‘You asleep?’ Nora taps the scissors against the side of my head.

I deny it but she merely chuckles. ‘Always had a light touch,’ she boasts.

‘Why did you give up then?’

Nora tilts my head away from her. ‘Saw a TV programme once about an earthquake in Turkey. There were hardly any survivors but they found one, a woman, still alive, buried under a concrete slab. So they cut away this slab real careful, then they dug with their bare hands till they could see her, an’ there she was! Lyin’ flat on her side, an’ she was fine, jes’ fine, not a drop of blood on her – but still they couldn’t pull her out.’

‘Why not?’

‘Cos she had this long black hair and her hair was trapped. There was this old man helpin’ with the rescue operations and he finds himself apologizin’ to her. “We can’t get you out, I’m sorry,” – like he’s gonna have to leave her there, so she gets freaked an’ asks, “Why can’t you get me out?” An’ he says, “Cos your hair is trapped.”

‘“Go ahead and cut my hair,” she says, but he says he can’t. “I can’t cut your beautiful hair,” he says, and starts crying like a baby . . .’

Nora stands in front of me and squints at my face. ‘Anyways, you’re done and there’s no charge for it. Now there’s a haircuttin’ place in town right close to the Baptist Church – ain’t nothin’ special, but if you git home and don’t like what you see, you can go there and pay for a repair job.’

‘Thanks,’ I tell her, squinting into the circus mirror reflection of the kettle and amazed and rather grateful not to have a mohawk. ‘Thanks a lot.’

16

Emmy wakes screaming in the middle of the night.

‘Shut up, Emmy,’ Jack is moaning as I reach her bedside. ‘Shut up, shut up.’

‘Shh, go back to sleep, Jack.’

‘Oh, God,’ he explodes burrowing under the pillow.

I put a hand to Emmy’s forehead. She’s burning up and the sheets are soaked. Worried, I carry her writhing body to my room and hold her fast while I grapple with the child-proof cap of the Calpol. I force the spoon into her mouth mid-scream and the sticky pink lava oozes out, hopelessly gumming up her hair. Most of the next spoon trickles down her throat and she momentarily stops crying in order to choke.

‘What is it Emmy?’ I whisper. ‘Does it hurt anywhere? Is it your tummy? What is it?’