ROSEWATER

LIV LITTLE

DIALOGUE BOOKS

First published in Great Britain in 2023 by Dialogue Books

Copyright © Soursop Limited 2023

Poetry copyright © Kai-Isaiah Jamal 2023

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-349-70296-4

Dialogue Books

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

www.dialoguebooks.co.uk

Dialogue Books, part of Little Brown, Book Group Limited,
an Hachette UK company.

CONTENTS

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

Acknowledgements

For Suhaiyla

1

Several loud thuds ricochet from my front door and reverberate through my little space. My flat is a collection of plywood walls that have been haphazardly installed to give the illusion of being an apartment, rather than a tiny studio. Even a quiet hum in the sitting room can be heard from the kitchen. And so the doorbell’s piercing ring, followed by three frenzied bangs, makes my head sting. The blind still being down makes it hard to tell what time it is. Stretching over the body in my bed, I grab my phone, and through squinted eyes see that it’s 4 p.m. I’m not ready to get up.

Last night was a heady mixture of sweat, tangled bodies and the synthesised melodies of funky house. The club, ordinarily begging for attention, had been wedged full. A collective of DJs took it over for the night. They had thrown a party which, despite initial hesitation from our manager, was strictly no boys and no straights. After my shift and more shots of sambuca than one person should ever consume if they want to maintain a functioning liver, Bea had come back to mine. It was our routine. Her soft, naked body was now sprawled out next to me in bed, her heavy breathing evidence of deep sleep. She has a remarkable talent for sleeping through a ruckus.

I put my phone back down and my eyes involuntarily start to close. But then the bangs and rings restart, creating a hysterical cacophony that sends sharp electrical currents through my head and forces me awake.

It must be Jim from downstairs. He’s the only person who would call on me with such vim. I try sending a telepathic message telling him to shut the hell up, but the bangs keep coming. I’m gearing up to stand and open the door, to be overwhelmed by the foul stench of a man who smokes forty fags a day. There’s a bitter nausea now bubbling in my tummy. I know that only a cup of sugary tea can make me human again. Saliva gathers in my stale mouth in anticipation.

A T-shirt with Ms Lauryn Hill’s face on it and a pair of chequered boxer shorts are the only clothing options in my immediate vicinity. My legs, which have been left fragile and shaking from last night’s antics, do their best to haul my tender torso out of bed and into the hallway. Next to a small, square, glass award I won for my self-published poetry collection, I see a pair of rectangular sunglasses in my basket of miscellaneous items. I put them on in an attempt to settle my surroundings, which won’t stop spinning.

Walking slowly towards the door, the impatient nature of Jim’s bangs is beginning to test me. He is fucking miserable and I’m not in the mood to have him lose his shit at me because the delivery driver has got our flat numbers mixed up yet again. One time, he made a poor attempt to disguise the fact that he’d nosed around in a package of dildos clearly labelled with my name.

I manage to repeat the motion of placing one foot in front of the other, steadying myself on the wall as I move along the hallway. But as I near the front of the flat, it isn’t Jim’s voice I can hear. It’s someone with an unfamiliar accent. I can’t place it.

‘Miss, we know you are in there. We can see your lights are on and we have a warrant.’

I hold my breath and quickly shuffle into the kitchen to the left of me, doing my best to avoid being spotted through the sliver of glass in the front door. Sneaking a look, I part the raggedy net curtain above the sink in front of me, still half expecting – hoping – to see Jim’s bony, yellow-tinted frame leaning on the balcony. But standing outside, I see part of a stocky, olive-skinned man with a freshly trimmed head. He’s clutching an envelope with uncomfortable ease.

‘Darlin’, if you let us in, we can make this whole process go a lot faster and with a lot less drama.’ Another voice chimes in from behind him.

Looking around, the bald guy clocks my eyes through the gap in the curtain and, without hesitation, attempts to lodge his chubby arm in through my open kitchen window. I’m faster than him though and manage to clamp the window shut before he gets his arm inside. There’s a faint knock as his fingers meet the plastic trim of the window frame.

I panic slightly. ‘I’m not your “darlin’”. There’s nothing for you here.’ My voice cracks.

