by Ray Banks
Another swig, and then the can was light. Michelle mumbled something about how nice Marti Caine looked in her dress and with her hair all up like that, and that maybe she'd do something like that, or she would do something like that one day if she ever got that slim again. She sounded half asleep.
"Ladies and gentlemen, here's a young man who's halfway there already. He's tall, blonde and handsome, with a great voice. Singing an original song called 'Let It All Go', it's Wayne Denton!"
Marti swished off stage as the music started. Michelle shifted up Joe's chest a little. She felt like a moving bruise. "I remember this lad from the heats. He was dead good."
Joe couldn't think of anything to say.
"He did this Neil Diamond song. D'you not think he sounds like him?"
No, he didn't, but he shrugged a maybe. There was less of Neil Diamond than there was Cliff Richard. The look was Cliff's, all right – the bright pink jacket, sleeves rolled to the elbow, black shirt, pink tie, what looked worryingly like black leather trousers. Singing about how the flesh was weak, but the mind was strong, and then Joe didn't hear much more because the bairn started to nip at his attention again. He rolled the last of the beer around the inside of his mouth, breathed through his nose, tried to drown her out. The bairn gurgled. Hiccuped. Cooed. He wondered if there was a way to shut her up that wouldn't end with him behind bars. When the bairn let out a squeal just as Nina Myskow came on the telly, Joe asked Michelle if she knew Brian Turner.
She frowned. "Who?"
"Lives across the road. Got beaten up."
Michelle stared blankly at the telly.
"You hear about it?"
"Hmm?"
"The bloke that got beaten up."
"Him?" She cuddled in and yawned. "Aye."
"What happened?"
He felt her shrug. "Just got brayed in the street. I don't know."
"That's what I heard." He watched the top of her head, waiting for her to continue. When she didn't, he nudged her upright and got to his feet. He shook the can. "You want anything?"
"Nah." She settled off onto the other cushion, folded her arms.
Joe went through to the kitchen, slung the empty can in the bin. He crossed to the fridge, opened the door and stood for a moment in the cold light, breathing in the smell of fresh cream and cooked meat. He felt dull and useless, and the feeling irritated him. He grabbed another Herald, pulled the ring. Took a long, tasteless drink, bumped a belch out of his chest, then leaned the fridge door closed and stood in the dark, listening to the telly and thinking about his bag upstairs.
Not yet. Too early. Stick to the beer for now, and do his best to ignore the itch, even if it had turned prickly and insistent over the last couple of hours. He couldn't call it a night just yet. She wanted to spend time with him.
Joe leaned in the doorway. Marti Caine stood under a giant flashing board. She called it Spaghetti Junction, and it was supposed to be state-of-the-art, but it just looked like a massive Lights Alive. The audience seemed impressed, but then they were from Birmingham, so they probably hadn't seen that many colours in one place before.
Michelle budged up the settee and smiled at him. "You coming in?"
"Aye, in a minute." He sipped his beer.
"I hope that Wayne Denton wins. He was mint."
"You said."
Marti told the audience to press their buttons ... now!
Joe sipped again. "You know the house is empty."
"Eh?"
"Across the road. There's nobody home. I saw it before."
She looked over her shoulder at him, suddenly annoyed. "Wey, no, course not. He's in the hospital, isn't he?"
"What about the kid?"
She shrugged and turned back. The votes streamed in. Looked like the Denton lad was dead in the water, which didn't help Michelle's mood. Joe had seen this before – they'd be doing the Eurovision thing soon, asking all the other ITV regions to tally up their votes.
"Someone mentioned a daughter."
Michelle didn't take her eyes from the telly. "Who said that?"
"Cab driver." Lights flashed and they both fell silent. Joe felt tension behind his eyes. He looked away, saw the carry cot, the movement inside. He looked at the carpet and rubbed his head. "Did the police do owt, d'you know?"
Michelle sighed. She turned to look at him. "Why're you so interested in him across the road? He owe you money or something?"
"Cab driver was talking about it."
