Downward

by White, Bethan

  ‘Kyle … well, he doesn’t talk about his daddy any more.’

  ‘Any more than Chris talks about him. They’re the same animal, Megan. Don’t meet trouble halfway. But they miss each other. They need each other. Sort something out.’ She pulled her phone out of her pocket and shook her head. ‘Look. I have to go. I’ve missed half a dozen meetings already and it can only get worse. I don’t know where he’s staying now, but he won't be hard to find. He’ll be at Mum’s I expect. We had a bit of … well, there was a bit of trouble, but Mum wouldn’t turn him away. Or Mark. Try there. If he comes back to me, I’ll let you know.’

  Megan looked doubtful and began to shake her head. ‘I was going to do it at the weekend. Will was going to drive me …’

  ‘Leave Will out of this,’ Claire said, ‘if you’ll take my advice. You need to do this on your own. Promise?’

  ‘I can't do it tonight. I left Kyle with a sitter last night and I can't do it twice in a row.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then.’

  ‘I promise. I’ll do it tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine.’ Claire gave her a peck on the cheek, her one concession. ‘Let me know how you get on. It’ll all be all right, you’ll see.’

  The day seemed very long. Chris had several cups of indifferent coffee and one spectacularly good one which cost the same as all the others combined, so perhaps no surprise there. He had a proper lunch as well and found to his delight he could still blend; that was becoming increasingly important to him, blending. The muzak in the bistro had finally beaten Journey into submission and that had to be a bonus. He let his spaghetti bolognaise last a long time and then had a pudding as well – it was a long time since he had eaten this well at lunchtime, but he couldn’t believe that Claire would mind; his B&B would just have to be a bit cheaper than he had planned. He knew now how those killers in the US cop shows felt when they had a hearty meal before being executed. He perhaps wouldn’t have chosen spag bol on such a momentous occasion, but even so; he felt full and content.

  The bistro was full and noisy but it was impossible to dent his mood. A table way over to his left was more raucous than the rest and he turned his head lazily to watch what was going on and his blood froze, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead as a panic attack threatened to overwhelm him then and there. Megan’s friend Sam was at the table, with a couple of other women, one of whom he thought he knew; it was the woman from the alley, for sure, much more elegantly dressed now and looking older, with a bit too much makeup. They were laughing and clinking glasses and it wasn’t his imagination that Sam looked straight at him and sneered before carrying on with what was clearly gossip about him. He fumbled a couple of notes out of his wallet and left them with the tab on his table before stumbling out of the bistro, his perfect mood in tatters. Sam watched him go, as did her companions. The woman from the alley didn’t recognize him at all. By the time she had woken up the next morning and staggered into the bath thoughtfully drawn for her by her very faithful and patient husband, all memory and all physical reminders of her little lapse had gone. Her pregnancy symptoms would take a while to kick in – and meanwhile, there were boozy lunches to be had. As Chris stumbled down the High Street, his blood singing in his ears, the women all clinked glasses together. The last thing he heard from them was a faint echo. ‘Cheers!’

  Finally, it was night. Chris had booked into a cheap hotel in the main drag of the town centre. It was cheap by hotel standards but he knew he couldn’t stay long. But on the other hand, perhaps … no, not perhaps, he definitely wouldn’t be there long. He would be home. In his own bed. Everything would be all right. He could get a job with a proper address. He found he was smiling. He cruised the aisles of the supermarket, picking things up – cheap things – and putting them back. Every now and again, he left something in his basket, just so it all looked a bit more normal. Not so shopliftery. Every time he got to the till end of an aisle, he scanned along for Louise, but no luck. Eventually, he took his haul of crisps, chocolate and newspaper to a till and unloaded it onto the conveyor.

  ‘Is Louise here tonight?’ he asked, trying to sound casual.

  ‘No, she isn’t,’ the woman said, shortly. ‘And that’s why I’m here. She didn’t show and I’m next on the roster. I could have done without this, to be honest. I was planning a night in, with the old man, no kids. Know what I mean.’ She gave him an unpleasant leer and he smiled, paid and backed away.

