Praise
‘Wow!Justwow.Icouldnotputthisdown.Raw,gritty,anabsolutemasterpiece’
ConfessionsofaBookworm
‘Tenderlywritten…astorynevertobeforgotten’
MisfitsFarm
‘TheSilentBrotherisanabsolutetriumphwithallthemakingsofaprize-winningnovel’
GraceJReviewerlady
‘BetterthanShuggieBain.Youaregoingtolovethis’
MrsLovestoRead
‘Leftmespeechless,breathlessandcompletelystunned’
TheBookMagnet
‘TheSilentBrotherisabeautifullywrittenstoryoflifeinarundownnortherncitythatexposestheemptyrhetoricoflevelling-up.Thequalityofthewritingandcharacterdevelopmentaresuperb.ThisisthebestcrimefictionIhavereadforalongtime’
HenshawPress
‘Agrittyreadsetinthemetropolisofthenorth-eastwherenoonecanbetrusted,andchildhoodfriendshipsbecomeadultobsessions’
AKnight’sReads
‘Aheartbreakingstory.Veryrealtoo’
ElsReviews
‘Idevouredthisbook,andmyheartisbothfullandbroken’
Dee’sbookBlog
‘Aheartbreakinglypowerfulreadthatwillsuckyouinandholdyou’
Beverley’sReads
‘Atouchofbrilliance’
Dawn’sBookReviews
‘Annieisawonderfulcharacter…fullofambiguities,asrealpeopleare’
OlgaNú?ezMiret
‘PowerfulandemotionalwithshadesofShuggieBain’
ReshmaRuiaReviews
‘Emotionallyhard…thewordssometimesfeeltooreal’
GrumpyOldBooks
‘Chillinginplaces,butwithahumourthatmademelaughoutloud.TommyandAnnie’sfriendshipistrulybeautiful’
BooksinmyOpinion
‘TheSilentBrotheristenseandharrowingbutneverwithouthope.VanderVeldewriteswithsuchskill’
SarahClarke,authorofAMotherNeverLies
‘Bloodymarvellous.Ineedtositandstareintospaceforaweewhile’
SarahFaichney
‘Unpretentious,rawandunapologetic’
DavinaBanner
‘Anemotionalmasterpiece’
BookwormBlogger
‘Acompellingandgrittythrillersetinatimeofdevastationandacitywherehopehasbeenextinguished’
SallyCronin,SmorgasbordBlogMagazine
‘Anin-depthinsightintotheredeemingpoweroflove’
AirbornPress
‘Agrippingstoryofloss,lonelinessandadark,unforgivingworld’
LauraBesleyauthorofTheAlmostMothers
‘Sharpandtotallygrippingwithbrilliantlyauthenticvoices’
EmmaChristieauthorofTheSilentDaughter
SIMONVANDERVELDEwasbornandeducatedinNewcastleuponTynewherehetrainedandpracticedasalawyer.Writingwasalwayshisrealpassionhowever,andSimonhassinceleftthelegalprofessiontoconcentrateonhiswriting.
SimonisthefounderandchairofGosforthWritersGroupandauthorofthewidelyacclaimed,Amazonbestseller,Backstories,‘thestand-outmostoriginalbookoftheyear’in2021.TheSilentBrotherishisdebutliterarycrimenovel.
HavingtravelledthroughoutEuropeandSouthAmerica,SimonnowlivesinNewcastleuponTynewithhiswife,labradoodleandtwotyrannicalchildren.
FollowAuthoronTwitter@SimonVdVwriter
NorthodoxPressLtd
MaidenGreve,Malton,
NorthYorkshire,YO177BE
FirstpublishedinGreatBritainbyNorthodoxPressinYear
Copyright?SimonVanDerVelde2022
SimonVanDerVeldeassertsthemoralrighttobeidentifiedastheauthorofthiswork.
Thisnovelisentirelyaworkoffiction.Thenames,charactersandincidentsportrayedinitaretheworkoftheauthor’simagination.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,eventsorlocalitiesisentirelycoincidental.
AllrightsreservedunderInternationalandPan-AmericanCopyrightConventionsBypaymentoftherequiredfees,youhavebeengrantedthenon-exclusive,non-transferablerighttoaccessandreadthetextofthise-bookon-screen.Nopartofthistextmaybereproduced,transmitted,downloaded,decompiled,reverseengineered,orstoredinorintroducedintoanyinformationstorageandretrievalsystem,inanyformorbyanymeans,whetherelectronicormechanical,nowknownorhereinafterinvented,withouttheexpresswrittenpermissionofNorthodoxPress.
EbookEdition?June2022ISBN:9781915179982
Version:12June2022
NotetoReaders
Thisebookcontainsthefollowingaccessibilityfeatureswhich,ifsupportedbyyourdevice,canbeaccessedviayourereader/accessibilitysettings:
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Pagenumberstakenfromthefollowingprintedition:978-1-915179-07-4
Formysons
Contents
Cover
AbouttheAuthor
Praise
TitlePage
Copyright
NotetoReaders
Dedication
1990
ChapterOneChapterTwoChapterThreeChapterFourChapterFiveChapterSixChapterSevenChapterEightChapterNineChapterTen
2001
ChapterElevenChapterTwelveChapterThirteenChapterFourteenChapterFifteenChapterSixteenChapterSeventeenChapterEighteen
2008
ChapterNineteenChapterTwentyChapterTwenty-OneChapterTwenty-TwoChapterTwenty-ThreeChapterTwenty-FourChapterTwenty-FiveChapterTwenty-SixChapterTwenty-SevenChapterTwenty-EightChapterTwenty-NineChapterThirtyChapterThirty-OneChapterThirty-TwoChapterThirty-ThreeChapterThirty-FourChapterThirty-FiveChapterThirty-SixChapterThirty-Seven
Acknowledgements
“Thepastisneverdead.It’snotevenpast.”
WilliamFaulkner
1990
CHAPTERONE
Italia’90
IknowstraightawaythatBenjy’sgoingtomiss,coshisfootgoesbacktoosoon,sohe’swobblingononeleg,waitingfortheballtofloatdown,andthenhefallsover.Hisheadthumpsontherug,butMampickshimup.Shecuddleshimandtellshimhe’sasgoodasGazza.Butitisn’tfair,cosI’mbetter.Ilookatherface.ShesmilesoverBenjy’sshoulderandwinksatmewithhersparklyeyes.Irunandjointhehug.
‘Comeon,Benjy,’Isay,andkisshissquidgycheek.‘Let’splaysomemore.’
Theballisapinkballoonthat’sgonesmallandwrinkly,andthetassellyrugisthepitch.Therearen’tgoalposts,butifyoudoareallybigkickthenMamshouts.‘Goal!’andeverybodycheers.MeandBenjyaretheplayers.Mamsaysshe’sthereferee,butthenshekeepsticklinguswhenwe’retryingtodoakick,whichisn’tallowed.
Weshouldhavebeeninbedagesago,exceptMamsaidwedidn’thavetocosEnglandweregoingtowintheWorldCup.
Butthenwewatchedontelly,andtheydidn’t.Mamsaiditwassuchashame.SheturnedthetellyoffandBenjystartedcrying,eventhoughhedidn’tproperlyunderstand.That’swhywe’replayingsolate.Soinourgame,IcanbeGaryLineker,andEnglandcanwin.IletBenjybeGazza,eventhoughMamsaidhewastoobeautiful,andItoldMamshecouldbeBobbyRobson,whichmadeherlaugh.
‘I’dratherbeDollyParton,’shesaid,andputthemusicon,singingalongwiththatsongaboutJolenethatwealllike.
Well,usthreeanyway.
Benjy’sgottheball,sortoffloatinguparoundthetrainonhisjarmatop.I’mgonnadoatackle,butMam’sgotme.Herfingersarerightupinmytummy,soI’mjustlyingontherug,reallylaughingwhenBenjydoesthismassivekick,andhiseyesopenwidelikehecan’tbelievehe’sdoneitandMam’sshouting.‘Go…
go…goal’andtheballoon’snearlyhighasthelightandBenjy’ssquealingandjumpingsohisblondhairflopsoverhisface.
Thenthefrontdoorslams,andit’slikepressingpauseonavideo.Everythingstops:There’sjustthecurlsbouncingonBenjy’shead,theballoonfloatingdown,andDollyPartonsingingabouteyesofemeraldgreen.
‘ChrisfuckinWaddle.’
Thedoorswingsopen.Darylisinthespace.Hislipsarewetunderhismankytash,andhisSunderlandshirt’stornwideopenacrosshischest.There’safaginhishand.Hetakesages,puttingitinhismouth,holdingupthatlonggoldlighterwiththeredtriangleshininglikeajewelontheback.Theflamewavesacrosstheendofhisfag.Hesuckssoharditlookslikeithurts
‘NevertrustafuckinGeordie,’hesays,pointingrightatme.
Thesnake-bitchtattoostretchesalonghisarm.‘Uselesscunt.’
Hestampsintotheroom.Thebucklesrattleonhisboots.
IneedtogetbehindMam,butI’mnotproperlyupwhenItrytorun.IdoagiantstepbutIcantellI’mgoingtofall.Ican’tstopmyself.Apudgyarmcomesouttocatchme.Igrabit,butIshouldn’thave.Benjy’stoolittle.
WegocrashingintoNana’soldcabinetBenjy’sokaythough.
Icanseehimwatchingmyfacewithhiseyesallroundandgreen,likeheisn’tsureifheshouldcry.Likehewantsmetotellhim.Butthenhelooksupovermyhead.Thisgoldenbottleiswobblingontopofthecabinet,likeinslowmotion,likewhenthere’sagoal.There’slettersonthebottle,bigonesIcanread.
‘Bells,’itsays,butitdoesn’tring.Itcrashes.
There’swetonBenjy’sjarmas,andsparklyglassinhishair.
‘Bastards,’Darylstompstowardsus.
‘No,’Mamshouts.
‘Quick,Benjy,quick,’Isay,andcrawlintothekitchen.
Mykneesthumponthelino.Ithinkitsluckycosthecupboard’sopenunderthesink.Iscrambleinoverbottlesandcloths.It’sonlywhenIgotoclosethedoorthatIrealiseBenjyisn’tthere.I’mtooscaredtowait.Icloseitanyway.
‘Daryl,’Mamshouts.‘Getyourhandsoff…’
AllIcanseeisayellowlineoflightbetweenthedoors,butIcanheareverything.There’sathudthatmakesthedoorsshake,andMam’svoicechanges,shoutingsoundsthataren’tevenwords.She’scrying.
Ishouldgetoutofthecupboard.Ishouldhelp,butIdon’t.
Istayverystill,breathingasmelllikewetdogwithapipepressingdownonmyneckandwishing,likealways,thatNanahadn’tdied.
‘Keepthefuckstill!’heshouts.
Benjyscreams,louderandhigher,thenthere’sacracklikeafirework.
Everythinggoesquietforages,longerthanIcanholdmybreath.There’sonlyDollyPartonstillsinginginherhappyvoicelikenothingbadhaseverhappened.
‘Ninetofive…’
Benjyscreamsagain,worsethanI’veeverheard.
‘Benjy?!’Ipushthedoorandcrawlbackthroughthekitchen.
I’mtoolate.
AtleastMam’sgothim.She’skneelingontherug,holdinghimclose.Icanseehisfaceoverhershoulder.Benjy’smouthiswideanddark.HisarmmakesmethinkofourbrokenPinocchio,andthere’spurplecomingoutofhishead,thick,likeRibenastraightfromthebottle.
That’showitallgetsstarted,whywehavetogotothehospital.CosofNanabeingdeadandleavinghercabinetinourhouse,cosofhernotlookingafterusanymore.ExceptIknowthat’snottrue.It’scosofmebreakingDaryl’swhisky.
CosofmehidingandlettingBenjygetcaught.Cosofmenothelping,evenwhenIknewIshould.Cosofmebeingacoward.
CHAPTERTWO
HideandSeek
Benjy’sarmiswarmonmyneck,mythighonhis,ourbodiestangledtogetherlikealways,withmeontheoutside,thefirsttogo.Isupposethat’swhythingshappenliketheydo.SometimesMamiswithus,curledaroundmelikeashellwithherfingersturninginBenjy’shairuntilIwonderifsheloveshimmorethanme,thenIfeelthebeatofherheartonmyback,soothingmetosleep.Butnotnow.NotwhileHeisinthehouse.
It’sdayoutside.IcanseetheshapeofthingsinthelightthroughourRainbowBlanket.Thetorn-offedgeofourItalia
’90wallchartthatnevergotfinished,andtheholeinthewardrobedoor,jaggedasadragon’steeth.
WehadMr.Mencurtains.Nanagotthemforourbirthdaywhenwewerereallylittle.Thatwasbeforeshedied,andtheyputherinahole.BeforeDaryltorethecurtainsdown.
MamwentintoSunderlandtogetusmorecurtains,butshegotthisbluestripyblanketinstead,fromtheScopeshop.Hesaidshewasabloodynutcase.Wehatedhimforthatmostofall.Cosweknewhewasright.Mamsmiledatthechimneypotsacrossthestreetandpinnedtheblanketoverthewindow.
‘Nowisn’tthatpretty,’shesaid,pressingusinagainsthersoftness.‘Likearainbow.’
Wesaiditwastoo,butitwasjustabobblyblankethangingwheretheMr.Mencurtainsshouldhavebeen.
I’mlookingattheblanketnow,withthelightfromoutsideturningthewoolblue,liketheskyinsummerwhenit’sjustgettingdark,andthestripesaregoldandfieryorange,redlikeMam’spartydress,andgreenasthegrassinthegardenatplaygroup.It’sbeautiful,andwhatmakesmesmileisknowingthatshewasright.Hewaswrong.
Benjysnufflesandahandmovesagainstmyleg,mineorhis.
Thesame.Hisbreathchanges,quieter,andIknowheisawake,watchingthelight,thinkingaboutMam.Ifshe’llcomesoon.
Ifit’stimetogetup.Iknowbecauseit’swhatI’mthinking,andtogetherwebringhertous.Butit’snotright.Thestairssqueal.She’smovingtoofast,andIcanhearDaryldownthere,shouting.Notthewords,justthatdrybark,likeadog.
Thedoorswingsbackandthehandlecrunches.Bitsofstufffallbehindthewall.Thelightclicks.Iclosemyeyesandwaitforhertospeak,soIknowifitwillbeabadday.Iknowalready.
Benjydoestoo.Hisbodytightensagainstme.
Theduvet’sgone.Mam’shandpushesbetweenus,liftingmeaway.There’scoldonmyarmwhereBenjy’snecktouched,andthenewheatfromMamagainstmyback.Igrabatemptyair,andmyeyesopen.
She’sholdingmetight,ciggyburnttonothinginherhand.
Benjy’sfaceiswhite,mouthopen,suckinginair.Iseehisscreamonitsway.
‘They’recomingforyous,’Mamsays.
Andthenwe’regone,outontothelanding.Iblinkupatthebigyellowycupboardthatreachesallthewaytotheceiling
Therearelongdoorswithtwoshortslideyonesabove,anditdoesn’tmakeanysensecosMamgetsoneoftheslideydoorsopenandliftsmeup,highoverherhead.Mylegshitsomethinghard.Ikickagainstthedoor.
‘Please,’Mamsays.‘Begoodforyourmam.Beagoodboy,Tommy.Agoodboy.’Herfacelooksbroken.There’sredblotchesonhercheeks.Wetnessinhereyes.
Iletherputmeinthecupboard.
‘Burrowinnow,burrowin,’shesays,andpushesmeaway.
Irollbackoverblanketsandcoats,stuffthatsmellslikeNana.Thebottomofthecupboardclanksunderneathme,longplasterboardspiledupfromwhenDarylwasgoingtofixthepunch-holesinthewall.Fromthetimewhenhestillsaidsorryafter.Fromwhenallhehitwasthewalls.
Myheadthudsagainstthebackofthecupboard,stoppingmewitharidgeofplasterboarddigginginmyarm.I’mlyingacrossthegapbetweentheedgeoftheboardsandthewall.That’swhereIneedtobe,downthere.Asafeplace,liketheburrowwhereBusterwouldbelivingifhewasn’tinacageintheyard.
Ipulloutapillowandascratchyblanket,makingroom.ButI’mabigboy,atbigschoolnow,andmyshouldersaretoowide.
Iturnsideways,slidingdown,wedgingmyselfintothespace.
Theboardsaretightagainstmychest.Thedustysmellofthemitchesinmynose.
‘Tom-mee,Tom-mee.’
Benjyisscreaming.Iseehisfaceintheopendoorlikehe’stallereventhanDaryl.
‘Shhh,baby,shhh,’Mamsays,talkinghissyfastwithbigbreathsbetween,scaredevenbeforethebangthatshakesthewholehouse.
Benjystopsscreaming.Hecrawlstowardsmeovertherattlyboards.
Mamreachesin.ShetouchesBenjy’sface.Notmine.
‘It’salright.Justbequietlikelittlemice,’thenshelaughstoohigh,stoppinglikeaquestion,andslidesthedooracross.
It’sblackdark,thesamewithmyeyesopenorshut.
‘Benjy,’Icall,pretendingitisforhim,butreallybecauseIamscared.
Hecomestome,andhisbreathiswarmonmyface.Ifindhim.Hisarm,hishand,andIholdon,tightandquiet.Ican’tseehisface,butIcanfeelhislipsonmycheek,andtogetherwelistentoMamoutonthelanding.
‘Babbies,babbies,’Mamsays,shushingusthroughthecupboarddoor.‘It’salright,babbies.Don’tfret,’butIcanheartheshudderinhervoice,likewhenDarylisinaradge.
Thecrashcomesagain,butthistimeit’sdifferent,withacrunchattheendThere’smenshouting.Heavyfeet,likeDaryl’sonthestairs,andMam’srunningdowntomeetthem.
Benjy’schestpressesonmyshoulder,burrowinginwherethereisnospace.Thebootsonthestairsarecloser.Theshoutinggetslouder.Butit’salright,cosBenjyiswithmeThatmakeseverythingalright.ExceptIknowthatit’snot.
‘Goon,Benjy,’Iwhisperlikeashout.
I’mstuckdowninthisnarrowgap,butit’slongasthewholecupboard.Benjycouldeasilyslideinattheotherend,withhisheadagainstmyfeet.Ipointinthedarkness.
‘Downthere.’
Ipushhimawayfromme,butheclingstotheneckofmyjarmascosheknowsthatreally;Iwanthimtostay.SoIcanholdhim.Sohisfearcanmakemestronger.HeknowsthatI’monlyacowardpretendingtobebraveandthatIneedhim,likealways.Sohestays.Evenwhenthevoicesareboomingjustoutside,andiftheyopenthedoors,they’llseehimupontopoftheboards.
‘Downthere,’Ihiss,rightupcloseinhisear.
Ipullhishandsoffmyneckandpushhimawayfromme.
Theplasterboardsrattleandlift.Agapopensbetweenthem,scrapingagainstmyleg.
‘Nuh,’Benjysays,rollingbacktowardsme,closingthegap.
Theboardssnapdownonthethinnestpinchofmythigh.
Ijammyhandinmymouthandbite,tryingtobalancethepain.I’mnearlyfastenough.There’sonlyasqueak,likethesoundBustermakeswhenhe’sangry.Butit’stooloud.
Thevoicesstop.
Thepaininmylegburnshotter,upthroughmychest.
Stepscomethumping.IpushBenjyback,harder,androugher,butheholdstighttomyneckwhilemylegswells,bigenoughtofilltheworld.Thenthedoorjuddersbackandthere’slightallaroundus.
Iseeahand,blackhairscurlingaroundagoldring.Thesoundoffingersmovingthroughcloth.Searching.ThefeelofthemclosingonBenjy’sback,makingmyheartscream.Benjydoesn’tscream.Justagaspandheliftsawayfromme.There’samomentwhenIcouldreachhim,holdhimtomewithmyonefreearm.ButallIwantisfortheburningtostop.Iletgoandthepainchanges.There’sadraftofairattheneckofmyjarmas,andBenjy’sstrangesilencethatsetstheshameburningundermyarmsbecausedeepdown,Iknow.ImadeanoisewhenIshould’vebeenquiet.IlethimgowhenIshould’veheldon.
Benjy’sgone,andit’smyfault.
Ihuddledeeperinmyburrowandlistentofastfootstepsdownthestairs,sloweronescomingbackup.Doorsopenwide.Clothesandblanketsarepulledaway.Brightcirclesoftorchlightdartacrossthewalls.Itrynottobreathe.Butit’sstupid,costhenIhavetotakeabigbreath.
Thevoicessaveme.
‘He’snotbeenwell,’Mamsays.‘He’supatmemam’s,’andIfeelembarrassed,cosshemeansNana,andNana’sdead.
Awomanspeaks,closerandlouder,withasadsing-songvoicethat’shardtounderstand.She’stheoneIsawatthehospital.TheoneDarylcalls“theshagged-outdarkie”.
‘Whatkindofill,Mrs.Farrier?’ShemeanswhatDaryldidtoBenjy.
‘Well,youknowhimandDaryldon’tgeton,’andIcanheartheslynessinMam’svoice.
Amananswers.‘He’sfiveyearsold.’
‘Aye,aye,andI’vetoldhim,’Mamsays.‘Nomorehittingthebairns,elseI’mleaving.’
‘Well,it’stoolateforthatnow,’thewomansaysinherstrangevoice,andallthetimethelightsaremovingaroundme.
Ikeepmybreathquietandeven,butIcanfeelmychestpressinandoutagainsttheboards,seethemushed-upbitsofthem,crumbly,likeoldWeetabix.
Thehandcomesagain.Hairyknucklesraponthewallabovemyheadanddisappear.Clothesandsheetsarethrownbackin.Thedoorsclose,butnotquite.There’sasliveroflighttoseethejumbledshapes,tohearthesteps,slowernow,goingbackdownthestairs.
Noonecomestofindme,notforalongtime.NotuntilI’mcryingforthefeelofBenjy’shand.NotuntilI’veforgottenthesmellofhisbreathagainstmyface.
CHAPTERTHREE
Dragon’sTeeth
Icanhearboxesthumping,himmovingarounddownstairs,killingmoreofourhouse,pullingoutthestuffthatmakesitalive.Thecowboypaintingonthelandingisgone,andthatpictureofwhenSunderlandwonthecup,andhimonhismotorbikefromagesago,frombeforeweevenknewwhoDarylBoylewas.There’sanotherwhitesquareonthewalloutsideMam’sroomtoo,butIcan’tevenrememberwhatusedtobethere.Asifitneverwas.Asifthingscanjustgetrubbedoutandforgotten,likeNana.
Ithinkabouther,sittinginhervelvetychairwithherupside-downglassesandthatbigwhitefuzzofhairroundherhead.
Shewastheonewhotoldmeaboutmydad.ItwaslastNewYear’sEve,thefirstnightthatMambroughtDarylbacktoourhouse.Nanawasbabysitting.SheturnedthefireupassoonasMamwentoutandheldherfingertoherlips,sowe’dknowitwasoursecret.Thenshesmiledandpickedupthecrossword.
Sheneverwroteinit.Well,hardly.ShejustsmokedherciggiesandwatchedmeandBenjyplayingcars,withhereyesallgiantbehindherglasses.
TherewasthisstuffonthetellyaboutpeopleknockingawalldowninGermanyBenjyfellasleep.Hiseyesopenedwhenthefireworkswentoff,butheneverstoppedsnoring.Heshould’vebeeninbed.Ishouldtoo,butNanadidn’tmakeme,notevenwhenIaskedaboutmydad.IfIaskedMamshe’dfrownandsaysomethingstupid,likewasn’tIgrowingupfast.Nanajustlitanotherciggy.
‘Yourdad’snamewasJackFarrier,andhewasn’tabadboy,’
shesaid,asifmydadwasjustakid.‘Hehadagoodjobtoo,drivingoneofthembigwagons,buthewasadreamer,sameasyourmam.Spenteverypennyonhismusic,thedaftbugger.
That’sallhehadtotalkabout;thesonghewaswriting,wherethebandwereplaying.Theband,’shelaughedanddidherrattlycough.‘Himandhisgormlessmate.Didn’tevenhavethesensetosingwhatpeoplewantedtolistento.Imean,yourNana’snotexactlygotherfingeronthepulse,butevenIknowkidsdon’twanttohearthoseoldcountrysongsfrombackwhenIwasagirl.Betyoudidn’tknowthatdidyou?YourNanawasonceagirl?’ExceptIdid,cosshetoldmeallthetime.‘Goon,Tommy,indulgeyouroldNana.’
Shemeantformetogetthepicturedownoffthemantelpiecesowecouldlookatittogether.Itwasheavy,inthisround,silverframe.TherewasaladywithalongwhitedressandPrincessLeia’shair.Shewasholdingabunchofflowersandsmiling,abitlikehowNanadoes,butwithhermouthclosed.
‘Quitealookerinmyday,’shesaid,likealways,andIsaid.‘Yes,Nana,quitealooker,’whichmadeherlaughuntilshecoughed.
‘Icould’vehadallsorts,butIchoseyourGrandadBenjamin,andI’lltellyoustraight,Tommy.Imarriedbadly.I’vebetterthingstodothanwastemytimeonregrets,butthereitis.Youjustbecarefulwhoyoumarry,mylittlesoldier,becauseit’samarathon,notasprint.
‘Mymam,Godresther,toldmeasmuch,butIwaseighteenandIknewitall,andI’llsayonethingforyourgrandad,hehadasmilethatcouldlightthewholestreet.’
‘DoesMam?Imean,doessheknowitall?’
Nanasmiled.‘Yourmam’syoungyet,andshe’sangry.She’sstilltoobusyfightingwithyourgrandad’sghosttoknowanythingatall.’
IrememberedGrandad’spicturefromNana’shouseandtriedtoimaginehimwithasheetoverhisshinyhead,andMamfightinglikeshedoeswithus,blowingraspberriesonhistummy.
‘Sothatwasthat,’Nanaflickedtheashoffherciggy.‘Hewasagood-lookingman,buthewasadrinkerfromthestartandittookeverygoodthingoutofhim;hislooks,hiswarmthandhiswit,untilallthatwasleftwasanasty,bitterdrunk.
‘Yourdadwasabettermanthanthat,butthetruthisyouboyswereneverintheplan.Notthetwoofyou,soclosetogether.Don’tgetmewrong,’shesaid,puttingherhandonmyforehead,strokingmyhair.‘Hehadagoodheart,andhelovedyou,buthewasonlyaladhimself.Irememberhiminthisveryroom,holdingyouupinthelightthroughthewindow,singingoneofhissoppysongs.Theywereonlygoingonatwo-weektourtoHollandontheboat,buthewascryingwhenheletyougo.Anyfoolcouldseehewasn’tcomingback,evenyourdaftmam,ifshe’shonest.
‘Yousee,Tommy,yourmamanddadarethesortofpeoplethat’llalwaysbekids,evenwhenthey’resupposedtobegrownup,andlittleBenjy,Godlovehim,he’sthesame.Butyou,Tommy,you’relikeyourNana,andit’suptotheoneslikeustolookoutforthoseothers,’shesaid,meaningherandme,andMamandBenjy.‘Thethingis,’shesaid,stabbingherciggyintotheashtray.‘Iwon’tbearoundforever.’
Shedidn’tsayanymore,justkeptbangingherciggydown,evenwhenyoucouldtellitwasout.Ipressedmyhandonherarm,butthatjustmadehermouthgotight,likeinthephoto.
So,Iwasgladwhenthefrontdoorwent,andMamcamein,gigglingandholdinghandswithhim.
‘Happynewyear,’shesaid,inascreechysortofvoice.Herkisswasslobberyonmycheek.‘Sayhellotomynewfriend,Daryl.’
IcouldtellstraightawaythatNanadidn’tlikehimcosshedidthatsquintythingwithhereyes.Ididn’tlikehimeither,eventhoughhehadawhitejacketonsoyoucouldn’tseehissnake-bitchtattoo.
‘It’sgoodtoseeyoulaughing,love,’Nanasaid.
‘We’rejustpoppingupstairstolookattheview,’Mamsaid.
Nanapulledanotherciggyoutofhercrinklybox.‘You’llburninthefiresofhellforalleternity,’shesaid,butyoucouldtellshewasn’treallyangry.
‘Goodnight,mylittlegirl,’Nanasaid,justtoherself,afterthey’dgoneoutintothecorridor.ButthenMamstuckherheadbackinanddidbigeyesatNana.
‘Mopwithatash,’Mamwhispered,withherfingeracrossunderhernose.
Nanashookherhead,‘child,’shesaid.
Mamgiggledandshutthedoor.
‘Yourmamneedsaman,’Nanasaid,afterthey’dgone.
‘Someonetotakecareofyou.Especiallynow.’
‘Stupid,’Isay,staringatthatwhitesquareoutsideMam’sroom.AsifDarylwouldtakecareofanyone.AndIthinkofNanawhenIpunchthewall,likeit’sherfaultthatDaryl’shereinsteadofher.Myhandhurts.There’sacrumpleofskinonmyfingerandadropofbloodgrowingout.
‘Sorry,Nana,’Iwhisper.
OurroomisnexttoMam’s,withstickersonthedoor,Tommyinblue,Benjyingreen,mynameontop.Ipushthedoor,andtrytobereadyforemptyspaces.Ourmattressthatfillednearlythewholefloorisgone,andthedrawerstoo.There’sjustroundfootmarkspressedintothecarpet,likethedrawershaven’tgoneatall,justturnedinvisible.Everythingelseisthesame;thejumbleofclothesonthefloor,thefiretruck,andPanda,andNana’soldwardrobewiththebrokendoor,itsspikyedgessharpasadragon’steeth.
EvenRainbowBlanketisstillhanginginthewindow,blueandgoldandfieryorangeinthelightfromoutside.Thatmakesmefeellikeeverything’llbeokay,coswecan’tgoanywherewithoutRainbowBlanket.ButIdon’tunderstandwhereI’msupposedtosleep,andI’mthinkingsohardIdon’tevenrealisethatMamisstandingbehindmeinhershinybootsandlongvelvetycoat.
Herfaceisbetternow,withthemake-upbackintherightplace.Sheshakeshersoftblackhairthatmakesthemenstopandlook,eventheposhoneswithsuits.MybeautifulMam.
‘I’msorryaboutBuster,’shesays.‘Butwecouldn’ttakeeverything,’andIhateit,notcosofBuster,butcoshervoiceisslurryandsortofvague‘Itriedtogethimback.’Shekneelsdownandputsherhandonmycheek,coldandshaking.‘Itriedsohard.’
Shegoesquiet.She’swaitingformetolook,butIknowshe’snottalkingaboutBusteranymoreandIdon’twanthertosayanythingelse,especiallynotinthatslurryvoicethatmakesherseemlikeadifferentperson.
IstarethroughthebrokenwardrobeatthetopfromBenjy’sNoddyjarmas.
‘He’salright,’shesays,whichcan’tbetruecoswe’renottogether.‘He’sinasafeplace,justforalittlewhile.’
Istretchupandpullthejarmasthroughthegap,holdingthemouttoMam.Shepressesthemintoherneck.Itouchhercheek,andshesmilesatmewhileshe’scrying.
There’sabangfromdownstairs.Mam’seyesopenwider,sparkly,likeBenjy’s.
‘They’regoingtocomebackforyou,’shesays,andwelistentobootsthuddingupthestairs.
Darylfillsthedoorway,staringdownatmewiththatstupidtashonhisrattyface.Hestompstowardsusinhisrattlyboots.
Mamholdsupherhand.Shestopshim,likemagic.
‘Wehavetogonow,baby,’shesays.‘Wecan’tstayinSunderlandanymore.’
‘Butwecan’tgo,cos…’
Darylsighslikeagrowl.Mam’smagicisn’tstrongenough.
Nottoday.Shecan’tevenspeakright.ShemadeSunderlandsoundlikeshush,likeshutup,andNana’sdeadandunderthegroundsothere’sonlymeleft.Ihavetokeeptalking.
‘CoshowwillBenjybeable…hewon’tknowwheretofindus.Wehavetostay.Wehavetowait.Please,justalittlewhile.’
Mamsayssomething,butIcan’tunderstandhercosDaryl’smovingroundbehindme,messinguptheair.IkeeptalkingasfastasIcan,tellingheraboutthewallfallingdownonthetellyandNanasayingthateverythingwasgoingtobealright,andhowwehavetowaitsoBenjycanfindus.Mamnods.Shestrokesmyhair,butthere’ssomethingwrongabouthereyes.
Herfingersaretootightonmywrist.
Ipullbackagainstthewardrobeandgetmyhandsthroughintothedragon’smouth.IholdtightandcallBenjy’sname.
AndIwon’tletgo.Notever.
IshutmyeyessoIcan’tseeDaryl’sfaceturnred,orthesnake-bitchtattooslitheringuphisarm.ButIcansmellhisburnysmell,feelhishandsonme.Ringsdigintomyarm,sharperthanthedragon’steethagainstmyfingers.
‘Benjy,’Iscream.‘Benjy,Benjy.’
‘He’snotfuckinhere,youmentalcase.’
Myfingersslidethroughthebrokendoor,scratchingandburning.ThenI’mupoverDaryl’sshoulder.Myheadbangsonthebedroomdoor,butthereisn’tenoughairinmetocry.Herunsdownstairs,outintothecold.
We’reatthevan.Justhimandme.Heholdsmeupinfrontofhim.Hismouthopens,soclosethatIcanseethebrownbitsinhisteeth.
‘Yourname’sBoyle,’hesays.‘Boyle.Sayit.’
‘Farrier,’Isay,lookingpasthimatthehouseacrossthestreet.
It’sgotsilvermetalinsteadofdoorsandwindows.That’swhatthey’lldotoours,coverupthewindows.Makeitblind.Makeitdead.
‘Yacunt,’heopensthebackofthevan.‘Boyle,’heshouts,socloseIcanfeelhisbristlytashonmyface.Hiseyesarealongwaybackunderhisforehead.Hishandistightonmyneck.
‘Boyle,’Isay,pushingthewordthroughmythroat.
‘Right.Andyouhaven’tgotafuckinbrother.’Hethrowsmeintothevanandslamsthedoor.
It’sdarkandI’mlyingonsomethingsaggyandsmooth.IfeelalongtillIcantellit’sthebottomofthefurrysofa.Icrawlupontothenextthing,ourmattress,rightatthetopofthevan.Mybackistightundertheroof.Ipressmyfaceintothemattress’sspringysoftnessandtrytobreatheBenjy’ssmell,butthere’sonlycoldanddamp,andthepetrollyrumbleoftheenginecarryingmeawayfromhim.
Boyle.Ithinkofahugespotwithyellowin.Idon’twanttobeBoyle.IwanttobeTommyFarrierlikemydad,likemyrealdad,butmostlyIjustwantBenjy.BenjyBoyle.Itmakesmelaugh,eventhoughI’mcrying.Itouchmylipsandslidemyfingersin,tastingbloodandbeanjuice.IpushagainstthemwithmytongueandpretendthatmyfingersareBenjy’s.
‘BenjyBoyle,BenjyBoyle,’IsayitliketheprayersinNana’schurch,holdingmyfaceinthemattressuntilthevanrocksmetosleepandBenjycomesforme,holdingmetightasIholdhim.Lovingme.Trustingme.
‘Don’ttrustme,Benjy,’Ipushhimaway,buthewon’tletgo.
‘Don’t,Benjy,’Ifeelmyhandsslippingthroughthedragon’steeth.‘Don’t,Benjy,cosI’macoward.’
Thevanstopsandwe’rethere,whereTheSocialwon’tfindus,andI’mTommyBoyle,agefive-and-a-half,andIdon’thaveabrotherandIneverdid.AndDaryl’sgotapieceofpapertoproveit.
ButDaryldoesn’tknoweverything,andlater,whenit’sdarkandhesayshe’sgoingto“checkthisshitholeout,”Mamcarriesmeuptomynewroom.ShelaysmedownonthemattressandasksifI’mokay.Ishakemyhead.Idon’twanttotalktoher.
‘Well,youhavealookinthatwardrobewhenyou’reready,’
shesays,andshegoesoutandclosesthedoor.
Irolloverandstareatthelightbulb.Myeyesblinkshut,butthelightcomesthrough,orangeyinthedark.
Theroom’srubbish.There’saredcarpetwithaspacecutoutwheresomething’sbeentakenaway,andpinkwallswithblackstuffgrowingunderthewindow,andnothingelseexceptthisbighomemadewardrobe.Thisiswherewelivenow,hereinthisrubbishhouseinNewcastle.ForasecondIwanttobesick,butthenIsmile,cosifweliveinNewcastleitmeansDaryl’sgoingtobeaGeordie,andDarylhatesGeordies.
ThathelpsmegetupanddowhatMamsaid.
ThewardrobegroanswhenIopenthedoor.It’sdark,withascratchyblanketspreadoutinsidethatmakesmethinkofBenjyinthatyellowycupboard.Youcantellfromtheshapeoftheblanketthatthere’ssomethingbigunderneath.Ipulltheblankettillit’sinapileonthefloorandIcanseethiswoodenbox,thekindtheysellfruitinatthemarket.There’sloadsofthingsinside,oldclothes,andtapesandpapers.Isupposeitmustbestuffthatthepeoplewhousedtoliveheredidn’twant,butthenIhearMam’sfeetonthestairs,carryingthings,makingthisintoourhouse.Thathelpsmerealise.Theboxisours.
There’sablackshirtwithsilverswirlsonthefrontthatfeelssilkysmoothinmyhands,andaredonenearlythesame.IpullthingsoutasfastasIcan,tapesandvideos,abeltwithstarson,andtheseamazingboots.TheysmelllikeDaryl’sbikerjacketandthebottom’shangingoffoneofthefeet,soitlookslikeanopenmouth,butthey’restillbrilliant,andthat’swhenIknowforsure.
‘Look,Benjy,’Iwhisper,feelingthescaly-smoothnessonmyfingers,watchingthebootchangefromsilvertoblueinthelight,liketheskinonamagiccrocodile.
‘Youcancomeback,Dad,whenyou’vefinishedyouradventures.Anytimeyouwant.’
CHAPTERFOUR
SickandBlame
I’mlyingonourfurrysofawatchingRugratsonthetellyandnearlyweeingmyselflaughing.That’swhyIdon’thearthebigdoor.Idon’tknowanythingaboutittillMamwalksinandtripsagainstthesofa.I’mhalfwayup,kneelingonthecushionwithmyarmsout,laughing.
‘Youneedn’tworkyourself,’shesays.‘Ididn’tcomeforyou.’
Thesmileachesonmyface.
Mamswaysagainstthetelephonetable,scowlingatmewiththemake-upsmudgedonhereyes,soshelookslikeanangrypanda.She’sbeenonthedrink.Notnewdrinkthatmakesherfeettip-taponthelino,butolddrinkthatsmellsofsickandblame.ShejamsherfingersintheSimpson’smugonthetable.There’snomoneyin.Idon’tsayanythingbutMamspinsroundasifIdid.Thenshegoesoutwithherlongcoatswishingbehindher,andstampsupthestairs.
Idon’tgetup;itdoesn’tfeelsafe,butIcrawlintothepassage,following.I’monthethirdstepwhenMamscreamsIt’sjustashortsound,butitmakesmyfacefeelcold.She’scrying,worsethannormal,bigthudswithlittlescreamsinside.ItmakesmethinkofNanastabbingherciggydownintotheashtraylikeshewastryingtokillit.ExceptnowIknow,itwastheotherwayaround.
‘It’suptotheoneslikeustolookoutforthoseothers,’shesaid,meaningherandme,andMamandBenjy.
IwanttogoupandcuddleMam,tostopherbeingsad,togetthebadfeelingoutofmytummy.Orjustsaytherightthingandmakeherhappy,likethattimeinchurchwhenItoldBenjyoffforpickinghisnoseintheLord’shouseandMamandNanalaughedforages.ItwaseasytomakeMamlaughthen,beforeIletBenjygo.
IpressmyhandsonmyearslikeifIcan’thearher,it’llmakethebadthoughtsgoaway,butitdoesn’tworkandIdon’tknowwhattodo,soIsitatthebottomofthestairsandlookupatDaryl’spicturesontheslopingwall,justlikeinouroldhouse.
There’shimsittingonthisblackmotorbikewithhisbikerjacketunzippedsoyoucanseehe’sgothisSunderlandshirtonunderneath.Hemightbesmiling,butyoucan’treallytellcoshe’sgotallthislonghairblowingoverhisface.
TheotherpictureisfromwhenSunderlandwonthecup.There’sallthesemenwithbighairandstripyshirts.Oneontheendisginger,buthehasn’tgotatash.There’sseventeenaltogether,well,fifteenwithstripyshirts,andtwowithgreen.Icountthemoutloud,overandover,forages,untilmymouthgetsdryandI’msurethatMam’sstoppedcrying.She’smovingabout,comingoutontothelanding.Irunbackintothelivingroom.
WhenMamcomesin,hercheeksareredwithlinesdownthemlikeshe’sbeencryingblacktears.Sheplonksherselfontheendofthesofaandthat’swhenIseeshe’sholdingacarrierbag.
There’saginormouscardinside.Mamunwrapsthecrinklypaperandputsthecardonthecoffeetable,thenshejuststaresatit.
‘Alrightnow,Mam?’Islideacrossthesofaintinymovements,likeIhardlyknowI’mdoingit.‘Alright?’
Mamsniffs.RugratsarestillonthetellyandIwishthey’djustshutup.I’mclose,leaningin,smellingMam’shair.Iletmyheadtiptowardsherarm.Iknowhowgoodit’llfeel.Butthenmyheadtouchesandshejumpsuplikeanelectricshock.
‘Apen,’shesays.‘Ineedapen.’Shepullsthedrawersoutofthesideboard.ActionMan’sheadbouncesonthefloor,andaletterwithredwritingcomesfloatingdownontop.‘Aha,’shesays,holdingherpenintheairlikeit’stheF.A.Cup.
There’saracingcaronthefrontofthecard,andabigbluefive.That’showoldIamnow,exceptonlytillsoon,cosI’mnearlysix.Mam’smadeamistake.Ismileanyway,andMamstartswriting.
I’mgoodatreading,cosofschoolandNana.SisterSofiasaidI’masadvancedasanyoneinmyclass,butIstillcan’treadMam’sscratchyjoined-upwriting,andit’sgreen,whichmakesitharder.Icantellsomelettersthough,andthenIseeBenjy’snameandIknowI’mstupidandmean,cosit’sAugusttoday,andthatmeansBenjy’sbirthday.Itmakesmethinkofhowit’sbeenagessinceMamsaidhe’ddefinitelybecominghomesoon,andthere’sallthesequestionsjumbledinmyhead,butreally,onlyone,andIknowI’mnotallowedtoask.
I’mreallyquietandcarefulnottotouchMam.Iwaittillsheputsthependown.
‘Please,Mam.CanIwritetoo?’
Shesortofgaspslikeshe’dforgottenIwashere,butshegivesmethepen.
I’mnotsureaboutthespelling,butIwriteasneatasIcan.IusemynamethatjustBenjycallsme,andIputfivekissesonthebottom,oneforeveryyear.
Sorry,Benjy,lovefromTom-BombxxxxxMamputsthecardintheenvelope,thenshegetsthisscrunchybitofpaperfromherpocketandstartscopyingitontotheenvelope,incapitals.Ithinkshe’sgoingtowriteBenjy’sname,butshedoesn’t.
‘Mrs’meansmissus.Thenshewritessomelettersthatdon’tmakeanameatall.
A-B-U-T-O-P-A-L-A-C-I-O-S,itsays,andIwonderwhatthatmeans.Idon’task.
Mam’scryingagain,notinanoisyway,justbeingstillwithtearsfollowingtheblacklinesonherface.Shewritesmorewordsthatfilltherestoftheenvelope,thensheholdsupthecrinklybagtillastampfallsout.Shelicksthebackandsticksitontheenvelope.
IknowwhathappensnextandIwanttogowith,butI’mscaredincaseMamsaysno.Shegetsupandwipesherfaceonhersleeve.
‘CanIcome,Mam?Please.’
‘It’stoofar,’shesays.
‘Please,Mam,I’llbegood.’
Shedoesn’tanswer,justdoesthatsighlikebeforeshegetsangry,andwalksoutintothestreet.Ifollow.Herhandishangingthere,rightnearmyface.Idon’tholdit,notstraightaway.Iwaittillwe’reupatthetopofBelmontStreet,pastAtwal’sshopandontotheWalkerRoad.ThenIdo,andwewalkalongtogether,straightpastthepostbox,rightintotown.It’shotandsunny,andeverything’sperfectexceptforthebitsofblackstillsmudgedonMam’sface.
WegoallalongtheQuayside,pasttheoldwarehousesanduptoCentralStation,whichisashighasthesky.There’saginormousclockwithbothhandspointingattheceiling,andanelectricboardwithalltheplaceswrittenon.
‘Platformthree,’Mamsays,tonoone,andwegointothisbigglassofficetobuythetickets.‘Sunderland,’Mamsays,whichiswhereweusedtolive,wherewe’renotallowedtotalkaboutincaseTheSocialfindoutandcomeformetoo.
Ipressmyfingersovermymouth,justtobesure,coswhenIthinkofthegoldringonthatbighairyhand,I’msoscaredthatI’mgladitwasBenjytheygotinsteadofme.Butwedon’ttalkaboutthateither.NotaboutTheSocial,andnotaboutBenjy,notuntiltoday,soIcanhardlybelieveitcoswe’vegotacardwithBenjy’snameonandwe’rereallygoing,justmeandMam,onanadventure.
There’sawhistle,andthetrainjerksforward.Mamgetsthesesweetsoutofhervelvetcoatandpassesthemacross.They’rewinegumswithtwoleftin.ItakethegreenoneandgivetheredonetoMam.Red’sherfavourite.Isuckminetomakeitlastlonger,andwatchthehousesgopastthewindow,butthenIfeelMamlookingatmewithonesideofhermouthturneddown,likeshedidonthesofa.Likeshedoesallthetime.Sheseesmewatchingandturnsaway,butit’stoolate.Thishorriblefeelingthumpsinmytummy.Mamhatesme.Ilookatthecowsthroughthewindow.ButIknowit’strue.ShehatesmecosI’mhereinsteadofBenjy.Cosit’smyfaulttheyfoundhim.
CosIscreamedwhenIshouldhavekeptmystupidmouthshut.
Ireachdownundertheplastictable.Theinsideofmylegfeelsfatthroughmyjeans.IholdthetiniestbitbetweenmyfingerandthumbandnipashardasIcan.Thewinegumsqueezestightbetweenmyteeth,butIputmyfingersovermymouth,andIdon’tscream.Idon’tmakeasound.Inipharder.There’sstickysweatonmyforehead,andmyheadfeelsfuzzy,likeI’mnotsureifI’mawakeorasleep.Thenailsonmyfingerandthumbarenearlytogether,andIfeelbetter.Thebadfeelinginmytummyisjustatinydot,muchsmallerthanthepaininmyleg.IholdonrighttillwepassthesignthatsaysSunderland,andit’stimetogetoffthetrain.
There’sathrobbyfeelinginmylegwhenwecomeoutofthestation,butitdoesn’treallyhurt.Anyway,I’mnotthinkingaboutthat.I’mlookingoutforouroldhouse.Ican’tseeit.Maybeitlooksdifferentnow,ifthey’vetakenthewindowsaway?Itrytorememberwhatitwaslike,butallIcanthinkofisthatblindhouseacrossthestreet,andDarylthrowingmeintothevan.
“Youhaven’tgotabrother,”hesaidButIdo,andwe’vegothisbirthdaycard,andIdidn’tevenscream.
Ikeeplookingaround,butthere’sjustshops,andthenwe’rerightbesidethisshinyredpostbox.I’mtallenoughtoreach,toputthecardin.Mamdoesn’tsaythatshe’sgoingto.Shejustputsthecardintheslot.ButI’mquick.Ireachupandtouchtheenvelope,soit’slikewe’vepostedthecardtogether.
‘Happybirthday,sweetheart,’Mamsays,andIthinkshe’sgoingtocryagain,butshedoesn’t.
‘HappyBirthday,’Isay,too.
‘Haway,Tommy,’shesays,andwewalkbackalongthestreet.
WeholdhandsallthewaytothecornerIdon’tletgo,butwhenIlookbackattheslotwherethecardwent,thatwideshinymouthmakesmethinkofDaryl.Idon’tlookagain.
‘Ishould’vedonemore,’Mamsays,onthetrainback,whichissortofliketalkingaboutBenjy.
‘Yes,’Isay.‘Ishould’vetoldmorethingsinhiscard.AboutwearinghisNoddyjarmatopeventhoughit’stoolittle,andsometimes-’
‘Nexttime,’Mamsays,andlookshardoutthewindow.
WegetsausagerollsfromGreggsonthewayhome,andneitherofussaysanythingtoDarylwhenhegetsinfromdeliveries.IloveitcosmeandMamhavegotasecret,andIknowwhatIhavetodotomakeMamlovemeagain.Igivemylegalittlesqueeze,rightonthebruise,andthat’swhenIdecideI’mgoingtobebrave.I’mgoingtobeasgoodasBenjy.
CHAPTERFIVE
DancewiththeDevil
Ikickmyrobotduvetoffandblinkatthesunshinethroughthewindow.There’snooneinthehouse.Icantellcosthetelly’snoton,andthere’snoshouting.Still,Ipushmybedroomdoortillitclicks,thenIreachunderthebedandpulloutDad’ssecretbox.Itakehiscrocodilebootsoffthetop,tiedupinanorangecarrier,andlookatwhat’sunderneath.
There’ssixvideos,fourwithClintEastwoodandtwowithJohnWayne.IkeepClintandJohnseparatetomakesuretheydon’tshooteachotherbymistake.Imean,Iknowtheywon’treally,butthat’sjusthowI’vekeptthemsinceIwaslittle,withthetapespiledupneatlyontheotherside.There’slots,butIknowallthesingers;JohnnyCash,TheEagles,BobDylan,andotherswithoutboxes,justwithscrawlywritingthat’snearlyfadedaway,andnameslikeNashvilleLive,andthe‘79sessions.
Itipitallout,everything,ontomyfurrybrownrug.I’llorganizeitagaininaminute,butfirstIpullouttheyellowypaperonthebottom.That’swherethemostspecialthingsare,underneath.
There’sacardwithabigsparklytoweronthefrontandwritingontheotherside.It’ssortofhardtoread,butI’vehaditsinceIwasfive,andI’meightnow,soI’veprobablyseenitaboutamilliontimes.
Baby,
Crossedanotherdayoffthecalendarthismorning.SixnightsontheroaduntilIseeyourprettyface.
Loveanddirtykisses,
Jack
That’snotthebestthough.There’sapicturetoo,aphotoofoneofthosebigpointycarslikefromNana’sfilms,withamanstandingbesideit.He’sleaningagainstthecarwithhiselbowontheedgeoftheroofandhisfaceinhishand.He’ssmilingreallywidelikehe’slaughing,andthewayIknowfordefinitethathe’smydadiscoshe’swearingthosebluecrocodilebootsthatarewrappeduprightnowinthecarrierbagonmyrug.
Thebagcrinklesagainstmyfingers.IfeeltheleatherridgesthroughtheplasticandstareatthephotolikeifIwishhardenough,thebootscantakemeinside.
‘Goodone,son,’Dadsays,stilllaughing,andIknowit’scosofsomethingfunnythatI’vesaid.Hetakeshisarmoffthebigoldcarandrufflesmyhair.‘Sixnightsontheroad,’hesays,andweclimbin.
Thedoor’sheavy,butIknowtopullthehandlewithbothhands.Itbangsshut.Dadstopslaughing.Hedisappears.There’sonlythedoor’sechovibratingupthroughmybedroomfloor.
IpressDad’sphotoagainstmyjarmatopandlistenhard.
Therearen’tanyvoices,justshoesslappingonthestairs.Idon’tbreathe.Thestepsaren’tanythinglikeDaryl’sjanglybikerboots,butthey’retooslowtobeanormalperson’s.It’shim.IgetthisdizzyfeelinglikebackwhenIwaslittle.LikethatnightatouroldhouseinSunderlandwhenEnglandlosttheWorldCup,andthewhiskybroke,andeverythingturnedbad.
Icanfeelthefear,seethatgoldenbottlewobblingonthecabinetandthequestioninBenjy’seyes,butI’mmovingtoo,throwingDad’sstuffbackinthebox,listeningtoDaryl’sslipperyshoesslapacrossthelanding.Ipushtheboxunderthebedandjumpontomyduvet,thenIblinkupatDarylinthedoorway.
Hedoesn’twearhisbikergearanymore,justwhitishjeansandthissilveryjackethecopiedoffCrockettonMiamiVice.
‘Morning,Crockett,’Isay.Helikesthat.
‘Alright,Mr.T,’hegrinsandturnshiscollarup,soIthinkmaybehe’sinagoodmood,butthenhismouthgoestight.
Istareattherobotsonmyduvet.
‘Aw,shitman,lookatthat,’hesays,butheisn’tangry,moresortofconfused.
There’sawrinkleinhisforehead,likeMamwhenshe’sworried.Hekneelsdownsohisfaceisjustnearmineandlooksstraightatmeforages,thendownatmybedroomrug.Hestretcheshishandoutjustaboveit,extrawhiteinthesunshine.
‘He’sbeen,’Darylsays,‘fordefinite.’
Dad,doeshemeanDad?Buthowcanheknow?
Theruglooksthesame,brown,andfurry,withorangeybitsattheend,andthatbaldypatchfromoneofMam’sspecialciggies.
Pleasecomeback,Mam,I’mthinking,butIknowshe’sdownthemarketwithMoiraandshewon’t,notforages.There’sjustmeandDaryl,andDad’sboxaboutamillimetreawayundermybed.
Darylreachesoutwithhisfingerandtouchesanorangeyspikeoffurontherug.Hepullshishandawayfast.Hislipsstretch,likemaybehe’sscared,buthestilldoesn’tsay.
‘Who?Who’sbeen?’
Darylshakeshishead.
‘Don’task,’hesays,staringattherug.‘Betternottoknow,’buthiseyeskeepflickinguptomine.
Icantellhewantsmetoaskagain,soIpressmyfingersovermylips.
‘Alright,’Darylsays,likeI’vepersuadedhim.‘Butyoubetternottellyourmam,right?’
‘Right,’Ipushthewordthroughmyfingers.
‘Seehowtherug’sallflatoverthere,butthisbit’sstickingup?
‘Yeh.’
‘Well,that’swherehe’sbeendancingwhileyou’vebeenasleep,withhisspikeytoesandhisforkjammingdown.’
‘Butwho?’
‘Him,’Darylsays,kneelingdownwithonehandonmypillow,staringatmewithhisbrightblueeyes.‘TheDevil.He’sbeendancingbesideyourbedinthenight,sayinghisrhymesandcastinghisspells.’Heleansbackawayfromme.‘Lookslikeit’sthefirsttimethough.Threetimes,andhe’sgotyou.’
‘Gotmehow?’
ButIseewherehe’sbeen.Therug’sallspikedupwithorangetipslikethefiresofhell,andthegoosebumpscomeshiveringundermyjarmas.
‘Twomoretimes,Mr.T,’Daryldoeshissmilewherehiseyesdon’tjoinin.‘Twomore,’hisheadswaysbackwardslikehe’spraying.‘AndthenyoubelongtotheDevil.’
‘Shutup,shutup,’Iscrambleoffthebedandrunintothebathroomandlockthedoor.Istaythereforages,tillIhearthefrontdooropenandMam’svoiceshoutingupthestairs.
Daryl’sgone,andMam’sgotmefourpurpleTeletubbies.
They’reonlyforlittlekids,butthere’snoonetosee,soIlinetheTeletubbiesuponmywindow,besidemywrigglyworm.ImakethemmoveinasortofdanceandtalktoeachotherincowboyvoiceslikeonTheLoneRanger.Idon’tthinkaboutDarylandtheDevilforages,nottillit’slateandI’mbackinbedwatchingtheyellowstreetlightslideinthroughthecurtainsandcreepacrosstherug,turningitspointystrandsfrombrowntofieryorange.
I’mtooscaredtothinkaboutanythingatfirst,butafterabit,thethoughtscomeintomyhead.IwonderwhatitwouldbeliketobetakenbytheDevil,andifthat’swhathappenedtoDarylintheFalklands?Ifthat’swhyhe’slikeheis?
ItmakesmethinkofthisotherSunday,agesago.Wewereinchurchwaitingforthepriest,withBenjyinhisnewbluesuitandhisfingerturningupinsidehisnose,andNanahissywhisperingoverthetopofourheads.
‘Onherownwithtwokids,thenthatbuggercomesalong.
Madethelastonelooklikeasaint,butofcourse,shewelcomedhimwithopenarms,thepoor,stupidgirl.I’mtoblameforencouragingit.Imean,Ithoughthe’datleastlookafterher.
Somechance.Nowwhereisshe,caughtbetweentheDevilandthedeepbluesea?’
ThenthePriestcameinandeveryonestoppedtalking,andIsupposeMammust’vechosentheDevil.
MamgoesbacktothemarketwithMoiranextSunday.I’mfastasleepwhenthelightcomesoninmyroom.Icantellit’searly.
Myeyeshurt.Daryl’sstandingoverme,lookingdownattherug.Heshakeshishead,andthegoosebumpsgotinglingupmyarm.Iknowwhathe’sgoingtosay.Ipressmyfacedownandpullthepillowuparoundmyears,butIcan’thelphearing.
‘Secondtime,’hesays,walkingaway.‘Lastfuckinchance.’
CHAPTERSIX
TheFingerGame
IwassittingonthestepoutsideourhouselastSundaywatchingthisweird-lookinggirlmoveintonumbersixwhenthisamazingthinghappened.SomeblokeI’dneverevenseenbeforecameupandgavemeabrand-newvideorecorder,stillintheboxandeverything.Darylsaysit’shis,eventhoughitwasMamthatboughtit,fromMickeyCassidyattheBlackBoar.DarylsaysI’mnotallowedtotouchit,saysI’mnottogowithinahundredfuckinyardsofit,butI’vewatchedallofDad’svideosalready,andit’sabouttimereally,cosI’vehadthemforyears.
JohnWayne’sprettycool,andIlikethegravellywayhetalks,buthe’sabitoldandfat.ClintEastwoodhardlysaysanythingatall,justchewshiscigarandletsthebadguysgoontalkingtillyoualmostfeelsorryforthem,thenhefillsthemfulloflead.Clint’seasilythebest,andTheGood,TheBad,andTheUglyisthebestfilmThebitI’mwatchingnowisjustbrilliant;I’vemust’veseenaboutahundredtimes.
They’reinthecemeterywherethegoldisburied,standinginthisbigcirclewithrowsofgravestonesandscrubbyhillsbehind.Blondie,that’sClint,putsthisyellowystonedownonthecrackedground.HewalksbackwardswithhiseyesdartingbetweenAngelEyesandTuco,andallthetimethere’sthismusicthatgoestinglingrightthroughyou.They’rereadyforthefinalshoot-out.Blondiethrowshisponchoupoverhisshoulder.Tuco’sfingerstwitch.Themusicgetsfaster,like–Dununununuh,du-nu-nuh,andeventhoughyouknowBlondie’sreallycool,AngelEyesandTucoaresuper-fasttoo.
Istretchoutfromthesofaandpresspause.Themusicstops.IcanhearMamandDarylupstairs.Hiscrappymusic’splaying;theaceofspades,theaceofspades,thesamewordsoverandover.Igetupandshutthedoor.There’snostoryinDaryl’ssongs.They’rejustloudandangryandboring,likeDaryl.
Iplaythefilm,justforafewseconds,tofeelthatmusictinglingthroughme,thenIpauseitagainandsitbackonthesofawiththesoundstillgoinginmyhead.
Dununununuh,du-nu-nuh.
BlondieandTucoandAngelEyeshaven’tmoved,they’reinthesamepositioninthecircleastheyareonmypad.Ishadeinabitofthescrubbyhills,thenIpickupmyspecialH2pencil,whichisbestfordrawing.Mr.Corcorangotitforme.HesaysI’mgood.Talented,hesays.DarylsaysMr.Corcoran’sapufftaaarhh.Hesaysitlikethat,doinghisstretchysmileandmakingtheaaarhhgoonforages.
I’vealreadydrawnthat;Daryl’sstretchysmile,hisfaceonAngelEyes’body,staggeringbackwiththegunfallingoutofhishandandhissleevepulledupsoyoucanseethetailofthesnake-bitchtattoowindingdownontohiswrist.Blondie’seasytoo.That’sDad,withhisbluecrocodilebootsandthatbillowyshirtlikeinthephoto.He’sgotClint’sponchothrownoverhisshoulder,andthere’sawispofsmokerisingfromthebarrelofhisgun.Youcantellthatintheendhe’lltakehisshareofthegoldandrideoffintothedistancetohavemoreadventures,andthenhe’llcomebacktoNewcastleandshootDaryldead,andwe’llbebountyhuntingpartnerstogether.Maybewe’llletMamcomewithus.Maybenot.Itdepends.
Tuco’smoredifficult.I’mneverquitesurewhohe’sgoingtobe.Inyesterday’sdrawing,hewasBrendantheschoolcaretakerwhoyelledatmeforspillinghisbucket,eventhoughitwasatotalaccident.Idrewstragglyhairroundhisbaldpatchandturnedhisgunintoamop,butthatspoiledthedrawing,soIstartedagain.
Thisone’sbetter,andIknowit’scosIkeeprewindingthevideotomakethemusicstayaliveinmyhead.That’swhatI’mconcentratingon,andlettingthepencilgowhereitwants.Idon’tevenhardlyknowwhoI’mdrawingtillit’sdone.Idobigeyesandalittlenose,andsomelinesacrosshercheeksuntilherbrownfaceissoscrunched-upit’slikeshe’ssuckingitintoherangrymouth.Herhairisspikeyasahedgehog.I’vedrawnthatuglykidwhomovedinacrossthestreet.Isawheragainyesterday,standingoutsidetheirredfrontdoorwiththesilvermermaidknocker,andherMamshoutingoutthewindowinavoicelikesomeoneoffBrookside.
‘Angie,getbackin…’
Ididn’theartherestcoswewereinDaryl’snewMarkII,drivingfast.AshitbrownFordCapriiswhatMoiracallsit.OnlyDarylsays.‘TheMarkII,’likeit’sarocketorsomething.Soanyway,Ididn’thearmuch,butIsawherscrunched-upfaceexactlylikeI’vedrawnit,andIdon’tevenknowifthattinglyfeelingisfromthemusicinmyhead,orcosIsortofknow,thisisthebestthingI’veeverdone.
Thestairscreak.Someone’srunningdown,butallIcareaboutisthemusicinmyhead.Idon’tevenfeelthedooropenorhearMam’svoicecallingdownfromthebedroom.
‘Daryl,Daz.It’llbealright.It’sjustthebooze.’
‘Hawaythen,spreadthefuckinjoy.’
Ihearthat.
Daryl’sstandingbetweenmeandthetelly,justwearingjeansandhisgoldchain.He’sgotacanoflagerinhishand,andIknowthatsomething’sgoingtohappencoshe’sdoingthatthingwherehislipsticksoutallwetandredsoyoucanseethebrownlinesbetweenhisteeth.
Idon’twanttosayaboutTucoandAngie,soIdon’tsayanything.Ijuststareathissnake-bitchtattootillMamcomesin.Youcantellshe’sdrunk.Andshe’snotwearinganythingunderherdressinggown,whichisdisgusting.
‘Whatisit,baby?’shesays,leaningover.She’ssowobblythatshehastoputherhandonthesofatostopherselffromfallingonme.
‘Nothing,’Isay,butturnthepicturecosIwanthertosee.
‘That’slovely,thatis,’shesays,buthereyessortofslideacrossit.
‘Fuckinhell,’thecancracksinDaryl’shand.Atleasthiseyesstillwork.Heknowshisownface,hisowntattoo.
Mamputsherhandonhisarm.HestaresatMam’shandlikehedoesn’tknowwhatitis.Thebottomofthesnake’stailwindsdownthroughherfingers,curlingaroundtheword‘bitch,’justthewayI’vedrawnit.Hiscanfallsonthefloor.Ijammypictureundertheseat.Adribbleoffrothslitherstowardsme.Ipressmyselfbackagainstthesofa.Iknowhe’sgoingtoloseit,butthenhebelchesandgrins.
‘Alright,Pet.Getsometeaon.TommyherecancomeupthePaki’swithme.’
‘Whydon’tItakehimtoFosses,’Mamsays.‘Getussomechips.AndI’llgetabottle…’
Idon’tknowwhatshe’sgoingtosaynextcosDaryltakesherhandandpressesitoverhermouth.Shesoundslikeababyforasecond,tillshestopstalking.
‘Gettheteaon,’Darylsays.
‘Don’t,Mam.Don’tgo.’
Shedoesn’teventurnaround,justwalksthroughintothekitchenonherwobblylegs,butwithherheadreallystillonherneck.That’showIknowshe’sheard,andshe’sleavingmewithhim.
‘Hawaythen,’Darylsayslikewehangouttogetherallthetime,butyoucanseethemusclesstretchedtightonhisneck.
Hemakesagrabforme,butIcanstillfeelthebruisesfromthelasttime,andI’mupandpasthim,andoutontothestreet.Iexpecthimtoberightbehindme,buthe’snot.Iknowbetterthantorunaway,soIjustwaitbythecar,readingthestickersinthebackwindow.Theoldonethatwasalreadythere:Ifyoucanreadthis,you’retooclose,andthenewonethatDarylgot:Ifyoucanreadthis,you’renotafuckin’immigrant
Iwritemyownmessageunderneath,thenjumpwhenthefrontdoorslams.
Darylcomesdownthepath,stillpullinghisfloweryshirton.Heonlydoesonebutton,andthat’swrong.
IlookatmymessageonthebackwindowandmakesureI’mroundtheothersideofthecar.
‘Getin,’hesays,andunlocksthedoor.
Idowhathesays.Hegetsinbesidemeandtakesthisoilycloththat’scalledachamoisleatherfromtheinsideofthedoorandwipesthewindscreensuper-slowly,thewaySisterJosephastrokesNoahthehamsteratschool.Itrynottolook.Heputstheclothbackinthedoorandpresseshishandstogetherlikehe’sgoingtopray,thenhestartsthecar.Wedriveforaboutfivesecondsandstop.
‘Stay,’Darylsays,likeI’madogorsomething,andhegoesintoRazak’s.
It’sboilinginthecar.Oneofthosesweatydayswhenthesky’sreallywhiteandsocloseitfeelslikeyoucouldreachupandtouchtheclouds.
‘Needstorain,’Nanawould’vesaid,andIdon’tknowifshemakesithappen,butthefirstbigdropsplodgesonthebonnet,andaboutfivesecondslaterit’srattlingontherooflikeamachinegun.
IpickataloosebitofleatheronthesteeringwheelcoverandthinkaboutDad’svideo,stillinthemachine.IhavetogetitoutbeforeDarylfindsit.ButthenIgetdistracted,cosifIcanmaketheholeatinybitbigger,I’llbeabletogetmyfingerin.Daryltakesages.Thecargetsallmistedupinside,soIreachacrossandwinddownDaryl’swindow.Istoppickingandwatchthebigdropssplatonhisseat.IwishIwasathomefinishingmydrawing.
Theycomeouttogether,DarylandMr.Razak,pointingandshoutingateachotherinthedoorway.They’retoofarawayformetohearatfirst,butIcanseeDaryl’sneckisred.He’swalkingbacktowardsthecarandI’mthinkinghowhelookssmalleroutsideofthehouse,prettyscrawnyreally,foragrown-up.That’swhatMartinfromthekeycuttingshopcalledhim,‘ascrawny-arsedrunt.’Daryldidn’tevensayanything,nottillwegotoutside.
‘Youchangeprices.Istheft.Icallpolice.Icallpolicerightaway,’Mr.Razaksays.HisheadnodssofastI’msurehisturban’sgoingtofalloffandsplatonthesoggypavement.Itdoesn’t,andhedoesn’tcallanybodyeither.Hejuststandsthereshoutingthroughtherain.
‘You’remental,you,yaPakicunt,’DarylstopspointingatMr.Razakandpointsathisownheadinstead.‘Roundthefuckin’twist.’
‘Youarebarredfrommyshop.Gonow.Comeback,Icallpoliceforsure.’
‘YouthinkI’mcomingbacktothisPakishitholewhenIcangotoadecentwhiteman’sshop?’Darylpullsthecardooropensohardtheedgebangsagainsthisleg.‘Yacunt,’hesays.
‘TightarsedfuckinPaki,’hehisses,withbothhandswhiteonthesteeringwheel,andhisthumbjusttouchingthehole.
Isitbackinmyseat,tryingnottobethere,listeningtotherainontheroofandtheengineroaring.Daryldoesn’tevennotice.Hekeepstalking,callingMr.RazakadirtythievingPakiforchargingthirty-sevenpenceforacanoflager,anddrivingupWalkerRoadataboutninetymilesanhour,thenskiddingtoastopwithtwowheelsuponthepavementsoIhavetoholdmyselfbackfromleaningonhisshoulder.
‘Goonthen,’heslamssomemoneyonthedashboard.‘AndIwantthefuckinchange.’
‘What?’
‘Getthefuckinchips.’
Ilookoutthroughthebackwindowatthechipshopsignawholerowofhousesaway,andIthinkaboutDaryl’shandonMam’smouth,makinghersoundlikeababy,andhowwealwayshavetodowhatradgyDarylsays.
‘ButMam’sgottheteaon.’
‘Aye,somemankyshite.Getthefuckinchips.’
‘It’sraining.’
‘Whoareyou,MichaelfuckinFish?Idon’twantaweatherreport.Iwantchips.’
