by Heidi James
‘Who does?’
‘The police, my blokes. Nothing much left of it, which is why I don’t see the hold up. How much evidence can there still be?’
I shrugged. ‘I’m no expert. Anything else you noticed?’
‘No, I didn’t see it, thank god. The men were a bit shook up, but that’s fair enough.’
‘OK, well thanks for talking to me, I really do appreciate your time. You’ve been very helpful.’ I shook his hand, ‘Give me a call if you think of anything else or you want to talk.’ I gave him my card and walked back to the car.
I called Edward on the way back to Mother’s. He didn’t answer, so I left a message: There’s not much here, no big story, a disgruntled site manager. He texted back within a few seconds: YOU MIGHT AS WELL STAY AND SEE WHAT YOU CAN GET OUT OF IT. It didn’t occur to me to be suspicious.
Joyce had gone and I found my mother sitting out in the garden, under the pergola, the twisting vines warping the shadows on her face.
‘You’re back! How’d it go?’ She smiled and raised a glass of red wine. ‘Would you care for a glass?’
‘Sure.’ I sat opposite her on one of the rickety cane chairs she left out in the garden regardless of the weather. I watched as she poured, her hand steady. Over seventy years old but she had more energy than me. She handed me the glass and we clinked cheers.
‘So, your day, big story?’
‘Nothing much to tell, honestly, I think it’s nothing. Certainly not worth me coming down for.’ She winced. ‘Though it gives me a reason to be with you and spend some time together.’ She inclined her head and smiled, raising her glass again. Rescued. My mother has an unerring sensitivity for rejection, which seems to increase with age. It’s part of the reason why I visit so seldom, which doesn’t help the situation, of course.
‘On the radio they said it’s possible the victim was an undercover police officer.’
‘They said what?’ My scalp contracted around my skull.
‘That an anonymous source said it might be the body of a missing policeman.’
‘Which radio station?’
‘The local BBC news bulletin. Why?’
‘Because it’s the first I’ve heard of it. There was no mention of the victim at all.’
‘Perhaps they only just found out.’
‘Maybe. Or I’m losing my touch.’
‘Surely not?’
‘Perhaps I should go back up there and see.’
I got up, trying to think where best to go first. Should I head down to the police station, or call the news desk at the radio station? If I spoke to the radio journalist, maybe I could salvage something and then leave, go home. Send Edward the article he wanted, so I could get out of there.
‘You’re not going out again are you?’ Her face sagged with disappointment. Guilt and pride smothered my urge to get the story, to get in first. What difference would it make? I didn’t have an exclusive; I was chasing around like a junior. It could wait, so I sat back down.
‘No.’ I swallowed the wine and pushed the glass closer to Mother for a refill.
1989
‘Do you always do that?’
‘What?’
‘Come and go as you feel like it?’
‘You make it sound like it’s a weird thing to do,’ she said, circling her left foot as it dangled from her crossed legs.
‘Isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know anyone else who wanders in and out of school whenever they like.’
‘Why would you stay somewhere if you didn’t like it?’
They were sitting on the grass bank round the back of the school canteen, out of sight of the staff room, catching the last warmth of the autumn sunshine. On the field in front of them, a group of fourth-year boys played football, turning their heads to stare at Melanie whenever they jogged past with the ball. They’d started talking on the rare occasions that she was in class – usually English, French and History, rarely Maths, sometimes Biology, but never PE – and then hanging out at lunchtime, if she stuck around long enough. He didn’t know why she singled him out, perhaps because he was new and knew nothing about her or the rumours that had done the rounds about her and her mum, or maybe simply because she liked him, though he found that hard to believe. Why would someone like her want to hang out with him? But being her friend, standing in line at the lunch queue and having her call out his name and link arms with him, or catching her eye and igniting that slow smile that filled her eyes, made him feel untouchable, special. When he plucked up the courage to ask her why she hung around with him, she laughed, her eyes wide and dark-lashed.
‘Don’t you worry about your grades? Missing all the classes. Won’t your parents go crazy when they find out? Mine would, my mother would have a total breakdown.’
