This Is Not Forgiveness

by Celia Rees

  For Colwyn Morris (1921–2011)

  Artist, sharpshooter, Desert Rat

  First we live

  then we remember.

  My Brother’s Vespa

  Peter Sansom

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Also by Celia Rees

  Chapter 1

  I can’t decide what to do with your ashes. It’s been nearly a year now. Almost summer again. The urn is sitting in front of me on the desk, brown plastic with a ref. number, the date and your name scribbled on a sticky label:

  Robert Julian Maguire

  The label has black borders and is beginning to peel at the corners. I smooth the wrinkled paper, trying to stick it back. It has been slapped on crooked by someone who didn’t care a whole lot about the contents. There are all kinds of urns you can have: brass, copper, pewter, ceramic; you can have a wooden casket with engraving on it, but those cost and someone would have to care enough to order one and buy it. I guess yours is the modern equivalent of the pauper’s grave.

  I went to the funerals. They held them one after another. I don’t think they meant them to be that way, but the crematorium was busy that day. Yours was second. Not much like the first. No orations, no weeping school mates clutching single blossoms to put on the coffin, sobbing out rubbish verses that they’d written themselves. No inky hand-printed notes on the flowers: R.I.P., C U in Heaven, Gone but not forgotten. No flowers at all. Hardly anyone there, either. Only the bare minimum for decency. Police and immediate family. Some of your mates, but not many. Just Bryn and a few others, wearing uniform.

  The priest was sweating. He kept dabbing at his forehead with a big white handkerchief and stumbling over his words, scratching about to find something to say, stringing it out until the time came for the rollers to engage. You would have pissed yourself. Nobody sang the hymn, there was just this tinny recording. Nobody cried or even looked sad. The congregation seemed relieved to see your coffin going, as if it wasn’t a body on its way to the furnace but some dangerous biohazard. They couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  I was the one who went back to collect your ashes. That’s how I’ve got them here. Mum doesn’t like it. She keeps nagging about ‘disposal’ and ‘closure’. Keeping you here is morbid and probably unhealthy. I don’t see it. The Morgans had their granddad on the mantelpiece for years and years. She wants rid, but what’s it to do with her? You were my brother. She doesn’t have to come in here. ‘It’s upsetting for your sister,’ she says. I know for a fact that Martha couldn’t give a monkey’s fat one. Anyway, she’s not even here, so what does she care?

  I can see Mum’s point of view. What you did was pretty disruptive. I had to move schools. I couldn’t go back there, could I? Mum wanted to move house. Move towns. After what happened, she wanted to make a fresh start. You’ve made the place toxic. But in the end, we didn’t do that. We’d have had to move Grandpa. Not that he’d notice. He’s still alive, just about, but Alzheimer’s doesn’t get better, does it?

  It wasn’t really that, either. What happened has changed her. At times, she blames herself. Somehow it must be her fault, that’s what she thinks. If she’d just done this thing, or that thing, then it wouldn’t have happened. She spends a lot of time sitting around thinking about that. She’s there but not there when she’s like that. She moves from that to being very, very angry. Mostly with you.

  Maybe getting rid of you would give us closure, as she puts it, but I don’t think so. The brown plastic kind of contains you. Without it, you’d be everywhere – like a genie. You don’t deserve to be liberated yet. I’ll decide the time and place. It could be tomorrow, it could be years from now, but until the day comes, you are staying right here, with me.

  But this is not forgiveness. Don’t think that.

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 2

  Over in Afghan lots of guys make some kind of statement before they go on ops – especially if there’s a chance they might not be coming back. They write an email or a letter or a crap poem – whatever. Or make a podcast – like this one.

  I never did that. Asking for it in my opinion.

  Inviting bad luck.

  Now luck ain’t coming into it – I’m doing this because I don’t want no misunderstanding. I’m not like those sad-loner no-mates fucks against the world – there’s no chip on my shoulder. Don’t be looking to blame anyone – clean up the mess and get on with your lives.

  I want you all to know I didn’t do it as some kind of personal declaration – I don’t have a message.

  My only cause is me.

  And I ain’t crazy. That’d be too easy.

  Don’t look for reasons because there are no reasons. But people want them don’t they – so take your pick from these:

  I was tired of living in Snoreton-on-Boring with no future that I can see.

  I was sick of the ordinary and wanted to stir up the ant heap.

  I wanted to make people take notice. Nothing concentrates the mind like death and dying, does it?

  Don’t ask ‘Why?’ cos that’s the wrong question.

  Better to ask ‘Why not?’

  It’s amazing that this don’t happen

  ALL THE TIME!

  Chapter 3

  The Rendez

  I come here with my laptop. It’s a way to get back to the time that is in my mind, the time that I’ve set myself to write about. Jesse keeps me supplied with coffee. We’re friends now. She’d like us to be more, but it’s too soon for that. The place is full of mirrors. Sometimes I look up and don’t recognise myself. I began the account as a letter to my brother. I might change my mind about that.

