Nicola Belte<\/p>\n
\u201cShouldn\u2019t you two be in school?\u201d the manager asked, appearing like a hoary snowy owl as Esma and Sabite strolled through the avenue of carpet rolls, their long, dark ponytails swinging like the tails of field mice.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNah, we\u2019re sixteen,\u201d Sabite said. This was a lie. They were eleven, and they looked it.<\/p>\n \u201cWe need to find which rug has our sister in it,\u201d Esma said. This was the truth.<\/p>\n The old man raised his eyebrows.<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s not a ho, yo!\u201d Sabite said, doing some gangster rapper hand gestures that she\u2019d seen on YouTube, \u201cshe\u2019s in love.\u201d<\/p>\n Esma saw the man’s face soften with the word love, and she imagined him and his wife, together, in a nest.<\/p>\n \u201cNah, not with a geezer, with science, innit.\u201d Sabite finished, pressing her face against a pink furry rug. \u201cThis is sick!\u201d<\/p>\n The manager made a noise, somewhere between a sigh and a hoot, and left them to it.<\/p>\n Esma and Sabite helped their mama prepare the evening meal, all of them crammed into their tiny kitchen on the eleventh floor of a crumbling tower block. As mama shelled broad beans, Esma chopped red onions and coriander and garlic, as Sabite shaped the minced lamb into perfect balls, ready for frying.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThe Dust Dama will be here at eight,\u201d their mama said, her words punctuated with flour puffs as she rolled out flat bread spiked with cumin seeds.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019ll pop a cap in his ass for taxing Mephare!\u201d Sabite said.<\/p>\n \u201cSabite!\u201d their mama shouted, but her bottom lip was trembling.<\/p>\n Esma knew that mama blamed herself. She\u2019d been a mote too, once, turned into dust and imprisoned in a rug for criticizing the regime; trapped between worlds as the sobs of their grandmamma echoed around their mountain village, like a milking goat, broken, at the bottom of a well. Mama was brought back, eventually; coughing and spluttering out good intentions, in exchange for all of the family\u2019s possessions; in exchange for their loyalty.<\/p>\n \u201cWe have a good life here,\u201d their mama would say, whenever she told them the story. But she always said that. When the other mamas wouldn’t talk to her; when there wasn\u2019t enough food for all of them, and she\u2019d pretend that she wasn’t hungry; when they\u2019d walk to the duck pond through the grubby estate that was full of dog-shit and pale, hostile faces in hoodies. \u201cA new start,\u201d she\u2019d say.<\/p>\n But the Dust Dama had followed them.<\/p>\n The Dust Dama seemed to fill the whole flat; his shoulders brushing against the ceiling and his feet poking out of the windows, like an ogre breaking through a doll\u2019s house; but then Esma would rub her eyes, and he\u2019d be man-sized again, sitting at the far end of the table.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYou have your father\u2019s eyes,\u201d he told the twins as he gnawed on a chicken bone, like a barbarian. Well, you look like a walnut<\/em>, Esma wanted to reply, brown and wrinkly,<\/em> and all teeth\u2014breaky and throat-chokey<\/em>, but she didn\u2019t dare.<\/p>\n \u201cHe was a fine man,\u201d he continued, \u201cwilling to risk his reputation\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat was a long time ago,\u201d their mama interrupted, and Esma could see that she was wearing her get-to-bed-NOW-face, but the Dust Dama didn\u2019t care.<\/p>\n \u201cDust is skin, my petal. You can never get rid of it.\u201d He laughed, and clapped his hands together; hands bigger than thunderclouds; hands smaller than cardamom pods, which made them all sneeze.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you want?\u201d their mama snapped, rubbing her nose, and Esma felt her chest tighten as the Dust Dama steepled his fingers. This man could turn people into nothing, one click, and poof! Game over.<\/p>\n \u201cThe old ways are dying,\u201d he said, wiping his greasy lips on a serviette. \u201cThe women in the weave are leaving, the men are unravelling without them. We need to preserve our heritage, our customs, we need to unite.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo you kidnap my daughter?\u201d<\/p>\n The Dust Dama paused. \u201cYes.\u201d He said, \u201cUntil she agrees to be my wife.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut she’s down for being a chemist!\u201d Sabite blurted, and the Dust Dama chuckled, like Sabite had cracked a joke. Then he turned back to mama.<\/p>\n \u201cBesides, you owe me,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cMama hates spiders because the webs remind her of the threads, wrapped around her,\u201d Esma said, thinking aloud, as one dangled in the moonlight from the ceiling.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cEverybody be buggin\u2019 on spiders, stupid.\u201d Sabite said, sleepily, stealing the covers.<\/p>\n Esma found Sabite in the bathroom, covered in towels so she looked like a multi-coloured mummy.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEmpathizin’ with da victim, innit. Like them psychics on the TV.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSense anything?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s scorchin\u2019. And bare itchy, blood.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThere\u2019s a carpet shop on the high street. I\u2019ll pay the bus fare, you can buy the sweets.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDo you think they know about motes?