Mix Tape

by Jane Sanderson

  Toddy. She must find Toddy. If he knew about Martin’s vile behaviour, creeping about after them, taking photographs in the dark, then he could be here, with Peter, helping him through this pain. If he didn’t know, then he ought to. She kissed Peter on top of his bowed, beloved head, told him she wouldn’t be long, and left the house. She was still in the clothes she’d worn last night, the clothes she woke up in at Daniel’s, but she didn’t think about this. She didn’t think about the gig at the Mayflower Club either; it hadn’t even crossed her mind.

  Dave Todd lived a few streets away from the Connors, practically in the shadow of Brown Bayley’s. The streets around here were partially demolished, and in the blasted-out interiors of former homes, Alison passed cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, and their tag-along siblings, toddlers who squatted unsupervised among the loose bricks, poking about in the dust. Alison knew which street was Toddy’s, but had no idea which house number, so she hammered on a few doors, hysteria rising in her chest, until a woman answered, showing only her cautious, tight-lipped face through a narrow gap in the doorway, as if this house might be the next to go and she expected to see a wrecking ball. When she saw only Alison she opened the door properly, and listened with kindly patience to her ragged, breathless explanation. Toddy. Dave Todd. David Todd. Did the Todds live down this street?

  ‘Yes, love,’ the woman said. ‘Yes, they do, they’re over at forty-five. But I saw him leave early doors. Try the works.’ She smiled at Alison, who felt reassured at this ordinary, pleasant transaction of words, and then an ice-cream van in a parallel street played a tinny, allegro rendition of ‘Greensleeves’, and this, too, was comforting. She breathed a little more easily, noticed that this was a lovely day, a cloudless sky, the sun warm on her legs and her bare arms. But still, she trembled a little as she jogged towards the hulking buildings that made up Brown Bayley’s, although she had no idea where, in that vast cauldron of industry, she might find Toddy. But she only got as far as the main gates before she was stopped by a big fellow in a donkey jacket and a high-visibility waistcoat.

  ‘Ey,’ he said. ‘You can’t come in ’ere, lass.’

  His meaty palms were held out before her. Men were coming and going across the yard in hard hats, and some of them stared at the girl in denim shorts and a thin cotton T-shirt.

  ‘I need to see Dave Todd,’ Alison said to the man in front of her.

  ‘Oh aye?’ he said. ‘And who shall I say wants him?’

  ‘Alison Connor.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ he said again. ‘You Pete Connor’s sister?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded eagerly, thinking thank God, thank God, but then she saw that he wasn’t being helpful, he was stringing her along for his own amusement, because suddenly he was laughing, and shouting, getting the attention of the men in the yard, who gravitated eagerly towards him.

  ‘Ey, look ’ere, this lass’s after Toddy,’ he called, and somebody shouted back, ‘Wasting thi time, love, tha not his type,’ and there were hoots and catcalls and more mocking laughter. Tears welled up again and Alison wanted to run, but the thought of Peter held her there. Peter. Head in his hands, his face blank, stony, unreadable.

  ‘Is Toddy here?’ she asked. ‘Is he here?’ Her voice was rising; she was having to shout now to be heard above the racket. One or two of the men, the older ones, saw her distress and tried to shush the rabble, but then the nightmare shifted into darker territory, because Martin Baxter was striding towards Alison, centre stage, seizing his moment of triumph. He’d waited for this, and you could see what he was thinking, just from that twisted sneer: The little bitch has it coming. I’ll bring her down off her fucking high horse. Alison scanned the collection of men for Toddy, but there was no sign of him, and Martin was looming at her now, shoving something at her. She couldn’t shift her limbs: her legs wouldn’t move to run; her arms wouldn’t move to protect herself. He thrust it at her, this object in his hand. He held it in her face. It was a photograph of a man on his knees in front of another. Alison registered this image, only briefly; then she defied Martin and closed her eyes.

  ‘Yeah,’ Martin said, ‘go on, shut your eyes, you stuck-up cow, but it makes no difference. Your filthy pervert brother’s finished.’

  Now Alison opened her eyes, moved as close to him as she could bear, and spat in his face. The group around them was large now; they cheered at Alison’s direct hit, and she looked around at them, at their pathetic animation, their flushed excitement, and she despised them all. Martin took a swing at her, but she dodged his fist, made him look a fool.

