The Long Dark Road

by P. R. Black

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. Got a beer, here.’

  ‘Have another, then.’ Riley stepped forward and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘You deserve it. Been a hell of a year. And one for you as well, princess – Colette, wasn’t it?’

  He turned on the most dazzling smile. She couldn’t help but respond with one of her own. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You fancy another beer, Colette? I remember you loved to chug ’em down. Back in the Hephaestian days. Beer monster, weren’t you?’

  ‘No thanks, Riley.’

  ‘What a pair of stick-in-the-muds! Changed days. Well, Colette, we’ll need to catch up some time. See if we can’t get the beer monster out of you, eh?’

  Unfortunately, Martin Duke was still young, and took the bait all too easily. That’s when Georgia knew the situation was lost. ‘She said she doesn’t want a beer, Riley.’

  ‘Bit controlling of you, Martin, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘I do mind you saying so.’

  Georgia stepped forward. ‘Look, everybody…’

  ‘Nah it’s OK,’ Riley said, warding her off. ‘Martin’s a little bit hot under the collar. I shouldn’t try to get his goat. It’s easy to get his goat, mind you. Not to mention everything else.’

  ‘Only goat you’re getting is the one you’re sacrificing to your daddy, cheese dick,’ Martin said, almost pleasantly. Then he smiled.

  One or two people laughed within earshot at this, and it might have been the catalyst for what happened next. Riley Brightman’s eyes locked on Martin Duke’s. Then, without warning or preamble, he attacked.

  15

  I sometimes feel I’ve enraged them without trying; yet when it boils over, no attempt at pacification seems good enough. I think I’ll leave them to it, next time.

  From the diary of Stephanie Healey

  Riley launched himself at Martin as one dog would at another. He had no set goal for his attack, no end product, motivated only by a desire to annihilate.

  People were already shouting and screaming by the time he took a grip of Duke’s off-white second-hand ironic band T-shirt. The collar sheared off the material quickly and cleanly in Brightman’s fist; with the material bunched up between his fingers, he then darted his hand into Duke’s face.

  There couldn’t have been much contact. Martin seemed to grimace, rather than flinch, at the blow. Then he tugged himself free of Riley’s grip and swung an arm, hard. The connection was clear, and brutal, and then Riley Brightman was down on one knee, blinking. It had happened in less than three or four seconds. Georgia darted forward instinctively. ‘That’s enough!’

  Colette then got involved, as Martin Duke stood his ground, his T-shirt collar askew and loose round his neck like a Jacobean ruff. The girl’s culottes flailed as if in a high wind, and she pummelled Riley Brightman’s back as he tried to get to his feet.

  ‘Bastard, you fucking bastard,’ she screeched.

  Bouncers in hi-vis flooded the scene like laser beams; Colette was borne away with her legs pinwheeling, a child lifted out of harm’s way. Martin was huckled out roughly by two absolute brutes who wouldn’t have looked out of place in an American wrestling ring.

  Arriving just a bit too late to get his hands scabby, Scott Trickett bowled forward, jabbing a fist at Martin Duke’s retreating back, bellowing, until a female steward laid a hand on his shoulder and gently, but decisively, pushed him back to where Georgia stood.

  Riley Brightman was back on his feet, and utterly in control, despite a comically fat lip. He was fully aware of the camera phones that pointed in his direction, and the fact that journalists were in the room. He seemed to focus on Adrienne Connulty’s mobile searchlight before the others, as he raised his arms in a placatory fashion, saying: ‘It’s all right folks, show’s over. Bit of a scuffle. Party’s not a party without one. Everyone have a drink, eh? It’s on me.’

  He came forward and seized Georgia by the hand. His own was small and delicate, the touch soft. It was like handling a wren; Georgia didn’t want to squeeze too hard. ‘Sorry you had to see that, Mrs Healey. Unsightly stuff. I’ve no idea how that clodding idiot managed to get on the guest list.’

  ‘Are you all right? I think you’ve got a cut lip.’

  ‘Must have done that to myself, when I fell.’ He touched his lip and stared at the blood a moment, fascinated. ‘Headlines, in the next five minutes: “Brightman punches self in face”.’