‘Butwe’remilesaway.I’llgetsoaked.’
‘WillIcallyouataxi?Afuckinlimousine?’
Ilookbacktowardsthechipshop,juststaring,readingthesigns,backwardsinthebackwindow.IcanfeelDarylreadingthemtoo,thetwostickersandmyfingerwritingunderneath,standingoutagainstthecondensation.
‘DarylisaGeordie.’
ThistimeIdon’tgetanywarning.Darylgrabsmyhand.Hisfaceisred,rightupclose,hisfingerstangledupwithmine.
‘Youthinkyourfuckinsmart,doya?Doya?Yacunt.’
Idon’tanswer.Itdoesn’tmatterwhatIsaynow.
He’sgotmyhandpressedflatonthedashboard,andhe’sholdingmymiddlefinger,squeezingsohisringdigsintomyknuckle.
‘AnswerwhenIaskyouaquestion,’hesays,bendingmyfingerbacktowardsmywrist.
‘Yes,’Isay.‘I’llanswer.’
‘Youthinkit’ssmarttocheekme?’
‘No,Daryl,Iwon’tcheekyou.’
Daryllikesthat.Hebelchesandsighs.Icansmelloldcheesethroughthebooze,andit’slikethecaristhewholeworldandthere’sjustmeandDarylleft.
‘No,youfuckinwon’t,’hesays,andIcanfeelhimthinkingwhattosaynext.‘CosI’mthehardestfuckinbastardinthecity.’
‘You’rethehardestbastard…’
‘Yacunt?Hejerksmyfingerback.‘Whatareyoucallingme?’
‘No,nothing.’
‘I’mthebiggeststudinNewcastle,that’swhatIam.’
‘You’rethebiggeststudinNewcastle.’
‘AndtheMarkIIisthefastestsetofwheelsinWalker.’
‘Yes,theMarkIIisbrilliant.’
I’mansweringwhateverhewants,butIdon’tevencare,becausethefingergamemakesBenjyreal.Fromthebeginning,ifIsaidhisnameorthethingshedid,thenDarylwouldgrabmyhand.Sometimeshe’dtwistmyarm,butmostlyhe’dpressmyhandflatlikenow,andbendmyfingertillIscreamed.
“Yourname’sBoyle,”he’dtellme,makingmesayit.“Andyoudon’thaveabrother.”
IshutmyeyesandrememberBenjy’sopenmouthliftingawayfrommeinthedark.IscreamedwhenIshould’vebeenquietIletthemtakehim,andthisismypunishment.Thepainburnsupthroughmywrist.Itfeelsgood.
‘Yougoingtogetussomefuckinchipsthen?’
IwaituntilitburnsashotasIcanstand.
‘Yes.I’llgetthechips.’
Heshakeshisheadandpressesonmyfinger.
‘Toolate,son,toolate.’
Hegrinsatthemistonthewindow,anditsstrange,cosIrealisethere’snoonewho’shelpedmerememberBenjyasmuchasDaryl.Heknowsittoo,thatthisisBenjy’sgame.That’swhyhegoesbacktotheoldquestions.
‘Thisiswhereyouliveright,whereyou’vealwayslived.’
‘It’swhereI’vealwayslived.’
‘Here,inWalker.’
‘InWalker.’
‘Andyouhaven’tgotabrother,’hesays,butIcan’tsaythat.
IwasacowardwhenIletBenjygo,butI’mnotalittlekidanymore.I’malmostnine,andIknowthatwhereverheis,Benjy’swatchingmewiththosesparklyeyesandhe’sseeingthatI’mnotacowardanymore,thatifhecomesback,I’lltakecareofhim.
‘Youhaven’tgotabrother,’Darylsays.‘Andyounever…’
Mysweatyfingerslipsthroughhishand
‘Littleshite.’
Hepunchesmyhead,soitbouncesoffthewindow.Isnatchmyhandaway,buthecatchesmywristandpressesitbackonthedashboard.
‘Don’tfuckinmove,’hesays.
Ilookatthepinkcracksinhiseyes.I’mnotsureifIshouldanswer,ifthegamehasstartedagain.
‘Isaid,don’tfuckinmove.’
‘No,Iwon’t.Iwon’t.’
‘Youdon’thaveabrother.’
Idon’tcarehowmuchithurts,butthisfeelswrong,frightening.Mynail’snearlytouchingmyhand.
‘Youdon’thaveabrother.’
Ilookattheshapesthroughthemistywindow,andIwonderwhereBenjyis,whathe’sdoingrightnow.
‘Youdon’thaveabrother.’
Myhandburnshotter.
‘Youdon’thaveabrother.’
Theraindrumsharder.
‘Youdon’thaveabrother.’
‘Idon’t.Ipromise,please.’Butlikealways,I’mtoolate.
There’sthatcrackagain,likeafirework.Idon’tevenrealiseI’mscreamingtillIfeelDaryl’shandsonmyface.Itastethedrylumpofchamoisleatherinmymouth,andIknowI’mstillacoward.
CHAPTERSEVEN
Rumpelstiltskin
KarmaChameleon’splayingontheradio,andMam’sfeetaretip-tappingonthekitchenfloorlikewhenweweretiny.Istandinthedoorwayandwatchherdance.She’ssingingintohercanlikeit’samicrophone,swayingwithherhairswishingaroundher,slowandvagueanddreamy.Hereyesarenearlyclosed,butthensheseesmeandsmiles,andit’swarm,liketoast.Daryl’sgone,andMamisdancingagain
Sheopensthefridgeandstopsdancing,eventhoughthesongisn’tfinished.Shecomestowardsmeandkneelsdown,puttingherhandsonmycheeks,makingthemhot.Hereyesarelookingrightatme,soIcanseethebaggybitsunderneathandtheblackstuffstickingonhereyelashes.
‘Here.’Shepushessomemoneyinmyhand.Evenwithoutlooking,Icantellit’shardlyanything.
‘Goon,Tommy.RunuptoAtwal’sforme.’
‘ButEastEnders’llbeonsoonand-’
‘Ionlywantacoupleofcans.TellherI’llsettleuponThursday,likealways.’
‘Likealways,’Isay,andlookatthetwotenpencesinmyhand.
Iwanttothrowthematthewindow,sohardthatitbreaks.Iimaginethenoise,likeacanofcokethat’sbeenkickeddownthestreetbeforeyouopenit.
‘Please,Tommy.’Herfacegoessaggyasheroldjumper.‘Theyneversaynotoyou.’Shenudgesmeoutofthekitchen.‘Don’tbelong,’shesays,andthecoinsdigintomyfingers.
EvenwhenIgetoutside,mycheeksfeellikethey’restillhotfromhertouching,andallIcanthinkaboutisthewayherfacesagged.Iknowwhy.It’scossometimeswhenshelooksatme,shecan’thelpseeingthatI’mnotBenjy.Thatitwasmewholetthemtakehim.That’swhyshehatesme.I’veknownforages.Butit’slikenowIunderstandsomethingnew.ThatdeepdownMam’stookindtohateanyone.That’swhysheneedsthebooze,tomakethebadfeelingsgoaway.Anditreallyworks.Sometimes,whenshe’shadjusttherightamount,shemightevenlaugh,withhereyestwinklingasbrightasthatstarinthesong.
Atwal’sbluesignisjustovertheothersideofWalkerRoad,andbythetimeIgettothecorner,I’mhopingthatit’sMr.
Atwalintheshop.Hejustsays,“alright,alright,”evenbeforeI’vefinishedexplaining,andwritesthenumbersonhislist.
HeevenletDarylgobackintheshopafterallthestuffhesaid.ButMr.Atwalishardlyeverthere,andI’monlyhalf-wayacrosstheroadwhenIseeMrs.Atwalthroughthewindow,inherblackArabyshawl.She’sturningtinsaround,sothelabelsalllookthesame.
Atleastit’snotnighttime.WhenAtwal’sisshutIhavetogoupandaskMickeyCassidyattheBlackBoarThat’sapub.It’slongandthinwithallthesedark-browntables,andcrumplyoldmenstandingatthebar.ItkindoffeelslikeSundaymorningsatNana’schurch.I’mnotevensupposedtogoin,butMickeyCassidydoesn’tcare.Ihatethewayhegrinsatmeoverthebarandscratcheshisrashyface.
“TellyourmamMickeysaysit’snotrouble,”healwayssays,andhedoesthatstupidlaughfornoreason.“Tellherwe’llsortitnexttimeshe’sin.”
ThebelljingleswhenIopenthedoor,andMrs.Atwalgoesbackbehindthecounter.Shesmilesatme,makingthegoldtoothflashinhermouth.Ilookaway,gettingoneofthegreenbasketsfrombesidethedoor.Iwishtherewereotherpeopleintheshop,buttherearen’t.
AtleastIdon’tseeanyone.
‘HowcanIhelpyou,youngman?’shesays,justlikealways.
Iremembertokeepsmiling.
‘IjustneedtwocansofDiamondWhite,formymam.’
‘Shesendsachildforthis.’
I’mnotsureifit’saquestion,soIdon’tsayanything.IslapthemoneyonthecounterasnoisilyasIcan,tryingtomakeitsoundlikeloads,butMrs.Atwalleansacross.
‘Whatisthis?’shesays,pointing,eventhoughit’sobvious.
There’stwotenpences.
Ifeelhotagain,lookingatthelinesonhercrinklyface,smellingherspiciness.
‘Foolishwoman,’Mrs.Atwalsays,loudenoughformetohear.
Sheshouldn’tbetalkingaboutMamlikethat,butI’mscaredtosayincaseshedoesn’tletmehavethecider.So,Ijusthavetostandtherewhilesheputsthecansinacarrierandwritesthenumbersonacard,shakingherheadtillIreallyhateher.Thentheworstthingisthatshetakesagreenjellychewfrombesidethetillandholdsitout.
‘Take,take,’shesays,flashinghertoothatmelikewe’refriends.
They’rebadforyourteeth,Inearlysay,butthenItakethechew,andgrabthebagoffthecounterbeforeshecanchangehermind.
Iturnaroundfastandpracticallytrampleoverthisweirdgirlwho’screptupbehindme.She’sgotthisscrunchyfaceandsticky-outhair.That’sallIseecosthenshe’sdartedpastmeandsnatchedaCadbury’sCaramelofftherack.ShestuffsitinherpocketlikeshethinksMrs.Atwal’sblindorsomething.
ButMrs.Atwalisn’tblind,andshe’sprettyfastforanoldlady.
Shegrabsahandfulofsticky-outhair.
‘Thief,thief,’sheshouts,pullingthegirlhalfwayoverthecounter,andthegirl’sscreamingforhertogether,“oldbitchhandsoff”,soIhavetoreallyshoutasloudasIcanandbitsofgreenchewgosprayingacrossthecounter.
‘It’salright,Mrs.Atwal.Iforgot.WeneedaCaramel.It’salright,’Isayagain,quieter.‘She’swithme.’
Bothofthemlookatmeweird.Mrs.Atwal’sstillholdingthegirl’shair,butshe’snotpullinganymore,andthegirlisn’ttryingtogetaway,she’sjuststaringatmewithhergianteyes.
Sheremindsmeofsomeone,butIdon’tknowwho.Myhandpressesonmyjeans,nippingatthetopofmyleg,andthenIrealise.She’sthatgirlIsawstandingoutsidethehouseatthetopofourstreet,withhermamshoutingoutthewindow.
‘Angie’swithme,’Isay.
Mrs.Atwal’sfingersopenandthegirlrunspastme,outoftheshop.
‘Sorry,’Isay,andshrugatMrs.Atwal.ShewritesanothernumberonthecardandlinesupalltheCaramel’sintherack.
‘Bye,then,’Isay.
Thedoorjanglesshut,andI’vejuststeppedoutoftheshopwhenIhearthislittlekid’svoicebehindme.She’stalkingreallyfast,withthewordsalljoinedtogether.
‘It’sAnnie,’shesays.‘NotAngie,andIknowwhoyouare.
You’reTommyBoylefromSisterTheresa’sclassatStVincent’s.
LauraCorey’sbrotherKevin’sinherclasstoo,andshesaysthathesaysthatyou’reweird,andyoutalkfunny.’
Icarryonalongthepavementandwaittocrosstheroad,pretendinglikethevoiceisn’ttalkingtome.I’mthinkingaboutMam,aboutussittingonthesofatogetherwhileshehashercans.I’lldrinkthatColafrominthefridge.Iwon’tcarethatit’sflatandtasteslikechemicalscoswe’llleaninagainsteachotherandwatchEastEnders,andmaybeshe’lllaugh,properlylaughlikesheusedto,soherheadshakesandherhairticklesmycheek.I’mthinkinghard,makingitreal.IcannearlyfeelMam’shaironmycheek,butthegirlkeepsontalking.
ShefollowsmewhenIstarttocross,skippingrightupnearmyshoulderwithherfeetflip-floppingontheroad.
‘Idon’tthinkyou’reweird,though,’shesays.
Iturnjustabit,likeI’mlookingforcars,whichIamanyway.
Theedgeofherspikeyhairtouchesmycheek,andshestopsrightinthemiddleoftheroad.
Ikeepgoing,faster.IhavetogetbackforMam.She’llbewalkingupanddownthekitchen,pickingtheskinfrombesidehernailsandnotevenknowingshe’sdoingit.I’mallshe’sgot.
Themanofthehouse,Mamsays,sinceDaryl’sgone.Andshewon’tlethimcomeback,notthistime.Shepromised.
I’mthinkingallthisstuff,butI’mstillsortofseeingthegirlinmyhead,thislittlespikeycreaturelikeachimneysweepfromastory,withherweirdrufflyskirt.Andsheisreallylittle.
Ishouldn’tleaveherstandingintheroad.Ilookbackfromthepavementandit’slikeshe’sbeenwaitingforme,cosshecomesrunningacrosstheroadwithoutevenlooking.
’Anyway,LauraCoreypee’dherpantsintheparklastweek,likefornoreasonatall,soIdon’tseehowshegetstocallanybodyweird,’shesays,talkingagainbeforeshe’sevenofftheroad,andIcanseethatsheisn’twearingaskirtatall,justthesegiantshortsthatcouldbeherdad’sorsomething,iftheyweren’tcoveredinredflowers.
‘God,thatcowpracticallypulledallmybloodyfrigginhairout,’shesays,rubbingatherhead.‘I’llsmashherfaceinifshedoesitagain,theoldPaki,’whichisareallystupidthingtosay,cosanyonecanseethatshe’sonetoo.
Iwanttosay,butthere’sbitsofchewstuckonmyteeth,andanyway,Idon’twanthertothinkmyvoiceisfunny,eventhoughhersistooandshejustkeepsgoingon,sayingotherpointlessstuffthatI’mnotevenlisteningto.Istartwalking,butshestepsacrossinfrontofme,soIhavetostop.Thecansbangonmyleg.
‘I’veseenyououtsideyourhouse,gettinginthatcar.You’vegotabagwithwhitestripesonthatlookslikeit’saboutamillionyearsold,’shesays,likeIdon’tknowwhatmyownbag’slike,andIjustwanttomakeherstoptalking.
‘Whatyouwearingyourdad’sshortsfor?’
‘Ihaven’tgotadad,’shesays,likeshewantstofight,butthenhervoicechangesandshedoesthisthingwhereshemovesherheadupanddownlikeshe’snodding,butsidewaystoo,soshe’ssortofwigglingherfaceatme.‘Anyway,’shesays,pointingatthereddooracrossthestreet.‘We’renearlyneighbours.’
‘So?’Ishrug,butshedoesn’tevennotice,justkeepswigglingherfaceandgoingonaboutcrispsorsomething.
‘Afamilypack.Alltheflavours.They’reinthecupboardontopofthewardrobe,butIcaneasilyclimbup.Youcanhavewhateverone’syouwant…andsomeCadbury’sCaramel,’shesays,holdinguptheCaramelthat’sgonesquidgyinherhand.
‘Idon’twantany,’Isay,butIhaven’thadcrispsforagesandmytummymakesagurglynoise.
Idon’tevenrealiseI’msmilingtillIseeherlaughingback.It’slikeshe’sturnedintosomeoneelse,cosallthescrunchinesshasgoneandthere’sjusttheseshinyteethsurroundedbythreebigdimplesandasoundcomingoutofher,likeourdodgykitchentap.
‘Comeon.’She’sgotmyarm,andIdon’treallymeanto,butI’mlettingherpullmeacrossthestreet.‘Thisone’sours,’shesays,pointingtotheoldreddoorwithitsgiantsilvermermaidknocker.Sheopensherswirlybrowngate,andit’sweirdcosshe’sbossyasateacher,butsolittleshehastoliftthegateupwithbothhandstoopenit.
‘GotWorcestersauce?’Isay,nearlytastingthetinglynessonmytongue,butthatmakesmeremembertheoldbakedbeansfromyesterday,allhardandblackinthepan,andhowMamleftthegasontilltheyturnedintoacrispylumpandtherewasloadsofsmokeandthepanwasruined,andMamwascoughingforages.
‘Ihavetogetback.’
‘Ah,haway,man.’
‘Ihaveto,’Ipullmyarmawayfromher.
‘Nah,’shesays,stampingherfoot,butIkeepwalking,backacrossthestreet.
‘Youbastard,’sheshoutsatmeinthisscreechyvoice,withherfacescrunched-up,andthosebigshorts,andthistightgreenjumperthatdoesn’tevencoverhertummy.AndIcanstillhearhershoutinghowI’maweirdobastardspastic,evenwhenItakethekeyfromroundmyneckandopenourfrontdoor.
Mam’swaitingonthesofa.Shetakesthebagoffmeandopensacan.Sheglugsalongdrinkandsmilesatthespacebesideme.EastEndershasalreadystarted.Idon’tevencare.
‘Whatareyoulaughingat?’sheasks.
Nothing,’Isay,butIcanfeelthatI’msmiling.
I’mthinkingofAnnieonthepathoutsideherhousewiththatlonggrassgrowinguproundhersandals,andherpointykneesandelbows,andherhairallstickingupontopofherscrunchyoldman’sface,stampingherfootlikeanangryelf.Idon’tsay,butthat’swhyI’msmiling.CosRumpelstiltskinlivesinourstreet
CHAPTEREIGHT
AWarmPlace
Daryl’sback.Healwayscomesback.Icanseehisshit-brownCaprifromallthewayupthestreetandhearhiscreepysing-songvoiceassoonasIclosethefrontdoor.HimandMamareonthefurrysofa.They’redrinkingandlaughingtillDarylseesme,thenhedoesthatthingwithhisbottomlipstickingout,likewhenweplaythefingergame.
Mam’swatchingthetelly,reallystaringlikethere’ssomethinggreaton,exceptthetelly’sturnedoff.Iwaitforhertoseeme.
SheknowsI’mhere,butshedoesn’tlook.Daryldoes.Hestaresatmeandcrushesthecaninhishand,thenhedropsitinthepileonthecarpet.
‘Rockon,Tommy,’Hemakesthisgarglynoiseinhisthroat,thenhebelchesandgrins.
Isortofsmileback,whichmakesmewanttobesick,thenIclosethedoorandgouptomybedroom.Thedrawersareallopenadifferentamount,likesteps,soyoucanseeinwithouthavingtomovethem.Itsavesenergy.Thebottomonecameouttoofar,andnowitwon’tmove.Ireachintotheback,feelingforthesmoothshinypaperoftheCadbury’sCaramelIgotlastweek,andthenIrunbackdownstairstryingnottohearhimlaughingonthesofa.Itfeelsgoodtoletthefrontdoorslam.
Ikickhisstupidcarandrunbackupthestreet,crossingovertowardsAnnie’sswirlygate.
I’veseenAnnietwicesinceAtwal’s.ThefirsttimewasonthewaytothestationforBenjy’sbirthday.ShewassittingonthewallatSandyCrescentwithherchinonherhand,likeshewaswaitingforsomething.Iwould’vesaidhi,butIwaswithMam,ontheothersideoftheroad,andanyway,Anniedidn’tseeus.
Orshepretendednotto.
Theothertimewasjustlastweek.IhadtowalkpastherhouseonthewaytoSundaymorningfootball.Shewasstandingthereinthebigfrontwindow,staringthroughthegapinthecurtains,lookingstrangeandfaraway.Shemight’vesmiledatme,butmaybeitwasjusthermouthopening.Iwasn’tsure,soIkeptwalking,butIcouldfeelhereyesitchingmybackallthewaytothecorner.
ThatwaswhenIgottheCaramel.IboughtitfromAtwal’s.
Icouldhavegoneroundstraightafterfootball,butIwasallmuddyandhadtogethomeforabath.Exceptthatwasjustanexcuse.I’mscarednow,incaseherMamanswers,orincaseshedoes.Iknockanyway,butjustwithmyhand.Upclose,thesilvermermaid’sbareboobsaretoobigforherbody,andIdon’tseehowpeoplecanjustputtheirhandsthere.Annieopensthedoorinaboutasecond,stillwearingthosegiantshortsandscowlinglikeRumpelstiltskin.
‘Whatdoyouwant?’sheasks.
‘Hiya,’Isay,butnomorewordscome,soIholdouttheCaramel.
Hernosewrinklesrightintohereyes.Shelooksatmelikeit’satrick.
Iopenmyfingers,tilltheCaramelnearlyfalls.
Shesnatchesitoutofmyhand,thenspinsaroundlikeaballerinaandwalksdownthecorridorandoffintoaroom.
I’mnotsurewhattodo,butshe’sgottheCaramel,andshe’sleftthedooropen,soIfollowherintotheroom.
Thecurtainsarenearlyshut,withatriangleoflightcuttingdownacrossthisgiantredbedthatpracticallyfillsthewholespace.Itouchthecovers,feelingthesilkiness.Thecarpet’sredtoo,andfluffyundermytrainers.Eventhewallpaper’sgottheseredvelvetyswirlson.There’sapictureofaladyabovethebed.She’sgotnoclotheson,justasheetaroundhershouldersthatdoesn’tcoveranything.Shemakesmethinkofthesilvermermaid,andDaryl’ssnake-bitchtattoo.
There’sthesoundofcrinklypaper,andstickychewing.Ilookawayfromthepicture,feelingtherednessinmycheeks.
Annie’sstandinginfrontofthisbigoldwardrobewithhermouthfullofbrown.
‘Isthisyourroom?’Iask,eventhoughIknowit’sstupid.
Sheshakesherhead.‘Mam’s,’shesays,exceptyoucanhardlyhearcosoftheCaramel.
Myeyesgetusedtothelight.There’spurpleypatternslikeflowerspaintedonthewardrobe.Itrytoconcentrateonthem,butthenakedpicturekeepswatchingme,makingmetalk.
‘Gotanycrispsthen?’
Anniedoesn’tanswer.Iwishshe’dsaysomethingcositfeelssoweird,butthenIcanseeshe’sshakingherhead.
‘ThatPakibitchgrassedonme,’shesays.
‘Mrs.Atwal?’That’sallIsay,butIdon’tunderstandwhyshekeepscallingheraPaki.
‘Mamwentmental,’shesays,liftingthesideofhershortsup,andeveninthepurplishlight,Icanseethatherleglookssortofgreen,alldowntoherknee.
‘God,’Isay,andtouchherlegwithmymiddlefinger,thelumpyonethatDarylbroke,andMoirasetwithlollipopsticksatoursitting-roomtable.Theonethatdoesn’tevenfeelproperly.Iwanthertonoticehowit’stwisted,butshedoesn’t.
‘Idon’tevencare,’shesays,andthenwebothjuststandtherewithherholdingtheCaramelinonehand,andhershortsintheother,pickingatthematerialwithherbitten-downfingernails
Shestopschewingandlooksawayfromme,staringatthesharpbitoflightthroughthecurtains.Icanseethechocolateinheropenmouthandtheshininessinhereyes,soIputmyhandflatagainsthercheek,likeNanausedtodowithme.It’sthewrongthing.
Shemakesthisgulpingsoundandatearsplatsonthesilkyduvet.TheCaramelfallsonthefloor,thebitthat’sleft,anyway,thenshesortofheadbuttsmeinthechestandstandstherewithherforeheadpressingagainstme.Myhandsfeelhot.Ilookatthenakedlady’sorangeyeyesanddon’tevenwanttobehere,inthisweirdroomwiththiscrazygirl.Buthershouldersareshaking,andmyarmscomeuparoundher.
‘Ithurts,’shesays,andIknowshemeansherleg.AtleastIthinkIdo.
Isqueezeherin,butwhenItrytoletgo,sheholdsontighter,pullingmebackuntilwe’relyingonthesilkyduvet.Istarttolaugh,butthenIstop.Sheburrowsin,warmagainstmychest.
Herfaceishiddenintheshadows.Herbreathischocolatysweet.
Westaylikethatforages,andIletmyselfimaginethathercheeksarerounder,andherhaircurlyandblond.Iputmyarmunderherhead.Myotherhandgoestogetherwithhersinthewarmplacebetweenourtummies,whereyoucan’thardlytellwhosehandiswhose,andit’ssoperfectthatmyheartstartsthumping.
‘Shhh,’Isay,‘Shhh,’eventhoughshehasn’tsaidanything,andafterabitherbreathgetslouder.
Iclosemyeyes,butIdon’tgotosleep.IjustlietherewithmyfacetouchingherhairandpretendthatI’mfiveyearsoldandthere’sarainbowblanketinsteadofredvelvetcurtains,andtogetherwe’relisteningforMam’ssteponthesqueakystair.
‘Benjy,’Iwhisper,andthere’sabanglikeagungoingoff,andwe’rebothstanding,staringateachotherinthepurpleylight,beforeIrealiseitwasjustthewind,blowingthefrontdoorshut.
CHAPTERNINE
Cadbury’sCaramel
Ididn’tevenrealisewhatAnniewasdoingatfirst.Atleast,notforsure.IwaswalkingupBelmontStreetonthefirstdayoftermwhenIsawherrundownthepathandopenherswirlygate.
‘Hiya,Tommy,’shesaid.Butshe’sintheyearbelowme,andshe’sagirl,plusIknewthere’dbeloadsofotherkidswalkinguptoschool,soIjustsortofgruntedandkeptgoing.
Shedoesn’tsayanythingnow,justcomesoutwhenI’mpassing,andwewalkuptoStVincent’s,separatebuttogether.
Iknowthatshe’sbeenwaitingforme,butIcan’tstopherfromgoingtoschool.WecrossatthetopofBelmont,likealways,thengoalongWalkerRoad.We’rejustatthecornerofSandyCrescentwhenweseethatlittlekid,clickinghistongueandkickinghissoggyplasticballagainstthecrumblywall.
‘Hiya,’shesays.Hedoesn’tevenlook,justkeepsclickinghistongueandkickinghisballinthisendlessgameofspot.
‘Heneverspeaks,’Itellher,andit’strue,heneverdoes.
‘Yeh,hedoes,’shesays.‘Whenthere’sjustme.’
‘Yeh?’Idon’tbelieveher,ormaybeIjustdon’twantto.
‘Yeh,’shesays,andstopstowatch.
Anyonecanseehe’sgood,brilliantreally,foralittlekid.
He’sonlyaboutfour,withthiswavyblondhairthathismamshould’vecut,andthebuttonsallgoneoffhistoobigshirt,soyoucanseetheshininessofhisribs.Iwanthimtomiss,soIcanpasstheballback,dosomethingfancytoshowthatI’mgoodtoo,butthere’sjustthethudoftheballonthecrumblywall,thescrapeontheroad,theclickofhistongue,andthethumponhisraggedytrainers.Thesamefoursoundsoverandover,likesomeweirdtickingclock.
‘Helookslikeagirl,’Isay,stillthinkingabouthimtalkingtoAnniewhenI’mnotthere.
Annie’snosecrumplesintohereyes.
‘Shutup,Tommy,’shesays.
IshruglikeIdon’tcare.‘Don’tyougotoschool,’Isay.
‘Louwon’ttalktoyou,’Anniesays,anditmakesmewanttokickhisballallthewayacrossWalkerRoad.
‘So,’Istepawayfromher,likeI’minabighurrytogettoschool.‘Hey,short-arse.AnnieCheranifanciesyou.’
HelooksupwithhismouthopensoIcanseethefrecklesinawaveacrosshisnose,andAnniescowlingbehindhim.Theballcomesspinningoffhisfoot,rightatme.Ipassitback,andhenodsatme,likethanks,likeIhaven’tdoneanythingwrong.
ButIcanseehislipstarttowobble.
‘Sorry,’Imumble,andwalkaway,fast.
That’showwegetstarted,meandAnnie.
ShecatchesmeupbeforeIevengettothecorner,callingmeabastardandsayinghowwehavetogethimsomething,likeapresent.ButIdon’thaveanymoney,andneitherdoesshe,sowegobacktoAnnie’sandgethermam’sbigcoat,thenwewalkallthewayuptoMcCleary’sonStAnthony’sRoad.
It’sprettybig,withtworowsofshelvesdownthemiddle,aswellasstuffallaroundthewalls.There’smilkandbreadandtins,andmankyoldfruitthatwouldbeeasytoget,butthesweetsarestackeduponthecounter,rightinfrontofMr.
McCleary.It’smyjobtogethimtalking,whichisprettyeasy.
‘It’sbrillianthowgoodNewcastleare,’Isay,lookingatthebackoftheEveningChronicle‘ThreegoalsagainstArsenal.’
‘Aye,’McClearysays.‘Notbadlike.’
‘Notbad?’
‘Well,’hesays,anddoesthislongrattlycoughthatremindsmeofNana.Thenhestartssayinghowfootball’schanged,andhowthere’snoatmosphereanymore,nowthatonlyposhpeoplecanaffordtogo.Thenhe’stellingmeaboutsomeladfromroundherecalledShola,whohereckonsisgoingtomakeitatNewcastle,butItellhimtherearen’tanyladsroundherecalledShola.Helaughsatthat,andthenhe’sgoingonaboutthislasscalledCherylwhocomesinhisshop,thathereckonsisgoingtobefamousaswell.
‘Avoicelikeanightingale,’hesays‘AndafacelikeHelenofTroy.’
‘Troy,’Isay,thinkingofthatguyonthewrestling.
‘Aye,’hesays,lookingathisarmlikeheknowswhatImean.
‘Ascratchlikeatiger,an’all.’ButbythenI’mnotreallylistening,justwatchingAnnie’sbitten-downfingersstuffingabigfatMarsBarinhermam’scoatpocket.
‘Yeh,brilliant.Sorry,like,butI’vegottogo.Lateforschool.’
‘Aye,bestgettoschool.Youdon’twanttowasteyourchances,’
hesays,whileI’mbackingoutthedoor.‘Goodtotalktoyou,son,’hesays,andIpullitclosedbehindme.
Ifeelbadabouthisrattlycough,butthenIreckonit’sasortoffairdeal,aMarsforallthatlistening,cositfeelslikenoone’sevenspokentohimforlikeahundredyears.Probablycosofallthecrazyoldmanthingshesays.
‘Hey,Tommy,’Anniesays,withthishugedozysmileonherface,andopenshercoatlikeflasher.She’sgotloadsofstuff.
‘Bloodyhell,Annie,’Isay,andabrokenflakefallsoutofherpocket.
Shegrabsitandjamshalfthebitsinhermouthandhalfinmine,andthenwe’rerunninghardallthewaybackdowntoWalkerRoad,laughingourheadsoffthroughamouthfulofchocolateandcrinklyyellowwrapper.Wedon’tstoptillwegettoSandyCrescent,andeventhenAnniejustslapsaMarsdownontopofLou’swall,andwe’rerunningagain,rightuptillwepushthroughherswirlymetalgate.
I’mbreathingfastwiththechocolatytasteofFlakeinmymouthandallthesesweetslaidoutbetweenusonhermam’sbed;threeMars,aDairyMilk,aredBountythatneitherofuslikes,loadsofcrisps,andaCadbury’sCaramel.TheCarameliswhatmakesmerememberthatfirsttimeatAtwal’s.I’vebeenmeaningtoaskforages,sonowIdo.Imeanit’sstupid,AnniecallingMrs.AtwalaPakiwhenshe’soneaswell.
‘Mydad’sIndian,’shesays.
‘Indian?’IimagineJohnWaynegallopingacrosstheplains,shootingatamanwithatomahawkandfeathersinhissticky-outhair.Iknowthatisn’tthekindofIndianshemeans,butthepicture’sinmyhead
‘He’scalledSurinderCherani,’shesays,twirlingherfingerthroughthepacketsonthebed.Shebitesdownonherlip.
‘Andhe’saPrince.’
Ipretendshesaidchief,andtheIndiangetsawholehead-dressblowingoutbehindhim,andAnnie’sscrunched-upface.
Thatmakesmesmile.
‘It’strue,’sheshouts,andadropofspitlandsonmycheek.
‘He’sthePrinceofMumbai.’
Mumbai.Itsoundslikesomewherefromastory,butIdon’tsay.IletJohnWaynerideawayoutofmyhead.
‘That’swhyyou’resortofbrown?’
‘Yeh,’shesays,andherliplookslikeditmightburst.
‘Wantsomecrisps?’Isay,cosshealwaysdoes.
Iopenapacketofsaltandvinegar,tearingalongthreesidesandspreadingitouttomakeasilvertray,shinyinthelineoflightbetweenthecurtains.Weeatthemtogether,takingturns,onecrispeach.Iwouldn’tmindifshehadmore,butthatisn’twhatwedo.Afterwards,Iwipemyfingersonmyt-shirt.
‘Ineversawmydad,’Isay.‘Well,onlyinaphoto,andwhenIwassolittle,Idon’tevenremember.’
‘Isawmineonce,’Anniesays.‘Hewasdark-brown,andhetalkedfast,likeasong.Therewasamantherewatchingus,andbarsonthedoor.Mamsaiditwasaprisonforcrazypeople,buthewasn’tcrazy,just,y’know…’
‘Yeh,sortof,’Isay,eventhoughIdon’t.
‘Attheend,hegavemeaCadbury’sCaramel.Hesaidthat’swhatIwaslike,with“aglassandahalfofmilkineverybar.”’
Shelooksuptotheceilingtosayit,thenshrugsandbrushesthecrispcrumbsoffthebed.‘Mamlaughed.Shesaidhe’dgotitwrong.’
‘No,Annie,hedidn’t.’
Imight’vesaidthatanyway,butwhenIlookatthelineoflightonherscrunchyfaceIcanseethathewastotallyright.
Sheisjustthatsoftbrowncolour,likecaramel,witheyeslikethedarkestchocolateyoucanget,andlittlebitsofgoldsparklinginsidethem.
‘MamsaysI’mliketheMilkyBarKid,’Isay,eventhoughsheneverdid,butI’mthinkingofmydadandallthosefilms,andhowmaybehewould’vewantedmetobelikethat.
‘Noway,’Anniesays.‘He’sgotyellowhair,’andIcantellshe’sthinkingofthatkid,Lou,andIwishhedidn’tevenexist,cosit’slikewhenMamlooksatme,andIknowshe’sthinkingofBenjy.
CHAPTERTEN
Secrets
NomoreSisterTheresawithherboringBiblestories.NomoreSisterHelenatwistingmyear.NomoreMr.Mizonshoutingatmefornoreasonatall.StVincent’sPrimaryisfinishedforever.
It’sthelastdayoftermandI’mwalkingbackdownBelmontStreetinthesunshine,andIknowAnnie’smam’snotincosthebluevaseisinthewindow.Wecopieditoffafilm.
Imightaswellcallround.Imean,IhavetowalkpastherhouseanywayandthetruthisIdon’treallyhaveanyotherfriends,andneitherdoesAnnie,whichiscrazycosshe’sreallycooltohangoutwith,especiallyforagirl.Maybewe’llgonickingsweetsfromthenewsees,andifLouis’out,thenAnnie’llputsomethingonhiswalltomakeitalright,likeRobinHood.Reallythough,Ihopewe’lljuststayinhermam’sroomandlaytogetherinourspecialwayandtelloursecretsinthepurpledark.
Igothroughtheswirlygate,butIdon’tevenhavetimetoknock.Annieanswersinthatweirdwayshedoes,notsayinganything,justwalkingbackintohermam’sroom.Exceptthistime,she’sgottopushpastallthesecardboardboxespiledupinthecorridor.
Ifollowherinandsitonthesilkybed.Shedoesn’tspeak,justliesback,soIknowsomething’swrong.I’mprettysureit’stodowiththeboxes,butIknowthatshe’llonlytellmewhenshe’sready,soIliebackonthebedbesideherandwait.
Realfriendsdon’thavesecrets,Anniealwayssays.That’showIknowherdad’sinthisspecialprisonformentalcasesthat’llprobablyneverlethimout,andthathermamdoestricksformoney,whichstillmakesmethinkaboutrabbitsandtophats,eventhoughIknowwhatitreallymeans,likeobviously.
I’vetoldheraboutmydadtoo,andMamandthedrink,andDarylandthefingergame,andevenaboutrunningawayfromSunderlandandchangingnames.Everythingreally,exceptBenjy.I’venevertoldanyoneabouthim.SometimesIthinkhe’sjustsomeoneImadeup,likealittlekid’simaginaryfriend.
Butthatcan’tbetrue,cosmeandMamsendthatcardeveryyear,onhisbirthday.
IclosemyeyesandthinkaboutMaminhervelvetcoat,andBenjy’scardinacrinklybrownbag.Howwehavetogettothestationattwelveo’clockandbuywinegumsfromtheshopsowecansharethemonthetrainandwriteBenjy’scardandtalkaboutwhatwe’vewritten.JustforthattimewecanmakeBenjyreal,andthenweputtheletterinthepostboxtogether,toMrs.
AbutoPalacios.
That’sourspecialthing.It’sallmeandMamhavegotleft.
Butthat’snotwhyIhaven’tsaid.It’sthatifItoldaboutwhentheycameforhim,howwewerecuddlinginwithBenjy’sheadonmyarmandourhandsmixeduptogetherinthewarmplacebetweenus,thenAnnie’dknow;whyI’mturningherheadnow,soherfaceisflatonmyarm,andputtingourbodiestogetherthewayIalwaysdo.
IcanstillfeelthatAnnieisn’tright,butI’mnotthinkingabouther,soit’sjustsortofirritatingwhenshetakesherhandsaway.
‘Mam’sgettinghassle,’shesays.
Sowhat?Isayinmyhead.LikeIdon’tevenknowwhathassleshemeans.ExceptIdo.
“Yougoingroundthathoowah’sagain,”Darylalwayssays.
‘Wehavetomove.Mam’sgotaflatoffthecouncil,justnearStMary’s…’
Thewordsfloataroundmelikethedustinthepurplelight.
Theymakemewanttopullthecurtainsdownandripthestupidduvetoffthebed,butIdon’tevenmove.Annie’shouseistheonlygoodthinginWalker,andnowhermam’stakingitaway.Ileanacrossandpushthedoorhard,soitslamsusintodarkness.
‘Atleastwe’llseeeachothernextyear,’shetakesmyhandagain,andsnugglesin.‘Youcancomeoverafterschool.’
‘Yeh,I’llcallinafterschool,’Isay,eventhoughitisn’ttrue.It’sagestillSeptember.I’llbeelevenbythen,andanyway,I’mnotgoingtoStMary’s.
I’mnotsureifit’scosoftellingSisterHelenathatGodwasjustmadeup,orcosofthatfightMamhadwithMr.Mizon,butI’mnotgoing.MaybeI’llgotoBenfield,orHeatonManor,orsomeotherplacewheretherearen’tCatholics,andtheydon’tknowhowbadIam.Idon’tcare,anyway.
Ilistentothespringssqueakonhermam’sbigbed,whereshe’sprobablydoneitwithlikeamillionpeople,andwaitforAnnietostopshufflingaround,tostoptalking,sowecanjustliehereandbestill.Butshewon’t.Shekeepsmovingandsighing,andgoingonabouthowboilingitis,eventhoughit’sjustanormalday.
‘Sheesh,it’sjustsodamnhot,’shesays,whichisstupidcosshedoesn’teventalklikethat,thenshe’skneelingupabovemeandit’ssodarkyoucanhardlytellit’sher.
Thecurtainsarereallyproperlyclosedwithouteventhetiniestlight,butIcanstilltellwhatshe’sdoing,liftinghert-shirtup,pullingitoverherhead.She’swearingthisginormousbra.Ifeelmyselfsmileinthedark.Inearlylaugh,butthenIstopmyselfcosIknowAnniewouldgomental.She’dprobablykillme,butitisn’treallythat.Ijustwouldn’tlaughatAnnieCheraniIholdmybreathwhilesheliesbackdownwithhersticky-outhairtouchingmyface,justlikethatfirsttimeontheroad.
‘Shhh,’Isay,eventhoughshe’sstillandquiet,butyoucantellit’sawaitingsortofquiet.
‘Let’sbenaked,’shewhispers,solowIpretendIdidn’thear.
Ilookattheshapeofthelamponthetableandthebigblacksquareofthecurtains.
‘Let’sbenaked,’shesaysagain.
‘That’sdisgusting.’
‘No,it’snot.’
‘Shush,Annie,’Isay,andputmyarmaroundherneck.
‘Notshush,Tommy,’shesays,pullingaway.‘Wealwaysdocuddlingjustlikeyouwant.’
‘Youlikeittoo.’
‘Wehavetobenaked,orI’mnotdoingit.’
Myteethpressagainsteachother.Iwanttosaysomethingmean,aboutherbra,abouttheknobblybitofmaterialIcanfeelonherbackwhereshe’stiedaknot,abouthowherangryfacelookslikeRumpelstiltskin.ButIwanttocuddletoo.Iwanttoliedowninthepurpledarklikealwaysandfeelustangledtogetherandthinkaboutstuffuntilthethoughtsstopandthere’sjustthewarmfuzzyfeelingthatisn’tbeingawakeorasleep.
Iturntowardsthedoorandslidemyfeetovertheedgeofthebed.IbenddownandpullatmylacesandlistentothesoundsofAnniemovingbehindme.There’sthemattresssqueaking,Anniebreathing,clothescrumpling.That’swhatsetsmymouthgoing.I’mjustsayinganythingatall.
‘There’sadoubleknottostopthemcomingundone.Ialwaysdoone,butifyoupullbeforeit’sproperlyuntied,thenitgetsImakeanoiselikeI’mpullinghard,thenthere’stwothumpsclosetogether,Annie’strainersfallingofftheendofthebed.
Themattressmoves.Icantellshe’sslidingherjeansoffanditmakesmerememberthattimewhenIsawherleg,allgreenandgreywiththatbruise,rightuptoherbottom.
Iundomytrainers,looseningoffthelacesallthewayalong,thenItakethemoffandlookattheirshinywhiteness,greyinthedark,pressedtogetherattheedgeofthebedlikeDaryl’stassellyloafers,alwaysneatandcleanatthesideofthesofa.Ikickthemsotheyfallsideways,likeanormalperson’sshoes,thenIpulloffmysocksandjeansandeverythingandturnbackaroundwithmykneesandelbowstouchinginfrontofme.
Icanseemorenow,theshapeofherface,andthewhitenessonthesideofhercheek,andherbottom.Iknowshecanseeme.Myelbowspressharder,diggingintomyknees,butthenshetakesmyhandandlaysmyarmoutflatonthequilt.Sheputsherheaddownagainstmyshoulder.Herbreathiswarmonmyneck,andherkneeslidesinbetweenmine,justlikealways,justlikeBenjy.
‘Youcantouchmybottomifyouwantto,’shesays.
‘Whatfor?’
‘Costhat’secstasy.’
Idon’tdoanything,butIfeelherhandcreeparoundmyleglikeaspider,anditisticklyonmybottom.Itouchhers,justtheedgenearherleg,andlookoverherheadattheshapeofthings.
I’msortofsorrywhenherhandstopsmoving.AfterabitIfeelherheadgetheavyonmyneckandIstartthinkingaboutwhatit’llbelikenextterm,andhowit’llbeweirdnotseeingAnnieatschooleventhoughwenevertalktoeachother,andhowherhandfeelsonmybottom,andifI’llstillgetonthefootballteam,cosit’llbeatlikeamassiveschool,soit’smuchharder,andifMam’llreallynothaveanymoreboozeinthehouselikeshepromised,andifshe’llnotletDarylcomebackthistime,andthatmakesmethinkofthefingergame,andhimkillingourhouse,andwhathappenedintheyellowyhighupcupboard.
“Godownthere,”I’msaying.“LetgoBenjy,”andthistimehedoesHescrabblesdownbehindthewobblyplasterboardsandthere’sthiswarmfeelingallinsideme,cosIknowhe’sgoingtobeokay.“IloveyouBenjy,”Isay,“Iloveyousomuch,”andthentheypullthecupboardopenandthere’sthathairyhand,andBenjy’sgone,andAnnie’skneelingoverme,shoutingatmewithherRumpelstiltskinfaceallyellowybrowninthelamplight.
‘Who’sBenjy,’shesays.‘Whoishe?’
ThewarmfeelinginsidemeturnshotandsickandIdon’tknowwhattodo,cosIshouldhavesaid.Ishouldhavetoldher,cosmeandAnniedon’thavesecrets,butIcan’ttellhernowcosit’stoolate,andshejustkeepsonshouting.
‘Whoishe?Whoishe?’
‘Shutup,’Ishoutback.‘Justshutup.’
Shehitsmeonthechest,andthat’swhenIrealise,Ihaven’tgotanyclotheson,butshehas,hert-shirtandpants,whichisn’tfair,andshekeepsonhittingandshouting.
‘Bastard,’she’ssaying.‘Bastard,bastard,’justlikeDaryl.
Ihitherback.It’slikemyhandswingsoutonitsownandbangsintoherforehead.Hereyesgowide,andshetopplesrightoffthebed.Herheadthumpsonthetable.Thelampgoescrashingout,andIgrabmyclothesandrun.
It’ssixdayslaterwhenIgoback.Imean,I’vebeenbackeveryday,butitmademeangryseeingthosebigredcurtainsinthewindowandthatsilvermermaidonthedoorandknowingwhattheymeant.Ineverwentpasttheswirlygate.Anyway,IhadtowaittilltodayforMam’sgiro,soIcouldborrowsomemoneyfromherbag.Shewon’tnotice.Idon’tcareifshedoes,anyway.
Therewasloads.Igotenoughfortwenty-sevenCaramels.
Ipushthemthroughtheletterboxoneatatime,asslowasIcan,andwaitforAnnietoopenthedoor.Shedoesn’t.Iwanttoknock,butIdon’t.Imean,she’sboundtocallroundoncesheseestheCaramels.
Sheneverdoes.
OnSaturdaythecurtainshavegone.Ihammeronthatsilverknocker,butnooneanswers.There’smetalboardsonthewindows,likethatblindhousewhenweranawayfromSunderland.Ikeepbanginganyway,butAnnie’sgone.Idon’tevenknowwhere.Myfingersnipandtwistattheinsideofmythigh.MylegburnsandIdeserveit.I’velostAnnielikeIlostBenjy,cosIwastooscaredtodotherightthinguntilitwastoolate.CosI’macoward,andallI’vegotleftismypunishment.
2001
CHAPTERELEVEN
TheQuarter-Final
TheballslidesoffFrogga’sshinandlandsrightinfrontofme,spinninginthemudlikethatpictureoftheEarthonthetelly.
Ishouldhowkitontotheroad.That’dwasteafewminutes.Theref’dprobablyblowstraightaway.Theball’sthere,andIcanhearMr.Jobsonscreamingfromthetouchline.
‘Putyourfootthroughthebastard,’butIdon’t.
I’vebeensittingonthebenchforeighty-fivefreezing,boringminutes.I’monlyonthepitchcosCarlBurnstwistedhisknee.
Atleasthepretendedhedid,afterhetookouttheircentre-forwardandJobbaJobsondidatwosecondsubstitutionbeforetherefcouldfishthecardoutofhispocket.So,myjobistostayback,keepittightandplayforextratime,exceptthatpracticallythewholeofbothteamsarebehindme,inourpenaltybox.There’smassesofspace,andmylegsarerunning.
Ipushtheballaheadofmebuttheadrenalin’spumping.Iover-hitit.Oneoftheirladscomespilinginoutofnowhere,legsscissoringatmyankles
IcanfeelCarlBurns’eyesonmefromthetouchline,andIcanstillhearJobba,butnotwhathe’ssaying.Idon’tneedto.IfIgetcaughtinpossession,here,ontheedgeofourbox.Iftheyscorecosofme…
Thefeariscoldonmyface.Theladslidesin.Igetbothfeetoffthegroundandrunthisonegiantstep.Thescissorssnap,butI’maway,uptowardsthecentre-circle.Henevergotclose.
He’sknackered.They’reallknackered,exceptme.Somethingbreakslooseinmychest,likemylungsaremassive,suckinginallthesmoggyairinMiddlesbrough.
Jobbaisscreamingsomuchhiscomb-over’sfallenacrosshispurpleface.Istillcan’thearwhathe’ssaying.Theroaring’stooloudinmyears.Ican’ttellifit’sfromthewindorjustmylungspumping.Idon’tgiveatoss.I’msicktodeathofdoingwhatI’msupposedto;scrapinggreenfurofftheplatesinthekitchen,tellingMamtostopdrinking,tostopcryingjustcosDaryl’spissedoff,andtryingtobemateswithCarlandthemwhenalltheydoistakethepiss.Anyway,everyoneknowsJobba’satwatwhoonlydoesfootballcoshe’stoothicktoteacharealsubject.
I’mpasthalfway,closeenoughtoseetheirkeeperdoonegiantclapandstepforwardoffhisline.Nowayisthatkidundersixteen.He’snotevenundersixteenstone.
ChrissyCollinsisupwithme,thegreedygoalmoocher,standingwherehealwaysisonthethickwhitelineatthecorneroftheirpenaltybox.
There’sonedefenderleftbetweenmeandtheirkeeper.Thislankyblackkid,uponhistoes,swayinglikeaboxer.He’sgoingtostopme.Ifhehastokillme,he’snotgoingtoletmepast.
Andsowhatifhegetssentoff?It’soneseachinthequarter-finalofthe2001Inter-SchoolsCup.Twomoregamesandwe’rechampions,andthatmeansaplay-offwiththesouthernchampionsattheMillenniumfrigginStadium.
IknowwhatI’vegottodo.
‘Giveandgo,’Ishout,andslidetheballouttoChrissyCollins.
Theboxer’sfeetlandflatinthemud.Hefrowns,wideeyesfollowingtheballIgetroundtheothersideofhim,throughandclear.I’msprintinginonthekeeper,thismassivepizza-facekidwithlonggingerhair,armsout,crouchingtherelikeChewbacca.
Sure,thekeeper’sbig,butthegoal’sbigger.Plentyofspaceeitherside.AllI’mmissingistheball.
‘Penaltyspot,’Iscream.‘Penaltyspot.’
Comeonyougreedygit.It’ssoeasy.Onetouch.Layitbackintothisbigmuddyspace.
Andhedoes,thebeauty.Adecentball,flatalongtheground.
Maybeabitheavy-footed,nearerthekeeperthanitneedstobe,butIknow,Ifrigginknow,I’mgoingtogettherefirst.
He’sfastthough,Chewbacca,chargingout,closingthespace,narrowingtheangles.Icanhearhisgrowlingbreath,seethepussonhischeeks,spikesofgingerhairpushingthrough.Iwanttoletitgo.Icouldcutmystride,lethimgettherefirst,jumpoverhim.Theywon’tknowI’vebottledit,notforsure.
Theballrollsoverthepenaltyspot.Thegroundisgrey,thenwhite,thengrey.Theballslowsinthemud.Lacesswingacrossmyboot.Iwantanotherstride,tosteadymyself,takeitonmyright.ButChewbacca’sintheair,armsandlegsspread,throwinghimselfattheball,atme,likewe’reonething.
Mybreathstops.Thisisn’tformeortheschool.Thisisaboutbeingscaredandnotlettinggo.
Icouldslidetheballunderneathhim,butIwon’t.I’veknownwhatI’mgoingtodoforages.Halfasecond,atleast.I’veseenitinmyhead.ButI’vestretchedtoofar.Myrightfootslips.Myleftjabsundertheball,likeaspadeintosoftsand,followingthroughjustenough,pullingmypunch.
Chewydoesn’tpullhis.Aglovedfistpoundsintomystomach.
Hiskneecracksagainstmyleg,andtherestofhimpilesinbehind.
I’mlyingflatinthemudandallIcanhearisthissoundlikeacreakinggate.Mythroat’sclosedtight.Ican’tbreathe,butIcansee.Theball,greymudonwhiteleather,disappearingintotheclouds,fallingback,slowasawrinkledpinkballoon.
Chewy’sheadturns,blockingmyview.ThelastthingIseeisthepusoozingoutofhischin,thenhisplasticpalmfillsmyface.
Hepushesdownandjabsaslypunchatmykidneys.Itdoesn’tconnect,notreally.Hehasanothergo,butthenChrissyCollinscomesflyingoverthetopofus,takingChewywithhim.
Irollontomysideandgetabreath,halfabreath,enoughsoIknowI’mnotgoingtodie,andlistentoallthesebootsthunderingtowardsuslikethey’rerunningupthroughtheground.Iliethere,thinkingofoldcowboyfilms,asquawwrappedinablanket,MamonthesofawithmeandBenjycuddlingin.
‘Paleface,bringmanyhorses.’
Theballbouncesandrolls,settlingsnuginthebackofthenet.
There’sfiftythousandpeopleroaring,afullhouseatStJames’ssingingmyname.Exceptreally,it’sjustJobbaandMaxi,thebusdriver,costherestofourteamareinthefightthatstartedwithChewbaccaandChrissy.IsitupintimetoseeCarlBurns,who’ssupposedtobeoffinjured,smacksomekid’sheadoffthegoalpost.There’sacrackasloudasClintEastwood’s45,andthekidgoesdownlikehe’sbeenshot.
I’mwatchingCarl,notlookingbehindme,that’swhyIdon’tseethemcoming.Someone’sgotaholdofme.Therearehandsonmyarms,andmyfeet,liftingme,carryingmehighontheirshoulders,rightacrossthepitch,loweringmedownonthetouch-line.
‘Maybeyou’renotsuchacuntafterall.’
IlookupatCarlBurns’stubblychin.Thehardestkidinschoolgrinsdownatme,andI’mglowingliketherereallyare50,000peoplecheering.
Theirrefplaysabouttenminutes’extratime,‘fornofuckinreason,’Jobbasays,throwinghisarmsupsohisarsepracticallyburststhroughhiscampingstool.
‘Cheatingtwat,’Carlsays,talkingtomelikeI’msomeone.
Oneofthelads.
‘Aye,he’sacheatingtwat,’myvoicejumpsonthelastword,butnoonehearscosJobbaisupoffhisstoolagain
‘Youfuckincheatingshort-arsebastard,’hescreams.
MaxigrinsatmeunderhisToonArmybaseballcap.‘That’stheway,BigJobba.Spiritofthegame,’hesays,butnotloudenoughforJobbatohear.‘R.E.S.P.E.C.T,’hespellsitout,whisperingthattunethatMamlikes,exceptheonlygetsto‘C’.
Thenhestops.
There’saboutfiftykidsstretchedalongtheoppositetouchline,wherelasttimeIlookedtherewasoneblokeinashinytracksuit,andthelinesman.Thebloke’sstillthere,armsfoldedacrosshistracksuittop,withloadsmorekidspilingoutofthislongbrickbuildingbehindhim,spreadingoutbetweenourgoalandtheirs.Theystandtherewatching.Notevenshouting.Juststaring.Theydon’tlookmuchlikethey’reinthespiritofthegameeither.
Jobbamust’veseenthemtoo,coshestopsslaggingofftheref.
‘Getthebus,’hesays,notlookinground.
‘Eh,’Maxisays,lookingfromJobbatothecarparkbehindus.
‘Getthefuckinbus,Maxi,’Jobbasays.‘Here.Uponthepitch.’
‘Right,’Maxigoesoffinthatfatpeople’srun,likeanormalpersonwalkingexceptwithhisarmsreallygoing.
Igetup,testingmylegs,andedgeawayfromthepitch.I’mhardlyevenseeingthegameanymore,justthismassofradgykidspressinginlikethere’saninvisibleforce-fieldholdingthemback.TheballbouncesattheedgeofourpenaltyboxandPeelerdoeswhatIshould’vedoneandbeltsitoverthefence.Thereflooksatthefence,thenatalltheirkids.Notoneofthemmoves.
Hisshouldersliftandfall.Icanseehimgivingitup,puttingthewhistletohismouth,sendingHeatonManorHighSchoolthroughtothesemi-finalsoftheinter-schoolscup.
Carlgrabsmyhairinbothfistsandpresseshisforeheadontomine.
‘Yahfucka,’hesays.
Ourladscomesprintingoffthepitch,duckingpastJobbawho’stryingtopatthemontheback.We’retwogamesfromtheMillenniumStadium,buttheforcefield’sbrokenandtheirwholeschooliswalkingacrossthepitchtowardsus.Jobbastopspattingeveryone.There’ssweatrunningdownhischeeks.
HewavesatMaxilikeatrafficcoponspeed.
Maxigrinsdownathimfromthedriver’scab,takinghistime,trundlingacrossthecarparkinourcrappygreenbus.Heleansforwardandturnsthebigblackwheel.Thebusswingsaround.
Twowheelsbounceupontothegrass,andthedoorsfoldopen.
‘Hawaylads.Don’thangabout,’Jobbasays,withonehandonthesilverpole.Hegetshimselfinfirst.
Theirkidsseethebus,andthey’renotwalkinganymore.
‘Manybuffalo,’IthinkinmyIndianvoice,andwatchthemstampedetowardsus,foraboutamillisecond,andthenI’mtherewitheveryoneelse,thirteenladsalltryingtosqueezeintoaspacemeantforone.EvenCarlBurnsissortofedgy.Heisn’tpushingtogeton,juststandingwithhislipsshuttight,lookingfromthebustothestampede,withhisfistopeningandclosing,andhiseyesnarrowandblack.
Myleg’sstillnumb,andtheotheronewon’tstopshaking.
I’vegotnochance.Frogga’selbowbangsagainstmycheekandaloadofbodiesscrambleupaheadofme.Icanhearthemclosinginbehind.Idon’tlookround.There’sonlymeandCarlleft.Thebuspullsforward.Igetahandonthesilverpole,butI’mtooslow.Ahandgrabsmyhair.
Iclingtothepole,butthebusisreallymoving.Itrytorun,butmyfeetdragontheground.Thefisttightensinmyhair,yankingmeloose.Iscream.Ican’thelpit.Butthefistpullsmeforward,notback,andthenI’minside,lyingacrosstheplasticstepswithCarlBurns’scratchybulldogfacecloseupagainstmine.Andthedoorspumpshutbehindus.
There’sasoundlikewe’reinsideadrum,allthisshitbatteringagainstthebus.They’rekickingit,throwingmudandstones.Awindowbangsandshattersintoagiantspider’sweb.Noonecares.Everyone’sshoutingandholdinguptheirfists,orelsegivingthefingeroutthebackwindow.Thebusjoltsoveraspeedbump,andoutthroughtheschoolgates.
‘We’reinthesemi-finals,’Carlshouts.‘Andwe’regettingthefuckoutofMiddlesbrough.’
ThingsareabitmorechilledbythetimeMaxistartsshoutingthatwehavetositdown,coswe’reonthemotorwayandhecan’taffordtolosehislicence,costhenwe’llnevergettothesemi’s,‘which’llprobablybeinsomeevenworseshitholethanthat,’hesays,justtomeandPeeler.
We’reabouttheonlyonesalreadysittingdown,upatthefront,besideMaxi.Jobba’shalfwaydownthebusbehindus,tryingtomakeoutlikehe’soneofthelads.
‘IthinkJobbaforgothisstool,’Isay,tryingtorubsomefeelingbackintomyleg.
‘That’sashame,’Peelersays,suckinghischeeksintohisdorkyface.
Ifyoudidn’tknowhim,you’dthinkhewasserious.ButPeeler’snotasthickashelooks.Noonecouldbe,notwiththosestupid,sticky-outears.Anyway,Maxi’sbeendrivingusaroundallseason.Heknowsstraight-offthatPeeler’stakingthepiss.
‘Hey,’Maxisays,grinningoutthewindow.‘Havesomerespectforthecoach.’
‘Yeh,right,’Isay.‘Mymamknowsmoreaboutfootballthanhim.’
‘Ohaye,’Peelersays,eventhoughhe’sneverseenher.‘Yourmam’sbrilliant.’
‘Maybehe’sgotabetterhandleontheoffsidetrapthanourgoldfish,’Isay,thinkingaboutwhatifIhadpets,andwhatifMamknewanythinganymore,exceptwhereshe’shiddenthevodka.ButMaxiandPeelerarelaughing,andsoamI,andjustforaminuteIfeellikeI’mjoinedontotheworld.
‘Tommy,’someoneshoutsfromthebackofthebus.
Westoplaughing.Iknowwhoitis,buthe’lljustbeshoutingTommyStratton.
‘Haway,man.’
Iheartheedgeinhisvoice.Ihavetolookround.CarlBurnsiswavingmetowardshim,callingmeTommyinfrontofeveryone,nottwatorwanker,orretard.Iliftmyhand.
‘Tommy,man,’hesaysagain,andIgowobblingbackalongthebus.‘Comeandhaveadrinkwiththelads,’hesays,elbowingFroggaofftheseatbesidehim.
‘Pissoff,Frogga,’hesays.
Froggaslideshislankybodypastmeintheaisle.Heputsasinglestudonthetoeofmybootandpressesdown,staringatmewithhisbulgingeyes,justlikethattimeinbiologywhereMr.HollinshadthisdeadfrogpinnedoutonaboardandIhadtoscrapetheslimeoffitsback.
Carlpatstheseatbesidehim,andIsitinFrogga’sstillwarmspace.Carl’sgotthiscanwithapictureofawomanonit.Youcanseehertitsandeverything.Hepopsthecanandgrinsatmeoveralongfrothydrink,andthenhehandsittomeandputshisarmroundmyshoulder.Itipthecanback,feelingtheweightofhisarmonmyneck.Thebusbrakesandamouthfuloflagersplashesonmyleg.
‘Don’tfuckinwasteit,’Carlsays.
Sorry,Ithink,butmyfingerscomeupovermymouth,stoppingmesayingit.Costhat’dbegay.
‘Andpackthatin,’hesays.
Mykneeisbobbingupanddown.Ipressmyfootonthefloorandtakeanotherdrink.
‘Cheers,Carl,’Isay,andhelaughslikeit’sajokeandpassesthecanacrossme,toChrissyCollins.
‘Youlikeagooddrink,eh,Tommy?’Carlsays.
‘Aye,’Ishrug,wipingthefoamoffmylip.‘Theoddpint,like.’
Carllaughsagain,andIcanfeelChrissyandKleptoandthem,allleaningin,grinning,andwaiting.AllexceptFrogga,who’sscowlingatmefromacoupleofseatsfurtherdown.
Thebushasn’tmovedforages.Maxisaystheremust’vebeenanaccident,butnobodygivesashit.Carlkeepspullingthesecansoutfromundertheseatandgivingmeadrinkbeforeanyoneelse,andlaughingateverythingIsay,likeI’vesuddenlyturnedintoRossNoble.
‘Simmerdown,lads,’Jobbacallsfromwaydownthebus.
‘Simmerdown,yourself,BigJobba,’Carlsays,loudenoughforhimtohear.
Jobbasayssomethingtothekidbesidehimandlooksoutthewindowlikehehasn’theard,likehehasn’tseenthecansgoingalongthebackseat.
‘Pussy!’Froggashouts.
‘Carl’sunclehadawordwithJobba,’Kleptosays.‘AfterhetriedtodrophimforthatmatchatBlyth.’
Carl’sbottomteethpushforward.HelooksatKlepto.It’sobvioushewantshimtoshutup,butKlepto’stoointothestory.
‘Youshould’veseenit,’hesays,eventhoughwealldid.‘There’sEddieBurnsstandingontheschoolfieldlikeagianthairybear,probablywithaguninhispocket,andJobba’sheadbobbingupanddownlikehe’dsuckhiscockifheaskedhimto,’Kleptolaughs,andtakesapullofbeer.‘BigJobbapracticallyshathispants.’
‘Eh?’Carlleansacrossandsniffs,likehe’sgotaboutabucketofsnotofupthere.
‘Imean,’Kleptosays,talkingfast,pushingthecanintoChrissy’shand.‘Carlo’sthebestcentrehalfintheschoolanyway,soJobbashouldneverhavedropped…’
Carlsniff’sagainandKlepto’svoicetrailsaway.Hepicksaflakeofmudoffhisspindlyleg.
‘Aye,henevershould,’acoupleoftheladssay,andIjoinin.
Thebusrollsforward,stoppingandstarting,chuggingalonglikeDaryl’sshittyoldCapri.It’sdarkoutsidebythetimewepassaloadofflashingbluelightsandgetgoingproperly.We’vedrunkallofCarl’scans,andtheseminiaturebottlesofvodkahisMamgothimfromSpain.Ourbootsareoff,mixedupintheaislewithaloadofflatcans,anditreallystinkscosKleptopukedalldownthewindowandCarlmadehimwipeitupwithhisshirt.
Everyone’sstoppedtalking.There’stinylightsonintheaisle,andI’msittinginthemiddleofthebackseat,dizzy,wishingIwasdownthefronttalkingtoPeeler,evenifIhavetolistentohimgoingonaboutwantingtobeacopper,again.
Chrissy’sleaningawayfromme,doingthisgarglysnoring.
OnlyCarl’sstillawake.Atruckcomespast.Carl’sfaceglowswhiteintheheadlights,lightingupadarksquareonthesideofhisforehead,likesomeone’spokedhimwithasquare-shapedstick.
Heseesmelooking,soIask.
‘Whathappened?’
‘What?’
‘There,’Ialmosttouchit,butCarljerkshisheadback.
‘Fuckoff,man.’Hesitsupstraighterandfoldshisarms.
‘Right,’Ipressmyhandovermymouthandstareattheheadlightsflashingpast.
‘Mamgetsradgysometimes,’Carl’seyesflickerinthedark.
‘Withherstiletto.’
Ithinkhowmymamgetsradgytoo,butshe’dneverdothat.
‘EvenUncleEddie’sscaredofher,’Carlgrins,andthelightgoesoutinhiseyes.‘Hardasfuckinmasonrynails,mymam.’
ItrytoimagineCarl’smamslidingoutofherRangeRoverinherwhiteleathertrousers,andswingingherspikyshoeintohishead.
‘Whataboutyourdad?’Isay,knowingthathisdad’sgone,likemine,andwonderingifheevercomesback.
‘Mydad?Haway,man,I’mfuckinsixteen.Dadsareforpuffs.’
‘Eh?’
Iwaitforhimtosaysomethingelse,butthere’sjustthesmellofsick,andCarl’sbreath,andthepressofhisshoulderagainstmine,remindingmethathe’sthehardestkidinschool.ButIcan’thelpthinking,maybehe’sthestupidesttoo.Ilaymyheadbackandlettherumbleoftheenginerockmetosleep,justlikeinDaryl’svanamillionyearsago.
Thedreamisthesameasalways,withmeandBenjytogetheronourmattress,lookingatthelightthroughtheRainbowBlanket,listeningforthatsqueakonthestairs,thesoundofMamcomingtotakehimaway.Exceptthistime,we’renotlittlekids.We’reasbigassheis,stronger.MyarmsaretightaroundBenjy’sshoulders,cheekspressedtohis,holdingon
ButDaryl’sthere,hittingus,makingusscaredandsmallagain.
Hepusheshisbonyhandinmyface.
‘Please,Tommy,don’tletmego,’Benjy’scriesandkissesme.
Thatstartsmecryingtoo.Iholdtighterandpressmylipstohis
‘Iwon’tBenjy,Iwon’t,’buteveninthedream,Iknowit’salie.
Daryl’sfistsmashesdownontopofmyhead.Heswearsatme,jabbinghisthumbinmyeye.Ican’thelpit.IletBenjygo.
‘Youfuckinpuff.Youdirtyfuckinbandit.’
Myheadbouncesofftheseatinfront.IseetheshineofmyspitonCarl’sface,hissleevewipingitaway.Thebusstops.Thelightsgofullonandthere’sallthesewhitefacesstaringbackatme.Ifeeltheairfromtheopendoor,andseethem,kneelingontheseats,standingup,gettingagoodlook.
‘Getthefuckoffme!’
IsnatchmyarmoffCarl’sshoulder,andhestompsawayoverthepileofboots.Hestopshalfwaydowntheaisle.
‘Hawaylads,’hesays,andthenhelooksrightatmewithhisnarrowblackeyes,andIfeelmykneestartgoingagain.
‘HeatonPark,aftertrainingtomorrow.’
‘It’snot…’
HesniffslikehedidatKlepto,andthissilverlumpstretchesoutofhismouth.Ihearitsplatonsomeone’sboot.IlookatKleptoandChrissy,butnoonelooksatme,exceptforCarlandFroggawhowanttokillme,andPeeleruselessbloodyKaminskywaydownattheotherendofthebus,withhischeekssuckedinunderhisdorkyears.
‘You’refuckindead,arse-bandit,’Froggasays,andhefollowsCarldownthebus.
Carlgetsoff,butFroggastopsatthedoor.Heshoutsbackatmeinhisscreechy,radgyvoice.‘Andyoubetterbethere,BanditBoy;elsewe’llfindyou,andwe’lljumpyou,andwe’llcutyourlittlebaldyballsoff.’
