by Heidi James
‘To be honest I feel guilty. I wonder if I could’ve done more to help her.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah, I do, and I don’t know if you heard, but Steve Burrell’s body has been found. He was murdered.’
‘Who’s that then? Friend of yours?’
‘No, he was with Chrissie, her partner.’
‘Oh right, that Steve. Yeah, so he was.’
‘I can speak to Chrissie if you don’t want to talk, just give me her number.’
His eyes folded shut then opened again, like a reptile. ‘You’ll have a job, boy. She’s gone.’
‘Gone?’ He’s enjoying this, I thought, or maybe he didn’t trust me either, or he was just lonely and talking felt good.
‘She passed away. About fifteen years now, she’s been gone.’
‘Christ. I’m sorry. What happened?’
‘Lung cancer. Quick too, thank God. Riddled with it she was, when they opened her up, they just stitched her together and sent her to a hospice. I think it was losing Mel that killed her, the heartbreak. It can you know. You can die of a broken heart.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. What happened to the little boy?’
‘He lived with the grandparents for a while, then he was fostered out when they passed on. His dad had done a bunk, just gone off. Wouldn’t be the first bloke to dump his own little one. Poor kid, I always liked him. He’s still around here, works in that tyre place in town; think he might even own it, actually. I don’t speak to him. He was born after I left so I never got to know him really. Not like Mel, she was like my own. Lovely girl.’
‘His dad was Steve, right?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Jamie, Chrissie’s little boy, his dad was Steve Burrell, wasn’t he?’
‘Probably.’
‘I thought he was.’
‘You’ll be right then.’
‘The police say Steve was murdered, and buried up in the old orchards.’
‘Was he? That explains a lot.’
‘Have you not seen the paper? It’s been in the local news.’
‘No boy, I don’t bother with all that. Murdered was he? I’m not surprised.’
‘No? Why’s that?’
‘Because he was a wrong ’un. Bent pig, nasty bastard, you know? Must’ve made some enemies. I heard he was on the take from some druggies. You know, ‘pay up and I’ll look the other way’ type of scam.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yeah. I never understood Chrissie taking up with him.’ He turned to the TV for a moment and watched the horses silently race across the turf.
‘I know Mel was frightened of him.’
‘Yeah, well, he was a bit handy, if you know what I mean, with women and kids an’ all. Good thing he left ’em.’
‘He’d come back. I saw him.’
‘Well, it’s a long time ago now, nothing we can do about it. Get us another one, will you?’ He nodded at the tin by his elbow. I obliged and placed them on our respective tables.
Charlie leaned forward, elbows on knees, his hands loose, dangling. ‘I’ll tell you what I know about my Melly-Moo and then you’ll leave it alone, yeah? Let her rest in peace.’ He sat back, and drank from the fresh can.
He met Chrissie in the George, she was a barmaid and he was on the darts team. They won a trophy one night and she gave him a congratulations kiss on the cheek, just him. He sat at the bar the rest of the night, until last orders, chatting with her in between her serving the other customers. She was the best-looking girl in there, funny too, had this spark about her. He knew she had a little girl, some blokes thought that was a problem, baggage, but not him. Little angel she was, dad was a Greek fella, done a bunk before the little ’un was born, but Chrissie didn’t like to talk about it. He takes them out, mother and daughter. To the beach, the fairground, picnics. He spends more and more evenings there, in her house. His place not much to speak of, a bloke’s place, you know? Then he’s moved in and they’ve got married. Chrissie in a peach dress and matching jacket, little hat like Princess Di with a net covering her eyes, him in a suit. Room in the pub with a lovely spread and dancing after the register office, Melanie in a frilly white dress and a bouquet of flowers, like a little bride herself.
‘Were you happy?’
‘Oh yeah. Of course, in the beginning. We were a family, we were talking about having one of our own, a little brother or sister for Mel.’
‘So what went wrong?’
‘Who knows? Chrissie was, hard, like glass. Easily broken. You know? She would fly off the handle for no reason.’
