by Kevin Brooks
McLaren shook his head, exasperated.
William carried on apologizing.
McLaren held his hands up – ‘OK, OK …’
Smiling drunkenly, William said something to him. McLaren just frowned. William mimed a gunfighter drawing his pistols, then pointed over at Curtis, and I guessed he was reminding McLaren that he was Billy the Kid, the new guitarist in Curtis’s band – ‘Remember? Curtis introduced us earlier on …?’
McLaren nodded vaguely, pretending to remember – ‘Oh, yeah, right …’ and then, as William gave him a clumsy pat on the shoulder before lurching off towards the toilets, McLaren turned back to the others with a disdainful shake of his head – ‘Fucking idiot …’
And that, for the moment, was that.
I still didn’t have a clue what William was up to.
While I waited for him to come back, I looked over at Curtis again. He was still sitting down, but he’d slumped right over now – his head face down on the floor, his arms hanging loosely at his sides – and I guessed he’d probably passed out. It was really tempting to just leave him there. Why not? I asked myself. Just leave him to it, let him stew in his own stupidity, go home without him …
I wished I could.
After a minute or two, I saw William coming back from the toilets. He was walking normally again now – perfectly sober and steady – and there was a look of quiet satisfaction on his face. He had to pass Malcolm McLaren and the others to get back to me, and as he approached them I saw him glance ahead at a group of people coming towards him from the opposite direction. He momentarily slowed down, as if he was going to stop to let the other people past, but as they neared the spot where McLaren was standing, William speeded up again, reaching McLaren just as the others were passing him. There wasn’t a lot of room, and as William pushed his way through a gap on McLaren’s side, someone must have given him a shove, because he suddenly lurched to one side and bumped into McLaren again.
The encounter was a lot briefer this time.
A quick coming together, a steadying hand, a hurried apology – ‘Sorry! Me again! Sorry!’ – a smile, a step back, another quick smile … and William was gone before McLaren had a chance to say anything.
As he crossed the room back to me, I realized that – unlike almost everyone else in the room – he didn’t seem to care what anyone else thought of him. He didn’t look at people to see if they were watching him, he didn’t try to be cool, he didn’t try to be anything … he just walked across the room, true to himself, content with himself, his smiling eyes fixed on me.
‘All right?’ he said, stopping in front of me.
‘Yeah …’
‘Are you ready?’
‘Ready for what?’
‘Sleeping Beauty over there,’ he said, glancing at Curtis. ‘We should get him back home before he turns into a pumpkin.’
‘Yeah, but I’ve already told you, we don’t have enough money for a taxi.’
‘Yeah, we do,’ William said, reaching into his pocket. Making sure that no one else could see what he was doing, he pulled out a thick handful of £10 and £20 notes. ‘That should be enough, shouldn’t it?’ he asked me.
I stared at the money for a moment – guessing the total to be at least £100 – and then I slowly looked up at William. He smiled at me. And, at last, I got it: it was Malcolm McLaren’s money. William had stolen his wallet when he’d first ‘drunkenly’ stumbled into him. He’d taken the wallet into the toilet, removed all the cash, then replaced the wallet in McLaren’s pocket when he’d bumped into him again on the way back.
‘You’re a wicked person, William Bonney,’ I said, smiling.
He smiled back at me. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’
It was quite a struggle getting Curtis to his feet and out of the studio, but between the two of us we just about managed it in the end. It was a cold night outside, the streets veiled with a misty rain, but luckily we didn’t have to wait long for a taxi. Unfortunately, though, as the cab slowed down and pulled in to the kerb, the driver took one look at Curtis, shook his head, and drove off without stopping.
‘Great,’ I muttered, wiping rain from my face.
‘It’s all right,’ William said, peering up the street. ‘There’s another one coming.’ He glanced over at Curtis, who was half-slumped, half-leaning against a wall, then he turned to me. ‘Can you see if you can make him look a bit less wrecked?’
I went over to Curtis, grabbed him by the shoulders, and straightened him up. His eyes half-opened and he started to moan.
‘Shut up, Curtis,’ I told him. ‘Just keep quiet and stand up straight, OK?’
‘Unnhh …?’
I took hold of his face in both hands, leaned in close, and whispered harshly at him, ‘Please … shut … UP!’
He stared at me for a moment – his eyes all bloodshot and bleary – then he sighed heavily and dropped his head. I breathed out, almost gagging on the alcohol stink of his breath, and looked back at William. The taxi was just pulling up beside him now. It stopped, William approached it, and the driver wound down his window.
‘Where to, mate?’
‘Seven Sisters, please.’
The driver looked over at Curtis and me. ‘Are they with you?’ he asked William.
‘Yeah …’
‘No way,’ the driver said shaking his head. ‘I’m not having him puke up in the back of my cab. Sorry, mate.’
As he turned away and started to wind up the window, William stepped forward and put his hand on the glass. ‘How much do you want?’ he said to the driver.
‘Get your fucking hand off –’
‘Fifty quid?’
The driver looked at him.
William said, ‘And if he throws up, I’ll give you another ten. How’s that?’
