by Luke Walker
The man’s voice rose in terrible rage.
‘Suck it. Bitch. Fucking telling you.’
Jesus Christ, Andy thought and a sliver of wood stabbed his index finger. What came instead of pain was a sickened anger, a need to punish the man somewhere ahead.
You bastard.
He trotted forward and reached his old front door. It announced itself with no fanfare. It was just there like all the other doors in the building.
Not quite, Andy realised.
The door to flat nineteen was ajar. Not by much, but enough for him to see a patch of the yellow, floral carpet he hadn’t thought of in years, and the thin crack which ran the length of the wall an inch or so above the skirting board.
The man in the flat was still ranting; Andy eased the door open and gazed at his old home. The hallway stretched ahead; half of the open plan kitchen was visible from his position. In the living room, a man squatted over a naked woman. His jeans were down enough to expose his backside; one hand was at his front and he leaned on the other as he attempted to lower himself to the woman’s face.
‘Last chance. Bitch. This. Or this.’
He lifted his free hand and Andy realised he wasn’t leaning on it. He’d been holding a bottle. Liquid sloshed inside it. Andy stared at it and a nameless fear crept over his skin.
‘This,’ the man said and jerked his right shoulder. The woman whimpered. ‘In your mouth. Or this. Goes on your face.’
The man waved the bottle of liquid and Andy understood.
He ran forward; the man rose, bringing up the bottle of petrol, mouth open in shock, and Andy saw the woman’s battered face, the blood on her thighs, the dirt and debris covering the sparse furniture. He swung his plank down to the man’s hand while still running; wood struck hand and the bottle flew to crash into the wall. Instantly, the stink of petrol rose from the wall and carpet. Andy brought his plank around to strike the rapist in the face. Pain exploded in his back and he collapsed onto the mucky carpet.
The man who’d been hiding in the kitchen stood over him with a baseball bat. He was naked. The man grinned, exposing his broken teeth, and the woman sobbed as the first man levelled his foot with her face.
Then the cry filled Andy’s head like a klaxon.
Save her. Please, Andy. Save her. You have to. You have to, Andy.
The world fell apart and when it came back together some time later, he lay on the floor in front of his chair. In the evening light, he jerked upright.
Andy, save her. Please, Andy.
‘No more, all right? I can’t do that. No more.’
Please, Andy.
A breath touched his cheek and brought the faraway sound of a girl weeping.
‘No more,’ he whispered.
He crawled to the window and eventually managed to stand. West London, coloured red by sunset, lay before him. He gazed at the familiar buildings, at the streets and people below. None of it made sense. Not anymore.
Save her, Andy.
A final touch of breath on his cheek came and then nothing.
His vision blurred. Tears fell and, through them, he stared at the trembling shape of his mobile.
I’ll call Stu. If it happens again. One more time.
The phone mocked him with its silence and a desperate voice told him he didn’t have to call Stu.
Call Katy. She’ll understand. She’ll help you.
A wordless noise of mocking dropped out of his mouth. He couldn’t lie to himself. Calling his ex and telling her what he’d seen was insane. Even if they’d spoken at all in the last couple of months, how could he expect her to believe this?
You don’t need to expect her to do anything. This is nothing to do with her. This is before her.
Away from the horror of his vision and St Mary’s and back in the normal world of his nice flat with its impressive views, Andy slid against the window and dropped to sit in as small a ball as he could make.
***
She’s at the pub half an hour after finishing with him. She’s drunk her first drink two minutes later and she’s studying the crowds thirty seconds after that.
Busy tonight. Christmas is long gone; the feel good time of the week between it and the end of the year is gone with it. Now it’s the beginning of February. Last week’s snow is dirty slush and there’s been no sun in a fortnight.
So what, though? So fucking what? This is about her. This is her night tonight, and who cares about the cold or the snow or Will’s face when she made the mistake of looking back from his front door?
What matters is here in the pub with the heat and the bodies and the noise. She gets another drink and knows she’s only being served so quickly because she’s leaning over the bar, exposing her cleavage. And so what about that, as well? Like it matters.
An invisible knife stabs her stomach and she breathes it out. Karen’s face comes to mind and there’s a dizzying second of vertigo while she thinks of her friend. It tells her to leave, to get away from the pubs in the centre of town and get back to the quiet and peace of her streets. Get back there and get to Karen’s. They can talk about him, about Will; they can play some music, drink some wine and maybe she’ll cry and maybe she won’t. Maybe Karen’s dad will give her a lift home at some point gone midnight and he’ll tell her to take care like he always does, then maybe she’ll wake up in the morning, ready for a Sunday of nothing at all.
Maybe.
Fuck maybe.
Another face fills her mind. Mick. Big Mick. Fat Mick. He’ll understand. He’s a good guy. He’ll know the right things to say. He always does. She can call him and go round and talk to him and …
She cuts the thought off before it can develop. Ending it with Will was bad enough. She can’t think of Mick that way. All she’ll achieve by getting in the middle of two friends is to make a bad situation even worse.
She turns in a slow, lazy circle and surveys the crowd of Saturday night drinkers.
