—
She and Max sketching and making love is, to Corina, intrinsically entangled with the night they first met: Krissy Mackenzie’s New Year’s Eve party, 1993 – the night of the bomb. Corina was in a corner with a rum and coke, brooding on the bust-up she’d had earlier with Jim. Their fighting was becoming habitual since he’d moved in with her. Even though she doubted it herself, she’d said to him, Why don’t you come tonight? It’ll be fun. But Jim was already wasted and refused to budge from the confines of his room. Blaring that same acid tape for the millionth time.
The music stopped at Krissy’s party. The room took up a slipshod countdown.
Ten! (he’ll be passed out by the time I get back) – Nine! – (OK, like I get what happened to you was awful) – Eight! – Seven! (but you need to stop pointing the finger) – Six! – Five! (take control of your life) – Four! – Three! (enough of this martyr shite) – Two! – One! (’cause you’re starting to remind me of Dad) – HAPPY NEW Y – and it was then, on the literal final syllable separating present from past, then from now, that she glanced across the room and into his eyes and the world exploded: a concussive THUD! knocked the room off its feet, and an earth-smashing BOOM! rolled over the houses, shattering windows and shuddering bone. Party goers screamed and clawed at each other as heavy things thumped against the roof. Lights flickered. Outside, a cacophony of car alarms and howling dogs.
He made his way across the room and knelt beside her. Are you OK?
I’m OK, she said. She felt OK, anyway.
I’m Max, he said. I make memorable first impressions.
Somehow, she was under a chair. Get me out of here.
The front door was drunk on its hinges, and out in the street it was snowing. Fine debris winnowed down amongst the flakes. By the looks of it, every window in every house on the street was blasted out. Across the road, the front of a Nissan Sunny lay flattened beneath a large, smoking boulder.
She gripped his arm. Is that…is that an asteroid?
He picked something off the ground and whistled through his teeth.
In his palm was a blood-flecked wisdom tooth.
She heard herself say, I had mine out a couple of year ago. The gas made me funny. I told them I wasn’t getting out the chair until I got a sticker.
I had mine out during my GCEs and missed my German oral.
Couldn’t you retake?
Oh, ja.
He looked older than her by maybe a decade, and his eyes were brown and soft. Such a queer sensation, this; already she knew where they were headed. She said, I’m Corina by the way. Happy New Year.
Max dropped the tooth into the settling snow and smiled. Happy New Year, Corina.
Sirens rose in the distance. She noticed something attached to the doorframe directly above their heads. Mistletoe.
Look up, she said.
—
Neutraliser rinsed, Corina removes the rods from Mrs Terry’s hair and replaces them with bright pink rollers. As usual, Mrs Terry sits under the far right brainsucker, which rattles when Corina turns it on.
The clock on the salon wall is a cat with oscillating eyes, a murderous grin, and a swinging pendulum tail. It’s almost noon. Meredith isn’t due for an hour.
She takes the backroom phone into the toilet, closing the door on the cord as best she can. She wriggles her leggings and underwear down and rests her forehead in her left palm. It occurs to her that this could be the last time she ever uses this toilet, a thought as vertigo-inducing as it is prosaic.
Calling Bev would stop this going any further. Bev was the first person she’d met when she walked through the doors of Gamblers Anonymous five years ago, the woman who had helped her through the first jagged weeks and months. Recently, Bev had even put Corina’s name forward to chair a new chapter over in Yarm, but that was before Corina started drifting away from meetings.
She tinkles into the bowl, dials with her eyes closed.
Years ago, Max had made her delete all her gambling contacts. You can’t keep doing what you’re doing, he said. It’s tearing us apart – look, look at your daughter (ten-year old Annabelle at the kitchen table, head bowed, rubbing her eyes under a fringe as dark and impenetrable as a motorcycle helmet visor). Max slid her phone through the crumbs on the tablecloth. This is symbolic, he said. A first step. So she deleted everything right there, in front of both of them, safe in the knowledge that every number she’d ever need was already seared onto her secret heart.
