by Jonathan Lee
It seemed to Freya that Marina was getting into the swing of this a little too easily.
“You are a lovely girl, Freya. You don’t have to feel, every time you do or think something that isn’t lovely, that these feelings are your fault.”
“I don’t. I don’t think they’re my fault.”
“Well,” Marina said, “that’s good.”
“You.” Why not say it? “Everyone’s in love with you, Marina. My dad, everyone. I wish I could be more like you.”
“When I take off this make-up,” Marina said, “it is not pretty. My face is like an animated raisin, Freya. Sunshine—I wish someone had warned me. You’re going to work in documentaries one day.”
“Me?”
“You’re going to work for David Attenbrow. You’re going to go to amazing places, Africa. You’re going to get mud in your socks and they will underpay you but you’ll be happy, and you’ll meet a cameraman who is a bit short, maybe, but makes you laugh.”
Another guest came in. Freya was thinking that most cameramen would surely be tall. The guest used the toilet and handed Marina a fifty-pence piece. She walked out without washing her hands.
“I guess,” Freya said. “Whatever happens, even if he gets sick again, I guess I’ll manage.”
“Pah,” Marina said. She got up and rinsed the fifty-pence piece under the tap, then put it in the pocket of her skirt. “Manage. Who wants to manage? Fuck that.” She looked in the mirror again. “I lost someone I loved once, you know? My husband. I joke about him. I make things up. I make it like we weren’t in love, and it’s funny. People prefer things that are funny, yes? But he was—it’s not something to discuss. But he was a person I loved. And when you come out of the initial feelings about it, the feeling depressed, it’s not like you’re improved. You just feel different, yes? And the thoughts can come back at any time. Maybe you just have to settle for saying something like this. Something like, ‘My mother does imperfect things, and so does my father, and so do I.’ If you want an alternative to feeling all chewed, you can choose to think that. A choice. I mean, I know it is still a bit…what would you say?”
“Lame?”
Marina’s lips threatened a smile. “Lame. But maybe it is still worth thinking. It’s not that all parents are worth the worrying. Some definitely are not. Some are lame. It’s much more simple and selfish than that. If you get in touch with your mother again and give her another chance, one of two things will happen. You will develop some kind of relationship, or you won’t. Either way, you will have done what you can do. It is always better to clear the air, even if the air often stinks.”
“Is that an Argentinian saying?”
“No,” Marina said.
The lights above the mirror did not flicker. “You’re quite good at this, Marina.”
“I have spent money on cheap wisdom. But the best thing I heard? It was free. It was about one of those parties that everyone gets invited to, where the night comes and you don’t want to go, and you want to make an excuse and stay at home with a movie. You know the ones. It would be inconvenient to go for an hour—that’s all, inconvenient. You are tired or something. Hungover. Maybe you have a cold. But for the person whose party it is, it would mean a lot if you went. And my friend said to me that for most of us, for decent people, the choice each day isn’t between doing something good and doing something bad. It’s between doing something good and doing nothing. So, this is my advice, if you ever want it: always go to the party.”
There was silence for a while. Marina kissed the top of Freya’s head. “OK?” she said.
“OK.”
Always go to the party. Maybe there were worse rules to live by. It didn’t seem to cover every eventuality, but maybe in time it would.
Marina said, “Let me know if you feel like going to the pool sometime. I’m actually an excellent swimmer.”
“Yeah?”
“I am good at most things,” she admitted.
“My dad told an important guy to go fuck himself. One of the Prime Minister’s staff.”
Marina tilted her head and said, “I am lending his decision my support.” Then she left without a further word.
Freya went outside. She’d delayed the inevitable for too long.
“Hey, Sooz.”
Susie nodded.
“Has the protest—has it been good?”
