the black car leaving

The Black Car Leaving - contents

2006-03-04T12:03:00.000Z

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43

Chapter 43

2005-05-28T15:44:00.000Z

WILLSON
Here I am, my written self, untidy but unbeaten. Shortly shall all my labours end. I was never sure what to do for a happy ending. I wanted the people involved to somehow end up more innocent than they were at the beginning of the novel. Somebody once suggested I could arrange it so that Christy and Danny had lobotomies in the last chapter, but there’s no perfect way to do this.
For too long this has been my life; a running battle between my memory and my imagination, an attempt to reach a point where I could say my escape is greater than my loss. But now that I know escape is impossible, for me the war is over. I’ve been with this stuff for too long, stuck like a bore who can’t change the subject to save his life. I needed to cut it all up and start all over again, without dread at the controls this time, to make myself understood, to make my meaning clear. It all started as a mess and it’s still a mess, but at least it’s not a secret mess anymore.
All these years I’ve used the same thing that made a lack in me, to fill that lack in me. But the past is another country. I don’t want to live there and I don’t want to see it taking over the whole world. I still sometimes feel like it’s earlier than it is. The old feelings come back like an accent I’ve tried to lose. But at least my mourning sickness is over. I’ve opened the box. And what’s left is hope, I hope. As Iggy Pop once said; I declare myself unfinished.

Danny got into the car. He tore the sunstrip from the windscreen. This time he really was going somewhere; London, the heartland, the motherland, an unfinished city with arms outstretched.
Striding along the Weymouth road Christy saw the hurtling black Wartburg approaching. He ran into the road, faced Danny, and began scuttling crabwise across the width of the A354 like some insane goalkeeper. The sour stink of burning rubber plumed from the tyres of the car as Danny braked. Christy sprawled himself across the bonnet.
Danny wound down his window. ‘Get out the way you fucking freak.’
‘Where you going?’ Christy shouted.
‘Nowhere.’
Christy lunged in at the driver’s window and grabbed the ignition keys. ‘Can I come?’
‘No you fucking can’t! Give us the keys!’
Christy climbed over Danny, into the back seat.
Danny turned to face him. ‘I’m not fucking about, Christy. Give us the keys and fuck off. I’m disappearing.’
Christy smiled. ‘Nobody disappears completely. Everyone leaves traces.
It’ll all catch up with you sometime.’
Danny thrust his hand at Christy. ‘Keys! Come on!’
Christy smiled again, dangling the keys from his index finger. ‘Dump me and I’ll grass you up about the dealing.’
Danny looked at him. He saw headlights approaching behind. He sighed. ‘Fucksake.’
Christy handed over the keys. Danny started the engine, angrily, noisily. He pulled away, lurching through the gears.
So, they set off for the city, to make themselves a home. As they moved away from Portland and the landmarks of their unhappiness, Christy laughed. Sat in the black car, leaving, he turned to look out of the rear windscreen. He wanted a clearer view of what was behind him. He wound down the nearside window and leaned out. Feeling the wind rushing past him, he turned towards the disappearing island, cleared his throat, and spat with all his strength.

Chapter 42

2005-05-28T15:43:00.000Z

PHIL
Everything went right down the toilet in the end. It was like everybody round me was going mental. The stuff with Kev was the least of it. Karen got a court order to stop him coming round. She had to. He knew when her mum and dad were out. He’d stand in the garden screaming at her. It terrified her, terrified Kerry. The last time, he tried to kick the front door in. Karen called the police. She had to.
Kev’d probably tell it different. Everybody’s version of things is unreliable, but if you want a really unreliable version of what goes on, find yourself a coward. He didn’t know what Karen wanted. She told Les he only asked her what she wanted once, on Chesil Beach that time. The first thing she said was abortion. But he knew her, knew how to work her, talked her round.
But for me, that was nothing like as weird as the whole business with Christy, then later with Danny and Christy. Fuck knows what went on there. Wish I could’ve seen Christy while he was up the hospital but we weren’t allowed. Would’ve set him off again apparently.
I’ll never forget the night he cut himself up. I was round Les’s. Late on, the phone rung. Animal must’ve got the number off me mum. You could tell from his voice he was bricking it; you could hear him trying to swallow his stutter. He said about Christy freaking out and how Patrick and Animal had been looking for him all over Amsterdam. He asked me to go over Christy’s to see if he’d come back.
I goes, ‘Why don’t you phone him?’
‘You don’t know the fucking state of him!’ he goes. ‘If I phone him he’ll think it’s all part of some fucking plot. It’ll be the last of him.’
I took the number for the hotel. When I rung Christy he hung up on me. I rung Animal back. There was a long wait, then footsteps. I goes, ‘He’s there.’ He let out this big rush of air. I heard Patrick grunt in the background like he’d just dropped something heavy.
I had to get over to the island but the last bus’d gone. There was no money round the house for a mini-cab. I run round to the cashpoint. Sod’s law the cunt wasn’t working, so I had to wait for Les’s mum to come in and borrow the fare off her.
I got round there in the small hours. Christy was nowhere. His bedroom window was open. I was going loopy. I phoned Les from a call box and she talked me down off the ceiling.
I seen the woman next door the day after. She give me some bollocks about he’d had an accident but he was being looked after. I only got the proper story a couple days later, off Kev.
Course the Danny thing put the tin hat on the band. There’s this joke. This bloke goes to hell and the Devil’s showing him the things he can do while he’s there. There’s blokes having hedgehogs shoved up their arses, blokes having their ears syringed with hot chip fat, blokes having their bollocks gone over with a belt sander, all that. Then in one corner there’s blokes stood drinking cups of tea, up to their armpits in wet shit. So the bloke chooses that. He wades in, just gets settled, two sugars thanks, all that, when the foreman turns up. The foreman goes, ‘Alright lads, teabreak over, back on your heads.’
That’s how I felt about the band; teabreak over, back on your heads. A shame, it falling apart. Once in a while we were fucking good but it was always by accident. Whenever we acted like we knew what we were doing we just sounded bog-average. We never ended up on that compilation tape. Patrick wanted us to put on ‘World Full Of Ugly’, from the chip shop tapes. I said it wasn’t on because we couldn’t ask Danny. Pity. Made it feel like we never happened.
After the split I seen less of Patrick and Animal. As much as you can see less of someone in a place like this. Patrick I was avoiding. He reminded me of me too much, reminded me of giving up. The next time I seen him to speak to was at the Hairshirt Boutique gig. According to Animal he was on pills for depression at the time. The last Saturday in March, Hairshirt Boutique organised this gig at the Pulpit Inn. On the posters they called it the Last Supper. For once, nobody turned up to put the mockers on things. Nobody needed to by then. Over the door of the pub there was a sign saying ‘Welcome to the end of the island.’ Welcome to the end of the world, it felt like. There was this real feeling of things falling apart. Sid was dead. The Pistols’ accountants had just had this big punch up in court. ATV were on their last legs.
Everyone was there, the posh lot included. Usually there was a bit of needle between them and everybody else, but not that night. It was like two sides of a family meeting up at a funeral and making an effort. Before the bands come on I went outside to get some air. I stood looking out to sea for a bit. Then I climbed up on Pulpit Rock. Fuck knows how long I was sat there, watching the moon shining off the water and thinking about Christy.
I heard a voice call up behind me. It was Animal. He goes, ‘Patrick’s on in a minute Phil. Are you coming down?’
I said, ‘We all are aren’t we?’
The worst of it was The Village Idiot People. Patrick had made out to the Wildman that he wanted him as singer for this band he’d so-called formed with Jeff and Andy. It was like watching somebody pulling the wings off a fly.
The Wildman had a feather boa on. Patrick give him a plastic toy guitar to hang round his neck and bought him Guinness all night. I said to Patrick, ‘Bit tight isn’t it?’
He just said, ‘Bollocks. He likes the attention.’
Then the four of them got up on stage and did a twenty minute version of ‘Wild Thing’. The Wildman looked so lost, I couldn’t look at him.
Linda stopped it. She was due on next, doing her own songs. She walked onstage, unplugged Patrick and walked up to the mic. She goes, ‘This is cruelty without beauty.’ She was having a go at Patrick and the others, but everybody thought she was introducing the first song. Then she said, ‘Here Be Monsters.’ She was introducing the first song but everyone thought she was having a go at Patrick and them.
Just before Hairshirt Boutique come on I seen this ferretty-looking little twat tap Patrick on the shoulder. As he turned, this bloke clumped him one. I laughed so much I spilt me pint. The side of his head swelled up after. Not Tom and Jerry size, but noticeable.
Hairshirt Boutique finished by slaughtering that Doors song, ‘The End’. There was something about it. I could’ve cried me eyes out.
Soon after the Pulpit gig the twins called it a day with Milk, Milk, Lemonade. I’ve still got that last issue, the one with the headline ‘Who put the disease in seaside?’ Then the Shakespeare Monkees split. Ed talked about starting a new band called the Trappist Monkees. The idea was they’d just get up on stage and not say anything. But his heart wasn’t in it.
In some ways Animal come out of it the best. He got this job as warden up the bird sanctuary over Radipole Lake. The money was shit, about two quid a week more than signing on, but they give him a caravan rent free. He used to nip up Dorchester and do a bit of busking too, so he managed.
The last time I touched a guitar was when I went round his place for a bit of a jam. He had electric in the caravan but he said we’d have to play acoustic so it wouldn’t scare the birds. I thought he was taking the piss. With all the stuff in between I’d forgotten about him being into all that. He was drawing again. A bloke on Dorchester market used to buy some of his pictures.
He had the place done out nice; painted up, and hooks and shelves for everything. You wouldn’t have thought it because his dad’s place was a right tip. He was at home. I always said he reminded me of a gyppo. I said to him how I had to hand it to him, sticking to his dreams and that. Punk as fuck.
He goes, ‘If it weren’t punk it would’ve been something else. I had to. Had to do something to show meself I’m here.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You know what it was like round ours. Couldn’t get a word in. Wasn’t like having loads of brothers, more like having one big lump of brother squashing the shit out of me.’
Then he surprised me. He goes, ‘Anyway, the punk thing was always more your thing than anybody’s.’
He reminded me about when we seen Sham 69 at Taunton Odeon. Before it, we seen Jimmy Pursey in the Golden Egg with all his hangers on. I said hello to him. He goes, ‘Alright lads? Coming to the show later?’
Animal smiled. ‘You was moaning about it all night, going “What’s he mean, show? It’s a gig not a show. It’s not supposed to be fucking show-business.”’
I’ve got some good memories from then, but there’s a taste in me mouth. It’s something about wanting, deserving and getting and how they’re hardly ever anything to do with each other. All them parties; we was never really invited. That’s what that time was; just us gatecrashing. Sometimes I think about us lot. Sometimes I think about me and Paul. Maybe there’s those that leave and there’s those that get left behind. I know which I feel like.

Chapter 41

2005-05-28T15:42:00.000Z

KEVIN
I didn’t see it coming. I’ll never understand it. I tried to puzzle it out but I couldn’t. Doesn’t bear thinking about.
We didn’t even manage a whole year together. I wish Christy had been around. He didn’t know anything about that sort of thing but it would’ve been someone to talk to. Daft as a brush he was, I thought, doing what he did.
The funny thing is, we had a lovely Christmas. Cosy. Enjoying Kerry and so on. I think probably Karen was making a last effort.
Really things hadn’t been comfortable for a while. Lots of silly rows over not very much. It was as if nothing I did was right. She could be so negative. She’d tell me what she didn’t like, but she never told me what she wanted. How was I supposed to guess?
At least she didn’t just go without saying, like Dad. She told me the Saturday after New Year that she wanted to move out. She said she wanted to tell me on the weekend so we had Sunday to talk things over. But I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was speechless. Knocked flat.
The Sunday afternoon I couldn’t watch her packing her stuff into boxes. I was getting upset so I took Kerry down to the beach. When I got back her dad was there, helping her load her things into the van he used for work. He said hello but he couldn’t look me in the eye. He just got on with the loading to give himself something to do. Just then he reminded me of Dad, the way he used to keep himself occupied. I went and sat in the kitchen.
I said goodbye and hugged Karen. She was all limp like she wasn’t there already. I said, ‘We’ll still see each other regular won’t we?’ She give me a squeeze then; really tight.
Sometimes I’d phone her at her mum and dad’s. I’d say, ‘If I make myself different will you come back?’ Then I phoned and the number had changed. I checked and they’d gone ex-directory. I popped round to see her a few times, just on the off chance. I tried to reason with her but she wouldn’t see sense.
I hear she’s got a Council place over Broadwey now. And a new chap. I pick up bits and pieces from Phil because Karen’s friends with his Les, but it’s difficult. He says he wants to stay out of it, feels a bit in the middle of things.
I don’t see Kerry. It upsets me but life goes on. The mistake is wanting too much. I’d still like to settle down with someone nice. There’s a girl at Mass called Sheila. She’s just ordinary, but she’s nice. Quiet and sensible. More my type really. With someone like her I could really get things right.

Chapter 40

2005-05-28T15:41:00.000Z

DANNY
I was shitting myself after Terry’s bust. His case was up at the magistrates the week before Christmas. I was certain he’d grass me up at the last minute. Some people, they’re all over you when you’ve got something they want, but they’d drop you in the shit soon as look at you if it suited. That was why I was late turning up at that College gig; I’d been running me arse off flogging the last of the gear. As far as the old life went, that was the night it all went sideways for me.
We were getting left behind. Dave and Max’s new band, Not Off Hand, were on, plus Hairshirt Boutique. Plus The Shakespeare Monkees and Doublethink. Us lot never got asked. Patrick said I was a jinx. I knew it was because Terry didn’t want me within a mile of him, but I couldn’t say.
Doublethink were doing gigs everywhere; Bridport, Frome, Yeovil, all over. They’d started hiring out their P.A. They even had a bank account in their own name. And now they’d put out a single of ‘Dread At The Controls’ on their own Think Twice label.
By the time I got to the gig Animal, Phil and Patrick had done a bomber each so they already had a vibe about them. Them and Kev were stood in the lobby outside the exam hall where the gig was. I said, ‘How come you haven’t gone in? I said I’d see you in there.’
Patrick pointed to the double doors into the gig. There was a girl with a cashbox sat at a table and two rugby meatheads standing either side. Patrick said, ‘Everyone’s got to be signed in by a student.’ Doublethink had put a banner over the door like they owned the place. It said, ‘Welcome to the Mudhutters’ Teaparty.’ It didn’t look like they meant us.
Patrick looked at Phil, then he looked at me. ‘Could’ve been in there.’
I knew what that meant. I said, ‘Fucksake. Don’t start that again.’
When we heard about the gig Patrick wanted us to arselick our way into playing. Phil wouldn’t have it. He said, ‘I’m not brown-nosing round Doublethink. They’re wankers. Three years ago they’d’ve been reciting Monty Python sketches down the pub.’ I took Phil’s side to save explaining. That swung it, and Patrick got all pissy about it.
I said, ‘We can still get someone to sign us in. Dave and Max are on first. Should be loads of people coming out.’
Animal and Kev were sat on the floor against the wall. I asked Animal how come Alison couldn’t have got us signed in.
He said, ‘Bit of a sore point. We’ve split up and that.’
I was surprised. You never even heard of them two rowing.
He turned to Kevin, finishing something he’d been saying. ‘I don’t want to talk about it really.’
Kev wanted to talk about it, whatever it was. He looked like a bag of shit. Terrible. Like he hadn’t slept for a month. His eyes were all bloodshot. He said, ‘I don’t know what Karen wants. I really don’t.’
Animal said, ‘You could ask her.’
Kev said, ‘I did once.’
Animal said, ‘I know what Alison wants. So does she. That’s the fucking trouble.’
Just then the double doors opened and we got an earful of what was going on inside. It felt like someone throwing scraps to a dog. I heard John say, ‘Remember, the only good Catholic’s a lapsed one,’ and Hairshirt Boutique started ‘Oh Come Let Us Ignore Him.’
‘Roll up for your mugshots of Jesus Christ Almighty,
Looking like Bjorn Borg in a halo and a nighty.’
Then Phil piped up about Christy, how it was a pity he wasn’t there. I nearly dropped meself in it. I had it just behind me teeth to say I’d asked Christy if he fancied coming.
Phil started on about how me and him ought to see Christy’s mum, try and fix it so we could visit him. Then Patrick said, ‘Leave the nutty cunt well alone I reckon.’
Out of nowhere Phil dug him really hard in the chest. ‘Give it a fucking rest will you? Cunt can’t help it.’
You could tell Patrick didn’t know if he was joking or not.
I had to change the subject. I said, ‘I was thinking about maybe trying to get some gigs in London.’
Patrick said, ‘Who with? Us or one of the other twenty bands you’re in this week?’
I thought, fuck me, I can’t win. I had to try though. I said, ‘With us. We could send off that tape.’
Phil looked at me and shook his head. ‘Fucking dreamer. That tape’s shit and you know it.’
Animal said, ‘No fucker likes us round here. How are we supposed to get gigs anywhere else?’
I said, ‘Alright then, bollocks. Just an idea.’
The doors swung open again. I could hear The Shakespeare Monkees.
‘Peculiar the likeness,
Between Philip Larkin and Eric Morecambe.
In what then consists the difference
Between what you get and what you’re given?
It might be trite but it might be true,
That what you are is what you do;
Take your pick it’s up to you.’
From the way he was singing it, even Eddie didn’t sound convinced, and he was half mental.
I seen John out of Hairshirt Boutique going in the bogs. He come out and walked over to me. I stood there thinking, don’t show me up for fuck’s sake.
He said, ‘Got a minute? Outside.’
I went outside with him. He was after mushrooms for later but I never had none. Instead, I guessed a sixteenth out of me personal and stuffed it in a fag-packet. He said he could sign me in but I said not without the others.
When I come back in Animal and Patrick were giving me a look but not saying anything. In the end I said, ‘What?’
Animal said, ‘What was all that in aid of?’
I said, ‘How do you mean?’
Patrick goes, ‘What’s the big secret with John?’
I can never come up with a half-decent lie at short notice. I thought, fuck it, might as well own up. I said, ‘He was after some gear.’
Patrick said, ‘Why’s he asking you then?’
I said, ‘I’ve been dealing. On me own.’
Patrick looked at Animal. Animal’s eyebrows went up.
I said, ‘I never said I was packing it in altogether. It was just the situation.’
Patrick looked at Phil. ‘Did you know?’
Phil shrugged. ‘Pretty much. Yeah.’
Patrick said to Phil, ‘Thanks a lot. What a two faced cunt you turned out to be.’
‘Fuck off,’ Phil said. ‘What odds does it make?’
I jumped in. ‘If you had any sense you’d’ve worked it out Patrick.’
He said, ‘All that bollocks you come out with about, oh it’s getting a bit weird with Christy and it’s not a laugh like it was before and all that. Fucking hypocrite.’
The bouncers looked over but we were nothing to them.
At the time my attitude was, fucked if I owe Patrick any loyalty after all the stick I got; all the Billy Bullshit bollocks. I said to him, ‘I haven’t got to give you any reasons you twat. I don’t owe you nothing. What am I? Your brother?’
Patrick said, ‘Yeah, well,’ and give me this look.
I just thought, don’t say a word. Not a fucking word. I turned and started walking away. I felt something hot flick me on the ear and I seen this fag-end spinning past me head.
I heard Patrick say, ‘Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you, you ignorant cunt.’
I turned and ran at him. He put his hands up like he was miming being stuck in a phone box. Then he started coming towards me. Animal jumped and grabbed me. Phil grabbed Patrick. Animal was trying to hold me back and Phil had hold of Patrick. Kev was just dithering round the edges like a referee at the wrestling. It stayed like that for a minute or two. Patrick was really struggling with Phil. Then Phil nutted him.
Everything suddenly went quiet. Absolutely dead quiet. We all looked at each other like we’d been hypnotised and someone’d snapped their fingers. We just stood there. I used to get this comic called Whizzer and Chips. This kid in there was always having these daydreams, really lifelike, like tripping. And the things in the dream were always a bit like the real things around him. Then he’d wake up. Just then was like the bit where he woke up. We’d all been having this dream. Then we looked round and saw that the crappy ordinary things had been there all the time. We hadn’t got away from anything and we hadn’t got away with anything.
There was a sort of whoosh from the exam hall as the doors opened. The gig was over. This big wave of people come out and caught us up. We got sort of swept out. Like rubbish.
When I got back from the College Mum was still up the Pilot for darts night. They must’ve been having afters. She’d started going a couple of weeks previous. I nagged her into it. She needed to get out even more than I did. She wasn’t getting any support off that useless old cunt.
I went to my room and sat chain-smoking. After about an hour or so there was a knock on the door. I said, ‘Yeah?’
Dad stuck his head round. ‘Fancy coming down and keeping me company?’
He could be like that. He’d sit in the front room with Mum for hours and they wouldn’t say a word. But when she was out with the dogs or at darts you could tell he missed her. He’d give me a knock and make out there was something funny on the telly he wanted me to catch. You’d get in there and he’d look at the T.V. and shrug and say, ‘Oh. Missed it,’ and you’d stay anyway.
I followed him into the front room. The telly wasn’t even on. It didn’t look good. He had a bottle of Bells on the floor next to the armchair. There was a second clean glass on the foot-stool. Something was up.
I sat down.
‘You bank the takings alright?’
I said, ‘Yeah.’
He poured me a whiskey. ‘Enjoyed it this week?’
‘Just work isn’t it?’
‘Appreciate the work you do Danny. Do really.’
I shrugged. He sounded half-pissed.
He looked at his knees. ‘I’m telling you first because I’m not sure how your mum’s going to take it.’
I put me hands over me eyes.
‘That Trevor from Ladbrokes. I asked him to keep an eye out if anything come up.’
I looked at him.
‘They’ve offered me a job. Relief manager. Better money. I’ve said yes.’
I didn’t speak. He kept reeling off the stuff he’d rehearsed. ‘It’ll be a lot of travel. Probably have to stay overnight quite often.’
I said, ‘What about Mum?’
He winced. ‘I’m relying on you Danny.’
‘What?’
‘To give her a bit of support. See this as an opportunity.’
‘What?’
‘Said to Chant you’re ready. Take over the reins. He seems alright with the idea.’
I put me glass down on the floor. ‘You twat.’
He sat there with the glass near his mouth. ‘You understand why I’m doing this don’t you?’
I understood alright. Mum couldn’t get over the past. He couldn’t get away quick enough from anything that reminded him of it. Maybe that’s what panicked me in the end. I could see myself in my old man. All he ever wanted was something he could run towards to stop himself thinking.
I got up. ‘Yeah, I know why. You’re a fucking coward.’ I went to walk out the room. He stood up. I dug him one in the shoulder. He sat straight back down again, too surprised to speak. He didn’t even follow me.
When I got to me room it was like every muscle in me just went loose. Suddenly I felt dead calm and knew exactly what to do. I had to cut me life in half and start again.
I stuffed some pants and socks and teeshirts in a duffel bag and crept into the hallway. I could hear Dad pottering about in the front room. His jacket was in the usual place on the hooks beside the front door. I reached in the inside pocket and lifted out the keys to work, opened the front door and slipped out.
I parked up at Butts quarry. I left the headlights on so I could find the box. I opened the box and took the money I’d stashed from the dealing. I give the place one last look and drove away.
Then come the tricky bit. I reversed into the top of King Street and jumped out. There was traffic pissing past so the only thing I could do was act like I had the right. The only good thing was the pubs had already kicked out.
I could hardly get the door of Goodwill and Chant’s unlocked for shaking. I took a deep breath and went in. I knew I was either starting something or finishing it, or both.
If I’d planned it I never would’ve banked the takings. All there was in the safe was the float, but it was doing it that mattered, not how much was there. I was bursting for a shit. I stuffed the money in the duffel bag. I left a note so they couldn’t think it was anyone else. It said, ‘I’m going outside forever.’ I signed it and walked out.
I left the island behind like it was a sinking ship. I had to go. Everything just come on top at once.

Chapter 39

2005-05-28T15:40:00.000Z

WILLSON
Washed and tidy, with his palms sweating, Christy waited in the car-park for Fletcher to collect him at the end of his shift. He hadn’t managed to squirm out of the film show. He’d considered telling Fletcher it clashed with the College gig, then hiding in a back street pub all evening. But there was something about lies and secrets that didn’t fit him anymore.

Fletcher parked up outside his house on Lyndhurst Terrace. He patted Christy’s arm. ‘Just going to get me other half.’
Christy wound down the window. He was sweating.
Fletcher came out of the house alone. He signalled for Christy to get out of the car. He explained the baby-sitter was late and invited Christy inside. In the front room was a woman in a boiler suit.
‘This is Is,’ Fletcher said.
Christy said, ‘Eh?’
‘Is,’ the woman said. ‘Short for Isabella. Hello Christy.’
Fletcher twirled his car keys. ‘You might as well wait here Christy. Give me a chance to set up the projector and that. Walk up with Is later.’
Fletcher left and Is led Christy to a large lean-to shed at the back of the house. Along one wall was a wide, cloth-covered workbench. The shed was full of crates of broken coloured glass sparkling like chests full of jewels.
Is switched on a baby alarm next to the lightswitch. ‘Might as well get a bit more done while we’re waiting.’ She smiled at Christy. ‘I make stained glass windows. It’s me trade.’
Christy watched as Is began marking and cutting shapes from fragments of glass which she selected from the crates. ‘Anything I can do to help?’
‘No.’ She smiled. ‘I know what I’m doing, cheers.’
‘I wasn’t meaning...’ Christy said.
‘Alright.’ Is handed him a pair of tongs. ‘Pull us out a couple of red bits about so big.’ She formed a square with her hands.
As Christy rooted in a crate Is explained how her father had taught her the trade. ‘I was a sod at that age. Couldn’t be told anything. I never used to draw up a design. I just used to put bits together as they came. I thought, fuck it, it’s still a window. But then it started to seem a bit of a cop out. Might as well make an effort, make what you can of the material.’
The fragments began to form a pattern on the workbench as the pair worked together, accompanied by the clink of broken glass and the amplified breathing of a baby.
The doorbell sounded. The baby-sitter had arrived. When Is showed Tracie to the child’s room she beckoned Christy. ‘Come and have a look if you like.’
He peered down into the cot. ‘What is it?’ he whispered.
Is smiled. ‘It’s a baby.’
He laughed for the first time in ages.
‘Miranda her name is. She’s knackered at the moment. Took her swimming earlier.’
‘Bit young for that isn’t she?’ Christy asked.
‘Best to start early,’ Is said. ‘Babies swim by instinct. Up to six months old they’ve got this thing called the diving reflex where their lungs close automatically so they don’t drown. Nothing to it, swimming, the mechanics of it. It’s only fear that stops people.’
‘Maybe I should learn,’ Christy said.

Walking to Mulberry Terrace, Christy concentrated on the sound of Isabella’s voice, and tried to shut his mind to the bad memories that hung around in the streets like gas. On arriving at the arts centre there was just time to say hello to Fletcher before the first film started. He greeted them, then returned to swearing at the projector which he was prodding with a screwdriver.
The audience comprised the parents of the posh lot; teachers, hippy bakers, bike-riding librarians, men with beards, women in specs, kind people mostly. Christy scanned the crowd, frightened that he might see Reverend Stiles.
Is and Christy found seats as the lights dimmed. The words ‘Two Hundred Mistakes’ appeared on the screen. A man stood alone in a white room. On a table in front of him were two piles of large cardboard squares. The man tossed a coin. He took one of the piles and began holding up each card in turn, then letting it fall.
Each card contained writing. The first said, ‘Sue would’ve gone out with me if I’d asked.’ The next said, ‘Mark wasn’t humouring me.’ The third said, ‘When Stewart was talking about Tom it wasn’t a hint about me.’ The fourth card carried the words; ‘Those presents came out of kindness not pity.’ And so the film revealed two hundred opportunities misperceived, compliments taken for sarcasm, kindnesses dismissed as condescension, reasons read as excuses, excuses taken as snubs, all now reconsidered.
Laughter started rippling through the audience. Soon cheers greeted each new card. As the two hundredth mistake fell away and the screen burnt white again, Christy nudged Is. ‘Am I missing something?’
She smiled. ‘It’s just that last time we saw the other version where he goes through two hundred things he used to think were good, that he’d changed his mind about since. Depressing as fuck.’
A second film began. It’s title was spelt out in fuzzy felt letters: ‘You Are Not In Bedford Falls; “It’s A Wonderful Life” In Dub.’ A young man with unfortunate sideburns stepped into shot. His voice was wry and gentle. ‘This film proposes two things. The first proposition is that there’s nothing so tragically stupid or stupidly tragic that it can’t be re-edited, retrieved. The second proposition is that the sign in the opening shot of “It’s A Wonderful Life”, which says, “You are now in Bedford Falls” should actually say, “You are not in Bedford Falls.” Because the world is much more like Pottersville. Anyone who won’t face that has got no right to be surprised when the floor opens underneath them and they find themselves drowning.’
What followed cut up Capra’s film and started all over again. In this version George Bailey languished in Pottersville unsupported by any evidence that his actions counted for a piss in the ocean. The borrowed footage ended with George, stuck like a scratched record, saying over and over, ‘I want to live... I want to live... I want to live’, until the man with the sideburns stepped back into shot to say, ‘I want to live too, but not necessarily in a world like this. The question isn’t whether to be or not to be, the question is, where and what is Bedford Falls, and how do we get there?’
After a brief interval during which Christy hung around Is drinking orange juice from a plastic cup, the main feature began. It was ‘Last Holiday’, starring Alec Guinness as a man given weeks to live. The opening credits reminded Christy of wet Sunday afternoons in front of the telly. He settled into the story. It gave him the feeling songs sometimes did; a panic-less sense that he was being talked about. He watched as Guinness’s character acted like there was no tomorrow. He smiled as the character argued that people should always tell the truth. Christy’s eyes were feeling hot again.
The show over, he helped Fletcher and Is load the equipment into the car. Back at the house Is showed him into the front room while Fletcher made coffees. She paid the baby-sitter and showed her out. On returning, she walked over to the sideboard, inspected the hand-written label of a cassette and pressed the tape into the music centre’s brushed aluminium mouth.
Fletcher returned with a tray of mugs and biscuits. ‘You enjoy the films tonight?’
‘Yeah,’ Christy said.
‘Bit hit and miss sometimes,’ Fletcher said. ‘Everyone votes on what film to have.’
‘Fucking “Citizen Kane” last month,’ Is complained.
Fletcher laughed. ‘It’s not that bad.’
Is leaned forward and took a Bourbon. ‘The whole premise is shite,’ she said. ‘You can’t work backwards from the end of someone’s life and sus out what it all meant, any more than you can start from the beginning of someone’s life and guess what it’s all going to mean.’
‘Maybe,’ Fletcher said.
Is dunked her biscuit. ‘You should know that. With Dale and that.’
Fletcher handed the biscuits to Christy. ‘Me and Dale started a film club together when we were at Exeter University. Then after, when I moved back here, he came too and we started this one. I went college with this real fuck off vibe about me. But he wouldn’t let me off with it. Kept talking to me. I just gave in eventually. That’s when I started opening up. Dale made that second film, “You Are Not In Bedford Falls”.’
‘You two fall out or something then?’ Christy asked.
Fletcher straightened. His jaw flexed. ‘He killed himself a couple of years after the move to Weymouth.’
Christy straightened too. ‘There’s a lot of it about.’
‘Yeah. There is. Really knocked me back it did,’ Fletcher said. ‘I felt I should’ve seen it. That I let him down.’
Christy nodded.
‘I was so fucking furious with him. It was like the opposite of everything he stood for. It was like saying he was finished.’
‘He’d probably be pleased you kept the film club going,’ Christy said.
‘Yeah,’ Fletcher nodded. ‘I thought about stopping. But that felt like I’d be as bad as all the people who wanted to act like he’d never existed. People treat suicide like puke in a playground; something that needs to be covered up in case it sets everyone else off.’ Fletcher brushed biscuit crumbs from his jeans. ‘Anyway. Bit of a conversation stopper.’
Christy looked at him. ‘Wasn’t until you said it was.’
The three listened quietly as the tape played ‘Nature Boy’ by Big Star. Alex Chilton sang like a choirboy with a bastard hangover, his voice brittle, uncertain, but perfect.
The song ended. Fletcher took a swig of coffee. ‘Can’t argue with the words can you?’
Christy shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
There was a crackle from the tape. A voice like tar was speaking. ‘How about listening to old Pops for a minute? All I’m saying is, see what a wonderful world it could be, if only we’d give it a chance. Love, baby, love; that’s the secret.’ Louis Armstrong’s ‘What A Wonderful World’ began.
Christy’s eyes widened. ‘Me dad used to have this. I haven’t heard the bit of talking at the start before though.’
‘I think this is the album version,’ Is explained. ‘The single hasn’t got the talking on.’
‘I used to hate it,’ Christy admitted.
‘Used to?’ Is asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah,’ Is said. ‘Think it’s the talking that makes the difference.’

The tape clicked to an end. Fletcher stretched himself and rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand. He nudged the dozing Christy. ‘I’d better take you back mate.’
On the doorstep, Is flapped her arms once at her sides. She ducked forward and kissed Christy on the forehead. ‘Good luck Christy.’
Outside the hospital Fletcher kept the engine running. He looked at the dashboard as he spoke. ‘Nobody’s ever really finished Christy. Dale used to say to me, “There’s only one ending. Other than that there’s just jump-cuts, flashbacks and dissolves. The good news is you can always do another edit.” What happened to you Christy, I reckon you’re going to have to make it register somewhere. Otherwise you’ll be going back to it forever, like somebody telling a joke over and over because it doesn’t get a laugh.’
Christy looked at him. ‘I’d better get inside.’ He smiled. ‘Do you want me to ask if they’ve got a spare bed for you?’
As Christy got out, Fletcher dug him in the ribs. ‘Cheeky fucker.’
Christy crept onto the ward, undressed and got into bed. He lay thinking. He knew he was trying to remember something but he didn’t know what. Soon he was sleeping, dreaming.
In the dream everything seemed to be happening backwards. Outside the house the pavements were sweating. A black car was leaving. The big blue door slammed. Clair was in the hallway going round in circles. She was carrying a hinged metal box the size of a suitcase. The box was held shut with string. The string broke. The box fell open; papers spewed across the hallway.
Christy was up to his waist in papers, wading through them. A book floated towards him like a raft. He opened the book and read.
Here we are and here I am; me again, a later self. Only I can write this, but I can only write what I can write. I could imagine some clues as to the why of your dad’s death but clues are all they would be. I could present some evidence but all evidence is anecdotal evidence. A final statement can’t be made. But as far as it relates to you Christy, between earlier and later there was nothing. It’s called bad luck.
Things don’t run like a detective novel. The last person to see the victim alive isn’t always the culprit. Neat plots of cause and effect only hold up for the guilt-ridden and the smug. If you insist on everything making sense then something has to give. What gave was you. But now I’m doing the giving. And what I can give you is this; love, baby, love. That’s the secret you kept from yourself; your albatross and millstone loved you like a father. That’s what you lost. It’s the same in any language.
This is the happy ending and this is where the real work starts. The terror will always be that what you thought was behind you might still be ahead of you, waiting to rear up like a dragon, waiting to break over you like a wave. But sooner or later you have to let go of the things that were fucked up for you, and move on to the things you might fuck up for yourself .
Christy was in the playground alone. The playground gate was complicated and ugly. It clanked shut. He pressed his face against the gate. Alongside the pavement was the black car. His dad got into the car. The engine started. Christy pressed his face harder against the gate, looked as hard as he could, shouting with his eyes. The engine stalled. His dad got out of the car and opened the gate. He picked Christy up. He kissed him on the top of the head. He looked into his face and said, ‘Goodbye.’ He set Christy down. He turned and walked back to the car. He got into the car and drove away. Christy watched the black car leaving.
He woke up and sat up. He cried like he’d never cried before. He sat for some minutes, sniffing back snot and tears. He wiped his eyes and dressed himself. He was decided. He was going out to the end of the island for the last time. Christy walked out into the navy blue night. His footsteps clapped crisply on the shining pavement.

Chapter 38

2005-05-28T15:39:00.000Z

WILLSON
Christy had arranged to meet Fletcher at lunchtime, to share his food again. While he waited, he played Scrabble in the dayroom with George and Mandy. Mandy was the Scrabble champion of the ward. When there was nobody to play with she’d sit for hours at the board, making her own crosswords, mumbling clues to herself, stopping only to wash her hands every half hour.
Christy looked at the letters he’d been dealt. They weren’t promising. He tutted to himself.
Mandy smiled at him. ‘There’s letters missing,’ she said. ‘You have to do what you can with the lack you’ve been given.’
George took a sip from his mug of tea. ‘Exactly. A lot of it’s down to luck.’
‘I didn’t say luck. Lack, I said.’
George frowned. ‘Oh.’
Mandy watched as Christy played his turn. ‘Your wrists have healed up good. Hardly shows.’
‘Yeah,’ Christy nodded.
‘Why’d you do it?’ Mandy asked.
‘Don’t know,’ Christy said. ‘Haven’t worked it out yet. Something to do with me dad though, I think. He topped himself.’
George and Mandy’s mouths clacked open and shut twice. An awkward silence followed. Mandy broke it. ‘Yeah? Fucking hell. How come?’
‘Fuck knows,’ Christy said. ‘It’s a mystery.’
Mandy tilted her head to her shoulder like a preening bird. She sniffed herself to see if she stank. ‘There’s a lot of it about. Suicide, I mean. But you wouldn’t think it to hear people talk.’ She rolled a cigarette and lit it. ‘I used to see a lot of it when I worked in the Prince of Denmark. Pub right on the top of Beachy Head. You know Beachy Head, where everyone goes to off themselves?’
Christy looked blank.
‘Over near Eastbourne,’ George explained. ‘Notorious. First thing you see when you get off the train’s the signpost to the Samaritans.’
‘People used to go in the Prince for a last drink before taking a dive,’ Mandy said.
‘Charming,’ Christy said.
‘We used to have the Samaritans’ phone number up in the toilets. We was toying with printing it on the beermats but Gavin the landlord said it’d be depressing for everyone else. We used to watch out for jumpers. If they put “Endless Sleep” on the jukebox that was always a bad sign.’ She began to sing softly to herself. ‘I don’t care what they say, I won’t stay in a world without love.’
Christy felt himself blushing.
Mandy went on. ‘You’d try and talk to them if they looked likely but you couldn’t be obvious. Sometimes one of us’d nip into the kitchen and call the police. A few times me or Gavin followed people out. Scary. Once Gavin had hold of this bloke near the edge. The guy was getting hysterical. Gavin punched him unconscious. Saved his life though.’
‘Christ,’ George muttered. ‘Remind me to drop in there for a pint sometime.’ He laid three tiles on the board to form the word shed.
Mandy stubbed her roll up. ‘I’m proud of that time, what we did. But it got too much. All that waste.’
‘Everyone’s got the right to though, I reckon,’ Christy said. He blushed again. ‘I mean logically there’s no shortage of reasons to do it.’
Mandy disagreed. ‘It’s not about logic. Easy enough to stay in a world without logic.’
George nodded. Christy sniffed.
‘Did you just pack it in then, the job?’ Christy asked.
Mandy shifted her chair back as if she were preparing to leave the room. Her raw pink hands twisted in her lap. ‘Kind of. I got pregnant by Gavin. He wasn’t interested so I packed me bags and went.’
Christy couldn’t ask.
‘I kept the baby,’ she said. ‘Holly. We moved in with me dad in Dorchester. He’s looking after her for now.’
‘Is that what got you in here then?’ Christy asked. ‘Gavin leaving you in the lurch.’
Mandy said, ‘No. There’s been others since.’ She smiled at Christy’s look of surprise. ‘You get over things. No point living a half-life just because you’ve been hurt.’
Christy lit a cigarette. ‘Didn’t you worry the same thing’d happen again? Get close to someone then they go.’
‘To begin with, yeah,’ Mandy admitted. ‘But you can’t go on like that.’
She played her hand and formed the word finished.
Christy frowned. He placed his last two letters on the board and formed the word unfinished.
Before putting his head round the dayroom door Fletcher knocked, as if the occupants were proper people. He led Christy to the conservatory again.
They sat for a while, eating in silence. Then Fletcher turned to face Christy. ‘Would it bother you if I told you I’d had a look at your admission notes?’
‘Suppose not,’ Christy said.
‘I was just wondering, how much do you reckon the speed and acid were the problem?’
Christy chewed and thought. ‘It all would’ve happened anyway, I reckon. Just brought it on quicker. Thing with the acid was, it made me see all this stuff going on inside and between people, but I didn’t have a clue how to work out what it meant.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I was telling someone once,’ Christy said, ‘I had this book out the library about people who’re autistic. They have this thing called mind-blindness where they can’t even guess what someone else is thinking. That’s what I feel like mostly. Scares me.’
Fletcher lifted the flap of a sandwich and inspected the filling. ‘What do you reckon’s made you like that?’
Christy sat remembering and thinking for a while. ‘I think it’s to do with after me dad died. Everyone acted like nothing had happened, never said anything or showed any feelings. It was like their mouths and faces were disconnected from their insides.’
‘Yeah, but the whole world isn’t like your family is it?’
Christy sighed. ‘Can you tell with people though? Look at me dad. I’ve kept trying to remember him and all I can remember is an ordinary dad, a proper dad, a nice bloke. But there must’ve been something drastic going on underneath.’
‘He probably was ordinary. Anyway you were only seven. You haven’t had practice guessing about people at that age have you?’
Fletcher polished two apples on his jumper, smiled and handed one to Christy. ‘Do you know what they mean when they say someone’s psychotic?’
Christy paused, about to bite into the apple. It was coming now. This was what all the questions were leading up to. ‘Not really, no.’
Fletcher smiled again. ‘I just remember reading how psychotics tend to think there’s conspiracies going on or there’s some weird, complicated, secret reason for the things that are happening. That ring any bells with you?’
‘There’s always been stuff going on I didn’t know about.’
‘Like what?’
‘At home. With that with me dad. I sort of guessed he was dead. I can’t remember anybody saying. I used to think he come back to see Mum and Clair after I was in bed.’
He would sneak to the living room, to be turned away, to see a door closing on the included world.
‘Do you mean there really was something secret and complicated going on?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So do you reckon you thinking he was coming back was no stranger than the fact that nobody told you anything?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Wasn’t just definite things either. Atmospheres. There was always loads of atmospheres.’
In the classroom Miss Carter clapped her hands twice. Talk thinned and lapsed, faces looked up from plasticine, from tracing paper.
‘Now children, I want you to do something important for me. I’m going to ask you to be very grown up and sensible for me.’
The children looked blankly at her. She continued with the speech she’d prepared. ‘You all know Christy is coming back to school today, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘I want you to promise that you won’t say anything to him about his daddy. Ever. Do you promise?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
She spotted doubtful expressions on the faces of three or four children; the dimmer ones, she thought. She made eye contact with each of the doubters, swept them up. ‘It’ll be like a pretending game. We’re going to pretend he never even had a daddy.’
Christy frowned. ‘But what if the past’s always going to fuck me up?’
‘Doesn’t have to, does it?’
‘I mean it’s good to remember sometimes. Even if you try not to remember you still remember. I don’t want it to be like me dad never happened.’
‘I suppose the bastard thing with the past is, there’s so much of it,’ Fletcher said. ‘You think if you can work out what the past means, the present’ll take care of itself. Maybe it’s the other way round though. What do you reckon?’
Christy shrugged.
A thought occurred to Fletcher. ‘How did you find out your dad did it to himself?’ he asked, puzzled by the awkwardness of the phrase.
‘I found his death certificate.’ Christy inhaled in two jerking steps. ‘Nobody told me.’
‘Can’t be an easy thing to tell someone.’
‘Not impossible though.’
‘Listen, it’s two weeks till Christmas; do you think you might want to try going home for a few days then?’
Christy chewed his lip but said nothing.
‘I was thinking might be good to get you out of here for an evening. Dip a toe in the water.’
‘Where to?’
‘Do you know the arts centre on Mulberry Terrace?’
Christy nodded. He’d been past it but had never gone in. It wasn’t anything to do with him.
‘I help run a film club up there. Usually have one proper movie and a couple of shorts. We’re having a screening on Friday if you fancy it.’
‘Don’t know. Maybe.’
Fletcher looked at the banana remaining in his sandwich box. ‘I’m finished Christy. What about you?’
Christy raised his hands. ‘I’m full.’

