Ironopolis

by Glen James Brown

  ‘Gary? It’s Corina…’

  Should she pop up? Or nip into the back for the tablets and leave the money in the till? She considers both options, but the catacomb gloom in the newsagents is fast draining what little life force she has left.

  The rush of it. Of course she hadn’t forgotten.

  She calls Gary’s name, counts to six, and leaves.

  The bulletin is on again: …conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. Alice Powel, from the organisation Track Watch, who attended the sentencing today, said that it was the most appalling case of animal cruelty she’d ever encountered: ‘Once again, these graceful, loving animals have been sacrificed to man’s greed, discarded once their purpose had been served. So yes, with today’s imprisonment of Vincent Barr, we may have won a small victory, but violence towards animals is systemic in our society, and until that changes, we, as a society, do not deserve to call ourselves civil.’

  That’s all for the hour, we’ll be back at three with another bulletin…

  Corina lifts the brainsucker off Meredith and helps her back into the cutting chair. A wave of satisfaction washes over her when unwinding the curls. It’s come out good, even if she does say so herself.

  A woman with dark, shoulder-length red hair enters. Late twenties, maybe a few years older than Annabelle. In her corner, Mrs Terry gives her the once over.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ Corina says.

  The woman looks up and smiles.

  Meredith pays and limps to the door, which Corina holds open. She should say something; Meredith’s been a regular since the start and, in many ways, a friend. But she can’t think of a thing to say. Meredith lingers on the precinct, perhaps engaged with similar thoughts, but in the end neither women says anything as the door closes slowly between them.

  The young woman already has a picture of herself ready on her phone. In it, she has the wavy, short-medium style popular nowadays. ‘That’s from two Christmases ago,’ she says as she reclines in the sink, ‘I was chubbier in the face then. I’m a mince pie fiend.’ Her accent is southern. ‘I’m Rachel.’

  ‘Corina.’ She lifts the showerhead. ‘Brace yourself.’ This time the entire salon floor buckles in corrosive misery.

  ‘Turn that thing off!’ Mrs Terry yells.

  As soon as Corina touches the tap, the shrieking stops.

  ‘Yowzers,’ Rachel says.

  The tiles around the sink are sunken and cracked.

  ‘I had an appointment at my usual place in town,’ Rachel says, as Corina starts washing her hair, ‘but then the husband called to say his meeting was overrunning because the satellite link to America was down and blah blah blah – I tune out when he’s in suit-mode – so I had to stay with our daughter all afternoon, meaning I wouldn’t be able to get into town, get back, and get ready in time.’

  For the final ever time, Corina deploys her profession’s most profound question: ‘Going anywhere nice?’

  ‘The husband’s taking me out for dinner and dancing. Got to keep the romance alive somehow, don’t we?’

  ‘I suppose,’ Corina says.

  ‘I searched for salons closer to home, but they were all booked solid. This was the nearest place with a slot, so I decided to risk it…’ Her words hang in the air. Corina glances over at Mrs Terry, who, for all the world, appears to be reading.

  ‘That came out wrong,’ Rachel says. ‘What I meant is you build a relationship with your hairdresser, don’t you? They know what you like and it takes the anxiety out of things. You understand, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Corina says. ‘So where’re you coming from?’

  ‘Not far, really. The other side of Moorside, just past Seamer.’

  ‘Nice area,’ Corina says tonelessly.

  ‘We can’t complain. We’re relatively new, we were in Peterborough before, but my husband was asked to run the northern office.’ Corina asks no further questions, but Rachel carries on talking. ‘Moving’s a wrench. There’ll always be people you’re sad to say goodbye to, but all-in-all it wasn’t too bad. I’m freelance graphic design, so I can work anywhere, plus our daughter Nina hadn’t started school at the time. This is her first year, actually. She’s in Riverside Primary.’

  ‘In Thornaby?’

  ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘My granddaughter just started there. Maybe you know her? Una-Lee?’

