He shouldn’t have been driving at all. Long weeks of emotional stress and a night of dossing down on a grubby bedsit floor had taken a toll on him. He was a strung out wreck with the reflexes of a blancmange. He wasn’t fit to pilot a pushbike, let alone be behind the wheel of a potentially lethal weapon, a stolen one at that. As well as not owning the orange, he didn’t own the car it came partnered with either.
Oh dear God in heaven! Phin leaned forward yet again covering his face with his hands, his hair flopping forwards. What had he done? What had he done? His heart pounded echoing a throbbing refrain in his skull. This was an all time low even for him. He wasn’t a kid any more for Christ’s sake. He was supposed to know better. He was supposed to think before acting.
Andy Blakelock. The name popped into Phin’s mind. Andy fucking Blakelock! This whole thing was his fault, the treacherous bastard. If only he hadn’t met up with him. If only he’d gone home yesterday instead of going to Andy’s place and staying over.
After waking up late and shaking off the remnants of a heavy night on the booze, Phin discovered he’d been robbed. His so-called friend had pissed off with his mobile phone, his wallet and credit cards, and that wasn’t the worst of it. Andy had also taken his beautiful state of the art (ransomed his soul to pay for it) motorbike.
Being robbed by Andy was bad enough, but the icing on the toxic cake was yet to come. The scumbag forgot to mention that the rent on his grotty little bedsit was overdue by some six months, and the landlord had scheduled to call and collect that very morning. In lieu of the preferred hard cash he was prepared to take payment in blood, apparently regardless of whether or not it belonged to Andy. In the landlord’s view Phin being in the flat was tantamount to a contract of residency between them, and no one lived rent-free on his premises.
Phin had opted to take his chances on the rusty life-endangering fire escape rather than try and reason with the terrifying landlord and his Neanderthal mates. He was streetwise enough to know that men who were using homemade weapons to break down a door were unlikely to be in the mood for calm discussion. They wanted money or blood. He didn’t have money, but he had plenty of blood. He didn’t fancy losing a few pints of it.
He made a hasty exit, finding himself on the street with nothing but a headache to call his own. He hadn’t even had time to shove his feet into his trainers, another reason why driving was inadvisable, but by then his common sense had gone on a long holiday abroad, leaving no contact address.
The car was there, parked on the road in front of him. The next thing he knew he was inside it and performing a trick he hadn’t performed in some considerable time. Like riding a bike hot-wiring a car is something that once learned is never forgotten. Once a twocker always a twocker. Phin performed the deed with frightening ease and speed. Perhaps even more frightening - he got a kick out of doing it. Despite the circumstances he had experienced a full-scale adrenaline fix. Even the memory of it brought a flicker of renewed excitement, a pleasurable tightening in his balls and a sense of triumph.
Phin chewed his lower lip, ashamed of his reaction. He’d thought he was a different person these days, but he wasn’t. He was the same dickhead he’d always been. He might have learned to moderate certain aspects of his behaviour, but he hadn’t conquered the impulses behind them. It proved the old adage about leopards not being able to change their spots. At best they can camouflage them under heavy makeup, but in the end nature will out.
His main plan had been to escape from Ugg and friends. Other than that he had no real idea of destination. Some vague notion of finding Andy was flitting through the reactive grey matter posing as his brain, but he had no clue as to where he might be. Where he should have gone was home, to Adam, to talk things out. It would have been the adult thing to do.
However, being an adult doesn’t necessarily mean you make the right choices in every given situation. Making choices suggests being involved in some sort of rational cognitive process. Phin wasn’t. Rational thought was about as far from his brain as the moon from earth. He was in the grip of a chain reaction situation, driven not by reasoned thought, but by pure emotion. He wasn’t thinking in any sense of the word. He was in deep crisis and acting on impulse. He’d been in crisis for weeks. It had peaked the day before when he ran out on Adam after telling him he hated him.
Phin pushed a dirty hand through his dirty hair. It had been a shitty thing to say and do, especially in the circumstances.
Andy was the first person he’d encountered in the aftermath. His offer of a few beers at his place and a sympathetic shoulder to metaphorically cry on had seemed like providence at the time. It had been providence all right, but not in a good way. Andy had never been good news. All he had ever gotten from associations with him was grief. Accepting his offer had been another step in the pattern of self-destructive behaviour he’d slipped into with frightening ease. It was his nature - once a dickhead always a dickhead.
Phin blinked away tears. He could see the situation for what it was now, a test of personal strength. He’d failed. His chest tightened and he suddenly felt as if he were floundering in the deep end of the baths without a handrail in sight and the lifeguard on a coffee break. He was drowning, not waving.
The grey haired policeman who was in the process of interviewing him came back into the room. Putting the brakes on escalating self-pity, Phin stood up. He cleared his throat. “How is he? Is he badly injured?”
2. Outcome
“Sit down, son.” The policeman put his notebook on the table. There’ll be plenty of time to stand on ceremony, but this isn’t one of them.”
Phin stubbornly remained standing. “Please, tell me how he is? How bad are his injuries?”
