by Luan Goldie
Everyone has moved on. Most of the time Malachi feels like he has too, until he returns to this area and spots the two surviving towers in the air, the marker of the event that threw his life into chaos. No matter how much they remodel the estate, he will only ever see the flames on the balconies and the field filled with crowds and ambulances. He swears he can still smell the smoke and gas that wound his chest so tightly. The memory has the power to shorten his breath. Discreetly he takes a few puffs of his inhaler.
‘That’s nasty.’ Tristan shakes his head with mock disapproval as he walks over. ‘How can you be flirting with women on a day like this?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I just seen you, squeezing up on some woman.’
‘That was someone from back in day.’
‘Aren’t they all, Mal? Aren’t they all?’ Tristan throws an arm around Malachi’s shoulder. ‘What?’
‘Why are you wearing such a bright top to a memorial?’
Tristan tuts. ‘’Cause yellow is my colour. What did you want me to wear? A black veil?’
‘No, but maybe something a bit more sombre.’
‘I been sombre for too long. Now come on, you wanna go do your …’ He trails off and indicates down to the bunch of flowers.
‘Yeah,’ Malachi says sullenly. ‘Let’s do this.’
Together they walk over to the memorial and add the flowers to the pile. Carved into the stone are the names of people he knew, like David Tuazon, and people he only ever passed in the stairwell or shared a lift space with. But now, after so many years of court hearings and newspaper write-ups, he can put a face and story to each one. The worst, of course, is Pamela Prudence Harrogate. It hurts so much to see it here, so permanent. He had become used to the endless reproduction of her smiling school photograph, the photograph in which she never changed, always sixteen, almost seventeen, in her uniform. It helps to imagine that Pamela simply never came back from Portishead. That she stayed on there, rebuilt her relationship with her mum, set up her own running club, and even met someone else.
Suddenly he feels overcome, sickly and tearful. He can’t believe he’s back here, in this place where he lost his mum, then Pamela, then his home, and where he almost lost his brother. He had always been able to hold everything together until this thing happened and caused him to finally unravel. He rubs his eyes with the back of his wrist, and while he is grateful Tristan doesn’t draw attention to the tears, he doesn’t mind that they’re falling here so publicly. Tristan leans in and hugs him, one of the quick bursts of affection they allow themselves every so often before they fall into another argument. Malachi can’t remember how his little brother used to look or walk before the crash, or if he always spoke so loudly. He doesn’t care, he’s just glad the name Tristan Roberts doesn’t appear on the stone today.
‘I half expect to see my name on here,’ Tristan says on cue. ‘That would be some Bruce Willis Sixth Sense shit. Like the last five years have all been a joke. Seriously, though,’ Tristan throws his arm around Malachi’s shoulders again, ‘you good?’
‘Yeah, I’m good.’ Malachi nods. ‘You all right?’
Tristan breaks into his wide Cheshire cat smile. ‘You know me, I’m always all right.’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Chapter Forty-Eight ,Tristan
He steps back to allow Mal some peace as he lays the flowers for Pamela. It’s taken years but Tristan has made peace with the fact that there will always be one secret he has to keep.
It’s amazing to see how his brother has been able to move past what happened and stop blaming himself for everything. Though at first it did feel like Tristan was losing him. They had always lived within a few feet of each other, so it hurt when Mal picked up and moved to Surrey, of all places. But then Tristan can always call when he needs to discuss something important, like the new Eminem album or how to reference correctly in an essay. Plus he loves going through to the little suburban house Mal shares with Anna, a woman crazy enough to find a long-faced, badly dressed architect like Mal boyfriend material.
But next year, when the baby comes, everything will be different. Tristan never planned to become a dad at twenty-one, but he never planned to lose a foot and eye on a Saturday afternoon either. Shit just happens.