  It’s last July. We’re here in this place you don’t like because you think it’s poncy and full of arseholes. It’s four o’clock on a Friday, after school anyway, so you’re probably down Wetherspoon’s having a few pints. I’m here with Cal. We were best mates then. Friends since nursery but that was about to change. Had been changing, if I’m honest. I’d just failed to notice. We are talking about you. Cal was scared of you when we were little, although he liked to claim you in the playground. Your name being enough to keep the bullies at bay. He never did say all that much when he met you, just ‘Hi. How’s it going?’. That could be because you pretty much ignored him, even when he was scoring off you. In his head, Cal reckons he’s a bit of a bad boy, likes to think he has attitude, but he’s the opposite, his credentials are nil. He wouldn’t do shit, but he’s fascinated by those who do.

  While he talks, which he does all the time, I’m looking around for diversion and thinking, maybe you’re right. This cafe is poncy and full of arseholes. It’s called the Rendez for a start. Short for Rendezvous.

  It’s supposed to be kind of French, with worn wooden tables, the wal
ls crowded with big mirrors, posters and photographs. Old adverts for different kinds of drink: Guinness, Pernod, Coca-Cola. Photographs full of dead people. Street scenes. Staff paraded outside stores that have gone now. How the town used to be. The mirrors are rippled and pockmarked, the silvery reflections they give back smeared by time. I like mirrors. They’re a useful way to watch people; to watch people watching themselves.

  That’s what I’m doing. I’m watching people in the mirrors. That’s how I first see her and I’m no longer listening to Cal. She’s sitting with an older woman, there’s enough of a resemblance to know that it’s her mother, and a bunch of other women who look like her mother’s friends. They are getting stuck into the wine, but she’s sipping a Diet Coke through a straw, clinking the ice in the glass, looking around like she’s bored. There’s a younger lad with her, probably her brother, munching his way through a bowl of chunky chips, dunking them first in ketchup, then mayo, so the mayo is getting red and messy, like it’s streaked with blood. Sometimes he offers the bowl over, like they are supposed to be sharing, but she just waves him away. He’s a little on the chunky side himself, so he looks relieved. The women ignore them, too busy with each other. They are getting down the bottle now, ordering another, their laughter is getting louder the further down the bottle they go. When one is empty, a waitress comes over with a replacement.

  The girls who work here are fit. It might not be enough to get Rob in here, I’m thinking, but it works for me and Cal. That’s one of the reasons we’ve started coming in here, that and the fact that Cal’s girlfriend, Sophie, comes here with her mates. She thinks it’s the place to be, so naturally Cal thinks that, too. I realise that’s why we are here. I’m just a time-filler. He’s arranged to meet Sophie.

  I wonder what the girl sees in the mirror? Two boys drinking coffee. I’m the one on the right: dark, thicker set, hair cut short, neat. Her eyes move to Cal. He’s a different prospect. Most girls go for him. He pushes a hand through his hair. It won’t be long before he looks in the mirror. I expect her to carry on looking at him, but she dismisses him and turns her gaze on me. That’s when I look away. Don’t want her to think I’ve been staring. I know her. One of Martha’s friends, or ex-friends, more like, cos I haven’t seen her for a while now. She shows no sign of recognition. Maybe she doesn’t remember me.

  ‘Has he?’ Cal is asking.

  ‘Has he what?’

  ‘Got any stuff? I need some draw. You haven’t been listening. Who’s she?’

  ‘Who’s who?’

  ‘That girl you’ve been staring at.’

  ‘Her name’s Vanessa. Used to be a friend of Martha’s.’

  ‘Vanessa Carrington?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens. They call her Caro.’

  ‘So that’s her. She’s hot!’

  He checks her out, automatically messing with his hair as he does so and putting on his best pulling smile. She gives a look to freeze us both out.

  ‘How do you know about her?’ I ask.

  ‘Sophie told me.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. What did she say?’

  ‘Just she’s got quite a rep. She’d be too much for you, mate. You couldn’t even handle Suzy . . .’

  He gives me a look of pure pity. He’s been giving me that particular look since Suzy dumped me. He didn’t consider her much of a girlfriend, not compared to the blonde divinity who is Sophie. She’d never go out on double dates with us because she thought I was too dull and Suzy was too ordinary. Suze is all right now. She’s bought an iPhone and hair straighteners and doesn’t shop in River Island any more. She’s in. I’m out.

  Fine by me. I preferred her when she was ordinary and I don’t like Sophie. She’s Cal’s first real girlfriend, the first one who’d let him screw her, anyway. Now, he can’t get enough. I hardly see him. If I do, he’s using me as a fill in, like now. He reckons it’s love. Perhaps it is. What would I know? They’re applying to the same universities. They’ll be like one of those student couples going round Sainsbury’s together, the girl piling up the veggies, turfing out the pizzas and swapping six-packs for spring water while the guy troops along behind her, lugging the basket, miserable as fuck.

  ‘You’re pussy-whipped, mate. Everybody says it.’ I laugh, getting my own back.

  ‘Who says it?’

  ‘Everybody,’ I repeat. ‘Everybody we know.’

  He looks a little bit disconcerted but it doesn’t take long for him to rally.

