by Nicky Black
Nicola stood at the door of the church as she watched a couple of suited men open the mouth of the black hearse. She’d had to hire pallbearers – none of Micky’s friends had responded to her invitations. She’d spent the evening before at the hospital, Kim still breathing through a ventilator, her brain dead, her organs ripe for harvesting. She’d found the donor card in Kim’s purse as she cleaned up the house over the previous few days. It would be Nicola’s decision in the end: she was her closest family, her next of kin. Once all the legals were sorted, Kim’s life was in her hands. Not if, but when to turn off the machines. Mark’s wedding ring hung on a chain around Nicola’s neck, and she held it now between her finger and thumb, swinging it back and forward across her chin as she waited for the hearse to arrive, the priest at the bottom of the stairs, and Margy and Joe flanking her on either side. There was no one else present and Nicola felt Micky’s pain at such a sad spectacle of emptiness. He might have been a thug, but he always boasted that he was more popular than Gandhi.
Ten minutes to go, and a solitary, tiny blue car pulled up and parked in the grounds of the church. Nicola looked curiously at the bobbing heads of the people inside, but the tinted windows hid their faces. The doors to the car opened eventually as six people poured out as if they were emerging from the TARDIS. The men were tall, six foot and more, all of them, the one woman in a black veil, bent double with grief and holding a small purple handbag with one hand and the shoulder of one of the mammoth men with the other. Nicola looked at the brown, leathery hands with their tattoos and rings and recognised Tania. Her brothers surrounded her like bodyguards, their huge, solid necks almost the size of the heads they held up. They walked towards the church, shook hands with the priest at the bottom of the stairs then stood in a herd facing each other, lighting up their cigarettes. Tania regarded Nicola through the veil. Their eyes met, at least Nicola thought they did. She thought she saw a faint nod of Tania’s head. At least he’d have his two wives here, thought Nicola, with a hint of derision.
They all stood shuffling their feet, only the birds and distant passing cars offering any soundtrack to the afternoon. Nicola nodded to the priest. She was ready. He nodded back and started to make his way over to the funeral director. She felt Margy’s nudge, and heard the wheels of another car crunching over the gravel. She raised her head as another followed behind it, and, as they parked, a crowd of seven or eight people emerged from behind the tall, sandstone wall that surrounded the grounds of the church. Nicola recognised Stevie, his young wife, Annie, and several other faces. Nicola and Margy turned to each other with a curious stare. More people started to stream into the car park, Scotty and the staff from the pub, old boxing friends, more shaking of hands with the priest and more cigarettes lit, more cars spewing more people. Nicola’s eyes, dry until now, started to tear as she felt an enormous relief envelop her.
She made her way down the steps toward Stevie and his group, but as she approached them, their backs turned and her outstretched hand was ignored. She turned to look nervously at Margy, whose eyes narrowed as she studied the growing crowd and their reaction to Nicola. No one acknowledged her: everyone turned from her as she approached them. Tania and her brothers merged into the crowd and she was comforted as a close relative would be.
Margy hurried down the steps to Nicola’s side, took her by the arm and led her back to the church door.
‘What’s happening, Margy? Why won’t they talk to me?’ Her hand closed in on the ring around her neck again.
‘I don’t know, sweetheart, let’s go inside.’ Margy gave the crowd one more suspicious look before leading Nicola up the steps to the church.
‘No,’ Nicola said suddenly and turned around, pulling herself free of Margy. ‘They’re not doing this to me.’ She stood, her shoulders back, her head held high as she made her way to the coffin being slid out of the hearse and onto the shoulders of the pallbearers. Stevie and four other men shook hands with the undertaker before Nicola could get there. She elbowed her way through the men and reached the undertaker, the same young, blonde woman, tall and lithe, who’d been to her house twice to discuss the arrangements. She nodded at Nicola and smiled.
‘These gentlemen have offered to carry the coffin,’ she said softly, ‘if that’s alright with you.’
Nicola looked at the men around her, their eyes on the coffin, not her, and hated every last one of them. Where were you? she wanted to scream at them, point the finger. Where were you when he was stuck in that chair? Which one of you pulled the trigger? But despite their desertion, their gutless actions, she felt Micky’s words in her ear. You’ve no right. This is your fault, not theirs. Nicola nodded at the undertaker and, when the men parted to let her through, she knew that they knew what she had done, and she knew that she would never be able to live amongst these people again.
The church service was over, and Lee walked purposefully up the uneven path of the cemetery. Behind him, Tyrone Woods dragged his feet, his hands sunk deep into his pockets, his bowed, hooded head bobbing from side to side with each laboured step. Tyrone’s alleged rape victim shivered in a cell awaiting solicitation charges, a known child prostitute who’d been in and out the system for years. Tyrone was free to get on with his life.
