Lean On Me by Beth Moran

Author:Beth Moran [Moran, Beth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boldwood Books
Published: 2024-03-04T00:00:00+00:00

My first ten months in the big city were, to put it bluntly, horrific. Working in a just-about-legal bar and living in a decidedly non-legal bedsit taught me how to woman up. Inside, I was still beaten down, but I learned how to stand tall, watch my back and fight my corner.

I worked all the shifts I could get, smiled at men who made me sick to boost my tips, lived on little more than bar snacks, and counted every single penny. Eventually, I got a new job in a bar that required its staff to wear shirts and trousers over their underwear, and threw out the men who pawed our bodies, instead of giving them a prime position in front of the stage. Like incy wincy spider, I began my slow, slippery, determined climb back up. After a few more months, I scrimped enough deposit together to move into a one-room apartment. On the eleventh floor of a rundown, syringe-strewn, rat-infested block of flats. But I had my own toilet. I had a shower, a kitchen area with four cupboards, and a two-ring hob. I had something resembling a sanctuary and glorious privacy. A tiny smidge of security behind my locks and bolts and window bars.

I also had no friends, no self-worth and no peace. What about Sam? Where was he? In prison? Dead? Sober?

I thought about him every night as I lay on my wilting, blow-up bed, staring at the stains on the ceiling and listening to the gangs of boys laughing and brawling on the concrete beneath my window. Did he think about me?

After another four months, I plucked up the courage to call Grandma’s house. Bile rising in my throat, fingers barely able to hit the right keys.

‘Hello?’

‘Sam.’ I reeled back, slumping onto my bed with relief.

‘Faith? Where are you? Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine. I’m in London. How are you?’

‘Um. Yeah. I’m good.’ He took a moment to recover. ‘I’m an artist now. I paint.’

‘Wow. That’s great.’

‘Yeah. I’m doing all right. Not enough to make me rich, but it’s a living.’

‘So, is it just you, in the house?’

A short pause. ‘Snake’s dead.’

I nearly dropped the phone.

‘When? What happened?’

‘He got shot. Last year.’

‘I can’t believe it.’ My head struggled to take this in. What it might mean. ‘So, what about you? Are you taking care of yourself?’ Are you sober, without him? Did the addict Sam die with Snake?

‘Yeah. I’m good. I got some proper help this time. Better medication.’

We chatted for a couple more minutes. Sam wanted to know when I was coming home. I said it felt like an if, not a when and wouldn’t be any time soon.

I knew my brother. I recognised the drawl of weed in his voice. And I knew not to trust him. After years of living in a home akin to hell, I had finally got my own place. You would have to drag me back kicking and screaming before I gave that up.

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