Black Diamond. Havana Adams

the hall that housed The Pastor’s weekly ministry, which like their house was a small, dank place that was too cold in winter and far too hot in summer. Next to her Simbi, her mother, nodded at a member of the congregation and Grace felt a beat of anger, that they were once again consigned to the back row. The Pastor had decided that the front row should be left for special VIPs and high-value donors. At the front, The Pastor rose again and headed for his pulpit.

      “And now at this time when people are shopping and buying decorations and drinking and carving turkeys, I will remind you of the true meaning of the season.” Grace felt her stomach dive and she felt a warm hand creep to hers and quickly squeeze her hand. Grace looked up into her mother’s eyes and willed the tears away. The Pastor was going to tell his favourite story.

      “I was a young man newly married. I travelled from Nigeria and started my ministry in Cape Town, South Africa. God did not see fit to bless me and my wife Simbi with children. Our only surviving child, a son, died at birth. My wife was barren but it is a burden we bore.” Grace and her mother held hands and stared straight ahead as The Pastor continued. The airing of their private lives was a humiliation they had grown used to over the years.

      “And then one day we went to an orphanage and we saw a girl. Grace. Nine years old and abandoned there since birth. Nobody wanted her; nobody loved her. She was sickly, weak. And I saved her. I brought her to England. I did my duty to God. Like the Innkeeper who took in Mary and Joseph, you too must open your doors…” Grace watched and felt sick as the congregation rose to their feet, singing and clapping and turning to nod at her and her mother. Grace felt a mist of rage settle over her and even as The Pastor beckoned her forward to be paraded on the altar like a prize calf, she remained sitting. The Pastor waved her over again and next to her, she felt her mother prod her.

      “Grace go.” But Grace remained silent and stayed sitting. The Pastor had turned to join the choristers, but Grace knew that before the day was done, she would pay for her transgression. She sighed heavily as she thought about The Pastor, her adopted father, though she could never, ever think of him as her father, not after the pain and hurt he inflicted on her and her mother daily. The word Dad always stuck in her throat, in her head, he was only ever The Pastor. Why does he hate me so much? Was it because she wasn’t the son that he had lost? Was it because her imperfections were so obvious? Grace sighed again, there was no point trying to understand The Pastor. He was who he was and she was stuck.

      “You think you are somebody?” The word was bellowed into her ear and then two slaps followed in quick succession. Grace gritted her teeth as tears fell silently. Another slap this time on her upper arm and pain seared all the way up her shoulder into her neck. Grace bit her lip hard and tasted blood.

      “Just leave her alone, Michael.” And suddenly Grace was free. The Pastor spun around.

      “This is your doing.” Grace heard the smash of fist against flesh and she felt shame rise up in her. Her rebellion had put her mother in the line of fire. “You and the stupid, useless girl. We should have left her there to die. You gave me no children and then you bring this useless one home, with a heart that isn’t right. You cursed us. You dragged me down.” And with one last slap that sent her mother sprawling in a heap on the hallway floor, The Pastor slammed out of the house.

      Slowly, Grace rose from her crouching position on the stairs. Her arm and neck felt sore, her cheek ached and blood leaked from her split lip. She moved towards her mother and sank to her knees and cradled the only person who had ever shown her love.

      “I’m sorry,” Grace said remorse swimming through her. Once again her selfishness had landed them both in trouble.

      “We can’t make him angry, you know that.” At her mother’s words Grace felt anger dilute her remorse. Why would her mother never fight back, two against one would surely be better? And yet in the decade since they had taken her from the orphanage, the decade since they had lived in London, not once had her mother ever defended herself and slowly Grace had started to resent her for this.

      Later, as she sat in her darkened room wrapped in a faded duvet, Grace ran a finger up and down the fading scar that bisected her chest, running vertically between her breasts about three inches in length. She had always been a sickly child, unable to walk quickly or run or play in the yard like all the other children at the orphanage. Matron had said that every birthday she lived was a miracle.

      “You were supposed to die,” Matron had said once. And Grace hadn’t known how to respond. The Pastor and her mum had brought her to England and here finally she had been properly diagnosed. It was a small hole in her heart, a small defect, easily corrected.

      “You must be one hell of a fighter,” the doctor had said smiling at her before they took her into surgery. “You’ve survived this long and you’ll be even better after.”

      Grace traced the scar slowly and blinked away tears. The Pastor hated her for not being his own flesh and blood child, he hated her because she made a mockery of his faith. He could not love her the way he counselled his flock to love their neighbour. She was no fighter. She couldn’t even look after her mother. Outside, a rapid barrage of popping sounds had started and Grace raised her curtains slightly and watched as the North London sky was set aglow with greens and reds and golds; fireworks ringing in the changes. It was midnight. A new year had begun.

      “I have to get out.” She uttered the words into the darkness and thought about the form that she had secretly sent off weeks ago. Grace thought with sadness about her mother; she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her alone with The Pastor. But worse even than that was the thought of staying here herself, of living another year in fear and under their roof. “I have to get out,” she whispered again with a quiet conviction and, for the first time in her life, she felt like her destiny might actually be in her own hands. This time next year, she would not cry herself to sleep.

       CHAPTER 3

      The biting mid-January wind slashed into Grace, cutting through the inadequate coat that she wore but Grace barely noticed. She walked quickly down the scruffy North London high street. For once, she didn’t notice the smashed-in shop windows and the boarded-up stores; Grace’s mind was focused only on the letter that she gripped between her cold fingers. The letter was still sealed and once again she looked down at it. It was addressed to her but above her name and address was the unmistakeable crest of Oxford University. Thank God she had reached the post before The Pastor.

      “I can’t do it.” Grace slumped onto the edge of a desk and stared across at her teacher Stephen in the empty classroom.

      “Grace, just open it,” Stephen said coming around his desk and holding out the letter to her. Grace stared at him and felt as though she was standing on the edge of a precipice. She had pretended that it meant nothing as she’d filled out the form but now this eggshell-coloured envelope laid waste to her pretence of indifference. Inside it was a possibility, a chance of something, a beginning. And yet another part of Grace piped up, perhaps it would be just another closing door, the way they always seemed to close for her, the way that opportunities always seemed to be less than the sum of their parts.

      “If you don’t open it, I will,” Stephen said and as he made to start tearing into the envelope, Grace jumped up and grabbed it from him, ripping the tab open in one swift action. She looked up at her teacher and by his smile she knew that he’d deliberately provoked her. Though she had always excelled, Stephen was the only teacher who had ever made any effort to get to know her, to dig beneath the predictability of her A grades to find out what drove her. Grace was filled with a burst of gratitude towards him and she looked down at the open envelope and pulled out the single sheet of white paper. Her eyes scanned quickly and she felt relief wash through her.

      “I’ve got an interview.” She whispered the words incredulously and stared at Stephen who smiled broadly at her.

      “Of course you have. You’re a perfect candidate,” he said and without thinking, Grace found herself throwing her arms around his shoulders in a bear hug. Stephen stilled for a moment and then he