On River Road

by Chris Else

  — Loud and raucous, the usual kind.

  — You mean like Led Zeppelin.

  — No, Dad. I do not mean like Led Zeppelin!

  Chuckle. The baby chuckle that she never quite lost. Because sixteen was fifteen was twelve was nine was five was three.

  — Daddy, Daddy, where are you?

  — I’m coming to get you!

  — No!

  — Boo!

  Yes, girl. Boo. That’s the way it goes. One minute we’re having fun and the next the world blows up in our faces. As it blew up in your father’s face that Saturday afternoon when he went to the door and found a cop standing there, bareheaded, the breeze stirring in her soft dark hair. Boom, like a letter bomb. And he’s left there helpless with no eyes and no hands. So what can he do, this cripple? He has to learn to live with it, of course. He has to go on, minute by minute, day by day, with the self-control of an ordinary person. Everybody says so. And they’re right.

  They want you to help him, sweetheart. Do you see that? They want you to say goodbye. Can you do it? Can you let your Daddy go?

  He was on River Road, standing in the lay-by looking for Carla and he could hear the water running down below, down the slope of the bank, and he knew there was something strange down there, something scary. There was a car coming from the south, a big car, white, and as it drove towards him he could see that it was gradually falling to pieces, crumbling, bits dropping off it, and collapsing in on itself until, as it passed him, it was no more than a big pile of mangled metal, sliding along with its own momentum.

  Then he was in a theatre looking at a stage and there was a spotlight, yellow, illuminating someone, a figure in a clown costume, with a white face and red spots on its cheeks and it was wearing a small red hat, conical, with a white pompom on top, and for a moment he thought that it had two heads, both identical, but then he saw that it was not a person at all but a cartoon, like Disney or Looney Tunes, and it was singing.

  Promissory magic, promissory magic

  Your promissory days are done

  For I’m all ready for a three-day corpse

  That is standing out in the sun.

  He woke, in the dark, tumbling out of the dream and feeling frightened, but at the same time wondering, surprised. Because his dreams had never been like this before. Not since then, not since the days in the night when he was nine years old. And along with this thought he was also puzzled, because in the dream the white car came from the south and that was wrong. It came from the north, didn’t it? It was someone leaving town, heading towards Winston. The opposite direction to Martin Wraggles. That’s what Mrs McIlroy saw.

  15.

  IMOGEN WAS SITTING AT the breakfast table in her grey school uniform, the tunic with its pleated bodice, a white blouse underneath. The yellow tie with dark blue stripes was done up in a clumsy, flat, fat knot. Like Carla used to do it.

  ‘Good morning,’ Tom said.

  ‘Hi.’ She was eating cereal, her bony wrist half-cocked as if the spoon were too heavy. Head bowed, not looking at him. Her dark hair was tied back at the nape of her neck, a few strands loosened already, dangling at her cheekbone. She hated her hair, complained about it constantly. She hated him at the moment too, maybe. And he her. Because she was alive and Carla wasn’t.

  He put two slices of bread in the toaster.

  ‘You want coffee?’

  ‘No thanks,’ she said.

  Beans in the grinder. He pressed the button and the noise slammed through the silence. Apologise, he told himself. It’s a good time. The thought brought a sick feeling, a memory of the day she and Lisa had put up the cross. Why hadn’t he gone with them? Because their grief was too small. Because nothing could match his own sense of loss. How dare you, how dare you pretend to feel what I feel. He was ashamed of it now.

  He remembered Annabelle at Carla’s funeral, her refusal to speak to him, and Vincent, confused, awkward, standing by his mother and looking at him with a mute appeal, wanting the help that Tom couldn’t give him. Annabelle’s accusation: if she hadn’t been living with you, she’d still be alive. Maybe that was what made him close off to both of them, to everyone. The guilt.

  I have a son, he thought, I barely think of him.

  The kettle boiled. Coffee and water in the plunge pot. He set it on the table, together with his mug. Fetched a plate from the cupboard. Looked at her, the child of the woman he loved and a man he had no respect for. How can you respect a man you’ve wronged and still respect yourself?

