The Graft

by Martina Cole

  He was almost getting himself into the mood for what she wanted when she inadvertently ruined it.

  ‘Shall I jump back in with you, babe?’

  It was that ‘babe’ that killed any hope they’d had but she didn’t know that and he wasn’t going to tell her.

  How many other blokes had she said it to over the years?>

  Nick pulled the quilt back. Smirking at her, he said nastily, ‘If you can get it hard then it’s all yours, darlin’. And let’s face it, Tams, you’ve had enough practice with everyone else.’

  Her face, that had been so open and soft, hardened.

  ‘Oh, fuck you!’

  ‘Not this morning you won’t, love. I couldn’t raise a smile, Tams, let alone anything else.’

  He laughed at his own wit even as he felt desperately sorry for hurting her. Why did he do this to her? She didn’t deserve this treatment. He grabbed her arm before she could storm away from him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tams. Honestly, darlin’, it’s nothing personal, you know that.’

  She could hear the sorrow in his voice and knew that he never set out to hurt her even though that was what he always ended up doing. She pulled away from him. Grabbing the towel from the floor, she covered herself up once more. Feeling ashamed of her nakedness now, sorry she had started it all up again.

  ‘Ain’t it? Well, it feels like it is.’

  She picked up a hairbrush from the dressing table and started to drag it through her hair angrily, the hurt and embarrassment making her feel hot with shame.

  ‘You better see someone and you better see someone soon. This is starting to drive me mad, Nick.’

  She stared at him through the dressing-table mirror.

  ‘Are you seeing anyone else, Nick?’

  He could see the fear in her eyes and sighed heavily.

  ‘ ’Course not. There’s no one, I swear that to you, Tams.’

  He was telling her the truth and they both knew it.

  ‘Not even prostitutes?’

  ‘Especially not fucking prostitutes.’

  Though that had been the case in the past.

  He walked to the bathroom and locked the door. The sound of the bolt being driven home was loud in the silence of the room.

  Tammy looked at herself critically in the bedroom mirror. She was still looking good so it wasn’t her fault. As she looked around the beautiful room, at the Italian furniture and the expensive drapes, she wondered about other women all over the country who were getting the rogering of a lifetime from their old men in surroundings far less salubrious than this. Lucky them. She wondered not for the first time whether marriage to Nick was worth it.

  Yet the strangest thing of all was she loved him.

  She always had and she always would.

  Jude was dressed and ready to go. In her black suit and with her hair done ’specially by a neighbour’s daughter she looked almost lovely. Even her make-up was correctly applied. Tyrell knew she could only have done it if she’d stayed off the brown. It must have taken a lot for her not to use on this black day.

  She looked almost like the girl she had once been; the slim shoulders, the long legs. Her hair, freshly coloured and cut, looked thick and lustrous. She had never known just how lovely she was. Even his mother, a harsh critic of white girls at the best of times, had been enamoured of her. Still was, in fact. Jude was like a daughter to Verbena. An errant daughter admittedly, but a daughter all the same.

  Verbena looked into the sad eyes of Jude Hatcher and felt the tears rolling down her own face. This quiet crying had been going on for the best part of the night. She would not go to the funeral, could not bring herself to leave the house even for her Sonny Boy. But she would be with them in spirit and they knew that.

  Sally watched them all looking at Jude and felt the usual resentment welling up inside her. She swallowed it down as she always had.

  Reverend Williams held on to Verbena’s trembling hand. She was a staunch supporter of his church and he respected and admired her for the way she had fought to bring her family up in the ways of God.

  They were a credit to her - all except Sonny Boy who had been a disgrace since he had first learned to listen to his mother instead of the rest of the world. Reverend Williams felt ashamed of the feelings he had for Jude Hatcher but even his Christian spirit was stretched to the limit where she was concerned.

  She had taught her child nothing of any value in his short life. All she had taught him was how to lie and cheat. She was as much to blame for that boy’s death as if she had bludgeoned him herself. It was no mystery where the money was to have gone once he had robbed that poor family.

  The man who had been responsible for taking Sonny’s life had looked shell-shocked on television even as he defended his actions. To take a life must be a terrible thing, and for that boy to lose his because his mother couldn’t function without drugs was also a terrible thing. But no matter how hard he tried to feel sorry for Jude Hatcher, the feeling just wouldn’t come.

  But he kept his own counsel, there was nothing else he could do. When the grieving mother smiled wanly at him he forced himself to smile back. She was carrion as far as he was concerned. She’d leeched off her son just as she had leeched off society all her life.

  ‘The cars are here.’

