Salt of Their Blood

by Gerald Wixey

  We had a quiet drive into Oxford, a sad journey. To begin with, Shirley couldn’t stop talking; poor Bernice, poor Tommy, poor Kathy. How are you? You must be feeling… Yes I was feeling… How, exactly? Four exhilarating hours in bed with Kathy and now? My dead friend had clattered into my consciousness in much the same way that he always did. Not much to say really, so we went over in a gloomy silence. Driving through the sporadic snow flurries whipped up a buffeting wind. Gone was the calmness of earlier; Declan had angered the God’s once more, it seemed.

  I smiled and this thought calmed me for the rest of the journey.

  ***

  I swung off Walton Street and into the intimate confines of Hart Street. Shirley pointed at their house and I pulled up close by, relieved to be shot of my edgy passenger. I spotted Kathy walking towards us from the opposite direction, rattling her car keys as she hurried along.

  ‘Kathy!’ Shirley called after her, Kathy spun around eyebrows stretching, mouth opening.

  Her eyes saw my car, then me highlighted by the streetlights. Double take, another one, then; ‘What’s happened? Is it dad?’

  Shirley put her hand on Kathy’s elbow and steered her towards the front door, ‘It’s not Tommy.’

  ‘It’s mum?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that, let’s get indoors.’

  Kathy let herself be guided towards the door and all the time her head twisted back towards me, her eyebrows still arched skywards, eyes locked on me. Why are you here? What have you said?

  Don’t worry, I’ve said nothing.

  I just wanted to press my face against her skin again, inhale a fragrance that made me want to weep with delight. I swung like a pendulum between rampant yearning and an overwhelming affection. I was on fire and even Declan couldn’t put it out. I’d tossed and turned most of the night, thoughts spiking in and out of my head as I tried to sleep – trying to concentrate on Declan. Instead, Kathy did what she always did, muscled her brother out of the way. She’d unsettled me, that’s for sure. Perhaps it was a defence mechanism. After all, why would I want to think of a small boy’s body that had been decomposing for twelve years?

  I dreamt about Kathy and the first time we made love a few months earlier. She was out having a drink with Bridget and I spotted her amongst a heaving, crowded Saturday night in The Swan. I caught her eye and she gave me a wave, so I took a frantic burrow through the throng and said, ‘You look fantastic.’

  Kathy leant across me and kissed my cheek. Expensive perfume drifted my way; her delicate fingers were accommodating and sexy as they rested on the back of my wrist. A gentle touch that lingered; to take a drink now would have meant breaking the magic contact. I waited, looking into her eyes as she said, ‘Stuart, it’s been too long.’

  I smiled, nodded and said, ‘You look good. Jack the Scribe always reckons you look like a cross between Natalie Wood and Elizabeth Taylor.’

  She clinked her glass into mine, ‘Well thank you, it’s really nice to talk to you. You’re good for my self-esteem, if nothing else.’

  The more I gazed into her eyes, a ceramic divinity haunted and rendered me into a wordless, gibbering idiot. All my smooth phrases gone – tongue-tied and reduced to banalities, ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Good thanks – still playing the piano?’

  ‘Only play the piano when I’m spannered.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She said, ‘Like you only talk to me when you’re drunk?’

  ‘Probably.’

  I glanced at my watch, ‘I’ve got to meet Patrick upstairs. Coming?’

  She raised a cautionary eyebrow, ‘Another time.’ She smiled back up at me. ‘Anyway, Bridget’s coming back in a few minutes.’

  I tried again, ‘C’mon – let’s get pissed and go and have a curry.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, what a smooth talker. How could I resist…’ Her smile dissolved and the neatly manicured eyebrows produced a confused frown.

  ‘I’ll get you home by Thursday.’

  Kathy’s constant gaze unnerved me. Finally she said, ‘Only Thursday – Bridget told me you’ve got no stamina.’

  She gazed on at me, until I laughed. Just then, Bridget swept in like a frigate permanently at battle stations and more than a little upset to see us together.

  ‘Same again?’ She snatched Kathy’s empty glass, ignored me and took the short journey up to the bar.

  Kathy’s eyebrows flicked up. ‘She loves you really.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m going up to the top bar for a drink – coming?’

