by cass green
I shouldn’t forget this woman’s son terrorized my wife, I told myself. There are plenty of mothers like that: refusing to acknowledge they’ve given birth to a monster.
The fact that we still hadn’t spoken about Anya’s revelation pressed down on me and I found myself impatient for her to get up again and come downstairs.
Another half hour or so later I heard the thump and gurgle of the water pipes that signified she was taking a shower.
After a little while she came into the kitchen, wearing just my tatty Breaking Bad T-shirt. It was too big for me and came down to the top of her thighs. Her wet hair was in a ponytail high on her head and her face looked scrubbed and fresh.
A wholly inappropriate bolt of desire shot through me, so much so that I had to turn back to the stove and make myself concentrate on stirring for a moment or two. I realized then how much I had missed her. I missed the smell of her, the feel of her skin, her voice. The last weeks had been so strange, it felt like all we had done lately was dodge incoming missiles.
‘Can you manage a bit of soup?’ I said.
She came up behind me on silent feet, taking me by surprise, then wrapped her arms around my waist and held on tightly, leaning her head against my back. I could feel her breasts soft against one and I closed my eyes for a moment. Then, to my surprised pleasure, her hand snaked down and began to undo my zip.
‘Ah, you noticed then,’ I said in a slightly strangled voice, but she shushed me as she took me in her cool, soft hand, making me gasp.
I turned, dropping the wooden spoon into the soup pan and taking hold of her face, hungrily finding her lips.
‘Are you sure you’re well enough?’ But it was a moot point because she was leading me towards the edge of the kitchen table, where she jumped up and then pulled me into her.
Even the smell of burning soup wasn’t a deterrent and for the next few minutes we were lost.
Afterwards she rested her forehead against mine and we both started laughing.
‘I’ve missed you,’ she said.
‘I’ve missed you too,’ I said.
I was happy that she accepted a bowl of soup and we sat together in the kitchen and began to eat. It was dusk now. I had put on just the under-lights of the cupboards, so the room felt cosy.
‘I was scared when you didn’t come home last night,’ she said, her head lowered towards her bowl. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’
I reached over and grabbed hold of her hand. When she looked up at me I expected to see that she was tearful again but her eyes were dry.
‘It was just a shock, Anya,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t understand why you hadn’t told me any of this. It …’ I shrugged and ate another spoonful of soup. ‘Well, it hurt, to be honest. I felt really excluded. That you didn’t trust me.’
Her spoon clanged in the bowl as she dropped it.
‘It was not that I didn’t trust you,’ she said. ‘You have to believe that.’ She seemed to suck in her breath, and her eyes lowered. Then she met mine.
‘It’s just …’ she said. ‘That family … honestly. There is something seriously wrong with all of them. I didn’t tell you this, but the guy …’ she hesitated, and then the words came out all in a rush ‘… the one I had a fling with, Michael’s brother … Liam, he was obsessive too. I think they’re all fucking nuts. I don’t know where he is now, but I never want to see him again. The very thought makes my skin crawl.’
‘Right,’ I said.
There was a drawn-out, uncomfortable pause.
Anya leaned across the table and put her hand over mine, her eyes intense.
‘Nuts, the lot of them.’ She paused and then made a face. ‘I wish he hadn’t died like that, Ell, but I’ve got to tell you I’m relieved those horrible people are out of my life now.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Let’s hope they are.’
SPRING 2003
LIAM
He’s not really in the mood tonight. But he has certain obligations.
Liam takes one last glance at the mirror and lets out a sigh. He looks exhausted. Who could guess just how tiring it was being bored out of your skull all day?
He is on a training scheme in the Robert Sayle, working in the hi-fi and television department, and it feels like every day a small piece of him is dying. Everyone is in a state about the whole shop moving site next year and Liam has to pretend to be interested. As if he will still be doing this next year! He’s only there to keep the government off his back because he’s beyond the period in which he can claim benefits.
