The Leaping

by Tom Fletcher

  THE LEAPING

  Tom Fletcher was born in 1984 in Worcester, and has since lived in Cheshire, Cumbria, Wakefield, and Leeds. He is married and currently lives in Manchester. He loves autumn, video games, bad films, mountains, the sea and (obviously) books. He loves cats too, but can’t currently have one because he is a tenant. He used to play the drums and hopes to pick it up again soon, and is also trying to learn to play guitar, but that’s taking a while. He is the author of several short stories, published in the anthologies Parenthesis (Comma Press) and Before the Rain (Flax). His short story ‘The Safe Children’ was published as a chapbook by Nightjar Press. He blogs at www.fell-house.wordpress.com.

  THE LEAPING

  Tom Fletcher

  First published in 2010 by

  Quercus

  21 Bloomsbury Square

  London

  WC1A 2NS

  Copyright © 2010 by Tom Fletcher

  The moral right of Tom Fletcher to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Lines from “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” from The Poetry of Robert Frost, edited by Edward Connery Lathem, published by Jonathan Cape. Reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Ltd.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 84916 135 0

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Typeset by Ellipsis Books Limited, Glasgow

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

  For Beth

  PROLOGUE

  ERIN

  The wind wakes me up in the early hours and I confuse the present with a memory; one summer, years ago, we were kept awake by the wind, because it was really strong, powerful. I remember hearing the slates coming off the roof and imagining them whipping through the air like huge lethal crows, and hoping that they wouldn’t land on either of my parents. I don’t know why they would have been outside. Maybe it was that fear that kept me awake, not the wind. In the morning, when it got light, we found that the whole of the village had been covered in this red, dusty film, making windows and windscreens dirty and thick. It was sand from the Sahara blown over by some high, snaking wind, high above the clouds and the cities that I used to believe were in the clouds, and oh, our white car. The car wash at the garage, all that sand, all that sand from the hot, dry, red desert, down the drain at the petrol station. My mum said that it had happened once before, when she was very young, and there had been this other time, she said, when she woke up one night, and the sky was dark red. The sun hadn’t come up, and it was the middle of the night, but the sky was brick-red, cold, dead, barren, and she had never known what that was, and her parents hadn’t been able to explain it, and it had scared her. She had been four or five or something, and her hair was a huge big knotty ball around her head. She’d said it scared her, since she was only a kid, but I think it would have scared anybody.

  My bedroom is dark still, and I should get back to sleep because I’m in work at nine. It’s only when I close my eyes again and listen to the wind that I remember I was dreaming. I was dreaming about a red sky. The way things can connect in your head without you knowing about it – it makes me shudder. I was dreaming about a place with no people, like a desert or the moon or something. And the sky was all red. A deep red, like a sunset, but more complete. Just completely red. And there was somebody walking towards me. Some sort of giant, huge he was, gradually blocking out the sky as he got nearer, but he was only ever a black silhouette. His knees were bent the wrong way.

  Mum said that when I was little I would ask what was at the end of the sky. And she’d say space, the universe, and I’d ask what was at the end of the universe, and she’d say nothing, nothing, and I’d say, but what’s actually there? And she’d say OK, OK then, Erin, OK, a big brick wall. A big brick wall. A big red brick-red wall.

  Is there a door, I’d say.

  No, she’d say.

  No door.

  PART ONE

  JACK

  Ice Bar was quite full, but we managed to get standing room near the tiny, comfy bit with the sofas – separated from the rest of the club by a pair of heavy curtains – so that when the sofas became free we could just hop on. The walls and floor were brown and the sofas were cream and there were low, black tables with little tea-lights on each one and the music was too bland even for me to be able to say what genre it was.

  ‘I hope he’s OK,’ Erin said. ‘He said his mother sounded a bit fretful on the phone.’

  ‘Sure he’ll be fine,’ Graham said. ‘Francis thinks everybody’s down all the time. He always thinks there’s something wrong.’

  ‘But still,’ Erin said. ‘I hope they’re all OK.’ She drew deeply on the straw that protruded from her Long Island Iced Tea and her large, green eyes scanned the small, dark room for Taylor. ‘Where’s Taylor?’ she asked.

  ‘He’ll be here soon,’ I said. ‘He wasn’t finishing work until eleven.’

  ‘He’ll be properly fucking some monumentally screwed-up fresher in her Playboy shit-pit of a bedroom,’ Graham said. ‘I bet.’

  ‘Shut up, Graham,’ Erin said. ‘You’re such a rapist.’

  ‘It’s hardly going to be a fresher,’ I said. ‘I mean, we’re not even at university any more.’

  Graham just shrugged and downed his Stella, spilling a little into his massive blond beard. ‘Just a joke,’ he said, and looked around hungrily.

  ‘Taylor told me he likes you, Erin,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, but I want him to tell me,’ she said.

