Lying in bed listening to the sounds of the radio, Liselle sighed. She lifted one slim arm to turn the radio up slightly. The darkness of her arm against the white chest of drawers made her stare. Pulling the covers from herself, she looked down at her body. Even her nipples were black. She remembered at school, all the other girls had had tiny pink nipples, and they had all laughed at her brown ones, brown ones that were now nearly black. She frowned. Her pubic hair was jet black, tiny black spirals that seemed to grow prolifically around the tops of her legs. Yet she knew she was attractive. Men looked at her twice. It had always been that way.

She had developed earlier than her friends, having large heavy breasts by the time she was twelve. Her school friends had been envious of her, but she had shrugged it off. Her mother said all the Cavanagh girls had been early developers and she had been satisfied with that explanation. But lately, she had wondered about herself. During the war, a black airforceman had smiled at her. She had smiled back, naturally, as you did to anyone who smiled at you in a friendly manner. Her Granny Moll, seeing the exchange, had gone mad. She had gone for the man in the middle of Brick Lane, bringing the eyes of passersby on to them. Going to her granny, Liselle had pulled on her arm, shame and hurt welling up inside her.

‘Granny... Gran, leave it be!’ she’d cried.

The man had looked at her and said, ‘She’s your granny, girl?’ His voice had been incredulous. She had nodded, humiliated. But the exchange had stayed with her, bringing all sorts of fancies into her childish heart. Now at twenty-one she remembered the long buried incident and it troubled her.

Sitting up in bed, she clasped her knees. She would ring the twins and arrange to see them. They always cheered her up.

When Kerry got up, she found Liselle’s note. She went into the lounge in a green silk wrapper and poured herself a large vodka and fresh orange juice. She drank it straight down and immediately poured herself another. Then sitting down she picked up the Sunday paper and lit herself a cigarette. She was reading the News of the World when the telephone rang.

Leaning out of her chair, she picked it up, the smell of Mrs Harcourt cooking her some eggs making her want to gag.

‘Hello.’

‘Is that you, Kerry girl?’

She dropped the phone on to the beige carpet, staring at it as if it was a demon. Scrambling from the chair, she picked the receiver up once more and held it tentatively to her ear.

The line was dead.

Placing it back in its cradle she stood there staring at it, willing it to ring.

She knew that voice. That deep brown voice.