"So?"
"So ..." He shook his head. "Doesn't matter."
He crossed to the settee and sat back down. He felt Michelle's stare on him before the pull of the television proved too strong to ignore. She settled back into the groove she'd made in his shirt, her ear now pressed against his chest. Joe lit another Regal and looked at the rest of the show without really watching it. He knew that the singer didn't win, didn't come close, and that the winner was some comic called Smalls that Joe didn't remember seeing. Then the show was over, the credits rolling, followed by more of the same until the evening slurred into one long, brightly-coloured caterwaul.
Joe managed to last until ten o'clock before he made a move. "Immersion’s on?"
"You having a bath?"
"Thought I would, aye."
"All right." Michelle's voice sounded far away.
Joe left her slouched on the settee and went upstairs. In the bedroom, he pulled out his wash bag, checked that everything was where it was supposed to be, then returned to the landing. He was about to head into the bathroom when he heard the front door go. He crossed back to the top of the stairs, saw the old man in the hall.
The old man looked older than ever. Rough and scruffy, face red with the cold where it wasn't scrubbed with stubble, white hair blown all over. He leaned against his stick and moved his chin at Joe. "You made it back in one piece, then."
"You an' all."
"What?"
"Didn't expect you back until after the bell."
"Aye, well ..." The old man smiled, showed one side of his mouth. He nodded a few times, then looked back up. "You having a bath, are you?"
"Aye."
"Leave us some for the morning, will you?" The old man took a step towards the front room, then stopped. He waved a hand at Joe. "And welcome home, eh?"
"Ta."
The old man disappeared into the front room. Joe stood at the top of the stairs. He heard Michelle's voice rise in surprise, then dissolve into laughter – both hers and the old man's – before he turned into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Michelle knew better than to bother him in here – even in training, it was the one place you could let your mind work on something other than the army – but he still slid the bolt across.
Joe stuck in the plug, twisted the hot tap. Once steam lifted from the water and the bathroom had warmed up a bit, he poured Michelle's bubble bath and breathed in the vapours, his eyes closed. A clean, fresh smell in the room, filling his head and killing the milk. A feminine smell. The way this place used to smell.
The itch brought him back. He opened his eyes and reached for his wash bag. A quick zip and there were his works, the metal gleaming in the light. He stopped the hot water and turned the cold, added some to the bath and a little to his spoon. He cooked quickly and efficiently, drew the liquid through cotton and into the pin, then prepped and flicked twice for good luck. He let one hand circle in the water behind him, hot and cold running together until he was happy that the temperature was just the right side of scalding, then he twisted off the cold tap. He replaced everything in his wash bag except the pin, then zipped the bag shut. It was a thick zip and it made a pleasing sound. He switched over to the toilet, put one foot up on the side of the bath and plucked off his sock. Wiggled his toes like the excited little piggies they were. Searched for the scab that had crusted between the big piggy and the second. He scratched the scab away; it felt like grit under his nail, smearing a little blood on his fingertip. Then he put the needle tip against the sm
all bead of blood that remained.
Focused. Determined. Everything else was steam.
He popped. Just under the skin. Just a little.
Always just under the skin. Always just a little. Cold before the heat, and then the velvet spread, embers in the veins. A compromised warmth and he knew it; in every pop was the tease of a bigger rush that could only come with a tie-off, but with that rush came a loss of control and the second you started tapping arms, that was you in thrall and falling fast. He had to maintain. He had to function. He had to accept his new warm and liquid breath like the found money it was, with dignity and gratitude and one eye half-open to monitor his limits.
Joe felt himself starting to nod and pulled up before he dropped. He swallowed spit, sniffed. Packed away his needle and made sure everything was hidden away and zipped up tight – Christ, it was a good, thick sound, that zip – before he stripped and eased himself into the bath. His skin blossomed red with the heat as he sank beneath the water.