  He stood up abruptly, glad to be leaving the house at last, pleased the day was officially beginning. Once the boy was interred they were all coming back here and poor Verbena would have her family around her and could grieve in peace at last. He knew that the people round about had no real sympathy for Sonny Boy, saw his death as something that was going to happen sooner rather than later. But he also knew people cared about poor Verbena and was glad of that fact. She deserved to be cared about; she was a good kind person. Her only mistake in life was believing that she could redeem her grandson, even though he had let her down time and time again.

  Now he couldn’t ever let her down again.

  Nick was in the pub again, only this time he was in the small office he kept beside the cellar. This was where he sorted out his less salubrious business dealings. Joey Miles brought him a large Scotch and said cheerily, ‘Bit early even for you.’

  It didn’t stop him pouring himself one.

  ‘What’s the score?’

  Nick’s tone of voice was strictly business. Joey understood his friend’s feelings without anything being said. He would leave all that to the mouthy fools in the pub above, who he just knew would mention the boy’s funeral at every possible opportunity.

  Joey knocked back his Scotch in one gulp.

  ’A rave. Little Bobby Spiers wants to use the land in Bishops Stortford. It’s a proper venue, good DJs, plenty of advertising, Kiss 100, etc. He’s got it sewn up. He’ll get the licence himself so all we do is cream it off.’

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  Joey poured himself another drink.

  ‘I OK’d it, of course. Why? You got any worries about it?’

  Nick shrugged.

  Joey grinned as he said, ‘Plenty of young crumpet bombing around. Might give it a look see meself.’

  Nick groaned.

  ‘Not you and all. It’s like Shagland round here.’

  ‘Wendy’s pregnant again. I won’t get nothing from her for fucking months, you know what she’s like.’

  ‘Go for it. What else is happening?’

  Nick’s voice was bored-sounding now.

  Joey looked through his notebook. It was the same kind that women used for shopping lists; in it was everything he needed to know to run his side of the businesses. It was long, slim and perfect for hiding away.

  It was also easily disposed of which was its main attraction as far as he was concerned. All the legal stuff was well documented; this was for the other stuff, the semi-legal stuff Nick Leary did so well.

  ‘Time-shares are doing all right. The flats are all paid up. The clubs are all paid up. Nothing really to worry about. I can sort it all out . . .’
>
  He looked at his friend.

  ‘Why don’t you go home, mate?’

  Nick was holding his head in his hands and crying quietly. Joey didn’t know what to do. In all the years he had known Nick he had never seen such a display of emotion before. On one level he understood it. After all, he had killed the kid. But on another level he felt that Nick should let it go now. ‘What’s done is done,’ as his old mum used to say. You couldn’t undo anything no matter how much you might want to.

  She also used to say: ‘Count to five before you answer anyone in anger. It stops you saying things you can’t take back.’ That advice had kept his marriage going longer than anyone had ever thought it could last.

  Eventually, after what seemed an age, he went over to his friend and put one arm warily across his shoulder. Nick grabbed at the arm and hugged it, crying even harder. Eventually he pushed his face into his friend’s stomach and held him around the waist tightly. While he cried his heart out Joey stroked his back, hoping against hope that no one came looking for them.

  He would hate to have to try and explain this one away.

  If he had wanted raw emotion he could quite easily have stayed home and had a ding-dong with his wife. Screaming and crying was, after all, her forte.

  ‘Come on, Nick mate, pull yourself together, eh?’

  He could hear the embarrassment in his own voice and was ashamed.

  ‘I should never have done it, Joey. He was so young . . . so fucking young . . . but I had no choice, see? I had no fucking choice . . .’

  ‘ ’Course you didn’t, mate, any man would have done the same thing.’

  He pulled away from his friend gently.

  ‘Go home, mate. You’re in no fit state . . .’ But he knew that going home was the last thing Nick Leary wanted to do. ‘Get your coat,’ he said decisively. ‘We’re going into town and me and you are going on it.’

  Nick wiped his eyes.

  ‘I ain’t in the mood, Joey, honestly.’

  ‘Neither am I, but we’ll get in the mood, right?’

  Nick grinned then.

  ‘Spearmint Rhino?’

  Joey laughed loudly.

  ‘Eventually. Let’s just see what the day brings, shall we?’

  Nick nodded once more.

  Anything was better than sitting here thinking about Sonny Hatcher’s imminent burial. Even a pole-dancing club. Tyrell listened as the Reverend Williams said good things about his son. He especially noted how kind Sonny had been to his mother, how he had always taken care of her with love.

  He glanced at Jude. She had her eyes closed and he could see the film of sweat over her face. He sighed heavily, wishing the day over.

  In his mind’s eye he saw his Sonny Boy when he had been a baby. How did that dear little boy turn into the little fucker they were now burying?>

  Anger was getting the better of him again. No matter how often he told himself that this Nick Leary had only done what any man would have done, Tyrell still wanted to tear him limb from limb.