‘My mum has other things to worry about. Besides, she knows I’ll be alright. I’m a wanderer; you can’t keep us cooped up for too long.’ She picked a long blade of grass, pressed it between her thumbs and then blew, producing a long, unwavering note. Marcus tried, managing only to cover his hands in spit. He wiped them on his trousers and waited for her to mock him. She didn’t.
‘What are you doing here, Marcus? Posh boy like you.’ She tipped her head back and leaned into the sun. She had dark skin, olive his mother would say, or swarthy, and he felt pasty next to her, self-conscious about the freckles and zits merging together on his face.
‘I’m not posh, that was the problem,’ he said, sweating, damp spreading across the back of his shirt and across the soft stubble on his top lip.
‘That’s relative, mate. Here you’re posh.’
‘It doesn’t matter, I hated that school. I hated them all.’
‘Then you’re mad. I’d kill to go to a school like that.’
‘Why? So you could bunk off the subjects you hate? Anyway it’s awful there. Everyone is a stuck up prude and the lessons are ridiculous. They think everyone is going to join the army or be a dentist or politician. And they made us play cricket.’
‘So what? I bet it’s challenging and brilliant. It makes a difference, going to a school like that. You have a chance. People take notice of you.’
‘Yeah, to kick your head in on the way home. Honestly, it was hell. It’s full of rugger-buggers and snobs.’
‘If you say so.’ She stood up, brushing her skirt down and squinting her eyes against the sun. ‘You coming? Let’s go down town and get some chips.’
The town was divided into two distinct sections: the old, picturesque half that tourists visited, spending fortunes in the overpriced fudge shops and tea rooms and antique shops, and there was the newer part, by the dockyard and the crowd of protesters with their placards and banners about Thatcher and her gang, with the new red brick shopping centre and High Street. According to Melanie it was ugly as fuck and rough as a badger’s arse. Marcus had never been to the shopping centre: he was too afraid he’d get his head kicked in by the gangs of boys that his mother had warned him about.
‘Won’t we get into trouble?’ What an idiot thing to say. He waited for her to laugh at him and leave him behind.
‘Nah, we’ll be back before they miss us. But you can go now if you like? I won’t mind.’
‘No, it’s alright. But let’s get the chips and head back, OK?’
‘Sure,’ she nodded. They walked down the hill, the two of them, her dark head in line with his shoulder, her hands swinging by her sides, towards the ugly half of town, under the new concrete by-pass that carried traffic over the old streets and ferried them into the spanking new multi-storey car park behind the shopping centre.
Even though the council had laid new paving and put in benches and railings and flower beds, and pedestrianised the streets leading towards the centre, they’d done nothing about the inhabitants, who were just as worn and scruffy as before. Old ladies with curlers in their hair shuffled a
long pulling their tartan shopping trolleys behind them. Middle-aged women stood outside the bingo hall, smoking fags and talking in quick, sharp sentences, their jaws and teeth clicking like the workings of a machine.
The chip shop was next to the Oxfam. ‘How much money have you got?’ Mel asked as she dug into the pockets of her blazer. ‘I’ve got a quid.’
Marcus pulled a fiver from his pocket, and handed it over.
‘Bloody hell, how much can you spend for lunch?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How much change do you need to give your mum?’
‘Oh, I see. None.’
‘Seriously? Kushtie, we can have a feast. What you having then? You look like a cod and chips man to me. Am I right?’ She walked in through the open door, straight up to the counter, unscrewed the lid of a large jar and plucked out an onion between her fingers; she crunched it between her teeth, the acid tang of vinegar dominating for a moment the smell of hot fat.
‘Alright, Pete, he’ll have a cod and chips and I’ll have chips and curry sauce with a cheese and onion pie. Thanks.’
‘Not having your usual?’
‘Nope, I’ve got money today.’ She held the five pound note up by the corners, flexing and snapping it flat it like a card sharp. ‘You’ll have to find some other mug to feed your scraps to. We’ll have a couple of cans of Coke too, please.’
Pete, his black hair greased back in a tall quiff, wrapped up the order, shaking vinegar and salt on first; his fading tattoos were just visible as blue lines, like veins, under the black hairs on his arms.