CHAPTERTWELVE
HeatonPark
Iwalkthroughtheplayground,pastthesilverslideandthelittlekids’swingswithironbarsaroundtheseatsothatwhateverhappensyoucan’tfallout,andIwishIwasthreeyearsold,holdingtighttothatbar,withNanapushingusandBenjybesidemescreaminghisheadoff,andmelaughing,swinginghigh,showinghimhowbraveIam.ButI’mnotbrave.Theslideturnsfromsilvertogreyinthedusk,andthere’snothingI’dratherdothanlieonthebenchunderneathit,hiddenandsafe.ExceptIalreadyknow,there’snosuchthingassafe.
“We’llfindyouandwe’lljumpyou…”Frogga’sradgyvoicescreechesinmyhead.
Thegateclangsshutbehindme.TheslopeissoshallowIcouldeasilywalkstraightupthepath,butIcircleround,throughthetrees.Myfeetgetslower.Thebranchespullatme,likethey’retryingtoholdmeback.Andit’snotBenjyI’mthinkingofnow.There’sanotherkidIusedtoknow.Iimagineherwalkingbesidemewithherskinnybrownlegsstickingoutofthosestupidfloweryshorts,yabberingawaylikeshe’sstillnineyearsold.
‘Iknowwhereyou’regoing,’shesays,inherbossy,know-it-allvoice,‘andhe’sgoingtokillyou.He’llmashyourfriggin’brainsin.ButthenIsupposeyouprobablyhaven’tgotanyanyway,’
anditpissesmeoffhowshe’sstillalwaysright.
‘Okay,Annie,shutupwillyou,’Isay,undermybreath.
‘No,Tommy.Stop.’
Shegrabsmyarm.Ifeelherholdingme,scratchingthroughthegoosebumpsonmyskin.Myfacegoesnumb.IttakesagesbeforeIcanlook.There’sabranchsnaggedonmydenimjacket.
Isnapthelittlewoodenclaw.
‘Stupidbloodybastard,’shesays,withhernosescrunchedintohereyes.
Idon’tstopagaintillIgettotheedgeofthetrees.It’snearlydark.Thelightsareoninthepark,butnottheonesroundthebowlinggreen.There’sjustthisgreysquareofgrasswiththepavilionoverthefarside,likeawitch’scastleinastory.
CarlBurnsisstandinginfrontofitwithhisarmsfolded.
There’saloadofpeoplesatonthepavilionsteps.AlanBurnsisthere.He’stheonlyBurnswhowaseverinsixthform,tillhegotexcludedforhead-buttingMr.Ringtoninchemistry.Andthere’sotherkids,toooldforschool,drinkingcansandpassingjoints.Twoorangelightshoveroverthestepslikesomethingmagical.Alighterflaresandthenthere’sthree,onehardlymovingupnearthetop,andtheothertwoslidingpasteachotherinajerkysortofdance.
‘Hawaythen,Carlo,where’sthisfuckinpoofta?’
‘Aye,’oneofthelassesshouts.‘Ah’mmissingEastiesforthisfucka.’Theyalllaughatthat.
Idon’thearFroggacoming.Hepushesmeintheback,andIgostaggeringoutofthetrees.Myshinbangsonalowmetalfence.Acheergoesupfromthepavilion.Carlstepsontothegreeninthiscutofft-shirt.Ipullmyjackettightaroundmeandthinkofthatwoodenclawsnappinginmyhand.
‘Carlo,Carlo,’aman’svoicechants
Theothersjoinin,stampingtheirfeetonthestonesteps.
‘Goon,BanditBoy.’
Froggaleansinbehindme.Heputshisfacerightupclosetomine,justlikehedidinassemblywhenLurchwasgoingonaboutour“greatachievement”,makingabigdealofthings.
Stupidmoron.I’dbeenkeepingalowprofiletillthen,lettingthemforgetaboutme.Andtheymighthave,ifhehadn’tgonerattlingon.
‘Welldone,thelads,’hesaid,soundinglikeatwatwithhisposhsouthernvoice.‘AndabigthankyoutoMrJobsonforallhishardwork.’
Lurchstartedclapping,andthenKleptoshouted,‘yes.Wankyou,BigJobba.Wankyou.’
Everyonewasshouting,butLurchjustclearedhisthroataboutathousandtimes.
‘Andofcourse,totheheroofthehour,ourveryownRoyoftheRovers,TommyBoyle.’
Thatshutthemup,andIcouldseeLurchstaringoffalloverthehallnoddinghisheadlikeachicken,likehe’dgotnoideawhatwasgoingon,andthenFroggaturnedbacktowardsmewithhisfastlizardsmile.
‘ArseBandit,’hesang,loudandslowasPavarotti,soevenBaldyHugheslookedupandturnedafingerinhishairyear,checkingwhathegot.
‘Ban.Dit,’Kleptochantedback.
IstaredatBaldy’sshinyfingerandwatchedLurchcoughintohishand,butIcouldn’thearhim.
‘Tit-ban,tit-ban,tit-ban,tit-ban.’
Allthesefacesturnedtowardsme,lipsstretchingandpoutingliketheywereblowingmekisses,andthatechoeywhisper,gettinglouderandlouder.
Likenow,allofthemonthepavilion,staringacross,withtheirmouthsgoingandtheirfeetstomping,andthenoisefillingthepark.
‘Tit-ban,tit-ban,tit-ban,tit-ban.’
‘Goon,’Froggarapshisknucklesonmyhead.‘Fuckinchicken-shit.’
‘Idon’thavetodoanythingcosofyou,’Isay.Butwebothknow,it’snotcosofhim.
HepresseshisfistintothebackofmyneckandIstepovertherail.
Thechantingstops.
I’mstandingonthisgiantsnookertable.Everybladeofgrassisperfect,liketheturfattheMillenniumStadium.Carlmustbethirtyyardsaway,butwe’retheonlyplayersonthepitch.
Hisheadcomesupandhelooksatmewiththoseblacksliteyes.Hisarmsfall,danglingdown.Hetakesastepandstops.
Mylegsshake.Ipressmyfoothardintothegroundandclenchmyteeth.
We’rethroughtothesemi-finals.Thesemi-finals.Thethoughtkeepsrunningroundmyheadlikeoneofthosecrapsongsyoucan’tgetridof.
Carl’sjuststandingthere,likethoseMiddlesbroughkidsontheedgeofthepitch,heldonthisinvisiblestring,waitingforthewhistle.IcanhearFrogga’sraspybreathbehindme,inandout,inandout,andthenCarlBurnsiscoming.He’srunning,sprintingatme,gettingbiggerandcloser.Iseethechainbounceonhisneck.Ineedtoliftmyhands,bendmyknees,likethatblackkid.Theboxer.Giveandgo,Ithink,give,andgo,butChrissyCollinsisn’tonmyteamanymore.Nooneis.
Carlshouldn’tbewearingjewellery,notonthisperfectpitch,notattheMillenniumStadium.Butit’sthere.Theflashofagoldringpumpsupinfrontofhisface.There’sanengravingI’veseenbeforeThismanonahorse.He’skillingsomecreature,likeagiantbird,withflappingwingsandaserpent’stail.
‘St.George.’Suddenly,Iknow,watchingtheringzoomtowardsmyeye.‘It’sSt.George.’
Thescreamcomeslikepuke,sprayingupfromdeepinsideme.
I’mlyingonthegroundwiththisburningdownmyfaceandIknowthere’ssomethingreallywrong.Igrabatmycheek,butthatonlymakesitworse.Carl’supaboveme,panting,swinginghisshinybootsintomystomach,andmyhead.Ihearthemthud.What’sfunnyisIdon’tfeelanythingButstill,Iknow,thisiswhatIdeserve.
‘Goon,radgylad,’someoneshouts,fromaboutamillionmilesaway.
Igrabataswingingboot.Hekicksmeoff,andstampsonmyhand.That’swhenIfeelthevibration,footstepsrunningacrossthegrass.
‘ManyBuffalo,’Isay,soquietlyevenIdon’thear.
‘That’sit.You’vesortedit,’avoiceshouts,withthekicksstilllandingthroughthewords.
‘Enough.’Thekickingstops.‘Hawayman,Carlo,we’llgetapint.’
IlookupatCarlBurns,withhiscousin’sarmaroundhischest.
‘Fuckinpuff,’Carlkicksmeagain,inthesideofthehead,andstampsawayacrosstheperfectMillenniumturf.
Spikesofgrassjabinmyface.Someonebendsoverme.Istareupatthem,butallIcanseeisthisblurryshadow.
‘Right,’theshadowsays.‘Youkeepyourfuckinmouthshut.’
‘Uh?’Iliftmyheadandthegroundlurches.
‘Yougotjumped.Didn’tseethem.Fuckinright?’
‘Right,’Isay,andI’msickonthepricklygrass.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Hospital
There’sapaininmyhead,aneedlewrappedincottonwoolhotbehindmyeye.Mymouth’sdry.Itrytoswallow,butit’slikethere’saslimystonejammedinmythroat.Icansmellthatchemical,hospitalsmell,andhearpeoplemovingabout,talking.Onevoiceiscloser.Mam.
Iimaginehercoolhandpressingdownonmyforehead,tellingmeeverything’sgoingtobealright,inthatslow,certainwaysheusedtohave.Iwishforhertodoit,likewhenwewereherewithBenjy.Thelasttime,afterthatwhiskybottleburstintoathousandpieces,andDarylwentmental.
IrememberMamstrokingBenjy’scheek,tellinghimitwouldbeokay,andhimjustlookingatmewithhisroundeyesandhisarminacast,andbothofusnearlybelievingher,tillthatwomancame,withthenamewecouldn’tsay.
Wehadtogointoanotherroom,awayfromBenjy,withbrightlightsthatmadeyoureyessting,andthewomankeptaskingquestionsinhersingyvoicethatmadeMamangry,andthentheymadehercry.Myfistsclenchedsohardthatmynailsmadefoursliverymoonsonmyhand.
‘Shutup,darkie,’Iscreamed,‘justshutupandleaveusalone,’
andshedid.Shestoppedtalking.Iknewshewasgoingtogivemeaslap,andthatIdeservedit,butthenshekneltdownandgavemethisbighug.‘Shutup,shutupandleaveusalone,’Isaid,huggingherbackandcryingintoherneck.
Mam’svoicewakesmeup.She’shunchedovermymetalbedwiththelipstickinthewrongplaceonhersad,bloatyface,andblackrootsgrowingthroughheryellowhair.
‘CanIhaveaglassofwater?’Mylipscrack,butnosoundcomes,atleastnonethatMam’llhear,notwhenshe’stalkinginherjumpyvoicewhereshestopsinweirdplacesandthencarriesonagain,justwhenyou’regoingtosaysomething.
‘He’salovelyman,mind,thatEd…EddieBurns,’shesays.
‘Paidformetax…metaxi,andyourgrapes.’
Somethingrustlesonthetable.Iclosemyeyes,butonlyoneeyemovesThere’sthisweirditchypullonmyrighteye,andthecottonwoolstartstounravelfromtheneedlebehind.Thepaingetshotter.Myhandcomesup,touchingthetapeonmycheek,thecrisscrossofmaterialovermyeye.
‘Imeanheapologizedandeverything,forthe…gaveusacoupleofquid…forthetrouble,butlikehesaid,“lad…ladsarelads,”andhe’llbehavingawordwithCarlenall.Wejusthopeyou’vebothlearntyourlesson…’
Ihuminmyhead,onelongsoundlikeabrokentelly,andtrynottothinkaboutthebandageandhowIcanonlyseeoutofoneeye,andhowMam’sbeenoffthedrinkfornearlyawholemonth,tillnow.Myfingersdigintomyhands.Shutup,darkie,thewordsarejustthereinmyhead.Butshewon’t.Shekeepsgoingoninthatstuttery,half-drunkvoice,soIcouldn’tevensayanythingifIwantedto.
‘I’vebroughtyousome…somestuff,liketheysaid.Yourfavouritejeans.Ofcourse,youdon’twanttogotalkingtothepolis.He’sarealgentleman,thatMr.Burns,butthey’reafam…
familyliketosortthingsoutthemselves.Don’tlikegrasses,andahmean,whodoes?Re…rememberthatKieronWilsonwhatgrassedonMaryBoothjustfordoingabitofcleaning,wellhedeservedwhathegot…’
Ihumlouder,butthewordskeepgettingthrough.Mynailsdigdeeperandthevoiceinmyheadisdifferentnow,slow,withabiteattheend.Daryl’svoice.
Shut-your-fuckin-yap.
Ipressmyfingerstomylips,holdingitin,lettingitgo,likeI’mblowingherakiss.
‘No,’Isayoutloud,eventhoughithurtsmythroat.‘NoMam.
I’mnotagrass.’
‘Good…goodlad,’Mamsays,andshe’sgoingtosaysomethingelse,butthisblokewalksoverinalongwhitecoat.
‘IamDrBanerjee,’heholdsouthishand,andMamstaresathischestlikehe’stalkingMartian.
‘Andhowareyou,youngman,’hesays
‘Myheadhurts.’
‘He’salright,doctor,’Mamsays,andherforeheadwrinklesintoher–“don’tstartanytrouble”,frown.
‘Wefeeltheoperationwasreasonablysuccessful,’hesays,puckeringhislips.‘Therewasacleanbreakofthecheekbone.
Thatshouldhealwell,butthebonewasforcedbackintotheeye,tearingtheciliarymuscle,twistingtheligament.Thelensmaybedamaged…’
Hegoeson,notevenlookingatme,justtalkinginthisweirddoctorlanguage,aboutbleedingandcomplications.Andit’sconfusing,coshesortoflookslikeMrAtwal,buthetalksasposhasLurch.IwaitforhimtosaysomethingaboutRoyoftheRovers,buthedoesn’t.Hejustcoughsandwalksaway,pastthelineofmetalbedswiththeirlumpysheets,likemummiescomingbacktolife.
‘Butdoctor…wait,‘scuse…’Iliftmyheadupandgaspatthepain.IneedhimtosaythatI’llbealrightforthesemi-final,buthe’sawaypastthemummies,andoutthedoor.
‘Thereyougo,Tommy,’Mamtakesmyhandinhersweatypalm.‘Noth…nothingtoworryabout.’
Welookateachother,butIcan’tthinkofanythingtosay.Iwishshewouldjustgo.Foronce,shedoeswhatI’mwishing,butnotbeforesheleansrightovermewithherhotvodkabreathandsmacksherstickylipsonmycheek.Shepatsmylegthroughtheblanketandwaddlesaway,chunteringtoherselfwithhershouldershunchedandtheblackrootsonherblondhead,likeagiantclumsywasp.
I’llneverenduplikethat.Never.Isnatchthegrapesoffthetable.I’mgoingtothrowthemather,butIletthemfall.Ilookdownatthebrownpaperbagonthewhitetiles,feelingtheitchybandageandthehotneedledigginginbehindmyeye.
‘Ah’deatthemgrapesifIwereyou.’
‘Eh?’
Thebedbesidemecreaks,andthisoldguyleanstowardsmewearingredpyjamasandablackeyepatch,likeapirate.
‘Ahsaid,ah’deatthemgrapesifIwereyou,’hegrinsthroughgreystubblethat’salmostabeard.Hehasn’tgotanyteeth.
Pissoff.Youdirty-old-fuckaDaryl’svoicebitesinmyhead,butmyfingerscomeupandIholditin.
‘Youwantone?’Isay,andhecackleslikeawitch.
‘Let’ssaywesharethem,’hesays.
Ireachdown,grippingtighttothebigbed,andpickthemup,holdingagrapeacrosstowardshispurpleyhand.Weonlyjustreach.Hetakesthegrapeinhislumpyfingers,butitdropsandbouncesunderhisbed.Theoldguysortofshudders.Ipretendlikeithasn’thappened.
Igetoutofbedinthisstupidwhitegownthingthat’sopenattheback,sitontheedgeofhisbed,andgivehimanotherone.
Hedoesn’tsaythanksoranything,buthegetsitinhismouthandmakesthissuckingsound.
‘Ah,sweetandseedless,’hesays,andIgivehimsomemore.
‘Youenall,’hesays.‘Youneedtoeatifyou’regoingtogetbetter.’
‘Whatdoyouknowaboutit?’
‘A’vegotears,’hesays.
‘Yeh,massivehairyones.’
Ifeelmyselfgohot,buthejustcacklesagain,andIlaughtoo,exceptmythroat’stoodry,soIbitedownononeofEddieBurns’grapes.Juicesquirtsinmymouth.Itakeanotherone,ahandful,shovingthemdown,aboutfourforeveryonetheoldmangets,andwekeepgoingtilleveryoneofthem’sgone,andthenaverylittlenursecomesroundwithshortblackhairandafacelikeaboy.Sheshowsusamenucardandaskswhatwewantfordinner.
‘Cod’sbackontonight,Frank,’shesays.
‘Lovely,’hesays,winking,soyoudon’tknowifhemeansthecodorher.
‘It’salright,thisplace,’hesays,andcacklesagain,grippingmywristinhissandpaperyfingers.
Ireadforhimintheafternoonfromthisoldbookhe’sgotthatdoesn’tevenhaveapictureonthefront.Thestoryisaboutagirlandhergranddad.Theygetthrownoutofthisoldjunkshopanddon’thaveanywheretosleep.It’ssortoflongwinded,butyouwanttoknowwhathappens,andafterabitIdon’tevennoticethatI’mjustusingoneeye.I’mreallygettingintoitwhenIheartheoldguystartsnoring.Ireadabitmore,justtomyself,butit’snotthesame.
WhenIwakeupinthemorning,hisbedisflatandempty,andthere’sanewnursewhosayshisdaughtertookhimhome.
‘Right.Nobother,’Isay.
‘Hesaidtotellyougoodbye,’shesays,butshe’sobviouslylying,andthere’snothingtodoexceptlieinbedandtrynottothinkaboutcomplicationsanddamagedlenses,andtheshapeofthatdoctor’smouth.
Maybeit’llbealright.Fourweeksisages.EvenifIdon’tgetmuchtraining,Jobba’llhavetoletmeplayinthesemi’s.He’llhavetoputRoyoftheRoversintheteam,whateverCarlandthemsay.
It’snearlydinnertimeagainwhenthenursewiththeboy’shaircutcomesback.ShetellsmeIshouldreallybeinthechildren’sward,andthatthey’llmovemewhenabedcomesup.
‘Oh,bytheway,’shesays.‘Frankleftyouthis.’Shegivesmetheoldbook.
‘Right,thanks,’Isay,andIhavetoblinkwhenItakeitoutofherhand.
It’sthelongestbookI’veeverread,bymiles,andwithonlyoneeye,butI’venearlyfinishedthewholething,uptowhenLittleNellgetsburied,plusI’veeateneverythingonthehospitalmenubythetimetheycometotakethebandageoff.
Theyneverdidmoveme,andMamhasn’tbeenback.Idon’tthinkaboutit,butIknowshe’llbeonthedrinktillthemoneyEddieBurnsgaveherrunsout.
Thenursewithboy’shairhaschangedthebandageeveryday,butthisisdifferent.Thistimeagiant,boneymancomesandmakesmegetinawheelchair,whichisstupid,costhere’snothingwrongwithmylegs.Hewheelsmeoutpastthemummiesandintoalifttoawholedifferentfloor.Wegoalongmilesofgreencorridortoalittleroom,wherehetellsmetogetintothisleatherchairwithbuttonsonthearm.
‘Waitthere,’hesays,thenhegoesoutandleavesme,lyingbackonthechair,lookingatalltheseweirdmachinesTheoneinfrontofmecouldbearobotoffDrWho,withmetaleyesonabigstalk.
Exterminate,exterminate,Isayinmyhead,thenIlookatthebuttonsonthechairandwonderwhattheydo,andifthere’sonethatcouldjustmakeeverythingalright.
‘Hi.’
There’sagirlinthedoorway,smilingatme.She’spretty,withlongredhairandjustlikeahandfuloffrecklesacrosshernose.
Sheremindsmeofsomeone.Idon’tevennoticethewhitecoatuntilshetellsmehernameisDrTiverton,andshe’stheophthalmologyregistrar.
Shesitsinthechairbesidemeandpressesoneofthebuttons,sittingmeupuntilI’mcloseenoughtokissher.Hereyesaregreen,butwithlittlegreyspeckles.Shescruncheshernoseupandpullsthesticky-tapeoffmyfaceinshortfastmovements,muchmorecarefullythanthenurse.
‘So’shewhispers,liftingthebandageoffmyeye,andIgulpamassivebreath.
I’vegotusedtoseeingthroughoneeye,soit’sweirdseeingonbothsidesatonce,likethere’salinedownthemiddleoftheworld.Oneside’snormal,andtheotherislikelookingatlightsthroughawetwindow,withthecoloursallbrightandblurry.
‘Closeyourlefteye,please,’shesays,andlooksrightintomyeye.Shesmellsoforanges.Ithinkofthewayhernosescrunchedintoherface.
‘Hmmm,’shesays,andwritessomethingonherclipboard.
I’mstilljustlookingthroughoneeye,soherfacehasturnedintoablobofrainbowandtherobotmachinelookslikeaspindlytreewithglasseson.Exterminateyourself,youmental,metalmuppet.Ilaugh,butit’snotfunny.Iwishshe’dhurryupanddosomething,gettheweirdnessoutofmyeye.
‘Sitback,please,’shesays,andit’slikeshe’sreadmymind.
Shepressesthebuttontotipmychairback,thenholdsmyeyeopenandputsintwodropsofstuff.Iblinkandlook,butithasn’tworkedNotrightaway.Sheleansoverme,lookingthroughthissortoftelescope,seeinghowthemedicine’sworking.
Iwanthertosaysomething,butshedoesn’t,andI’mthinking,okay,ifit’snotbetterforthesemi’sthatcouldbealright.CarlandChrissyandthemcanbeatsomecrappyCarlisleschool.
JustsolongasI’mokayforthefinalThat’swhatreallymatters,andthefinal’snottillMay.I’mboundtobeokaybythen.So,Idon’tseewhymyhandsfeelsostickyontheleatherchair.
‘Areyourmumanddadcomingintoday?’shesays,pressingthebutton,sittingmeup.
IopenmyothereyeandswallowbeforeIspeak.
‘Mydad’snotaround.’
‘Oh.’Shelooksaway,atthispictureofaredboatonasparklysea.It’sprettycrap.
‘Andmymam’satwork.Youcantellme.I’mnotakid.’
Shemakesatuttingnoisewithhertongue.
‘Justtellme.DrBanerjeedidalready,aftertheoperation.’
‘Well,’shecoughsandstartsagain.‘Well,Mr.Boyle,asDrBanerjeetoldyou,thedamagewascausedbyyourcheekbonebeingforcedbackagainstyoureyeball.Therewasalotofinternalbleedingwhichmadetheoperationparticularlydifficult,aswellasdamagetotheciliarymuscles…’
Iwatchherfacewhileshegoesoninherdoctor’slanguage,justlikeDrBanerjee.She’ssocloseIcouldreachoutandslapher.HerlipsopenandclosesoIknowshe’sstilltalking,butIcan’treallyhear,justfeelmyhandsgoingnumbonthechair’sleatherarms.
Ireachdownbetweenmykneesandsqueezethethinnestbitofskinthroughthepaperygown.
‘It’sokay,’Itakethismassivebreathandpracticallyshoutather.‘It’salright.I’llwaittillthefinal.That’swhenthescoutsarethere;fromNewcastle,andLiverpool,andeverywhere.’
Shelooksatmewithherseriouselfyface,andpinklipstickthatfitsexactlyonherlips,thenshetakesmyhandandliftsitawayfrommyleg.Iknownow;sheremindsmeofAnnieCherani.Butthatjustmakesitworse.Bothmyeyesgoblurry,andit’snotfaircosdoctorsaresupposedtobeoldmenwithhairynoses,andtheyshouldn’tbeallowedtowearmake-up.
Hawayman,yacunt,Darylbarksinmyhead.Shedoesn’tknowwhatshe’sfuckinonaboutMyfingerstrytopressagainstmylips,butshe’sstillholdingontothem.
‘Iwanttoseetherealdoctor,’Itellher,pullingmyhandaway.
‘Please,Mr.Boyle,Iknowthisisextremely…’
‘Shutup,darkie,’Iscreamlikeamoron,andshejustlooksatmewiththosebrightgreeneyes,likethegrassattheMillenniumStadium,liketheothergrassonthatbowlinggreen,withFrogga’sraspybreathinmyear.
Ijumpwhenshetouchesme,butshe’snothitting,justrubbingatmyshoulder,andthere’sshininessinhereyestoo,adropbalancedonhereyelash.Cosofme.
‘Sorry,’Isay.AndIthinkofBenjywhenhewasinthehospital,howhedidn’tcryatall,andhowhesaidthankyouwhentheybroughthimoneofthosecrappyredlollipopsthatcostabouttwopence,eventhoughhisarmwouldn’tmove,andhehadtoreachoverandtakeitwiththeotherhand.
“Thankyou,Mrs.Bulu,”hesaid,andeveryonelaughed.
‘Thankyou,DrTiverton,’Isay.‘Imean,fortellingme,’andIwanttokissherpinklips,andhither,andholdherwithmyfaceinhersoftwhitecoatandcryuntilallthebadnesscomesoutofme.
‘I’msorry,’shesays,withherhandsfoldedacrosshercoat.
‘Butthat’showitis.’
‘It’salrightnow,’Isay.
‘No,’shesays.‘It’saterriblething,butyou’reabrightboy,andyou’recharming,’shesmilesatme,‘andthereareotherthingsbesidesfootball.Listenatschool.Learnthings.Giveyourselfachance.’
IthinkaboutMr.SpunginsayingIcouldgetanAforartifIdidthecoursework.ButIdon’tcareaboutart.Inodandtrytosmile.
‘Iwasn’talwaysadoctor,youknow.’
Thatmakesmereallysmile.‘Youdon’tevenlooklikeonenow.’
I’mnotsureifshe’llbeannoyed,butshejustlaughsforages,likeit’sthefunniestthingever.
‘Iwon’tbeplayinginthefinal,willI?Iwon’tbeplayingfootballanymore.’
Shesqueezestightonmyshoulder,andabigshinytearcomesdownhercheek.Sheturnsawayfastandwipesitwithhersleeve,likeakid.
‘Atleast…’Iwaittillshe’slookingatme.‘IsupposeIcouldbearef.Theycan’tseeforshit,’andthatmakesusreallylaugh,tillabigbubbleofsnotburstsoutofmynose.
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
SharkBoy
I’mlyingonthehospitalbedwithmyartpadflatonthecrispywhitesheetandelevenpencilslinedupintheirbox.Thetwelfthisinmyhand.I’mdrawingEmilyTiverton,tryingtogetthecurveofherneckwhereitgoesinatthefront,thebitthatmoveslikeatinycreaturewhenshetalks.
Sheneversaid,butIknowitwasherwhosentmetheartstuff.Shegavemeatissueandwetalkedsomemore,afterthatbubbleofsnotcameoutofmynose.Propertalking,aboutstuffyouthinkbutdon’tknowifit’sright.Ikeptwaitingforhertolaugh,ortrytomakemesayaboutCarl,butshejustheldmyhandandletmetalk.ItwasnearlyliketalkingtoAnnie.
Itoldherthat,aboutwhoAnniewas,andhowweusedtohangoutallthetime,andhowwehadafight,butnotwhy.Icouldn’ttellheraboutbeingacoward.ButItoldherabouthowIwentbackwithtwenty-sevenCaramelsandhowAnniewasgone,andIdon’tthinksheevergotthem,andhowI’veneverseenherforfiveyears,exceptforonceonGreyStreet,butIwasonthebus,andbythetimeIgotoffshewasgone.Anyway,I’mnotevensureitwasher.ItoldaboutMamandDaryltoo,andMr.SpunginsayingIcouldgetanA.ImightevenhavetoldheraboutCarl,butaredlightbleepedthroughherpocket,andshehadtogo.
ThepadandpencilswereherewhenIwokeupthenextday,properdrawingpencils,notkids’stuff.So,I’vebeenmostlydrawingforthelastthreedays,picturesofEmilyTiverton,andtryingnottothinkaboutallthatscienceystuffshesaidaboutmyeye,whichmakesmewanttobesick.I’vegotthissortofdreamIthinkofinstead.
I’molder,standinginthisposhbarinJesmondwithsilverchairsandhighshinytables.I’mwearingthiscoolleatherjacketthatcostaboutathousandquid.Thebarmanknowsme.Hedoesn’thasslemeforI.D.,justsmilesandpoursmeabubblydrinkinalongglass,likesomethingoutofachemistryexperiment.Ileanmyelbowonthebarandlookacrosstothispurplelampinthecorner.EmilyTivertonsmilesbackatme.
Shelooksthesameasnowexceptonesideofherfaceislilac,movingwiththelamplight.There’ssomethingshinyacrossherthroat,asilverchain,withatinypendantdisappearingintothedarkspaceatthetopofhervelvetdress.Shewatchesmewithherspecklyeyes,butIcantellshedoesn’tknowwhoIam.Shesmileslikeshewantstocry.
Iliftmyelbowoffthebar.I’mwalkingtowardsher,pastarowofemptychairs,whenthehairpricklesalongmyneck.There’sthisraspybreath,justlikeinthepark.Frogga’shandisonmyback.Hehissesinmyear,tryingtomakethedreamabouthim,andIknowifIturnaround,he’sgotme,soIdon’tlook,andIdon’tlisten.ItakemybigbubblydrinkovertoEmily’stableandsmileatthepoppingsoundofFroggadisappearingbehindme.
‘Don’tyourememberme?’Iask.
‘OhmyGod,’shesays,andthecandleflickers.Thetipofhertongueisaspinkasherlips.‘You’rethatbrilliantartist.’
IsmileandwatchherwhileshegoesonabouttheflyingshipIdidatWallsend,andthesevenlittleminersatDurham,andalltheseotherthingsI’mgoingtopaintformyG.C.S.E.
Istopdrawingandholdthepaperoutacrossthehospitalbed.I’vedoneaboutamillionversionsofherandthrownthemallaway.Thisoneistheweirdest,liketwopicturessquashedtogether.IonlykeptitcosI’monthelastpageinthebook,andI’vesortofgottolikeit.There’sDrTivertonononeside,withherredhairblowingoutbehindher,andthreefrecklesandonespecklygreeneye.Theothereyecameoutfunny.ItsmudgedwhereIkeptrubbingitout.Thatmadehercheekgosaggy,liketherewasaloadofrottensweetsinthere,andyoucanseeMam’sbrownteethinside,andherwaspyblackandyellowhair.
Iwasdoingtheyellowlastnight,justbeforetea,whenthegiantmanbroughtthewheelchair.Iknewhe’dcomeforme.Iclosedthepadandsliditdownbehindmylocker,andthenhewheeledmebacktothatroomwiththerobotthingandtoldmetogetintothebigleatherchair.IwaitedagestillEmilyTivertoncame.Shedidn’tsayanythingaboutthepencils,justnodded,andtoldmetoliebackinthechair.
Icouldhearmyheartbanginginsideme,tryingtogetoutofmymouth,butshedidn’tevennotice,eventhoughshe’ssupposedtobeadoctor.Shetookoffmybandagesfasterthanlasttime.Inippedatmyleg,butshedidn’tstopme,justlookedatmyeyethroughthestalkrobotandtoldmetolookindifferentdirections.
‘Alright,Tommy,’sheleanedback,takingherorangeysmellawaywithher,andwheeledtherobotbackfrommyface.‘We’llsendyouacheck-upappointmentforafortnight’stime.You’llhavetobecarefultoavoidsuddenimpacts,butasidefromthat,’
shesmiledatme,likeshewassayingsomethinggood,‘Idon’tseewhyyoucan’tgohometomorrowmorning.’Thatwasit.
Shewasleavingmethere.
‘AmIgoingtolooklikeaweirdoforever,’Isaid,wantingtomakeherstay
Shestoppedinthedoorway.‘Youdon’tlooklikeaweirdo,’
shesaid,andeventhroughherhairIcouldseeherneckturnpink.‘It’sprettysexy,actually,’shelaughed,andpulledattheringonherfinger.‘Likethegodsspiltatinyjarofhoneyacrossyoureyeandsprinkleditwithmoonlight.’
Hershoesclickedawaydownthecorridor,andaminutelaterthewheelchaircamesqueakingbacktogetme.
IcalledMamafterteaandlistenedforsixteenrings.Sheneveranswered.Ievenwentouttothelobbythismorningandstaredatthesilverphone,thenIcamebacktothewardandpressedmyfaceintothepillow.Therewasnopoint.Ifshewasn’tansweringlastnight,shedefinitelywouldn’tbeansweringnow,soIgotthepadoutfrombehindmylocker,laidoutthepencils,andpulledthesheetupovermyshoulder.
That’swhyI’mstillhere,tryingtodrawEmilyTiverton’sthroat,thebitthatmoveswhenshetalks.Myfeetkickthecovers.Icouldjustdojewellery,agoldheart,likeinmydream,butthat’dbewrong.Cheating.Ithinkaboutitanyway,butreally,I’mjusttryingtogetbacktomydreaminthesilverbar.
I’venearlygotthetasteofthatlongfrostydrinkwhenthenursewiththeboy’shaircomesroundwiththecardsfordinner.
Itakeonerightoutofherhandandticktheboxforchickenandrice.
‘MyMamcan’tcometillafterdinner,’Itellher.
Shesaystogetdressedandmakesmetellourphonenumber,butshetakesthecard,andwhentheycomeroundwiththefood,there’ssomeforme.Afterwards,thisothernursecomes,andIhavetogetupwhileshetakesthesheetsoffthebed.
Shesaystogetdressedtoo.Ifeelstupidinthispaperynightieanyway,soIgettheorangecarrieroutofmylocker.
Thesleevelesst-shirtontopisoneofDaryl’swithapictureofasharkacrossthefront.There’sapairofmytrainers,butnosocks.ThenIpullthejeansoutofthebottomofthebagandthisgroancomesoutofme,likeoneofthecowsonthemoor.
They’remyblueLevi’s,wornsortofgreyacrossthefront.
“Yourfavouritejeans,”Mamsaid,andtheywere,once.
Isqueezetheclothinmyhandandrememberwhenwegotthem.Therewassnowonthepavement,butitwassunny,andIwassweatinginmyduffelcoat.We’dgonedowntothepostyforMam’sgiro,thenintotowntomeetherfriendfromAustraliawhoshehadn’tseensinceschool.Shejusthadtwodrinks,thenherfriendhadtogo,andshetookmeintotheshopwithoutmeevenasking.
‘Thestateofthosetrousers,’shesaid,andhervoicesoundedsortofAustralian.
IchosetheLevi’s,andtheywereexactlytherightsize,whichhardlyeverhappensinOxfam,andMamdidn’tevencomplainabouthowmuchtheywere.IgotthisIndianjumpertoo,redwithgoldbits.EventhenIsortofknewitwasweird,butIwasonlyinyeareight,andwhenItrieditonMamstrokedthesilkinessonmyshoulder.
Ileanbackagainstthemetalhospitalbedandpullthejeanson,butIcan’tdothezip,andtheystophalfwaydownmyleg.
Summerfashion,Ithink,butIknowIlooklikeadick.AtleastDaryl’st-shirtislongenoughtocovermypants.Ipackmystuffintheorangebagandwalkoutpastthemummies.
‘Hangon.’Thenursewiththeshorthairstepsinfrontofme,tickingthingsoffonaclipboard.‘Youcan’tjustgooffonyourown.’
‘Yeh,butmyMam’swaitingoutside.’
‘Well,she’llhavetocomeup,’thenursesays.
‘Shecan’t.Imean,’Isaythefirstthingthatcomesintomyhead.‘Mybabybrother’sasleepinthecar.We’vegotaRangeRover.’
Thenurseshakesherhead,andthat’swhenoneofthemummiesstartsthrashingaboutunderhissheet.Youcantellit’samancosofthenoises,andthebonylegstickingout.
‘Mr.Curry,’thenursecalls.‘Goandwaitinthedayroom,’shetellsme,overhershoulder.
Igooutintothispukeygreencorridor,pastthedeskthat’scalledthenurses’station,tothenextdooralong.That’sthedayroom.IknowcostheysentmethereyesterdayIt’sjustthesame,withthenewsonthetelly,andtworowsofshinyplasticseatsandnooneinside.Excepttodaythereis.Thismanishunchedontheendchair,rockingbackwardsandforwardswithhisfaceinhishands.
‘Baby,baby,baby,’hesays.
Ilookdownthecorridor,butthere’snoonearound,soIclosethedoorandwalkalong.Icheckallthesecomplicatedsignsforawayout,butIcan’thelpthinkingaboutwhatmighthavehappenedtothebaby,andMr.Curryscreamingunderthesheet.Ifeelbadaboutthem,butsortofgoodtoo,cositmakesmerealisethatI’mokay,luckytobegettingout.
There’salobbywithasilverlift.Thegiantporter’salreadyinside,withasuper-thinwomaninawheelchair.Wegodowntothereceptionhall.I’mreadytosaythatMam’swaitingoutside,butnobodyasks,soIjustwalkoutoftheliftandthroughthetallglassdoorsintothisweirdlop-sidedworld.
Imust’vegotusedtotheward,withallthosebedsontheshinyfloorandpeoplethathardlymoved,buttheworldoutsideishugeandtwisted,likeeverythingiswrappedinwetcellophane.
Ilookbackthroughtheglassdoors.Thegiantporteristakinghiswheelchairbacktowardsthelift,andIfeellikealittlekidwatchinghisMamwalkawayfromhim.Iwanttorunbackin,topretendmyeyeisexploding,anything,sothey’llletmestay.Iwatchuntiltheporter’ssaggypantsdisappearroundthecorner.
Iputmyfootontheedgeofthecurb,butitslidesontotheroad.Ifallforward.Myhandsslapagainstthesideofanambulance.
‘Excuseme,’thisposhblokesays,likesomeonehasatightholdofhisballs,butIcan’tseetheexpressiononhisface.
Ishutmyrighteye,andhisfacejumpsacrossthebackoftheambulance,scowling.Iconcentrateontheground,andwalkoutofthehospitallikeazombie,withmyarmsheldinfrontofmeandmybadeyewinkingopenandclosed.
Thehospital’supinthewestend,soIhavetogorightthroughtown.There’smillionsofpeople,andIfeellikethey’realllookingatme,exceptIcan’treallytell.IgetawayfromthemasfastasIcan.Iwalkformiles,downtotheriver,pastthebridgesandtheBaltic,andtheposhflats,upontoWalkerRoad.Atwal’sisopenandIcanseeMrs.Atwalstraighteningthetinsinside.
Thethingisn’ttoshutmybadeye,costhenIonlyseehalfofeverything,buttoopenthembothandconcentrateonthegoodone.Icanseestuff,butwiththisblurryrainbowaroundoneside,andeverythingisinadifferentplacetowhereitlooks.
Ikeepawayfromtheedgesofthings,anddon’tlooktoofarahead.BythetimeIturnintoourstreet,I’mwalkingalongwithbotheyesopenandmyhandsinmypockets.I’vegotitsussed.
There’sabluetransitdownnearours.Thatshouldbeenoughtowarnme.Imean,IknowtheCapri’sknackered,andheneededsomethingforhisdeliveries.Still,Idon’treallythinkaboutit,nottillIgetdownasfarasAnnie’soldhouseandhearMam’svoicethroughouropenwindow.ShegetslouderandscreechierwhenIcrosstheroad,thenthere’sabang,andMamscreams.Itisn’tevendark.
‘Bitch,’aman’svoiceshouts,andtheheatburnsupfrommystomach.
Daryl’sback.Iknewhewouldbe.IknewthathowevermuchMamcriedandpromised,we’dnevergetridofhim.Assoonastherewasmoney,she’dbebackonthevodka,andhe’dsniffitout,likeapointy-facedSmirnoffrat.
Maybeittakeshalfaminutetowalkalongthestreetandgetthesparekeyfromunderthestone.Longenoughtobereadyforthemessofcansandbottles,thestinkofpissandoverflowingashtrays,andthenoiseofthem,likeacar’sbrakesjustbeforethecrash.Ionlyopenthedoorwideenoughtoslidethroughandshutitwithoutaclick.MyhandisonthebanisterwhenMamlooksupthroughthelivingroomdoor.Shestopsscreamingandputsherhandacrossherchest.Shetiltsherheadtooneside.
‘Tommy.Baby.’Shewaddlesintothelobby,withDarylatthefarendofthelivingroom,staringatmeoverhistash.
Herhandslidesdownmyarm.Sheholdsmywristandpressesagainstme.Iturnmyfaceawayfromherpukeybreath.
‘We’rejustsortingout,gettingcleanedup,’shesays,anditmakesthatheatburnthroughmesofastthatI’mscaredtoturnaround.Inipmythigh,nothard,costhebruiseisstillripe,justenoughtosettleme.ThenIgetawayupthestairs.
Thebathroom’sdisgusting.Iflushthetoiletandopenthewindowaswideasit’llgo,thenIstareatmyfaceinthemirroredcabinet.There’salinedownthemiddlewherethedoorsopen,cuttingthroughmynose.It’slikethere’sTommyononeside,andthisweirdboyontheother,lookingbackatmewithhisshinyeye.
‘Moonlight,’Iwhisper,‘andhoney,’butitfeelsstupid.
Ishakemyhead,andmyfaceandhairandtheyellowtilesoverthebathallstreaktogether,liketheRoadRunner.Justthesharkonmyt-shirtisstill,withathousandteethunderitssilveryeyes.
‘SharkBoy,’Isay,andopenmymouthaswideasIcan.Istretchtillmyjawaches.
Myteethsnapshut,butIdon’thearthem,cosDarylcomesclatteringthroughthedoorbehindme.Hestartspissing.Spraybouncesofftheseat.Hedoesn’tevenknowI’mthere,notatfirst.Whenhedoes,itbreakstheflow.Hestretcheshiscockandlooksatmeinthemirror,pointingfromhiseyetomine.
‘Youwanttogetoneofthemeveryweek,’hesays,‘threehundredquidfornowt.Happyfuckindays.’Hezipsup.‘Youcangetthatfuckint-shirtoffenall.’Hebelchesandslapsthebackofmyhead.‘Andcheerup,yacunt,’hesays,walkingoutofthebathroom.IstareatSharkBoyandlistentoDaryl’svoicefromthetopofthestairs,‘itmightneverhappen.’
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
GettingaJob
I’mwalkingupbetweenthescienceblockandtheAstroTurfchompingonmycanteenpizza,whensomeoneshouts,‘Shearer,’
andafootballrollsacrossinfrontofme.There’saloadoflittlekidsstoppedontheschoolfield,watching.Istepovertheball,getmystandingfootbesideit,weightbalanced.
‘Aye,man,giveusit,’oneofthemshouts.
‘Aye,man,aye,’theyallshout.‘Eye,eye;eye,eye,’butbythenI’mpasttheball,uptowardsthehighbackgatewiththepizzaturningtoplasticinmymouth.
Itrytomakeoutlikeit’snobigdeal,likeeverydayforweeksnow,whenthey’vebeenwaitingformeattheschoolgates,andinthehallatassembly,eveninthecorridoronthewaytotheartroomatdinnertime.ButwhateverIpretend,everyonecanseetheshineinmyeye,andeventhelittlekidsknowthatIcan’tseethemiftheycomeuponmyrightside.
Thegateisshutlikealways,withthewiremeshfencerunningallaroundtheschool,butupcloseIcanseethatthepadlockhasgone.Ipullthegatetowardsme.Theloosechainrattles.Istepoutintothelineoftrees,andpushthroughaclumpofdriedoutbushes.
Myfeetstickintheclaggyground.Istandbackagainstaspindlytreeandpressmyheadagainstthebarkuntilithurtsenoughtobalancethebruisedfeelingbehindmyeye.Theleaveslooklikeapaintingwiththecoloursallrunningtogether.
Impressionist,Mr.Spunginwouldcallit.
Iclosemyeyesandstandthereforageswiththiswarmfuzzinessinmyhead,andthecheesytasteinmymouth.Iopenmygoodeye.Maxi’sbus,thatshouldbetakingmetoCarlisle,isinthecarpark.Myothereyeopens,andthebussplurgesintoawateryblob.
Abranchcreaksoverbythegate.Istepawayfromthetreeandpeerthroughtheleavesandshadows.Somepartofmealreadysensesthatit’shim,evenbeforeIhearhistight,screechyvoice.
‘Aye,aye,Banditboy.Playingtoday,areyou?’Froggastepsoutinfrontofme.Ijump,notrealizinghewassoclose.‘Whyaye.Courseyouare,’hegrins.Hishandlandsflatonmychest,knockingmebackagainstthetrunk.‘Yougottacome,soyoucanhaveanothersnogwithCarl.’
Frogga’shandslidesuparoundmythroat.Itrytopullaway,buthisfingerstighten.Abranchdigsintothebackofmyneck.
‘Youwasteoffuckinspace.’Heslapsme,slowandcareful.
Myfistsclench,nailstightinmypalms.ButIdon’tmove.
“Avoidanysuddenimpacts,”shesaid.
‘You’reapieceofshitloser.Right?’
IstareatthebluelinesonmytrainersandtrytoactlikeFroggaisn’tevenhere,butIknowhe’sright.Tearsstinginmyeyes.IwanttotellhimthatI’mnotevencryingcosofhim,butthat’dbepathetic.ItrytothinkofEmilyTiverton’sfaceinthecandlelight,butmylegsareshaking.Frogga’shandistheonlythingthat’sholdingmeup.
‘Right,Bandit?’
“That’showitis.”Iseeherhandsfoldedonherwhitecoat,goingonlikesheknowseverythingintheworld.
‘Right,Frogga,’Isay,notevencaringwhathe’sasking.
‘Youalright,Tommy?’Maxi’sstandingintheopengatewiththemetalpadlockbulgingthroughhisfist.
‘We’rejusthavingachat,shootingthebreeze,givingitabitoftheoldchin-wag,’Froggagrinsandpullsmetowardshim.
‘Aren’twe,Bandit?’
‘Isthatright,Chester?’Maxisays.
Thenamecomesoutwithasneeronit,andtworedblotchescomeuponFrogga’scheeks.HeletsgoofmeandstaresatMaxi,spittingthroughhiswhitelips.
‘Youmesswithme,busman,andEddieBurns’llfuckyourfatarseforyou.’
‘Ohaye?’Maxigetsahandfulofsilverchainoffthegateandcomestowardsuswiththechaintickingoffthemetalframe,slitheringthroughthebusheslikehispetsnake.
‘Goingtofuckmyarse,ishe?YousayingEddie’sapuffthen,areya?’
‘Nah,but…’
‘I’veknownEddieBurnssincebeforeyouweresqueezedoutyourmam’ssorrycunt,’Maxikeepswalking,tillhe’srightupinFrogga’sgogglyface.‘AndI’lltellyouwhathereallyhates.
Hanger-onwankerslikeyou.Nowpissoff.’
FroggalooksdownatMaxiwithhiseyesbulgingoutofhishead.Maximustbesixinchesshorter,buthe’ssolid,andtwentyyearsolder,withachainwrappedaroundhisfist.
‘Goon,Chester,’Maxisays,andlaughsoutloudatFrogga’sname.Hewaveshisarmattheschool.Thechainrattles.
‘Fuckoff,fatman,’Froggasnarls,butherushesit,andstompswaytoofast,backthroughthegate.
Maxiwatcheshimgo.
‘D’yawantajob,son?’hesays.
Iwipemysleeveacrossmycheek.
‘Hawaythen,’hesays,andIfollowhimoutintothecarpark.
‘Ah’mpressedfortime.GottobeawaytoCarlislefor…well,youknowwhatfor.’
Hegetsinthedriver’scabwhileIstandtherewithonefootontheroadandoneonthebus,notsurewhathewantsmetodo.Hesitswiththisnotebookonthesteeringwheel,hunchedover,soallIcanseeishisToonArmybaseballcapandthetopofachewedpen.Thenhepullsthesebrownenvelopesfromthepocketinthedoor.They’resmall,butfatandbulgy,likehim.
Hewritesanumberoneachofthem:One,two,three.
TheenvelopesgointoacrumpledMorrison’scarrier.Hetiesthetopandchucksitatme,thenheholdsthepieceofpaperoutinfrontofmyface.There’sthreeaddresses.They’reallplacesdowninWalker,onejustnearourhouse,andeachaddresshasgotanumberbesideitinredfelttip;one,two,three.
‘Gotit,’Maxisays.
‘Eh?’
‘Youcanread,can’tyou?’
‘Yeh.’
‘Right.It’snotbleedindifficult.Youtakeeachenvelopetotheaddressonthelist,ringthebell,tellthemit’sfromMaxi,thenyoutearthatlistintolittlepiecesandbinit,right?Nolittering.’
Hegrinsagain.
‘Whatifnooneanswers?’
‘What’sthat?Getyourfingersoutofyourmouth.’
Ipressmyhandflatagainstmyleg.
‘Whatifnooneanswers?’
‘They’llanswer.’
Heleansforwardandgetsthisthickwadoutofhisbackpocket.Hishandstretchesaroundit,thenheholdsoutatwenty,sonewandcrispitdoesn’tlookreal.‘Here.’
Itakethemoney,quick,beforehechangeshismind.
‘Doitrightandthere’splentymore,butifyouscrewthisup,’
hisfacesags,likeallthemusclesjustsnap.‘Don’tscrewitup.’
Iwaittoseeifthere’sanythingelse
‘Goonthen,’hesays,andIscrambledownoffthebusandbacktowardssafe,boringmathsrevision.
‘Oy,’heshouts,pokinghisheadoutofthebus.‘Wherethefuckareyougoing?’
Ipointatourbrandnew,state-of-the-artschool.
‘Nah,nah,’hecomesploddingtowardsme.‘Notwithmygear,you’renot.Thisiswork,son.Youcangotoschooltomorrow.’
‘Right,Maxi.’
‘Right,Maxi,’hesays.‘Nowgoon.DoWelbeckfirst,andyoudon’tstop,youdon’tgetchattingtoanyonetillyou’redone.I’llberingingtheladsinanhour,andtheybetterbehappy.Andyoudon’topenmyfuckinenvelopes.’
He’sstillshoutingthingsatmewhenIwalkawayoutthefrontoftheschoolcarparkwithhiscrappycarrierswingingagainstmyknee.Imightnotbeplayinginthesemis,butI’mfree,outofschoolwithatwentyinmypocketandFroggaoutofmyface.Exceptthatisn’ttrue,cossomehowFrogga’sbulgyeyescanseethetruthaboutme,thatI’mascrewed-uploser,withmyalkymam,andnodad,andnobrother.
Ishouldn’tlookback,butIdo.Thelightsareonintheartroom.Thatstartsmethinking,aboutMr.SpunginandEmilyTiverton’spencils.Igetagoodgriponmythighandsqueezetillitburns.Thepainclearsmyhead.Right.IlookatthefirstaddressonthelistWelbeckRoad.Thisisarealjob,notlikedoinghomeworkanddrawingpictures.Anyway,it’sjusttillthingsgetsorted,tillmyeyegetsbetter.Anditwill,whatevershesays.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
HappyBirthday
Benjyispressedagainstme,solittleIcanfeelthepaperybrushofhisnappyonmythigh.Hemewslikeacatandthrowshisstickyarmacrossmyneck.
‘Tom-Bomb,’hesays.
‘Benjy,’Iwhisper,balancedontheedgeofmydream.
Mylegsstretchandtingleundertheduvet.TheRainbowBlankethangsinthewindowwithitscoloursblurring,redandgreenandgold.Myeyelidsflicker.Ihidefromthelight,butIcan’tstopthecoldnessofthewallagainstmyfoot,orthesickeningthudofrealityinmystomach.Benjyisgone,andthoseswirlingrainbowcoloursarewhatIwillalwayssee.
Mywatchisbalancedonthebedsidetable,likeaminiversionofthestationclockwiththepointersalreadyhighonitsface.Shit.
It’saftereleven.Mamstillhasn’tcome.Ibetsheisn’tup,eventhoughIremindedheraboutamilliontimes.IpullmyjeansonandstompasloudasIcanacrossthelanding.IpushMam’sdoorsohardthatitthumpsbackagainstherbed.Darylmightstillbehere,butIdon’tcare.Istepintothesmellofoldcider.Myfoothitssomethinghard.Abottleclangsagainsttheradiator,spillingfrothywetnessundermytoes.Iclickthelighton.
‘Mam.’
Shegroansbutdoesn’tmove.Theduvet’srightupoverherhead,butatleastthere’sjusther.Ipulltheduvetoffherhead.
‘Fuckinhell,Tommy.’Sherollsoverandpressesherfaceintothepillow,justlikeIdo.Thatmakesmestop.Isitontheedgeofthebedandputmyhandonherraggedyhair.
‘Haway,Mam,it’sWednesday.’
Shepullsthecoversbackoverherhead
‘Areyounotatschool?’
‘School?’Islapthepillowbesideher.‘Wednesdaythe1stofAugust,likeI’vetoldyouaboutathousandtimes,andyoudidn’tevenlisten.’
‘No,Tommy,’herheadcomesout,eyeswideunderherwitch’shair.‘Idid.I’vegotthecardandeverything.Justsleptin,that’sall.’Shesitsupandrubsatthegreysmudgesonherface.IcanseethatI’vemadeherscared.
‘It’salright,Mam,’Ilookoutthroughthewindow,attheoldfreezerintheyardwithitsdoorhangingoff.‘Butcanwegosoon?’
Shegruntsinagoodway,andIleaveherthere.I’vejustfilledthekettlewhenIheartheshowerrunning.Brilliant.Myhandstopsonthetap.I’msmiling,thinkingofthattimewhenDarylwasinthereandIturnedthecoldonasfarasitwouldgo.
Darylwentmental,butsowhat?He’salwaysinaradge,andanyway,itwasworthit.
Iclickthekettleonandcheckthefridge.Jam,butnomargarine,andtwobitsofcardboardbreadontheshelf.Iputtheminthetoaster.Forme,notMam.Shedoesn’teatinthemorning.Idon’tmucheither,exceptit’snearlyhalfelevenandI’mstarving.Iputloadsofjamon.
Istandbythesinkwatchingbitsoflastnight’sfishfingersfloatinthewater,andit’slikemyhandgoesonitsown,turningthecoldtapjustabit.IwonderifMam’llevennotice,butIdon’twanttothinkaboutthat,soIremembersittingonAnnie’smam’sshinybedtellingherhowDarylhadcomethunderingdownthestairs.‘Bollock-nakedwiththispurpleblotchacrosshischest.’
Whatreallygotherlaughingthough,ishowstupidIwas,stillstandingthere,rightbythesink.Shepressedherhandsinagainsthertummyandmadethatsoundshedid,likeadodgytap.Ifanyoneelsehadlaughed,Iwouldhavehatedit,butmaybeit’scosshealwayshadworsebruisesthanme,ormaybejustcositwasAnnieCheranimakingthatcrazynoise,butIstartedlaughingtoo,tillwewerebothrollingaroundonthatsilkybed,practicallywettingourselves.
‘Whatareyougrinningat?’
‘Hi,Mam,’Iputthecoffeedowninfrontofher.
Shetakesasipandmakesaface.It’scosI’veputcoldwaterinwiththehot,soshecandrinkitquickly,sowestillmightgettothestationintime.
Sheputsthecupdown,thenshepicksthekettleup,shakesit,andholdsthespoutunderthetap.Shefillsituptothetopandpressesthebutton.Wewatchitboil.
‘Comeon,Mam,please.’
Sheputsherhandonherforeheadandsighs.
‘IwishI’dputthetaponfull,’Isaymostlytomyself,thenIwalkthroughtothefrontroomandthrowmyselfbackonthefurrygreensofa.
Mamhatesthat,saysitknacksthesprings.They’reknackeredanyway.Mykneesareupnearlylevelwithmyface,butthepadandpencilarestillwhereIleftthem,undertheseat.Igetthemoutandstareattheblankpage.Thekettleclicksinthekitchen.Ihearthecupboardopenandclose.Atleastshe’snotjuststandingthereShe’sreallymakingcoffee,evenifitisonlyforshow,tomakemewait.
Iputthepadonthericketybrowntableandgoouttothecupboardunderthestairs.There’snolight.Theceilingslopesdowntonothing,soI’monmykneesinthedark,feelingthroughjacketsandshoestillIfindthesoftvelvetofMam’slonggreencoat,jammedunderthehoover.Ipullitlooseandtouchthevelvettomycheek,andahookdigsintothetopofmyhead.
‘Fuck,’Iletthescreamcomeloud.
Icrawlbackintothelight,shakingoutthedustandcrumples,andsmooththecoatwithmyhand.Thebelt’slostandthere’sdarkpatchesontheshoulderswherethesoftnesshasgone,andalongstain,likeanarrowdownthefront.Iwanttogointhekitchenandputitonher,butIknowshewon’tletme,soIholdthecoatagainsttheslopingwallandsmoothitdown,over,andover.
Thedoorbellgoes.Istopwithmyhandonthecoat.Ican’tturnroundincaseit’shim.I’mnotscared.Well,notmuch.IfIwasthinking,I’dknowitwasn’tDarylwon’tcomebacknow.
ThisisMam’sskintweek,tillgirodaytomorrow,andanyway,Daryl’sgotakey.IturnthelatchandMoiraKennedy’sskinnypinkarmshootsthroughthedoorwithatwo-litrebottleofStrongbowclutchedinherscabbyhand.
‘See,Kazza.Ineverletmematesdown,’shesays,thensheseesme,andthegrinslidesoffherfacelikemudintherain.
‘Oh,’shesays,andstepspastmeasifIdon’tevenexist.
Mam’scoatistightinmyfist.Imakemyfingersrelax,andhangthecoatoverthecupboarddoor,thenIwaittillmybreathgetsnormalbeforeIfollowherin.
They’rebothsittingatthericketytable,soIcanseethebackofMoira’selectrocutedhair,andMam’sface,andthatbigbottlebetweenthem,onmyartpad.
‘Getusacoupleofglasses,willyou,love?’Mamgrinsatmelikeabrown-toothedkid.
Myheadgoesfuzzy,soIcan’tthink,soiftheyaskedmemyname,Iwouldn’tevenknow.
‘Right,Mam.’
IfindaglassandanAbbamugandtakethemthrough.Mamslopsfizzygoldontomypad.
That’sallMamwants.Herthreequidbottleofcider.Threequid.I’vegotfortypoundsinmybackpocket,plusatennermoreinshrapnel,andI’dgiveherallofitjusttogetheroutofthehouse.Butthenshewouldn’tbecomingforBenjy.Anyway,ifsheknewIhadmoney,she’donlyhasslemeforit,andthenshe’dgetpissedandtellDaryl.
‘Haway,willyou,Tommy.’
‘Eh?’IlookatMam.
‘Don’tjuststandtherestaring.’
‘RightMam,’Ihavetoliftthebottletogetmypad,andIcanfeelMam’seyesonme,seethetightnessofherlips.Iputthebottledown.Herlipsrelax.
‘Thatlook,’MamsaystoMoira,talkinglikeI’mnotthere.
‘Likeawetweekend,’Moirasays.
Ipressmyhandovermymouthandstampupthestairs.
‘Enoughtogiveyouthecreeps,’Moirasays.
Ilieonthebedandstareattheciderstainonmypad,smellingitsstalesweetness.Idrawamoutharoundit,lipsstretchedwide,eyesnarrowedtoslits,thenIrubthemoutandletthemopenwidewithfear.Idosoftblondcurls,lightasangeldust,andapudgychinslopingdowntotheneckofBenjy’sNoddypyjamas.There’sanoblongofchipboardunderneathhim,andI’mdoingthisotherhand,reachingoutfromthebottomofthepagewhenIhearMoira’svoiceinthepassage.
‘Icannot,Pet,Icannot.Ah’mmeetingourMichaelattheTurbinia.’
Thefrontdoorslams.Idon’tevencare.Iwanttostayuphereanddraw,butIcan’t.IrundownandgetMam’scoatoffthedoorhandleandholditwhilesheputsiton.Thebuttonswon’tdoup.
Shelooksevenmorelumpythannormal,andIwishI’djustgivenherthatbaggycoatshealwayswears.Atleastitlookssunnyoutside.I’veactuallygotthedooropenwhenshescuttlesbackthroughtothelivingroom.Iwatchherthroughthedoorway,neckingthelasthalfglassofcider,thenshegrabsherleopardskinhandbagofthesofaandIpullheroutofthehouse.
‘You’vegotthecard,Mam?’
‘Don’thassle,man,Tommy.’
‘Haveyougot-’
‘Aye,aye,I’vegotit.’
She’sabitclumsy,butnotreallypissed,andwegetallthewayintotownbeforeshehastostopforapee,atthisposhpubcalledthePitcherandPianoIgoinwithher.Thepub’sabouttentimesasbigasourhouse,andthere’sthishard-facedcowstaringatusfrombehindthebar.Mamdoesn’tcare.ShegoesroundtothetoiletswhileIstandatthefarendofthebarandlookthroughthismassivewindow,atthenewMillenniumBridge,andoutacrosstheriver.Mamtakesages,likealways.Ifindher,eventually,sittingonabarstoolwithaglassinherhand.
‘Justaquickone,Tommy.Justahalf.’
Igotosqueezemythigh,butmyfistsareclenchedtight.Ipressmyfistovermymouth.Todayespecially,Iknowit’smyjobtotakecareofher.Itrynottolookatmywatch,butit’sgonethree,closertohalfpastbythetimewefinallygettothestation.We’restilloutinthebitwherethetaxisarewhenMamgoesoffahead.
‘I’lljustnipandgetsomewinegums,’shesays,wobblingawayfromme.‘Youcheckthetrains.’
Idon’tseewhywecan’tgetthemtogether,butatleastshe’srememberedaboutwinegums.Maybeeverything’llbeokay.
So,it’snottwelveo’clock,butBenjywon’tknow.We’llhavewinegumsandwritethecardonthetrain,thenwe’llpostittogetherandletgoatthesamemoment.IthinkofwhenIwasalittlekid,withmeandMampushingtheletterthroughtheslottogether,andherexplaininghowwehavetopostitinSunderlandsoTheSocialdon’tknowwhereweare,sotheydon’tcomeformetoo.Thatfeltsoscary,thinkingthattheymightgetme.Butnow,I’mtryingnottowish,morethananythingelseintheworld,thattheyhad.
“BackattheStarWarsCafé,”Mamusedtosay,anditmademelaugheverytime,walkinginunderthebigarchesandseeingalltheweirdsortsofpeoplethatyou’dneverseetogetheranywhereelse.Likethiswomanwithalittleroundhatandamatchingdressasifshe’stheQueen,andalltheselassesin‘Hayley’sHenWeekend’t-shirtscomingpasther,soitlookslikeshe’swiththem.
Oneofthelassestripsoverthistrampyblokesittingagainstapillar.He’sreallyold,withapointybeardandasquashyhat,likeGuyFawkesorsomething.Hedoesn’tlookatme,butherattleshiscup.Atankard,that’swhatyoucallit,withNorthumberlandFusilierswrittenacrossit,andthisbiggoldemblemunderneath.
‘Spareafewshillingsforanoldsoldier,’hesays,withhisfingersalltwistedandpurpleyaroundthemetalhandle,likeFrankinthehospital.
Idon’tevenknowwhatashillingis,butIknowthere’saloadofpoundcoinsjinglinginmypocket.Ijamahandfulinhissilvercup.Hestaresatthem,thenlooksupatmewiththesewateryeyes,sopaleIcanseerightthroughtothelightbehindthem.
‘Yousure,son?’hesays,butthetankard’salreadygone,hiddenunderhiscrappycoat.
Inodanyway,andwalkonintothestation,andI’mthinking,fuckinhell,I’vejustchuckedatenneraway,andIdon’tevencare.
‘Spareafewshillingsforanoldsoldier,’Ihearhisvoicebehindme,andIcan’thelpsmiling.Ibethe’sgotathousandquidstuffedawayinthatcoat.
ThenexttraintoSunderlandisfromplatformone,whichisrightinfrontofme.IstopwhereIam,inthemiddleofthestation,andwaitforMamtocomeoutoftheshop.Foronce,shedoesn’ttakeages.
‘Mam,overhere,’Iwalktowardsher,smiling,andthenIseethecellophaneshiningonthecardinherhand.Irunthelastfewsteps,butbythetimeIgettoherthecard’sgone,inherbagorherpocket,andshe’slookingatmewithhereyeswideopen,likeshe’sneverdoneanythingwronginherlife.
‘Where’sthewinegums?’
‘Eh?’
‘Thewinegumsyouwenttoget.’
‘Whah?Where’sthetrain?’
Ilookatherforages,butshejustlooksrightback,andIcan’thelpseeinghowblankhereyesare,howthere’snothingbehindthematall.
‘Platformone,’Isay,walkingacrosstowardsitandsittingonthiswoodenbench.
Mamsitsbesideme.Iturnmyfaceaway,butIcanhearthecrinkleofthecellophaneinherhand,thenshe’sgotthebirofromherbag,andIknowshe’sgoingtostartwritingit,likeshe’stoopissedtorememberwe’resupposedtodoittogether,onthetrain,afterwe’vetalkedaboutwhattosay.Orlikeshejustdoesn’tcare.
‘Stop,’I’mthinking,tryingnottohearthepenscratch.ButIcan’tsay.Myfingerandthumbaretightontheinsideofmythigh.Ikeepmyeyesonthemetaltrackstillsheputsthecardinmylap.
There’saboatonthefront,andamaninsidewithalongstick.Venezia,itsays,onthefront,andinsideshe’swritten:Happybirthday.Loveya.Loadsoflove,MamShehasn’tevenputBenjy’sname,orthathe’sfifteentoday,butthatisn’twhatmakesmefeelsick.There’stwowordsalreadyprintedontheothersideofthecardinbigcurlyletters:HappyAnniversary
Istareatthewords,breathinglikeI’vejustsprintedthefourhundredmetres.Benjy’sfifteenandshedoesn’tevencare.Ithinkofhimcuddlinginandtrytofindthatglowinsideme,likewhenIwokeupthismorning.ButMam’sright.TherealBenjydoesn’texistanymore.He’sgotnothingtodowithsomefifteen-year-oldladthatIdon’tevenknowSomekidwho’sprobablygothisownPlayStation,andanormalMamandDadthatonlygetpissedandradgyonSaturdaynights.
IgivethecardbacktoMamandwatchherpenscratchacrosstheenvelope.Thatweirdname:c/oMrs.AbutoPalacios,atSocialServices,thensheputsthecardinside,notevenlookingatit,notevenseeingthatIhaven’twrittenanything.
Thetannoyannouncesthatthenexttrainarrivingatplatformoneisthe3:45toSunderland.Icanhearitcomingwiththisechoeyrushthatmakesmewanttoscream.Mamgetsup,holdingtheenvelopeflatacrossherchest.It’sthatnoisethatmakesmedoit.Isnatchtheenvelopeoutofherhand.
‘Youfatfuckinpiss-head,’Iriptheenvelopeinhalf.‘Youlethimdowhateverhefuckinlikes,’Itearitagain.
Thethirdtimeitwon’tripproperly,justbends,andIthrowthepiecesoutacrossthetrack,andwatchthemfloatingdown.
Icouldjumpafterthem,fallinfrontofthetrain,andmakeallthenoisestop.OrpushMaminstead.Maybeshefeelsitcosshestepsback,andthetraincomesroaringinbeforethebitsofcardhaveevenhittheline.
MamsayssomecrapthatIcan’tevenhear.
‘Yadirtycuntingliar,’Iscreamwiththenoiseofthetrain,andstampawaythroughthegiantarches.
Thetramp’sstillthereagainsthispillar.Helooksupatme,andIthinkhe’sgoingtosaythanksorsomething,buthejustrattleshiscupinhisfilthyhands.
‘Spareafewshillingsforanoldsoldier,’hesays,likeI’mnoone,likehe’salreadyforgottenme,thegreedy,ungratefulpieceofshit.
Istareathiscupwiththatfizzlikeshakenupcokeinmyhead,andaplasticcheesytasteinmymouth.‘NorthumberlandFusiliers,’itsays,ingoldonthesilvertankard,andthere’sthisunfuckinbelievablepictureunderneath.Amanonahorse,pushinghisspearintoadragon.Myleftfootlandsontheslipperytilefloor,levelwithhiscup.
‘Getafuckinjob,youlazytwat.’
Myrightswingsdown.Icatchitperfectly,followingthrough,sendingthecupspinningupunderthedomedceilingwithcoinsclatteringdown,ratatatat,likeamachinegunonthetiles.
Heshoutssomethingbehindme.Iwalkfaster.There’sotherpeopleshouting.Ilookround,casual,likeI’mnotscared,andI’mfuckinnot.There’smoneyallover.Acoupleofcharverkidsinwhitetrackiesracearoundtryingtopickitup.Sowhat?It’snothismoney.
‘Yahairyscroungingcunt,’Ibitedownonthelastwordandmybloodroarslikethattrain.I’mnotscaredofanyone.I’mbuzzing,hardasfuckinmasonrynails,withtheplastictasteofthefuturesweetinmymouth.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
ABad’n
We’reallinthesittingroomwithtencansofStrongbowlineduponthecarpet,stillheldtogetherintheirplasticrings,andthreeempties,bentoverlikewornoutoldmen.Thetelly’son,butnobody’swatchingDaryl’slyingonthesofawithacanonhischest,andhisuglylongtoesthatlooklikefingers,hookedonthearmofMam’schair.I’msittingatthewobblytablebehindthem,soallIcanseeisthetopofherwaspyhead,andthehunchofhershoulderswhenshebendstotakeadrink.
She’sabouthalfwaydownthesecondcan,justgettingtothatstagewheresheknowseverything.
‘There’ssomepeopleyoudon’twanttobegettinginvolvedwith,’shesays,shakingherheadatthetelly.