When they reached the entrance to the last section of the cemetery, Lee stood, both hands on the crumbling wood of the gate, and surveyed with astonishment the throng of people gathered around the graveside. There must have been a hundred of them, heads lowered as the priest read from a small Bible. He heard a collective Amen and heads were raised back up, backs slapped and sunglasses adjusted on noses. He watched people disperse slowly through the gate at the other end of the cemetery, and as the crowd thinned he saw Nicola at the head of the grave, Tania at the foot. He could see only the back of her head, her black dress fluttering slightly in the breeze, but he could tell she was composed and poised, unlike Tania whose face, contorted and blotchy, screamed anguish and misery. Tania held a white tissue to her face and leant her head against the shoulder of one of her brothers, clinging to his arm. He saw Nicola raise her head towards her and their eyes met over the hollow in the ground that now housed their dead man. Tania turned her face into her brother’s shoulder and he turned her away under his arm, leading her towards the exit. Margy stood slightly back with her husband, her arm linked through his, their other hands clenched together in front of them.
Lee nudged Tyrone and opened the gate. As he approached Nicola he looked on in alarm, as an immaculately dressed Tiger Reay walked past her and spat on the back of the black jacket that she’d pulled tightly around her waist. Then someone else did the same, then another, and another. His instinct was to run to protect her, but Margy was there in an instant, flailing her handbag at anyone who came near her friend, but still they spat, if not at her, at the ground by her feet. Piss off! he could hear Margy shouting as she ran at them like they were pigeons scrapping over bits of bread. Gallagher, he thought. He’d kept his promise and made the call, probably that very morning.
When the cemetery was empty and Nicola stood alone, Margy saw Lee walking towards them. As she wiped at the spit from Nicola’s coat with a tissue, she whispered something to her and Nicola turned around. She faced Lee then looked contemptuously at Tyrone. Her eyes were dry, her face sad and vulnerable.
‘What’s he doing here?’
‘Tell her,’ Lee said.
Tyrone bowed his head; he couldn’t.
‘Tell her now or the hounds of hell will be on you, I promise.’
Tyrone muttered to his feet, ‘I lied about Mark.’
Nicola looked at Lee then at the boy. ‘What? What d’you mean?’
‘Micky told me to say Mark had offered us drugs – that he was dealing.’
Nicola was lost, trying to comprehend the gravity of his statement. ‘I don’t understand.’
Tyrone sighed sullenly: why didn’t she get it? He wanted the ground to swallow him up. ‘He wasn’t dealing, Micky just told me to
say that, I don’t know why.’
‘Then why the hell did you?’
Tyrone shook his head like he didn’t understand. He looked at Lee to help him out.
‘Okay, go,’ said Lee, nodding his head towards the gate they’d just come through. Tyrone didn’t need any encouragement and he turned quickly and walked with small running steps towards the exit. Nicola looked after him, wanting answers, but her mouth was not her own. Lee took Nicola’s hand.
‘Micky wanted Mark to get the kids to try stuff, groom them, so his dealers could move in. Mark was having none of it. Micky framed him, got him arrested, got Tyrone to testify – blackmailed him.’
‘How?’
‘What did Mark tell you about Tyrone?’
The penny dropped. ‘That he’d come on to him. Why didn’t Mark tell me about Micky? Shit! Why didn’t he tell me?’ The question was directed at Margy, who shrugged her shoulders. Nicola shook her head in disbelief. She lit a cigarette, took a deep drag on it, filling her lungs and making her head feel woozy. Lee looked bleakly at Margy and she took the hint, walking to Joe who stood reading graves, knowing where he wasn’t needed.
Lee touched Nicola’s arm and they walked to a bench in the garden of remembrance. They stared out across the garden, the wall around it flanked by flowers and wreaths in all shapes and sizes, the lawn in the centre marked here and there with ashes thrown on it in the sign of the cross. Peace, for a moment.
‘I’m going back to London,’ Lee said, not looking at her. She felt her stomach drop like a stone inside her. She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Lee’s hand reached for hers. She didn’t move but he wrapped his fingers around hers carefully as if she was so precious he was scared he would break her. But he was more scared of the answer to his question.
‘Will you come with me?’
Nicola looked at him and shook her head. ‘You know I can’t,’ she said.
Lee looked up to the blue sky, a few starlings circling, waiting for dusk so they could sing their evening song.
‘You and me,’ she said, ‘we’re not daft. We don’t live in a fairy tale.’
‘I love you,’ he said.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘I know you do.’ She put her head on his shoulder and he squeezed her hand. Fairy tales didn’t happen on Valley Park.