‘You’re not doing yourself any favours with that attitude,’ the first man replies. There is clear and deliberate discontent in his voice.

‘Are you Elsie Macintosh? Is this your property?’ the second voice says. I don’t answer, but it continues. ‘Like Derrick said, you can make this as hard or easy as you like. We have a job to do and if you are Miss Macintosh, we have the right to repossess this property under Section 21 and Section 8 of The Housing Act of England and Wales. You failed to show up to your court hearing on not one, but two occasions.’

There is a deafening silence as I think back to the stacks of warning letters that filled me with dread. Letters that are now stuffed in a drawer in the kitchen. Letters so overwhelming that I didn’t know what do with them at the time. The amount of debt I’ve been repaying for the past few years has exceeded my income. And though a handful of companies allowed me to extend my payment plan once, there were no second chances. The ever-looming threat of debt collectors has been debilitating, like being eaten alive from the inside. Every moment of potential joy has been overshadowed by the possibility of having my security pulled out from under me. Now, at this moment, this nightmare has finally become a reality.

‘We’re going to need you to show us some ID.’

I don’t move.

‘Miss, we’re not going to leave. We can do this all day. We have a warrant, so we do have the right to enter the property. But we are offering you the opportunity to leave without us having to enter forcefully and damage your belongings in the process. This is your last chance though.’

I take shallow, disjointed breaths as my chest stiffens. I want to hurry back to the bedroom, close my eyes and wish it all away. I move slowly into the hallway, my hands and feet growing in heat and stickiness. I think back to the YouTube video series on pranayama and anxiety that I watched a couple of weeks ago.

Take long, deep breaths and focus on how your body feels. Remember, you’ve got this, sis, a woman with purple sister-locs had said.

My heart is beating too fast. I sit on the floor and lean back against the peeling green wallpaper in the claustrophobic corridor. I close my eyes and imagine the woman from the video guiding me breath by breath. Despite her disclaimer that her sessions shouldn’t be used as an alternative to therapy, this is what they have become. Mum used to say that only self-important people would waste money paying people to listen to their problems, which probably weren’t even problems to begin with. They were just the realities of life. I used to think she was right but now I’m not too sure.

My mind is in a loop, jumping between the intermittent loud bangs at the front door and the texture of my syrupy palms, and despairing at the fact that I have no backup plan. Here, in this moment, I think I might die. My heart feels as though it’s going to erupt.

Breathe in deeply and feel your body. Let out all the tension and stress of Babylon as you exhale.

I piece together soundbites from the woman’s videos and try to breathe. Almost a year ago, when I first moved into this flat, I had breathed a sigh of relief to finally have a home, and now look at me, barely staving off a panic attack on the hallway floor.

‘Oi buffting, what’s that noise? Are you coming back to bed?’ Bea calls out from the bedroom. Of all the times she chooses to wake up. How am I supposed to explain to her that there will be nowhere for me or my things or her to go in approximately five minutes? Humiliation takes hold of me.

Hi, I know we just fuck and that this isn’t serious, but I’m now homeless, and it would be great if I could stay with you.

‘One sec,’ I manage to respond in between shallow breaths. Focusing on the words from the anxiety video, I continue to breathe in and out for what feels like several minutes, attempting to block out the bangs at the door. None of the anxiety articles, posts, books, videos or podcasts speak about what to do in the middle of an eviction. They never talked about what to do when the walls around you are literally caving in.

My breathing slows just slightly and I pick myself up off the floor and practically crawl back to the bedroom. I consider joining the boxes of journals nesting safely underneath the bed.

‘Drama with that neighbour of yours?’ Bea asks. She looks cute and sleepy and a bit messy, still recovering from yesterday.

‘I wish.’ I struggle to enunciate. The inside of my mouth feels numb.

Bea notices. ‘What’s going on?’ she asks, unsure of how to approach a situation that is clearly unfolding fast.