Chapter 37

2005-05-28T15:37:00.000Z

WILLSON
Alison had decided. She had to give it a try. She’d seen the course she wanted to do. Her tutor said she had every reason to be confident, said she was definitely university material.
That evening, Animal called round on his way to Danny’s birthday drink at the Merman. He sat on the floor with his back against her bed. ‘You definitely ought to go. It’s a chance.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I wish you could’ve...’
‘Could’ve what?’
‘You know. You could’ve done the same,’ Alison said.
‘I didn’t think. It was different for you. Nobody expected it with me.’
‘Nobody expected it with me.’
‘I know. But you had less people not expecting it.’
Alison brightened briefly. ‘Bristol’s not far. We can stay friends.’
Animal didn’t want to string it out. Better a clean break. He wanted to get on his own and get numb. ‘I could do with having a think on me own. I’ll skin one up, then go.’ He rolled a joint. Alison kissed him goodbye. He walked down to the dark empty beach. He sat, lit up, and watched the tide going out.
He spent the following weekend wafting round town like a ghost. Just as a quitting smoker finds the world is full of smokers, so Animal found Weymouth was full of couples. On Monday he walked into Skinners at nine-thirty, told Lenny he was leaving and went straight to sign on.
The following January, Alison would think the interview had gone badly, and she would be wrong. She would open the letter from Bristol University offering her a place to study Fine Art. She would stand in the hallway rereading the letter, relishing the word unconditional. She would reread the name and address in case it had been wrongly delivered. Then she would dance up the stairs to her room.

Kev was sat on the sofa, engrossed in the December edition of Milk, Milk, Lemonade, the one with the front page headline ‘Life’s a gamble but so is bingo.’ He read that Ed and Fred were planning to release a compilation tape of all the local bands after Christmas, under the title ‘Do Anything You Wanna Do, Within Reason.’ He thought of offering to complete his family tree of the bands for the tape’s cover. It would be something to do, to take his mind off things.
Karen came and sat next to him. She’d been rehearsing this. She lit a cigarette to calm herself and to get his attention.
Kev looked up from the photocopied pages. ‘I wish you wouldn’t, love.’
She touched his wrist. ‘I’ve been thinking Kev. These rows and everything.’
Kev looked back at the fanzine.
Karen took it from his hands and laid it aside. ‘Maybe I should go round Mum and Dad’s for a bit. Just a week or two. Be a breather for both of us.’
He talked her round like he had down on the beach. But a wedge was in place.

Chapter 36

2005-05-28T11:59:00.000Z

WILLSON
Kev was driving Karen crazy. Absolutely crazy. So many things he did now had the effect on her of hearing two bits of polystyrene rubbed together. When he walked barefoot in the living room his verruccas could be heard gently scuffing on the carpet. When he undressed for bed he’d take his Y-fronts off before his tee-shirt and stand there looking like a stupid little boy. When he entered the records he’d bought in the red book, the tiny pink tip of his tongue would poke out of the corner of his mouth. When Karen swore he’d look at her meaningfully and say, ‘Language.’ He’d begun calling the telly the goggle-box like some slipper-wearing old fart.
Wednesday was half-day closing. He liked to spend the extra time at home. Karen was sat on the sofa with a book on her lap and her eyelids drooping. She gathered herself. ‘Why don’t you go up and see Christy, Kev? Might do him good.’
At her feet Kev played with Kerry, holding her upright by the armpits as she gurgled and wriggled and smiled. He ignored Karen’s question. ‘Look K. She’s dancing.’
Karen’s shoulders sagged. ‘Don’t get her excited Kev. I’ve got to put her down in a minute. She won’t settle.’
Kevin’s expression changed. ‘You’re right.’ He lowered Kerry gently and walked towards the kitchen. ‘Fancy a hot drink?’
‘Okay,’ she said. She leaned forward and smoothed Kerry’s hair. Karen sniffed. ‘Kev. She needs changing.’
Kev called absently from the kitchen. ‘I did wonder actually.’
‘Thanks a bunch.’
He returned and stood with his head resting quizzically against the door-frame. ‘Alright?’
‘You don’t mind playing with her but it’s me that does the bloody work.’
‘You can’t say I don’t work though, lover.’ He paused then shook his head. ‘You’re not yourself lately.’
Karen cupped Kerry’s ears. ‘Stop fucking telling me who I am all the time,’ she said, her voice rising.
‘I know what you’re like though love.’
‘You don’t! I don’t think you’ve got a clue about me. Or anyone.’
‘I don’t...’
‘It’s like everybody’s just in your head. Your imagination.’
‘That’s silly.’ He touched her shoulder. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea. There’s some digestives somewhere.’
‘You twat! You act like you’re forty. When are you going to grow up?’

Danny had been having the same nightmare again and again. In it he was always running furiously, being chased. Last night in the dream there was a ferocious roaring sound behind him. He knew what that sound was.
On the Wednesday that would’ve been Kath’s tenth birthday, he couldn’t face going straight home when Goodwill and Chant’s closed. He refused his dad’s invitation to the Pilot, got in the Wartburg and drove.
He entered the dayroom and walked straight up to Christy. ‘You allowed out of here, for walks and that?’
Christy examined the Scrabble tiles in his hand. ‘Don’t know. I’ve never give it much thought.’ He looked at Mandy, Bob and George. They nodded.
Danny took Christy’s arm and led him from the room. ‘Get a jumper on. I’ll take you out. Have you eaten lately?’
‘Feels like never.’
They wandered the streets until they found a cafe still open. They looked in through the steam-streaked windows. They read the small hand-written notice stuck to the glass; ‘Don’t stay on the outside feeling fed up; come inside and get fed.’
The cafe’s interior was decked out in smeary formica and mock-pine panelling; there were Pot Noodles on a shelf behind the counter. Two bored women stood beside a chrome tea-urn. One was tiny and white-haired. The other, younger, had her hair in pig-tails so tight that her face was stretched into a permanent look of surprise.
Danny and Christy stood in front of the blackboard menu, choosing. Danny ordered the all day breakfast with chips and extra toast.
‘Should I have the same?’ Christy asked.
‘Might be too much if you’ve not been eating a lot lately,’ Danny said.
‘Yeah,’ the pig-tailed woman said, smiling. ‘He needs nourishment, not punishment.’
‘What about scrambled eggs and bacon?’ Danny suggested.
‘Yeah.’
The food arrived along with a large pot of tea. Danny lifted the teapot. ‘Shall I be mother?’
Christy nodded, his knife and fork poised over the lovely food. Danny looked at Christy’s uncertain smile and saw the child under the skin.
Christy took a swig of tea. ‘What you been up to then?’
‘Usual bollocks,’ Danny said. ‘Got to do something soon. Be eighteen next month. Know me dad’s going to try making me work full time in the bookies.’
‘Can’t make you, can he?’ Christy asked.
Danny swallowed. ‘Got me over a fucking barrel. Says he’ll grass me up if I don’t sign off. I’m fucked. Officially I haven’t worked in eighteen months. Nobody else’ll touch me with a bargepole.’
‘How’s the band doing?’
‘Just about hanging in there. There’s a gig on up the College, December. Fifteenth it is. Don’t know if we’re playing yet. You ought to come. Just make out you didn’t find out about it from me.’
Christy bit his lip. ‘Don’t know. Might not be well enough.’
‘Phil’d be pleased to see you.’
‘Does he know you’ve been up?’
‘Nope. Awkward it is.’ Danny bit into a slice of fried bread. Chewing, he looked at Christy. ‘You’re weird you are. The way you always used to come back for more. Not the acid so much but knocking about with us lot.’
‘Yeah...’ Christy frowned, puzzled. ‘Maybe it was because it was different from home. At home we was a mystery to each other. With you lot, at least it felt like you were reacting to me. Even when you were giving me stick.’
‘Suppose so, yeah,’ Danny agreed. ‘Mind you sometimes we were just being cunts for the sake of it.’
‘Sometimes it felt like you lot could read me mind. I wasn’t used to people working out what I was thinking.’
‘It’s not that weird is it?’
‘Don’t know,’ Christy said. ‘This bloke on the ward was saying about it. How you can try and guess what people have got going on underneath, but in the end you might as well guess who’s going to win the 3.15 at Newmarket.’
‘Sounds like he’s never had a punt in his life,’ Danny said. ‘You’re not just guessing with racing. People look at form, conditions, choose whether to go for value or long odds. And they enjoy it. When you get it right there’s nothing like it. People like him, they’re just shit scared.’
Christy pushed his plate away. ‘I don’t think he was just on about racing.’
‘I know that.’
Danny poured more tea for them both. He watched Christy’s eyes reddening, shining. Christy pinched his nose at the bridge like he was trying to stop a nosebleed.
‘You alright?’
Christy blinked. ‘Me eyes feel all hot.’ He lit a cigarette and offered one to Danny. ‘I’m sick of it all, is all. The being quiet.’
‘Fair enough.’ Danny concentrated on flicking the ash from his cigarette.
Christy continued. ‘I want me dad back and I want me sister back. And I’m not going to get what I want.’
‘Clair might change her mind,’ Danny said.
‘Doubt it.’
‘Might do.’
‘Me dad won’t.’
Danny sniffed. ‘There’ll be other people though.’
‘Will there?’
‘Yeah. Course.’
‘Other people who’ll fuck off.’
‘Not all of them. Some of them might. But not all of them.’ Danny tried to think of something else to say. He couldn’t.
Christy took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Sometimes lately I just feel so fucking angry.’
‘With who?’
Christy frowned, chewing the skin at the side of his thumbnail.
‘Don’t know. With me Dad maybe. But then, it always felt like my fault. Specially with nobody telling me. I just knew he’d gone and it was something to do with me.’
‘Fuck me though Christy; you were only seven. How bad can you be at seven?’
‘Not how you think though, is it? At that age.’
Danny thought for a while. ‘Suppose not. When I was six I used to think that people carrying umbrellas made it rain. You link things up all wrong.’
‘I thought I must be really bad. I thought if I try really hard to be good, quiet and not make a fuss, things’ll go good again. Then Clair fucked off. So that didn’t work.’
‘That was the weird thing with you and the gear. It was like you still wanted to behave. Like you couldn’t just get into it and have a laugh like everyone else. Like you weren’t entitled to enjoy anything.’
‘I think I wanted an excuse to stop being good. But I couldn’t let meself go.’ Christy hesitated, then said it. ‘What about you? Didn’t you feel angry about Kath and that?’
Danny’s mouth formed into a thin line. His clothes felt too tight. He could feel his face puckering. ‘How you know about that?’
‘Phil said. Sorry.’
‘Fucker. Told him not to say to anyone.’ Danny swallowed. ‘Course I was fucking angry. And what could I do? There was nobody I could get hold of to blame. They never found the driver. You must know what that’s like. Being fucking furious at someone you can’t get at.’
‘Didn’t you ever feel guilty?’
‘I used to beat meself up for not getting the registration of the lorry. And sometimes I think I shouldn’t’ve took her down the shops... Suppose things were clearer for me. Maybe because I was older.’ Danny drained the last of the tea and stood up. ‘Come on. I’ll take you back to the nuthouse.’
At the entrance to the hospital they couldn’t look at each other. Danny lit another cigarette and began to walk away. He spoke over his shoulder. ‘Give us a ring if you fancy that gig up the College.’
Christy nodded.
Danny couldn’t face home yet. He drove over to the Mudhut on spec, having not heard from Terry for a while. He could kill some time there.
Terry opened the door. He looked at Danny then looked up and down the street. ‘I think you’d better go.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No honestly. I got busted with that last eighth I had from you.’
‘Fucksake.’ Danny thought quickly. ‘Alright. I’ll go. We’ve never met. Okay?’
He drove round the corner, dumped his personal down a drain, and headed home. In the dining room his dad was sat at the table with his head in his hands. Danny’s nightmare was leaking. Everything was repeating. The crepe paper was there again. The balloons were there again. On the table was a cake, sausage rolls, Twiglets, sandwiches, jugs of squash, a milk jelly and paper hats.
Danny’s dad looked at him. ‘I knew she shouldn’t’ve come off them tablets.’
Danny clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘You talked her into it. Said it was time. Where is she?’
‘Christ knows,’ his dad said. ‘I’ve checked round the house, plus up the garden. Dogs are there so she’s not out with them.’
‘This is bad. This is really, really fucking bad.’
His dad stood slowly. ‘I’d better ask round the neighbours. See if they’ve seen her.’
Go on then, Danny thought, you gutless wanker. He sat alone, listening to his pulse in his ears, listening to the house creaking and settling. As he bit into a sandwich he heard someone blowing their nose. He took his shoes off and stood quietly. He walked into the hallway and listened again. A woman was crying. The sound was coming from the spare room. He knocked. ‘Mum?’ Nothing. He knocked again. ‘Mum?’
His mother spoke. ‘Step away from the door Danny. Step away.’
Danny backed away a few paces. His mother stepped out and quickly shut the door behind her. She turned to lock the door. Danny grabbed the door-handle. His mum stared into his face. ‘Don’t Danny. You don’t want to see.’
He pushed the door open. He felt himself falling. The room was Kath’s room. The same bed, the same carpet, the same wallpaper, the same shelves, the same toys, the same wardrobe. In the wardrobe were clothes that would have fitted her now. All the long days alone his mother had rebuilt the shell of what she’d lost.
Danny sat on the bed shaking. ‘Christ, Mum. Couldn’t you say?’
She looked at his eyes. ‘Neither of you wanted to know.’ She paused. ‘You won’t tell your dad will you? He won’t want to look.’
‘No,’ Danny said. No, he thought, let him stay fucked up if he wants to.

Chapter 35

2005-05-28T11:58:00.000Z

WILLSON
Christy was sitting on the chair by his bed talking to Bob, filling up the time until lunch arrived. Bob, still in bed, leaned up on one elbow. He pointed at Christy’s wrists. ‘Bloke who used to live in the same digs as me offed himself.’
The boarding house was run by Mrs Cole, a vague woman who did everything vaguely. Her face was white like a pet mouse. A stockade of narrow wrinkles puckered her top lip. Her white hair was streaked nicotine brown. The smell of mince and onions, stale but moist, permeated the house. There was a doorbell which made a hostile rasping sound. There was a greasy payphone in the hall. The interior was sepia throughout.
Bob went on. His voice dragged like it was being played at slightly the wrong speed. ‘Brian Nilson his name was. Read meters for the Gas Board. He had the room I was in, before me. Hanged himself.’
Christy sucked in a cold mouthful of air.
‘That was how the room became free,’ Bob said. ‘But it was a while before I found that out. Once I knew, somehow it preyed on me. Like him doing that was trying to tell me something.’
‘Like what?’ Christy asked.
‘Don’t know. I sort of shut my eyes to it after a while. It was there at the back of my mind but I got kind of half settled.’
He sagged into a routine. He would sit down each morning to drunkenly undercooked fried eggs, whose yolks burst like blisters. Each evening after work he would sit in the parlour with the other lodgers, absorbing their defeat like it was a smell.
Christy looked at his watch. Bob didn’t notice. ‘Then I met my girlfriend.’ He paused. ‘Girlfriend as was, I should say.’ He was just reaching the age when the word girlfriend begins to sound somehow inappropriate. He handed Christy a small photograph. ‘Rachel.’ When he said her name his face unclenched. She was standing by the sea in an anorak. Her hair looked dated but her glasses looked too modern for her face. She had a nice smile.
Unprompted, Bob explained how they met. ‘I was in the skittle team with work. Not serious, just a nice night really. We played out of the Rose. Rachel’s in the local history society. They meet upstairs there once a month. We started noticing each other. It was a gradual thing. But lovely. I hadn’t really bothered much with that side of things before.’ He sighed.
Christy shifted in his seat, looked at his watch again.
‘From somewhere, I got some courage for once. Decided I’d move in with Rachel.’
There were goodbye drinks in the parlour. Nobody could’ve called it a living room. On the stretch-covered sofa Mrs Cole, Malcolm and Neil sat, like three clue-less monkeys. The departing Bob sat in pride of place on the Parker Knoll. In his navy blue car-coat he seemed fidgetty, anxious to leave. An occasional table was carpetted with plates of crisps and nuts, petrol station tumblers full of own-brand whiskey, and beer cans; green Heinekens, stubby blue light ales.
Gobbets of attempted conversation were lobbed at Bob by the three monkeys. Stubby-fingered Malcolm, bluff and stiff, produced ritual questions like a succession of nervous coughs. ‘Renting her own place is it? Independent lady is she? Be getting your name on the rent book will you? Never know, do you? Suppose you’ll be wanting Mrs Cole to keep your room free for a while won’t you? Never know, do you?’
Neil, hunched but limp, reached for an ashtray. ‘Nobody ever stayed long in that room. It’s unlucky.’
‘Poor Mr Nilson,’ Mrs Cole said, lifting her glass. ‘Always remember him liking a drink.’ Everything reminded her of something else, nothing meant anything to her.
Annoyed, Bob levered forward. ‘It’s not about the room, me leaving. It’s about love. I’m forty-three; I don’t want to be eating me tea off me lap on me sixtieth birthday.’
The three monkeys huddled closer.
‘It’s that room,’ Malcolm said. He looked at Bob, and shook his head, as if he were talking to a stupid child. He settled back on the sofa, folded his hands in his lap. Once more he told the story he couldn’t stop telling. ‘Quite a normal bloke you’d’ve thought, to talk to him.’ He paused for effect. ‘Hanged himself. From the curtain rail in his room. Surprised it took the weight to be honest.’
‘We didn’t notice for a few days,’ Neil added. ‘But then he always was quiet.’
Mrs Cole placed one hand flat to her cheek. ‘I had keys to the room but I couldn’t bring myself to open it and look in. Had to get the police round.’
Malcolm went on. ‘That was the first we knew there was anything odd about him, him doing that. He left a note. It said, “Why? Why not?” Bit off in the head. Either that or he’d been up to something he shouldn’t.’
‘It’s a mystery,’ Mrs Cole said, flatly.
‘In the end you can’t really know anything about someone. That’s the trouble,’ Neil said.
‘This is Neil’s pet theory,’ Malcolm said. ‘He ought to spend less time in the library.’
Neil ignored Malcolm. ‘I reckon you can try and guess why someone does things, what makes them tick, but you might as well try and guess the winner of the 3.15 at Newmarket.’
Bob sat up on the edge of the bed. ‘Don’t know why, but as I was sitting there I was getting more and more terrified.’ He pressed his hands to his cheeks as if he were holding his face together. ‘When it came to it, I couldn’t go through with it. I phoned Rachel and said I couldn’t do it.’
He had thought he was different to the three monkeys. He knew they were
uncentred, unequipped to cope with the panic of actually liking anybody. He knew they would remain in that home for the stunted, the rigid and the broken, stuck forever in the realm of the sexless. And he had thought he was different. But in the end he couldn’t bring himself to step out into a chosen world.
A tear rolled down his face. Christy coughed and looked towards the swing doors at the end of the ward. The midday meal was arriving on trolleys. It was something with mince in, as it often was. He couldn’t stomach it. He made an excuse to Bob and wandered off the ward, away from the meat smell.
In the corridor he met Fletcher.
‘Alright Christy? I was hoping I might see you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Done too many sarnies again. Fancy sitting out in the conservatory and helping me finish them?’
Christy looked back at the ward, saw Bob and the others forking shepherd’s pie. He shrugged. ‘Alright.’
On the bench in the conservatory Fletcher opened his sandwich box. He sat with his head propped on one elbow and squinted at Christy. ‘What was it got you in here then Christy?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean what was it you were feeling that made you cut yourself up like that?’
‘Don’t know. Everything just felt really weird. Went a bit mental I suppose.’
‘Had you ever felt like that before?’ Fletcher asked, passing him the sandwich box.
‘Kind of. Once properly, then a time before was like it but not so strong.’
‘Can you remember the first time?’
Christy looked at Fletcher, wondering, judging. ‘I was at Butlin’s with me mum. I had a bit of a freak out then.’
Fletcher cocked his head. ‘What do you reckon sparked that off?’
‘Don’t know,’ Christy said. He bit into a cheese and pickle sandwich. ‘This bloke drowned in the pool. He was pissed. Might’ve been that.’
That morning the sound in the dining-hall was different. No clatter and bubble, but an ebbing rustle and whisper, like tinnitus. The waiters paused longer, leaning, nodding. The words rippled, broke. Terrible. How old? Imagine. Stood there. Not able. Seeing it. On the edge of the water. Not able.
Could he swim, the boy? Not in his clothes he couldn’t, not drunk like that. Eight minutes of consciousness, they say. Whether you’re trying or not. The water, blue in the day, was grey in the night. A terrified blank gasping. Opening the eyes wide, as if you can scream for help through your eyes. Surfacing. Spinning. One hundred and eighty degrees of his father. Down again like a dog in a bucket.
Was the father dancing? On the cool blue tiles at the pool’s edge he took two steps backward, two forward, two to the left, two to the right. He patted his pockets and, leading with one hand, shuffled forward like a drunk unlocking a door.
In the air again. One unclassifiable sound. His father, on his knees and one elbow, at the edge of the water, in his best clothes, waving at his drowning son.
‘Why would that affect you so much, do you think?’
Christy made a series of small silent gulps. ‘Reminded me of me dad dying.’
Fletcher winced and nodded. ‘When was this?’
‘When I was seven.’
Back when Christy was young and everything was simple.
‘Was it unexpected?’ Fletcher asked.
Christy pulled a face like he was trying to swallow something jagged. ‘Not by him it wasn’t. He committed suicide.’
‘Yeah?’
Yes. Suicide. The one daft idea after which there is no other.
Christy stood and began pacing around the conservatory. He reached one end and began drumming his fingers on the glass as if he were trying to attract the help of passersby. There were no passersby.
Fletcher bit into an apple. ‘Can you remember stuff from around when he died?’
Christy sat again. ‘I can remember bits before, then there’s a gap.’
A gap that can’t be filled, where memory fails and the screen burns white, blank.
‘Did you understand what had happened with your dad?’
‘Not really. Nobody told me anything or explained.’
Stories swam around the playground. Christy’s dad became like something in a book.
He’d been a milkman but he got blown up by the Jerries in the war, because he was out late delivering.
He died of dick trouble. It went bad and fell off and all his blood squirted out of the hole it left, until he was all flat like a balloon with the air out.
He wasn’t dead. He was a secret agent, working undercover. He wasn’t allowed to come back. Not even at Christmas. Nobody believed that one though. Dean said it and he was thick. He reckoned you could get the oxygen chewing gum that Marine Boy used, out of the Beech Nut machine at Weymouth bus station.
‘Were you able to talk to anyone about it?’
Christy shook his head.
Apparently, nothing had happened. And Christy didn’t like to make a lot of fuss about nothing.
His mother had used the word ‘dad’ eight times in Christy’s presence. Each time, Christy had twitched alert like a waking dog. Each time his mother had meant her own dad.
At school Miss Young read them a story once, about an invisible man. He had to go round in bandages so people wouldn’t bump into him. Christy listened and wished he was invisible. Silence was as near as he could get.
He kept his head down and his mouth shut. He came to think about speaking in the same way that, later, other boys thought about fucking. He got good at it in his head.
‘Any brothers or sisters you could talk to about it?’
‘Me sister’s gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘Left home. Don’t know where she is.’
Fletcher frowned. ‘That’s a lot of people going isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’ Christy stood again. ‘Anyway, that’s enough for now.’ He made for the door.
‘Sit down Christy,’ Fletcher said. ‘You’ll get indigestion.’
Christy stopped. He stood for a few minutes, shaking, with his eyes squeezed shut. He returned and sat next to Fletcher.
‘Can you remember the first time you spoke to anyone about your dad’s suicide?’
Christy wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth. ‘The other week when Danny come.’
Fletcher’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Have you got any idea why your dad did it?’
‘No.’
‘Did you have anything to remember him by?’
‘I had some stuff in a box. Photos and that,’ Christy said, taking another sandwich.
‘Did that help?
‘Not much.’
He remembered the picture of his father where he seemed about to say something. He had always felt a swell of panic when he saw it, a terror of being stuck forever on the edge of speaking.
‘Was there much support available outside the family?’
There were Christmas presents for the children from the neighbours; a satchel, a blackboard and easel. And a card signed by everyone, full of kind words for the objects of pity.
‘Not really. We used to go to church but none of them lot ever really said anything.’
There are questions which write their own answers. There is obedience. There is original sin; an idea for mopping up all unplottable etceteras.
Catholicism’s an unlucky faith for the dadless; it’s all pattern and paternity. There is always something there to remind you; the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost, our father who aren’t in heaven, bless me father for I have sinned, father, father, father.
The men and women with tired faces, their best clothes smelling of incense, made no mention of the sins of the father. The generous ones hoped he’d fallen. Outside, the car park was full of minibuses. Inside, the air was thick with the dust from dead people. Christy listened to the rising, falling, dull throb of the sermon. He felt every stab of that word. He stared at the swirls and knots in the grain of the pew. There was a roaring noise like a dragon. The swirls and knots swam and wriggled. Christy levered forward and crumpled like a dropped accordion. His head smacked against the pew in front. He was lifted under the armpits. In the distance he could hear the scrape of his shoes dragging across the polished floor. He found himself looking at the church steps from between his knees, with his mother at his side.
‘Do you reckon the lack of talking about it made things worse?’
‘Fucked if I know.’
Fletcher looked into Christy’s face. ‘It’s a mess isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
Fletcher put the lid on his sandwich box, brushed crumbs from his thighs. He gave Christy’s arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve got no answers Christy. Only questions.’
Christy stood up. ‘I’d better be getting back. Thanks for the sandwiches.’ He walked from the conservatory thinking, nosey cunt. On the way back to the ward he stopped off in the toilets. Alone again, he vomited everything that was inside him. He went to bed. When his mother visited three days later he was still there, staring into nothing, unblinking, with an apostrophe of drool on the pillow beside his mouth.

Chapter 34

2005-05-28T11:56:00.000Z

WILLSON
The lunch hour. Danny and his father were standing poised at opposite ends of the kitchen table as if they were about to play ping pong.
Danny lunged forward. ‘What was all that about earlier on with Chant?’
‘How do you mean?’ his dad asked, straightening.
‘All that “Oh you remember Danny don’t you? Good kid. Always popping in. He can’t wait to start here when he’s eighteen.” All that.’
Mr Chant, joint-owner of the chain of bookmakers, had made a rare visit to the branch that morning. Danny’s dad had taken the opportunity to nudge Danny closer to what he dreaded.
‘I’m sick of it Dad,’ Danny said, working his knuckles against the top of the table.
‘Sick of what?’
‘All these mega-ton hints about following in your poxy footsteps. I don’t want to spend the rest of me life running a bookies.’
‘What do you want then?’
‘I don’t fucking know!’ Danny shouted. ‘I’m working it out. Alright?’
‘Well don’t take forever,’ his dad said, leaning calmly against the cooker. ‘I know I keep coming back to this but you’ve got to think of the future.’
‘Ah bollocks!’ Danny said, turning to walk out. ‘That’s all you ever think of, that is.’
He slammed his bedroom door and leaned his back against it. He’d seen his future. It was behind him in the kitchen. He locked the bedroom door as if to keep that future out. He punched the door. ‘You bastard. You stupid bastard.’

Alone, Christy sat by the window in the dayroom, smoking and watching the rain. His brain felt like it was tightly wrapped in clingfilm. He heard the snick of the door opening. It was one of the nurses; Fletcher.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Fletcher asked.
Christy said nothing.
‘Teabreak,’ Fletcher said. ‘Thought I’d pop in for a quick snout.’ He smiled and lit a cigarette.
‘You don’t usually come in here,’ Christy said, still looking out of the window.
‘Fancied a change.’ Fletcher paused, inspecting his cigarette. ‘How’s it going then Christy? Medication helping and that?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Been here about a month now isn’t it?’
‘About that.’
Fletcher nodded. ‘I was like you at your age. Bit older. Suddenly you do something that changes everything. Then you have to start working out the reasons.’
Christy looked at Fletcher suspiciously.
‘I was twenty. It was just me and me dad at home. I wanted out but I couldn’t leave. I was minicabbing at the time.’ Fletcher shifted in his seat. ‘There was this bloke who’d been blagging outside Deja Vu, no radio, just hanging about picking up punters on spec. I did his motor. Drove past, cut the lights, lobbed a johnny full of paint-stripper onto the bonnet. Next week outside Deja Vu he pulled across me, got out and fronted up to me.’ Fletcher paused, wiped his palms on the legs of his trousers. ‘I chinned him. He caught his head on his wing mirror. Fractured his skull.’
‘Yeah?’ Christy said.
‘I could’ve killed him. Would’ve gone down if he’d pressed charges. Made me stop and think. Decided I was going to make a new start, become someone else.’
‘What you telling me for?’ Christy asked.
‘All I’m saying is, with you, when you feel stronger you might find something to launch yourself at.’ Fletcher smiled and looked at him. ‘I worry about you, you know. The way you don’t really talk.’
Christy looked at Fletcher.
‘Not to the staff so much but to anybody,’ Fletcher said. ‘You should try it.’
‘Why?’
‘Might help. Might find out you’re not on your own.’
‘What if I am?’
‘What if you’re not?’ Fletcher asked, standing now. ‘Might help if you had some visitors other than your mum. Aren’t there any mates who could drop by?’
Christy covered his mouth with his hand. ‘They’re keeping away.’
Fletcher stubbed his cigarette. ‘Well. Teabreak over.’ He looked over his shoulder as he left. ‘Think about what I said though, yeah?’
Christy grunted.

Christy lit another cigarette. The rain stopped. The dayroom door opened. George came in wearing a string vest and beige slacks. He sat in a chair near the window.
They looked at each other silently for some time. George frowned and spoke. ‘You remind me of someone, you do. Your manner.’
‘Who?’ Christy asked.
‘Bloke I knew. Doug. Doubting Doug I called him.’
Doug lived in a bedsit opposite George’s tattoo parlour. Every night Doug watched the blue neon word ‘TATTOOS’ flashing in George’s window with a regular, lazy click. Sometimes it reminded him of American detective novels. Sometimes it reminded him of a lighthouse. Every day Doug passed the green door at the bottom of George’s stairs. There was writing on it in bright fairground lettering; ‘ORIGINAL SKIN; for the scars you choose. Go upstairs one way, come down another.’
George continued. ‘He came in every pay-day for months. He’d look at the photos of work I’d done. He’d spend hours going through the albums of designs. I left him to it. Couldn’t find anything he liked so he started bringing in his own sketches.’
Christy felt his attention wandering. He had a strange distant feeling as if he were listening from underwater.
George droned on. ‘He couldn’t draw, so I redrew them for him. He chose one. I was sat with my toe on the footswitch and the sod panicked and backed out. He came back a month later with another sketch. I took a deposit that time. Redrew it. Last minute again, he heard that needle buzzing and his nerve went.
I asked him why. He said it wasn’t the pain. Just couldn’t handle the thought of deciding something so permanent. Imagine if we all went round like that. Nobody’d do anything.’
‘Did he ever go through with it?’
‘Not with me,’ the tattooist said. ‘I banned him for pissing me about. There’s another two tattooists in town. He did the self-same thing with them; dithered, then chickened out. Ended up going to some scratcher in Southampton; a real cowboy. Got septicaemia. Nearly killed him.’
Christy thought for a moment. ‘What’s all that got to do with me?’
‘Don’t know,’ George said. ‘Just something about you reminds me.’
With that, George went and sat at the large table. Christy followed grudgingly.
The dayroom door was opened by Fletcher. ‘Christy,’ he said. ‘Your mate’s here to see you.’
Christy looked up to see Danny approaching. He felt panic whip along his spine.
‘Alright Christy?’ Danny said. ‘How’s things on the paranoid ward?’
Christy swallowed dry air. He tried to speak but everything in his mouth felt glued together. Nothing came out.
Danny sat at the table. ‘Fuck me Christy. You look like you’ve just been dug up.’
Christy looked at his wrists. ‘I think I’ve lost the plot.’
Danny looked across at George and whispered to Christy. ‘You don’t want to be in here with nutty fuckers like that. Cunt ought to be in a circus.’
Christy shrugged. He introduced George.
Danny’s eyes fell to the watch tattooed on George’s wrist. ‘What’s that in aid of?’
‘Just a reminder,’ George said, ‘For when the things that used to stop you looking at your watch don’t work anymore.’
After a pause Christy said, ‘George is a tattooist.’
George handed Danny a business card. On one side were instructions for the aftercare of tattoos. On the other side was a telephone number and the words, ‘People rewritten, estimates given’.
Danny handed Christy the card. ‘There you go. You could get him to tattoo you a black armband.’
Danny flicked his head back too late to avoid Christy’s fist.
The tattooist trotted from the room with his hands to his face.
In dreams, Christy had often seen himself trying to punch a featureless face but failing to connect. Now he’d connected. It felt glorious. He watched Danny dabbing his nose. ‘Sorry.’
‘Alright. I am too.’
They sat for a while. Danny tried to think what to do next. He looked at the skinny red tracks on Christy’s wrists. ‘What happened with your wrists Christy? Looks like you’ve been having a go at them with a fucking Flymo.’
Christy shrugged with his face.
‘That was fucking stupid. You could’ve died. You ought to know better.’
‘How come?’
‘You know why,’ Danny said.
‘Don’t know what you mean,’ Christy said.
‘Yes you do. With your dad.’
Christy lit a cigarette. ‘If you’ve got something to say then say it.’
Danny stubbed his own cigarette. ‘No. You say it. You fucking say it.’
Christy blew two plumes of smoke from his nostrils. ‘Me dad killed himself.’
Danny leaned back in his seat. ‘I know.’
‘You knew?’
‘Everybody knew, Christy.’
Christy held the sides of his head.
‘What the fuck happened in Amsterdam then? With the others.’
Christy moved his mouth as if he were trying to recognise a taste. ‘I had to get away. I knew something terrible was going to happen to me, and everybody was in on it. I couldn’t tell what was inside me head and what was outside it.’
Danny said, ‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about.’
‘I was being set up,’ Christy said. ‘Right from that party, with all of you straight and that.’
‘Straight? We were tripping our tits off same as you.’
‘Then when we got to Amsterdam Animal and Patrick planted some smack on me so I’d get busted by Customs.’
‘Don’t be a cunt. Why would they do that?’
‘Punishment.’
‘What for?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘They could’ve got you busted anytime if they wanted. When we were all dealing.’
Christy turned in his seat. ‘There was people from that party on the ferry on the way back. Following me.’
‘Fucking weren’t. How could there be?’
‘And your mates from Bournemouth. In the hotel.’
Danny banged the table. ‘What the fuck are you on about?’
He lit another cigarette and offered one to Christy. ‘I don’t understand it. Everybody gets paranoid but you think you’re in the middle of some fucking international conspiracy. Things aren’t like that. Why would anyone bother?’
Christy said nothing.
‘Granted there was times when there was stuff going on you didn’t know about. Your dope was always under to make up for you being useless. And that smack at Pontin’s. That was just plaster ground up.’
Christy nodded. ‘Plus that money you and Phil nicked out of me jacket at Henge.’
Danny sat with his head tilted, remembering. ‘We never.’
‘I seen you splitting up the money when I come back in the tent.’
Danny’s face cleared. ‘Me and him had a bet you couldn’t shift that gear. That’s all.’
Christy licked a finger and rubbed at his wrist. ‘I don’t know what it all is really. Can’t explain. It’s all loads of stuff together.’
‘Well start with bits then.’
Christy rubbed his eyes. ‘All that with me dad and with Clair, it felt like they couldn’t get away from me quick enough. You end up thinking nobody’ll want anything to do with you. Just expect bad stuff to happen.’
Danny scraped around in his mind for something to say. ‘What about Linda then?’ he asked. He knew it sounded lame.
Christy looked at Danny. ‘That was just a set up too.’
‘You’re a prat to yourself Christy,’ Danny said. ‘She was curious, and you cocked it up.’
‘Curious how?’
‘Interested!’ Danny said. ‘Told me once you had a nice smile. All that sad shit. Said you always looked like you were about to say something. She was disappointed after. Because you didn’t give it a chance.’
Christy frowned. The pair sat without speaking. Eventually Danny stood and looked at his watch. ‘I’d better shoot, Christy. Got to get down the Gloucester Bars. See a man about a dog.’
‘You won’t tell any of the others you’ve been up, will you? I don’t want them coming.’
‘Please yourself,’ Danny said. ‘Up to you isn’t it?’ He walked away, feeling like the first mourner to leave a funeral.

Terry returned from the Gloucester Bars with an eighth of Danny’s homegrown. He parked the Mini in front of the Mudhut and killed the lights. He fished the gear out from under the passenger seat and sat for a few moments to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the unlit street.
Like a photograph developing, the shape of a police car formed in the darkness. Terry opened the door a few inches and moved to drop the grass into the gutter. The headlights of the police car came on. Terry whispered to himself, ‘Just drive you bastard. Drive. Pull away.’
The police car pulled out and drew alongside Terry’s Mini. The officer in the passenger seat stepped out and walked over to Terry. ‘Evening sir.’
‘Good. Sir. Evening officer.’
‘Do you mind stepping out of the vehicle please sir?’
Terry stepped out. He stood on the pavement clutching the bag of grass close to his palm like a bad magician. He tried to remember the words of ‘Advice On Arrest’ by The Desperate Bicycles.
‘This your car sir?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Could I have a look at your driver’s licence please sir?’
‘Yes,’ Terry said, fumbling in his left pocket.
‘What’s that in your hand son?’
Terry felt a small squirt of piss escape.

Chapter 33

2005-05-28T11:55:00.000Z

WILLSON
Christy sat on the window ledge. He guessed the drainpipe was about three feet to the left of the window. He shifted so that he straddled the window-sill. He shuffled to the window’s edge nearest the drainpipe. He clenched the modelling knife between his teeth, gripped the window frame with his left hand and swung. He felt his forehead burning where it smashed against the pebbledash. His nose was bleeding. His right hand gripped the drainpipe. He could feel the gashes on his sliced wrists opening and breathing the cold air. He closed his eyes and let go of the window frame. When he opened his eyes he was hugging the drainpipe tight to his chest. He shinned down like a pirate in the rigging of a ship. With his wrists now oozing he walked to the top of Mallams and fainted on the pavement. He came to in the psychiatric ward of Weymouth hospital.
On returning from Swindon his mother got the news from Mrs Lynch next door. She took the first bus to the hospital. After speaking to the nurses briefly, she did what she would do on all the following Thursdays. She sat for an hour, staring silently at the space where her still invisible son lay. Christy told his mother he didn’t want to see the others. She phoned round with the lie that Phil, Danny, Animal and Patrick were banned from visiting by the doctors. On her way home she told Kev he could visit. She knew him as a steady boy.