He lay there, lazy-eyed, bubbles kissing his top lip. He stared at his toes as they crept up the far end of the bath. Almost monochrome, apart from the one crimson dot that slowly became a rash of a hundred as the water warmed him. Only one dot was still plump with blood. He watched the dot, breathing through his nose, and thought about Brian Turner. Brayed in the middle of the road. Nobody did nowt, police did nowt, and there was a bairn – Brian's bairn, his bairn – not a hundred yards away in the house. There was an old saying that a soldier between wars was like a chimney in the summer. Made Joe smile to think about it, but then it made Joe smile to think about anything right then. The nod was on.
He breathed out, looked up at the ceiling. A scattering of mildew became fascinating, a galaxy of black stars, dark and infinite, before the nod smudged his thoughts into comfortable incoherence, and Joe disconnected for the night.
4
The painkillers teased Brian Turner drowsy, but sleep proved elusive. Every time he managed to find a comfortable position, whenever he felt the bed pulling him down and his eyes begin to close, an old familiar ache rolled in like distant thunder and seconds later he was wide awake. He lay on his back now, gazing through half-closed eyes at shadow branches as they scratched the ward ceiling. In the bed next to him, a bloke named Stephen – heavy on the P-H, even heavier on the la-de-da – listened to hospital radio through headphones. The tinny noises that sneaked out into the night air would have been unbearable normally, but with Stephen it was the closest the bastard came to silence, so Brian was grateful. Stephen wasn't supposed to be on the prole ward. Stephen had gout. Stephen should have been on the real ward – "no offence" – because he was all paid up with BUPA, wasn't he? It was only a matter of time before someone important noticed and he was whisked off to where he belonged. Brian had the feeling that this failure to acknowledge Stephen's superior presence wasn't exactly accidental, and that it would've been funny had the prick not been Brian's neighbour. When it was quiet like this, and when Brian's thoughts stumbled across to the bed next to him, he couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to lean a pillow across the Tory bastard's face.
But then, Brian could conjure up bloody fantasies until he was trembling with rage, veins raised from his neck and his fists balled white, but the fact was that movement without pain was a pipe dream. Besides, suffocating Stephen would only bring the police back to Brian's bedside, and he'd had enough of the boys in blue to last a lifetime. Always the same questions, and always the same answers.
No, he didn't remember any faces.
No, he didn't remember what they were wearing.
No, he didn't remember if they'd called each other by name.
He didn't remember anything. Boo hoo, woe was he.
"I didn't know I was supposed to be keeping track. Hey, never mind though, eh? Remind us on, the next time I get the shit kicked out of us, I'll make sure I've got a notebook."
Smiles, perfectly timed and polite as you like.
"Maybe we should continue this some other time." That came from a broad-faced plainclothes, a barrel in a too-small jacket who sported Neanderthal wrists and smelled like a long pub lunch. "Anything springs to mind, you just let us know, eh?"
"Course I will, Officer. You'll be the first to know."
Course he wouldn't, Officer. Because what happened to him, it was personal. It was none of their business. The police shouldn't have been brought into it. Brian hadn't wanted them involved, didn't think they provided much help now, and he wasn't about to relive every punch, kick, spit and stomp for their benefit. The plainclothes and his weasel mate might have seemed like sympathetic authority figures, but they didn't give the first shit of the day about apprehending those bastards up at number thirteen, or else they'd have done it years before. Of course they still had to go through the motions – there was a procedure to follow – but the first chance they got, they'd stamp and file this into oblivion. That was fine with Brian. All he wanted was to be left alone to heal.
There was still a way to go yet. The swelling around his jaw had receded a little, the pain flaring only when he chewed, but the area around his ribs still throbbed, his piss still showed wisps of blood, and he couldn't dress himself without taking pain breaks every minute or so. Then there was the bruising, which looked worse than it felt, but that was small consolation when you had a face like bargain mince. That face was the reason Lynne hadn't brought Danielle to see him. The sight of Brian, all battered and lumpy, would be too upsetting for a twelve-year-old. Lynne was probably right, but she didn't have to take such pleasure in telling him. And it certainly didn't mean that Michael fucking Crosby was allowed to tag along instead.