Girls were always his biggest weakness. The first year at university was the worst, getting into freshers week and realising how outnumbered he was by them. Sure, he expected a large number of females on a Performing Arts degree, but it wasn’t his main reason for choosing the subject, despite what Harris says. Then, to top it off, they were all really keen on his survival story. He gave them the radio edit; no one really wanted to hear about the deaths or how his left eye gives no vision but waters constantly, and nothing kills conversation quicker than talking about night terrors. So while he hooked up with more than a few girls from the course, the one who finally broke him was Laura from the estate. She was the only girl that ever really got it, because she’d been there, on the third floor, looking after her little cousin while the building shuddered above her. They never spoke about the crash in the months that followed, preferring instead to use each other as a distraction. It seemed to be what they both needed and it worked. Looking back, Tristan’s kind of embarrassed at how he used to treat her, even after she spent so many hours with him at Harris’s place, when he was low and still looking mashed up from the crash. It’s only since she moved into his flat share near campus, which originally was only out of necessity, that Tristan’s been able to see her as more than a troublesome girl with a red weave.
Mal lost the plot when he found out about the bun in the oven. Still, that’s Mal, overreacting to everything. How hard can it be to raise a kid, anyway? Most things are a piece of piss after what Tristan’s gone through. What with the crash, then the recovery from that, then the months of pain, and finally, having to make the decision about the amputation. It was hard-going for a long time and the recovery was brutal, but Tristan doesn’t regret a thing and his current foot allows him more freedom than he’s had in years. He can even step into a bath without needing help. He’s still not convinced on a hearing aid though, especially now he’s got the lip-reading thing covered. Mal was the first he could ‘read’; it was so easy, Tristan wondered if he had been able to do it all along. But it’s hard with others, especially when there’s a big group at the student bar.
Still, he’s here, not dead yet. Got to be grateful for it.
He spots Ben Munday and some other boys from back in the day, wearing shirts and ties like they have court appearances. They all moved away in that first year, and Tristan didn’t see much point in keeping in touch with them. They were never his real friends anyway, just people he felt the need to constantly impress.
‘This is crazy,’ he mumbles.
Looking about, some people are crying, but most are smiling, hugging others they haven’t seen since the last time. Tristan doesn’t cry about it anymore; each year this day just makes him feel lucky. Especially when he thinks about all those who didn’t make it and how close he came to being one of them. He owes everything to Elvis. Where is he? They spoke last night on the phone and he promised he would be here today.
The memorial is a curved concrete wall with the names of all thirty-nine victims, as if there were only thirty-nine victims. It affected so many people; so much suffering came from that one event. The names of the airline crew are on there too, written in both English and Greek, but they feel so distant, like people from another tragedy.
Mary’s over the other side of the chairs. He didn’t see her arrive. She twiddles her elbows in that nervous way she always has and her shoulders jump gently. She’s crying. He feels the urge to go and throw an arm around her, to make her laugh with some jibe about Mal’s outfit or last night’s Eastenders, but he knows not to. It still hurts when she shuts him out, but he gets it, it’s her way of dealing with things, and it doesn’t mean she loves him any less.
He wonders w
hether today is the right day to tell her he’s going to be a dad. He definitely needs to break the news when Harris is around. That way he can jump in and stop her when she tries to kill him. He had told Nan last week and she put the phone down on him. He’s still waiting on her calling back.
But him and Laura have it all planned out: Tristan will finish his degree next year and get some cushy paid internship role at one of the community theatre groups he’s been helping out at. It might be rough for a few years, but the bigger picture is they will all be together and safe. And happy. They’re both just so happy at the moment.
Tristan can’t wait to be a dad. Ever since he found out, he’s been trying to convince Mal to get Anna up the duff too. Surely it’s only right that they both have a kid at the same time, then they can grow up together and have each other’s backs.
Finally, he spots who he’s looking for.
‘Elvis.’ The only person with worse hearing than Tristan. ‘Elvis,’ he calls again, attracting attention. Tristan hasn’t seen him in nearly a year. His ginger hair is shaved so low his head looks like a fuzzy orange. ‘Elvis?’
