Jess Castle and the Eyeballs of Death

by M B Vincent

  ‘Gig?’

  ‘Baldur.’ When Jess looked blank, Mary said, ‘According to the leaflet, they’re the local band.’

  ‘Baldur’s a Norse god.’

  ‘He’s also a shit-sounding pub band, I’m glad to say.’

  ‘Son of Odin,’ said Jess. This was her safe place; the past. ‘He had an evil, blind twin. He represents beauty, light, innocence. Oh, and rebirth.’ That was an attractive word.

  ‘They’re playing at the Druid’s Head. Which one’s that?’

  ‘You know there’s always a nice pub and a not-so-nice pub?’

  Mary looked delighted. ‘It’s the not-so-nice pub! Feckin’ excellent.’

  Jess knew she was disappointing her friend with her lack of ardour, but ‘out on the lash’ with Mary meant watching her drink the bar dry as she homed in on the evening’s sexual target. Mary could teach the Norse gods a thing or two about debauchery.

  ‘Oh, come on, Castle. I’ve got to get you out of this mausoleum. This house was different when your ma was alive. All those Sunday lunches and parties, and, Jaysus, do you remember that treasure hunt she organised? Pure gas, that woman.’ Mary picked up her bag, put her arm through Jess’s. ‘We’re going out tonight whether you want to or not. Even you with your tin ear can enjoy some live music.’

  ‘Oi!’ Jess was insulted. ‘I don’t have a tin ear. I love music. You know how special Elvis is to me.’

  ‘Really? You even manage to ruin the King by preferring the bloody movie songs. “Wooden Heart”, my arse.’

  It was decided. They would be painting Castle Kidbury red.

  Appropriately enough, the colour of blood.

  Chapter 8

  BALDUR AT THE DRUID’S HEAD

  Still Friday 20 May

  To step into the Druid’s Head was to step into the kingdom of the fruit machine, of bikers skilfully weaving through students with unwieldy drink orders. The chatter was loud. The music was loud. The air smelt of cider and there were far too many tattoos.

  Jess hated it.

  ‘Good, we’re here before the band go on.’ Mary had to holler over the din. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A Coke.’

  Like a Navy SEAL off to neutralise the enemy, Mary cut through the sea of bodies. When she reached the bar, she turned, arms aloft. ‘Woo hoo!’ she shouted.

  To Jess’s dismay, everyone in the place spontaneously echoed the gesture. ‘Woo hoo!’ they howled. Mary had staged a coup; she was now Queen of the Druid’s Head.

  The last time Jess had trod this sticky carpet it had been to drink underage, necking snakebite and smoking rollies. One or two of those pallid delinquents might be in the crowd.

  No. Even allowing for the passage of time, none of the faces were familiar. Humiliatingly, they were mostly younger. By at least five years.

  Except for one woman, hovering by the stage. A fall of black hair. Thin. Bending to look up into the faces of the band members engrossed with knotted cables and guitar amps.

  Jess ransacked her memory banks. Surly self-consciousness. A little-girl awkwardness. The name landed. Theresa. Theresa something.

  ‘Who,’ said Mary, emerging from the scrum, ‘is that guy there?’

  Jess turned to peer in the direction of Mary’s nod and saw a second familiar face. ‘Him?’ she winced.

  ‘Yes, him. Sex on a feckin’ stick.’ Mary took in Jess’s expression. ‘Is he an ex?’

  ‘Definitely not. All the girls fancied Gavin.’ Jess had been inoculated against his charm. She cursed him for the wavy hair and the eyelashes – visible even at this distance – that caught Mary’s eye. ‘Let’s not, eh? Not him. Anybody else in the whole stupid pub but him, Mary, please.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Shallow. Big-headed. Thick.’

  ‘Sounds promising.’ Mary marched away to initiate first contact.

  Gavin leant over an amp. Ripped jeans. Sleeveless tee. Mary stood so close behind him that it was practically assault.

  ‘Hey. Love your jeans.’

  All six foot three of Gavin turned to look down at her. ‘Hiii,’ he drawled in the daft mid-Atlantic accent Jess remembered. ‘You Irish? Cool.’

  We’re off, thought Jess. Chief among Mary’s talents – she was a taekwondo master who could fix cars and speak Italian – was her ability to pick any man she chose and sleep with him. Generally, these gents were discarded afterwards without ceremony. Both approachable and enigmatic, Mary never revealed where she’d honed her various skills.

  She was a creature of her own design.

  ‘Yeah, I’m from Dublin.’ Mary’s hand was on Gavin’s arm.

