Carl lifted the book that lay on the table, admiring the way the yellow light from the hundred-watt bulb bounced off the plastic dust jacket protector. He opened it and looked once again, for the umpteenth time, at the scrawled signature of Gavin Miller. A cotton-wreathed index finger traced the pen lines, even the strong dash that underlined the signature. Closing the book up, Carl looked over the volume in minute detail, searching for the slightest scuff, a closed tear, chipping, dirt smudges on the page ends. Of course there was nothing to see, no defects, because it was perfect. Mint. That’s how he liked them, mint. But with some it just wasn’t possible. Having said that, there was no crap in his collection – no ravaged dust wrappers, sprung and cocked spines, no soiling of front end papers by previous owners’ signatures, or ‘Merry Xmas from…’ That kind of shit just wasn’t given the room, not even as fillers. He was very particular.
His mother had called it an obsession, the way he fussed over his first editions and scolded her for touching them, rearranging them when she dusted, or for the way he squealed with delight when he could add another to his collection of Billy Bunter firsts. His father had, quite simply, thought he was queer, gay, bent, that way inclined. He never came out and actually said it, not directly to his face. But he strongly implied it, like when he took to imitating a woman’s voice when mocking him -“Don’t you dare touch my books, mummy!”- or when he looked sneeringly at him, disgusted, for simply being who he was, for not bothering to like ale, for not reading The Daily Mirror, for not seeing girls.
Hell, even girls – women – must have had the idea he was queer, too. Why else would they avoid him? Why else would they not take his tentative advances seriously? So he wore specs and read books – was that really such a bad thing? Why did they have to stereotype him like that? He might look the part, but he was as thick as pig shit, coming away from school with hardly anything but sore pride. So much for the wise owl. And unfortunately he’d been called Carl Douglas – the same as that geezer that sang ‘Kung Fu Fighting’. The kids had really loved that one. They pounced on that, no trouble. Did she know what she’d done, the stupid bitch, calling someone Carl Douglas? No, she didn’t. Bet she didn’t know what it was like to be surrounded by kids bigger than you, being kicked the shit out of as they practiced their playground Kung Fu on Carl Douglas, singing as they beat the hell out of the skinny kid with glasses, “Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting…” Laughing, like it was real funny. So Andrew Motion said “Thank you” did he? Not me. I called them silly bastards through a mouthful of blood and loose front teeth, he thought acidly. But I guess that’s the working class for you. No crap. Say it as it is. Beat up the Carl Douglases of this world.
Friends. Carl never really had what you’d call friends. So he’d made friends with his books. He sat upstairs in his room clutching at the pages of a paperback, letting it take him by the hand and transport him to another altogether safer world, where he was in control, where he was the hero, where he was finally someone. He trod the Moon with H.G. Wells, became a hero of the Remove with Frank Richards, and imagined that those who once beat him up were being eaten alive by killer rats through the pen of James Herbert. And like special friends they had to be protected, looked after, given a special place. Firstly a shelf near his bed, then small a cupboard, then, as his collection and interest in first editions grew, a larger glass-fronted cabinet bought from MFI. Charity shops, flea-markets, antique fairs, later on car boot sales – he knew how to sniff them out, and he gradually amassed a collection many people would now die for.
A full set of Fleming - a copy of ‘Casino Royale’ bought for only 50p from an Oxfam charity shop before the days when they checked over most things. The rest in near enough mint condition. Huxley’s ‘Brave New World’, Chandler’s ‘The Long Goodbye’, Golding’s ‘Lord of the Flies’, Miller’s ‘Death of a Salesman’ – the list had grown. “Crap!” said his father, his whole frame shaking like a plate of obscene jelly as he jerked his body. “Crap!” when he gathered up an armful of his books after one of those dreadful slanging matches between he and his mother. “Crap!” when he took it out on young Carl and hurled the lot into the bin, not without tearing up a few to begin with. So he played it safe after that, kept his best ones stashed away. Safe. Protected.