The driver thought about it for a moment, then said, ‘Sixty up front, and you’re on.’
‘OK.’
‘But if he makes any trouble –’
‘He won’t.’
We didn’t speak for a while as the black cab rumbled along through the rainy South London streets, we just sat together in the back of the taxi – Curtis on my right, William on my left – the three of us lost in our own inner worlds. Curtis was slumped against the window, snoring and drooling and occasionally muttering unintelligibly to himself; William was gazing quietly out of the window, watching the streets pass by; and I was just staring blindly at the raindrops on the glass, trying not to think about anything at all. I wanted to forget everything, to empty my mind, to leave all the chaos and crap behind …
But it wasn’t easy.
Because the thing about things that have just happened – especially the things that you wish hadn’t happened … well, that’s just the thing: you can’t make them unhappen. You can’t just leave them behind, because once they’ve happened, they’re part of you, part of your past, and their memories become part of your present, and their consequences become part of your future.
Things that happen become you.
And you can never leave yourself behind.
I turned to William. ‘You got it wrong.’
He looked at me. ‘Sorry?’
‘About Sleeping Beauty and the pumpkin … you got it all wrong.’
‘Did I?’
I nodded. ‘It was Cinderella who went to the ball, not Sleeping Beauty. And neither of them turned into a pumpkin. That was Cinderella’s coach. If she didn’t get home before midnight, her coach would turn back into a pumpkin.’
‘Right …’ William said.
I smiled at him. ‘I just thought you’d like to know, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, well … thanks. Thanks for pointing out my mistake.’
‘No problem.’
He smiled at me.
I said, ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’
‘Is it about fairy tales?’<
br />
‘No, it’s not about fairy tales.’
‘In that case, no … I don’t mind.’
‘You stole Malcolm McLaren’s wallet, didn’t you?’
He shook his head. ‘I didn’t steal his wallet, I just borrowed it so I could steal his money. I gave his wallet back to him.’
‘Right,’ I said, ‘OK … but you still picked his pocket, didn’t you?’
‘I did, yeah.’
‘Why? I mean, you could have just asked him to lend us some money.’
William shook his head again. ‘That would have been begging.’
‘No –’
‘I don’t beg for anything.’
‘You’d rather steal?’
‘Yep.’
I didn’t say anything for a while, I just looked at him, wondering if he was going to say anything else. I’m not sure what I was expecting – an explanation, perhaps … some kind of justification – but I knew in my heart that I was wasting my time. He did what he did; he didn’t need to justify it to anyone.
‘Can I ask you something else?’ I said.
‘Sure,’ he said, smiling again. ‘Ask away.’
‘How come you know how to pick pockets?’
‘Ah, well … now that’s a long story.’
‘We’ve got a long way to go,’ I said, glancing out of the cab window.
‘Maybe some other time.’
I gave him a look – slightly disappointed, but not really surprised – and said, ‘All right then, let me ask you something else. How long have you lived in London?’
‘Two years.’
‘And you moved here from Belfast, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what? Why did I move here? Or why did I leave Belfast?’
‘Both.’
He grinned. ‘I thought you were only going to ask me one question.’
‘I never said that.’
‘No, but that’s what you implied.’
‘I didn’t imply anything. All I said was that I wanted to ask you something else –’
‘Exactly … something else. Singular.’
‘Stop changing the subject.’
‘I’m not changing the –’
‘Why did you leave Belfast?’
Something changed in him then, something in his eyes. It didn’t last long, but I definitely saw a momentary flicker of darkness, a darkness borne of pain and sorrow … and worse. And his eyes held a warning too – don’t go there. But whether it was meant for me, or whether it was just an instinctive reminder to himself to stay away from the darkness, I just couldn’t tell.
‘I’m sorry,’ I started to say. ‘I’m being too nosy –’
‘No, it’s all right,’ he said, bringing the lightness back to his face. ‘It’s just … it’s nothing. It was just … family reasons, you know … that’s why I left Belfast.’ He shrugged. ‘Just family stuff.’
I nodded, as if I understood. Which I didn’t, of course. But I didn’t want to push him any further. Not yet, anyway.
‘So,’ I said breezily. ‘Is it very different here?’
‘Different than Belfast, you mean?’
‘Yeah.’
He grinned. ‘A little bit, yeah.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, London’s a lot bigger, for a start. And there’s a lot more people here. I mean, in Belfast, if I go into town, I’m almost guaranteed to meet at least half a dozen people I know. But here, you never see the same person twice. Which is actually kind of nice, once you get used to it. And another thing I like about London is that you don’t get stopped and searched every time you go into a shop or a pub or something.’
‘Is that what happens in Belfast?’
‘Yeah, all the time. You can’t go anywhere without getting pushed up against a wall by a squaddy. Especially if you’re …’
I looked at him. ‘If you’re what?’
He gazed out of the window and sighed. ‘It’s different here … I mean, it’s a completely different world. In Belfast … well, you can’t know what it’s like unless you know what it’s like.’
‘I don’t understand.’
