She thought it a bit strange that they hadn’t gone shopping together but she hid her disappointment. At least he was involved, which was more than she could have expected from most men of her own age, and she told him it was all wonderful.
And Tracy was sure it would be.
Sure because the nursery was her insurance. Where else would the baby live but that bright, sunshiny room? And where else would she live, if not with her baby? Raymond just did things differently from other men, that was all – and it was part of the reason she loved him.
She smiled bravely at herself in the mirror and poked her hair into perfect place.
Not long now. And once Jordan or Jamelia (or possibly Jaden?) came along, she’d lose the weight, and she’d start going to clubs again, and they would take long, exotic foreign holidays – the kind spent on a fancy lilo, while cute, tanned waiters swam out to serve them cocktails stuffed with pineapple slices and umbrellas.
Her mother had already agreed to have the baby.
45
PATRICK HADN’T BEEN to a party since he was five years old, when the clamour of twenty over-sugared children in such disorganized proximity had led to a meltdown on a scale rarely witnessed during musical chairs. The very word ‘party’ had the power to trigger in him flashbacks of wailing classmates, overturned furniture, and a big brown dog gulping down spilled jelly.
It all hit him with fresh clarity when Dr Spicer opened the door of his flat. The music alone made him take a nervous step backwards across the corridor.
‘Hi,’ said Spicer. ‘Come in!’
Meg did just that, but Patrick stayed where he was. Meg turned and pointed at the bottle of wine she’d insisted that they buy at the corner shop. Apparently it was their entrance ticket. He’d bought a bottle of Coke for himself. It was plastic, not glass, but it was better than nothing.
Patrick handed the wine to Spicer and said, ‘Where’s Scott?’
Spicer laughed and said thank you, and Meg smiled and let their tutor kiss her cheek.
Spicer looked at him. ‘Come on in, Patrick. It’s nice to see you.’
He looked very different without his white coat and blue gloves, and Patrick didn’t like it. He hadn’t been prepared for Spicer in jeans and a Cardiff rugby shirt. It made him feel as if he had already lost control of the situation.
‘Is Scott here?’ he said, without moving.
‘Yeah, he found out about it somehow,’ said Spicer with a wink that made Meg giggle.
Still Patrick stood rooted to the deep-green carpet of the hallway. ‘Can you get him for me?’
Spicer smiled and beckoned with the wine. ‘Why don’t you come in and find him?’
Patrick folded his arms across his chest and took a step backwards. ‘I’ll stay here,’ he said to Meg. ‘You go and get him.’
‘Don’t be daft, Patrick,’ she said. ‘No one’s going to bite you.’
Patrick looked past her to the people and the lights and the bass that made his stomach vibrate unpleasantly, even from here. He licked his lips, which were suddenly dry.
‘C’mon,’ said Meg, and took a step towards him. For an awful moment Patrick thought she was going to take his hand. Instead she said quietly, ‘If you don’t, you might never know.’
Then she turned and walked inside as if she expected him to follow.
Not knowing was not an option. So – after a long, long hesitation – he did.
Everyone was there. What seemed to be dozens of students, all looking impossibly sophisticated, with wine glasses and bottled beer in their hands, without their grubby paper coats. There were also several of the younger tutors – Dr Clarke, Dr Spiller and Dr Tsu – laughing and talking with two women Patrick didn’t recognize, and fitting in with everyone seamlessly. They all seemed to know why they were here. They all looked as if they belonged.
Meg said ‘Hi’ and waved to a slim, dark-haired woman whom Patrick didn’t recognize.
‘Hi, Patrick,’ said Rob, and Patrick nodded.
‘Nice party,’ Rob added.
‘Is it?’ said Patrick.
Rob stared at him for a moment, then shrugged and laughed. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh,’ said Patrick. ‘OK.’
‘Want a beer?’ said Rob, and picked one out of a barrel filled to the brim with ice and bottles.
‘No,’ he said, and hurried on.