Finally he turns and runs straight over to crush Tristan in one of his too-tight hugs.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Chapter Forty-Nine ,Elvis
Elvis hates to leave his flat, as it is so full of perfect things. Like the squashy green armchair, the toaster that can toast four pieces of bread at the same time, and the fluffy orange giraffe on his TV, which he managed, after weeks of trying, to lift with the metal claw from the machine in the arcade. But today, Elvis has left his flat and got on the train to go all the way to London to visit the Morpeth Estate. He knows that today will be a sad day. There will be people looking sad, talking about sad things, and putting sad-looking flowers, like white lilies and carnations, near the place where Nightingale Point used to be. Elvis has not brought sad-looking flowers; he has brought a Schlumbergera, which is the posh name for a pink flowering cactus. Elvis is not sure if Lina liked cacti, but he knows that she definitely did not like fancy flowers. Once a boyfriend bought her a big bunch of red roses and she said, ‘Waste, man, I’d rather he gave me the cash.’ Elvis chose the Schlumbergera as it was pretty but spikey, like Lina.
He stands on the field in front of where his home used to be, which kind of looks the same as five years ago but also looks very different too. As he walks towards the group of people in the middle of the field, he passes a man in army trousers, who is not a real soldier, crying on a bench. Elvis has some tissues in his pocket but does not stop to offer them to the crying man because sometimes men who cry on benches have been taking drugs and are very dangerous.
Elvis walks past the swing park, which is new and shiny and looks much more fun than it used to look back when Elvis lived here, but not as fun as Dreamland, which is next to Elvis’s new perfect flat. At Dreamland there are hot, sugary doughnuts and a ghost train and a big wheel, which is so tall you can see France when you get to the top of it. There is also a stand where you can buy pink candyfloss from a blonde girl in a blue sweatshirt, who says things like, ‘All right, captain, what can I get ya?’ This always makes Elvis smile because blonde women are his favourite kind of women, and he is not a captain but would like to be.
‘Elvis!’ someone shouts.
He gets excited as he recognises the voice straight away. It is his good friend and brother Tristan Roberts. He wears a T-shirt in Elvis’s favourite colour too: macaroni yellow. Elvis gives him one of his very special big hugs.
‘How you been? How’s life on the old promenade?’
‘Promenade? I live in Margate,’ Elvis tells him.
‘Yeah, I know. Bet you’re loving it? Sun, sea, fish and chips?’
Elvis nods. He really does like living in Margate a lot. Though there are some drug addicts there that shout things at him like, ‘Oi, fatty, get a clue’, and in the winter when Dreamland is empty it can get a bit boring.
‘You look good, Elvis.’ Tristan reaches out and flicks the collar of the new grey and red checked shirt Elvis bought to look good for this very special, but very sad, day.
‘Thank you.’ Elvis had looked in the toilet mirrors at King’s Cross station and Tristan Roberts was right, he did look good today.
‘So, have you seen the memorial yet?’
‘No.’ He has only just arrived and has not yet had time to look at the memorial, which everyone here must look at because it is what makes the day so special.
‘You want me to come with you?’
Elvis nods and together they walk over to the big grey stone with lots of small, neat writing on it.
‘It looks like a wedding cake,’ Elvis says.
Tristan Roberts laughs loudly and slaps Elvis on the back. ‘Ah, you crack me up.’ He leans in and whispers, ‘It ain’t what I was expecting neither, to be honest.’
‘But it looks nice,’ Elvis lies, as he knows that someone must have spent a lot of time carving all those tiny names into the stone. Also, he does not think it is so bad that it looks like a wedding cake, because wedding cakes can sometimes be fantastic, especially when they have tiny plastic models of the husband and wife sitting on the top.
He looks for Lina’s name, but there are so many names, so many other dead people to remember. This makes Elvis sad and he does not want to be sad, so he tries to think of something happy, like the orange giraffe he won from the claw machine, the blonde candyfloss girl in the blue sweatshirt, and the inside of the seashells, which are shiny pink, like the colour of Lina’s nails.