Carl had the last laugh now, though. Better than all those mindless days plugging at the damn football pools, wasn’t it? His few quid had seen a better return than all those his father had frittered away on Spot the Ball. Spot the Loser, more like.
He took the Gavin Miller book by the spine and threaded it into its allotted place beside the other Miller novels. It was like penetration, he thought, and he slid it out to reinsert it, pursing his lips as he did so. Then his lips lowered and he sighed. Shame. He had everything Miller had written for ‘The Eilean Mor Chronicles’, from his first highly acclaimed ‘Stephen de Bailleul’ novel through to the last, for there would be no more, if what Miller had said was true. He thought of having sex without the orgasm, and gazed dolefully at the final book in the series. Miller’s first novel was fetching £500 these days – a couple of hundred more because Miller had inscribed it to him. ‘To Carl Douglas, for all your help’. He’d signed them all. Naturally. He and Miller were on close terms. He thought they should become closer now that he knew what he knew about high-and-mighty Gavin Miller.
Overton Hall had been good to me, Carl thought, up to a point. That point being he’d had a secure, steady job there for years. He started out cleaning up the piss and shit and sick. Of course, it was your high-class piss, shit and sick. They paid good money to house their family screwballs there. Not that you’d know that from the pay they gave to the carers. Tight bastards. But that’s par for the course in those places. There were advantages. He got to see some of the country’s most famous people and their relatives in various stages of mental decay. It was an impressive building, Overton Hall; had once belonged to some wealthy family or other for generations, with grounds that Capability Brown did something or other to. They died off, one by one, till there was a single dotty old man living there, Lord such-and-such, on his own, with three or four servants, the last of a long line of inbred lunatics, till he finally kicked the bucket. Then the developers moved in and filled the place with even more high-class madness. Ironic, really.
That’s how he got to meet Miller. How else would the two of them have gotten to talk to a famous novelist? In Tesco’s over the minced beef? Hardly. Carl was manager now, got someone else to clean up the mess. He’d been happy to sign at first. Delighted, even, and the event suited them both, he the obsessive book collector, and Gavin Miller the vain novelist. He got close to him, as close as he could, given the circumstances.
And then Miller had asked him for the favour. A big favour.
And hadn’t he complied all these years? Hadn’t he kept his mouth shut and done as he was told in return for a few simple favours in return? The odd-book signed by big-name novelists Miller came into contact with? That sort of thing?
There was no need for Miller to talk to him now as if he’d been dirt, not after all he’d done for him. When he signed the last book there had been a definite reluctance, a badly disguised sneer of contempt. His tone was hurtful. There was no need whatsoever to treat him like that. He was just the same as all those other people who’d looked down their noses at him over the years, and Carl had thought that somehow Miller had been different, that they even shared something special. Well now that there were no more books from the Miller camp there was no reason to keep going on like this. Things could change.
There might be thousands of pounds flowing through the building every month, but none of it found its way into Carl Douglas’ pockets. Manager he might be, but he was underpaid all the same. One step up from the piss, shit and sick scrapers. And he had his eyes on a few first editions that cost real money now. Far more than his meagre wage could afford, even though he lived on his own, no kids, no wife, no dog, even. Maybe it was time to think of his o
ld age and a real pension, not the thinning crap they doled out by the government. You couldn’t rely on that.
Carl closed the glass-fronted cabinet door and bent to one of the cupboards beneath. He unlocked it, flicked open the mahogany door; it caught the light and appeared to blaze with a syrupy glow. He put his white-gloved hand on the cardboard file that was enclosed within and drew it out. He assured himself that the papers were still in place, and then returned them to their dusty sanctuary. We all have our secrets, he thought, a few of his own springing to mind; a few sordid ones that he didn’t like to dwell on for too long.
But best of all he now knew Gavin Miller’s secret, and that was potentially a better financial return than ‘Spot the Ball’ any day, he thought, exhaling a soft, satisfied chuckle and locking the door.
* * * *
11
Thursday
Probably it’s the same for you. It has to be really.