He spoke and I listened, both of us drinking. The sun hot on my back, intensified by the safety glass, creeping up my spine before it tilted over the roof and the heat spread elsewhere.
Chrissie did get pregnant, after four years of trying. But it was some other fella’s, that Steve’s, and just like that she told him. Home from work, his stuff on the doorstep, packed all neat though. She washed and ironed all his clothes before folding them into his bags. Not his kid. Sorry. Don’t be angry. Sorry. Melanie sitting at the top of the stairs, almost a teenager, big eyes all sad, sending messages with those teary, long-lashed eyes – don’t shout, don’t shout – so he didn’t and what was the point, what difference would it make?
‘Just like that?’
‘What else would I do? Beat her up? Beat him up? Nah, I’m not that sort. There’s plenty that would, but not me. Anyway, I wanted to be able to see Melanie so I needed to stay on Chrissie’s good side.’
‘And then?’
‘I left. She had the baby, moved him in. I saw Mel a lot in the beginning, I think they both wanted rid of her; she got in the way of their little family. Then hardly at all. Melanie changed, grew up. Then he left. End of story.’
‘Did he hit Mel?’
Charlie lifted his head and looked at me down the barrel of his nose. ‘Mel never said so.’
I let it go, waiting. We drank, finishing our cans and starting another. Drinking more slowly.
‘She went through a lot, as a kid.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘Just trouble. Chrissie did her best, but she couldn’t protect her from everything, no parent can.’
She’d always wanted to travel. She hated school, even though she was a bright little thing. Taught herself to read before she was five by all accounts. She used to make up stories about her adventures, how she’d travel to Mongolia and ride horses all day and sleep under the stars. She felt hemmed in. She liked to just go off, disappear for a bit. He always encouraged her dreams, bought her an atlas, and had a savings account for her to buy her ticket when she was old enough. He even paid for her passport, went up town with her and waited all day so she had it ready, for as soon as school was done.
It could make sense, it could be true. I listened and listened.
‘Look Charlie, I suppose what I want to know is if anyone knows that I helped you that night?’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘The night before she left.’
‘She was always good at that. Vanishing. Leaving.’
‘Except she always came back.’
‘Well, it wasn’t her fault was it? God only knows what happened to her. Bless her heart. Couldn’t even have a funeral.’
‘But that night, when I helped you, when I helped Mel, who knew about that?’
‘What you talking about?’
‘C’mon Charlie, I think you know.’
‘Listen,’ he sat back in his chair, looking tired, ancient. ‘I don’t know what your game is, but that never happened. You never helped me do nothing, I don’t even know you.’
‘C’mon Charlie, give me a break. The night Melanie left, what happened?’ I needed to find purchase, to hold on to what I knew because the old man was
pulling me under with him. ‘Did it have anything to do with Steve? That’s all I want to know, Charlie.’
‘That’s it, get out. Look at me, I’m an old man, you come around here tormenting me. What the fuck is wrong with you? Now out, or I’ll call the Old Bill myself.’
‘Charlie, I don’t want any trouble. But the man was killed and—’
‘OUT.’ He stood and reached for the red alarm cord hanging over the TV.
‘Charlie, be reasonable. Please.’
He shook his head. ‘For all I know you did it, you killed him. Coming here, accusing me. What’s wrong with you, boy? Now get out.’
1989
There are two types of liars – the ones that are fucking with others and the ones that are fucking with themselves. Melanie’s mum was the second type. Who knows what kind Marcus was? Perhaps both. Perhaps everyone is. Chrissie had this habit of speaking with her eyes closed, as if she needed to protect her eyes from the words she spoke. It was like she was blanking out the world, or maybe not wanting to see the world’s reaction to her. But she was a liar; she lied about everything: her health, her day at work, the neighbours, Melanie. Perhaps even she didn’t know the truth about her own life.