There, at the end of the bar. Three men, all at least ten years older than her. All laugh and one looks her way.
She holds his gaze for long enough, then leans over the bar again. The barman is with her despite the other people who’ve been waiting for minutes. She orders two bottles of Foster’s Ice, grips them by the neck and turns back to the man at the end of the bar. He speaks to his two friends and advances to her, sliding through people as if they’re made of air.
She has to swallow. Her chest is too tight and the sensation is as uncomfortable as it is welcome.
Sunset, she thinks and hammers at the thought until it’s dead.
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘Hello.’
He speaks over the noise of the drinkers and music. She doesn’t catch his words and he leans closer to her.
‘I know it’s a really bad opening, but can I buy you a drink?’
He’s smiling, showing even teeth. The gel on his hair and the mint on his breath merge into one unpleasant scent.
‘No. I can buy you one.’
She hands him the bottle; he takes hold of it below her hand still gripping the neck.
‘I’m Dave.’
She smiles and doesn’t say her name. She taps her bottle against his and sips, not looking from his eyes.
Somewhere in her past, shadows grow towards a window while twilight winds down to night. She’s under the covers, deep in the dark and heat and stink while sweat covers her back.
‘Who are your friends?’ she asks and any thoughts of Karen, of Mick, of Will and of the sweat on her back are buried below her question.
This is her night and she’s in control. The morning and all that it means is faraway. Shame and regret don’t matter now she’s in charge.
She tightens her grip on Dave’s hand and moves ahead of him to lead him back to his friends, and for those few steps, she can ignore the wish that Mick was here instead of this man and his friends; the wish that she could talk to Mick and laugh with him and use his help to find a way of undoing this night.
>
Three
Mick Harris opened his pack of cigarettes and gazed at the last two in the packet. Jodie watched him without speaking.
‘My last two fags,’ Mick said. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘I’ll have to start drinking more.’
She laughed and he welcomed the sound. Lately, a week or more could pass without him making her laugh. The thought stabbed at him and expanded before he could stop it.
Bollocks to lately. It’s been for the last six months.
Right. But so what? Moving to Leeds hadn’t been his choice. There hadn’t been a choice, not if he wanted to keep his job.
Mick buried the thought and told himself coming out tonight appeared to have helped. Jodie definitely seemed happier, more relaxed.
He watched her sip her drink, then glanced at the other people in the pub. Not many out tonight. The weather probably hadn’t helped. Rain, that annoying kind. Drizzling all day rather than chucking it down for fifteen minutes. Despite a decent September, summer was definitely long gone. To be expected, he supposed. October was on its way out.
‘You can definitely take time off for the scan?’ Jodie said. She placed a hand on her stomach.
‘Yeah, course. When is it?’ He smiled. ‘Next Friday at ten, isn’t it?’
‘Ha, ha. Funny man. Monday at two. And if you really did forget, you’d be sleeping in the shed.’
She pretended to throw her orange juice at him. Mick flapped his hands in mock panic, then sipped his lager. Her eyes remained on his and he took her hand.
‘Course I wouldn’t forget,’ he said.
‘Not if you know what’s good for you, you won’t.’
Mick swallowed another mouthful of beer and started talking. The words came easily as they always did when he needed them to. And he needed them especially at times like this when he and Jodie were going through it. He told her about his two customers who’d come in after lunch, the ones who’d wanted a mortgage which was easily thirty grand more than they could actually afford; he asked her about the upcoming scan and told her she’d have to borrow one of his bras if her breasts grew any bigger.
They drank; other customers drank and left the pub and Mick deliberately kept his eyes off the TV. So what if the snooker was on? He’d told himself two weeks before he needed to make an effort now; she was past six months, there was no getting away from what would be here in just three months and it was about time to get himself sorted.
The cigarette packet was looking at him.
Jodie caught his gaze and laughed. Again, Mick heard his girlfriend’s honest laughter and he smiled, glad to feel it on his face.
‘Go on. I’ll let you,’ she said.
‘Last two.’
‘Where have I heard that before?’
Mick pocketed his cigarettes and fished in his other pocket for his lighter. ‘Last two, I’m telling you. After this, it’s no more.’
‘If you say so.’
She tilted her head back so he could kiss her and her hand traced over his hip. A pleasurable tickling sensation ran across his skin.
‘Don’t take too long,’ she told him.
‘Don’t steal my pint.’
He headed to the doors, standing aside when he reached them so a couple could enter. The man held the door, Mick passed through, nodding his thanks and moving his cigarette to his lips.
He stood against the window beside the doors, sheltered by an overhang, and watched the traffic pass. Two more smokers left the pub and stood together away from him. He glanced their way, wondering if there would be any small talk but they were involved in their own conversation. Mick faced the window and made out a little of Jodie’s profile. She drank her orange juice and pulled her mobile from her bag. Probably texting her mum. Mick smiled, thinking of the scan next week but only in the practical sense. He pictured the hospital, the staff, the time it would take to get there and back and didn’t let his thoughts develop from those images. His smile faded and he studied the buildings and people on the other side of the road in an effort to take his mind from hospitals and the pregnancy.