Meg led him through to the kitchen, which was empty, and furthest from the stereo. Even so, by the time they got there, Patrick wanted to sob or scream with itchy repulsion and the pain in his ears. He sat with his back to the wall, then pulled the kitchen table towards him across the fancy quarry tiles so that no one could pass behind him. There was some small relief in having his back covered, even if his face and chest and hands and legs felt hopelessly vulnerable. There were a dozen bottles on the table and Patrick rearranged them into a glass barrier.
Meg found a tumbler in a cupboard. ‘Do you want a drink?’ she said.
He shook his head. The Coke was cold and tempting in his hands but he didn’t dare open it, because it had become his guardian for the night. Full, it protected him; empty, it lost its power. Opening it would seem like the action of a man who had dropped his guard.
Meg put the tumbler on the table and went over to the counter nearest the sink, where more bottles were waiting for customers.
Patrick noticed that the glass Meg had chosen had a faint smear near the rim. He got up and washed it.
‘Thanks,’ she said, sitting down and pouring herself some wine. She took a long gulp and smiled at him. ‘So, Patrick, how many Valentine’s cards did you get?’
‘One.’
‘Only one? Who was it from?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You said you were going to find Scott.’
Meg stared silently into her wine glass for a while, then said, ‘OK then.’
When she’d gone, Patrick opened the cupboard and examined all the glasses. He ran a bowlful of soapy water and washed them and put them on the rack to dry. Then he opened the cutlery drawer. He emptied the whole lot into the hot water.
He flinched as Spicer came in on a wave of noise.
‘I didn’t realize the kitchen was contaminated,’ he said with a wink.
‘That’s OK,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m cleaning it now.’
Spicer laughed, and started to transfer pizzas from the freezer to the eye-level oven. ‘I’m sorry you were asked to leave the course, Patrick.’
‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘It was inconsistent.’
‘I hear you took it out on the porter.’
Patrick shrugged. Removing all the knives and forks and spoons and bits like tin-openers and broken candles meant he could now see that the tray needed washing too. And the drawer underneath that.
Dr Clarke came in and said, ‘Hello, Slugger.’
Patrick thought he must have confused him with someone else.
Dr Clarke sat on the corner of the table and drank beer from a bottle and made small talk with Spicer that Patrick didn’t listen to. Up to his elbows in warm suds, he felt suddenly more at home. By the time Meg came back with Scott, he was sitting at the table once more, rubbing the clean cutlery to a shine and placing it neatly back in its freshly washed tray.
Scott dragged a chair out with a clatter and flopped down into it. His Mohawk was half up and half down, and his face was shiny.
‘All right, Paddy!’
‘Patrick,’ said Patrick.
‘You’re such a tight-arse, you know?’
‘I know. Did you take the peanut?’
‘What peanut?’
‘The one I found in Number 19.’
‘Hey, I didn’t take your stupid peanut, so just get over it.’
Patrick didn’t stop polishing the knife in his hand, but he did stop thinking about polishing it. His heart sank. Scott had not taken the peanut. He believed that, not because Scott was inherently trustworthy, but because Scott was drunk, and drunks told the truth, in
his experience. His drunken mother had once told him that she’d almost killed herself because of him – that on the day his father had died, she’d gone up Penyfan and come this close to throwing herself off. Because of you! she’d shouted. Because of you!
Scott put his head on the table so he could look up at Patrick’s face. ‘Did you hear me?’
‘Yes,’ said Patrick. ‘I heard you.’
‘Nut,’ said Scott. Then he laughed and said, ‘Get it?’
‘No,’ said Patrick, which made Scott laugh even harder.
‘Don’t be an arsehole, Scott,’ said Meg. ‘Just this once.’
‘OK,’ said Scott. ‘Just for you. You want to dance?’
‘All right,’ said Meg, and Patrick watched her leave. For some reason, he wished she hadn’t. Scott went after her, letting in another blast of gut-churning beat before the door swung shut behind him.
Patrick sighed deeply. At least the knives and forks were clean.