Once, Melanie and Marcus were sitting on the low wall that edged the short parade of shops that served the estate. Waiting for the Chinese take-away to open for the lunch session; talking about music probably, and which books they were reading, or what it would be like to sleep with Kurt Cobain, and most likely debating whether to order egg fried rice and spring rolls or vegetable chow mein, watching people go in and out of the Co-Op, the Post-Office and the launderette. Anyway, as they sat there an older woman stood watching them for a moment before coming over.
‘You’re Chrissie’s girl, ain’t you?’ She had copper hair, the colour of a two pence piece. She was tall and broad, almost as tall as Marcus, and wore a red Co-Op overall over her skirt and blouse. She had surprisingly slender ankles. Her brown eyes were ringed with blue eye shadow right up to her pencilled-in eyebrows. Her nametag said, Maureen – here to help.
‘Yeah, I’m Melanie.’ She looked up, her hair dropping back over her shoulders.
‘This your fella?’ The woman winked and cocked her head in his direction.
‘This is Marcus.’
‘How do you do?’ He stood and offered his hand. She shook it, twisting her chin over to her lifted left shoulder.
‘Oh, hark at him, he’s a gentleman, ain’t he?’ She laughed to herself for a second.
‘You don’t remember me do you, babe? I’m Auntie Mo. I used to look after you when you was little and your mum worked up Marcani’s with your Nan. I used to live above you in the flats. Remember?’ She stared at Mel, hopefully, watching for recognition.
‘Oh yeah! I think I remember.’ Mel nodded, ‘Auntie Mo. Yeah.’
‘I knew you’d remember. Lovely little thing you was, always smiling, no trouble. Look at you now! All grown up, spit of your mother an’ all.’ She sighed and stood there, and they waited for her to speak again. ‘How is your mum?’ she asked finally. Behind her, the owner of the take-away was turning the door sign over to OPEN and sliding back the locks on the door.
‘Mum’s fine, thanks.’
‘Is she? Oh, am I glad to hear that! When I heard she had the cancer, all I could think about was you kiddies. How you all coped I don’t know.’
‘Sorry?’ Mel stood, as if she had to get closer to hear better.
‘She got the all clear now, has she? Had chemo?’
‘Erm.’ Mel stood there, looking down at her shoes, her mouth open as if waiting for words to come from thin air.
‘Have I put my foot in it?’ Maureen stepped back, looking from Mel to Marcus and back again. ‘I’m sorry, darling. Your mum told me and Denise a while back and I just thought, well, I...’
‘No, it’s totally fine. It’s just a bit of shock still, really. But Mum’s fine. All clear. I’ll tell her you asked. Thanks.’
Relieved, Maureen’s face dropped into a smile, ‘That’s beautiful news. I’m so pleased. A brain tumour is nasty, bloody nasty. Oh I’m so pleased. Right then, I’ll let you get on. I’ve to get back meself. Bye my darling. You look after yourself. Give your mum my love.’
‘Bye,’ Marcus said and watched as she strode back into the shop; when she reached the door she turned and looked back, but Melanie had slumped back down onto the wall.
‘I didn’t know your mum had been ill.’ He moved closer to her, but she was folded in on herself, unreachable.
‘She’s not,’ she said.
‘But then why did that woman…?’
She turned and looked at him, the tip of her nose bright red like she’d been rubbing at it. She gulped and shook her head before speaking. ‘I’m gonna head back, OK? I’ll see you.’ She stood and turned to go.
‘What about our food?’
‘Later, yeah?’ She half smiled, nodded at him and began walking away, past the shops.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘You’re alright,’ she called back without turning her head. Lifting her hand in a half-wave she crossed the road, heading in the direction of her home.
She never mentioned her mother’s illness ever again, and by then Marcus had learnt it was best not to ask questions. Winter gathered itself around them, and she appeared in class so regularly that the teachers stopped registering surprise at her presence and instead enjoyed her snappy intelligence. She drew everyone in: like cold beasts drawn to the warm glow of a fire, they huddled round her, kids and adults. In the dining hall, during lessons, when she was quiet they were, when she talked they listened, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. One or two of the girls didn’t like her, obviously, but everyone else flocked to her like gulls around a dropped bag of chips.