Youshouldknow.Youstupidcow.That’swhatIwanttosay,buttheglisteningredonDaryl’sliphelpsmeholditin.Ipressthecantomymouth.Myweightgoesback,tiltingthewoodenchairupontwolegs.Thechaircreaks.Ikeepitbalanced,withonehandonthedoorhandle,andtakealongdrink.
‘Howd’youthinkIgotthemoneyforthecans?’Itellher,likeanidiot,eventhoughI’msupposedtokeepmymouthshut.
‘Idon’tcare,’Mamsays.‘He’sabad’n,thatMaxiBlair.’
‘Heworksatschool,’Isay,likeitmakesanydifference.‘Andhe’sneverbeendoneforanything.’
‘Right,’Mamsays.‘He’sneverbeendone.Butwhatabouttheladsthatworkforhim?ThatPaulConwaygotsixmonthsinDurham.HisMelaniewasintheBlackBoar,cryinghereyesout,eightmonthsgoneandbigasaballoon.’
‘Mam,he’sgotnowttodowithMaxi,andhe’stwenty,atleast.
I’mnotsixteentillThursday.EvenifIdidgetdone,I’djusthavetopainttheunderpassorsomething.’
Aye,’shesays,‘butonceyougetarecord…’
Darylbelchesforaboutfivefullseconds.Mamstopstalking.
Rainspattersonthewindow,andthemanonthetellysaysweshouldgetdowntoAlliedCarpetswhilestockslast.
‘Herewego,’hesays,talkingtothecracksontheceiling.‘Mrs.
fuckinknowitall.’
‘Well,’Mamsays.‘Heshouldbegoingtocollege.’
MeandDarylbothlaughatthat.
‘It’sAugust,Mam,’Isay.’
‘Well,youshouldbeapplying.Somewherethat’llletyoudoyourexamsagain.’
Istareattheridgesonthetable.
‘Fuckinexams,blah-de-fuckinblah.Ah’velookedafterthatbairnsincehewasababbie.Trethimlikemyown.Andnowhe’sbringingafewquidintothehouse,youwanttofuckitup.’Daryltapshisfingeronthesideofhishead.‘Areyefuckinstupid,’hesays,bitingdownonthelastword.
‘Yeh,’Isay,thinkingaboutDaryl,andmyeightfailedGCSE’s.
‘Fuckinstupid?’
‘Goodlad,’Darylsays.
‘LeastI’mnotignorant,’Mamsays,inherpatheticsulkyvoice.
‘AndIam?’ThecancracksinDaryl’shand.‘Thinkyou’resomethingspecial?MissEveningChronicle1983,withyoufivefuckin“O”levels.Butwhere’sitgotyou,eh?Lookatyourself.Youstupidfuckinalky.’
Darylgrinsatmelikehewantsmetolaugh.Itakealongpullfrommycan.Hedoesthesame,likewe’remates,thenhepusheshisfeetagainstMam’schairtillhe’ssittingup,withhisfingerpointingatme.Icanseehistattoo,thatsnaketailwindingdownhisforearm,andIcantellHeknowseverythingtoo,andhewantstoshare.
‘They’renotlikeus,lasses.’
Iletmychairthumpdownontoallfourlegs.Hedoesn’tevennotice.
‘Youcan’ttrustthem,butI’lltellyouwhat.It’snottheirfault.’
HeshakeshisheadlikeI’marguingwithhim,likeIgiveatosswhathesays‘Nah,it’snot.Likeimagineifyouwerethewimpiestladinschool,whichyoupracticallyfuckinare,right?’
Helaughs,andIdoasuperslowfakelaughrightback.‘Haway,son,I’mkidding.Butsayifyouwere,thenyou’dhavetobesly.
Wouldn’thaveachoice,wouldyou?Eh?’
‘Youshouldn’ttalklikethat,’Mamsays.
She’sslidsolowinthechairit’slikeshe’sdisappeared.Andshehas,therealMam,theonewhodancedinthekitchenandhadthatmagicpowerinhereyes.He’sbeatenitoutofher.NowIunderstandthat’showreallifeworks.LikeiftheSlytherinshadgivenHarryPotteragoodenoughkickingatthestart,thatwould’vebeenthat.
‘Ahdon’tmeanbeingfast,likewhenyouwereabairn,’Darylsays,‘remindedmeofmyself,tobehonest,alwaysgettingintothings,slippingawaybeforeshithitthefan.Notlikethatotherone,sattherelikeatart.Aye,’hesays,suckingathisdrink.‘Ididyouafavourthere.Imeanadeadweight…’
Mycangoesdown.Ciderfrothsoverthetable.I’moutofthechairandroundinfrontofthetellywithDarylstillshittingon,andMamstaringatthishalf-eatenJaffacakeundertheradiator.Igetdownonmykneesandpullanewcanoutofitsplasticloop,feelingtheweightofitinmyhands.IstareatthethickyellowhairsonDaryl’stoes.Thetelly’sgoingbehindme.
Someadvertaboutnappies.Babieslaughing.Likebabieseverlaughinreallife.
Myfingerrunsaroundtherimofthecan.Ifeeltheridgeofit.Daryllooksdownatme.Theveinsareuponhisneck,goldearringswinging,mouthgoing,fingerjabbingatMam,orme.
Thesame.Ileanback,uponmyknees,likeI’massmallasthatlittlekidhidinginthekitchencupboard,tooscaredtobreathe.
Thecanslipsinmyhand.Iholdtighterandwatchtheciderswillaroundhismouth.
‘Areyoustupid,’Isay,tonoone,seeingmycanslamintothatbigblackholeofhismouth,takinghisteethwithit,jammingthemdownhisthroat.
I’mgoingtodoit,beatthewickednessoutofhim.Ibringthecanup,coldagainstmycheek.Mam’sthere,attheedgeofwhatIcansee.She’sstaringatme,withherfaceblurringredandblueandgreen.Herheadmovesaboutamillimetreeachside.SheknowswhatI’mthinking.Inod,amillimetreupanddown.Hereyesgetwider.Herpalmcomesupbesideherface,fingersstretchedtight.
How,Ithink.Whitemanspeakwithforkedtongue
Iliftthecanhighovermyhead,andthrowitatthewall.
‘Yacunt,’Darylsays.
Thecanbouncesandlandsonthecrappytable.Beersprayslikepissontothecarpet.Idon’tevenlookathim,butIletmyhandaccidentallybrushthroughMam’scrinklyhair.Iwalkpasther,outoftheroom,andIknow,I’mnevergoingback.IlookatDaryl’sstupidphotoforthelasttime,himsittingonthatbikewithhishairhangingdownoverhisSunderlandshirt,likehethinksJamesDeanwasahairyMackem.Ilaughatthat.It’sonlyafterIclosethefrontdoorthatIthinkofBenjy’sNoddypyjama-top,andallDad’sstuff,stillupthereundermybed.Butsowhat?AkidIdon’tevenknow,andaloadofoldvideosfromsomeblokewhopissedoffbeforeIevenknewhim.
Andanyway,Dadsareforpuffs.
Thepavement’sdark,buttherain’sstopped,andthere’sasortofheavinessintheairthatgetsintomyhead.Istareupattheblueclouds,andthinkofMam’swideeyestalkingtome,tellingmenottohithim.Maybeshewasright.Heisn’tworthit,butthere’sstillthatjitteryfeelofheldbackpunchesinmyarms.Iwalkfaster.Thecloudsturnorangeovertowardsthetown,likethecolourofEmilyTiverton’shair,liketheorangeysmellofher.
It’stwodaysbeforemysixteenthbirthdayandI’mbouncingoverthepavement,feelingwired,butgood,asifmybody’smadeofair.Tonight,isgoingtobespecial,andnothingDarylsaysisgoingtomatteranymore.
Myfeetgoontheirown,likeI’mcrossingtheplainsandthere’snoonearound,justthesandandthesun,andyoudon’tevenneedtothink,cosyourhorseknowstheway.Idon’tknowwhereI’vecometotillI’mthere,uponShieldsRoad,staringinthroughtheRaby’splate-glasswindow.
Hoola’sbehindthebarlikealways,withthathalf-smilescarcurlinguptowardshershavedhead.There’safewoldboysdownthelongendofthebar,butjustoneontheshortend.
He’ssatonhisstool,leaningbackagainstthepillarwithhisbottleofBrownandhishalfpintglassinfrontofhim,andhispocketsbulgingwithcellophanewraps.Maxiliftshissweatyfacetowardsme.
I’mwellearly,buthehookshisfingeratmethroughtheglassandsmileswithhispiggymouth.Iwalkintothebar.
‘Pintforthelad,’hesaystoHoola.
‘Cheers,Maxi,’Isay.‘Alright,Hoola?’
‘Alright,Flower?’Shesmilesatmewithhalfherface.
‘Carlsberg?’
‘Probably,’Isay,andshelaughslikeit’snotthemillionthtimeI’vesaidit.
Shepoursthepintwithjustathinfrothonthetopandputsabagofnutsdownonthesoggybeertowel.
‘Onthehouse,’shesays.‘Justsolongasyoueatthem.’
‘Thanks,Hoola,’Isay,butshe’salreadyawaytotheotherendofthebarwithaflushofcolouronthebackofherneck.
‘Thereyougo,son,’Maxihandsmetwoplasticmoneybagsbulgingwithhome-grownWalkerskunk.
‘Ta.’
Iputoneineachpocketofmyjeans.Idon’tneedtolookatthemtoknowI’vegotfivetwentyquiddealsineachbag.That’stwohundredquid.AhundredandsixtyforMaxi,andfortyforme.Butit’sbetterthanthat.I’vegotanotherfouremptycoinbagsinmybackpocket.Alittlebitfromeachwrapgivesmefourmoredeals,oneforme,andthreeforprofit.Alltheladsdoit.Maxidoesn’tcare,solongashegetshismoney.
‘Anotherone?’Hoolaasks,noddingatMaxi’semptybottle.
‘Later,’hesays,puttingbothhandsonthebarandheavinghimselfoffthestool.‘I’mawayformedinner.Iftheotherladsgetin,I’mupatMaccyDee’s,’hewavesahandatmeandHoola.‘Backinabit.’
‘Aye,’shesays.‘JustmakesureyoulookoutforTommy.’
Maxidoesn’tanswer.ItmakesmethinkofwhatMamwassayingbefore,aboutPaulConway,andthatnightinMaxi’skitchenafterConwaygotlifted,andIgotpromoted.
‘Youdothejob,’hesaid,withhisbellyhangingoverhisboxersandthesausagesspittinginthepan.‘Anythinggoeswrong,mind;youdon’tknowanythingaboutme,’hepointedthespatulaatme,greaseflying.‘Nothing.’
‘Right,Maxi.Nothing.’
‘Nothing.’Hegrunted,andwentbacktoproddinghissausages.‘Iftheyask,butonlyiftheysaymyname,youcantellthemI’mthebusdriverfromschool.’
Itakemytimewiththepint.Thebarstartsfillingup,butnoneoftheladscomein,soIguessImayaswellgodowntoJesmondandgetstarted.IdothisstudentbartheycallTheLynch.Maxireckonsitsperfectformecosofmyinnocentface,andmyluckyeye.That’swhathecallsit.It’sweirdupthere,likewalkingintosomedifferentworld.Thismassivebarfullofcrappyoldshitthey’devenhavethrownoutofhere.Chairsmadeoutofreeds,andtableslikeoursathome,andwhat’sevenweirderisthere’sthesepicturesonthewallofthislassthatlooksjustlikeMambeforeshestartedonthedrink,whenshecouldhavehadanyoneshewanted,andshechoseDaryl
‘yacunt’Boyle.
‘Cheers,Hoola,’Isay.‘Catchyoulater.’
‘Aye.Solongastheydon’tcatchyoufirst.’
Iflashherasmileandthisweirdthoughtpopsintomyhead.
Iwonderwhatit’dbeliketohaveHoolaasamam?
Iturnawayfromthebarandseethatthey’vere-coveredthepooltablesinceGemmaputthecuethroughthebaize.
Thesmilegetsheavyonmyface.Ipullmyeyesawayfromtheperfectgreensurface,andstepintothefamiliarsmellofpissanddisinfectant,tryingtocatchwhat’sleftofthatbuzzyfeelingIhadwalkingdownhere.Comeon,Tommy,Itellmyself,you’vegottheeasiestjobintheworld,ahundredquidanightforsittinginaposhbarandhavingapint.Ijusthavetolookoutforthehairystudents,oneswithRastat-shirts,BobMarleysmokingabigfatjoint,likethey’rejustaskingtogetlifted.Itreallyisapieceofpiss.Ismiletomyself,watchingmyspraybounceofftheporcelain.Itdoesn’tmakeanysensethatIfeellikeshit.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
TheBykerWall
Boththecubiclesareempty.There’sjustthisonehippykidoverbythesinks,poncingaboutwithhisbluestreakedhair;andthere’sme,staringatthechippedurinalwith,suckmyplums,scrawledacrossitinredfelttip.I’mzippingupbythetimethekidgoesout.Thedoordoesn’tclose.Ihearthenoisefromthebar,andthisscreechy,radgyvoicethatraisesthehairundermycollar.
‘Hawayman,yablue-headedcunt.Fuckinmove.’
Thehippykidmumblessomething.Thedoorswingsshut,andFrogga’sfootstepscomeslappingacrossthetiles.Istareattheredfelttipandwaitforhimtogointooneofthecubicles,tostartpissing,forsomeonetocomeinForanything.
‘Aye,aye,’hesays,inasing-songvoicethatbouncesoffthewalls.‘Eye,eye,BanditBoy,’andIcanhearthegrininhisvoice,likeeverybastarddayatschool.
‘Whatareyeedeeininherethen,puftah?Waitingforashag?’
Hecomesroundmyblindside,ablurattheedgeofmyvision,socloseIcanfeelhisrancidbreathonmyhair.
‘LookatmewhenI’mtalkingtoyah,arse-Bandit.’
I’mnotthatkidanymore.That’sfinished.I’mworkingforMaxinow,doingajob,gettingpaid.I’mnotscaredofthislankypieceofshit.Move,Itellmyself,butIcan’tturnaround.Mylegswon’tstopshaking.AllIcandoisstareatthatredfelt-tip.
‘Isaid…’hisknucklesjaminthebackofmyneck,joltingmyfaceagainstthewall,clearingtheblockageinmyhead.
Iturn,keepinggoing,spinninglikeBillyfrigginElliot.
There’snostrengthinmyarm,butthere’smomentum.Myfistcracksagainsthisbonyface,standinghimupinahotburstofblood.Hiseyesopenwider.Iswingbackaround.Thedoorcreaks.IcatchaglimpseofKlepto’sspindlylegs,feetturning,runningbackout,andIburymyfistinFrogga’skidneys.Hesquealsandfallssidewaysintotheopencubicle.Ifollowhimin.
IcanhearKleptoshoutingoutinthebar,butIdon’tgiveatoss.I’vegotahandfulofFrogga’scrappywirewoolhair,andthishasbeencomingfortoolongtoletgonow.Ismashhisheadintotheshittyyellowtoiletbowl,two,threetimes.AndthenI’mgone,outintothecrowdedbar,wipingmyhandsonmyjeans.
Ikeepmybacktothewall,edgingpastthelasses’toilets,headingfortheopendoor.I’mjustbyMaxi’spillarwhenmyfacegoescold.CarlBurnsisontheothersideofthepooltable.He’sheadingstraightforthebogs,jawpushedoutinhissquare,bulldogface.Igrabthepillar,notsureifI’mhidingorjustholdingmyselfup.Hekeepscoming,draggingthisdark-hairedlassbehindhim.I’mfreezingcold,sweating,butImakemyselfwait.HepassessocloseIcansmellhim,seethedyingdragononhissovereignring
Igetmyheaddown,watchingthecracksonthepaintedfloor,edgingacrosstothefarwall.Myhipbangsagainstatable.Someradgysnarlsatmethroughsharp,yellowteeth.Ilookaway,staringattheflashinglightsonthebandit,stoppedtherelikeamoronwiththewhitenoisescreaminginmyhead.
Agustofwarmairblowsinfromthestreet,carryingthesmellofpetrolandfreedom,bringingmebacktolife.Itpullsmeroundthebanditandpastthesetwobaldyblokesinthedoorway.I’vegotonefootonthestep,andtheotheroutonthepavement.I’mthatclose,whenhereachesbetweenthebaldiesandgetsagriponmycollar.Myt-shirtpullstightagainstmythroat.There’shalfasecondbeforeIturnaround,screaminginmyhead,readytopukealloverhim.Butit’snotCarl,it’sthelasswhowaswithhim.Silverbanglesjangleonherwrist.
‘Haway,man,’oneofthebaldiesgrumbles,buthemoves,andthelassislookingrightatme,witheyeslikethedarkestchocolateyoucanget.
‘TommyBoyle.’
‘Fuckinhell.AnnieCherani,’I’mdizzy,buzzingwithfear.
‘Look,I’vegottarun.I’vejustbouncedFrogga’sheadofftheporcelain.’
‘Youmadbastard.’Shesmilesatme,thatsamedozy,dimpleysmile,fromyearsago,thatfirsttimeweeverwentontheknock.
‘ThatFlakewaslush,’Isay,butshe’sturnedaway,backthroughthebar.
Ifollowhereyes,overthetopofthebaldyheads,toCarlBurns’massiveshouldersbangingthroughthebogdoor.
‘Getoutofmyfuckinway,’heshouts,andFrogga’sbloodyfacecomesleeringoutbehindhim.
‘Aye,well.Seeyah,’andI’moutintothedusk,runningacrosstowardsTantastic.
IshouldkeepgoingondownShieldsRoad,butIlookback,justforhalfasecond,cosIhavetoseeifthatdozysmile’sstillonherface.Anditonlyis,rightupclosetomine.
‘Haway,Tommyman,yousoftget,’shegrabsmyhandandpullsmedownRabyStreet,laughinghermentalheadoff.
She’sfastasfuck,leggingitoverthecobblesandthezebracrossing.WecutthroughtheMetroandontothisstonebridge,thewholethingshakingwithallthelorriesroaringalongunderneath.
We’renearlyattheothersidewhenthere’sagapinthetraffic,andIhearFrogga’svoicebehindus.
‘Arsebandit,’hescreams.‘You’refuckindead.’
Herunsacrossthecobbleswithbloodalldownhisface,andCarlBurnstwostepsbehindhim.
‘Fuckyou,Chester.’
Iflickhimthevees,butit’samistake.MyfootcatchesAnnie’s.
‘Annie…’
Shefallsagainstme.Hersandalgoesskiddingacrossthestone.Thebreathstopsinmythroat.Mylegsstarttogo,butAnniedoesn’tgiveatoss.Shebouncesoffme,runningagain,laughingandsplutteringlikethatdodgytap.Shekicksout,sendingherothersandalupintotheairaheadofus.Iwatchitturn,silverandgoldagainstthedarkblueclouds.Andanotherlorrycomesroaringin.
Wejumpthemetalbarriertogether.Herplaitswhipmyface.Icatchthesmellofpeaches,andwe’reovertheotherside,throughtheRabyGate,andawayintotheBykerWallwithmycheeksstilltinglingfromthewhipofherhair.Werunclose,breathinghardinthehotnight.Ifeelthesweatbetweenourpalms,andtheflimsynothingnessofherdressbrushesagainstthebackofmyhand.
Iknowthey’regoingtokillme,butthey’llhavetocatchmefirst,andtheyneverwill,notinthismaze.We’rerunningdowntowardstheriver,pastawoodenfence,whenIhearCarlshout.Itisn’tevenaword,buthe’sclose.Annielightsupunderastreetlight,dresshighonherlongbrownlegs.Thenshedisappears.
Istumbleanotherstep,alone.
‘FuckinBandit,’IhearFrogga’spantingvoice,hisfeetthuddingcloser.
Anarmjerksoutofthedarkness,grabbingmyhair,pullingmethroughthebrokenfence.Ahandclampsacrossmymouth,andFrogga’sfootstepsfadeawaydownthehill
Annie’sbreathishotonmyneck,herhairsoftonmycheek,herbodytightagainstmine.Iholdher,searchingforthesmellatherthroat.Shepullsaway,butherhandisonmyshirt,tearing,draggingmeoffthefence.Shewalksbackwardsoverthissquareofgrassandstops.Myhandsgooutaroundher,feelingthecrackedbarkofthismassivetreebehind.Ipressin.
‘No,’shewhispers,breathgushinginmyear.
Herhandslidesinsidemyshirt,holdingmeback,drawingmeforward.Icanseethesoftnessinhereyes,thatfatlineofconcentrationdownherforehead,litupundertheorangestreetlight.Herliplifts,showingmeaflashofteeth.Ifeelherhearthammer.Herlipsarewetandsweet,hertonguehotandstrong.Herkneepressesinbetweenmythighs.Allthat’sleftbetweenusisherflimsydress.
Herhandmovesdown,fingersscaldingacrossmystomach,workingthebuttononmyjeans,pullingthezip.Igroan.Shelaughs,holdingme,roughandclumsy,guidingmeupunderthatscrapofdress.Herbodyopens.Mybreathcatches.Herarmsfoldaroundme,sendingbluesparksupmyspine.
I’mstoned,andpissed,andflying.Idon’theartheirfeetpoundingbackuptheslope.HowcouldI?Herarmspullmecloser.Herbodydrawsmedeeper.Idon’tknowwhereIend,whereshebegins.Idon’tcare.
Hereyescloseandhernosewrinkles,likethattimeathermam’s,withhertenyearsoldinhermam’sredbrawiththatbigknottiedattheback,andherhairstickingoutlikeachimneysweep,andmetryingnottolaugh.
I’mlaughingnow,suckinginthatpeachysmell,laughingatmyselfforthinkingIlovedsomered-hairedgirlIdidn’tevenknow.ButIknowthisone.Iknowthethingsshe’sdone,andthethingstheydidtoher.Myhandsslidehighonhersilkythighs,feelingthememoryofthosebruises,takingmebacktoherMam’sredduvetandsecretsinthedark.Darylandthefingergame,andhowhe’sbackinthehouse,likealways,andMam’sbackonthevodka,andatthebottomofitallthere’smybabybrother,notsayingawordwhilethathairyhandliftedhimawayfromme.AndIlethimgo.
I’mshakingnow,likeImightneverstop,tastingmytearsonherperfectthroat.
‘It’salright,Tommy,I’vegotyou,’shesays,strongandcertain,withherarmstightaroundme.
Thesobthatburstsoutofmeiswaytooloud,butallIcanhearistherushanddrawofherbreath,andthebloodbeatinginmyears.There’sonlytheheatofherpulsingaroundme,andthesaltysweettasteofherneckunderthatbeautifulscrunched-upface.FroggaandCarldon’texist.Theyneverdid.Notevenwhentheirbodiesslamagainstthefencebehindme.Notevenwhentheirbrightwhitetrainersdropontothespikygrass.
2008
CHAPTERNINETEEN
TakeItEasy
MyhandtooledLucchesecowboybootsqueezesdownonthepedalandtheboxyredVolvohurtlesonuptheCoastRoadwiththesunbrightonthewindscreenandwarmairblowingthroughtheopenwindow.Thecarmightbeanoldwreck,butatleastthecolourhidestherustgrowingoutofthewheelarches,andiftheenginemakesabitofnoise,sowhat?Thesoundsystem’slouder,apimped-upSonyXAV.
I’mfarenoughoutofWalkertofeelsafe.Noone’sgoingtoseemehere,soIswitchtomysecretplaylist,crankupthevolume,andthebestadviceIeverheardcomesbeltingoutofthespeakers.
‘Takeiteeeeasy,takeiteeeeasy…’
IsingalongwiththeEagles,lettingitgo,screamingintothewind,andbythetimeIgetbacktotownI’vegotDesperadocroakingoutaroundme,sadandslowandtrue.MaybeIshouldlistentothewords,butIkillthemusic,rollupthewindowandtaketheWalkerturnoff.There’sworktodo.
I’mlookingforthisblondkidtheycallLouisSolomon,wearsablackhoodyandjeans,whichnarrowsitdowntoabouteveryotherkidinWalker.IthelpsthathehangsaroundoutsidetheBlackBoar.IcomedownWalkerRoad,crawlingpastthepub.There’sthreekidssittingonthefence,legsstretchedout,passingacanbetweenthem.Sharingspit.Theynudgeeachother,faceslifting.Twolittledark-hairedladslaughinglikeAntandDec,andthisganglykidontheend,withelectricblondhairsproutingfromunderhisblackhoody.
Hedoesn’tlookmuchtome,butthere’sgottobeafairchancethatthisistheladPeelerwants,andPeelerknowsthescore.I’vebeenworkingwithhimforyears,practicallysinceIstartedwithMaxi,andIdon’ttakeanythingforgranted,buthe’sneverletmedownyet.Plus,hestilllivesonPotteryBank,whereitallhappens.So,ifPeelersaysweneedthiskid,that’sgoodenoughforme.
Ipulluptwentyyardsdowntheroadandreachacrossthepassengerseatformycrumpledleatherjacket,agenuine1880’ssteersmanwithbonebuttons,thatcameallthewayfromColorado.Ibreatheinthesmellofit.Twentydifferentshadesmoveinthelight,fromsoftchocolatetothesamedarkrubyasmyLuccheseboots.Itakemytimegettingoutofthecar,pullmyjacketonandwalkbacktowardsthem.
Idon’tneedtolooktoknowthey’rewatchingme.
Hipsrolling,Ifixmyeyesonthepub’sred-brickchimneystackandletmyheelsscrapeontheroad.Theshouldervampsarehiddeninmyjeans,butmyburnishedtoecapsflashinthesunlight,mysignaturemark.Sure,theladstakethepissoutofme,marchingaroundWalkerlikeClintEastwood,butthere’sareasonbehindit.Peoplerememberredcowboyboots.TheyknowwhoIam.IspeakforMaxiBlair,withEddieBurns’bigangryshadowloomingupbehindus.
Antdrainsthecan.Hecrushesitandthrowsitdowninfrontofme.ImakeoutlikeIhaven’tnoticed,likeI’mgoingintothepub.Theblondkid’sfootistappingintimetosometuneinhishead,shit-brandtrainersdrummingonthepavement.Heletshisfootbrushmyankle.Isteppasthim,gettingagoodlookathiswhite,freckledface,andIhearanothersoundbeneathhisdrummingfoot,thesteadyclick-clackofhistongue.
‘YouLouisSolomon?’
‘Maybe.’
Igivehimmyinnocentlook.‘Don’tyouknow?’
Decsnorts.‘Whoareyou,like?’
‘That’sFarrier,’Antsays.‘WorksforMaxiBlair.’
‘Myname’sTommy,’Itellthem,butIkeepmyeyesonBlondie.‘Thetalkisyou’vebeendealinginTheBoar.’
Heduckshishead.Hisliptwitches.
‘So,haveyou?’
‘IcandowhatIwant.’
Ihavetosmileatthat.Thathedoesn’tevenhavethesensetodenyit.
‘Courseyoucan’t,’Itellhim,leaninginwithmyhandonthewoodenrail.‘Becausemyladsselldownthere,andmyladsareMaxi’slads,whichmeansthey’reEddieBurns’lads.’
Heshrugslikehecouldn’tcarelessandstepsupoffthefence,thisgreatlankykidaheadtallerthanme.IknowwhatIshoulddonow,whatMaxiwouldsay.“Givehimacoupleofslaps.Lethimknowwhat’swhat.”Buthislipsareatightwhiteline,andhisfaceisashadewhiter,withthefrecklesstandingoutacrosshisnose.Anyonecanseehe’sjustascaredkidplayingitcoolinfrontofhismates.
‘Look,’Iturnsideways,givinghimagoodlookatmydodgyeye.‘YouknowwhoEddieBurnsis?’
Hedoesn’tanswer,butthenit’snotreallyaquestion.I’mjustgivinghimthechancetorememberwhathe’sheard.EddieBurnswhowalkedintoTheGracelastChristmasandstoodeveryoneapint,EddieBurnswho’sdonealotofotherthingstoo.
‘Well,Eddiewantsyouontheteam.’
‘Whatfor?’
‘Whatfor?Don’tbethick.Togiveyouabitofprotection,thechancetomakesomerealmoney.Socomeon,getinthecar.’
Hestepsback,handstightonthefence
‘We’renotgoingtosortitouthere.Getinthecar,andI’lltellyouthescore.’
‘Farrier’salright,’Antsays.
‘That’sthetruth,’Isay,gettinganarmaroundLouis’shoulder,leadinghimuptowardsthecar.‘Lookman,Louis,AlanSugar’snotgoingtocomelookingforapprenticesroundhere,butEddieBurnswantstogiveyouachance.’Iopenthepassengerdoorandeasehimdownintotheseat.‘Doyourselfafavour,don’tfuckitup.’
‘Eddieknowsaboutme?’
‘Sure,hedoes.’
Islamthedoorandgetroundmyside,revvingtheengineanddroppingtheclutchbeforehegetsanybrightideas.
‘Eddiewaspissedoff,’Itellhim,‘aboutyoudealinginoneofhisbars.’
‘Iwasjustinthebarlike,andthislassaskedus–’
‘Alright,Iknowhowitgoes.Nothing’sgoingtohappen.I’mnotevenaskingwhoyouwerebuyingoff.Youdidadealforthislass,thenthere’safewofhermates,andthenaloadmore.
You’remakingafewquidandyou’regettingexcitedbecauseyouwantitalltoday,soyoucanpayforyourpills,andyourX-box,andmaybegetyourselfsomedecenttrainers.’
Hegivesmealook.
Ishrugandgivehimoneback.
‘Butyou’regoingnowhere.So,listen.Youcangoondoingtenquiddealsonyourown,standingonpeople’stoes,gettingintobotherwiththelikesofEddieBurns.Oryoucanbepartofsomething,getprotectionandstillmakethemoney,andmaybeonedayyou’llhaveenoughtogetoutofthisshithole.’
Thatgetsmethinking.Wheredoesitallgo?Imean,it’snotlikeI’mlightingmyownsupply.Okay,thebootsandthejacket,andtherentisn’tcheapeither,butmostlyIdon’tevenknow.Themoneycomesin,anditgoesout,andIhaveagoodtime.Isn’tthatwhatit’sfor?Havingalaugh,havingfun.Whateverthatis?
Problemis,I’mbetteratconvincingotherpeoplethatIamatbelievingmyownbullshit.
‘Thisistheeasiestjobyou’reevergoingtoget.Wegiveyouthegear.Yougowherewetellyou.Yousellwhatwetellyou.
Youhandoverthecash,andyoukeepyourmouthshut.Youstartoffworkingwithafriendofmine,andifPeelerlikesyou,you’rein,sorted,ontheroadtosomewhere.’
I’mjustdrivinganywhere,uppasttheRomanfort,switchingmyattentionbetweenLouisandtheroad.Icantellhe’stakingitin,buthestilldoesn’tspeak,justpusheshishoodbackoffhishairandstartsthatclickingwithhistongue.Ilookacrossathisfrecklyfaceandmyfingerscomeupovermylips,hidingasmile.
‘You’rethatlittlekid,alwayskickingyoursoggyballagainstthewallonthecornerofSandyCrescent.’
‘Iknowwhoyouare,’hesays.‘UsedtohangoutwiththatPakilass.’
‘Indian.’
‘Eh?’
‘AnnieCherani.ShewasIndian,well,half-Indian.’
‘Yeh,okay,’hesays,pickinguponmytone.‘Shewasdeadcannythough,withthechocolateandthat.’
‘Yeh,shewas.’Thewordscomescratchingupthebackofmythroat,angryenoughtomakehimlook,thenheleansforwardandturnsonthesoundsystem.
‘Cheekytwat,’Isay,butit’stoolate.Desperadocomesblastingoutofthespeakers.
Iturnitdown.
‘Mymam’sgotthis,’hesays.
Irollmyeyesuppastthesaggysunvisor,andthinkofMamdancinginthekitchen,withthissamesongsqueakingoutofthetape-deck.She’sstillthere,Isuppose.Withhim.Notthatshe’sdancinganymore.Youneedtobeabletostandupbeforeyoucandance.
‘So,whatcanyoudoforus?’Istretchout,pushingmyselfbackintheseat.‘Whatareyougoodat?’
‘Icantellifthegear’sanygood,’hesays.‘AcoupleoffanyjointandI’lltellyouwhat’sinit.’
‘Okay,whatelse?’
‘Icantellwhenpeoplearelying,’Ilookathimsidewaysandhisliptwitchesagain,tillthere’shalfalopsidedsmile.‘Ican.’
‘Alright,Ibelieveyou.So,opentheglovebox.’Helooksatme.
‘There,thatthinginfrontofyou,’Ireachacrossanddoitforhim.‘Right.That’syourworkphone.’
‘This,’hepullsouttheten-year-oldMotorola,withthechargerattached.
‘Yes,that,anddon’ttwistyourfaceIt’snotfordownloadingsoundsortakingpictures,it’sforwork,andit’sgotmynumberin,andPeeler’s.I’mTTandPeeler’sPP.Youleaveitlikethat.
Youdon’tputanyoneelseinunlesswetellyou.Youdon’tuseitforanythingbutworkYoudon’tloseit.Andrulenumberonethatyouwillalways,alwaysfollow,isifthatphonerings,youanswer.Idon’tcareifyou’reabouttoloseyourcherrytoCherylTweedy,youanswerthatphone.’
‘Alright,alright.’
‘No.Not,“alright,alright”.Thisisserious,’Ispellitout,givinghimtheexactsameshitMaxigavemesevenyearsago.‘Youtakecareofus,andwe’lltakecareofyou,butthisisn’tschool.
Youscrewup,youdon’tgetarapontheknuckles,’IpulloversoIcanlookhimfullintheface,lethimseemine.‘Ipromiseyou.
Youdon’twanttopissofftheBurnsGang.’
IturnthemusicoffandwedrivebackdowntoWalkerwithjustthesoundofthetyreshummingonthetarmac,andtheenginegrunting,andhimclickinghistongue.We’repasttheBoar,andIknowwhat’scomingnext,Atwal’sbigbluesignonthecornerofBelmontStreet,withthepolicecamerathatneverworks,andhalfbrickslyingintheroad,andallthosemean-eyedbastardssittingontheirfrontstepsgettingpissed,shoutingtheoddsatanyonewholooksatthem.
NowayI’mgoingdownthere.I’moutofthatshitandI’mnevergoingback,whateverhappensatEddie’splacetomorrow.
‘Youalright,’Louissays,leaningintomyspace.
‘Yesman,don’tfuckincrowdme.’Myhandcomesup,pushinghimaway.Hisheadbouncesoffthewindow.‘Shutup,’Itellhim,eventhoughhehasn’tsaidanything.‘Youjustworryabouttheshityou’regoingtolandyourselfinifyou’renotveryfuckincareful.’
Thingis,I’mreallytalkingtomyself
IgetpastBelmontandturndownontoEvistoneGardens.
Blackironrailingsrunthelengthofthestreet,withnew-ishred-brickhousessetbackbehindsquaresofgrass,everyonethesame.IpullupoutsidePeeler’sflat,walkround,andopenthepassengerdoor.
‘Alright,Louis,comeandmeetyourboss.’HelooksupatmelikeI’madogthatbithim.
‘Oh,comeon.’Inudgesomerustoffthewheelarch,it’snotreallyakick.‘I’msorry.’
Louisclickshistongueandgrins.‘Head-case,’hesays,buthegetsoutofthecar.
‘Goon,’IpointatPeeler’scrackedplasticdoor.‘He’sexpectingyou.’
‘Areyounot…’
‘Takeiteasy,Lou,’Itellhim.‘You’regoingtobealright.’
Iwatchhimupthepath,tillPeeler’sdooropensandIcatchaglimpseofthosesticky-outears.
‘I’vegotagoodfeelingaboutyou,Louis,’Ishout,thenIpumpupthevolumeandpressmyfoottothefloor.Andit’strue,IreallydohaveagoodfeelingaboutLouisSolomon.I’vegotagoodfeelingabouteverything.SolongasIkeepthemusicplayingandthemoneycoming,solongasIdon’tgobackdownBelmontStreet,solongasIkeeponflyingandneverlookdown.
CHAPTERTWENTY
TheWeddingAnniversary
MaxiandmearedownstairsatTheHammer,thisbigopenbarwitharaiseddancefloorandamarblestaircasethatcurvesuptoanindoorbalcony.Theplaceisnormallylitinthispinkishduskwithsilksheetshangingoffthebalconyrail,soitlookslikethesortofboozerAladdinmight’veboughtafterhefoundhisgenie.ButAladdindidn’tbuyit.EddieBurnsdid.That’swhywe’resittinghere,shittingourselves,waitingtoseeexactlyhowpissedoffEddie’sgoingtobe,andwhathe’sgoingtodoaboutit.
Thelightsarewaytoobright,everyoneturnedupfull,allexcepttheredonesonthedancefloor.They’vetakenthepolesouttoo,whichIsupposetheywould,Eddie’sweddinganniversarybeingafamilydo.Thethingisthough,Eddiewasmarriedforyearsandtherewasneveranybigdealaboutituntilhiswife,Donna,diedlastSeptember,runoverrightoutsidetheirhouse,andnowthere’sthisbigpartyfortheiranniversary.
Makesenseofthat?
There’sloadsofpeopleuponthebalcony,lookingdownandlaughing,makingmyneckitch.Iriskaglance.Salimstaresstraightbackatme,Frogga’slittlecutterwithhischild’sbodyandhisprettygirl’sface.Hegivesmehiswide,closed-mouthsmileandpatsthepocketonhismade-to-measurejacket.He’stellingmehe’sgothisswitchbladeinthere.Iknowthat’sjusthisideaofalaugh,butthekidcreepsmeout.Iholdhislookforthreelongseconds,takeamouthfuloflagerandsqueezemyitchyeyes.
I’vebeenawakesincefivethismorningthinkingabouthowCarlBurnsisboundtobehere,andifCarlis,thensoisFrogga,withallhishangers-on.Sowhat?It’llbejustlikealltheothertimesWe’lllookstraightpasteachotherlikewe’venevermet.
Nobigdeal.Businesscomesfirst.Butmypalmskeepsweatingandthere’sthisburnhighupinmystomach,andIdon’tevenknowifit’sbecauseofCarlandFrogga,orbecauseofMaxibeingsuchascrewup.Eitherway,allIwantistogetoutofhere,backtotheflatanddowninthecellar,withmydarklittlesecrets,andthehatchlockedtightoverthethrobbingpaininmyhead.
‘Tommy,man.Stoppickingyourfuckinleg,’Maxisays,rockingbackonhisbarstooljustliketheRabyintheolddays,exceptthisisn’ttheRaby,anditisn’ttheolddays.
Iclenchmyteethandkeepmymouthshut,smoothingdownthelegonmynewsuittrousers,withoneeyeonthedarkwoolblend,andtheotheronMaxi.He’salwayslikedhisburgers,butthestateofhimnow,arsespillingoverthesidesofhiszebra-printbarstool.I’vebeencarryinghimforyears,andthemoreIdoforhim,thenastierhegets.
“Don’tgethighonyourownsupply.”
Maxitoldmethatsevenyearsago,buthishair’sstickingupinsadgreytuftsandhispinkcrackedeyesareburiedsomewhereinhispuffycheeks.He’swasted.ItstandsoutlikeadickonastripperGodknowswhat’srattlingaroundinsidehim.Pillstogetup,greentochillout,andpillstogetupagain.He’slikeanalcoholicAliceinWonderlandsuckingonhisthirdpintinthelasthalfanhour,justtostophimselffromfallingover.It’sscarywatchinghim,andforhalfasecond,Ialmostunderstand.
MaybeMaxi’srighttohateme,becausewithoutmebringinginthecash,he’dneverhavebeenabletopackindrivingthatschoolbus,andhe’dstillhavesomethingtoholdhimtogether.
HecameupshortwithEddie’smoneytwicelastmonth,andthenjustonFridayagroupoftheladsheardhimshoutinghismouthoffinPeggySue’sBar,tryingtoimpressthatgawkylassfromthebank.Talkingbusiness,mentioningnames.Eddie’spissedoff.Everyoneknows,evenMaxi.Thattellsyouhowbaditis.Andwhat’sworseis,ifMaxigoesdown,hetakesmewithhim.
I’mnotreallylooking,justfollowingMaxi’slineofsightuptothebalcony.EddieBurnsisuptherewithhismouthwideopeninhisbig,beardedface.He’slaughing.
‘Atleastheseemsinagoodmood,’Isay,likeanidiot.
‘Listenman,Tommy,’Maxileansin.Icansmellthesweatonhim.‘Youbetterhopehe’snotlaughingwhenwegetinthere.
Justkeepyoursmartmouthshut,’hesays,likeI’mtheonewho’saliability,‘andletmedothetalking.’
Ishouldletitgo,butI’masedgyasheis.
‘Dothewhiningmorelike.’
‘Eh,what’sthat?’
‘Chillout,Maxi,okay.YouandEddiearematesfromwayback.That’swhatcounts,’Isay,asmuchtomyselfastoMaxi.
‘Wayback,’Maxisays,noddingtonoone.‘Way,wayback.’
Thedoorswingsopenbehindusandthisbloke,FrankieMorton,comesintothebarwearingasuitandawhitebowtie.
He’sholdingalittleboxwrappedinsilverpaper.Thebargoesquiet.Frankiewalksaroundthedancefloorinthesejerkysteps,likehe’sonstrings.He’stryingnottoshowhowmuchithurts,buthisjawtightenseverytimehisfootpressesonthecarpet.
It’scostinghimthiswalk.
Noonesaysaword,nooneexceptwasted,off-his-titsMaxi.
‘That’swhatyougetformessingwithEddie’swife,’hemuttersintohispint.
Maxi’sgettingoffonscaringhimself,buttherestofusarejustwillingFrankietogetonwithit,togetawayupthestairssowedon’thavetolookathim.Hetakesforever,walkingtowardsthestaircasewiththatredropeonbrasshooksacrossthebottom.
Strangler,thebouncer,ispracticallystandingtoattention.
He’saboutsevenfeettallwiththisbiggreymoustache,liketheguyinthatoldarmyposter,butthere’ssomethingnotquiterightabouttheStrangler.EvenfromhereIcanseealittlebitmoreofhiscroppedgreyhairthatIshould,becausethere’saragged,half-moongapwherethetopofhisearoughttobe.
Frankiegetstotherope.Ithinkit’snearlyover,butStranglershakeshishead.Hehardlymoves,maybejusttwitchesthatmoustache,butthemessagestillcomesblaringout.Nochance,Frankie.You’renotgettingupthosestairs.
Frankie’sshoulderssag.Hebendsdownlikeabrokenpuppetandputshissilverparcelonthebottomstep,thenwehavetowatchhimdohisclockworkwalkallthewaybackacrossthebar.
‘That’swhytheycallitTheHammer,’Maxisays,pointlessly,andIwishhe’dshuthisstupidmouth.
Itrytothinkaboutthatstoryofsomeboxer’srighthook,andthepictureundertheboarded-upwindowinthebogs,ofhimknockingMohammedAlionhisarse.I’veseenitadozentimes.ButtheonlypictureIcanimaginenowisthebigclawhammerthatEddiekeepsinhisdeskdrawer,alongwiththescrewdriverandthepliers,andhowtheysayhestilllikestodohisownDIYwhenthemoodtakeshim.
HenryCooper.That’stheone.Istareatmypintandthinkabouthisgentle,uglyface,soIdon’thavetowatchFrankieMortonorthinkaboutwhyhe’swalkingaroundlikesomekid’stoywiththebatteriesrunningdown,andallthat’sleftofDonnaisalittlepileofashinabox,andhowshe’sgettingthefirstanniversarypartysheeverhad.
Theday’salreadyturnedtoshitwhenthedoorswingsshutbehindFrankieMortonandthebarcomesbacktolife.
‘He’sreadyforyou.’
Myheartjumpsoutofmychest,butIkeepasmileonmyface,lookingupatthisanorexicglam-grantypewithoutsizebreastsandagiantsilvercrossbalancedinbetweenthem.
‘Alright,Patricia,’Maxigrins,likeabig,stonedpuppy.
Patriciascowls.Hermouthpuckersinherskeletonface.
‘Upstairs,’shesays,tothespacebetweenus.
Patricialeadsusroundthedancefloorandmyeyeslockontothehalf-moongapinStrangler’sear.UpcloseIcanseetheshapeoffourpointy,overlappingteeth,likeadentist’scast,andIcan’thelpwonderingwherethoseteetharenow,andifthey’restillattachedtosomeone’shead.
Stranglerseesmelooking,andthere’sjustatinysuicidalmomentwhenIwanttoask.
Ibitemylipandgetmyheaddownandwatchhimliftthatfatredrope.I’msureit’stoothicktoreallystrangleanyone.
Prettysure.
‘Eveningall,’hesays,likesomeonefromthegoodolddayswheneveryonelefttheirdoorsopen,andIstepoverFrankie’ssilverparcel.
So,thisisit.I’mgoingupstairsatTheHammer.I’mgoingtoactuallymeetEddieBurnsinsteadofjustnoddingathimacrossabar,exceptit’sprobablyonlytogetmyheadkickedinbecauseofMaxiandhisstupidmouth.
IwatchtheshinybrassrodsrunningacrosseverystepandfollowPatriciaupthecurvedstaircasewithMaxipantingbesideme,oglingherbony,sequinedarse.Godknowswhathefindstofancythere.Maybeit’sjustwantingwhatyoucan’thave,becauseevenanidiotlikeMaxiwouldn’tmesswiththeBurns’women.
There’sthisweirdlightatthetopofthestairs,likethewholeroom’scomingtowardsme.Igrabfortherailandstareintoablurofcolour.Thewallinfrontofmeiscoveredinmirrors,someasbigascarwindscreens,otherssmallandround,framedingoldandsilver.Thewallbehindisthesame.That’swhat’smakingmedizzy,watchingtheroomreflectedbackonitsownreflection,withstreaksofrainbowfrommydodgyeye.
‘Comeon,’Patriciasnaps.
IfollowheroveracarpetsothickIcan’thearmyownsteps.
Iputmyhandovermyeye,givingitarestfromtheglareandtheheat,butevenwithoneeyeopenIcanseethateveryblokeuphereisdressedlikeMaxi,inoneofthoseblacksuitswithabowtie,asifwe’reatsomekindofbouncer’smeeting.Thewomenarewearingbigflouncydresses,orelselittlefrillythingsthatstopaboutaninchbelowtheirarse.I’mnotinterested.
There’snothingsexyaboutanyofthemTheweirdlighthassetthefuzzinessgoingbehindmyeye,thatstalecheesytastethattellsmethere’samonstermigraineonitsway.
Ijammyfingerundermycollar,takeabreath,andrememberMaxi’sstupidlaughter.HowwasIsupposedtoknowthat
‘blacktie’meantbowtie?AtleastIwishI’dgotanormalsuit,buttheblokeintheshopsaidthatcollarlessjacketswerethecuttingedge,whateverthatis.SonowIjustlooklikeatwat.
Westopoutsidethesetwowood-panelleddoorssetintoadarkredwall.Thecarpethardensbeneathmyfeet.I’mstandingonthisdarkstain.Maybeit’scoffee?
‘Waitthere,’Patriciasays.
‘I’mawayforapiss,’Maxisays,fishinginhispocketforhispills,orhisKet,oranotheroneofhiscrappyready-rolledjoints.
‘Wait,’Patriciasnapsthroughhertightlittlearseofamouth,andtottersawayonherfive-inchheels.
EvenMaxigetsthemessage.Hemumblessomethingtotheswirlycarpet,buthedoesn’tmove.
Thefardoorismarked,“Management”,inbigwhitecapitals.
Theonlysignontheneardooristhissquashed-downJapaneselookingguystandingoutsidewithabulgeintheshoulderofhisjacket.He’sgotdeepblackridgesrunningdownhischeeksandanexpressionthattellsyouhehatesthewholeworld.
Smiler,theycallhim.AtleastEddiedoes.
Sothat’sgottobeEddie’soffice,anditsetsallthisshitchurningaround,repeatingonmelikeabadcurry.HowMaxi’sreallyscrewedup,andEddieisn’texactlyJesusChristwhenitcomestoforgiveness,butthentheydogobackalongwaysomaybewewillgetonemorechance,exceptonelookatMaxi’spale,bloatedeyestellmetheanswertothat.
Icoulddoarunner,legitdownthatcurvedstaircaseinfivegiantstrides.AndmeetStrangleratthebottom.
Ilookbackanyway.
Thisscrawny,bulgy-eyedblokeisatthetopofthestairs,withanastygoateeandslickedbackhaircopiedfromEddieBurns.
Frogga.Sowhat?I’veseenhimhalfadozentimesinthelastfewyears,andeveninasuithestilllookslikeaslimy,bulgy-eyedbastard.Heisn’twhatbothersme.
Thegirl’sonestepaheadofhim,turningawaytowardsthebar.Darkhairswaysacrossherbluesilkdress.Froggacatchesmelooking,andflashesmehissick,lizardsmile.HisfingersgrazethesmallofherbackShereachesbehindherandflicksathishand.Iglimpseherarm,oneshadedarkerthanasuntan,andthehairspricklealongmyneck.
‘Annie,’mylipsmove,butnosoundcomes.
There’snowayitcanbeher,nothere,afterallthistime.Notwithhim.It’sthepressure,that’sall,makingmeseethingsthataren’tthere.MaybeMaxiisn’ttheonlyonewho’slosingit.
Shesmoothsherdressandsitsattheendofthebar,facingawayfrommewiththatdarkhairhangingdownherback.Iwatchthestillnessofhershoulders.Herheadliftsandfalls,swayingleftandright.Froggarubshishandacrosshisnoseandwalksawayfromher.Butthatcircularmotionkeepsturninginmystomach,carryingmeovertheswirlingcarpet.
Herfaceisblankanddistant,reflectedinthemirroredwall.
She’swearingagoldearringwithamatchingringinhernose.Afinegoldchainrunsbetweenthem,swayingagainsthercheek.
‘AnnieCherani,’Icroak,andIswear,Icansmellpeaches.
Afrowncreasesherforehead,andthensheburstsintothisbigfakesmile.Butsomewherebetweenthefrownandthesmile,Igetaglimpseofthetruth.Hereyeswideninsomethingthatmightbefright.
Tommy,shesays.‘TommyBoy…’
‘Farrier,’Itellher.‘Boylewashisname.’
‘Good.Goodforyou.’
Shesipsherchampagneandlooksatmeoverthetopofherglass.
Mytonguestickstotheroofofmymouth.
‘Youreye?’hemouthsthequestion.
I’mdesperatetosaysomething,butnotaboutthat,andthere’sallthesepatphrasesrunningthroughmyhead,limpandpointless.
Adrycoughcomesoutofmymouth.
Someoneedgesinbehindme.
Myhandbrushesherarm.
Shedoesn’tsmellofpeaches.Ican’tsaythat.
Shesipsherdrink.Thesmilesetsonmyface.Herhandcomesup,flickingherhairback.Oneofthosesuper-trendycutswithherfringedownpracticallyinhereyes.
‘Yourhairlooksgood.’
Sheflicksitagain,andthistimethesmileisalmostreal.
‘Youdidn’tlikethechimney-sweeplook?’shesays.
‘Theplaitsweren’tbad,’Isay,andIrememberthewhipoftheminmyface,sharpenoughtoraisethecolourinmycheeks,evennow.
‘OhGod,’shesays,closinghereyes,openingthem.‘Pocahontas.’
Iglancedown,likeI’mgoingtoseethosesilversandalsorthegrey-greenbruisesonherlegsfromyearsbefore,butthere’sonlythesilkyblueofherdress.
‘Youlostsomething,’shesays.
‘Justthinking.’
‘Well,there’safirsttimeforeverything,cowboy,’shelaughsatmewithhereyes,andIknowI’mgoingtoruineverything,butIhavetoask.
‘Annie.Whathappenedtoyou…intheWall?
Herteethcreepoverherbottomlip.Ithinkshe’sgoingtotellme,butthenherfacechangesbackintothatfarawayfrown.
‘Yougottago,’shesays.
‘Why?’
‘Cheziscomingback.’
‘Chez?’
‘Chester.He’sjustcomeoutoftheoffice.’
‘Frogga.Sowhat?’
‘I’msorry,’shesays,touchingmychest.‘Go.Please.’
Shepushesmeaway,andthistimeIdon’tneedtohearhisfootstepsbeatingontheroad,scramblingoverthatfencebehindme.Mybodytenses,readyforthatfirstpunchagainstthesideofmyhead,spinningmearoundforthesecondtocomeupundermychinandlaymeoutonthattinysquareoflawn.
Myjawtightens.
Anniesnatchesherhandaway.Shepressesherselfbackagainstthebar.
‘I’msorry,Tommy,’shewhispers.‘Iletyoudown.’
‘Toofuckinrightyoudid.’
Shesayssomethingelse,butallIcanhearisthewhitenoiseinmyhead.
Istareatthebigfatdiamondinthehollowofherthroat,butwhatIseeisthatsinglestarshiningthroughtheclouds,andCarlandFroggastandingoverme,fillingthespacewhereAnnieshould’vebeen.
Frogga’strainercomesswingingatmyface.Igetmyhandsupanddeflectthatfirstkickpastmyhead,buttheykeeponcoming,hardandfast,untilIcurlintoaballwiththetasteofmudinmymouthandtheirfeetbatteringin.Itrytoprotectmyfaceandpullmypantsupfrommyknees,andIscreamforAnnie,whiletheykickandpunchandspitonme.
Thehittingstops.
Froggaloomsabovemelikeaghoulintheorangelight,withalongthinbladeshininginfrontofhisface.
‘I’mgoingtodoyou.I’mgoingtofuckincutyouup.’He’ssoexcitedhelookslikehe’sgoingtowethispants.
Butitisn’thimthatdoes.
‘Annie,’Iscream,butAnnie’sgone.
There’sacrashofbreakingglass.
‘Please,Annie,helpme,’butsheleftmethere,andyoudon’tforgetabetrayallikethat.
IlookfromthediamondatherthroattotheblueandgreyBMWremoteonthebarinfrontofher,andIunderstandawholelotmorethanIwantto.
‘Froggagettingwhathe’spayingfor,ishe?’
SheflincheslikeI’veslappedher.
‘Fuckyou,’shesays,andhergazeliftstothepresenceatmyshoulder.
Froggaslidesatwitchyhandaroundherwaist,andflashesmethatlizardsmile.
‘Yeh?’Isay.‘Fuckyou,too.IshouldneverhavegotyouthoseCaramels.You’renotworthit.You’renotevenworthabaroffuckinchocolate,’IknowI’mtalkingshit,butIcan’thelpit,likeI’mstillthatpatheticlittleboypushingchocolatebarsthroughtheletterboxofanemptyhouse,exceptthatnow,Idon’twantherback.Iwanttohurther,likeshehurtme.
‘Likemother…’likedaughter,I’mgoingtosay,butPatricia’storpedotitscomedivinginbetweenus.
‘Shutthefuckupandgetinthere,’Patriciatellsme.
Shemakesagrabforme,butIgetpasther,toEddie’swood-panelleddoor.
IlookbackatAnnieCheraniandsendherthehatredshedeserves.Herfaceistightwithanger,nosescrunchedintoherforehead.Idon’tcare.Rumplefuckinstiltskin.I’mnotthinkingabouther.I’mgettingmyheadtogetherbecausethisisbusinessandSmilerisopeningthedoor,andthefirstthingIseebehinditisEddieBurns’bigmeatyface.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
ADrinkwithEddie
Smilergivesusthenod,butMaxijuststandsthere,soIwalkonthroughintothisshadowyroomwithbluelightsshiningindustyspirals,upfromthefloor.There’saleather-toppeddesk,totallyclearexceptforatinymobilephone.Thewallbehindiscoveredinphotos,eachwiththeirownlittlelight.I’mawareofawaitresswithasilvertray,Maxi’spantingbreath,andEddieBurnsfillingthespacebehindhisdesk.
Heleanstowardsme.
IstepbackandstumbleonMaxi’sfoot
‘Twat,’Maxisays,andEddieliftshishugeheadandlaughs.
Hislipsarepinkagainsthisthickbeard,oneofthoseMuslimtypeswithnotash,cutlowonhisfacesoyoucanseehisbigsaggycheeks.Hisnoseissquashedflat,andhishairslickedbackandtiedinaponytail.Icantellhe’slookingrightatmeeventhoughhedoesn’tseemtohaveanyeyes,justthesepointsofglitteringdarknessunderhisforehead.
‘Haveadrink,lads,’hesays.
Maxisnatchesaglassofchampagneoffthetray.
Ishakemyhead.
Eddiestretches.Hebringshishandsoutofthisblacksuitjacketthat’stoobig,evenforhim,andclaspshisfingers,showingmethegoldsovereignringonhisindexfinger,settingthepainpulsingbehindmyeye.
I’veseenthatdesignbefore.Amanonacharginghorse,hisspearinthedragon’sthroat.
‘Youwon’thaveadrinkwithme?’Eddie’svoiceishurt,likeakid’s,likeagrumpy,twenty-stonetoddler.
There’snosignofaglassanywherenearhim,butItakethehint.Iliftoneoffthetrayandtakeafizzygulp.
Thewaitress’sshoulderbrushesmyarmShewalksoutthroughtheopendoorway,leavingaspicysmellbehindher.
Thedoorcloses.Theroomdarkens.Eddie’sfaceturnsadullblue.
Smilerstandscloseatmyback,andthere’ssomethingelsemovingagainstmyleg.
Ilookdown.Christallfuckinmighty.
Tworowsofsharpyellowteethareaboutsixinchesfrommyballs.Kylielooksupatmeoverhercurlingblacklip.Sheknowsthescore.Eddie’dkillmebeforehe’dhurtonehaironhervelvetyhead.Eddie’sbitchtheycallher,andsometimesIthinkthey’rejoking.
‘Right,lads,’Eddiesays.‘Goodofyoutoturnup,Maxi.’Hegrins,andthenthesmilefallsoffhisface.‘Whatthefuckiswrongwithyou?Shoutingyourmouthoff,stealingmymoney?’
‘Eddieman,haway.Itwasacoupleofhundred.Justtheoncelike…’
‘Itwasfuckintwice.’
‘Ayewell,youseethatfirsttimedidn’tcountcosthere’dbeenthatbitofbotherwiththoseladsdownPotteryBank.
TheBronx,that’swhattheycallit.LikeinNewYork,’Maxiforcesthiswheezylaugh.‘There’ssomementalfuckinkidsdownthere.Imean,webothknowthat,Eddie,butIswearit’sgettingworse…’
Eddielooksdownathisphone.Hisfistopensandcloses,butMaxijustgoesdrivelingoninhissqueakystonedvoice,turningtheatmospheretoshit.
Ihavetodosomething.
‘Maxididn’tstealfromyou,’Isay.‘Imean,hewouldn’t.Theyweremistakes.Hepaidthembackonthenextcollection,andtherewasthatothertimeafterChristmaswhenhepaidtoomuch.Agrandover.
‘That’sit,’Maxisays,finallyclickingon.‘Justmistakes,right?’
‘Mistakes,justmistakes,’Eddiecopieshissqueakyvoice.
‘Coursethey’refuckinmistakes,elseyou’dbeintheground,youfatcunt.’
‘Ah,haway,man,Eddie.’
MaxiputshishandsflatonthedeskandEddie’supoutofhischair,peeringatMaxi.Iknowwhathe’slookingat,thosebloatedredballoonsbehindMaxi’seyelids.
‘Youstupidfatfucka.’
‘He’snotsowell,’Isay.‘We’vebeenupatthefactoryallnight,sortingthosecrappylamps.’
‘Ha,ha,ha.’Thisslow,falselaughcomesatmefromthefarendoftheoffice.
Theroom’sbiggerthanIthought.Longer.There’ssomeonethere.Icansensehimoverbytheshutteredwindow,butEddie’swatchingmewiththoseglitteryeyes,noddinghisheadlikeweallknowthisstoryaboutthelampsisbullshit.
IwaitforMaxitobackmeup,butthere’sjustthislongslurpwhileheemptieshisglass,putsitonEddie’sdesk,andbelches.
Onlyalittlesound,butIcanhearmylifegurglingdownthetubes.
‘Imean,yehokay,Eddie,’Isay.‘So,thenwehadasmoke,afterwards.’Iknowhowmessed-upthisis,butI’vegottosaysomething.‘JustacoupleofJ’s,tochillout.’
‘Didwe,’Eddiesays,‘sohowcomethere’sonlyoneofyouoffyourface?’
‘Well,cos,because…’
‘That’senough.’Hewavesthebackofhishandatme.
‘Look,Eddie.Mr.Burns…’
‘Areyoufuckindeaf?Shutup.’
Smilerstepscloser.
Ipressmyhandovermymouthandstareatthephotosonthewall,picturesofEddieBurnsshakinghandswithaloadofdifferentguys.There’sone,biggerthantherest,ofEddiehuggingthisblokewithbloodonhisfaceandagoldboxingbeltinonebandagedhand.Myeyesfalltotheyellowingcertificatebelowit.
VikingMotors,SalesmanoftheYear,1988–Mr.EdwardBurns
‘Youstupidfatfuckaman,Maxi.DidInotgiveyouenoughchances?’
‘It’stheladmanEddie,hecannotfuckincount.’
IlookatMaxi’ssweatingjellyface,andIcan’tevenbearsedtohatehim.Iedgeawayandpressharderonmylips
‘You’reout,Maxi.’
‘Ah,Eddieman.WhataboutthemdealswedidwithKingsleyatschool?Itwasmetaughtyoutorollyourfirstspliff.Eh,yougottorememberthat.Titcha’sremedialmaths?’Maxitriestolaugh,butit’sjustthiswheezysoundthatmakesmewanttothrowuponEddie’sclean,greendesk.‘Imeanwe’vebeenmates-’
‘Youletmedown.You’renotreliable.IfIcan’ttrustyoutodothejob,Imayaswelldoitmyself.Isthatwhatyouwant?Me,runningroundcollectinggrubbytennersoffthosepoxykids?’
‘Nah,Eddieit’snot…’
‘You’retakingthepissoutofme.Rippingmeoff.Turningupherestonedonmygear.It’safuckininsult.’
Eddie’sarmjutsforward,grabbingMaxi’sthroat.Hefollowsitwitharightcross.HisfistflashespastmyfaceandcracksintoMaxi’smouth.
Shit.
Thevibrationdrumsthroughthepaininmyhead.
Kyliegrowls,downbymybollocks.
Maxi’sbodyslamsbackagainstthemarblefireplacewiththebloodstreamingfromhisface.AndIknow,ifthedeskwasn’tbetweenthemEddie’dberoundtofinishthejob.
‘Callyourselfafuckinmate,’heshouts,leaningoverthedesk,fingerjuttingatMaxi’sbody.‘Itrustedyou,youfatprick,andyouturnupatmyweddinganniversarytoinsultme.Ishouldbehavingadrinkwiththefamily,butnowI’vegottofindsomecunttorunthebusinessinWalker,cosofyou.Youletmedown,youbastard.’Hetakesabreathandlooksattheringsonhisfingers.‘Donna’dbegoingmental,ifshewasstillwithus.’
Maybeit’shimsayinghernamethatmakesmelook,makesmeseethatsilverurnuponthemantelpiecewiththeirnamesengravedonthefront,EddieandDonna–eternallove,inabigblackheart.
That’swhatI’mlookingat,butwhatIseeisthatdiamondglintingatAnnie’sthroat,andFrogga’slizardgrin.
‘Ioughttobreakyourfatfuckinlegs,’Eddiesays.‘Takeyourfuckineyesout,’butthattouchofAnnie’sarmismorerealthanEddieBurns’anniversarywishlist.
That’swhyIdoit.
‘Iwon’tletyoudown.’
Smilermovesbehindme,butEddieliftshishand.
‘I’mreliable.’
Ileanacrossthedeskandholdmyhandout,twoinchesfromtheswellofEddie’sstomach.
Helooksatme,thendownatthesprayofbloodonhisphone.
Iconcentrateonmyhand,keepingitrelaxed,keepingthetensionoutofmyface.
Thedooropensbehindme.
IstareatEddieBurns,throughhim,tothosephotosonthewall.
Thedoorcloses.Amobilephonebeeps,andit’slikethething’sconnectedtoEddie’sshoulder,coshisarmshootsforwardandhetakesmyhandinhishairypaw.
‘Well,you’vegotsomeballs,’hesays.‘I’llgiveyouthat,’andhesitsbackinthechair,takingmyhandwithhim,soI’mbentoverthedeskwiththedogsniffingmyarse.
‘Iwon’tletyoudown.’
‘Makesureyoufuckindon’t,’Eddiesays,squeezingthebonesinmyfingers
I’mkeepingitcool,controllingtheexpressiononmyface,butIcan’tstopmyhandfromsweating.Ifeeltheslipperinessbetweenourpalms,andIcanseethatEddiedoestoo,becausehegrins,showingtworowsofpointy,overlappingteeth.TheyremindmeofthisprogrammeIsaw,abouthowpeoplegettolookliketheirdogs.
Andthentheyremindmeofsomethingelse.
‘Mr.Riley?’Eddielookstotheshutteredwindow.
Itwistmynecktosee.
MichaelRiley’ssittingatalowtablewithhislegsstretchedoutinfrontofhim,andwhatlookslikeafatplasticpenclampedunderhisbighawknose.
‘Michael,’Igivehimanod,atleastthebestIcanwithmyheadtwistedhalfwayoffmyshoulders.
RileysmilesliketheDevilandtiltshisleatheryhead.
‘Alright,’Eddiesays,pullingmyhandcloser.‘YoucanworkwithourCarlo.Iknowyou’reoldmates,sothere’llnotbeanyproblems.Alrightwithyou?’
‘Carl?’IlookdownatthesovereignringonEddie’sindexfinger.
‘Thatalright,son?’
‘Right,Eddie.’
‘Right,Eddie,’hesays,andletsgoofmyhand.
‘Mr.Riley’llkeepaneyeonyou.He’llbeintouchwiththewheresandwhens,theusualshite.Andwhileyou’rehere,youcanmeetournewbestmate,’EddiepointsafatfingeratSmiler.
‘Gethiminhere.’
IlookpastMaxi,dabbinghismouthwiththisscrattybitoftissue,andwatchatrickleofblooddarkenonthatbigblackheartbehindhim.
Eddiecheckshisphone.
Rileysucksonhisvape.
ThedooropensandSmilercomesbackin,withthislittleblokehoveringbehindhiminthedoorway.
‘Haway,man,’Eddiesays.‘Move.’
Thelittleblokestepstowardsusinaneatgreysuit.Hishair’scombedback,sothinthatyoucanseethepinknessofhisscalp,andhislipsareafatredbowonhisbabyface.HelookslikesomeweirdPampersadvert
‘ThisisMr.Linthorpe,’Eddiegrinsagain.‘Ourpersonalbentcopper.’
PampersLinthorpe,Ithink,butthenIseethescowlflashacrossLinthorpe’sface.Darklines,likebrackets,cutinaroundhismouth.Hestilllookslikeababy,maybeSmiler’sbastardchild.
‘AndthisisMini,’Eddielaughsathisowncrapjoke.‘He’sgoingtomakeuslotsofmoney,andyou’regoingtohelphim.’
InodatLinthorpe.
‘Alright,’hesays,hisflat,almost-Yorkshireaccent,totallywrongforhisbabyface.
‘Goonthen,’Eddiesighs,likehe’ssuddenlybored.‘Pissoff,thepairofyou.Andyou,’hesaystoMaxi.‘Iwon’tseeyouagain.
Youstayoutofmytown,awayfrommybusiness.Youdon’tcallanyone.Youdon’tspeaktoanyone.Youdon’texist.Okay.Packupandfuckoff.I’llgiveyoutill…’helooksathiswatch,andIdothesame.It’sgonehalf-four.‘Let’ssay,fiveo’clock.’
Maxikeepsdabbingathismouth,butEddieisn’tlooking.
Hestretchesbackinhischair.
‘Andsticktothelager,’hegrinsatme.‘Ididn’tbuyBolliatthirtyquidabottleforcharverscumlikeyou.’Hegrinsagain,andItrytosmile.‘It’safuckinjoke.’
Iholdhisglitteryeyes,stretchmysmilewider,andbackoutoftheroom.Helaughs.Ilaughback.We’rebothroaringlikelunatics,tillSmilerslamsthedoorinmyface.ButIcanstillhearEddie,eventhroughthatthickdoor,evenwhenI’mlookingdownoverthebalconyrail,atthesharp,overlappinglittleteethmarksinStrangler’sear.IwipethecoldsweatoffmyforeheadandIknowI’vescrewed-up.Ijustdon’tknowhowbadly.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
Peeler’sPlan
Thatstupidcollarlessjacketislockedintheboot,alongwiththeblacktieandshinyshoes.I’vegotmybootson,myleatherjacketwiththesilkliningsmoothagainstmyskin,andKurtCobainonthestereotellingmeit’slessdangerouswiththelightsout.Icrankupthevolume,letthesoundblowthedoubtsoutofmystomach,andIstarttofeellikeme,thepersonIwanttobe.
Icanmakethishappen.
Twopointtwopoundsakilo,sixteenouncesapound,thirty-fiveouncesinakilo.Youwantittheotherwayaround?Noproblem.Twenty-eightgramsanounce,fourhundredandfifty-threemakeapound.Icanrememberthat,andIcanaddup.I’mwhereIneedtobewhenIneedtobethere.Iplayitstraightdownthelinewitheveryone,keepsmiling,anddon’tletanyonegettooclose.That’swhyitworks.That’swhyI’mgoodforbusiness,andbusinessisgoodforme.AndifIdothat,thenIdon’tseewhyRileyshouldbeaproblem.Oranyoneelsecometothat.