‘Do you feel sad?’ he asks Tristan Roberts, who looks at the concrete cake with a sad face.
‘Yeah, course. It’s sad for everyone.’ He reaches out and puts his hand over the names. ‘But the important thing is, we’re still here. Right? Can’t get caught up in feeling sad. Sadness will drown you.’
Elvis is not sure how anyone could drown in sadness, but he nods anyway to agree with Tristan Roberts, and decides to think about this properly, a bit later when he has more time.
‘There.’ Tristan Roberts points to a name: Lina Baxter. Elvis runs his own fingers along it; it feels sharp and scratchy and a little bit powdery. He takes the sheet of newspaper off from around the pink painted terracotta pot with the Schlumbergera inside, and stands the plant up between bunches of white lilies and carnations, which, while sad-looking, are also a little bit pretty too.
Elvis touches the scar on his forehead, which is kind of like the slots in the arcade machines where you put in your 2p. Elvis loves those machines because when your 2ps run out, more 2ps fall out of the machine, and you can play all over again.
His scar is a light silver colour now, not like Tristan Roberts’ scars, which are light brown. When people ask Elvis what happened, he tells them the truth: that he was hurt by broken glass. He does not tell them the whole long story, as people might not believe him and call him a liar. Or people might ask him too many questions, which would make him confused, as he does not remember everything that happened that day. But he does remember how he was brave and how he grabbed Tristan Roberts and made him escape the building. This makes Elvis so happy because if he had not saved Tristan Roberts then he would be another name carved in tiny neat writing on the big concrete wedding cake.
‘Will you come to Margate?’ Elvis asks. ‘The train is twelve pound fifty return from London King’s Cross.’
Tristan puts his arm around Elvis. ‘Margate? Yeah, I’d like that.’
A sign at the bottom of the memorial says: In memory of the thirty-nine who lost their lives here on Saturday, 4 May 1996. May we never forget.
Elvis knows that he forgets many things, such as what time Countdown is on, how long to boil a steak and kidney pie for, and why double-glazing salespeople are not his friends. But he will never forget the day the plane came.
Author’s Note
On 4 October 1992 a cargo plane crashed into two high-rise blocks of flats in the Bijlmer, Amsterdam, killing up to forty-seven peop
le. The survivors of the destroyed blocks lost everything: loved ones, homes, belongings and community.
Then came the aftermath. The media wanted to talk to them, the authorities questioned who the victims were, and challenged their right to be rehoused. They suffered health problems, both mental and physical. They had questions about the accident, the rescue operation, the advice they were receiving. They were angry.
When Grenfell Tower happened, despite it being a different decade and country, a similar narrative played out. Yet again, people felt they were not being listened to.
While the characters in Nightingale Point are fictional, the spirit that drives each one is based on those from the Bijlmer, who rebuilt their lives after losing everything. It is also a tribute to those from Grenfell Tower, who continue their fight.
Luan Goldie, 2018
Acknowledgements
Thanks to my agent, Eve White, who championed this novel ever since the first phone call. Your enthusiasm, belief and support kept me going through every setback.
Thank you to everyone at HQ for welcoming me so warmly, and a huge thanks to my editor Manpreet Grewal for helping me shape my original manuscript into the novel it is today. I do hope your talent and precision rub off on me.
Back in 2014 I read my short story, called The Day the Plane Came, at one of Elise Valmorbida’s writing classes, to which she said, ‘I don’t think this is a short story’. It wasn’t. So thank you, Elise.
I am eternally grateful to my first readers: Kevin Linnett and Holly Rizzuto Palker. From critiquing in the backrooms of Selfridges to cross-Atlantic Skype calls, you have both been there all the way. What can I say, except the drinks will always be on me.
To everyone who has attended The Salon over the years, each week you’ve inspired me with your talent, intelligence and thoughtful feedback. Special thanks to Gill Haigh and Paul McMichael.