Tranquilised but far from tranquil, Christy sat on the sofa in the dayroom watching ‘Nationwide’ with the sound down, killing time until Kev’s arrival. He was reserving judgement, but he hadn’t yet seen any evidence that Kevin was part of the plan. At the large table behind him were three other patients. George and Mandy were playing Scrabble. Bob was rooting through a carrier bag of jigsaw pieces and whistling tunelessly to himself.
Bob called across the room. ‘Come and give us a hand with this jigsaw if you like.’
Christy turned, bit his lip. ‘I’ve got someone coming to see me in a minute.’
Bob grunted and turned again to his puzzle. ‘Please yourself.’
Christy relented and crossed the room. He sat next to Bob and looked at what he was doing. Laid on the table was a rough triangle of jigsaw pieces. Although the pieces had been fitted together, no overall picture was recognisable. Instead, fragments of scenes showed in patches. A cow grazed gormlessly in a stormy sea while above its head a small oil-painted boy stood in front of stern oil-painted inquisitors.
Bob explained as he fished through the carrier bag. ‘There’s about five different jigsaws muddled up in here. They must be all cut to the same template. Seem to fit together anyhow.’
Christy sat watching as Bob fitted more pieces. Minutes passed. Visiting time came. Nothing. He caught himself looking for the eighth time at where his watch once was. He began picking at the dressing on his wrists.
George looked up from the Scrabble board, looked at Christy. ‘Snap!’ he said. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt to show two zips tattooed on the insides of his wrists.
Christy swallowed.
‘Want to know the time?’ George asked, in a voice flattened by medication. He showed Christy the watch tattooed on his left wrist. On the watch-face, where numerals would’ve been, were tattooed the words, ‘later than you think’.
Mandy rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t start him off about his tattoos. We’ll be here all night.’
It was too late. George was off. He removed his shirt to reveal a body darkened by a flock of tattoos.
‘There you go look,’ he said. ‘Three hundred and sixty five tattoos I’ve got, top to toe. And when I get out of here I’m going to rework the whole lot.’
Christy looked at the mermaids, the anchors, the fish, the seahorses, the dolphins diving, the hearts, the roses, the rising suns, the setting suns, the moons, the half-moons, the quarter-moons, the stars, the starbursts, the peacocks, the swallows, the phoenixes, the birds of paradise.
His eyes skipped and hopped across the words and phrases inscribed; Mother, Dad, Dad, Dad, Perseverando Vinces, Born To Lose, Born To Choose, Born To Run, You Only Live Once, You Only Live Twice, Shit Or Bust, Shit Or Get Off The Pot, Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense, We’re Here Because We’re Here, Do Not Despair Do Not Presume, Existence Precedes Essence, Per Ardua Ad Astra, Amor Vincit Omnia. He looked at the word ‘love’ tattooed on the knuckles of both of George’s hands.
‘Wasn’t it expensive getting them done?’ Christy asked.
‘Done a lot of them meself,’ George explained. ‘It’s me trade.’
His tattoo parlour was above an off-licence in Bournemouth. Over the years, between customers, George had built himself up into a picture. He’d dug into himself, then, later, watched as coloured scabs like fragments of stained glass, flaked and fell away.
He pointed to a crude thick black design on his chest. ‘This is my favourite at the moment. Ancient that design is. From Tahiti. Dates back before the mutiny on the Bounty.’ His dead eyes shone brighter for a moment. ‘Fascinates me, that story. You’ve got the Tahitians, their whole way of life’s based on not hiding or squashing their feelings. Then you’ve got Bligh. Uptight, obsessed with reason and order and mapping things out. He’s on an errand to prop up slavery but he never has a second’s doubt he’s in the right. Most of the crew’s off falling in love with the local women, getting tattooed, all that, but Bligh stays celibate the whole five months. When the time comes to leave, the crews got two choices; love or a tidy life. They think, fuck it, we’re sticking with what we’ve chosen.’
He paused to roll a cigarette, and light it. ‘The authorities sent a ship called The Pandora after the mutineers but it wasn’t no use. No stopping them.’
Christy sniffed twice. ‘Just sounds like something you’ve read in a book.’ He sneaked a look at Mandy’s watch. Visiting time was over.

Kev had been to Radio Rentals. He’d bought ‘Love Bites’ by the Buzzcocks and ‘You Can’t Put Your Arms Around A Memory’ by Johnny Thunders. He knelt on the living room carpet cataloguing them in the big red book. He entered the date of purchase, the release date, the artist and title. He was annoyed with himself. Before he’d had just one column for the date. Now money was tighter he couldn’t always buy the records he wanted on their release date. So he’d had to create two columns for purchase date and release date. It made the book look untidy.
He put the records in the rack in alphabetical order, by artist name. He’d listen to them later. He stood up brushing the knees of his jeans and turned to Karen. ‘Alright if I put the telly on for the news?’
‘Alright,’ Karen said, placing two plates of corned beef and chips on the table.
Kevin sat at the table. ‘I’ll pop up the hospital after. See what Christy’s gone and done to himself, the daft specimen.’
‘Fuck. Sorry.’ Plates and cutlery shifted as Karen clenched a fistful of tablecloth.
Kev looked up, knife and fork poised. ‘Was that?’
‘I think so.’
It was. They began timing the contractions. Kev got the bag and put it on the table. He phoned Barry from Better Cars. Kev cut his hair; Barry was reliable.
On the drive to the hospital Barry asked five times whether they’d decided on names. Kerry for a girl, Perry for a boy. Barry apologised for the suspension so many times that Karen felt like screaming. Kev and Karen stepped out of the cab with a sigh and a wince. The hospital towered above them, tall and white like a fridge.
Kerry came out bluey. Her head looked pointy, wrong. She just lay there, blue. She wasn’t moving or crying. Then she was. Moving. Brilliant. Kev felt everything inside him opening, glowing, singing.
Later, trembling in the corridor he phoned his mother. She said the right things. She ended by saying, ‘This is where the hard work starts.’

Chapter 32

2005-05-28T11:53:00.000Z

WILLSON
Here I am again; here we are again. I thought if I could only get myself clever enough I could make you understand how this felt and feels, could make you understand what’s been eating Christy Cross, make you understand what Christy Cross has eaten. But perhaps the only way is for me to shove your face right in it, to rub your nose in what scared the life out of him.
I still can’t tell when this happened. Some explosions leave no crater but only flatten everything around them. Who can say where poison enters the water? I don’t know how old he was. He didn’t need to look up the word asphyxiation; that might be a clue but I’m not sure it matters.
What matters is that Christy goes upstairs one way and comes down another. At the top of the stairs is the airing cupboard next to Clair’s room. Clair is at the pictures with Deb. In the airing cupboard is a metal document box. Christy opens the box and dips in. There in the box is the last word on his father. Christy reads the death certificate. The cause of death was asphyxiation. His father committed suicide; drowned himself ‘while the balance of his mind was disturbed.’ His body was found wedged among the rocks at Portland Bill.
These are some things Christy feels and thinks: like a cat on a raft, like a leper, unclean, a specimen, something to be scraped off, like the most disgusting thing that ever crept, like the bad black bad will ooze out of me forever, hello cruel world, everybody knew, nobody said, nobody to tell, nobody to tell me, you’re on your fucking own mate, either swim for it or don’t, nobody’s bothered, nothing down for me, no good in me, better dead than with me, sooner dead, not chosen invited or wanted, never chosen invited or wanted, only an object of pity or ridicule ever, nothing will ever count like this counts, one more like that and I’ll be finished, a millstone, a sin, could’ve been a better boy and stopped him, this failure will leak over everything and get everywhere, nothing I do will ever be good enough, nothing I do will bring him back, nothing I do will ever be good enough to bring him back, what I am is what I am and what I am is this, the last born who broke my father’s back, rotten, no use to any cunt, this thing there’s no right word for, no word at all, there are normal people and there is me, everyone will do this, love is nothing to do with me, judged and found wanting, couldn’t get away quick enough, can’t get away quick enough, one day all this will be mine, people leave and only leave, this is me defined, I did this, the one to blame, a look of disappointment like a birthmark forever, nobody will ever look at me and wonder if I might be nice, they’ll know the truth, not even something I did but something I am and always will be, this is the start and end, what people do is lie, what people do is a lie, this taste won’t go, not good enough ever, the last time I see someone will always be the last time, the bad seed is in me, everything will be like this, all good things will be sarcasm, this is the hinge on which my life will swing, this is the wall between me and the world, this is the wedge between me and the world, there’s no cure.
Those were some things Christy felt and thought. Poor Christy.

Chapter 31

2005-05-28T11:52:00.000Z

WILLSON
After all the dress rehearsals the moment had come when Christy’s life would snap in half like a dry stick. He had to come unstuck sometime. He reached Centraal Station, his lungs bursting with terror. He stood watching the indicator boards flap meaninglessly until he felt like screaming. After forever a train for the Hook of Holland was shown.
As the train pulled out he locked himself in the first available toilet. He undressed, balancing each piece of clothing on the small washbasin fixed to the wall. In the stink of a toilet clogged with shit he stood naked, searching his clothes for drugs. Patrick and Animal could easily have planted something on him while they were holding him down. Now he thought about it he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t actually fallen asleep in the room. That was when they did it.

In the ferry’s bar Christy pretended to sleep again, curled on a padded bench. Around him voices chopped and bubbled in a dozen languages like a radio being retuned. Cut yourself up. He sat upright suddenly and looked around the room. He recognised one face after another from the White Lackington party. He tried to seem casual as he walked from the bar.
He’d been given something to make him sleep back at the hotel. While he was asleep he’d been force-fed a condom full of smack. He could feel it sitting in his stomach. He had to get rid of it. He walked up to the counter in the ferry’s restaurant. He pointed to a bowl of apples near the till. ‘How much for all them?’
The cashier looked at him, puzzled. ‘What all of them?’
Christy nodded. The cashier counted the apples, said the price and bagged them. Christy walked to the upper deck and leaned miserably on the railings, eating the apples, ready to jump if anyone came near. He walked unsteadily into the toilets and sat waiting to empty.

Hopeless and anchorless, a hollow Christy stepped from the train at Weymouth, early Monday evening. He crouched in the car-park for a while, watching. In the minicab office opposite a woman spoke into a microphone. A car in front of the office started up, pulled away, and headed towards the seafront. Things were being controlled by C.B again.
They would be expecting him to go straight home but he wouldn’t. Instead he walked across the road into the Terminus Hotel. It was an old man’s pub; scuffed lino and nicotine walls. There was a faint smell of cat piss. A wet lipped pensioner sat alone on one of the red vinyl benches. Kapok the colour of catarrh poked from a gash in the vinyl.
Christy asked about a room for the night. The cardiganed landlord eyed him up. ‘Any luggage?’
‘No. Unexpected visit.’ He reached into his inside pocket. ‘I can pay in advance.’
The phone behind the bar rang. The landlord answered it. ‘Just now. Yeah. Literally just now.’ They were checking if he’d arrived. He couldn’t let them see he knew.
The landlord took the money and left the pensioner to watch the bar while he took Christy upstairs to the room. Christy took the keys, shut the door behind him and sat for a few minutes on the edge of the bed.
He left the room, intending to return to the bar. At the top of the stairs he stopped. He felt all the air leave his body. Coming out of the toilets below was Phil. Christy ducked out of sight and returned to the room. Patrick and Animal had phoned Phil to say when he would be arriving.
Christy stood to one side of the window watching for Phil’s departure and wondering how far the net stretched. After an hour he saw Phil cross the street and walk away. He tore the flysheet from the Gideon Bible, wrote on it, folded it, put it in his pocket and left.
He zigzagged his way to Conrad’s. The town was alive with police. Every corner he turned confronted him with another officer, forced another diversion. He arrived to find the yard gate locked. Tipped off that Christy was on his way Steve had decided to close for the day. Christy vaulted the gate. He pressed his nose against the window of Steve’s office. Steve was still in there somewhere, planning his next move, concocting evidence against Christy.
Christy tapped on the window. No answer. He went round to the counter entrance, took the note from his pocket, and slotted it through the letterbox. It read, ‘Steve, eat shit you busy important cunt. From Christy.’ He wanted something more definite. He walked up the yard to where the engineering bricks were. He chose a brick and hurled it at the office window, which shattered with an odd flat crunch.
They wouldn’t expect him to go home. He used the old formula and took the third bus that left from the seafront. He checked the house from top to bottom, searching for intruders. He shut the door of his bedroom and slid the bolt. He lay on the bed and turned on the radio on the music centre. It was transmitting a pre-recorded tape. He unplugged the music centre at the mains. That was how it was connected up to the tape.

Christy woke like a dog having a nightmare. There was darkness outside the window. The phone was ringing. He’d stabbed his mother to death.
He ran downstairs. He picked up the phone. ‘Hello.’
The voice on the line said, ‘Christy?’ It was Phil. Christy hung up.
In the kitchen he began checking the walls for blood. He shook some Flash into a bucket of hot water and began scrubbing. Emptying the second bucket of dirty water into the kitchen sink, he froze. From the window he could see three people standing under the streetlight in the layby opposite. They were staring straight at him. Watching him. If he stayed still long enough they’d leave. Christy stood motionless for an hour. Nothing moved in the layby. He dropped to his knees, and crawled to the base of the stairs.
He locked the bedroom door behind him again. He switched on the light and saw himself reflected in the window, a black empty silhouette. Over by Chesil Beach there were lights. He switched off the light and dived to the floor. He scuttled across the room and yanked the curtains shut. He lay on his side panting. Cut yourself up, dust yourself down, start all over again.
There was knocking on the roof, knocking under the floor, knocking behind the walls. They were coming for him. He kneeled and nudged the curtains aside by an inch. The lights were still there behind Cove Cottages. The motorbikes were back. There were too many for it to just be Animal’s brothers; the Angels were there too, come with axes to cut him up.
The knocking started again, on the roof this time. They were hacking their way in. Christy scrambled over to the bed, reached underneath and found the box. He took out the modelling knife he’d once used for cutting up the dope. They weren’t going to get him.
He began hacking at his wrists with the knife. There was no spray or spurt; only thin black lines of blood appeared where the blunted blade hit. He couldn’t go downstairs to get another knife. They’d already got in downstairs. He lifted the sash window and sat on the sill, getting his courage up.

Chapter 30

2005-04-28T11:51:00.000Z

WILLSON
The hotelier reminded Christy of someone he’d seen in the paper for mucking about with little boys. While the fat man made coffee he advised them that while they were in the hotel they shouldn’t inject any gear they bought on the street in case they got ‘sickoso’. Patrick and Animal bought some dope from him but Christy declined. Patrick looked at Christy. ‘Hoo-fucking-ray. Another fun-packed holiday with Christy.’
Their room looked like the sort of place someone had died in. The walls were crude plasterboard partitions. There were three metal hospital bedsteads. The mattresses on top were bare, and black with grease and stains.
Animal and Patrick seemed unconcerned by the state of the room; it served its purpose. The three sat on the floor and Patrick began skinning up. Soon there was a knock at the door. Two men from the next room introduced themselves. Animal asked them in for a smoke. This had already been arranged. The men mentioned that they were from Bournemouth. Danny was doing his bit, roping in people he knew from the car auctions.
Christy went to the toilet to try to think but his brain was pounding. On returning he stood outside the room to hear what they were planning. He heard Patrick say, ‘Couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag.’
Animal laughed and said, ‘Couldn’t fight his way out of a bad trip.’
Christy entered. The others looked up at him with innocent faces. One of the characters from Bournemouth was finishing telling how earlier in the week the fat hotelier had jumped in the shower and tried to bugger him. Patrick and Animal were in hysterics. Soon the two Bournemouth men stood to leave. They’d said their lines; there was no need to stay.
Patrick suggested they got some sleep. Christy turned his mattress over. It was no better on the other side. He lay feigning sleep so they couldn’t plant any gear on him or spike him again. He waited until he could hear Patrick and Animal’s breathing getting deeper. He sat up, hooked his bag over his shoulder and began creeping towards the door.
The door swung open. One of the Bournemouth men entered, claiming that he thought he’d left his lighter in their room. Christy stood frozen. He heard Animal stirring behind him. He sat back down on the bed and tried to look like he’d just got up to answer the door.
Animal knew. ‘Where the fuck are you off to Christy?’
The Bournemouth man laughed and walked out. Christy dashed for the door like a scalded cat. Animal leapt half the width of the room and grabbed at the collar of Christy’s jacket. Christy’s legs flew out in front of him and he crashed to the floor. Patrick was up too by then. They couldn’t really have been sleeping. Patrick kicked the door shut.
Animal dropped down and held Christy’s arms as he kicked and struggled. He shouted to Patrick. ‘Sit on his legs for fuck’s sake. I can’t hold him.’
Pinned like an insect, Christy sweated. Patrick and Animal began acting like this wasn’t part of the script.
Patrick said, ‘What’s up? What are you fucking doing?’
‘I’ve got to get away. I’ve got to get away.’
Animal said, ‘Why?’
‘You fucking know. Everybody knows.’
Patrick and Animal glanced at each other. A look passed between them, as if things weren’t going as planned.
Animal said, ‘What do you think’s going to happen?’
‘You should know,’ Christy said. He tried to get a hand free to throw a punch. Animal put all his weight down on Christy’s wrists.
‘Do you think we’ve set you up?’ Patrick asked.
It seemed for a moment that they might confess and relent. Then Animal said, ‘Calm down Christy. You’re just flashing back.’
Christy lay there for an hour, flat on his back, crushed. The only escape was to pretend he’d given up the struggle. From the way they believed him this seemed to suit their plan. When Animal took Christy’s bag and put it under his mattress he was only maintaining the performance.
In the evening, on the way to the Melkweg, Christy tried to memorise the street names for later. He couldn’t stop looking at his watch. He couldn’t get used to the time being an hour later. He said, ‘I keep feeling like it’s earlier than it is.’
Patrick clenched his fists at his sides. ‘You say that one more time, I’ll throw you in a canal and fucking hold you under.’
They stopped at a take-away on Leidsestraat. Animal and Patrick asked if it sold widow’s memories. They looked at Christy and laughed. The woman behind the counter joined in. Animal and Patrick ordered chips with mayonnaise. Christy stood, pretending to choose. If he had the same as them it couldn’t have been spiked beforehand. But having the same would make it easier for them to put something in it and swap the portions without him noticing. So he ate nothing.
The concert hall at the Melkweg stunk of sweat, dope smoke and patchouli oil. It was packed.
Christy had to carry on acting the part until the right moment. The three of them elbowed their way to the front just as The Only Ones came onstage. They started with ‘Trouble In The World’, followed by ‘Language Problem’. Christy knew he had to wait it until the other two got lost in the music. The crowd calmed and loosened during a mournful ‘No Peace For The Wicked’. He edged behind Patrick and Animal and began working his way backwards.
Then Peter Perrett sloped up to the mic, smiled and said, ‘This next song’s going to bring a little ray of sunshine into your lives.’ The band hiccuped noisily into the opening of ‘Why Don’t You Kill Yourself?’. Christy turned and barged his way through the crowd.
The second he was outside, he ran. He kept running but didn’t feel he was getting away. All the streets crossing the canals looked identical. He couldn’t tell whether he was getting closer to the centre or skirting round it.

Chapter 29

2005-04-28T11:50:00.000Z

WILLSON
The night before Amsterdam Christy sat in the back of the Wartburg with panic throbbing through his body. Something was happening. The pattern was repeating; people leaving, getting away. That afternoon his mother had left for a week with her sister in Swindon. She touched his elbow as a goodbye. That wasn’t usual. She stood at the front gate waiting for the minicab and whistling ‘I Remember You’. The cab came. She went. Another black car leaving.
Something was going on. Phil had pulled out of the Amsterdam trip. He said it clashed with Les’s eighteenth. Then Danny had decided not to go, giving no reason. When Animal asked Christy to take Danny’s place, Christy felt like he was sitting on a high ledge trying not to look down and fall. He looked down and fell; said yes. And now they were taking him to Dunmore.
Phil, Danny, Patrick and Animal led him into the front room of Dunmore Cottage. Everything was the same as it always had been.
Phil smiled at Dennis and Binny. ‘Here he is. Here we are again.’
Binny peered at Christy. He was judging him, Christy knew, working out the best strategy. Binny smiled. ‘I remember you.’
Three bongs later Patrick nudged the proceedings to the next stage. ‘Where’s this party then?’
Dennis answered. ‘Oh yeah. At the Freak Wharf. White Lackington. Used to be a hospital. Squatted now.’
Phil said, ‘Any entertainment there?’
Christy looked at Phil, wondering.
Binny grinned. ‘You’ll have to make your own entertainment.’
Dennis pulled a bag of tabs from his jacket pocket. ‘Talking of which.’
‘New lot?’ Animal asked.
‘Yeah,’ Dennis said. ‘Some are ducks, some are rabbits.’ He held the bag out to each of them in turn. ‘Take your pick.’
The bag reached Christy. He dipped in. No point trying to stop it all now.
Danny inspected his tab. ‘What’s everyone got?’
‘Rabbit.’
‘Rabbit.’
‘Rabbit.’
Christy looked confused. ‘I’ve got a duck.’
Animal smiled. ‘Christy’s out for a duck.’
Danny passed Christy a joint. ‘You ready for a ducking Christy?’
Christy balanced the tab on the end of his finger. He swallowed it down. No point now.
Animal clapped. ‘Yes! Straight back in with a whole tab.’
They must have given Christy something to make him sleep. Danny parked beside Dennis’s car. The four stepped out of the car and left Christy in the back, curled like a question mark.
The shell of the old cottage hospital stood against the sky, as black as a rotten tooth. Patrick pointed to it. ‘Never know when you might need a hospital.’
In the grounds people milled like cattle among the trees and shrubs. Near the hospital entrance was a pool of silver, an oval pond reflecting the moonlight and the floodlights. On the lawn was a pool of red, the crackling remains of a large fire. From the hospital windows speakers blared Motorhead. While Dennis and Binny wandered off to socialise, Danny, Animal, Phil and Patrick bought beers out of black dustbins and stood checking their watches.

A metallic bang. The driver’s door of the car yanked open. Christy woke tripping, with the upward rush of a diver surfacing. Danny lunged across the front seats, grabbed a small package from the glove compartment and tossed it out of the door. Righting himself he looked at Christy, his eyes bright, black, and wide. ‘Fucking coppers. Again. You’d better get out and stay with us.’
Christy scrabbled towards Danny. The windows of the car billowed inwards. Sparks showered from every surface. Invisible things were crawling and scurrying over his skin. Danny led him to the edge of the fire where the other three stood with inky panicking eyes. Christy stared into Patrick’s face. ‘Where are they?’
Patrick pointed to the outskirts of the party. Through the drifting smoke and the acrid rippling air Christy could see the shapes of fancy dress policemen, stage policemen, television policemen, as they snaked through the edges of the crowd.
From the side of his mouth Phil said, ‘If they get any closer we chuck our personal in the fire.’ There was no need. Soon the police vanished like ghosts.
Christy looked once, looked again to make sure. ‘Where they gone?’
‘Vanished, Christy,’ Animal said. ‘Magic.’
Patrick said, ‘Yeah. It’s just a trick.’
Christy looked into the hot, waxy faces of the others. He knew they hadn’t done the acid. ‘Where are we?’
‘Party, Christy,’ Phil said.
‘Hospital, Christy,’ Danny said. ‘Used to be one.’
‘Yeah,’ Patrick said. ‘Used to be a loony bin.’
‘Where’s Dennis and Binny?’ Christy asked.
‘Round somewhere,’ Phil said.
‘Oh,’ Christy said. They were behind the scenes somewhere, directing the action.
Christy inhaled burning flesh. ‘What’s that smell?’
‘Burgers,’ Phil explained.
‘Which burgers?’
‘Yeah,’ Danny said. ‘Witch burgers. They’re burning witches.’
‘Be ducking a few of them later,’ Animal said. ‘In the pond over there. See if they float.’
Christy looked into the fire. The embers squirmed and churned like a million bloated maggots. He tried to see where the fire ended. He started patting his legs as if he was brushing dust from them; beating out the flames. He’d been spiked; now he was going to burn. He tugged Danny’s sleeve. ‘Why aren’t you going Amsterdam Danny?’
Danny was saved from having to invent an excuse. From the road came a roaring flood of light, moving. A woman in a leather jacket bumped past Christy. He heard her say, ‘Shit. Angels.’
A cluster of burning white lights like furious eyes approached. The air filled with the hot, specific smell of British motorbikes. The Windsor chapter of Hells Angels dismounted and nonchalantly, randomly, began hitting people with axes, wrenches, lengths of chain.
The five boys scattered towards the trees at the edge of the grounds. Christy ran behind a thick, dead oak. He knelt, shaking, grinding his forehead against the bark. He felt a hand paw at his back and heard a male voice yelp, ‘Fuck!’. It was Animal. His breath came in short tight gulps.
Christy looked at him. ‘Is it your brothers?’
Animal showed surprise. ‘F-f-fucksake.’
Honour satisfied, the bikers left. The remaining party-goers reappeared like lost Japanese soldiers coming out of the jungle. The five boys gathered again. Round the edge of the fire were three seats from an old bus. Animal, Christy and Danny claimed them.
Christy felt his seat rocking. He could hear squeaking. That was about what Phil said that time. The fire and the people and the sky all swooped backwards. He looked up into Phil’s sniggering face.
‘That’s him for another half-hour.’ Phil laughed.
Patrick looked down. ‘Get yourself up Christy.’
Cut yourself up Christy.
Christy uprighted himself. ‘Why aren’t you going Amsterdam Danny?’
No answer.
‘Why aren’t you going though, Danny?’
Animal rolled his eyes. ‘Fuck me. How many whys in Christy?’
‘Too many,’ Patrick said. ‘Give him a tip Danny.’
The sky whooshed again. Christy lay winded. ‘What’s these seats?’
‘You’re on a bus Christy,’ Patrick said. ‘That one Danny was saying about buying.’
They’d stuffed him full of acid. Now they’d stuck him on a bus to who knew where.
Phil’s face appeared above him. ‘We’re on the way to Swindon. See your mum.’
Why was she in Swindon? Mandeville was in Swindon. You think you’re sat on top of it; next thing you know it’s got you flat on your back. Cut yourself up.
Danny stood. ‘We should get in the car; warm up, get some kip.’
They left Christy on his back like a stranded sheep. He lay still while all the threads wove themselves together. He looked at the sky. The sky was black, without stars.
By dawn, he felt straight enough to know that something was being acted out; some performance or ritual. He wandered into the old hospital. In the first room two men were talking. One was telling the other a story.
‘I was with this bird and I was stoned and I was pissed and I was pissed and I was stoned. Then I threw up all over her.’
The second man, who had a mauve bruise covering one side of his face, looked uninterested. ‘Is that it?’
‘That’s all I can remember.’
He’d only been told the basic details.
The two men stared at Christy. He shuffled his feet. ‘I haven’t been inside a hospital lately.’
The one with the bruise said, ‘You might be again. Sooner than you think.’
In the car the others woke, aching and gluey-eyed, faces grey as cigarette ash, last night’s sweat itching under their clothes. They gathered among the burnt remains of the fire where they found Christy, poking the ashes with the toe of his boot and muttering.
On the way back to the island, Christy sat in the car with his eyes closed. Patrick told him later he was screaming all the way.
Danny dropped Patrick and Animal off first. Patrick leaned in at the window and spoke to Phil. ‘You should’ve come.’
‘I can’t,’ Phil said.
‘Under thumb you are,’ Patrick said.
‘What’s the matter?’ Phil asked. ‘Jealous?’
Too tired for a row, Danny spoke. ‘Have a good time. Bring us back some gear.’
‘Yeah, alright,’ Patrick said. ‘We’ll hollow Christy out. Smuggle it back that way.’
That afternoon, resigned, Christy packed his bag and took the bus to meet Patrick and Animal at Weymouth station. He couldn’t stop it; they were pulling the strings now. Phil’s dad was on duty at the station. He winked at Animal and said, ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
The 3.15 train to Waterloo drew a line across a spoiled land. Christy stared blankly at the fields, the allotments, the tight tidy terraces, the turned backs of towns. He watched the world as it looked the other way.
Animal leaned across and tapped Christy’s knee. ‘Say something Christy, for fuck’s sake.’
Christy looked at him, dull-eyed. ‘Where’s Phil?’
Animal laughed. ‘He’s with Les.’
‘Les?’
‘Les.’
‘I’ve never met her,’ Christy said.
Patrick rubbed his eyes, then spoke. ‘Doesn’t exist then, does she?’
Christy pressed his face against the man-made stubble of the seat and pretended to fall asleep. At Liverpool Street they joined the second train. Christy watched grey, flat Essex passing.

A blood-orange sun rose as they arrived at Amsterdam’s Centraal station; big, clean half-sister of St Pancras. The city looked to Christy like it should stink of fish. The three of them stood looking at a map on the wall. It showed the streets of the city spreading out like the threads of a web.
Christy sensed a shape and smell behind him. He turned to see a man in his thirties with a thick black beard, greasy back-combed hair, and a boxer’s face, beaten but suspicious still. Around the armpits of his ancient black jacket were concentric dry sweat stains like the rings in the trunk of a tree.
His accent was part-German, part-Irish. ‘Alright lads? After a hotel? Cheapo, cheapo.’
Christy looked him up and down. ‘How did you know we’re English?’
The man looked at Animal and Patrick and smiled. ‘Just a guess.’
How had they arranged that?
They followed the hotel tout into the city. As he led them down Damrak he told how he’d previously worked in a pornographic bookshop in Berlin. He could say, ‘Gentlemen, this isn’t a library,’ in seven languages.
They turned left into the red-light district. On the corner was a busker, lighting a cigarette between songs. Christy saw the tout make eye contact with the busker. The busker began playing the chords to ‘Wild Thing.’
Animal said, ‘Wonder how the Wildman is.’
Patrick laughed. ‘Yeah. What was that rumour about him again? I forget now.’
‘Oh that,’ Animal said, looking sideways at Christy. ‘Apparently his dad topped himself.’
Patrick smiled. ‘Not surprised with a son like that.’
The tout smiled. Even he knew.
He led them past shop windows full of latex genitalia and magazines showing people with bored, pasty, grunting faces, fucking for a living. They stopped in front of a tall, narrow, sand-coloured building on Warmoesstraat. The tout rang the bell. A fat balding man answered. His nose was pockmarked. At the corner of his mouth was dry brown spit. A half-moon of hairy white gut showed at the top of his trousers where his tee-shirt ended.
The tout spoke. ‘Three more.’
The fat man nodded and led the guests into a small reception room furnished with plastic garden chairs. Christy stood waiting for his punishment, waiting for the coming blows.

Chapter 28

2005-04-28T11:46:00.000Z

WILLSON
At Conrad’s the heavy fathers were circling. Potter, Mandeville and Lenehan had been in the office since 7.30 a.m. deciding on the order and manner of interrogation. Then Mandeville installed himself in the kennel and began the process.
Ron was first. Afterwards he walked up to Christy at the counter. ‘You’re next mate. He said to knock and go in.’
‘Shit.’ As he walked towards the kennel Christy turned back to Ron. ‘Any advice?’
‘Yeah,’ Ron said. ‘Dick Potter before Potter dicks you.’
Mandeville offered Christy a seat. He got the pleasantries out of the way, then he started poking around inside Christy’s mind. ‘Part of the reason I’m here today is about morale. About whether people feel valued.’ He looked at his list of names. ‘Do you feel valued Christy?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, Mr Potter tells me you haven’t been fully yourself lately; anxious, off sick quite often. And apparently there was some confusion over your payrise last month.’
‘Confusion?’
‘Happy now though, I take it? Managing financially and so on?’
‘Suppose so.’
‘Quite some responsibility you’ve got. Cashing up. The invoices. I could understand you feeling a bit resentful. Over money.’
Christy frowned.
‘Coping okay though? Up-to-date with the invoices and so on? None going missing or anything like that?’ Mandeville leaned back in his chair and formed a steeple with his fingers.
Christy clenched his toes and thought of the growing pile of papery mush in the gap between the toilets and next door.
Mandeville counted to thirty. ‘How did you feel about the Ken business? Us having to let him go?’
‘Surprised.’
‘We expect a bit of that to happen. The odd bag of cement split on purpose, people being a bit generous about offcuts for the price of a pint. But then I suppose you know all about that anyway.’
‘No.’
‘More chance for that in the yard really. Must grate a bit doesn’t it? The others getting a few perks and nothing for you.’
‘Sorry, I don’t know what you’re on about.’
Mandeville ignored Christy’s response. ‘Mr Lenehan and I have evidence that a disturbing amount of stock and cash has been vanishing over the last year or so.’ He paused, looked at Christy, and looked away. ‘Since last summer actually.’
Inside Christy, one feeling began turning into another.
‘We’re keeping an open mind,’ Mandeville said. ‘But I’d like to ask you about the process when you cash up.’
‘When me or Bernie cash up.’
‘Yes. Either or both. Who potentially has access to the cash drawer?’
‘Well, anyone could get in there during the day. If me and Bernie weren’t about and the key got left in it.’
‘Let’s stick with the normal routine for now. Mostly it would be you and Bernie who had access?’
Christy tried to think. ‘Once we’ve cashed up Potter takes the money up the night safe. Mr Potter.’
‘We’ve been doing spot-checks. On seven of the days checked, the takings were adrift. According to Mr Potter, on three of those days you cashed up alone. At this stage I’m just pointing out that the opportunity was there.’
The unfamiliar feeling was vibrating through Christy again. He still couldn’t name it. ‘You think I took that money? You cunt.’
Mandeville looked at Christy, deadpan, judging. Then he allowed himself to appear surprised. ‘I don’t think you took that money. No.’
‘I’ve had fucking nothing me. Nothing off nobody. Ever.’
‘I’m not accusing you Christy.’
There was a silence.
‘Is that it?’ Christy asked.
‘Yes.’
Christy stepped towards the door.
Mandeville spoke. ‘Cross?’
Christy turned. ‘Cross? I’m fucking livid.’
Mandeville raised a hand, in charge again. ‘If you’d done anything wrong I don’t think you’d be this angry. Of course, it’s never that simple.’
As Christy walked across the loading bay, Potter stepped out from the main office. ‘Alright Christy? You were in there a long time.’
Christy wanted to kick Potter’s face until it was just meat.

Mandeville and Lenehan were in the kennel again. Without Potter. Like dogs detecting coming thunder, Christy, Vince and the others sensed something was about to happen. They hung around outside the loading bay. Christy bit his nails. ‘I hate all this. Not knowing what’s going on. Scares the shit out of me.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Vince said. ‘They’ve got nothing on us lot.’
‘I reckon either Steve or Potter’s favourite,’ Ron said. ‘Hands in the till up to their armpits.’
‘Besides,’ Vince said, ‘if they were doing one of us they’d probably have the police here in case we kicked off like Ken that time.’
Steve arrived and took over from Bernie on the counter. He answered Bernie’s puzzled look with a cryptic, ‘Better here, out of the way for a bit.’
At 10.30 Mandeville stepped out of the kennel and walked over to Christy. The group made a late attempt to look busy. Mandeville looked at Christy. Christy’s insides churned. ‘Has Steve arrived yet?’ Mandeville asked.
Bernie answered for Christy. Mandeville went to fetch Steve. As Mandeville walked away Ron rubbed his hands. ‘Excellent. They’re doing both of them.’
Mandeville reappeared with a smiling Steve. Lenehan joined them. Mandeville told Bernie to cover the counter. Bernie pulled a face like a child being sent to bed early. The three suits walked into the main office. Twenty minutes later they came out with the sacked Potter. They shepherded him across the yard and stood over him silently as he emptied his belongings from the company car and handed over the keys.
Later, once busy important acting manager Steve had broken the news, Christy asked Vince exactly what they meant by maladministration.
‘It means Potter’s a greedy, thieving twat,’ Vince explained.

Chapter 27

2005-04-28T11:44:00.000Z

WILLSON
Four Thursdays in August.
Christy sat calculating and recalculating. He tried it as a monthly figure. He tried it as a yearly figure. He tried it as a percentage. It still worked out as a payrise of £1.50 per week. He stared at the sign on Potter’s desk which said you didn’t have to be mad to work there.
Potter went on. ‘It’s to show how much we appreciate the work you do.’
He leaned forward. ‘Listen. To be honest I’ve pushed the boat out a bit, come up with something extra. So keep it under your hat. Avoids any bad feeling.’
Christy sat tasting the sense of being singled out. He looked past Potter’s head. In the yard Ron, Vince, and Ken’s replacement Graham, were shovelling sand. They’d already been in with Potter. Christy looked past them to the arc of graffiti on the dog food factory wall, there as it always would be, like a black rainbow of disappointment.

Danny had enjoyed it to begin with, making his visits, driving round Weymouth and Portland, freewheeling, disengaged. But everything fossilised into routine. Moments repeated like scenery in a cheap cartoon.
He was on the usual loop. He dropped a quarter of the homegrown off to Terry at the Mudhut. He met with Dave and Max in the Pilot and handed over thirty magic mushrooms.
He walked into the W twins’ bedroom. In the room Fred sat squinting at a picture of Samuel Beckett and shaking his head. Ed handed Danny one of the badges they were giving away with the next edition of the fanzine. It read; ‘We put the escape in seascape.’
They chatted for a while. Danny handed over the two eighths and stood to leave.
Fred coughed and stood up. He looked at Danny’s hand on the doorknob. ‘Listen. We’ve been thinking lately, we could do with a permanent drummer.’ He paused. ‘We’ve met this bloke Ben. He’s not brilliant but he’s into just being in the one band.’
Danny shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Stay a bit if you want,’ Ed said.
‘Better go. People to see.’
‘Busy boy.’
‘I know. I might as well have a fucking milkround.’
He left. He drove on towards Linda’s place, wondering what it is that makes repetition bearable.

Vince and Christy were sat on the loft insulation, eating. Vince lifted a blue-black chip and tossed it towards the bin. ‘How you get on last week in with Potter?’
‘About what I expected.’
‘How much?’
‘Eh?’ Christy fished among the bits of batter.
‘How much you on then?’ Vince asked.
‘Same as you probably.’
‘How much you reckon I’m on?’
Christy shrugged. Vince told him. Christy sat with a chip hanging sadly, an inch from his mouth. He put the chips aside.
‘Fuck me. Your face,’ Vince said.
‘That’s three quid more than me,’ Christy complained. ‘Potter said he’d managed something extra. And not to say anything.’
‘He always says that,’ Vince explained. ‘The world’s not like it says it is Christy. If you’ve not learnt that you’re in for some fucking shocks.’
Christy spent until four o’clock with a feeling he didn’t recognise vibrating through him. At four he went in to see Potter. Christy looked at his hands in his lap. The ends of his fingers were nicotine-brown and chewed to shreds.
‘I’ve found out what everyone else gets.’
‘Oh?’
‘I think I should get the same as Vince. I do all the invoices. And serve. And cash up. Vince just loads and sweeps up.’
Potter spread his hands. ‘Christy mate. No can do. Sorry. It’s budgets. Swindon won’t wear it. Especially not with your sick record lately.’
‘Is that final?’
‘Afraid so.’
Christy felt his mouth twisting. ‘That’s unfair in my book.’
‘Nobody’s interested in your book Christy.’
‘Can I hand in me notice then?’
Potter put down his pen, licked his front teeth. ‘Well let’s not go mad eh?’ He tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘Can you give us a sec? I’ll make a quick call.’
Christy waited in the yard, smoking. Potter phoned his wife and asked her what was for tea. He called Christy back in. Potter smiled. ‘Had a word with Swindon. I’ve got the okay to put you on the same as Vince. Alright?’
‘Alright.’ Christy turned and made for the door.
Potter spoke. ‘Christy?’
‘Yeah?’
‘A stroke like this won’t work twice.’

Mandeville was back.
Christy, jittery, leaned on the counter. ‘What’s the story with them three?’
‘Don’t know,’ Bernie said. ‘Something’s up.’
Mandeville, Potter, and the area accountant Lenehan, had locked the office door.
‘I think we could be looking at everybody,’ Mandeville said.
Potter sat up straight. ‘Everybody?’
‘Not you, obviously.’
‘But everybody? Might be better to stick to a couple. Gee up the others.’
Lenehan lit a cigarette. ‘Any likely candidates?’
‘Ron almost certainly,’ Potter said. ‘Fucking waste of space.’
‘Vince?’
‘Dense Vince? Wouldn’t’ve thought so. Actually, Christy maybe. Soppy sod.’
‘Too soppy though?’ Mandeville asked.
‘I don’t know so much. You’d be surprised what I’ve heard he gets up to.’

Chapter 26

2005-04-28T11:43:00.000Z

PHIL
That night in the Merman with Danny, I couldn’t speak. I knew if I said anything he’d start making excuses and I’d end up smacking him. From then on I was just along for the ride. I’d had something good and special and it had fucked up. I was going to have to manage with the same things as other people. That’s when I started going out with Les. I said to Paul how it felt like I was getting cheated out of what I deserved. He said I wasn’t the first and I wouldn’t be the last.
We done the recording Bank Holiday Monday. That was another Danny Sharky idea dead on arrival. A bloke Paul knew run the studio. It wasn’t his proper job. He mended tellies. It was over the chip-shop in Turton Street, up the stairs and behind a padded door. Everything stunk of chip-fat.
Christy come too. I asked him. You can’t just leave people behind. He was edging his way back by then. He’d turn up at the pub around ten, sit on his own with his nose in an Agatha Christie, drink five pints then go home. I used to call across to him; ‘You worked out who done it yet?’ He’d look up but he wouldn’t say nothing; not for the first few weeks. I suppose it was me who got him back into things really. I feel bad about it now but I meant well by it.
The bloke talked us out of taping the whole set in three hours and we just done three songs. The last half hour we squeezed into the control room while the bloke mixed down the tracks. Eventually he played them back. We just sounded like kids. There was no getting round it. We were shit.
I sat there holding me head. I could feel the band falling in half, me and Patrick down one side, Danny and Animal down the other. It wasn’t about who liked who, it was about who knew when they were beaten and who didn’t.
What with all the bollocks in the band and that, I couldn’t fancy Amsterdam when it come to it. It clashed with Les’s eighteenth but that was an excuse pretty much. Danny didn’t say why he changed his mind about going but I reckon it was because The Shakespeare Monkees had a gig on that weekend. Lot of good it done him in the end.

