by L. V. Hay
I lean towards her, shouting in her ear. ‘He in later?’
The redhead just shrugs. How the hell would I know?
Irritated all over again, I stalk out of Elemental, climbing the concrete steps back to the seafront. The inshore breeze is up again; it whips along, yowling in my ears. I can barely hear anything. I duck my head down, putting both my hands in India’s red hoody pockets, hurrying up the road and into The Lanes where there is more shelter from the bitter wind.
I don’t consciously head anywhere, but all the same I arrive outside the Prince Albert. I wonder if the Korean bouncer will let me in again, but she’s not there, and I am waved through without a second glance by the two male heavies on the door. A Sunday night before seven, they need all the paying clientele they can get.
I look around the near-deserted bar, hoping Jenny might magically reappear, or at least Adonis. The music is much quieter, though it is still an endless thumping baseline. It sets my teeth on edge, reminding me, once again: Too old for this shit.
I go to the bar and wait. I’m in luck. Adonis emerges. He chatters away as he stacks glasses. He doesn’t recognise me until his gaze settles on my face.
He sucks in a breath. ‘Jenny’s not here.’
‘I can see that.’
I indicate I want a Coke. He fetches one and slides it across the bar top to me. I put some coins down.
‘How about you call her and let her know I’m here?’
‘Don’t have her number.’ Adonis seems to slump. Perhaps he fears a confession might pour out of him, against his will.
‘I think you do.’ I point to a nearby booth. ‘I’ll be waiting there. OK?’
I sit down and wait.
‘What do you want?’
After about twenty-five minutes, Jenny finally materialises next to me. Her goth get-up has clearly been thrown on in a hurry: just her red wig, sunglasses indoors. I take her in. She’s wearing street clothes: jeans, plus a short-sleeved t-shirt that’s a little tight. The material hugs not only her small, almost pubescent breasts, but rides up over a small roll of fat around her middle I haven’t noticed before.
‘Why did you delete India’s blog?’
She freezes. ‘I had to.’
‘Why?’
‘Someone made me.’ Jenny hangs her head. A curtain of red wighair falls in front of her face.
‘Who?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
Another stalemate. I sigh. ‘OK. What can you tell me?’
Jenny wears no white make-up this time, nor are her fingers adorned with those wicked-looking talons I’d seen on them that first night. There’s glue on her stubby fingernails, which are all bitten down to the quick.
Even in the dim light of the pub I can make out that Jenny’s skin is darker than mine, though lighter than Matthew’s. Perhaps she’s Asian. Is this why her mother didn’t approve of India? White girls and their ‘alternative’ lifestyles and Western ideals do not always mix well with more traditional families.
‘India didn’t give me any details … she just said she had something to tell me.’
Jenny keeps looking to the doorway, then back to Adonis at the bar. His eyes never leave us, even as he serves pints of beer to a lesbian couple. They stand at the bar with their arms wrapped around each other’s waists, their hands in one another’s jeans back pockets.
‘OK.’ I bite down my frustration. Jenny seems skittish, like a horse. I don’t want to spook her, drive her away again. ‘You were meant to meet her at Brighton station, but you missed her. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘What were you meeting her for; something specific?’
Jenny sighs. ‘She said she needed to meet someone before me. Then that she was going to tell me something.’
I absorb this. ‘That’s it?’
‘That’s all I know. I swear. But then she ended up dead. Don’t you think that’s a bit funny?’
I do. Jenny seems relieved to be taken seriously. Behind us, a big man ambles down the steps of the Prince Albert, and Jenny shoots up from the booth. But it’s no one she knows. She visibly wilts again, gathers her thoughts.
‘I have to go.’ She pats my shoulder absent-mindedly then moves away.
I watch her weave her way between the tables. She disappears through the bar hatch again, Adonis lifting it up for her. He glances over at me with a stern, forbidding look that reads, That’s your lot, now.