He nodded his head at the passing streets. ‘If we were in Belfast, every one of these streets would be either Catholic or Protestant. They might even be Catholic on one side and Protestant on the other. And whichever you are, Catholic or Protestant, you’re born into hating the other side.’ He looked at me. ‘If this was Belfast, and the driver there was a Protestant, he wouldn’t have stopped to pick me up. And if he was a Catholic, and this was a Protestant area … well, we wouldn’t actually be here, because a Catholic cabbie would never drive through a Protestant area. But if he did, and I was sitting in the back, we’d both be absolutely shitting ourselves.’ William paused for a moment, his eyes lowered, seemingly lost in thought. Then, after letting out another long sigh, he looked back up at me again and said, ‘That’s it really. That’s how it is.’
When we finally got back to Seven Sisters, William helped me get Curtis out of the taxi and we walked him up to the front door of the squat. He was still only semi-conscious, walking like a zombie, and I was pretty sure that he had no idea where he was.
‘Do you want me to help you get him inside?’ William asked.
‘No, I’ll be all right now, thanks.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, smiling at him. ‘You’ve done more than enough for us as it is. You should just get on home now.’
As I said this, the taxi driver put his cab into gear and started pulling away from the kerb.
‘Hey!’ I called out after him. ‘HEY! Just a minute –’
‘It’s OK,’ William said calmly. ‘Let him go.’
‘Yeah, but you paid him –’
‘Really, it’s all right. I don’t mind walking from here. It’s not far.’
‘But it’s raining.’
He smiled. ‘I like the rain. It reminds me of home.’
‘Are you sure? I mean, there’s probably a spare room in here somewhere –’
‘Thanks, but I’d better get back.’
‘OK …’
‘Billy?’ Curtis suddenly spluttered. ‘Is that Billy?’
We both looked at him. He was leaning against the porch wall, and he was trying to turn his head to focus on William … but he wasn’t really succeeding. It was as if his head was simply far too heavy for him to control. So, after a few moments, he gave up, letting his head loll back against the wall.
‘Billy?’ he mumbled. ‘Right, uhh, yeah … t’morrow … OK? Yeah … seven, yeah? R’earsal … seven … shit …’
He groaned, heaved, clutched his stomach, then doubled over and threw up.
17
By seven thirty the next night, when William still hadn’t turned up at the warehouse for the rehearsal, I was fairly sure that I was never going to see him again. He’d obviously changed his mind about joining the band, and after everything that had happened the night before, I didn’t really blame him. I mean, why would anyone in their right mind want to throw in their lot with a walking disaster like Curtis? It just wasn’t worth all the hassle, was it?
I looked across at him now – sitting on a wooden crate, picking away at his guitar, his face deathly white, his eyes ringed with heavy black circles.
He’d been unusually quiet all day.
After finally waking up around midday, he’d spent most of the afternoon either throwing up or just lying in bed, moaning and groaning, and I’m sure that was part of the reason for his uncharacteristic silence. But it was also his way of saying sorry. Sorry I fucked up. Sorry for embarrassing you. Sorry for putting you through hell again. Of course, it would have meant a lot more to me if he’d actually said he was sorry, and I would have appreciated it if – while he was at it – he’d thanked me for
looking after him too.
But that wasn’t Curtis’s way.
And, unlike William, I didn’t seem able to just take it or leave it. I just had to take it. Which made me think that, unlike William, I wasn’t quite right in my mind.
‘What time is it now?’ I heard Curtis call out.
‘Twenty to eight,’ Jake replied.
Curtis looked over at me. ‘He’s not coming, is he?’
I wasn’t strictly not speaking to Curtis, but I was avoiding it whenever possible. Like now. So I didn’t answer him, I just shrugged.
He glanced over at Stan. ‘What do you think? Shall we just get started without him?’
Stan shrugged too.
Curtis lit a cigarette and turned to Jake. ‘Do you want to go up to the phone box and try ringing him?’
‘He’s not on the phone,’ Jake said.
‘What?’
‘That’s what he told me. He hasn’t got a phone.’
‘Shit …’ Curtis muttered.
And that’s when the warehouse door opened and William walked in. He was dressed exactly the same as the day before – same jacket, same shirt, same trousers – and he was carrying two guitar cases, one in each hand. As he shut the door and came over to us, the pall of lethargy that had been hanging over the whole room suddenly seemed to evaporate. It was as if a light had been turned on.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘I got held up.’ He smiled at me. ‘You all right?’
‘Yeah … yeah,’ I said. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
He turned to Curtis. ‘How are you feeling today?’
‘Yeah, great,’ Curtis said grumpily, staring at the guitar cases. ‘What have you got there?’
‘Well,’ William said, putting the guitar cases on the floor. ‘I couldn’t get a Gibson Les Paul, like you suggested, but I managed to get these.’ He opened up the two cases, revealing two Fender Telecasters. One of them looked brand new, its Sunburst finish still glossy and sleek, but the other one was clearly pretty old, its pale butterscotch body covered in dents and scratches. ‘Will they do?’ William asked Curtis.
Curtis was virtually drooling at the sight of the guitars. ‘Are these yours?’ he said, not quite believing his eyes.