Chapter 25

2005-04-28T11:42:00.000Z

DANNY
I barely ever had a punt. I knew if I got into it I’d never stop. It was too much my thing; all the looking forward of it.
Middle of July I had two pound fifty as a forecast on Lot’s Wife and Memory Boy. 20-1. Don’t know what made me do it. Going by their form they wouldn’t’ve won a race if you’d put them on roller-skates and tied them to the lure with elastic.
Me dad found out. I had it on at Ladbrokes in Weymouth. I didn’t think he knew anyone who worked there. He took me into the back room of the shop and went bananas. ‘What you playing at you silly little prat?’
I made out I didn’t know what he was on about.
‘That punt. Don’t lie to me Danny.’
‘No harm done,’ I said.
‘No harm done? Drawing attention to yourself like that. I must’ve been mad starting you here.’
I said, ‘Drawing attention? How?’
‘I seen that Trevor in Weymouth. The manager from Ladbrokes. Saying it’s amazing how quick they grow up. Before you know it they’re eighteen. Sarcastic fucker. What am I supposed to say to that?’
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘Pleased? You could’ve lost me my job you daft sod.’
I said, ‘Good punt though.’ I nearly had him then. This look crossed his face like he wanted to say, ‘I know. Result or what?’ But he was like someone running for a bus and seeing it pull away. He couldn’t stop and lose face.
‘I’m serious Danny. You’ve got to grow up sometime. Can’t go on forever trying to be in three places at once.’
I knew what that meant. December was rolling towards me like the end of the world. Eighteen and legal and fucking trapped.
And all because of that one random bit of luck, I ended up doing one good thing, and one shit thing.
I’d been thinking about coming out the syndicate ever since I’d started seeing Olly again. I felt a bit of a cheeky cunt just dropping round after so long but he didn’t seem to mind. He just said, ‘I’m always going to be here.’ With anyone else that’d sound to me like they’d given up. But Olly sounded proud of it and I couldn’t knock him for it.
His plants were going berserk. No way could he’ve got through it all himself. I’d already offered to take it off him sale or return. But with the punt, plus my share of the syndicate kitty I could pay upfront.
Christy’s bad trip was the main reason I wanted out. I thought we were going to end up killing the silly twat. I didn’t want another one hung round me neck. You want to get right away from trouble like that, before or after.
I went round just after Henge to take him his sleeping bag. He wouldn’t let me in. He looked scared shitless. He just opened the door a crack and stuck his hand out to get the sleeping bag. His first two fingers were the colour of stewed tea from where he’d been chain-smoking.
The night I baled out we went up Dunmore for another lot of blues. It was Patrick’s turn to drive. He picked me and Phil up in the Square, drove round the roundabout and headed straight back towards Weymouth. I said, ‘What about Christy?’
Patrick said, ‘I phoned him and said why not lay off the dealing for a bit. Just be like a sleeping partner.’
It seemed fair enough, the state Christy was in. And he’d never been any cop. Me and Phil even had a bet on that he wouldn’t shift those sixteenths by himself at Henge. I said to Patrick, ‘Probably do him good.’
He looked blank and shrugged. ‘Who cares? I just don’t want a loser like that hanging round me arse like a shitty nappy. Plus, imagine a nutty cunt like that getting pulled by the D.S. He’d crumble guaranteed.’
Halfway to Dorchester Phil said, ‘Christy still could’ve come up for a session. Didn’t he fancy it?’
Animal and Patrick started pissing themselves. They could hardly speak. Patrick said how he’d phoned Christy and told him to wait at the top of Mallams at seven o’clock. ‘Stupid twat’ll probably stand there all night.’
He could be a cruel fucker and I was getting sick of it. When we got to Dunmore Binny was telling us how his eyes were getting worse but the optician couldn’t give him any thicker glasses. Patrick said, ‘Yeah. Not without the weight of the lenses snapping your neck.’
All the way back I practised how I’d say I was stopping. I kept missing me moment. I blurted it out just as I got dropped off. I walked away before anyone could argue.
So some good come out of it. But then, if it wasn’t for the money I’d’ve never suggested the recording. And I wouldn’t’ve ended up being the one to shit on Phil. And maybe we could’ve kept things together a bit longer.
Animal phoned the night after I pulled out of the syndicate. I was expecting him to have a go at me, but he never. He just said for us to meet in the Gloucester Bars. Him and Patrick were there, but no Phil. Patrick handed me an envelope with a fifth of the kitty plus a tenner for carrying Christy. I pulled a tenner out and got a round.
Patrick said, ‘Fucking right as well.’ Other than that he never give any sign he was pissed off.
Animal took his pint and said, ‘It’s about Phil. He’s not hacking it.’
I said, ‘He’s always shifted his share.’
‘The band I mean. He’s been playing like a chimp lately.’
Patrick passed round his fags. ‘We were thinking maybe he could swap to bass and us just have Animal on guitar.’
‘He won’t like that,’ I said. ‘He’ll probably jump under a bus.’
‘I don’t know. He seems a bit half-arsed about it all lately.’ Animal paused and looked at me. ‘But then...’
I said, ‘But then what?’
Patrick jumped in. ‘Well. Exactly how many bands are you in this week? It’s like you’re always a fagpaper away from getting bored and moving on.’
It was bollocks really. Round then the only other band I was playing for was The Shakespeare Monkees. But I was getting prodded into a corner. By then I’d started thinking twice before I’d let a daydream out of the bag in case some twat stamped on it. I wouldn’t’ve said about it otherwise but I had to put me money where me mouth was. In the previous Milk, Milk, Lemonade, Fred had interviewed The Desperate Bicycles. Vic out of The Pigs had got their phone number. The headline was typical twins; ‘We interview The Desperate Bikes. By phone. Mmm. Big-time!’ The Bikes were saying how ‘Smokescreen’ only cost £150 to put out.
I said how we could maybe put a tape out ourselves. I’d stump up for the recording and everyone could pay me back a bit each week. Animal was right into it but Patrick just looked at me lopsided and said, ‘We ought to call you Billy Bullshit. How are things on Fantasy Island?’ Wanker.
I talked him round. And while I wasn’t looking he convinced me about Phil. He talked me into it that just one of us should tell him. He said if we were all there it’d look like we were rubbing it in. And apparently I was the mug to do it. It’d be better coming from me seeing as I’d known him longest. I could soften him up by saying about the recording idea at the same time. Phil’d understand if I said how it’d be better to go down on tape as a good bassist than as a guitarist fucking up.
At least I told him to his face. I was shitting myself. There was always stuff flying about but it was always mental stuff; atmospheres and loyalties and that. But Phil was straighter than that. Do him a wrong turn and you got the feeling he wouldn’t be above punching the living piss out of you.
But he never. I got him down the Merman. I got out all I had to say in this one breath that went on for ages. He didn’t say anything. I don’t mean anything much. I mean he didn’t say anything. He sat there looking at me with his mouth clamped shut. I kept talking at him but he just sat there. I wish he had hit me really; get it over with. I couldn’t stand it. In the end I just walked out.

Chapter 24

2005-04-28T11:40:00.001Z

WILLSON
They arrived at Stonehenge the weekend after Father’s Day. People kept telling them they’d missed the Solstice. That was nothing; they’d missed A.T.V. The five were some of the few weekenders around on the site. Mostly, the hard-core cases remained, coming down.
As they pulled onto the site four kids ran straight at the Wartburg. Danny braked. He wound down the window, shouted at the closest boy. ‘I could’ve killed you then, you twat.’
The boy leaned in at the window. His neck was marbled with dirt. ‘Any trips?’ he asked.
Danny laughed, shocked. He managed to produce the standard answer. ‘Don’t know what you’re on about, mate.’
‘I’m selling, not buying. Question marks. One fifty. It’s only them and unicorns on the site and the unicorns are shit.’
Danny’s mouth opened and closed. He turned and looked at the others. Patrick leaned forward. ‘Tell him to fuck off and come back when he’s moved up to big school.’
The boy leaned in at the window again. ‘Alright, fuck you then. Your loss.’ He ran off with his friends. None of them looked a day over twelve.
Danny parked the car between a double-decker bus and a purple 1950’s ambulance. ‘Handy,’ he said, taking the keys out of the ignition. ‘You never know when you might need an ambulance.’
Within the fringe of battered vans and buses was a ragged selection of tents and shelters. Around small camp-fires the ragged tents’ ragged owners sat, talking vacantly. The five found a space and pitched the tent.
Christy paused from banging in a tent peg and straightened himself. ‘It’s like in those Robin Hood films,’ he said, smiling.
Animal looked at him. ‘I don’t know why you bother doing gear. You’re fucking weird enough without it.’
With the tent pitched they went to check out the rest of the site. Through the centre of the tents ran a clear pathway. At either side of this were makeshift stalls selling headshop tat. The path led to the stones, and a small stage of scaffolding and tarpaulin. Above the stage was a banner saying; ‘It’s never too late to have a happy childhood.’
They stopped near the stage. Phil, watching the people milling past, lowered his voice. ‘Some fucking states here. You can tell the ones who’ve been here from the start.’
‘I know,’ Danny said. ‘Cut their heads off and count the rings of dirt.’
‘We ought to start sorting out some chemicals,’ Patrick said.
Animal said, ‘Could’ve fucking had some back then if you hadn’t opened your mouth.’
‘Yeah, but they were kids, Animal.’
On the outskirts of one of the fireside groups Christy smiled nervously at the strangers beside him. He turned to Phil. ‘Do you reckon it’s alright to skin up?’
Animal gave him a look. ‘Don’t be a wanker Christy. Course. Have you seen a copper since we got here?’
‘Well, not uniform, no.’
A woman in her thirties wearing Wellington boots, crouched down beside Christy. Christy thought about running. The woman spoke quietly. ‘Sulphate?’
Patrick, in charge as ever, said, ‘Any trips about?’
‘Unicorns.’
Phil looked at Patrick, thinking, I fucking told you.
Patrick looked at Phil. ‘Alright then, bollocks. What we having? Three grammes of sulph between us?’
The woman ambled off towards the purple ambulance. Christy could see her talking to a slight figure. Reaching into his jacket pocket, the slight figure turned so that Christy got a sideways view. It was the boy with the marbled neck.

None of them slept; they just fell silent eventually. Christy lay on his back squinting up at the pattern made by the mould and the dew on the roof of the tent. The sun was coming up and Christy was coming down. The inside of the tent was becoming unbearably hot. Sweat poured from him. He took off his jacket and placed it under his head. His money was in the top left pocket. Repeatedly, he touched it to check that it was still there. Patrick said something to Phil. Christy didn’t catch what it was. Then he heard Phil say, ‘So tight, his balls squeak when he walks.’
Christy sat up, picked up his jacket. ‘Think I’ll see if I can shift these sixteenths.’ He’d come with a quarter of personal and a quarter in sixteenths to sell.
‘Leave your jacket Christy, you’ll be sweating your bollocks off,’ Animal said.
‘Yeah, don’t you trust us Christy?’ Patrick asked.
Christy left his jacket. As he stepped from the tent he heard Phil and Danny’s voices. ‘No need to guess where his money is.’
‘I know.’
‘What do you reckon to what I was saying?’
‘Alright. Call it two quid.’
Only the speedfreaks and acidheads were around, the hardened cases who’d fallen out of time. Casualties shuffled through the debris of the previous night like mourners walking away from a burial. Christy paused in front of the stage, scratched himself. A short, stocky woman with home-made tattoos on her arms was collecting rubbish around his feet, and placing it in a black bin liner. She looked at him. ‘Either help tidy things up or get out the way so other people can.’
Christy moved ten paces to the right and stood slack jawed, staring out over the plain. A man of about twenty five was walking towards him. Christy thought of the sixteenths. The man spoke. ‘What’s up? Catching flies?’
Christy retreated to the tent. He lifted the flap.
Phil looked up. ‘How did you get on?’
‘No luck.’
Phil laughed. Danny handed him two pound notes. Christy would check his pockets when he got the chance.

Saturday afternoon, Christy, Phil and Animal lay in the tent listening to the throbathwackathrob of the police helicopter, hovering over the site, just checking. The flap of the tent parted. The three lay blinking at the wedge of white light. Patrick and Danny crawled in.
‘Been shopping,’ Danny said, tossing a bag of dexedrine onto the groundsheet.
Phil picked up the bag and checked for the lettering. ‘Where you get these?’
‘The smack tent.’
‘Smack tent?’ Christy asked.
Patrick explained. ‘Met these smackheads. They’ve asked us round for a session if we fancy it.’

There were three of them. All had that vile scaghead scratch and sniff about them. Pawing at their faces, talking through their noses, their movements were loose and slow, but without clumsiness. One had a blue dot tattooed between his eyebrows. His fingernails were black. He did most of the talking. The thin one didn’t have much to say, just lay there with his head propped up on one elbow. Sometimes he’d scratch his nose, but mostly he just lay there.
The third one didn’t seem to fit. As the five walked into the tent, he looked up from the joint he was rolling and said, ‘If eighty per cent of your body’s made of water, how come you don’t dissolve when you’re in the sea?’
The other two looked at their visitors and rolled their eyes, as if to say, ‘Ignore him; he’s a twat.’
Christy handed over the sixteenths. They gave him cost, plus a bit over, as a favour pretty much, they told him. There was something about the even, unemphatic tone of everything they said which made it impossible for Christy to judge what they meant. He didn’t trust them.
They talked about the festival. Dotface said, ‘Good band on later; LSD 25.’
Christy said, ‘Why 25?’
‘There’s twenty five of them. Don’t half kick up a fucking din.’
Christy thought he was serious. Everyone else was in fits. It was Dunmore all over again. They had only one interest.
Phil asked what they did for jobs. They looked at each other, puzzled. The irritating one returned the question. When Patrick said he was on the print, the dullness in Dotface’s eyes seemed to flick aside momentarily, like a second eyelid.
‘Would you be able to run up a print job without anyone noticing?’
Patrick said that it was possible in theory.
Dotface began spinning the idea of Patrick printing up batches of acid tabs at work; sheets of them, thousands of them. Patrick lapped it up. ‘So, what? You’d add the acid after, then?’
‘Yeah. Something like that.’ Dotface glanced at the thin one and smiled.
Christy knew. It was just a scam. They would’ve sold the blank tabs, no acid on them. Dennis had said about it once. You’d bowl up at some big festival, Reading say, knock out as many tabs as you could, as quickly as you could, and get out before anybody had a chance to realise they were never coming up. And if you got caught with the lot, all you’d get done for would be going equipped to deceive.
Sensing that the idea wasn’t a runner, Dotface changed the subject. ‘Had any decent chemicals yet?’
‘Some sulph last night,’ Danny said.
‘Yeah? Who off?’
‘Some little kid. Freaked me out a bit.’
‘That’ll be Mal. He’s a tricky little cunt.’
‘How do you mean, tricky?’
‘He has wraps in three pockets. One’s got the proper kit in, one’s got a bit of sulph cut with ground up Sudafed, one’s got foot powder. He susses you out and you get what he can get away with.’
Dotface paused and fished out a polythene bag. ‘Any of you lot want any microdots for tonight?’
Christy was sat facing Animal. He pulled a warning face at him but Animal didn’t even notice.
The annoying one said, ‘I done one last night and I was rolling about in the mud.’ This was a recommendation. They decided to have one each.
Back at their own tent, the five discussed the smackheads.
‘Notice that dot he had on his forehead?’ Phil asked. ‘They do that in Borstal with boot polish. Fucking mental.’
‘I thought he was advertising,’ Patrick said. ‘Little picture of a microdot, that was. Pays to advertise.’
‘I didn’t like them,’ Christy said. ‘That with them wanting you to print up those dodgy trips.’
‘They’re desperate, Christy,’ Patrick said. ‘They’ve got expensive hobbies.’
‘They were alright,’ Danny said. ‘Apart from the cosmic twat in the waistcoat. You could tell the other two didn’t like him.’
‘Yeah,’ Animal said. ‘There’s always one.’ He was looking straight at Christy.
They did a microdot each. Christy wasn’t convinced. What were they doing getting trips off chancers like that? He wasn’t going to sit there dead straight all night. He did the crumbs of the sulphate and six dexedrine as well.
Danny looked at Christy. ‘Fuck me. When you come up you aren’t half going to know about it.’
They went and sat near the stones near the stage and waited as the sun went down. Irritably, Danny said, ‘I’m not getting fuck all off this.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Nor me.’
‘No.’
‘Not sure. Might be the speed.’
‘Yeah. You fucking hog.’
Christy felt his stomach cramps turning into butterflies. In the fading light the clouds started bubbling, rolling across the sky. Christy looked into Danny’s face. He could see the pores opening and closing. Why weren’t the others coming up?
Dennis was right that time when he said tripping was like being in a secret society where only you know who else is in on it. Christy began to notice the secret signs. He spotted Phil doing a double-take, looking curiously at the end of his cigarette. He noticed Danny and Animal lapsing into silence. To nobody, for no apparent reason, Patrick said, ‘Yeah. Probably.’
Danny stood up and stretched his arms out. ‘Anyone fancy a wander?’ Everybody smiled. They all knew then.
They worked their way to the heart of the crowd in the middle of the stones. It was intense but Christy was handling it. Time fell to bits. There were people with flaming torches, ready for a burning. Flames like streamers fluttered behind them. The stones were haloed yellow. LSD 25 played. The crowd danced, treading water. Each dancer left ghost snapshots of themselves behind with every movement. The five stood, trembling, touching each other occasionally to make sure they were still there.
Christy wandered off for a piss against the side of somebody’s van. The side of the van was rippling like molten enamel. He could hear music; not the band, but music coming from nowhere, like the wind in tune. He stood, looking and listening.
He returned to the crowd. People were wearing warpaint like Red Indians; He didn’t mind. Animal, Danny, Phil and Patrick had sat down. Their faces were longer, pointed. He rejoined them. They sat still forever with the world shimmering and humming around them.

Everybody had peaked. They started walking back to the tent. Red lines of light darted along the ground like night photos of speeding cars. In the sky the clouds were stacked up like the steps on a pyramid. The crowds parted like fishes either side of the five. The moon was white and blurry like a torch under bedsheets.
Over to the left, between the tents, someone was shouting. Christy looked over. A man in a leather jacket was holding the kid with the dirty neck, by the dirty throat. He was punching him in the face again and again, shouting, ‘I’ll give you peace and love you cunt!’
Christy swerved his mind away from what he saw, and back to Phil and the others. Animal and Phil were talking about the Wildman of Bonio, how he got knocked down by a milkfloat when he was seven and had never been the same again. Patrick said, ‘He sounds a right state.’
Animal said, ‘He is. You know that rumour about his old man don’t you?’
Patrick said, ‘Yeah. Not surprised with a son like that.’ He looked at Christy.
‘Just going for a piss a minute,’ Christy said.
Phil said, ‘Yeah. Me too.’
They walked out beyond the edge of the tents and started pissing into the darkness. Christy listened to check that Phil had started. Then he ran. He was still pissing. His dick was flapping pale in the darkness. Piss was flying everywhere. He got it stuffed away after fifty yards.
Behind him he could hear Phil shouting to the others. ‘Jesus! Christy’s fucking freaked right out!’
Christy slowed slightly and turned his head. The other four were standing with their mouths open. He kept running. He looked again. They’d started running. He found it in him to run harder, faster, until he stopped feeling anything, as if his body had stopped being anything. There was no cover, nowhere to hide. Soon the others gave up. He saw them each drop back and stand bent over with their hands on their thighs.
He ran straight across the A303. He didn’t see the cars, he just heard the squealing of brakes. Soon he was off the open plain and was running through fields, farms he supposed. He pushed blindly through hedges. His scratched arms bled. He kept running.
Then the ground stoped underneath him. He dropped like he’d been shot. His ear hit the ground. There was a sour, damp smell in the ditch. His jeans were still wet with piss. He lay still, with his mind crumbling. The acid dug deeper, to a level below words, below memory, to where the past is part of the cells.
There were stones in the bottom of the ditch. Christy stuck some under his back so he wouldn’t sleep. He had to watch who was coming. He stayed there, not moving. The sun came up. Mist came down into the ditch like gas. He got up in case it was gas.
He crossed a field to a lane. There were a couple of houses dotted along the lane. The biggest house was set back up a curved drive. Christy crawled across the gravel in case anyone was listening.
He stood up in the porch. There was glass in the side of it. He could see himself. He flattened his hair with his hand. He rang the bell. A man came to the door. His hair was white, his cardigan was grey, his slippers were pink.
Christy spoke. ‘Can I come in and phone the police please? Two men from the festival just threatened to set their dogs on me. Up the lane there, a minute ago.’
The man looked at Christy. He said, ‘It’s six-thirty,’ and shut the door. The flap of the letterbox opened. ‘I’ll call the police and get them to deal with you. Wait at the end of the drive.’
Christy stood and waited. After about twenty minutes a police van appeared. It slowed as it approached down the lane. Christy waved and the van stopped. Two officers stepped out.
‘Are you the one we’ve had a phone call about?’
‘Yeah. There was two men up the lane. They said they’d kill me.’
The first policeman raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you know who they were?’
‘No.’
‘Any idea why they’d want to kill you?’
‘No. They were from the festival,’ Christy said, as if that explained everything.
‘You been up the festival?’
‘Yes.’
‘Describe these two blokes then.’
Christy made something up. The officers didn’t make any notes. Christy failed to make it sound like an afterthought when he said, ‘Probably safest if you give me a lift to Salisbury. That way they can’t get at me.’
The penny dropped. The officers looked at each other, then looked at Christy. The older one said, ‘We’re not running a fucking taxi service.’
‘You’re not allowed to swear at me.’
They got in the van. As the younger one shut the driver’s door he said, ‘Make yourself scarce, son.’
They drove away.
Christy started walking towards Salisbury. The lane narrowed, the hedges grew taller. There was talking in the hedges, but not loud enough to hear clearly. It was about him. Every second step he took there was a squeak. That was about what Phil had said.
He stopped. There was a van and a car, parked in a lay-by. There was a man sat in the van talking on a C.B. That was how things were being controlled. Christy walked back the way he came and stopped to work out what to do.
He decided to walk past quickly, make a mental note of the registration, and check who owned the vehicles later. He got level with the van. The man in the front was eating a sandwich. He looked round, straight at Christy. Christy ran. He kept running until he felt like everything was going to burst out through his ribs. They weren’t going to get him, he was going to make sure of that.

He knew he was getting near Salisbury; there were more houses and more people staring at him. In the centre of town he chose the third phonebox that he saw. He phoned three minicab firms at random from Yellow Pages. He ordered a cab from each, one to collect him at one end of the street, one at the other, and one at the phone box. He did ip dip in his head to choose which one he’d take. That way there’d be less chance they were in on it.
He took the middle one. The driver wound down the window when Christy got in. He checked where he was going. ‘Call it eight quid for cash.’
Christy was tempted to get out there and then. It was less than the fare quoted over the phone. Patrick and the others must have felt guilty and put in some money towards the fare. It was too late. They knew where he was. He lay down on the back seat and pulled a rug over his head.

Smelling like an animal, he let himself into the house. He went up to his room. Creeping up the stairs he could hear his mother in the front room. She was singing ‘Happy Days Are Here Again.’

Chapter 23

2005-04-28T11:40:00.000Z

WILLSON
In the front pew on the right, in the Church of the Holy Ghost near the Borstal, Kev stood waiting. A drop of sweat rolled from his armpit to his waist. He glanced sideways at Arnie, the best man, relieved and embarrassed that he was there. He knew what people called him behind his back. Animal said behind Arnie’s back was the best place to be. Now, as ever, there was the desire to look behind him. He hadn’t come and wasn’t coming. Now more than ever, of all days. An effort at least, for once. The only address Kev’s mum had for his dad was a pub in St Paul’s where he collected his mail. He must’ve got the letter, surely. Perhaps he was ashamed. Perhaps he was getting off a coach in Weymouth, lighting the first cigarette for two years, steeling himself. Kev knew he’d have to sort it out for himself. Put things right. Get things right again. Fix things. He straightened his tie. He checked everything again. Left trouser pocket, keys to the flat. Keys to the flat. Inside left jacket pocket, money for drinks. The first one for everyone. People take advantage with a free bar. Inside right jacket pocket, the reservation for the Gloucester Hotel. One night. Honeymooning in Weymouth. Laugh if they want, it’s not easy. Kev looked at the flowers and the painted saints. He should’ve been there. You needed things you could depend on; this place, these saints, those old words, things repeating. A shame with the Latin going. Still bits of that, early on. Corpus Christi. Christy admitted once he thought Father Thomas was talking about the Eucharist, saying ‘Hope it’s crusty.’ Simpler then. Things changed. Didn’t bear thinking about. The need to turn round and see if Karen was coming was like an itch. But he wouldn’t. He knew the Maggot was behind him somewhere, dim but vicious, his wifebeater’s face fat with resentment. But Karen he knew he could depend on. She was sick every morning now. Once when he stayed over at the McClarens’ he’d seen her crouching over the toilet bowl. He saw someone in need of protection, saw no resentment in her eyes. She was sick every morning now, not just from the expected, but from something no longer spoken. That time on the beach, the first thing she said. There was a heavy clunk, and a wash of light at the edge of his field of vision. A sigh rolled from the back of the church and was sucked in by the organ as the Wedding March began. He could look now. She’d arrived. All in white with a bump at the front. He smiled at her, his eyes stinging. Worth the dog’s share of the pie to somebody at least. He mouthed the words, ‘Thank you.’ He thought later, it was strange the way he relaxed suddenly. Once the doubt was gone and the ritual started. They both knew the words. Up ladders, in old clothes, with paint in their hair, they’d gone through the ceremony night after night in the flat. ‘I do.’ Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I? Who wouldn’t? Within seconds, it seemed, they were kissing, both shaking. Four rows back, Patrick nudged Christy. He whispered, ‘Fucked if I’d trust Queenie with my ring.’ But Christy was away inside somewhere. Father Thomas saying hello to everybody on the way in. Kneel and do the usual. Stopped in front of him for ages. Nods down at the half -mast trousers. Smiles. Has there been a death in the family? In bed crying. Her tucking the sheets in. Jabbing and frowning. Looks away. Like she can’t think of anything. Says remember Jesus wants you to try and be brave like him. Bed again, trying to get an angel to come. Comes out wrong, like the thing Clair had. Troll. With wings. Rough bit in the corner just down from the ceiling. Staring and staring. Nothing. Thinking about him in a box, going bad. The congregation stood again. Patrick nudged Christy a second time. Christy stood. ‘Wake up Christy,’ Patrick said. ‘Thought you’d be up on all this bollocks.’ Kev and Karen had wanted to have the reception at the Con Club. Then Herman offered them the skittle alley of the Merman for free. It seemed right, like a goodbye. ‘Here we are again, then,’ Phil said. ‘Off our faces in the usual places.’ He shifted some glasses to make room on the table for the next round. ‘Nip out to the car again in a bit,’ Patrick suggested, lowering the tray. ‘Fuck that. I’m space age as it is.’ Kev reached them on his circuit. ‘Sorry there’s no disco, lads. Ed and Fred said they’d borrow the equipment from Deja Vu but they’ve had a falling out with the bloke.’ ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Animal said. ‘I can do without listening to “Hi Ho Silver Lining” all fucking night.’ ‘Laugh though, usually,’ Danny said. ‘Watching the wrinklies making tits of themselves.’ Kev turned without knowing why. ‘Dad’s here!’ His father stood silhouetted in the white light of the doorway to the skittle alley. No silence fell. Whippet-thin, the clothes hanging off him, people didn’t recognise him at first. Kev skirted round the guests and made his way to where his dad stood alone. He stopped a yard in front of him. ‘Sorry I’m late, Kev,’ his father said, as if they’d last spoken the week before. He held out his hand. They shook hands. Kevin felt the words drying and sticking to the roof of his mouth. He couldn’t ask why. ‘Long time no see.’ ‘I know,’ his dad said. ‘Anyway. Congratulations.’ ‘Are you still with the Saturday Girl?’ ‘No. She went. I’m in digs now.’ ‘You could come back.’ ‘I can’t, son. It’s hard to say. Difficult.’ He paused, looked at the floor. ‘This with the girl. Is it really what you want?’ ‘Course.’ ‘That’s good then. I was never much one for babies. They’re like strippers and circuses. Seen one, you’ve seen them all.’ ‘I just want a sensible life, Dad. Like you used to have.’ He wanted to be able to use the word ‘home’ again. ‘It isn’t simple Kev. Tidy as you might want things, it’s never...’ He coughed quietly. They looked at each other. ‘Anyway. Come and say hello to some friends of mine.’ Kev led his dad to the inside corner of the skittle alley. ‘You remember Phil and Christy. And this is Patrick and Danny. And, um, Animal.’ From the opposite side of the room, the Maggot started shouting. ‘Who the fuck’s he think he is?’ Kev’s mother grabbed the Maggot’s wrist. ‘Don’t.’ ‘Here goes, look,’ Phil said. ‘Might’ve known.’ ‘I’d better go and say something,’ Kev’s dad said. ‘Careful though. I’d better come too.’ Danny ground his cigarette out in a plate of cake. ‘That’s families for you. Bollocks, they are. Best off steering clear of all that shit.’ ‘What and end up like Queenie?’ Patrick asked. ‘What? A knob jockey?’ ‘No. Some sad, lost, old fucker.’ Animal leaned forward in his seat. ‘Danny’s right. Fucking nightmare. Look at my lot. You can’t fucking move, can’t breathe, can’t fucking...’ speak. Can’t speak. Can’t ever get rid of the stammer on the inside. Phil turned from watching the action across the room. ‘I wouldn’t mind it. A family. Nothing wrong with an ordinary life.’ Except what’s wrong with it. Can’t you have both? That and the other thing too. Animal turned to Christy. ‘What about you Christy? Nothing to say for yourself as per fucking usual.’ Father’s here. Clair calling from inside. Run, bent double. From the lawn to the coal bunker. Two shapes behind the frosty glass. Wait a bit. Wait again at the end of the hall. They’re in the front room. Crouch behind the storage heater. Ear against the wall. She’s talking to a man. Can’t hear properly. Why are they talking about the seaside? Finger jammed in one ear. Everything sounds like it’s underwater. Try not to dwell on the fact it’s a sin Christine. What? Go in. Father O’Brien sat in the armchair, waving a teaspoon about. Can smell him. Hello. It’s not him. Not him. She’s new. Sister Theresa. Hairy fat face. Catechism. Poking her nose in about people’s mums and dads. Not telling her anything. Nosey cunt. Christy had something of his own to say. It was in his throat. Too late, he rose from his seat. Kevin’s cousin Donna, fur-coated and saying her goodbyes, was in his way. She screamed and hit him. ‘That’ll never come out! You’re disgusting!’ The vomit was in the fur. The smell was everywhere.

Chapter 22

2005-04-28T11:38:00.000Z

WILLSON
Danny opened the box. Everything was still there. He took out the trips, and the weight. He locked the box, replaced it in the crack in the rock, and walked back across Butts quarry, to where the dogs were tied to the bumper of the Wartburg. This was his safe place now, out near The Bill. He didn’t use the house anymore. He’d hidden a quarter under a loose floorboard in the spare room. When he went back the door was locked. It had been ever since.
He thought about the night before. It was progress, moving up to getting a weight at a time. At least they were moving forward. But not quickly enough for him.
He couldn’t take his eyes off it when Dennis gently placed the weight on the coffee table. It was a beautiful thing; roughly rectangular, black like Bournville, bowed like timber. It was partly wrapped in heavy unbleached cotton. The cloth reminded Danny of woodwork aprons.
Nervous, Christy asked, ‘Should we cut it up here?’
Dennis smiled. ‘I wouldn’t bother. You could put that lot through a blender, it wouldn’t do you any good if you got pulled.’
Later Binny was telling them how he’d managed to get himself admitted to the local psychiatric hospital so he could sample the medication. Danny, only half-listening, noticed Dennis inspecting a plastic bag containing some small paper squares. ‘What’s that? Somebody shrunk your stamp collection?’
‘Eh?’
‘Nothing.’
Dennis fished out a tab and handed it to Danny. On one face of the tab was a tiny cartoon drawing of a hinged box; a treasure chest or luggage trunk.
‘Acid.’
Danny felt a smile stretch across his face. ‘Yeah? Any good?’
The others were listening too, by then.
‘Yeah,’ Dennis said. ‘More of a holiday than any holiday. Impossible to describe though. Different for everyone. It’s like asking what it’s like to have someone else’s brain.’
Patrick rubbed his hands. ‘Looks like we’ll have to do some ourselves then.’
Danny said, ‘Not here I’m not doing it. I’m driving.’
Danny untied the dogs from the bumper and let them have their run. He sat in the driver’s seat, skinned up, and began splitting the weight. There was something about the place, about being there with the dogs every morning, which let him be still. He wasn’t sure if he liked it.
Without knowing why, he found himself thinking of Olly. He saw him in the greenhouse, looking after the plants. He saw him on the floor in the front room, playing Snap with the kids. He felt he should get back in touch.
He took one last draw, stubbed the roach, emptied the ashtray and bagged the gear. He went back to the rock, put the bulk of his share in the box, and returned the box to its hiding place. Returning to the car, he stopped to watch the dogs chasing in circles. He called them, walked on. You couldn’t afford to stand still. You had to keep moving, towards the next good thing, the gig tonight, the party after, doing the trips. And beyond that? Some escape attempt he couldn’t even imagine yet. There had to be somewhere to go, surely. He remembered Patrick’s last words to him the night before; ‘Don’t fuck off and come back three weeks later with a big grin on your face, will you?’ Fucking like to, Danny thought. Only not come back.

The Island of Dreams bingo hall, two doors up from the Merman, had once been the Majestic Cinema, and was still majestic, lower case, despite the frayed seats, the flaked paint. Eddie was topping up his Giro as a cleaner there. Fred got him the job having previously painted a mural of palm trees, beaches and waterfalls, for Tony the manager. Tony had said he wanted some cannibals with bones through their noses. Fred had refused. Ed asked Tony about hiring the place on a Saturday night for another Exploding Plastic Predictable event. Mistakenly anticipating a profit Tony insisted on promoting the gig himself.
In what were once the cheap seats, Animal and Patrick waited for Phil, Danny and Christy. Animal had been right that morning; three weeks and Christy had returned. All Christy ever did was go back.
In the carpark, Phil, Danny and Christy were sitting in the back of Terry’s mini, wishing it wasn’t a two door, wanting to just do the deal and get out. The dope went forwards, the cash went backwards. Terry and Mike from Doublethink oozed misplaced confidence. They thought it was a social thing.
‘What sort of stuff do you do then?’ Danny asked.
‘Quite reggaeish really, but new wavey too,’ Mike said.
‘Do you listen to much reggae then?’
‘Not really. I know what it’s like though.’
‘Sounds interesting anyway,’ Christy said, encouragingly.
‘Things are changing,’ Terry said. ‘That three chord shouty bloke’s stuff isn’t going anywhere.’
He turned to Mike. ‘It’s that realism, modernism split we were talking about.’
Bristling, Phil said, ‘Who’s this other band out of your lot?’
‘Our lot?’
‘Your lot.’ The posh lot.
‘They called themselves My Blue Peninsula but some oaf graffitied the posters for the gig so it read, My Blue Penis.’
Phil, Danny and Christy smirked.
Terry continued. ‘So at the last minute they’ve changed their name. To Daniel Dedooronronda! Brilliant isn’t it?’ He smiled.
‘Great,’ Danny said. He looked at Christy.
Christy lip-read the word ‘What?’, and shrugged.
Phil brushed the ash off his lap, leaned forward, ready to make their excuses.
‘You still working up the bakery Terry?’ Christy asked.
Phil sighed, sat back.
‘Yeah. Just temporarily. I’m taking a year out,’ Terry said.
‘How do you mean?’ Phil asked.
‘A year out. Between “A”s and Uni.’
‘Oh right. “A”s and Uni.’ He nudged Christy. ‘“A”s and Uni.’
‘Mm, “A”s and Uni.’
Danny nodded solemnly. ‘Yes. “A”s and Uni.’
‘Not sure yet though,’ Terry continued, oblivious. ‘Difficult thing choice, isn’t it?’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Phil said.
Terry turned to Mike. ‘As the man says, “Everything has been worked out except how to live.” N’est ce pas?’
Mike turned gamely to the tortured three. ‘What do you think of J.P.S.?’
‘Never touch them, mate,’ Danny said. ‘I’m a B & H man meself.’
With that he stood, reached forward, levered open the sun-roof and scrambled free. Phil and Christy followed, Christy shrugging, apologetic.
The three stood on the tarmac in the dusk, looking at each other.
‘Fucksake.’
‘I know.’
‘Wizard pot, what?’

Phil looked up from reading the running order of the bands. ‘What’s this?’ he asked Ed and Fred. ‘Plebs on first?’
Eddie winced.
‘I’m drumming for three of the first four bands, though,’ Danny complained. ‘I’ll be a fucking stretcher case.’
‘Well. Up to you, that is,’ Patrick said. ‘You’re the one who wants to be in three places at once.’
‘It’s because of the P.A. isn’t it?’ Phil said.
Eddie looked embarrassed. ‘What can you do?’
For once there was a decent P.A. It belonged to Doublethink. Terry’s dad, who owned the Music Mart in Weymouth, had bought it.
Richard Widmark’s Skidmarks were on first. Danny paced himself. No sense buckling yourself for some joke band. Their set of covers reflected Psychedelic Derek and Recurring Jeff’s obsession with 60’s garage psychedelia; ‘Psychotic Reaction’, ‘I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night’, ‘96 Tears’, ‘I Wonder Where She Is Tonight’. As a concession to modernity they did a cover of ‘Flying Saucer Attack’ in honour of Poly Styrene, who, the previous week, had supposedly seen a U.F.O in Doncaster.
Jeff stepped to the microphone and asked whether anybody had any requests. From just behind Phil a voice brayed, ‘How about a cover of John Cage’s “Four And A Half Minutes” ?’ There was a ripple of laughter from the heckler’s chums.
Phil nudged Christy’s elbow. Loud enough to be heard he asked, ‘Who let Lord fucking Snooty in here?’
Phil tried to relax as Hairshirt Boutique took the stage. They were a laugh at least. Fred had painted them a backdrop featuring the faces of Pope John Paul, George and Ringo. Their songs; ‘Jesus Had It Easy’, ‘Cheesecloth And Ashes’, ‘Spectacles, Testicles’ and the rest, were all about Catholicism. John had really only ever had one idea but he certainly got some wear out of it.
By the end of their set Phil’s unease had returned. He felt there was some connection between the unfamiliar faces in the audience and the throbbing in his fingertips, but he couldn’t work out what it was. Even the arrival on stage of the original line-up of The Shakespeare Monkees couldn’t lift his mood. Each of them wore a different teeshirt; Eddie’s showed the face of Eric Morecambe, Fred’s that of Philip Larkin, Linda’s featured a picture of Leon Trotsky, and Danny’s showed a mugshot of Colonel Sanders, the chicken supremo. They ended the usual set with the new song to which the teeshirts related; ‘Take Your Pick.’ The song was built around Ed’s theory that Eric Morecambe and Philip Larkin were twins separated at birth, and Trotsky was assassinated by a vegetarian hit-squad who’d mistaken him for Colonel Sanders.
Ed discussed the song’s significance in the next edition of Milk, Milk, Lemonade; the one with the headline ‘Beneath the beach, the pavement.’ He said the song concerned the idea of self-invention and the relationship between choice and identity. He concluded, cryptically, that the difference between your earlier and later, between what you get and what you’re given, depended on a willingness to open the box. Nobody knew what he was on about.
Phil felt his guts bubbling as he walked onstage with Hello Cruel World. He flexed and unflexed his hands, trying to get some life or feeling into them. Despite weeks of applying surgical spirit, his fingers were still as soft and pink as babies. The band steamed into ‘Hell For Leather’, hell for leather. After a verse and a chorus Phil could feel his grip weakening. He stumbled on the change into the next verse. Danny did a short fill to cover, smiled at him, then frowned. Phil felt his shirt sticking to his back. During ‘Dead In The Water’ he felt his skin start to shred. Soon the bleeding would start. He didn’t come back in with Animal after the quiet middle section.
Four bars into ‘Like Shit To A Blanket’, rescue came. Phil saw Tony thread his way through the crowd and step onto the stage. He knew it would all be over soon. Tony gripped Animal’s guitar round the neck. Hello Cruel World went out of time and stammered to a stop. Tony had spotted Animal letting people in through the fire exits he remembered from the Majestic’s Saturday matinees. As many people had got in through the back door as through the front. Tony ordered them to end their set. Sheepishly they obeyed.
As the band shifted their amps and coiled their leads, Daniel Dedooronronda mooched shyly onto the stage. Alan, with his sax around his neck, smiled nervously at Phil. ‘I quite enjoyed that.’
Phil wanted to nut him. He settled for flicking the ash from his Rothman into the mouth of Alan’s sax. He returned from punching the walls in the toilet in time to catch most of Daniel Dedooronronda’s set. Heretical in their guitarlessness, their music was angular and irritating, but they had enough friends in attendance to secure a positive response. They dedicated ‘Prospero W’ to Eddie. They dedicated ‘Whose Word’s Worth What?’ to Doublethink. They dedicated ‘My Blue Peninsula’ to Max and Dave.
Patrick leaned into Phil’s ear and said, ‘Why don’t they cut out the songs and just go round patting all their mates on the back?’
Next, Christy and Hello Cruel World watched, baffled and resentful as Doublethink impressed their well-scrubbed friends with their fuzzed up cod-reggae . Each song went over better than the last; ‘Re; Dub’, ‘Dub and Dubiety’, ‘Dread At The Controls’. Reversing out of a cul-de-sac of reggae related puns, they finished with ‘Double-Cross’. As the final chorus;
Cut yourself up,
Dust yourself down,
Start all over again, repeated and faded, there was a sudden wave of movement and talk near the door.
A voice rose above the others. ‘Who’s in charge here?’ it demanded.
Adrian from Daniel Dedooronronda strode towards the door with a lopsided smile and his arms outstretched. ‘Nobody is, sir.’
Christy and the band heard this. They thought, Sir?
Patrick was the first to see. ‘Fuck me. Coppers.’
‘Jesus!’ Danny said, remembering. ‘I’ve got five tabs on me.’
‘Just drop them for fucksake,’ Patrick said.
‘Don’t be a twat. Me brain’ll dissolve.’
‘Not do them. Drop them. On the deck, and walk away.’
‘Fuck that,’ Animal said. ‘Come on. Bogs.’
They scuttled towards the toilet while Tony tried to convince the officers that the event was a private party requiring no music licence, and Adrian promised that the building would be cleared noiselessly within half an hour.
While the other four stuffed their personal inside their pants, Danny pulled out a matchbox and slid it open. Each reached in and picked out a tab.
‘Have we got scissors?’ Phil asked. ‘Dennis said about doing a half the first time.’
‘We’ve got nothing to cut it.’
‘Ah, fuck it,’ Animal said. ‘Down the hatch.’ He balanced the tab on the end of his finger and sucked it in. The others did the same.