I drown out her voice and look over her head to a shelf in the corner of the room and a scattering of well-loved books sitting on the record player. I spent years convincing my nan to let me have it, so I could play my own vinyls. She hadn’t played a record on it for at least ten years, instead favouring a selection of YouTube playlists of jazz, soul and R&B that she’d discovered after Mum bought her a computer for Christmas. Nan’s record player was the first thing I’d unpacked. I’m still working on her passing her vinyls on to me.

I suddenly grab a Kelela album from the trunk of records that lives at the end of my bed, move across the room and place it on the turntable, turning the volume dial up to its limit.

‘Listen, there’s a situation outside,’ I splutter, struggling to find space to breathe.

‘Okay!’ Bea shouts over the music. ‘Be specific.’

‘Bailiffs,’ I yell back.

‘Oh shit.’ Her face drops with concern. ‘What did you do?’

I feel my brow furrow involuntarily.

‘I mean, what’s going on?’ she corrects herself.

‘What’s going on is that I have to leave, and they can apparently force entry. But I think all the doors are locked, so I have a little bit of time to figure out whatever the fuck I’m supposed to do.’ I’m trying to convince myself, as well as Bea.

‘Lucky I don’t need to be anywhere this morning,’ she jests. She’s trying to lighten the mood but my facial expression shuts her down. This isn’t funny. And I don’t want her to talk, I want her to disappear.

I want to disappear.

‘Last night was fun . . .’ she continues as the bedroom fills with the haunting melody of ‘A Message’. Appropriate. I sit on the edge of my bed and close my eyes, hoping that I’ll magically be somewhere else by the time they open again.

The bangs from the door are only audible between song changes. Bea moves the corner of the duvet, which has been covering her right thigh. This is her way of inviting me to take its place, to get me out of my trance. She can’t tell, but my breathing is still a bit stilted, though my palms are no longer as sweaty. Maybe those wellness videos really can help. I decide I can ride this anxiety out. I lie back on the bed next to Bea, comatose, and think about Crocker House.

Even though it was years ago, I still remember the elation I felt when I was offered a studio in a block in Walworth. This was after two-and-a-half years at the Hub, the youth hostel I’d been living in after I left home. It didn’t matter how unloved the studio looked; Crocker House was all mine. I was there for five years until the council sold off the building to a developer. There were demonstrations, a small amount of media coverage and a standoff between residents, supporters and the community, but we all knew the outcome. Families who had lived in Crocker House for years were forced to relocate. I was one of the lucky ones because the flat I was moved into, the flat I’m in now, was nearby and not everyone was allocated something in the same area. I heard rumours that some people ended up outside of London, families forced to completely reconfigure their lives away from the communities that they had been a part of for so long. Social fucking cleansing. I never saw the majority of my neighbours again. Every time I think about that place, my stomach drops. It was like the heart of the area had been ripped out and replaced with something soulless. And here I am again, thinking about what home should feel like, about to lose another one.

My reflections are interrupted by the scratching of the Kelela album as it jumps where it always does, on the third song, and reveals that the bangs have passed. For a moment, I consider the possibility that it might be over, that I’ve bought myself a little more time to figure my life out. I jump up and replace the album with Baduizm, which is next on the pile. My eyes move across the room, taking it all in, from my books, half-open cardboard boxes, records resting against the trunk, to the few pieces of art mounted on the walls. There is one image I particularly love, a print of an oil painting filled with hues of yellow and brown by an artist called Sola Olulode. In the picture, two people lie on the grass, their heads adjoining. It’s a peaceful image, full of rest. I was so happy the day I bought it at an exhibition in Camberwell. It was the first thing that had gone up in the flat. I crave that peace now.

‘Want some?’ I turn around to face Bea, who is gesturing to a half-smoked spliff from last night.

I accept and inhale, sitting back down on the bed. My thoughts quieten. Bea straddles me, pursing her lips over mine, inhaling directly from me. Ignoring the fact that she hasn’t brushed her teeth, we sort of half-kiss. I force myself to focus on the music, but every time there is a pause, I listen out in anticipation for the return of the bailiffs. The repetitive words of ‘On & On’ circulate as I inhale again and again. Warmth fills my chest as we reposition our bodies so that Bea is resting on me. Her boobs press gently against my side and one of her long, thick twists tickles my thigh.