  What could this mean? Was she already at Megan’s? Had she baled altogether and left town? He didn’t know which was the most likely, but his innate sense of pessimism made his suspect it was the latter, or some option close to it. His mood had been going downhill ever since his lunch almost-encounter and he didn’t know what to do now. He hesitated outside the shop, a plastic carrier dangling from his fingers.

  ‘Hello.’

  The voice was so close to him, he jumped. He looked down to see a smiling, rather grubby face smiling up at him.

  ‘Hello.’ He smiled back and edged away a step or two. She wasn’t threatening but she was rather smelly. Perhaps a night with Claire had made him ultra-sensitive, but with his brand new clothes and a wallet of money, he had to be a bit careful.

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’ The girl had moved too, so the distance between them stayed the same. ‘I’ve seen you around town lately.’

  ‘I live here.’ It seemed easier to speak to her, but keep it simple. When he had exchanged a few words, she might go away.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Really. Where?’

  He waved an arm. ‘Here. Lived here all my life.’

  ‘What?’ She looked back and forth. ‘Here? In the High Street?’

  ‘Well, no,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived in this town all my life.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, that’s a bit different, isn’t it?’ she said. She seemed quite well spoken to be so grubby, so smelly and out so late at night on her own. She couldn’t be more than eighteen, tops. ‘So, where do you live?’

  He smiled and walked away, the usual signal that this conversation is at an end, so goodbye.

  ‘I only ask,’ she said, ‘because I really have seen you around a lot lately and since Friday in particular. I saw you out with that weird little pharmacy bloke at the weekend. I saw you giving that drunk cow one down the alley. I saw you yesterday …’

  If there was one thing in the world Chris didn’t want, it was another stalker. Not so soon after getting rid of one, at any rate. ‘I stayed with my friend, the pharmacist,’ he said, giving the words a lot of emphasis to try and make her feel bad, but she was impervious. ‘Then I stayed with my sister.’

  ‘And you live … where?’

  He stared down at her. Funny how, though she was far from clean, she still managed to have smudgy eyeliner round her big blue eyes and her hair looked squeaky clean. 'At this very moment,’ he said, with the definite air of someone giving just one last chance to the conversation, ‘I am staying in the hotel behind Smith’s. But I will be back home in the next day or so. I’ve … I’ve had a bit of a hiccup with the missus.’ If ever there was an understatement, he thought to himself, that was surely it.

  ‘Long hiccup,’ she remarked, falling into step along with him and tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, in a companionable way. ‘I’ve seen you mooching around for months. You’ve been dossing at the vicar’s.’

  ‘My mother is married to the vicar,’ he said, loftily.

  ‘Poor cow,’ she said. ‘We all know the vicar.’ She laughed, a dirty, knowing laugh which was nonetheless catching. ‘I’m lucky, though. He doesn’t like them young. He likes them …’ she let go of his arm to sketch a rather big and muscly lady in the air. ‘Lesbians, for choice.’

  ‘Yes … I did know that.’

  ‘Really?’ She spun round to face him. ‘I’m surprised. I would have thought the old vic would have preferred to keep that kind of stuff to himself.’

  Chris laughed to see her there, dancing on her toes, laughing at the thou
ght of the silly old vicar sniffing around the big ladies. So he sat on a bench and patted the seat beside him and told her everything about his night out with Gavin’s stag party, down to and including petuniacide. She laughed like a child, with her whole body and holding nothing back. He found it wasn’t possible to stay miserable when she was there and laughing. He joined in and soon they were swapping stories like a couple of ancient mariners. Finally, after the same window above their heads had flown up for the umpteenth time, they moved on, arm in arm like old friends, old friends, sat on their park bench like bookends … no, God no, not Simon and Garfunkel as well as Journey, all in one day. So he told her about the sound track in his head and she laughed some more. She said she had one too, but the one she had the most was the Pigeon Street theme song. So they sang it, in two part harmony, otherwise known as two people singing two different songs at the same time in the same place as they walked down the High Street, heading for the park.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Chris said, suddenly realising he was the grown up here. ‘Where do you live?’ They were a way away from his hotel now and he didn’t want to end up with a long hike back in the dark.