Liam pockets a small wodge of plastic baggies, his wallet and his silver iPod. Michael can’t seem to shut up about the latter. If he’s not going on about him destroying his hearing, he’s making snide little comments about how Liam can afford ‘tech like that’ when he’s on a training scheme that pays sixty quid a week.
He doesn’t understand anything, not really. But Liam knows his brother can be like a Jack Russell when it comes to sniffing out information. Dad has been giving him some looks lately too, but Liam is all about avoiding conflict right now. It won’t be long until he has enough cash to move out of this claustrophobic house, with its air fresheners, its doilies and the constant questions about what he’s doing, where he’s going, what he’s fucking thinking.
His family would never understand how low-level this is. He’s such a small cog in a very big wheel and he’s only going to do this for long enough to get a bit of cash behind him. Then it will be white sand and turquoise sea.
Thailand, he thinks. He’s always wanted to go there.
Liam thumbs the wheel to click on the White Stripes. ‘Seven Nation Army’ begins to thump in his ears, and he feels the music filling his bloodstream. Unlike his clients (that word gives him a tiny buzz), he doesn’t need chemical help to enjoy a good tune on a night out. But thank God for the ones who do, the Jessicas and the Henrys, who have basically been imprisoned by their pushy parents until now, when they’re given this intoxicating new freedom.
Liam has worked hard at carving his niche. Generally, the student body keeps its drug use within its privileged walls, with the students themselves dealing the odd bit here and there. Since that girl died, literally frothing at the mouth, at the Junction a couple of years back, some of the colleges have been taking more notice. The press made a lot of the nastiness of how she died. That was a bad business, but the stuff she took was one and a half times the normal strength. Liam is careful.
He knows how to strike the right note between offering these twats a walk on what they see as the wild side, and offering reassurance, telling them that this stuff isn’t cut with any of the ‘rubbish’ you get from other sources. He also knows students tend to like powder too, so has become adept at crushing pills. Won’t be long until it’s coke they’ll be hoovering up like snow ploughs once they start working in their City jobs. But Liam doesn’t deal coke that often.
He’s almost out the front door when he feels a hand on his arm.
He yanks out his earphones and sighs.
‘What is it? I’m going out.’
His dad is in his customary eveningwear of vest, trackie bottoms and glowering eyebrows.
‘Didn’t you hear your mum calling just now?’ he says.
‘Looks like I didn’t.’
A muscle twitches in his father’s cheek. He prides himself on being some sort of tower of patience, but really, he’s always on a rolling boil.
‘Well,’ his father says with exaggerated patience, ‘she wanted to know if you would like some apple crumble. She shouted about ten times.’
Liam can sense that Mum is hovering just inside the kitchen door; not wanting to inflame a situation but eager to be involved.
‘Tell you what, Ma,’ he says, loudly, ‘will you save me a bit for later? I’ll have it when I get back tonight.’
‘Okay, lovey,’ he hears from the kitchen and he gives Dad a look that says, ‘See? No biggie.’ He knows Mum doesn’t mind being ‘Ma’ but for some reason i
t irritates his father.
‘So where are you going tonight?’ Getting to the point at last.
‘I’m almost twenty years old, Dad,’ Liam says as pleasantly as he can. ‘See you.’
He pulls open the front door and walks out to the strains of a familiar tune. It’s the one that goes, ‘While you’re living under our roof, you play by our rules,’ and Liam hasn’t got the time for it.
It’s one am and the Junction is heaving. Liam downs half a pint of lager and scans the dance floor. It’s packed with bodies, dancing and writhing to the music – currently Oscar G. & Ralph Falcon, ‘Dark Beat’ – and his gaze lands on a girl, whose boyfriend he served earlier.
The bloke – a posh dickhead with swept back hair and a big nose – had bought a baggie from him after asking in a way so awkward and comical that Liam had almost kept it going just for the laughs. Now he watches said dickhead being comprehensively ignored by the very hot red-haired girl and wonders whether maybe he isn’t the boyfriend at all.
Liam doesn’t usually dance – too sweaty – but as this girl throws back her head, exposing a pale, slim neck, Liam gets a mental picture of biting her there, just gently, enough to make her squirm, and feels a stirring.
