They say a problem shared is a problem doubled, she says, but he doesn’t respond to the joke. He’s still looking beyond her, so she has to turn her head, see what it is he’s seeing. The turbines stand like a row of needles—pinpricks of light—glinting at them in a patch of hazy sun.
That’s what you were looking for yesterday? he asks.
The wind-farm, says Anna, Only, it’s really beautiful when it’s clear. You have to see it on a good day.
This is a good day, says Lewis, For me, any road.
Me too, she says, not sure if she has grasped his meaning.
TWENTY-TWO
You can’t unsee what’s been seen. True. But nor can you see what isn’t there.
Lewis perches, naked, on the edge of the bed, talking himself through it. There’s traffic on the road below, and children screaming down on the beach; he hears a buzzing noise from out of sight, cutting the air like a saw. Every small thing reminds him of before. He takes a shower, despite the age of it, turning round underneath the head to make the most of the drizzle of water it gives. He likes the bathroom for its lack of colour, of objects, familiarity, resonance: there’s nothing in here to catch him out. The room itself isn’t bad either, although he’s had to make some adjustments: he hasn’t moved the picture of the kittens above his bed, but the one opposite, a scene depicting a bridge over a river, was directly in his eyeline. He’s flipped it over, so that only the pale brown paper of the backing and the edge of the frame is visible. Even though he knows what’s on the other side, not having to catch sight of it makes him feel better.
He lays back, placing his hands against the damp skin of his chest and counting slowly as he breathes: One, Anna, two, Anna. His last glimpse of her was through the window, from high up. The glass was old and wavy, so his view of the street was as if under ice. The scene rippled below him: Vernon helped her mother into the front seat of the taxi, while Anna opened the back door, glancing up just before she slid inside the car. Her oval face tilted, she looked worried, and beautiful, to him. He felt a swell of grief in his throat. He waved at her. Catching sight of him at last, she lifted her hand in the air, as if in salute. He put his fingers on the glass and kept them there until the car was gone.
She’s still beautiful to him now. Lewis shuts his eyes and presses his palms into them, presses hard enough to make them ache in their sockets. He would want the last thing he sees to be the image of her standing nervously in the doorway, or marching towards him on the beach, her face taut with an unknown fury. He tries to hang on to the fact of her, counting her name over and over, but as soon as he forgets to concentrate, his mind, like a sickness, rises up against him.
There had been a song in the charts back then, some old punk in heavy metal get-up. Wayne used to drive him mad with it, singing at the top of his voice.
It’s a nice day to start again, It’s a nice day for a—white wedding! It’s a nice day to—START AGAIN!
I’m gonna batter you if you start again, said Lewis, shoving his brother sideways. Wayne did a mock fall, then laughed, kicking up his leg and missing Lewis by an inch. They were waiting at the bus stop near the substation, waiting for a surprise, said Wayne. It was a sunny day—the kind of day when Lewis’s mother would stand at the kitchen sink and count out Wayne’s medication. She’d watch him, with the pills going sticky in her palm, as he swallowed, pulled a face, breathed heavily into the glass of water, retched over the sink, pulled another face, then swallowed the rest of them. She kept her eyes on him, aware of the tricks he pulled; hiding them under his tongue until her back was turned, then spitting them into the drain out the back. When he was done, she made him open his mouth wide so that she could see they were gone.
This morning, their mother had a new job to go to, and was heading for Manny’s house to cadge a lift into town.
Make sure he takes his pills, she said to Lewis, And get yourselves some tea if I’m not back by six.
She held out a five-pound note, which Wayne, passing at just the right moment, snatched away and stuffed into his pocket.
I’m telling you—don’t forget them pills, she said, as he grinned back at her from a safe distance, And I’m telling you again, that money’s for your tea. Not fags.
Lewis followed his mother to the door. He had an urge to put his hand on her shoulder, to wish her good luck, but was aware of Wayne in the background, watching. Too old, at fifteen, to give her a kiss, despite Wayne, he half hugged her anyway.
