‘Mia? Yes … no …’ He glances at me from under dark lashes and then turns away. ‘OK, I’m coming now.’ He ends the call and returns the phone to his pocket. ‘I need to go,’ he says without looking at me. ‘I’m wanted … at home.’
‘So, her name is Mia …’ I say before I can stop myself. But Daniel’s expression darkens at the use of her name, his eyes narrowing so that he looks older, more formidable. I can tell that he doesn’t want to involve her in any of this, that me just speaking her name has sullied her somewhat. He’s always been able to compartmentalise, has Daniel. I understand because I’m the same. I know he’s thinking that Mia doesn’t belong in this murky world of death and murder and revenge. She belongs to the other part of him; to lazy Sundays leafing through newspapers and holding hands over breakfast, of romantic strolls and tender endearments. I feel a sharp stab of jealousy that’s as physical as indigestion.
He walks to the car and opens the door. ‘Come on.’
I’m suddenly angry with him. Jealousy of Mia has made me want to punish him. So I say I’ll walk back. He shrugs, tells me he doesn’t think that’s a great idea after what Lorcan just called me, but he’s already left me in spirit, even if his body is still here. He’s obviously worrying about Mia. I remember the moment in the kitchen earlier, our near kiss. He was tempted, I could feel it. He wasn’t thinking about Mia then. Maybe he’s not as in love with her as he thinks, as he tries to tell himself.
Why didn’t I snap him up all those years ago?
Everything could have turned out so differently.
I was wrong when I said that nothing had ever happened between us. I’d forgotten until this morning. That moment in the kitchen brought back memories of the summer you died. Just a few snogs and fumbles around the back of the pier. Not sex, never even close to sex. I didn’t know what I wanted back then. I wanted what I couldn’t have – and Daniel was offering it to me on a plate. And now I can’t have him he’s more desirable than ever.
‘I’ll text you later. We need to decide our next move,’ he says hurriedly. He’s already behind the wheel before I can reply. I watch, speechless, as he screeches away from the kerb.
I walk through the estate. Luckily the weather means it’s deserted; no youths hanging around the off-licence today, no children riding their bikes up and down the streets, no men tinkering under the bonnets of cars. I head for Robin Road, the place where you used to live. It’s been nearly two decades but I can still remember the way to your house. It’s only two streets away from Leon’s. I could be twenty-one again or fifteen, or twelve, desperate to get to your house to sit in your bedroom, listening to music.
I wander through the underpass that leads from the back of one street to the front of another, so that I’m in the leafy, pedestrianised area. Most of the housing estates that popped up in the late 1960s and early ’70s were built to a similar format – green areas in front of the houses where children could play without the fear of cars knocking them down, with garages out the back.
Before I know it I’ve reached No. 123, the middle terrace in a row of three. It looks shabbier than I remember, the white paint peeling in curls from the wooden cladding. The red door has been replaced by white, plastic-looking double glazing. But I still feel a pull of nostalgia in my gut so strong and overwhelming that I can almost see you waving to me from your bedroom window: the little room that overlooks the front with the Pierrot curtains and matching bedspread, where we listened to Madonna and Five Star when we were eight, changing to Nirvana and Pearl Jam, and then Blur and Oasis as we got older.
And I know that I can’t be here any longer. In this town, in the past. I feel you so strongly, Sophie, it’s almost as though you’re standing right next to me, or behind me. I suddenly feel cold and my spine tingles with fear. I need to get out of here.
I turn and hurry back through the underpass and along the winding streets, until I get to the main road. It will only take me ten minutes to reach the apartment. I’ve made a decision. I need to return to London. I can’t bear to spend one more night here in this town, with just my thoughts and the ghost of you to keep me company.
Daniel’s moved on, with Mia. He’ll be OK. He doesn’t need me here, not really. Mia can go with him to identify your remains. He’s come up against so many brick walls I’m surprised he’s still standing. And it’s not like I’ll ever be able to help him.
It begins to sleet, sludgy flakes falling and dissolving into the pavement. The sea is choppy and grey, the waves lashing around the steel legs of the old pier. I shiver as I pull the hood of my coat up, not that it protects me much. The hood is there more for fashion than practicality and it doesn’t quite stretch over my head.
