Stacey. I’d been racking my brains for her name. I bet none of the men at the funeral—and perhaps even some of the women—could describe her face. We’d all been too heavily focused on her chest, an almost welcome distraction given the reason for us being there.
“I know I said I wasn’t going to bother, but do you fancy going out tonight?” I yelled, unsure if Paul could hear or focus on what I was saying, particularly if Stacey was doing to him what I thought she was doing to him.
“Sure, no problem. Any preference?”
“Chiapparelli’s. Definitely. Nothing outrageous. Good food, one beer. That’s it. And no talk of death and funerals, okay?”
“Gotcha. I’ll call and book. See you there in an hour.” He hung up.
I went back to Granddad’s, where I was staying with Mum and Dad, and had a shower before setting off down Liverpool Road in my trusty old Fiat, my favorite David Bowie album, Let’s Dance, blaring out of the crackly sound system. It almost felt like a normal weekend visit to Preston, and by the time I parked my car along Fishergate, my spirits were higher than they’d been since we’d got the call about Granddad. I was looking forward to spending the evening with my big brother, even though our characters were more like a pea and a herring in a pod. Our parents didn’t understand how we got along so well—no one did, really. But we were family. We clicked. Simple as that. What more was there to it?
Paul was already at the restaurant and waved to me as I walked in. “Hey, little brother.” He stood to hug me. “You look better than you did at the funeral. Ah, bollocks. I wasn’t supposed to mention it.”
“About that,” I said as we both sat. “Stacey?”
“What about Stacey?” he said, eyes raised in a masterful but totally fake air of innocence.
“Let’s just say, when you showed up in a red convertible—”
“Love that car—”
“—and another blonde with, uh, assets, none of us blinked. And I bet Granddad appreciated the gesture, you livening his funeral up like that.”
He grinned. “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? And sexy. Have you seen that smile?”
“She has a head?” I kept my face straight. “I think the vicar’s going straight to hell.”
Paul winked at me. “Don’t get too attached.”
“Surprise me.”
He counted on his fingers. “Too clingy. Too needy. Too jealous—”
“Shocker.”
“—and she gave me hell for blowing her off for you tonight.”
“Aww...” I gave him a sarcastic look. “And after she blew you, too.”
For a moment I had the pleasure of seeing Paul speechless. “How the...? Bloody mobile phone. I need to figure out how to use the mute button.”
“My brother, ladies and gentlemen,” I said, holding out a hand. “Easily distracted, quickly bored and, thus, destined to be a bachelor forever. If only—”
He laughed. “Fuck off.”
The rest of the evening didn’t progress to more serious topics. No, people couldn’t understand how I got along with England’s answer to Casanova, but right then Paul’s unashamedly carefree view of the world, a ham-and-cheese pizza and a beer were exactly what I needed.
Unsurprisingly, Paul drank too much, ate too much and swore too often, and after we’d finished our nosh we headed for the nearest pub. It wasn’t overly busy, and I nursed a couple of Cokes while Paul had another two pints, then bought a gin and tonic for last orders.
“Good job I’m getting a bloody cab,” he said, bleary-eyed, as he finished his final drink. “I’m fucking wasted.”
I looked at my watch. Almost eleven thirty. Time to head back. “I’ll drive you.”
Paul waved a hand. “No need. Hotel’s in the opposite direction anyway. And don’t forget, I’ve got this.” He fumbled around in his jacket pocket and fished out his mobile phone. It looked a little heavy to be lugging around, but I couldn’t help marvel at the technology all the same. Making calls from anywhere? Brilliant. Maybe they’d catch on.
I stayed long enough for a cab to arrive and made sure the driver understood Paul’s instructions because it sounded like his tongue had grown a size too big for his mouth.
By the time I got back to my car the streets were almost deserted. I’d been going a little more than ten minutes when I saw the fire. At first I thought some idiot had set a bonfire on the side of the road or something, but as I got closer, I saw it was far more serious.
It was a car in flames.
I hit the brakes hard and jumped out.
“Hey,” I shouted, trying to get closer. The car lay upside down, most of the vehicle already engulfed. The roof resembled a squashed pop can, and pieces of glass from the shattered windshield and windows lay strewn across the ground, glistening like shards of ice.
“Hey!” I bent over. “Jesus Christ!” Was there someone in the back or was the light playing tricks on me? As I tried to get closer I felt the heat on my face. “Shit! Fuck!” I jumped back. “Help!” I shouted, my voice barely traveling beyond the blaze. “Help!”
I whipped my head around, desperately searching the street for oncoming headlights. Or a cyclist. A dog walker. Anyone. But I was alone.
I remembered the fire extinguisher my father always insisted I carry and legged it to my car, grabbing the can from the trunk and turning back. Jesus Christ! What had been a vehicle a few moments ago was a fireball now. Aiming the nozzle, I felt as if I’d stumbled into a sick nightmare I’d wake up from at any second. But moments passed, and I was still there. And it was pointless. I might as well have tried to blow the fire out. As I emptied the extinguisher the flames grew higher. Red-and-orange demons taunting me, daring me to try again.