Daft bugger, she said. Turning at the door, she pointed a finger in Wayne’s direction.
Remember, mind, and then to Lewis, as she always did, she said, And you. Look after your brother.
Wayne was sitting in the shade at the turn of the stairs, wafting the money over his face, passing it across his mouth, smelling it. He rolled it up, pretended to smoke it like a cigarette.
Mam said not fags, said Lewis, sprawling on the step below.
Quite right, agreed Wayne, shifting sideways and pulling something from his back pocket, Why waste it on buying fags . . . when we’ve already got some!
He produced a gold pack, dented, already opened. He flipped the lid and counted.
She’s only had three, he said.
She’ll be back for them, said Lewis, craning his neck to get a view of the door. Wayne shook his head.
Manny don’t like the punters smoking in his cars. Might get ash on the seats. She won’t find out ’til she gets there: ‘Ooh, Ill just have a quick ciggie before I clock on—and—bugger. Forgot ’em! I’ll just have to borrow one.’
They both laughed at the impression. Wayne put the cigarettes back into his pocket, and with a swing on the stair-post, leaped over Lewis. He lifted his sweatshirt off the back of the chair.
You coming or what? he said.
Where to? asked Lewis.
Thought we’d take a trip. A little jaunt, he said waving the five-pound note.
They walked out into a morning of pure sunshine, the first hot day of the summer.
Wayne and Lewis had been standing at the very end of the road, where the houses gave way to allotments and fields, for over half an hour. The buses turned round here to make their journey back through the estate and on into town. From the top of the bus, you could see mounds of earth, like giant ant-hills, erected by the council to stop travellers settling on the wasteland. Further in the distance, the river showed only as a strip of brown on green. But they weren’t getting the bus today; they were waiting.
From where the brothers stood, the only thing of interest was the electricity substation, housed in a prison of black railings. They’d been bent and busted to allow access to the fields beyond; a red rut in the grass marked a path. Carl’s tag—SHARKEY—was carved on every side of the building. The word was irregular close up, as though a rat had been nibbling at the paintwork. Wayne ran his hand over it as he waited, occasionally looking up and down the street, while Lewis looked anywhere but at Wayne. The sight of his brother’s fingernails tracing the letters put him on edge.
Wonder why he decided on an ‘e’ there, Wayne said, inspecting the grime on his fingertip.
Wonder why he decided on Sharkey at all, Lewis replied, Didn’t he used to call himself Fish, or something?
Wayne grinned at him.
Yeah, but fishes smell, whereas sharks . . . bite, he said, snapping his jaws together, Where the fuck’s he got to?
He’s got to right here, said Carl, who had crept up behind them from the track side, C’mon, crip, what’s keeping you?
Wayne vaulted a mound of battered grass and followed Carl round the back of the substation. It had a new padlock on the door, hanging open, and an enamelled yellow plate above it with a symbol of a man falling backwards; a zigzag pierced his chest. Danger of Death was written underneath. Carl tapped the plate.
Come into my office, he said.
Inside was dark and fetid; a small, square room. It looked empty to Lewis, who took a moment to adjust to the change of light. He could j
ust make out the oily black cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, the splotched concrete floor, and a shape low down behind Carl. There was a stench filling the air which made Wayne gag.
Erh! Stinks of cat piss! he said, and Carl shook his head and laughed,
No, my little friend, that’s the scent of pussy.
The shape Lewis saw revealed itself in the dimness; it was a stained mattress, doubled over. There was nothing remotely electrical in the station, nothing that would kill anyone. Lewis stayed at the open door, breathing through his mouth, while Carl bent down and pulled an aerosol can from behind the mattress. He shook it hard, rattling the bearings inside.
Shut the door, he said to Lewis, who simply waited, looking at him. Carl clattered the can in warning,
Out or in, you. Shut the fucking door.
