by Nick Stone
I smiled at the memory.
‘The other thing I remember about VJ was that on Mondays he always reeked of bleach. He only had two white shirts for school. His mum’d boil them on the weekends.
‘I remember the exact day we became friends. It was in March 1980. It was right after The Jam had gone straight to number one with “Going Underground”. This was a big deal in my household. My brothers were massive fans. Paul Weller was their icon, their working-class hero. They cheered when they heard. It was like they’d gone to number one.
‘Anyway I was on my way home when I saw this group of older kids surrounding him. They were pushing him, hitting him. They’d dumped his books on the floor, ripped pages out.
‘I told them to stop. They didn’t. There was this skip nearby. It was full of old bricks. So I grabbed one and threw it at the tallest kid. Caught him right on the temple. Then I threw another. Hit a kid smack in the face. Busted his nose, I think. They all ran off. I helped VJ pick his stuff up and walked him home.
‘Me and VJ walked to school together every day after that. We got to know each other. He was a total laugh. A really funny guy. Ultra-sharp. King of the one-liners.
‘As you know, my family isn’t academically inclined. There were no books in our house at all. No one read unless they had to. Not even a paper. I was expected to leave school at sixteen and go into the job market. I was dreading that.
‘The options were limited in Stevenage. But, thanks to being around VJ, I started taking my school work seriously. I saw it as a way out of a pre-planned life, that slo-mo trot to the knacker’s yard.
‘It was cramped where we both lived, so me and him used to do our homework in the local library. Studying became fun. We pushed each other.
‘For the first time, I started doing well in tests and exams. I suddenly had drive and focus. Where I’d been middling before, now I was coming second in the year. VJ was always top, of course. But there wasn’t much between us, grades-wise. I got twelve O levels, three A levels. Straight As. And we both got into Cambridge. We were the first people from our school to do that.
‘I owe it all to VJ. If he hadn’t come into my life, I don’t know what would’ve happened. And I mean that. No matter how bad things turned out later, I’d never take that away from him. And I never will. I hope our kids find a friend like that, I really do.’
I paused there. I couldn’t quite believe what I’d just said, the warmth of my tone, the stir of conciliatory feelings.
‘Now, VJ’s home life was horrible. They lived in two rooms in a basement. His dad – Rodney – was a nasty, nasty man. Six foot tall, bald and skinny. Looked like this dark praying mantis. He was bitter as hell, almost permanently angry and hateful with it. You’d be talking to him and suddenly he’d just grow quiet. And he’d get this look in his eye. You’d swear you’d said or done something wrong, but it wasn’t that at all. It wasn’t you. It was all his rage boiling up.
‘Rodney had come over to England from Trinidad. He’d been a “somebody” there – a bank manager in Spanish Town, the capital. When he came here, the only work he could get was manual – or “de menial” as he called it.
‘He took his frustrations out on his family. VJ, most of all. Not physically, but mentally. Rodney was always putting him down. In public too. Nothing VJ ever did was good enough. Nothing. He just kept on trying to crush him.
‘I once asked VJ why his dad treated him so badly. And do you know what he said? “It’s ’cause he knows that, one day soon, I’ll do something he can’t – and that’s leave and never come back.”’
‘How old was he then?’
‘Twelve or thirteen. Rodney was never going to get in VJ’s way, because VJ was one of those people who always knew what he wanted,’ I said.
‘I think there’s three kinds of people in the world. Those that know what they want from the start, and they get it. Then there’s those that don’t know what they want, but find out later and settle down. And then there’s the ones who never know what they want, and they never get anywhere. Life’s lost causes, the born losers. They drift and then they die.’
‘Which are you?’ she asked.
‘I’ve been the second and the third, but never the first. That was VJ,’ I said, fiddling with my cup handle.
