by Luan Goldie
Mary walks to the conservatory, to silence, to watch the slow soaking of the bed sheets and school uniforms on the line outside. She wants to relive that day too, the day the plane came. She wants to bump into David as he gets off the bus on the other side of the field and tell him there and then that she wants a divorce, that she plans to marry someone else, someone she loves. Then she wants to watch him rage about a wasted journey, his wide face reddening with anger, before turning on his heel and dragging his suitcase away, out of her life and into that other woman’s.
Ruby comes in and presses her nose against the glass by Mary’s leg. ‘Nanny, the clothes are getting wet. Mum will be cross.’
They watch as a plane draws a soft wisp of white in the distance.
‘Nanny, why didn’t the people on the plane parachute out?’
‘Stop it,’ Mary says.
‘Do you think Grandpa Tuazon was really a spy and the baddies were trying to get him?’
‘Ruby, stop.’
‘I think it was done on purpose. Maybe someone wanted to have a war with England.’
‘Leave me alone,’ Mary shouts.
Ruby looks up, her face a replica of her mother’s at that age, and Mary feels guilty for snapping. The child’s bottom lip trembles before she runs away.
Mary presses her face against the glass and slides down it. She closes her eyes to the clothes, the rain, the many different scenarios that could have produced a different outcome that day. She isn’t even aware of Julia’s car in the drive, or the front door as it opens.
‘Mum?’ She sounds angry. ‘Why are you out here? The kids are running riot.’
Mary turns to face her daughter. The powder on Julia’s face is splattered from the rain, her hair slightly frizzed.
‘You look exhausted. I shouldn’t have left you.’
‘We were never happy,’ Mary says now, because she realises there is no better time. ‘We were never enough for each other.’
Julia throws her keys into her bag. ‘I think you need to go upstairs and lie down.’ She uses the same tone she uses on her children, on her husband, even – patronising and forever exasperated.
‘I’m trying to tell you something.’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure I want to hear it,’ Julia snaps. Yet she sits down on one of the wicker chairs and drops her bag on the floor. Mary can feel her daughter’s anger; it seeps off her in fierce waves, the same way her grief at losing her dad does.
‘Julia, you are not a child anymore. I need to be able to talk to you like an adult.’
‘I don’t want to do this, Mum,’ she says quietly. ‘I don’t need to know about your marriage.’
Mary realises that her daughter knows about the affair. ‘So you want me to pretend? To act like we were Brady Bunch happy? We were strangers in the end, you must understand.’
‘Oh, so it’s okay that he died then? Because you weren’t in love anymore?’
‘No. Of course that’s not what I am saying, but—’
‘I don’t need to know!’ Julia screams.
Mary is taken aback by her daughter’s fury. It makes her weep.
Ruby pokes her small head in. ‘Mummy?’
‘Ruby, go upstairs,’ Julia shouts, without turning to face the girl. ‘I understand that you and Dad didn’t always get on. But for John and me, we’ve lost a parent. And we’re struggling. We need time.’
‘But I don’t have time anymore. I’ve waited my whole life. It’s all I’ve ever done. Wait for tours to end, for kids to grow up, for him to return home. You have no idea how much I wanted to do in my life, but missed because I was waiting. I cannot wait anymore. I cannot wait for it to be all right with you and John. I am sorry.’ Mary feels herself truly exhale for the first time in months, for mixed within the sea of grief and guilt, she feels the first flutters of relief.
Julia stands up and shrugs her shoulders. ‘Do what you want, Mum. I don’t need to know about it.’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Chapter Forty-Two ,Elvis
Tristan Roberts loves pizza. The last time Elvis went to see him they had three huge pizzas delivered to the bungalow and everyone shared, except Harris because he is a vegetarian, which means he does not eat anything that once had a face. Elvis hopes this evening they will order pizzas again. Especially the Hawaiian flavour as it has pineapple on it, which is strange but also very tasty. Though, even if there is no pizza Elvis knows he will have an excellent time at the bungalow as it has become one of his favourite places.