She’s wearing a baggy vest top with the Joy Division Unknown Pleasures image on it and a pair of shorts. Her red bra is visible through the arm holes of the top and she weaves her slim arms in the air, twisting and turning them.
Sweat gleams on her skin and Liam finds himself hoping she has been drinking water, then laughs inwardly. Fine dealer he’s going to be, if he starts thinking like his mum about his clients.
Still, maybe this will be a way of talking to her.
Armed with a bottle of mineral water, he makes his way down onto the dance floor until he is next to where the girl and Lord Chumpington are dancing. She is ignoring the other guy, who seems to be looking at her in much the same way a Labrador eyes someone’s dinner.
Liam hovers, moving slowly to the music and avoiding looking at the girl until he is aware she is turning his way. Her eyes are open and glassy and he grins, then holds out the bottle, removing the lid first.
She takes it and has a long drink, throat muscles working, her neck shimmering with the lights bouncing around the dance floor. Handing it back, she gives him a cheeky smile and says, ‘Well. Aren’t you pretty?’
AUTUMN 2018
ELLIOTT
We moved into the living room and curled up to watch some telly after that, both exhausted by the traumas of our respective days.
I couldn’t concentrate, though. I was staring at our latest crime drama obsession but completely unable to take in what was happening. So many things were going through my mind. That woman earlier – her whole body radiating a sort of hopeless grief – didn’t seem mad or obsessed to me. The truth was, she reminded me uncomfortably of Mrs Mack, which was sending little hot shards of disquiet into me like poisoned darts. We both kept secrets from each other, it seemed. Although, arguably, Anya hadn’t really done anything wrong. I wished I could say the same.
Even though I was exhausted, I didn’t get the sleep I craved.
Anya didn’t stop moving in the bed all night. If she wasn’t going to the toilet and blasting light across the hallway, she was throwing off the covers with heavy sighs, or endlessly turning over.
I kept dipping into shallow, shadowy sleep that was filled with scattered images. I dreamed of schools … not just Beverley Park, but the school I went to, finding myself walking the grimy corridors as my adult self, searching for something.
In the morning we were both groggy and uncommunicative and parted ways with barely more than a few grunts between us. I had a headache that was pressing on my temples and we had run out of painkillers. I cycled in, longing for the weekend, and so I wasn’t really paying attention on playground duty that morning.
A cold wind was whipping around as the kids were coming in. A couple said, ‘Morning, sir,’ and I attempted a greeting in return, but I knew today was going to be a bit of a struggle.
When I saw the bullet-head of Lee Bennett coming towards me I looked away, determined to keep off his radar.
But, it transpired, that was not to be. He clearly had something to say.
‘A word?’ he said as Tyler glanced anxiously between us.
I sighed but forced my face into the most unhostile demeanour I could manage and replied, ‘Yes, Mr Bennett, what can I do for you?’
His face sort of twisted, as though I had said something unreasonable.
‘Do for me?’ He gave a mean sort of laugh and looked around, as though appealing for witnesses. ‘I can’t believe what you have already done, mate.’
I stared at him. ‘Sorry, what do you mean exactly?’ It sounded stupid, but with all the other stuff that had been going on, I genuinely hadn’t given him a thought since Anya’s revelations. Now, the fact that I had reported him to the police came crashing into my head and I felt my face heat.
He was staring at me and then, in a very low voice, began to speak.
‘I watched a friend get blown to bits in Iraq, right in front of me. I’ve made some mistakes, fair enough, but you don’t understand a thing about me.’
To my absolute horror, I thought he was going to cry. His voice was low and a bit menacing but his eyes were glittering.
‘Look, Mr—’ but he cut me off, his voice savage now.
‘People like you think that you’re better than me. I’m doing the best I can for my kid but to you, I’m just an ex-con, that’s it.’
By now a couple of parents were lingering nearby, quite clearly listening and pretending not to. I put my hand up in a gesture of placation, but he moved back, making it look as though I was being aggressive. A massive wave of irritation burned through me. Alright, I’d made a mistake in reporting this guy, but I really would have been happy to never see him again.