The phone rings and a woman answers.
‘I’d like the odds for Heart of Chrome tonight in the 8:39 at Stockton.’
A keyboard clacks. ‘30/1,’ the woman says.
Corina hangs up. No betting surges mean either the dog’s as dud, or it’s been made to look like a dud. Beech told her how it worked. Stop a fast dog with drugs to lengthen its odds. Then, at the right time, in the right race, run it straight and clean up.
But if that’s this, why is Beech telling her now?
She flushes the toilet. A mildew vortex – wet and rotten – swirls up out of the U-bend.
Beech, what are you after?
—
Max had managed to get the Saturday night off and it was all planned: an Indian in town, maybe a drink somewhere, then back for an early night. Annabelle – five now – was staying at Asquith with Corina’s folks, so they had the place to themselves. As soon as they got back, Corina slid a hand round Max’s neck and put her January-bleak lips to his. He responded sluggishly. She pressed his palm and led him upstairs.
He flopped backwards on the bed. Grey skinned, his eyes slits in periwinkle pouches of flesh. She got to her knees. Like her lips, his thigh was wintery to the touch.
Her hand moved in languid, crotch-bound circles. I had a nice time tonight, she said.
He didn’t respond. She undid his fly.
Nff…s’tired…
She stopped. He propped himself up on his elbows.
What?
Now you show signs of life.
Eh?
I didn’t marry an idiot, Max.
You just said you were having a nice time.
You barely said anything to me the entire meal, and you drank like four pints.
And? I’ve been at work since 2am. It was the only way I could get tonight off in the first place, so I felt like a drink, right? Doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy being with you still.
Still?
What?
Being with you still. Like I’ve got a sell-by-date.
He collapsed back. Jesus, Cor.
On high heels, she wobbled to her feet. You can’t just enjoy still being with me.
He made a mask of his hands.
She said, You know, I’ve started second guessing myself. Thinking, well, this’s what’s supposed to happen after you’ve been married a few years, isn’t it? You drift off into your own bitter little world, while I get old and ugly.
Cor, what the fuck are you on about?
I’m on about you not being interested in me. In us. Your head’s somewhere else.
He rolled off the far side of the bed. His chin was on the edge of the sea-green duvet in such a way it was as if she were arguing with his freshly guillotined head. He said, You want to know where my head’s at? It’s at that fucking factory. It’s on the double-shifts and the people getting the chop every single week. And how I’m too shit-scared to say owt in case I’m next. Does that not show you I care? – she heard him zip his fly – Or do I still have to get my cock out?
You think it’s easy for me either? What? What’s that?
What’s what?
That smirk.
Nowt.
No, haway, Max.
Fine. It’s that place.
The salon, yeah? And?
Well it’s hardly been the empire-starter you
planned, has it?
Building a reputation takes time.
I told you opening on the estate was a bad idea.
What are you trying to say?
I’m not trying to say anything. We barely see each other, that’s a fact. And Annabelle spends more time round your parents than she does here.
So you want me to, what? Stay home? Get a nice little pinny and make pies? This isn’t the nineteen-fucking-fifties.
You’re doing it again! Can’t we have a rational conversation about this? I just think it’s time you thought about cutting your losses.
You just can’t take the fact I’ve done something for myself, can you? That it’s my name above that door? What’s your name on, eh?
His head dropped out of sight. Our marriage certificate, he said.
Next thing he was on the landing, calling her back – Cor, come on, Cor – but she was already halfway down Peelaw Bank, already relinquishing control to the streets that tacitly led her to the bus idling at the stop on Stanhope, as if waiting for her alone. Their fight multiplied within her like mirror reflecting mirror as she was carried through the estate and onto the dual carriageway, towards the spotlights of Stockton Dogs, where, without quite knowing why – not then at least – she pressed the bell.