‘Your heart is pumping mad quick,’ she says. ‘What do you want to do?’

There’s no way to answer her question, so I don’t. I focus instead on my heart rate, breathing in the spliff for five and exhaling without making a sound. ‘Otherside of the Game’ now plays and Erykah Badu’s soothing questioning mirrors my current situation. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.

Suddenly, there is a loud crash at the front door and before I can react, I hear the pattering of footsteps making their way down the hallway. I’m light-headed from smoking and the only weapon vaguely within reach is a broom in the corner of the room, which I get up and grab. As I open the bedroom door, the two bailiffs are standing in front of me.

‘Get out! Get the FUCK out!’ I shout.

Bea is now standing up. I don’t know how, but she’s managed to get dressed quickly, ready to back me if required. Both of us are frozen, waiting for someone to make the first move.

‘Now, there’s no need to use that sort of language,’ the one in front says, scolding me as a reminder that I’m now in his classroom, his space. He’s wearing a name badge that says ‘Derrick’.

‘You can’t force yourselves into people’s homes like this. I didn’t let you in,’ I say, feeling equal parts embarrassed by and angry at the situation.

‘You are being evicted today. We have the right to execute this on behalf of the J&P Housing Association, who require the property back this evening. I’ll need your keys.’ Derrick reaches out his hand.

I start to shake my head. I want to say that I need to be left the fuck alone. But instead:

‘How do you even know that it’s me you’re looking for?’

‘Well can we see some ID?’

‘I don’t have any, so you’ll have to leave.’

‘Is that weed we can smell in there?’ Derrick leers further into the bedroom. ‘And what’s that purse over there? Does that not have any ID in it?’ He gestures to my beaten-up leather wallet resting on the wooden corner unit. I say nothing.

‘Listen, we can call the police if you’d prefer. But I’m not sure you really want that. Whose side do you think they’ll take? Us or the person who failed to keep up with rent and show up to their court hearing?’

‘Twice,’ the accomplice adds.

‘See, Miss Macintosh, you’ve lost all rights to remain in this property. We are simply doing our job.’

‘Bea, record these goons.’ I don’t have any plans to share the footage, but I hope it might make them reconsider.

‘Please don’t film us,’ Derrick says.

‘I have the right to film you, scum of the earth. You’re in my flat.’

‘I’ll remind you that this isn’t your property anymore. It’s the property of J&P Housing. And like I said, we are here to execute a warrant. Here you go.’

‘I don’t know how you sleep at night,’ Bea shouts from behind me.

The sidekick hands me a piece of paper. It reads:

Under Section 21 The Housing Act of England and Wales,

You were made aware on 12 April that due to a significant amount of rent arrears you would be served with three months’ notice to vacate the property unless the outstanding debts were recompensed by 12 May.

As you failed to attend your court hearings on 5 May and 12 May, or settle what was owed, J&P Housing Association retains the right to repossess your property.

J&P has tried to contact you several times. However, we are yet to receive a response.

If you would like to dispute this case, we recommend that you seek legal counsel.

I read over the letter slowly and digesting each word feels as though I’m being force-fed a spoilt piece of food.

Bea puts on the hoodie of my Adidas tracksuit and, with the neck drawstring and hood all the way up, stands next to me in the doorway. She keeps filming the men in my hallway, still telling me to leave.

‘We’ve placed an eviction notice outside your house. This is completely lawful. You can make this easy, or you can make it harder than it needs to be. We don’t want any trouble.’ The sidekick accompanies this with a smile so sensitive and out of place it’s like he’s playing dress-up, only pretending to be the baddie who throws people out of their own homes. I feel my chest tightening again.

‘Does this make you feel like big men? Forcing entry into people’s flats for a living?’ I kiss my teeth, which surprises everyone, myself included, as the only people I know who still do this are my Guyanese elders. There is nothing more for me to say. My stomach gurgles. I push past the men, leaving Bea in the hallway to defend my flat, as I run into the bathroom just in time for a vicious eruption of bile. I sit there in the silence for a moment, my heart thumping in my ears. I splash my face with cold water afterwards and swig a healthy amount of mouthwash.