  ‘Bitch,’ Martin said, wiping his face on his sleeve. ‘Little bitch.’

  Alison snatched at the photograph, grabbed it from his hand, but he just laughed and said, ‘Dunt worry, you can keep it. They’ve all seen ’em anyway, seen what those fucking queers do on a Sat’day night.’

  She didn’t understand, but followed his eyes across the yard and saw, now, a building, a squat shed with rough wooden walls and, stuck on to them, an ugly, haphazard patchwork of photographs. She turned her gaze back to Martin, who folded his arms and smiled, cold-blooded, gloating. Alison had always loathed this man, but now her loathing fuelled a very pure, intense fury, and gave her strength, and purpose. She surged forwards, pushing through the crowd, running at the men in her path so they seemed to have no choice but to step out of her way, and she threw herself at Martin’s photographs in a frenzy, tearing at the pictures, ripping them down. There was some jeering from the men, some shouting, and a sort of scuffle over by the gates, but she didn’t look, she was intent on her task, and even Martin’s voice above the rest calling her bitch, and whore, didn’t matter – it only drove her on. Then an old man – he seemed too old for the steelworks though he had on the gear, the hard hat, the boots, the overalls – appeared at her side, and he didn’t say a word, only laid his hand on her shoulder for a few seconds, peacefully, as if he was calming an animal in distress. She paused under his kind gaze, and gathered herself, and he smiled at her and then began to help her, and together they started again, picking up the fallen photographs from the ground, pulling others from the walls, keeping them all face down and unseen, and between them it didn’t take long before she had all of them collected in a bunch, in one hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said to him, and he waited with her while she steadied her breathing. His compassion and kindness in this bear pit seemed nothing short of an act of salvation and, perhaps because of it, the baying crowd had dispersed now. Only Martin Baxter still stood there, glowering; but without an audience, his power seemed diminished.

  ‘Now then,’ the old man said. ‘You get yersen home.’

  ‘But I came to find Dave Todd. Do you know where he is?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t, flower,’ he said.

  ‘Somebody told me he’d be here.’

  ‘Aye, well, I don’t think you should go looking,’ he said. ‘This is no place for a lass. Go home.’

  She looked at him, and felt the balm of his sanity. She nodded, he smiled, and she walked away, passing Martin Baxter without even a glance. As the distance between them grew, he continued to roar and bellow, chucking curses and insults after her, but she’d placed herself beyond his reach; he could see this, and it made him boil with helpless fury.

  Her mother was in when Alison got back to the house. She was lying on the sofa with her face turned away from the room.

  ‘Catherine,’ Alison said. The photographs were still in her hand, and she didn’t immediately know how to destroy them. Peter should have them, she thought; he should take them away and burn them. But Peter was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Catherine.’

  Her mother said, ‘What?’ without moving or looking round. Her voice was groggy, thick with sleep. In the late-morning sunlight, the room looked hangdog and unloved, a sorry collection of mismatched furniture, a three-bar electric fire unplugged from its socket, a carpet burned black here and there by cigarette ends.

&nbs
p; ‘Have you talked to our Peter?’

  No reply.

  ‘Catherine? Have you seen our Peter?’

  She rolled over, very carefully and slowly. Her face was a mess of blood and bruising, and an untreated gash at her right temple was a raw and livid red. Alison felt weary beyond words. She put the photographs down on the mantelpiece, fetched a bowl of water and clean cloth from the kitchen, and a tin of plasters from the sideboard, and sat down on the edge of the sofa. She dampened the flannel and then very gently began to clean up her mother’s face. Catherine submitted to the attention like a child, sighing and snuggling closer. She smelled bad; she often did these days. Sweat, smoke, secretions.

  ‘I’ve just seen Martin Baxter,’ Alison said. She leaned in to examine the cut. It wasn’t too deep, didn’t need stitches, just antiseptic, gauze and a strip of Elastoplast. She wet the flannel again, cleaned away blood and streaks of mascara, and the remnants of the sky-blue eyeshadow her mother favoured. She’d been doing this job for as long as she could remember, sharing the task with Peter: cleaning up their mother, dabbing away the results of a night on the tiles. Catherine’s eyes were closed. She was relaxed and comfortable, still too numbed by vodka to feel any pain.