—
Hungover or not, she’s ravenous. All the instant coffee, the cigs – her stomach is sheep-shanked.
‘Mrs Terry?’
Under her brainsucker, the old woman’s good eye swivels in her direction.
‘I’m just popping to Yvette’s. Do you think you’ll be alright?’
‘Not like I’m going anywhere, is it?’
‘If anyone comes in, tell them I’ll be back in half an hour.’
But Mrs Terry’s already gone back to her book.
The midday news bulletin comes on. Corina clears out before they reach the part about the greyhounds.
—
His first words to her: Penny for them?
She was staring at the race, the dogs on the track like clockwork things wound to breaking.
Huh?
He leaned against the railing, an oddly school-boyish gesture. I said penny for them.
Sorry, I was just watching the race.
So I see. Owt juicy you’re willing to let me in on?
The black dog in the blue jacket took the tape, the rest finishing a split second behind.
Never seen you here before, he said.
I’ve only been once, with my husband.
Is he here tonight, your husband?
On the track, the last races’ dogs were bundled off at one end while the upcoming animals were walked on at the other. A tractor pulled the traps to the starting line.
Not tonight, no.
They both watched the tractor for a moment, then he turned to face her. Despite the cold, he was sweating profusely. My name’s Derek Beecham, he said, but my mates call me Beech.
Dog number 6 was a speckled grey. It dug its haunches so deep into the sandy track that the handler was forced to wrap the leash double around his fist and yank the animal clean off the ground.
And you are? he said.
Corina looked at him askance and told him.
That’s a pretty name. Scottish, isn’t it?
I don’t know what it is.
The handler moved behind 6, side-footing it towards the traps, which, to Corina, resembled car-crushers in miniature. Beech abandoned the rail and stood full height. Even in her high heels, she was at least a foot shorter than him. She shivered in her thin dress.
So, Corina, are you having a punt?
A what? No, I’m just watching.
You said you’d been here before. You bet that time, aye?
Once, yes.
How did you get on?
I won, Corina said. At 50/1.
Nice, he whistled. Very nice. Maybe you could bring that insight to this next one?
That was just luck.
Beech lit a thin cigar. Still, who do you fancy?
I don’t know, she said, turning back to the track. Number 6.
Out of the corner of her eye, she registered Beech scribbling something. He folded the scrap of paper and held it out to her with the tips of his nicotine-yellow fingers. Corina took it warily.
As he walked away he said, No peeking ’til the fat lady’s sung.
Number 6 was last into the trap. Silence fell. A feeling like fingertips on skin, then the rabbit shot past and six muscular dogs sprang loose. People all around yelling; an old man in a fishing hat screaming: YES YOU GO YES YOU GO YES YOU GO YES YOU GO with the last shreds of his voice as – cut my losses? – wind-flared muzzles, black gums, white ribbons of foam, the dogs hit the first bend at impossible speeds – he exaggerates that fucking job, I KNOW he does – opening up on the straight, thinning out, number 6 somewhere in the middle but – so he can justify staying away – losing ground – GO YES YOU – coming up to the final bend, bug-eyed and grinning with exhaustion – is it another woman? – not even dogs anymore, really – YOU GO YES – but things flayed from the belly of the world, things – younger? – from nightmare – no kids? – and then it was – GOOOOOOO – all over. The dogs streaked across the line and pounced on the rabbit, tails whipping.
The boards announced the race. From first to last: 2, 5, 1, 3, 4, and, finally, 6.
She unfolded Beech’s paper:
Any order:
1 , 2 , 5
there is no LUCK
(I’m in the bar)
She said aloud, He must think I’m stupid. Then she went looking for the bar.
Down on the track, number 6 was being dragged from the spotlights and into the dark.
—
Outside on the precinct, the heat is a clenched fist. Tendrils of BBQ smoke stitch the air, along with, fainter, the frigid brine of the North Sea itself. Seagulls pinwheel high above, their calls far off, dream drugged. She’s tempted to look in on Gary for paracetamol, but the idea of swapping the warmth and light for his sepulchral newsagent carries her past his door and on to Yvette’s.