“Well,” Susie said, “it’s ongoing, obviously, so.” She was wearing a baggy red jumper and feeding bubble gum into her mouth. She looked determined as she chewed, a muscle flickering in her jaw, and there was a hint of practised disappointment in her eyes. A few other protesters stood nearby, each armed with a banner. No one Freya recognised from the day outside Amadeo’s café. Moon-faces on narrow necks, some of the necks wrapped in scarves, a cold October wind coming in from the sea.
“It’s tough to make people care,” Susie said. “Not you, I’m not having a go. Just people who expressed an interest, you know? Everyone expresses an interest in making their voice heard, and then, in the end, they’re too busy watching TV, or doing their nails, or having massive sex or whatever.”
“Bouncing ping-pong balls into their beer,” Freya said.
“Yeah, I watched some of that.”
“You did?”
“If you press your face up against the glass you can see most of the inside. Sebastian got his bag confiscated by one of the security guys.”
“Oh.”
Susie shivered. “Yeah. He was waiting by the cook’s entrance just before ten, like we planned with you”—she blinked—“but apparently this security guy came out and took his bag and said…”
“Yeah?”
“ ‘Bugger off.’ ”
Unlikely as it seemed, Susie was smiling.
“So…”
“So apparently he wants to be a lawyer,” Susie said. “Sebastian, I mean. His dad wants him to work for his firm, this place in London called Hangers, so he can’t risk doing any more stuff for a while, in case he gets a criminal record, he said.” She took a pack of Hubba from her pocket. “Want some?”
They chewed and looked at their shoes. Seven policemen with skin of varying ruddiness were standing by the hotel entrance, drinking steaming coffee, one from the cap of a shiny flask and the others from cardboard cups.
“I’ve been trying to hang out,” Susie said. “I’ve been trying to see you. Just to ask how your dad is, or whatever. I heard and stuff.”
“Yeah.”
“Didn’t you get my messages? The ones saying let’s just hang out?”
“I’ve been really busy. Distracted.”
“Your dad,” Susie said.
“That and other stuff, yeah.”
“Is he OK?”
“He’s fine, I reckon. Thanks for asking.”
It was cola-flavoured Hubba. She’d never had a cola-flavoured Hubba before. She hadn’t known it was a flavour they did.
Being together in the dark. It reminded her of sleepovers, camping. The way your eyes scanned around in the dim, waiting for some creepy shadow to be cast, ears attuned to outdoor sounds, some real and some imagined. Looking at Susie now she felt something. Not a rush of love, but a definite trickle. The start maybe of a reasonable flow. Nothing but bubbles emerged from their lips. It was all in sync and quiet. With a couple of side glances they decided which policeman was the best-looking of the group. With a smile they located the worst. Freya wanted to say I’m sorry I’ve ignored your messages, and I’m sorry I told the security guard about Sebastian, but hoped it was enough to think it, feel it.
She drew Susie in for a hug, a bony body pressed against hers. Funny how good a simple hug could be. Susie’s hair smelt of herbal stuff.
“My dad found out he’s not going to be the next general manager.”
“What? Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Susie’s eyes were shining. “He wanted that, didn’t he?”
“Really bad, yeah.”
“Brutal,”
she said.
“Yeah.”
“My mum says it’s a week of bad news. Did you hear about Wendy?”
“Hairdresser Wendy?”
“Yeah. She’s really ill.”
Freya laughed. “Always.”
“No, seriously. They scanned her head and found this growth. She’s going to need a load of treatment. An operation.”
“Wendy Hoyt?”
“Yeah. A tumour. Apparently she’s been having headaches for ages. They didn’t spot it. My mum knows her husband.”
“That’s terrible. That’s really…it’s awful.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Could it really be true? Wendy?
For a few minutes they talked about how awful it was and then, with frowns and headshakes, conceded that they’d run out of ways to talk about it. They’d buy flowers tomorrow, take them to the salon, ask the staff if there was anything they could do.
“Are you still seeing that guy, Frey-Hey? I heard that you might be seeing a guy. Stephanie’s cousin, the spotty one…he lifeguards at the pool.”