‘Everything all right?’ one of the men calls from the other side of the door.

‘Listen . . . are you really telling me there’s nothing I can do? This was supposed to be a place for me to settle,’ I say helplessly to myself with my back against the bathroom door. I feel pathetic.

‘Miss, our hands are tied. If you’d attended either one of the court hearings, you might have been able to come to some sort of arrangement. But you’re out now. Look, we can give you . . .’ he stops speaking, it seems, to check the time.

‘What do you think?’ he asks his friend.

‘One hour. We’ve already been waiting outside for a while.’

‘Yeah, one hour should be enough to get your things together. Looks like you’re what they call a minimalist anyway.’ The casual cruelty stings.

‘We’re going to wait right here though. So don’t try and pull any stunts.’

‘Like I have much choice,’ I murmur. There’s no point begging these two foreign creatures to recognise my humanity. Even if they could do anything to remedy the situation, I know they wouldn’t.

I hear the men make their way into the kitchen and turn on the kettle, and I’m left with sixty minutes to pack up my worldly belongings and figure out whatever the fuck I’m supposed to do next.

I take a deep breath, stand up slowly and exit the bathroom. I find Bea where I left her, standing guard in the hallway and still filming.

‘Look, I don’t need people at the club finding out about this mess. Okay?’ I say bluntly.

‘I’m not trying to get involved with your business like that,’ Bea replies, part indifference, part concern. ‘But I’m here if you need me.’

‘Cool, well thanks for recording,’ I say as she hands me back my phone. ‘You can go you know, you don’t have to stay. I’ll see you later.’

Bea delivers a piercing look and offers to help me pack, but I don’t let her. Bea and I fuck a lot, and yes, she’s jokes to go out with, but it’s not like we’re real friends. We never talk about our feelings.

As she makes her way out of my flat, I look around at the place I’ve called home for the past year. The bailiff is right. It is minimally decorated. Moving into this flat was the first time in a long time I’d had more than just one room to myself and so, despite how small it is, I didn’t have furniture to fill it out. I’d had big plans though: seeds I wanted to plant; original pieces of art I wanted to hang.

Putting the remainder of my things into boxes won’t take long. I have more books and journals than anything else. I’ve been collecting them since I was fourteen. My earliest finds were from the school library and then the rest came from charity shops, New Beacon and gifts from my nan. I’m easy to buy for. All possessions so treasured that I can’t even bring myself to make notes in them. I’m sure this is part of the inherited DNA that comes with growing up around first-generation West Indians. Every time I’d visit my nan’s, she’d have a story to tell about a serving dish or glassware set that would only come out on special occasions. This pot is older than you, she’d say.

I pick up my phone then and scroll through my contacts, wondering who to call. Mum and Dad are a no go, and they’re probably busy with the twins anyway. Nan will do nothing but worry if I call her, and besides, there’s no way I’m moving back to Bristol. Even though my nan’s house was my sanctuary growing up, my brain’s natural response to that city is still to avoid, avoid, run. I know she’ll suggest I come back. I’m not sure I have the energy for that conversation right now.

I only have a handful of other saved numbers in my phone, and, sandwiched between the names of girls I’ve met through work or dating apps, there’s Juliet. My best friend. We’ve been tight since school, and even though we haven’t spoken for a couple of months, she’s the one person I know I can always call. Before I have a chance to think about any outstanding awkwardness or what I’ll say, she answers the phone.

‘Elsie?’

‘Um, hi J.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Her intonation flutters with worry. She knows me too well.

‘Are you busy?’ I sniffle.

‘Elsie, where are you?’ Her voice grows in seriousness and concern. She lowers the music playing in the background. Sounds like she’s with a client.

‘I’m sorry to have to ask but there’s been a bit of a situation . . . Can I please stay with you? Just for a little bit and—’

‘Of course, you can.’ She cuts me off. ‘Always.’

I can’t respond.

‘Elsie are you okay? Are you at your place?’ she continues.

‘Yes.’ My voice breaks.

‘I’ll be there soon, okay? I promise everything will be fine. Just try to breathe.’

And for the first time in the last hour, my body really listens.