There are certain occasions in your life that stand out like beacons because of their import, because of their significance. Sometimes they are markers of change, a point in time when your life is shunted onto an altogether different and unforeseen track. They act as anchors, valuable reference points, when we recount, in our heads, our existence. One night in particular is glued permanently to the forefront of my memory. A night when I began to fully appreciate the meaning and mystery of love; and a night when I would look deep into the face of death.
I can hear it now. Yes, if I close my eyes the memory echoes clearly inside my pained skull. Noddy Holder’s gravel-flecked throat was belting out Get Down and Get With It. The disco lights flashed in time to the thump-thump-thump of the music and endowed the school hall with something of the magical, a fairy kingdom of sorts, for I was still at an age when brightly coloured lights held a divine magnetism, the senses drawn to and ignited by them. The school had gone all out this year, the Christmas disco complemented for the first time by two innovations. The first was a mirror ball, the hundreds of pieces of light it spat out onto the wooden floor causing a great deal of interest among the pupils. But by far the biggest draw, that which brought forth gasps of delight and amusement, was the ultraviolet light under which our white items of clothing appeared to blaze with an unbelievable blue-white radioactive intensity, and beneath which crowds of gaping young people gathered to spot each others glowing dandruff.
In spite of Slade encouraging us to ‘Get Down and Get With It’ the entire evening remained tight knots of boys, and tighter knots of girls, the former leering and catcalling the latter as they took to the dance floor. The few boys who did attempt to dance did so only to parody and mock the girls and for the most part looked like demented puppets operated by an inept puppeteer. The boys laughed, joked and hoped they looked and sounded cool before joining their respective clans again. They were young men, and men did not dance, because their fathers and uncles did not dance at the wedding parties they’d attended, even though the sight of those attractive young females caused fiery rushes in them they did not fully understand, and which urged them to join them on the dance floor in spite of their cultural shackles.
The teachers on duty did their best to stir up the festive fun. Mr Brunswick – teacher of English – was surrounded by four or five girls for most of the evening, egging him on to dance, which he did badly; and he, swayed perhaps by their striking nubile bodies wrapped in tight clothing, high heels, maxis, midis, hot-pants, tank-tops, strong cheap perfume and makeup, felt obliged to jog and jive till his red face was wreathed in sweat.
Max was already at a point in his development when he had overcome the timidity of youth and he was sitting in a darkened corner with a girl on his lap, their mouths joined and neither coming up for air. He drew the attention of other young men, who, though nearly sixteen and having bragged of masses of pubic hair and having had sex with numerous partners, were undoubtedly as innocent and as partially bald as I. I read curiosity and jealousy in equal amounts in their expressions. Janet Daily was one of those young women who was a young woman before her time, and who no doubt now looks far older than her years. But back then she was the catch of the evening, and as always Max’s net was full. Like the others, I admit I felt pangs of jealousy and curiosity.
He saw me, and casually pushed Miss Daily off his knee, rising to his feet and wiping his mouth of lipstick smears. The young woman, to my astonishment, didn’t bat an eyelid at his brusqueness, but floated to another table and another possible partner. Max strolled over to me through the flotsam of jiggling bodies, through a soup of flashing and flickering lights and under the ultraviolet light that caused his teeth to gleam. He shouted something at me, but I didn’t catch it over the gale of booming music. He laughed, obviously enjoying himself, so I laughed too, not really knowing why. The atmosphere of the place had gotten to me, I suppose, and I was a little giddy with it.
Sadly, as friends we were moving apart. He realised it and so did I. When we stood and looked at one another it was the past we saw in each other’s eyes, not the present, not a future. I found it difficult to relate to him now; or rather I didn’t know which Max to relate to as there seemed to be so many of them in that head of his. He’d begun to terrify me at times. But there it was again, that strange pull that drew us together, as it always would. I was always ready to forgive Max anything.
He put an arm around my shoulder as if we were firm friends, as if we would always be bonded so. “I’ve got something,” he shouted above the noise close to my ear.