Once again someone had turned up and started acting the heavy father. Once again a convoy of people packed up and drove off with their tails between their legs. In the Wartburg, as the others looked at their watches, Danny talked over his shoulder. ‘I was thinking we could do with getting away again. Amsterdam I was thinking. Busking. If it works out we could stay longer.’
Patrick, Animal and Phil looked at each other and smiled.
‘You smell anything?’ Patrick asked Christy.
‘No.’
‘You?’
Phil laughed.
‘You smell anything, Animal?’
‘Yeah. Bullshit.’
The cars pulled up in Caroline Place, Weymouth. The only house in the street was a narrow terrace the colour of wet sandcastles, wedged between a carpet warehouse and a pub called The Duck and Rabbit. Mike stepped out of his car and walked up to the front door, took out his keys. This was the Mudhut, the new home of Doublethink.
Danny turned to the others. ‘Don’t fucking believe it. That’s the place I was saying about renting. They must have got in just after.’
‘How they manage the rent then?’ Animal asked. ‘Half of them’s still up the College.’
From the back seat Phil muttered, ‘Pater probably stumps up the readies.’
The five clumped round the home that should’ve been theirs. They clumped past knots of people sat cross-legged like picnickers. They clumped past people having conversations. Having conversations! It was supposed to be a fucking party! They clumped past Linda, dancing in the hallway, her huge boots clacking on the red tiles, her hands flapping like small birds nailed to something. They clumped past Anita from Daniel Dedooronronda explaining to Donald that she couldn’t think of a category her music fitted into. They paused as Phil said to her, ‘How about jazzy cack?’
They went into the kitchen. Terry and Gina were discussing whether Terry’s wearing of a donkey jacket represented an ironic statement or a gesture of allegiance. The five seated themselves around the kitchen table, which held a forest of bottles of already-spurned alcohol. They tucked into the Thunderbird, the sweet cider. As they waited to come up Eddie told them how he’d decided The Cows should play to their strengths, stop gigging, and just publish occasional set-lists in the fanzine.
Animal found himself watching the hairs on Eddie’s wrists. He stroked the top of his stomach and very quietly said, ‘Awww.’
Christy looked at him. ‘Do you reckon?’
‘I fucking reckon!’ Phil said.
Between sniggers Patrick nodded.
Danny stood suddenly. ‘I’m off for a wander.’
The five separated just as things started to fragment.

Danny cruised around the ground floor like a clipper in full sail. He realised, suddenly surprised, that he was on his fourth circuit of the living room. He stopped near Derek and John. John was telling Derek about Christ On A Bike. Derek was impressed. ‘Got this record you’d like the other week. Up this record fair in Bournemouth. Bloke there does rare old psychedelia. Bought the first single by Jesus Christ and the Nailknockers. Mint condition.’
‘Jesus Christ and the Nailknockers?’ John was warming to Derek already.
Danny leaned into the conversation. ‘Someone’s always got to bang in the last nail.’
‘Eh?’
‘Nothing.’ Danny frowned, then laughed. Where had that come from?

Ed and Fred were in the hallway, discussing a possible extra verse for ‘Take Your Pick.’
‘What about Samuel Beckett and Old Man Steptoe?’ Ed asked.
‘Stretching it a bit,’ Fred said.
‘I’ve got this picture of Beckett where he’s the dead spit. If you look at him a bit squinty.’
Phil sat on the stairs peering at them through the banister-rails like a baby in a cot. Gingerly he reached between the rails. There was glass there. Was there glass there? Was there?

Animal was standing on the kitchen table, doing his party piece; the opening speech from ‘Kick Out The Jams’ by the M.C.5. He announced that the time had come for each and everyone to decide whether they were going to be the problem, or whether they were going to be the solution. He told everybody that it took five seconds, it took five seconds of decision, five seconds to realise their purpose here on the planet.
Mike watched nervously. ‘Mind that table. It comes with the house.’
People started applauding Animal. Thin quick strings of lime green light formed cat’s cradles between their hands. Animal blinked hard and got down off the table.

In the corner of the kitchen Alison and Gina talked, while Patrick hovered, wanting a light.
‘I wonder about him sometimes,’ Alison said, nodding in Animal’s direction.
‘Mm. That Pontin’s thing,’ Gina said. ‘Sounded like something out of “Lord of the Flies.”’
‘Have you got a light?’
Gina looked at Patrick. He looked at her. Her eyes looked downwards and away. ‘It’s already lit.’
Her hair was like thick brushstrokes on an oil painting. He couldn’t take his eyes off its shimmer and ripple.
‘What?’ Gina asked.
‘Your hair.’

Christy was sat on the edge of the bath. There was a feeling in his stomach, a glow, like going down in a lift forever, or the lid lifting on something. He stared at the wallpaper. He watched the woodchips, like roaches, like albino cockroaches, scuttling, herding, unherding. I wonder where she is tonight. He clenched his eyes shut, squeezed the thought out of his head.

Instinctively they returned to each other. They clambered onto the living room sofa like they were boarding a life-raft. The wall opposite was covered in faded wallpaper with a pattern of large blue-grey thistles. The five settled down to watch, like puppies seeing television for the first time.
Animal watched as thistle-swans glowed orange and changed into thistle-phoenixes. The kitchen door opened. In the white fluorescent light the tailfeathers of a thousand peacocks spread like a thousand fans, or a thousand hands of cards. Every eye on every feather winked in perfect time.
Patrick watched the women, reclining, knees lifted to each side, heels tucked below buttocks, hair spread like haloes. All shapes, all sizes, not turning away.
Red Rickenbackers, then blue Rickenbackers. Phil could change them just by thinking. First red like Weller’s, then sky blue like Lennon’s. Red, red, red, red, blue, red, red, red, red, blue. Blue, red, blue, red. Then a hide stretched on a bench. Another hide. Then spreading like mildew across the wall, a thousand hides, stretched and pinned like moths. He wanted the guitars back. He put a hand across each eye. He opened his eyes. The guitars returned in a great rolling wave across the wall and vanished again. Get hold of something solid. Solid. Real. He stared at the wall of hides. There’s bricks behind there. There’s bricks behind there. But who bought the bricks?
It started in the left hand corner near the floor and spread. Danny watched the small child swimming breaststroke, an unnamed girl or boy, its legs bending and kicking. He would look after this one. Soon there was a whole wall of Busby Berkeley babies, kicking and swimming, and turning and sculling in synch.
Christy saw the shimmer, heard the lap of the waves. Across the wall a thousand divers entered the water, headlong with a massive, blue-grey splash. Then silence, rippling. Then, a thousand swimmers, coming up out of the water, lifting, triumphant.
Phil puffed out his cheeks, stuck out his bottom lip, blew a ripple along his fringe. ‘Fuck me ragged.’
‘What do you reckon?’ Animal asked.
‘Majestic,’ Christy said.
‘What?’ Danny asked.
‘Bit hectic,’ Animal said.
‘Just a bit,’ Patrick agreed.

Chapter 21

2005-04-28T11:37:00.000Z

PHIL
I got into work late the Tuesday after Pontin’s. It felt like, teabreak over, back to the same old shake it all about. I got down the wet end and the Wildman was working at me bench. He just give me this gormless look and carried on. Olly asked how the holiday was and said Lenny was looking for me.
I thought I must be due a bollocking but he come and told me I was moving onto buffing. I was chuffed to start with. The money was better, plus you got the chance to do City and Guilds, and that meant day release once you got to Stage Two.
Inside a fortnight I was wishing I’d never changed over. The thing with the buffing is, you can’t wear gloves really. You need to feel the hide up against the roller to get the finish even. There was some chemical they put on the roller. It softened up the leather. And your fingers. I must’ve been a bit allergic. Me fingertips went bright pink, then the skin started peeling off like really bad sunburn. Stung like fuck. I asked about swapping back but they weren’t having it.
At home Paul had started picking up the guitar again. So seeing him playing, I was already getting reminded how far behind him I was. I’d got this habit off him of pulling a face whenever I hit a bum note. Me and him was in our room and I was running through the set. I pulled that face. Paul goes, ‘Pick a note, any note.’ Then the same again. I’d pull that face, he’d laugh. After a bit I stopped even pulling the face. Paul looked over, worried. He said how I could do with putting some time in.
But the more time I put in, the worse it got. The band had a practice up the Merman ready for the bingo gig. I was playing the lead bits on ‘Me Again’, but it was hurting so much I kept going out of time. People was alright about it the first go through, but the third time Animal goes, ‘I’ll do the lead for now if you want. Swap back another time.’
Then on ‘Dead in the Water’ I couldn’t keep up. I didn’t have no strength in me fingers. I seen Patrick rolling his eyes. I was ready to smack him one to be honest. Then Danny goes, ‘Jesus.’
I said, ‘I’m doing me fucking best.’
He said, ‘Not that. Your hand.’
I looked down. Me left hand was covered in blood.
Around then’s when everything started feeling different for me. Like everything was slipping through me fingers. Literally.
Come the actual night of the bingo gig I was fucking up royally. I was almost glad when that Tony pulled us off. I was making meself look a cunt. That’s probably why I had a bit of a bad time after.
That was another thing. That bingo gig was the first time the real collegey lot started getting into it. I remember sitting in the back of Terry’s mini outside, with me teeth gritted. He said he was taking a year out. I said, ‘How do you mean?’
He said it again, ‘Taking a year out,’ like everyone knows what that means, as if I was thick for not knowing.
I know some of that lot can be alright but I haven’t got much time for them. The way they talk to you does it for me. They’ll let something slip about how their mum and dad’s better off than yours. Then they’ll get embarrassed and say some bollocks about how their dad’s worked really hard, like my dad’s never done a hand’s turn in his life.
At the party after, that Alan said how it must be marvellous to have a craft, to work with your hands, all that shit. It’s nothing though. It’s like swimming or whistling. It’s just a knack. Not even nothing out the ordinary like kids at school who were doublejointed.
The other thing was the Christy business. It was right over the top. He got on your tits but it takes all sorts. He was just wired up different. I was half-pissed down the Merman with him once. I’d seen this thing on the telly about adoption and I said to him about how I used to think I was adopted. He said how he used to think he was autistic after he seen something on the telly about it. He was full of stuff like that.
There was just this different atmosphere starting with us lot. No prizes for guessing who I blame. Then maybe that’s just me knowing better afterwards. But even as early as that I felt like it was downhill from there onwards; downhill all the way.

Chapter 20

2005-04-28T11:32:00.000Z

WILLSON
Easter. Christy left a note for his mother, in case she’d forgotten. It said, ‘Away for the weekend, back Monday.’
They tramped from the front gate through the grid of chalets.
‘Looks like a Borstal.’
‘Looks like a barracks.’
‘Looks like a model village.’
‘Looks like fucking Portland.’
Patrick turned to face the others. ‘I can’t believe you cunts are moaning already.’
‘We’re not moaning,’ Danny said. ‘Just saying.’

In the Tropicana ballroom and bar Phil returned with a tray.
‘Took your fucking time didn’t you?’ Animal said.
‘Met the blokes from the next chalet. They were talking about a kick-about, Sunday. Five-a-side.’
‘What do you think this is you normal cunt? Scout camp?’ Danny said.
‘Where they from?’ Christy asked.
‘Bristol. Police cadets,’ Phil said.
Animal put down his glass. ‘Tell me you’re taking the piss. Just tell me you’re taking the piss.’
‘Seem alright,’ Phil answered. ‘It’s only a kick-about. It’s not like I asked them round for a session.’
Patrick reappeared. ‘This one mine?’ he asked, lifting a pint from the tray and taking a mouthful.
‘Where you been?’ Animal asked.
‘Around.’ He looked over to a young woman near the door. ‘Just nipping outside a minute. Might let you smell me finger later, if you’re lucky.’

Animal stood and picked up the tray. ‘I’ll leave Patrick out on this one. He must’ve fallen in.’
‘What about Christy? Where’s he to?’
‘Fuck knows. I thought he went for a piss.’
‘That was twenty minutes ago.’
On the dancefloor three Bluecoats were judging the final leg of the disco-dancing competition. Across the floor, shuffling gracelessly, came Christy, doing the Twist in a black rubber dustbin, no number on his back.
Patrick, back now, but still with Sue from Harrow, covered his eyes. Sue touched his elbow, laughing. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Christ, no.’
‘Anyhow,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘I’d better get back. Me mum and dad’s over there.’
‘I’ll come over if you want. Have a chat with them.’
Sue looked at him, nonplussed. ‘Joking aren’t you?’
The applause, the stamping feet, rose above the music. Christy stopped. He took a slow solemn bow, and hit the floor face first.
On the way back from the Tropicana, they stopped off at the boating pond. Each untied a pale blue boat and pushed out from the edge of the water. Christy lay on his back in his boat and looked at the stars. He felt the bump of an oar against the boat, then another, then another. The stars spun gently above him.
‘Can you swim Christy?’
‘Yeah. Can you swim Christy?’
‘Yeah. Can you?’
‘Can you?’
Dining hall. Morning after. Sounds different. Not all that clattering. Rustling like trees. Waiters hang on a bit, leaning over, nodding, pulling the right faces. Them words coming towards us. Reaching, breaking up. Terrible. Imagine. How old? Terrible. Imagine. Stood there. Not able. Seeing that and not being able. On the edge. Of the water. Not able. What things are like.

Patrick suggested the swimming on the Saturday. There would be girls.
‘They won’t be on their guard in the daytime. Smooth in when they’re not expecting it.’
The others gave him the usual look, gave each other the usual look.
Christy hadn’t brought trunks. He sat in the spectators’ seats, breathed the wet air, heard the ownerless screams.
‘Yeah. You sit and watch, Christy.’
‘Yeah. You sit there in the nonces’ enclosure.’
‘Can you swim Christy?’
‘Yeah. Can you?’
Like seeing it out of the corner of your eye. Like in a flick book. Front room. Like it’s four times the size. Her, miles away. Saying something. Got her fingers on the table. Holding herself up. Saying something. Something about the sea.
That evening the Regal Theatre wasn’t regal, in any case. The five got seats near the front, the better to sneer. Wrecked, they laughed while others clapped, at the desperate singers and the desperate dancers.
The first comedian, they liked. He used to work in a departmental store. The boss was a Mr Dee, who was part mental. Crushed nuts? No.
Then came the big attraction; Ted Rogers. Danny, his lungs thick with Pakistani tar, coughed, then coughed again.
‘Cough it up, camper,’ Ted said to the darkness. ‘It might be a gold watch.’ People laughed!
Ted continued. ‘I bumped into that Johnny Rotten the other day,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘He had a safety pin through his bottom lip, and one through his top lip. I said, “Why don’t you just have the one safety pin through both lips?” He said, “I wouldn’t be able to open me mouth then.” I said, “I know.”’
Ted rode the rolling laugh, winked, twinkled. Danny coughed again, producing a large khaki clot in the crook of his thumb and forefinger. A deft flick sent it arching, over the heads of the audience, briefly through the beam of the spotlight, to land on the sleeve of Ted’s crushed velvet jacket, unnoticed by all but the five. It was their turn to laugh now, out of synch. ‘Keep up.’ Ted winked. ‘Keep up.’
Later, back from the late bar at the Tropicana, they slammed the chalet door shut behind them. There was a knock within minutes. Phil went. He opened the door an inch and no more. It was the tall one from the next chalet. ‘Just checking you’re still on for the footy tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Suppose,’ Phil said, turning to check with the others.
‘Yeah. We’ll be there,’ Danny called out. ‘Oink oink.’
‘Other thing,’ the tall one said, keeping it matey, practising for the future. ‘Any chance you could keep the music down? You’ll ruin your ears with that there punk rock.’
Phil shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Good man. See you tomorrow. Half three.’
‘Yeah,’ Phil said, thinking, fucking likely that is.

Sunday dragged like any Sunday. On the sofa in the lounge a conversation was unrolling itself.
‘Tell you what amazes me,’ Phil said. ‘Pig ugly blokes going out with really beautiful girls. What’s going on there?’
‘They’ve probably got nice personalities,’ Christy said.
‘They get really nice drugs, that’s what it is,’ Patrick said.
‘Not all of them, surely,’ Christy said.
‘Course it is,’ Patrick said. ‘You see some smelly fucker with a face like a cow’s arse and he’s going round with someone really tasty-looking, what else is it going to be?’
‘The birds do it to freak out their parents. Scare them into thinking they might breed with someone who looks like a forceps baby,’ Animal said. ‘Especially the posh ones.’
He started on about how it was a particular thing with greboes, the way they got hold of fantastic-looking girls. As the conversation wound on Christy receded into himself. He sat admiring his quarter of Pakistani Black. It was beautiful. There was gold writing on it, in foreign. It looked like monks used to do. He felt Phil watching him.
‘Are you going to smoke that or are you going to spend all weekend fucking looking at it?’
Patrick unzipped a cigarette. ‘I don’t understand you Christy. It’s like you can’t decide whether you want to be completely out of your box, or right back inside yourself.’
Christy said nothing.
On the playing field at three thirty, the police cadets padded, jogged, dribbled in the drizzle, waiting. Meanwhile Animal was busy in the kitchen. He’d carved two lip shapes from Spam and was sticking them either side of the lightswitch with some jam. Patrick had hooked a handful of hair out of the bath’s plughole and was drying it under the grill. He teased out the individual hairs and tucked them around the Spam. With his thumb Animal made a circular smudge of Marmite below the two Spam lips.
Patrick added a few gobbets of shaving foam to the collage and turned to his audience. ‘Can you guess what it is yet?’
Phil started laughing. ‘Fucksake.’
‘Fucking artist, I am,’ Animal said.
‘That,’ Patrick gestured, ‘Is the nearest Christy’s going to get to a cunt all weekend.’ With a sudden lunge Patrick splashed a blot of ketchup onto his creation. ‘Pity Kev’s not here,’ he said. ‘This’d bring back a few old memories.’
Christy lifted himself dizzily from the sofa. ‘Think I’ll have a bath.’
‘Yeah. Have a bath Christy,’ Danny said. ‘You fucking stink.’
Christy stopped still at the door. ‘I had a bath yesterday.’
‘What in?’ Animal asked. ‘Ferret’s piss?’
While Christy bathed Danny was in the kitchen scraping at a loose patch of plaster with a fork. ‘I’m fucking sick of that twat. It’s like dragging a seven year old round.’
‘I know,’ Patrick said. ‘You have to tell him every fucking thing. Christy skin up, Christy get a round in, Christy say something for fuck sake.’
‘Tight too. Fucking hog.’
‘Anyway. Get a drink out of him, one way or another.’
Danny collected the scrapings of plaster into a pile and began crushing out the lumps with a spoon. Patrick folded a wrap, and scooped in the light brown powder.
Animal put his head round the door. ‘He’s coming back. Ready?’
‘Nearly.’
They’d discussed whether they should make a big deal of it, or play it casual. They couldn’t agree. As they sat at the table in the lounge, Danny began moving aside the bong, the beercans and the ashtrays, as if he were preparing for some ritual.
‘You know when me and Danny went up Dunmore last?’ Animal asked Christy.
‘Mm.’
‘Did I mention we got some smack?’
Danny closed his eyes, thinking, fucking idiot, he’ll never fall for it like that. Christy looked doubtful for a moment, until Patrick chopped out a thin line on the table and did it with one brisk snort. Christy did the same. The four looked at him with satisfied smiles.
Minutes passed. ‘I’m not getting nothing off this,’ Christy complained. The four laughed until tears ran down their faces.

Across the camp people were preparing for the evening. The police cadets, scrubbed and shaved and aftershaved, were knotting polyester ties, pulling on white socks. Next door, Danny, grunting, shat into a bucket. He showed Animal.
‘Fuck me!’ Animal said. ‘You must’ve been keeping your back straight.’
Patrick hopped down from his position squatting on the edge of the kitchen sink. He and Phil looked at the turd he’d landed in the ice-tray from the fridge. Patrick covered his nose. ‘Jesus. Fucking stinks!’
Phil glanced at him. ‘Only you could be surprised by that.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Nothing.’
With a butter knife Patrick spread the shit into each section of the tray, and placed it in the freezer compartment.

In the Tropicana, the first two rounds were bought with the money Christy put in for the bogus smack. ‘Cheers Christy!’
‘Yeah. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers Christy.’
By the time last orders was called they were ready for any victim. They watched as the police cadets left.

The cadets’ kitchen window was open.
‘Just tip it in,’ Danny whispered.
‘No,’ Patrick said, inspecting the contents of the bucket. ‘We don’t want to use it up too quick.’
‘Come on,’ Animal said. ‘We’ll be here all fucking night.’ He dipped into the bucket with a soup ladle, scooped out a wedge of shit and gently dropped it in through the kitchen window. He banged twice on the glass. The five ran for cover.
‘Come out little piglets.’
‘Yeah. Come out, or we’ll huff and we’ll puff and we’ll blow your chalet down.’
‘Then we’ll cake you in shit.’
Round the front next. From behind the bushes, scoop after scoop was launched, to arc through the air and slap dully against the door of the enemy chalet. Nobody came out.
‘This is bollocks. Boring bastards aren’t coming out.’
They retreated to their chalet. As the others settled down for a session Christy gave an exaggerated yawn. ‘Think I’ll turn in.’
Nobody spoke. Christy went to his room.
Patrick slammed the lounge door. The bottom pane of frosted glass dropped out and broke. ‘Cunt! We’re supposed to be on holiday and he hasn’t done a fucking thing!’
Christy paused on the edge of his bed, frozen.
Danny spoke. ‘He’s a fucking wanker. It’s like dragging a dead body round with you all the time.’
‘He does do things sometimes,’ Phil said.
‘Like fucking what?’ Patrick shot back.
‘That time he was dancing in the dustbin,’ Phil said, lamely.
‘Yeah,’ Danny said. ‘Only when he’s pissed though.’
‘He might as well be in with the straights next door.’
Christy sat on his bed shaking, listening. Count up to fifty. Same again. Crawl to outside the front room door. Shove it open. Never quick enough. He’s gone already. Even before the talking’s stopped. Nowhere to be seen. Nowhere. They’ll go soon.
Arms round the armrests on the Utility chair. Getting ready for bedtime. Getting ready to hang on. Her trying to get me out. Clair too. Lifting the chair up into the bedroom. Jump and run towards the door. Shuts it with her foot.
Seen it on the telly. Glass with the yellow flowers on pressed against the wall. Ear against the glass. Still can’t hear him. Keeping him in a secret room upstairs.
Christy saw the doorhandle turn. He ducked under the covers, pretended to be asleep. He heard the other bed creak, heard two boots hit the floor, heard the soft dry scrape of clothes being removed. He counted to one hundred, then looked. He could see Phil, pretending to be asleep. Phil twitched, grunted, turned over. Then sniggered.
‘Reality, Christy! It’s coming to get you!’ Danny shouted.
‘You’re in for a fucking shock Christy!’ Animal laughed.
‘We’re going to fucking crucify you!’ Patrick yelled.
More laughter. The lounge door slammed. The kitchen door slammed.
‘Get ready Christy!’ Animal and Danny shouted, half a warning, half a threat.
Christy jammed a chair under the doorhandle. The door shook as a shoulder rammed against it. The chair jerked, tilted. Christy flung himself against the door, leaned there, grunting. He weakened. The door opened a few inches. A handful of small dark cubes shot through the gap. ‘Eat this, Christy, you tragic twat!’ Patrick shouted.
Christy gave a last shove. The door slammed shut. He wedged the chair back in position. He looked around the room. Frozen shit. Numb, he scooped up the cubes with an empty cigarette packet and flicked them out of the window.

Dawn broke milky. Christy was packed and ready. He crept from the stinking bedroom, through the stinking lounge. He sleepwalked to the station and waited for the train. He braced himself for another stretch in quarantine.
Later, in the kitchen Animal lit a cigarette, put the kettle on, and muttered to himself; ‘Give it three weeks, the stupid cunt’ll be back.’

Chapter 19

2005-04-28T11:29:00.000Z

CHRISTY
Mandeville give me the jitters from the first time I seen him. I’d just been up the yard talking with Vince while he served Alex with some Thermalite. Vince still owed me a fiver for some black. I was working up to it when he said, ‘You after that fiver?’
I said, ‘Oh. Yeah. I was forgetting.’
He did Alex’s yard ticket, said something to him and Alex give Vince a fiver. Then Vince give me the fiver. I freaked a bit, thinking Vince was flogging on the gear he got off me. He looked at me and shrugged. ‘He’s a big tipper.’ The day after, I was doing the invoice for Alex. There was half the blocks on there he’d really had. First clue I had about that sort of stuff.
Back in the office this tall bloke in a suit was talking to Potter. ‘Need to be one jump ahead in this business. Tell you what I do. When I’m staying in a hotel and I’m negotiating over drinks, I always tip the barman in advance to substitute ginger ale for all but the first whiskey.’
Potter made interested noises.
‘Need to keep sharp,’ the tall bloke said.
Potter said, ‘Christy, Mr Mandeville, area manager.’
‘Hello Christy. Glad to hear you’ve got over your mystery illness.’
I never knew if someone was being sarcastic but there was no need to guess with him. I’d been on the skive two days the previous week. He knew. I couldn’t get back to the kennel quick enough.
I sat in the kennel with the invoices thinking what else I could get caught out for. About half three Potter stuck his head round the door. I nearly jumped out me skin. ‘Give Ken a hand unloading that Larchlap, Christy. Get it over with.’
We finished unloading. Mandeville called Ken into the office. That’s when they sacked him. I seen Ken storm across the warehouse, with Potter and Mandeville a few feet behind. Potter said, ‘Believe me I’m as upset about this as you Ken.’ Then, once Ken had slammed the door shut, ‘I won’t be able to nip round and shag your wife in the afternoons anymore.’
Mandeville laughed, said, ‘Really?’
Potter said, ‘Joking aren’t you? You seen her?’
I nipped round the loading bay to get a better look, in time to see Ken take a run up to Mandeville’s B.M.W., and boot in the headlights. Mandeville shot out, and started wagging his finger at Ken. He pointed down at Ken’s feet. Next thing, Ken took off one boot and slung it straight at Mandeville’s head. He missed by miles but I’d’ve still paid good money to see it.
I seen Ken in town the week after. He said Mandeville wasn’t bothered about the headlights but he wanted Ken’s boots back, reckoning they were company property. Conrad’s used to put in half the price of your boots if you got steel toe-capped ones. So Ken took off one boot, said, ‘That’s your one. Have it, you cunt!’, and launched it. He said he felt an arse afterwards because he had to hop to his car. He didn’t mind about the job though. All those kids, he was better off signing on.
Mandeville had us all in the office and give us a bollocking about how dishonesty wouldn’t be tolerated. Then, out of nowhere, behind him at the window, Animal appeared, giving the finger to Mandeville’s back. He disappeared for a bit. When he come back he was on Danny’s shoulders. He poked his head through the top of the window. ‘Christy you prat. We’ve come to save you from turning out normal.’ I didn’t know where to put meself.
When I knocked off, Danny’s Wartburg was waiting at the gate. I got in. It was good to see them. It’s shit being on your own all the time. I could never keep away for more than a couple of weeks.
First thing they said, both together, was, ‘ Have a look Christy.’
Animal had a brochure in his hand. Danny was holding out this little paper packet.
‘What’s that?’ I said.
‘Sulphate. We went up Dunmore Cottage this afternoon.’
‘Done any yet?’
‘Give you three guesses. I got a gramme for you.’
‘Is that a gramme?’
‘Bit under. Dennis has had a line out of it.’
He always had. What a full gramme looked like was anyone’s guess.
Danny said, ‘He gets worse that wanker. He’s started calling me Billy Whizz now. Prat.’
We done a line each. Animal told me about Pontin’s. ‘We’ve booked it for Easter bank holiday but we need another body; it’s five to a chalet.’
‘We would’ve asked before, but we thought you might still be lovesick.’
‘Even asked Kev. He’s still dithering. We need to get the forms in.’
I said I’d think about it.
Animal was fidgetting, tapping on the dashboard. ‘Shite! We’ve done this too early. I fancy going somewhere.’
Danny said, ‘What about that thing Fred was going to?’
On the way back from Dorchester they’d met Fred W. He was going to this exhibition of paintings up the Beagle Cafe. He made out he was only going for the free drink but he was into all that.
The Beagle Cafe was next door to Natural Selection, the hippy bakery. The same bloke owned both. Terry out of Doublethink worked there. It wasn’t a proper caff; it only did coffee and cakes and salad. We parked round the corner. Walking past, Danny give a quick look sideways. ‘Fucksake. It’s full of College hippies.’
The cafe was down this narrow corridor and through a door on the left. Just past the door was this table stacked with drink. There was a few paintings on the wall in the corridor. They all looked like designs for lino to me. I wouldn’t’ve minded seeing the other stuff though.
Animal elbowed me in the ribs. ‘Fuck the paintings. Get the booze!’
He run past the doorway and grabbed a bottle of vodka and a bottle of whiskey off the table. I had on me army surplus coat with the big inside pockets. Animal stuffed a bottle in each of me pockets. Someone in the cafe called out, ‘Hello.’ We run like fuck.
I was still shaking when we parked up behind the Merman. We sat in the car and started on the vodka while we waited for opening time. Danny chopped out a line of speed on the cover of the A.A. atlas, all along the London road. He did it out thin but it was still a big bastard. He said, ‘There you go look. You’d almost think you were going somewhere.’ After he’d done it he said, ‘I fucking hate this. This nothing happening.’ He stubbed out his cig. ‘Then when you try and make things happen no fucker’s interested.’
I said, ‘Like what?’
He looked at Animal. ‘He know?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘There’s this house going. We was talking about renting it.’
Animal butted in. ‘We would’ve asked but you were busy hiding.’
I said I wasn’t sure.
Danny tutted. ‘Fucking typical. Patrick blanked the idea straight off, Phil’s got cold feet. Now you.’
I was glad to get in the pub. We hid in the alcove and had lagers with a vodka top. Danny kept having a dab out of his gramme so he was off, going on about how one of his dad’s mates was selling this old mini-bus and that we should buy it and fit it out and go off travelling like Olly did and how it wouldn’t cost much and how it’d be an experience and how it’d be a way of getting away and all that. Animal just smiled, humouring him.
About half nine Kev come in to use the bog. He come over. Danny asked him again about Pontin’s.
‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t?’
‘Can’t.’
‘How come?’
He looked embarrassed. Then he told us. ‘I want to spend more time with Karen. We’re getting married.’
‘Fuck off!’
‘Fuck off!’
‘Christ!’
We all looked at each other. Animal thought of it first. ‘She’s not up the stick is she?’
‘I’m not meant to tell anyone yet.’
‘Fuck me, Kev,’ Animal said. ‘Didn’t you use anything?’
‘No.’
‘Brilliant,’ Danny said. ‘You’re in the barbers, Karen’s in Boots all day, can’t move for johnnies, neither thinks to bring some home.’
I couldn’t believe it. There was him doing that, making that, and I didn’t even feel old enough to think of anything to say about it. Once a woman come in at work with her kid. He was mucking about and she said, ‘You behave or the man’ll tell you off.’ I didn’t even think she meant me.
And doing it by accident. Kev of all people. It was like he was changing in front of me. Later on he said about Sid and Nancy getting busted. He said it was a nasty business. A nasty business. He was already sounding like someone’s dad.
It must’ve been there on me face. When Kev went up to get crisps Animal said, ‘Don’t think of it as losing a friend Christy, think of it as...’ But he couldn’t think of anything to think of it as.
Patrick come in. Danny told him. He walked up to the bar, prodded Kev, goes, ‘Alright, Kev? Anything for the weekend?’
Patrick asked us if anyone fancied the disco at Preston. Ever since he’d started driving he’d been trawling round the village discos. He’d got this idea from his dad that girls out in the furthest villages were dying for sex. He reckoned it made a nice change for them to fuck someone with a different surname.
We just looked blank at him. Those places were shit. We went once, when Danny still had his hair green. We had to beg to get in. As soon as we were in, we wanted to get out again. Down one side there was girls with hairdos like their mums. They had dance steps worked out. Down the other side was farmboys and matelots and a load of other meatheads and knuckle-draggers. The D.J was putting on an American accent. He’d been in the infants with Patrick and Animal. We got there half-eightish. The first fight was over and you could already smell the cider-sick.
I thought about Kev, and the paintings at the caff, and work, and the disco. Between the things I couldn’t have and the things I didn’t want I couldn’t fucking move.
Patrick said, ‘Fancy it? Or are you going to piss the night away here?’
I said, ‘What a choice. What’s the point?’
He walked towards the door. ‘The point is, to hunt cunt.’
Animal took the offer of a lift to Weymouth, Kev made his excuses and left. Danny said he was staying. Patrick and Animal walked out.
Danny looked across the table at me. His eyes were all bloodshot. That was the only time I ever seen him pissed. Speeding loads of times, but pissed never. He said, ‘I’ll put you down for Pontin’s.’
‘Yeah.’
He asked if I’d had any news about Clair. I said no.
He said, ‘Listen. Sorry I got pissy earlier. About the house.’
‘Alright.’
‘Just surprised. I’d’ve thought you’d want to get away.’
I said how there wasn’t anything to get away from. There wasn’t by then.
He said, ‘Think yourself lucky. It’s fucking murder round mine.’
I didn’t know what he was on about. He looked like he really wanted to tell me something. We decided to give up while we were behind and call it a night.

We was stood at the top of Mallams. Danny was just saying how I should come and watch Hello Cruel World practise at the weekend, when this Capri pulled up. That Ian who used to be in The Bad Detectives jumped out.
He come over and smacked Danny one right in the mouth. Decked him. Ian just goes, ‘Rip me off, you cunt. Pay off them drums by Saturday or I’ll be up your house with a fucking rounders bat.’
I thought, perfect end to a perfect day that is.

Chapter 18

2005-04-26T16:30:00.001Z

WILLSON
Clueless, luckless, loveless Christy, checked his breath and armpits twice. The time had come. He dropped six of the new lot of blues to help him speak. He would’ve preferred the cinema; nobody to spot him, the excuse not to talk. He put his list of questions in his pocket and left for the pub.
He’d borrowed a library book about how to talk to people on such occasions. It recommended having a ready stock of anecdotes and stories about his own experiences. It panicked him. He didn’t have any stories, only questions and secrets. So he’d written down some questions. He didn’t want to find out anything about her, he just didn’t want her to find out anything about him.
Walking down Fortuneswell he wondered how this could happen. What could this mean? Certainly not the obvious; never that. Inside him was just meat; nothing. Couldn’t get out of it now though. There was only ever fear and duty, this was no different.
He didn’t like it, things being arranged, sorted out behind his back. Animal and Alison had set it up; he just had to phone her and finalise the details. He’d gone to the phone box on the corner, clutching a slip of paper with the words on it in case he got tongue-tied.
She’d made it easy for him. ‘Is it about Wednesday night at Deja Vu?’
They arranged to meet first in the Pilot.
That was where it had started. One night Christy had wandered in, unable to face the Merman. Animal and Alison were there. Christy thought, too late, of pretending to have come in for cigarettes. Instead he joined them. Alison seemed friendlier than usual. Animal excused himself and went in the other bar. Spotting his chance Christy drained his pint and made to leave, lying that he was on his way to see Kev.
‘Stay for another Christy,’ Alison said. ‘Kev’s probably round Karen’s.’
Christy left regardless.
In the other bar, on the payphone, Animal spoke to her. ‘He’s here now. Come down.’
She laughed, embarrassed. ‘This is daft. It’ll really look like he’s being set up.’
‘No it won’t,’ Animal said. ‘He won’t even notice anything’s going on.’
Animal phoned Christy the next night. He got to the point. ‘She’s interested in you.’
‘What way?’
‘She keeps asking after you.’
‘Like what?’
‘She likes you. Fuck me, stranger things have happened.’
Christy looked round the bar of the Pilot now. She was there. She’d bloody turned up. Wearing an Express Dairies duffelcoat with a picture of Emily Bronte on the back, Linda was sat at a table in the corner. She’d already taken two inches off the top of her pint. She drank pints. Animal said it was a College thing.
Christy said hello and apologised for being late.
‘You’re not,’ Linda said. ‘I was early.’
Christy bought himself a pint and began the interrogation, not listening to himself, not listening to her. He asked after the W twins.
‘They’re okay,’ Linda said. ‘Seem to be getting on better. Ed’s back in the house now the weather’s colder. How’s things with Hello Cruel World?’
‘Alright,’ Christy mumbled. He wanted to change the subject in case she was reminded of the CND gig.
‘I liked what you were doing at that gig on the cliffs,’ she said.
Christy smiled and examined the head on his pint.
She asked him about his work.
‘I’m a clerkstrokestoreman. I pick things up, I put things down, I add things up, I write things down.’
She smiled. ‘Do you enjoy it?’
Christy looked puzzled. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I’ll take that as a “no” then.’
He tried to remember the next question. ‘Back in a sec.’
In the toilet he fumbled in his pockets. He checked his list. He felt sure he’d written down more questions. And the pills weren’t working. He fished the rest of the blues out of the matchbox, and crammed them into his mouth.
Two men sat down at the table next to Linda’s. Their idiot, inky tattoos gave them away as matelots: no colour, no ideas, no beauty, only the marks of physical hardness.
‘You trap last night then?’
‘Course I fucking did.’
‘Much cop?’
‘Alright. Had the necessary. Rough though.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Like Arthur Mullard in a skirt. Wendy something.’
‘Fuck me! I’ve been through that. Piss flaps like elephants’ ears.’
‘That’s the one. Dirty, mind.’
‘Yeah. I was doing her and her daughter at one stage. Like having your dick banged between two bricks.’
Christy returned. Linda drained her pint. ‘Shall we go Christy?’
‘Oh. Okay. Yeah,’ Christy said. Now what had he done?
On the bus he asked, ‘Have you ever been up Deja Vu before?’
‘No,’ she said, smiling. ‘But I keep getting the feeling I have.’
Christy frowned. ‘That’s weird.’
Deja Vu, Weymouth’s premier nitespot, featured a number of themed evenings. Until recently Wednesday nights had been Second Time Around Nite, a Sixties revival disco for the recently divorced or dumped. It hadn’t taken off.
The W twins, who knew the manager from schooldays, had persuaded him to let them put on a punk disco on the available night, in return for a cut of the door. Tonight was going to be the first night.
On arrival Christy relaxed slightly. He’d been correct in his hope. Ed was playing the records loud enough to make conversation virtually impractical. Linda went to fetch pints and Christy padded across the flypaper carpet to find a table. His heart folded as he realised that the twins’ cack-handedness as D.J.s left unfortunate gaps between records.
Linda returned. In between the songs, what felt like silence fell. Christy did his best; his best was dreadful. The minutes felt like weeks. Christy saw disappointment creeping across her face like a rash. But, then, what was she expecting? He looked across the dancefloor to where Hello Cruel World were propping up the bar. He knew they’d be pissing themselves laughing when he wasn’t looking.
Danny stood trying to persuade the others. Pilled again, he leaned forward into his words. ‘It’s the bloke Olly rents off. Same size house Olly’s got. Be cheap split five ways.’
‘I’m into it,’ Animal said. ‘It’s like the Black Hole of Calcutta round mine. Driving me up the wall.’
‘Won’t be much better this place, three bedrooms between five,’ Patrick complained. ‘What if one of us is knocking someone off?’
Danny took a gulp of beer and clenched his teeth. ‘Do you ever stop thinking with your dick?’ He looked at Phil. ‘You’re into it aren’t you? Be good it will.’
‘I’m tempted. Be a laugh.’
‘Go on,’ Animal said. ‘It’ll be just like the Monkees, but with more drugs.’
‘That’s the other thing,’ Patrick interrupted. ‘We rent somewhere together, the D.S.’ll set up a Portakabin outside.’
‘That’s you all over, that is,’ Danny snapped. ‘Any idea’s bollocks unless it’s yours.’
‘I’m not saying for definite, mind,’ Phil said.
‘Fucksake,’ Danny said. ‘You lot don’t know what you want.’
‘No,’ Patrick said calmly. ‘That’s you.’
Danny walked away towards the gents.
Patrick looked at Animal. ‘He’s all talk.’
‘He’s alright.’
Like somebody compulsively offering cigarettes to an occasional smoker, Christy continued to poke questions at Linda. Little relief came when Kev and Karen invited themselves to join Christy and Linda. Soon Christy was struggling to find anything to say to Kev. ‘You could help Ed and Fred if they keep it going. Lend them some of your records.’
‘Maybe,’ Kev said, glancing at Karen. ‘I’m probably going to be a bit busy.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Just things.’
The four looked at each other, stuck.
‘Anyway. We’ll leave you to it,’ Kev said.
Walking away, Karen mumbled, ‘Toffeenosed cow.’
‘Don’t, love. It’s nice to see it.’
‘Christ.’
Linda looked at Christy. ‘You look as if you’re trying to remember something.’
Then he remembered. ‘So what is it you’re doing at college?’
She was studying Psychology and Sociology.
‘Oh yeah? Enjoy it?’
‘Yeah. We’re doing Durkheim at the moment. On suicide.’ She paused, lit a roll up. ‘Anyway, you don’t want to hear about that. It’s boring.’
In the toilet again, Christy checked the list. He’d used nearly everything. He tried to memorise what remained. The blues were certainly working now; his jaw was grinding slack, moronic. In the mirror he noticed his pupils, massive and inky. He’d once read that dilation of the pupils made people more attractive to the opposite sex. But he knew that wasn’t anything to do with him.
He went back. Patrick was sat talking to Linda. As Christy sat down Linda lit Patrick’s cigarette. Patrick held her hand as if to steady it. He looked at Christy. ‘I didn’t know you were here tonight.’
Linda retrieved her hand. ‘Christy’s with me.’
Patrick stood up. ‘Fair enough.’ He walked away, shaking his head.
Christy’s brain revved, trying to think of something to say.
Linda saved him. ‘Don’t you ever worry about all this? The music and everything.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. That it might just end up getting swallowed up like everything else. Just turn out to be a phase people go through before they turn into their parents.’
Christy wanted to nudge the conversation away from parents but he didn’t know how. See him whistling in the kitchen. Can’t be there. Knowing he’s not there. Seeing him.
Into the cloakroom. Smells of macs drying out. Old daps. Names written neat on pink paper just above the hooks. The littluns put their coats away first. Easier to reach. Move the satchel behind. Hope nobody notices it. Only sandwiches in there. Daft even having it. Start of not getting what’s needed. No more going home for dinner. Everybody stops talking. Look like they’re going to say something. Look like they’re trying to remember something. Sally says Why’ve you got a satchel? It’s not Music and Movement. It’s for me sandwiches. You get it for Christmas? Yeah. Who off? Everybody. Everybody? Next door and everybody. How come? Looks like she’s remembered something. Hangs up her coat. Walks off.
A queue had formed at the bar. Christy waited for it to build up, then offered Linda another drink. The longer he was away from her the better.
Animal was at the bar. He looked at Christy, then looked again. ‘Fucksake Christy. You’ve got eyes on you like a fucking bushbaby.’
‘So?’
‘You haven’t have you?’ he asked. ‘You’re a twat to yourself, you are.’
Christy shrugged.
Animal and Alison pulled up a chair each. Alison spoke into Linda’s ear. ‘We’ve come to rescue you.’
‘I’m alright actually.’
‘Only joking.’
Christy sat, vacant, as the two talked. He looked at Animal. Animal smiled, at a loss. He nodded towards Linda and Alison. ‘Students eh?’ Eventually he leaned across and whispered, ‘Speak to her Christy, for fucksake.’
Animal stood and patted Christy’s shoulder as he and Alison returned to the others.
The toilet again and a last look at the list. There was nothing left. Christy leaned against the cubicle wall with his head in his hands. All he wanted was to get it over with and try to live it down. A bang on the door shook the cubicle. The list, furry from repeated folding and unfolding, flew from Christy’s grip, fluttered through a gentle arc, and landed in the toilet bowl.
‘Come on! I’m breaking me fucking neck out here. You’ve been in there ten minutes.’
Christy checked his watch. It was true. He returned to Linda as the lights came on in the club.
He remembered what it said in the library book. ‘I’ll walk you to the bus-stop if you like,’ he said.
She said she’d get a minicab from the office next door. That was good; the wait would be shorter, the agony briefer.
The driver in his zip-up cardigan tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. As Linda got into the cab she gave Christy’s upper arm a squeeze, as if to say, never mind, these things happen. Christy watched the black car leaving.
He walked to the bus-stop with his jaw grinding. Hello Cruel World passed by, heading for the chip-shop.
‘Night Christy,’ Animal said. ‘Take care.’
‘Night,’ said Christy, not turning.
‘See you later, loverboy,’ Patrick said.