“Let’s just say you’re a most fortunate man. The outcome could have been much worse.” The policeman, his face grim, folded his arms and looked at Phin. “You realise you might well have been facing manslaughter charges today?”
Phin swallowed hard, truly appalled by the consequences of his thoughtless, bad tempered action. “Yes, believe me, I’m so very sorry. I didn’t mean it to happen. It was a terrible accident. Tell me how is he, please? Is he going to be all right?”
The policeman’s expression changed, becoming a modicum less grim in the face of what he recognised as genuine remorse. The young man before him looked to be on the verge of tears and was visibly shaking. He imparted what information he knew.
“The hospital said he won’t be chewing toffees for a while, certainly not until he gets a new set of dentures. And he probably won’t want to watch many sitcoms, not with a cracked rib and a split lip. The consequences of laughing will be too painful. Apart from that he’s shaken and bruised. All in all he’s a remarkably lucky man. He’ll be sent home later today.”
Phin sat down, relief flooding his body, turning his knees to water. He leaned his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. What the fucking hell had possessed him to chuck an orange out of the window of a car travelling at forty-five miles per hour, thereby upgrading its status from harmless fruit to deadly missile. Some poor old guy on a moped, happily tootling along minding his own business had copped it full in the face. The old guy’s scooter speed combined with Phin’s car speed meant the orange hit him like a demolition ball, lifting him from his bike and sending him skidding along the road surface.
God was smiling on the moped rider. The car travelling a respectable distance behind him had a driver with good reflexes and sound brakes.
Phin had been so horrified by the scene unfolding in his rear view mirror that he lost control of his borrowed car and ended up in a roadside ditch. Trembling with shock he had scrambled free just seconds before the bloody thing exploded and erupted into flames. A rueful thought crept into his mind. He’d never managed to nick a half-decent roadworthy car, though in this case perhaps it was all to the good. Despite his best efforts he hadn’t managed to push the vehicle beyond forty-five miles an hour. If he had the orange would have been empow
ered with even greater velocity. It didn’t bear thinking about.
He had flung himself down beside the dazed moped rider, babbling heartfelt apologies, as the other motorist used his mobile to alert the emergency services. The old guy’s half visor helmet had offered scant protection to his lower jaw. There was blood pouring from his mouth where the orange had hit him.
It gave Phin no pleasure to realise he’d reversed all medical opinion as to the health giving properties of vitamin C, by reckless use of a citrus fruit.
The police officer got down to the business of investigating why Phin had taken a vehicle without the consent of its owner and driven it barefoot before causing an accident and a roadside conflagration with it.
He gazed at Phin, saying sternly. “I’ve heard of burning rubber, son, but burning the entire ruddy car as well a farmer’s hedge and several yards of municipal tarmac is taking things a bit too far in my view.” He suddenly paused, cocking his head to one side, studying Phin thoughtfully. “Haven’t I seen you before, on the telly?”
Phin quickly shook his head, unwilling to lower the officer’s opinion of him still further by admitting to being the local lunatic filmed breaking the speed limit in a TV documentary that seemed to be repeated more often than episodes of Only Fools And Horses. Instead he uttered his millionth apology of the day. He couldn’t help adding that it seemed a bit unfair to be made responsible for the fact that underneath its shiny exterior the car he’d pinched was a heap of scrap yard junk.
“That, sir,” said the policeman severely, “is quite beside the point.”
“Yes. Sorry.” Phin flushed and lapsed into a guilty silence. He had never intended to keep the car. He had planned to return it with a note of apology and any damage done by his unorthodox starting methods put right, just as soon as he had caught up with Andy and got his money, bike and credit cards back. He explained as much to the policeman, and got short shrift.
“Listen, son. Stealing someone else’s property because someone had stolen yours doesn’t make anything right. The circumstances are immaterial. You did wrong, plain and simple.”
Phin knew a vicar’s son who would share the policeman’s view. He suddenly wanted him so much it hurt. “May I make a phone call, please?” He gazed an appeal at his interrogator. “I need to contact my partner. I didn’t go home last night. He’ll be worried about me.”
The policeman nodded. “There’s a phone in the check in area. I’ll escort you.”
***
“Ad.” Phin moistened his lips, speaking huskily into the mouthpiece of the phone. “It’s me.”
“Phin, baby, where the hell are you?”
The relief in Adam’s voice was so tangible that Phin was wracked with even deeper guilt. He’d been a self-centred, thoughtless shit, so engrossed with his own pathetic feelings that he hadn’t given a moment of consideration to Adam’s. He almost burst into tears, but managed to keep control by being abrupt. He gave the cold, bare outline of where he was, and why. A part of him almost expected Adam to hang up on him in disgust. He didn’t.
“I’m on my way, love.”
Phin put the phone down and was escorted back to the interview room. When questioning was over he was put in a holding cell to await news of whether the victim intended to press assault charges against him.
Lying down on the cell’s narrow bunk, Phin closed his eyes, while wishing he could also close his ears to shut out the racket from the bloke in the next cell along. He was demanding his human rights be recognised and a chocolate doughnut be brought with the cup of tea he had humanely laid claim to moments earlier. Curling on his side he allowed his mind to reflect on the events of the day before.