“Fuck it!” I shouted as I threw the canister on the ground. “Fuck you!”
I bent over, trying to see inside the car properly. Even through the stench of burning petrol I could smell searing flesh. Vomit rose to the back of my throat, and my heart pounded as I realized there was definitely someone in there.
Was he—was it a he?—still alive? Everything else in the car was wreathed in billowing smoke, but there was a chance. And if I could get to him, if I could just get to him, I might be able to pull him free.
Images of burn victims flashed through my mind, and a small part of me thought he might be better off gone. I tried to get closer to the wreck, but when the hair on my arms singed and my face scorched like an instant sunburn, I jumped back, patting myself harder than I needed to.
The flames were even higher now, hotter, too, forcing me to retreat another few steps. I let my arms drop, ready to admit defeat.
No. Goddamn it. No! There had to be something I could do. I looked around again.
And that was when I saw her.
She lay a few meters away to the side of the blaze, face down on the road, dress pulled midway up her thighs, what had to be blood seeping out of her legs. Her body lay eerily still. How come I hadn’t spotted her before?
“Get away from the car!” I screamed as I ran toward her, my arms flailing. “Get away!”
As I fell to my knees beside her the heat almost knocked me over again, and my eyes welled up with smoky tears. She was too close—far too close—for me to leave her there. I tried checking for a pulse, but my fingers trembled so badly, I couldn’t tell if the thud-thudding I felt was hers or my own.
I knew if I moved her, and she was alive, I risked doing her more damage. But the alternative was too horrific. I got up, put my arms under hers, trying to ignore how her head lolled around like a rag doll, and dragged her away, surprised at how light she felt. Once I was sure we were far enough from the car I got her into the recovery position. I pulled off my sweater and put it under her head, brushed her matted hair out of her face and away from her closed, swollen eyes.
And then I talked to her. Told her everything w
ould be okay. To hang on. Hang on. Please hang on. I continued talking, even as I heard the sirens in the distance, and right up until a paramedic the size of a sumo wrestler gently told me to move out of the way.
“Sir,” he said. “It’s okay now. Sir? You have to let us take care of her.”
Somehow I let them guide me to the back of an ambulance and check me over, put a mask over my face, ask me what happened, if I knew the people involved, what had I seen, exactly? The paramedic came back and made me lie down with my legs up, muttering something to someone else about me not going into shock. From my new vantage point I watched as the firefighters worked on putting out the blaze, reducing what had once been a blue car to a smoldering steel shell. The smell of burning rubber filled my nostrils, and when more saliva collected in my mouth I worked hard to hold down my food.
The police blocked off the road and put up tarps so the wreckage and body were no longer visible. And over and over again I told myself: if only I’d done something differently.
If only I hadn’t let Paul get so pissed he needed me to pour him into the cab.
If only I’d walked back to my car more quickly.
If only I’d put my foot down and gone through that yellow light.
If only...
I wondered, fleetingly, how many times my father had been at the scene of accidents like this one. How many families he’d visited in the middle of the night, standing on their doorstep in his police uniform, waking them up to tell them their loved one was gone. Dad never spoke about that side of his job. He liked to say he kept his cards close to his chest. More like the entire deck. Paul and I had always known when he’d had a bad day at work. He’d hug us that little bit tighter at night, sit on the end of our bed and ask us how our day had been, ignoring Mum when she reminded him for the fourth time that we needed to go to sleep.
A tall, bandy-legged police officer with the name tag G. Cook came to take my statement. His ginger hair peeked out from under his hat, and I noticed his eyes were so bloodshot, they resembled complicated road maps. Mine were probably no better.
The officer nodded silently, allowing me plenty of time to answer his questions, while he scribbled in his notebook. “So you don’t know who was in the vehicle?”
I rubbed my hands over my face. “No. But what about the girl? Where did they—”
“Preston Hospital.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” I swallowed. “The guy in the back. They couldn’t save him.”
Officer Cook lowered his notepad, put a hand on my shoulder. “No,” he said quietly. “There was nothing we could do.”
I smacked my fist against my chest. “I should have done something. I should have—”
“Listen to me,” he said.
“But I—”
“Did do something. You stopped. You got out of your car. You tried to put out the fire.” I opened my mouth again, but he held up his hand and continued, “You pulled that young lady to safety. You stayed with her. You’re helping us work out what happened.” He paused. “I’d say you’ve done quite a lot, wouldn’t you?”
“No,” I said, looking away. “I did exactly fuck all.”
NOW
NATE
“BLOODY HELL, IT’S good to see you, man.” Paul’s bear hug had the same warmth and power as our dad’s. He stepped back, cursed and hugged me again. “It’s been too long,” he said. “Far too long.”
“Come here, you.” Lynne put her arms around me and squeezed. I noticed how easily I could clasp my hands behind her back, and she laughed. “Not quite the same size anymore, am I?”
Paul grinned as he caught my expression. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I know better than to comment on my wife’s girth more than once.”
“Well, to be fair—” I turned to Lynne “—you had twins in there.”
“God.” Her face lit up with one of her effervescent smiles. “Please don’t remind me. I was the size of a house after they fished them out. Before that people thought I was an estate.”
