Lucas

by Kevin Brooks

  I shook my head and started walking again.

  It’s hard to think about growing up when you’re right in the middle of it. It’s hard to know what you want. Sometimes there are so many voices in your head it’s difficult to know which of them is yours. You want this; you want that. You think you want this; but then you want that. You think you ought to want this; but everyone says you’re supposed to want that.

  It’s not easy.

  I remember one time, when I was about ten or eleven, I came home from school crying my eyes out because the other kids had been calling me a baby. After Dad had comforted me and waited patiently for the tears to dry up, he sat me down and gave me some advice. ‘Listen, Cait,’ he said. ‘You’ll spend half your childhood wishing you were grown up, and then, when you are grown up, you’ll spend half your time wishing you were a child again. So don’t go worrying too much about what’s right or wrong for your age – just do whatever you want.’

  That got me thinking about Dad again, about his loneliness, his writing, his drinking … and then an unexpected movement caught my eye and all my thoughts disappeared. There was someone swimming in the sea, just off the Point, heading towards the beach. And I was suddenly aware that it was getting dark, and I was cold, and I didn’t know where Deefer was.

  ‘Deefer!’ I shouted, looking around. ‘Here, boy! Come here, Deef!’

  I waited, listening out for the jangle of his collar, then I whistled and called out again, but there was no answer. Out in the sea the swimmer had nearly reached the beach. I shielded my eyes to get a better look. It was a young, fairhaired man wearing dark swimming goggles. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but the light was unclear and I couldn’t make out a face. Whoever it was, though, he was a good swimmer. As he moved closer to the shore I could hear the steady slap of his hands slicing through the water. Slap … slap … slap … a strangely eerie sound.

  I looked around and called out for Deefer again. No reply. I looked everywhere – back along the beach, along the fringes of the saltmarsh, over at the mud flats. Nothing. No black dog, no sign of life at all. Just me and a slightly unnerving figure in dark goggles, who at that moment was wading out of the sea and crunching up the shingle towards me. Tall, muscular, and broad-shouldered, wearing a pair of tight trunks, a fancy black watch, and nothing else. A thin-lipped, mocking grin creased his mouth, and as he got closer I noticed that his skin was smeared with some kind of oil, or clear grease. Water rolled from his skin, pearled with tiny rainbows.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t little Caity McCann,’ he said, removing his goggles and smiling at me. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘Oh – Jamie,’ I said hesitantly. ‘What are you doing here?’

  As he carried on towards me, adjusting his trunks and grinning his grin, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Jamie Tait – son of Ivan Tait, local landowner, wealthy businessman, and Member of Parliament for Moulton East – was the closest thing to a celebrity the island has ever produced. Captain of the County Schools Junior Rugby XV, national swimming champion at sixteen, and now a rising star in his second year at Oxford University.

  Jamie Tait was a Bright Young Thing.

  Or, as Dad would have it, the biggest little shite on the island.

  He’d stopped about a metre away from me and was flicking his goggles against his leg, breathing heavily and looking me up and down.

  ‘So, what do you think, Cait?’ he said. ‘Have I still got it?’

  ‘Got what?’

  He flicked wet hair from his eyes. ‘The style, the stuff … I saw you watching me.’

  ‘I wasn’t watching you, I was looking for my dog.’

  ‘Right,’ he winked. ‘Gotcha.’

  His staring eyes gave me the creeps. Pale electric-blue, like androids’ eyes, it was impossible to tell what lay behind them. I didn’t like the way he was standing, either, the way he was holding his body. Too close, but not too close. Close enough to make it awkward to look away. Close enough to insinuate, to say – look, look at this, what do you think?

  I took a step back and whistled for Deefer, scanning the beach. There was still nothing in sight. When I turned back, Jamie had stepped closer, his thumbs hooked inside his trunks. I could smell the oil on his skin, something sweet on his breath.

  ‘Is Dom back from Liverpool yet?’ he asked.

  ‘This afternoon, he came back this afternoon. Would you mind—’

  ‘Is he coming out tonight?’