Lewis took a step back into daylight, pushing the door to. He had a mind to slip the lock over the hasp and trap them both inside. It was always like this with Carl. Lewis considered how it would be to simply leave Wayne and walk away. For starters, his mother would kill him; and even if she didn’t, he couldn’t live with himself if anything bad happened. He wasn’t tempted until he saw Sam Robson crossing the street towards him. The boys nodded at each other, awkward but friendly. Sam said something Lewis didn’t quite catch.
What?
Have I missed it? asked Sam, Has the bus gone?
Lewis turned his head and nodded towards the far end of the street.
Looks like it’s just coming. You off into town?
Sam shrugged.
Gonna buy a record. You going in?
Lewis gave an exaggerated sigh and gestured to the substation.
I’m waiting for Wayne. He’s in a meeting.
With Sharkey? said Sam, shaking his head, What’s he cooking up this time, glue?
Something out of a can, said Lewis.
Sam put his arm out to signal for the bus to stop, running along the edge of the pavement as the doors swung open.
See ya, he said.
Lewis took a step back and leaned against the wall of the substation. From inside there came a rushing sound, like air escaping from a tyre, and a whooping noise that Lewis knew could only be his brother. He opened the door a crack and peered into the darkness: the atmosphere was thick as frosted glass. Wayne fell out at once, coughing and spitting, tumbling sideways onto the grass. Carl rolled out after him, and they both lay there, in broad sunlight, in view of the houses surrounding them, and the street, and the cars going by, straining their lungs for breath.
Fucking mad, you are! Wayne said, after a minute, You trying to kill me, or what?
Carl lay on his back, his chest heaving.
Not today, spaz-boy. Just thought we’d get a huff or two before . . . setting off.
Lewis stood above them. The fumes coming off them made him lightheaded. He gave Wayne a kick.
Get up, he said, We’re going.
We certainly are. We’re all going on a summer holiday. No more worries for a week or two. Except not in a bus.
We’re going into town, said Lewis, I told Sam we’d meet him in Spillers.
Sam Robson? That dead-head? Yeah, man, said Carl, in a drawling imitation, Cool, ma-aan.
Wayne laughed until he choked, pulling his sweatshirt up over his face and coughing into it. Carl took this as encouragement.
Do as your brother says, he mocked, And run after your boyfriend like a good little spaz.
And you can fuck off, Fish-stink, said Lewis, feeling a pulse throb in his head.
Carl stood up, glanced over at Lewis, as if considering a fight, then back to where Wayne was lying.
How does a spaz run home? said Carl, He runs like this!
And did a staggering lollop over the grass, falling down next to Wayne.
Wayne put his arm up and slapped him on the head. They both fell back, laughing hysterically.
Lock it for us, there’s a good chap, said Carl, throwing a bunch of keys at Lewis’s feet. Lewis didn’t move.
Don’t call him a spaz, he said, standing over Carl. He would like to aim a kick at that wide mouth, felt a twitching in his knee, an ache to do it. Wayne looked up at his brother.
Come on, he said, appealing to Lewis, You can’t abandon us now. We need you.
For what? said Lewis, kicking at the bunch of keys instead.
Yeah, spazzman, for what? Bad enough having one spazzing spaz, said Carl, before breaking into his hyena laugh.
He looks older, said Wayne, as if it were obvious, He looks old enough.
The two boys lying on the ground peered up at Lewis. Carl considered this.
You’re right, he said, and turning to Lewis, Your brother needs you, mate. To help him with a favour he’s got to do. Mate. A little debt he owes me.
Why should I? said Lewis, looking at Wayne.
Why? asked his brother, Why? And then, breaking into song, Cos it’s a nice day to . . . start again!
Carl let out his high, metallic laugh.
TWENTY-THREE
They’re moving at the speed of light. Lewis in the back seat with his eyes shut and stinking of petrol, Wayne in front, pulling on a cigarette and handing it back to Carl, who angles it in the corner of his mouth, just like his father does, but who doesn’t drive like him. Who drives like Ayrton Senna.
They robbed the car from a side-street off Moorland Road, cutting across the park and straight over the football pitch. The hair-coated blankets they’d found in the back of the hatch got ditched in the long grass on the edge of the children’s playground, and the thermos was hurled over the fence and onto the bowling green. All the while they laughed, except Lewis, who was scouring for children, park attendants, anyone that Carl would think it might be amusing to run down.