Christy sat at the kitchen table chain-smoking. He couldn’t understand her going to all that bother, just for some sort of set-up so everyone could have a fucking good laugh behind his back. What was it all about? Maybe it was the CND thing, all the embarrassment for her dad. At least it was over now.
He wanted a clue. But you can’t remember what isn’t there. And what he was looking for really wasn’t there.
Picked up. Up on his shoulders. Touch the ceiling, rough like rock cakes. Skinny crack. River on the moon.
Him flat on his back. Marching on his stomach. Look on his face. Lift. Swinging between his arms. Laughing.
No more walks. No more piggy backs. No more larking about.
Picked up by her. When need moving. Up out of the chair. Big boy. Heavy boy. More than she can manage now.
Woolworth’s. Floor wood. Counters like boats, wood like church. Her shoes. Crocodiles. Stillettoes is it? Basket, wire, creamy. Hold on to the corner, stop her going. Don’t cling. Giving her the pip. A difference. What’s the difference? Between earlier and later. Been something wrong.
Caravans. Holiday. Before. Here to the site shop. Crouching like on the telly. Clair behind. Head start for Christy-baby. Proper way to say it. Not ready steady. Marks, set, go! Her ahead. Running on. Left behind.
Helping with the cakes for Home Economics. They make you wash dolls for practise.
Stood behind her. Lips moving making the words. Her moving her finger under the words to show how.
Her with a magazine. Stood behind. Asking something. Stop breathing down me neck all the time!
Doesn’t need to say about the meter running. Can’t get away quick enough.
Between earlier and later, something.
Me.
People go off you. People go.
Next evening there were three more phone calls. Linda phoned Animal.
‘How did it go?’
‘Not sure. Not well, I think.’
‘Thought so. Don’t feel bad; he’s damaged goods.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I know so.’
Christy phoned Animal. His first words were, ‘Do you think I should phone her and apologise?’
‘What?’
‘Apologise. About last night.’
‘Don’t be a tit.’
‘It was torture.’
‘Thought so. Don’t feel bad,’ he said. ‘She liked you from a distance, she went off you close up. You’ll live.’
‘Okay.’ It was what he’d expected, a relief almost.
Christy shivered in the phonebox on the corner, shifting from one foot to the other, listening to the ringing tone. The vicar answered.
‘Is Linda there please?’
‘Yes. Who shall I say’s calling?’
‘Nobody. Sorry.’ Christy dropped the receiver onto its rest and stepped out into the cold.
He had the feeling he’d been here before. He knew he wasn’t the sort that people bothered with. One thing never led to another for him. But don’t misunderstand me. Christy wasn’t one of those people who feel sex is something to be ashamed of; he felt being alive was something to be ashamed of. He withdrew again, like a snail scorched under a magnifying glass. He taped bin-liners to his bedroom windows, and nobody knew he was there.

Chapter 17

2005-04-26T16:30:00.000Z

KEVIN
Christmas I haven’t liked for a while now. But that was the first bad one. That was when I got the news about the Maggot. I always called him that. In my head anyway. Fat, pink, and no use to anybody. He was round all the time, it felt like.
Arnie let me knock off early because it was quiet. Mum come in when I was in the kitchen doing cheese on toast. She asked how my day was. She hardly drew breath and then she was stood there, calm as you like, saying, ‘Roger’s asked me to come and live with him.’ Then she looked a bit flustered and said, ‘Us to come and live with him.’
I couldn’t think. I looked at her. She looked at me. The cheese on toast caught fire and I sort of woke up. I blew it out and opened the windows.
I went and sat in the front room. Sat there ages, staring into space. It was all happening again. Things going on you didn’t know about, things being decided without anyone asking you, just getting told and being expected to lump it. I didn’t know what to think.
I hadn’t drawn the curtains or put the light on. It had got dark by the time she came in. She said how it wouldn’t be until a good bit after Christmas to give me a chance to get used to the idea. It felt like I’d never seen her before in my life. She could stand there and think that waiting a few weeks would make everything alright.
He came round for dinner. She said she didn’t want to think of him being alone on Christmas Day. But I felt like the one on their own. He touched her bottom while she was doing the sprouts. I thought, that’s my life now then, acting the gooseberry. That was the least of it, as things turned out.
He tried to act nice to me, making conversation and so on. He was only doing it to get in with her. I thought, I’ll be polite but I won’t encourage him. Sitting round after dinner he asked me about work. He said, ‘Have you thought about getting a trade?’ You could tell he didn’t think mine was a proper job for a man. A bit later, he fell asleep on the sofa, like he owned the place.
I’d thought ahead and arranged to go round Karen’s for tea. I made out they had tea really early. It was so different round there. It was like two different things at once. Everything was lit up bright and everyone was lively, but at the same time everything was so comfortable and warm you felt like dozing off the second you sat down. I never knew how much you could miss just sitting with someone and feeling half asleep.
They all gave me presents. The Maggot didn’t. I felt a bit bad because I could only afford presents for Karen and the two toddlers. Mr McClaren said not to worry about it. Mrs M was stood holding his hand. She said, ‘We know you’re both saving,’ and she smiled and squeezed his hand and looked at him. Then she gave me a peck on the cheek.
Come January, the packing up was horrible. There wasn’t much of Dad’s stuff left. He’d come one day while I was at school to fetch most of it. That hurt me. There was only rubbish left really.
They put it out on the concrete round the back so the Maggot could take it up the dump. I sat in my bedroom looking out at Dad’s stuff getting rained on. I watched the cardboard boxes getting soft, watched his old clothes getting heavy with the wet. I didn’t know what I was thinking exactly, but it was something like, that’s it, no more home for me.
They hired a van and I took the Wednesday off. After the first trip they went to the cafe for breakfast. I didn’t. If I’d gone out in the street with them it would’ve been like saying, this is alright. More than that I wanted to be on my own in the house for the last time. All my memories were in the one place, nowhere else; we were never really ones for days out. I wanted to remember the times before everything went wrong.
I sat on the floor in the front room, and closed my eyes. It wasn’t loads of different things I remembered; more like one thing with everything else inside it. It would’ve been around the time that Dad got made up to senior sales at Halfords. Me and Mum and Dad were all curled up on the sofa, watching telly; something nice like ‘It Ain’t Half Hot Mum’. Dad had fitted a dimmer on the light to make it cosy. The gas fire was on. I was half asleep again. Outside there was a real storm blowing. You could hear things clattering in the wind. Dad looked up from the Radio Times, nodded towards the window and said, ‘Hark at that.’ It was a good feeling, just being there.
For all he reckoned I didn’t have a real job, the Maggot was a lazy article. Me and her did most of the actual moving. He wouldn’t touch my stuff. I was struggling with my mattress. It was old so it was flopping all over the place. He come past carrying a wastepaper basket and an anglepoise. He looked at me and said, ‘Manage alright?’
I said, ‘Yes thanks. Can you manage that anglepoise alright?’ I was so cross.
He said, ‘Mind you don’t scuff the wallpaper.’
We had a Bejam’s meat pie for tea, and Smash and peas. The Maggot kept chewing up bits of gristle, taking it out of his mouth and giving it to his dog, this horrible knock-kneed mongrel called J.C. he had. I honestly couldn’t believe some of his habits.
I was starving from the moving. There was pie left over. So when she offered me some, I said yes. It wasn’t like I went out of my way to ask for it.
Afterwards, I went to my room for a bit. I started putting my records away, but I couldn’t settle, I just kept fidgetting about. I went downstairs to see if there was anything on telly. Her and him were in there so I made out I’d just come to get an apple out of the bowl. The Maggot said, ‘I’m surprised you’ve got room for an apple, the amount of pie you had.’
He looked furious. I stopped dead, with my hand on the apple. I said, ‘Sorry?’ meaning ‘pardon?’ but it came out like I was apologising. I hated that.
He said, ‘It’s traditional in this house that the dog gets any leftovers of pie. It’s his treat.’
My legs went like rubber. ‘I never knew,’ I said.
She said, ‘It certainly seemed like you were doing it on purpose.’
She was just going along with whatever he said. It was like at school. Whenever there was someone hard who picked on people, there’d always be someone wet and dim who tagged along with them. That was her. I let go of the apple and went back to my room.
It didn’t hit me properly till the next day. First job of the day was buying the papers for the shop before it got busy. I’d got the Mirror and the Sun and was in the kitchenette out the back making the tea. I was flicking through the Sun, thinking about her and the Maggot, when I seen the bit about the Pistols splitting up. That was me then. I just started. I never even liked the Pistols. It was just the feeling of having something taken off me.
Arnie called out, ‘Customer Kevin!’
I couldn’t go back in.
Then he said, ‘Kevin! Customer!’
Then I heard, ‘When you’re ready Kevin,’ a bit sarcastic.
He stuck his head through the strip curtain. He went to say the same again, but when he seen the state of me, he said the same again, but ordinary and quiet, not sarcastic.
The Pistols tour had already been on the news. It was horrible the way things fell apart, Sid scratching ‘gimme a fix’ on his chest and all that nonsense. They showed a bit of the last concert. I’ve never seen anyone look as white as Johnny Rotten did then. At the end he looked at the audience and went, ‘Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?’ I was watching it in the front room. My eyes were stinging. The Maggot was there. He looked up from the paper, said, ‘Wanker,’ and switched the telly off.
That man never stopped. The ketchup was the first thing. She used to say it was nicer to put some sauce on the edge of the plate, and not dollop it all over the food. Sometimes the Maggot would wash up. He’d complain about the bit of ketchup left behind and say it was a waste even though he’d usually leave half his tea. He said I was selfish. I wondered a bit. Karen said that once.
Next was the cups. They went in the white cupboard. He reckoned I never dried the cups properly and just put them straight in the cupboard. He said the wet from the cups was making the paint in the cupboard flake. I always dried the cups properly.
Then there was the coffee. I’d make myself a coffee and take it up to my room. He said I kept spilling it on the landing carpet. I said I never, but he kept saying it. In the end I said for him to show me. There was a damp patch in one corner, nowhere near where I would’ve walked. He didn’t care. I checked after. It was where the dog had been.
It was one thing after another. The loo roll holder was awkward to reach so I used to put the roll on the window-ledge behind me. Once I forgot to put it back on the holder. The window was open a bit and the rain got in and made the paper wet where I’d left it on the sill. He went on at me about it for half an hour non-stop, pointing at me, shouting.
Once there was something floating. It was either her or the Maggot. I thought I’ll probably get the blame for that too. I decided I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. I always made sure I went at work. Sometimes I’d go round Christy’s if I wasn’t at Karen’s. Sometimes I’d go in the Merman. Herman would say, ‘Usual then Kev? Half a lager shandy and a turf out?’
To begin with I thought there must be some way I could be that he’d put up with. But anything that reminded him I was there annoyed him. I still don’t know if he was bad to me just because he could get away with it or if it was really something about me. I don’t like to dwell on it.
The way things were going I was practically living round Karen’s. I’d sit working on that family tree of the local bands I was going to do for Milk, Milk, Lemonade. Karen’d sit watching the portable. She went through a stage before where she wasn’t getting on with her mum and dad, so she had her room done out like a bedsitter with a telly and a kettle and a Baby Belling. Being there with Karen, it was like having a home again.
Once I was leaving the house on the way to see her and I heard Mum and the Maggot talking. He asked her where I was going. She said I was off round Karen’s to play mums and dads.
We didn’t go out much. We didn’t mind because we were saving. Karen sometimes used to ask me about gigs, whether we could go together. That was what she was like then, making an effort and showing an interest. But she wasn’t really that keen on going out. There was no need while we had each other. Those nights in were some of the best times. Karen used to moan about her mum and dad being boring. I told her she was lucky having a proper mum and dad who stayed together. People don’t know.
Then we got our surprise. It would’ve been not long before the disco at Deja Vu because I remember worrying about her having a drink that night. I met her at the bus-stop on the Square after work. She seemed excited. I said, ‘You seem excited.’
She said, ‘I’m scared.’
I said, ‘Scared? You seem excited.’
She said, ‘Well. Scared and excited.’
She waited for the bus-stop to clear, then she told me. She’d been up the doctor’s. I didn’t even know she was late; I never really kept track of her things. I fainted in Woodwork once. I felt like I was going to again. I was pleased as punch but woozy at the same time.
She was in a bit of a flap. She kept saying, ‘We should’ve used something. We should’ve used something.’
We never really decided not to use anything. I don’t think you ought to, but it wasn’t that so much. We just didn’t think about it.
We went and sat on the beach, not speaking, just taking it in. I put my coat round her shoulders. She said she wasn’t cold but I wanted to show her I’d look after her. I started feeling nervous. Suddenly there’s something you’ve got to look after. We hadn’t really talked about it before, but it was what I wanted, the pair of us. It was happening a bit sooner than planned was all.
I knew I had to get things organised. I get that from my Dad, being practical. Even when him and Mum were rowing a lot he’d still keep on top of everything, doing things round the house, putting up shelves, paying the rates. So I started thinking things out, where we’d live, how we’d get on for money. It felt like my chance to fix things, to get things like they should be, to make something good. I just had to take it steady and be sensible.
I got in and the Maggot was there. I couldn’t really ask Mum if I could have a word in private. I had to wait till the morning. I knew I wouldn’t sleep so I stayed up, making plans, working out a budget, making a list of things that needed doing. In the end I fell asleep in my clothes.
I told her in the kitchen in the morning. She pulled a bit of a face. She said, ‘Are you pleased?’
I said, ‘Of course I am.’
She said, ‘Well done.’
I told Arnie. I needed to ask if he could manage a payrise. I felt awkward asking but I had to. He said he couldn’t stretch to it, but from then on I got all the tips. He was good to me; really decent. The other thing was the empty flat over the shop. Arnie hadn’t let it out for years. He said it needed weeks of work but he’d think about it if the Council couldn’t hurry things along.
He let me finish dinnertime. He knew I had lots to do. I went back to the house. I sat on the sofa just for a second and went out like a light. When I woke up, the phone was ringing in the hall. She answered it. I could tell it was the Maggot from the way she was talking. I heard her say, ‘You’ll never guess what the daft sod’s gone and done.’

Chapter 16

2005-04-26T16:28:00.000Z

WILLSON
A man in a brown car-coat and grey vinyl shoes rang the doorbell of Christy’s house and waited. He was cradling a turkey in his arms like it was a dead baby.
Christy opened the door. ‘Alright?’
‘Hello Christy. How are you?’
‘I’ll call Mum.’
Christy went to the kitchen, opened the back door and shouted, ‘Mum! Door!’
From the back-yard she called, ‘Who is it?’
Walking away Christy muttered, ‘It’s that twat with the turkey again.’
His mother showed Mr Bromley into the front room. Christy shut his bedroom door behind him. Just got down from tea. Door goes. Can you be a big boy and get the door please? Big blue door. Can reach now. A man. Know we know him a bit. Hello and is your mum around? She says hello and he says helloChristinehowareyoubearingup? A turkey. Gives it Mum. From everyone. Been meaning to pop round sooner but it’s difficult with being short-staffed. Stops. Goes red. Goes. Doesn’t say happy christmas. Play in your room for a bit.
He resumed his position on the bed. He lay curled like a question mark, drowning in instalments, watching bits of his life flash before his eyes. Big enough to get the door. Mrs Lynch. It’s Mrs Lynch. Mum wiping her hands, pushing her glasses up. Saying something quiet. Big white envelope. Big robin. Closes the door. Drops the card. Goes in her room. Writing on it. Curly. Scratchy. Big. Small. Names. Lots.
Christy could hear his mother talking on the doorstep, then closing the door. Front room. Hot. Reading. Clair banging the hoover into things. Mum out scraping fridges. Door goes. Door. Flicks her head. Another man in a hat. Hello son. Is your mum in? No. Is your dad in? No. Will he be back later? No. No? He’s dead. Says sorry. Walks away. Said it now.
Sometimes it was just one thing after another for Christy. And not even in that order. He picked up the Agatha Christie novel he’d been reading and tried to find his place. His eyes ached. He couldn’t concentrate. In the front room waiting. She gets up. Looks out the window. Clair biting her nails. The bits of skin round the sides. Blood coming out. Don’t eat bits off yourself. Gate clicks. Look out the window. Two police. Bell goes. You’d better come in. Can smell them a bit. Wet wool. Kitchen then, you two. Shuts the kitchen door. Christy closed the novel and rubbed his eyes. Some things no book can cure.

Chapter 15

2005-04-26T16:27:00.000Z

DANNY
I got the Wartburg late October, down the auctions in Bournemouth. Me dad took me. He knew people, knew which were straight and which were dodgy.
I loved that car. Jet black it was. It had this freewheeling pedal where you could disengage the engine going downhill. Didn’t save you much on petrol but it felt fucking fantastic. As soon as I got the Wartburg home I put a sunstrip on it. Where other people would’ve had Terry and Sharon or something, I had ‘Nowhere’ and ‘Boredom’, like on the picture sleeve of ‘Pretty Vacant’.
Dad supposedly taught me. He was a nightmare. Even then I was catching on to what it was with him. If he’d been more of a straight it would’ve been easier to stand up to him, to mark meself off from him. It was like he didn’t have to go by other people’s rules, but I had to go by his.
He taught me all wrong. He never put it in neutral. He always crossed his hands over on the steering wheel. Plus he left stuff out. You’re meant to do reversing round corners but he said why bother when you can just go round the block again. In the end I got a book and taught myself the things he missed.
I passed my test the Friday before Christmas. Dad drove me up the test centre. He said that way I’d get there relaxed. Didn’t work. I wanted to drive so I’d be warmed up but he wouldn’t have it. He started throwing all this last minute advice at me once we arrived. I just wanted him to say good luck, then fuck off. He couldn’t do it. Whatever you wanted off him, he couldn’t bring himself to give you it.
The examiner was like something off the telly. Glasses and a trilby and a moustache and this gaberdine mac like a big version of the ones you got at primary. Even his voice was a joke, like he was making an announcement all the time.
I just relaxed into it, dawdling round Weymouth, thinking about all the happy shopping sheep and their poxy lives. I thought, not for me, pissing your life away like that. The only bit I was worried about was the reversing. Something about going backwards always did make me nervous. It was bumpy but I got away with it.
I knew I’d passed even before the bloke shook me hand. I felt like nothing could stop me. Everything was spread out in front of me like a meal. I felt like Superman. I could go anywhere I wanted, do anything I wanted, it was all ahead of me.
Me dad was in the far corner of the carpark, having a fag. I got out of the Wartburg and took off the L plates. Then I got back in and drove away. Going up the slope of the centre I looked in the rear-view mirror. I could see me dad with his mouth hanging open, too surprised to move. It felt brilliant, leaving him behind.
We were due up Dunmore that evening, and seeing as I was driving I thought it’d be an excuse to drag Christy back into circulation. He’d been doing his Howard Hughes thing ever since the C.N.D. gig. Patrick wanted to leave things like that because Christy was so shit at shifting gear. But I talked him round by saying we could fix it with Dennis and Binny that we’d make out to Christy the price of the gear was higher than it actually was. That way we’d get something back for the fact we were carrying him.
He was just too shy to deal, that was the truth of it. Dealing’s not like in the Sunday papers; it’s all mates, and mates of mates. And mates of mates of mates, if you’re careful and they’re sound. Christy only knew about eight people to speak to, including us lot and his mum and Kev. He hardly shifted anything at all.
That night at Dunmore was the time we got the dexies. I remember that really clearly. Patrick always said that I remembered the first time I took a new drug like other people remembered the first time they saw someone they fancied.
I’d run out of rizlas so I asked Binny for some. He handed me his Golden Virginia tin. Tucked in the corner were these little pills, pale yellow like pollen, with letters on one side.
I said, ‘What’s these?’
Binny looked like he’d forgotten they were there. ‘Dexedrine. Speed, basically.’
People’s faces lit up like Christmas. Animal asked if they were into flogging any. Binny looked over at Dennis. ‘How are we fixed?’
Dennis said, ‘Alrightish. We’ve got those blues as well.’ Then he turned to me. ‘Have some of both,’ he said. ‘Three for a quid. Not much between them really.’
We got thirty between us to start with and dropped the lot. Dennis did his the same time, rubbed his hands and said, ‘Just like waiting for Christmas now.’
That was the first time we’d all done something where you actually had to wait to come up. I loved that about it, the waiting to feel different. We sat there saying how we weren’t getting anything off it. Then people started talking their arses off.
It’s hard describing what speed’s like. The only way I can say it, is I was more like myself on it than off it. Like the proper me, the way I should’ve felt. I wanted to be up and doing the second I come up but there wasn’t nothing to do. We were just sat talking bollocks really. Even Christy was talking; not loads, just the amount someone normal would talk if they were straight, but he was so quiet usually, it really noticed.
Then Phil started one of those conversations. Him and Patrick and Animal started talking about schooldays, about who beat up who, and who shat themselves in assembly, and what teacher got who pregnant. But there wasn’t anything there for me.
They kept going back further. Animal said, ‘Miss Roach was best. All I had to do was draw her a picture of a bird and she’d let me off anything.’
‘Friday afternoons I liked with her,’ Patrick said. ‘You had to rest your head on your arms and she read you a story.’
‘Yeah. What was that one? “Don Quixote”? Went on forever.’
‘I thought it was about a donkey. Sat there thinking, when’s the fucking donkey turning up?’
Phil started on about some story Mrs Carter had read them at Underhill, about a town on the coast that broke loose and floated away. Said he used to wake up every morning disappointed that Portland hadn’t floated away in the night.
I was bored. Suddenly I didn’t want to be there. But I don’t suppose I was ever that keen on the Dorchester lot. Binny was a laugh, but Dennis I’d gone right off by then. He was one of those wankers who do gear because they think it makes them seem interesting. He liked people knowing. Always had half an un-smoked Silk Cut tucked behind his ear. Plus the way he told you things about gear, always got on my tits. Whenever we got hold of something for the first time, he’d go on about how you could tell if it was the proper tackle: black looks like liquorice, red leb looks like Oxo, the softer the fresher, dexedrine’s got the letters s k and f on one side, and blues should be almost royal blue but not quite, and black bombers have got durophet m11 on the side and inside it’s more like tiny granules than powder. It took me a while to sus what it was he was like exactly. Then it clicked. He was like a stamp collector showing you his collection. He’d sit there, hovering over the goods, rattling on, sometimes picking up a bit of the gear to show you something you were supposed to be interested in.
So I just stayed quiet, daydreaming at two hundred miles an hour, with me mind belting around all over the place. I was already thinking ahead to what I could do now I’d passed me test. I knew it’d give me more pull with bands; anybody who had transport was in demand. Sooner or later I was bound to get in with someone who was going somewhere, somebody who’d get me out.
I thought about that with John and them; how I should’ve played it different. Me and Pete from The Bad Detectives started practising with John behind Donald’s back. We called ourselves Christ On A Bike. Only got one song done; this piss-take of biker heavy-metal called ‘Christ Stopped At Eboli Because His Bonneville Was Leaking Oil’. But John got into this guilty Catholic thing about Donald, so they roped him in. Then they changed their name to Hairshirt Boutique. Next thing they turned round and said Andy was joining because they wanted a permanent drummer and I was out on my arse.
Patrick give me a nudge and passed me a J. He said, ‘Looks like Christy’s had a personality transplant. And you’re the donor.’
Christy smiled and looked pleased. To stop meself wanting to smack Patrick I suggested we went for a drive. We bowled out into the car and I just drove without thinking. It was like I was in a trance, watching the hedges roll past like the rollers in a carwash. At Holywell I sort of snapped awake and realised I’d been heading towards Yeovil. I stalled the motor at the cross-roads.
Animal piped up. ‘Monks!’ he said. ‘I want to see some monks.’ He said how his dad took him up Batcombe Friary once to see the fish farm they ran. ‘They train the trout to suck them off.’
‘Neat trick if you can do it,’ Phil said.
Soon everybody was going mental for the idea. Everyone started chanting, ‘Monks! Monks! Monks!’
I did a right, then a left, and headed for the monks. We pulled into a lay-by and started walking up a track to the Friary. It was really dark, proper dark like it gets in the country.
Animal whispered so we could all hear. ‘Look! It’s a monk! With his chopper out!’
I told him to fuck off and stop trying to freak everyone out.
He said, ‘It is! It fucking is! He’s got his todger out and he’s giving it the five finger shuffle. They’ll find us in the morning with our arses wide open.’
Everybody was pissing themselves, but trying to do it quietly. Then, on the horizon, something moved. I seen it but I didn’t say anything. Then it happened again and everyone seen it. You don’t often hear blokes screaming, but we ran like fuck down the hill towards the car, screaming all the way.
We piled into the car. I floored it with the back doors still swinging open. I checked the rear-view mirror. Patrick was kicking his legs in the air trying to get upright.
And we’d forgotten Christy. He was running after us, waving and shouting, ‘Don’t leave me with the mad monks!’
I slowed down. He launched himself at the back of the car and clung on to the roof rack until we got round the corner. It was like Starsky and Hutch. When we stopped to let him in he was white as fuck but laughing too.
We took the A352 towards home. Everyone was quiet on the way back, like when kids get hysterical and wear themselves out. The sun was coming up when we took the hairpin bend outside Weymouth. I could tell the others were coming down like fuck. Christy was whimpering on about having to go straight into work without a tie. At the top of Animal’s road there was a G.P.O van. This bloke our age was stood looking into the wing mirror, squeezing his spots. I pointed him out to Phil and said, ‘Oh well. Back to reality.’
Phil looked sad as fuck and said, ‘Yeah. Teabreak over.’
They all went round Animal’s for breakfast but I wanted to keep moving on. I was different like that. I never really got a come-down so as you’d notice. The worst I ever got with speed was getting blocked. Dennis said it was where you’d done too much speed and you got this feeling like you’re trying to remember something that hasn’t happened yet; the usual sort of Dennis bollocks. It’s more like your brain chasing round in circles like a greyhound after a rabbit, and never catching it, or revving an engine and never letting the clutch out.
I got like that coming back from Weymouth; me mind chewing something over but not properly knowing what. I only knew it was something to do with Christy, and how he reminded me of someone. There was something there I couldn’t work out. I kept on driving, along the Weymouth Road to the island. The sky was the colour of semolina, the sea either side was like tarmac. I felt like the only person in the world. I wanted the road to go on forever, never stop.

Chapter 14

2005-04-26T16:26:00.000Z

WILLSON
Before the band practice Danny stopped off at home for a wash. His dad was in the dining room. He looked lost, puzzled. Like he was trying to remember something. Like he’d walked into the wrong house.
‘What?’ Danny asked.
‘I don’t...’
The table was spread with crepe paper. Four places were set. There were balloons taped to the walls.
Danny’s mum came in from the kitchen without speaking. Her jaw was clenched tight. There was a smut of mascara on her cheek. She put Kath’s birthday cake on the table. She poured orange squash and made them drink it through straws.
Danny’s dad frowned in silence, occasionally plucking at the crepe paper near his wife’s elbow. Danny sat holding the edge of his chair, tight as he could, thinking, don’t let her get us to sing, I’m not singing, I’m not saying, letting, not all that, not letting. All that lot out.
It wasn’t like a proper fist. The thumb stuck out too much. A deep red quarter moon showed where the thumb-nail made contact.
She punched his dad in the face. ‘You shits! You act like she never happened.’
Danny sat silent. You shits. Two shits. Us two. Me too.
That first Easter had launched Danny and set him running, with his own fury snapping at his heels. He didn’t let much remind him of it. But that shape on his dad’s cheek reminded him.
Most boys of his age would do a paper round for money. Before that Easter, Danny mostly baby-sat. He said it was less hassle and more money, but he was suspected of enjoying it. Afterwards nobody asked him to baby-sit. As if he were jinxed.
When he returned to school after the inquest he was different; hard. Nobody would go near him. It was what he wanted. Rumours rustled around like notes passed in class. That he let go of Kath’s hand. That he sent her up the shop to get fags on her own. That her head came off.
One lunchtime in the corridor Glen Byrne said something to Danny. Nobody who was passing heard what was said. Danny took his hand out of his pocket and swung a punch. A thin red line appeared on Glen’s face as if he’d been swiped with a felt tip pen. At the end of the line there appeared a curl of skin like a woodshaving. As Danny swung another punch, the door key sticking out between his knuckles showed more clearly. Mr Henry appeared from nowhere and rugby tackled Danny to the ground. Danny got away with a two week suspension.

Chapter 13

2005-04-26T16:24:00.000Z

WILLSON
An October evening. The weekend hung in the air, waiting to start, as the sun set over the naval barracks and married quarters sprawled along the northern edge of the island. Amid the formica and lino of the naval base social club, Linda’s dad, the Reverend Stiles, interrupted the usual equipment squabbles between bands to establish the running order for the evening. He read out the list. Max objected. Max was told to shut up. Max shut up. Although he looked and sounded like a sitcom vicar, the Reverend was no soft touch. Years of running youth clubs had toughened him.
The vicar, a big cheese in the local CND branch, had pulled off something of a publicity coup. In what he later described as a Trojan vicar manoeuvre, he’d booked the naval social club, supposedly for a private party, but in reality for a secret CND benefit gig.
It probably could’ve been anyone. Christy wasn’t the first gig-goer to arrive. He was just the first one to walk up to the rating on gate duty and ask if this was where the CND benefit was being held. It wasn’t as if Christy couldn’t have back-pedalled; the matelot needed the question repeated three times. The third time, his mouth started making small goldfish pouts. He stepped back into his booth, shut the door, and began making a telephone call. Occasionally he would look out at Christy as if he were about to explode.
Things began to happen. The matelot stepped out of the booth and ordered Christy not to move. A landrover full of uniforms arrived. Someone with a peaked cap and a neck as thick as a rugby player’s thigh consulted with the sentry. Another phone call was made.
Inside the social club Dave and Max were discussing how they could get shunted up the bill. ‘It’s about light and shade,’ Max claimed. ‘It’d just be more varied if they had something a bit subtler on later. Like us.’
‘Besides,’ Dave said. ‘I’m fucked if we’re going to have people think we’re The Bad Detectives’ support band.’
At that point the club doors swung open like the saloon doors in a Western. In through the rectangle of light came eight matelots. Silence. The Neck spoke. ‘Who’s in charge?’
Nobody spoke.
‘Nobody is,’ the Reverend eventually said.
‘You are then,’ the Neck said. ‘All of you leave. Now.’
The sailors made things seem so simple. They had truncheons. The bands, sulking silently, packed their gear into cars.
Word soon spread. It was Christy Cross. It was his fault. Christy Cross did it, the stupid twat. By the camp gate he stood welded to the tarmac. Who knew? Olly’s Morris pulled up by the kerb. Christy’s heart sank. Did they know? Danny opened the rear door. ‘Get in, fuckwit.’
They knew.
The shoal of cars re-formed in the nearby hospital carpark. Stragglers on foot milled around. The vicar clapped his hands as if about to announce the winner of a tombola. He announced instead that the gig would relocate to the church hall in Easton. Directions were felt-tipped on the bus shelter and the group moved off.
The guilty party, the one to blame, Christy slunk into the pub opposite the church hall to dilute his embarrassment, while the bands unloaded and set up. There was a special offer on vodka. It was happy hour. He sat and gulped miserably. Later, clutching a bottle of Woodpecker from the off-sales window, he returned to watch the guest band from Yeovil.
Reverend Stiles stepped on-stage followed by the smirking band. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said with a flourish; ‘Rim Me Silly!’
Tim the singer stepped sniggering to the microphone, said, ‘Nice one vicar,’ and Rim Me Silly began ‘You’ll Never Get a Girlfriend With Breath Like That.’
Afterwards Tim came over to speak to Hello Cruel World. Patrick, proprietorial, did introductions. He paused, indicating Christy.
Tim stepped delicately into the awkward silence. ‘You must be Christy.’
Christy cringed. Everybody knew who he was and what he’d done.
‘Yeah. Sorry about earlier, by the way.’
Tim frowned, puzzled. ‘Don’t matter. Makes it more of a laugh in a way.’
He offered Christy a Silk Cut. Christy included! Despite it all. This act of kindness felt so rare that Christy would remember the brand of cigarette forever.
Tim talked about how Yeovil had been spreading itself like scabies since Danny had left. He said that before punk the town had been so boring he’d actually gone to see the film of ‘Man About The House’ twice in one week. Christy hovered at the edge of the group, squirming.
Genius Or Lunatic loped onto the stage. They’d recently decided that the song was dead and vowed to only play improvised instrumentals. They called the night’s first offering ‘An Unhappy Childhood’. In his review Ed said this was apt as some patterns from it kept repeating and it often felt like it was never going to end.
Half way through their second piece, ‘Squiglatania’, Animal turned to Phil. ‘Fucksake. Just as well they’re only doing two numbers. They last a fortnight each.’
‘Good job we never had a puff before,’ Phil said. ‘I can hardly keep awake with excitement. It’s like music with all the good bits taken out.’
As Dave and Max came offstage Danny patted Max on the back. ‘Very restful mate.’
‘Went alright.’ Max sniffed. ‘Got a ripple of applause.’
Patrick smiled. ‘That was people tapping their watches to see if they were still working.’
Max ignored him.
Christy, Hello Cruel World, and Dave and Max, went in the kitchen and locked the door. Sitting round the two-bar fire they skinned up and ate the playgroup’s chocolate digestives.
‘I feel really bad. Do you think I should say sorry to the vicar?’ Christy asked.
Patrick looked up from warming a small lump of dope at the fire. ‘Stop fucking bleating Christy. Nobody gives a toss. It’s CND. What are they going to do, batter you?’
Phil chipped in. ‘I wouldn’t worry. It’s not like they’re paying us.’
‘Anyway,’ Animal said. ‘Look on the bright side. Gives you something solid to get paranoid about.’
Danny stood. ‘I’d better get out there. Due on with The Bad Detectives in a minute.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll be sweating like a glass-blower’s arse by the time we’re on.’
‘Alright,’ Patrick said, not moving. ‘We’ll see you later.’
Christy half-smiled. ‘Must be hard work being in so many bands.’
As he left Danny looked at Christy. ‘What’s it to you?’
Through the kitchen walls they heard The Bad Detectives playing ‘Looking For A Clue’ and rising above themselves, above the shyness and the spots and the shop-jobs.
Between The Bad Detectives’ and The Shakespeare Monkees’ sets, equipment needed moving. Patrick, nervous now, coiled leads, moved drums.
Christy dithered behind his left shoulder. ‘Can I help?’ he asked. ‘I still feel bad.’
Patrick straightened. ‘Do something useful or fuck off, will you?’
As Christy headed for the door Patrick looked at Phil. ‘Alright. I know.’
‘Don’t take it out on him if your nerve’s going.’
Christy sat in the pub, choosing cider this time, cloudy and sharp. Only locals were in there. Christy took a Sherlock Holmes from his pocket, hid behind it and drank. And drank. He wanted it all flushed out and washed away. Only meant to be a surprise. Cheer her up. Nothing to cry about. Beaker with the dots on. Tinsel. Throw it like water. Slap on the leg and everything. Just for that. Why?
Awash, at sea again, Christy Cross crossed blindly the blind bend from the pub. A cornering Cortina kissed the flapping edge of his coat unnoticed. He wove through the audience, apologising. Eddie, persuading Phil that one of Linda’s effects pedals was wired up to turn down Fred’s amp, felt Christy’s hand tug at his elbow. ‘Christy, I’d love to stand here listening to you apologise all night but we’re on in a minute.’ He walked away towards the stage. Christy stood chewing his lip.
In the next edition of Milk, Milk, Lemonade, the one with the headline ‘Demand The Impossible, Give Us All A Laugh’, Eddie explained that The Cows had initially set out to rewrite Sixties’ popular culture as a sarcastic joke. The results were supposedly to be released as a concept album called ‘It’s All Over Now Baby Boomer.’ They’d since widened their brief. They’d also decided they would write no songs, only titles. Ed had arbitrarily decreed that each title could be no more than three letters different to that of an existing song.
Only the hammered Christy could’ve danced to The Cows. Every fifiteen-second coughing fit of noise had him flailing, thrashing about in time: ‘Cats Hiss By My Window’, ‘Come Up And See Me, Make Me Smell’, ‘Like a Rhinestone Cowpat’, ‘Stop The World, I Want To Cop Off ‘, ‘Last Night a D.J. Shaved My Wife’, ‘Light My Farts’. Over and across shoulders, people looked at him and tutted. He knew what they were thinking; it’s him, he’s the one. Spar. Got the fruit salads. Round from the sweets to the tinned stuff. Mrs Finn with the dress with the flowers. Arms like legs in the cold. Her and her. Takes a while then it hits you for six. Well I don’t think. Both see. Stop saying and just look.
Between ‘All Tomorrow’s Pasties’, and ‘Born To Be Wide’, which Ed dedicated to Fred, Christy felt a familiar clamminess along his spine. His jaw tightened, his mouth began to water. He swallowed hard. As ‘Sign On You Crazy Diamond’ started he knew he had to get out.
He reached the dog-yellowed patch of grass outside and fell to his knees. His body sagged, then stiffened, straightened. A bitter, watery spurt of vomit shot from him. And again. Christy gripped two clumps of grass to stop everything moving. His back arched. A hot ugly pile formed on the grass in front of him. A string of saliva swung from his chin, broke and fell. Slowly turning his head like a whipped dog, Christy saw Max and Dave returning from the pub.
Dave laughed and came closer. ‘Alright Christy? What’s that, morning sickness?’
‘Yeah. Something like that.’ Christy grunted, then spat messily. ‘Must’ve been something I ate.’
‘Come back in. You’ll freeze your tits off.’
‘In a minute.’
Sour-mouthed, Christy returned. Hello Cruel World were playing to a hall nearly emptied by the approach of last orders at the pub. Assorted wrecks remained in corners, as well as Ed and Fred, and Linda, who couldn’t drink with her dad around.
Ed, in his review, wrote that in trying to become like a proper band, Hello Cruel World had lost some of their originality. Patrick, nerves forgotten, thought differently. In the middle eights, introductions and quiet bits they now had, he reflected on their lukewarm reception. It was like a fire drill; they’d begun playing and people had started queuing to leave. It was that cunt Christy. Guilt by association. They were being snubbed because of that prick.
Christy joined the knot of people at the front of the stage. He pointed at the band. He peered into Linda’s face, his sicky breath condensing on her glasses. ‘I’m their manager,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ Linda said.
Christy swayed backwards and crumpled like a falling wall. His head bounced twice on the lino tiles and came to rest.