  ‘I really don’t know. I think I’d—’

  ‘What’s the matter, Cait? Look at you, you’re shivering.’ He smiled. ‘I’d give you something to put on, but as you can see, I don’t have a lot to offer.’ His eyes glanced downwards and he laughed. ‘It’s the cold, you know.’

  ‘I have to go,’ I said, and turned to walk away. My heart was thumping and my legs felt weak. I was half-expecting a hand to grab my arm – but nothing happened.

  I don’t think I was really frightened at that point, just angry. Angry at myself for … I don’t know what for. For being there, I suppose. Angry that he’d made me angry.

  After about half a dozen steps I heard him crunching along behind me, calling out in a friendly voice, ‘Hold on, Caity, hold on. I want to ask you something.’

  I carried on walking.

  I thought I had the advantage. I had shoes on, Jamie didn’t. Walking barefoot on sharp shingle isn’t the easiest thing in the world. But within a few seconds he’d caught me up and was striding along beside me, hopping and grinning.

  ‘Hey, where’s the fire? What’s the hurry?’

  ‘I told you, I have to find my dog.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Deefer.’

  ‘Deefer dog?’ he laughed. ‘That’s very good. Very imaginative.’ He laughed again, then cupped his hands to his mouth and started calling out. ‘Dee-fer dawg! Dee-fer dawg! Dee-fer …’ – spinning round as he walked, like a lighthouse – ‘Dee-fer dawg! Dee-fer dawg! Dee-fer dawg! …’

  I carried on, heading towards the pillbox, trying to work out what to do. There were all sorts of unsavoury rumours about Jamie Tait, most of which, according to Dominic, he’d started himself. ‘Jamie’s all right,’ Dom told me once. ‘He just needs to let off a bit of steam now and then. All this madman stuff, it’s just island gossip. Jamie’s a teddy bear, really.’

  Well, I thought, teddy bear or not, the sooner I find Deefer and get home, the better.

  I’d reached the pillbox now. A squat, circular building, half-sunk into the ground, with thick concrete walls and a flat roof, it looks – and smells – like a dirty old public lavatory. My nose wrinkled at the smell and I started to edge away, but I didn’t know which way to go. Should I cut across the saltmarshes and head for home, or should I get back to the beach and carry on looking for Deefer? Which way? Saltmarshes, beach, back to the Point …?

  Jamie had stopped his lunatic wailing and was skipping along the edges of the saltmarsh poking about in the reeds. ‘He’s not in here,’ he called out to me, stooping to pick up a stick from the strandline. ‘Hey, maybe he got a whiff of Rita Gray’s bitch. You know what dogs are like when they get that smell.’ He swung the stick at an empty Coke bottle then started towards me. ‘How’s Bill, by the way? She still got the hots for your brother?’

  I ignored him, looking around the beach again, scanning the shore for Deefer, but the fading light was indistinct and I couldn’t seem to focus on anything. The sky was darkening, streaked with yellow and grey, and the sea had taken on a black and icy look.

  Jamie came up to me with the stick yoked across his shoulders. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what are we going to do now?’ I put my hands in my pockets and said nothing. He smiled, nodding at the pillbox behind me. ‘My changing room.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The pillbox, it’s where I get changed.’ He looked down at his trunks. ‘You don’t think I’m walking all the way back in just these do you? I’d get arrested.’

>   I looked away. ‘I have to get going now.’

  He stepped closer. ‘How’s your old man, Cait? Still writing naughty books for kiddies?’

  I didn’t say anything.

  Jamie grinned. He was still breathing heavily, but not because he was out of breath.

  ‘I must come round some time,’ he said. ‘Have a chat with the great man. What do you think? Me and Johnny McCann. Johnny Mac. We could have a drink together, a little Oirish whiskey, a little smoke … what do you think, Cait? Would you like that?’

  ‘Goodnight, Jamie,’ I said, and turned to leave.

  He moved quickly, stepping in close and bringing his stick down to block my way. A cold light iced his eyes. ‘I asked you a question, Cait.’