  ‘You know Taylor,’ I said. ‘He’s not the most forthcoming of people. Why don’t you tell him that you like him?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know!’ She smiled and laughed. Her face was surrounded by thick, red curls. Her skin was pale and smooth and her high cheeks were lightly freckled.

  Taylor is lucky, I thought, he’s a lucky boy or, rather, a lucky man, but I didn’t say it. He probably knew it, but was one of those people who pretty much kept his thoughts to himself.

  ‘This is shit,’ Graham said. ‘What are we doing? What’s the plan? Are we going to go anywhere good?’

  ‘We’re waiting for Taylor,’ I said. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘Hey! Those dickheads are going. Quick – get the sofas!’

  ‘Have you taken anything tonight, Graham?’ I asked. ‘You seem jumpy.’

  *

  ‘Just the usual,’ he said. ‘Just a pill.’

  Taylor was tall and dark-haired and thin-faced and looked a little bit like a young Richard E. Grant, which Erin liked, and that’s what mattered, I suppose. He emerged from between the curtains and, spotting us immediately, made his way over to us, picking his way through a maze of soft leather beanbags and amorous couples.

  ‘Evening,’ he said. ‘You all OK?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Erin said, quickly.

  ‘I’ll be better once I’ve got about ten more drinks inside me,’ Graham said. ‘Either that or some fit girl’s finger.’

  ‘I’m all right, thank you,’ I said. ‘How was work?’

  ‘You know better than to ask that,’ Taylor said.

  We all worked
at the same place. A monolithic building that was a multi-storey call centre somewhere near the middle of Manchester, comprising of floor upon floor of old, unreliable computers, broken spirits and bowed heads connected via black, curly wires to telephones that crouched like bulbous insects on the dirty desks, the humming of tonnes of electrical equipment, the frustration of bad maths, the pure panic of not knowing all the answers all the time, right now, come on, what are they paying you for, you been to school or what? The slimish scorn of the nation, dripping through earpieces and trickling into our open ears like warm, lumpy milk. You heard people say all kinds of things. The building towered up into the greenish city sky and burrowed down, it seemed like, burrowed down and down all the way to hell. There was something of the hell-wain about it. The hell-wain was a vehicle, an old coach that reputedly rattled around transporting the souls of the dead. The call centre had that kind of lifeless, limbo-esque feeling to it. The place was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and we all worked varying shifts.

  The pay was low, but with five of us living together we got by with enough left over for a social life.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said.

  ‘It was terrible,’ Taylor said. ‘It was as terrible as ever. I won’t go on about it though. Ended up getting a bus over here with Kenny Hicks. He’s here somewhere.’ Kenny was a manager. He was a little man with a mouth too big for his head that flapped open and shut like a cat-flap in the wind, spilling all kinds of rubbish.

  ‘All the more reason for us to be leaving, then,’ Graham said. ‘Come on. Let’s go somewhere good.’

  ‘Graham,’ Taylor said, ‘when are you going to realise that all of these clubs are essentially the same? It doesn’t make any difference where we go. They’re like supermarkets or music television channels. Besides. I’ve just bought a drink. And I don’t drink fast.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Graham said. ‘I could be at home watching porn.’

  ‘I’m going to get a drink,’ I said. ‘Anybody want one?’

  ‘Same again, please,’ Erin said.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Graham said. ‘I want to assess the situation.’

  ‘What situation?’ I said.

  ‘The female situation,’ he said.

  Taylor shook his head and rolled his eyes. I stood up, and gestured for Taylor to sit down next to Erin.

  ‘Just tell her,’ I whispered, as we passed each other. ‘For goodness’ sake.’

  I saw Kenny standing at the other end of the bar, but he didn’t appear to have noticed me so I made sure not to make eye contact. Kenny was there, then, and Kenny – he had this big, weird grin, like his facial muscles relaxed into it, like the widest possible smile was the natural at-rest state of his face.

  Graham lingered beside me, looking about desperately, his big, shaggy, dirty-blonde head twisting and turning like the head of a mop being rolled between somebody’s hands. He was tall and broad and scruffy, with bright blue eyes and a fair-sized beard and bit of a beer-gut. He ate women with his eyes.

  ‘Why don’t girls want to sleep with me, do you think?’ he said.

  ‘I really don’t know,’ I said. ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘Double Jack Daniels, Jack. Jack Jack. Ha. And a Stella, please.’

  I looked at him. ‘You’re drinking a lot. And you’re taking a fair few drugs.’

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I like it. It takes the edge off.’

  ‘Takes the edge off what?’

  He shrugged.

  We got served, eventually, and as we turned away from the bar with our drinks in hand I risked a glance in Kenny’s direction. Typically, he saw me, and grinned ghoulishly. It was as if he were just looking me directly in the eyes whilst smiling at something in his memory, not at me at all. The expression put me in mind of some twisted little sprite, some Puck, thinking up a nasty practical joke.

  When we got back, Erin and Taylor were having an in-depth conversation about Milton Friedman and Iraq, which I didn’t fully understand. They looked up as we passed them their drinks.