At the garage at the bottom of Newport Road, Lewis—who looked old enough—got out and held the pump and fed it into the hole and pressed the trigger. He didn’t know how to make it stop and his hands were shaking, and the petrol spilt all over the tarmac and down his trousers. Any second now and the bald guy they called Fester would be out of the booth and running. Lewis was meant to walk up to the door as if to pay, cut sideways down the alley, and meet them at the corner of the next street. Lewis planned to not get back in the car. But Carl had a plan too, hissing at Lewis to get in before he was done, and revving the engine, and making Lewis panic so the hose snaked round his leg and he fell onto the back seat with his feet sticking out and the door hanging open like a broken wing. And now they’re laughing their heads off up front, laughing because they’d got a full tank in the car and two bottles of Manny’s home brew inside them and two more stashed in the footwell, cooling.
The world’s our fucking oyster! shouts Carl.
Whatever that means, says Wayne, glancing backwards at Lewis, trying to include him. But he’s not forgiving either of them and he mutters, not quite under his breath: Means it stinks of fish.
He can hear Wayne singing above the over-revving engine, then whooping as Carl cuts the corner, then singing again. Lewis is no coward but he’s just not looking. He’s sick with the rear suspension and the petrol vapour coming off him. Every time he opens his eyes, he sees the fat green gonk hanging off the rear-view mirror, twirling round and grinning and making him feel a deep rumbling sickness. Wayne turns to his brother and thumps him on the knee.
I told you! he shouts, over the wail of gears, Goes like shit off a shovel!
The sky whips past, but Lewis still isn’t looking.
Let me out, he says, through his fingers.
He leans forward between the front seats and grabs Carl by the shoulder. Carl turns his head, but like the pro he is, he’s keeping his eyes on the road.
Not scared, are you, butt? he says, We haven’t even started yet.
He takes his hands off the wheel and pulls his jacket off one shoulder, then the other, letting the car veer sideways as he wriggles his arms from his sleeves, waiting for the last second before jerking the car back on course. He tosses the
jacket into the back, catching Lewis full in the face. Wayne swigs from the old lemonade bottle and offers it to Lewis.
Like Alka-Seltzer, he says, pointing the neck at him, Go on. It’s alright, this.
The liquid is the colour of urine, with a cloudy froth on top. Lewis takes a sip, tasting sweet and bitter, and then another.
There is nothing fair in this world, and there is nothing safe in this world, and there is nothing sure in this world . . . look for something left in this world . . . START AGAIN!
His brother sings, rapping on the dash with his fingers. Lewis is pretty sure it’s not fair and not safe, and he knows what’s going to happen: it’s way beyond his control. Carl will crash this car; they will run along the back streets, probably bleeding, maybe with something broken. They’ll be cowering in some alleyway behind the bins and whether the police find them there or come for them later, they’ll end up in Borstal. Lewis longs to rewind the day, go back to the bus stop and Wayne picking at the flaking paint with his fingernail. Sam would get there before Carl arrived, and the three of them would get on the bus, running up the stairs to get the best seat on the top deck, and in this other version they’d be in town, posing in the record shop. Lewis would buy the Sly and Robbie record he wanted, trying to be cool and restrained as he asked the assistant with the dyed black hair to play it for him. And Wayne would flirt with her, singing out of tune, being his usual nuisance self. But things could still turn out badly: Carl could still show up. No, he’d have to go further back, to when his mother left the house for work. He would wind it back to there, or further, yet further back, unspooling the hours until he found the right place to start time again. As the houses streak away on either side, Lewis knows where he would begin the re-run of this day: he would go after his mother with her cigarettes, and he’d give her a proper hug and she’d say, Get away with you! Go on, and make sure he takes his pills, mind.
Lewis hands the bottle of home brew back to his brother and looks into his eyes: they are too bright, and too shiny, and it’s too late now for rewind.
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