BooksBarbecue
Back No Going Back: a Novel Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Part 1
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. Part 2
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. Part 3
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. Part 4
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. Part 5
  60. 53
  61. 54
  62. 55
  63. 56
  64. 57
  65. 58
  66. Part 6
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. 69
  78. 70
  79. 71
  80. 72
  81. Acknowledgments
  82. About the Author
  83. Also by Sheena Kamal
  84. About the Publisher

She refuses to meet his eyes, and that’s how he knows that’s exactly what she was planning to do. He drives her to Chinatown and trusts her instincts when she asks him to let her off a few blocks away from Leo’s place.

“See you tomorrow,” she says, opening the back door for Whisper. The dog bounds out, waits patiently for her leash, and then they’re both off.

9

In the past I’ve dreamed that drums are summoning me, but to where? I never figured it out. This is why I’ve always preferred the guitar. A stringed instrument asks you to sit and stay awhile. Marinate in your depression. It doesn’t want you to get to your feet.

Today, drums shake me out of the lethargy I’ve felt since Brazuca dropped me off. At first, I think it’s coming from inside Leo’s apartment building—some neighbor from hell—but no, it’s happening outside. The drums are prodding me to leave the apartment, even though I’ve just arrived. To venture outside and be among people. There are voices lifted upward as people chant and talk and shout to a live percussive soundtrack.

I leave Whisper inside to rest when I go. She doesn’t like people in this kind of proximity. Neither do I, really, but I can’t stop my curiosity.

When I get outside, it feels different from the crowd mucking up traffic for the royal visit. There’s a sense of purpose here, and one of discontent. No garish hats in sight, but there are quite a few signs announcing that water is life.

“What’s going on?” I ask a young man in horn-rimmed glasses.

He hoists up a stray strap of his backpack. “Oil spill in the Burrard Inlet,” he says. “Government backed a new pipeline going from those fuckin’ tar sands to the coast and a tanker leaks on the damn water. We’ve had enough of this shit.”

He gives me a fist bump even though I haven’t agreed with anything he’s said. It’s not that I disagree, just that this settler colonial state was built on the exploitation of resources. No matter what friendly, aw-shucks Canadian face they put on it, it’s never going to change.

I decline his tempting offer to share a joint and am about to turn back when an indigenous drummer passes by. She’s dressed in jeans and a winter coat with the hood up. With her earnestness, her sense of conviction, the fierce expression on her face, and the slope of her high cheekbones, she resembles my sister, Lorelei.

Which makes me wonder if Lorelei is here today.