‘Right, Elvis, I’ll drop you here.’ George hands Elvis the lemon drizzle cake they picked up at the Co-op. It is to share with Tristan Roberts as he loves cake. ‘Get Malachi to call you a cab when you’re ready to go home, all right?’
Elvis steps out of George’s car, very carefully holding the cake.
There are a lot of big trees in Vanbrugh Close and there are also a lot of crunchy leaves on the ground, which he likes to kick through as he walks. Archie, his friend from the Waterside Centre, once said that if you kick through leaves your shoe could get covered in dog poop or, worse, you could break your toe on a hidden rock. Archie thinks too much about all the bad things that could happen and most of them never do.
A girl with amazing red hair comes out of the bungalow. She stops and kisses Tristan Roberts on the mouth and Elvis looks away, as he is not a pervert.
‘Laters,’ Tristan Roberts calls to the girl as he leans on his special walking sticks, which Elvis tried once but they made his arms very tired.
When Tristan Roberts sees Elvis, he laughs. ‘Ah man, that girl is trouble.’
Elvis would not be smiling if someone with red hair was giving him trouble, but he knows sometimes Tristan Roberts says things that do not always make sense.
‘Come in. Thought you were coming at six?’ he asks.
‘George had to walk Aztec.’
‘Damn social worker,’ Tristan Roberts says as he hobbles over to a dial on the wall and fiddles with it. ‘Drafty, ain’t it? I’ll put the heating up.’ He winks at Elvis. ‘Don’t tell Harris.’
They put on a film called The Usual Suspects. It has some shooting in it, which Elvis does not like, and it is a little bit confusing, especially as Tristan Roberts talks all the way through the start, so Elvis misses some parts that are important.
The front door opens and Malachi comes in. Elvis always feels pleased to see Malachi, but Malachi does not look pleased to Elvis. He does not look pleased about anything. He picks up the remote control and turns the volume down.
‘I can hear this from outside,’ Malachi shouts. ‘Put the subtitles on.’
‘Elvis can’t read that fast.’
‘How many times you seen this anyway? You already know the ending.’
‘Shush, Elvis don’t know.’
Malachi then goes to the dial on the wall and shouts again. ‘It’s not even cold outside. You’re ridiculous.’
‘Oh, stop bitching, Mal. Sorry, Elvis.’ Tristan Roberts knows that Elvis does not like bad language. He has promised to stop using it so much when they are together but sometimes he forgets.
Malachi takes a slice of the lemon drizzle cake and eats it standing over the sink. Tristan Roberts does this too and Elvis does not understand why both of the brothers do not like to use plates.
They continue to watch but now Tristan Roberts looks grumpy. He even stops telling Elvis about the film, which is great because it means Elvis can do very good concentrating. When he looks up again, Tristan Roberts has fallen asleep. He does this a lot when they watch films together.
Elvis does not want to sit by himself, so he goes outside to find Malachi, who is smoking his funny cigarettes, which are very bad but allowed when you are at home.
‘Hello,’ Elvis says as he sits down on the wooden decking, which is a little bit wet and mouldy.
‘How you doing, Elvis?’ Malachi stares down to the end of the garden at the big rubber tubs of compost.
Last week Harris showed E
lvis inside the tubs. He took a stick and poked at the compost, which was crawling with thousands of worms. It was amazing but Tristan Roberts made lots of gagging noises, but he was not really sick, he was pretending, or being what Harris called ‘theatrical’.
‘You look sad,’ Elvis says.
Malachi raises his eyebrows. ‘That’s because I am sad.’
‘Tristan said you loved the blonde girl from the eleventh floor. She could run very fast. But I know she is dead now. Is that why you are sad?’
He stubs the smelly cigarette out on the decking. ‘Yep. That’s exactly why I’m sad.’
‘How long will you be sad?’
Malachi laughs, but it is not a funny question, it is a serious question. He does not answer.
It is getting a bit cold now and there are some fireworks in the sky, which look pretty but also make Elvis jump a little when they go ‘bang’.
‘Are you still sad, Elvis?’
Elvis nods. He is still very sad. Sad about losing his perfect flat and all his perfect things, sad about Lina dying and her family crying, sad about Tristan’s operation next year, where the doctor might have to cut his foot off, and sad about his own ear, which still is a little bit broken even though the angry ear doctor has looked at it lots of times. Elvis thinks maybe she is not a real doctor after all.