Clothes still on, the light still on, a slug-trail of spit on the pillow, Christy woke. He remembered foggy moments: the last bus back, Phil’s hand on his hand, steering the yellow key into the yellow lock, Phil and Danny with a hand under each arm as he zigzagged upstairs, then whispering and impatience.
As he surfaced, the rain started. It rained and it kept raining. Another retreat began. From his bedroom window, Christy with a why, a curious boy with a lot to be curious about, looked out at the charcoal sky, and the boiling, steaming sea.
He phoned in with a lie on Monday. Potter answered. Christy knew he didn’t swallow the lie. Christy didn’t care if he never left the house again. Kev phoned on Sunday, Phil on Tuesday. Christy wouldn’t come to the phone.
He lay on his bed, looking for a clue, remembering other things he’d ruined. In the lanes. Gold. Like gold. All together properly. Not all sealed up separate like later. Lifted up. High. Higher. High up. Big fingers round the ankles. Nervous. Wobbling. Safe shoulders. Two handfuls of hair. Like handle bars.
He knows what things are and how they work. Cuts some sticks from the hedges. Back to the house. Squash in the garden. Knife and string. Makes a bow and arrow. Shows Clair how to shoot. Looks all serious. Listens. Nods. His hand on her hand. She tries. Twang. Flying.
Sitting on the grass looking at the worm. Comes over smiling, arrows in his pocket. Kneels down, snips nose, finger- scissors. Wriggling. Laughing. Says something. What? Can’t get it back.
Leatherette. That’s what they call it. Maroon. That’s the other word. Can see out through the plastic. Rain on the plastic. Touch. They don’t move. On the outside. Warm inside. There, him and her, looking at the sea. The cafe, the lighthouse, the big rock, the sea. Wind blowing their hair. Can see the way they’re talking loud. Can’t hear. Maroon. Marooned.
In silence Christy remembered silence. He wished someone had spoken then. He wished someone would speak now. These things kept appearing and disappearing but only he seemed to know these things had happened. Nobody spoke. Christy had been brought up on silence. And now something was burrowing under the skin of his mind, like a maggot in an apple.

Chapter 12

2005-04-07T10:16:00.000Z

CHRISTY
When Danny phoned, he didn’t ask me straight out. First thing he said was to ask if I was still sulking. He said Genius Or Lunatic was interested in what I’d been doing with the tapes but he was just saying it. Then he said, did I want to be in on the syndicate for the dealing. I said yeah.
It wasn’t the money. I wanted a good secret for once. It was the feeling of having something of me own. Something that other people wanted. Plus being in the middle of something. And the excitement a bit, getting paranoid about the D.S. and that.
I never moved much gear. Too shy with people. I started doing the odd eighth to Ron and Vince at work. Ron was in the Merchant Navy before, like Queenie. Liar reckoned he found a huge bag of weed once, tucked behind a bulkhead on a ship. I found out he smoked when I seen him having a sly puff behind a stack of tanalised batten in the yard. Vince just come up and asked. Probably heard off Ron.
Animal shifted the most, with all them brothers. Plus Alison had just started up the College so her mates used to have some. Patrick sold to his old mates from school. Danny flogged it to all the bands he was in. That was how come the others didn’t mind him drumming for everybody. Phil knocked most of his out at work. He reckoned it was the same as blokes who collected for the Pools or sold kids’ toys round the factory; just a sideline where you got a bit back for yourself.
The first time I went up Dunmore was the first time we got two ounces. I was nervous at first, just with meeting the Dunmore lot. I sat next to Binny. He was alright. He was a tree surgeon. Said he’d wanted to be a brain surgeon but he didn’t get the ‘O’ Levels. I couldn’t believe his glasses. Bottle bottoms, like out of a joke shop.
When he give us the gear Dennis said, ‘I’d cut it up here if I was you. If the D.S. stop you they’ll never believe a chunk that size is just personal.’
Dennis and Binny give us a lift back. It was grab a granny night at Deja Vu in Weymouth. They said they was going down there on the hunt for desperate divorcees. I thought I’d be jittery on the way back, with that amount, but I wasn’t. I felt really calm. It was great, sat in the back of Dennis’s station wagon, with the houses and the lights and the cars flashing past. For a minute there I felt like a fucking king. I had a weird thought in the car. Out of nowhere I started wondering about where that dope had been and where it was going. I thought about Ron, going home with an eighth to his fat hippy wife. I wondered what fairy tale he’d tell her about it, and whether she believed all the Walter Mitty bollocks he come out with. I wondered whether he believed it himself.
I thought about Vince. Imagined him going out to Radipole Lake for a smoke because he had to share a bedroom. I could see him there stretched out in the rushes, peaceful on his own, nobody taking the piss or giving him bother. I thought back from Dennis to the people he got it off. People in Bournemouth or Bristol or Southampton who never did out anything smaller than a weight. Would they have chains and steel plates on the door? Dogs maybe. A baseball bat in the hallway? People who did it for a job. And behind that who knew? Proper criminals who’d gone off armed robbery, hippies who’d got organised? And back again, somewhere in Morocco, some wrinkly little old brown bloke, making up the sandy brown slabs, as pissed off with his job as we were with ours. It was funny feeling part of all them different people, all connected up like in a sort of web. The feeling just hung there for a second in me head, then it went.
We got dropped off outside Deja Vu. Me, Danny and Phil got the bus back to the island. I still felt good. What it was like, was like a kids’ story-book. When they read us them sort of books at Underhill I never knew what it was meant to feel like. Couldn’t hardly feel anything properly then. But that was what it felt like that night, like having mates and having adventures.
In me room I fished under the bed and pulled out the box with me dad’s stuff in. I slipped the rocky under the two records. It was a crap place to hide it, but the way I thought was, nobody ever knew about the box so they wouldn’t find the gear. It all caught up with me a bit then. I went in the bog. I just got sat down in time and everything just dropped out of me. Near enough shit meself inside out. More scared than I knew.

Chapter 11

2004-12-16T10:15:00.000Z

WILLSON
Summer was over already. Christy went to his room and shut the door. When people phoned he said he wanted a few nights in. He wasn’t feeling right. He lay on his bed thinking about the way they’d all said yes, about the way Patrick had said he’d still be as much of a mate as ever. Christy turned to his detective novels. He tried to suck some comfort from the tidy mysteries where people were readable.

Phil, Danny and Patrick worried about the drug squad finding their gear. Animal worried about his brothers finding his. Most of it he kept in his locker at work.
Every Friday the pantomime repeated. His brothers gathered in one bedroom with their freshly opened pay-packets in their hands. Animal, with a bookie’s biro and a cigarette packet, took their orders like a waiter; sixteenths, eighths, quarters. He said, ‘Right. I’ll just shoot round the bloke’s and get it.’
In the downstairs toilet he transferred the required packets from one pocket to another. He let himself out of the house. He walked to the Esplanade, sat under the Jubilee clock for ten minutes, then returned to his brothers.

Christy sat in the kennel trying to ignore his itching crotch. Where the overalls touched a rash had appeared, hot, coral pink. It felt like something was working its way into him or out of him through the raw skin. Something was happening to him. When he went into shops now, people would think he worked there and ask him for help. It was as if the hours behind the counter at Conrad’s were tainting him with a stink.
He rubbed his temples and stared at the meaningless grid of the invoice in front of him. It was one of Steve’s which Christy had repeatedly put to the bottom of the pile. He heard Steve’s Cortina pull up, then his wedge heels clumping across the warehouse floor.
He reached the office in time to find Steve with the phone wedged under his chin. ‘Any chance of a price on this Japanese oak?’ Christy asked. Steve waved him away like an insect and continued with his phone call.
On the way back to the kennel Christy stopped off at the toilets. Potter had just been in there. Christy opened the window. It gave onto a two-foot gap between Conrad’s and the dog-food factory. He thought for a second, then dropped the invoice out of the window. He made up some rules. It had to be an invoice that Steve had quoted on. Christy had to have asked Steve for a price at least five times. He could only do it once every month.

For now, Danny was where he wanted to be; in two places at once, both inside and outside of everything. He’d persuaded Ian, who’d given up drumming, to let him buy his drum kit, paying by instalments. Danny replaced Ian in The Bad Detectives. After an argument with Fred, Ed left The Shakespeare Monkees and began living in the garage of their dad’s house. Replaced by Psychedelic Derek, Ed secretly formed The Cows with Recurring Jeff and Danny. Dave left The Bad Detectives, gave up singing, learnt bass and formed Genius Or Lunatic with Max from the disbanded Dead Loss Orchestra. Danny drummed for Genius Or Lunatic until they’d saved up for a drum machine. It was nothing personal. Max said for Danny to keep in touch. There were some things a drum machine couldn’t do, like get hold of dope.

Bernie and Christy were leaning on the counter.
‘How come they can afford to take on this new bloke Vince if they’re doing so bad?’ Christy asked.
Every month head office sent through target sales figures. Every month Potter put a graph up on the noticeboard showing the failure to reach that target.
Bernie bit into a biscuit. ‘Them figures have so-called been below target since I can remember.’
‘Why don’t they close the place down then? Like Potter’s always saying.’
‘Think about it,’ Bernie said. ‘Who does the books?’
‘Potter’s wife.’
‘So what’s to stop Potter sticking any figure he wants up on the noticeboard?’
‘What for?’
‘So he can sit and say, if you buggers don’t pull your fingers out it’s the dole office for all of us.’
Bernie straightened as a customer entered. Elderly, with glasses and spotless overalls the man held a notepad and pen. He asked if they had any mahogany in stock. Bernie said yes. The man asked if they stocked lauan.
Bernie scratched his nose. ‘Yeah. Philippine mahogany. Same difference.’
‘Hardly.’
The man asked for plasticiser.
Bernie went to check the shelves. ‘Sorry. Run out. Fairy Liquid’ll do the trick at a pinch.’
The man sniffed. ‘Weakens the mortar.’ He asked for a ball-valve. Bernie fetched one and told him the price. The man winked and said, ‘Anything off for cash?’
Bernie shook his head. There was sweat on his top lip. When he wrote out the cash ticket his hands were shaking. He watched the door shut behind the customer.
‘Mystery shopper,’ he said. ‘Definitely.’
He explained how head office paid people to go round the branches pretending to be customers, to test the staff.
‘They try and wind you up, or catch you on the fiddle.’
‘But he didn’t even look like a proper punter,’ Christy said.
Bernie tapped the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Double bluff,’ he said. ‘You can’t trust these bastards.’
Christy went into the toilets and opened the window. The invoice was still there.

In Olly’s kitchen Animal dropped to his knees. Wringing his hands he looked at Olly. ‘But please. You’ve got to help me. I’m hurting real bad.’
‘Oh, fuck off,’ Olly laughed. ‘I’m just saying, you lot’ve near enough smoked me out of house and home. I don’t want to run out before the new crop’s in.’
Phil looked at Olly carefully. ‘Any chance you could put us in touch with somebody. Save us hassling you.’
‘There’s Dennis I suppose. Up at Dunmore.’
‘Dunmore?’ Patrick asked.
‘Dunmore Cottage,’ Olly said. ‘As in done more drugs than you can shake a stick at. Run you up there now if you like.’
He stepped out into the garden to kiss Denise goodbye. He peered into the orange wigwam where the children were playing. ‘See you later you two. Keep the flap open, otherwise you’ll bake.’
The neat brick house was on a small Dorchester estate, built for junior management first time buyers. There was a rotary drier on the front lawn. Olly rang the bell. Dennis opened the door, smiled at Olly, looked once each at Patrick, Animal, Phil and Danny. He led them into the living room, where a T.V showed an old Western, silently.
Dennis introduced Binny. For a clumsy second the boys hovered just inside the doorway, smiling, waiting. Binny, cleaning his glasses with his sleeve, nodded towards the sofa. ‘What’s up? Got piles?’
Joints circled. Conversation slowed to nothing. Danny turned to Dennis. ‘Any grass about then?’
‘There’s only solid about at the moment,’ Dennis answered, licking the seam of a cigarette.
‘That’ll do,’ Danny said.
‘It’s rocky. Is that okay?’
Danny paused, then gave up. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Moroccan,’ Dennis said, smiling, superior.
As they were leaving, Patrick stopped in the hallway. He made it sound casual. ‘How much would we need to get before the price went down?’
‘Two ounces usually,’ Dennis said.
Patrick smiled, began calculating.

Christy thought he could at least rely on Kev. He’d had no cause to doubt him since that thing he said at primary. But now he never seemed to be at home. So Christy waited until he could realistically pretend he wanted a trim.
As Christy entered the barbers Kev glanced at him in the mirror and smiled. Christy sat alone on the black vinyl bench along one wall. He stared down at the cigarette-burnt maroon lino and waited. No puddings now. Brings home Pink Elephants from work. Pink in the middle, disgusting. Says they’ll never catch on. She says waste not want not all the time now.
Arnie swept the cape from his customer and turned to Christy. ‘Who’s next please?’
Christy looked up. ‘Mind if Kev does me?’
Arnie nodded and smiled.
Christy sat listening to the soft tick of Kev’s scissors, and drifting. Before, but how long? Him with his jacket on. Like he’s blurred. Half not there. Disappearing. Dinner. Fish in a dish. Yellow bubbles in the milk. Dead and dried up. The eyes looking back. Dead. Drying up.
He heard his name. He sat in the leather chair. Kev tucked in the cape, pinned it at the neck. He straightened Christy’s head and asked what he wanted done. He began cutting.
‘Not working today then?’ he asked.
Christy, puzzled, looked at Kevin’s reflection. ‘Don’t work Saturdays Kev. You know that.’
Kev looked interested, nodded. ‘Nice to have a weekend. One thing I miss in this job. So what line of work are you in?’
Christy turned. The point of the scissors caught his temple. ‘Kev. It’s me.’
Kev lowered his voice. ‘Help me out Christy. It’s part of the training. Got to show I can chat to the customers.’
Christy tried. He asked how Karen was.
‘Alright. She’s got herself a little job in Boots.’
‘Oh, right. What, part-time?’
‘No full-time. Handy now we’re saving.’
Christy didn’t ask what they were saving for. He could guess.
There was a lull. Kev looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. He had an anecdote prepared. He told Christy about his mother’s new boyfriend, Roger. She’d met him at the Con Club on a Country and Western night. He was into C.B. He cut verges for the Council.
‘He came round ours the other night, straight from work. Hopping mad he was. He’d hit this big bit of dog-mess with his Flymo. Got covered, he did. Even Mum couldn’t help smiling.’ Kev paused with his scissors in mid-air, suddenly conscious of the lack of a punchline.
Christy wasn’t laughing. He’d seen Roger around. He could imagine what Kev couldn’t. He could imagine Roger punching Kev’s mother where it didn’t show, the second Kev left the house.
Kev scraped the back of Christy’s neck with the razor. It wasn’t going well. ‘Anyway. What have you been up to lately?’
Christy frowned. ‘Nothing, really. Been feeling funny. Hard to say.’ He paused. ‘It’s like something’s going on that I don’t know about.’
Kev sighed. ‘You’re not helping much Christy. That’s not the sort of thing we’re supposed to talk about.’

Chapter 10

2004-11-11T17:14:00.000Z

KEVIN
It seemed natural to ask Arnie Todd if he’d thought of taking on a trainee. He said yes, he could do with someone sensible. He’d been cutting my hair since I was tiny. I used to go with Dad. Arnie used to put a board across the arms of the chair to get me the right height. I was scared of the chair because it was like in the dentists, but Arnie calmed me down. When Dad left us Arnie always asked if there was any news. I know what people say about him but he was good to me.
It was a lovely and peaceful at work. I’d sweep up a bit between customers. Arnie’d make cups of tea and we’d sit on the window-ledge watching the world going by on Fortuneswell.
Somehow seeing the others didn’t seem so important. Me and Karen were together a lot, and I was busy organising things. I opened an account up the building society. I had a Post Office one before but that was more of a kiddie’s thing. Then I was getting us sorted out to go on the waiting list for a Council place.
Karen was never keen on arranging things like that. I said we could go through the form from the Council, then I’d try giving her a bit of a trim. She looked a bit anxious. I said, ‘Don’t worry. I won’t take much off.’
I’d started doing the odd paying customer by the time Hello Cruel World played their first concert. Kiddies and pensioners mostly. Less likely to get shirty. So I gave all of the band a free haircut, the Saturday before the gig. It was my way of showing I was still interested in what they were up to.
They all took the mickey but it was only in fun. Danny said I’d made everybody look like Stan Laurel. I didn’t mind the teasing as long as they weren’t horrible to Arnie.
It was strange seeing them all again. They seemed different. I suppose people just grow up at their own pace. I’d been seeing a bit of Christy but I couldn’t go to watch any practices because of working Saturdays.
About a fortnight before the August Bank Holiday, Fred’s posters started popping up in bus-shelters. He’d copied an old picture from that film, ‘The Village Of The Damned’, and put the groups’ names in like they were the stars of the movie. At the top it had, ‘An Exploding Plastic Predictable Event.’ At the bottom it had, ‘Be there or turn into your parents.’
It said the concert was in the afternoon on Bank Holiday Monday but it didn’t say where. People had to phone Eddie. He arranged to meet people in Portland Cemetery so he could take them to where the concert was.
Christy told me they were playing on the cliffs above Clay Ope. I liked that; being in the know. Me and Karen made our way straight there. We took some sandwiches and a Thermos, to make a day of it.
All the equipment was set up with a generator for the electric and everything, but most of the audience hadn’t arrived. Me and Karen found ourselves a nice spot and got settled.
I meant to do a review for Ed and Fred’s magazine, but when it came to it I couldn’t really think what to put. It was like at school. I did my C.S.E project on the New Wave groups, but I just ended up pinching bits out of Sounds magazine. The Sounds people seemed to put everything better.
Ed was clever like that; good at making things up. In that second Milk, Milk, Lemonade, the one with the headline ‘Land of a thousand dunces’, he didn’t just do about the bands, he put all bits of description, like in a book. I’ve still got a copy: On the village green at Easton there is no pond, there is no cricket team, white in slow motion in the afternoon sun. There are only dough-faced adolescents, always there as they always will be, wheelying on pushbikes or huddled on benches over Players Number 6.
Round the corner in the cemetery, other youths are gathering. The graves are packed in like tightly parked cars. Those waiting read the ages on the stones. The children are near the back. Big ones at the front, small ones at the back, like a family photograph turned to face the wall.
Even what he wrote about the bands was clever. The Dead Loss Orchestra were on first. They only did this one song that went on for ten minutes. Ed wrote; Jeff and Andy thump and throb like they’re in another band, concentrating like children trying to read without moving their lips. Meanwhile Max picks out a melody which reminds me of the tune played by the crashed ice-cream van in ‘Day Of The Triffids’. This is a good thing.
He said The Bad Detectives played their instruments like someone with soap in their eyes trying to find a towel. Bit uncalled for, I thought. They were just nervous. Ian the drummer kept speeding up. Halfway through ‘Looking For A Clue’ he let go of one of his sticks and it hit the singer Dave on the head. Dave went over and punched Ian right off his stool. There was no need for that either.
Hello Cruel World were on next. I went over to wish them luck. They were really nervous too. Danny said he could smell the adrenalin when he went off for a wee.
Christy wandered off for a bit. When he come back he was all white and his eyes were watering. Karen reckoned he’d been sick. I thought, oh, he’ll be okay. It wasn’t like at school when I used to look after him a bit. We were still best friends but I had someone new to look after.
They did well. Best of the lot I think. They got a good write-up; It starts with four wooden clicks. The chug, crunch and chop of Phil’s guitar is stitched together by Animal’s lines of stabbing notes, looping, never repeating. Patrick supplies the pulse underneath, the words when necessary. At the back, Danny and Christy hunch over their work, throwing secret sideways glances, like two people cheating in an exam. It’s the sounds coming from Christy’s gadget that linger. Slices of half-nonsense, overhearings, eavesdroppings, they come in at random moments like bad memories, and stay.
Hello Cruel World make their mistakes into choices. Hello Cruel World make themselves understood.
Only Patrick spoilt things a bit. Half way through he went over to the amp Christy was using and turned it down. Patrick and Phil had words when the song ended. Over the mic you could hear Patrick saying, ‘He’s putting me off. It’s like shagging with the telly on.’
Last were The Shakespeare Monkees. They were such a din. Danny looked so embarrassed. They had to stop when Fred’s fuzz pedal started making a noise like the Clangers.
Afterwards, me and Karen went to say goodbye to Christy and the others. They were all sat in Olly’s Morris Traveller. I opened the door and said, ‘Blimey, it stinks of fags in here.’ I didn’t know they’d started all that nonsense with smoking the drugs. They went into hysterics laughing. Except for Christy. It must’ve just been decided I suppose.
He said, ‘I think I’ll walk on with you.’
Phil said, ‘Don’t be daft Christy. Come back to Olly’s with us.’
Christy said, ‘No. I could do with a bit of air,’ and he got out.
We walked along the path towards Wide Street. It was nice, with the sun going down behind us and nobody about. Then Christy told us he’d left the band.
I said, ‘Why?’
He said, ‘Because they want me to.’
I said he could come round Karen’s for tea, but he wouldn’t. Karen reckoned he would’ve felt a bit of a gooseberry. He went his own way on the corner. It was a shame it turned out like that. Nobody likes unpleasantness. But all in all, it’d still been a nice day.

Chapter 9

2004-09-10T10:13:00.000Z

DANNY
I started working Wednesday to Friday with me dad at Goodwill and Chant’s. Just to fill in. You get some poxy apprenticeship and the pressure’s on to stick around for three years. It was a doss. The punters took the piss out of me but I wasn’t bothered.
It was all a bit dodgy and complicated though. Mum didn’t show any signs of coming back off the sick so me dad put it through the books that she’d started back, and paid me her wages. Dad said if Goodwill or Chant ever came in, to just say I’d popped in to see him. I shouldn’t’ve even been in there being under eighteen. Plus I kept signing on.
My dad was a funny mix like that. A real chancer some ways. He started off as a bookie’s runner before it went legal. He knew loads about fixing the odds on dogs and all that. But other ways he was dead straight. Even back then he wanted me to follow in his footsteps or some daft bollocks. Fuck that. That’s why I dyed me hair green the week I started. To show him who was doing the choosing.
The music was getting me out of the house a lot. Herman let everyone use the skittle alley for band practices. I said to the others I might as well move the drums down there, then we could use it too. I said how us practising in the shed was making Mum’s nerves worse.
The band was coming together. Patrick picked up the bass quick and he could sing a bit; Animal was good on guitar. We even had a name; Hello Cruel World. It was something Christy used to say to himself when he was pissed off. We said yes to it so he wouldn’t feel left out of things. He knew Patrick and Animal didn’t see the point of him. Once they joined it was like you could see him shrinking. He just stood to one side fiddling with his tray of radioes.
It was a lie about me mum’s nerves. I wanted the drums down the Merman so I could play with other bands. I tried to get in with The Bad Detectives. They weren’t interested then but I’d’ve been doing them a favour. Ian drummed like somebody playing the xylophone in school assembly, and his timing was slack as piss on a plate.
But The Shakespeare Monkees were glad to have me. That was Ed and Fred and Linda. The twins were funny as fuck, like some sort of double act. I remember Eddie explaining the name.
He said, ‘You put enough monkeys in a room full of typewriters they’ll produce the complete works of Shakespeare. We reckon if you stick us in a room with some instruments eventually we’ll come up with something like “I’m A Believer.”’ Then Fred said how The Monkees didn’t write ‘I’m A Believer’ and they started having this massive row.
They could be funny peculiar too. People said Ed went a bit mental in London. With studying and that. It was his idea to call themselves the W twins. Partly they nicked the idea off Mark P from Sniffin Glue but mostly he was paranoid about doing the zine while he was signing on. Fred wasn’t bothered. He’d started work doing graphics on The Echo. Their dad was on the print there, same as Patrick. Fred never stopped feeling bad about earning more than his old man.
Linda I couldn’t get used to. Dead serious. Short black hair, glasses, looked like Joe 90. Dressed like she’d found her clothes in a skip. She had this beige raincoat she’d drawn big checks on in felt tip. Used to use a binoculars case as a handbag. She smoked Three Castles. It turned her lips brown.
They were hopeless to start with. Early on, Linda and Fred only knew one chord each. They used to take it in turns to play the chord they knew. I lost me rag with Fred once. I said, ‘You’re supposed to count the fucking bars between chord changes.’
He looked a bit put out and said, ‘Oh. I didn’t think anyone actually did that.’
In the end I settled for whacking the Bontempi on me kit when it was time to go into a chorus.
You’d’ve never thought Ed and Fred had already been in a band up in London. The other two, Vic and Ritchie were still up there, in a squat on Seven Sisters Road. Later they formed a band called The Pigs. They had their own label; Finsbury Pork Records.
I couldn’t understand the twins coming back to Portland. London was always like magic to me. It was where music come from; St Pancras, Chiswick, Deptford Fun City. It was where you could lose yourself, not have to answer to any fucker. Ed and Fred would tell me about gigs they’d been to in London. Back home I’d look up the addresses in the A-Z. Then I’d fall asleep and dream of getting on trains.
So round about then I was barely ever home, what with work and band stuff. That and us going round to see Animal’s mate Olly. We were smoking like Trojans even back then. Just homegrown. The five of us’d troop round his house and get out of our boxes.
Phil thought Olly’s shit didn’t stink. I could see Phil turning into him, twenty years down the line. Sometimes he’d go round theirs straight from work and read to the kids while Olly and Denise took it in turns to do the tea.
I could take it or leave it, all that cosy bollocks. I thought it was boring. We’d be on the sofa skinning up. Denise’d be sat stuffing envelopes for CND or something. Olly’d be telling Phil about India, or talking to Animal about getting more veggie stuff put on in the canteen. The odd game of Scrabble was about as lively as it got.
It felt to me like you were always under manners round there. Like one time there was this thing with Patrick and Christy. Christy was always a hog for it. A J reached him, he’d keep hold of it for ages. Annoyed people. There’s a sort of manners expected.
This one night Patrick leaned over and snatched the joint Christy was hogging. He went as if to smack Christy’s hand. Like he was a kid. He just said, ‘Don’t be so fucking greedy.’
It wasn’t anything. But the look Denise give Patrick. Like she was going to kick him out. They loved Christy them two, Olly and Denise. He’d be off staring into space, glum as fuck, one of them’d give him a nudge in the ribs and say, ‘Chin up. Skin up.’
Trouble was, the only other place to go for a session was round Patrick’s, depending on the shifts his mum and dad were working. Phil shared a bedroom, Christy’s mum never went out, and I didn’t want to be round ours anymore than I had to.
Animal’s wasn’t an option. He had five greboe brothers and he shared a room with two of them. That was why he talked so quick. As a kid he had this stammer really bad. Said it come from trying to get a word in with all those brothers. He got over it by talking at ninety miles an hour.
First time I went round his place the stink of cats nearly knocked me over. His dad used to dry out the old cat litter on top of the storage heater. Animal said, ‘Sorry about the smell. Me brothers had a few people back from the pub last night. For a piss up.’
A piss up the wall, it smelt like.
In his bedroom there was a stripped down Triumph Bonneville laid out on old newspapers. Above his bunk there was drawings of birds. Magpies and that. I thought it was Alison that done them, but it was him.
It got so we were round Olly’s so much, and he was giving us so much gear that it looked like we were taking the piss, even though he had a greenhouse full of it out the back. So Phil asked if we could buy some. Olly looked doubtful. He said how it was risky. Fuck knows with those teeshirts he wore, if the D.S. hadn’t got him by then, they were never going to.
He weighed us an eighth each. You could tell he wasn’t set up for dealing. We had to stick the dope in old fag packets, matchboxes, bacofoil, all sorts.
On the bus we couldn’t stop talking. I had this B & H packet full of homegrown stuffed down me kecks. I walked back from the bus-stop looking over me shoulder non-stop. I put the gear in the bedside cabinet. I couldn’t sleep; kept wanting to take it out and look at it, smell it.
For a while there was more dope floating about than we knew what to do with. I started knocking some out to Ed and Fred. So I suppose I’m the one who started it.

Chapter 8

2004-09-01T10:10:00.000Z

PHIL
Thinking back, the start of everything was there in that week I started work if you looked at it. All the good stuff and the bad.
I left school once I done me C.S.E.s. I knew I’d made a bollocks of them the minute I walked out the Sports Hall. Think me dad was pleased. He said you could have an alright life without exams. He worked in the ticket office on Weymouth station. He asked round for me down there but there wasn’t nothing going.
I loved it, signing on. All that time to practise. Me playing really come on them weeks. Then Dad started on about me not having a job. We ended up having a row about it. I stormed up to me room. I told Paul when he come in. I asked if he could fix me up with anything at Skinners, the leather factory where he worked. He looked at me for a bit and goes, ‘You sure?’
I said yeah and he goes, ‘Alright. As long as you don’t stay there, mind.’
I should’ve took the hint but I thought, if it’s good enough for Paul it’s good enough for me. I always was like that with him. Looked up to him. When I was little he had this tonic suit. Beautiful it was. When he went out I used to stand looking at it. It had all these colours in it like petrol in a puddle.
It was him got me into music. The Feelgoods to begin with. They all looked like blokes out of a dirty movie. But Wilko’s guitar playing; fucking magic. Good songs too. All about living in a shit-hole by the sea.
Paul was in a band before. Everybody said they could’ve been as big as Stackridge. I only seen them twice because I was only young but when they done a gig I always used to wait up to ask him how it went. Then one night he come home and said he was packing it in. I never asked why. Seemed like a sore point.
One day he walked in our bedroom and caught me listening to the Kinks and playing air guitar in the mirror. Once he’d stopped pissing himself he sat down and taught me my first chords.
Like Lenny the foreman said, you didn’t have a proper interview interview at Skinners. He just wanted to see you could tell the time and you had all your arms and legs. He was straight about it all. He said how all the jobs there were shitty and horrible but the people made up for it. He showed me round. It stunk like fuck. Don’t even notice it now. He said I could start the next Monday. I didn’t mind.
They put me down the wet end. The skins come in there with bits of guts and bollocks still stuck to them. I had to take them one at a time and spread them on a bench called a horse. Then I had to scrape all the muck off them with a blade thing like the spokeshaves they had in woodwork. The only tricky bit was not nicking the skins with the end of the blade. I had the hang of it after half an hour.
When I got in me dad was in the kitchen reading the paper. He stood up and shook me hand. I felt a right tit. He give me a fiver. He goes, ‘Welcome to the real world.’ I spent it on the first Clash L.P. later. He went down Kelly’s and got cod and chips three times and put Mum’s in the oven. We had it out of the paper. He said it tasted better that way. I looked across the table at him and thought, you sad fucker.
What made the job alright was the people. Lenny was right. They were a good laugh. Like with the clocking-in machine. It looked like the old radio we had at home. There was a little red arrow that moved along during the day. Along where the arrow went it said, IN OUT IN OUT. Underneath, somebody had got a felt tip and wrote, SHAKE IT ALL ABOUT. Cheered you up when you was going in.
Down the wet end people was always lobbing bollocks at each other. Sometimes we’d play bollock football out the back, dinnertime. People made the most of things.
There was some real states working there, mind. Like Big Steve, this twenty stone Mongol bloke. Lived with his sister. Always wanted to shake hands. We’d be sat chatting in the canteen, he’d be smiling and nodding and you could tell he didn’t know what the fuck anyone was on about. Everything was a mystery to him. He’d stand at the machine, buffing. He’d take the raw skins out of one trolley and put the finished ones in the other like he didn’t know where they were coming from or where they were going. Mind you, we all had days like that.
Then there was Tom. He used to work in the dog-food factory until it closed. They called him the Wildman of Bonio. He used to talk to himself non-stop. The first two mornings I seen him come in with a crash helmet on. Tuesday knocking off I was behind him going out. He never went in the car-park and got on a moped or nothing. He just kept walking; out the gates and down the road off home. With this big red piss-pot helmet on.
All the inside of his locker was covered in silver paper. He said it helped him pick up messages. I felt sorry for him. There was that rumour about him; about his dad. Nobody took the piss out of him. It wasn’t being nice it was just he was gone on past all that.
Made some good mates at Skinners. Olly I liked straight off. He showed me the job. Sometimes when I took a nick out of a skin he’d put it in with his skins so nobody’d know.
He was this knackered-looking old hippy. He had to have his hair up in a net because of the machines. Every tee-shirt he had was something to do with dope. You could talk to him good. When he was younger he went round India like Wilko did. You could tell he was settled though, the way he talked about Denise and the kids when he showed me a photo.
But most of all I got mates with Animal. He started down the wet end the same day as me, just fetching and carrying. First time I seen him was when he come and dumped a trolley of skins next to me. He looked like one of the gyppoes that parked up behind Weymouth fairground. He had both ears pierced. He done it to piss his brothers off.
We got chatting in the canteen. He was sat by the window looking pissed off. He had this knackered leather jacket on. It had The Damned written on the back in proper letters. He’d painted it himself. I pointed at his jacket and asked who else he was into. We was off then. I told him about me and Danny and Christy. He said how he’d been having guitar lessons off some Country and Western twat round the corner but he wanted to get into a band. I never said anything then in case he turned out to be a prat.
On the Wednesday Animal wangled a sub and we went up Radio Rentals dinnertime. He goes, ‘Anything to get out of this fucking place.’
He hated Skinners like you wouldn’t believe. He said he wasn’t afraid of hard work, he just didn’t like it. He said about when Lenny showed him round. ‘He took me up by the chroming machines. It was like when we used to go and see me gran in the home, everyone giving you this one blank look then going back to what they’re doing like a bunch of fucking cabbages.’
I said how the people were alright but it was like he never heard me.
He said, ‘When Lenny finished with me he goes “Can you find your way out of here okay?” I thought, I fucking hope so.’
I got ‘Fascist Dictator’ by The Cortinas. I thought they were fantastic, them; to be the same age as us and having records out. Give you something to aim for.
Animal picked out ‘Alison’ by Elvis Costello. Surprised me. It was for his girlfriend Alison. He said how she’d told the Careers she wanted to work with animals. They’d lined her up with a job in a butchers. So she was going up the College to do Art in September.
We went to pay. That’s when I saw Milk, Milk, Lemonade. It was the first fanzine I’d seen. There was a pile of them by the till. That first issue was just two sheets of A4 stapled together.
The cover was done out like the front of The Mirror. The headline said, ‘Not Yawning But Screaming.’ Underneath there was a drawing of a bloke stood on Weymouth Esplanade, holding his head and howling. His head was massive. You could see Portland behind him. That was exciting just knowing it was local.
There was next to fuck all in it except record reviews. The main good bit was this big rant about punk. It was all weird stuff like how if you wanted to know what punk meant it was in the dictionary between escapism and escapology. It said how if punk was only about how things sounded then it didn’t amount to any more than bad tempered skiffle. What mattered was how things were organised. It reckoned that since rock and roll come out we’d had twenty years of pornography and it was the readers’ wives’ turn to run things. At the end, in big letters it said, STOP WANKING YOUR LIVES AWAY! It was signed, Ed and Fred, the W twins.
But the best bit was on the back cover. There was a picture of that bloke with a moustache who was on the posters in the war. He had his hair spiked up. Underneath it just said, ‘The W twins need you. We want to put on gigs locally. If you’re in a band or you want to be, meet us in the Merman, Fortuneswell, eight o’clock onwards, Friday 24th June. Be there or turn into your parents.’ That was the coming Friday. I seen that and I didn’t want to go back to work. I wanted to phone and tell Danny and Christy.
I’d been in the Merman once before. Herman’d serve anyone, eighteen or not. I asked for a pint of bitter. He asked if I wanted Best. I said it didn’t have to be anything special. He still served me. That time there was only a couple of old ciderheads stood wobbling in the corner. There was bright orange plastic seats that made your arse sweat even in winter. All the walls looked like they’d been done in airfix paint. Or snot.
Herman wasn’t his real name. He just got called it. People used to say; walks like a man drinks like a fish, Herman from the Merman. His eyes were like soft-boiled eggs. When he took the pub over he changed its name from the Mermaid. Once he’d paid the signwriter to change the name he couldn’t afford to get the picture redone. So he got a magic marker, drew a beard on it, a load of hair on its tits, and a tattoo of an anchor on its arm.
I rang the others, said to meet in Victoria Square. Christy turned up first. He said hello, then stood there looking at Animal and acting nervous. Then Danny showed up. Fuck me if his hair wasn’t bright green like Swarfega. We all pissed ourselves. It was good. Give us something to talk about.
There was about fifteen people in the pub. Herman must’ve thought it was Christmas; barely any fucker in there for weeks then that lot show up. We didn’t hardly know any of them till then but all the main people who was in bands later was there that night; Max, Andy, Jeff, Linda, The Bad Detectives. I don’t remember none of the posh lot being there except that Terry, and he went home early. Animal still had his overalls on from work. That Terry come up and asked where he got them from. Tit. Animal just blanked him.
I went up to the bar. Animal wandered off. He come back with this bloke. He had a red and black striped jumper on. His hair was dyed black and spiky. You could tell he fancied himself as looking like Dennis the Menace. Animal introduced him as Patrick, a mate of his from school. So that night wasn’t all good news.
I asked him who was in charge. He shrugged and said he’d only just got there himself. Then I felt a tap on me shoulder. I turned round. This really skinny bloke in a donkey jacket said, ‘Nobody’s in charge. But we’re the W twins.’ He pointed to himself and the fat bloke next to him. He said, ‘I’m Ed. This is Fred.’
I got them pints and we sat with them. I liked them from the off. You’d’ve never guessed they were twins to look at them. That Ed, you’ve seen more fat on a cold chip, but Fred was a real porker. Everyone said Ed looked like a victim of famine, and Fred looked like he’d caused one.
They was older than us; about twenty one odd. They lived up near the Borstal but they’d just come back from doing degrees in London. Ed done English somewhere and Fred done Art at the place The Pistols played their first gig. Fred told me how he’d nicked the idea for the fanzine cover off a bloke called Munch. The fag machine in the Merman had a picture on the front of this woman in a field. Fred always called it the Impressionist fag machine. I liked that; them knowing about that sort of stuff but still being a laugh.
The atmosphere was brilliant that night, people getting on with each other. Danny and Animal really hit it off. I looked over. Danny was telling him about taking his books back up school and going round signing people’s Bibles as God. Animal was pissing himself.
Even Christy made an effort, talking to Patrick. He done the usual, asking loads of questions. After a bit Patrick goes, ‘What is this, a fucking quiz?’ I never thought nothing of it at the time.
A few rounds later, Fred banged an ashtray on the table to shut everyone up. He said about how him and Ed had dragged us all up there because they wanted to put a gig on so they’d have something to write about. He said it was down to people like us to get some bands started.
It went dead quiet for a minute then everyone started talking at once. It was like picking the teams for football at school, everybody not wanting to get left out. All the lot that turned into The Bad Detectives stuck together. They couldn’t play anything but they were mates. They took on Dave as singer. Jeff and Andy hitched up with Max. Patrick tried to get Linda to start a band with him and Animal. She sussed out he was trying to pull her and made out she was going to do something solo, just to scrape him off.
In the end, Patrick and Animal was the only leftovers. I looked at Danny. He nodded. I looked at Christy. He shrugged. So that was us. The full line up.
About one in the morning Herman fell asleep behind the bar. We called it a night and let ourselves out the side door of the skittle-alley. It wasn’t nobody’s idea but we all trooped down Mallams and onto the beach.
It was lovely down there. Nobody was saying anything. All you could hear was the waves going shh up the pebbles. We stood looking out at the sea. There was this big white moon and the sea was like silver paper. I felt fantastic. Dead peaceful but excited too; butterflies in the stomach and that. ‘Days’ by The Kinks come into me head for some reason. I’ll never forget that feeling I had then. Things were good. They were going to get better. We were a proper band. I had money in me pocket. What could go wrong?
I took off me boots and socks, rolled up me jeans and waded into the water. Then everyone done it. All of us just kicking and stamping about in the waves like big kids.