  ‘Hold on a second.’ Georgia dug into her pocket for some tissues, dabbing at them. ‘I think you’ll live.’

  ‘Let’s have more drinks!’ Riley bellowed, to no one in particular. Georgia was discomfited to see that the girl in black who had brought Adrienne a drink earlier snapped to it on the double. Then Riley turned back to Georgia. ‘Let’s you and me have a sit-down and a talk.’

  He steered her towards the back bench, waving away any other attention that came his way. Including from Adrienne Connulty, who said, much too brightly: ‘Hi, Riley!’

  *

  He was over-familiar, but not creepily so. Tactile; a hand on the arm or the shoulder, head bent close enough to kiss at times.

  Georgia felt disorientated for a moment or two. Do I want to kiss him? she thought. It wasn’t every day that you sat next to a living poster on someone’s wall. It wasn’t like seeing famous people in concert – there was still that barrier between crowd and performer, in those circumstances. She remembered being in a Japanese restaurant for her birthday one weekday off with Rod, and she’d turned around to see a Premier League footballer and his reality TV star wife there. There was something surreal about it, a moving image you were used to seeing on the television, or in pixels on news sites, or static in whatever papers you could be bothered reading. It was like they were ethereal beings, creatures who lived in picture books or within the gilded frames of high art, suddenly become flesh.

  Riley betrayed no clear signs of anxiety or stress, despite having been in a physical altercation moments before. His preamble seemed decent and sincere, although he locked eyes and hands with her to do it.

  ‘I know this might have been uncomfortable for you, and I’m sincerely sorry about that. I thought it was the best thing to do in the circumstances. It was the least I could do. Me and Stephanie… we were close. It was a brother and sister relationship, that’s for sure. I just couldn’t believe it when I heard.’

  Georgia pulled back with her hand – just a little. Enough for him to get the message and release her. ‘You certainly seemed close enough. She spoke about you now and then.’

  ‘It was a great year. Good group. Lots of friends, lots of socialising. You were a student here, Mrs Healey, is that right?’

  ‘That’s right. Too many years ago now.’

  ‘Not at all. But you remember what it was like. It’s a good town, a party town, but a quiet town, too. Somewhere you’d settle down.’

  ‘Yes. A funny old town.’ She smiled. She did remember. It was something she had blotted out of her mind. That she had loved the place. That she had subscribed to all the alumni publications, even made a donation or two to the medical school. Enjoyed reading about it, following the papers it published in journals. The last Home Secretary had been a Ferngate graduate, and although the man hadn’t been fit to line a cat litter tray in Georgia’s estimation, she’d known the reflected glory of someone from her alma mater doing well.

  And then I sent my only child here. And that happens.

  ‘But it didn’t look like you were very close to Martin Duke. What happened there?’

  He laughed, slapping his thighs with both hands. ‘That dick? Excuse my French. But that guy… You know, I’ll say this frankly, and I don’t want it to upset you. I know the police cleared him. They checked where he’d gone, they cleared him, but that guy… I had my suspicions about him. They weren’t as close as he made out. In the press conference, in the papers. I thought he had something to do with it, somewhere.’

  ‘The police are quite clear about
it, Riley.’

  ‘All the same, he’s a weirdo.’ Was that an Elvis sneer? Georgia thought it was. ‘He sniffed after her. I think she gave in and let him trail along behind her because she felt sorry for him.’

  ‘That’s not the first fight you’ve had with Martin, is it?’

  ‘Fight? That wasn’t a fight.’

  ‘I mean the last time you had a punch-up. The night Stephanie vanished.’

  ‘Well. That wasn’t a fight either. It was an ass-kicking. And I wasn’t on the receiving end of it.’

  ‘Really? He looked as if he can handle himself, just then.’

  ‘He got lucky.’ Georgia had struck a nerve with that, though. ‘He was all over the place, that night. At the Hephaestians’ do. Let me tell you.’

  ‘Maybe he was drunk,’ Georgia mused. ‘Reminds me a bit of old Thommo. Rugby player I knew. Scrum half – one of those guys about five feet six if that, but broad as they come, and muscular, with it. The type of guy who can drink about six pints before the night’s even got going, and not look as if it’s done any damage. I remember him getting a beating, one night. He was too drunk to do anything about it, basically. Got kicked up and down the car park by someone not much heavier than you. We didn’t speak about it much, once he’d healed up.’