AllIhavetodoistellthelads.Maxi’sout,I’min.Maybegivethemalittlebonusandcarryonlikenothing’schanged.Andithasn’t,notreally.Maxi’sbeennousetoanyoneforyearsMeandPeelerhavebeenholdingeverythingtogether,anditmightsoundstupidinthisbusiness,butItrustPeelerKaminsky.Imean,wegoway,wayback.
JustlikeMaxiandEddie.Thethoughtpopsintomyhead,aswelcomeasaturdinaswimmingpool.
I’mpasttheBlackBoar,andthere’sAtwal’sontheleft.IshouldgostraightontoPeeler’slikealways,takethenextturnontoEvistone,butIdon’t.Maybeit’sthedayformakingstupiddecisions,ormaybeIjustneedtoprovethatI’mnotscaredofDarylBoyle,anymorethanI’mscaredofEddieorCarl,oranyofthem.ItaketheBelmontturn.
Idrivedownthestreetfeelingforthewadofcashinmywallet,andthinkinghowDarylhasn’tgotapottopissinHe’satotalloser,andI’mwinningalltheway.Icouldgethimdoneoverforahundredquid.Idon’tknowwhyIhaven’t,exceptmaybedeepdownIknowitwon’tchangeathing.ThetyreshumonthetarmacandI’mdoingit,drivingpastthatpeelinggreendoorandnotgivingashit.It’sthevanthatfucksitup,dirtydarkblue,withonebaldtyreuponthecurb.Myfootcomesoffthegas.TheVolvojudderstoastopandDaryl’stransitsucksthemoistureoutofmymouth.
Myhandclosesaroundmymiddlefinger,andDaryl’sbrown-toothedfacemergesandshiftsthroughCarl’sandFrogga’sandEddie’suntilthefear’ssostronginmystomachthatthemusicdoesn’tmakeanydifference.Iturnitoffandhideintheechoingsilence.
Halfalifetimeinthatcrappyhouse.Notanymore.Ihaven’tbeenbackthereinsevenyears,andIneverwill.I’moutofthatshiteandI’vedoneitmyself,andifIhavetoworkfortheBurnsGangtostayout,thenthat’sfinebyme.
Acarhornblares,andIpracticallyjumpthroughtheVolvo’swindow.
There’ssomeblokebehindmeinagiantfourbyfour,shoutingtheodds.Ifhegetsanycloser,he’llbeinmybackseat.
Iholdupmyhand,buthejustkeepsleaningonthehorn.Twat.Igivehimthefingerandwheel-spinawaydownthehill,screechingupontoEvistoneGardens,andskiddingtoastopoutsidePeeler’sflat.
Thewomaninnextdoor’syardgivesmetheevil-eye,thisbleach-blondBuddhawithaplasticbottleinherhand,thighssaggingoverthesidesofherdeckchair.ShemakesMaxilookgood.Igiveheranodandwalkupbetweenthetwoscrawnypatchesofgrass,tellingmyselfthatnothingcantouchme.I’mincontrol.
Exceptthat’sbullshit.Maxi’sgone,andthere’snothingleftbetweenEddieandmeexceptCarlandFrogga,andMichaelbloodyRiley.Thethoughtpushesmeclosertotheedge,whichIsupposeiswhyI’mactinglikeatit.
‘Police,’Ibangontheplasticdoor.‘Police,openup.’
Buddhascowlsatmeoverherbottle,andthedooropens.
‘You’regoingtogetintroubledoingthat,’Peelertellsme,eyeswidebetweenhisbig,sticky-outears.Hedoesn’tmakeabigdealofitthough,justturnsbackintotheflatandIfollowhimdownthecorridor,pastabikewithonewheel,outsideaclosedbedroomdoor.
‘Maxi’sout,’Itellhim.
Peelerkeepswalking,throughhislittlelivingroomandintothekitchen.
‘Maxi’sout,’Isayagain.‘Gone,finished.’
Peelerslidesthistrayoutoftheoven,thenhestandsinthekitchendoorwayinthatcrumpledstripyshirthenevertakesoff.Peelerdoesn’tcarewhathelookslike,whichissortofcool.
Theflat’samessaswell,butthere’sagreatsmellwaftingoutaroundhim,meatywithloadsofgarlic.
‘Youwantsomelasagna,’hesays.
So,wesitinPeeler’slivingroomwithhismassiveDVDcollectionandgiantT.V.,andweeatlasagnawhileItellhimhowitis.
MaybethetipsofthosebigearsgoashadepinkerwhenItellhimhowEddieknockedMaxionhisarse,andheraisesaneyebrowwhenItellhimaboutshakingEddie’shand,butthat’sit.Hedoesn’tsaymuch,justactslikeit’snobigdeal,whichisexactlywhatIneed.
‘So,whatdowedonext,boss?’hesays,takingthepiss.
‘Hawayandfuckoff,’Itellhim.
‘Yessir,whateverthegaffersays.’
‘You’reaskingforaslap,you,’Itellhim,butwe’rebothlaughing,andbythetimeIwalkoutoftherewe’vegotaplan,andI’mfeelinggoodagain
Peeler’sgoingroundthebars,makingsuretheladsknowthescore,andI’mawayuptothefactorytotellthegardenershowthingsare.NomorefreebeesforMaxi,notthatevenhewouldbestupidenoughtotry.
Itellthemthey’regettingabonusandeverything’sgoingtobesweet,thenIgetbackinthecar,crankupthestereo,andthinkabouthowthisisgoingtobe.
There’stwoandahalfgrandaweekforEddie,acutforPeelerandthelads,andtherestgetssplitbetweenmeandMaxi.Atleastitdid.Imadeagrand,easy,onagoodweek.Eddienevercaredwhatwetook,solongashegothismoney.So,Idon’tseewhyIshouldn’tmaketwicethatnow,evenallowingabitextraforPeeler.Icouldsavesome,getoutofthebusinessbeforeIenduplikeMaxi.Poorbastard.
I’mstilltenmilesfromNewcastlewhenthephonerings.Ipullitoutofmypocketandstareatmyhomenumberonthedisplay.
‘You’relate,’Clara’svoiceiscrispandposh,andevenbeforeIlookatmywatch,IknowI’vescrewed-up,again.
‘You’reinmyflat?’
Thelinegoesdead,andIdropthephonelikeit’sonfire.Shit.
Iputmyfootonthefloor,butallIcandoisthinkaboutClara,openingcupboardsandhatches,pokingaroundinmyprivatebusinesswiththatsmugsmileonherface.
‘Bitch’,Isay,andlikealwayswithClara,Idon’tknowifI’mangryorexcited,butatleastshepushestheBurnsgangoutofmymind.
Ihaven’tseenClarainmonths,andifI’mhonest,Imissedheratfirst,allthatclevertalkandhysteria.Clara’smade-uptantrumstodistractusfromtherealshitgoingoninourheads.
Wehadsomefun,meandClara,butI’mnotstupid.IknowIwasjustherbitofrough,anoptionalextratoherstudentrebellionThethingis,it’sAugust,andClara’snotastudentanymore.So,whatIdon’tunderstandiswhyshegotbackintouchlastweek?Whysheinvitedherselfover,whyshe’swaitingformenow,backattheflat?MaybeIcouldworkitout,ifIcouldjuststopandthink,butthere’swaytoomuchshitswirlingthroughmyheadalready,andmyminddriftsbacktothatfirstnight,ayearandahalfago.
IheardherbeforeIsawher,pissedandangry,screamingatsomeoneinherhigh,poshvoice.IcameoutofWhite’sbarexpectingtousledhairandUggs,instead,IfoundClara.Shewasflatonherarseinthesnow,athrowbacktotheninetiesinbluedungareesandDoctorMartin’sboots,withherwoollyhatinherhandandherhairshavedwithinaninchofherskull.
‘Youokay?’
‘Clumsyfackingoaf,’shescreamed,likeitwasmyfault.
Icouldhearthevodkaslureventhroughherstretchedoutvowels.LikePeelersays,anynormalpersonwould’veleftherthere,soIsupposethatprovesI’mnotnormal.Hereckonsshe’samothersubstitute.Whatever.I’dneverseenanythinglikeher.
‘Letmegiveyouahand.’
‘Fackorf.’
‘Right.’
Igaveherbothhands,herssmallandhotinmine,eventhoughitwasfreezingIliftedhertowardsme.Herfrail,baldheadtiltedback,showingmeherdelicateface,eyeshiddenbehindblotchesofblackmake-up.Babybondage;withalineofstudsupeachear,andadropofclearliquidshiningonhernose-ring.
‘Wantadrinkthen?’Isaid.
‘That’stheleastyoucando,’shetoldme,runninghersleeveacrosshernose,butshekepttightholdofmyhandallthewaybackintothebar,andafterthat,Icouldn’tlethergo.
Shesatwithherlegstuckedunderneathher,gulpingvodkaandtonicandtellingmethisramblingstoryabouthowherdadwassuchabastardforleavingheruphereonherownallChristmas.
‘HekeepshasslingmetogotoStVincent.’
IthoughtshemeantthatchurchinShieldfield,butforonce,thankGod,Ikeptmymouthshut.
IwastemptedtotellheraboutMam,butIcouldseethatClarawasn’tthesharingkind.Inherlife,shewasthemainevent,theonlyshowintown,andtobefair,itwasn’tabadone.
So,IshutupandlistenedwhilesheknockedbackherAbsolutvodkaandassassinatedherfamily,thentheycalledtimeandkickedusout.
‘Carefulyoudon’tfall,’Itoldher,watchinghertotterdownthepath.
Herlaughwasloudenoughtobringtheloosesnowtumblingofftheroof.
‘You’refunny,Goldeneye,’shesaid,andslappedmehardacrosstheface.‘Yousimplymustcomebacktotheflat.’
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
Clara
IpullupbehindClara’spearlywhiteGolfGTIandseethroughthehangingbranchesofthecherryblossom,thatmyfrontdoorisstandingopen.Igrabmyleatherjacketoffthebackseatandtryforthatslowrollingwalkupthepath,butmyheart’sbeatingtoohard.ImovelikeI’monsprings,bouncingunderthefadedpinkbranchesandthestonegargoyleovermyopendoor.
Ifollowthewidecorridorpastmybedroomwithitsluxuryen-suitebathroom,andintothelivingroom.Therestoftheflatisopenplan,whichmeansit’sonebigroom.Thekitchen’satthefarendwithwhattheestateagentcalledapicturewindowoverthesink.Threestepsleadbackupfromthekitchenareatomyforty-inchplasma,oppositean‘L’shapedleathersofa.
There’sasheepskinrug,andaniron-meshcoffeetablewithanopenbottleontopandapairofshinyhigh-heeledshoesleaningagainsteachotherunderneath.
Theshoesaren’tmine.
Clara’ssittingontheshortendofthe‘L’,withherlonglegscurledunderneathherandafarawaysmileonherface.Herdarkblondhairhasgrownout,astylishslash,angledacrossherface.She’sstillgoingheavyontheeyemake-up,buttherestofithasgone.Allthosepiercingsreplacedbyasubtlegoldswirlineachear.Thewoollydressanddungareeshavegonetoo.Icanseetheshapeofherunderathinwhiteblouse,andwhatcouldalmostbeabusinesssuit,ifitwasn’tquitesosoftandsilky.
Thisisthefinalproduct,thenewClarawho’sbeenappearinginstagessincethespring,sheddingherpoorlittlerichgirlpersonalitylikeacaterpillarinastory,startingonhernextincarnation.I’dliketoaskherwhichversionisnearertothetruth,butshewouldn’tunderstandthequestion.Shecertainlywouldn’tanswerit.ThisiswhoClaraistoday,sothisiswhat’sreal,what’salwaysbeenreal,andIdosortofgetit,becauseunderneathallthebullshitClara’sworldisthesameasmine.It’saboutgettingoutfromunder,breakingfreefromthepast,andyoudon’tneedafine-artdegreetoseethatthesexybusinesswomanactisgoingtogetyoualotfurtherthantheangryGothTheonlythingIcan’tmakesenseofiswhyshe’shere,afterallthistime,wastingherglossysmileonalow-lifechancerlikeme.
‘Hola.’Sheholdsuponeofmyglasseswithalittlegoldpuddleshininginthebottom,andsmileslikebutterwouldn’tmelt
Ican’thelpsmilingback.
‘Hola,Bella,’Isay,usinguptwothirdsofmySpanishinonegrandgesture
‘Congratulateme,’shesays,pattingthesofaandrattlingoffsomethingaboutbellasartes.
‘Congratulations,’Isit,andshehandsmeaglassofwine.
‘Salud,’shesays.
‘Salud,’Ithrowinmylastword.
Shetakesasip,andherfacerelaxes.Mouthopen,shestaresblanklyattheironmeshtablewithoneshinynailtappingontheglass,settingoffthistinklingechoinsidemyhead.Maybeit’sthatsound,orsomethinginherexpressionthattriggerstheblacktensioninsideme.Ineedtoputthatsmilebackonherface.AndwithClara,it’seasy.
‘So,’Iclinkmyglassagainsthers,andtakeanotherdrink.’
You’vegotthedegree.You’vegotthejob,andyou’reawaytoBarcelona.You’reagenius.’
Herfacelightsup.Redlipspartoverwhiteteeth,andevenifIdon’treallybelievethatsmileanymorethanIbelieveinthissexybusinesswomanorthespoiledlittlerichgirlthatcamebefore,whatIbelievehasnothingtodowithhowIfeel.Iputthatsmilebackonherfaceandtheanxietywashesoutofmystomach.
‘Thatmaybetrue,’shesays,‘butthere’smore.’
‘Ohyeh?So,whatelseamIcongratulatingyoufor?’
Shepressesonelongfingertomylipsandtakeshertime,draggingashinynaildownacrossmythroat.
‘I’mgoingtomakeyourdreamscometrue,’shewhispers,inherhusky,twenty-a-dayvoice.
Sothat’swhyshe’shere.Shewantsavictoryshag.Onelastnightwithherbitofroughbeforeshemovesontobetterthings.
Mybodystirsinanticipation,butthere’sapartofmethat’snotsosure.Maybeit’sanegothing?OrthatI’vefinallygotoverherandI’mscaredofgoingback?Ormaybethere’sanotherreason?Ascrunched-upfacespittinginsultsatmeacrossthebar.
I’mexcitedandconfused.Myhandsareonhercheeks,butIdon’tknowifI’mpullinghertowardsmeorholdingheraway,andthataboutsumsupmeandClara.
Imakeadashforthekitchenandflickthekettleon.
‘Can’tbeatagoodcupoftea,’Itellher,withabigfakesmileofmyown
Claraisn’tbothered,shepurrsatmeoverthework-top,inthatbreathlesswaythat’ssupposedtotellmethere’ssomethingexcitingcoming.
‘Iwanttomoveyou,’shesays,talkinglikeoneofhercrypticcrosswords.‘Outofthecellarandintotheviaduct.’Shetouchesonepolishednailtothetipofhernose.‘ElViaducto.’
Inarrowmyeyes,butIknowbetterthantoaskherwhatshe’sonaboutbecausethatwouldbegaucheandsimple,soIsmileandnodandlethergoon.Andshedoes.Sheleansacrossthework-top,talkingatmeinamixtureofEnglishandSpanish.Hertopbuttonpopsopen.Itrytomakesenseofwhatshe’ssaying,butIcan’thelpseeingthepressoffleshatthetopofherblouse.Shecatchesmelookingandlaughs,justalittlelikeMichaelRiley.
‘Sothat’swhatwe’lldo,’shesays,andforallshemightlooklikeadifferentperson,evenanidiotlikemecanseethatshe’sjustasfarfromplanetEarthasshewasthatfirstnightinthesnow.
ItturnedoutmyplacewasclosertoWhite’sBarthanhers,soweslidbackhereontheicyroadandpickedupwhereweleftoff,withhercurledonthesofalikeanexoticcat,knockingbackmyvodkaandrantingonaboutsome‘menial’holidayjobherdadhadfoundherinagallery.
‘Nailingbloodyframes,withafackinghammer.’
Thewordthudsthroughmymemory.ButbackthenTheHammerwasjustabarI’dbeeninacoupleoftimes,theplaceMaxiwenttosortthingsoutwithEddie.
Whathitmewastheangerinhervoice,andthewayitsettheguiltchurninginmystomach.IlitaMarlboroandtookalongdraw,concentratingonthegrainyrushinmythroat,thehitinmylungs,breathingalong,fadedstreamwiththerestofitleftinsideme,liketheyalwaysleavesomethinginsideyou.
Noway,Itoldmyself.Thisisn’treal.Justadeadreflexleftoverfromanotherworld.There’snowayClara’sshitismyfault.NowayMam’sshitwasmyfault.
Itookanotherdrag,sinkingintothesilence,beforeIrealizedClarahadstoppedtalking.Shewalkedstraightpastmeintothebedroom,droppedherclothesonthecarpetandslidundertheduvet.Iwasinbesideher,fastasagreyhoundafterthehare.
Shepressedherlipshardagainstmine.Herstuddedtonguetookonesweetturnroundmymouth,andthensherolledoverandsleptlikeababyfortenhoursstraight.Clara.Shewasasclearasthedarkness.Butwasn’tthatwhatmadeherinteresting?Ourendlessgameofhideandseek.
Wewerelyinginbedthenextmorning,sharingfourCodeineandacanofCoke,andwhatturnedouttobemylastMarlboro.
‘I’llgototheshop,’shesaid,fishingthekeysoutofmyjeansandpullingherdungareesonovermyJohnnyCasht-shirt.
Ishouldhaveknownsomethingwasup,butIwasjustpleasedtodriftbacktosleepwiththatimageofherrunningthroughmymind.Ifshetooktwentyminutesinsteadoffive,sowhat?Whowascounting?Andanyway,whatpossibleharmcouldshedo?
Ifoundoutprettyquick.
Thatnight,sheletherselfin.
Ineverheardthedoor,wasn’tlisteningforit.Noonehadakey,Ithought,andanyway,Iwasdowninthecellarwithmymindracing,andmyhandscramblingtokeepup.HowcouldIknowhowlongshe’dbeenupthere,watchingme?
‘Wow,’shesaid,andIpracticallyjumpedupthroughtheopenhatch.
‘Whatthefuck?’Ispreadmyarmsinafeebleattempttoblocktheopening.
‘Well,well,’shesaid,lookingdownonmydarkestandmostprivateself,withherfalse,knowingsmile,‘you’vegottowatchthequietones.’
Theheatcamesurgingthroughmybody,butthiswassomethingdifferent.Notguilt.Humiliation.
‘Pissoff,Clara,’Ipulledmyselfuptheladdertwostepsatatimeandslammedthehatchbehindme.‘Howdidyougetinhere?’
‘Yougavemeakey.’
‘Ifuckindidn’t.’
‘Ofcourseyoudid.Togototheshop,thismorning.’
‘Eh,youborrowedit.’
‘Eh,’shesaid,lettingherjawdrop,mimickingmeinawaythatmademewanttopunchher.‘Yes,andIhaditcopied.Imeanyoucan’twanttoleavemestandingoutinthestreetallnight,freezingmypertlittletitsoff.’Shewiggledhershoulders,settingthemjigglinginsideherdungarees.‘Whileyouplaymonstersinyourdeep,darkdungeon,’Andsheleantbackagainstthewall,andlaughed.
Ilookedfromheropenmouthtothehatchbehindme.Noonehadbeendowntherebutmeinthreeyears.Thatwasmyplace,andevenifClarawashappytoshowmeherspoiledsillymadness,Iwasn’thappytoshowhermineIwascomfortableplayingthesufferingsilenttype,puttingupwithherdrunkentantrums,likeIhadwithMam,feedingmyfantasythatIwassorted,andsane,andwhole.
Ofcourse,Iwasn’tandI’mnotandIknowit,atleastsomeofthetime.Somaybeherseeingmedownthereshouldhavecutthroughsomeofthebullshit,broughtusclosertogether.
Anditmighthavedone,exceptthatwasn’twhateitherofuswanted.Yousee,itdoesn’tpaytogettooclose.Notforme.Idon’tneedotherpeople’sscrewedupreality,andIdon’twanttosharemine.ButyouknowClara.
Shekneltdown,runningherfingertipsoverthehatch,andthenshesnatchedattheironringandpulled.Istoodonthehatch,snappingtheringoutofherhand.
‘Bastard.’Shelifteditagain.
‘No,Clara,’Istampeddown.
‘I’mnotyourfackingdog.’
‘Leaveit.’
‘Alright,alright,’shesaid,roundinghereyesatme,‘sitdown.
I’llgetusadrink.’
‘Okay,’Iwatchedhertakeasteptowardsthekitchenandletmyselffallbackonthesofa.
‘Ha,’shegrabbedtheironring,andswungthehatchbackonitshinges.
‘Bitch.’Myhandfellonherthroat,pinningheragainstthewall,notevenfeelingherfistsonmyface.
Ilethergo,kickingthehatchshut,andshelaunchedherselfatme,pullingmyhair,tearingmyshirt.Hernailsdrewthreeredlinesacrossmychest.
‘Hitme,’shescreamed,withherfacecloseagainstmineandgreytearsrunningdownhercheeks.‘Hitme,youignorantbastard.’
Hernailscameupagain,tearingdownmycheek,andIdidit.
Islappedheracrossthemouth.
‘That’senough,Clara,’Ishouted,butitwasn’t.Notnearly.
Herdresswasupoverherhead,fallinginacrumpledheaponthefloor.Shepunchedme,fullonthejaw,pullingherclothesoff,andmine,straddlingmeonthewoodenfloor,fuckinme,withusstillbatteringateachotherandthebloodrunninginlittleriversfromherburstlip,downoverthosetightrose-budtits.
Ididn’thearwhatshewasscreaming,justshapelesssoundsbehindherbloodynails,sobbingandbroken.
‘Daddy.’
Iheardthat.AndMam’snamewasthere,blaringinmyhead.
Icouldhaveshouteditrightback,drivingmyselfupinsideherwithmycockhardastheironmeshonthecoffeetable.Mam.
Yousad,selfish,alky,bitch.ButIhelditin.I’mnotthatsick.
Trustme.There’snothingsorealorsofalseasbeingscrewedbyagirllikeClara.Therestofherwasonebiglie,ormaybelotsoflittleliespiledontopofeachother.Butthesexwasreal.
Youcan’tfakethat.
‘Oh,forGod’ssake,Tom,’Claralaughsinmyhead,‘that’stheeasiestthingofall.’
‘Right,Clara,’Isay,butIdon’tbelieveher.
Thekettleclickedagesago.Clara’sstillrattlingonaboutherflashnewjob,droppingabitofSpanishinateveryopportunity.
AllIdropisacoupleofteabags.Imaketwocupsthatnobodywantsandwatchthewaterdarken.Idon’tbotherwithmilk.Ijustwalkupthosethreestepstothelivingroom,putthecupsontheiron-meshtable,andsitdownwithsixclearinchesofsofabetweenus.
Wedidn’tseeeachotherforawhileafterthatnight,likewe’dbothgiventoomuchofourselvesaway.Butsheturnedupacoupleofweekslater,whentheclubskickedout,slippingintotheflat,andthebed.Thatwashowitwent.She’dturnupinthemiddleofthenight,pissedandlookingforashag.Orafight.
Usuallyboth.ItoldherIdidn’twantherjustlettingherselfin,butwebothknewthatwasalie.
TherewasalwayssomethingnotquitetrueaboutmeandClara,butGodloveher,theangerwastrueenough.Maybethat’swhatdiditforme,allthescreamingandshoutingthatIdidn’tknowhowtodo,lightingmeupinsideOrmaybeitwasjustthatherendlessself-obsessionsuitedme,becausetheothergreatthingaboutClarawasthatsheneveraskedanyquestions.
Okay,sure;“What’syourproblem?Whodoyouthinkyouare?”
Thatsortofshit.Butnotrealquestions,oneswithanswers,like,
“wherewereyouatfouro’clockthismorning?”–whenIwasoutdoingbusiness.
Isupposethetruthwasthatwhileoursecretspushedusapart;theyheldustogether,too.Thesameangerburninginsideus.
Herswavinglikeaflag,minefoldedtightandcloseandhiddeninsideme,whileIpretendedtobesomeoneelse.Don’tgetmewrong.She’sasbigafakeasIam,butshe’slearnedsomethingatcollege,ormaybeshejustknewitallalong.LittleMissAnarchy,gettingherhairdone,findingajob,andsanitizingherrebellion,soallthat’sleftisturningherdaddydownandworkingforthecompetition,notseeingthatit’sallthesame.
He’sstillpullingthestrings,gettingherinwithoneofhismates,poppingthechampagneforhisartydaughter.Anythinggoesintheartworld.Isn’tthatthewayitis?
‘We’rebookedupallwinter,’she’ssaying.‘RightthroughtillMay.Christ,Tom,they’repracticallybeatingthedoordown.
Thethingisthough,’shepressesherfingertomylips.‘Therewassomecontractthingwiththisguy,ClaudioJensen.Hepulledoutatthelastminute,andJose-LuissaysIcanhavetheplaceforthefirstweekinSeptember.DowhatIwant.’
Shetouchesherhandtomychest,nailspressingthroughmyt-shirt.‘Youknowwhatthatmeans.’
‘DoI?’AndIhonestlydon’tknowifI’vebeendreamingandmissedit,orifshe’sstillplayinghercrypticgames.
‘Don’tgivemethatworking-classhumilityshit,’shesays,
‘justcomehereandshowyourappreciation.’
Sheleansacrossinhersilkyblacksuitandrunsthetipofhertonguearoundmylips.ButI’velookedintothoseblankpandaeyesonetimetoomany,andIturnmyfaceaway.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
TheBlackBoar
IwalkintoTheBlackBoarandordermyfifthpintofthenight.Ihaven’tdrunkanyofthem.That’snotwhyI’mstaringaroundlikeanidiot.It’sthisplace,anoblongboxwithalineofbatteredtablesdownthemiddle,likeabrokenbodyinacoffin.
Nothing’schangedinhereforaboutathousandyears,exceptthere’smaybeafewmoretabburnsonthecarpet.Andthere’sstillthatfeeling,somethinglikethehallatNana’schurch,withMam’shandonmyshoulderandthetopbuttonsotightonmythroatthatIcanhearmyownbreath.
‘Threequid,exactly.’
Thelandlordputsmypintonthebar.Helooksatmelikehe’stryingtorememberwhoIam,butIwasakidthelasttimeIwasinhereandhehasn’tgotaclue.Iknowhimthough,MickeyCassidy,withthosepock-markscarsandhischeesygrin,andhiscoupleofcansforMam.
‘Thanks,’Isay,andgetawaybeforehe’sgottimetoworkitout.
Ishuffleroundbehindtheblokeslinedupalongthebartothesafetyofthefurthesttable,downbythetabmachine
Therearetwooldgirlsatthenexttable,pinkrinseheadstogether,gypsyearringsswinging,whisperinglikeGod’sjusttoldthemaboutthenumbersfornextweek’slottery.Oneofthemlooksatme,sipssomethingoutofatinyglassandpuckersherorangelips.Inodandgetmyheaddown,peeringoutfrombehindmypintandtheDailyMirror.
There’sablokewithabeardrustlinghispaperoverbythewindow,buttherestofthetablesareempty,leavingmeaclearviewofthefulllengthofthepub.
Ifixbotheyesonthedoor,readytowaitforaslongasittakesforLouisSolomontowalkinandtellmewhat’sgoingon.That’swhyI’mhere,whyI’vespentthelasttwohoursonmydrink-freepubcrawl.I’vebeeninhalfthebarsinBykerandWalker,seeingtheladsandbeingseen,buyingpintsIdon’twant,tryingtosussoutwhat’sgoingon.
IwasoveratHowdonMetrobeforethat,makingthedropforMichaelRileyontheoldstoneplatform,threegrandinagreenFenwickscarrierbag,inthesecondbinontheleft.TheywerewatchingmeassoonasIcamethroughthebarrier,butIkeptmyeyesonthebintillIheardthetraincoming,thenImadethedropandgotoutofthere.ButIlookedback,liketheysayyounevershould,andIsawJustinedoingthepickup.
ThelasttimeI’dseenherwasmonthsago,upatTheHammer,wrappedaroundametalpole,shakingherarse.Butitwasher,doingcollectionsforMichaelRiley,clickingthroughthestationinthree-inchheelsandabusinesssuit.Shegrabbedthebagandsteppedontothemetro,justasthedoorshissedshut.Threegrand,gone.Threegrand,whenthetotaltakewaslessthantwo.
Iliftthepinthalfwaytomylipsandlayitbackonthetable.
Myphonevibratesagainstmythigh.Ipullitout.
C.T.comesuponthedisplay,remindingmeoftheshinyrowsofbubble-wrapshemademebuy,stilluntouchedinthebackofthecar.
“I’velookedatyourstuff,andit’sgood.”
“Good,”that’swhathesaid.Thatonewordwaybackinanotherlife,butwhatdidhemean?Nice?Pretty?Orreallygoodenough?
IwatchClara’sinitialsflashonthescreenandputthephonebackinmypocket.
Wepaidtwoandahalfgrand,meandMaxi,andtherewereweekswhenwetookdoublethat.Rileyroundedituptothree.
Hecalledmethatnight,afterEddie’s,toldmewhereandwhen,andhowmuch,justlikeEddiesaid,andthatCarloandChezwouldbeintouch.
Itoldhimwepaidtwoandahalf,andallIgotbackwasthatslow,falselaugh.
‘I’mroundingituptothree,’hesaid,again,andsuckedonhisvape.
WhatwasIsupposedtodo?
‘Noproblem,’Itoldhim,tryingtomakemyselfbelieveit.Iwasthinkingthatifwecouldtakefiveitwouldhardlymakeanydifference,butIshouldhaveknownthen,thatwithoutMaxi’sconnectiontoEddie,Iwasscrewed.
Thatwaslessthanaweekago,althoughitfeelslikeamonth,beforePeelercamebackwithahandfulofgrubbynotesandaloadofgreentheladscouldn’tsell.Halftheirregularshadn’tturnedup.Thenextnightwasworse.AndthenLouisSolomondisappeared.
Louis,whospenthalfhislifekickingthatballagainstthecornerofSandyCrescent.HewasgoingtobethenextAlanShearer.Everyonesaid.Anailed-oncertaintytogetafatprofessionalcontractwithNewcastleUnited,butheneverdid.
TheylethimgointheJune.HewasdealingonhisownbyJulyandworkingwithusinAugust.
Thedoorswingsopenandthisgroupofladscomeintothebar,half-pissedandshouting,practicallyfillingtheplace.
Anyonecantell,it’llbeyearstillanyofthemseeeighteen.Thetallestone,withspikyhairandawispytash,laysatwentyonthebar.MickeyCassidytellsthemtosettledown,buthetakesthemoneyandgivesthemtheirfizzybluebottles.
OrangeLipslooksatmeandrollshereyestotheceiling.It’sthefirsttimeI’vesmiledallday.
Ihaveanothergoatmypint,andthistimeitgoesdown,butthenIstareatmyDailyMirror,lookingatLaurafromLincoln’sgreytits,anduptoherblankface.Shelookslikeshe’swatchingrepeatsofEmmerdale,alotlesssexythanJustinelookedsteppingontothatmetrowiththreegrand,twelvehundredquidofitstraightoutofthewhiskyboxinthecellar.
There’seighthundredquidleftinthere.Idon’tevenknowwhat’sinthebank,butnotmuch.NowaywillitcarrymethroughnextSaturday,notunlesssomemoneycomesin.
MaybeRiley’llgivemeapassandletitride?Ithinkofhisslow,viciouslaughandIknowtheanswertothat.Ineedtofindoutwhat’sgoingon,andfast.
Iturnthepage,butI’mnotreading.Truthis,onceyou’vereadthefootballtherestofthepaper’scrap.Ipullthephoneoutofmyjeans,pushoneformessages,andlistentoClaraTate’sdemandingvoice.
‘Pickupthephone.I’vesetthisupforyou,putmyreputationontheline,riskedmyownmoney,’bywhichshemeansherdad’s.
‘Answerme,youlittleshit,because…’Ipresstheredbutton.
SkidwasinTheButchersArms,overbythebar.Hewaslookingsharpwithagoodviewofthedoor,buthisheadwentdownassoonashesawme.
‘How’sitgoing,’Isaid.
‘Alright,’hetoldme,withhiseyesonhisNikeAirs.
Iboughthimadrink,butthechatdidn’tgetanybetter.No,hehadn’tseenanything.No,therewasnoproblem,justtheregularsweren’tbuying.Theyweren’tevencomingin.
TherewasnooneinJacksonsorTheRaby,buttherewasthiskidslippingoutthesidedoorofTheGrace,asIcameinthefront.Hecould’vebeenanyone,justsomeladinagreenhoody.Buttherewassomethingabouthim,thewayhemoved,weirdlycalmwithhislittlehandpattingathischest.
Iranoutafterhim,staringdownthestreetatagroupofgirlsinmatchingpinkt-shirtsandsparklyhats.Nah.Itwashardlyprettyboy’sstyle.Sharp-dressedmaninadirtyhoody?
ThedooropensandanothercoupleofoldladsshuffleintotheBoar.Thepub’sfillingupwiththatmotleyselectionyougetinaplacelikethis.‘CommunityPub,’itsaysonthesignoutside.
StarWarscafémorelike.
Istanduptowatchanotherstrangerfighttheirwaythroughthedoor.MyshoulderbangsagainstapictureandIsitbackdown.Stupid,sittingatthebackofthisplaceonaSaturdaynight,likeit’snotgoingtoendupheaving.
Paulwouldn’tlookatmeinPeggySue’s.Therestofthebarsweredead,andtherewasstillnosignofLouisSolomon.
Peeler’sbeenuptohisgaffafewtimes,andsohaveI.He’snotthere.WegotinthebackwindowthelasttimeClothesinthewardrobe,milkyoucandrinkinthefridge.NosignofLouis.
TheBoar’shislocal,theplacehemeetshismatestogointoNewcastle,wherehedoeshisdeals.ButAntandDechaven’tseenhim,andhe’snotansweringhisphone.That’sthefirstthingwetellthem.Answeryourphone,nomatterwhat.Sure,they’reonlykids.Theylosethethings,getsick,doarunner.
Maybe?ButsoonerorlaterLouisSolomonisgoingtoturnup,andwhenhedoes,Iwanttohearwhathe’sgottosay.
ExceptI’mnotreallysurethatIdo,orthathe’sevengoingtoturnupatall.BecausehowevermuchItrytopretendthateverything’sokay,thedullacheinmyballstellsmethere’ssomethingbadgoingon.
‘Thisistheeasiestmoneyyou’reevergoingtomake.’That’swhatItoldhim,alongwithalltheusualbullshit,lookingupintothatsamefreckledfacethatusedtobeaboutfourfeetnearertheground.WhatanarseholeIam,sayingthat,doingwhateverittakestokeepbusinesstickingalong.
IturnanotherpageandstareatPoshSpice’sspindlybody.
Poorcow.Azillionquidandnothingtoeat.IlookatmyfullpintandtrytorememberwhenIlastatesomething,butallIcanthinkaboutisthethumpandscrapeofLouis’sballagainstthewall,andMichaelRiley’sstupidmonotonevoicetellingmeaboutthedropforanotherthreegrandnextSaturday.
I’llbecleanedout.I’llgetmyfacestovedinandendupbackdownhereinsomecrappydampflat,waitingforgiroday,soIcanputafewquidonthegasandscoreenoughpillstogetmethroughtothenextone.
Igrabformypint,likethat’sgoingtohelp,andsometwatbangsagainstthetablesendingbeersplashingontomyshirt.
‘Hawayman,’Ishoutatthekidwithspikyhair,eyeingdaggersintothebackofhishead.Hedoesn’teventurnround.
‘Yourlassinagain,Moocher,’Spikysays,tooneofhiskiddymates.
‘Aw,thestateofthat,’Moochergrins,flashingbigtombstoneteeth,andpointshisalco-popatthedoor.‘Iwouldn’ttouchherwithyours.’
Ishouldn’tlook.Thehairsarealreadyup,pricklingalongmyarm,evenbeforeIhearhershrillvoicethroughthebuzzofthebar.
‘Goon,pet,buyusadrink.’
IopenthepaperinfrontofmyfaceandtrytofocusonLaura’sroundgreynipples.Ican’t.Myheadcomesup.Icatchaglimpseofhunchedshouldersunderblackandyellowhair.
‘Getyourselfhome,love,’someoldboysays,buttheladsarelaughing,pushingeachothertowardsher.Spiky’sgothisarmacrossMoocher’sneck,holdinghim.
‘Acoupleofvodkas,’shesays,hervoicefallingtoahuskyslur.
‘Justtogetusinthemood.’
ShepressesherselfagainstMoocher’schestinthisshapelessgreencoatwithherwitch’shair,likesomespitefulkid’sdrawingofthepersonsheusedtobe.Herhandcomesup,orangecarrierbagbumpingagainstherleg.IwanttolookawayevenmorethanIwanttobefreeofMichaelRiley,butIcan’t.Iseetheblueveinsacrossthebackofherhand,onelongrednail,therestsnappedshort,slidinginsideheropencoatanddownbetweenherstickthinthighs.
‘Fuckoff,’MoocherbreaksSpiky’sgrip.Hepushesheraway.
ThesmilefixesonMam’sface.Sheturnstothenexttable.
Mine.Hermouthopens,toowideforherhollowed-outface,showingmebrown,shrivelledteeth.Sheleansin,stinkingofwetdogandpiss,andstaresrightthroughme.
‘Awgoon,pet,’shesays,‘justacouple.’
Herhandslipsbackthroughhercoat,andthestoolslidesoutfromunderme.Myshoulderbouncesoffthewall.There’sabrushofbaldingfurundermyhand.Adimlightflickersinhereyes,andI’mupandpasther.
‘Tommy.’
Ipushthroughthecrowds,butshewon’tgiveup.
Spikygetsinmyway,thenhemovesback,laughing,andletsherthrough.
‘Please.Tom-Bomb.’
Herhandtouchesmyface.
Ishakeheroffandfightmywaytothedoor.There’sawallofstaringfacesbehindme,thosepinch-facedoldcowswiththeirpink-rinsehairandorangelips.
‘Fuckyou,’Itellthem,allofthem,digginginmypocketandslappingaclatterofcoinsonthebar.‘Giveherwhatevershewants,’IscreaminMickeyCassidy’sface,andI’moutintothecoldair,runninghard,screamingdowntheemptystreets,lettingthewindblowherfilthoffmyskin.
IgettothecornerofBelmont,panting,withmyhandsonmyknees,swearingatthosesmugoldcowsinthepub,atMickeyCassidy,andather,andthenItakethelongwayback,upEastcoteTerrace,tothecar.Igetthedoorshutandtheengineon.That’swhentheguiltkicksin.I’mdrivinghometomyposhJesmondflatandleavingherbehind.Theburntellsmethatmyhandisdownbetweenmythighs,pinchingandtwisting,andeventhatremindsmeofher,theveinsonherhand,thatonerednailslidingdown.Isnatchmyhandaway.Nomore.
She’sbeenblamingmesinceIwasfiveyearsold.That’slongenough.I’vegotproblemsofmyown.I’macoupleofweeksfromendingupinthefoundationsofsomeofficeblock.
IcouldjustaseasygobacktotheBoar,getabottleofvodkaandsittherewithher,blamingtheworldforeverything.Ilaughatthewindscreen.Whynot?Imightaswell,exceptthethoughtmakesmewanttopuke.ButIneedsomething.IcouldgouptoClara’s,getwasted,getfucked.Butmyheart’sstillhammering,andthelastthingIwantissomeotherscrewup,ifshe’sevenstillinthecountry
IknowwhoIreallyneed.Ipictureherfacethroughtheblurringstreetlights.Bullshit.Thebitchletmedown.Shebetrayedme.Allthat’sleftistorollthatrugawayandgetdowninthecellarwithmycold,sickdreams.I’malreadythereinmymind,brakinghardoutsidetheflat,whenthephonegoes.M.R.
comesuponthedisplay,inuglygreyletters.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
Faustino’s
IrunupthemetalstaircaseatFaustino’srestaurant,thinkingaboutRiley’svoiceonthephone,andwonderingwhatitmeans.
Eddiewantstoseeme,“rightnow,atFaustino’s.”AllRiley’severdoneistellmethedropoff,abinoraback-lane,everywordinthatsamedeadpanmonotone,likeamachine.Tillnow.
“Rightnow.”
Irememberthetensioninhisvoice,andthesweatcomesagain,burningundermyarms.Thisisn’tright.He’ssettingmeup.
Oh,comeon,Tommy.Iftheyweresettingyouupit’dbeinafieldinthemiddleofnowhere,notthebusiestplaceintown.
Andwhywouldhewantto?Riley’shadhismoney,withtheextrathatgoesstraightinhispocketwhenitshouldbeinmine,andIhaven’tbreathedawordtoanyone.Ikeeponatmyself,beingreasonable,makingsense,butIcan’tshakethehollowfeelinginmystomach,thesensethatRileywaslying.
Eitherway,Eddieisn’there.Iwalkaroundtherestaurant,justtobesure.Theplaceiscrammedwithposhstudentseatingpizzaatredandwhitechecktables.It’snotexactlyEddie’sscene.Thesweatdries,stickyonmyforehead,andI’mfishinginmypocketformymobilewhenIspotanothersetofstairsIputmyfootonthestep,andahandgrabsthebackofmyneck.
‘CanIhelpyou,Sir?’ArealItalianvoice,butevenwiththeaccentIcantellhelpingmeisn’twhathe’sgotinmind.
Iturnaround,lookingdownatthethreechinsrollingawayoffhisstubblyface.He’sshort,buthisshouldersfillthespacebetweenthewallandthebanisterinawaythattellsmeI’mnotgettingpastunlesshesaysso.
‘I’mlookingforEddieBurns,’Isay
‘Andwhoareyou,’hesays,rubbinghisfatchin,enjoyinghimself.
Itellhim,andhishandtightensonmyneck.Heputsoneshinyshoeonthestepbesidemeandshoutsupthestairs.
‘Faustino,’Igetafacefullofgarlic.‘Faustino.’
Anoldmanappearsatthetopofthestairs,sortofdignified,withsilverhair.
‘TommyFairr,’FatFacesays,likemynameisn’tevenworthfinishing.‘LookingforMr.Burns.’
Theoldmandisappears,andIstareatFatFace,breathinghisaftershaveandhisdinner,untilFaustinocomesback.
‘Okay,Toolio,’Faustinocallsdown.
FatFaceraisesaneyebrow.HishandliftsoffmyneckandIwalkawayfromhim,uptowardsFaustino.
Thestaircaseisoneofthosemeshthingsthatlookslikeitshouldbeinaprison.I’mhalfwayupwhenIseeabouttwentypairsoffeet,blackleatherbootsandwomen’sheelswithsmoothstockinglegs,alltogetherroundonebigovaltable.
‘AhfuckinlovethisChianti.’
Eddie’svoiceechoesthroughmystomach.Igetmyshouldersback,andmyheadup,andI’mreadyforhim,Iswear.ButthefirstfaceIseeisAnnieCherani’s.Shepeersoutunderherfringe,withthatgoldchainacrosshermilkchocolatecheek.
Frogga’sbesideher,sneeringatmelikehe’ssomethingmorethanabulgy-eyedpieceofshit.Carl’stheretoowithhisbigwhitehandsfoldedinfrontofhim,andthatvacantstare.AndIguessthegirlsatnexttohim,withbigtitsandfasteyesmustbehisfiancé,Kelly.
Iturnroundtheheadofthestairs,andthere’sEddieBurns’
redmeatyface.Hismouth’swideopenandthere’ssomethingaliveinthere,longwhitewormsslitheringbetweenhisshinylips.Heseesmeandhismouthopenswider.Hespitsaloadofspaghettibackontothemountainonhisplate.He’sgoingtosaysomething,butMichaelRileybeatshimtoit.
‘Thirteenminutesandchange,’Rileysays.
Eddiefrowns.Hemakesashowofcheckinghischunky,goldRolex.
‘Nahman,Michael,’hesays,sprayingminceacrossthetable.
‘Fourteen,dead.’
‘Right.Fourteenitis,’Rileynodslikehelaughs,slowandfalse.‘That’lldo.’
ThelinesdeepenonEddie’sforehead.Hishandscomeupoverhisface,slidingintohishair,andthenhegrins.
‘Unlucky,Chester,son,’hesays.
Eddie’sheadgoesback.Helaughsattheceiling,andtherestofthetablelaughwithhim.
Ismiletoo,likeI’vegotanycluewhat’sgoingon,butFroggadoesn’tseemtogetthejoke.He’sstilltryingtostaremeout,butit’sAnniethattakesthesmileoffmyface.Hereyesarewideandfrightened,headturningafractionleft,thenright,soslowlythatthegoldchainnevermovesagainsthercheek.
‘Theladsdon’tthinkyou’reuptomuch,’Eddiesays,wavingahairypawatCarlandFrogga,cuttingoffthelaughter.
Theonlysoundnowistheglugofadrinkbeingpouredatthefarendofthetable.
Eddieclearshisthroat.
Thesoundstops.
‘ButMichaelsaysyou’realright.Andyoustoodbymymate,Maxi,evenwhenhewasgoingdownthepan.Iwon’tforgetthat.’HesaysitlikeMaxihadadiseaseorsomething,likeitwasn’thimthatgotMaxiaone-waytickettoGodknowswhere,andawarningnottocomeback.
‘Youwantedtoseeme?’
‘You’reright,’hesays,‘andyougothereinfourteenminutes.’
Helaughsagain,andIforceanothersmile.
‘ShouldI,eh,’Ishrug.‘WhatshouldIdo?’
‘I’lltellyou,’Froggaleansacrossthetable.‘Fuckoff.’
‘Chez,’Annietoucheshisshoulder.
‘What?’Froggashakesheroff.
‘Don’t,please.’
‘Youwantmetopackitin?’
He’sshoutingather,workinghimselfup.
Anniedoesn’tsayaword.Shestaresatthecrystalchandeliers.
Imovetowardsthem,closeenoughtoseetheheatinhercheeks,andthehoodedangerinhereyes.
‘Packitin,eh.Pack,Packi–’
‘Cheerup,Chester,youmiserablebastard,’Eddieshoutsdownthetable,andthissicklygrimacecrossesFrogga’sface.
‘Yeh,cheerup,’Imouthathim,andthetighteninginhisjawtellsmeheunderstands.
‘Lookslikeyou’regettingthebill,Chester,’Rileysays.
Frogganods,buthenevertakeshiseyesoffme.
‘Eye,eye,Bandit,’hesays,winkinglikewe’restillatschool.
Sadbastard.Hemouthssomethingelsethroughthatstupidgoatee.Somethinglike,“seenyou,”exceptnotquite.
WhatdoIcare?ImakeoutlikeIdon’tevennotice.IlaughwiththerestofthemandedgearoundbehindAnnie,soshe’sdirectlybetweenmeandEddie.
‘Right,’Eddiesays,rubbinghishandstogether.‘I’llhaveoneofthemstickytoffeethingsandanicewarmglassofbrandy,somethingexpensive,eh,Faustino?’
Hewavestothesilver-hairedwaiterandaboutfiveofthemcomeoutofthewalls,swarmingaroundthetable.Themenorderwhiskyandbrandy,thewomenvodkaandcoffee.Itakemychanceandleanacrossthetable,stretchingmyhandtowardsEddiewithmycheeksoclosetoAnnie’sthatIcanfeeltheheatinhers.
‘CheersthenEddie,’Ishout.‘Polo’s,’Iwhisperintoherhair.
‘Now.’
Myeyescloseforhalfasecond.Less.IopenthemtoseeEddieBurnswatchingmethroughthoseglitteringpointsofdarkness,myfaceagainstAnnie’s,myhandhoveringoverthetable.
‘Pissoff,’hesays.
Itakethestairsthreeatatime,pushingpastwaitersandchairs,outintothedrizzle.Taxisflashpast,headlightstrailingrainbowsoflight.AllIneedtodoisstickmyhandout,getmyselfhome.MaybeseeifPeeler’supforapint.That’sanormalthingtobedoingonaSaturdaynight.ButIturnback,pastFaustino’s,andlookthroughasetofbigglassdoorsintoPolo’sbar,next-door.
Prettyfacesstarebackatmeundermessed-up,blond-streakedhair.TheyremindmeofLaurafromLincoln.Iopenthedoorandthemusiccomesthumpingthroughme,somebassyhouseshitthatthestudentsthinkiscool.Differentpeople,differentdrinks,evenadifferentname.Theywouldn’tcallthisplaceacommunitypub.Butthere’sonethingit’sgotincommonwiththeBlackBoar.Thedrug.ThisisSaturdaynightandpeopleareouttogetpissed.Laughing,fightingorfucking,they’reouttoescapefromthemselves.
Ipushpastthesestudenttypeswithcocktailsandrugbyshirtsandgiveup.Theplaceispackedtightwithpushyblokeswavingtwentiesintheair.It’dtakeanhourtogettothebar,andprobablythesameagaintogetserved,andallIreallycareaboutisifAnnie’slookinginthroughthoseglassdoors,wonderingwherethehellIam.
Iedgemywaybackthroughthecrowd,scanningthebarandthestreetoutside.There’snosignofAnnie.AllIcandoiswait,foragirlwhoprobablyisn’tcoming.AndwhyshouldIcare?Ishouldhateherafterwhatshedid,runningawayandleavingme,tothem.ButallIhateisthefearonherface,andthatbulgy-eyedbastarduptherewithher.
Imean,whatwasshegoingtodo,kicktheshitoutofCarlBurnsforme?Itwasn’therfault.Itwasthem.So,Imakeexcusesforherandtrynottohateher,anditworksbecausethoseangryeyesshiningunderFaustino’schandeliermakealotmoresensethananythingthathappenedbackintheBykerWall.
‘Excuseme,’thissnooty,blondgirlpushespastme,andslidesinaroundthetablewithhergorillaboyfriend.
Helooksatmefromunderthickblackeyebrows,staringatmelikeI’msomekindoffreak,andIdon’treallyblamehim.
I’vebeenstandinghereforages,jammedbetweenthedoorandtheedgeofthetablewithmydodgyeye,andnotevenadrinkinmyhand.Iwanttosaysomethingnormal,butthere’snothingnormalleftinme,justFrogga’sthin,whitelipsmovingbehindmyeyes,andhisstupidgoateescratchingatmybrain.
‘Seenyou.’
Thatwaswhatitlookedlike,hismouthopening,pouting,goateelipspushingtowardsme.Istepoutsideandletthedoorswingshutbehindme.Thecoolairhitsme,andIknow.
‘SeenLou?’
Igetthatfeelinglikemystomach’sdroppedthroughmyballs.
IrememberSalim’slittlebodyslippingoutofTheGraceunderthatgreenhoody,andsomewheredeepdown,Irealise,Ialreadyknew.Salim’sthereasonthatLouisdisappeared.He’sthereasontheregularsaren’tshowing.Frogga’sfuckinmeover,andRiley’sscrewingmetoo.Thespit-roastfromhell.IpictureEddie’sspaghetti-filledfacelaughingattheceiling,andI’dbetten-to-oneheknowswhat’sgoingon,andahundred-to-onehedoesn’tgiveatoss.
ImakeoutlikeI’mstaringattheroad,butIcanfeelthebouncerswatchingmefromFaustino’sdoor.Thisbeardedguystepsoutbetweenthemandmystomachflips,buthe’saboutsixstonelighterthanEddie.Thedoorhasn’tevenclosedbehindhimwhensheslipsthrough,intothestreet,withherthinpurpleshirtblowingoutaroundher.AndIhavetosmile,becauseAnnieCheraniandEddieBurnshaveexactlythesameeffectonmystomach.
‘Hi,Annie.’
‘Whatdoyouwant?’Shepushesherjawout,armstightacrossherchest.‘Andwhatareyougrinningat?’
‘Nothing.Comeon,’Ireachout,almosttouchingherarmthroughthethinmaterial.‘It’ssaferinthecrowd.’
Thatgetshermoving.ShenodsandfollowsmeintoPolo’s.Ifindapieceofwalltostandagainst,backbesidesnootygirl’stable,withAnniefacingme,andthepressofpeopleforcingustogether.Shehastouncrossherarmstoholdherbalance.
‘Whatwasallthatabout?’Iaskher,notthatIreallycare.
‘RileyandChezwerearguingaboutwhetheryouwereanygood.’Herbreathiswarmonmyneck.Iconcentrateonhergoldchainandtrytopickhervoiceoutthroughthenoise.
‘Eddiewaseggingthemon,likehedoes.So,itendedupwiththisbet,whetheryou’dgetthereinquarterofanhour.’
That,morethananythingbringsithometome,howtotallyscrewedIam.Thebastardsareplayingwithme.Anniemustseeitinmyface.
‘Sorry,Tommy,’shesays.Sheturnsherheadandthewarmbreezedies.She’slookingatmyeye,justlikeshedidinTheHammer.
‘Whathappened?’shesays.
‘It’snobigdeal.’
‘Whathappened,Tommy?Iknowit’sfromagesago.Thecolourrisesinhercheeks.‘IsawitthatnightintheWall.’
Sheliftsherhandtomyfaceandmyheadjerksback,fast,beforeIrealisehowmuchIwantthattouch.Herhanddartsaway.Somethingbreaksbetweenus,andthefrustrationmakesangry.
‘Thatwhyyou’rehere?Toseethefreakshow?’
‘Youknowmebetterthanthat.’
‘So,whatdoyouwant?’
‘Towarnyou,’shesays.
Agroupofladscomethroughtheglassdoorsbehindher.
Sheedgestowardsme,andherhandcomesup,hotonmyshoulder.
‘Chezhatesyou.’
‘Chez?’Isay,halftomyself.
‘HeheardyouatTheHammer,leasthethinkshedid.Callingmeawhore.’
‘Annie.No,Ididn’t…’
‘ItoldhimweweretalkingabouttheBeamer,thatyouwerejealous.Helikedthat,buthestillhatesyou.He’sgotCarlunderhisthumb,andheknowsthebusiness.EvenEddielistenstohim.’
Snooty’sgorillaboyfriendisonhisfeet.He’sabouteightfeettall,pushingbetweenus,staringdownatAnniewiththosehorribleeyebrowsnuzzlingeachotheracrosshisforehead.
Eventually,hegetsoutoftheway,butIcanfeelhimhoveringbehindme.
‘Sobecareful,’Anniesays.
Sheleansin.Herchestbrushesagainstmine.Iglancedown,justforamoment,atthesilkshirtopenatherthroat,andwhatlookslikeatinygoldshieldhangingfromthechainatherneck.
Sheturnsaway.
‘Don’tgo,’Igrabherwrist.
‘Tommy,letgo.’
Gorillaboysneersatme.Hestepsbacktoletherthrough.
She’soutofyourleague.Hemightaswellhavesaiditoutloud.
Iknowit’strue.That’swhatsetsthespikeofpainsearingdownbehindmyeye.
‘Yeh.Sorunawayagain,leavemeintheshit.’
‘That’snothowitwas.’
‘No?Seemedlikeittome,Annie.Ididn’tseeyouwhileyourboyfriendwaskickingshitoutofme.Watchingwereyou,havingagoodlaugh?’
Shesnapssomethingback,butI’mnotlistening.
Ilettheangercome,notknowingifit’srightorwrong,onlythatit’sbeenpentupfortoolong.Ican’tevenhearmyownvoice,justthebloodroaringinmyears,andIfeellikeI’mcaughtinthisloopofherandCarlandFroggafuckinupmylife,andGorillaboy’sstillthere,watchingus,listening,soIhavetomakeAnnierepeatherselfbeforeIcanmakesenseofwhatshe’ssaying.
‘Whodoyouthinkbrokethatwindow?’
She’sshoutingatme,andI’mgaspingforbreath,feelingtheirfeetthudagainstme,hearingthatshatteringcrashthatmight’vebeeninsidemyhead,thinkingthisisit,they’regoingtocutme.Buttheydidn’t.I’mnotevensureifI’mimaginingthatbrokenwindownow,becauseIwantsomuchtobelieveit.
Butthelightwasreal,floodingoutontothegrass,andthatoldblokeinhisdoorway,withastickinonehand,andthephoneintheother,outlinedagainsttheyellowlightlikeamiserablebloodyangel,shoutingtheoddsabouthowhe’scallingthepolis.
‘Ismashedthisrockrightthroughit,thenIwaitedtilltheoldguycameout,tillCarlandFroggaranawayupthebank.ButIwasscared,Tommy.Ithoughtyou’dbeangrywithme.’
‘CourseIwasfuckinangry.’Butit’snottrue.Iwasn’t,notthen,butIcanfeelthetearswellinginmyeyes,andthatmakesmefurious.
‘Right.Fine.’Herfacesscrunches.Shesnatchesherwristaway.‘Isawyouwerealright,’shehissesatmeoverhershoulder.
‘Iwatchedyougodowntowardshome,awayfromthem.’SheopensPolo’sbigglassdoor.Gorillaboystepsbetweenus,andshemarchesawayfrommeforanothersevenyears.Iduckunderhisarm.
‘Annie,no,’Ispinherround,holdingheragainstme.
‘I’msorry,’Itellher.‘I’msorry.’
‘Alright,Tommy.You’resorry.We’reallbloodysorry.’
‘Ineedtoseeyou,totalktoyou.’
‘No.’
Idon’tknowifit’saraindroporwhat,butIwipemyeyeandshepullsawayagain.ThebounceropensFaustino’sdoorforher,andEddieBurns’laughtercomesboomingoutfromthelobby.
‘Go.’
‘Annie,please.’
Iwanttograbheragain,butIknowoneofthesemonkeysisjustwaitingtobreakmyarm.Whatisitabouther,makeseveryonewanttobeahero?
‘Fiveminutes,Annie.’
‘Verynice,Faustino.Veryfuckinnice,’Eddie’svoiceisontheothersideoftheopendoor.
‘Lacey’sgym.MeandKelly’llbetheretomorrowmorning.’
AndforthesecondtimethatnightIgettoldtopissoff.So,Ido.IlegitupPilgrimStreet,withEddieandRiley,andFroggaandAnnie,allchasingeachotherroundmyhead.I’mneckdeepintheshit,soGodknowswhyI’mgrinning.ButIam,untilIpassthisoldalkythrowingupinadoorway,andthinkofMam.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
Running
Thecellardoorisclosedandbolted,invisibleunderthesmootheddownsheepskinrug,andthebottleofwineisstillthree-quartersfullonthetablebetweenus,smudgedatthelipwherewe’vebothtakenatokensip.RedBordeaux,that’swhattheblokeintheshoprecommended.Full-bodiedhesaid,whichsoundedsexyandsophisticated.Youdon’tputitinthefridge,youletitbreath.So,it’sbeenoutonthetable,breathing.Thestuffstilltastesbloodyhorrible,butthenIdidn’tbuyitforme.
Thegoldchainhasgone,andthatwispypurpleshirt.There’sjustthisstrangerwithAnnie’sface,sittingatthefarendofthesofa,injeansandabaggysweatshirt.She’stwostepsfromthedoor,butshe’shere,andshe’sfinallysittingdown.
‘ChezisoutwithCarl.Boys’night,’shesays,staringatthebitsoffluffintherug.‘AndKelly’salright.She’llcoverforme.
SolongasshethinksI’mwithGav.’
So,callmeGav,Iwanttosay.Itrythewordsinmyhead,buttheyfeelnaff.Itakeanothersipofwine.Thebitternessmakesmethinkofthatfourhundredquid,collarlesssuitinthewardrobe.Ishouldstoplisteningtoposhblokesinshops.
‘He’smypersonaltrainer,’shesays
‘Yeh,Isawhim.LeonardoDiCaprio’sfaceonPeterAndre’sbody.’
Annie’sbrowneyesflicktowardsme.
‘Wanker,’Isay,andherlipsopen,flashingteethanddimples.
‘CourseKelly’llwantthedetails,’sheshrugs.‘Onlyfair,Isuppose.’
Ismileatthat,butthere’sstilltoomanythoughtsrushingroundmyhead.
Boys’nightout.Doesthatmeanhe’sgoingclubbing?Outallnight?Iwanttoask,butthemoment’spassed,andanyway,it’sacheapquestion.AllIcandoissithere,andwatchherdimplesfadeaway.
‘Shesawyouinthegym.Kelly,Imean.Justfromtheback,walkingoutofreception,butsheknowsitwasyou.Leastshethinksshedoes.Itoldheritwasn’t,butifshementionsyournametoCarl.IftheyworkoutwhereIam.’Herteethcreepout,bitingdownonherlip.‘Youknowwhatthey’lldo.’
‘Iknow,Annie,’Isay.Igototakeherhand,butshepullsaway,andI’mleftholdingonelittlefinger.Iletitgoandshepushesherfistsdownintoherlap.
‘You’vestoppedthen,’Isay.
‘What?’
‘Bitingyournails.’
‘Hmm,’shesays,andthedimplesflash.‘Fortyquid,thesenailscost.’Shesmiles,roundeyedthroughwagglingfingers,thenherphonebeeps,fourevenpulses,andshepracticallyjumpsoffthesofa.Shestaresatthehandbagbetweenherfeet,andherfearsendsasurgeofangerburningthroughmyhead.
‘Forfuck’ssake,Annie.Whatareyoudoingwiththatsickbastard?’
‘What?’shelooksatmelikeshe’saskingaquestion,butshe’snot.‘Sameasyou’redoing,sellingshitforEddieBurns.’
Hernosewrinklesintoherforeheadandshesnatchesatherhandbag.
‘Annie,’Iscrambleroundthetable,standingbetweenherandthedoor,bothofusholdingthebag’slongleatherstrap.
‘Pissoff,Tommy.’
‘Don’tgo.’
‘So,I’mafuckinwhore.Fine,butI’mnotstayingtohearit.’
Shesnatchesthestrapaway.
‘Please.’Iwanttotouchher,butthescowlonherfaceholdsmeback.‘Idon’tthinkyou’reawhore.Ithinkyou’rethebestpersonIknow,thetoughestandthesweetest.’Ireachforthestrapagain,slowly,holdinghereyes.
‘YouthinkI’mtough,Tommy?’Herheadtiltsback,showingmethesmoothnessofherthroat.‘Youhaven’tgotabloodyclue.’
‘Okay,soyou’resoftasclarts,butme,I’manidiot,aravingbloodymoron.’
Shesighs,alongbreaththatrufflesherfringe.‘Well,there’sdefinitelysomethingwrongwithyou.’
‘MaybeI’vegotTourettes?’
Shefallsbackintothesofa,butshedoesn’tsmile.‘Sitdown,Tommy.’Shetakesalongdrinkthatputsthescowlbackonherface.
‘Bordeaux,’Isay,‘full-bodied,forthemoresophisticatedpalate.’
‘Shutup,Tommy.’
‘Yousee.ThereIgoagain…’
Shedoesn’tanswer,justfixesmewithherdark-browneyes,makingmefeellikeastupidkid,whichisexactlywhatI’mbeing.Isitdownandpressmyfingerstomylips.IonlyletthemmovewhenIknowwhatI’mgoingtosay.
‘Whathappenedtoyou,Annie?Whydidyoudisappear?’
‘WhydidIdisappear?’shesays.‘Morelikeyoudid.’
‘Right,’Isay.I’mscaredtosayanymore,butIdon’tknowwhatshemeans,andIsupposeshemustseeitonmyface.
‘Icamelookingforyou,’shesays,‘afterthatnightinthewall.
Iwatchedthehouse,butyounevercameIrangthebellintheend,butyourmamdidn’tevenknowwhoIwas,keptaskingifIwasfromthesocial.Me,justturnedsixteen,inthosesorryplaits.Ididn’tknowwhoelsetoask.’
Shestops.Theonlymovementisherhandinherlap,onelongnailscratchingattheinsideofherthumb.
‘Maxigotmeworkingoverthewestend,tillthingsdieddown.’
‘Well,youcouldhavetoldme.’
‘ButIthought…’Ishutmymouth,ashamedofwhatIthought.
‘Iwentbackacoupleofdayslater.Darylopenedthedoor.Iwasalreadybackingdownthepath.Ishouldhavejustkeptgoing,buthesmiledatme,rememberedmyname.Hemademecomein,satmeonthatsofa“Takealoadoff,”hesaid,likeitwas1977orsomething,andhetoldmethisstory.Hesaidyou’dmetsomeone.Awhirlwindromancehecalledit.
‘No,Annie,’Itouchhersleeve.
‘Itdoesn’tmatternow.’Thenailscratchesfaster.
‘Please,Annie,’Isay,‘itdoes.’Ishouldshutupandletitgo,butthetruthisI’veneverbeenabletokeepmymouthshut.
‘Tellme,’Isay,‘whathappened,’then,whenit’stoolate,Ipressmyhandtomymouthandlistentothetick-tick-tickofhernail.
‘Hegavemeadrinkandsatbesidemeonthesofa,andthen,y’know.’Hervoicefallstoaflatmonotone,andshetellsittotheblankT.V.screen.
‘Hewasgrinningatme,withhisfacerightupcloseandthatsnaketattoopushedupundermyskirt.Iwasscreaming.Leasttherewasthisvoicescreaminginmyhead,tellingmetospitinhisface,toscratchhisbeadyeyesout,butIcouldhearwaterrunninginthebathroom,yourmammovingaboutupstairs,and…’hervoicecracks.
‘Hishandwasmovingbetweenmylegs.Therewastoomuchgoingon.Thescreamgotfurtheraway,tilltherewasjustthisonethought,thathe’sdoingthiswithyourmaminthehouse.
LikeheknewwhoIwas,whatIwas.Iheardhercomedown.
Thestairscreaked.Hecouldhearthemtoo.Hemustof,buthishandneverstopped.Thedoorswungopen,andIwasup,pushingpastyourmam,outintothestreetwithhimshoutingbehindme,tellingmeyou’dfoundaproperwhitelassandyoudidn’tneedanydirtyPaki.’
IthinkofDaryl’ssly,lyingface,andmyfingerspressharderintomylips,likeI’mholdinginthehatred.AndIknowI’mashitforputtingherthroughthis,andIshouldhavestoppedher,butthat’showitis,whenthere’ssomethingusefultosay,allIcanthinkofismyself.
‘So,younevercameback.’
‘Inevercameback.’
‘Idid,’Isay.‘JustbeforeChristmas,IwasinandoutofeverybarinWalkerdoing…’Ishrug.‘WorkingforMaxiBlair.’
‘IwasinLondonbythen.’Sheshakesherheadandlaughslikebreakingglass.‘Iwantedtobeamodel,likeeveryotherstupidkidintheworld,andamazingly,Iactuallygotsomework.Thisagent,CliveDeclaire,spokelikePrincebloodyCharles,saidhewasgoingtomakemefamous.Paidmytrainfare,hotelroom,theworks.EighthundredquidIgotforthatfirstjob,sneezingintoaKleenexforabouthalfasecond.Turnedoutthatwasabouttheworstthingcould’vehappened.Therewereotherbitsofwork,catalogues,thingslikethat,butitwasn’tenoughtoliveon,especiallynotdownthere.
‘ThatChristmas,whenyoucameback,IwaswashingdishesatthiscurryhouseinKilburn.Ididthatforyears,onandoff,waitingforjobstocomeup.Iwassick,Tommy,bytheend.’Thenailscratchesfasteragainstherthumb.
‘Therewasthisguy,calledhimselfaproducer,talkedthetalk,saidmylookwasjustrightforthisproject.Twohundredquidaday.Ofcourse,heneverreallytoldmewhatitwas.’
‘Youdon’thaveto…’
‘Glamour.’Thatshatteredlaughcomesagain.‘Stupidfuckinword.Likethere’sanythingglamorousaboutit.Butitkeptmeoutofthatcurryhouse,forawhile.’Shesnatchesattheglassandtakesamouthfulofwine.Areddropspillsontoherchin.
‘Intheend,it’slikeeverything.’Shewipeshersleeveacrossherchin.‘Howfarwillyougo?Well,maybeit’llsurpriseyou,buttherewerethingsIwouldn’tdo.Sothatwasthat.Itwaseitherthecurryhouseorcomingbackhere.’
‘Jesus,Annie.’
Myfistsclenchsotightmynailscutintomypalms,andI’mlookingathersayingallthisstuff,spellingitout,andIknowonethingforcertain,Icouldn’tdoit.AllIcandoishidemyselfawayandblameotherpeople.Maybethat’swhymyownselfishshitcomesslitheringbacktothesurface.
‘ButFrogga?’
‘Fuckinhell,Tommy.Itriedsohard,butitdidn’tworkoutandI’mnotspendingmylifelivingonthedole,andmaybeturningafewtricksonthesidewhenthemoneyrunsout.I’veseenthatlife,Tommy.I’mnotgoingtoliveit.’
‘I’msorry,Annie.Iknow.’Andthis,atleast,istrue.
‘Iwentbacktothehouse,waitedforyourmam,but…’sheshrugs.‘Shewasworsethanbefore.Saidshehadn’tseenyouforyears.’
‘Iknow,’Isay.‘Iknow.’
‘I’dbeenawaysolong.Ididn’tknowanyoneanymore.IendedupdowntheRaby.Satthereallday,askingpeopleforTommyBoyle,butnooneseemedtoknowyou.’
‘Boyleis…’
‘Hisname,’shefinishesforme.‘ButIthoughtyou’dgotout.
Ihopeditwastrue,foryoursake.’
Shestaresattheglassandherhandopens,sharpnailpickingatsoftredskin,likethere’sonethinlayerofprotectionleftbetweenherfleshandtheworld.
Ican’tstandit.Myhandclosesoverhers.
Shepullsaway,butthistime,Iholdon.
‘Iwentbacktomymam’s,butIdidn’tlastthenight,withthedoorslammingandthebedspringsgoing,andthenoiseofMam’sperformance.Ihadtogetoutofthere,buttherewasnowherelefttogo.Endedupjustwalkingroundincircles.