Yvette’s was the first business to open on the Burn Estate, and its founder, Yvette’s father, celebrated the occasion by painting his new-born daughter’s name across the front window in cardinal red and gold. The window itself is a marvel; miraculous in that it has never been smashed in over 60 years (Corina’s has been done twice, Gary’s so many times that he stopped pulling up his shutters altogether). Inside, too, things have barely changed since Corina was yea-high: the faded Formica tables and chairs bolted to the floor, the fruit machine flashing in the corner, the wheezing sauce bottles – the sauce itself off-brand, too red and vinegary – the fruit machine flashing in the corner, the chrome tray-rail running the length of the counter past cottage pies and casseroles in glass hotboxes, the fruit machine flashing in the corner. The only real difference came with the cigarette ban; now only grease hangs in the air.
The fruit machine flashing in the corner.
Yvette, putting a sausage butty in front of a Hi-Vised builder, looks up when the door jingles. ‘I was hoping you’d stop in today, pet.’ Her face is marshmallow pink; her hair beneath the net scraped into the severest of buns. Apron clean, but threadbare. She goes behind the counter and picks up a Styrofoam cup.
Corina raises a hand. ‘I’m going to sit in today.’
‘And why not?’ Yvette says. Then, ‘How are you holding up?’
‘Ah, you know.’
‘And then there were two, eh?’
‘Maybe another unit will come along?’
Yvette’s scans her clientele, the handful of equidistantly-spaced OAPs sitting silently save for the low chink-and-scrape of cutlery. ‘Who’d set up shop in a place due to be knocked down?’ She nods over to the Hi-Vis cramming sausages into his mouth. ‘He
’ll be swinging the hammer.’
‘You don’t know that. Nobody’s said anything to me about the salon yet.’
‘They will,’ Yvette says. ‘It’s a shame you couldn’t hang on ’til they bought you out.’
‘Aye,’ Corina says.
Yvette lowers her voice. ‘Have they made an offer on your house yet? I don’t mean to pry, it’s just I’ve been hearing things.’
‘What things?’
There’s a melodramatic tinge to Yvette’s voice. ‘Well, that they’ll try to shaft you. It happened to someone the other day, Tracey Dyer. She lives round your way. Do you know her? She’s a bit bottom heavy?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Well, she got her house independently valued, and when she told Rowan-Tree, they sent their own people in for a second appraisal. She got the letter last week. Fifteen thousand less they’re offering, and she’s got to accept – apparently it’s against the law to sell to anybody but them once transfer’s been agreed.’
Corina thinks of the letter in her bag.
‘I don’t know how these housing whatsits live with themselves,’ Yvette says. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m glad I moved to Hemlington when I did. What are you going to do?’
There’s a place she’s found on the internet, somewhere in Queensland, Australia, that is doing ground-breaking Alzheimer’s research – their words – with a protein called TDP…PTD? She doesn’t claim to understand, but what she does know is that Heart of Chrome would let her fly Mam out there.
‘I’ll figure it out.’
‘If they think they’re short-changing me on this place when the time comes, they’ve got another thing coming…’
‘Gary dropped the papers round this morning and he didn’t look well.’
Yvette repositions her apron straps over her breasts. ‘Well, he’s been in for tests.’
‘What? When?’
‘Last month. He wasn’t due his results for three weeks, but they rang him straight back wanting to arrange a consultation immediately.’
‘Christ. What’s wrong with him?’
Yvette glances around conspiratorially. ‘Well that’s just it – he won’t go, will he? I says you’re being daft, Gary, I says you need to go in, but he says, they know nowt, doctors, and I says, Gary, you need to go in. You’re grafting dawn till dusk, man. You’re no spring chicken. You need to go in, see what they say.’
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