Mel paid him, and he squeezed her hand as he handed over the change. ‘How’s your mum?’ he said, slamming the till shut and folding his arms over his thick body.
‘Alright,’ she said, grabbing the hot paper parcels from the counter before turning towards the door. ‘Get the Cokes, Marcus, you dingalow. I’ll tell Mum you asked for her, Pete. Cheers.’
Marcus watched Pete watch Melanie, before picking up the cans and following her.
‘How’d you know him?’ They walked down the side street, past the mini-cab office towards the benches by the war memorial.
‘He was almost one of our dads. Lived with us for a bit, but then me mum changed her mind. Let’s sit here, I like reading the names on the plaque.’
‘Why’d she change her mind?’
‘Who?’
‘Your mum.’
‘Oh, he was lazy, expected us to wait on him hand and foot.’
‘He looks a bit scary. Was he violent?’
‘Pete? He’s as soft as a baby’s arse. No, he’s all mouth and no trousers.’
‘All mouth and no trousers… Joyce says that about her son.’
‘Oh yeah? Who’s Joyce?’
‘Our housekeeper.’
‘Your housekeeper?’ She looked at him, a quick turn of her head to take him in, to scrutinise the alien, the rich kid, the queer. Or so he thought. He would take a long time to understand her and by then she would be long gone.
‘Yes, she’s lovely, but she says her son is a sod.’ Shame, a feeling he knew well, worked like fresh blisters under his skin.
‘Right, well it takes all sorts, I suppose.’
They sat eating, the grease oozing through the layers of paper onto their laps. Marcus watched her, gazing up at the monument, chewing her food delicately, taking small bites, as refined as if she were dining at the Ritz rather than eating chips from newspaper on a wrought iron bench. His mum would approve, not that that mattered, except it did. She wore no make-up, and didn’t seem to care about making her uniform more sexy or cool by shortening the skirt or anything that the other girls did. She didn’t seem to care about her appearance at all, and so of course she was all the more beautiful for it. His chest felt tight. He could feel his pulse in his fingers just like he had when he was with Anthony, except he didn’t want to touch her, he didn’t want to kiss her, but he knew it was love. Some kind of love.
‘Do you want some?’ He broke off a chunk of fish and offered it to her.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t eat meat or fish, but thanks though.’
‘Oh.’ He sat there for a minute, not sure what to say. ‘I’ve never met someone who doesn’t eat meat before. Don’t you miss bacon? Or steak?’
‘No, I’m a vegetarian like Morrissey, you know? Meat is murder.’
‘Yeah, of course. Right.’ He wondered how he’d tell his mother that he wanted to be a vegetarian. ‘Do you like the Smiths then?’
‘God, yeah. He’s a poet. What about you?’
‘They’re alright.’
‘Alright?’ She laughed, ‘Just alright! What a cheek. Go on then, maestro, tell me what music you like.’
‘I like some American bands, you know and hip hop, that kind of thing.’ He hunched, almost curling around the words, defending them. He was so used to being teased, the butt of jokes and, if Mel had made fun of him, she would’ve been just like the others; diminished, smaller somehow and he didn’t want that. He wanted her to like him, for her to be different. He wanted to be different.
‘Oh yeah, like who? Which bands?’ She turned and faced him, scrutinising, testing his reaction.
‘Sonic Youth. NWA. Beastie Boys. Dinosaur Jr.’ He put a chip in his mouth and she snapped her fingers, a sharp click in the air.
‘That’s so cool! What about Black Flag?’
‘I’ve only heard a little bit of their stuff, but it’s good.’
‘Good? I’ll have to convert you,’ She smiled, tipping her head so that dark shadows collected under her eyes, ‘what about the Pixies? Nirvana?’
‘Love the Pixies, of course. I don’t know Nirvana, who are they?’ She was an angel with a neon halo above her head. She even knew a band he’d never heard of.
‘Come on, finish your chips and I’ll take you up to Vinyl Exile, they’ve got a copy of Bleach in. I’m in LOVE with the singer. You look a bit like him, actually. If you bleached your hair and didn’t wash for a few days.’