‘In the early 1980s Rodney bought an old betting place opposite Stevenage train station. He reopened it as a cornershop. We used to work there, me and VJ, on weekends. It was one of the busiest shops in town. It was open seven days a week, six in the morning to ten at night. You knew if you ran out of essentials, you could always go to Rodney’s. Rodney as good as lived behind the counter. Never took a day off. Except Christmas – and that’s only because he couldn’t get a licence to open up.
‘Every month or so we’d go to France. Calais. We’d load up on cheap fags and drink. This was long before the EU regulations, so prices were low. We’d fill the van up and take the ferry back. Rodney’d sell the fags and booze in the shop cheaper than anywhere else in town. Made a fortune.
‘The family moved out of our road and into a semi-detached house in Stevenage Old Town. The posh part. But me and VJ still did our walk to school. I’d stop by the shop to pick him up, because he worked there with his dad in the mornings,’ I said.
‘Then, in 1989 Rodney was murdered. The police found him in the shop’s backroom. He’d been stabbed. Twenty-two times.’
Karen’s mouth dropped and her eyes widened.
‘Christ.’
‘The cops reckoned it happened just before Rodney was closing up. He was always on his own then.’
‘Did they catch anyone?’
‘No. There was no CCTV in the shop. No witnesses.’
‘Was anything stolen?’
‘Yeah. The safe and till were empty. And a load of fags and booze too.’
‘How did Vernon react?’
‘He was shocked, obviously, at first. But there were no tears. And I hate to say this, but afterwards he – well, he blossomed. Physically it was like he grew a whole foot taller. He became a lot more confident, socially.
‘We never talked much about the murder. He did once say it was a shame his last memory of his dad was a bad one. The morning of the murder they’d had an argument in the shop, right in front of me and all the customers. Rodney wanted VJ to leave school and work in the shop full time. VJ had his heart set on going to Cambridge. Rodney said – or shouted, more like – “You’ll go to university over my dead body.” And VJ said, “Hurry up and drop dead, then.”’
‘Famous last words,’ Karen said.
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ I said.
Now, we’d arrived at the crossroads moment of our Big Talk.
On my way back from Janet’s house I’d decided how much I could afford to tell Karen about my past – how much more, that is. My Dark Ages were about to become darker still.
Karen had an expressive face, as good as transparent when it came to telegraphing thoughts and emotions. It made the day-to-day easy in our marriage, as I could foresee potential arguments and conflicts and head them off in time.
Looking at her across the table, I watched the doubts and questions convening quickly behind her brow.
Here it came…
the obvious question:
‘Did he…’ she started, and then paused for the right words. Not that there was a delicate way of asking what she wanted to know.
‘I mean… Do you think he could’ve…’
‘Killed his dad?’ I prompted. VJ had done me wrong in two big ways. I was about to reveal the first, but not the second. That wasn’t relevant. Not to Karen, not to the family, and not to the matter at hand. I was keeping that out of it.
‘Yeah.’
‘I honestly don’t know. At the time – when it all happened, when we were still friends – I was sure he hadn’t done it. I was convinced he was innocent. Just knew it. That’s why we gave him the alibi.’
‘The…? You what?’
> ‘We gave him an alibi. Said he was with us that night.’
‘Whoa! Rewind, Terry. Alibi?… Your family?… You’re losing me.’
I leaned in, lowering my voice so the kids wouldn’t hear.
‘His mum and sister were out of town. Up in Birmingham visiting relatives. VJ was home alone that night. He told me he’d been studying.’
‘But he had no one to back him up?’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Stevenage was a rough old place back then, but murders were pretty rare. Rodney’s killing was big news. All anyone could talk about. The police were under a lot of pressure to catch someone.
‘The lead detective was a bloke called Quinlan. I forget his first name. He interviewed VJ for two hours. VJ came round mine straight afterwards. He was in a real state. Totally shook up.
‘He told us he’d lied to Quinlan. Said he’d been with me that night, in my house. He said he didn’t have any choice, that Quinlan had talked to him like he knew he’d done it.’
‘And how did you react?’