  ‘No thanks.’ A brief smile and then a slow shake of the head. ‘Anyway, you just want to get away before Bridget comes back and World War Three breaks out.’

  ‘Something like that.’ I leant in and kissed her cheek. ‘Have a good night, don’t get too drunk.’

  I left before Bridget could come back and start an argument. Not that I minded a disagreement. When I walked through the door of the top bar, confrontation came my way like a runaway train; all heat and hostility. I could almost taste the mélange of belligerence, beer, tobacco and perfume basting away on hot bodies. Drinks were being knocked back in a dense smog of cigarette smoke. The whole town had been compressed into a small dance floor. A look here, a glance there and a fight sure to start soon. All this was accompanied by a dangerous bass line that bounced off the walls like a thug in a frenzy.

  Through it all stood my mate Patrick, a shock of blond hair on top of his wiry frame. Staring into the multitude, he always believed that if you concentrated hard enough, it could be possible to summon some Greco-Roman deity up from the horde.

  I shouted, ‘Same again.’

  He stared on and I didn’t wait for a reply, just turned and muscled my way up to the bar. I caught the barmaid’s eye and she walked past the fluttering pound notes and the abuse, smiled briefly at me and said, ‘Usual?’ I nodded, feeling the eyes of the multitude on me – pushing in at the bar, heinous, scandalous – so what; Patrick and me incited disrespect; welcomed hostile stares blazing away at us.

  I pushed and shoved my way back – excuse me, mind your back, get out the way then.

  A big man stood in my way, staring down at me; the look on his face suggested that whatever was coming his way was more than a touch distasteful, like a pimp, or a piano player in a brothel. I smiled inwardly. Moments like this made me realise why my old man had such an attraction for an argument. The intimacy of that first eye contact, the protagonist’s body language. Moments like this, adrenalin became my drug. Never a backward step. I felt so strong and secure – I coarsened my features and stared back, confident.

  Fancy it?

  ‘Just get out of the way.’ I snapped this at him, ‘Don’t start something you can’t finish.’

  He looked away and I smirked and nodded acceptance – always acknowledge an unconditional surrender graciously. Me, Patrick and a small town, we conquered and strutted and loved it… and did our best to be insufferable.

  I shouted at Patrick, ‘Be sensible now – they’re all lovely.’ But he never heard me, or more likely he couldn’t be bothered to reply. We stared into the huddle, impatient for something to kick off.

  Suddenly I felt a warm hand on my elbow and the whiff of exquisite perfume. I shut my eyes for a second – finally; a gradual realisation. I imagined her face, all stunning cheekbones, green eyes and tease. I sensed the smile stretch across my face, felt the warm sweet breath on my neck, then her throaty voice, Billie Holliday or Nina Simone in my ear, ‘C’mon – lets get out of this dump.’

  Kathy!

  My brain stalled. Kathy had just said something so profound. I turned and looked into her eyes. I smiled at her, trying to mask my confusion, ‘What are you drinking?’

  Kathy slowly shook her head and she repeated her earlier request, ‘No… Can we go somewhere else?’

  She did it again, something unambiguous; reckless and yet with a delivery so severe, for a second I thought I’d have
to jump-start my heart.

  ‘I’ll go and get the car.’ I must have sounded the opposite of calm and in control.

  Unlike Kathy, she said, ‘No.’ Assertive, no hesitation. ‘I need some fresh air. I’ll walk with you.’

  I followed her out and down the stairs. Out of the side door, into a freezing, cloudless night, with a hazy halo around the half moon. The temperature had dropped quickly; the air already crackled like ice cubes under a heavy boot. Winter stars sweeping the heavens, blinking down – tracking us.

  We lost the music by the time we passed the King Alfred’s Head, walking swiftly, not talking, not touching. Her concept of walking with me translated into walking two yards in front of me. It suited me, mesmerised by her rhythmic swaying. Underneath her long leather coat – the shortest, tightest suede skirt. She hurried on, down and across Mill Street.

  God – is she as excited as me?

  Surely that would be impossible? Past the old Tramway booking office and into the dimly lit car park, my heart hammered away, I hoped against hope; surely this had to be the most exquisitely illicit situation of my life? My heart hammered like a lunatic thudding around in a padded cell.