  Rachel’s grin is worthy of a toothpaste ad. ‘She and Nina are as thick as thieves! The last day before Easter, they came barrelling out the gates with their coats over their heads yelling, We’re Lyre birds! We’re Lyre birds! And Una-Lee nearly took someone’s wing mirror off! I don’t know what they’re teaching them in that place!’

  The pipes continue to sigh even after Corina turns off the water. ‘How’s Una-Lee getting on in your opinion?’

  ‘She’s like Nina, really into art. Take it from a professional, your granddaughter’s a wonderful artist.’

  ‘She gets it from her mother.’ Corina points to the framed sketches around the room. ‘She did these.’

  Towel dried, Rachel’s hair sticks out at all angles. ‘You must be very proud.’

  Corina picks up her scissors. ‘Keep your head straight, please.’

  —

  We were worried sick.

  Four words passed down the generations like Crohn’s disease and hammer toes. Four words now uttered by Max.

  Annabelle hadn’t said a word since calling from the train, a silence that stretched from the station, through the ride home, and was now unspooling in the living room. She perched on the chair with the bad angle to the TV. Corina stood in the doorway, uneasy. Max paced the rug.

  Another chestnut: What were you thinking?

  Annabelle, from beneath her thick, dark fringe, said, It was the last weekend of the Una Cruickshank exhibition.

  It’s London, love, Max said. You’re fifteen. The look he gave Corina said, Why aren’t you saying anything?

  Because this was her mess. Knowing Max was on double shift, she’d rung Annabelle from the salon to say she’d just booked a late appointment and wouldn’t be home until after ten, that there was a pizza in the freezer. Fine, Annabelle said, take your time. I’m just going to work on some charcoals. Her unconcerned tone encouraged Corina, smoothed the jagged edges of her lie. It made slinking off to Stockton Dogs that much easier, as if mother and daughter were complicit in the deception. This would, in fact, turn out to be perversely accurate: upon returning home some £200 down just before 11pm, she found Max in the kitchen. The fume extractors at work had packed up and everyone had been sent home. He’d just got back. Where was Annabelle? Where were you? But before Corina could commence lying, she was saved, in the finest hackneyed tradition, by the bell – Annabelle calling from the train.

  Corina came fully into the room. You’ve been completely irresponsible, Annabelle.

  But it was important! Neither of you would’ve taken me. I thought I’d be back before you got home. I didn’t know the train would break down where there was no signal.

  The point is you took advantage, Corina said. And where did you get the money?

  I saved up. I wanted to get back bef–

  We must be giving you too much! Well, from now on, you get nothing. And you’re grounded too, until you–

  Cor, Max said.

  can be trusted!

  Cor!

  Max was looking at her strangely. Annabelle tugged at a thread on her sleeve, a black tear spilling down her cheek. When had she started wearing mascara?

  Love, Max said, why didn’t you just ask?

  I did, she said. Remember?

  Corina couldn’t, and by the looks of him, neither could Max.

  This isn’t like you, he said.

  The bag of rolled prints from the gallery was between her feet. So what is l
ike me?

  I’m sorry about not taking you, Max said. But we’re both working. He glanced at Corina.

  You both like it like that, Annabelle said.

  What do you mean? Max said.

  Dark bags under Annabelle’s eyes. It means you don’t have to see each other, or me.

  They let her go upstairs. Corina didn’t have enough fingernails left for them to dig into her palms.

  Hopefully she won’t do that again, she said.

  I rang your phone, Max said quietly. Then I rang the salon. You weren’t there.

  Corina didn’t reply for a second. Then: I was. I just had perm lotion on my hands.

  —

  ‘That reminds me,’ Rachel says, ‘congratulations on Annabelle getting into uni.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘She told me at the gates. It’ll be a good way for her to meet people once they move down and, really, she’s barely even a mature student. I’m originally from Hove myself. It’s a lovely place.’

  What sounds like TV static – the beginning of the universe – squalls in Corina’s head and heart.

  ‘Kyle’s doing well, isn’t he?’ Rachel says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said Kyle’s doing really well. Annabelle said he’s been fixing a bridge? Or extending a bridge? Something to do with bridges, anyway. It all sounded very technical.’