  ‘What do you want for your birthday?’ he asked.

  Imogen paused in her eating, spoon halfway to her mouth, her elbow sticking out.

  ‘That depends,’ she said.

  ‘Depends on what?’

  She didn’t answer, took another mouthful.

  The toast popped up. He put the slices, one, two, hot, hot, on his plate and sat down. At the end of the table at right angles to her. The silence grew. He buttered the toast, spread one of the pieces with Marmite.

  ‘Depends on what?’ he asked again.

  ‘On what my father gets me.’

  ‘Oh? Why’s that?’

  ‘Erm.’ She looked at him with a half-grin, impish. Anxious, too. ‘He might be getting me a horse.’

  Oh, shit. He could imagine what Lisa would say to that.

  ‘Really? I guess you haven’t told your mother yet.’

  ‘Er, no.’ Pulling a wry face.

  ‘Do you want a horse?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Her eyes wide and shining, all that eagerness. Her enthusiasm touched him. He remembered himself when he was small: all he had wanted was his own boat, a fishing boat. Like his father and his grandfather. Now he was landlocked in a landlocked town.

  ‘It’s a lot of responsibility.’

  ‘I know. But it would be okay. I could keep it at Dad’s place.’

  ‘When do you plan to tell Lisa?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She squeezed her eyes shut, flinched against the thought of it.

  ‘Would you like me to be there?’

  ‘Would you?’ Pleading.

  ‘I should warn you, I don’t necessarily think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘You might stop her growling, though.’

  He laughed. ‘I might.’ He doubted it.

  ‘Thanks!’ She pushed her chair back, stood up.

  ‘We need to pick the right time,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This evening, maybe.’

  She nodded, smiling. Hopeful. Lifting her hand, pushing the loose strands of hair back behind her left ear in the gesture he always found endearing. The movement delicate, unconsciously precise. She was nothing like her mother. Nothing like Carla, either. But she was part of his life somehow, his real life, the one that mattered. As Vincent was. I should call him, he thought.

  ‘Is she giving you a lift to school?’ he asked.

  ‘No. She’s gone already. She’s seeing somebody.’

  ‘Come with me, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks!’ She turned towards the door.

  ‘Five minutes,’ he called after her.

  ‘You busy?’ It was Ward standing in the doorway, leaning into the room like someone on the edge of a swimming pool.

  Colin swung in his chair to face him, turning his back on the computer, his forearm resting on the top of the desk. Then he realised that he had moved, half consciously, to hide the screen, to cover up the figures it displayed. So he sat up straight, folded his arms. Be a man.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Come in. Sit down.’ He gestured towards the sofa and chairs by the window, the spot where he talked to visitors.

  Ward crossed the polished floor, through the air, through the space that had once been a bedroom all those years ago.

  Half out of his seat, Colin glanced back at the screen, at the cell at the bottom of the spreadsheet which was an incriminating red. Another rush of shame. But there was nothing for it, was there? Too late now. It’s a blue day
, Colly. You’ll just have to put up with it. See it through.

  ‘Well, me old fruit.’ He sat down next to Ward and smiled, took a deep breath, felt his confidence begin to grow again, like a hardening erection.

  ‘Couple of things,’ Ward said. ‘Not important.’ He was leaning back in the chair, his tie draped over the side of his belly, the white shirt puckered into horizontal pleats around the buttons. ‘First up, what do you know about Monty Kerrington?’

  ‘Financier. Development and Mercantile. He’s my neighbour.’

  ‘I know, that’s why I’m asking. Good bloke, is he?’

  ‘He’s all right. Bit of a talker. Bit of a bore, to be honest. Why?’

  ‘Someone suggested we should invite him to join the Club. Get him involved in the local community sort of thing. And then, well, that house is a bit of local history. They might be interested in the cultural side.’

  Ah, so Maddy was behind it. Might have known.

  ‘I’ve got nothing against him,’ Colin said. ‘Or her.’ Thinking of that blue stare, the sculptured face, the taut body. ‘She might make an A-grade president of the Arts Society, for all I know.’