  ‘Catherine?’

  Her mother opened one eye. ‘You’re a good girl,’ she said.

  ‘Have you seen our Peter?’

  Her mother nodded unsteadily. ‘Upstairs,’ she said.

  ‘He’s having a bad time. Martin took pictures of him and Toddy.’

  ‘Help me up, love,’ Catherine said. ‘I need the lav.’

  ‘In a minute. Just tell me, do you know what Martin’s done?’

  Catherine pulled a face, a grimace, and said, ‘He shouldn’t be so nasty.’

  ‘Martin?’

  ‘No, our Peter. He’s nasty and it makes Martin go mad.’

  ‘It’s not Peter’s fault. Martin’s a pig, he’s a monster, and you just let him do whatever he likes.’

  Catherine opened her eyes wide. ‘Me?’ she said, befuddled, astonished.

  Alison looked at her with ineffable sadness, and her mother said, ‘What?’

  ‘Do you think we don’t need you, me and Peter?’

  Catherine tutted. ‘Oh, this again,’ she said.

  ‘We have to help him, Catherine.’ Alison’s voice shook. ‘I don’t think I can do this on my own. I don’t know what to do.’

  Catherine gave a splutter of laughter and shoved Alison, in a matey way. ‘Don’t know what to do? Get away with you,’ she said. She pointed an unsteady index finger too close to Alison’s face. ‘You’re my clever one. You’re my bright spark.’ She yawned and drew a hand over her face, and when her fingers grazed the wound she winced. ‘Ouch,’ she said. ‘What the bloody hell’s that?’

  Alison looked down at the flannel in her hands, the bowl on her knees. The water was filmy now, the flannel smeared with blood and make-up. Her mother was sobering up, which meant she’d soon be hitting the booze again, and Peter was too quiet; she had to find him, face him, but, oh, she didn’t want to, all on her own. Nothing was right here. Nothing was good. She’d go to Daniel’s. She’d make sure Peter was OK first, then she’d go to Daniel’s. She’d take a bag, some clothes. She couldn’t be here.

  ‘Ey,’ Catherine said, attempting sympathy. ‘Don’t cry, pet lamb. What you got to cry about?’ Then she pushed herself up to a sitting position. ‘Right, shift then,’ she said. ‘I need the lav and you’re in my way.’

  Alison moved to let her mother stagger off the sofa. ‘And don’t lock the door, all right?’ she said.

  ‘Don’t lock the door, all right?’ her mother repeated in a simpering echo.

  Upstairs.

  Catherine was crashing about in the bathroom, Peter was in his room and Alison was standing in front of her dressing-table mirror, analysing her appearance.

  She’d gone to Peter first, taken a tentative look around his bedroom door and found him prone on the bed, eyes closed, peaceful. This was heartening, so she went into her own bedroom and stripped off her clothes, put on some fresh ones, brushed her hair and tied it back into a ponytail. A wash would’ve been good. A bath even better. But the bathroom was full of her mother, and anyway, she felt adequately restored by clean clothes, and she stood in front of her mirror for a while, looking for signs of Catherine in herself. She knew she looked like Catherine used to look; there were old photographs that proved this. Catherine with a gang of girls on the club trip to Blackpool. Catherine in an off-the-shoulder dress, going dancing at the City Hall. Catherine in lace, carrying lily of the valley, standing in the lychgate of the pretty church at Dore, golden with promise and happiness. Peter was the image of their father, that’s what everyone used to say, but there was no evidence of it now, because Geoff Connor had been savagely excised from the family archive, hacked away from every picture he’d ever appeared in. Geoff Connor, famous for having sex with his sister-in-law on the morning of his own wedding, and many a time afterwards, and many other women too, oh, legions of them, although it was hard to say where fact ended and fiction began. Where was he now? He’d scarpered soon after Catherine came home from hospital with Alison, but there was no love lost there, because by then there’d been none to lose, not a scrap. Geoff had slung his hook, and he did at least give Catherine this: a person to blame for every bad thing that had happened since.