  ‘No, don’t let’s start that again,’ she said. ‘I live here. Like you.’

  ‘And what’s your name?’

  ‘What would you like it to be?’

  He laughed. ‘That’s silly. I can't choose a name to call you.’

  ‘I gave my name away long ago, to someone who needed it. I go by what I fancy now. But I like you; so you choose. What would you like to call me?’

  Megan just sounded wrong. Claire likewise. ‘Cassie,’ he said. ‘I’d like to call you Cassie, if you don’t mind.’

  She tasted the name, running it around on her tongue. ‘I like it,’ she announced. ‘Is it short for Cassandra, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it? Would you mind if it were?’

  ‘No. It would be cool. Cassandra was the most beautiful of king Priam’s daughters. She got the gift of prophecy from Apollo but she screwed him over in the end and so he fixed it so no one would believe her. It’s a great story, floods and storms, Troy, Helen, all that. So let’s say that’s what it’s short for.’ She walked along beside him, bouncing in her tatty trainers, humming a tune that wasn’t Pigeon Street or anything else he knew. ‘But, who is she, Cassie? Is she your wife?’

  ‘No. Just someone I like.’

  She gave his arm a squeeze. ‘I’m flattered,’ she said and fell silent again. ‘Have you got any money?’

  ‘Oh, here it comes,’ he said, flatly. ‘Has this whole thing, this crazy chick thing just been for money?’

  ‘Crazy chick thing?’ She stood in front of him, arms folded, head on one side. ‘What crazy chick thing?’

  ‘Well, all this … all this.’ It was the best he could do. He waved his arms around vaguely. ‘These rather … gnomic remarks.’

  ‘Ooh,’ she mocked. ‘Let’s try the crazy chick with a difficult word, see if she knows what it means. The bottom line there, clever pants, is that yes, I do know what it means. But I wonder if you do. Look, sit with me here.’ She plonked down on the nearest garden wall. ‘Come on. I won't make a noise and frighten Mr and Mrs Suburbia. Sit.’ She patted the wall. ‘Sit.’

  He sat down, gingerly. The bricks were cold and narrow. He was getting too old for this malarkey.

  ‘How old am I?’

  ‘Is this like the name?’ He needed to check the parameters.

  ‘Nope. This is a question. How old am I?’

  ‘Eighteen?’

  ‘Wrong. I’m twenty-three but I know I look young. I was like you, once. Boring, no offence, conventional. I went to uni, got a degree. A bloody good one, since you don’t ask. But it didn’t get me a job. It didn’t get me a house. It got me a whole load of nothing, plus a bit of random touching up from time to time from my mum’s old geezer boyfriend. So I split. I live where I can, now. Sometimes it’s a house. Sometimes it’s the park. Like now, for instance, it’s the park, but I’ll have to think about signing on soon, get somewhere warm. I don’t take benefits if I don’t need them. I work, sometimes. In general, my life consists of being as happy as I can. If I can make someone else happy for a while,’ she mimed a slot machine, ‘kerching. Bonus.’

  He knew he should say something clever, something apologetic. Something. But he couldn’t. Something about her simplicity and her basic joy had made the tears come that had been at bay for a while. He felt her grubby little hand on his arm.

  ‘Look, don’t worry. I don’t want people to understand me. That’s not what anyone needs. I am what I am and that’s it. In my book, everyone gets in life exactly what they deserve. Same with death, too. Sometimes, you read in the news, someone dies too young, or in an accident that is so horrible you can't take it in. But me, I don’t mourn. Not for anyone. If you die too young, as they say, it’s so you can just get back on the bike again, have another turn, give it another go. No good hanging on if it’s crap, is there?’ She stood up and brushed the brick dust off her bum. ‘That wall’s not very comfy. Your nuts must be cold as charity. Want to warm them up?’

