“Laura . . .”
“Yes? Oh God, I’m sorry – has this been a terrible chore for you, taking me out? I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, and no – this hasn’t been a chore. It’s been an absolute pleasure.”
“So come inside.”
“No, I don’t think so,” I say again.
“So, what – is that it? Do we not see each other again?”
“Laura, you’re seeing Bob. You’ve just been away on holiday with him. I know it would be the simplest thing in the world to arrange to see you again, but I just can’t work like that.”
“So what are you saying?”
“That I know I couldn’t be just good friends with you. You’re too . . . . ”
“Too what?”
“You’re too much of what I want.”
“So?” she says again.
“So I’m a lot older than you; too old to be fucking about – if you’ll pardon the expression. If I were to see you, I’d want everything and I’d want it now. No silly games, no wait and see and certainly no Bob still hanging around. But I’m in no position to ask anything of you. I don’t even know how long I shall be in Brighton.”
She doesn’t speak but I know I have her.
“So thank you again for such a wonderful evening. If I’m still here I shall see you at Mass on Sunday.”
I turn and walk away. If I were to give her the slightest encouragement, I think she’d come after me, but I keep on walking. It’s a gamble, but one I’m prepared to take. It’s a shame really – I’m kind of getting to like her. I’m almost sorry I have to use her just to get at her sister.
I have the encouragement now to find an apartment and I start looking in earnest. I don’t think I need to be living in the Preston Park area for whatever’s going to happen with Laura, and I like the sea too much not to be within at most a ten-minute walk down to the front. I look at a few places around North Laine but I can’t find the kind of accommodation that says yes, this is where I’d like to be. Let’s face it: it’s got to be right for me to move out of the Grand.
I decide to talk to Mr. Concierge. He stands and listens while I describe what I’m looking for.
“Leave it with me, sir,” he says. “Let me think about it for a day or two.”
Good as his word, he comes to find me in the bar on Thursday morning while I’m having my coffee. He suggests that what I should be looking for is a long-term stay in a boarding house on the seafront.
“I’m not sure I want to live with other guests.”
“Yes, sir, I thought you might say that, which is why I’m going to suggest a place I know. It is a boarding house, run by a Mrs. Sullivan, but on the top floor she has a self-contained apartment that she finds difficult to let because it’s too small for a family. I believe that if you committed yourself to a minimum stay of a month, Mrs. Sullivan would be prepared to let you have it for a reasonable price.”
“And where is it?”
“About a mile from here – more Hove than Brighton – but nice, I think you’ll find. I took the liberty of writing down the address and a telephone number for Mrs. Sullivan.”
He hands me a note written on Grand Hotel stationery.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you very much.”
“If you intend calling on her, I could telephone in advance by way of an introduction.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you. I think I shall call out to her today.”
“Then I shall let her know.”
I call Mrs. Sullivan and arrange to see the apartment at two o’clock. Mr. Concierge was right – it’s perfect for me. It may be a little out of town, but it’s right on the seafront. It has a shared entrance, but I have my own little place away from everybody, upstairs in the attic. I arrange to move in on Saturday and then walk back to the Grand for a celebratory pint in the bar. Finding a place to stay seems to confirm for me that I could make a go of things in Brighton. I feel good here.
After breakfast on Saturday I go down to reception and settle my bill. As I do, Laura calls my name from across the lobby. It looks like she’s been crying.
“Laura,” I say, and walk over. I can feel Mr. Concierge watching; he doesn’t miss a thing.
“They had no record of your staying here,” she says. “I thought you’d gone for good.”
I stand to shield Laura from the reception desk.
“Probably because I’d already checked out,” I say. “What are you doing here? Come and sit down.” I walk into the bar where it’s a lot quieter and out of the way.
“You’re leaving,” Laura says.
“I’m leaving here, but I’m not leaving Brighton. I’ve found an apartment to move into. I was going to tell you at Mass tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’m on my way there now. But you – what are you doing here?”
“Oh God, I feel such a fool now.”
“Tell me – you’re not a fool, whatever it is.”
“I wanted to see you,” she says, “and not at Mass either. So I came here to ask for you and when they had no record of you staying here, and I realised I didn’t even know your surname, I started to think – oh God! I’m such an idiot.”
“Stop it. You’re here now and we’ve found each other and I’m not going anywhere very far. Dry your eyes and tell me what you came to say.”
For all my planning, I’ve avoided a surname until now and also avoided thinking about quite how far I want to take this. It’s crazy trying to make a new start here in Brighton if it’s dominated by trying to fuck with Laura’s sister. Do I want a new start or do I want to play silly-buggers? I realise I’m not really sure just exactly what it is I do want.
“Loughlin,” I say. “My surname is Loughlin. Here –” I hold out the passport I’ve just picked up from the reception desk. “My name is Brendan Loughlin, but I prefer to use my second name Marshall.” There’s no need to tell her I chose Marshall because I was listening to Eminem on the day I met Bob.
“Oh Marshall, I didn’t mean that – I didn’t mean that. I just panicked when I thought you might be gone, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m not. So what’s the story?”