“Oh yeah, what?” I shouted back.
He winked, but before he could say more we were both drawn to a figure wading through the shifting lights towards us. His face fell when he saw that it was Ruby. And then as quickly as it had darkened his lips spread into that familiar, disarming smile. He faced her, nodding a greeting as she approached. I was captivated. Her hair was bathed alternately in red, blue, green and yellow, with the glitter ball sending showers of sparks to accompany the colours. She wore a tight V-neck T-shirt in bright-red, a pair of flared jeans enhanced and widened at the base by Bay City Rollers tartan and sweeping tent-like over her platform shoes. I had never seen hips rock that way before, except perhaps on Connie Stone. With the raising of one eyebrow she dismissed Max and stared at me purposefully. She wore bright-blue eyeshadow, dark mascara and a thick layer of lipstick whose colour looked like a muddy-brown under the lights. I stared back, speechless.
“Want to dance?” she said.
I shrugged, grinned, shrugged again, coughed. “Yes,” I blurted.
She took my hand – took my hand! – and dragged me to the centre of the pool of lights.
Ah, the softness of those small fingers curling around my own. I swear I shall never forget that first touch. And I shall never forget my awkwardness, for I had never danced before, though I had watched others performing their leg and arm swinging and thought I could do as well, if not, I boasted in the privacy of my head, far better. I did my best to jig along to Marc Bolan and Jeepster, but I must have looked a pretty absurd sight, having no clear sense of rhythm. It didn’t appear to bother Ruby who continued to smile warmly as she, hugely accomplished as she was, gave an extremely polished performance. But I was torn between staring at her captivating face and avoiding looking at her swinging breasts when she exerted herself at the music’s wilder parts. I was gasping, breathless, but more from pure undiluted excitement than my energetic but pitiable attempts at dancing.
“What’s your second name?” I asked self-consciously.
She cupped her hand to her mouth to shout above the music. “Deane,” she hailed. “Ruby Deane.”
“Mine is – ”
“Calder, I know,” she grinned.
I was desperate to ask her why she’d chosen me to dance with, but I didn’t want to break the spell of the moment, for that’s how it appeared to me, as something otherworldly, wholly magical. We danced together in a hot colour-splashed void, other people melting into nothing, their voices rendered inaudible by the
blanket of music that wrapped itself around us, the entire universe represented by that tiny piece of school dance floor. And when she came close during Hurricane Smith’s Don’t Let it Die and slid her arms around my neck, rubbed her cheek against my own so that I grew drunk on her perfume, and when I felt her young body press firmly against mine so that we seemed to fuse together perfectly, I knew then that no heaven conceived could better this unique moment in space and time.
We retired eventually to one of the tables they’d arranged around the hall’s perimeter and we talked energetically and knowledgeably about the music; about how this was the best time ever in the history of pop and that it would never ever be equalled; we talked about the teachers, about other people in the hall, about Christmas and New Year and how utterly amazing pocket calculators were. We moved quickly and effortlessly from one inane subject to another with as much passion as a couple of revolutionaries, sipping orangeade and crunching crisps from the tuck-shop, she preferring cheese and onion, to which privileged flavour I immediately swore unwavering allegiance from that night forth.
When Max came to the table I was peeved at his intrusion into my euphoria. He sat down, inviting Janet Daily to do the same. But I found it impossible to be angry, for I was far too happy. We laughed and joked, all four of us together, and even took to the dance floor and showed the rest of them how you could really enjoy yourself, playing ridiculously bad air guitar to Roll Over Beethoven, stomping to yet more Slade, or simply so high on good humour that we made fools of ourselves with our screeching, shouting and puerile antics. A net of balloons dropped from the ceiling towards the end of the night and we jumped like kangaroos over them, accompanied by loud pops and bangs and squeals of laughter. Ruby rescued one of the balloons and tied its streamer around her wrist, where it remained dangling from her arm for the rest of the evening. I was so deliriously happy. And I was in love, love, LOVE!
Blood Bonds: A psychological thriller Page 9