3. Riding With The Wind
It was a perfect day with a high blue sky. The early autumn sun was mellow, casting a creamy magnolia glow as if gradually turning down in preparation for winter. The wind was light, pushing gently through weather dry grasses.
The music struck up and taking a deep breath Phin began to sing a ballad version of a Jimi Hendrix song called ‘Little Wing.’ Keeping his voice steady he sang about fairy tales and moonbeams and about a girl who only ever thought about riding with the wind.
All went well until he reached a point in the song where the girl in question, a girl of a thousand smiles, says it’s all right you can take anything you ever want from me. That had been Nina, generous and giving. His voice had almost broken, but somehow he kept control. With eyes tight closed he lifted his chin and sang on. The words floated on the breeze, which only moments earlier had borne away the cremated remains of a woman he had loved.
He didn’t want to sing. He wanted to shout his rage, hurt and guilt, but he sang for Nina, collecting from the tangled mass of emotions besieging him all the love he felt for her, even though he was bitter to the point of sickness. He sang the closing line of the song and fell silent, letting the musicians finish their job.
The beautiful lyrics of the Hendrix song held a kind of truth with regard to Nina. She had lived for what she called riding with the wind. At every opportunity she and her partner Avril would launch themselves from the top of St. Leonard’s Hill, indulging their shared passion for paragliding and hang gliding with the club they were members of. When they were in the air they said they felt free and unburdened. Phin understood. He felt the same when he was speeding along on his bike with the wind rushing joyfully past his ears.
The last notes of music died away leaving only the hum of the wind and a soft sigh of tears from the assembled gathering of Nina and Avril’s many friends. Phin’s tears remained unshed. It was perhaps selfish, but he had no desire to share them with anyone. They were his alone.
“Thank you. Thank you for singing ‘Little Wing’ so beautifully. Nina loved it so much and she loved to hear you sing.” Avril, her face white and strained, reached out a hand to touch Phin’s face. “She...”
Phin backed away from the touch, shaking his head, pleading. “No, Avril. Don’t say anything more. Don’t tell me she’s in a better place, or that she’s at peace. I don’t want to hear it. All I know is she’s gone. I’ll never see her again, or hear her voice. I hate her for going where I can never reach her.” His voice cracked on the childish declaration, but he still managed to keep the dam holding back his grief intact.
“Let it go, Phin,” said a soft voice. “It’s all right.”
“No. Get off me.” Phin struck angrily at Adam’s hands, determined not to let him comfort him, not after what he’d done. “It’s not all right. Nothing is right. Nina dying isn’t right.” He caught a movement from the corner of his eye. Whirling around he shouted. “HER being here. It’s not right. Fuck off, Adam! Leave me alone. I hate you.”
St. Leonard’s Hill was high and steep, but Phin ran down it without effort, fuelled by resentment and choking grief. The breeze wrapped around him as if trying to hold him back, but he refused to be restrained by it. He refused to be controlled by anything but anger.
4. Grasping Nettles
Yes. Turning over on the bunk, Phin stared at the cold blue wall of the cell. Nina had died, his beloved aunt Nina who had always told him life was there to be grasped, even though sometimes all you got was a handful of nettles. She would then give a smiling shrug, saying, ‘but we all have to hurt a little sometimes, my love. No one gets through life without a few stings and scratches.’
Nina had grasped her own particular handful of nettles with enormous courage and dignity. In her case their final sting was a vengeful return of the cancer she thought she had beaten some years earlier. Six weeks after breaking the news of its return she was dead. He was still struggling to take it in, not least because he had recently been given the all clear from a cancer similar to that which had taken her. He was wracked with guilt at surviving when she hadn’t, and terrified in case his returned to claim him in similar fashion. His doctors had assured him it was highly unlikely. Doctors were not always right.
Poor Nina. She had loved life so much, and now she
was dead.
Thoughts of Nina inevitably lead to thoughts of his parents, especially his mother. Phin scowled at the cell wall, his anger bubbling up yet again. He had loved Nina more than he would ever again love the woman who called herself his mother. She, along with his father, had rejected him when he inconvenienced them by being a difficult teenager. Coming out as gay had eased his spirit, or at least it should have done. It was the final straw for his parents.
“Gay!”
His father had spat the G word from his mouth like bitter aloes.
“I don’t want this getting out. It could undermine my position in the Company.”
The curl of his father’s lip, the contempt in his eyes and the shocked dismay in his mother’s eyes would remain with Phin until the end of his time on earth. It killed all sense of self-worth in him.
He fled the house that day and never went back. He sought refuge with another outcast, the Voldermort in the family cupboard, a fellow deviant whose name was never to be spoken.
His aunt Nina had lived openly with her partner Avril for almost fifteen years. Despite knowing Phin only as a rumour down the family grapevine (they were still waiting for the birth confirmation and invite to the christening to arrive) they took him in. They gave him more warmth and understanding than the respectable, cold-hearted, closed-minded people who had borne him. He had been grateful and grew to love them both.
They stuck by him through the turbulent years it took to come fully to terms with his sexuality and with his parents’ rejection of it, and of him.
Burdens & Riding With The Wind Page 4