I pause to retrieve my phone from my bag and then carry on, clutching it in my hand. I’m relieved that out here in the open I have some reception. When I get to the lampposts at the entrance to the pier I stop and lean against one of them to tap out a quick text to Daniel. I have to leave, Daniel. I’m sorry. I’m going home. F x
When I look up I see you through the sleet, standing in the middle of the pier. You’re wearing jeans, your fair hair a tangle around your face. I gasp. My eyes are seeing you, yet I know that logically you can’t be there.
I blink, hot despite the cold elements, and look down at the phone still in my hand. There is no reply from Daniel. It suddenly occurs to me that I could take a photo of you, to prove to myself that I’m not going mad, but when I look up, of course you’re not there. I’m completely alone. Turning away from the pier I pull the hood of my coat further over my head and trudge up the hill to the apartment, the sleet like cold lips kissing my face.
Why do I keep seeing you when you’re dead? I’m either losing my mind or all those ghost stories we were told about the pier being haunted are true. I don’t know which prospect terrifies me more.
15
Sophie
Sunday, 27 July 1997
It’s the early hours of the morning as I write this. I can’t sleep, even though I need to because I have to go to work tomorrow. I’m going to be shattered!
It all kicked off last night at The Basement.
The evening started brilliantly – Leon invited me over to his house as his brother and sister-in-law were out and we had the place to ourselves. I suspected, I knew, what this meant. That we would be able to have sex. Sex with Leon is something I’ve fantasised about ever since we met four weeks ago. I wore my best underwear (my new black Wonderbra and lacy G-string!) but I felt self-conscious as I walked around to his house. He had fancied Frankie, with her hour-glass figure and big boobs. I’m the polar opposite. Would he find me sexy?
Despite snogging and holding hands for four weeks, Leon’s not really tried anything on. He once put his hands on one of my boobs, over my T-shirt. But that’s as far as it’s ever gone between us.
And then there is the matter of Jason holding me back. This huge secret that I’m keeping from Leon about his cousin.
Anyway, when he opened the door and I walked into his kitchen the air was thick with sexual tension. We barely spoke to each other as he led me upstairs to his bedroom, with its narrow single bed pushed up against the wall and an old He-Man duvet cover that used to belong to his brother. He undressed me on that duvet cover, slowly peeling off my jeans and T-shirt expertly, so that I lay there, trembling slightly in my bra and knickers.
Afterwards, wrapped in his arms and staring up at the swirly Artex ceiling, I felt consumed by guilt. I knew that this couldn’t last, that the ghost of Jason and what we did will always sit between us. I tried to push down these negative thoughts, to concentrate on that moment. I could have stayed there all night but we were interrupted by the bang of the front door and the raised voices of Steph and Lorcan.
‘I fucking saw you, you bastard,’ she screeched and then the sound of something smashing. Lorcan shouted back, but his voice was too low to be decipherable.
Leon groaned, turning to me and propping himself up on his elbo
w. ‘Looks like they’re having another fight.’
‘Do they do this all the time?’
‘Pregnancy hormones. That’s what my brother says, anyway. We’d better get out of here.’
We dressed, the mood in the room turning awkward as I stepped into my knickers, fumbled with my bra, then pulled my T-shirt over my head and slid into my jeans. Leon had his back to me as he dressed, nearly falling over in his eagerness to get his trousers on.
The back door slammed so loud that it reverberated throughout the house.
‘It sounds like he’s gone out,’ said Leon, relieved. He grabbed my hand and smiled shyly. ‘Shall we go to The Basement?’
I agreed, remembering I had promised to meet Frankie and Helen there. We stole down the stairs quietly, not wanting to alert Steph, but then through the open door of the living room we could see her perched on the edge of the sofa. Steph is tall and thin, with curly, dark hair held back by a clip; her bump looks like she’s just stuffed a watermelon up her T-shirt. She has intense dark eyes and a scowl that would scare off most women, but she is pretty and young, probably not much older than me. Her hands rested on her tummy, her chin on her chest. My heart went out to her. Leon hesitated, then popped his head around the door.