‘Oh thanks.’ He attempted a shrug, trying to hide how chuffed he felt.
‘It’s a compliment. Honestly. He’s perfection.’
‘Shouldn’t we go back? I mean, lunch time will be finished in a minute.’
‘Marcus,’ she said, her voice low and soft, ‘do you honestly think that what you learn in class today will be of more value to you than what you’ll learn in Vinyl Exile? Come on.’ She stood up, raised her eyebrow and cocked her head in the direction of town. ‘Let’s go, my rebellious friend.’
She dumped the wrappers and cans in the bin and turned back towards the High Street, past the mini-cab office again and the drivers leaning against their Ford Sierras, eyeing up Mel’s legs and boobs. Marcus stepped between her and their gaze, shielding her as they walked towards Woolworths and the Co-Op.
The record shop was down an alleyway between the pool hall and the launderette. Puffs of sour-smelling steam pumped out of the vent from the dryers, not quite masking the smell of piss. The lettering on the sign above the door was made from broken pieces of records.
‘Have you been in here before?’
‘No. It’s a bit…’
‘Out the way, I know.’
‘I was going to say, a bit of a dump.’
‘Well, yeah, that too. Cheap rent. He refuses to stock CDs. Don’t ask him if he has any, or he’ll kick you out and ban you from ever entering the premises again.’ She widened her eyes and smiled, then walked in, pushing through a beaded macramé curtain into a deep rumbling bass line and wheedling guitar feedback that seemed to expand in waves through the dingy space. The only windows were in front by the door, but with little light finding its way down the alley or between the buildings, the windows were redundant. There were lamps though: desk lamps, table lamps and one shaped like a Hawaiian maiden in a grass skirt,
a pineapple shade over her head. The walls were papered over with band posters and flyers, layers and layers of them, with racks of bin shelving along the length of the walls and another load in the middle of the narrow room. At the end, perched on a stool was the owner. Tall and skinny, with long, mid-brown hair hanging over his shoulders, he was wearing jeans and an open shirt over a Frank Sinatra t-shirt. He looked old, at least twenty-seven.
He watched them as they walked in: Marcus, self-conscious; Mel, the same as always, light as if she skipped through the world unchanging, untouched by her environment. If anything, it seemed that her surroundings adapted to her. He nodded to Mel from his stool and didn’t acknowledge Marcus. A couple of Goths stood huddled together in the corner, intently reading the back cover of The Cure’s latest album.
The racks were full of alternative bands, rare imports and bootlegs. By the till there was a small display of fanzines and books. Marcus browsed next to Mel, watching as she flicked through the records, the tips of her fingers walking across the spines, rejecting, pausing, flipping and moving on until she found what she was looking for.
‘See?’ She held it up for him to see the black and white cover.
‘It looks like an X-ray.’
‘I know. It’s in negative, beautiful isn’t it? Turning the light in on itself.’ She spun around and took the disc up to the guy by the till. ‘Can you put this on please?’
‘Again? Why don’t you bloody buy it?’ He pressed pause on the tape machine behind him and then slipped the record from the sleeve and held it between both hands, his fingertips pressed at the sharp edge of the disc.
‘I will. Soon.’ She tilted her head over to her left shoulder, and lifted the corners of her mouth. Other girls would look like they were flirting if they did that, but Mel, she looked as though she were bestowing a blessing. In spite of himself the man smiled back.
He put the record on the turntable and placed the needle down with the care of a surgeon. The opening bass line penetrated the room like strong fingers pressing deep below the surface of his flesh, digging at something only just hidden from view. Then the drums and guitar joined in before Cobain’s voice, with its American whine and drawl and growl and roar. Marcus felt a percussion of blood thumping in his head, his fingertips tingling. Mel nodded at him, in time with the beat. Even the Goth kids swayed in time. Caught mid-sway, mid-nod, the owner lifted the arm of the record player with a jerk. ‘That’s enough, are you buying it or not? Because in case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t a youth club, this is a shop. So buy something or sod off.’