  Ancient history. Alison stared back at the image of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed – she’d done way too much crying today, she reckoned – but other than that she looked OK, all things considered. Young, good-looking, a girl with a future. One more year, and she’d be out of here. University, perhaps Durham, where Daniel was going if he got the grades. Or perhaps another city, far away, Exeter maybe. Her fresh start, the beginning of another beginning. Solemnly she raised her hand and placed it on the glass, palm to palm with herself, then made a brief and silent pledge to be more resolute in this coming year, less daunted by circumstance. One could decide to be happy, and happiness would surely follow. This is what she’d say to Peter when he woke. Because bad as things were, they surely couldn’t now deteriorate further? Martin had done his worst, and if Peter was finished at Brown Bayley’s, so what? He hated it there anyway. He could do anything, Peter. He was clever with his hands, practical, skilful; he was wasted on a crane at the steelworks, wasted.

  There was a loud clatter of something falling, or something thrown. Alison heaved a sigh at her reflection and went to the bathroom door.

  ‘Catherine?’ she said, and she tried the handle. For once, her mother had heeded Alison’s words and not locked herself in. She was stripped down to her knickers, sitting on the lavatory seat, trying to cut her toenails.

  ‘You do it,’ she said without looking up. ‘These damn things are so fiddly.’

  ‘I heard a crash,’ Alison said.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t me for once.’ Catherine glanced across at her with a half-smile and held out the nail clippers.

  ‘Hang on,’ Alison said. ‘Back in a tick.’

  She went to Peter’s room and pushed open the door. Peter was facing her, hanging by a noose round his neck from the light flex, staring directly into her face with wide, terrified eyes. There was a chair on its side and now he seemed to be fighting to stay alive, his hands clutching uselessly at the tightening rope, his legs flailing for the chair. His mouth was opening and shutting, but he made no sound. Alison took a second to remember how to breathe, then she entered the room, picked up the chair and put it back under his feet, to take his weight. He felt the solid safety of it beneath him, and then he dropped his hands down towards his sister in a pleading, remorseful gesture, a kind of supplication. She stared at him, and backed away. That Peter could attempt this … that he could try to leave her, and in such an ugly, selfish, craven way. She saw his face, wet with sorrow, but just in this moment, her heart seemed frozen.

  ‘Cut it,’ he said, his voice a rasping whisper. The chair was at an awkwa
rd angle and unsteady, just a plain wooden desk chair, spindle-backed with thin barley-twist legs. It wasn’t built to stop a man from killing himself. He moved his feet tentatively, trying to centre them, to keep the chair upright. ‘Alison,’ he said, then again, ‘Alison.’

  She saw, suddenly, that she must act, and she turned and ran down the stairs and took a pair of kitchen scissors from the drawer. They had black plastic handles and the blades were blunt and discoloured with age. They could barely cut through paper these days, and certainly they’d never been called upon to save a man. Alison, preternaturally calm, took a second chair with her too, so that she could stand beside her brother without jeopardising his safety. She placed it alongside him, climbed up on to it, then began to press the blades of the scissors against the rope, sawing and pulling, while Peter wobbled and moaned, and reached for her with his hands, clutching at her arm. She ignored him. ‘This isn’t working,’ she said, as if to herself. ‘I’ll have to cut the flex.’ She shrugged off his hands and got down from the chair, went back downstairs to the fuse box by the front door, and switched off the mains. Back upstairs again, back on to the chair.

  ‘Let go of me,’ she said to Peter. ‘I need to stretch up and I can’t if you paw at me like that.’ She knew she sounded hostile, but there was work to be done here, and she soldiered on, stretching up above her brother to the light flex, which – though resistant at first – gave way at last to the dull blades of the scissors. The loss of tension from above threw Peter off balance and he fell to the floor, landing badly. Alison stepped down from her chair. They stared at each other, then she bent down and worked at the noose until it was wide and slack enough to pull over his head. He watched her face but, now, she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  ‘There.’ She placed the rope and the flex, still with its light bulb attached, on to the floor next to him; then she took a few moments to steady herself and to hide her anger. He’d wanted to die. He’d been prepared to leave her. She felt a wave of loneliness, the cold reality of betrayal.