“I’m…yeah, not seeing him anymore.”
“Bothered?” Susie said.
“Nah.”
“He was a bit gross, I expect, was he?”
She chewed. “No, he wasn’t gross. He was Surfer John.”
“Nooooooo.”
“Yeeeeeeess.”
“What were his nipples like?”
“His nipples?”
Susie shrugged. “I always imagined they’d be cool. You didn’t sleep with him, did you?”
“Of course not.”
“Good.”
Susie raised her banner. The banner bore the slogan “Only Machines Should Be Made of Iron.” It was a very low-cost banner. The handle part seemed to have been constructed from several dozen ice-lolly sticks wound together, possibly the Mini Milk ones. It was such a hopeless effort that you couldn’t help but feel proud of Susie, the makeshift commitment she showed.
“It’s a play on a lyric from one of the Red Wedge bands.”
“Clever,” Freya said.
“Yeah. There were more of us last night, a lot more. Mainly Irish Freedom Movement guys. We were up there, the coast. Protesting at this meeting by these right-wing people called, like, the Monday Club. They threw coins at us. I kissed this guy, actually. He was married, which was cool. All this stuff is quite good for meeting guys. Not a Monday Club member, obviously. A fellow protester. But he was the guy who was in charge of letting off our stink bomb, and he dropped it and it went off early, when we were still in the hall. Whole room hummed of rotten eggs.”
“Turn-off.”
“Yeah.”
“And his poor wife.”
“Huh?”
“So you’re not going to throw a stink bomb in there, while Thatcher’s in bed? You’re not going to get someone else to do Sebastian’s job?”
“Nah,” Susie said. “I told them I had a friend who worked at the hotel, and that it would be horrible for the people working there, so.”
“Did you?”
“Well, that’s what I hinted at, yeah. They take my views on stuff pretty seriously.”
Raised voices, a laugh. Two of the policemen were arguing about how long it would take to walk from here to Upper Beeding. One of them had a proper beer belly, his shirt buttons undergoing some major strain, and he was saying it would take at least two and a half hours. The slimmer one seemed to be saying only two. Possibly they were both right: a belly like that could easily cost you thirty minutes. It felt at times like people in Brighton, and maybe in the UK as a whole, were only interested in distances—how far one place was from another, and how long it might take to close the gap given selected variables. Weather. Quality of roads. The narrowness of lanes and the quota of slow-moving tractors. She listened to the sea, the lovely lucid wash of it, coming in, going out, coming in, going out.
Susie said, “Is your dad still no closer to getting dirty with Marina?”
“Actually—”
“No way.”
“Well, I’ve just got a feeling, that’s all. Who knows. The hospital stuff seems to have made them closer, and apparently she’s just split up with someone. A guy who sounds suspiciously like Mr. Barry from English.”
“Barry Balloon Eater?”
“Yeah.”
“Brutal. I don’t know how Bazza does it. But you’d feel all right about it, would you? If your dad and her got together?”
“I actually really like her.”
“You do? You never seemed to.”
“No, she’s good. She sort of always says what she thinks.”
“So do I,” Susie said. “I mean, that’s what people say about me, anyway.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you see her? Mrs. T?”
“No. You?”
“Few seconds,” Susie said. “Threw an egg.”
“As in stink bomb?”
“As in free range.”
“Three points?”
“Got the bodyguard.”
“Ah, two points.”
“One max.”
“No splat?”
“Hard-boiled.”
“Ah.”
“I wasn’t sure how long to keep them in for,” Susie said. She nodded at a couple of the other protesters, packing up to leave. “We could have one of our beach walks, Frey-Hey?”
“Now? It’s pretty dark.”
“Only if you want to. It was just an idea.”
Freya twisted on the ball of one foot, a soldier type of thing. An idea. “OK then. Yessir. Let’s go.”
She began a slow march in the direction of the sea, wishing she had her warm jacket to hand. It was the kind of stupid walk Moose used to do to amuse her when she was small, ill, afraid, totally snot-soaked or bogged down in fever. He did it while her mother fetched a cool damp facecloth.