ItwasupontheBykerBankwhereIsawWendyCallaghan.
You’vegottorememberher.ShewasinyouryearatHeatonManor.ThespitofAngelinaJolie,butbetterlooking.’
‘Yeh,Iremember,’Isay,tryingnottosoundtooenthusiastic.
‘Alwaysinthoseblackleathertrousers.’
Annieisn’tfooled.Hereyebrowsrise,justashade.
‘Anyway,’shesays,‘thissadcowcomeswalkingdowntowardsmewithhersaggytrackieshangingsolowyoucouldseethecrackofherarse.Shehadafaginhermouth,andIsweartheashwasaninchlong,droppingintothebuggyinfrontofher,withthisscreamingkidinherotherhandandherbellybulgingwiththethird.Butwhatfreakedmeoutwasthewayshewasstaring,withthesecoldeyesandamouthlikeshewassuckinglemons.ThenIrealisedwhoshewas.’
‘Wendy?’Isay,butitisn’therI’mthinkingof,it’sMam,beggingforvodka,withherhandslidingdowninsideherwornoutcoat.MissEveningChronicle,aftertwentyyearsofscrapingby,withDaryl‘yacunt’Boyle.WhoamItosaythatAnnieCheranishouldn’thavemorethanthat?
‘SothenImetCarl.ImeanItrackedhimdown.WanderedintoTheHammerlikeIwasjustpassingthrough,coslikeIsay,noonehadheardofTommyBoyle,buttheyallknewaboutCarlBurns,andtheMercandmoney,andthehouseontheriver.AndthatwaswhatIwanted.’AsilverydropswellsonAnnie’seyelash.‘Ofcourse,hewaswithKelly.So,Igotsecondprize.’Sheblinks,andthedropspillsdownhercheek.‘I’vegotmyBeamerandmymembershipatLacey’s.IgetmyhaircutatFriars,tailored,theycallit.Igetmyhairfuckintailored.’Shelaughs,withthetearsrollingdownherface.
‘Whatdoesthatmakeme,Tommy?’Herwholebody’sshaking.Iholdher,pressingmyfacetohers.Atearrunsfromhercheektomine,sweetandsaltyinmymouth.
‘Whatdoesthatmakeme?’
Iholdmybreath,asilentcoward,andlistentothethuddinginmychest.
‘I’mnotjustastupidcow,Tommy.’Thesobburstsoutfromwaydowninherstomach,shudderingthroughme,andallIcanthinkofisthepowerofher.She’ssoreal,sostrong,likeIneedtobe.Iwanttotellhersomuch,rightback,evenfrombeforeourbeginning.Butthewordsdon’tcome.
‘I’mawhore,Tommy,likemymam.Cosyoucan’tescapewhereyoucomefrom.Youcantry,butyoucan’tescapewhoyouare.’
Shestandsup,butIthrowmyarmsbackaroundherandIclingon.Myfaceispressedtothetinyswellofherstomach,andIwon’tlethergo,becausethisismyAnnie.Iknowshe’swithFrogganow,likeshewaswithCarlthen,becauseshe’sscaredandtrapped,andshedoesn’tknowwhatelsetodo.Ipressmyheaddeeper.Herfingersturn,coilinginmyhair,pulling,hurtingmeuntiliteasesthepain,andI’msorry,andI’msorryandI’msorry.
Westaylikethat,mekneelingonthefloorwithmyarmsaroundher,feelingthevibrationofherbodythroughmychest,andIwanttocrywithher,toletitallgo,forAnnie,andformeandforMam.Forallthethingsthatmight’vebeen.Itry,butIcan’t.Idon’tknowhow.I’vebeenclampeddown,tootightfortoolong.Ilookdownatthemesswe’vemadeoftherug,itsruffledfurstirredupbytheDevil’sownfootprints,andallIcandoisclingtoherwithmymouthtightshut,andfeelusmovingapartagain,likealways.
IshouldhavebangedonthatdoortillsheansweredandpressedthoseCaramelsintoherangrylittlefists.ButIdidn’t.
IwaiteduntilitwastoolatebecauseIwasacoward.Andtheknowledgeislikeadeadthinginmychest.ThisishowIwillspendmylife,watchingtheworldthroughascreen,seeingotherpeoplecryandlove,whileIjustgettofightandfake.
Ihavetobreakthespell.Iknowthat,butIcan’teventhinkit,notclearlyandhonestly,becausethenI’drunandhidelikealways.Andthat’swhatIdo.Irunandhideinsidemyself,butatleastthisonetime,Ilookback.Ipeekatmyselfthroughthehingeofaclosingdoor,thiscold,lifelesscreatureamomentfrometernaldarkness.Panicscreamsthroughme.
Ifeeltheburninmyfinger,andDaryl’sfaceupclosetomine.
Thedeadskininhisyellowtash,hismouthmoving,tellingmeIdon’thaveabrother.AndtheDevil’sdancinginthatthickbrownruginmyBelmontStreetbedroom,andhere,onthisrugbeneathmyknees,becausethisisthethirdtimeandifIsayitagainthenhe’sgotmeforever,soIdon’tunderstandhowtheforceofAnnie’ssobsjoltthewordsoutofmythroat.
‘Ihaveabrother.’
‘What?’
‘Ihaveabrother.’
Terrordriesmytongueinmymouth,andwhenthatphoneringsit’slikethebesthityoueverhad,anumbingrushoffreedom.
‘I’msorry,Ihaveto,’Imumble,snatchingthephoneoutofmyjeans,jabbingatthegreenbutton.
‘Peeler?’Isay,seeingAnnie’smascara-linedfacegoupandround,watchingmewithslantingeyesthattellmesheknows.
IhavetomakePeelerrepeatwhathe’ssaying,yellingatmedownthephone.Ifinallygetit.
‘Lockthedoor,’Itellhim,andgrabmycarkeysoffthewindowsill,safeinaworldIhate,butunderstand.‘Makehimtea,withloadsofsugar.Keephimwarm.Don’tspeaktoanyone.
Don’tanswerthedoortillIgetthere.’
‘I’msorry,Annie,’Itellherfromthedoorway.‘Really,I’msorry,’andIdon’tknowifI’mlyingorhiding,butI’moutandrunningforthecar.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
SlideAway
‘Slideaway,slideaway…’
Igetthesoundupfull,shakingthewindows,andI’mshoutingalongwiththeGallaghers,buzzingwithmusicandfear,blockingouttherest,tillIpullupoutsidePeeler’sflatandit’stimetogetoutofthecarandfacewhat’sinside.
Thestreetisstillanddark.EvenBleach-BlondBuddhaistuckedupinbed.Iwalkbetweenthetwosquaresofgrassandpressthebell.Therearefootstepsinthehallway,andPeeler’svoice.
‘Who’sthat?’
‘Openthedoor.’
Theboltsgo,andI’mlookingatPeeler’sjug-earedoutlineinthecorridor.
Heleadsmethroughtothelivingroom,pastthatwallofDVDs.Thesmellstopsmeinthebedroomdoorway.Thesharpmetaltangofblood,andtheacidstinkofshitandfear.
Ipeerinthroughbluelamplight.There’sastripofcarpetbetweenastackofboxesandasaggingsinglebed.Louis’bodyislaidoutonthebed,withablankettightbeneathhisthroat.
Itakeabreaththroughmymouthandedgebetweentheboxes.Myeyesfixontheblanket,staineddarkacrosshischest.
‘Louis,’Ikneeldown,scaredtotouchhim.‘Louis.’
Asoundcomesoutofhim,somewherebetweenagroanandasigh.Hisfaceturns,shinywithsweat,andIgetasuddenimageofhiminthesunshine,sixyearsold,kickingthatballagainstthewall,withAnnielayingoutchocolatebuttonsinaneatlittlerowonthegatepost,andhimclickinghistongue,starringinhisownprivatematch,lipsmoving,tellinghimselfthescore.Justlikehe’stellingmenow.
‘Salim,’hesays,andfreshsweatburstsontohisforehead.
‘Salim?’Iwatchthelightinhiseyes.‘Hedidthis?’
Hewantedad-deal,’Louisstutters,withhisbodyshakingundertheblanket,andthatdarkstainspreadinginthebluelight.‘Hegrabbedabagandleggeditintothecarpark.Icaughthimundertheb-backwall.’
‘Sure,Louis.Youcaughthim.’
‘H-Hold,holdmyhand,’hesays.
Idon’twantto,butItakehishand,feelingthestrengthinhisgrip,thestickinessofbloodonhispalm,andthewarmwetnessseepingthroughtheblanket.Ifolditback,andalumprisesinmythroat.He’snakedfromthewaistup,hisskinnywhitebodyisblackwithblood,stilloozingfromtheopenwoundsacrosshischest.
‘You’llbealright,’Isay,squeezinghishand.AndIrememberEddieBurns’handagainstminewhenIgotusallintothis.
‘That’swheretheyjumpedme,’hesays.‘Threeofthem.Theylockedmeinthisvan.Leftmethereforages.Days.Thentheycameback.’Hestartstocry,bigheavythudsthatsetthebloodpumpingoutofhim.‘Twoofthemheldme.Salimdidthecutting.’
‘I’msorry,’Isay.Ilifthishandtomycheekandthisgreatflapoffleshfallsopenathisshoulder.Vomitburnsinmythroat.Iswallowitbackdown.‘Takeiteasy,Lou,’Isay,lettingmyvoicedroptoawhisper,asifthatmakesthelielessbad.‘You’regoingtobealright.’
‘Youtoldme,’hecroakssomethingelse,butallIhearisarushofair.Ileanin,feelinghiscrackedlipsagainstmyear.‘Youtoldmethatbefore.’
Idrophishand,andmyheadswingsbackagainstPeeler’slegs.
‘Jesus,man,Peeler,willyounotstandontopofme.’Heclattersbackagainsttheboxes.‘Getanambulance,’Peeler’smouthopens.‘Peeler.’Ijammyelbowintohisthigh.‘Nine,nine,nine.’Hefumblesforhisphone,dropsitonthesoddencarpet.
Isnatchitupandmakethecallmyself,givethemPeeler’sname,hisaddress
‘You’regoingtothehospital,’IsaytoLouis.‘They’regoingtolookafteryou,butthisisimportant,forallofus,’Ileanbackoverhim,holdinghisface,lookingforsomesparkinhiscloudyeyes.
‘Theyjumpedyouright,’Itellhim,runningmyhandsthroughhispockets,checkingforwrapsandpills,doingwhatIhavetodo,whilethesongscreamsinmyhead.SlideAway,SlideAway
‘Youdidn’tseeanything.Youdon’tknowanything,’Ispellitout,notwantingtorememberwhereI’veheardthosewordsbefore,orhowitcanpossiblybemethat’ssayingthemnow.
‘I’msorry,’Isay,forwhatseemslikethehundredthtime,andpushPeeleroutintothelivingroomandclosethedoorbehindus.
‘Salim-fuckin-Iqbal,’Peelersays.
‘Yeh,SalimIqbal,’Isay,‘butI’vegotmoretoworryaboutthanthatlittleshit.Ineedtosortthis,Peeler,likerightnow.Imeanthere’snopointinmehangingaroundhere.’
Peelernods,butIcanseehedoesn’twantmetogo.Andmaybeit’strue,whatIjusttoldhim,butdeepdownwebothknowthatI’mrunningaway.Again.
‘You’llbeokay,Peeler,’Isay,tryingtomakeittrue,likeIcanmakeeverythingokaybysayingit.‘YoufoundhimoutsideTheBoar,rightHe’dbeenjumped.Nobodysawanything.’
Henodsagain,thistimewithashademoreconviction.
‘Good.NowgobackinthereandtalktoLouis.Staywithhimintheambulance.’IpushPeelerbacktowardsthebedroomandgetoutofthere,slammingthedoorbehindme,feelinglikeapieceofshit.
Isitinthecarandturntheengineon,andthestereooff.Ineedtothink,whetherIwanttoornot.IfI’dstoppedtothinkbefore,thisshitwouldn’tbehappening.BecauseIknew.IknewitwasSaliminTheGrace,andIwentuptoFaustino’sandwoundFroggaup.IopenedmymouthwhenIshouldhavekeptitshut,justsoIcouldfeelgood.
Myhandslipsdown,fingerstwistinginsidemythigh.Ineedthepain.Thepunishment.Idon’tevencarewhatkindofnutcasethatmakesme.Butitdoesn’twork.
IwishI’dleftLouisdealingonhisown,maybegettingaslapfromoneofEddie’slads,afewbruises.Butthere’snothingIcandoaboutthatnow.He’llbeokayinthehospital,maybe,andthere’sotherladstothinkabout.Noneofthem’llbeworkingtillthisgetssorted,andIcan’thardlyblamethem,withFrogga’spretty-boy,nutcaseontheloose.
IgetmyhandsupwhereIcanseethem,andmymindturns,likealways,towhat’sbestforTommyFarrier.
MichaelRileywon’tgiveashitaboutanyofthis.He’llbecomingforhisthreegrandonSaturday,ringingwiththedrop-offinthatstupidmonotonevoice.AndEddie’shardlygoingtotakemysideagainsthim.Right,sothink.ThatleavesCarlandFrogga.Myhandstightenonthewheel.IfIcanseeCarlonhisown,tellhimEddie’spissedoffaboutLouis,maybehe’llgetFroggatobackoff?It’sachance.Idon’tseethere’sanythingelseIcando.
Thewarningsirensblare,flashinglightscomescreamingdowntheroad.Idon’treact.I’mtoobusytryingtokidmyselfthatmystupidplansaregoingtowork.Thepolicecarpullsupinfrontofme.Doorsopen,voicesshout,beforeIfinallyputthecarintogearandgetoutofthere.
IwaittillI’muponWalkerRoadbeforeImakethecall.
‘Theeyammer,’thisBrummiebarmananswers.
Firsttimelucky.CarlBurnsisin.
Brummiepassesthephoneacrossthebar
‘Yeh,’Carltellsme,‘wecanhaveachatanytimeyoulike.’
‘Justbetweenus,’Isay,keepingmyvoicelight,liketheoldmatesweare.
‘Sure,’hesays,‘whatever.’
TwentyminuteslaterI’mstandingatthebar,squintingthroughredflashinglightsatJustine,windingherselfaroundasilverpoleonthedancefloor,nothalfassexyasshewassteppingontothatMetroatHowdon.Igettothebar,shoutingthroughbad,bassymusicforabottleofbeer,andscanningtheplaceforCarlBurns.There’safewfacesIknow,butIdon’tmeetanyone’seye.Iworkmywayaroundthedancefloortothatthickredropeatthebottomofthestairs.That’swherehe’llbe.Upthere.
‘Evening,’Strangler’stashtwitches
‘Carloaround?’
‘Eh?’
Isteparoundhimtoshoutinhiswholeear,andheliftshislittlebrasshook.
Iwalkupthatcurvedstaircasewiththemusicandtheflashinglightsfadingbehindme,butit’salreadytoolate.Betweenthenoiseandthelights,andeverythingelse,thedamageisdone.
Thatstaletastecreepsroundmymouth.Theneedledigsinbehindmyeye,andthenextthingIseeisthatwallofmirrorsglaringbackatmewithablurofcoloursstreamingoutaroundthem.
MaybeIcatchaglimpseofhiminthemirror,butIknow,amomentbeforeIturn,thatCarlBurnsisthere,watchingmewithhisarmsfoldedandhisjawpushedforward.Theneedleburnsdeeper.NotbecauseofCarl.Ilookathimstandingthere,woodenasPinocchiowiththesamefakehard-caseexpressionhe’sbeenhidingbehindsinceschool.Itdoesn’timpressmeanymore.Anyonecanseethathe’stryingtoliveuptohisuncle.
Ialmostfeelsorryforhim.
Sorry,Carl,butyou’llneverbearealboy.
Frogga’stheonewhosetstheneedlediggingdeeper.Icantellit’shim,facingawayfromme,leaningonthebarinhisshinysuit,withhisslimy,slicked-backhair.Hehalfturnsandflasheshislizardsmile.
‘Alright,’Igivehimanodlikenothing’shappened.
Ineedtoholdittogether.There’snopointstartingafightIcan’twin.Ineedtobewiseforonceinmylife.Moveon.Getthissortedandletitgo.
‘Isnowokay?’IsaytoCarl.
‘I’mlistening,’hesays,buthiseyesflickquestioninglyatFrogga,andthatshouldbeenoughtotellmeI’mwastingmytime.
‘Justus,’Isay.
Carlopenshismouth,butFrogga’sfaster.
‘Thereisjustus,’hesays,puttinghisbottleonthebar.
‘Yeh,justus,’Carllaughs.‘Yougotaproblem?’
‘Look,Carlo.We’reonthesameteam,right?’Themusicthudsupthestairs.‘Youdothecoke,wedogreen.That’sgoodforbusiness.ImeanI’mnottryingtotellyouwhattodo,butthat’showEddiewantsit.’
‘Doeshe,’Froggasays.
‘Yeh,’Isay.‘Hedoes.’
‘Well,so,’Carlsays.
‘So,myladsaregettingscaredoff.LouisSolomongotcutup.’
‘YouaccusingMr.Burns?’Froggasays,whichisobviouslybullshit.ButthenI’mnotsureifhemeansEddieorCarl.
‘I’mnotaccusinganyone.’
‘Iwouldn’tifIwasyou,’Froggasays.
‘I’mnot.Ijustwanttoknowthatyou’regonnahaveawordwithSalim.Thatthisistheend.’
‘He’scrazy,thatFat-Boy.FatBoy,Salim,’Froggasnorts,andabigpurpledropswellsoutofhisnose.
IclosemyeyesandseethetearbalancedonAnnie’seyelash,andI’mdizzywithanger.
‘Look,Carl,’Igetagriponthebar’sbrassrail.‘I’mnotlookingfortrouble.IjustwanttoknowwhereIstand.’
‘You’restandinginourfuckinbar,’Froggasays,andCarllaughsagain.
‘Theorgan-grinderandhismonkey,’Iwhisper.
Maybetheyhearme.
Carl’sfistclosesacrosshischest.
Frogga’ssleevecomesup,wipingthatdropoffhisnose.Hesniffsandstaresatthesmearonhissharpsilversuit,thenhelooksupatme,withhislipsshuttightbehindthatnastylittlebeard.
‘Right,’Isay.‘Okay.’
Ican’tleaveitlikethis,butwhenIlookatLouis’sbloodstainsonmyhand,IknowifIstayanothermoment,I’llsmashmybeerintoFrogga’suglyface,andgetmyselfkilled,righthereandnow.
Iclenchmyteethandwalkawayfromthem,keepingmyeyesdown,awayfromthescreamingmirrors,andtakethestairsonecoldstepatatime.I’mhalfwaydownwhenIheartherushoffootstepsbehindme.Itensefortheimpact,buthebarelytouchesme.
‘Sorrylad,’hemumblesinhisalmost-Yorkshireaccent,andslideshishandacrossmyjacket.
‘What?’
‘Thinkaboutwhereyou’regoing,’hesays,lookingatmewithhisbrightblueeyesandthosepouty,babylipsrightupclosetomine.Andthenhe’sgone.
Istandtherewatchinghimwalkawayfromme,pastStrangler’srope,stoppingtojamafiverintoJustine’stinyknickers.Goestoshow,Idon’tknowadamnthing,especiallynow,withthatbassbeatinginmyhead.Itakeanotherstepandstop.
Someone’scallingmeback.
IlookupatFrogga,andI’mthinkingright,it’llbeokay.Theywerejusttakingthepiss.Wecanstillsortitout.Andthenthemusicdrops,andIhearwhathe’sshouting.
‘Toughshit,Bandit.’
ItaketherestofthestairsintwogiantstepsandI’moutinthenightwithmyheartbeatinginmythroat.Thekeyscrapesaroundtheignition,andI’maway,tyresscreaming,withonehandswitchingbetweenthewheelandthegearstick,andtheothertwistingatthefleshonmythigh.
Thisisfucked,andit’sallmyownstupidfault.IfI’dkeptmymouthshut,Louiswouldn’tbedying.There’snopointkiddingmyself.That’swhat’sgoingtohappen.It’llbemenext,orPeeler,andthey’llkeepgoingtillwe’refinished,andtheonlycertaintyisRileyringingeverybloodySaturday,forthreegrandIhaven’tgot.I’mscrewed.I’mamoronforgettinginvolvedwiththesebastards,forthinkingIcoulddoitwithoutMaxi’sprotection.
Andofcourse,Eddie’llhavegiventhenod.Nowit’sallfamily,what’stheneedforme?
Ishouldcutmylossesanddoarunner,getonaflight,andnevercomeback.Butthat’snotgoingtohappen.I’mnotrunningawayanymore,andevenifIwon’tadmitit,AnnieCheraniisthereasonwhy.Ishouldstopandthinkofher,butallIcanthinkaboutishoweveryshitthinginmylifeisdowntothatbulgy-eyedbastardandhisthickfuckinmate,andwhateverhappens,they’renevergoingtoleavemealone.
So,likealways,allthat’sleftisthecellar.I’mhungryforit.Togetdownthereandpinhimdownwiththosefinesteelropes,toscrapethepoisonoffhisslimygreenskinandfeeditback,dropbydropintohisbulgingeyes.
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
MyBrother
That’swhatI’mthinkingaboutwhenIgetbacktotheflat,gettingmysickfixinthecellar.I’vepulledmyjacketoffandgotbothhandsclenchedaroundthesheepskinrugwhenmybreathstops.Hairspricklealongmyneck.Someoneiswatchingme.
Idroptherug.Thethudofclothdrownsthesoundofbreathing.
IcatchaflickerofmovementintheyellowlightfromthestreetandwaitforthecoldburnofSalim’sknifeinmyback.
‘Annie.’
She’sthere,whereIleftheraboutahundredyearsago,perchedontheedgeofthesofaoppositetheblankT.V.There’sonlytheshineofhereyesandtheshapeofherbodyinthatbaggysweatshirt,standing,raisingthewineglasstoherlips.Iwatchthemovementofherthroat,listentothesmallsoundsofswallowing.Sheholdstheglasstowardsme,redwine,blackintheglass.
Myfingersbrushagainsthers,theforceofherpricklingupmyarm.Iholdtheglasstomylips.Mythroattightens.Theirontasteisbitterinmymouth.Ithrowitback,gagging,butswallowing,drainingtheglass,loweringitbacktothetable.
Anniestepscloser.Ifeelthesoftnessofherhaironmyface.
Myarmscomeuparoundher,andweholdeachother,stillandclose,safefromtheworld.Carsrollbyonthestreetoutside.
Wemoveinfractions.Hercheekagainstmine,nuzzlinglikeanimals,babies,hungryforcomfort.Ourlipstouch,softandclosed.Ihearthescreechofanuglygearchange,theratchetofahandbrake.Ipressharder,piercingherwithmytongue.Acardoorslams,andalreadysomeinnocentpartofusislost.
WefallbackontheDevil’srug,handsclutching,greedy,andangry.Iriphersweatshirtoverherhead.
Clothtears.
Ourjeansarelooseandopen.
Igrabtwofullhandfulsofherbody,anddrivemyselfinsideher,hardandfurious.Shemeetsmewithanangerofherown.
Thighstightaroundmywaist,herhipsbeatagainstmine,whilemytwistedsecretsliestillandsilent,afloor-board’swidthbelowus.Thememoriesdrivemedeeper.Faster.Runningthroughthedusk.Thatsilvershoeturningaboveus.Bodiesslammingintothefence.Feetandfistspummelingin.
Theselfishbitch.Thewhore.Whatthefuckiswrongwithher,givingherselftoFrogga.Ishouldkickheroutintothestreetrightnow,withherknickersroundheranklesandhertitsswinginginthebreeze.Iwanttopunishher,tohurther,likeshe’shurtme.ButIcan’t.She’stheonlydecentthinginmylife,andIhavetoforgiveher.Isthatlove,ordesperation?
Idon’tknow.IletgoofjudgmentsandangerandholdtighttomysweetbrowngirluntilthesmellofpeachesandLouisSolomon’sblooddrawastrangledscreamfrommythroat.
Later,whenthesweatisdryandcoldonourskin,ItakeAnnie’shandandguideherthroughtothebedroom,wherewelay,separateandalonebeneaththedeepfeatherduvet,withtheweightofnamelessdefeatheavyinmystomach.
Hereyesclose.Herbreathfallstoaregularrhythm,andwithAnniegonethereisnoonetoholdbackthefear,thepicturesspinningthroughmymind.TheglintofCarl’ssovereignring,andtheflashofSalim’sknife.IseetheshockonLouisSolomon’sface,andIopenmyeyes,blockingitout,butEddieBurns’faceisthere,laughinginthedarkness.
Anniestirsbesideme,asoundtoosmalltobecalledasnore,butitbanishesEddiebacktohell.Iwatchheropenmouth,thearchofherthroat,andthetightswellofherbreastsagainsttheduvet.Onepinknipplepeaksouttowardsme.Ismile,rememberingthelasttimeweslepttogether,onherMam’ssilkduvetThatbed,thatseemedsoenormousandexotic,withAnnie’sheadonmyarmandourlegscoiledtogether,asifshewassomebodyelse.Andevennow,halfalifetimelater,Ifeeltheshameburninmycheeks,forthatterrifiedboy,runningawaywithhisclothesinhishands,andIwonder,canIreallyloveanyoneatall,apartfrommylostlittlebrother?
‘Benjy,’Isayhisnameoutloudforthefirsttimeinalong,longtime,andlistentoitsstrangechildishsound.
‘Tommy,’Annie’sheadturnsonthepillow,eyeslookingintomine,readingmythoughts.‘Youhadabrother,’shesays,andthefearburnsthroughmyfinger,whiletheDevildanceshisfinaljig.
Okay,Daryl,youmeanspiritedbastard.Solethimdance.
‘HisnameisBenjy.’
Itrytobebrave,butthelumpswellsinmythroat.Ilowermyeyes,gladofthedarkness.MyhandslidesacrossAnnie’sstomach.Shedrawsmetoher.Theonlysoundisthebeatofherheart,andItellmysecrettothesoftcurveofherthroat.
‘Hewasfour,whentheytookhim.’
Thewordsspilloutofme,abouttheWorldCupandtheshinywetnessofDaryl’slip,andhowallthosetinybitsofglassjumpedoutofthewhiskybottle.ItellherabouttheangleofBenjy’sarm,notlikeanarmatall.IeventellherhowwecurledtogetherundertheRainbowBlanketwithBenjy’scheekinsidemyelbow,andMam’sfeetsquealingupthestairs.Ikeepgoing,notcaringhowmuchsenseImake,onlygettingitout.
‘“Boyle,”hesaid.“Yourname’sBoyle.Andyouhaven’tgotafuckinbrother.”’
IeventellhowBenjywasburrowinginlikeBusterwhentheyopenedthedoor.OnlyIdon’ttellthatitwasmyfault
Howitwasmethatscreamedwhenthatboardcamesqueezingdown,butBenjywastheonetheytook.Idon’ttellherthatbecauseI’mtooashamed.
ButItellaboutMamtakingustothestation,sendingthosecardstoMrs.AbutoPalacioseveryyear,onBenjy’sbirthday.
‘Tillthedrinkinggottoobad,’Isay,seeingthatsprayofcoppercoinsclatteronthestationtiles,andtheworn-downstumpsintheoldsoldier’sopenmouth.
‘Wenevergotareply.Imeantothecards,andIneverwentbackwithMam.Notafterthat.ButIwentonmyown,sometimes.ThatwaswhereIwentthatnight,afteryoubroketheoldbloke’swindow.Ifollowedtheriver,andmyfeetjusttookmeuptothestation.Iwantedtobenearhim.Sleptonthosecrappyplasticseats,waitedforthefirsttraintoSunderland.
‘IcouldhardlymovewhenIwokeup,butIstaggereduptothatyellowlineandwatchedthetraincomein,rememberingthoselittlebitsofcardflutteringontothetrack.AndIfeltbad,Annie,’I’mcrying,forcingwordsout.‘Youhavetounderstand.
Itwasthedaybeforemysixteenthbirthday,andtherewasnothing.Nothinggood.Ithoughtyou’dsetmeup,thattherewasjustDarylandCarl,andmyuseless,pissedMam,andallthoselettersthatnevergotareply,likethey’djustbeenthrownontothetrack,too.
‘Therushofairwashumminginmyhead.Iswayedforward.
Waytoofartostop.Thepainwasgone,likeNirvanaorsomething,buttherewasthishandonmyshoulder,holdingmeback.Sostrong,forsuchalittlehand.’
Anniesqueezesmein,buryingmyfaceinthesoftnestofherhair.ShekeepsmeclosetillIstopcrying.
‘ThatwaswhenIwentupthere.Gotthenexttrain.HidinthetoiletsallthewaytoSunderland.BlaggedataxitoElliotTerrace.ThatwastheaddressonallthosecardsTheplacethey’dtakenBenjy.
‘I’dbeenmorescaredofitthananything.LikeIthoughtthatwaswherethechild-catcherlived,theguyoffChittyChittyBangBangwiththebignoseandthenet,’Ilaugh,asinglesyllablethatcatchesinmythroat.‘Imean,Iwastoooldtoreallybelieveit,butIwasstillscared,terrified,butexcited,walkingthroughthebigglassdoors,andthinking,thisisit.I’mgoingtoseeAbutoPalacios.I’mgoingtofindBenjy.ItseemedcrazythatIhadn’tcomebefore.AfewminutesonthetrainandIwasthere,inthisplacethatjustexistedtolookafterkids.
‘Therewasalongdeskwithplasticwindows,andthesetwoblondewomenbehindit,likesoldiersinafort.Theyoungeronehadastudinhernose,thatmadeiteasier.Iaskedher.ToldherIneededtospeaktoMrsAbutoPalacios.Shemademesaythenamethreetimes,anditcameoutdifferenteveryone.I’dsaidhernamesoofteninmyhead,butneveroutloud.AndGodknowswhatIlookedlike,hobblingaroundwithbloodalloverme,andmyblankshark’seye.’
‘No,’Annieliftsmyhead,holdingmebackawayfromher.
‘Youreye’sbeautiful,’shesays.‘Youarebeautiful.’Shekissesmyeyelidanddrawsmebackintothesafetyofherthroat.
‘Thewomantoldmetowait,soIsatontheendofthisrowofplasticseats,andIwaited.Iwaitedages,withtheblondwomenlookingdaggersatmethroughtheirplasticwindows.
Eventuallythispissed-offblokewithatashcameoutwantingtoknowwhoIwas.CarlBurns,Itoldhim.HetoldmeMrs.
Palacioswasn’tthere,butthathecouldhelpme.Thatturnedouttobealoadofshite.ItoldhimBenjy’sname,thatIneededtofindhim,andhestartedsnappingatmeaboutalltheserulesandregulations.Hewouldn’teventellmewhereMrs.Palacioshadgone.
‘Ihungaroundforawhile,askingallthesepeoplewalkinginandout,untilthewomanwiththestudsaidIhadtostopbotheringeveryone.Iwentoutsidethenandaskedonthesteps.Nooneevenansweredme.Nottilltheywereclosingreceptionandthiswomancameroundwithagianthoover.ShewastheonewhotoldmeMrs.Abutohadretired.MovedtoBirminghamorsomewhere.BythenIwastiredandhungryandsickofitall.IwentbacktoMaxi’sandcarriedonlikenothinghappened.
‘ButBenjysavedme.HeheldmebackoffthosetracksandIjustwalkedoutofthereandpretendedhewasn’tevenreal.
‘Butheisreal,’shesays.‘Benjyisreal.’
‘Yes,’Isay,andit’ssostrangetohearhisnameonherlips.
‘You’llfindhim,Tommy,’shekissesmyforehead.‘We’llfindhim,’shesays,andit’sliketheprisongatesareopenbecauseI’mnotaloneanymore.
‘Itwasmyfault,’Itellher.‘Iscreamedwhentheboardcamedown.Thatwaswhytheyfoundus,whytheytookhimaway,’Iclutchhertome,gettingthelastofitoutwhilesheshushesmelikeababy.AndwhenatlastIliftmyhead,there’sathinbluelightaroundherchimney-sweep’shair.
‘ThatCadbury’sCaramel,’Isay,‘yougettingcaughtbyMrs.
Atwal.Thatwasthebestthinginmylife.’
Shekissesmeagain,warmlipsworkingopen,hermouthwet,withthesweettasteofmorning.Ifeeltheheatofherthighs,thesoftswellofherstomach,sounlikeClara’sjuttingedges.Ileanawayandlookdownatherbody.Idon’tneedtopossessit.Iwantto,butallIreallyneedisjustforhertobe.Toknowthatsheexists,safeandwarm,somewhereintheworld.Herhandscomeuparoundmyneck,turningcirclesonthebackofmyskull.
‘She’swithme,’Anniesays.‘Thatwaswhatyoutoldher.Yousavedme,Tommy.’
Wecoiltogether.
Therearenomorewords.Onlythebirdschatteringinthecherryblossom.Herpalmiswarmatthebaseofmyspine.
Slickandhot,fractionbyfraction,herbodydrawsmein.Hereyeswiden.Wearestill.Thepulseofherbloodbeatsagainstme,holdingandreleasing,takingmedeeper.
‘Tommy,’shewhispers,holdingmewithhereyes.‘Yousavedme,Tommy.’
Ifeelthebrokenpiecesofmyselfdrawntogether,washedclean,partofsomethingmore.Weareonecompletecreature.
Fingerslocked,armsheldoutacrossthedarksheetinperfectcrucifixion.
Herbodypulsesaroundme,morethanabackgroundtomyownthrobbingbeat.Sheisthecentre.Iwatchherface,theflushofhercheeks,mouthmoving,soundsthathavemoremeaningthanwords.Sheechoesthroughme,andIofferhertheseedofmyownnewself.
Iliecradledinherarmswiththetearswetonmyface,notunderstandingthefeelinggrowinginsidemeuntilitburstsoutofmymouth,andIshakewithnearsilentconvulsions.
‘What’ssofunny,’shewantstoknow
Thatpinkballooncomesfloatingdown,andMam’sticklingustillwescream,tillthewhiskyfallsandthelaughterdies.
Butitdoesn’tmatterbecausethisisn’taboutDarylorMamorBenjy.ThisisaboutAnnieandme.Mylifemightbefallingapart,butIfeelgreat.Ilandaclumsykissonherbeautifulmouthandpressmyhandstomyachingstomach.
‘Mentalcase,’shesays.
There’sabrightwhitelightslicingthroughthecurtainswhenAnnierollsawayfrommewiththepromiseofcoffeeand,‘whateverIcanfindinyourmankyfridge.’Mybluecheckshirthasneverlookedsogood,ridingupoverAnnie’ssmoothlittlecheeks.
Ilieback,stretchedacrossthebed,andlistentotheslapofherbarefeetonthewoodenfloor,thetaprunning,cupboardsopening.Carsgoby,remindingmethatthere’saworldoutthere,butI’mnotthinkingaboutthat,notyet.IpullonmytrackiebottomsandgolookingforAnnie.
Ikneelonthesofa,facingbackoverthekitchencounter.Sheflashesmeasmileandslidesthecoffeecupacross.Thebitter-sweetsmellremindsmethatI’mstarving.
‘Youcanhavegreenfurrybread,’shesays,‘orablockofyellowplasticthatmightoncehavebeencheese.’
Ishrugandsmile.
‘Didn’tanyonetellyouaboutshops,’shesays.
‘Da-dah,’Isay,pullingabrown-spottedbananaoffthewindowsill.
Annierollshereyes,butshecomesroundtositbesidemeonthesofa.Wepassitbackandforthbetweenus,takingsmallerandsmallerbites,untilshejamsthelastlumpofsoggyfleshinmymouth.
‘Cheekycow,’Isay,throughasprayofbanana,andgrabahandfulofhair.
Ipullherfacetowardsme,tonguesfightingoverthatlast,chewedmouthful.Shesquealsandbeatsatmychest,thenshepushesmehard,sendingmebackthelengthofthesofa,warmthighsstraddlingmystomach.
‘Right,’shesays,andthenfourevenpulsessuckthesmileoffherface.
Shelooksdownatthesheepskinrug,theiPhonestickingoutofherhandbag,half-hiddenunderhercrumpledjeans.Thephonelightsup,andbeepsagain.Hereyesturntotheclockoverthefridge.
‘Ineedtogetgoing,’shesays,liftingherselfawayfromme.
‘Kelly’sbookedusafacialfornine-thirty.’
‘Afacial,’Isay,stupidly,watchingherpickthroughthemessofclothesontherug,turningmyfacetothekitchenwhileshepullsonhersensiblewhiteknickers,andswapsmyshirtforhers
‘Tommy,please.Iwishitwasdifferent,’shesays,andIturnbacktoseehersittingonthefarsideofthesofa.
Thesunlightfallsacrossherfaceinshadesofhoneyandcaramel,raisingauburntintsinhertattyhair.Iwatchher,watchingme,thetwoofus,cowards,facingeachotheroverthecoffee-tablewithitscrappybottleofwine,andstilltoomanyunsaidwords.
‘Ibettergetready.It’ssaferifIcallhimfromthere,’shesays,walkingawayfromme.Thebathroomdoorclosesbehindher.
Istareatmyclothes,crumpledandpatheticonthefloor,jeansinsideoutwithmyboxersstillattachedlikesomestupidSupermancostume,loosechangefallenontotherug.Ithinkofthetrapdoorbelow.Goosebumpscomeupalongmyarms.
Nomore.
Isnatchmyshirtoffthefloor,feelingthewarmthofherbodyfadebetweenmyfingers,thesmellofher.IthrowitbackdownandstampacrosstomyleatherjacketundertheT.V.andpulliton.Theliningiscoldagainstmyskin.Ijammyhandsinthepockets,feelingcarkeysandmyZippo,andsomethingelse.
Somethingthinandlightwithonesharpcornerdiggingintomythumb.Ablankwhitecard.Iturnitoverandrememberthatrushoffootstepsonthestairsbehindme.Thefeelofhishandslidingacrossmyjacket.
“Watchwhereyou’regoing,”hesaid,throughthosepouty,babylips,andjammedafiverintoJustine’sknickersonhiswayout.
‘Youalright?’
AnniewalksbackthroughwithherwethairtiedbackandthatBMWkeyfobinherhand,remindingmewhoshe’sgoingbackto.Myteethclenchinfrustration,butthefearisstronger,thefearthatshewillleaveandnevercomeback.
‘Sure,Annie.Alright.’
Iopenmyhand,surprisedtoseethecrushedcardinmypalm.
Iflickthecrumpledballawayfromme,watchingitbounceandrollunderthesofa.
‘Bye,then,’shesays,standinginthedoorway.
Shestepsawaydownthecorridor,opensthefrontdoor,andlooksbackoverhershoulder.There’sjustthatmomentofhesitation,butit’senough.Irushtowardsher,trippingoverthecoffeetable.Thebottlefallsbehindme.Isqueezehertome,pressingmycheekagainsthers.
‘Tommy.’Shepushesmeback,onestrongshove,likeshedidthatdayatTheHammer,butnotuntilI’vefeltherchestshudderagainstme.
‘Findhim,Tommy.FindBenjy.Ifyoucan’tdoitforyourself,doitforme.’Shebacksout,ontothepath.
‘Iwon’tletusdownagain,’Isay,notevensurewhoImean.
MaybefeelinginsomestrangewaythatfindingBenjywillleadmetoAnnie,orshewillleadmetohim.Notunderstanding,onlyknowingthatIneedtobestrongnow,morethanever.
‘AndI’llcallyou,’Ishoutthroughtheopendoor.
‘It’snotsafe,Tommy.Hecheckseverything.’
‘Wait.Waitthere,’Isay,scrabblinginthesideboardandgettingthelastofthosecrappyMotorola’soutofthedrawer,thenIrunbackdownthecorridorandpressitinherhand.‘I’llcallyou,’Isayagain.
‘Okay,Tommy,okay.’
‘I’mgoingtogetusoutofthis,’Isay,liftingherjaw,holdinghereyes‘I’mgoingtodoit.’
Shereachesupandtakesmyhandfromherface,andthenshekissesmymouthandwalksawaybeneaththecherryblossom,tohershinynewcar.
CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE
ThePhoneBox
IwalkoverthedancefloorwithmyheadhighandmyredLucchesebootsclickingonthespringypineboards.IlookatStrangler’shairyfacelikeIowntheplace,givehimafractionofanod,andwatchhismanicuredfingersclosearoundtherope.
Heletsmepass.Itakethestairsthreeatatimewiththewhitenoisecracklinginmyhead,blockingoutthethoughts,andthefear.IfeelstrongbecauseI’vegotsomeonetobestrongfor.
Themirrorsdon’tbotherme.Ikeepmyeyesonthecarpet,liftingthemtotheblankpanelleddoorofEddie’soffice.
Smiler’snotathisdesk,andKylie’snothereeither,butIcanhearmuffledsoundsinside.Eddie’sgrowlingvoice.
Thehandleiscoolinmypalm.Iturnitandpush.Thedooropens,afinger’swidth.Ilookinthroughasliveroflight,atthebigblackurnonthemantelpiece.Eddie’schairisempty,buthisvoicestopsmecold.
‘Isawhimwithmy-own-fuckin-eyes,’hespellsitoutlikehe’stalkingtoanidiot.‘OntheFossway.Smiling.FuckinwavingatmeoutthewindowofthatKikegoldFerrari.Hepulledover,rightbesideme,grinninglikeacunt.‘Alright,Eddie?Howyoudoing,Eddie?Hopewehaven’tgotaproblem.’Well,I’vegotaproblem.Thecunt’ssupposedtobeinside,outofmyfuckinway.That’swhyIgaveyouthefuckinphotos,thenames,thecratenumber,thefuckinbilloffuckinlading.Imeanyou’vegotsomecheekyou,youcunt,takingmyfuckinmoney.’
‘Ahdern’ttakeyourmoney,’thevoiceanswers,inthatflat,almost-Yorkshireaccent.
‘What,man?Icannotunderstandyou;youdossYorkshiretwat.’
‘Ahsaid,Idern’t…’
‘Don’tgetsmartwithme,youbentcunt.Thosefilthyfuckinphotoscostmemoney,andwhenyou’veearnedthem,you’llfuckingetthem,andthewayyou’regoingwe’llallbelivingontheStarshipfuckinEnterprisebythen.’
Someonelaughs,slowandfalse.
Iedgethedoorafractionfurther,peeringinatthethreeofthem,EddieandRileystandingeithersideofLinthorpeagainstthebaywindow.Linthorpe’sturninghispinkfacebetweenthemlikesomeweirdlittlekid,suckinghischeeksinbehindthosepoutylips.
‘Ittakestime,Eddie,toputacase-’
‘Notyouthough,youlimp-wristedfudge-packer.NoCaptainKirkforyou,cosyou’llbedownunderoneofthemnewwindmillsatWallsend,doingyourbitfortheenvironment.
Andwhatthefuckareyoudoinginhere,’hesaysinthesamebreath,withhisblackeyesburningthroughme.
Iletthedoorgoandstepintotheroom,butthewhitenoisehasstopped.Thecertaintyandthebraveryturntowaterinmyguts.Allthat’sleftisthememoryofthosewordsrunningthroughmymindallthewayuphere.
‘Ineedtogetaway.’
‘Fuckinright,’Eddiesays.‘Pissoff.’
There’salowrumblefrombehindthedesk,andKyliestandsuptomeetme,hershoulderashighasthegreenleathertop.
‘No.’
‘Whatthefuck,’Eddiesays.
‘ImeanIneedtoleave.CarloandFrogga–ImeanChester.
Theycanhaveit.Thewholesetup.StAnthony’s,PotteryBank,’
Ishrug,‘allofit.’
‘Youneedtoleave?’Eddiesays,likehe’snoideawhatthewordsmean.
‘Idon’twantanything.I’lljustdisappear.Nobother.OutofNewcastle.Gone.’
‘Igaveyouthatjob,’Eddiesays.‘Forfuck’ssakeyoufuckinaskedforit,andyoupromisedMr.Rileyheretwoandahalfgrandaweek.’
IlookatRiley,telegraphingtheextrafivehundredquid,wondering,again,ifEddieevencares.RileystaresbackatmelikeI’matinypieceofshitfloatinginhiscoco-pops,withdeadeyesandhismouthturneddown.
‘Right,Eddie.Twoandahalfgrand,’IlookfromRileytotheurnonthemantelpiece,readingDonna’snameinthatblackheart,butallIcanseeisthosewindmillsthey’regoingtobuildontheriver,armsturninglikebigwhiteflowers.‘Imean,I’mreallygrateful,Eddie,thatyougavemethechance,butIjustcan’tdoit.I’vegothalfmybuyersdisappeared,andoneladinhospital.Therestofthemareshittingit.TheyknowChesterwantsthemworkingforhim.I’mnotcomplainingoranything,’
Iholdmyhandsup.I’mtalkingtoofast,butIcan’tstop.‘I’mjustsaying,CarloandChesterwantthebusiness.Igetit.That’sfamily.I’mnotgettinginanyone’sway.’
Istop,breathinghard.Eddieleansbackagainstthewindow.
Hisexpressionsoftens.
‘Wellfairenough.Everymanhastherighttochangehismind.Oristhateverywoman?’HeslapsLinthorpe’sback,joltinghimforward,andalightflaresinLinthorpe’sbabyblueeyes.
‘Thanks,Eddie,’Icrosstheroomandholdoutmyhand.‘Iunderstand.It’sbetter,keepingthebusinessinthefamily.ImeanI’llpayMr.RileythisSaturday.GiveChestertimetogetthingsmoving,’Eddie’sheadnods.Heisn’tlistening.‘Noone’sgoingtoloseout.’
‘Alright,son.Igetit,’Eddietakesmyhand.‘You’vechangedyourmind.’
‘No,it’snot-’
‘Andnowyoucanchangeitback.’
HisvoiceissosoftthatIdon’tgetwhathemeans,ormaybeIjustdon’twantto.Linthorpedoes.Hisfacedropstohisshinyshoes,showingmehisscalp,pinkthroughslickedbackhair.
Rileyleansin,restinghisweightonthebackofagold-framedchair.Thewoodcreaks.Hiseyesnarrowoverthatbighawknose,andsomewherebehindthemIcanseethere’sagrin,tryingtogetout.
‘ButEddie,Mr.Burns,’Ilookathishandfoldedaroundmine,thesovereignringonhisindexfinger.
‘TwoandahalfgrandeverySaturday,untilIsaydifferent.
Alrightwithyou?’
‘Butthelads’llworkforChester.Imeanoncetheyknowit’ssafe.He’lltaketwicethemoneyIcan,’Istumblethroughwordsthatseemedsogoodinthecar.ThenIscream.
Smiler’shandisclampedonmyneck.Thepainburnsdownthroughmyback.Eddienods.Smiler’sgripeases.Thepainfallstoanachingthrob.Ishutmymouthandtrynottomove.
‘Whatthefuckisthisprickdoinginhere?’
‘Right,sorry,Eddie,’Smilersays,‘justwentforajimmy.’
Hishandtightens,makingmescreamagain.
‘Shutthefuckup,’Eddiesays,andIpressmyfingersovermymouth.
‘Good.’Hisvoicefallsbacktothatsofttone.‘Nowlistentome,son,becauseyouknowIwon’ttellyouagain.Iownyou.
You’refuckinmine,right.Likethisfuckinpuff.Thisfuckincigar,’hepicksoneoutoftheboxonthetable,andcrushesitinhishand.‘AndIwantmytwoandahalfgrandeverySaturdaytillyoulearnsomefuckinmanners.Right?’
‘Right.Yes,Eddie.Mr.Burns.’
‘What’sthat?’Hebellows.
I’mwalkingbackwardsoutthedoor,withSmiler’shandtightonmyshoulderandthatbitch,Kylie,showingmeherlongyellowteeth.IknowthatI’mamoron.ThatallIcandoisagreewithEddieandwalkoutofhere,orargueandgetmyheadkickedin,butIstillhatethewhiningtoneinmyvoice,nearlyasmuchasIhateEddieBurns.
‘Yes,Mr.Burns.EverySaturday.TillIlearnsomemanners.’
‘Doesn’tanycuntknockanymore,’Eddiesays,andthelastthingIhearisRiley’sfalselaughter,thenthedoorclosesbehindme,andSmiler’sfistthudsintomystomach.
Mykneesareupagainstmychin.Alowsquealcomesfrommythroat,strainingforabreaththatwon’tcome.Theworldgetsdarker.Idon’tcareaboutanythingexceptgettingthatbreath,andwhenatlastitcomes,IlookupatStranglerwithsomethinglikegratitude.
‘That’sformakingmelooklikeacunt,’hesays.‘Doitagainandyouwon’tbewalkingaway,’hewalksbacktotheracingpageslaidoutonhiscornertableandpicksuphissawn-offbookie’speninhisbigfatfingers.
Istumbletowardstheblurofmirrors.I’mattheheadofthestairswithonehandontherailwhenIseeCarlandFroggabackattheirposts,ontheirzebraprintbarstools.Froggawipesthebackofhishandunderhisnoseandflasheshislizardsmile.
EvenCarlmanagesaslynod,likeheknowswhatI’vecomefor,andwhatI’vegot.Butwhatstayswithme,afterIgetdownstairsandoutintothecoldfreshairisn’tthelookonFrogga’sface,orEddie’s,oranyofthem,butEddie’shandslappingdownonLinthorpe’sback,andtheflareoflightinthosebabyblueeyes.
Notjustanger.Hatred.
I’mstillthinkingaboutthatlookwhenIgetbacktotheflat,doublelockthedoorandfallbackontothesofa.Painburnsthroughmybruisedstomach.Iclenchmyteethandwaittillitfallstoadistantache,thenIreachunderthesofaforthatcrumpledwhitecardandrubitflatonthewine-stainedtable.
ThecardfitsexactlyintothepurpleringleftbyAnnie’sglass.
Eachofitsfourcornerstouchestheedgeofthecircle.
NorthumbriaPolice
Inspector3648PeterLinthorpe
AreaCommand
There’sanaddressinPonteland,withamobilenumberscrawledunderneathingreenbiro.
Irememberhisfootstepsbehindmeonthestairs,andthosepinkpoutylips,moving,upcloseagainstmine.
“Watchwhereyou’regoing.”
No,hedidn’tsaythat.Notexactly.Ipicturehistonguepushingouttowardsme.
“Thinkaboutwhereyou’regoing.”That’swhathesaid.
Itakemymobileoutofmypocket,putitonthetableandtrytofollowLinthorpe’sadvice.Think.Irememberthelookinhiseyestoday,andthelasttime,whenIfirstmet,“ourbentcopper”.Thatwasforreal.
LinthorpehatesEddieBurnsasmuchasIdo,butthensodoeshalfofNewcastle.I’mtryingtomake-believeLinthorpeisonmyside,andpartofmealmostbelievesit,butthere’sawiserpartthatknowsthetruth.Inthisbusiness,noone’sonyoursidebutyou.ItmightsuitLinthorpetousemetoday,butifhe’sreallywillingtobetrayEddieBurnsthenIcanbetmylife,hewon’tthinktwiceaboutbetrayingme.
Igetacoupleofbeersfromthefridgeandtakealongcoldpull,thenIflicktheiPodtorandomplay,pullmybootsoffandsitbackdown,carefully,withEminemthuddingthroughmyhead.
AtleastLouisisgoingtobeokay,ifyoudon’tcountthescars,andthefear.Thebeerslidesdown.AndMaxisentmeatextfromBulgaria.ImeanBulgaria,forChrist’ssake.
Icracktheotherbeerandleteverythingdriftaway.Ihaven’tsleptinthirty-sixhours.I’mthreebeersin,withmyheadbackthesofa’sarm,staringatthewordsonLinthorpe’scarduntiltheymoveandblur.Myheadturnsandmyeyesclose,withonelastthoughtfloatingthroughmymind.Whatkindofweirdousesgreenbiro?
EddieBurnsgrowlsatmeacrosshisoffice,butthefearisdullnow,andIcanseepasthisglitteringeyes,pastRiley,toLinthorpe.He’stheonewhomatters.IfeelSmiler’shandonmyneck,andI’mthere,yelpinginpain,watchingthosesoftbabylipsthatnevermoved,butthere’sasmileoranodorsomedamnthing.Somemessageinhiseyes.Butwhat?
Otherfacescome.Frogga’sleeringsmile,hisscabbyhandclutchingatAnnie’swaist.Annie’seyes,wideandfrightened,staringatthemobileinherhandbag,andFrankieMortonjerkingacrossthebarlikeabrokenpuppet.
Mymindlurches.IsitupwiththatpanickyfeelingofwakingupwhenI’vebarelybeenasleep,andIknow,wehavetogetout.Ican’tletAnniedownlikeIletdownBenjy.Weshoulddoarunner,getonaflight,andnevercomeback.Spain,that’swhereeveryonegoes.ButI’vegotlessthanagrand.Thatmightlastusamonth.Whatthen?Andwhatiftheycomelookingforus?
Fearchewsthroughmystomach,butthebeerholdsitback,helpingmetothinkSo,okay,Idon’tknowwhatLinthorpewantsfromme,butwhateveritis,heputthatcardinmypocket,sohewantssomething.Plus,he’sacopper,anInspector,whichmeanshecanfindthingsout.So,there’sthreethingsIknowforsure.LinthorpehatesEddieBurns.Hewantsmetocallhim.AndI’vegotfuckalllefttolose.
There’ssomegravellyoldsingermeetingupwithagamblerontheiPod.Theyshareabottleofwhisky,remindingmethatmymouthfeelslikeshit.Itakeanotherpullofbeerandpunchsixnumbersintomyphoneandcancel.Ijamthephonebackinmyjeans,andI’mupandpullingatthesideboarddrawer.
There’sapaperclipandabiro,andapileofpizzamenus.Shit.IgavethelastoftheMotorola’stoAnnie.
‘Yougottoknowwhentowalkaway,knowwhentorun,’theiPodtellsme,andIpullmybootson,andI’moutandrunning,withthecarkeysinonehandandLinthorpe’scardintheother.
IdrivedownOsborneRoadintoSandyford,wishingI’dbroughttheiPodandtryingtorememberwhereIsawthatphone-box.Theexhaustclunksoverspeedbumpsaboutamilehigh.There’sanItaliancafé,paintedraspberrypink.TiAmo,it’scalled,whateverthatmeans,andthephone-boxisrightoutside.
Ilaythecardontheblackmetalshelf,liftthereceiver,andlistenforthedial-tone,breathingcoldmetalandtwentyyearsofstalecigarettes.It’sthesmellthatstopsme,likeI’mthereinthatotherphone-boxonBelmontStreet,wherewewentwhentheycutoursoff.
Mamsitsmeontheshelfandholdsthephonetomyear.IcanhearNana’svoice.Shetellsmehowshe’llalwaysloveme,andhowI’vetolookafterMamandBenjy.Shesaysmynameandcoughs,andallthetimeI’mbreathingthissicklysmelloftabsandmetal.
‘Yes,Nana,’Isay,andshetellsmeshelovesme,overandover,andthenIwaitwhileshecoughssomemore.Itsoundslikeshe’sbeingsick.
‘SaygoodbyetoNana,’Mamsays.So,Ido.
Ilistenforheranswer,butthesoundcan’tgetthrough.
There’sjustthislongflatdial-tone,andLinthorpe’scardonthethinmetalshelf.Islideapoundcoinintheslotandpressthenumbersintotheclunkykeypad.Threerings,andI’mlisteningtoLinthorpe’sYorkshirevoice,harderthanIremember,morecertain.Hesayshisname,soIsaymine.Iaskhimwhyhiscardwasinmypocketandthat’sit.Hedoesthetalking.Andwhenhe’sfinished,ItellhimwhatIwant.Myimpossibledream.
‘I’llsortit,’hesays.‘Callmeonthisnumber,sametimetomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
Ithinkofthatdeskwithitsplasticwindows,andthoseblondwomenlookingdaggersatmelikesoldiersinafort,andthatpissed-offblokesnappingatmethroughhistashaboutrulesandregulations,noteventellingmewhereMrs.Palacioshadgone.Ifeeltheechoofmyfearandfrustration,andIknowwhatLinthorpe’ssayingcan’tbetrue.
‘I’llhaveitforyoutomorrow,’Linthorpesays,thenhetellsmethepriceHerattlesoffallthisstuffaboutahotelontheQuayside,someguycalledHaywood,times,andamounts.‘Yougotthat,’hesays.
‘Yeh,enough.’
Helaughs,‘Right.Callmeagain.Oneo’clocktomorrowafternoonandbringanotebookandapen.Onethatworks.
Because,Tommy,’thelaughdropsoutofhisvoice,‘thisisonejobyou’vegottodoright.’
‘Okay,Linthorpe,’Isay,andIwonderifherealiseshowmuchhesoundslikeEddieBurns.‘Oneo’clocktomorrow,’buttheline’sdead.
I’mscaredandbuzzing,withwaytoomanythoughtsbouncingroundmyhead.IfindAnnie’snumberonmymobilebutdialonthefatmetalkeypad.Igettheanswer-machine.
Notevenhervoice.Icallfourtimes.Forfuck’ssake.Ineedtospeaktoher.I’mtrappedinthiscrappyphone-boxandshe’snothere,notanywhere.Islamthephonebackinitscradleandcheckthenumberonmymobile.That’swhenIseethetwo-dayold,missedcallfromClara.
‘Iputmyreputationontheline…answermeyoulittleshit.’
IrememberherposhvoiceshoutingthroughmyvoicemailintheBlackBoar,asifClarawouldeversetonehigh-heeledMuledowninaplacelikethat.You’dsoonerseeanArabianleopardboltingoutoftrapsixatthedogs.Sure,Clara’soffherhead,butthere’sagoodheartunderallthatbullshit,andtherewasalwaysakindoffitbetweenus.Anyway,Ineedtotalktosomeone.Justtalk,that’sall.
Ipresscall-back.Thephoneringsforever.
‘Hithere,LoverBoy,’Claraanswers.She’shadadrink.
‘You’restillherethen,notofftothestyleandthesunshine?’
‘Notuntiltomorrow,’shesays,andIcanhearothervoicesinthebackground.
‘Look,Ineedtoseeyoubeforeyougo.’
Shelaughsagain.‘Socomeover.’
‘No.Ithastobeatmyplace.’
There’sjustherbreathdowntheline,andthosevoicesinthebackground.
‘Comeon,Clara.I’vegotabottleopen,andsomethinginterestingtoshowyou.Abitofwork,’Itellherthatmuch,cosIknowherwellenough.Underneaththatpartygirlfront,it’sworkthatcountswithClara.She’sDaddy’slittlegirlrightdownhershinyshoes.
‘Comeon.Foroldtime’ssake.’
‘Givemeanhour,’shesays,andIhittheredbuttonbeforeshecanchangehermind.
TheiPod’sstillgoingwhenIgetbacktotheflat,oneofClara’sSpanishthings.Iopenabottleofwine,takeasip,thenIgetanotherbeerandwatchtheancientKingsofCountryclockoverthefridgetickitswayroundfromWillieNelsontoJohnnyCash.
Ipullthesheepskinrugtowardsme,andmyfingerstighten,rememberingAnnie’sbodylaidoutacrossitinthedarkness.Itakeabreathandrolluptherug.Ineedtokeepcalm,thinkofonethingatatime.Ilaytherugagainstthewallandfishinmycondompocketforthepadlockkey.Iswingthehatchup,pullthelightswitch,andlookdownatmyevillittletreasures.
Thedoorbellmakesmejump,onelongdemandingring.BobDylan’scroakingaway,tellingmethattimesarechanging,likeIdon’talreadyknow.Clara’sgoingtohateit.Thebellringsagain.Ileavethemusicandgoandletherin
‘Mydadlistenstothis,’shesays,makingmethinkofLouisSolomon.
CHAPTERTHIRTY
Mrs.JuliaHarper
Thetrainrattlespastjaggedstonewallsthatcutthefieldsintobrownandyellowoblongs,likethepatchworkoflinesonthewoman’sface.Iwatchherknittingneedlesduckandclick,untilshecoughsandlooksupatmeacrosstheplastictable.Hereyesarebigandwatery,behindgiantcoffee-colouredglasses,andshe’sgotthiswhitishfuzzofhairaroundherhead,likeanegativeofJimiHendrixLikeNana.Shecatchesmyeyeandsmiles.Idon’tknowwhatshe’sgottosmileabout,butImakemyselfsmileback,anditfeelsgood,becauseIknowit’stherightthing.
Iletmycheekrestagainstthewindow,andIcouldbebackonthetraintoSunderlandwiththosefurryblueseatsandwinegumsstickyinmymouth,andBenjy’scardopenonthetablebetweenMamandme.ButI’mnot.I’monmyown,onmywaytoseeMrs.JuliaHarper.
“She’sexpectingyourcall,”Linthorpetoldme,justacoupleofhoursago.
Iwasstandinginthatphonebox,withthebigplasticphoneclutchedinmyslipperyfistandmyheartbatteringinmychest.
Istaredattheclumpymetalkeypad,notreallytakingitin,whathewassaying,whatitmeant.Myeyesitched.I’dbeenawakesinceGodknowswhen,toowiredtosleep,climbingupanddownthosecellarsteps,draggingeverythingoutofthere,lookingatitrangedaroundme.Myblacksoulexposedintherisingdaylightforanyonetosee.
“Well,well.You’vegottowatchthequietones.”
ThatwaswhatClarasaidthatfirsttime,lookingdownatmethroughtheopenhatchwithherknowingsmile.Ifeltthatsurgeofhumiliationcomerushingintomyface,justlikeithadthen,withmyarmsstretchedpatheticallyacrossmydirtytreasures.Iwantedtothrowthembackdownthecellarsteps,setlighttothelotofit.IfeltthesilverZippo,smoothinmypocket.Idrewitout,watchingthefatyellowflame,andIlitaMarlboro,asifIcouldkidmyselfthatwaswhatI’dmeantallalong.Itwastoolatetobackout.Clarawasonherway.
Istarethroughthetrain’sbigsquarewindowatthepatchworkfields,ahandfuloffreshlyshavedsheepclusteraroundanoldstonecottage,notabeanie’sworthbetweenthem.She’llbetherenow.Clara,inmyflatwithherhigh-classremovalmen,judgingandpacking,withthatthinsmileonherpinklips.
ThesunwasupbythetimeIwalkedoutunderthecherryblossomandunloadedamountainofbubble-wrapfromthebackofthecar.Mystomachwasgrowling,butmymouthwastoodrytoeat.Iforceddownhalfacupofcoffeeandgotbacktowork,slicingthroughmaskingtape,hidingmysecretsinabubble-wrappedfog.Ifeltsafer,calmer,witheachjobdone,andIrealisedthatintheend,thismightbealltherewasleft.
MaybeitwasbetterforClaratohavethem?
Icheckedmywatch,staringattheblackfaceuntilthesecondhandclickedon,provingthatthethinghadn’tstopped.Iputitinmypocketandwentonwrapping,tapingmyendlessbundles,untilfinallyitwasjustajob,anunthinkingtaskthathelpedmeforgetwhatLinthorpehadtoldmeyesterday,andstoppedmethinkingaboutwhathemightsaytomeatoneo’clockthisafternoon.Ihidintherhythmofmywork;fromLinthorpeandEddie,andMamandClara,thepastandthefuture,untiltherewereforty,neatbubble-wrappedpackagesstackedbetweentheT.V.andthesofa,marchingoutalongthecorridor.
Ireachedacrossthem,forapackofParacetamolfromthedrawer.Iswallowedthemdryandmassagedmytemples,thenIfishedmywatchoutofmypocket,turningitroundtomakesenseofthesinglefatpointer.Mycheekswentnumb.Itwasfive-past-one.Myinstinctwastocallhimonthemobile,butIknewthatwouldonlymakeitworse.LikeLinthorpesaid,“youcan’texpecttoscrewthisupandwalkaway”.
Iranforthecar,screechingoutontoOsborneRoad,nearlycollidingwithawhiteGolfcomingtheotherway.Clara’sfacewassharpthroughthewindscreen,withthegreenremovalvantrundlingalongbehindher.Igottothephone-boxinaboutninetyseconds,bootingtheVolvouptosixtybetweentrafficlights,takingoffoverspeedbumps,slammingbackdownwiththeimpactjudderingthroughmyhead.
Youidiot,Tommy.Youstupid,bloodymoron.Ileftthecarangledacrossajunction,twolongstepsfromthephoneboxdoor.
Linthorpeansweredonthefirstring.
‘CallwhenItellyou,’hesaid.
‘Yeh,sorry,Ididn’trealise.’
‘Yougotapad?’
‘Sure,’Ilied,diggingthroughmypocketswiththebigreceiverjammedagainstmyear.
‘Right.Mr.HaywoodisstayingattheMalMaisonHotel,room309.Gotit?’
‘Sure,sure,’Isaid,findingoneofMaxi’schewedbiros,writingthenumbersonmypalm.
‘Twelveo’clocktomorrow.Noon,right.Notbefore,notafter.
Yougotoreception,tellthemyournameisCharlieBrogan,andyouasktoseeMr.Haywood.They’llsendyouuptotheroom.Yougo.Thirdfloor.Thedoorwillbeopen.There’llbeablackguyinanorangeshirt.That’sHaywood.He’llgiveyoutheplan,andyou’lldoexactlywhathetellsyou.Right?’
‘Okay.’
‘Right.So,afteryou’veseenHaywood,getyourselfsorted.
Goforawalk,whatever,butnobooze,andnodrugs.Youwaittillsixo’clock.Notbefore,notafter.YougouptoTheHammeratexactlysixandaskforEddie.Makeabigdealofit.TellthemyouhavetoseeEddie.Hewon’tbethere.’
‘So,why-’
‘Shutup.Eddiewon’tbethere,butCarlandChesterwill…’
Linthorpespelleditallout.Hedidn’tletmespeak,notuntilhe’dfinished,andthenhespelleditoutagain,whileIbitmylipandscribbledupmyarm.
‘Right,’hesaid,whenhewasdone.
‘Okay.’
‘So,tellme.’
‘Mr.Haywood.CharlieBrogan.Tomorrow.Twelveo’clock.
Room309,’Ireaditbacktohim,makingsenseofthejumbleofwordsonmyskin,fixingtheminmymind.‘ThenIgouptoTheHammeratsix,butEddie…’
‘Atexactlysix.’
‘Atexactlysix,’Irepeatedback.‘IaskforEddie.Hewon’tbethere,butCarlwill,andChester.
‘You’regoingtobefine,’hetoldme.JustlikeItoldLouisSolomon.
Hesoundedlikehereallyknew,butwhenIclosedmyeyesallIsawwasFrankieMortonjerkingacrossTheHammerlikeaThunderbird,andIknewLinthorpedidn’thaveacluehowthiswasgoingtopanout,anymorethanIdid.Hewasbluffingliketherestofthem.Lyinghisheadoffbecausethat’sthewaytheworldis.Doctors,lawyers,theprime-fuckin-minister,alltellinguseverything’sgoingtobealright,whenthetruthisnobodyreallyknowswhatthey’redoing.ExceptmaybeEddieBurns.
Thesweatwasrunninghotbetweenmyearandthatclunkyphone,evenbeforehetoldmeJuliaHarper’sname.Ipulledmyjacketoff,leavingithangingfromonearm,whileIwroteherphonenumberuptheother,withthependigginginlikeIwastattooingittheirforever.
Ireaditbacktohimafterwards,likeIdidwithHaywood.
‘Good,’hesaid,thenhecoughed,andhisvoicedropped.‘I’msorrythere’snobetternews.’
Iwaitedforhimtosaysomethingelse,buttherewasjustthegreynoiseofpassingcars,andthescrapeofanexhaustonaspeedbump.Whybesorry?Myjacketfelloffmyotherarm,lyinginapoolofleatherandshinychocolatelining,whilethequestionslitheredaroundmeinthatlittleoblongbox.Iswallowed,butIcouldn’tspeak,anditseemedlikeLinthorpecouldn’teither.Ormaybehejusthadnothingelsetosay.
‘But,butso-’
ThephoneclickedandIwasleftwithJuliaHarper’snumberscrawledupmyarm,andthisterriblefearthumpinginmychest.
Iwantedtorun,togoscreamingupthestreet,takethecarintowallandspendapeaceful,painfulmonthinhospitalwithLouisSolomon.Iwipedmyhanddownthefrontofmyt-shirtandopenedthedoor.Theairdriedthesweatonmyface,coldandclear,andIknewthatifIfailedhimnow,ifImademyexcusesandranaway,thatI’dnevercomeback.I’dneverbethepersonIwantedtobe,justsomesquirming,fakingthing.Therewouldbenomorechances.Ihadtobestrong,forBenjy.
IstayedwhereIwasandpunchedinthenumbers.Thephonerangthreetimes,eachemptysilencelikealittledeath.
‘JuliaHarper.’
Isaidmynameandforcedoutthequestion,listeningtoherludicrous,impossibleanswer.
‘Yes,’shesaid,thiscrystal-voicedstranger,‘IamBenjamin’smother,’butatleasthervoicewasgentlewhenshetoldme.
Ilockmyfingerstogetherandwatchthemturnwhiteinfrontofme,swayingwiththerhythmoftheslowingtrain.ThebrakessquealandthetannoystartsIholdbackthepanic,pickingthewordHexhamoutofthatnasal,Martiandrawl.Suchashortjourney.Hewashalfanhourawayallthetime.
Thetrainstops.Theoldladywatchesmethroughhergiantglasses.Sheleansacrossandpressesatissueintomyhand.SheasksifI’mokay.Itellheryes,I’mfine,andwesmileagain,thenshewalksawayfrommewithherbigblackhandbagtightacrossherchest.