“Stop it!” Abby walked up behind us and gave both Lynne and Paul one of her breezy, noncommittal hugs. “Where are those gorgeous creatures anyway?”
“Sleeping, thank Christ,” Paul said, pulling a face. “If I had to listen to another Mr. Men song I think I would have lost my shit.”
Abby laughed, then hummed the theme tune. Lynne and I joined, the three of us getting louder and louder until Paul held up his hands. “Argh! Enough.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “I need a beer or three.”
“No, you don’t.” Lynne grabbed her husband’s arm. “We can’t leave the girls in the car.”
“Why not?” Paul shrugged. “Whoever takes them will bring ’em back in five minutes.”
Lynne put a hand firmly on his chest. “Kids. Bags. Fetch. Now.”
He saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” I said, grinning.
It was still a bit odd, seeing Paul utterly and completely devoted to one woman. Not as strange as seeing him with kids, though. That, I had to admit, had come as a shock to everyone.
He’d finally surrendered what he’d sworn was his eternal bachelor card three years ago. At almost forty-six he’d shown no signs of ending his mission to shag every woman within a hundred mile radius of London. Actually, by that point he’d possibly expanded that to a hundred and fifty. We’d agreed he’d only introduce me to his latest conquest if they’d been seeing each other for more than a month, and he hadn’t done so in years. Then things changed, and it all got very strange, very fast.
Paul phoned one Friday morning, and I could tell something was up from his tone.
“Uh-oh,” I said. “Another bunny-boiler on the loose?”
“No,” Paul said. “Uh, it’s, uh...”
“Someone’s dad’s after you or—”
“No. If you must know, I, uh, got dumped.”
“You what?” I said. “Well, that’s a first.”
He sniffed. “She said she wanted to go out with someone younger.”
I cleared my throat, trying not to laugh. “How old was she?”
“Twenty-seven,” he said with a sigh. “Apparently me being more than twice her age grossed her out.”
“She actually said that?”
“Yeah.” He sighed again.
“Did you say twice...?”
“Yeah, smarty-pants. Twice. As in two times. It’s messed up, man. Properly messed up.”
“Did you love her?”
“Fuck, no.” His big belly laugh almost took my ear out. “And you’re missing the point.”
I scratched my head. “What is the point?”
The click of his tongue was probably accompanied by an eye roll. “I’m getting old—”
“Sod off!”
“—so I want to drown my sorrows with an overpriced lunch and a beer. You up for it?”
“’Course.”
“Great. I’ll pick you up now.”
“Now?” I said. “It’s not even eleven yet.”
“Yep. But I’ve finished a meeting, I’m thirsty and we’ll get a good table.”
Bang on schedule Paul arrived at the office five minutes later looking decidedly suave in his blue pin-striped suit and shoes he’d no doubt instructed one of his many lackeys to shine to perfection. As we stood in the hallway waiting for the lift he elbowed me gently in the ribs, indicating toward the left with his head. “Who’s she?”
I groaned inwardly. He’d been dumped five minutes ago, and yet he was on the prowl already. I looked over, wondering how I could alert his next victim before it was too late. I could do without the hassle of a colleague crying on my shoulder for the next few weeks because he never returned her calls. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
“Which one?” I said, frowning as I looked at the th
ree women deep in conversation. “Two of them are blondes.”
He shook his head. “Neither. I meant the short girl with the dark hair.”
I squinted. “Lynne? Seriously?”
“Uh-huh.”
“She runs the Cardiff office. And with respect, she wouldn’t put up with your bullshit. She’d have your balls on a... Hang on.” I grinned as I looked at him. “Are you...blushing?”
Paul shrugged. “She’s, uh, cute.”
I’d never heard my brother say the word cute before in relation to a woman. Goddess, hot stuff, fun bundle, amusement party, very bad kitty and, increasingly frequently, MILF. Yes, pig that he was, he regularly used all of those, and some, but cute? This was turning out to be a day of firsts.
“Fine,” I said, “I’ll introduce you. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when she tells you to get lost.”
Turned out, I was wrong on two accounts. While Lynne wasn’t Paul’s usual pneumatic blonde archetype, she did turn out to be the love of his life. Within a year Paul had moved to Cardiff and they were married. My brother happily reminded me on his wedding day that you should “never judge an armchair by its upholstery, my friend.” Then quickly added, “I’m talking about myself, man. I’m not saying my wife looks like furniture.”
Nine months later the twins came along—totally planned—at least the getting pregnant part had been. Paul had said when he saw two fuzzy-looking blobs swimming around on the ultrasound screen he didn’t move again for three days straight. He was too busy watching the rest of his life flash in front of his eyes.
And now the four of them were spending Easter with us, and I’d finally get to have more than a fifteen-minute phone conversation with my big brother, a discussion usually peppered with demands for Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. Squared.
“So how are things?” I said as I lifted a sleepy Rachel—at least I think it was Rachel—while Paul tackled Rosie’s seat belt, cursing under his breath about it being some kind of Mensa test.
The Neighbors Page 9