  ‘Get out of my way—’

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘Please, I want to go home …’

  He pursed his lips and smiled. ‘Oh, come on, Caity, let’s stop messing about. You can’t bring me all this way and then change your mind.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. Come on, it’s getting cold. Let’s go inside. Let me show you my changing room. I’ve got a bottle in my jacket. A nice drop of whiskey will warm us up—’

  ‘How’s Sara?’ I asked.

  Sara was his fiancée. Sara Toms. A strikingly beautiful girl, with all the social graces a bright young thing could wish for, she was the daughter of Detective Inspector Toms, the head of the local police force. She was also insanely possessive. I suppose I thought that mentioning her name was a smart thing to do under the circumstances, but as soon as I had, I wished I hadn’t. At the sound of her name, Jamie froze. His pupils shrank to pinpoints and his mouth narrowed to a tight slit. For a moment I thought he was going to explode or something, but then – with an almost visible sigh – the anger left him and something else took over. Something worse. He smiled and stepped closer. Not close enough to actually touch me, but close enough to force me back against the wall of the pillbox. My head was racing, blood rushing through my veins, but I still didn’t quite believe that anything was wrong. It was ridiculous, really. My instinct was telling me to kick him in the groin and run, but something else, some kind of inbred civility, I suppose, was saying – no, hold on, just hold on a minute, he’s just trying it on, it’s not serious, think how embarrassing it’ll be if you kick him in the groin, think what the papers would make of it – MP’s Son Attacked By Local Girl. I actually imagined the headline. Can you believe that?

  He didn’t say or do anything for a while, he just stood there breathing hard and staring into my eyes. I was still trying to convince myself that everything was OK, that there wasn’t anything to worry about, that he was nothing more than a slightly unbalanced spoilt brat who needed to let off a bit of steam now and then … and then I felt him take my hand and move it towards him.

  ‘No—’

  ‘Shut up.’

  I felt bare skin, cold and oily. I tried to take my hand away but he was too strong.

  ‘Don’t—’

  ‘What?’ he grinned.

  Kick him, I thought, kick him … but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything. All I could do was look with disbelief into his eyes as he tightened his grip and moved even closer – and then a deep-throated snarl ripped through the air behind him.

  ‘Shit!’ he hissed, paralysed with fear. ‘What’s that?’

  It was Deefer, standing tall, with his teeth bared and his hackles up. The snarl sounded wet and bloody.

  Jamie still had hold of my hand. I yanked it away.

  ‘What is it?’ he whispered, his eyes darting, trying to see behind him without turning his head.

  I couldn’t speak. Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t say anything. I wanted him away from me, I wanted to push him away, but I couldn’t bear to touch him. My hand, the hand he’d taken … I realised I was holding it out to one side, keeping it away from me. My throat was as dry as a bone.

  ‘Christ, Cait,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘What the hell is it? Tell me!’

  I was very close to setting Deefer on him. One word from me and he’d have ripped Jamie to pieces. Instead, after what seemed like an hour, but was probably only thirty seconds or so, I managed to calm down a little, get my thoughts in order, and find a voice. I told Deefer to sit. I told him to stay and guard. Then I told Jamie to move back.

  ‘What—’

  ‘Move back now or I’ll set the dog on you.’

  He took a cautious step back.

  ‘Don’t turn around,’ I told him. ‘Don’t move. If you move, he’ll bite you.’

  Jamie looked at me. ‘Hey, Cait, come on. Look, you don’t think I was serious, do you? I was only messing around. I wasn’t—’

  I walked away.

  ‘Cait!’ he called out. ‘Just a minute … what are you doing? Cait? You can’t leave me here, I’ll freeze. Cait!’

  By the time I reached the creek my calmness had evaporated and I was shaking like a leaf. I took a deep breath and yelled for Deefer. While I was waiting for him to answer, I slid down the bank of the creek and washed my hands in the running water, scrubbing until they were numb, until there was no trace of feeling left. Then I washed the tears from my face.

  It’s your own fault, I told myself, how could you have been so stupid? Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid … why didn’t you turn around and walk away as soon as you saw him? You know what he’s like. Why didn’t you just walk away?

  I knew the answer.

  I didn’t walk away because I didn’t want to appear rude. I didn’t want to appear unfriendly …

  It was pathetic.