  I scanned the car park. No need to be nervous; no-one about and the only streetlight was a good twenty yards from my Mini. I fumbled with the keys. The wrong key. Then the right key, but upside down. Finally, I managed to open the driver’s door. My left arm slipped around her waist; she didn’t need pulling, or persuading. We came crashing together. Electro magnets turned on in concert, lips and teeth banging together. I must have tasted of an onion bhaji and beer; she didn’t seem to notice, or care. Quickly breaking away, I pulled the front seat forward, inviting her into the car and its small back seat.

  Kathy squeezed past me and then nestled just off-centre on the back seat of my car. Her eyes fixed on me as I climbed in, pulled the door shut and sat alongside her. Kathy reacted instantly, kissed me – wild and fervent, anxious and frantic, I thought she kissed like a mad woman, deranged and frenetic. But a contagious madness, and I became as crazy as her, so agitated, I became lost in her excitement. We groaned and moaned, our hands everywhere.

  Later, the only sound – breathing like race horses in the unsaddling enclosure. The street light and the heavy condensation gave us an ethereal glow; we had grappled like ghostly wrestlers.

  Kathy ran her finger along my cheekbone and sighed. ‘After I left Bridget, all the way up the stairs I asked myself over and over – do you know what you’re doing? God Stu, what have we just done?’

  I didn’t like the tone – remorse surfacing already – whereas I wanted to run naked around the car park, punch the air and tell the world.

  Kathy pressed on, ‘I told myself, this is so stupid. All the time we walked towards the car.’ She smiled across the short distance between us. ‘I kept saying – be sensible, behave yourself.’

  In amongst the sheer bottomless zeal that I felt, I sensed a real sadness in her. I leant across and turned the radio on; Al Green’s sombre voice on the radio confirmed this feeling. His mournful libretto unsettled me, ‘I’m so tired. Sometimes late at night, I get to wondering about you, baby.’

  The spell had been broken. She spoke – a despairing, ‘I have to get home, Stu.’

  My adrenalin burst had been cut short, replaced by a melancholic dissatisfaction that I couldn’t put my finger on. I guessed that I wanted her to stay with me, not go home.

  ‘I’ll ring you at work.’ I said this as I dropped her off. But Kathy never broke her stride, never acknowledged me, just her busy walk – her head maybe carried a touch lower than usual.

  ***

  Ten minutes later, I stood in the middle of my bedroom, touched my moustache and guessed that it smelt the same as my fingers. I took my shirt off, brought it up to my nose and smelt her perfume, folded it and placed it under my pillow. Then I snapped the bedside lamp off and thought about the momentous event. I’d just got so close to the gorgeous wife of a man who I hated, but it was no act of revenge. I didn’t do it because I loathed her husband, which I did for sure; he’d beaten me senseless at school. Kenny’s four years older than me. I was eleven to his fifteen when he hammered me back then and those four years made all the difference. Whenever I saw him these days, I willed him to have another go, but he never looked my way now. Kenny recognised that the pecking order had changed forever.

  So this unplanned performance could have become a sensuous act of retribution for me. But I didn’t see it like that; Kathy had moved me like nothing before. I did it because of who she was and how I had always felt about her. I never gave him a second thought as I followed Kathy to my car. It was Kathy who moved me, not the fact that her husband beat me senseless every day for a month. Not the fact that I knew that he was probably involved somehow in Declan’s disappearance. I smiled to myself. Revenge is best taken cold, but not for me; mine was taken in the heat of a volatile coupling.

  ***

  I slept the deep, deep sleep that only exhaustion, catharsis and erotic images can bring. Until a persistent knocking on my bedroom door dragged me towards consciousness and back to the present. I pulled the pillow over my head; leave me alone, I wanted to think about Kathy, but a relentless hammering caused me to shout, ‘Leave me alone.’

  An Ardennes farmer shouting at an advancing German panzer division would have had more effect. The unremitting racket caused my sticky eyelids to tweak open. I waited for the shout and he never disappointed; a bellowed, ‘We’re going to get off now.’

