SO THE DOVES

by Heidi James

‘Not for me.’ She shook her head, widened her eyes at Marcus and drank her beer.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Darren lit up and sucked on the spliff, its bright cherry swelling and contracting with his breath. He handed it to Marcus, his fingers soft at the tips. Darren was one of those kids with rich fathers – builders, plumbers, mechanics – who’d done well under Maggie, bought big houses, had nice cars, wives who didn’t have to work, holidays in Florida and a timeshare in Spain. But they still went to the same pub every Friday and considered themselves down to earth, unpretentious. They’d moved off the estate – but only just. Their kids had everything – designer label clothes, box-fresh trainers, new cars and could even go to University – but woe betide them being queer or marrying anyone different or getting ideas above their station. Richer than Marcus and his family, they still thought that he and his kind were posh, not to be trusted. But sitting there, Marcus thought Darren was more than that: tough like his brothers and father, yes, but also funny and generous, warm. He was sexy.

  He took a drag, a tiny one and held it in, like Darren had, as if he were holding a lungful of oxygen underwater; his lungs burned. As he exhaled, managing to keep it a small cough, his head filled with the most amazing and hilarious weight. He handed it back to Darren and watched him as he drew deeper on the joint and tipped his head back on the neck rest of his seat.

  ‘Turn the light off. It’s a buzz kill,’ Mel said from the back.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Darren said, his voice suddenly softer. He reached up and clicked off the interior light, then swapped the CD in the player for another one. ‘When I buy a car I’ll get one with a Changer in the boot.’

  ‘Cool,’ Marcus said, not really knowing what he meant. He sipped his beer and looked at Darren in the soft glow of the dashboard lights. With the door sealed, in the dark, and the dope, it felt as if they were as remote and secluded from the rest of the world as a chick in an egg. Safe and entirely alone on the planet, alone under that sticky moon, he was in paradise.

  In profile, Darren’s face was noble, his full lips pressed together under his nose like a prince on the side of a coin. His right elbow was propped on the window edge of the car door, his right hand just hanging there in front of his face, the fingers scissored around the joint, ready to bring it to his lips. Then he turned to Marcus and he swigged his beer fast to cover the direction of his gaze.

  ‘There you go, have a toke on that.’ Darren passed the joint to him again. This time the smoke was hotter and singed his mouth and throat as he gulped it down. He gagged and spluttered, almost puking. Darren banged and then patted his back while taking the joint from between his fingers. ‘Whoa there, keep it down, tiger.’

  Marcus sat back up, his skin raw from his touch. ‘You alright?’ He nodded and sipped more beer, concentrating on breathing.

  The bass line of the music kicked in and Darren turned the volume up. In the back Melanie said, ‘I love this tune – I need to dance, c’mon shift. Let me out please.’

  Darren opened his door, got out and moved his seat, letting her slide out. He thought she’d break the seal on this perfection and let the rest of the world in, but she didn’t. Darren wound down the windows and turned on the headlights, and she danced in the pale granular beam in front of them, their world expanding but still hermetic, still safe from harm.

  They watched her dancing, raising her hands above her head, twisting them as if she were gathering the air to her body. Her hips swayed and curled. She was beautiful, of course. Unselfconscious, dancing for herself, singing the words, not caring what anyone else thought. Dancing under the hard chemical light of the stars. She wasn’t afraid, that was the difference; the difference between her and the rest of them. She faced everyone and everything openly, with a smile. That’s not to say she was naive or innocent, not at all. He guessed it was love. She loved. It’s fear that destroys, destroys everything. She was better than him. Better than everyone. She deserved better. She deserved more.

  ‘You like her a lot, don’t you?’ Darren had put the joint in the ashtray, letting it go out and opened another can of beer.

  ‘Yeah. I do. I think she’s amazing.’

  ‘You sound a bit like her you know?’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s weird, like you’re becoming her or something. You even move like her.’ He raised his hand and flicked it as he tossed his head, imitating perfectly the gesture they made to dismiss an idea or thought or conversation. He was spot on.

  ‘Do I really?’

  ‘Yep. It’s normal I suppose. We all do it; we all copy each other, don’t we? I guess it’s how we learn to talk and that. Are you really seeing each other?’

  ‘Of course.’ He finished his beer and opened another, Darren drained his second and popped open his third.

  ‘OK. If you say so.’

  Melanie disappeared into the dark and reappeared at the door singing, ‘I wanna be adored.’

  Darren laughed and ruffled her hair, ‘You’re adored. Like the Stone Roses, do you?’

  ‘I do actually. What’s the time?’

  ‘Don’t know, why?’

  ‘I think we’ve missed the disco, you guys,’ she grinned.

  ‘Fuck the disco.’

  ‘But what about Jennifer?’ She leaned forward resting her arms on the window edge, her face so close to Darren’s he could kiss her and for a moment it looked like he would; they stared at each other for a second and Marcus’s stomach contracted with jealousy. But for whom? For both. He wanted them both for himself.

  ‘Fuck Jenny.’

  ‘Let me in then,’ she said and climbed in over Darren, sliding between the seats, singing to herself.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ Marcus said, wanting to stay right here, but not like that, not the three of them. For the first time since he’d met her, he wanted Mel to leave. She was in the way.