  He stood up as he saw Jude walking unsteadily from the church. Glad of an excuse to leave, he followed her. This hypocrisy was killing him. He would have had more respect for the Reverend if he had spoken truthfully about the boy Tyrell had loved.

  It had been hard to admit that his son was not the good boy he had been expecting, but at least Tyrell had accepted a long time ago that Sonny was flawed. And it was all because of this woman, now huddled on a bench and scrabbling in her bag for something, anything, to make her high.

  ‘Come on, Jude.’

  He walked her through the graveyard to his car. Inside he opened the armrest and passed her a small bag of H. She took it from him gratefully, her eyes expressing her thanks even as she struggled to open it properly because of the shaking of her hands. Five minutes later she was lying back in the front seat of his BMW, her eyes finally peaceful and her arm dangling beside her. She’d obliterated today as she had obliterated every day of her life since he could remember.

  He pressed a button and the CD player came to life. The Supremes were singing that the world was empty without their babe. And the strangest thing of all was, the way he felt inside, at that moment he could have written the song himself.

  As bad as Jude was he still cared about her. She was the only woman ever to have affected him in that way. Like his son he felt the urge to take care of her. It was a knack she had.

  Jude played the victim so well because she really was one.

  Her own biggest victim.

  There was something about her eyes that would always attract him. When she was high they looked so deep and lost, she was so totally gone, that he wanted to hold her and bring her back and make it all better.

  But you could never make Jude any better because she had never really known that what she did was wrong.

  Nick was in a club in Rupert Street. It was a private club owned by a mate. A young girl with bright eyes brought on by an influx of Colombian marching gear and a short skirt that just covered her punani was smiling at him. It was a bought smile; he had bought her with a bit of gear and a few drinks. The knowledge depressed him.

  He went to the toilet and snorted another line; at least on coke he felt that he was alive. It was good gear, it had already given him the rushes. He was only sorry it was the drugs that had given him the racing heart and not the girl.

  He was off sex. If he never had another shag as long as he lived it would be too soon. He laughed at his own thoughts then stared at himself in the mirror of the plush and expensive room.

  A young man had followed him in. He was in his twenties, good-looking with thick blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He looked like a young Steve McQueen and he knew it. Nick watched him closely: the fluid movements of his body, the arrogance of youth when it knew just how lovely it was.

  He felt an urge to tell him to be careful, warn him that: ‘One day, in the not too distant future, you, my son, will be me.’

  He wanted to laugh at his thoughts then because he knew this boy, like the girl outside, was wasting the best part of his life selling himself to the highest bidder. He locked eyes with the boy in the mirror. The boy smiled lazily at him before putting his hand leisurely down his trousers. It was the ultimate come-on for queers.

  Everything was sex with people these days; all it was now was a commodity. There was no real feeling left with anyone, not even his own wife. Nick glared at the boy and mimed sticking his fingers down his throat and vomiting. The boy’s eyes widened in shock, then he shrugged before walking into one of the cubicles.

  Nick glanced down at his hands; they were gripping the basin so hard his knuckles were aching. He waited for the boy to emerge once more before he took back his fist and slammed it with all the force he could muster into the young lad’s perfect face.

  Walking from the toilet at an unhurried pace, he caught Joey’s eye and they left the club, laughing. The boy’s jaw was broken and Nick knew it. The knowledge gave him no satisfaction whatsoever but he had made his point. Or at least he felt that he had anyway.

  Time enough to be sorry tomorrow.

  Sally had seen Tyrell leaving the church and her heart had sunk down to her boots. She knew he was going to look after Jude but stood her ground and made a point of not following him. She knew he loved her, but he loved Jude differently. They all loved Jude differently. Poor Jude, as she was always called.

  Well, Sally couldn’t find it in her heart to feel sorry for her like Tyrell did. She saw Jude as a selfish, manipulative bitch. But of course she rarely said that, having learned her lesson over the years.

  It still galled her that even Verbena could see no wrong in her. Sally felt she would always come second. Yet here she was, Tyrell’s wife, a good mother, a good daughter-in-law, and a good decent person, but it still wasn’t enough.

  It would never be enough.

  She couldn’t compete with Jude’s neediness and that would always be her downfall. She fantasised sometimes about taking
to the bottle so she could compete on the ‘poor little me’ stakes.

  Yet she knew this was unfair because in fact Jude just wanted them all to leave her alone so she could get on with whatever shit she happened to be wrapped up in at the time. Jude wanted shot almost as much as Sally did. But only when it suited her. It didn’t stop Sally from hating the woman who had been like a third person in her marriage from day one.

  She herself had cared about Sonny Boy after her fashion; he was her sons’ half-brother after all. But she would have been a liar if she didn’t admit deep in her heart that his death had given her a moment or two’s vicarious pleasure because she’d felt that once he was gone, Jude would be gone too.