‘VJ was my best friend. My only thought was to help him in any way I could,’ I said. ‘Luckily for him, Quinlan didn’t get round to me for a couple of days. It gave us time to get the story absolutely straight. Yes, VJ was round mine that night, like he said. We did homework and ate dinner with my family.’
‘How was your family involved?’
‘Almost everyone was in the house when VJ came over after his interview. My mum knew the kind of trouble he was in, what it could mean for him. Arrest, remand, a trial. Even if he was found innocent, it would ruin his life. So she worked out what we’d all say. Her, me, my brothers.’
‘What about your dad?’
‘He was down the pub that night.’
‘So you lied to the police?’ Karen said.
‘It’s called “perverting the course of justice” – but yeah, I lied. We all did. For him.’
Karen was speechless. And then horror crept into her expression.
I headed it off.
‘Look, I was fifteen, Karen. I didn’t know any better,’ I said. ‘And we all loved VJ. We’re not the kind of people who throw their friends over.
‘Besides, it was unthinkable that he could have done it. He wasn’t violent. He never got into fights at school at all. On top of that, Quinlan didn’t have any evidence. The police searched VJ’s house and found nothing. No weapon, no traces of blood, none of the stolen goods. Nothing.’
Karen stayed in stunned mode. This was bigger than just me. This was her in-laws too, Ray and Amy’s grandparents.
‘Was that the end of it?’ she asked, after a while.
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Quinlan knew something was off.
‘He didn’t lean on my mum, or my brothers. He leaned on me. Went over and over my story. Kept on telling me he didn’t believe me, that I was protecting a murderer, that I wasn’t going to help my friend in the long run, that me and my family would go to prison too. But I stuck to my story.
‘VJ got it much worse. Quinlan made his life hell. He’d be waiting outside school when we got out, or when we were going in. Staring at VJ. A couple of times he came in to school and pulled VJ out of class for questioning.
‘We all used to think that was it, that VJ was going to get charged. Which was exactly what Quinlan wanted to happen. Start the old rumour mill going. Didn’t take much in Stevenage. Everyone thought VJ had done it.’
‘Could Quinlan do that to him – legally?’
‘This was still the Gene Hunt era of policing, so yeah, he could. And he did – until our headmaster intervened,’ I said. ‘He said Quinlan was only harassing VJ because he was black, and he got a London lawyer involved. The lawyer complained to Quinlan’s bosses. A week later Quinlan got taken off the case. I heard he got disciplined for mishandling the investigation.’
‘And the police never caught anyone, did they?’
‘No.’
Karen took her cup in her hands and half-raised it off the table, before putting it down.
‘What happened next?’ she said.
‘In 1991 we both went to Cambridge University. Same college. Sidney Sussex. I was doing law, VJ economics.
‘It was a whole other world. Full of bright, posh, rich, beautiful people.
‘I felt totally out of place there. The first term I was miserable, wondered what I’d got into, couldn’t wait to go home. VJ loved it, though. It was the first giant step to where he wanted to be.
‘At the beginning we saw a lot of each other. But we were doing different subjects and had different timetables. We also had different kinds of friends. That’s when I really started drinking – a lot. And doing a few drugs too. I started having a great time, but I lost focus. I forgot why I was at Cambridge. I was an unremarkable student, neither good nor bad, just doing enough to get by. A coaster in a racer’s world.
‘VJ fell in with this guy called Anil Iqbal, who was in his final year. Flash, rich. He had invites to all the best parties, and these really stunning girlfriends. Blondes. Always blondes.
‘He mentored VJ. He played the stockmarkets, recommended VJ go to work for an investment bank, because, after Thatcher’s Big Bang, the City was wide open and there were fortunes to be made if you were hungry, lucky and shrewd enough.
‘I didn’t get on with Anil. Putting it mildly. He was an arrogant prick. That arrogance of people who’ve never known a hard day in their lives. Never had to go out to work. Never had to worry about money. They just look down on everyone. He was like that. VJ was fascinated by him. I could tell he wanted – not to be Anil, but to have what he had.’
