intae his guitars. Yours is nice.”

  My tension grew tenfold. My guitar was expensive. “Thanks.” I turned away, inviting them to leave.

  “That a Dreadnought?”

  It was a Presentation. But I didn’t want him to know that so I lied. “You really know your guitars.”

  “My dad’s always wanted a Cocobolo. He can only afford a Harley Benton. But he says one day he’ll get a Cocobolo. He cannae play as well as you, though.”

  “Dinnae say that tae him,” his friend snorted.

  They chuckled between them and I considered the idea that I was being overly suspicious. “A Cocobolo.” I looked up at them. “That’s a nice guitar.”

  “Aye.” He nodded, his stare intense on my Taylor. His friend suddenly nudged him again and he shrugged. “Anyway, we better go. Just wanted tae say how good we think ye are.”

  “Well, I appreciate it, thanks.”

  They gave me a small wave and strolled away. As they disappeared into the crowds, I waited for the tension to melt away with their departure, but something about the encounter unsettled me. The assessing manner of the young man who’d done most of the talking was disquieting.

  My instincts told me to pack up and leave. I’d made enough money. Adding it to what O’Dea had given me, I decided it was time to trade in the raincoat for a cheap winter jacket.

  After packing up, I wandered in and out of some of the less expensive high street stores. Most of them only had sales on their summer lines, which made sense, but I finally found a half-price coat that was a season out of style. I wavered handing the money over since it was a good chunk of what I had left, and then I remembered how awful the night before had been.

  I needed that winter coat, and I might as well buy it while I had the money. I threw in a cheap winter hat, scarf, and gloves too.

  Afterward, I splurged on a fresh chicken salad, sick of junk food, and made sure I had enough water in my backpack. Not wanting to waste the nice weather, I strolled to Glasgow Green, a park a twenty-minute walk from Buchanan Street. Laying out my raincoat on a spot of grass, I sat, ate my salad, and read a book I bought for fifty pence in a bargain bookstore.

  It made me forget this morning.

  It made me feel normal.

  And I realized that as much as I wanted to disappear, maybe every now and then, it was okay—in fact, important—to feel normal.

  IT WAS A NICE EVENING so I decided to walk back to the cemetery. The tall buildings of the city center disappeared as I headed north, and everything became much grayer as I strolled down a sidewalk of a busy road above the motorway. It was pretty much a straight walk along a busy main road all the way to the cemetery.

  By the time I jumped the gates, it was dark. My hardened feet were sore and swollen in my boots from the heat that had cooled considerably. I eyed the shopping bag in my hand with my new coat in it, glad I’d bought it so I could sleep in it tonight.

  As I began the long walk uphill toward my cluster of trees, I thought I heard a whisper in the air and put it down to the rustle of fallen leaves along the pathway.

  But when I heard it again, I froze like a deer caught in a hunter’s sights. The blood whooshed in my ears as I strained to hear, strained to see as my eyes swept the darkened cemetery. The moon lit up everything within near distance, but beyond the near glow of its beams, there was thick, discomforting darkness. I lifted my torch toward it but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  Yet, for the first time since I’d made this place my home, fear seeped into me.

  Heart racing, I continued toward the trees, hoping the whisper
had merely been my imagination.

  I shrugged off my backpack and pulled out the tent. As I started to set up, however, I heard the unmistakable sound of thudding steps on the ground. I shot up, whirling around, alarm freezing me to the spot at the sight of the two young men from earlier standing in front of me.

  They’d followed me.

  I could feel my chest constrict, my breaths coming short and shallow, as the worst possible scenarios raced through my mind. Why had they followed me? Scared out of my mind but determined not to show it, I tilted my chin up and demanded, “What the hell do you want?”

  “The guitar,” the tallest of the two immediately replied. “We know it’s worth a couple of grand.”

  Wrong. My Taylor was not only a Presentation Series acoustic, it was specially made for me. Technically, it was worth just under ten thousand dollars, but it could go for a lot more than that at a fan auction.

  My guitar case lay behind me on the grass, not only protecting my Taylor but all the money I kept in there for safekeeping. Fear of losing the guitar, of losing that money, turned the shakiness in my limbs to steel. I stepped in front of it, blocking it from their view. “Go home, boys. This isn’t worth the trouble.”

  The tall boy grinned and it was so full of malice, it made my pulse race. “Ye think anyone is going tae care that a homeless bitch got her guitar stolen?” He gestured to the cemetery around us. “There’s nobody here tae care. Now give us the guitar and we’ll leave ye in peace.”

  “Look,” I turned to the shorter boy who was fidgeting restlessly, wearing an extremely nervous expression, “this guitar has a lot of sentimental value to me. Please.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” the taller of the two growled and strode toward me. I braced myself for attack but he merely attempted to brush past me for the guitar.

  Instinct made me reach out and grab his arm.

  I’d look back on that moment later and wonder how I could’ve been so foolish.

  The boy, taller, broader, and better fed than I was, halted momentarily. He then shook off my hold only to pull back his arm and let it fly. His fist connected with my cheek in an explosion of fire that caused lights to spark across my eyes, blinding me.