  ‘He’s an engineer,’ Corina hears herself say.

  ‘So when’s the big move?’

  The back of Rachel’s head blurs. Why is this woman here? This can’t be a coincidence. No, this is…this is….

  Rachel sees Corina in the mirror. ‘Oh my, are you alright?’

  ‘Aye…hay fever or something.’

  ‘My husband’s the same. I have antihistamines?’

  She wants this woman gone. ‘No, I’m fine.’

  When she resumes work, Rachel says, ‘I’m so jealous they’re off to Barbados next month. We haven’t been anywhere since Bali. Bali’s gorgeous. The people are so warm and friendly, and the food. Have you ever been?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, promise me you will.’

  Mrs Terry leans forward in her chair. ‘Rachel, shall I tell you about my last holiday?’

  Rachel has evidently forgotten all about the old woman in the corner. ‘Err…of course. Where did you…?’

  The mocha iris of Mrs Terry’s good eye is flecked with saffron and gleams under the salon lights. ‘Blackpool. Have you ever journeyed?’

  ‘I can’t say I have. Is it nice?’

  ‘Back in the 70s, the sea was like unsieved gravy. I went with Colin.’

  ‘Colin’s your husband?’

  ‘Was. He’s dead now. Heart attack.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Mrs Terry shrugs. ‘He used to be on the forklifts – well, until he went in blotto and crashed one – and he only got a fortnight off a year, which he’d spend down the pub or on fishing trips with his mates. Only he never came back with any fish. For years I was on at him to come away. Nowt flash, mind, I’ve never fancied going abroad. Just somewhere nice, but he never got round to booking. So one year I booked us up for Blackpool. Our hotel was called the Sea View, but all you could see out our window was the bins.’

  Rachel’s smile is strained. ‘Still, you never spend much time in the room, do you?’

  ‘True,’ Mrs Terry says. ‘In his case, he was mostly in the bar.’

  ‘Well that can…be fun too,’ Rachel replies.

  Mrs Terry coughs into her hanky. ‘What’s your husband’s name?’

  ‘Eric.’

  ‘Say that after you wake up to Eric relieving himself in the bedside drawer.’

  Corina’s head pounds worse than it has all day.

  ‘Robert Goulet was singing at the Pavilion,’ Mrs Terry says, ‘but Colin wouldn’t come. He didn’t like music, so I went on my own. A beautiful man, Robert, with a beautiful voice. You won’t hear his like again.’ Something has softened in Mrs Terry’s voice. Corina tries to imagine her as a younger woman.

  ‘Only,’ the old woman continues, ‘I couldn’t enjoy him. Something was gnawing me. So after the show, I took a turn along the pier, and that’s when I saw him. Colin. He was on the tin-ducks with the barmaid from the Sea View.’

  Rachel can’t keep it up any longer; her smile collapses as Mrs Terry goes on. ‘He was trying to win her a teddy, but the sackless drunk missed every single duck, and I was furious…but not at him or her. I was furious at myself. Furious I’d ever wanted to come away. Furious I’d thought things could be different, even for a few days.’ She pauses, her remaining eye as dry as its glass counterpart. ‘Then he put his hand on that tart’s arse. Now, I meant to walk away, go back to the hotel and pack my bags, but I heard myself saying his full name: Colin Lewis Maurice Terry, the way he’d told me his dad used to do before he took the belt to him. His dad did that most days, and Colin still whimpered in his sleep. Nightmares and whatnot. He was aiming the rifle at the ducks when I said it, and he span round and the next thing I knew I was on my back and folk were screaming.’

  Rachel is grey. ‘What…happened?’

  ‘What happened? Jesus, woman!’ She pulls her eyeball out of her head and thrusts it towards Rachel. The eye is alive, somehow; the darkness inside Mrs Terry’s vacant socket perfect. Corina burps BLT.

  ‘This is what happened!’