Crosby was what, ten years younger than Brian? At least. Which made him eight years younger than Lynne. Something not right about that, and plenty more wrong about Crosby himself. He was in his thirties, but he sported one of those rose-blossomed faces that looked more at home in a rugby scrum. He said he was CID and he said it with the accent of an Old Novocastrian, which showed him up as just another Tory boy, an educated sadist who knew that his chances of survival were better in Benwell than they were in Belfast. Top it off, he was obviously independently wealthy. Lynne said he was a businessman, an investor, no less. Brian didn't probe any further – whatever business it was, he wanted no part of it.
The last time Lynne visited, Crosby hung back like a bodyguard while Lynne stood at the end of the bed."Brian."
Her hair looked darker than usual. If he'd been in a good mood, Brian would have described it as auburn, but what do you know, he wasn't in a good mood, and so Lynne was a ginger with delusions of grandeur. He had to admit, mind, she'd lost weight. Not that there'd been much to lose, but she'd managed to plane her curves quite nicely, which was probably why she was so determined to show leg despite the grim winter weather. The way she looked was a simple statement – I am better off without you – and she was emphatic about it.
Brian decided to be pleasant. "What a nice surprise."
Lynne glanced away. Must have been the bruises. They weren't pretty when they moved, even worse when he smiled. "How are you feeling?"
"Not bad."
"Good."
"Better than I look."
"I'd bloody well hope so." She smiled, but she didn't look at him.
"It won't be forever. Doctor told us it'll all go down in time. Might have a couple of small scars around the eye, you know, but nothing too horrific. I won't have to wear a bag on my head or anything."
"That's good."
"Saying I should be out next week, as a matter of fact."
"Really?" She glanced up. "That's soon. I didn't think—"
"Means I won't have to spend Christmas in here."
"Of course not, no. That's good news, then."
"Yeah." He nodded to the chair next to the bed. "You going to sit down?"
She shook her head. "I'm fine."
"Not staying?"
"I'm all right standing."
"Just, it feel
s like I'm shouting at you."
"It’s okay."
"I wouldn't want people to get the wrong idea. Wouldn't want them to think that we don't like each other."
She glanced at Crosby. Brian wondered why. Wasn't like she needed his permission. Wasn't like the boy was even paying that much attention. Lynne approached the chair as if she wasn't entirely sure how it worked. She sat down, her skirt pulled tight to her knees, those knees pushed firmly together. She smiled, or at least attempted to smile. Her light pink lipstick made her mouth look like a new scar.
"Thank you." Brian nodded at her. "How's Danny?"
"She's good. You know, considering."
"I was hoping you'd bring her along."
"School."
"Right, yeah. Maybe next time, eh?"
"I don't know about that, Brian—"
"Of course. Doesn't matter. I'm out next week."
"Yes, you said."
"So she can come and see me at home, can't she?"
"Well, we'll have to see."
"I promise, Lynne, I'll keep to the shadows. I won't scare her."
"I know. It's just ... You know she's staying with us at the moment?"
Us.
Brian nodded, a stale taste in his mouth. "Uh-huh."
"Well, we thought it would be in everyone's best interests if she stayed with us a little bit longer."
"Of course."
"You agree?"
Brian stared at her until she looked him in the eye. "I don't see why not."
"Okay, great."
"Yeah, it'll give us a bit of breathing room, bit of time to get settled in at home again before she comes back. I mean, I know she wanted to spend Christmas round yours anyway, so maybe we should aim to arrange something for New Year, what d'you think?"
Lynne didn't answer. She frowned at her hands. "Ah, no, I don't think ..." She breathed out, showed teeth. "I don't think you've understood. Maybe it's the ..." She waved one hand at her head.
"What is it?"
"Danielle and I have talked about what happened."
"That's good. That's important."
"We talked for quite a while, actually, just the other night. And she told me that she wouldn't be comfortable going back to the estate. To your house."