  Gavin believed himself to be a creature of his own design, but with his just-so dishevelled hair and his artfully torn jeans, he was a mishmash of obvious popgrunge idols, with a good measure of trite mysticism thrown in. Baldur indeed! After only ten minutes in the Druid’s Head, Jess was almost out of scoff.

  ‘Love your accent.’ One of Gavin’s fingers snaked through the loop of Mary’s belt. ‘You gonna hang for the gig?’

  ‘I came from Dublin just to hear you play.’

  Jess choked on her Coke, but Gavin didn’t glance at her. ‘Cool,’ he repeated, confused. Even Baldur’s family members hadn’t heard of Baldur.

  ‘Cool,’ parroted Mary.

  This mirroring was part of the routine.

  ‘See you after maybe?’ Gavin’s nonchalance didn’t convince.

  ‘No feckin’ maybe about it,’ smirked Mary.

  No way, thought Jess. Not in Harebell House. Not under her dad’s roof. Not with Gavin. She had to get in the lovebirds’ way without revealing the reason for her aversion.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Theresa inserted herself squarely between Gavin and Mary. She had the bone-white skin and tendency to spots that Jess remembered from the days when the girls from Kidbury Girls Upper School (Jess’s tribe) and the girls from Richleigh High (Theresa’s tribe) had squared off by the market cross.

  ‘Hi, T.’ Gavin had the air of a marked man. ‘I was just explaining to these ladies—’

  ‘Are you a fan?’ asked Mary. She knew a territorial skirmish when she saw one; she liked to get stuck in.

  Fleetingly, Jess felt sorry for Theresa. The woman had no idea what she was dealing with.

  ‘I’m a superfan,’ said Theresa. Her lips disappeared as she pursed them together. Her eyes, Jess noticed, were huge. There was a lurking beauty in Theresa, papered over with attitude. ‘Aren’t I, Gav?’

  ‘She is,’ agreed Gavin. Meek.

  ‘Me too,’ said Mary. ‘Sure, who wouldn’t be a fan of these fellas?’ She slipped a hand into the back pocket of Gavin’s jeans.

  He froze.

  ‘Gavin,’ said Theresa deliberately. ‘You’re off women, remember? You’re dedicating yourself to the music.’

  ‘Now that would be a shame.’ Mary must have squeezed, as Gavin gave an involuntary yip. ‘Listen, love.’ She addressed Theresa. ‘Are you Mrs Gavin? ’Cos if so I’ll back off.’ She withdrew her hand.

  Gavin grabbed her wrist. ‘No. It’s cool.’ He turned to Theresa. Swallowed hard. ‘T, you’re my number-one fan, yeah? What would I do without you, right?’

  The self-serving compliment turned Theresa’s ghostly skin pink. ‘I’ll still be here when she’s gone, Gav.’

  He kissed her on the cheek.

  A dismissal, thought Jess, who found it hard to watch. And then she was drawn in.

  ‘You.’ Theresa had turned her slightly protruding dark eyes on Jess. ‘What brings you back here? Thought you were too good for us.’

  ‘Turns out I’m not,’ laughed Jess. She felt Gavin take her in for the first time; she was accustomed to being invisible in Mary’s high-octane shimmer. Don’t say hello to me.

  She needn’t have worried. Gavin’s manners had got tangled up in his libido.

  A thought occurred to Jess. ‘Theresa, way back when, didn’t your mum used to . . .’ The sentence ran out of steam.
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  ‘Clean for Gavin’s mum, yes.’ Theresa lifted her chin. ‘Guess what, Judge’s daughter, some people don’t inherit huge houses and they have to go out and work for a living.’

  ‘I wasn’t making a point, Theresa. Just reminiscing.’

  ‘Yeah. Right.’ Theresa backed away through the crowd. ‘Until later, Gavin.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Gavin. ‘Theresa’s cool.’

  The all-purpose adjective. Jess looked around. Embarrassed that she’d come on like Lady Bracknell. Bored. Keen to exit Gavin’s orbit. She stumbled when a man her own height barged past. ‘Watch it!’ she said, aware that behind her, Mary and Gavin were eating each other’s faces.

  ‘Can I, like, get by?’ He wore glasses. Those clunky black ones that were once NHS standard issue but now bestowed trendiness on the wearer. ‘I’m with the band.’

  ‘Good for you.’ Jess tried to manoeuvre herself out of the way. ‘What do you play? Oboe? Flugelhorn?’

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Glasses. He looked properly at Jess. ‘I designed the logo.’

  ‘You clever old thing.’

  ‘Fucking provinces,’ he said under his breath as he shouldered his way bar-wards.