‘Yes, I am sad. But also quite happy.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Because I have a brother now who will take care of me forever. Tristan Roberts said he is my brother.’ Elvis is suddenly excited by a thought, which has not been discussed yet, but Elvis thinks it is a great idea. ‘Do you want to be my brother too?’
Malachi looks at him and smiles. This is a good thing, a very good thing, because he does not usually smile very much.
‘If we are all brothers then we can all take care of each other. Then none of us will get hurt again.’
‘That’s a nice idea, Elvis. But remember that one day Tristan might not be stuck at home so much, he might be off at school or hopefully college, and when that happens he won’t be around to hang out with you as much as he does now.’ Malachi is no longer smiling but making a very serious face at Elvis. ‘Does that make sense? You can’t stop spending time with all your other friends just to hang out with Tris.’
‘I only have one friend. His name is Archie.’
‘And when was the last time you hung out with Archie? You always seem to be here at the moment. Don’t you think it would be fun to hang out with Archie some time too?’
Elvis is not sure. Archie is his friend but now he has a brother, he likes to hang out with him more.
‘Elvis, what happens when Tristan’s not around to watch films and eat pizza with you anymore?’
‘Then I will watch films and eat pizza with Archie again.’
Malachi sighs loudly, like he is getting very fed up. ‘Yeah, but will Archie still want to be your friend then?’
Elvis crosses his hands in his laps and thinks about this very complicated question.
‘If Archie does not want to be my friend anymore Tristan Roberts will help get us back together again like he did with you and running girl. That is what brothers do.’
Malachi relights his smelly cigarette. ‘Forget it.’ He starts to smoke and the smell is not very nice, but Elvis cannot tell him off because it is a garden and people are allowed to smoke in their own gardens.
‘Anyway,’ Malachi says, ‘what makes you think Tristan helped with me and Pamela, the running girl?’
‘He told me.’
‘Told you what?’
‘He told me that he did not like her very much because she only liked practising running fast and was boring. But he said you liked her very much and that you should have been able to be her boyfriend again.’ The word boyfriend makes Elvis laugh, especially when he thinks that maybe Malachi and the blonde girl kissed each other on the lips. ‘That is why he helped.’
‘Helped with what?’
‘He tried to help get you back to being boyfriend and girlfriend again. But then the bad explosion happened and the letter got lost.’
‘What letter?’
‘The love letter from the running girl. She asked Tristan Roberts to give it to you.’
Malachi stares for a very long time, then throws his hood up over his head, even though it is not raining. ‘Oh, you mean the book?’
‘No. It was a love letter. He told me. But I did not read it because it is private.’
‘You’re confused, Elvis. It was just a book. Tristan can’t even remember which one, anyway.’
Malachi lies down on the decking and closes his eyes, even though there are pretty fireworks in the sky and the conversation about brotherhood, friendship and the love letter is not finished.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Chapter Forty-Three ,Tristan
He watches Harris come up the gravel path. He’s got on his smart camel-coloured jacket – Humanities Teacher jacket, Tristan calls it. All that’s missing are the patches on the elbow and some ballpoint pens poking out the breast pocket. A cold rush of air sweeps the room as Harris comes in, a bundle of yellow exercise books under each arm.
‘’Arry,’ Tristan shouts from his spot perched on the window ledge.
‘I can’t believe they still haven’t swept the street. The leaves are wet now, it’s dangerous.’ Harris drops the books and ugly jacket on the sofa. ‘Just where is my council tax going?’
‘I like it, man. Looks atmospheric and shit,’ Tristan says. He turns back to the window and watches as two teenagers cycle about the close. One of them attempts a wheelie. ‘Pussy,’ Tristan says under his breath as the boy’s wheel slams back down on the pavement a few seconds later. Back at Nightingale Point, Tristan was the king of wheelies; he could do it all the way up Sandford Road without even breaking a sweat.