But it’s not. As Jenny touched my left shoulder, her right arm reached across me, so I could see there was a tattoo on the inside of her forearm. It was small, but beautifully done: an intricate design made up of many colours. I’ve seen the same design before, on Jenny’s profile and on the back of India’s leather jacket.
A sugar skull.
Fifty
I emerge from the Prince Albert, back into the cold night air. I don’t want to go back to the Coach House. I’m not ready to give up my wild goose chase just yet. Jenny’s words ring in my ears. As well as Jenny herself, India was meeting someone else the night she died. But who?
Dusk falling, from The Lanes, I make my way through the narrow little streets, back onto the main thoroughfare. The shops’ shutters and doors are closed, the lights off or dim in the main windows. The wind is cut off here. I begin to hear ambient noise once again. Muffled voices and music filter out of a pub. Shadows and lights flicker ahead of me on the wet, red-brick pavement.
I make my way through the labyrinthine, narrow streets. I dodge between jewellers and cafés, outside chairs and tables stacked in neat piles. I hear laughter. It’s a group of lads, younger than me. They lounge on some benches in a little square, holding budget beer bottles. They catcall and jeer as I trudge past them. I daren’t approach them.
I amble back downwards, finding myself at the seafront again. It’s still quiet. A couple of groups of revellers walk briskly against the harsh wind coming off the beach. They disappear down the concrete steps to the bars below. I pull my phone from my pocket, selecting a picture of India.
I sidle up to a couple of teen boys. They’re seated on a groyne, sharing a cigarette and a plastic bottle of cider. I turn the phone around, so they can see the picture of my sister.
‘You seen this girl? Maybe just before Christmas?’
My expression is earnest, desperate. It makes the boys shrink away from me, their eyes wide. Both drop over the side of the groyne onto the beach below, laughing.
‘Please!’ I shout after them, even though I know my efforts are fruitless.
A trio of young women walks towards me now. They’re unconcerned by the cold, despite their bare arms and legs. Handbags dangle from their shoulders and arms, hands tucked under armpits. I step into their path as they attempt to dodge me.
‘Did you see this girl? It would’ve been just before Christmas?’
Two of the girls part and walk around me, but one of them stops in front of me. She’s about twenty, dressed in a vest top and short skirt, with fuck-me boots. Her hair is scraped up in a vicious ponytail, a cigarette dangles from her cherry-red lips. She regards the picture on my mobile of my sister, as if struck by the sight of it. Hope crystallises in my stomach spreading into my chest. But then she cackles and waves a dismissive hand at me.
Crushed, I turn away from her. I let the wind push me along the seafront. The wind buffets around me, deafening me against the sound of voices, even the lapping tide on the beach behind us. I walk on blind, trusting my body to take me where I need to go. I cross the road again and make my way past the Odeon, the Travelodge, more bars beyond it.
I weave my way through a hen party staggering out of a nightclub on Queen’s Road. The hen is dressed in a bandeau top and skirt held together by safety-pinned ‘L’ plates. She’s crying, holding onto the maid of honour. The second woman is doing all she can to hold them both up, despite wearing eight-inch heels. Another girl lurches forward and vomits onto the pavement, splashing her own shoes. The rest of the party, drunk and loud, yell at
a bouncer who says they won’t be coming back into the club. One of them attempts to eyeball him. She is as tall as him and maybe as wide, but the bouncer seems unconcerned. Her bluff met, the big lass gives up, telling him his club is shit anyway.
But still I don’t stop. Up ahead, I can see my destination. My mind catches up with my body at last.
Brighton station.
I make my way past night buses and food carts selling bangers and burgers. I pass through the station’s automatic doors. An assault of noise and light bounces off the glass-panelled roof. Overwhelmed, I finally come to a halt. I sense other people stopping behind me, then working their way around me.
Some late commuters wander through from the London train, their eyes and expressions weary. They drag small suitcases of work behind them. Most of the shops’ and cafés’ shutters are down, but one still has its doors open and lights on.
Apart from these regulars, the station seems fairly busy. There must be some kind of music festival going on. I see a disproportionate number of teenagers with backpacks, camping rolls and t-shirts splashed with the names of rock bands. They loiter everywhere, wide grins on their faces as they take in their freedom.