The dark-haired woman Meg knew came in and whispered something in Spicer’s ear and he smiled. She stretched her hand out for them both to admire. It glittered with a diamond ring that made Patrick blink. His mother had a diamond ring but it was dull and puny compared to this one. Patrick had taken it off her bedside table once and gone to the greenhouse to see if diamond really could cut glass, and then had left it in the garden. The memory of her fury still sent a little shiver through him.
The woman kissed Spicer’s cheek and he squeezed her waist and she left.
Spicer slid another pizza into the oven, then sat down. ‘You still on about that peanut?’
Patrick nodded.
‘What’s the significance again?’ Spicer opened a bottle of beer with an expert twist.
Patrick told him the significance, and Spicer nodded between slugs.
Dr Clarke got up and opened the oven to check on the pizzas, and Patrick felt the hot air drift across the kitchen to warm his face. He curled his hands around his Coke. He longed to twist it open and take a long bubbling swig. The curved coldness felt curiously close to his skin and he realized it felt strange to be in a room with Dr Clarke and Dr Spicer without his blue gloves on. His hands felt as exposed as theirs looked.
‘These are almost ready,’ said Dr Clarke, peering between his naked hands and through the glass. He had long, bony fingers, and the nails were bitten to the quick.
The smell of hot cheese came to Patrick, and he thought of Number 19’s salivary glands, which made him think again of the gouges and the black blood.
‘So what are you going to do about it now?’ said Spicer, slowly peeling the label off his beer bottle.
‘I don’t know,’ said Patrick. The warmth and the disappointment were making him tired and he couldn’t think too well. ‘Maybe go to the police again.’
‘You went to the police?’ said Spicer. ‘To report the theft of a peanut?’
Dr Clarke snorted and looked at him.
‘Yes, but there was blood on my hand, so I left before telling them about it.’
Spicer widened his eyes, then laughed. ‘I’m not even going to ask,’ he said, and put his hands up like a baddie in a cowboy film. He had large, fleshy hands – although he was not a big man – and the right forefinger was ringed with short pink scars.
‘What happened to your finger?’ Patrick asked, and Spicer looked at him as if he’d forgotten he was there.
‘My finger?’ he said, then looked at his finger as if he’d forgotten that was there, too.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I cut it on the tin-opener. Blood everywhere. I nearly fainted!’
Dr Clarke laughed, but Patrick felt a little electrical spark in his chest.
That was a lie!
He’d just seen the tin-opener in the cutlery drawer. It was a cheap, old-fashioned one – the kind his mother had at home – and it was rubbish. It worked more by pressure than sharpness, and would be almost impossible to puncture the skin with, let alone cause the two or three deep scars on Spicer’s finger.
Liar!
The knowledge made him tingle all over.
Spicer was lying. But why?
Patrick stared at his tutor’s hands, while bits of puzzle started a slow new circuit in his head. The scarred finger, the fragment of blue latex, the padlocked door – he wasn’t even sure they were bits of the same puzzle. There was so much confusion in Patrick’s life that he couldn’t assume anything. He tried to calm down; tried to think clearly.
Spicer’s hands curled slowly into loose fists and Patrick watched him put them down carefully on the wooden table, and from there to his lap. When he looked up, Spicer was staring at him.
The timer on the oven shrieked and Patrick clamped his hands to his ears. One hand was hard and cold; he was still holding the Coke.
‘Pizza!’ said Dr Clarke.
Patrick stood up, banging the table with his knees. The gleaming cutlery rattled in its tray.
‘Where are you going?’ said Spicer.
‘Home.’
‘Don’t you want pizza?’
‘No.’ Patrick opened the door and felt the harsh music hit him like a wall. He had to get out. He took a deep breath and headed straight for the front door. He looked for Meg; if he saw her, he would say goodbye. But he didn’t and he couldn’t go and find her in the flat that was too hot, too crowded, too loud.
Too much.