  ‘Au contraire, my friend. She’s ruled by this.’ He thrusts his hips, his low slung jeans bunched and rucked as if he kept something huge down there. I grin at him. I know the reality. ‘You’re just jealous because you’re not getting any.’

  There’s truth in that.

  His face changes to serious. He used to be funny. Not any more. As if on cue, Sophie appears. She’s outside, saying goodbye to her mates. She waves to Cal through the window. Suzy is with her. Looks straight through me as if she’s never seen me before in her life. There’s a lot of hugging and kissing, squealy farewells and hair tossing. It’s as if Sophie is going on a gap year, not coming in here for a coffee.

  Caro shifts her gaze. She looks at them and looks away. Sophie comes in, arms outstretched. She flits past me and puts her arms round Cal, kissing him and calling him baby, like she’s in some budget version of The Hills. She sits at the table and carries on the baby talk. I’m ignored.

  ‘Hi, Sophie,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ she says and looks at me as though I’m some kind of uncool pet, like a staffy or a pit bull puppy, then carries on talking to Cal, telling him what an epic day she’s had.

  ‘I’m off, then.’ I stand up. ‘Nice seeing you, Sophie.’

  ‘Yeah, bye,’ she says and I’m dismissed with a slight wave of her hand. The wristbands and ratty little friendship bracelets she’s wearing reach halfway to her elbow.

  ‘I’ll get this.’ I nod at Cal, who nods back. He smiles but he has this look in his eyes. Lost and terrified. Sophie’s voice loses the baby tone, becomes brisker, more business like. Cal goes to say something but she’s not listening. He tries again. The same thing. He glances over her shoulder, as if to gauge the distance to the door.

  Too late for that, mate, I think as I wait for the till. You want to screw her? It’s the price you have to pay!

  I’m glad it’s not me.

  I’m so busy thinking that, and laughing to myself, that I don’t really notice until I’m standing behind her that Caro is there, too, queuing while her mother buys stuff from the deli counter. She’s wearing a thin vest top and the strap has slipped. There’s a star tattooed on her left shoulder. The tattoo is very dark sepia, almost black, like a pattern burnt into wood. Each point of the star is filled with little dots and marks. Her back is tanned a golden colour and spattered with freckles. Her skin looks soft, warm and supple. Her dark hair is cut in a chin-length bob, it gives her a kind of sixties look. It moves as she turns her head and is very shiny, like it would feel slippery through your fingers . . .

  She puts a hand up to her shoulder and twists round as if she feels my look like a touch. Her hair swings back and I see her in profile, close, just for a camera-shutter fraction of time, then the hair falls like a curtain and she is moving away.

  ‘Bye, Caro,’ the girl behind the till says, and she turns back for a moment, giving her a fleeting smile.

  I stand there, wishing the smile had been for me. She follows her mother and brother to the door. I should have said something, spoken to her. Although what could I have said? Don’t I know you from somewhere? I shake my head. That would sound such a line. No other words readily spring to mind. Too late now, anyway. She’s gone and I might not see her again. At that moment, seeing her again seems like the most important thing in the world.

  ‘Reel your tongue back in,’ the girl behind the till says and gives me a look, two parts pity to one part sympathy with just a dash of mockery. ‘Do you know her? Caro?’

  ‘Not really, er .
. .’ I shrug, start to blush.

  ‘You’re Martha Maguire’s brother, aren’t you?’ She smiles.

  That’s me slotted. Martha’s brother. Cal’s friend.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘I’m Jamie.’

  She’s pretty with a husky voice and long, curly hair and piercings everywhere. Her name is Jesse. She used to go to primary with Martha, used to come round our house to play. This is a small town.

  ‘Thought I knew you. That’ll be £2.50, Jamie.’ She hands me the bill folded on a china saucer. ‘Unless you’re paying for him, too, in which case it’s £5.’ I lay a note on the plate, then add 50p as a tip, my mind still running on the girl who has just walked out of the door. I want to know more about her. I want to know all about her. Martha will be able to tell me. Martha keeps tabs on people.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, not sure what I’m thanking her for.

  ‘No worries,’ Jesse smiles again. ‘All part of the service.’

  Her smile fades as she watches Caro stalk past the window heading towards a Mini convertible parked at the kerb.

  ‘Good luck with that.’ She adds as Caro climbs into the driver’s seat and slams the door.

  Chapter 4

  ‘And they’ll ask: which of these should we kill?

  In that noonday heat there’ll be a hush round the harbour

  As they ask which has got to die.

  And you’ll hear me as I softly answer: the lot!’

  ‘Pirate Jenny’ – Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill,

  ‘The Threepenny Opera’

  Pirate Jenny. It’s a game I play. A game in which I choose who gets it and who doesn’t. It passes the time.

  I’m sitting in the Rendez with my mother and her friends. Everyone calls it that. Rendez – short for the Rendezvous. Trying hard to be French: worn wooden tables, big mirrors, pot au feu on the chalked-up menu. The mirrors are the real thing, not repro. I spend a lot of time looking into them, so I should know. They make the place look darker, more mysterious; they make people look glamorous. They might not reflect reality but they’re good for picking out victims.