  ‘Let’s stay, drink more, smoke more.’

  ‘No, I’m going to go home I think,’ she said.

  ‘Really? Don’t go.’

  ‘Yeah. I should.’

  ‘Then we’ll drop you home.’

  ‘Really? You’d do that?’

  ‘Yeah. Can’t have you wandering the streets at night.’ Darren turned the ignition of the car and it roared into life.

  ‘OK. Thanks Darren.’

  They drove her home in under ten minutes. She made Darren pull up at the end of her road so her mother wouldn’t see her get out of a car; she kissed them both on the mouth as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘Bye, chaps.’ She saluted, turned away, fading out of view, then reappearing under a street light and shutting herself inside the house.

  ‘Was she drunk?’

  ‘I don’t think so, she only had one can of beer.’

  ‘She’s a wild one.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Where now then?’ Darren said.

  ‘I don’t care.’ He laughed, drunk, stoned and flirting with the most dangerous boy in his school or maybe even the town, but who measures these things?

  So it began. In an empty car park, they finished the joint, drank the rest of the beer and then somehow there was Darren’s tongue and hot mouth, his hand on the back of his neck. His body, stronger than Marcus, bigger, but soft and fragile too. The curve of his spine as it arced towards his bottom, the hair curling over his ears, his hands grabbing him, holding him, pushing him. Soft whispers and laughter, their secret, their precious beautiful secret.

  Then it carried on: parked up on farmland at the edge of town; in deserted garages; the school playing field; his dad’s office surrounded by tea mugs, filing cabinets and pictures of page three girls. Driving up to London in a borrowed car, taking E, going to Heaven and dancing, bodies pressing, sweating, shirts off, surrounded by other men kissing, holding each other, belonging.

 
His face, almost crying when he came. It probably lasted a month, maybe a little more, but it was the most intense, exquisite time of his life. For that short time, Marcus was completely himself. No pretence, no lies, no stories. Just himself.

  Marks and Spencer

  Mother was in the kitchen when I walked in, the phone in her hand. She watched me, a suspicious look on her face. ‘Marcus, are you OK?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘What’s going on? I’ve just had a call…’

  ‘Did you know about Sunbury and the jobs?’ Her face was a pale round blank.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, calm down.’

  ‘Fuck! Just be straight with me. Did you know about St Clair and Sunbury creating all these new jobs, creating a new economic dawn or some bullshit?’

  She stood in the doorway, watching me.

  ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ She nodded.

  ‘Why didn’t you fucking tell me? I don’t stand a chance now, not a chance, and the fucking police want to question me for murder.’ I bumped my fist against my head to stop the buzzing in my brain.

  ‘Marcus! Stop, you’ll hurt yourself!’ She was crying.

  ‘Mum, be quiet. I just need to think.’

  ‘But you’re not yourself. Please just stop for a minute.’

  ‘You don’t seem to understand. I’m losing everything, Mother. Everything. So stop the hysterics and leave me alone.’

  ‘Please don’t shout, Marcus.’ She looked afraid; I don’t think I’d ever frightened her before and at that moment I didn’t care.

  ‘I’m not shouting.’ I felt faint and leaned against the wall, head spinning.

  ‘Darling, please. Let me help you. Why don’t you go take a shower, have a shave, maybe take a nap and we’ll talk when you feel more like yourself.’

  ‘Are you part of all this?’

  ‘What, darling? Part of what?’

  I shook my head. I thought: I can retell this, move the narrative in a different direction. I just need to take control again. It’s my story, not theirs. I need to rearrange the order, the facts. I believed I could.

  ‘Nothing, I’m fine; I’m just upset and stressed. Over-reacting.’

  ‘I understand. That’s OK.’

  As I moved past her, she reached out for my hand and held on for a second, but I kept moving, pulling my hand from her grasp. She didn’t follow.

  Mother was in the study, reading the paper as if nothing had happened.

  ‘What does it say about St Clair and Sunbury?’

  ‘Only what you already know.’ She’d been hiding the paper every time the Sentinel and St Clair was mentioned, for my own good I suppose. I hadn’t told her not to, either.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I just didn’t want to upset you more.’

  ‘I’m the one who should be sorry, Mum. I came to stay for a day or so and I’ve brought nothing but trouble with me. It’s a bloody mess.’

  She folded the paper and pushed her glasses up on to the top of her head, scraping her hair back into short grey spikes like a silver crown. ‘I’m so worried, darling. Why won’t you let me in? Please, talk to me.’ She patted the sofa beside her. ‘Come on, sit with me.’

  She’s hiding something, I thought. But she’s my mother. That was all there had ever really been, her and me; all I remembered of my father was a sickly man, stooped over his desk, a ghost. My memories of him are false, informed by photos and stories I’ve been told. I walked over to the window, where it was cooler, clearer.

  ‘Are you sure you can’t find a way to sort this out?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Can’t you tell them who told you about it all?’

  ‘It won’t help, and it doesn’t matter any more.’

  ‘Why not? If you’ve got nothing to hide, then tell them.’