  ‘Good. I’ll call him.’

  ‘What about a nomination? And the membership committee?’

  ‘Oh, we don’t need that. It’s all agreed. Subject to references.’

  ‘He gave me as a referee?’

  ‘No. I did.’ Ward laughed. Puff, puff, puff. Like a steam train starting up.

  A little fuzz of puzzlement. He had underestimated Ward again, that ability to get things done with a word here, a nod there. Joining the Club was a cumbersome process that usually took months, yet here was Monty Kerrington being wheeled in through the back entrance because Ward wanted him. Not that Colin cared much either way.

  A tap on the door. Marie was there, with a sheet of paper in her hand. Ward turned his head, craning his neck to look at her.

  ‘Do you want to sign this?’ she said. ‘And I can get it to the courier.’

  ‘Sure.’ Ward made a little beckoning gesture.

  She came in then, her quick-stepped walk, bouncy on her platform soles. Bending beside them, handing Ward a sheet of paper. A letter, was it? Short, tight skirt riding up a little over the back of her thighs. Plump thighs, creamy. Colin could have reached out and touched her there, stroked the smooth warm skin. The thought wasn’t lustful, though. Nothing so simple. A need, a fear, a flick of dread. The stirring in his loins was a half-hearted impulse. It made him want a drink.

  Ward had the letter on the table and was leaning forward reading it. His right hand rested on it like a paperweight. Colin felt a little shock at the sight of the hand with its curled-up fingers and the flaming pink of the wrist protruding from the white shirtsleeve, the filigree of burn scars like frost on a window, red frost. He remembered that night in the tent, the moment when he knew, the moment of terror when he saw that the primus was going to blow. And then Ward moving. Ward had never moved so fast either before or since.

  If it hadn’t been for Ward, then Colin and Larry and Ward himself might all be dead. Or, at least, great swathes of their flesh would be decorated like Ward’s wrist. Colin did not know what he felt about it now. Gratitude? Yes, of course. And obligation. There was a debt to be paid. There always would be. It was the debt that had made him go into partnership with Ward when, perhaps, he and Lisa might have done something else, taken off as they had so often talked of doing. Maybe it was the debt that caused the other thing he felt when he thought about that night. Resentment. He was not sure why he should resent Ward but he did. Ward had robbed him somehow. Of his freedom? No. It was stranger than that. Ward had robbed him of his right to feel the pain that would have followed the terror. He should have died that night twenty-seven years ago. Why hadn’t he?

  ‘Good.’ Ward looked up. Marie gave him a pen and he signed the letter in a quick spasm. ‘Thank you,’ he said, holding pen and paper out to her.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ A little nod of her head, a little smile. She turned away.

  Colin watched her go, the tight buns wriggling in the red skirt.

  ‘And the other thing.’ Ward was watching him, calling his attention back. ‘It’s Larry and Syl’s twentieth anniversary next week.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Maddy and I thought we should put on a do for them.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Friday. At The Little Frog. You know, just the Tribe. Us and them. You and Heidi. Lisa and Tom.’

  ‘Great.’ But did he mean that? Did he want to be at an event like that with Lisa there? The energy in her, the fervour in her dark eyes, had come to seem an accusation. See? This is me. The real me. Not that vicious little bitch you were married to. He could almost hear her saying that. And Tom? Well, the thought of Tom just left him feeling bleak.

  ‘Amazing, eh?’ Ward was saying. ‘Twenty years. We’ll be next. Maddy and me. Next year.’

  And then? There won’t be a twentieth for Colin and Lisa, will there? Because she fucked off with the gardener like Lady Chatterley.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘We’ll be there. Of course.’

  ‘Fantastic. You know, everyone together.’ Ward looked at him, eyes shining. Tears of emotion nearly. That’s what Ward liked most of all, wasn’t it? Everyone together. Like a family. A twitch of his gingery moustache, a grin.

  Colin twisted in his chair. A writhing sensation up from his guts into his chest. Like a squirming rat. Don’t be stupid, boy. Don’t be such a drip! He thought of the bottle of whisky in the third drawer of his desk, and the need for it opened in him, warm drench of oblivion.