‘Are you OK, Steph?’ he said, stepping into the room. I hovered in the hallway, feeling uncomfortable.
I heard her sniff and tell him that Lorcan was a bastard. Leon mumbled his agreement. I made my way out of the hallway, through the kitchen and into the garden so that they could have some privacy. Ten minutes later he emerged through the back door.
‘There you are,’ he said, relief etched all over his face to see me sitting on the wall. ‘I thought you’d gone.’
‘I wanted to give you some space. She looked upset.’
‘She’s OK now. But Lorcan treats her like shit a lot of the time. I mean she’s bloody pregnant and he still can’t stop perving over other women. I don’t know what she sees in him.’
I’ve only met Lorcan once when I called for Leon. He has a hard face, and his eyes, so like Leon’s yet colder, scanned me in a way that made me feel naked and exposed. Then he gave me a lascivious wink that turned my stomach. He and Steph have already been married for two years, according to Leon, and together since she was fifteen and he seventeen. He’s cheated on her throughout their relationship, yet she forgives him every time.
‘I’m not like my brother,’ he said, taking my hand as we walked to The Basement.
‘I should hope not,’ I laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be going out with you if you were.’
When we reached the old pier he stopped, his face serious. ‘I’ve written a poem. It’s about you.’ He rummaged in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a crumpled piece of lined paper and handed it to me with a self-conscious smile. ‘It’s about soulmates. No, don’t read it now,’ he said hurriedly as I went to open it. ‘Keep it, until later.’
I pushed it into the pocket of my jeans, touched. I couldn’t wait to get home to read it.
He pulled me into his arms. ‘I know we haven’t known each other that long,’ he whispered into my hair, ‘but I can’t stop thinking about you, Sophie. I think about you all the time.’
I could feel myself blushing and I remembered Frankie’s warning. Intense. But I liked it. I liked that he was honest about how he felt.
‘I feel the same,’ I admitted, a lump forming in my throat. In that moment I wanted to cling to him, to wrap my arms and legs around him so that our bodies merged into one again, and never let him go. But I knew that was impossible. I knew that I would have to let him go. Eventually.
The Basement was heaving when we arrived. I tried to spot Frankie or Helen amongst the crowd but the small underground rooms were so full of bodies, a fug of smoke hanging in the air like a cloud, that I couldn’t make out anyone I recognised. The place smelt of cigarettes and stale sweat.
‘She’s going to be cross with me,’ I said as we wove our way to the bar. My eyes, ever sensitive, were beginning to water. ‘I promised her I’d be here. And Helen.’
Leon shrugged. ‘Oh, she won’t mind. Knowing Frankie she’s found an admirer or two to keep her company.’
My stomach curdled with jealousy. It would have been the perfect time to ask him about Frankie, but I was scared of what his answer would be. I don’t think I could bear it if he told me he had been in love with her. What if he still had feelings for her? As much as I loved Frankie I didn’t want to play second fiddle to her any more. It was fine while we were at school, even with Jason. But not now. Leon is too important to me, even if he can never properly be mine.
We stood at the bar for ages, jostling with everyone else in an attempt to get served. And then, as if from nowhere, Frankie appeared.
‘There you both are,’ she said, standing on tiptoes between us with her arms slung around our necks. Her breath smelt sweet, like alcopops. ‘I’ve been looking for you for ages. You said you’d be here at ten, Soph.’ Her face was in profile, but she sounded like she was pouting. Still, it couldn’t dampen my mood. Leon and I had had sex. He was falling for me. Me, not Frankie.
Leon excused himself to go to the loo and I let Frankie lead me onto the dance floor.
‘Where have you been?’ She had to shout over the Chemical Brothers.
‘At Leon’s house …’
‘You’ve shagged him, haven’t you? Despite everything. How could you?’
‘Frankie …’
She stopped dancing to stare at me, hands on hips. ‘It’s all wrong, Sophie. You know it is.’
I bit my lip, wanting to cry because she was right.