  ‘What do you mean, ‘if’ I’ve got nothing to hide?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s just a figure of speech. Callum phoned, he’s worried about you too.’

  ‘Is he really?’

  ‘Yes. He said to make sure you go to the station tomorrow, he sounded genuinely concerned.’

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure? Did he ask you anything?’

  ‘No, just if you were OK, that’s all. He cares.’

  ‘Mum, don’t be naïve. This is about his murder case: he’s been using me for information. Getting close to me, using me, using you.’

  ‘What information?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Why won’t you talk to me? Let me help. Whatever it is you’ve done, I’m here for you.’

  ‘What makes you think I’ve done anything?’

  ‘We all make mistakes, darling. All of us, we’re only human. Let me help.’

  ‘So you’re assuming I’m guilty too? So what? You think I’m a liar and a cheat or worse?’

  ‘No, Marcus. Please, that’s not what I’m saying at all.’

  I turned to the window, away from her, and the black Audi was there, bold as brass, parked outside our drive.

  ‘Fucking hell. Look, who is that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come here and look, that car. It’s following me. I’m being watched.’

  She walked over, pulling her glasses back onto her face.

  ‘I don’t know, darling.’ The car pulled away, turning left at the end of the road. ‘It could be anyone, a neighbour or a visitor. You’re under a lot of stress, darling, I know that, but no one is out to get you, least of all me.’

  She stroked my arm, her hand warm. ‘Come on, sit with me. Talk to me. We always used to be so close, remember?’

  I sat with her. It was easier that way.

  She sat, my mother, all her other selves folded in, striations, layers: the little girl sent to boarding school, the daughter, the sister, the wife, the mother, the Honours graduate, the widow. Mostly unknown to me. She must’ve wondered what life would be like if she’d made a different choice: married someone else, had more children, other children, ones who’d give her grandchildren and noisy Christmases and family events, or if she’d not married at all and faced different disappointments. Sitting here, I was only capable of seeing her as my mother, the fleshy conduit into this life, my life. All ego and self-centred, rendered down to the bare fact of me. Freud must say something about that, the tyranny of a child or something. I don’t know. I’d forgotten what I didn’t know and I didn’t know what I’d forgotten.

  Was she in on it? My mother.

  Once I took her to the Ritz for tea, making up for not visiting, missing her birthday, Christmas or something. Then I took her shopping, offering scarves in cashmere and silk, a handbag, purse, shoes. Bond Street, Selfridges, Harrods; she turned her nose up at everything. Finally she marched us into Marks and Spencer and let me buy her a blouse. She continued to wear it, years later. That seemed to sum her up. Loyal, steadfast. She wouldn’t have turned on me. She wouldn’t.

  ‘You are so like your father.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Oh yes. You have his hands, and his mannerisms. The way you stand, lightly, like you’re about to spring away, that’s just like him.’

  ‘I don’t remember much about him.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you do.’ She looked away, as if in the distance she could see the past. ‘He was a serious young man, thoughtful. Driven. Maybe not the marrying kind.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Only that his work was important to him. I think he would’ve liked to have continued his missionary work, but I wanted to come home.’

  ‘I thought you were happy.’

  ‘We were, he wasn’t the resentful type. He did what was right. Happiness comes from different sources; you know that a
s well as I do. He was a reserved man, distant sometimes, always loving and polite, kind; but hard to know, hard to reach. Like you can be.’

  ‘I’m an open book.’

  She reached for her glasses and slid them down her nose to peer at me. ‘If only that were true.’

  The clock ticked, the pendulum’s arc determined by a sliding brass weight. A slight shift could slow or speed time. She reached into the sleeve of her cardigan and pulled out a handkerchief, blowing her nose then tucking it back again, smoothing it under her cuff.

  ‘Would you like me to come with you tomorrow, to the police station?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Callum said it was just a formality, nothing to worry about.’

  I nodded, shrugging. There was nothing to say, she would only argue, or continue trying to reassure me. The point was, neither of us knew what was going to happen. We didn’t know what Charlie had said, or what they’d found.

  ‘Yes. I’ll be heading home in a day or so, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Of course, stay as long as you like. It’s been lovely having you here.’

  ‘Bar the police visits, my getting sacked…’

  ‘Well, now you put it like that,’ she grinned and reached to ruffle my hair. I sat still and let her, before smoothing my hair back into place.

  ‘Everything will work out, darling. Trust me,’ she said. Trust me.

  March, 1990

  ‘Ah, so that’s where you’ve been.’ Mel raised her eyebrow and smiled, tipping her head to the right. They were walking from the science block to English, side by side, through the paved picnic area. Daffodils in the sparse flowerbeds bobbed about in the breeze like corks on a stormy sea. Darren had walked past, his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Alright?’ he’d said.

  ‘Alright,’ Marcus replied. That was it, nothing else.

  ‘What do you mean?’ He blushed, of course he did.

  ‘You and Darren. It’s obvious.’ Looking around, she checked there was no one listening.

  ‘How?’

  ‘The way he looked at you then. The fact that I hardly see you outside school any more, that you hum to yourself and daydream during class. You’re in love,’ she teased, linking her arm through his.