  ‘Nice to meet you too!’ called Jess.

  A beery cheer went up. Gavin leapt casually onto the makeshift stage. Athletic, beautiful, full of grace. Stupid.

  ‘Gav-in!’ shrieked Mary. ‘Woo hoo!’ She nudged Jess. Hard. ‘Find yourself a fella, you, before it heals over.’

  Baldur’s set was pretty much as Jess had imagined.

  Self-penned miserabilist sixth-form stuff prettified by Gavin’s surprisingly pleasant voice. He was ‘screaming inside’, according to the lyrics, and ‘singing out the pain’. None of them made any sense. The bulge in his jeans as he dedicated ‘Hell Beneath Hot Water’ to ‘the Irish girl’ was visible from the back of the pub.

  Theresa sat, rapt, throughout. Worshipping. She knew he’d come back to her; Jess could see that. A groupie has to learn to share.

  ‘He’s a genius.’ Mary pogoed on the spot.

  ‘He’s a prat.’ Jess was a still point in the chaos.

  ‘You’re right. Sexy though.’

  ‘You were very efficient tonight, Mary.’

  ‘You know me. I zero in. Identify target. Aim. Shoot.’

  ‘There’ll be no shooting at Harebell House, understood?’ Jess was hoarse. ‘My dad doesn’t need shenanigans under his roof.’

  ‘Shenanigans!’ Mary laughed and necked her beer. ‘Fair enough. Shame though. Gavin’s ripe. Ooh, here comes another fine piece of machinery.’

  Jess turned. ‘Rumpole! Where’s your pinstripes?’

  ‘I don’t wear them all the time.’

  ‘Actual jeans.’ Jess was next door to approving. ‘And a rugby shirt. But of course.’

  ‘Introduce me, introduce me.’ Mary zeroed in for the second time that night. She liked to have back-up plans.

  ‘This is not for you, Mary. This is Rupert.’

  Rupert took Mary’s hand and kissed it.

  He’s pissed, thought Jess. Just a little. Looser. A bit daft. ‘Rupert’s a barrister.’

  ‘Ooh, posh,’ said Mary. ‘D’you have a wig?’

  ‘Ignore her. What brings you to this hellhole?’ The band had finished, but Jess still had to shout over a DJ. ‘Surely Handel’s more your thing.’

  ‘I’m not your brother, you know.’ Rupert looked insulted. ‘I love it here! The atmosphere, the music—’

  ‘Hey, Rupert mate, how’s it going?’ Gavin was back, glueing himself to Mary.

  ‘Love the new tunes.’ Rupert added a mumbled, self-conscious ‘dude’.

  ‘Cool,’ nodded Gavin. He turned. His name had been peremptorily called.

  ‘That moody bird again,’ said Mary.

  ‘Theresa flogs our CDs in the interval. I should help.’ Gavin peeled himself regretfully from Mary’s curves.

  ‘Gavin! Come on!’ Theresa’s hands were on her hips.

  ‘They’re ten quid if anybody wants one.’ Before he bounded away, he said to Mary, ‘You can have one free, gorgeous.’

  ‘When he says free . . .’ said Jess, ‘I think you might have to do various sexual things in order to actually get a CD.’

  ‘Happy to!’ Mary stole another beer from a passing tray. ‘That Rupert’s a sexy biscuit,’ she whispered into Jess’s hair.

  ‘Shut up.’ The last thing Jess wanted was Rupert hearing Mary’s nonsense. He was disattending. Bobbing out of time to ‘Smack My Bitch Up’.

  ‘Keep your hair on. I’m just saying. He’s well up for it. Just take him somewhere for ten minutes and—’

  ‘Please. No advice. Not from you, Mata Hari.’

  Mary hooted and began to weave her way back to Gavin.

  Rupert tuned back in. ‘Sexy biscuit, am I?’

  ‘Rupert, that’s just Mary, don’t—’

  Rupert cut her off with a wave of his bottle. ‘God, yes, understood.’ He hovered, irresolute, then turned and danced his way back into the melee.

  Jess watched him. Decided that he was not born to boogie. She squirrelled her way to the back of the room to wait for Mary. It was stale, air-locked. Here, on the fringes, were the older people, the shyer people. She recognised a face or two.

  Sarah somebody. Jess racked her brain. The woman sucked on her drink like a baby with its bottle. She looked younger than when Jess had left town; a nip, a tuck, a lift and hey presto! Sarah had a frozen face. Sarah Wilkinson. That was it.