‘Mr Bennett,’ I said, ‘I don’t think anything like that. I don’t even, uh,’ I flailed, ‘know about any of that. I’m very sorry about the …’ I faltered again, looking for the right word ‘… the report but at the time I was being harassed by an unknown person and it seemed a reasonable assumption that it might be you.’
As soon as I said the words, I knew how spectacularly I had messed up. His eyes widened, and he went, ‘Woah …’ taking another step back.
‘A reasonable assumption?’ he said. ‘Is that what it was?’
This was ridiculous. I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t what he thought, some middle-class teacher who thought he was better. But was he really wrong?
Maybe I did think I was better than him, because he represented the sort of man I had worked hard in my life to get away from?
It was such a strange and complex set of emotions, which I had no way of sharing with him. Frustration at everything, and the sheer irony that he could think that of me. I don’t know why my brain sent that particular, highly inappropriate signal to my face.
But I let out a strange bark of a laugh. And as if it was somehow out of my control, I said, ‘For fuck’s sake …’
‘Don’t swear in front of my child!’ Bennett’s voice was loud. I heard a murmur from the woman standing to my right.
I knew that I had made a terrible mistake by the triumphant gleam in Bennett’s eyes. He had me, at last. That’s what he was thinking. Tyler wasn’t even in earshot, not really. He was kicking a ball with some other kids a few feet away. But that didn’t matter.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, my voice low and placatory – or so I hoped. ‘I’ve been having some issues at home and I’m very tired.’ I rubbed a hand over my face. ‘Look, Mr Bennett, can we maybe move on from this now?’
‘You and her – you deserve each other!’ he said. The effect was like a slap.
‘What did you say?’
His face was all narrowed eyes and curled lip, but he kept his voice low. ‘Your missus, or girlfriend or whatever. I saw you at that festival together. She mouthed off at me
over nothing.’
I remembered the strange mood Anya had been in when I came back with the drinks. I had forgotten all about the altercation she’d had. For a moment I stared at him, fighting with my own curiosity. But I had to know.
‘What exactly happened?’ I asked, hating that he knew and I didn’t. Hating having to ask him.
‘I accidentally knocked her with my arm as I walked by,’ he said. ‘I apologized, but do you know what she said?’
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. ‘No,’ I said.
He laughed unkindly. ‘Well, I’m not going to repeat the word she used, not with kiddies around. But I will say something …’ He leaned in close, a nasty little smile playing around his lips. ‘No wonder you’re like you are, living with that psycho bitch.’
Now, I’d spent my childhood and teenage years avoiding violence. I’d seen enough, growing up. And yes, I didn’t want to know what I was capable of, if pushed far enough. An act of anger on my part had resulted in the worst thing that had ever happened to me, after all. What if Mark Little’s dark legacy really was just biding its time?
But that day I felt something ugly and delicious all at once flex inside and, before my brain could stop my hands, I had a handful of his T-shirt in my fist and was forcing my face into his. It shames me how gratifying it was to see a brief flash of fear in that ex-soldier’s eyes. Packed with muscle he might be, but he was shorter than me.
‘Don’t you ever speak about my wife again,’ I hissed, a fleck of spit hitting his face before he wrenched himself back from my grip.
‘You total wanker!’
Shit. What the hell was I doing?
‘Mr Little!’ The sharp voice of Jackie rang out across the playground.
I cycled home, feeling numb.
Suspended. And I was to see the doctor about having time off for my ‘stress issues’.
She’d presented me with the full list of my misdemeanours, from ‘harassing’ Bennett when he was on a night out, to turning up for work smelling of alcohol and failing to ‘carry out the admin that is a part of your job’. So she hadn’t bought Zoe’s story after all. I should have fought back. Told her that wasn’t how it happened. Or, the Bennett parts, anyway. But I had no defence for grabbing his T-shirt like that. And the fight had been knocked out of me by recent events.