TWENTY-TWO
The car park at the front of the great Art Deco flats was virtually empty. Thankfully, he’d been able to park the hire van right outside the door. There was just enough space now for the final box which Lee and Louise pushed into the last inch of space with their backsides. As it slotted into place, they high-fived each other and Lee closed the doors of the van. He wiped the sweat from his brow and stood with his hands on his hips as Louise grinned from ear to ear.
‘Aren’t you even going to cry a little bit?’ asked Lee.
Louise tried to pull a mopey face like a clown, but she couldn’t rake up any sadness. Not only did she have a proper dad now, but he’d be living in London. London! Once a month and half the holidays. She smiled again. ‘You’re mad, leaving Newcastle. It’s the best place on earth,’ she said happily, ‘I’ll never, never leave here.’ Lee pulled her to him roughly. She hugged him tightly and he kissed the top of her head.
‘You’re a top kid,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll miss you.’ She gave a little groan and hugged him tighter. ‘Right,’ he said, prising her arms from around his waist.
He walked into the lobby and dropped the keys into the white metal box on the wall that read ‘Flat 8’. He was running away. Again. He’d thought he was coming back to his roots, but he’d changed too much and Valley Park did not want him back. His father’s sticks beat him across his back; his mother sat in the corner, silently weeping, her puffy face covered in bruises and scrapes, not from the sticks but from falling over and walking into things, too drunk to negotiate everyday items. Her feeble attempts at martyrdom had washed over him. She could have saved him if she’d wanted to, but her yellow eyes and swollen hands and feet told their own story. Give her the option, her son or her gin, and he knew what her choice would have been. He was well out of it. His granddad told him so. He wondered where Tyrone would be by now. A thousand of Lee’s pounds tucked in his pocket. His freedom from the prison of his family only a train ride away. He wished him luck wherever he was, but pitied the lad’s inability to ever come back home and be accepted.
As he came out of the lobby, a familiar, small purple Micra pulled into the car park, stopping some distance away. Lee paused, and peered through the failing, early evening sunlight, blinking. The engine cut out and it was as if the whole world became soundless as he held his breath and waited for the car door to open. When it did, and she stepped out, she did so in slow motion. First a leg, then an arm, then the other leg, and then her lovely face emerged. He felt a hand go up above his head. It waved and she waved back. She was walking towards him, and still all he could hear was his own heart. It caught in his throat and he felt slightly nauseous. She was smiling, but she wasn’t running. She wasn’t running into his arms. The noisy world burst back into life and deafened him. She stopped a foot away from him.
‘I needed to say goodbye properly,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Lee. I’m so sorry.....’ Her voice broke. ‘But I can’t. I just can’t.’ Lee glanced over to the car and saw Liam’s face, steaming up the window with his breath. He nodded. Their daddy was gone because of them. Because of him. ‘I’m going to Eyemouth, with Margy, I’ll be by the sea, it’s lovely,’ she said, her voice trailing off. She reached around her neck and undid the chain that held Mark’s wedding ring. ‘Here,’ she said, handing it to him.
‘No...’
‘... Shut up and take it.....’ She put the chain in his hand and closed her fingers around his hands. ‘Thank you. For believing me.’
Lee closed his eyes against the unwanted gratitude, the words twisting in his throat. ‘Come with me?’
Nicola’s hands tightened around his. ‘In another life, maybe.’
He released a hand and touched her face. His thumb wiped away a tear.
They heard the car door open and Nicola turned to see Margy, her arm resting on the roof of the car. ‘Haway man!’ she shouted, ‘I’m missing Casualty!’
Nicola smiled at her and laughed slightly, then turned to Lee, the smile still playing on her face. ‘Goodbye,’ she said.
He watched, and as she turned to walk back to the car, Louise sidled up next to him. He put his arm around her shoulder as hers enveloped his waist.
In another life, he thought. Maybe.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nicky Black is a collaboration between two friends, Nicky and Julie. Julie originally wrote The Prodigal as a commissioned two-part TV series for Granada back in 2001. It never made it to the screen, but Julie kindly allowed Nicky, ten years later, to attempt to turn the story into a novel. This is the result, and much of the dialogue in the book is taken from the original script.
Julie has written for TV in the past, notably Hollyoaks and Casualty, and this is Nicky’s first novel. Both met when they worked in the urban regeneration industry nearly twenty years ago.
Nicky was brought up in Northumberland and worked in Newcastle upon Tyne for twelve years before moving to London in 2002. Julie is a born and bred Geordie, and still lives in the Toon.
We hope you enjoy reading this story as much as we’ve enjoyed telling it.
Twitter: @AuthorBlackNE
Facebook: Facebook.comAuthorBlackNE
Email: [email protected]
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