  Chris was gobsmacked. This evening had been odd, he would be the first to admit, but the last five words were perhaps the oddest. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Come back to mine. Or go to yours, if it’s that kind of hotel. I could do with a hot shower, if I’m honest. Then we can … what kind of word do you prefer? I know the vicar likes “congress” but that reminds me a bit of history lessons.’

  ‘I … I …’

  ‘We’ll call that a yes, then, shall we?’ she said, dancing in front of him. ‘So. Your place or mine?’

  He looked her up and down. She could still pass for respectable, in a dim light. And a quick tenner to the night porter should settle any problems on that score. And a shower for her might be nice … ‘Mine,’ he said with a smile, and took her hand.

  Exit Music

  *

  The night porter was very happy with his tenner and Cassie II as Chris couldn’t help calling her in his head was more than happy with her shower, which was followed, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, by a bath. He had to go down to the lobby twice for more shampoo from the machine, but finally she was tucked up in bed, the crisp sheets under her, the quilt draped over her and she all but purred like a cat.

  ‘Ooh,’ she said, ‘this is so lovely. When I win the lottery, I think I’ll live in a hotel all the time.’

  Chris called from the bathroom. ‘Do you do the lottery?’

  ‘Of course not. All property is theft.’

  Chris looked around the bathroom door, startled but all was well. She hadn’t changed into a Pugh. She just was quoting Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, though possibly of the two of them only she knew that. He went back just to wipe the toothpaste off his chin and found just one, low light on in the room. Her newly washed hair sprang around her head like a halo and he really did wonder whether perhaps he had died and gone to heaven. She didn’t smell frowsty now, just sweetly of lemon and a hint of thyme, as advertised on the bodywash and shampoo. Her eyes sparkled in the little light there was and she lifted the quilt invitingly. He thought back to the sexual experiences he had had lately and found to his chagrin it came down to one and that had hardly covered him in glory. The amazing creature in his bed read his mind.

  ‘Never mind her,’ she whispered. ‘Tarts in an alley can happen to anyone. Come in.’

  He didn’t know what that might mean, but he climbed in under the cloud of quilt and very soon, hardly cared.

  Megan was not looking forward to the evening at all. But she knew it was something that just had to be done. She needed to find Chris. She needed to put things right between them, sort out belongings, let him know there were no hard feelings but that it was never going to be the way it was again. She had thought it through and there was a way forward, one that might suit everyone. He could have the house. She could move in with Will; that she would
be welcome was a given. Kyle could live with them both, turn and turn about. All would be hunky. All would be dory. She just needed to find him. And explain. And before she could explain to him, she had to explain to everyone else. She had turned down Will’s chauffeuring offer. She had left her mother in charge of Kyle for once, silent disapproval dripping from every pore. And she had set off on her travels, like a heroine in a fable.

  Easiest to find was Mark, if only because he lived above the shop. She turned up just as he was closing and although he clearly wasn’t keen, he let her in.

  He could tell her little. He knew that Chris had gone to the GP, because they had sent a digital scrip, as they always did. He hadn’t collected it though, but it was only a few days ago, so he might still do so. Would Megan like Mark to tell Chris she was asking about him? He would be happy to do that.

  There was a shadow behind his eyes that Megan understood. He knew what Chris had done the previous weekend. But he didn’t know she knew. Perhaps telling him would remove the final barrier, but she didn’t need that kind of pity. So she thanked Mark, jotted down her new mobile number and left, looking for her next quarry. It was sad that the list was so short.

  The vicarage was lit up like a Christmas tree and there were several people heading towards it. Megan cursed under her breath. There always seemed to be something going on in the place; Young Mums, Old Mums, Fete Committee, for all she knew Fate Committee – she just hoped this wasn’t one of the ones that Sarah had been co-opted onto. She tried to guess but it was impossible. Hope sprang when she saw Mike on his own in the hall, ushering people into the dining room. She took her place in the queue.

  ‘If you’d just like …’ he looked up and started in surprise. ‘Megan! How … lovely. Kyle with you? No, I suppose it is a little late. Well, you catch me about to start a meeting, but Sarah is in the kitchen, if you would like to go through. Yes. Umm …’ and he was already on to the next parishioner.