A passing bus caught his eye. It stopped in the traffic, revealing dozens of faces pressed up against the windows. Mick paused in reaching for his cigarette and stared at the bus.
Everyone in the bus was staring outside. They were all staring at him.
He took an involuntarily step backwards and hit the window. It shook behind him. The bus moved forward and there were no faces pressed up against the window. The vehicle moved through the lights, the cars and vans behind did the same and Mick had a clear view of the opposite side of the road for two seconds before traffic going the other way blocked it.
Every single person on the other side of the road was still. All of them were looking at him.
‘What the fuck?’ Mick said before he was aware the words were coming. He dropped his cigarette, glanced at the two men and both were looking at him. Despite their frowns, both men showed obvious concern.
‘You all right, mate?’ one asked.
Mick stared across the road and saw nothing but moving traffic. The wind abruptly changed direction and the rain struck his face. He swore and shifted position so he was out of the rain. The other smokers gazed at him for another moment, then returned to their conversation.
Relax, you knob. All is cool.
He pulled his cigarette packet free and gazed at the remaining smoke. One for tonight, after dinner, and that would be it. No more fags and a little less beer. Time to focus and definitely time to go back inside.
His mobile vibrated in his jacket pocket.
‘Bollocks,’ Mick whispered although he knew it could have been worse. The phone could have rung while he was still at the table with Jodie.
He moved his finger to answer the ringing phone and paused. There was no number displayed on the screen. There was nothing at all displayed on the screen.
The mobile continued to ring. The other smokers watched him stare at his phone; Mick glanced at the nearest man, then at the cars on the road.
They were staring at you. Everyone on the bus. Everyone across the road. They’re watching you.
Something was wrong.
Right here, right now. Outside the pub with the smokers and the cars and the rain. Right here and right now, something was wrong.
Don’t answer it.
The whisper in his head seemed much further away than it should have been. It was more like a memory than a thought.
Mick took a few steps away from the smokers and answered his phone.
At once, a blast of summer heat struck him. Sunlight much brighter than a few months before bashed into his eyes, blinding him; his cigarette fell to the wet ground and he smacked against the pub window.
What the hell is this?
The heat wasn’t just sunlight. It was each long, hot summer day he’d ever known rolled into one savage fire. Anything good in those long days was burned into a dead husk.
A sound came: a crying child. The weeping wasn’t due to physical pain. This was a child deeply upset.
A voice spoke from somewhere in the blinding light. Mick caught two words—all right—and wanted to bellow that no, he wasn’t all right. Nothing was all right and …
up …
Jesus Christ, it was so fucking bright; it was so hot. It …
summer, the end of summer, the end, Mick, please help me, please, you have to help me …
vanished and Mick was left holding his silent mobile to his ear.
Up. Oh my God. Cheer up. Cheer up.
Wet. His hand. Wet.
Still with his mobile against his ear, Mick gazed at his other hand. The rain hadn’t touched it but he could still feel wetness on his fingers, on the tips. Something warm. A solid surety told him the warm wetness had a salty tang to it.
Cheer up. Cheer up.
‘I said that. I told her to cheer up.’
One of the smokers spoke to him
and his words lived on the other side of the world.
‘You okay, mate?’
I told her to cheer up. And I touched her face. She was crying. I touched her cheeks.
Mick lifted his free hand and stared at it, stared at tears from almost thirty years ago on the tips of his fingers.
Then there were no thoughts while the other smokers asked if he was okay and the October evening eased its way down to cold, damp night.
***
She concentrates on the wind in her hair and nothing else. She knows the headstones and grass are all around and the vicar’s words come to her but they’re a meaningless noise and the headstones are indistinct shapes at the edge of her vision.
The wind is a steady breath in her hair; loose strands lift from the side of her head, just above her ear, and the sensation is as if someone has whispered to her.
She glances at her father. His head is down, both of his hands holding one of her mother’s. Still, the vicar’s words are a drone. It’s not even that he’s speaking a foreign language. He’s simply making a noise in the same way a bored child would.
The wind drops and, for the first time on this long day, something new registers. It’s the smell of the wet grass. A great deal of rain fell in the night, and despite the rising temperature of the late morning, the grass remains wet. The aroma fills her nostrils and says this is spring. This is good spring. Here is the start of warmer days, longer hours since the clocks changed, and sudden rain showers to bathe the flowers and grass and bring the smells of freshness to the world.
Spring, and summer coming ahead.
Winter’s done and summer is coming again.
She can’t think of that. Not here. Let all thoughts of summer stay away in its dark and heat and stink.
I wish Will was here.
The thought comes out of nowhere. Shock or simple surprise doesn’t come with it. She knows what the words mean and she can picture Will’s face as easily as she can see the church across the grass. She knows the words, the name and the face but she doesn’t feel them. Will isn’t here and wishing changes nothing.
Her eyes move without her telling them to. She sees the headstones and she knows what they are despite the shifting and blurring of their shapes. She knows the church isn’t really a drawing of a building, that its old stones are as solid as the ground below her new shoes. She could touch them if she wanted to. She could press the tips of her fingers against the centuries old stones and that would convince her it was a real object and this was a real day.