She paused to give Susie time to slip her rucksack on. Stared into the dark. Brown leaves patterned the pavement. They must have blown a long way. There were no trees along this part of the King’s Road. There was the smell of turning earth and—
For some reason she was in the road, on her stomach, in the road. Hands gritty, stinging. On her belly on the ground.
There was noise all around her. Not quite a thunderous rumble, not quite a shattering crack. It was a single deep sound with an unbotched quality, the force of a command, and it stretched out and out, thinning into a vicious whine, and Susie, incredibly—ha—Susie was lying on the other side of the road, against the iron railings.
Freya’s arms all glittery. Glitter for some reason in the tiny downy hairs. Muck in her mouth that she now spat out. The air was fogging up and she heard people moaning. Dust was pattering down all around her.
13
Moose was in his office when the ceiling came down. As he fell to the floor he saw himself in a car on a road, wheels rolling as he drove down the middle lane to nowhere, vehicles roaring to the left and the right—a race, a dream. Then his sticky eyes were opening and he saw that the room had become a cloud, a malarial thickness to the air. There were places where the wall had crumbled away and he’d been looking for a letter, had he? Correspondence containing a promise of promotion. His leg was trapped under a concrete block.
He coughed and thick black sludge found his hand. Pain sprung in his chest; he fought for breath. His office door was hanging off its hinges. Slants of electric light came through the old spoiled wall. His leg. His face. He heard someone shouting “Please!” and realised it was him.
He touched his cheek. A string of something sticky came away. It clung to his fingers and he didn’t understand. Plaster dust was coming down in fuzzed aimless flurries, everything eerily quiet. His leg was trapped. Fractured hatstand, dulled bricks. Broken painting in its frame. Couldn’t move his leg. He was wheezing. The world was pressing at his chest. Bits of lamp and bits of table all around. Outbreaks of shredded furniture. The atmosphere was larded up with incredible dust and nothin
g here was whole. He was taking air in quick breaths, ah, ah, ah. He coughed. Vomited. Light crept from the doorway. He was a moth inside a lantern for a moment. The heaps of debris all around were so rich in different textures of grey-and-black crud that they achieved a kind of abstraction. Evil taste in his mouth. Ah, ah, ah. He took it all in, this small wrecked room, the astonishing evidence of his situation.
—
Slapping Susie. Susie saying “Gurghh” and opening her eyes. There was blood on her chin and her mouth was fully huge. Her left foot was twisted around the wrong way, Freya saw. Susie looked and screamed. Mrs. Cooke was over there in a blood-spattered dress, begging the night air for water. She was holding her fox drape in one hand.
The Grand Hotel. The brickwork wedding cake her father had encouraged her to admire so many thousand times. She was thinking of the cliché that you can’t believe your eyes. The night sky had eaten into the roofline. The wound in the building went three floors deep. Smoke gushed up out of the dark space where rooms were supposed to live. The railings of balconies arced down, trailing off into nothing. Rubble tumbled in from left and right. She didn’t know what had gone wrong with the rules of the world. She stood there with all she’d learned. It amounted to nothing.
A man staggered out of the hotel’s entrance, covered in dust and moving onto all fours, scrabbling over rubble, an expression of wary amusement on his face, unsure if he was being teased. He stood and looked back at the building. He shook his head as if the Grand had badly let him down. Twisty bits of balcony at Freya’s feet. Pieces of brick and blown-out glass. Susie seemed to survey the damage too, then remembered her foot was fractured. She started to scream again.
Freya lay down with her friend and took her in her arms, spoons, didn’t know what else to do. “Be all right, Sooz. It’ll be all right.” Everything so quiet. What do you do with a foot that’s the wrong way round? A dozen people staggering out in ripped dresses and suits, indecent and ashamed, their hair all turned to grey, and why were none of them screaming?