  Rachel mumbles into her own lap. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Then say nowt.’ Mrs Terry works the eye back into her head. ‘Just do us all a favour and say absolutely nowt.’

  The rest of the cut passes in silence. When she’s finished, Corina holds up the mirror.

  ‘Its fine,’ Rachel says weakly. ‘Thank you.’ She pays quickly and leaves.

  ‘Awful woman,’ Mrs Terrys says. ‘People like her don’t know what this world is.’

  ‘Was that story true?’

  Mrs Terry runs her tongue along her dentures. ‘The man couldn’t hit a single duck for that tart, but one shot at me…’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d be able to forgive someone if they did that to me.’

  ‘Oh, pet, it was easy enough. I even started making him his favourite dinners to show there were no hard feelings. He liked his fry-ups, lots of black pudding, corn beef hash, parmos with extra cheese and chips. I got him his favourite stout, too, as much as he wanted. I’d never let him before, on account of his angina. He actually died at the dinner table, face down in a tray of chow mein…’ she touches her new perm. ‘Poor sod.’

  ‘I’d better sweep this hair,’ Corina says.

  ‘Lass, I know all about it.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘When you’re asking strangers about your own granddaughter, something’s not right.’

  Corina grips the counter. ‘Haway then, what’s the word? That I drove my family away? That I’m some compulsive gambler? Things got out of hand, that’s all. I just want everything back how it was.’

  Mrs Terry frowns. ‘Come September, it’ll be eighteen years since Colin died, and I still catch myself missing him. It galls me, that. I think, you dozy old mare, you should never have married him in the first place. But then I think it wasn’t a mistake, it was a choice.’ She taps her false eye gently. ‘It weren’t no accident, weren’t no bad luck. A choice.’ Then she picks up her book.

  Shadows creep towards the brainsuckers. The TV aerials of Alexander Terrace are alien characters stencilled against the sunset. Annabelle’s framed heads glimmer in their frames.

  Corina gets the broom.

  —

  Two conversations with Annabelle.

  Her first: the three of them at Redcar beach, channelling grey curds of seawater to sandcastle moats. Eighteen-month-old Anabelle squealing as the castles tumbled. Supertankers squat against t
he horizon. Gulls riding the convergence zone, dive-bombing their chip cones. Still twenty-some years from closure, the steelworks towards South Gare were shrouded in serpentine billows of smoke and steam. Corina curled into Max on the blanket, his sandy hand stoking her spine, watching as Annabelle collected shells into her plastic bucket. One moment of perfect, absolute peace which was over the instant Annabelle threatened to pick up a rusty beer can. But it was enough.

  On the train home, Max slept with his temple against the glass. The sun was setting and Corina had Annabelle on her lap, the treasures found by her daughter that day laid out on the table before them. Annabelle picked up a small, fragile thing and said clearly: S’ell.

  Corina’s heart accelerated beyond the dusk train. That’s right! It’s a shell! And what colour is the shell?

  Annabelle’s eyes were bright.

  ‘Ink!

  Their last conversation, seventeen years later: Annabelle wracking through hangers in her wardrobe, tossing jumpers and skirts into a suitcase on the bed while Corina stood in the doorway.

  Can’t we talk about this? she said.

  Annabelle took out a burgundy cardigan, held up a sleeve, put it back.

  Belle, please talk to me. I didn’t mean for any of this.

  Then: Just say something.

  Then: Love, please.

  The prints from her trip to the Una Cruickshank exhibition years before still covered her walls: large blue-grey regions that seemed, on closer inspection, to be foggy riverbanks; the occasional figure glimpsed – or maybe not? – distantly in the mist. They unsettled her, but they were nothing compared to the poster of the witch-thing above the radiator. The awful way it held its hand over its face, leering from between skeletal fingers.

  Corina said, I’ve tried talking to your dad, but he won’t listen.

  Annabelle laughed. I wouldn’t either, if I was him.

  It wasn’t all me, we had our problems before this.

  She threw a skirt venomously into the case. Those scumbags nearly kill him, and then he pays them off with his life savings. Don’t put any of this on him.