  My old man’s banging and shouting caused me to wake early every morning. He had woken me this way for years – my personal dawn chorus. Hardly a melodic Orpheus playing his lyre to Apollo at dawn. My old man couldn’t play a musical instrument for a start. But the effect was the same as he shouted at the dog every morning, get out of my way, and sure enough, my sun rose. Then he’d yell up the stairs, ‘Stuart… Get down here and take your dog out before he pisses himself.’ Seven years old and just before seven every morning, I’d throw some clothes on and take the dog out. Whatever the weather, I took him for a walk – or rather I followed him as he tracked rabbits. Even after Declan disappeared we went out on our own as normal, although I felt dad’s eyes drilling my way. He always denied acting like the good shepherd, but I sensed his presence close by. He even told me one morning that I shouldn’t really let the dog shit on Ron’s allotment, but I didn’t think he really meant that. They had both gone by the time I came down and I took a quiet and solitary breakfast. I adored looking after the pub when they were away, but I always missed him. I wore my old man’s moaning like a reassuringly comfortable old coat. I looked at the newspaper, flicked through the back pages, sighed, stood and stared at myself in the mirror, no change – I felt different but appeared the same. No-one knew, nothing was stamped across my forehead to give me away, Shirley – I’ve slept with your daughter-in-law again.

  This made me smile, but Shirley’s customary stylish entrance caused me to jump. A cool stare came my way before she smiled, put her laden shopping basket down on the table and said, ‘You’re a cocky little sod – smiling away at yourself in the mirror.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Anyway – how come you’re up so early?’ As if she didn’t know, Shirley smiled again. ‘An alarm clock called Harry?’

  She came up close. I felt her press against me and I looked back at the mirror into her eyes. Their blueness burnt away. Shirley placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘I know I said it last night, but I’m really sorry.’

  I nodded and stared as a solitary tear tumbled over the crest of her sculptured cheekbone. She quickly squeezed my shoulder and then turned. Gone, all business – doing whatever she did at this time of the day. I put my coat on and shouted through to the kitchen, ‘I’m just popping out for a haircut. I’ll be back in time to open up.’

  I imagined her, a nod and a smile as I left her to it, shutting the door to be greeted by an ineffectually pallid sun and cold air that
shocked me to the bottom of my lungs. I hurried up the hill and took a swift look down Mill Street; Jim only had one customer. Just as he liked it; a one-chair barbers and he didn’t like it too busy.

  The smell of a paraffin stove and hair oil welcomed me. Jim’s cigarette ash exploded over a startled customer as he spoke, ‘Hello Stu,’ an indoor blizzard fluttering down and flecking the cut hair on the floor with grey. No one ever asked Jim not to smoke when he cut. He’d tell them to eff off anyway. Any new customer always watched in the mirror, ever more startled as the lengthening ash defied both structural physics and gravity for a while. We waited for the predictable stress fracture as it went from the nominally horizontal, developed a radius and then exploded – usually when the demon barber spouted some juicy gossip.

  Jim sat me down, lit another cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, where it remained until he had either finished cutting or the cork tip started to smoulder. He tweaked my head a little. ‘Are you still seeing that waitress from over…?’ Jim nodded towards the restaurant across the other side of Mill Street. I felt he was springing a trap, but I answered his question. ‘Suzie, I see her occasionally.’

  Jim stopped cutting, considered a follow up question, then changed his mind. ‘How’s your old uncle?’ ‘He’s well.’ ‘Haven’t seen him for a while.’ I knew what Jim’s next words would be – I counted the beats like a piano player waiting for the chorus to cut in and sing. Sure enough, Jim’s timing nanosecond perfect. ‘Nasty business, nasty business. Still…What a shagger he was.’

  I looked at the clock and Jim twisted my head back. He mumbled, ‘Keep your head still.’ Jim cut with one eye on me and the other on the street; he had enough gossip inside his head to be the world’s busiest blackmailer. Whoever walked past, he had the mark on them. I watched Jim watching the mirror and slid into my own little dream world. I imagined Declan walking by, glancing through the window, slack jawed.

  ‘I only just heard about your little mate. Still, perhaps it was for the best,’ Jim said. ‘All those scars and half blind – he’d have never held a job down.’ He made me jump; was I that transparent? Jim was his usual callous self and I didn’t bother to argue the toss – Declan would have still liked to be alive I felt.