  ‘Hello again,’ I said.

  ‘Hi, you two,’ Erin said, and then finished what she was saying to Taylor.

  ‘I was hoping they’d be kissing or something,’ I whispered to Graham.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I wish they’d fucking get on with it.’

  Later on, we were near the club, outside a fast-food place called Chicken Jack’s, adrift in a tide of confused, randy drunkards, taxis, take-away wrappers and neon. It could have been one of a hundred or more such streets across cities all over the country, all of them pretty much the same. Sometimes I would forget that we were in Manchester, and I would allow myself to think that we kept stumbling into some other dimension, some sort of shared space, which everybody mistook for a specific location. I would often get the feeling in supermarkets.

  We were eating chips, looking around ourselves, trying to decide whether to get a taxi or just walk. Taylor was charming the girls with long, elaborate jokes, of which he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply.

  Next to Chicken Jack’s there was a small, dark alleyway that didn’t appear to have a name, and I could hear something, some noise coming from its dark mouth. It sounded like there was somebody up there laughing, or coughing. After a moment I could tell that it was definitely coughing, so I drifted towards the alley, away from the others, concerned. As I got closer it started to sound worse, like an asthma attack or some sort of fit.

  The alleys that branched off the main street all joined up together behind the scenes, forming a complex warren inhabited largely by homeless people. I pictured them living in a kind of cardboard city made out of empty Chicken Jack’s pizza boxes, which was probably a little romantic, but it made me feel better about never having any change on me when I walked past them on the pavement.

  Looking around the corner, I saw somebody up there, or at least I saw the shape of a person, somebody leaning against the filthy brick wall, coughing and throwing up. It wasn’t that unusual to see people in that state, of course, at that time of day in that kind of place at the weekend, but this sounded worse, somehow, more unhealthy, more difficult.

  I edged down the alley, and I was a bit scared, to be honest, but once I’d seen them and convinced myself that they probably needed help I couldn’t very well just turn around and forget about it. The ground was almost completely covered in old newspapers, flattened boxes, polystyrene trays, chicken bones, broken glass.

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Hey! You OK?’

  The figure didn’t say anything, but stopped vomiting, and if they could stop at will they must have been all right, I supposed. They looked up at me and I thought that they looked male, but it was still too dark to tell for sure. Then they bent over and an obscene amount of wet matter poured from their face, splashing all down the wall and piling up on the floor, substantially enough for me to see it from where I was standing, so there must have been a horrendous volume of the stuff.

  I don’t like this, I thought. There’s something deeply wrong with you.

  The figure looked up again, but this time a car performing a 180-degree turn on the main road behind me shone its headlights directly down the alley and the person’s face was clearly illuminated. I would have been difficult to identify, silhouetted as I was, and their body remained hidden, obscured by my shadow, but the face. That face.

  Kenny. Kenny Hicks. All the car gave me was a split second, but that was all I needed to identify the dead eyes, the huge mouth, the sharp, broken nose, and it also revealed thick, dark blood running from his lips, smeared across his cheek and throat, flowing from the weird smile that bisected his face.

  He was moving towards me.

  I turned and sprinted down the alley, shooting from its mouth like I was being spat out.

  ‘We have to go,’ I said, wheeling on the others, shaking. ‘In a taxi. Come on. Let’s go. Now.’

  FRANCIS

  So my dad arrives in his old white Metro. There is
moss growing in the mirrors. There is moss growing along the bottoms of the windows. The whole thing is covered in rust spots and mud splats. But he couldn’t care less. Neither could I. I’ve never understood what people find interesting about cars. But then, a lot of people don’t understand what I find so interesting about crap films.

  He pulls up. I make my way round to the passenger side. Open the door and duck in. I sling my backpack into the back seat. I try not to gag at the intense scent of stale tobacco smoke.

  ‘Alright, Dad,’ I say.

  ‘Alright, Son,’ he says.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Alright,’ he says. ‘Alright.’

  ‘You look tired,’ I say. He doesn’t look well.

  ‘I am quite tired,’ he says. ‘Was out late last night. Making the most of these clear skies. Perfect for watching, they are.’

  ‘UFOs?’

  ‘Yep. UFOs. Haven’t seen any, though.’

  ‘There’s a surprise.’

  ‘Don’t start that, Son,’ he says. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘What’s all this about, anyway?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is there something up? You’ve got some bad news or something?’

  ‘What?’ he looks at me, briefly. He looks back out of the windscreen. He sets off. ‘No, of course not. You always think the worst. Why would we have some bad news? No.’ He shakes his head. ‘Just been a while since we saw you. That’s all.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘OK.’

  ‘You’ve got to drop this thing you have. About getting ill. Won’t do you any good, you know.’

  ‘I know, Dad,’ I say.

  We are encased in a bubble of light. The car. It traverses these tiny roads. We are surrounded by that pale countryside dark. Mossy cobble walls on either side rush past at speed. This is all we see. Walls and road and naked trees.