  But Riley Brightman had already drifted away somewhere else. He nodded towards a phalanx of well-dressed young women who were stood near a table. Their way was barred by two bouncers, perhaps the same two who had given Martin Duke and Colette their cards. They filed forward, and Riley posed for a series of selfies. Photographers from the media took shots of this, too. Riley made great play of his fat lip, posing with his finger pointing towards the slight swelling – even making a boxing pose with one of the women who wanted selfies.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, sliding back into his seat. ‘Anyway – I hope this helps the fund in some small way. It’s the very least I could do, Georgia.’

  She had the horrendous feeling that he was preparing to jettison her.

  ‘I loved that song you wrote for her. “She Said”, or “She Says” – was that it?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded solemnly. ‘“She Said”. It’s about Stephanie.’

  ‘I’d like to see the lyrics, if that’s OK.’

  ‘I’ll get those to you – my PR is hanging around in the background somewhere. She’ll get your email address. I promise.’

  ‘Stephanie was a poet, too, you know.’

  Riley had been poised in the very act of getting off his seat – but here, he stopped, and sat back down. ‘That’s right. She was. A great poet, too. We used to write together. We were talking about her doing some lyrics for me. I was just starting out.’

  ‘Just starting out – and here you are, already. Glastonbury, the top ten…’

  ‘Number one in the streaming charts, as we speak,’ he said, a little too quickly.

  ‘Absolutely. I just wanted to know, though – did she ever talk about big projects?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Like writing projects, plays or novels.’

  ‘Oh, all the time. She was a creative whirlwind. She would have… Sorry. Sorry. She will have a career in the creative industries. Someone will pick her up, I know it. There was just… something about her. You know that way?’

  ‘Of course. She radiated something, but I didn’t know what it was. The word I want to use is “enigma”. She’s an enigma to me. Not something you’d say about your own daughter, but she was.’

  ‘That’s as good a word as any. Listen, I have to…’ He clapped a hand to her shoulder.

  She took his hand between hers, and held it, tight. He frowned at this. ‘I want to know about the Hephaestians, Riley. Specifically, about Tony Sillars.’

  ‘Sillier Soddus! Yes, he’s an enigma too, I guess. Not what you think he is, I can say that. But a great man, in his way. He looks like one of those wise seraphs, you know? Beyond the ken of mere mortals. Says all the right things – feminism, equality, calling out prejudice, your racists, your homophobes. He was Mr Woke. And you suspected he was nailing all the students, but…’

  The blond boy put down a pint of lager on the table before Riley. He all but wrinkled his nose at the drink as it slopped partly across the surface, but he said: ‘A gentleman and a scholar. You’ll always remember meeting this guy, Mrs Healey. This is… Howie…’ Riley’s face scrunched up in mock concentration.

  ‘…Abbot,’ the boy said.

  ‘Howie Abbot – that’s right. Remember the name. This guy’s the future, Mrs Healey. Take a look at this face, here.’

  The blond singer seemed absurdly drunk. ‘I will climb the stony path to the summit of Mount Pop!’ he declared, his arm still around Riley’s shoulders.

  ‘You will, you will.’

  ‘With you, as my wise Sherpa!’ The blond singer sat down, untidily.

  Georgia tugged Riley’s sleeve. ‘Sorry – before we lose the thread, here. You were saying about Tony Sillars?’

  ‘Oh – just that he’s a top man. Encouraged me with my poetry. Encourages everyone. You don’t get many teachers like that in life. I thanked him, in the sleeve notes of our album. He got in touch, wrote a letter – like, on paper. All formal, like. You know what the bugger did? He asked us for backstage passes!’

  Riley laughed aloud. Then he was gone. Georgia noticed Adrienne collaring him before he made his way through a thickening crowd of onlookers. The bouncers, possibly seeing what had happened earlier as a failure and a cause for a reprimand the next day, looked very nervous as he hugged, shook hands, posed for photos, and signed ticket stubs.