Sheleavesmewithhercleanlemonysmell,andtheemptychurninginmystomach.I’msousedtothefearthatIhardlyknowwhatI’mscaredofanymore,onlythatI’mtiredofit.
Exhausted.Iwanttolaymyheadonthisplastictable,andsleepandneverwakeup.Awhistleblowssomewhereoutinthestation,andIremember.Ihavetobestrong,forBenjy.
Mylegscarrymeoutunderthearches,likeNewcastleCentralStation,onlyinminiature,withoutthenoiseandthepeople.There’sanoldmanperchedonthestepHe’slookingattheplatformlikeitsninefeetdown,insteadofnineinches.
I’mcloseenoughtosmellhistobacco,oldmansmell.Helooksatmeoverthegreybagsunderhiseyes,alifetime’sluggagehangingonhisstubblycheeks.WhatchoicehaveIgot?Iofferhimmyarm.
‘Blessyou,’hesays,likeapriest,andawomanwithabuggylooksmefullinthefaceandsmiles.
‘Dad,’shesays,andhersmilegoespastme,handsclaspedbehindhisbroad,bentback.
Iwatchthemwalkawayfrommeandrealisethathersmilewasnevermeantforme.Ifeelashamed.Thetrainpullsaway.
ItakeoutthetinypadIboughtatNewcastleandfollowJuliaHarper’scarefuldirections.Itisn’tfar.
Thestationopensontoawidepathwithtreesoneitherside,branchestouching,highovermyhead,underadirtysheetofcloud.IblinkandseeaswirlofcoloursthatIknowcannotbethere.
ThisiswhereBenjywalked.Hisfeetturnwithmine,downontoacobbledhighstreet.Wewalktogether,meandBenjy,withhisgoldencurlsandcherubface,throughthislandofteaandscones.
IturnofftheHighStreet,upanarrowlane.Aslowslopingcornerleadsmeontoawidegraveldrive.Mymouth’sdry.Mychestaches.Iforgettobreathe,thentakeagiantgulpandfeeltheDevil’sruginthestonesbeneathmyfeet.
There’sawidedoorwithanold-fashionedbellandanironringthatyoupullIfeellikeI’mupinmyroomatBelmontStreet,dreaminganotherfantasy.Igripthering.ThedooropensbeforeIcanpullthebell.Istareatmyarm,embarrassedbythewashed-outinkstains,andliftmyeyestothewomaninthedoorway.
Shestepsclose,huggingme,holdingmetight,andwhenthetalkingandthecryingaredone,wewalktogetherdownthequietcobbledstreet,withthewindblusteringaroundusandfinepointedneedlesofrainblowinginoureyes.Weholdeachotheronelasttime,beforeshekissesmycheekandleavesmeatmybrother’sgate.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE
ComingHome
I’mbackintheBlackBoar,edgingmywaybetweentheladsdrinkingbottlesatthebarandtheoldblokeshunchedovertheirdark,flatpints.Theplaceisheaving,thickwithsweatandshoutingvoicesthatIcannotunderstand.Theycouldbetalkingaforeignlanguage,butit’snotthem,it’sme.Ifeellikeanalien,droppedintothisdark-browncoffinfromsomenameless,farawayplanet.
Thisoldgirllooksupatmewithgypsyearringsdanglingunderherpinkrinsehair.Herorangelipstwitchinwhatmighthavebeenasmile,butthensheremembers,andhereyesshiftpastmyshoulder.Ikeepgoing,pastthescowlsandtheelbows,checkingeveryface.
I’vebeeninNewcastleforacoupleofhours;downTheRaby,TheFossandTheTurbinia,kiddingmyselfthatI’mlookingforthelads,likeanyofthemareevenout.LikeIstillcare.
Idon’t,notanymore,butIhavetokeeppretendingbecauseevenwithhalfadozenpintsinsidemeIcan’tadmitwhoI’mreallylookingfor.Ineedher.ButI’mterrifiedthatI’llfindher,andshe’llshrugandnodatmewithherblank,stupidface.Orworse,she’llholdmecloseandfakeit,cryherslycrocodiletears,andbegforacoupleofdrinkstosettlehernerves.
Ifinishmytourofthebarandstandwithmyshoulderonthedoorframe,gettingagustofcoldaireverytime,thedooropens,andfirstsightofeveryonecomingintothebar.Iwon’tlookatmywatch,butIknowthattime’srunningout.WhatIdon’tknowiswherethehellsheis.Afuckinalkyyoucan’teventrusttobeinthebar.Whatkindofloseristhat?
Thebellringsforlastorders.Igiveupandpushintowardsthebar.Ineedadrink.
Thedoorswingsopen.Icatchaglimpseoflongdarkhair.
It’snother.ThisRussellBrandlookalikewalkspastme.Bodiesmovetolethimthrough,liketheRedSeapartingforMoses.
MickeyCassidylaysaperfectpintinfrontofhim,andthenhecallstime.
There’sarumblethroughthebar,likeaheavyanimalgrowling,andsomeblokewithaYorkshireaccentshoutshowhe’sbeenwaitingages.ItmakesmethinkofLinthorpe,tellingmewhatIhavetodo,thepriceIhavetopayforthisknowledgehe’sgivenme.Idon’tevenknowwhatitisthatI’veagreedto,notreally,onlythatthere’snogoingback,andifIscrewitup,theywon’tevenfindthebitsofmeAndso,what?
TheYorkshireblokedoesn’tgetservedHestampsoutthedoor,mutteringtohimselfinavoicesolowonlyIcanhear
‘Youcanstickyourpissy,Geordie,watered-downbeerupyourarse.’
IfIsmile,it’sonlyareflex.
Theyfollowhimoutingroupsoftwosandthrees,thenahugecrowdtogether,likecattleontheplains.
‘Manybuffalo,’asmallvoicewhispersinmyhead.
IwatchthemgountilI’mlookingatthelineoftablessurroundedbyajaggedringofemptychairs.
‘Pullthewagonsintoacircle.’MaybeIsayitoutloud.
MickeyCassidylooksatmewithatightlinerunningdownhisforehead.
‘Getyourselfhome,’hesays.‘I’mlockingup.’
ButIcan’tgohomenow.
‘Giveusacoupleofbottles.’
‘Nochance.’
‘Haway,dousafavour.’Iputatwentyonthebar.‘Twobottles.’
Heshrugs,andthemoney’sgone.
Igettwobottlesofcheaplager,oneineachpocket,andstepoutintothedarkness,stonecoldsoberwithsixpintssloshingaboutinmystomach.AndI’mlost.Sure,I’vebeeninallthosebars,butlikeIsay,Iwasjusthiding,delaying,likeascaredlittlekidonhiswaytogetabollocking.Becausedeepdown,Iknewshe’dbeattheBoar.AtleastIthoughtIdid.Butshe’snot,becauseshe’snevertherewhenIneedher.
ThedoorclosesandIlaughatthesoundoftheboltsbangingacrossbehindmeMaybeI’mlaughingwithrelief,thatIdon’thavetofaceherlyingbullshit,orthetruthandthetearsthatwouldsettheguiltburningthroughmychestLikeMickeyCassidysaid,Ishouldgohome,buteventhecellarwouldn’tbeenoughtonight,andanyway,there’snothingthere,becauseClarahasstolenitallaway.
So,IgowhereIhaveto.
MamalwayssaiditwashalfamilefromTheBoarbacktoours,anditwasforher,zig-zaggingacrossthepavement.Iletmyfeetfollowhers,fromonesideofthepavementtotheother,alongpastPotteryBankundertheorangestreetlights.
‘Yerfuckinbastard,’akid’svoicefloatsdownfromStAnthony’sRoad.
Nooneanswers.There’sjustthesoundofmyshoesslappingonthepavement,andthesmelloflate-nightchipswaftingoutofnowhere.Maybeit’sthatI’mfollowingherfootsteps,orthesmellofthechips,butthispictureflashesintomymind,amemorysooldIhardlyknewitexisted.
There’smeandMam,withBenjyinthemiddle,allofuswrappedinourduvetsonthissquareofgrass,withthebackdooropenbehindus.Mam’sgotthisconeofhome-madechipsThey’reallgoldandsaltyandzingywithvinegar,andshe’sfeedingus,onethentheother,withaeroplanenoises,likebabies.IthinkBenjymightgetthelastchip,butthenhestartssnoring,andMamgivesittome,andit’sthebestchipofall,cosnowthere’sjustmeandMamstaringatthestarlitSunderlandsky.
‘Snugasabuginarug,’Mamsays.
‘NoMam,snugasthreebugs.’
‘Yes,’shelaughs,‘snugasthreebugs,’butthenshegoesquiet.
‘Youseethatstar,Tommy?’Mampoints,‘attheendoftheupside-downpan.’
Ifollowwhereshe’spointing.
‘That’sthestarthat’llbringyourdadbackhome,’shesays,andshetellsmethisstoryaboutmonstersandshipwrecksandmermaidswithemeraldeyes,andDad,buildingaraft.‘He’llbesettingsailsoon,Tommy.Comingbacktous,singingalltheway.’
Thestorymakesmesmile,andIfeelthatI’mdrifting,likeI’mtherewithDadonhisraft.AndthelastthingIhearisMamsortoflaughandsortofcry.‘YouknowTommy,’shewhispers,‘yourmam’sfullofshit,’andsheholdsmesotightIcanhardlybreathe.
‘Iknow,Mam,’Isaytotheemptystreet,‘Iknow,’andthenit’sthereinfrontofme,Atwal’sbluesign,onthecornerofBelmontStreet.
Annie’soldplaceisdarkandstill,ontheotherside,andIturnupourpathforthefirsttimesincethatnightintheBykerWall.
Ipresstheplasticbutton.Thebelljanglesinmyhead.
There’snoanswer,justafaintyellowlightthroughtheglasspanelabovethedoor.Shedoesn’tcome.Ikickthedoor,feelingthepainthroughmycrappyshoes.Butlikealways,sheisn’there,theuselesspisshead,andIdon’tunderstandhowIcanneedandloveandhatethesamepersonsomuch.
Ashadowmovesacrossthelight.Itakeabreathandtrytomakemyselfstrong,butI’mnotstrong,I’mdesperate,andthat’swhyIhavetobelieveShe’sourmam,theonlyonewhocanunderstand.Thedoorswingsback,catchingtightonthechain,andmaybeit’sthefallofhisfootstepsorthesoundofhisyellowfingersonthelock,butevenbeforethedooropens,Iknowit’shim.
‘Alright,Daryl,’Isaythroughclenchedteeth.
Thiswizenedblokesquintsupatmethroughthegapinthechain.Hisfaceisasgreyashistash,andhe’sgotanastylittlegoateeonhischin,justlikeFrogga’s,whichmakessensebecausethey’rebothapairofbastards.Onlyhisskulliswhiteunderthebulbinthecorridor,shiningthroughhissweptbackhair.It’sthesameoldDaryl,onlyboil-washedandbleachedout.
Hisred-veinedeyesaretheonlycolourinhisface,wideningwhilehismouthopens,makingthis“O”aroundthestumpsofhisteeth.
‘IneedtoseeMam.’
‘Ahdon’tthink…’
Hissulkylipstartstoslide,sendingasurgeofangercracklingupmyspine.Maybeheseesitonmyface.Eitherway,histonechanges.
‘Imeanshe’snothere.’Hestuttersonthelastword,andhisfearmakesmestronger.Keepsmecalm.
‘So,we’llwait,’Isay.
‘Butnah,because…’
‘It’salright,Daryl,’Itiltmypockets,showinghimthebottles,andIsmile.Thefalsenessmakesmymouthache,butit’senoughtofoolDaryl.
Hegrinsatme.Thedoorcloses,butthere’sneveranydoubt.
Ihearthechainrattleandfall.ThedoorswingswideandIstepbackintothelandthattimeforgot.
Theplaceisthesameasalways,exceptsmaller,seedier,andsmellier.Daryl’spicturesarestillthere,upalongthestairs.
Sunderland’shairycupwinningteamfromsometimeinancienthistory,andDarylbesidethemonhismotorbike,grinningoutfromthatsilverframejustlikeIremember.Exceptyounger.
YoungasIamnow.YoungaswhenhebrokemyBenjy’sarm.
Itakealongbreathandfollowthenewwashed-outDarylintothelivingroomwithmyfistsclenchedtightbymysides.
Heisthereasonit’stakentwentyyearstofindmybrother,thereasonMam’sauselessdrunk,thereasonforeveryshitthinginmyshitty,shittylife.I’mfightingtoholdmyselftogether,butDarylhasn’tgotaclue.Everybitofhistinymindisfocusedonthebottlesinmypockets,andthecashhecansmellcomingoffme,thathethinksmightbuyhimsomemore.
Thatcrappybrowntableisstillinthelivingroom,andtheslimegreensofasagginginthemiddle,whereIsonearlysmashedthatcanofStrongbowintohismouth.Ilookatthewall,whereIthrewit.Thestain’sgone,fadedaway,butMam’schair’sstillthere,andtheT.V.inthecorner,thatsamegiantboxplayingsomeancientcopshow.
‘Wholovesyababy?’AnAmericanvoicewantstoknow.
Istickmyheadinthekitchen,likeI’mgoingtoseeherdancingtooneofthoseoldreggaetunes,stumblingandlaughingwithalittlekidhangingoffeachleg.There’sjustaloadofcrustypans,andthestinkofsomethingrotten.
Thatnumbfeelingcreepsbackoverme,butthenIlookatDarylwiththesnake-bitchtattoostretchedalonghisarm,andhisthinrat-facepointedattheT.V.Andthememorieskeepmestrong.IsteparoundMam’schairandpulltheplugoutofthewall.TheT.V.pops.
‘Sheinhere?Upstairs?’
Hislippushesforward.Heshakeshisheadatmyfeet.
‘So,whereisshe?’
Hedoesn’tanswer,juststartsfishingaboutinhispockets,bringsoutthisfatredpenknifeandopensatiny,clawedblade.
‘I’mwellparched,’hesays,withthatstupidgrinbackonhisface.
Igivehimaslownod,takeoutbothbottlesandpassoneover.
‘Alright,’hesays,snatchingitandpoppingthetop.Heletsitfallbetweenthecrushedcansandoverflowingashtraysonthefloor,andthenhedropstheknifebackinhispocketandtakesalongdrink,whileIstandtherelookingfromtheliftandfallofhisscrawnythroattotheunopenedbottleinmyhand.
‘Cheers,man,’hesays,belchingpoisonthroughthegapsinhisbrownstump-teeth.
‘Jesus,man,Daryl,’Itiltmybottletowardshim,buthestilldoesn’tgetit.‘Givemethefuckinknife.’
‘Right,’hesays,andhandsitover.
‘You’reunbelievable,you,’Itellhim,poppingthebottle,takingthefrothoffthetop.‘So,whereisshe?’
Heshrugsandsucksonhistenquidbeer.
‘Whereisshe?’Istepincloser,riskingthatbreath.
‘Idunno.Inthetown,havingadrink.’
‘Soshe’llbebackinabit?’
‘Depends.’Hetakesanotherpull,staringhardintohisemptybottle.‘Ifshemeetssomeone,youknow.’
Iknow,butIwon’tsay.
‘She’llbeinOffshore,orTheQuiltedCamel,’hesays,slyeyesslidingacrossmyface.‘OneofthemlatebarsalongtheQuayside.’
‘Right,sowe’dbetterhavealook,’ItakeanotherpullandputmybottledownontopoftheT.V.‘Hawaythen.I’mbuying.’
Helooksatmelikehecan’tquitebelieveI’vefallenforit.
Ihaven’treally,butIneedtofindMam,andsomechanceisbetterthannochanceatall,andifIhavetobuyDarylBoyleacoupleofdrinkstodoit,wellthat’sthewayitis.Anything’sbetterthanstayinghere.Darylmustthinksotoo,coshe’sawayandpastme.Adraftofairblowsthroughfromtheopenfrontdoor,andbythetimeIgetintothelobbyhe’salreadypullingonthisshapelessbrownanorakthattheoldDarylwouldneverhavebeenseendeadin.
‘We’lltrackherdown,mate,’hesays.‘TrustyouruncleDaz,’
andI’vegotnothingtosaytothat.
Wefollowthelong,longcurveofWalkerRoad,what’sleftofitanyway,brokenrowsofterracedhouses.There’soneonthecornerwithscrapsofwallpaperflappingonthewallandachestofdrawersstandingagainstit,likeoneofthosebombpicturesfromIraq.
‘InvestingintheFutureTogether,’thebillboardsays,exceptthegovernment’sinvestingintheirbankermates,andtherestofusareinvestinginbeerandtenquiddeals.
AnyoneinWalkerwho’sreallythinkingaboutthefutureisonlythinkingaboutonething.Gettingout.Andthat’swhatwe’redoing,headingwest,towardsthecity.IcanseetheBalticGallery,andthesilverslugoftheSageMusicCentreonthesouthsideoftheriver.ThelightsontheMillenniumBridgechangethroughredandblueandgreen,lightingupthequaysidewithitsswirlyroofedoffices,andflatswithbalconiesovertheriver.Wecomeoffthemainroad,downStAnne’s,pastthetallglasswindowsofthePitcherandPiano,andtheMalMaisonhotel.Ilookupatthescrapsofcurtainblowingthroughthehotel’shighwindowsandimagineHaywoodalltuckedupsafeandwarmunderhisluxuryduvet,waitingformetocomeandseehiminthemorning.
Darylstopsbesideme,tashtwitchinghopefully,overthatstupidgoatee.AsifIwouldtakehiminthereforadrink.Asifthey’dletusthroughthedoor.
‘Haway,manDaryl.’
‘Ah,butI’mknackered,’hesays.
Iclenchmyteethandkeepwalking,alongthequay,undertheoldTyneBridgeanduptowardsthenoise,withDarylscuttlingbehindme.WeturnpastChaseontothisbusycobbledstreetandit’slikewe’vejuststeppedintosomebigparty.Practicallyeverybuildingisabar,andthey’reallthumpingwithsoundandrammedwithpeople,drinkingandshouting,andspillingintothestreet.
IshovemywayintotheQuiltedCamelandspendtensweatyminutesforcingmywayfromoneendtotheother.IdothesameinBobTrollope’swithDarylatmybackwhiningaboutwhenwe’regoingtogetadrink.InOffshore44Ileavehiminanalcove,staringattheflashinglightsontheceilingwhileIpushonthroughhotfleshybodies.ItfeelslikehalfofNewcastle’sinhere,andhalfofLondongoingbytheaccents.
I’msweatinghardinmyleatherjacket,andnotjustfromtheheat,fromthehopeandthefear,becauseIwanttofindher,butI’mscaredtoo,becausewhatIneedistheoldMamwhocanmakeeverythingalright,notsomegreedy-eyeddrunkwithherhandslidinginsidehercoat.
There’sawomanatthebar,headback,laughing.Islippastastudenttypewithahandfulofglasses,gettingcloseenoughtosee.Itisn’ther,butI’mherenow,hemmedinbythepressofbodies,andthebarmanwantstoknowwhatI’mhaving.Igiveinandgetsomedrinks.ItmustbehalfanhourbythetimeIgetbacktoDarylwithfourbottlesoflager.He’sexactlywhereIlefthim,staringupatthelightsliketheoldestspacecadetontheplanet.Igivehimtwobottlesandthelagerbringshimtolife.Hetakesalongpullandleansinclosewithhisdeadlybreath.
‘Didtheynothaveanycider?’
Ihaveavisionofsmashingbothmybottlesintoeithersideofhisface,butIdon’t.Idropabottleintoeachpocket,getagriponhisminginganorakanddraghimthroughthebartothecourtyardouttheback.It’srammedheretoo,butatleastyoucanbreathe.Heslidesouthispinkpetlipandmumblessomething.Ipushhimbackagainstthestonewallandleanbackbesidehim,watchingthepeople,anddrinkingthebeer.
Somepartofmeknowssheisn’there,butIcouldbewrong,andanyway,thebeerdoesitsjob,holdingeverythingawayfromme,warmandoutoffocus.Thetroubleis,twohalf-pintbottlesdon’tlastverylong.Ican’tbearsedtogobackin.IcouldsendDaryl,butIknow,ifIgavehimmoneyhewouldn’tcomeback.So,Igivein.Ifightmywaybacktothebar,keepingoneeyeoutforMam,desperatetoseeheranddesperatenotto,andIknowthatI’mjustliketherestofthem,becauseallIreallywantisthebeer.
Daryl’sstillinthecourtyard,onlynowhe’sleaningoverthesetwogirlssatatabarreltable.Idon’tknowwhathesaystothem,butthey’reupandaway,andhe’slaughing,sittingdown,pointingmetothestillwarmseatopposite.
‘Takealoadoff,’hesays,likewe’rebackintheseventies,likehesaidtoAnnieonthatsaggygreensofa,beforeheputhishandupherskirt.
IlookathisgrinningfaceandwonderwhyI’mspendingmymoneybuyingbeerforDarylBoyle,whyI’mdrinkingwiththispieceofshitwhenwebothknowthatwhereverMamis,she’snothere.Butscumasheis,he’salinktoher,toallofit.
That’swhatItellmyself.Isuckatmybeerandwatchhimtalk,staringatthattashuntilIcanseeeachindividualhair,yellowandgreyovercolourlessskin,likesomehorriblehairyinsect.
‘Trevorreckonedheknewthescore…workedthesewersforyears…’
Ican’thearmorethaneveryotherword.Daryl’sreedyvoicerisesandfallsthroughthenoisearoundus,andtheroaringinmyhead.
‘I’vefoundBenjy,’Isay,toshuthimup.
Hedoesn’thear,orhedoesn’tcare,justkeepsgoingon,tellingmethesestoriesaboutpeopleI’veneverheardof,pausinglongenoughtogulpdownhisbeerwhileIsitherewithmyheartthuddinghalfwayoutofmychest.
‘Sammywentstraightoverbackwards,splatintotheshit.Wewerepissingourselves.Cameuplookinglikeadrownedrat,stinkinglikeonetoo…’
‘Right,’Istandup,lookingdownathistwitchingface.‘Likeadrownedrat,sure,’Isay,andpushmyselfawayfromhim.
‘Goingtothebar?Goodlad,’heshoutsafterme.
Andwhereelseistheretogo?They’vegottriplesfortwoquid.Somenameless,dragon’spisswhisky.Igetuseachacoupleandtakethembackoutthroughthethinningcrowds.
Thestuffburnslikethefiresofhell,andwhat’sworseisitseemstosharpenmyhearing.Ican’thelpbuthearDarylrattlingon.
‘I’mmashingtheHondaupthishill…hugewagoncomingrightatus…somecuntinJagovertaking…’
Hekeepstalking,andIkeepbuyingthewhisky,untiltwoo’clockcomesaroundandtheythrowusintothestreet.
It’squieternow,apartfromacoupleofladskickingoffinthetaxirank.Wewalkawayfromthem,backalongtheriver,underthearchoftheoldTyneBridgeanduptowardsitsflashynewcousin.Daryl’sstillmumblingonaboutbackwhenIwasakid,stuffIdon’twanttohear.Hestaggersagainstmewithhisspindlyninestonebody.Idon’tcare.I’mlookingupatTheMillenniumBridge,thoserainbowcoloursflashingagainstthesky,andIdon’texactlymeanto,butmyfeetfindtheirownway,followingthelights,upontothebridge.Ileanovertherailandlookdownattheirreflectionontheriver,turningthewaterfrombrowntoredandpurple,blueandgold,likeourRainbowBlanketcometolife.
‘Ahnahyouwerepissedoffwithme,’Darylsays,hisfaceclosebesidemine‘Butitwasn’teasyformelike,neither.’Hesmilesbehindhisgoatee,buthiseyesarescaredandsmall,tellingmehiswheedlingexcuses.Hislies.
‘Iwastheonestayedaroundwhenyourdadfuckedoff.
Anotherman’skids.TherewasplentysaidIwasamug,butItookcareofyoulikeyouweremyown.’
‘Sure,Daryl.Sure,youdid.’
‘Aye.Ididmybest.I’mnotperfectlike,butthere’snoneofusare.Imeanlookatyou,alltheadvantagesandyou’readrugdealer.Well,youare.Andit’snotsurprisinglike,Imeanyourmam’snoangelneither.’
‘Butshewas,’Isaytomyselfasmuchastohim,lookingdownatthewindrufflingthewaterlikethefurontheDevil’srug,andIthinkaboutallthoseSundays,lyinginbedtoowiredtosleep,watchingtherug,andwaitingforDaryl,ortheDevil,andhardlyknowingthedifference.Buthenevercameagain.
AndIwonderifmaybeheforgot,orjustgotboredwithhisgame?Butdeepdown,Iknowthetruth.Hediditonpurpose,becausemeandDarylbothknowthatthewaitingistheworstthingofall.
‘Shewasanangelonce,’Isay,‘andsowasBenjy.’
Him,’Darylsays,‘Ididyouafavourthere.’
Ilookathim,thispatheticdrunkundertherainbowlights,andIseethesincerityonhisrat-likeface.Pinsandneedlesspreadalongmyjaw.Hereallybelievesit;thisdeludedshitehe’stellingme.Likeifhekeepsontalking,that’llmakeittrue.
Itallstartedwiththisbastardhere,andhegotawaywithit,likehegetsawaywitheverything.Hedoesn’tevengettofeelguiltybecauseherewritesthepastashegoesalong.Myheartpoundsinmythroat.Notwithfearorguilt,butwithadeepandsatisfyinghatred.Daryl“yacunt”Boyle,thefantasistofthefuckincentury.Bloodroarsaroundmybody.I’mscaldinghot,strongenoughtoembracemyanger.
‘Shutup,’Itellhim.‘Shutyourstinking,lyingmouth,’buthedoesn’t.
Hekeepsramblingon,pullingahome-rolledfagfromabatteredMarlborobox,holdingupthatlonggoldlighterwiththeredtriangleshininglikearubyontheback,justlikethattimeinourdoorway,withhimshoutingatusaboutthefootball,andBenjy’spinkballoondriftingdown,andmerunning,andthebottlefalling,shatteringinanexplosionofglassandwhisky.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-TWO
ThePointofNoReturn
Sixo’clockmustbetooearlyforTheStrangler,becausethere’snoonetostopmeliftingthatbrasshookandwalkingupTheHammer’smarblestaircasewithmyheadstillthrobbingfromlastnight’sdragon’spisswhisky.ThelastthingIneedisthatglaringwallofmirrors,orthesightofmyownsicklyface.OrSmiler’s,cometothat.He’ssittingathistable,chewingonhisbirowiththeracingpagesspreadoutinfrontofhim,andthatbigblackandtandogcurledaroundthetableleg
LikeLinthorpesaid,CarlandFroggaaretheonlyotherpeopleintheplace,perchedontheirzebraprintbarstools,likealways.I’mpleasedtoseethem.That’showweirdthingsare,butImakeoutIhaven’tevennoticed.IwalkuptoEddie’sofficedoorandgiveitthreehardknocks.Smilerputshispendown.Kyliestretchesherneck.Bothofthemwatchmewiththesamestillness.IcanfeelFrogga’seyesonmetoo,fromacrossthebar.
“Eddiewon’tbethere,butCarlandChesterwill…”
Iknockagain,thinkingaboutthecertaintyinLinthorpe’svoice,andhopingtoGodhe’sright.IimagineEddie’sblackeyesglitteringontheothersideofthedoor,thefuryonhishuge,flatfacewhenIgobargingintohisoffice,mybodysetrigidunderasilentwhitewindmill.Iswallowandturnthebrasshandle.Itrattlesinmyhand.Thedoorislocked.
‘Doesheneverfuckinlearn?’SmilercomeslumberingtowardsmewithKylieathisheels.
‘Whatthefuckareyoudoing?’
‘Where’sEddie?’
‘Nothere.’
‘LookSm…’Istop,notknowingwhatelsetocallhim.‘It’simportant.IneedtoseeEddie.’
‘Well,he’snothere,soyoucan’t.’
‘Okaythen,’Isay,tryingtosoundpissedoff,ratherthanshitscared.‘I’llwait,’andIstrideawaytowardsthebar.
There’salowrumblebehindme,onestopshortofagrowl.Ithinkit’sfromthedog,butthere’snowayI’mlookingbacktocheck,soIfixmyeyesonCarlBurns’bland,stupidface.
‘Vodka,’Isay,leaningonthebar.‘Makeitadouble.’
TheBrummiebarmandoesn’task,justgivesmethecheapshitfromtheopticandstepsbackthroughthekitchendoor.
EvenheknowsIdon’tmatter.
‘Cheers,’Isaytonoone,andtakeaburningmouthful.IletmyelbowhitCarl’sarm.
‘What’syourfuckinproblem?’Carlwantstoknow.
‘Nothing.’
‘Well,fuckoff.’
Froggalaughslikeit’sthefunniestthinghe’severheard.
‘Look.DoyouknowwhereEddieis?Whenhe’sgettingback?’
‘What’sittoyou?’
‘Don’twasteyourfuckinbreathonthatloser,’Froggasays,andheadsforthegents.
Carlstaresupattheceilingfan,eyesnarrowedtodarkslits,jawpushedforward.Hesipshisdrink,soIsipmine,andfollowhisgazeuptothosecopper-colouredblades.Thethingsaren’teventurning.It’sprettyclearCarldoesn’twanttospeaktome,soIkeepmymouthshutandwait.Thevodkaisn’tdoinganythingformyhead,justechoingthebittertasteoflastnight’swhisky,bringingthatfamiliar,sticky-sweettastecreepingovertheroofofmymouth,trailinganothermonstermigraine.
IdropmygazetoCarl’sbigwhitehands,thatsovereignring,anexactcopyofEddie’s,andIwonderifCarlcanpossiblybeasthickasheseems.Maybeheis?Hiseyesturntowardsthegents,waitingforFroggatocomebackandtellhimwhattodo.Andsuddenly,Iunderstand.Sure,Carl’snotthesharpesttoolinthebox,butwhat’sreallyholdinghimbackisthefearoflookingweak.Istareatthatgoldring,andit’sweirdtoeventhinkitaboutCarl,buthe’sjustnotbadenough.Aninnocent,that’swhatCarlis.
IwaituntilIseeFroggacomesniffingtowardsus,rubbinghisnoseliketheoriginalCocaineKid.
‘Alright,Carl,I’lltellyou,’Isay,‘butyou’vegottotellmewhereEddieis.Givemehismobilenumber.’
‘Eh,’CarllooksatmelikeI’mmental,whichIprobablyam.
’I’veseenthisbloke,’Isay,‘justthismorning.ThisblackDutchguytheycallHaywood.SayshisbossusedtoknowEddiefromwayback.He’sgotthisdeal.’
‘Youwanttogetintotown,Carlo,’FroggasayslikeI’mnotthere.‘Getsomeaction.’Hepoutsandshowshisfist,soIcan’ttellifhemeansfuckinorfighting.
‘Fourkeysofcoke,’Isay.
‘Fourounces,’Froggasays,stilllookingatCarl.
‘Fourkeys,’Isayagain,pausingjustlongenoughtohearthesilence,‘forahundredgrand.’
‘Bullshit,’Froggasays.‘Noonesellsakeyfortwenty-fivegrand.Notevenifit’sbashedtoshit,andleastofalltoalow-lifeloserlikeyou.’
‘Nottome.’Igrabmychance.‘ToEddie.Andit’snotonekey,it’sallfourornothing.Haywoodwasdefiniteaboutthat.’
‘WhothefuckisHaywood?’
‘TheblackDutchguy,’Carlsays.
‘What?’
‘Listen.’
Froggacutsmealook,butheshutshismouth.
‘ThisguyHaywoodcamelookingforMaxi.’Thesweatpricklesundermyarms.‘Hefoundme.’There’snooneanywherenearusbutIdropmyvoiceanyway,tellingitjustlikeHaywoodtoldmeinthatflashyhotelroom,seeingthewordsinhisbig,toothymouth.
‘TheyweremovingthesefourkeysthroughAmsterdamtoLondon,overtoShieldsontheferry,drivingdownsouth.Thebagmangotideas;thoughthe’ddoadealofhisown.’Ishruglikethesethingshappen.‘That’ssorted,butthingsgotmessy.
Whentheyfindhim,andHaywoodreckonsitwon’tbelong,there’llbeamurderinvestigationonthego.Policeallovertheplace,notidealforablackforeignerwitharecord,andfourkeysofcoke.
‘That’swhyhewantsout.He’lltakeahundredgrandforallofit,butithastobequick.Liketonight.’Iholdoutmyhands.
‘SoIneedtoseeEddie.’
‘Forthisbullshitscam,’Froggablowsthroughhishorriblegoatee,buthistwitchinghandsgivehimaway.NowLinthorpe’spointeditout,it’sobvious.Frogga’swayoutthere,coked-uphalfwaytohell.
‘EddieknowsthisguyHaywood?’Carlsays,likehe’sstillcaughtupinthelastconversation.
‘No,Carl.Heknowshisboss,LudwigVandenBerg.’ItakethecardthatHaywoodgavemeandpressitintoFrogga’shand.
Bigsquareletters,justVandenBerg’sname,andanumber.
Froggalaughsattheceilingfan,soloudthatSmilerputshispendown.Smiler’sfacesplitsintoasortofgrimace,stretchingthecreasesonhischeeks.Idropmyhead,butit’snotmehe’slookingat.MichaelRileyiscomingupthestairswithagoldvapeclampedunderhislonghawknose.Hetakeshistime,walkingovertowardsus.
‘LudwigVandango,’Froggasays,forcingalaugh,andslidesthecardintohispocket.‘Fuckoff,prick,’thenheleansin,hissinginmyear.‘Keepyourmouthshut,andyourphoneon.’
Hepushesmeinthechest.‘Alright,Michael,’hesays,flickinghisforeheadinamocksalute.
MichaelRileytakesthevapeoutofhismouthandgivesFroggaathinsmile.‘Alrightlads.BlackcoffeewithadropofRemyMartin,’hecallsthroughtothekitchen,whileIgetmyselfaway,threestepsatatimedownthatmarblestaircase.
TheVolvostartsfirsttime,andIrevthatbigoldenginesettingmytyresspinningontheloosegravel.Itrytokeepitcool,butI’msweatingthroughmyt-shirtandallIcanthinkaboutisFrankieMortonwalkingintothebarlikesomefucked-upThunderbird,andMaxitellingmethat’showTheHammergotitsname.IgripthewheelandtrytoimaginelivingFrankieMorton’slife,workingfortheguywhodidthattohim,anditsetsanotherthoughtflaringbehindmyeye.I’malreadyfuckinlivingit.CosFrankieandEddiearen’tsodifferentfrommeandCarl.
‘Thisbullshitscam,’Isayoutloud,andseethetinydropsofspitsprayingthroughFrogga’sgoatee,mergingwithDaryl’sinmymind.“Ididmybest…tookcareofyoulikeyouweremyown.”
‘Wellscrewthebothofyou,’IthinkofFrogga’sfingerstwitchingonthebar,andthebiggreedyshineinhiseyes.JustlikethoselightsontheMillenniumBridge.‘Keepyourmouthshut,andyourphoneon,’Isaytothewindscreen,andit’smyturntosmile.Frogga’llbecalling.AndlikeLinthorpesaid,there’snowayhecangethishandsonahundredgrandthatfast.Waytoomuchhasalreadygoneuphisnose.
I’mdrivingfast,droppingagearonthebends,floggingtheoldwrecklikethere’sanywheretogolikeIcanoutrunthefearinmystomachorthepainbehindmyeye.Thesmilefixesonmylips,tightasSmiler’sPlasticineface.Ishouldn’thavedrunkthatvodka,notafterallthatshitlastnight.ButtherearealotofthingsIshouldn’thavedoneandsettingthisdealupwithFroggahastobeupthereintheall-timetopthree.
There’scodeineintheglovebox,butitwon’ttouchthis.Icheckmypocketsforsomerealpills,butIknowthey’rebackintheflat.AllIcandoiskeepdrivingandtrytothink.
Theanswer’ssosimple.Don’tgoback.IfFroggacalls,orLinthorpe,orHaywood,justdon’tanswer.Ortellthemitwasamistake,awind-up.Sure,Frogga,likeyousaid,therewerejustfourounces.Andkeepondriving,forever,tosomeplacewherethesunshinesandnoneofthosebastardsareevergoingtofindme.
I’montheA69,headingwestonthiscrappytwo-laneroadwithallthesecarsflashingtheirlightsatme.IttakeshalfadozentillIrealiseit’spracticallydarkandI’mdrivingwithmylightsoff.Iflicktheswitchandseethepetrolgaugewaveringintothered.Atleastthatgivesmesomethingtodo,keepinganeyeoutforapetrolstation,pullingin,breakingmyparanoidrhythm.IstandatthepumpwiththecoolaironmyfaceandIknow,I’vegottostopdreaming.I’vestartedthis,andIhavetoseeitthrough.I’mscrewedifIdon’t.Thepumpclicks.Afewdropsofgreasypetrolsplashonmysleeve.ThetruthisIwasalwaysscrewed.FromthemomentIshookEddie’shandacrossthatgreenleatherdesk.
OrfromthemomentDarylBoylecamegrinningintoourlives.
Ikeepdriving,followingtheroad.Ineversetouttocomehere,butsomehow,I’vedrivenallthewaytoHexham,asifIcouldjusttaketheturnoffandvisitmybrother.Idriveonpast,thinkingback,tryingtogetintouchwithlittleTommyBoyle
Notwiththeguiltandtheblame,butwiththefight.ThekidthatmadeDarylbreakhisfingerbeforehe’dsayhedidn’thaveabrother.TheonethatwentuptoHeatonParktofacethehardestkidinschool,andtheonethatsmashedFrogga’sfaceintothatshittyyellowtoiletbowl.
I’matCarlislebythetimeI’vesortedmyselfout,sittinginbehindalineoftrucks.ItakeaU-turnattheroundaboutandheadbacktoNewcastleatasteadyfifty,calmandfocusedalltheway.I’mgoingtofacethemagain.Exceptthistime,I’mgoingtomakeitdifferent.
I’mgoingtogetthroughthisthewayI’vegotthrougheverythingelse.Facethetruth.Dealwithit.Takethebastardson.MaybeI’mwrong,butatleastI’vedecided,andbythetimeIgetbacktoNewcastleevenmyheadacheisdowntoapulsingthrob.
Iturnthestereoup,windthewindowdown,andlistentoJohnnyCashtellingmeabouttheprettiestgirlintown.AndI’msingingalong,waitingformyphonetoring,readyforwhatevercomes
There’saspacerightoutsidetheflat,whichisalittlemiracleofitsown,andItakethatslow,easywalkunderthecherrytreewithTheCashstillsinginginmyhead.I’vegotthekeyinthedoorandonefootonmyantiquepinefloorboards,whenIhearthecreakofmovingweight,brancheswavinginthebreeze.
Ahandfallsonthebackofmyhead.Strongfingerstwistinmyhair,turningmyhead.
Herlipspressagainstmine.Iholdontight.Theaircomesoutofherinafranticrush.Ifeeltheheatofherthroughmyt-shirtandIknowwhatthisisallfor,whyIcan’trunaway.Ihavetodothisright.Setusfreeforever.
Itakeafewclumsysteps,drawingherintothelivingroom.
Mybodybeatswithneed.Letthemallburninhell.Iwanther.
HereontheDevil’srug.Ikissher,hard.Myhandrunsdownthelengthofherspine.Herbackstiffens.There’satensioninherthathasnothingtodowithsex.Ikissheragain,moregently,andlethergo.
‘Chezfoundthephone.’
‘Jesus,Annie.’
‘Icouldn’thelpit,’shesays,likeI’mblamingher.‘ItoldhimI’dneverseenitbefore.Helaughedforabouttenminutes,thenhefoundamissedcallfromaJesmondnumber.’
‘Acallbox,’Isay.
Adraftofcoolairblowsdownthecorridor.Annieshivers,standingabovemyemptycellarinherthinwhiteshirt,withthepinkflushhighonhercheeks.
‘He’sgoingtocatchus,Tommy.Wehavetogetoutofhere.’
‘Yes,Annie,wewill,’butevenIcanhearthedoubtinmyvoice.
‘Now,’shesays.
‘Soon.Onemoreday.’
‘It’sthisDutchcokedeal,isn’tit?’
Myheartskips.NowIknowfordefinite.Frogga’sin.
‘I’vegottofinishthis,Annie.We’vegottosortthingsproperlyorwe’llnevergetout.Notforreal,forever,out.’
‘Don’tdoit,Tommy.’
‘Weneedthemoney.’
‘No,’shepressesherhothandsonmychestandlooksintomyface.‘Weneedeachother.’
Iwantmorethananythingtotellherthetruth,allofit.Butthelesssheknowsthesafersheis
‘Wewillneedit,’Itellher.‘Inamonth,orayear.Doyouwanttospendyourlifecleaningupotherpeople’sshit?Idon’tthinkso.’
Herhandstightenintofistsonmychest,pullingbackawayfromme.
‘Mypassport’sinthecar.There’senoughcashtoflyusanywhereyouwanttogo.’
Shesmilesatme,butonlywithhermouth,andit’salreadytoolate,likethere’ssomewallI’vebuiltbetweenusShesensesthatI’mlying,holdingsomethingback.Itrytopretend,reachingout,touchinghercheek,butsheturnsherfaceandleavesmyhandlostintheair.
‘Onemoreday,’Isay,droppingmyhand,feelingstupid,angry,stubbornasakid.
‘Thereisn’tonemoreday,Tommy.Weneedtogonow.’
AndIwantittobetrue,likeFroggawantshiscoke,likeMamwantshervodkaIthinkofthepassportinthebedroomdrawer,purpleandgoldwiththatterriblepicture.It’ssoright,soeasy.Justgo,andnevercomeback.
Ican’tdoit.Imighthave,anhourago,butIcan’tnow.Iknowthat,butIcan’texplainit.Ihardlyknowmyself,soIstandherelikeanidiotwiththatacidsyringeslidingbackinbehindmyeyes,andmymobilephonepulsing,unansweredinmyjeans.
‘There’saflighttoRomeateleven.OrParis,orNewYork.Yeh,maybeNewYork’sbettercosatleasttheyspeakEnglish.Sortof.’She’slaughing,burblingonlikewe’regoingonaweekendbreak,butIcanhearthedesperation,seethefearhe’sputinhereyes,andI’masangryasI’veeverbeen.‘No.Rome’sbest.TheColosseum.The…whateveryoucallit.’
‘Alright.’Iholdupmyhands.‘Soyougo.’
Shestepsback,mouthopen.IseethehurtinhereyesandI’msorry.God,Annie,I’msosorry.
Iwanttotellher,butthewordsdon’tcome,onlytheoldterror,andmythighburningbetweenmyfingerandthumb,balancingthepaininmyhead.
‘Fuckthemoney,Tommy.Don’tdothisdeal.Chezisslyandclever,andhe’sgoingtoscrewyouoverjustlike…’
Hervoicetrailsaway,butIknowwhatshe’ssaying.He’sabetterman.He’llbeatmeeverytime.
Maybeit’sthememoryofhisfeetpoundingintomyface,orhishandsonmyback,pushingmeoverthatrailinthepark.Ormaybeit’stheknowledgeofhishandsonher?
‘Screwme?’
Welookandeachother,bothrealisingwhataterrible,stupid,wickedthingI’vesaid.
Herfaceclosesagainstme.
‘I’msorry.’Imouththewords,butlikealways,I’mtoolate.
Herfistswingsuptowardsme,sendinganewpainsearingthroughmyeye,andshe’spastme,downthecorridor,andoutthroughtheopendoor.
‘Annie,’Ishout,runningupthepathwithonehandclampedovermyeye.
‘Fuckoff.’Shedoesn’tlookback.
‘Soon,Annie.I’llcallyou;Ipromise.’
ThelightsflashontheBMW.
‘How?’Sheopensthecardoor,andIseeherface,angryandcrumpledasthatveryfirsttime.‘Liar,’shescreams.
‘No,Annie,please.Callme.Please,callme.’Thecardoorslams.‘AndstayawayfromFrogga,’IpleadintotheroaroftheBMW.
Anupstairslightgoesoninthehouseacrossthestreet.Awoman’sfacelooksout,whiteinherbedroomlight.Igiveherthefinger,gobackinside,andslamthedoor.
‘Sillybloodycow,’Iwhispertomyself,pullingtherugback,ignoringtherhythmicbuzzofthephoneinmypocket
IgetthehatchopenandI’mtwostepsdownbeforeIrememberthatthere’snothingthere.Justalowcoldspace,likeanemptygrave.Istandonthestep,alone,whenIshouldbewithAnnie,andthehatesurgesthroughme,forallofthem.
Sure,FroggaandCarlandEddie,butHaywoodandLinthorpetoo.I’dcallhimnow,tellhimtostuffituphisarse,butit’swaytoolateforthat.LikeFrogga’snotgoingtowanttoknowwhathappenedtothebiggestdealofhislife.Ipullthephoneout.
Twomissedcallsfromthesamenumber.Istepoutofthecellarandpresscallback.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-THREE
Frogga’sDeal
Froggaanswersonthefirstring,withallhisusualcharm.
‘Wherethefuckhaveyoubeen?’
Withyourgirlfriend,Ithink,butIpressmyhandtomymouthandcounttothree.
‘Alright,Frogga,’Isay.
‘Itoldyoutokeepaholdofyourfuckinphone.’
‘I’monit,aren’tI?’
‘Cunt,’hesays.‘Whereareyou?’
‘What?’Iplayfortime,lookingroundtheroomfortracesofAnnie,staringatmysheepskinrugandrememberingtheflushofhercheeks,pinkongold.‘Youmeannow?’
‘No,lastfuckinChristmas.Ofcourse,fuckinnow.’
‘Billabongs,’Isay,talkingfast,overthesilence.‘It’smylocal,inJesmond,abouthalfwayalongOsborneRoad.Yougopast-’
‘Iknowwhereitis.Staythefuckthere.’
Thelinegoesdead.Ilookatthephone,thenupattheclockoverthefridge.QuartertoKrisKristofferson,andIdon’tevenknowwhereFroggais,howclose,orevenwhathewants.Notforsure.Anniecouldhavecalledhimfromthecar,toldhimanything.Noway.Iblockoutthethought,butIcan’tstopthegoosebumpsfromliftingalongmyarm.
Eitherway,Ihaven’ttimetohangabout.Igrabmyleatherjacketoffthedoor,drivethethreeminutestoBillabongsanddumpthecarinthetaxirankoutside.
‘AbottleofBecks,’ItellRobby,thebarman,andtakeaquickwalkbetweenthesilvertables.
There’snosignofFrogga,andbythetimeIgetback,Robby’spouredmyBecksintoaglass.Idon’tseewhy.I’vetoldhimbeforetoleaveitinthebottle.
‘Fourpounds,’hesays.
Fourkeys,Ithink.
‘Keepthechange.’Igivehimafiverandtakealongdrink,thenIleanbackwithmyelbowonthebarandlookoutacrossaseaofshinyfurniture.
There’safewstudenttypesclusteredaroundanAmericanFootballgameontheT.V.inthefaralcove,butit’ssummernow,andmostofthemhavegonebacktotheHomeCounties,whereverthatis?Theplaceisdead.There’snooneatthisendofthebar,justagirlonherown,runningherfingeraroundtherimofherglass.
Asilverchainrunsacrossherthroat,withatinypendantglintingfromthetopofherdarkvelvetdress.Shecatchesmewatching.Ilookpasther,likeIcareabouttheDenverBroncos,butnotbeforeI’veseenherpretty,elfyface,shadedlilacunderthepurplewalllight.There’ssomethingfamiliaraboutthatlook.Iglanceback,andhermouthflickersinsomethingtooweaktobecalledasmile.It’saboutthesaddestthingI’veeverseen,her,dresseduplikethat,forsomeselfishbastardtoleaveherthere
Sameoldstory,butI’vegottroublesofmyown.Ifixmyeyesonthedoor,butIcanfeelherwatchingme,atleastIimagineIcan.I’mtoowarminmyleatherjacket.Theglassslidesinmyhand,andIfeelthatstrangedéjàvustirringofamemory,watchingthegirloutofthecornerofmyeye.
It’salright,Iwanttotellher.You’reagoodperson,notalying,low-lifedrugdealerwho’stooscaredtogetclosetoanyone.
Iwanttocomforther,tohearhersadnesssoIdon’thavetothinkaboutmyown.OrmaybeIjustwanttoeaseheroutofthatvelvetdress,usehertopunishAnnie,topushherawaybeforeshegivesuponme,ifshehasn’talready.Idon’tknowwhatIwant,butIliftmyelbowoffthebarandsteptowardsher.Someonewalksintothebarbehindme.They’removingfast,makingthehairprickleonmyneck.
Ikeepmyeyesonhersilverchain,withthewordsrunningthroughmymind.
It’salright.I’manartistnow,Emily
Iignorethepresenceatmyback,willinghimtodisappear.
Thegirllooksup.Hergreeneyesopenwider.Beingarefdidn’tworkout.IgotsickofbeingcalledabastardIsmile,imaginingthatshe’slaughingbackatmewiththatlongredhairblowingoutbehindher.
Honeyandmoonlight,she’ssaying,likethegodsspiltatinyjar…
‘Bandit,’thevoicehissesinmyear.
Froggagrabsmyshoulder.Hespinsmeround,soclosethatIfeelthetinyballsofspitsprayingfromhislongwhiteface.CarlBurnsisstandingbehindhim,bothofthemlookingaboutasfriendlyasever.MaybeIshouldbescared,butallIfeelisdisappointed,likethey’vewokenmefromadream.
‘Youwantadrink,’Iaskthem.
‘Alright,’Carlsays.
‘Shutup,’Froggasays.
IcatchCarl’seye,andinthatmomentwe’reboththinkingthesamething.Whichoneofusishetalkingto?
‘We’reheretodobusiness,notfuckaboutwithscumlikeyou,’
Froggaspitsatme.‘So,thisishowit’sgoingtobe.YoubringHaywoodandthisVandalbergbloketous.’
Thegirlwalkstowardsme.She’stall,runningherpalmsdownoverherhips.
‘Tomyplace.Tonight,’Carlsays.
Shepassescloseenoughformetoseethereisn’tafreckleonherface.Herhairisasbrownasmine.She’snomoreadoctorthanIam.
‘He’sinTheHague,’Isay,watchingherwalkoutthedoor,hipsswayingjustenoughtoshowmewhatI’vemissed.
‘Eh,’Carlsays.
‘Holland,’Froggasnaps,andCarl’sbulldogjawdropsopen.
Hecatcheshimselfandfixeshisfacebackintoitsslit-eyedwoodenpose.
Froggadoesn’tnotice,he’stoobusyshoutingtheoddsatme.
‘Don’tbefuckinsmart.Doasyou’retold,there’sfivegrandinitforyou.Oryoucanpissaboutandgetanotherkicking.’
‘Fuckyou,Frogga.’
‘Don’tyoufuckincallmethat.’Hishandcomesuparoundmythroat,pinningmebackagainstthebar.‘Thisismydealokay.Yougotthat?’
Acoupleofstudentslookover.
Robbythebarmanmovestowardsusinslow,shrinkingsteps,likehedoesn’teverwanttoarrive.
‘Excuseme,’Robbysays.HelooksatFroggaandrunsoutofwords.
Froggaletsmego.
‘It’salright,’Isay,runningmyhandaroundmythroat.‘It’sokay,Robby,we’reoldmates.’IgiveRobbyanodandholdhislook,untilheshrugsandgetsbacktowork,emptyingbeertrays,takingthenozzlesoffthepumps.
‘Look,I’lldothisanywayyouwant,’ItellFrogga,‘butthere’snowayablokelikeVandenBerg’sgoingtoflyoverhere.We’redealingwithHaywood,andatahundredgrandforfourkeys,Haywoodsetstherules.HewantstodealwithEddie.Hewantsmethereandhewantsthedealdonequick,orelsehe’lltakeituptoGlasgow.That’showitis.’
Itakeastepawayfromhim.
‘AndI’mnotdoingitforanypoxyfivegrand.’
‘Youthinkanyone’sgoingtogiveacuntlikeyouahundredgrand?’
‘That’suptoEddie.AllIwantisafaircut.’
‘Youwantyourcut?Iswear,youfuckmeaboutandyou’llgetyourfuckincut.WantmetosendSalimroundtoyourplace?
OrIcangethimdownhererightnow,slityouopenlikethecuntyouare.’
‘I’mnotfuckinyouabout.JusttellingyouhowHaywoodwantsit.Ihavetobethere.Forfuck’ssakeFrogga,there’shalfamillionquidinthis.That’senoughforeveryone.’
Idon’trealisewhatI’vecalledhimtillit’sout,buthedoesn’tnotice.Hispinpointeyesarebulgingatthethoughtofit.
‘No,’hesays,‘I’lltellyouhowit’sgoingtobe.You’recomingtoEddie’s,rightnow.Youkeepyourmouthshutandrememberthisismyfuckindeal.Andyou’llgetwhatEddiegivesyou.
Nowgetinthefuckincar.’
‘Cheers,butI’llfollowyouinmine.’
‘Youfuckinpissmeabout…’
‘I’llbethere,Frogga.’Iwalkpasthim,intothenight.
‘Youfuckinbetterbe,’heshouts,‘cosifyou’renot-’
Islamthecardoor.
HalfanhourlaterStranglerliftshisthickredropeandthethreeofuswalkupthatmarblestaircase.Mybootsstamponeverystep.Frogga’scoke-fuelledconfidenceisrunningthroughme,andthatoldthemetuneisplayinginmyhead,likewe’rebackthereinthecemeterywithgunsonourhips,andafortuneingoldburiedjustafewyardsaway.
I’mreadyfortheglareofmirrors,andevenSmiler’sviciousface.HesitsupandpullshisshouldersbackKyliestretchestoo,musclestightalongherneck.Shewalksovertothetopofthestairsandputshernoseinmycrotch.Sheknows.Thebitch.
‘Alright,Kylie,’Isay,‘goodgirl,’butIkeepmyhandswellclearofthatvelvetskin.
I’mnotatotalidiot.
Ithink.
‘He’sexpectingyou,’Smilersays,whichisaboutthenicestthinghe’seversaidtome.I’mtemptedtotellhim,butthenheopensthedoortoEddie’sofficeandKyliefollowsusin.
Pillsrattleinthedeskdrawer,andEddiescowlsupatus,shouldershunchedlikeanangrybear.MichaelRiley’sinhisusualplacewithhislegsstretchedoutatthesideofthedesk,wearingadarksilksuitandanevilsmile.
‘Thisbetterbefuckingood,’Eddiegrowlsintothedesk,andFroggapushesCarlinaheadofus.
‘Alright,UncleEddie,’hesays,bobbinghishead.
‘Shutup,’Eddiesays.‘Yousoundlikeafuckinretard.’
‘Sitdownlads,’Rileytellsus.
Therearethreegreencanvasschairslaidoutinanarcbetweenthefireplaceandthedesk.Froggatakesthemiddleone.Isitnearestthedoorasifthat’sgoingtogivemeachance.Idon’trealisehowlowtheyareuntilwe’reallsitting,likeRiley,withourlegsoutinfrontofus,andourfaceslevelwiththegreenleatherdesktopIlookupatEddiefeelinglikealittlekid.
‘What’sthiscuntdoinghere?’Eddiepointsaringedfingeratme.
‘He’sthelink-man,’Froggasays.
‘Thefuckinwhat?’
‘He’salright,’Froggasays,andIfeelarushofwarmththroughmystomach
Eddiegrunts.‘So,what’sthiscrapabout?’
Helooksalongthelineofus,stoppingatme.IcansenseRiley’seyesonmetoo,andKylie’spantingbreath,herblackmouthlevelwithmine.
IstareatthepicturesaboveEddie’sheadanddowhatFroggatoldme,keepmymouthshut.There’sEddieonaboat,Eddieholdingsomefootballtrophy.Ifixonthatboxer’sgoldbelt,tryingnottoseetheurnonthemantelpiece,whileIreplayEddie’squestioninmyhead.
Whatisthiscrapabout?Idon’tknow,notreally,onlythatthere’saprettygoodchanceIwon’tseetomorrowmorning.
‘LikeIsaid…’Froggaclearshisthroatandstartsagain.‘ItoldMichaeleverythingonthephone.’
‘So,nowyoucantellme.Thataproblem?’
‘No,Eddie.Noproblem.’Frogga’sAdam’sApplebobslikeadinghyinastorm,butgivethebastardcredit,hekeepsgoing.
‘ThisguyHaywood’sdesperatetooff-load.TheyweremovingthesefourkeysoverfromAmsterdam,Haywood,andhisboss.
SomeDutchblokecalledVandalberg.’
VandenBerg,Iwanttosay.Ibitemytonguetillitstings.
‘Butthebagmangotgreedy.’Froggasays,justlikeItoldhim,likeHaywoodtoldme,exceptthatFrogga’stoocoked-uptosticktothescript.‘He’sinaskipnow,inbits,inByker.
They’regoingtofindhim,andwhentheydothere’llbefilthallover.AndthisguyHaywood,he’sforeign,doesn’tknowshit.
He’sblackforfuck’ssake,mightaswellhaveasignonhisheadsayingcatchthefuckindarkie.’Frogga’ssnortoflaughterechoesroundtheroom.
‘Hewantsout.He’lltakeahundredgrandforit.Allofit.
Fuckinhell,Eddie,Icouldoffloadittomorrowfortwicethat,butgivemeafewdays,getitcutandbaggedandmovedoutthere,’hejabsadirtyfingeratthecurtains,‘andwecantakehalfamillionfuckinquid.’
Eddienodslikehedoesn’tbelieveawordofit.‘You’restandingbehindthisareyou,Chester,’hesays,openingadrawerinhisdesk.Helaysared-handledclawhammerandamatchingpairofpliersonthedesk.‘Givingmeyourguarantee?’
Froggaswallows,buthecomesbackfast‘It’sapeach,Eddie,butithastobequick,liketonight,ortomorrow,orelse-’
‘Yourcaste-ironcertainfuckinguarantee?’
EddielooksatRiley.I’dgivemyleftbollocktoknowwhathe’sthinking,butthenitmightcometothat.He’sanangry,twentystonetoddlerwithapairofpliers,andnothinghedoesmakesanysense.
‘Iguaranteeit,’Froggasays,butIcantellhe’sthinkingprettymuchthesameasme.
‘Alright,’Eddiesays.‘So,whatareyouputtingup?’
‘Eh?’
‘Howmuchmoneyyouputtingin?’
‘Icangetthirtygrand,’Carlsays,‘cash.’
‘Youthinkhe’dtakeafuckincheque?’Eddiesays.‘Andyou?’
Froggasniffsandrubsthebackofhishandacrosshisnose.
‘Fuckinjunkie,’Eddiesays.Hedoesn’tbotheraskingme.
‘Right.Ifthisisgoingtohappen,andI’mnotsayingitis,thenIwantfortygrandfromyouladsbytomorrowmorning.’Eddierubshischinthroughhisbeard.‘AndI’lltakethatpieceofshitPorscheascollateralforanotherten.Alrightwithyou,Chester?’
Frogga’seyesbulgelikeEddie’sjustsuggestedsellinghissister,althoughwhoknows,thatprobablywouldn’tbotherhim.
‘Alright,Chester?’
‘Eddie,man,Ipaidfortygrandforit.’
‘You’llgetitback.’
‘Whydon’twejusttakethegear?RipthisDutchcuntoff?’
‘Wanker,’Eddiesays.‘YouknowwhoLudwigVandenBergis?’
‘No.’
‘No.’Eddieopensthepliers.‘Well,Ido.’HenodsatRileyandsqueezesthemshut‘It’sfortygrandandthatfuckincar,here,brightandearlyinthemorning.’
‘Haveadrink,’Rileysays.Ilookaroundmebutthere’snothingthere,justKylie’spantingface.‘Inthebar.Allofyou.’
‘Whatfor,’Froggasays.
‘We’vegotacoupleofcallstomake,’Rileysays.
‘Yeh,andyoulookfuckinthirstytome,’Eddiesays,andI’mupandheadingforthedoorwithmytonguestucktotheroofofmymouth.
I’mhalfwaydownabottleofBudweiserbeforeIrealisehowbadittastes,mixedwiththatstalenessatthebackofmymouth,lastnight’swhisky,andtonight’svodka,andthealmostmigrainestilllingeringbehindmyeye.I’dgotothegents,getmyfaceunderthecoldtap,butFrogga’salreadyintheregettinghisownrefreshments,soIleanbackonthebarwiththemusicfromdownstairspoundinginmyhead,andwatchthesideofCarl’sblankfacereflectingbackfromthewallofmirrors.Poorbastard.
Jesus.I’vegotFroggagivingmeawarmfeeling,andnowI’mfeelingsorryforCarlbloodyBurns.Carllooksatme,andhisforeheadcreasesasifhe’sreadmymind.Butit’snotmehe’slookingat,it’sFrogga,walkingbacktowardsus,stillsniffing,withhisthumbpressedtohisnose.
Idon’thearSmiler’smobilego,butIseethelinestightenonhisface.HelooksatthescreenthenhooksafingeratusandopensEddie’sbrownpanelleddoor.Wefileinandtakeourplaces.
‘Nothingelseyouwanttotellme,’Eddiesays,fingersdancingovertheredrubberhandlesonhisdesk.
Noonespeaks.There’sjustthesuckofRiley’slipsandthebeatofthemusicfrombelow,andthedogweavingroundbetweenus,softpawspaddingonthecarpet,remindingmeofthelasttimeIwasinhere,bentoverthedesk.
“Iwon’tletyoudown,Eddie,”Itoldhim.
“Makesureyoufuckindon’t,”hesaid,andIcanstillfeeltheacheinmyknuckles.
‘Right.’Eddiestandsup.‘Setitup.Twelveo’clocktomorrowmorning,’hetellsFrogga.‘That’llgiveyoutimetogettothePorschetomyplace.LikeIsay,youladsareinforfortygrand.
Keepyouhonest.’
AstreamoffakesmokerisesfromRiley’svape.Eddieblinks.
HelooksdownatRiley.
‘Andyoucangofortygrandenall,seeingasyou’resokeen.’
TheplastictubecracksbetweenRiley’steeth.‘Sothatleavestwentyforme,whichisafuckofalotbetterthanahundred.’
Eddielaughs.‘Icaneventrustyoubunchofmonkeyswiththat.’ThevapeglowsbrightinRiley’smouth,whiletherestofustrytosmile.
That’swhenitdawnsonme.
Eddieisn’tcoming.
‘You’llbehereatelevenwiththecash,andbackatone,withthegearboxedupinNescafe’sfinestandlockedinthesafeatoldmanCooper’s.Right.’Heclapshishands.
Ilookacrossthedeskwiththesoundechoinginmyhead,andIknowIcan’tleaveitlikethis.
Eddie’shandsarepressedtogether.Hislipsarepinkandshinywet,likeDaryl,standinginthedoorwaywithafaginhismouth,andDollyPartonsinging,andthatwrinklyballoonfloatingdown.ThatmomentbeforeIpanickedandran,beforeDarylruinedBenjy’slife,beforeheruinedMam’slifetoo,andmine.ExceptIwon’tlethim.Iwon’tgivein,notagain.BecauseifIlose,thenDarylwins.
‘He’sexpectingus,Eddie.Youandme,todothedeal.’
‘Fuckoff,’Eddiesays.Thehammerbangslikeajudge’sgavelsendingastaboffearthroughmystomach,sosharpandfastthatallIreallyfeelistheechoofit,throbbinginmyballs.
‘VandenBergthinksI’mthemaninWalker.’
‘Well,he’snotassmartaseveryonereckons.’
‘HetoldHaywoodtodealwithyou.There’snowayhe’lldothebusinessifyou’renotthere.’
Eddieweighsthehammerinhishand.
‘Youladsaren’tfuckinmeaboutnow,areyou?’
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR
EasyMoney
Froggatakesthelead,hungryforthedeal.HepushesthroughtheglassdoorsoftheMalMaisonHotel,aproperlittlebusinessmanwithhisdarkgreysuitandbriefcase.Eddielumbersafterhim,jeanshangingoffhisarseandaredNikehold-alldanglingfromhishairypaw.Carl’sgotEddie’sback,andthenthere’sme,takingitallin.
Theplaceisalmostdarkafterthesunlightoutside,doneupinpurpleandblackwithsofasandcushionsscatteredoverthecarpet,likeoneofthoseglass-frontedbrothelsinAmsterdam.
Isupposethat’swhatrichpeoplewant,toberemindedofsex,justlikeeveryoneelse.
Receptionisabigshinysmileofadeskoppositeawindingsilverstaircase.Froggapauses,readywithhisstory,butthere’snooneonthedesk.Hishandcreepstowardsthebell,andthat’swhenImakemymove,edgingpastCarlandEddie,whisperinginFrogga’sear.
‘Don’tdoit.’
‘Eh?’
‘Theswitch.’
‘Whatman?Fuckoff.’Froggatwistshisuglyfaceatmeandstampsupthesoftcarpetedstaircase.
Idropmyhead,butIcanfeelthebreakinEddie’sstride,hiseyesboringthroughthetopofmybaseballcap.’
‘Fuckinswitch,’hemumbles,andI’mthinking,shitI’vegonetoosoon,screwedthewholethingup.
ExceptIhaven’t,becausewe’reallwaypastthepointofnoreturn,andEddiecomesploddingupthestairs,hisbigbearheadfizzingwiththepromiseoffourkilosofcocaine.
Hedoesn’tknowwhatI’mtalkingabout,butthat’sokay.Hewill.
IdropbackalongthecorridorrubbingmysweatyhandsonmyjeansandthinkaboutMichaelRiley.He’satTheHammer,holdingtheforttillEddiegetsback.That’swhathesaid,leaningbackinhischairbesideEddie’sdesk,sneeringupatus.
“I’llholdthefort.”Butlet’sfaceit,ifMichaelRileyhadbeenattheAlamo,he’dhavebeenslitheringoutthesidegatelongbeforeSantaAnna’sMexicanscamemarchinguptothefront.
Andme,whatwouldIbedoing?Creepingoutinthenighttoopenit?
Froggaknocksonthedoorofroom309,threeslowraps,likeacopper.
Thedooropensandwetroopin.
Theroom’sthesameasyesterday,massive,aboutthesizeofmyflat.There’salowovalcoffeetableandapairoffatleatherchairsbythenearwall.Thebed’sovertowardsthewindow,andeverythingfromtheshinywallpapertothecoffeetablearedoneupinshadesofsilverygrey,likethewholeplacewasdesignedtomatchFrogga’ssuit.
Haywoodisstanding,facingthecharcoalcurtains,showingushisshavedbrownhead.ClassI,free-range,Ithink.Onesolidtapwouldcrackitopen.HelookslikeaBuddhistmonkwiththebreezeblowingthroughthecurtains,settinghisbrightorangeshirtbillowingaroundhisskinnyribs.What’sthatshirtabout?He’ssellinghalfamillionquid’sworthofcokeforahundredgrand,justsohecangetoutofherebeforeanyonenoticesthere’sadeadDutchmansomewhereinByker,andanotheroneherewithashitloadofdrugsandacriminalrecord,andhe’sgotthatshirtblowingaroundhimlikeoneofthoseflagsattheWorldCup.
Nooneelseseemstonotice.They’reallclusteredroundthebed,staringattheopensuitcaseontheduvet,bulgingwithaloadofpolythenebagsofwhatdefinitelylookslikecocaine
Myimpulseistomovecloser,getagoodlook,butIdoasIwastold.Ipullmybaseballcaplowovermyeyesandstepsideways,intothealcove.
‘Hello,myfriends.’Haywoodturnstowardsus,flashingaboutahundredshinytombstoneteeth.‘Itisgoodyouarehere.’
Hedoesn’tevenglanceatme,butIcantellstraightoffthere’ssomethingweirdgoingon,likethatstupidgrin,andthefactthathisnear-perfectEnglishseemstohavechangedintothiscomedyAfrican.ImeanforChrist’ssake,isthatthebesthecando?
‘Haywood?’Eddiebarks.
Haywoodgrinsandnodshisfrailhead.‘Mr.EddieBurns.’
HeslapsahandonEddie’sarm.
EddielooksatituntilHaywoodletsgo,butthegrinonlyslipsforamoment.
‘Whatisthis?’Haywoodsays,openinghispalmtowardsthecase.
‘Eh?’EddielooksfromhimtoFrogga.‘Whothefuckisthisprick?’
‘Whatcoulditbe?’Haywoodsaysagain,likeamagician.
‘Coke,Ifuckinhope,’Froggasays,flashinghislizardsneer.
‘Blow,toot,snow,flake,Charlie.Colombianmarchingpowder.
TheDevil’sfuckindandruff.’Heslidesapearlhandlefromhisinsidepocket.‘Leastitbetterbe.’ThebladeflicksoutagainstHaywood’scheek,glintingunderthechandelier.
Haywoodstopsgrinning.HebacksagainstthebillowingcurtainswhileFroggakneelsatthefootofthebedanddrawsthebladeacrossapolythenebag.Hetouchesafingertiptothepowderandrubsitonhisgum,grinningthroughhisgoateelikethemutantchildofKermitandD’artagnan.
‘Hmmm,’hesays,poutingandsmackinghislips,makingmethinkofLinthorpe’svoiceechoingdownthatbigclunkyphone,tellingmehowsometimesthingscantakeawalk,fromtheevidenceroom
Froggabringsthebagovertomysideoftheroomandtipsamessyhandfulontothecoffeetable.Hestandsbetweenthefatleatherchairswiththatbladeslicingupanddowninablurofsilverandwhite,aracingcertaintyforHell’sKitchen,cokechefoftheyear.
Alright,’hesays,chantingunderhisbreathlikeawitch-doctor;‘blow,toot,snow,flake;blowtoot,snow,flake.’
