Free The Poison Tree by Erin Kelly

chain around my neck, a gift from Simon, and wished I wasn’t wearing earrings that matched.
    “How long have you lived here?” I asked, sipping my coffee. It was hot and bitter, not like English coffee at all, and I knew it would keep me awake for hours.
    “About a year and a half. No, two years, I met Biba in summer ninety-five,” she remembered. “And I started going out with Rex on Carnival weekend.”
    “Rex?” I said, picturing the brittle, shambling figure I’d last seen slurping tea and staring forlornly into the new day. Then I looked at Nina, sexuality as abundant as her flesh. It was easier to believe that she’d eaten him than been his lover. “Rex?” I said again. “ Really ?” Gaia slid off her mother’s lap and waddled up the stairs. I tried to find a polite way to phrase the obvious question. “So why did . . . I can’t imagine . . . what did . . . how did you two meet?” I asked.
    “You don’t need to be polite, I know we’re an odd couple.” Nina cringed cheerfully. “I needed somewhere to live. We were living on this barge in Camden and it was just so . . . filthy. I knew that once we were sleeping together he’d feel obliged to house us.” The revelation was harder to swallow than Nina’s coffee. “You think I’m cynical, I can tell. It’s different when you’ve got kids. I’ve had sex with worse people for sanctuary,” she said, leaving me to wonder who else she had shared that generous body with, and in what circumstances. She refilled her cup and I placed my hand over my own even though it was nearly empty. “He’s a sweet boy, it was lovely while it lasted, but you know what it’s like. The irony is, Rex is someone’s idea of a perfect fuck. But not mine. I need it a little bit more Latin , know what I mean?”
    “Er, um,” I said, having no idea what Latin sex might be like, and wondering if I should be troubled by the lack of it in my own life. Gaia came through the door in a forward roll and offered me a little round pill with a dollar sign etched in its chalky surface. Nina snatched the ecstasy tablet away from the toddler, who started to howl.
    “Although when things like this happen, I’m glad I won’t be here much longer,” she said.
    “You’re leaving?” I said. “Why? This is the loveliest place I’ve ever been to. If I lived here, I’d stay here forever.”
    “You say that, but it’s not always easy actually living here,” said Nina, picking lumps of dough out of the barbed-wire bracelet that circled her plump wrist. “I’ve already got two kids. I don’t need to become a substitute mother for two more who are old enough to look after themselves.”
    I saw my opportunity.
    “When did their parents . . . leave?” I asked, hoping the euphemism would make the question sound casual.
    “Christ, all that happened long before I met them,” said Nina. “It’s a tragedy. I sometimes wonder how they stay here after all that. They didn’t have much choice, I suppose.”
    “Oh?” I raised an eyebrow.
    “It’s no wonder they’re the way they are.” She drew her children closer to her, her focus returning to her own family, and the conversation was steered out of my control again. “Like I said, I owe my own babies a future. I’m going to educate the children. Not school them. There’s a difference. I mean really educate them, take them traveling. Inigo’s school age now, but I want to save him from all that.” Nina launched into a brief rant about the toxicity of formal education before detailing her plans to teach the children herself by taking them on a tour of their various genetic heritages. It comprised most of the countries touching the Mediterranean Sea, due to Nina’s Algerian and Portuguese parentage and no small doubt about Inigo’s paternity. I was only half-listening as she told me how easy it was to “live off the radar” as she put it. Later, I would wish I had paid more attention.
    “If you work cash in hand, and