“I’ve finished with Bob.” She waits a second or two. “I’ve finished with Bob because I want to be with you.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I mean, we’ve only just met.”
“I’d rather take that chance. I’ve been thinking about it all week and I told him last night.”
“Was he pissed?”
“Very,” she says and smiles. “Yes he was, but I’d made my decision and I told him.”
“Then I’m glad.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I told you the other night what I want and, like you, I’d rather it be out and in the open.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
We look at each other across the table and laugh.
“Come here,” I say. We stand up and hug.
“Oh God, Marshall. I was so scared – of making such a rash decision.”
“Did you tell Bob about us?”
“No, but I think he might have guessed.”
“I’m happy you made the choice you did.”
“Me too.”
We order coffees and I ask Laura if she’d like to help me move in.
“Is that all the gear you have?”
“Yes; I was going to make a list of what I need once I got there.”
I have a feeling Laura won’t ask too many questions for a while – not since my display of honesty with the passport – but they’re bound to come at some stage. I say my goodbyes at the Grand and we walk the half hour along the prom to my new home. I introduce Laura to Mrs. Sullivan and let her think what she will.
“I’ve put fresh bedding and towels in your room,” she says. “Just shout if there’s anything else you require over the weekend.”
We climb the narrow stairs to the attic r
oom and I unlock the door. We make love and I do it nicely. We sleep for a while and make love again. I’m hungry but I don’t seem to care. Hours go by just being with her, lying together on the bed. It’s a warm room and I open the dormer window, out of which I can see the sea.
“Come and look at this,” I say to Laura, and we stand side-by-side, naked, looking out to sea.
I can’t get enough of her young body and she seems to have decided to give it over completely to me.
“Do you know what I’d like?” I say.
“No, tell me what you’d like, Mr. Loughlin.”
“I’d like to walk back into town, buy some fish and chips and eat them on the beach, and then go to the funfair on the Pier.”
“Wow, you sure know how to give a girl a good time.”
“Take it or leave it, but that’s what I want to do. And I’d like to do it with you.”
“Then let it be so,” she says and laughs. But still we don’t move for at least another hour, by which time I think I might pass out from the hunger.
“Come on,” I say and we do as I suggest. I get to see the Pier at night-time and to go on all the rides – screaming on the Crazy Mouse high above the waves, over the end of the Pier so you feel like you’re almost out at sea. We do all the big rides and the stalls and I feel like Pinky with his girl Rose, and then I’m hungry again so we buy toffee apples and eat them down on the beach in the dark – if anywhere is really dark in Brighton. We sit and listen to the waves against the pebbles.
“What time do you have to be getting back?” I ask.
“Do you mind if I don’t stay with you tonight?”
“I’d rather do things properly. Today was great, but I know you have to think of your mum and dad.”
She links my arm and hugs me.
“Would you come to the house for lunch tomorrow?”
“I’d like that.”
“After Mass?”
“After Mass.”
We stand up and walk back to the prom. I flag down a cab and we kiss good-night. I walk back along to Mrs. Sullivan’s. I’ve played – as they say – a blinder today and I fall into a deep sleep.
When they come for me, I’m too scared to move. It’s laughable that they should think I’m worth taking, but I’m too scared to laugh. The sound of them breaking through the door is what wakes me, but they’re on top of me before I have a chance to react. It’s not the easiest of rooms to storm. There wouldn’t have been a lot of space to get a good swing at the door because of the turn at the top of the attic stairs. They must have crept up before exploding into my room. Not easy to do with the gear they have on and their boots and their guns, but once they’re inside they shout and stamp and I think I must have been deep in my sleep not to have heard them approaching. Their noise takes over the room. It’s still dark and they shine a torch in my face; why don’t they just don’t turn on the light? I shut my eyes but I can’t shut my ears.
“Don’t move,” some prick shouts, like I have a choice.
I don’t move; I can’t move, because they have me pinned across my arms, legs and chest. The barrels of two guns are pressed into my temples, against either side of my head. I can smell metal. I try to relax into submission, but I’m too scared – my body won’t stop resisting into a rigor mortis seizure.
“Clear the room,” shouts the prick, but I don’t know what he means. They don’t let me go. I don’t open my eyes because I know the light is still in my face; it would be blinding if I tried to see. I hear a lot of activity, but I can’t guess how many men are in the room; they fill it, like they fill my head with their noise and their light. They’re searching the room – that’s what they’re doing. I know they won’t find anything, so maybe then they’ll leave? I could get through this. I may be sick or I may soil myself, or both, but if they leave me now, my body could get through it.
“Up!” he shouts and they take away the guns and the limbs that are pinning me down.
“Up!” he shouts again, and I realise he’s talking to me. I still can’t move; I’m petrified.
“Over!” he shouts this time, and I’m rolled on to my stomach. My arms are pinned behind me and I’m handcuffed. They drag me up by the cuffs and I scream with the pain. I realise they’ve mistaken my not being able to move for a refusal to move. I’m thrown towards the door. The flashlight beams are all over the place. Irrationally I think of E.T. and every other Spielberg movie – he loves his flashlight beams; he’d love this scene.