\u201d Esma said, looking around at the collected English people on the bus: the blue-haired grannies with their raincoats; the young boys with their baggy jeans and their mobile phones blaring out music; the young girls with their bright orange fake tan and lipstick on their teeth. A young couple were kissing in the seat in front of them, and Esma watched as the boy’s tongue jabbed in and out of the girl\u2019s mouth. She seemed to like it.<\/p>\n \u201cNah man.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDo you think men become motes?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNah.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt isn\u2019t fair.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHell no.\u201d<\/p>\n They didn\u2019t find Mephare.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s her!\u201d their mama whispered, as two red-faced fat men deposited a rug in their sitting room, muttering as they left about the broken elevator and the stairs they\u2019d had to climb up.<\/p>\n Mama rolled it out, and the twins gasped. It was beautiful, like the ocean caught and geometrised, all blue bulbs and aquamarine angles, and Esma smiled, thankful that at least her sister was being kept somewhere pretty.<\/p>\n Their mama got down on her front and pressed her head against it, as Esma and Sabite lay next to her, all face down, like murder victims.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t\u2014”<\/p>\n \u201cShush!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n \u201cShut up!\u201d<\/p>\n And soon enough, they could hear Mephare, singing the lullabies that papa used to sing to them; the ones that he\u2019d wrap around them like a fleece, when the shadows would steal the sun, and their mama\u2019s eyes filled with tears. Then her face furrowed.<\/p>\n \u201cTime to get her out,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n They hung the rug over their brick balcony, and they began to beat it\u2014with their hands, with umbrellas, with books\u2014and as the motes flew out over the overflowing communal garbage bins and the ouroboros of tyre marks on the forecourt, Esma saw her sister in particles smaller than pinheads: Mephare brushing her long, black hair; Mephare eating watermelon; Mephare asleep with her glasses all wonky, and a textbook on her lap.<\/p>\n They pounded the rug for hours, finally falling back, exhausted.<\/p>\n \u201cHow did grandpapa get grandmamma out of the curtains?\u201d Esma panted.<\/p>\n \u201cPssh! That didn\u2019t happen, stupid.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid it, mama?\u201d<\/p>\n But she wasn\u2019t listening.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you sorry for upsetting the Dama, Mephare?\u201d she asked, rubbing her aching wrists.<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d a muffled voice replied.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you want to come out?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI won\u2019t marry him. I\u2019d rather stay in here.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMephare\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n \u201cCan we Hoover her ass out, mama?\u201d<\/p>\n The Dust Dama stood on their shabby mat on their doorstep. They\u2019d had a nice one, one that read W-E-L-C-O-M-E but somebody had stolen it. He\u2019d wipe his feet on Mephare<\/em>, Esma thought, wanting to spit on his shiny shoes.<\/p>\n \u201cHer answer?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cYes,\u201d mama said, \u201ccome tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n She must be trying to make it look homely<\/em>, Esma thought, as she watched their mama hang a new, heavy pair of curtains up. She\u2019s trying to make it nice, in case a new foreign family move in, people like us, people who\u2019ll feel the cold<\/em>, even in the summer.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cYou be chillin\u2019 Mephare!\u201d Sabite shouted, as the taxi driver slammed the rug into the boot of his cab. \u201cWe be here, innit!\u201d The driver looked confused, but he didn\u2019t ask.<\/p>\n \u201cWhere are we going, mama?\u201d Esma asked, as they all got into the back.<\/p>\n \u201cHome, stupid,\u201d Sabite said, \u201cto our real yard.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHome is what you carry,\u201d Mama said, as the taxi sharked its way through the streets of silver shutters; of bus stops and upturned bottle banks, beneath the stars scattered like dandelion seeds. \u201cBut we aren\u2019t going there.\u201d<\/p>\n Esma breathed on the glass and drew a spiral with her finger, as Sabite, at the opposite window, did the same.<\/p>\n \u201cWill the Dust Dama kill us, when he finds the flat empty?\u201d Esma asked.<\/p>\n \u201cThere are worse things than death,\u201d their mama said, but whether that was good or bad, Esma didn\u2019t know.<\/p>\n \u201cBesides,\u201d mama said, \u201cthe flat isn\u2019t empty.\u201d<\/p>\n Somewhere, there was a scream; a shout; glass smashing; a sound like somebody falling, then a thud. Somewhere else somebody was singing; somewhere a lot closer, but much, much further away.<\/p>\n NICOLA BELTE<\/strong> lives in Birmingham, U.K, and is a part-time MA writing student, part-time pint-puller and an in-between time writer of weird things. Say hello at her blog, here: http:\/\/nicolabelte.blogspot.com\/<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Nicola Belte \u201cShouldn\u2019t you two be in school?\u201d the manager asked, appearing like a hoary snowy owl as Esma and Sabite strolled through the avenue of carpet rolls, their long, dark ponytails swinging like the tails of field mice. \u201cNah, … Continue reading