  A sulky guy in front of her turned and bulldozed his way out of the pub, letting in some scented spring air. He was the son of a neighbour. Jess had thrown back his football many times. She doubted if he played anymore; he reeked of whisky.

  A young guy inched past her, close enough to tread on her toes. ‘Ouch, Neil,’ she said gently.

  He looked perturbed. Neil had never understood teasing.

  ‘I’m Jess. Do you remember?’

  ‘I remember you. You all right?’ Eyes on the floor. He had always been shy. ‘Band’s shit.’

  ‘You look well.’ A lie. Neil looked like the runt he was.

  ‘You too,’ said Neil automatically. ‘I have to, um, I’m dying for a wee,’ he said, and was gone.

  All things must pass. Suffering. Civilisations. Even Baldur gigs.

  With post-gig ringing in her ears, Jess welcomed the cool of the pub car park. She hung back as Mary packed up the drummer’s kit.

  ‘Youse have a van?’ she yelled over her shoulder, like the seasoned roadie she very possibly was. ‘Let’s get going.’

  Jess sidled over. ‘Look, tonight, give me a break and just come home.’

  Mary thought for a moment. She dropped the cases. ‘Done. Let’s go.’

  Capitalising on Mary’s unusual cooperation, Jess hurried her out to the street.

  Theresa tailed. ‘He’s mine, you know,’ she shouted. The tone was perfectly judged to start a car-park scuffle. ‘I love him. You’re nothing to him.’

  ‘Why are you fighting with me?’ Mary was incredulous. Claws sheathed. Jess knew she wouldn’t use her weapons on this wretched girl. ‘Have a go at Gavin.’

  ‘We’re not conventional.’ Theresa came nearer. She was, it would seem, up for a fight. ‘We don’t need to prove anything. I share him. Even with the likes of you. Because he always comes back.’

  ‘Theresa,’ said Jess. ‘Enough, okay?’ She put her arm through Mary’s and they started along the pavement.

  ‘You’ve still got a fat arse, Jess Castle!’ shouted Theresa.

  ‘A simple goodnight would suffice!’ shouted Mary.

  Footsteps behind them. Rupert bounding along. ‘You two sneaking off?’ He blocked their way. He was wobbly. As if on the deck of a boat. ‘The night is young!’

  Jess ignored him. Like a thrown brick, a realisation had landed. ‘The symbol! That’s it! Mary! Quick! Where’s that flyer you had? For the gig?’

  Bemused, Mary produced a crumpled scrap from
her combats.

  Stabbing the photocopied flyer with her finger, Jess squeaked, ‘Where’s his number?’ She rummaged and found a business card. ‘Come on, come on.’ She paced back and forth in the pale circle of a streetlight, mobile in hand, calling and recalling. Rupert, swaying, was forgotten. ‘Shit! I’ll have to nab him first thing.’

  ‘Who’re you calling?’ Mary was manoeuvring Rupert towards Jess. It wasn’t easy. He was keen, but out of touch with his feet.

  ‘Eden.’ Jess was too distracted to notice the manoeuvring.

  Rupert opened his mouth, thought better of it, then said it anyway. ‘I hope it’s not about that pagan psychopath thing.’

  ‘What if it is?’ Jess was wired.

  Mary nudged Rupert. A wee shove. Like a stage mother.

  ‘Jess. Um. I was wondering . . .’

  Jess looked suspiciously at Mary, then back to Rupert. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Is there someone . . . that is to say, do you have a . . . are you seeing . . .’

  Jess folded her arms. ‘Yes, Rupert, I’m seeing a guy. A few guys actually. Odin. And Frigg. Then there’s Thor, Canute, Niall of the Nine Hostages.’

  ‘I see, right.’ Rupert backed away, as if unsure what had just happened.

  ‘Not forgetting Zeus, of course. But that’s purely for sex. He likes to dress as a swan.’

  Rupert looked as if he was thinking very hard and getting nowhere.

  ‘Come on, Mary.’ Jess grabbed her hand.

  A few yards down Cheap Street, Jess stopped and turned.

  ‘Rumpole?’

  ‘Yeah?’ Rupert was wary.

  ‘The answer to your question is no. I’m not seeing anybody.’

  ‘Good,’ said Rupert. ‘I mean, not good. Not bad. Doesn’t really matter, so, obviously, just, you know—’

  ‘Goodnight Rupert,’ yelled Mary. ‘You hopeless feck.’

  He must stay calm. Think simple thoughts.

  Yes, it had all gone wrong, but that wasn’t his fault.

  Invoke the goddess. But but but! Deities don’t give answers. They give you hints. He had to trust the dead, though. They knew best.