Then I felt his hands around my waist, his groin grinding into my bottom in time to the music. I felt embarrassed at his display of affection in front of Frankie. ‘Leon … what are you doing? Get off me!’ Then I noticed the smell. It wasn’t the CK One that Leon always wore, but something acrid, sharp in my nostrils, unpleasant. I turned my head and was shocked to see Lorcan grinning at me.
I pushed him away, suddenly furious. What the hell was he playing at?
‘What have you been up to with my brother, then, huh? Were you fucking when we came in …’ His breath smelt of booze, his voice slurred. Despite his crude words I couldn’t help but notice Frankie widen her eyes in shock. ‘Got a nice arse,’ he said, tapping me playfully on the bottom. ‘No tits, though. Not like your friend ’ere.’
Frankie grabbed my arm and pulled me to her. ‘Lorcan, stop being a prick and leave us alone.’
‘What?’ he said, grinning innocently. ‘I’m doing nuffin’ wrong.’
It happened quickly. One minute Lorcan was in front of us, leering, the next Leon was punching him and yelling at him to fuck off. Lorcan is a big bloke but he didn’t try and defend himself, or punch Leon back. Instead, throwing us a wounded look, like we were bullies in a playground, he slunk off and was swallowed up in the crowd.
‘Are you OK?’ Leon asked me, ignoring Frankie. ‘My brother is a prick when he’s drunk.’
‘He was feeling her bum and everything,’ said Frankie. Leon’s expression darkened and a pulse thumped in his jaw. I was furious with Frankie for making it worse.
‘It’s nothing I can’t take care of.’ I was annoyed at them both for treating me like I’m made of glass. But really Lorcan’s comments about my flat chest stung. I hoped Leon hadn’t heard them.
‘I could kill him. How dare he do that to my girlfriend,’ he said to nobody in particular, like I was his possession. We’d slept together, now he thought he owned me? He hugged me to him and kissed me as though he’d just rescued me from a near disaster, not some idiot with overzealous hands. Over his shoulder I noticed Frankie roll her eyes and give me an ‘I told you so’ look.
We left soon after that. Leon walked me home, but we were mostly silent as we meandered through the high street, then past the hotels and B&Bs and across the road to the seafront. There was a gang of kids on the beach, laughing and swigging booze from bottles. Shout
s from a group of women could be heard up ahead as a hen night dressed in pink tutus spilled out of Odyssey, one skinny woman wearing a veil. That club was a known meat market.
Leon had his arm around my shoulders and mine was snaked around his waist, my hand resting in the back pocket of his jeans, but we were both brooding in our own way. Frankie’s words rang in my ears: intense, a stalker. But Leon had been protecting me, hadn’t he? He wasn’t just acting like a jealous boyfriend. His brother was being a real arsehole.
When we reached my house Leon apologised again for Lorcan’s behaviour. ‘I just saw red. He had his hands on you, Soph. How dare he?’
‘I know … but I can look after myself.’
We kissed by the garage. I was tempted to ask him in – I knew Mum was working nights – but I wanted to be on my own, to think. Because what Leon did has left a nasty taste in my mouth. Punches thrown, noses bleeding … it stirred up memories I’ve tried hard to bury.
Whilst getting ready for bed I remembered Leon’s poem tucked in the pocket of my jeans. I retrieved it and spread it out on my duvet cover, tears prickling at the back of my eyelids as I read the words, the intensity of his feelings jumping from the page:
As the setting sun casts its glow upon the pier,
transforming the decaying metal, a distraction from my fear,
remembering those who graced these rotten boards before,
forgotten, unknown, and loved ones who are here no more.
Through my haze of self-reflection, I see your beauty clear as day,
like a beacon to my soul, there ceases to be another way,
destined for the crashing waves below, together until we die,
bound for ever, beneath this orange sky.
16
Frankie
I close the heavy front door behind me and rest my head against it, engulfed by the same lethargy as I experienced outside Lorcan’s house. I half hope to see the family who are staying in the downstairs apartment, just so that I know I’m not alone in this old building, with its clunking pipes and unexplained creaks, but apart from that glimpse of an older woman through Daniel’s steamed-up windscreen yesterday, I’ve seen nothing of them.
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