My shoulder hits the doorway and I feel the splinters in the wood where they’ve broken through the door. I’m no longer frozen in terror; I experience it fully now. I’m naked, with my arms pinned behind my back. I’m doubly naked because they have on so much gear and are carrying guns. My body shakes – or rattles – and somebody laughs. I think they must have seen this scene before. An unseen boot kicks me in the testicles and I fall to the floor in pain. The same boot stamps against my chest and pushes me through the doorway. I can’t prevent myself from falling, and I can’t protect myself on the way down. But I don’t do a perfect roll like they do in the movies because the stairway is so narrow; it takes another push with the boot to get me to the bottom.
They’re not going to leave me alone is what I think.
“Up!” shouts the prick again, and this time I move. But I can’t get to a standing position with my hands behind my back and they use the cuffs to lift me again. My feet leave the ground and my upper body flips forward to the floor. I try to reach out to break my fall, but I have no arms to do so. I’m carried and dragged in this position along the landing and down the stairs to the guesthouse below. My weight is nothing to the person dragging me but the pain from the wrenching of my arms is so bad that I think I black out. My body can’t stand it, so it shuts down.
I smell fresh air and I’m naked all over again. I’m out in the street, my knees and shoulder and the side of my face against the pavement. My arse is in the air. It’s not so dark out here. I hear the gulls but I don’t see the sea. The day is starting; this is my day starting.
I get an idea of the scale of the operation. The whole surrounding area has been blocked off. There are people watching in the street. How come they knew and I didn’t? Mrs. Sullivan must have helped; she must have let the soldiers in quietly, unheard, and led them up to my room.
I’m freezing and I start shaking all over again. There’s a change in the momentum, like they’re taking a break. I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody somewhere is enjoying a cigarette. Or are they putting me on show? In the early morning light, I see guns casually pointed in my direction. I know I’m a pathetic-looking figure, but I hope this might make them realise I’m not a threat. They must know they have the wrong person and are taking a second or two to decide to let me go – surely that’s what’s happening here?
I’m in such pain with my arms. I want to push myself up into a better position, but I daren’t make any sudden movements and I’m not sure I can anyway. I don’t want to be yanked up by the arms again. There are tiny stones sticking into my knees, and gravel against my face. I fall sideways in an attempt to lie down.
“Okay, we’re clear,” shouts a voice behind me – a different voice.
The back doors of a van are opened and they throw in a sack, or perhaps it’s a bin bag. My hands are grabbed but they take off the cuffs.
“Up!” shouts the prick again.
I use my hands to push myself to a standing position and turn to face the prick. I don’t know if he’s a soldier or a policeman. I’m still hoping they’re about to let me go back to my room.
“Into the van,” he says.
This is when I know that they’re not going to let me go, and when I first think about saying something – anything – to stop this now. But I’m grabbed by the upper arms and dragged to the van. The backs of my calves hit the rear bumper and my legs fold beneath me. I land on my arse on a cold metal floor. They tip up my feet so that I fall inside, rolling over backwards and agai
nst the bin bag. They shut the doors and it’s dark again. The engine of the van starts up and I feel around for something to hold on to. As soon as we start to move, I lose my balance and I’m thrown back hard against the doors of the van. I crawl on to my stomach and lie flat against the metal floor; it’s cold, but this is the best position I can find.
I’m sick – either with fear or with the motion of the van. I hear the gears change and the van slow down, but I’m caught each time there’s a sudden turn or a brake. I have to get up on my hands and knees to clear my stomach. It’s only bile that comes out of my mouth and it leaves me hungry, or feeling empty at least. I can taste the fish and chips from the night before. I’m going to need the toilet soon and practicalities like this are what worry me most on the journey. I can’t lie down again because I don’t know where I’ve made a mess, so I sit with my back against the side of the van and use my hands for support and balance. This is better. Some light comes through the join in the doors, but not enough to see anything by. Not that there’s anything to see – from what I can make out there’s just a bin bag and myself in a travelling metal box.
We slow down. There are lots of turns and then we speed up again, only to slow down and turn another corner. I don’t know how long I’ve been in the van; it could be ten minutes or it could be an hour. There was a period when I knew we were travelling consistently at speed in the same direction, so I also don’t know what distance we’ve travelled. I’m fairly certain we’re no longer in Brighton.
The van brakes and we come to a stop. I hear the two front doors open and slam shut and I start shaking again. The back doors open and I hold up my left hand to block out the sunlight. I’m sitting in the mess I’ve made.
“Oh Jesus,” one of the two men outside says, presumably about the smell. He slams the door shut again and I’m back in the dark. I think I sob a little and make a little mewling noise. My breath comes in short snatches, fast and irregular. I’m still trying to accustom my body to the van being stationary. The doors open again. I jump up and move to the back of the van, covering myself as best I can. When I look up, there’s no one to see, nothing but an empty courtyard in the sunshine.
Dancing to the End of Love Page 8