The Darrens had pretty much left school: a couple of them to join their dads in the building trade; the tough, spotty one – Darren MacNamara – had been sent to Borstal after he put his own dad in hospital, though rumour was his dad had it coming, and Shine kept his head down. Vulnerable without his gang, he was no longer the top dog. He started seeing a girl from the year below, Jennifer, a small blonde with a row of gold hooped earrings punched into the curved rim of her ears, and they were inseparable, walking the school corridors hand in hand between lessons. Marcus had settled in, was almost comfortable.
It wasn’t long before a new gang of wannabe tough guys in the year below started throwing their weight around, stealing lunch money from the first years, tripping people on the stairs, shoving their victim’s head down the toilet and flushing, or punching them in the arm until the chosen one could take it no more. None of this really bothered Marcus and Melanie: as fifth years they were pretty much impervious to those stunts and most of them, even Darren Shine, were working hard for their GCSEs. Until one Wednesday, just before the Christmas holiday.
Marcus and Mel had gone over to the cloakroom, to have a last fag before lunch finished. By then he was a committed, dedicated smoker. It was a rotten place that stank of stale fags, sweaty trainers and the fug of teenage hormones. The rough wooden floorboards were littered with fag butts, sweet wrappers and torn Rizla packets. It was one of those prefab huts, flimsy and asbestos-riddled, brought in on the back of a lorry as the school outgrew the original building and propped up on a few stacks of bricks. But as it was self-contained and set away from the main school and the teachers, it was fairly lawless and was known as a good place to hang out and smoke, or fuck, or beat the shit out of someone.
They walked in and made their way to their usual corner, pushing past the racks of coats and PE kits towards the back, where they were concealed from any surprise visits from the staff. A small group of kids were huddled in the opposite corner, jostling and nudging each other. Laughing. Ignoring them, he and Melanie sat down and sparked up.
‘Go on, cut it
off. Do it,’ urged a voice from the corner, followed by a wail and more laughter.
‘Please don’t!’
He looked over at Mel, waiting for direction, or to see her reaction at least. She did nothing, just watched the smoke unravelling from the tip of her cigarette. The laughing and wailing and jeering rose in volume.
‘Could you be a bit more quiet, please?’ Marcus said, surprised at himself and a little pleased by his own bravery. He looked over again at Mel but she hadn’t moved. He was disappointed that she hadn’t acknowledged his courage and ashamed that he’d needed her approval.
‘What?’ One of them had turned towards him, his head too big for his skinny body. It was the ringleader of the newly appointed tough kids.
‘You heard,’ Mel said. ‘Keep it down or you’ll have the teachers in here.’ She still hadn’t looked up.
‘Give us a fag then.’ He had thin lips, almost non-existent in his wide, flat face. He moved closer.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then get out. This is our place and we’ll do what the fuck we want.’
‘Right.’
‘Yeah right. Go on get out.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’m warning you, slag.’ He lifted his right arm an inch and inclined his head towards the blade he held in his fist. Marcus felt sick. Mel sighed and stood up, sauntering over towards him. Marcus hesitated and then moved behind her, knees shaking. The boy was holding a pair of scissors, not a knife, but the blades were long and sharp. He shifted his weight and behind him Marcus saw a little Asian kid, on his knees, a long plait uncoiling from the top of his head. One of the others, a short, skinny boy, his breath rasping in and out of his chest, held a scrap of black fabric in his hand. There were three others: a girl who looked like she was wearing someone else’s uniform, the wheezing kid and a boy he recognised from the bus who wore expensive trainers and never caused any trouble. They moved away from the kid on the floor.
‘You alright?’ she asked. The kid was crying and shook his head.
‘What are you doing to him?’ She turned back to the ringleader.