Thefreak.
HescrapeshisknifeacrossthetableandpilesupsomethingaboutthesizeofapowderyfingerofTwix.
‘Don’tfuckabout,’Eddiesays.
Froggascowls,butscrapeshalfthecokeoff,bendingtotaketherestofitinonelongsnort.Hestaysverystillthenhisheadcomesup,staringintothejewel-studdedmirrorinfrontofhim.
‘Fuckin,yes,’hesays,noddingtohimself,grinning,turningaround.Hisfistsclench.‘Fuckinyes,’he’sgoinglikehe’sjustscoredthewinneratWembley.Exceptthatthere’safive-inchbladestickingoutofhisfist,andIcan’tseeyourmodernreflettingthatgo.NotevenifFroggaplayedforChelsea.
Eddieisn’timpressedeither.
‘Doitproperly,’hesays,pickingFrogga’sbriefcaseupoffthefloorandthrowingitathim.
Froggacatchesthecaseandlaysitonthedesk.Heturnsthecombination,probablytosix,six,six,andclicksitopen.He’sgotsomethinglikeakid’schemistrysetinthere,vialsandtesttubesalltuckedupinredvelvet.Thefirstthinghetakesoutisablackframeaboutasbigashishand.Hesetsitonthetableandlaysarollofvelvetdownbesideit,withatinysilverspoon,atesttube,andaplasticvial.
We’reallwatchingnow,Haywood,EddieandCarlclusteredroundthebed,andmeinmyalcovebythebathroomdoor,withmyheaditchingunderthisstupidcap.Frogga’slovingit.
Hecrackshisknuckles,tipsatinyspoonfulofcokeintothetesttube,andrestsitontheframe.Thevialsnapsinhishand.
Heemptiesacolourlessliquidintothetube,swirlingitarounduntilthemixtureturnsthislightturquoisecolour.
Eddiegruntsanddigsanotherpackfromthebottomofthecase.Hebringsitoveranddropsitonthetable.
Froggaslicesthroughthecellophaneandtakesanothervialfromhiscase,blindinguswithscience.
‘It’sgood,’hesays,‘likereallyshit-hotgear.Ninetypercent,likethere’sahalfamill…’helooksatHaywoodandstops.‘It’sgood.’
‘Thiscocaineiswhatyouwant?Whatyoubuy?’Haywoodsays,holdingouthishand.
‘Yes,man.’Eddiesays.‘Shutup.’Hegivestheredhold-alltoHaywood.
Theroom’sbrightenoughalready,butHaywoodpullsthestring,openingthecurtainssothesuncomesslantingthroughthewindow.Hesitsbackonthewindowsillwiththesunshiningthroughhisshirtandunzipsthebag.
Iknowwhathe’slookingatbecauseIsawthemthismorning,ahundredgrandintwentytightwrappedbundles.
Haywoodpullsanotefromoneofthebundlesandholdsituptothelight.Agustofwindblowsthroughtheopenwindow,rufflingthecrisppurplepaper.Haywoodshakeshishead.
Eddie’sfingersflex.
Theitchundermycapisunbearable,andthatstupidNikecatchphrasekeepsrepeatinginmymind.
‘No,’Haywoodsays.
Eddiegrowls.
‘Nogood.’Haywoodsays.
‘That’sahundredgrandofmyfuckinmoney,’Eddiesays.Hiseyebrowscometogetheracrosstheflatbridgeofhisnose,andIcanseethatbigbadpennyabouttodrop.
‘Isnotreal.’
Haywoodstepstothesideofthewindow
‘Is,howyouwouldsay,fuckinforgery.’
Eddie’smouthopens.HestaresfromHaywood’sdelicateblackfacetoFrogga’swhiteone.Hischestheavesandhisnostrilsflare,likeabullbetweentwotoreadors.
‘Youlying,black,fuckindarkie,cunt.’
HerushesHaywoodandtakesawildswing.Buthe’sgivenhimawarning,andHaywood’sready.HesquatsunderthearcofEddie’sfist,andswingsthebagupoverhishead,betweenthecurtains,andoutthroughtheopenwindow.
There’samomentwhenit’sthere,thatredbaghangingintheairwithEddiestretchingoutacrossthewindowsill.Thenit’sgone.Ahundredgrandforthefirstluckybastardstrollingalongthequay.
‘Cunt,’Eddieroars.
HegetsonegoodbootintoHaywood,thenhe’sjammingdownthesuitcaseandhoofingitpastme,intothecorridor.
Carl’sonestepaheadofhim,andFrogga’sonestepbehind,withhisflashysciencekitforgottenonthesilvertable,andabagofcokeclutchedinhisfist.
That’smycue.Islidethebathroomdooropenandbangitshutbehindme,exceptitdoesn’tclose.Thethingbouncesbackonitsrunners,justacrack,butit’swideenoughformetoseeFrogga’sbonyfingerscomeoutaroundthebedroomdoor.He’sgoingtopullitshutbehindhim,leavemehere.Hisknuckleswhiten,butthenheletsitgo.
‘Police.’
Theshoutcomesfromoutinthecorridor,andFroggaandCarlburstbackintotheroom.
Eddierunsthroughthem,withthatsuitcasestillclutchedacrosshischest.Hegetsabouttwostepsfromthewindowwhenthecallcomesagain,thistimefromoutside.
‘ArmedPolice.’
ThisguydropsdownoutsidethewindowlikeBatman,coveredinblackplastic,withabigblackgunpointingatEddie’schest.
‘Fucka.’Eddiescreams,andanothercoppercomesrunningthroughtheopendoor.
Carl,themoron,takesaswing,layingthecopperoutonthecarpet.
ThenextoneslamsthebuttofhisgunintoCarl’smouth,sendingasprayofbloodacrossFrogga’schemistryset.ThenhegrabsthetopofCarl’sheadandsmasheshisfaceintothejewelledmirror,withCarl’sarmsstillwindmillingaroundhim.
Froggadartsbehindthem,goingforthedoor,butmorecopperscomerunninginOneofthemgrabshiscollarandjerkshimround.Foramomentthosebiguglyeyeslookstraightintomine.Theytwistonehandupbehindhisback.Hescreams,andswingswiththeother,stillholdingthebagofcoke.There’sasilentexplosionofwhitepowder,andbythetimethecloudsettlesthefourofthemarecuffedandlaidoutfacedownonthefloor.
There’sacoppersittingacrossEddie’sback.HepullshishelmetoffandpointshisgunatEddie’shead.Buteventhatdoesn’tstophimbellowingabuseatHaywood.
‘I’mgoingtotieyoutoafuckinacrossandburnyourstinkingblackballsoff-’
‘It’sthefuckinBandit,’Froggahisses,hismouthupcloseagainstEddie’sear.
‘Youcunt,’Eddie’sheadswingsback,buttingdownintoFrogga’sface.‘Youswitchedmyfuckinmoney.Youthieving,cunting,coked-upjunkie.’
ThecopperjabshisgunintoEddie’sneck,butthatjustattractshisattention.
‘Iknowyourface.Yougingercoppercunt.AndI’llfindyou,andyourhorriblegingerbairns,andI’llfuckin-’
‘Havingagoodday,arewe?’Thatflatalmost-Yorkshireaccentcouldn’tbelongtoanyoneelse.
‘Youfuckinbentbastard,’Eddieroars,andtheypresshisfacedownintothecarpet.Hekeepsgoing,butthewordsaretoomuffledtohear.
‘Notsogoodthen,Mr.Burns,’Linthorpesays,settingEddieoffagain.Theylethimgoon,roaringatthecarpettillherunsoutofsteam.
‘Turnthemover.’Linthorpesays.Heclearshisthroat.
‘EdwardBurns,CarlBurns,ChesterTemperleyandDanielHaywood,IamarrestingyouonsuspicionofconspiracytosupplyclassAdrugs.Youdonothavetosayanything,butitmayharmyourdefenceifyoudonotmentionwhenquestionedsomethingwhichyoulaterrelyonincourt.Anythingyoudosaymaybegiveninevidence.’
‘Fuckyou,’Eddiesays.‘Thisisfuckinentrapment.Iwasluredhereonfalsepretences.Thatblackcuntthereaskedmetocarryhisbag.Andyou’llfindnoprintsofmineonthatcash.’
‘Whatcashisthatthen,’Linthorpesays.‘Thoseforgeries?’
Eddiestops.Hiseyesnarrowandhisnostrilsflare,andIswear,handcuffsornotit’saboutthescariestthingI’veeverseen.
‘YouthievingfuckinYorkshirearsebandit.Yougayboy,fuckincunt-’
‘Blah,fuckinblah,’Linthorpesays.‘So,I’mgay,andnoweveryoneknows.’Heshrugs,droppingontohishaunches.
‘Wellokay,Eddie,it’strue.Butit’snot1967anymore,andnoonegivesashit,exceptyou,andyou’reamurdering,racist,homophobicdrugdealingscumbag.Andyou’lldothirtyyearsforthis.’
LinthorpetapsEddie’scheekandliftshismiddlefingertowardsthebathroomdoor.
Thebastard’spointingatme.
Exceptheisn’t,he’spointingatthewalllampinmyalcove,atthetinychromeblobswivellingbackandforthaboveit.Hestepsacross,takesthecameraoutofthelamp,anddropsitintoaclearplasticbag.
‘That’ssorted,’Linthorpesays,standingwithhisbackbetweenmeandtherestoftheroom.‘You’reonfilm,Eddie.
Thenexttimeyou’rewalkingthestreetsit’llbewithaZimmerframe,ifyourheartdoesn’tgiveoutfirst.’
ThatsetsEddieoffagain,andmaybeit’smeantto,becauseIdowhatIshouldhavedoneagesago,andeasethedooralongonitsrunners,tillitclicksshut.
‘Takethemdowntothevans,’Linthorpesays.‘Sealtheroomforforensics.’
There’sarattleofhandcuffs,butnooneseemstohaveanythinglefttosay,exceptFrogga.
‘Bandit’sinthebathroom.’
Istopbreathing.Istareatthesliveroflightunderthedoorandwaitforittoslidebackinmyface.
‘You’rethebandit,’Linthorpetellshim.
Tobefair,CarlandEddiedon’tsayaword.OnlyFroggakeepsbleatingon.
‘Look,man,openthefuckindoor.Justopenit.’
Hisvoicefadesdownthehall,andonebyone,therestofthecoppersfollowhimout.Ifeelthevibrationoftheirfootsteps,theclickofthelight,andfinally,thedoorslamsshut.
Istandthereindarknesswithmycheekpressedtothecooltiles,andIwaitlikeIwaitedinthatcupboardamillionyearsago.Asharpridgedigsintomycheek.Thepainmakesitbetter,helpingmethinkabouteverythingI’vedonesincethen,andwhetheranyofitsworthadamn.Clarathinksso.Atleastshesaysshedoes.Butshe’sthecraziestbitchI’veevermet,sowhatsensedoesitmaketotrusther?OrAnnie?OrLinthorpe?Oranyofthebastards?
Thedoordoesn’topen,itcomescrashingoffitsrunners.Theroomfloodswithstinginglight.Ahandpressesmyfaceintothetiles.Someonepullsmycapoffandaroughcanvassbagcomesdownovermyeyes,shuttingmebackintodarkness.Thebagpullstightaroundmythroat.Panicdrumsinmychest.Ilashout,andafistlandsinmykidneys,knockingthebreathoutofme,sendingpainflaringthroughmystomach.Plastichandcuffscutintomywrists.
‘Shutthefuckup.’It’saposhvoiceIdon’tknow.‘Walk.’
Itakeasmallbreaththroughthebag,andlikealways,IdoasI’mtold.
Thisisit.Thisisfuckinit.Iknowtoomuch.
We’reinalift.Icanfeelitinmystomach,heartheclashofmetal.Thedooropensintowetheatandfoodsmellsthatmakemewanttopuke,andthenI’moutinthecoldwithmyfacetothewallandmyhandslockedbehindme
‘Don’tyoumove.Don’tyoufuckindare.’
Anarmcomesaroundmyside.Ithinkhe’sgoingtohitmeagain,buthe’snot.Hishandgoesinmyjacketpocket.It’smycap,he’sputtingmycapinthere,thenhisbootsclickawayoverthetarmac.
Istandthere,shivering,knowingI’mafool,andIbloodydeservethisbecauseifthere’sonethingIshould’velearnedfromDarylandMam,andMaxi,andalifetimelivinginWalker,it’sthatyoudon’ttrustpeople.Theonetruthworthknowing,theoneobvioussimpledead-eyedcertaintyinthislifeisthatifyoulietherewithyourlegsintheair,you’regoingtogetfucked.
Ibangmyheadagainstthewall.It’slikeI’msomeawkwardlittlekidwhojustwon’tlearn.Well,I’mgoingtolearnnow.
There’sacarcoming,fast.
Anaccident.
They’llsayIwaswanderingaboutinthebacklane,probablypissed.So,they’regoingtorunmedown.Well,fuckit.Idon’tcare.Letthebastardsdoit.ButIdocare,andnow,finally,IknowIt’sbecauseofher.She’stheonlyonewhomatters.Myfingersareitchingtotwistthesoftfleshofmythigh,butIcan’tevendothat.Ishouldhavelistenedtoher,butthere’ssomanythingsIshould’vedone.
Thecarcomesroaringin.Iopenmymouthandhowlintothewall.Atleastnowit’llbeover.
Thedooropensbeforethecarstops.
Hegrabsmyjacketandpullsmein,withthattell-talehandonthebackofmyhead.Acopper.Heforcesmedown,flatalongthebackseat,andthecarrevsawayupthelane
Icanfeelthatwe’regoingupasteepbankthenwestop,turning,maybetotheleft,butIcan’treallytell,andifIamgoingtodiethenIdon’twanttowastemylastminutesplayingsoldiers.
Ithinkabouther.Iwanttorememberustogetherinmybed,butwhatIseeisherstandingonmysheepskinrugwithherarmscrossedoverherthinwhiteshirtandthatpinkflushhighonhercheeks.She’sscreamingatme,buthervoiceistiny.
Ipressinclose,desperatetohear,butIcan’t.I’vemadethewrongchoicestoomanytimes.
Herfistswingsupintomyeye,andthatBMWgoesroaringdownthestreet.
Brakessqueal.Thecarstops.Thehandbrakecrunches,andtheenginedies.
There’sagustoffreshairwhenthecopperopensthebackdoor.Heleansacrossmeandpullsthebagoffmyhead.
Iblinkupatsoftpinklipshalfaninchfrommine.
‘Linthorpe.’
‘Shutup,’hesays,andturnsmeoversomyfaceispressedagainsttheleatherseat.Heliftsmyhands,pushingmyfacedownfurtherwiththecuffstightagainstmywrists.
‘Youfuckinbastard,’Isay,thenthecuffscomeaway,andhepullsmefeetfirstoutofthecar.
‘You’renotonthecamera.Youwereneverthere,’hesnaps,whileIstandandstareatthecobbledstreet.‘ThiswasFrogga’sdeal,Frogga’sandCarl’s.Theysetitup.’
ThewordskeepcomingbutallIreallyunderstandisthatI’mnotgoingtodie,notyetanyway,andI’mnotgoingtodothirtyyearsinDurhamorBelmarsh,orsomeotherlivingdeath.
‘Ifitcomestoit,yousawFroggawitharedNikebagthismorning,switchingthecashrightbesideEddie’sdesk.Butitprobablyneverwill.HaywoodandVandenBergareintoofartobackout.’
Heholdssomethingupinfrontofme,thisplasticThomastheTankEnginebackpack,andpressesitintomychest.‘Youalright?’
‘Erm,yeh.’Ilookup.
‘Thanks,Tommy,’hesays.‘ThatwasonebastardIreallywanted,’andhishandrubsupalongmyarm,squeezingmyshoulder.
Hisblueeyeslookstraightintomine,lockedoninawaythatmakesmefeelthechargeofsomethingbetweenus.Heholdsouthishand,butIignoreit,andfoldmyarmsaroundhim,thenmyfaceturns,andIpressmylipstohis.WhatcanItellyou?Inthemoment,itfeelsright.
‘Thanks,’Itellhim.
‘Thankyou,’hesays.‘Nowgoon,anddon’tcomeback.’HenodsatthebigblackMacrossthecobbles.
‘I’llbeonthenextstageoutofDodge.’Ismileandturnaway,withthatjaggedmomentbrightaslightningbehindmyeyes.
Linthorpewatchesmego.HiseyesfollowmetotheMetrosteps,anditfeelsokay.
Ihalfturnandraisemyhand,thenIwalkdownintothestationjustintimetoseethebigyellowtraincomerumblingin.Icheckmyemptypocketsandtakemychances,jumpingthebarrierandsitting,ticketlessontheorangeplush.
Ipullmyphoneoutofmypocketandscrollthroughtheaddressbook.Ipressthegreenbuttonandlistentoaforeignringtone.
‘Comeon,woman,answerthedamnthing.’
Shedoes,atlast,andmytoesclenchwithfrustration.
‘Hithere.WelcometoClara’svoicemail.SosorryIcan’tgettothephonerightnow,butI’dlovetohearfromyou,so-’
‘Shit.’Iclickthephoneoffandhunchovermyplasticbackpack,feelinglikeI’mtenyearsold,watchingforablack-uniformedticketinspectortocomemarchinguptheaisle,withaguninhishand,andMichaelRiley’slong,leatherface.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE
TheViaduct
TheMetrotookforever,withnoticketandtwenty-fivegrandinmyThomastheTankEnginebackpack.Ifeelcalmerintheairport,weavingthroughtheFridayafternooncrowds,pasttheinformationdesk,toleftluggageIhandovermyticketandgetasmalltartansuitcase,notsodifferentfromHaywood’s,justuglier.IchosetartanbecauseIthoughtitwouldblendin.
Anotherstupididea.Ifeellikesomekindofcomedycriminal,withmychild’sback-backonmyshoulder,andmygreentartancasetrundlingalongbehind.
Thetoiletsareempty.Ilockthecubicledoor,balancethecaseonthecistern,andopenitup.ThefirstthingIpulloutisalittleboxnotmuchbiggerthanmymobile,wrappedingoldpaperandtiedwithapurplebow.IslipitintomyjacketpocketwithmyiPodandslidemypassportandticketintothebackpocketofmyjeans.Allthat’sleftinthecaseisaweek’sworthofclothesandahandfulofphotos,jumbledtogetherontheblacknylonbase.
IunzipmyThomasbagandunpackEddie’smoney.Thefivetightpacksoftwentiesmakeaneatlittletoweronthetoiletseat.
Iwrapeachoneinat-shirtandpackitawayinmytartancase.
Thecaseisstillhalf-empty,evenafterIsmoothmybackpackoverthetop.Izipthecaseshutandlockthetinypadlocklikethat’sgoingtomakeanydifference,thenIswearandopenitupagain,andjamathinwadoftwentiesintomyjeans.
That’sit.Icheck-in,handluggageonly,andbuyapaper,somesweets,normalstuff.Igetastrongblackcoffee,takeabouttwoscaldingsips,thenIleavemycoffeeandmybaseballcaponthetableandwheelmytartancaseovertotheescalator,anduptosecurity.IstandinthelongsnakinglinewiththeClashscreaminginmyearphones,andshuffleforward,tryingnottoseethetwoblack-dressedcopperswithweird,futuristicgunsheldacrosstheirchests.Igettothefrontoftheline,putmytwenty-fivegrandbagonthelittleconveyorbelt,andwatchitslideawayfromme.
BythetimeI’vegotitbackandputmyshoesonthere’slessthanthirtyminutestotakeoff.Itakeafastwalktogatefourteenwiththeblackplastichandleslickinmyhand,andtheClashbreakingrocksinmyhead.
Theflight’sboarding.IturntheiPodoff.Theycallpriorityfirst;familiesandkids,andpeoplewhopayextra,soIdon’tknowwhyeveryonegetsupatonce.Likeit’sgoingtogetusthereanyquicker.Still,itleavesplentyofseatsfreeinthelounge.
Isitdownandmakemycall,andthistime,sheanswers.
‘Clara,wherethehellhaveyoubeen?’
‘Oh,busy,busy,gettingreadyforyou.’
‘Well,I’monmyway.’
‘Ofcourseyouare,’shesays,withthatrichpeople’scertainty,likeshecanmakethingscometruejustbysayingtheminherposh,high-pitchedvoice.Andwhoknows,maybeshecan?
‘We’relandingattentofive.’
‘Don’tworry,baby.I’llbethere.Ican’twaittoshowyouwhatI’vedone,’andcrazyassheis,I’mleftgrinningatthephone,thenIturnitoffandwheelmytartancasetothebackoftheshrinkingqueue.
Iendupinanaisleseatbesidesomeblokewhosethighbulgeshalfwayacrossmyseat.Isupposethat’sthepriceyoupayforgettingonlast,butwhocares.I’mtwohoursfromBarcelona.
IunfoldthepaperandseethatNewcastleUnitedaretwopointsoffthedropzonewiththeirstarstrikersayinghowmuchhelovestheclub,buthowflatteredheisbytheinterestfromArsenal.Sameoldshite.There’snosuchthingasloyaltyanymore,justmoneyrippingthesouloutoffootball,sameasitdoeswitheverythingelse.Itrytofollowthestory,butIdon’treallycare.Iflipthepaper.
There’sasmallgrainypictureonthebottomofpageone,amanonamotorbike,longhairhangingroundhisface.Thepictureshouldbefamiliar,buttheadrenalin’sleakingoutofme.
Myeyesarerolling,andtheprintblursonthepage.
I’mdesperateforsleep,buttheloudspeakerkeepsshoutingatmeaboutsafetyprocedures,andsnacksandperfume,andaloadofothershiteIdon’twant.Eventually,itstops,andIclosemyeyes,tryingnottothinkaboutallthestuffrumblingaroundinmymind.
HowVandenBerg’llgetawordinthejudge’searforhistrialinHolland.He’llgetoffeasylikerichguysdo,butit’sashameaboutHaywood.Heseemedalright,inafake,flimsysortofway.Maybehe’llgetsomecredittoo,forhelpingout,butevenso,he’snotthesortofblokeyoucanimaginelastinglonginside.
ThemainthingisthatitwasFrogga’sdeal.That’sallanyoneneedstoknow.That’swhatFroggatoldEddie,soIdon’tseewhatelsehecansaynow,especiallywithEddietryingtoriphisthroatout.Thethoughtcomfortsme.Myheadfallsontomychest.Idriftintoaveryrealdream.
I’mstandinginEddie’soffice,butheisn’tthere.There’sapresencelookingupatmefromEddie’sblackleatherchair,withallthosephotosonthewallbehindhim.They’rethesameasEddie’sphotos,theboat,thefootballtrophy,andtheboxer,exceptthatEddie’sfacehasbeentornoutandsomeoneelse’sstuckclumsilyinitsplace,ongrainygreypaper.
‘ItwasFrogga’sdeal,’Isay.
Hedoesn’tanswer,butnicotinevapourcloudsmyeyes.
‘Itwashisdeal.Hetoldyouhimself.’
There’sstillnoanswer,onlyalongslowlaugh.
Liar
Hedoesn’tspeak,justputsthethoughtintomyhead.Thevapeburnsbrightunderhislonghawknose,andapairofred-handledplierscomewalkingacrossthedeskinFrankieMorton’sjudderingsteps.
I’mfranticnow,feelingthatdog’sbreathhotonmyneck,searchingthephotosforEddie’sface.Anditisthere,real,andcloseagainstmine,withhisnostrilsflaringandtwoshinyhornscurvingoutofhishead.Hecharges.
Irunforthewindowbutthere’snowherelefttogo.Eddie’sroaringin.IseetheorangebillowofmyshirtandI’mHaywood,duckingdowntowardsthatgreyhotelcarpet,throwingmygreentartanbagoutthewindow.Butlikealways,I’mtoolate.
Eddie’shornspiercemychest.Hetossesmeintotheair.Iscrambleaway,toaplaceontheedgeofmydream.
Eddieroarsagain,butthistimeIknowit’sonlytheengines.
There’sahandshakingmeawake.Thefatmanbesideme,desperatetogetoff.
‘Igetclaustrophobic,’hesays,standingoverme,makingmethinkofMaxi,andthatmessagefromBulgaria.
Theplane’sjammedfull.There’snowhereeitherofuscanpossiblygo.
‘It’samedicalcondition.’
Clara’stheretomeetme,lookingstylishlyMediterraneanwithherdark-blondbobandlittlewhitedress,lightyearsawayfromthatbristle-headedGothsnarlinginthesnow.Shekissesmefullonthemouth,andshesmellsgoodtoo.
‘Noluggage?’
Ishrugandnodatmytartanbag.
‘That’sgorgeous.’
ClarasmilesatmelikeI’mapsychiatricpatientandleadsmeoutintothewarmafternoonwiththebrightsunlightshowingeverycurveofherbodythroughthatloosewhitedress.Thetaxidriverwantstotakemybag.Nochance.ClarashakesherheadandshootsoffafewwordsofSpanish.
Weclimbintothebackofthetaxitogether,andaswepullaway,outoftheairportandontothemotorway,IbegintobelievethatI’mreallyhere.
‘Didyoucall…’
‘Shush.‘Shepatsmythigh,leavingherhandtherelikeshe’sforgottenit’sattachedtoher.‘Don’tworry,’shesays,thenhernosecrinklesandshetakesherhandaway‘Don’ttheyhaveshowersinNewcastleanymore?’
Isniffatmyarmpitandseewhatshemeans.
‘Youshouldtrymine,’shesays,openingthewindow.‘Stephandesignedit.Hundredsoftiny,mirroredtiles,sowecanwatchyouinpieceswhileyouwash.’
Shesmilesthisbigopensmilethatdoesn’tbelongonherface,nodoubtoneofClara’snewaccessoriespracticedinfrontofthosemirroredtilesathousandtimes,tohitjusttherightambiguousnuance.Itworks.I’venoideawhethershe’sseriousornot.
‘Sure,’Isay,lookingoutthewindow,withClaralaughingtoherselfbesideme.
Thehumofthetyresisvaguelysoothing,untilitmakesmethinkoftheVolvostillparkedoutsidetheflat.Thatremindsme.IneedtoringPeeler,tellhimwhat’sgoingon,andthathecanhavethecarandwhateverhewantsfromtheflat.Tryandpretendthatmakesupforleavinghimtodealwiththefall-out.
I’llsendhimsomemoney,tellhimtogetoutofNewcastle,buthewon’t.ThosebigearsstarttoringifhegoesamileoutofWalker.He’sinfortheduration.Buthe’llbealright.ThegoodthingaboutPeelerishelacksambition.ThatstopshimgettingintoalltheshitIgetinto.He’lldoafewlittledeals,getby,andwhenthefighting’sdone,somebody’lltakeoverdealinggreeninWalkerandPeeler’llslotrightinthere,helpingthemout,keepinghisheaddown,andmakingthebestlasagnanorthofNaples.
Thetaxislows,bumpingpastarowofwarehouses,grasssproutingbetweenclustersofacro-propsonthehalf-builtplotsbetweenthem.Itremindsmeofhome.Thesignsthatthebuildershavebeenandgone,andthere’snotmuchchancethey’llcomeback.
Wepullupoutsidewhatlookslikeasealedrailwaytunnel.
There’sahugearchbrickedupwithpalegreybreezeblocksandbattereddoubledoorsthatseemtinyinsidethatgreatclosedbrickmouth.ClarasayssomethinginSpanishandhandsthedriveracrispgreennote.Thedoorclicksopen.Istepoutontoaroadstrewnwithwhitedustandrubble,andthetaxipullsaway.
Therearefourpaint-splatteredstepsleadinguptothedoubledoors,andabrassplaqueboltedtothewall.Iwalkupthestepsandlaymyhandontheplaque.
‘ElViaducto,’Isayoutloud,rememberingthenameinClara’sflexiblemouth,herlonglegscurledalongmysofa.
‘Notyet,’Clarasays,takingmyhandandleadingmeacrossthestreettowardsarowofduskyorangebuildings.
UpcloseIcanseethatthey’reoldhouses,convertedtosomethingbetweenshopsandmarketstalls.There’smaybeadozenofthem,eachwithbasketsoutside,sellingbeadsandherbsandpotteryandpaintings,andatthetopoftherow,aglass-frontedcafé.
Theplaceisprettydead,justanoldguystandingbehindthecounterwithnarroweyesdugintohisleatheryface,andtwoyoungeronessittingoppositehimonhighstools,eatingsomethingofftinyplates.Claratellsmetogetatableandleansinbetweenthemtoorder.
Thereareonlythreetables,butthey’reallempty.Ichoosetheoneclosesttotheopendoor,putmycaseonthechairbesidemeandholdmyfaceuptothewarmdraftfromoutside.Theworstoftheheatisfading,butI’mstillsweatinginsidemyColoradojacket.Ishrugitoff,overthebackofmychair.Icheckthezippedpocket,feelingformygold-wrappedparcelwithitspurplebow,andafoldednewspaperfallsoutoftheotherside.TheNewcastleEveningChronicle
Ipickthepaperupanddropitonthetable,staringatthosewordsfromfaraway,withthatgrainypictureinthebottomcorner.Amanonamotorbike,stripedfootballshirtshowingthroughhisopenjacket.
‘Wehavetendaysfromtomorrow,’Clarasays,puttingtwotinycupsofcoffeeonthetable.‘Afterthat,we’vegottostartsettingupforPedroHernandez.’Shetakesasip,andgivesmeatoothysmile.
‘That’sbrilliant,Clara,’Itellher.‘Butwillyousitdown.Ineedaminute,youknow,tochillout.’
‘No,no,no,’sheshakesherhead.‘Stillsettingup.Loadstodo.
Thepublicity’sgonebrilliantly,giventhatwe’vehadnotimetoworkwith.Shewidenshereyesatmelikethesweetestgirlyoucouldevermeet,anditamazesmethatacreaturelikeherexists.
‘WegotapieceinLaGamberra,writtenbyyourstruly,withjustabitofhelpfromJose-Luisonthetranslation.I’llshowyou.There’sagreatpicture.’
Myeyesfallbacktothegrainypictureinfrontofme.FullstorypagenineMyhandcreepsacrossthetable,liftingthecorners;three,five,seven.
Clarasnatchesitawayfromme.
‘ForGod’ssake,Tom.Youwon’tfinditintheEveningChronicle,’shethrowsthepaperintoheremptychair.
‘They’rethinkingaboutapieceinLaImagennextweek,butIcan’tgetanysenseoutofthemaboutwhetherthey’regoingtorunit.Theykeephasslingustopayforadvertisingandyouwouldn’tbelievewhatthatcosts,butJose-Luisknowstheeditor,sothere’sachance.’
‘That’sgreat,Clara,’Isay,anditshouldbe,butallIwantistogetmyhandsonthatpaper.
‘HesaysifwegetanyrealinterestwecanhavethelastweekinOctober,butit’snotdefinite.Jose-Luisdoesn’treallylikeyoungguys.Hesaysyouneedtolivebeforeyoucanwork.Youneedtohaveastorybeforeyoucantellit.Somethinglikethatanyway,itdoesn’ttranslate.’
‘Right,’Isay,‘I’llrememberthat.’
Imakemyselflookupather,andIrealizeshe’smoreonedgethanI’veeverseenher,ifyoudon’tcountherfaketantrums,whichIdon’t.Ormaybeit’sjustme“projecting”,likeClarawouldsay.
Myleg’sgoing,bobbingunderthetable.I’mwillinghertogetoutofhere,andfinally,themessagegetsthrough.
‘LikeIsay.Gottago.Loadstodo,’shepressesherlipstomine.
‘Chillouthereifyouwant.’
‘Thanks,Clara.’
Isqueezeherhand,andwatchherhipsswaydownthenarrowlane,pastthewarehouses,andupthosefourpaint-splatteredsteps.Thedouble-doorsswingclosedbehindher,andImakeagrabforthepaper,knockingClara’scoffeecupoverandsendingabrownpoolspreadingacrossthetable.ButIgettopagenine.
They’veprintedthesamepicture,onlybigger.Amanonamotorbikewithonefootuponthefoot-pegandtheotherstretchingdowntotheroad.
Itrytoreadtheexpressiononhisface,butthepicture’sblurredanddarkwithcoffee,soIhavetorememberit.Him,squintingupthroughthecamera,withatight-lippedsmile,andawispytashfightingforattentiononhisrattyface.
LocalManDrowned,theheadlinebooms.
Thebodyofamanlateridentifiedasforty-nine-year-oldDarylBoylewasdredgedfromtheTyneintheearlyhoursofthismorning.
PreliminaryindicationsarethatMr.BoylemayhavefallenfromtheMillenniumBridgewhilstundertheinfluenceofalcohol.Hehadbeendeadforapproximatelythirty-sixhours.
Mr.BoyleofBelmontSt,Walkerwasknowntosocialservices,andhadenduredalong-runningbattlewithalcoholaddiction.
Policereportnosuspiciouscircumstancesatthescene.
ThebodywasdiscoveredbyMrs.MargaretO’HaraofRoperyDriveinNewcastle.“IwaswalkingalongthequaywithBetsy,myPoodle,whenIspottedastrangeshapefloatingintheriver.Atfirst,Ithoughtitwasapieceofdriftwood,somethingfallenoffaboat…”
Igobackafewlines.
Policereportnosuspiciouscircumstances…
IturnthepaperoverandpressitdownoverClara’sspiltcoffee,andthenIdrinkmineinonestrong,tepidmouthful.
Thesunducksbehindthecafé,castingashadowoverthebuildingsacrossthestreet.Thetwoyoungguyswalkoutintothestreet,andthebarmanfollowsthem.Hedisappearsintotheshopnextdoor,leavingmealoneinhiscafé.Coolernow,Ipullmyjacketbackonandstareacrossatthebattereddoubledoorsinthathugegreywall,asiftheymightgivemesomeclueastowhat’sinside.
Deepdown,Iknowalready.ButIcan’tfacethatnow.Notalone.Notwithouther.
So,Istare,andIwait,andIhope.
Thecarcomesdownfromthefarendofthelane.That’swhyitdoesn’tregister,notevenwhentheyellowbonnetjutsintotheperipheryofmyvision,andthetyrescrunchtoastop.Thedooropensandcloses.
Ilookintomyemptycoffeecupandslidethepalmsofmyhandsalongmyjeans
Lilacsandshoes,palebluejeans,andthatsameloosewhiteshirt.Shewalksdowntowardsthecafe,headhigh,leaningbackagainsttheslope.
Istandup.Thetablescrapesacrossthefloor.
Herhairistiedback,herfaceclearasagirl’s.
I’minthedoorwaywhenthelightofrecognitionsoftensherdarkbrowneyes.Herfaceburstsintothathugedimplysmile,andI’mholdingherwarmbodytightagainstmeforalongtime.Notmoving,notuntilI’msureshe’sreal.
Myeyesopentotheleather-facedbarman,waitingtogetintohiscafé.Idrawhertooneside,andhegoespast,takinghistime,studyingAnnieasifshe’sapieceofsculpture.Hesmilesapproval,showingusthegapbetweenhissplayedfrontteeth.
Welookbackathim,stillclingingtoeachother,andgigglelikekids.Ifeelthetensionfallawayfromme,onlyrealizingtheweightofitnowthatit’sgone.Therewon’tbeabettertimethanthis
Iunzipthepocketonmyleatherjacket,andIdon’tknowwhy,maybeit’sjustthatI’msoexcited,butIgodownononekneeholdingtheslimgoldboxuptowardsher,withitssilkypurplebow.
Shestopslaughing,andtakestheboxwithherdelicate,tentativefingers.Herteethcreepoverherlip,andastonedigsintomyknee.
‘So?Openit.’
Herheadsways,liftingandturning,dancingtoitssecretsong.Shepullsthebow.
‘Goon.’
Sheholdstheparcelinherpalm,aboutthelengthofherhandfromwristtopolishedfingernails.Sheliftsthelid.Herlipspartandshestaresatmethroughshiningeyes.
Istandupanddrawhertowardsme.
Herfingerstracealinearoundmyeye.
‘Beautiful,’shesays.
Ikissher.
Sheshuddersagainstmychestandpushesmeaway.
‘Isupposeyou’llbewantingtoshareitthen,willyou?’
Shesniffs,andrunshersleeveacrosshercheek,leavingagreysmudgeofeyeliner.HernosewrinklesandIseethemeresthintofRumpelstiltskinonhergorgeousface.
‘Well,’shesays,peelingthepurpleandgoldwrapperoffherCadbury’sCaramel.‘Howaboutit,cowboy?’
Isnatchthechocolateoutofherhand,andgetagoodmouthful,gloopyasabrownbanana.
‘Hey,that’smine.’
Shegrabsforthechocolate,butshe’swaytooslow.Icatchherwristanddrawherclose,andIwhisperthosethreeterrifyingwordsthroughamouthfulofsoftmilkchocolate.ThenIleadherupthefourpaint-splatteredstepsofElViaducto.
We’reonthetopstepwhenIpracticallyhaveaheartattack.
Oldleatherfaceisshoutingacrossfromthedoorofhiscafé,andhe’sholdingupmynasty,tartan,twenty-fivegrandsuitcase.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIX
TheBenjaminExhibition
Idon’tknowwhatIexpected,butthisisn’tit.Istandonamarblefloorlookingupatwhatmightoncehavebeensomesortoftunnel,andIfeelasifI’vesteppedintosomevastandstrange,andutterlyfamiliarworld.Brightwhitewallscurvearoundgreatarchedwindows,witharowofskylightstwentyfeetabove.Thewallsarehungwithironchainslikesomefuturisticdungeon,andeveninthedusk,theairisfilledwithlight.Orangetintedbeamsfallingthroughtheglassroof,crisscrossingthepolishedfloor.
There’sapicturebesideme,hanginglooseoffthecurveofthewall,movingminutelyonitsshortchain.Theframeisaduskygrey,blendingwiththepaintedsky.There’sared-brickhouseandafigureintheforeground,anelforpixiewithitsfistsclenched,andonepointedbootstampingonthecrackedpaving.Youcanfeeltheanger.Chinthrustforward,faceaswrinkledasthecreature’sgreenfelthat.Whatgivesitawayisn’thercaramelskin,orthewire-woolhairjuttingfromunderherhat,butthatshe’sstandingoutsidethecrackedreddoorofnumbersixBelmontStreet,withthatsilvermermaidknockersuspendedoverherhead
‘Thanksabunch.’Anniejabsafingerinmystomach.
‘What,’Isay,spreadingbothhandsandtryingnottosmile,butAnnieisn’tlookingatme.
Thenextpictureissimilar,buthere,apairofhugefloweryshortsflareoutoverherstick-thinlegs.Therearehalfadozenmore,variationsonatheme,thelastofthemwithRumpelstiltskingrinningthroughafacefullofchocolate.
‘Bastard,’shesays.
‘Don’tbeangry,’Isay,takinghercheeksinmyhand,whisperinginherear.
‘Youhaven’tchangedabit.’
Shepunchesmeinthechest.
Icatchherfistandtrytokissher,butshespinsaway,hairflickingacrossmyface.
‘Eventhosedamnshorts,’shemumbles,stompingpastthePixiesfuriosas,asClarahaslabelledthem.
Chicaenunpuente,thenextlabelreads,overateenagegirlrunningacrossabridge,plaitsflying,onesilversandalturninghighagainstadeepbluesky.
ThereisonlyoneChicaenunjardín,andthatisunfinished,thegirl’sheadthrownbackagainstatree’sgreen-greyridges,tingedtoyellowwherethelightfallsthroughtheleaves.Herfrontteethbitedown,squeezingthecolourfromherlip,browneyeswide,focusedbeyondtheartist.
IfeelAnnie’sintakeofbreath,butIwalkon,tothebentfigureofanoldmaninadoorway,ashadowagainstabrightyellowlight.
Elhombresombrío,thelabelsays,butIamnotinterestedinClara’slabels.He’smymiserableangel,andit’swaytoolatetochangenow.Istareathim,thisoldfriendinanunfamiliarplace,andthecrashofbrokenglassechoesinmyears.
‘Isawhim,’Anniesays,hervoicesmallanddistant,andIfeelarushofsadnessforthegirlwhobrokethatwindow.
Thelastraysofsunlightcomeslicingthroughtheskylights,shadingthecurvedwhitewallstopeach,lightinganarcofcoppercoinsinshadesofgold.Iwatchthefrozenfountainsprayintoacoldbluesky,andIhearthemclatteronthestationtiles,beyondawoollyoutstretchedhand.IfeelthepaininmyfootwhereIkickedhismetalcupandthesharpertwistofguiltinmystomach.Iwalkawayfromhim,stillpretending,refusingtolookback.Idon’tcare.I’mnotscared.Butthepictureholdsme,repeatingitself.Canvasaftercanvasoffallingcoins,eachpainfullyimperfect.Mypitiful,spitefullifelaidbarefortheworldtosee.
Analcoveiscutoutofthecurvedwall,likeanicheinachurch.
Iduckinside,comingfacetofacewithabrightgrinningdevil,dancingbyachild’sbed.Thefigureblursasifthereisnotone,butthree,overlaid,tailshighandpoisedasscorpions’.Istumblebackwiththefearburningundermyarms,andthebloodthunderingroundmyhead.
Thesamesliteyeslookinatmefrombothsides.Bluetattoosslitherupknottedforearms.Pinklipsglistenandhandspresstogether,praying,forwhat?Daryl,whenhewasagod,oradevil,beforehebecameavictimliketherestofus.Iholdhisblue-paintedeyes,andIseehimfallingawayfromme,justifying,andexcusingtothelast,splashingintotheshinybrownwater.
Ifeelnoguilt,onlythestrengthtofacemyanger,andtoletitgo.
Istepoutofthealcoveandlookinsteadatared-hairedgirlinadimlylitbar,herfreckledfacetintedlilacinthelamplight.
Shelooksacross,asifatthenextcanvass,ablondbare-chestedboykickingaballagainstacrumblingwall,hisfacedrippingfatreddrops.
Asecondboyislaidoutonarottingcross,anailthroughhiseye.Heischainedtothecellar’sstonefloor,coldanddefiant,woodenasPinocchio,evenasthehammercomesswingingdown.
Carlatleastisbrave,inhisdull-wittedway.
Froggaisdifferent,pinneddownbyaweboftinythreads,flatagainstaboard,justlikewedidinbiology,slicingoursubjectopentoseewhatwasinside.
Ireachuptothecanvassandtouchhisslimygreenskin,hisswollen,blood-filledeyes,andIfeelthattingleinmyhead,thebuzzofwhenI’mreallygettingthere,outofmyheadandintomywork,mixingmypaintsandmypain.
‘Aye,aye,’Iwhisper,suckinginthedanksmellofthecellar.
‘Eye,eye,’andIhearhimanswering,pleading,andbeggingmeforpity.
‘Youdon’tknowwhatit’sliketobeme.Tohavethesebulgingeyes,thisslimy,rottensoul.’
‘It’llbealright,’Itellhim.‘Icanhelpyou,’andIreachinwithmymiddlefingerlockedstraight,anddrivedownthesideofhisnose,intothesocket.Popgoestheweasel.
Hiscanvassescoverthewholebackwall,eachlitbyatinyspotlight,toobrightandstark,awayfromthecellar’sgloom.
Thetinglingfades.Meaningdriftsawayfromme,likealoverlostandgone.Thereisonlyconfusion,andshame.Annieissilentatmyside.Hereyesopenwide,followingminetohisbloodiedgreenskinpinnedoutontheconcretefloor.
Iwanttorunfromthesightofmyowngrotesquerage,todenythesetwistedhorrors.Lettheworldgawp,whatdoesthatmatter,butnotAnnie.HowcanIexplain?
Thisisnotmywork,onlywhatisleftafterIgosearchinginsidemyself,throughpathslitinragingscarlet.Therecanbenocontrol,nodecency.IcannomorechangewhatIseethanIcanchangeGod.Iamavisitor,aspy,athiefinsidemyself,strugglingagainstforcesfargreaterthanwillorbelief.Andwhilethelightshinesinthedarknesstherecanbenopretence,onlyseeingwhatisthereandgettingitout,purgingmyselfofbitternessandrage,layingitonthecanvassinthatdamp,coldhole.
AndthatiswhereitshouldhavestayedDreamsoftortureandvengeancelefttorotinthecellar,leavingmefreetorisefromthedarkness,pureandcleanandfitfortheworld.
ButIknowthetruth.Eachfixistemporary,flutteringandfadinglikeacandleinastorm.Alreadythepeaceisdrainingoutofme,thedarknessbuilding.Iamacriminalontherunfrommyself,andmydestinyistobejumpingatshadowsforever.
Thehighwallsclosein,trappingmeinmychildhoodfearswiththestinkofthecellarturningmystomach,it’sdulllightcastingashadowoverthesebrightwalls,stirringmetobegin.
Torestafreshcanvassontheeaselandmixmyochreandumberandviridiangreen,tosearchagainfortheashgreypallorofhonestdefeat,thatmightsetmefreeofmyselfforafewhoursmore
IturnmybackonFrogga,andonthatdarknessinmyself,andinthenotchedalcoveoppositeDaryl,IfindMam,tallandproudinherlongvelvetcoat.Hereyesarebrightwithlaughter,mischievousasachild’s.Asmallhandreachesup,holdinghers.
Benjy’sormine.
Thesame.
Thereisnochild’shandinthenextpicture,onlythelegendVlad,halfdisplayedonatoobigbottlebulgingthroughherfingers.Hershouldershunchasifagainsttheweight,withthatsamelongcoatstainedclosetoblackagainstherdyedblondhair.Ilookatthenextcanvass,watchinghershrinkawayfromme;eyesdulled,hairdarkenedtoawitch’snest,brownteethrottedtostumps.
Iwalkfasternow,pastletterstiedwithfrayingstring,edgesblackandcurlingonanopenfire.Mychildish,unreadhandwritingstillvisible,greyondarkeninggrey.
ComebackBenjy…please…
Andonbeyondthefaceless,crouchingchildren,withouteyes,withoutfeatures,onlymouthshowling,clingingtogetherinterrorofsomeunseenhorror,untilatlast,Icometothebeginning.
Rainbowcoloursfloodthroughthedarknessofoldercheapercanvasses,somenobiggerthanmyhand.Iseeacabinettipping,whiskyfalling,ablondboyinmismatchedpyjamaswiththelightplayingonhisgoldenhair.Hismouthclosed.Eyeswideinterror.
Andthelast,apalehand,blackhairsthickasgrassaroundathingoldband,liftinghimawayfromme.Hisfacestretchesinasilentscream,savingme,andcondemningme.
‘Terrible,’Anniewhispers.
Herfingerscreepintomyhand.HerlipscloseandpartinanexpressionIcannotread,andthenherhandisgone.Sheturnsherback,andstandingbetweenmeandBenjy,sheliftsacanvassoffitschain.
‘Thisbelongstoyou,’shesays,andhandsmethepicture.
Ilookatthesmallcanvassbackedinblueandred,greenandgold,withthesunlightshiningbehind.Theboyslieintheforeground,onanuncoveredduvet.Myarmisstretchedout,withBenjy’sblondheadinthecrookofmyneck,hiskneebetweenmine,ourhandsheldtightbetweenus.
Ifeeltheoldhopelesspity,andIrealisethatmyanguishisn’tonlyforBenjy,butformeaswell.ForthechildwhowasleftwithDarylBoyle,letdownbyhismam,whileshaggedoutsocialserviceslookedon,safebehindtheirplasticscreens.
Buteventhroughthepain,myheartlifts,becausethesearethetruestories.Intellingthem,starkandbrutalastheyare,Iamright.Thatisthepurposeofmywork.Totakethepainofloveandhate,guiltandfearandrage,allthetruthoflife,andcompressitontocanvass.Tocreateapathwaythroughothers’
eyes,intotheirsouls,wherethattruthcanagainbeopeneduptoitsfullagonizingmagnitude.
Thatismypurpose.Toholdfasttomytruth.Toharnessitinmywork,butalsotounderstandthatifthemessageisalteredonitsjourney,thatisrightandfitting,becausewe’resurelyallpermittedtostruggleforsurvivalwiththeweaponsofourchoice.Tofightourpainonourchosenfield.
Livingwithallofthetruthallofthetimeistoohardforanyone,andifpeoplehavebeentellingstoriessincewecouldspeak,itisbecauseeveryoneofusneedsourfiction.ImustallowtheworlditsdeceptionsandacceptthatIwillbemisunderstood,thatthepastmaybeasflexibleasthefuture.
Andevenifallthemessageislost,isthatmyfailure?
Perhaps?Butperhapstherearesomewhowishonlytogawpandwalkaway,insulatedfromthepain.Numb,andhalf-dead,butsafeintheiremptiness.IknowIcannotreachthemall,buttotrulytouchasinglesoulisambitionenough.
Wemustallfindourpurpose.Mineistoholdtomytruth,toharnessitinmywork,andifitchangesonthecanvassthatishowitshouldbe.Themostfundamentaltruthofallisthattruthismalleable,evolvingovertime,asImyselfamTommyFarrierandTommyBoyle,Benjy’sbrother,andAnnie’slover.Adrugdealer,anartist,andamurderer.ThesamepersonIwas,andutterlydifferent.
So,whatamIleftwith?Coloursandtexturesandshiftingsand.
Ishrugandlaughatthedarkenedskylights.
‘It’salright,Tommy,’Anniesays,takingBenjy’sweightfrommyhandsandlayinghimdownonthemarblefloor.Sheholdsmetoherchest,andIclingonagainstthesuckofquicksandbeneathme.
Whenitcomes,hervoiceishuskyinthedarkeninghall.
‘Iloveyou,Tommy.’
Iburrowdeeper,suckinginthesweetsmellofherneck,untilsheliftsmyfaceandkissesme,releasingthelumpinmythroat.
‘So,thisistheTommyFarrierExhibition,’shesays.
‘No,’Isay,lookingupthroughblurringeyes.‘Notthat.’
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN
StAndrewsGate
AyounghippoistrampoliningonmybedSherollsover,andwithherarmwarmonmyneckandherthighheavyonmine,shesnoresinmyear.Ikisshercheekandturnaway,incareful,sleeppreservingstages.Iloveher,thoughmaybethingsaredifferentnow.Lessintense,lessselfish,likemywork.
I’velearntthehardway,whichAnniesaysistheonlywayIlearnanything.IfIwanttosellpaintings,thenIhavetogivethepeoplewhattheywant.Thetouristslikegoldencoinsandpixies,sofortwoyears,that’swhattheygot.IsoldmyworkinthecallesandmercadosaroundBarcelona.SometimesImadeenoughmoneytopayformyoilsandcanvasses,sometimesnot,butstill,Igotthatbuzzeverytimeastrangerboughtafragmentofmymemory.
Eddie’stwenty-fivegrandislonggoneFivewenttoPeeler,andtherehadtobefiveforLou.ItookthetrainupovertheFrenchbordertopostthemoneyfromMarseille,withAnnieclosebesideme,holdingbackthememories.
Therestofthemoneystretchedoverayear,butwe’vehadtoomanyweekssincethen,livingonbreadandolives,runningoutthebackwhenourprune-facedlandladycamewheezingupthestairstoswearatusinCatalanandbrokenEnglish.Shethreatenedtochangethelocksadozentimes,butsheneverdid,sonowthatthingsarefinallycomingtogether,GorgelinaArroyoLopez,aka.Prune-facewillbefirstinlineforacrateofmedicinalbrandy,andafatwadofcash.Well,second,afterClara,whotellsmethatagentsalwaysgetpaidfirst.
ImakeoutlikeClara’srippingmeoff,butthetruthis,shemadeithappen.Ifsomeofmyworkisgood,Idon’tkidmyselfthatIcouldhavedoneitwithouther.Shemighthaveherissues,butthendon’tweall.AndwhateverelseyousayaboutClara,sheknowsherbusiness.
We’reinValencianextmonth,forathree-weekshow,withtwocanvassesalreadysoldforbizarreandunlikelyamounts.
There’stalkofMalaga,andevenMadrid,andplentymoreenquiriesfromwhatClaracallsthe“clevermoney”.Thatmeansinvestors.Peoplewhodon’tevenlookatthecanvass.
Theartbusiness.Shemakesitsoundseedyandcorrupt,andmaybeitis,butIcan’thelpbelievingthatsomeoneouttheremustgenuinelylikemywork.
Themattresslifts,bouncingmeoutofmythoughts,andAnniestumblestothebathroomwiththefuturecradledinherbigbelly.BenjaminSurinderFarrierdeCatalunya,ourlittleEuropean.Acitizenoftheworld.
He’sdueanyday.Thecot’smadeup,andallthosetinyclothesarewaitingforhiminthecupboard.We’reallset,readyascanbe,thoughotherparentslaughoutloudwhenItellthem.
Maybeonedayhisbeautifulnanawillcomeandvisit,whenshetakesabreakfromdrinkingherselftodeath.
“I’vebeendryforages,”shetellsme,slurringherliesdownthephone.
Iwon’tpretenditdoesn’thurt,butIacceptthatitisherchoice.
Shewon’tharmAnnieandme,orlittleBenjy.Iwon’tletherbringusdown.I’mfinishedwithallofthat,theboozeandthedrugs,thedodgydealsandstolenmoney,becausethat’stheonethingAnniewaswrongabout.
Sure,youcan’tchangewhereyou’refrom,butyoucanchangewhereyou’regoing.Andifyoudo,thenyoucanchangewhoyouare.
Thefutureiscallingusforward.Ionlyneedtoletgoofthepast,butI’mtoowiredtosleep,tootiredtoholdbackthememory,andIdriftawayfromourapartmentonthesunnyMediterraneancoasttothatblusterydayatStAndrew’sgate,withthewindblowingfineneedlesofrainintomyeyes.
IleaveJuliaHarperandwalkthroughtheopengatewithmyfeetscrapingonthelonggraveldriveandmyheadbentagainsttheweather,andthefuture.Therainslantsdown,darkeninganoldsandstonebuilding.Coldstreamsrundownmyneck.Iturnmycollarupandpressontowardsadistantlineoftrees,countingofftherows,andthenthecolumns.
Sixhasfallenforward,grassgrowingtallaroundit.
Sevenisalowgreystone,theinscriptionwornaway.
Eightisclearer,ArthurRycraft,onblackmarble.Lovinghusband,father,andgrandfather,4thSeptember1885–12thDecember1969
NineisBettyJones,oncrumblinggrey,1894–1947.Takentoosoon.Fifty-threeyears,shegot.
Istepoffthepath,weavingbetweentheheadstones,headturningleftandright,compulsivelycalculatingages.
MaudeCryer,seventy-three.
MelDavis,eighty-one.
JennyArcher,ninety.
Everygraveiscleanandtended,andthedeadaregettingolder.Liveslived,childrengrown,makingwayforthosewhocomenext.Thereisnotragedyintheirloss.
EricColesucksthestrengthfrommylegs.
Inlovingmemoryofourlittleman,5thofJuly1995–1stofDecember1999.
Aplasticwindmillliesfacedownonthegrass.Ishakeitcleanandplantit,deep,besideteddy’soutstretchedleg.Waterysunlightplaysonwetredpetals,turninginthebreeze.Alltheseblusterydays,theseasons,andtheyears,andstill,someoneisbringingErichistoys.
Iwalkon,faster,stridingoverburiedbodies,bonespickedcleanbyworms,jigsawsunmade,thrownbackintheirboxes.
Stonesblur,mergingingreyandmarbleandcrumblingsandstone.Theirownersstareupatmethroughhollow,sightlesseyes.
BenjaminHarper1986–2001,onasmallwhitestone,nohigherthanmyknees.
MaryDawnMatthews,1940-1996.
Imoveon,andback.Itistheagethatstopsme,notthename.
Therearetoomanyofthose.Farrier.Boyle.Harper.
BenjaminHarper,1stAugust1986–22ndAugust2001,belovedsonofJuliaandPeter,brotherofThomas.
Itouchthecoolnessofthestone,tracinghisnameandmine,kneeling,asclosetomybrotherasIhavebeenintwentyyears.
‘Benjy.’Ifoldmyarmsaroundhimandpressmyfacetohisstonycheek.
IlovedhimandImissedhimforalltheseyears,andIamreadyforthepain,butnotforthisconfusion.Thesurgesofloveandjealousyburningthroughmychest,andthisstrangetruththatcomestomeonlynow.IlovedBenjy,andIwantedhimback,butnotforhissake,notreally,noteventoeasemyguilt.
WhatIreallywantedwastosoftenMam’spain,tobringherbacktome,becauseitwasalwaysherthatImissedthemost.
AllthosenightsIcriedintoourRainbowBlanketandprayedtoGodandNanatobringBenjyhome,itwasMamIwanted
TheoldMam,mouthingtomeoverDaryl’sleatheryshoulder,withherhipsswaying,andherfeettip-tappingonthelino.
‘Mopwithatash,’shesays,winkingatmewiththatsparkleinhereyes.
Thatwaswhatyoutook,Benjy.Becausefromtheverybeginning,webothknewitwasyouthatMamlovedbest.Iwasalwayssecondprize.Ilovedher,butshelovedyou.
That’showitwas.
I’moldenoughtounderstandthevagariesoflove,howlittlesaywehaveinthatcruel,silly,merry-go-round.Butstill,Ifeelmyshouldersshaking,neithercryingnorlaughing,butreleasingsomenamelessemotion,forBenjy,forMam,andforme.
‘Yourname’sBoyle,’Daryl’sfaceiscloseupagainstmine.
‘Boyle.Sayit.Andyouhaven’tgotabrother.’
‘Ido,’Iscreamintohisbrown-stainedteeth.‘Ido.Ihaveabrother,’Ishoutatthestoneandtheswollensky.‘AndIalwayswill.’
‘LoveTommy,’heanswers.
Hisvoiceishuskywiththemorning,hisheadwarmonmychest.Hewatchesmewithwidegreeneyes.
Ikisshischeek,andmyhandfindsthestickysweetnessinthecrookofhiselbow.Armsandlegsentwine.Hisfingersclutchattheneckofmypyjamas,andthathuskyvoicecomesagain,fromsoveryfaraway.
‘It’salright,Tom-Bomb,’hesays,forgivingmeforlovingMammost,forneedingherwhenshewasn’tthere.‘Youwereonlyfive.’
Iholdtighttothewhitemarble,andIrememberwhatJuliaHarpertoldme,howwhenhefirstcametoher,hecriedeverynight.NotforMam,butforme.
Realisationraisesthehairalongmyneck.
AsIlovedMam,andshelovedBenjy,soBenjylovedme.IwashisKingandhisclown,andhisprotector.
“I’msosorry,”shesaid,“butSocialServicescouldn’tfindyou.”
‘Well,I’vefoundyou,Benjy,andIwon’tletthemtakeyou.
Noteveragain.Notever.’
Theoldangerburnsthroughmychest.Iseethosesullenwomenbehindtheirplasticwindows,andMr.Pissed-off,withhisrulesandregulations.Noneofthemcaringenoughtoevenwipethecrustedbloodoffmyface.
IsitonthewetgrassandstareatBenjy’sstone,andthoseabsurd,impossibledates,1stAugust1986–22ndAugust2001,andtheangerdrainsawayasfastasitcame.
I’mnotlookingattheyears.I’mlookingatthe22ndofAugust,thedaybeforemysixteenthbirthday.ThedayIwenttoElliotTerrace.ThedayIstoodonthatplatformatCentralStationandleanedintotheroaringtrain.
Therushofairhummedinmyhead.Iswayedforward,waytoofartostop.Thepainwasgonelikeitwasneverthereatall.
Likenirvana.
Buttherewasthishandonmyshoulder.Sostrong,forsuchalittlehand.
Benjyheldmeback.
HegavemeanotherchanceandifIdon’ttakeit,thatwillbethebetrayal.Ihaveabrotherwholovesme.Thereisnoneedtofakemywaythroughlife,separateandaloneinmysealedglassjar.Icanlove,andbeloved,becauseBenjyknowsIamworthy.
‘Thankyou,mybrother.’Iclosemyeyesandkisshismarbleface,watchingayoungersunrise,blueandredandgoldthroughthestripesonourRainbowBlanket.
‘Sleep,Benjy,sleepforaslongasyouwant.’
IpressmyhandtothedampgrassabovehimandturnbacktowardsStAndrew’sgatewithmyheadheldhigh.Thesunglintsthroughabrokencloud,buttherainkeepsfalling,runninginstreamsdownmyface,leavingmesafetocry.
IfyouenjoyedTheSilentBrother,youmightalsoenjoyourothernorthernnovels,availablenowatNorthodox.co.uk
Author’sNote
DearReader,
Thankyoufortrustingmewithyourtime,andyourheart.
IhopeyouenjoyedTommyandAnnie’sjourney,andthattheyhaveleftyoufeelingfulfilled,perhapsevenalittleheartbroken?
That’smyaim,atleast–forustoreachoutthroughthisstrangelydistantandintimaterelationshipofreaderandwriter,andtouch.
Ifyoudidfeelsomeconnection,thenplease,dome,andotherpotentialreadersafavour,andpopareviewonAmazon
Itdoesn’thavetobelong.Asimple‘wortharead’isgreat,thoughifyou’vegotmoretosay,that’sevenbetter.Thefactisthatreadersaremorelikelytotrustindependentreviewsthatapublisher’ssalespitch.
Ofcourse,ifyouhatedthisbook,pleasedon’ttellanyone–exceptme.Ineedtoknow,becauseit’sonlythroughyourfeedbackthatIcanlearntomakemywritingbetter.SowhateveryouthinkofTheSilentBrother,I’dbeveryhappytohearfromyouonTwitter@SimonVdVwriter,orviamywebsiteatwww.SimonVanderVelde.comwhereyoucansignupforfreenewsandstories.
Andifyouwouldliketoreadmoreofmywork;thegoodnewsisthatmynextnovel,Dogwoodisintheplanning–whilemyawardwinningshort-storycollectionBackstoriesisavailablenowfromAmazon,(https://amzn.to/3j8D2Hp),andallgoodbookshops,withBackstoriesIIdueoutintheautumnof2022.
Wishingyoucontentedandpeacefulreading,nowandinthefuture,becausewhateveranyonesays,there’snothingsomeditative,mindbroadeningandhealingasagoodbook.
SimonVanderVelde
VictimsorPerpetrators?
TheInspirationBehindTheSilentBrother
WorkingintheeastendofNewcastlecouldbeprettydispiriting.
Hardaswetriedtomakethingsbetter,therewasalwayssomeone,plentyofsomeones,readytotearitdown.Drugandalcoholabusewaseverywhere–aswasangerandfrustration,ventedinseeminglypointless,andoftenviciousviolence.
Putinanewcentralheatingsystem,they’dripitouttosellthecopperpipe.Givethemdouble-glazing,they’dputabrickthroughit.Duringtheriotsof1999,localpeoplesetfiretotheirneighbour’shomes.Intheend,itwashardtoavoidfeelingthatthesepeopledeservedwhattheygot.
Theydidn’t.
Therewasatime,inlivingmemoryforsome,whenfullyhalftheworld’sshippingwasbuiltontheTyne,andpeoplewouldjokeabouttheobviousfoolishnessofbringingcoalstoNewcastle.Notanymore.
Thesedays,whenamajoremployerclosesdown,specialteamsarebroughtintotheareatohelpwithretrainingandtoattractnewemployers.ButinThatcher’sBritain,whentheunions,heavyindustryandeventhenorthitselfwastheenemy
–closingdowntheminesandthedeclineoftheshipyardswasanendinitself.Avictory.SomethinglikethevictoryinIraq,withnoplanbeyondwinningthe‘war’.
Theeffectonthesecommunitieswasdevastating.Generationsofskilledworkerslosttheirjobs.Morethanthat,theylosttheiridentityandtheirunion,andoftentheirfamilies.Howcouldtheyteachtheirchildrenthemeaningofahardday’sworkforafairday’spay?–inthisnewworldofeverymanforhimself.
Andwhywouldtheirchildrenlistentotheseoldmens’stories?
–whenbothfatherandchildrenweresigningonatthesamedoleoffice.
Abandonedanduseless,theseonceproudmenfadedaway.
Worsestill,theirchildrengrewupwithouthopeordirection.
Theoldorderwasgone,andtherewasnothingtoreplaceitandnothingtodo,exceptanaesthetizeyourselffromdaytoday,untilthehopelessnessgottoomuch–anderuptedintoviolence.Ambitionmeantgettingafewquidtogether,enoughtoscoreadealtogetyouthroughtheemptiness,untilnextweek’sgiro.Dignityandcommunitywerereplacedbycrimeandboozeanddrugs.
We’reonthethirdgenerationnow.Forthem,theglorydaysaresomethingthehistoryteacherdronesonabout.Ithasnothingtodowiththeirlives.
Inacommunitywithsolittlehope,overstretchedsocialservicesandpolicingprioritieselsewhere,it’seasyforthegangsterstotakeover–andanyway,noonelikesagrass.Some,heroically,stayandfightfortheircommunity.Butthetruthisthatmostofthetime,thosewhocan,getout.
Thisistheworldourhero,Tommygrowsupin.SoifTheSilentBrotherisdarkinplaces,it’sbecausemyaimistotellithowitis.Tohighlightthelinkbetweenvictimandperpetrator,andshowyouthatoften,theyareoneandthesame.
Inwritingthisbook,Iaskedmyself–ifIhadgrownupinthisworld,what,ifIwasbraveenough,mightIhavedonetosurvive?ismyanswer.
SimonVanderVelde
March2022
Acknowledgements
Heartfeltthankstoeveryonewhohelpedmakethisbookallitcouldbe.Inparticular:
TothelateDaveRobson.Anold-schoolgentlemanwhosedecencyandoptimismshowedmethattherewasmoretoWalkerthanbadnewsheadlines,andwhenalocalgangsterblewuphiscar,hewashappytoexplainthatitwasjustamisunderstanding.
Tomypublishers,JamesandTed,andalltheteamatNorthodoxPress.Thankyouforyourfaithandsupport,andforyourexpertiseinbringingTheSilentBrothertotheworld.
TomyfriendsatGosforthWriters;KaronAlderman,BenAppleby-Dean,JohnHickmanandTrevorWoodfortheirinvaluableinsights,adviceandencouragement–withparticularthankstoTrevor,forlendingmethebenefitsofhisexperience.
Tomymanyreadersandreviewers.Thankyouforyourguidanceandreassurance,andforhelpingmeironoutthosenastyglitches.I’mgratefultoyouall,andwhilstthereisn’troomtomentioneveryone,Iwouldliketogivespecialthanksto:KateHorsley,forawardingaprizetomylittleshortstorybackinthemistsoftime,andnurturingtheseedthatbecameTheSilentBrotherAlliDavies,fortakingthetimetoreadandadviseontheearliestandroughestdraftsofthisstory.
NatalieWortleyforherexpertlegaladvice,(anyerrorsaremyown),DrReshmaRuiaandDavinaBannerfortheirsensitivityguidance,(again,anyinsensitivityfallsatmydoor),andtoJuliaDouglas,AdamClarke,KatieTurnbull,PatriciaCalef,GraceSmith,DeanneWallace,SarahFaichney,DianeClarke,theTsundokusquadandallthegreatpeopleofbook-Twitter,foryourunbridledenthusiasmandencouragement,becausethatkindofsupportreallyisajewelbeyondvalue.
Tomydog,Barney,fortakingmeonthoselongwalks,listeningpatientlytomyworstideas,andallowingmeroomtothink.Gooddog,Barney.
Tomyboys,Charlie&Tom,foryourinspiration.
Andmostofall,tomywifeNicola,forherpsychologicalinsights,herpatienceandherlove,withoutwhichTheSilentBrotherwouldneverhavebeenwritten.
SimonVanderVelde
April2022
TableofContents
Cover
AbouttheAuthor
TitlePage
Copyright
NotetoReaders
Dedication
Contents
1990
ChapterOne
ChapterTwo
ChapterThree
ChapterFour
ChapterFive
ChapterSix
ChapterSeven
ChapterEight
ChapterNine
ChapterTen
2001
ChapterEleven
ChapterTwelve
ChapterThirteen
ChapterFourteen
ChapterFifteen
ChapterSixteen
ChapterSeventeen
ChapterEighteen
2008
ChapterNineteen
ChapterTwenty
ChapterTwenty-One
ChapterTwenty-Two
ChapterTwenty-Three
ChapterTwenty-Four
ChapterTwenty-Five
ChapterTwenty-Six
ChapterTwenty-Seven
ChapterTwenty-Eight
ChapterTwenty-Nine
ChapterThirty
ChapterThirty-One
ChapterThirty-Two
ChapterThirty-Three
ChapterThirty-Four
ChapterThirty-Five
ChapterThirty-Six
ChapterThirty-Seven
Acknowledgements
Backmatter1
Backmatter2
Guide
Cover
Contents
TableofContents
Cover
AbouttheAuthor
TitlePage
Copyright
NotetoReaders
Dedication
Contents
ChapterOne
ChapterTwo
ChapterThree
ChapterFour
ChapterFive
ChapterSix
ChapterSeven
ChapterEight
ChapterNine
ChapterTen
ChapterEleven
ChapterTwelve
ChapterThirteen
ChapterFourteen
ChapterFifteen
ChapterSixteen
ChapterSeventeen
ChapterEighteen
ChapterNineteen
ChapterTwenty
ChapterTwenty-One
ChapterTwenty-Two
ChapterTwenty-Three
ChapterTwenty-Four
ChapterTwenty-Five
ChapterTwenty-Six
ChapterTwenty-Seven
ChapterTwenty-Eight
ChapterTwenty-Nine
ChapterThirty
ChapterThirty-One
ChapterThirty-Two
ChapterThirty-Three
Acknowledgements
Backmatter1
Backmatter2
Backmatter3
© Copyright Notice
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