Transport Police in their neon-yellow jackets, their collar radios bursting with static, usher the teens along. I understand: the teens are supposed to leave; they must have come in with the last train. But there are hundreds of them and eight police officers. Authority figures or not, it’s going to be a slow night for the adults.
I approach one of the officers. She’s much shorter than I am; she looks like a harassed child, her jacket too big for her. She attempts to move on a group of four of five lanky youths. They stare down at her with amused expressions. One of them holds a six-pack of lager, forbidden in public spaces. He smirks at the police officer and cracks open a can anyway. The police officer looks up as my shadow falls on her.
‘Yes, can I help you?’ She doesn’t really want to help me. And who can blame her? She’s tired and stressed and wants to go home.
I show her my phone, the picture of India on it. ‘Did you see this woman, on the night of 22nd December?’
The police officer seems relieved to be distracted from the potential confrontation with the teen boys. She takes my phone from my outstretched hand. But there’s no recognition on her face.
‘What date did you say?’
‘22nd December.’ I take a deep breath so I can steel myself to say the words, ‘There was a death on the line that night.’
It’s the prompt the police officer needs. I see insight flash in her eyes, which then roll as she attempts to cast her mind back.
‘A girl did jump the ticket barrier and run out of the station. I was on the train, I saw her through the window. I told my colleagues this at the time. Why are you asking?’
‘And you think it was this girl? She’s … she was my sister, you see.’
The police officer’s expression changes, looks more kindly. ‘Yes. I remember the guard’s whistle went and I had to get off the train, pronto.’
‘Did you see anyone else with her?’ I think of Ana, whether it could have been her India was supposed to be meeting.
The police officer shakes her head. ‘Not with her, no. But she was running away from someone. She was shouting. Something like, “No chance!” or “You had your chance”! I’m not sure which.’
My mouth feels dry. ‘A woman?’
The police officer blows out her cheeks. ‘No. A man. She was on the main platform. He ran after her, but he got stopped by a guard at the ticket barrier.’
This unexpected revelation feels like a punch in the gut. If the police officer told her colleagues about this, why didn’t they do anything? Wasn’t this important information? Then another thought occurs to me: Could it have been Matthew? Please God, no.
I take a deep breath. ‘What did the man look like?’
‘White male. Middle-aged.’
My heart ricochets in my ribcage with relief. It can’t possibly have been Matthew, then. Could the police officer mean Jayden Spence? ‘Middle-aged’ means different things to different people. Jayden’s about thirty-five, forty at the most. The police officer is in her early twenties by my guess; she might think of Jayden as ‘older’.
‘Was he fair or dark?’ I don’t want to hear it.
‘He was dark.’
The police officer pokes a pin right through my theory. Jayden is blonde. There’s no way anyone could mistake him for dark-haired, particularly not in the bright lights of the station.
She puts her hand on my sleeve. ‘Look, I told the investigating team all this at the time. If they thought he was an important witness, they would’ve found him by now. It’s hard, I know. You want to know why your sister did it…’
I pull my arm away from her touch, scowling at her. But I don’t have time to argue with her now: an unwanted thought is buzzing in my head like a bluebottle. It refuses to leave. This time, I have to breathe life into the words so its toxic eggs hatch.
‘Was he short, tall? Fat, thin?’
‘Short. Nice face.’
‘How short?’ I hold my hand out flat: Taller or shorter than me? The police officer gestures a hand towards my shoulder height. I feel those talons of trepidation tighten in my chest, ready to strike.
I know who was chasing my sister at the station the night she died.
Tim.
Fifty-one
‘Are you OK … Pops. Poppy!’
I struggle to raise my head from my folded arms. The room spins as a pounding bass line cracks through my skull. I sit up, too fast, as a palm touches the small of my back. A dark silhouette peers down at me. The black lights illuminate the whites of his eyes and teeth, the pale shirt he’s wearing.