The boy peddles faster this time and Tristan thinks about the book of prosthetic feet Dr G showed him the last time he went in to see her. Still, it might never happen. Maybe never getting to ride a bike again will be another one of the life-changing consequences of the accident. Like never being able to step into a bath, or hear that low whine on a Snoop Dogg track, or have patterns shaved into the side of his hair.
‘Who are you spying on?’ Harris asks. Dark pouches hang below his eyes, and his skin, though still unexplainably tanned, has a greyish sheen to it.
‘I’m waiting on Red Weave. Wanna make sure I see her coming. Can’t have her sneaking up on me.’
Harris stifles a laugh. ‘And will she be joining us for dinner?’
Tristan grins with relief as Harris pulls a pile of takeaway menus from under the coffee table.
‘Nope. She’s not the kinda girl you need to feed.’ He’d asked her to come over earlier in the day, while everyone would still be at work, but her timekeeping was poor. He never thought twice about having girls over when it was just him and Mal in the flat, but there’s something embarrassing about doing a girl while Harris is home. He had tried it once and even with a girl as hot as Red Weave, he was distracted by the sound of the kitchen radio as it drifted through the bungalow.
‘Tristan, are you actually going to look at these books, or is this some kind of display you’re creating here?’ Harris indicates the spread of GCSE revision guides, which have sat on the table, untouched, since this morning.
‘Pah.’ He waves his hand. ‘I got ages for that. Besides, the mock tests were a piece of piss.’
Tristan mistakenly thought that after doing so well in his mock tests, despite missing such a big chunk of school, Harris and Malachi would back off constantly trying to get him to study. But the opposite happened and now they are both wetting themselves about the prospect he could get enough A to C grades to do A levels.
Tristan had made plenty of big plans while lying in that hospital bed, mostly lofty ideas around music. But once out and hobbling around in the real world, he realised he needed some sort of plan B in case he didn’t make his fortune from
rapping. He’s always been good at maths, but those suit-wearing number jobs like accountancy, engineering and finance simply didn’t float his boat, even though the money was appealing. After what he’d been through, Tristan felt he needed to focus on something a bit more wholesome. He just didn’t know what and felt too stupid saying it out loud.
‘I was always appalling at science,’ Harris says as he flicks though a book, frowning. ‘Tristan, you haven’t highlighted a single thing. Come on. Put in some effort.’
‘Gimme a break. You want me to spend my life learning from books? I got the real biology report right here. People should be studying me,’ he says as he taps his chest. ‘Ay yo, they said I’d never walk again, but boy I knew I would, and then the lady with the lamp came and fixed me a new foot. Connect the tibula and fibula, the tendons and the tendrils, mix it with some gin and juice, and boy you know it’s been real. Eh, Mal,’ he shouts through the hallway. ‘Come hear me spit this verse.’
Malachi emerges into the room and shakes his head. ‘I can’t believe you’re rapping about tendrils.’ He rubs his temples and Tristan suspects that he was in the bedroom rolling a spliff to have out in the garden later. The thought of smoking weed still turns Tristan’s stomach. Even the smell of it on Malachi’s clothes in the evening is enough to put Tristan right back in the stairwell. It’s one of the few things that makes him feel down. But most days, Tristan wakes up feeling like a light has been cracked open inside him and he can take on any old shit that comes next. Nan says it’s the light of God, but it’s probably more to do with not being able to remember everything.
Last month the Civil Aviation Unit contacted him to ask if he wanted to see the surviving parts of the plane. Harris angrily called the invite ‘macabre’ and Tristan later asked his physiotherapist, a Scottish man who wore trainers and had an impressive knowledge of old school hip-hop, what the word meant. Tristan’s since decided he doesn’t need to see the wreck of the plane. It’s just another one of those things people suggest, like therapy, thinking it will be helpful, when really there’s been nothing in the last few months that’s made Tristan feel worse than when he sat in that dingy grey office being asked about his appearance and how it made him feel. The whole time he kept looking at the wall of shelves, home to hundreds of ring binders containing everyone’s problems, all stacked up like a wall of misery. Besides, Tristan’s demons aren’t with the plane or even with his injuries, they’re with his lack of memory. The feeling that his life has been altered and he missed it happening.