‘Sounds like you were drifting apart,’ Karen said.
‘Yeah, we were, I suppose,’ I said.
She stared at me intently for a moment, her face stitched with worry; maybe trying to see how bad my next revelation would be. What was worse than covering up for a potential murderer?
‘In the summer term – the final term of the year – we both had exams,’ I said. ‘The night before my first exam, I was in my room when this note got pushed under the door. It was from VJ. He said his diary had gone missing from his room and could I give it back immediately.’
‘His diary?’ Karen frowned.
‘Yeah. Not a diary in the sense of an appointment book, but like a journal, a record of daily happenings.’
‘Like Adrian Mole?’ she asked.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘It was news to me. I’d never seen it. I never even knew he kept one. And here he was accusing me of stealing it. I thought it was a sick joke.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Well, I had the exam the next morning. Someone stronger would’ve put the note aside, dealt with it later. Not me. The note upset me. And I wanted to get to the bottom of it. I actually thought Anil might’ve been behind it,’ I said.
‘I went to VJ’s room. He wasn’t there. Someone told me he was in Magdalene College bar. So off I went. It was a ten-minute walk away. And sure enough, there he was – him, Anil and a whole bunch of girls. I went up to him and said, “What’s all this about?” VJ looked at me with the deadest, coldest eyes and said, “You took my diary. I know you’ve got it.” I asked him what proof he had. And his very words were – and I’ll never forget this – “I can’t think of anyone else who’d take it.”’
‘He said that? To you?’
I nodded.
Karen rubbed her forehead and stared down at the table for a while.
‘Did you steal his diary?’
‘Of course I didn’t!’ I shouted, slamming my fist down on the table. She jumped. ‘How can you even ask me that?’
‘I had to, Terry. I’m sorry,’ she said, softly. ‘It’s just… It just sounds so… weird, that’s all. Him accusing you like that, out of the blue.’
‘I didn’t even know the diary existed. And I’m not a thief.’
‘But why did he accuse you? After everything you did for him? How could he?’
‘I d
on’t know. I still don’t know.’
‘He had no proof?’
‘None.’
‘I don’t get it, Terry. I mean what could’ve caused him to…? Had he seen you steal anything in the past?’
‘Karen, I thought I just —’
‘OK, OK,’ she backed off, palms up and out.
I was glaring at her now. She was asking the same questions I’d asked myself over and over. Why?
‘What happened next?’
‘I told him it was bullshit, that I’d never do something like that. But I was confused, tripping over my words, angry, shouting my head off. Anil, meanwhile, sat there, smirking. Which pissed me off even more. And all those girls with them were giggling. As for VJ – I might as well have been talking to a brick wall. He just kept on looking at me, like he was sure it was me, like he was convinced.
‘Then I got chucked out of the college. I headed back to Sidney. On the way, I passed a group of local lads. Not students. Blokes out on the piss. The pubs had shut and they were getting kebabs. One of them said something to me. I mouthed off back. Next thing I know, I’m on the ground, getting the shit kicked out of me. I got kicked in the head a couple of times. I was knocked out. When I came to, these cops were standing over me.’
And this was where Karen had come in, seven years ago, when I’d told her the first draft of my past.
This was how and when and where the Dark Ages had started: that night in Cambridge, appropriately enough with me lying unconscious on the pavement. That’s what the shrink told me at the Lister Hospital. Wires had come loose in the beating, he’d said. He saw a lot of cases like mine, personality disorders caused by head traumas. It was fairly common. And treatable too. Lithium… those pretty pale-pink pills…
‘They took me to A&E. I got checked for concussion, given painkillers. By then it was five or six in the morning. A couple of hours later, looking like the Elephant Man, I sat my exam. It was a disaster, of course. The other papers were disasters too. I failed the lot.