He ran down four flights. Outside the damp air was already starting to wrap itself around cars and lampposts. He stood on the pavement and sucked down the cold in grateful draughts. Dr Spicer’s flat was in what used to be Tiger Bay – where all the new buildings seemed to look a little like ships. They had round windows, and roofs that curved like bows or jutted like sails.
He unlocked his bike from the railings. The metal of both was frigid, and his fingers quickly became clumsy, but he felt his brain starting to recover as he swung his leg over the crossbar and headed towards the city centre, which lay between him and the house.
Dumballs Road was long and lined with industrial units. Garages and workshops that had once been on the fringes of the city, but which now found themselves squeezed by the townhouses and flats sailing up from the redeveloped Bay towards even more prestigious moorings.
But for now it was still deserted at night, and dark, with only the occasional car headlights making his shadow swing around him.
Calm.
The further he went from the party, the better Patrick felt. He stood harder on the pedals, and was rewarded with more speed – and more cold. His breath puffed in short visible bursts in the air, and on every inward breath he caught the exhalations of the nearby brewery that gave the city its malt flavour.
The road in front of Patrick grew suddenly bright – and something hit him like a steel tsunami.
His bike was washed from under him and he landed on the windscreen of a car with a glassy crunch. For a split second he was inches away from two white-knuckled hands clutching the wheel.
The car slewed, screeched, then jerked to a stop.
Patrick travelled fast through the silent air. Then something hit him hard in the back and he dropped to the ground and lay still.
The world was a cold black cube for a long, long time before a door cracked open in the ceiling. Or the floor. A bright white light strobed through his slitted eyelids.
‘Patrick?’
It was Spicer.
Patrick didn’t move. He couldn’t. The pain of no air sat on his chest.
Spicer’s shoes met the tarmac with a small grating sound. ‘Are you OK?’
ARE you ok?
Are YOU ok?
Are you OK?
The shoes crunched towards him.
Patrick’s breath came back to him suddenly and made him wheeze and then cough. With oxygen came motion and he rolled from his side on to his stomach and, from there, levered himself on to his knees, and then to his unsteady feet.
‘Patrick! Wait!’
Patrick obeyed, but then he saw his bicycl
e, blue and twisted, in the road and instead of waiting he started to walk away. His right knee gave out and he stumbled and fell.
Spicer grabbed his hoodie and helped him up. Patrick bent at the waist and wriggled out of it, then started to run.
‘Patrick! Hold on! I have to talk to you!’
But he kept going. Kept going, kept going. He didn’t know why; it made no sense. But he just kept going.
Behind him someone shouted Fuck! and Patrick heard the car door slam and the engine roar.
Spicer was coming to get him.
The thought was even more shocking than the crash had been.
Why? What were the implications? Patrick didn’t know. He looked ahead – a hundred yards away were the orange lights at the back of the central station. It was too far. He wasn’t going to reach it. He had to get off the road.
There was a multi-storey car park. Patrick ducked left and ran into it. Spicer’s car over-shot the entrance and nose-dived to a halt, then whined into reverse.
The sound of it coming up the ramp and after him filled the deserted concrete cavern like thunder, and Patrick knew he’d made a mistake. There were no people, just a few late-night cars within layers of grey concrete, bound by low walls. He was a rat in a Guggenheim maze.
Patrick looked for an exit and couldn’t see one. He reached the end of the first level and ran on to the second.
He could hear the car squealing up the ramp behind him. Before it could turn the sharp corner at the top, Patrick dropped and rolled under a Land Rover. He lay there on the cold concrete, looking up at the exhaust system, while Spicer’s silver car sped past him.
Exhaust, he thought. Exhausted.
The wailing of tyres told him Spicer had taken the ramp to the third level, and he began to roll awkwardly from under the car.
Then – somewhere above his head – he heard Spicer’s car stop, turn, and head back down towards him.
Patrick stayed where he was.
The silver car came down the ramp and ground to a ticking halt. Now that it wasn’t mowing him down or chasing him, he had the time to see that it was a Citroën. Patrick heard the door open and watched the suspension lift a little as Spicer got out.
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