‘Matthew.’ I croak, the music snatching my words away.
I glance around, confused momentarily. I’m in Elemental. It’s not busy; just a handful of patrons at the bar, five or six more in the booths. I don’t recall how I got to the bar, or how long I’ve been here. It feels as if in the station, only moments ago, I blinked; and now I’m drunk, a row of five or six shot glasses and two or three long glasses in front of me, all empty. Despite my intoxication, an adult, sober voice inside my mind tuts just like Mum would: Mixing your drinks? You’ll pay for that in the morning, girly.
In response, nausea flip-flops in my belly. Pain hits me in the solar plexus. Bile rises, hot and forceful up my gullet. I lurch to a standing position, hand to my mouth, eyes watering.
Matthew says something I can’t catch as a drumbeat thumps. He ushers me towards some swing doors; on the aluminium sign, the letters ‘XX’, plus the female symbol. The toilets. I surrender myself to his guidance and stumble across the threshold. It’s deserted inside. I see Matthew’s concerned expression in the mirrored walls as I kick the nearest cubicle door open.
I collapse to my knees. I feel Matthew’s hands in my hair now, pulling it out of the way for me as I hug the bowl. The pain in my chest and stomach twists as hot vomit surges from my mouth.
I’m shocked as bright-blue liquid spews forth into the toilet water, before my brain catches up and connects with the fuzzy taste of peach schnapps and lemonade. It’s just the blue colouring of curacao liqueur. I must have been drinking Blue Balls cocktails. Great. Tomorrow, I really am going to be hangin’ (adjective. Hungover. Related words: rough; morning-after-the-night-before).
‘That’s better,’ Matthew says.
Words fill the space between us. Irritation floods through me now; I want to ask him how the hell he would know if I felt better or not. Chinks of memories pierce me as I’m forced to lean over the toilet bowl again:
FLASH – I stagger, mindless, back down the hill from the station; Elemental’s aluminium and blue sign acts like a lighthouse in the dark;
FLASH – I walk straight up to the bar, slamming a note on the counter; drink flows, the first goes down easily, just as they always do;
FLASH – I flirt with that young g
eezer who loves himself behind the bar. I see teeth, the start of a tattoo on his neck, disappearing under his shirt collar. Behind him, the redheaded bar manager, her mouth twisted in disapproval…
Matthew had not been in Elemental when I arrived, I was sure of it. Perhaps his redheaded bar manager had called him, told him to fetch me? But then I’m chucking my guts up again, my body purging itself of alcohol.
Finally, there is nothing left. My body spasms involuntarily. More sour saliva fills my mouth. I gasp for air, taking in the smell of toilet cleaner and stomach acid. I jerk my hair from Matthew’s light grasp and attempt to stand. I’m wobbly; he grabs my elbows as my knees buckle.
I try to say thank-you, but a deep sigh emanates from me instead. I lean against the cubicle wall, exhausted, my eyes fluttering shut. Matthew strokes the curve of my jaw with one of his rough palms, then kisses the top of my head.
Blackness.
*
I wake with a start, heart hammering. I’m alone, just in my knickers, tangled up in the duvet. A brief recollection shoots through me and my stomach plunges with shame. I woke again in the car, heart racing as he tried to park outside the Coach House. There were no lights on, the house cloaked in darkness.
‘I can’t go in there!’
In the car, I strove to catch my breath, struggling to find the words to explain to Matthew. Dreams of Tim had followed me into drunken oblivion, I told him. I’d been with the young policewoman, back at the station. Just like she’d said, Tim had appeared at the ticket barriers. Anger had contorted his mild face; he hadn’t looked like my stepfather anymore. In the nightmare, I’d felt those cold claws of terror inside my chest and turned to run … But in that brief second, everything changed, as dreams are wont to do. Next I’d been flying over the city, pinpricks of light beneath me, like stars fallen to earth. Too late, I realised I was not flying, but falling. Like India, I plunged from a railway bridge, Tim’s grave expression looking down on me as I plummeted.