  16.

  MADDY IN A WHIRL. She had a million things to do and she was very angry. That afternoon she had been to see Silkington, the headmaster, about Donny and the bullying, and it had not been an experience to give her a warm glow of satisfaction. What a prick! That smirk! Sitting there behind his desk with a concerned expression on his face.

  No, no, of course the school didn’t find such behaviour acceptable. Could she give him the names of any of the boys concerned? Or the form they were in? Maybe he should talk to Donny himself. No? Well, without names there was not much he could do except, perhaps, have a word to the prefects. I mean, an announcement in assembly, without any other measures taken against the culprits, would merely tell them that they’d got away with it. Could she see that?

  Of course she could see that! What she could also see was that the culture he condoned or encouraged in his miserable school meant that Donny couldn’t or wouldn’t give up the names they needed. Silkington did not, of course, take kindly to such an observation, perhaps because it was far too intelligent for any mere mother to be capable of, so he fought back. Ever so politely.

  — What you might consider, Mrs Lorton, is encouraging Damien to exercise himself a little more on his brother’s behalf.

  — I don’t understand.

  —Well, Damien’s a popular boy. If he took Donny more under his wing, as it were, then I’m sure the results would be beneficial.

  — How do you know that he doesn’t?

  — I don’t know, of course. But, in my experience, that’s how these things work.

  So not only did Donny get beaten up but it was Damien’s fault. Her fury made her speechless for a moment. Just as well. Best to say nothing in a state like that. Best to calm down, think it through. That would be Ward’s advice. Well, thank you for your time, Mr Silkington. Not at all, Mrs Lorton. What a prick!

  Anger means action and action means decision. For Maddy decisions came in two forms. Either she knew instantly and with the utmost clarity what she was going to do, in which case she went ahead and did it, or else she didn’t have a blind clue, in which case she went ahead and did it anyway. Well, not it but something. Anything, really. Just to keep moving, just to keep talking so that eventually the way forward presented itself. Her first move in such a situation was to call her friends.

  Lisa was at work, of course
, and when Maddy ripped right in and told her about Silkington, she got pretty angry herself, as Lisa would, and immediately wanted to write a story on the subject. That was a help because Maddy realised almost straight away that she didn’t want any publicity, not yet, not quite yet, which seemed to imply that she had a long-term goal here, whatever it was. So she found herself in the odd situation of calming Lisa down, despite her own feelings, and reassuring her that it was best not to do anything in the meantime, and she finished up talking about next Friday, the dinner for Larry and Sylvia. Were Tom and Lisa free? They were. Lisa thought so. She was pretty sure. Well, for something like that she was sure she was sure. Which was good, great, fantastic.

  Sylvia had just got home from work. She sounded tired. Yes, well. That stupid job. Being dead would be more exciting and it would probably pay more too, but Sylvia had this social conscience thing about taking a part in the economic community, as if earning a pittance at a job that used none of your capabilities were somehow making a contribution, not to mention all the other people in Durry, poor people, who could really do with a job like that.

  Maddy, of course, said none of this. (Apart from anything else, Sylvia knew it all already. She’d said most of it herself.) Instead, after they’d chatted a bit, she asked about Larry, how was the case? And Sylvia said they were summing up today and maybe the jury would be out by evening. Maddy asked if Polly Drafton would get manslaughter and Sylvia said that Larry wasn’t sure any more. He thought she might not. Which got Maddy going again. Because what was that case about if it not bullying and injustice?

  So she ripped into Silkington once more, only this time she was more measured, more controlled, a great deal more sarcastic, and as she talked she began to see what she was going to do. Not writing to the Ministry of Education, as Sylvia suggested. Still less to that duh of a woman who was the local MP. No, she didn’t want anything that Silkington could weasel out of and she didn’t just want to make him uncomfortable either. She wanted to change things, and the only way to make a change was through the school’s board of trustees and the best way to influence the board was to get elected to it. It was time she and Ward took an interest in the college, anyway. It would be another place to fly the flag, with the elections coming up.