Chapter 7

2004-08-18T07:56:00.000Z

CHRISTY
Phil was good to say I could be in the band. Don’t know why he done it; Danny wasn’t keen and really I wasn’t doing anything any use. But at least it give me a bit to look forward to. There wasn’t much else lined up for me.
I was into the music too. Not just Phil and Danny’s band but all the proper bands that was coming out then; The Damned, The Adverts, The Clash, all them. I couldn’t say how I felt, but they sounded like I felt.
I got right into the thing with the tapes. To start with I used to just record stuff off the radio; foreign stations and that. Then I unscrewed one of the cassette recorders off the tray and started carrying it round with me. I had it in me school bag and went round recording stuff without people knowing; in school, up the Careers, everywhere for a couple of weeks.
I took it with me when I went in school to take all me books back. You had to get them signed for by your form teacher. I took a short-cut through the assembly hall. There was about thirty people in there making a big drama, girls crying, boys shaking hands like old men. They give you a Bible when you left. There was people signing each other’s Bibles. I kept walking. The whole place felt like nothing to do with me.
I seen Tetley to get signed out. He was this big thick bloke who taught P.E. Danny used to say if Tetley wrote down every original thought he’d ever had he wouldn’t cover enough paper to roll a fag with.
He took the books back like he’d never seen a book before in his life. Then he tried to talk to me a bit, trying to be nice and that. He asked if I was planning to go to the College. I just went ‘Eh?’ Nobody else had asked that except me mum, and that was only because she had to tell the Family Allowance people what I was doing.
I said no, I wasn’t going up the College. Tetley had this wanky little moustache he used to suck on when he couldn’t think what to say. So he sucked on that and nodded.
I walked home. It all felt nothingy and flat. I didn’t do anything definite like Danny. He told us about it after. He could make anything into a story. He said how he went and seen Tetley, and Tetley started on about how Danny had potential but he was a bit too full of himself. So Danny turned round and said he’d rather be full of himself than full of shit. He give Tetley the finger and walked out.
Before they let you get the dole you had to have an interview up the Careers. I went there in me school trousers and a new shirt. I put a tie on once I got off the bus outside the place.
There was a kind of waiting room with a couple other people there to see the bloke. I sat reading the posters. There was one on the door saying, ‘To follow the dream, and again to follow the dream.’ What a fucking joke.
After a bit the bloke called me in. I knew him to look at. His kid used to be a year above us in school. She’d ended up working in a cake-shop. I thought, if that’s the best he can do for his own daughter, that’s me fucked.
He got behind his desk. I sat on the only spare chair. One leg was shorter than the others. He started asking me questions and making notes. Every time I leaned forward to try and look keen I nearly went flying. The new shirt was itching me neck.
He asked if I had any idea what I wanted to do. They had these cards in the school library where you could look up about different jobs. So I said to him the only thing off of them that I ever fancied.
He said, ‘A lighthouse keeper?’ Then he said, ‘You might not think it now but this is actually quite a serious thing.’
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He asked if I had any hobbies. I said, ‘Reading.’
His pen stopped over the next box on the form. He asked what sort of thing I read. I told him detective books. He looked at me for the first time and said, ‘Anything else?’
I said, ‘No,’ and he put a line through the box.
He had a look through an index thing on his desk and pulled out a card. He told me about Conrad’s wanting a clerkstrokestoreman. I didn’t know what a builders’ merchants was. From what he was saying the job was all adding things up and talking to people. I didn’t fancy it but I heard meself saying I’d give it a go. He phoned and made an appointment for an interview that afternoon.
I come out the Careers in a daze. It was like going to the barber’s. You go in hoping for the best and come out thinking, I never asked for that, what the fuck happened there? At least with a bastard haircut you can go round in a hat for a bit. No hat was going to sort me out.
Conrad’s was on the industrial estate, between Skinners and the old dog food factory. I got there miles too early. On the wall of the dog food factory somebody had painted, ‘It’s all been done before,’ in big letters. The line of writing started out straight then drooped off like the person doing it got tired. I waited for three o’clock, looking at the graffiti and getting depressed.
I went in at five to and rung the bell on the counter. I heard someone humming, then this short fat bloke in his forties appeared. His hair was everywhere. All round his mouth there was wet biscuit crumbs. That was Bernie.
He took me in the office and fetched Potter. Potter had on this suit the colour of Toffoes and a pair of disco shoes with brass bits on. He shooed Bernie out and started the interview.
Mainly I remember me trying to sound posher and keener than I was, and not knowing where to look. Potter smoked menthol. I looked at the little green asterisks on the filter of his Consulate. Then I looked at the brass bits on his shoes. Then I looked at the sign on his desk saying, ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here but it helps.’
He told me the woman who’d been doing the invoices had left. Bernie had been covering since. He said Bernie needed help. Then he sort of laughed. Sounded like a cat sneezing.
He run through a load of questions and put the answers on a form. Once he’d finished he turned the form over and wrote ‘NUTAC’ at the top and underlined it three times. I knew what that meant. He said he’d give me a phone.
He rung later. Said I could have the job if I wanted. Potter didn’t bother sounding pleased so I didn’t either. He said, ‘The bloke we wanted turned us down. Just to let you know.’ I knew what he was letting me know.
The first day was the last time I was early. I went inside. Bernie was behind the counter checking a list off on a clipboard. He looked at me for a minute, then the penny dropped. ‘Hello. Do you want Dick?’
I said, ‘Eh?’
‘Dick Potter. Mr Potter.’ He said, ‘I’m Bernie. I’m head storeman, for my sins.’ He scratched his head. ‘I must’ve done something terrible.’ It was one of his things he said all the time.
We went through to the office. Bernie swung the door open. The glass panel in it rattled like fuck. Potter said. ‘Bernie; you keep doing that, one day that glass is going to drop out and cut some cunt’s throat.’
Potter offered me a Consulate, then looked pissed off when I took one. He sat with his eyes closed telling me what I’d be doing. ‘Mornings you’ll serve on the counter so Bernie’s freed up to load the wagon with Ken. Afternoons you’ll do the invoices. Bernie’ll show you how to do that.’ He opened his eyes and said to Bernie. ‘Don’t go into the Shirley business. Might give him ideas.’
Potter stood up like he was getting out of bed and said, ‘Steve the rep’s not here yet but I’ll introduce you to the others.’ He took me up the yard. I met Ken. Potter said, ‘This is Christy, Ken. New bloke. So don’t go mistaking him for a customer and offering to split a bag of cement for him.’ Ken smiled but as we walked away I looked over me shoulder and seen him giving it the five finger shuffle to Potter’s back.
We seen Ron in the sawmill then we come back down and Potter sorted me out some overalls. I felt a cunt. You had to wear a shirt and tie and overalls; talk about getting shot by both sides. They might as well have give you a hat with ‘loser’ written on it. The overalls was a dark blue jacket and trousers. Made you look like someone out of ‘Porridge’ off the telly.
Potter took me back to Bernie behind the counter. Before he went back to the office he said, ‘Remember, there’s some places you mustn’t let Bernie touch you. Okay?’
I stood there. Then he dug me in the ribs and said, ‘Fuck me, sonner; wake up. Only joking.’
I followed Bernie round all morning. All I learnt the first day was that all Conrad’s stock was covered in dust and some of it was covered in oil as well. Plus I learnt that builders and chippies smell dry and plastery, but plumbers have got a metally smell like the taste of blood in your mouth.
Bernie introduced me to the regulars when they come in and I’d stand there not knowing how I was supposed to be, matey or arselicking or what. The third thing I learnt was, all the customers thought Bernie was a twat. Howie come in for a shower trap. He asked him how it was going. Bernie said, ‘Struggling on. Struggling off again. Getting up, going to work.’
When Bernie went to get the trap, Howie goes to me, ‘Prick’s still living with his mum.’
About eleven Bernie went to the bog. He always called it seeing a friend off to the coast. While he was gone a bloke come in and asked for thirty inch eights. Brass. I just stood and looked at him.
He said, ‘Screws mate. Shelf to the left.’
He come round and found them for me in the end. Once he’d gone I had a look through the boxes of screws. Half of them had been there that long they were priced up in old money.
When Bernie come back he made mugs of tea. There was all big black thumbprints round the rim. We stood and drank them round by the roofing felt.
After dinner he took me in the kennel, this shed inside the loading bay, and showed me how to do the invoices. There was piles of them where he’d got behind. You had to look the prices up on this big list then look up people’s discounts from this box of cards. I asked him what Potter was on about with the Shirley business. He wouldn’t say.
After a while I took me watch off and put it in me pocket. It was the only way I could stop looking at it. When it felt like it must be hometime I took it out and looked. It was only quarter to four. Another hour and three quarters to go.
When I got home I lay on me bed and put on ‘Career Opportunities’ by The Clash, as loud as it’d go. I listened to Joe Strummer garbling out all this list of rubbish jobs; bus driver, ambulance man, chicken inspector. They all sounded better than anything that was down for me.
Don’t know why work come as so much of a shock to me. Wasn’t like Mum never talked about it. She did stock control up the box factory. I used to put the tea on for when she got in. I’d dish up and she’d sit complaining about things at the factory.
I had a bit of a moan to Phil about it up the shed. He just said, ‘That’s what work’s like if you’re ordinary.’
I wanted to say something but I didn’t know what. Phil handed me a fag and said, ‘You’re just ordinary Christy.’
I heard Danny mumble something. Sounded like, ‘Just a pity you’re not fucking normal.’

Chapter 6

2004-08-04T08:06:00.000Z

WILLSON
Christy waited, annoyed with himself. He’d been given a chance but he was no use. Danny’s mum opened the door.
‘Sorry to bother you. I’m Christy. I’ve come for the band practice.’
She squinted at him, one eye clenched against the trickle of smoke rising from the cigarette in her mouth. ‘He’ll be up the top of the garden.’ She led Christy through to the back door.
He saw Danny crouching near the shed. Danny called to him. ‘Do you want to see some puppies?’
As he got closer Christy saw that Danny was crouched over a bucket of water. Beside him were several tiny greyhound puppies, pink as piglets, wriggling and tumbling and climbing over each other. ‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ Danny said. ‘I’ve just got to do these. They empty the bins Monday.’ He hitched up the sleeve of his jumper, picked up the nearest puppy by the scruff of the neck, and stuffed the dog down into the water.
‘Christ Danny. What are you doing?’
Danny looked up, his face expressionless. ‘Teaching them to swim.’ He pulled the dead puppy out of the water and tossed it onto the hessian sack beside him. A couple of the other pups sniffed around it casually. Danny picked up one of them and drowned it.
‘Why, though?’
‘They’re spare. Dad’s always bollocked on about breeding them for racing. So he bought a pregnant bitch for Mum at Easter. Mental. We haven’t got the space and Mum’s not up to it at the moment.’ He drowned another. ‘Think he thought it’d give Mum something to do.’
Christy watched as the pile of dead dogs grew. ‘I thought she was working in the bookies with your dad.’
‘No. She’s been on the sick. Bit run down.’
One dog remained alive. Danny nodded towards it. ‘Keeping that one. For meself.’
‘Why that one?’
‘Why not?’
Danny loaded the pink carcasses into the sack, tucked the surviving dog under his arm, and walked to the house. He put the sack in the dustbin and placed the live pup next to its mother in a basket in the kitchen.
Christy stayed at the top of the garden, shivering slightly.
Danny returned, wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘Thought Kev’d be coming with you.’
‘No. He’s making his own way. Where’s Phil to?’
‘Should be here soon. He’s gone down Radio Rentals to get the Stranglers’ L.P.’
When there was no band practice, the Weymouth branch of Radio Rentals was the focus of the other option for killing a Saturday. Danny, Phil, Christy and Kev would loiter in the record section, waiting for their lives to happen. They would squeeze into the coffin-shaped listening booths. Carol the assistant would pretend to believe they were going to buy the records they asked to hear. They would flick through the album racks hunting for anything that might have been recorded by people with short hair.
Punk records were trickling out but mostly they had to be ordered. The waiting was delicious, second only to that bigger waiting for the end of school when they’d have money for all the records they wanted. If an order came in they’d all go round Phil’s to listen to it. If nothing arrived they’d move on to the Cadena cafe, where, with the exception of Kev, they’d smoke themselves yellow.
Danny and Christy went into the brick and timber shed. Inside, the smell of creosote and paraffin made Christy’s mouth water. He propped the bass guitar he’d been carrying against Phil’s amp. He placed a black bin liner next to it.
Phil and Danny had been playing together for six weeks. Six weeks of Phil chugging and crunching at the two movable chords he knew, groping optimistically up and down the neck of his guitar. Six weeks of Danny frowning, hammering, moving around his drum kit like somebody trying to kill a small quick animal.
Danny had plans for them. He always had plans. His constant leaning forward into the next good thing was visible in the strange headlong way he walked; as if he were living his life in italics. At their first practice ideas had rolled out of him. Within sentences a band was formed, signed up, and living in London.
It had been Phil’s idea to ask Christy and Kev to join the band. You couldn’t just leave people out, leave people behind. Danny was reluctant but the choices were few. Nearly everyone at school was into Genesis and Yes. Christy and Kev at least listened to the right records, at least listened to John Peel.
The plan was that Christy would play bass, using one borrowed from Phil’s brother Paul, and Kev would play keyboards. Danny had found a child’s Bontempi organ in the attic. Back before his dad went, Kev had piano lessons for a couple of months, to keep up with the neighbours.
As Christy’s eyes adjusted to the near-darkness a squirt of laughter shot from him which he tried to disguise as a sneeze. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Me kit.’ Danny stood at an old ironing board. In the middle of the board was an ancient snare drum. There were bristles on the skin of it. At one end of the board were two Quality Street tins padded with cardboard. At the other end was a partially dismantled typewriter with a small child’s xylophone taped to the carriage. The whole kit was held together with straps, nails and carpet tape. On the floor beside Danny was an upturned galvanised dustbin. There was no bass drum. When Phil had remarked on this Danny had confidently explained that a bass drum was just for show, somewhere to display the band’s name.
Christy looked at the kit, then looked at Danny. Danny looked back, as stony-faced as Buster Keaton. Christy said nothing. It was something that interested him; the way Danny would have a stupid idea and just front it out, daring anybody to take the piss.
‘Where you learn the drums?’ Christy asked.
‘Taught meself. I was in a band for a bit in Yeovil.’
‘Yeah? What were they called?’
‘Fucked if I remember,’ Danny mumbled.
Christy frowned. ‘How come?’
Danny straightened. ‘That was our name. Fucked If I Remember. I never chose it.’
Before he met Phil, Danny had never played the drums before in his life. He just felt like hitting things.
Danny stubbed a Benson on a flowered saucer. ‘I had to leave nearly all me proper kit behind when we left Yeovil.’
‘How come you moved to Portland?’ Christy asked.
‘Just did,’ Danny said. He made it sound like, ‘Shut up.’ The subject was closed.
After the accident he’d gone blank for a while. His hair came out in handfuls. Months later he still had bald patches the size of fifty pence pieces. There is a photo from when he started at Royal Manor. In it he is death white. His hair looks like an explosion.
His parents acted like something out of a nursery rhyme. One of them couldn’t leave the past alone, the other wouldn’t look at it. So between the two of them they decided to move.
His dad asked Chant for a transfer. Anywhere. They ended up on Portland. Danny was relieved to be somewhere where he had no history. He met Phil in his first term at Royal Manor. Christy and Kev sort of came with him.
‘How did you get on with the bass?’ Danny asked.
Christy looked at the guitar. ‘I don’t think I can hack it. I’ve been trying but it won’t sink in.’
Phil had spent hours trying to teach Christy the two songs he and Danny had written. Deep down Phil knew Christy wouldn’t get the hang of it as long as he had a hole in his arse. Christy practised in his room for hours, every good boy deserves, every good boy deserves, but it was no good. He had no sense of time. Playing music, he began to feel, was all about maths and confidence; he couldn’t do one and he didn’t have any of the other.
Danny kneeled down to light the paraffin heater. ‘What you going to do then, keep trying?’
Christy looked at his shoes, then at his hands. ‘I was saying to Phil. I had an idea.’ He reached over and pulled something from the bin liner on the floor.
‘What the fuck’s that supposed to be?’
Christy looked meaningfully at Danny’s drum kit. In his hand was a rectangular wooden tray. Screwed to the tray were three small transistor radios and two battered cassette players. His mum had come home from a Holy Ghost jumble sale one Saturday and presented him with a box of electrical leftovers she’d bought for fifty pence. While he was checking which pieces of junk worked, inspiration came to him from nowhere.
He plugged into the hot-smelling bakelite socket in the wall. A babble of speech and music spilled from the contraption. Christy hunched over it, retuning the radios, rewinding the squawking tapes, adjusting volume controls. Every time it seemed like he was finding a rhythm, making something like music, a blurt of noise would throw everything into another pattern.
Danny watched, his head on one side. Eventually he nodded. ‘It’s got potential. Give it a proper go when Phil and Kev turn up.’
He looked at his watch. He sat on a deck-chair in the corner of the shed. Christy perched on a hardened bag of cement. Danny looked at his watch again. He looked at Christy. ‘Any news about your sister?’
Christy coughed, surprised. ‘No.’
‘Phil told me. Said you don’t even know where she’s gone. What happened there then? Didn’t she get on with your mum and dad?’
‘It’s only me mum about.’
‘How come?’
Christy’s mouth twisted. He picked at the cement sack. ‘Me dad’s dead.’
Danny knew but he wouldn’t leave it. ‘Must’ve been pretty young. How come he died?’
Christy imagined kicking Danny in the mouth. ‘It was something to do with his heart.’ He shrugged.
Danny stared at Christy’s face. He blew two plumes of cigarette smoke from his nose.
Christy stood up. ‘Where do you reckon Kev’s got to?’
‘Changing the subject?’
Silence fell. The morning dripped by. The paraffin heater popped and whispered. Danny sat watching Christy. Christy stood chewing the skin at the side of his fingernails and trying to think of things to say.
When he was bored, Danny had a habit of holding his cigarette between his thumb and second finger, and tapping the burning end with the tip of his forefinger. Christy looked at the tip of Danny’s Benson.
‘What?’ Danny asked.
‘Nothing.’
Minutes passed. ‘Why are you so quiet Christy?’
‘Why am I so quiet?’
‘Yeah. Why don’t you talk to people, for fuck’s sake?’
Hate all the howsyourfather. Asking and asking and asking. Like being peeled. Mrs Davies the fat secretary in front of everybody. Just for the records, any one not got both Mum and Dad at home? Kev gives a nudge under the table. Feel the buckle on his sandals on the leg. Hand won’t go up. Lift it with the other one. She looks. Just for the records. Sarah says is diddums daddy deaded then? Ian all interested. How? Just did. How? Just did. Couldn’t’ve just did. Stupid.
By the air raid shelter the others are singing. Where’s your father where’s your father, where’s your father Christy Cross? Haven’t got one, never had one, you’re a bastard Christy Cross. Ask Mum when there’s nothing on the telly. Lips moving like she’s reading a book. It’s a rude word for someone who hasn’t got a dad.
Kev knows about the scraping out the fridges. And the Widowed Mothers Allowance. Queue for dinner. Him and Phil in front. Don’t see. Laughing. His mum gets widows’ memories allowance. Spends it all on sausages.
Christy exhaled. ‘No reason particularly.’
The back door of the house opened and closed. Danny looked out of the shed window and saw Phil. He stepped out and met him halfway up the garden. ‘You took your time didn’t you? I’ve been waiting with Christy. Like being stuck in a lift with a fucking deaf mute. And the twat says he can’t play.’
‘He told me on the phone.’
‘So why’s he bothered turning up?’
‘I said he could still join the band. He’s still a mate.’
‘Your mate.’
In the shed Phil explained his lateness. ‘I stopped off at that tailor’s to pick up me jeans. Them flares he was taking in. Weren’t ready so I waited.’
The stooping solo backstreet tailor apologised and smiled. He’d been getting behindhand. He didn’t know what was going on with the youngsters. Phil was the third person that week who’d brought in jeans to be narrowed.
‘No sign of Kev then?’ Phil asked.
‘No. Twat.’
‘Shall we give him a bit longer?’
‘No,’ Danny said. ‘If he can’t show up on time, fuck him.’ He picked up the Bontempi organ and placed it on the ironing board. He took up his drumsticks and played a roll around the kit, ending on the keys of the organ. ‘Right. Let’s make a fucking start.’

In Karen’s small, warm bed, in the house on Avalanche Road, Kev and Karen were making spoons, curled into each other like speech marks. Kev studied the swirl of brown hair at the nape of her neck. It made him think of a Walnut Whip. When he blinked he could hear his eyelashes scraping across the pillow. When she blinked he could hear hers.
Her dad was a plumber so they had central heating. It was warm enough to have the covers off. Her parents were away for the weekend but they would have let Kev stay over if she’d asked. He was a steady boy.
They had known each other since primary school. She used to come round his to play. He used to go round hers to play. Everybody thought he was daft, being proper friends with a girl. Since his dad left the friendship had become something else; the youth club, the pictures, the under 18s’ disco at Deja Vu. And now it had changed again, forever.
He’d tried to stop himself from wanting to do it, but that just made him want to do it more. And it was so lovely, even with the messes and the noises he hadn’t expected. It was something about the way sex made time stop. There was no planning and hoping or remembering and wondering. There was only the feeling of being in the middle of everything.
He waited for his cock to soften, then pulled on his Y-fronts and jumper. He went into the kitchen to make tea and toast. He stood looking out of the window while he waited for the kettle to boil. It was nice, this. Like a marriage. Like a home. The kettle whistled and the toaster coughed up another two slices. He loaded the tray and returned upstairs.
Karen was awake now, sitting up with her back against the headboard. She smiled at him, wiped sleep from her cheek. Kevin poured tea for her and placed the tray at her side. She drank and ate, grinning. A shred of marmalade fell and landed where the curve of her belly began. Kev picked it up and fed it to her.
‘Weren’t you supposed to be having your first practice with Phil’s group today?’
He hadn’t forgotten. ‘It wasn’t anything definite. I said I might be late. Anyway, I’d rather be here.’ He kissed her on the forehead.
‘Christy might be nervous. First practice and you not there.’
‘He’ll be alright.’
Her breakfast finished, Karen curled onto her side. Her eyelids bumped shut, once, twice, three times. Her mouth opened loosely.
Kev couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was pink and she was white and she liked him. Unbelievable. He leaned down to smell her. Her armpits had a faint tang like the curly shavings from a newly sharpened pencil. At the back of her knees were tiny veins which reminded him of a marble he’d had in the Infants. There were bumps like buttons all up her spine. Her body wasn’t beautiful all over but it was interesting everywhere. He wanted to wake up every morning forever next to someone like her. No. Not someone like her. Her. Just her. Her.
He imagined Phil and Christy and Danny, waiting for him in the cold shed. He knew it was a bit off to let them down but he wanted to stay where he was. He wanted to keep his good secret thing secret. They’d probably start without him anyway. Karen was waking up again.

Chapter 5

2004-07-27T11:56:00.000Z

CHRISTY
The first time I really felt wrong was soon after Clair went. Her and Mum never got on. But they got really bad in the summer of seventy six. That was a shitty, horrible summer, that. Baking hot non-stop. It was a dry hot but it still felt like there was a storm coming. But the storm never come then. It got swallowed and thrown up later.
The heat give me headaches. Felt like me brains were bursting. I used to lie with the sheets kicked off, hearing them two shouting.
I never understood it. It was like Clair was in a permanent strop. She hated it on the checkout but that couldn’t’ve been all of it. It scared me. The way you couldn’t work her out, couldn’t get a clue. Think I felt jealous of her a bit, being able to shout and go, and act like she didn’t deserve a shit time of it.
Don’t know why she went, but I was expecting it, her going. A bit after Christmas I heard her talking to her mate Deb. Deb worked in the caff up by the Bill. You could always smell cooking on her. She was humped over a bit because of her platforms. They come in from the pub. There was two lots of laughing then they went in the front room. My room was next to it. I turned the radio down so I could hear.
Deb said, ‘You heard back yet?’
Then Clair said, ‘Not yet. Only just got the form in. Got a good chance though. With the money it is.’
Deb said, ‘Blind school though. They’d want experience.’
‘Got experience living here. Nobody so blind as someone who won’t look.’
Then she shut the door. I couldn’t hear any more.
Not long after that she cheered up a bit. The rows stopped. Until the last one.
Couple of days before Easter I come home from school and there was a minicab parked out the front of the house. The bloke was stood by the car. He had on this brown and white zip up cardigan like the one I had. He was tapping his fingers on the roof of the car. His nails were black with shit. He seen me going in at the gate and said, ‘Tell her I’ve got the meter running son. She’s taking forever.’
The front door was wide open. Them two were in the hallway going mad at each other. Shouting and shouting. I can’t remember what they were shouting. I just stood there looking.
All down the stairs there was clothes on the floor. Clair started picking up the clothes and stuffing them into this green suitcase. Then she tried to shut it but the catch was broken. She was kneeling down saying, ‘Fucking thing. Fucking thing.’
Then they went quiet. Mum went in the kitchen and got some string. She give it to Clair. Clair tied up the case and stood up. She walked to the door. Mum stood there with her arms at her sides, lifting them then letting them drop, like a penguin.
Clair walked out. I followed after her, a bit behind. She speeded up when she seen I was following. I said to her, ‘Where you going?’
She said, ‘Off my fucking head!’
She got in the cab. The bloke didn’t need to say about the meter running; she couldn’t get away quick enough. He tutted and went, ‘Thank fuck for that,’ under his breath. I watched the black car leaving.
The way it looked to me, that was the last I was going to see of her. Mum must’ve thought she’d gone for good too because she never said anything when I moved into the upstairs room. I’d had enough of being downstairs, overhearing things.
I didn’t want to move Clair’s stuff out. I wanted to be in the middle of it all. Mum thought I was being daft. She got me to put it in the cupboard under the stairs. It nearly all went for jumble in the end.
I kept a couple of Clair’s things. To remember. When she went she took all the photos with her in them, as if she wanted it to be like she never happened. I kept her name badge from work plus a tube of her psoriasis cream. It smelt funny. When I was smaller I asked her what it was.
She said, ‘Vanishing cream.’
I said, ‘Is it?’
She said, ‘Fucking wish it was.’
I put the cream and the badge in the shoebox I had under me bed. I didn’t like looking in it but I wanted to have it there. Afraid of forgetting.
Before, I used to sneak things away to put in it. There was two photos. Used to like them till I found out. One of them had Mum and Dad standing in a field of grass. They were close enough for their shoulders to touch but they could’ve been in different pictures. Mum was at an angle to Dad, smiling and squinting into the distance, like she was trying to remember something.
Dad was stood with his shoulders sloped, as if he was under extra gravity. He was looking straight into the camera, frowning, like whoever had took the picture had just asked him a question he didn’t understand. His lips were a bit apart, like he wanted to say something but he couldn’t. That’s how I felt. His eyes and his nose were like mine.
In the other picture he was younger; late twenties or something. He was leaning on a gate, sleeves rolled up, pipe in his mouth, big grin. Behind him at the top of the photo there was this big thick bar of black cloud. It looked like it was going to come down on top of him. I wanted to reach into the picture and warn him.
There was this wooden hammer thing from his work. There was dents in it from when I used it to bang in a nail. Wish I hadn’t done that.
There was two of his records. One was Louis Armstrong singing ‘What A Wonderful World’. The label was black, the writing was silver. I hated it. I thought the words were stupid. I’d sit and look at it and try to imagine Dad listening to it and enjoying it. The other was an L.P, ‘The Man of La Mancha’. Most of it was bollocks but I liked ‘The Impossible Dream’; the words made you feel better.
Then there was Dad’s spare pair of glasses. I found them at the back of a drawer in the kitchen. I tried them on once but I didn’t like the feeling.
So I put Clair’s things in with that lot.
Near enough the first thing Mum said after Clair went was that we should have a holiday, me and her. She said, ‘We’re still a family after all.’
I didn’t know what she was on about. We hadn’t been away for years. It was like putting on an act.
She booked a weekend break at Butlin’s. We got the coach to Weston Super Mare. We were sat across the aisle from this bloke who kept farting. I read till I felt sick then I went to sleep.
The camp was set back from the prom. There was big Chinese-looking gates and this pink tarmac driveway called Welcome Boulevard. Looked like a big dirty tongue.
I got the first twinge when we walked in. It was crawling with people. All I could see was faces coming at me. They all looked the same. Me breath started catching. There was this rushing in me ears like being under water.
We checked in and found the chalet. Mum kicked her shoes off and lay on her bed reading the booklet they give you saying what’s on. There was a talent night on in the family bar. The booklet said it was a chance to meet new friends or some bollocks like that. I had a bath in the block near our chalet. The bath was all gritty on your arse.
Everything in the bar was either sticky or greasy; the glasses, the tables, the carpets everything. Up one end there was a bit of a stage. On it was two blokes in velvet jackets. One had on a bass, the other was sat behind an electric organ.
They nodded to each other and started playing ‘There’s No Business Like Showbusiness’. The compere bloke bounced up and took hold of the microphone. His hair was grey as a badger round the ears and brown everywhere else. We were a few tables back but I could still see his dandruff.
He told a few old jokes. Then he come down with the mic and chatted to a few people. I was dreading him coming near us. He stopped at the next table and talked to the two girls sat there. When he walked off one of them said to the other about how his breath stunk. Then there was a game of ‘Take Your Pick’. People took it in turns to pick envelopes that didn’t have a tenner in.
Then it was the talent competition. It was all teenage girls doing their Shirley Bassey bit and blokes in their forties slaughtering ‘Spanish Eyes’ and ‘Green Green Grass Of Home’ and that. It was depressing the way they threw themselves into it, like something was going to come of it.
All through it, the backing blokes looked like they had something sharp up their arses. Every time someone sung an off note the bassist pulled a face like he’d bitten into a bit of silver paper on a Kit-Kat.
This milkman won it. He was skinny and nervous-looking. He done ‘I Remember You.’ I looked at Mum. She was humming along and clapping time and smiling and bobbing her head. I slid down in me seat and hoped nobody was looking.

We went in for breakfast. The dining room was the size of a warehouse. We got shown where to sit. You had to sit in the same place the whole time. We were on the end of a table beside an old couple. Every now and then the woman smiled sideways at Mum. Mum’d smile back then look back down at her cornflakes. It was like the old woman was trying to think of something to say. Then the rumour reached our table and she didn’t need to.
People said it was a boy. That it was two blokes. That it was a woman who’d gone swimming nude. In the end the old couple asked the waiter. He dished out the kippers off this rack thing and leaned over to tell us. He said how a bloke and his grown up son had been walking back to their chalet the night before and the son had decided to have a swim in the outdoor pool. Both of them were pissed. The son had all his clothes on. He was in trouble straight off. The dad couldn’t swim. All he could do was stand there watching. The boy drowned.
I didn’t feel like eating after that. I sat there trying to imagine it. People loved it though. Give them something to talk about. The old woman next to us was having a good gas with the family on the other side. I heard her say how she wasn’t being funny but at least it broke the ice a bit.
I mooched around on Saturday morning. Mum come round with me, trailing a couple of feet behind. She said she didn’t mind just watching. We went in the games room. Everything was being used apart from a couple of the dart boards. She wanted a go at playing darts. Two turns in a row she missed with all three darts. I stood there itching and feeling hot. There was blokes with their sons all looking and grinning. She smiled and shrugged and bent down and picked up the darts.
There was free films in the afternoon so she went to one of them. I went on the chairoplane. Other people screamed, but I couldn’t feel anything. I went out the camp and sat on the beach till teatime come. The sea was so far out it was like a line between the sand and the sky. The beach was mud. There was a smell coming off it like chicken gone off.
Teatime, the old couple tried to talk to us again. They said I looked eighteen. Said I had really long fingers like I played the piano. They didn’t mean any of it. They just couldn’t think of anything to say to us. There was a proper family the other side. Bit by bit they started talking to them more.
Saturday night Mum went dancing in the ballroom. Before she went she give me some two pences to play the machines. I went down the arcade and played pinball. A kid my age come and stood by the machine, watching. I looked at him a couple of times and he went away.
Sunday was more of the same till after tea. Then whatever happened, happened. We were walking back from the dining room so we could get packed. Seemed like there was hundreds of people come out of nowhere, coming towards us. Felt like I was going to get swallowed up, lost in all them people.
Jellybean taught us in Biology about how everybody’s eighty per cent water. I used to wonder why you didn’t dissolve when you got in the sea. That was what the feeling was like then, like I was going to get dissolved.
The faces were coming at me again. All smiling. Eyes dead like fish. There was sweat all down me back. Me legs were shaking and going bandy. Me head was hammering, felt like it was swelling up. Don’t know what it was.
I run for it, off the Boulevard and across the grass. I didn’t even look back. I heard Mum call after me. I kept running, all through the chalets, round the edge of the camp till I was buckled over. I lay face down on the grass getting me breath back.
After a bit I walked back to the chalet. Mum was in there packing. I never said anything to her about it. And she never said anything to me.

Chapter 4

2004-07-20T13:02:00.000Z

DANNY
For a long time I wouldn’t even think about it. But I’ve thought about it since I’ve been here; thought about it until there isn’t anything more to think. It wasn’t my fault I don’t reckon.
It was the school holidays, Easter 1976. We were living in Yeovil. Mum and Dad were at work and I was looking after Kathy. I’d just done us both scrambled eggs and bacon for lunch. She was sat on the kitchen floor looking at a book, flapping the pages backwards and forwards. I was dossing about drinking tea and reading the Mirror.
I’d run out of cigs and I was gasping. Kath was good for seven. I’d smoked in the house before when it was just me and her there and you could trust her not to grass you up. Not even by accident.
So I got her to put her shoes on and we headed up the shop for twenty Craven A. We got to the cross-roads and went over to the shop. I got the fags, and a Twix to split with Kath. We came out and were stood at the kerb waiting to cross. Then it all started happening. The traffic wasn’t even that bad. It must’ve been quick but when I remember it, it goes on forever. I heard the bell on the shop door go. Ray called out that he’d short-changed me so I started walking back towards the shop. I was pulling Kath with me. I still had hold of her hand; I know that for a fact.
Then this noise burst behind me like a house falling down. I looked round and there’s this lorry. I still had hold of Kath’s hand. The back end of the lorry flipped round by about three foot.
I tried to pull Kath out the way but I was too slow.
It looked like it barely clipped her. Threw her yards though. I had her hand held tight in me fist, but when she got hit her hand just slipped away, dry and smooth like there was talc on it or something.
She went up and forward. I started running, fast as I could, like I was going to catch her and she’d be alright. But when she hit the ground I knew that was it. She was bent up all wrong. The driver never stopped. They never caught the cunt.

Chapter 3

2004-07-13T11:54:00.000Z

KEVIN
It came as quite a shock to the system, it really did. I didn’t see it coming. They made me not expect it. And it wasn’t just me. Phil said later that nobody would’ve thought it of my mum and dad because they were so steady and careful. We were the sort of family that just plods along quite nicely.
Mum and Dad had always been the quiet kind so I didn’t notice any atmospheres or anything like that to begin with. I say quiet, of course they talked to each other but mostly it was day to day things. It used to be nice, sitting in the kitchen listening to the same conversations coming round again. Comfortable. Like the way the front gate always squeaked, or the way Dad always wound his watch after tea.
You never used to hear a raised voice in our house. Even with me when I was little, I never needed a ticking off. Then when I was in the fourth year they started going out separately. They’d never gone out much before and when they did it was always together; parents’ evenings, the Christmas social with Dad’s work.
Dad was first. I don’t know for certain where he used to go, but he was out a lot, and he always took the car. Then Mum started going out to loads of church things. Just to get even, Dad said later.
Then the arguments started. Once Mum smashed all the plates in the house; just stood there smashing them on the floor, one after the other. Afterwards they sent me out for fish and chips.
Around then was the only time I ever heard Dad swear. They were arguing because Dad had come home late and left the cheese out of the fridge all night. Terrible the things he shouted at Mum. I went to my room and put a pillow over my head.
At the start of that really scorching summer things seemed to be getting better because they started going out together once a week. I thought they must be off somewhere nice because they always went out done up quite smart. It turned out later they were going down the Marriage Guidance.
One day towards the end of summer term I came home and found Mum in the lounge, having a bit of a cry. She told me Dad had left. Gone to Bristol with the Saturday girl, Elaine. Just like that. It knocked me for six to be honest. Out of the blue like that.
Nothing was the same after. One minute we didn’t know anybody who’d have that sort of thing happen, then suddenly we were those sort of people. Mum got herself a little job at the sorting office. She could’ve done better for herself really. A shop job or something.
All the way along nobody sat me down and explained anything. All the time things were going wrong I wanted there to be something I could do to fix things. I’ve tried not to dwell on it all. Doesn’t bear thinking about.

Chapter 2

2004-07-07T07:51:00.000Z

CHRISTY
I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t take it in. It knocked everything out of me. Scared me rigid. Couldn’t speak to save me life. I put the papers back in the box, shut the lid and sat on top of it like I was trying to stop it from ever opening again.
I ran to the bog. Felt like I’d swallowed something rotten. I leaned over the toilet breathing in Harpic and heaving, but I couldn’t make it get out of me.
I took the spare Yale off the hook and slipped out the house. Walked up through Fortuneswell, scraping the yellow key up the side of every parked car I went past. Started pissing with rain; sheets of it. Me eyes stung but I kept walking, out to the end of the island. Think I had to get to where it happened.
All while I was walking there was this weight inside me like something black and wet and dead.
I got to the Bill and climbed down onto the big ledge behind Pulpit Rock. I sat with me legs hanging down over the edge. I looked down at the sea and the rocks and the waves, me clothes getting soaked with the spray and the rain. Then me guts come up all hot and sour in a big blurt. I sat there on me own with me jeans covered in sick. Two hundred yards behind me the Pulpit Inn was kicking out.
Don’t know when it happened. Can’t get it in time. It’s a mystery. Most things, you can work out when they happened because they’ve got some sort of
sense, because one thing leads to another. Not this.
That’s when I started going out wandering. After Mum and Clair had gone to bed I’d let meself out of the house. I’d drift round the island like I was looking for something. I’d walk past all the houses with their front rooms blue like fish-tanks from the light of the telly. But I always ended up at the Bill, back in the same place. I’d stand on the edge of the land looking out to the sea. And nobody knew I was there.

Chapter 1

2004-06-28T07:06:00.000Z

WILLSON
Call me Willson. I’m just this bloke but I suppose I’m in charge. I’m the one who was always there. I’m the one who doesn’t act like nothing happened. Here I am, still, trying to write the unrightable wrong, to right the unwriteable wrong. Here I am, trying to move beyond the father-tongue and the mother-tongue, beyond the imagined voice that judges harshly, and the voice that can’t even try to explain.
In front of me is a box of index cards covered in names, numbers and tiny scratchy annotations. Behind me are shelves full of other people’s books. I’ve read first novels by the dozen. Even the ones that come close don’t come close enough. Half of them you could sum up in a sentence; I’m a very special person, allow me to explain. Some people write about the start they had as if aspects of that life aren’t good enough for them. But what if aspects of that life aren’t good enough for anyone? And what if you don’t just want to write about the brainy ones, the horny ones, the funny ones? What if you don’t want to translate everything into the language of escape?
Apparently I’m supposed to set the scene; create a sense of place. So; Portland then, is shaped like some obscure cut of offal. It’s tethered off the Dorset coast just next to the town of Weymouth, where the plague first entered Britain and where Charles III was immersed in the sea as a cure for madness. The islanders refer to the island as the island and the rest of the world as outside. But Portland’s only an almost island, a cross between a peninsula and a cul-de-sac, you get to the end and there’s nowhere to go but back. I’m looking at a map of Portland now. It’s on the wall next to a cartoon where a man’s saying ‘Remember, being an artist is largely a matter of total commitment to an activity which everyone else thinks is a complete waste of time.’
In that first edition of Milk, Milk, Lemonade, Ed wrote that until the Eighteenth Century there was no word in the English language for the concept of boredom. Then, he claimed, some explorers discovered Portland, and everyone agreed such a word was needed. The largest village on the island is Fortuneswell, a grid of narrow terraced boxes, so packed together that it’s impossible to escape the feeling of being overlooked. These boxes are built from the famous local limestone. This stone, the colour of dry dog-shit, is a source of great pride to the islanders. They boast of the fact that St Paul’s Cathedral and other fine buildings are made from it. They miss the point. It’s the architecture that counts, making the out of the ordinary out of the ordinary, the thing chosen out of the thing given.
This place was home to my boys; Danny Sharky the bookmaker’s son, chicken Kev, the sheep of the family. And Christy; precious son of my floundering imagination, floundering son of my precious imagination. This is the place I’ll recreate, in sufficient detail that if in a hundred years time it’s completely destroyed, people will understand why.
Creating a sense of time is another requirement. At the point in question it had been just after the War for over thirty years. Children in primary school playgrounds still sang about Hitler only having one ball.
Punk was happening. Contrary to myth it was nothing to do with having no future, and everything to do with leaning forward into the future, the time when good things would be possible, sometime soon, soonish, sooner or later, later, maybe. Nobody raises their own expectations; someone has to give you a clue. For some people punk was that clue. It was a chance to think about something different, is a chance for me to talk about something different. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. We made our own entertainment in those days. Etcetera.
When do I mean exactly? Say from 1976 to, perhaps, the end of 1978 when the whole Pistols thing had turned into a massive punch up between some accountants. Or later maybe. Hard to know where anything begins and ends.
People wax nostalgic about punk now. But I’ve been spared the temptations of nostalgia. What I haven’t been spared is the cause of nostalgia, the view of the flatlands ahead.
Anyway, that’s enough of that sort of stuff to be going on with. Here I am then, old enough to be my own parents, a know it all, know nothing narrator. I’m ready to dive in and make a beginning, so here I go, making stuff up and remembering things.