  The blond boy sighed and sat back. He sketched something on the sheet of paper with the thick marker pen. Georgia saw the words ‘FORMAL LETTER’, in capitals, in the centre of what seemed to be a crude impression of a gilded frame. He turned to look at Georgia, and smiled. ‘Hey there.’

  ‘Hey there yourself. How’s your night?’

  ‘It’s going swell. Absolutely no one has come to take my number, or pose for photographs. Don’t suppose you want to pose for photos?’

  ‘You seem friendly with Riley.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Go back a-ways.’ He leaned closer. He smelled of booze – and not just beer; that awful, almost folk-memory taint of vodka was on his breath, uncut. ‘I think Riley sees me as a little brother, you know. He’s helping me out. I get it. I get it. It’s a big gig, this… although it’s for a cause.’ He looked ashamed of himself. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right. You’ve dedicated your time and your effort to it. Don’t feel bad. It’s good you’re getting this exposure. I’m glad.’

  ‘Thing is, you’ve got to stick in,’ the boy said. ‘You’ve got to stick in with Riley. His dad’s the thing, you know. It’s how things are done. It’s how you get a deal. Dirty world, but it’s the same everywhere. It’s a snake that eats itself.’ He made a grand gesture, one hand clenched in the other. It was the gesture of a children’s TV presenter, something he had probably practised. Had he done it on that stage, earlier on? Georgia couldn’t remember.

  ‘Riley’s dad? Who’s his dad?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ His features softened, and he giggled. ‘It must be the worst-kept secret in the music business. It’s up there with Linda McCartney and the Eastmans.’

  ‘That was hardly a secret. Who’s Riley’s dad?’

  A great, booming voice caused both their heads to snap up. ‘Right then you, Nancy boy, budge up there, let me sit next to the lady.’ Scott Trickett appeared, three pints of landfill lager clutched between his hands, slopping out onto the floor.

  The blond boy budged up as he was told. Georgia suspected Trickett wouldn’t have broken his stride in any case, and would have flopped down on his lap, had he not gotten out of the way. The big man slumped like a walrus beaching itself, slammed the pints down, and offered the one with least spilt out of it to Georgia, eyebrows raised.

  ‘No thanks, Scott, I’m driving.’


  ‘Ah, that’s no excuse. You could walk home… Oh, sorry.’ Before Georgia realised what he meant, he wiped his hands on his white campaign T-shirt, and offered a hand. Whereas Riley’s hands were those of an artist, Trickett’s were those of a bricklayer. She felt something sharp jabbing the pads of her hands, and recoiled.

  Trickett held up his hand. His nails were long, and wicked sharp on the right hand. ‘I’m so sorry, again. I’m an idiot. I forget about these.’

  ‘For guitar picking?’

  ‘Banjo, actually. But you’re on the right track.’ Trickett had his back turned to the blond boy, who, whether or not he was drunk, took his cue, and also his pint, retreating in the direction of the crowd. ‘Hey – you hear any more about how the inquiry’s going?’

  ‘No news, I’m afraid. Just got to hope this jogs people’s memories.’

  He shook his head, gulping half his drink down, and suppressing a belch. ‘Terrible times, something like that can happen, I tell you. It’s an awful road you’re going down. Oh… sorry again.’

  ‘Quite all right,’ Georgia said. ‘You don’t have to keep apologising.’

  ‘I’ve got this thing, where I say inappropriate things. What do you call it again? Being a dickhead.’ He grinned. White foam clung to his beard. Although he surely hadn’t long put on the white campaign T-shirt, he smelled as if he had been wearing it for a few days. Georgia, who was well practised in not showing discomfort whenever less-than-well-groomed patients took their clothes off in front of her, did not retreat.

  ‘Not at all. Hey – I was thinking Riley’s dad might be here tonight. Is he here?’

  ‘What – Sir Oliver? Nah, he’s busy tonight. Rotarians, Masons, Satanists, something like that. Some kind of party going on up at the hall. I had a suspicion it was for Riley. Not long had a birthday. And he was just not telling me. Or daddy wasn’t inviting me. That’d be right.’

  ‘He can’t go without you, surely. There’s no him without you.’