  When I clambered back up the bank Deefer was sitting on the bridge, wagging his tail.

  ‘Where the hell were you?’ I said, wiping snotty tears from my face. ‘You’re supposed to look after me. Come here.’ He lowered his head and waddled over to me, crouched low to the ground. ‘Next time,’ I told him, ‘next time … just come back when I call you. All right?’ I patted his head. ‘It’s no good leaving it until the last minute – when I call you, you come back.’ His tail thumped and he yawned with shame. ‘And don’t you dare tell anyone about this,’ I sniffed. ‘It’s between you and me, OK? If Dad finds out, he’ll kill him. I’m not joking, Deef. He’ll kill him.’

  The house was quiet when I got back. I went upstairs and took a shower, changed into some clean clothes, checked in the mirror to make sure the tears didn’t show, then bundled up my T-shirt and shorts with a pile of dirty washing and went back down to the kitchen. I was putting the clothes in the washing machine when Dad came in.

  ‘Hey there, Cait – what are you doing?’

  ‘Just a bit of washing … I was … there was some oil on the beach …’

  ‘Oil?’

  ‘Tar or something.’ I shrugged. ‘I got some on my shirt.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, looking at me. ‘Are you all right? Your eyes—’

  I turned away. ‘It’s nothing, a bit of sand …’

  ‘Here, let me see.’

  ‘I said it’s all right, Dad.’

  He gave me a puzzled look. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. Honestly, it’s nothing. I’m fine.’ I set the washing machine and turned it on. ‘Have you eaten yet?’

  ‘I’m not really hungry, love.’

  ‘What about Dominic? He’s not still asleep, is he?’

  ‘He went out. He had to meet some people …’

  ‘Where?’

  He shook his head. ‘The Dog and Pheasant, I expect.’

  ‘Didn’t you want to go?’

  He smiled awkwardly. ‘Ah, I’d only embarrass the boy. You know how it is … we’ll probably have a quiet drink together some other time …’ He crossed to the cupboard and took out a fresh bottle of whiskey. I could tell from his exaggerated steadiness that he’d already had a few drinks. He sat down at the table and poured himself another.r />
  ‘Did you have a nice walk?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine … it was fine … a bit cold …’

  He nodded, looking out of the window. ‘And you’d tell me if anything was wrong?’

  ‘Yes, Dad. I’d tell you.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  He sipped his drink and looked at me with slightly glazed eyes. ‘No one ever kept a secret so well as a child.’

  ‘I’m not a child.’

  ‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘That’s the truth of it.’

  ‘Dad—’

  ‘The boy,’ he said, suddenly. ‘Tell me what you think of him.’

  ‘Which boy?’

  He smiled knowingly. ‘The fine-looking boy on the bridge.’

  ‘The Stand?’

  He drank some more. ‘Bridge, Stand, whatever … didn’t he make you wonder?’

  ‘Wonder about what? What are you talking about, Dad?’

  ‘Secrets,’ he winked.

  ‘I think you’ve had too much to drink.’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘You don’t look it.’

  ‘Well, it’s been a funny old day—’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He looked at me for a moment, his head swaying slightly on his shoulders, then he breathed in deeply and stood up. ‘Well, I’d best get on. See if I can’t come up with something to pay the bills …’ He smiled again, then turned and headed for the door, clutching the bottle and glass.

  ‘Dad?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘Don’t drink too much, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  He came over and kissed me, then shuffled out, back to his study. His breath smelled of whiskey and sweet tobacco.

  That night I couldn’t get to sleep for a long time. The air was heavy and close and I couldn’t settle. The sheets were clingy, the pillows too soft, too lumpy, the mattress too hard. I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened on the beach. Jamie Tait. The feel of his hand, his creepy eyes, his greasy skin … I knew I ought to tell someone about it, but I couldn’t think who. And even if I did tell someone, what would be the point? It was my word against his. He was a local hero, an Oxford student, the son of an MP. And what was I? Nothing, just a strange little girl with ribbons in her hair, a girl who wore the same clothes all the time. The motherless daughter of a wifeless writer …