Tandem

by Alex Morgan

  Paula felt as if a light bulb had switched on inside her head. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You promised my parents you’d bring me back.”

  “I told them I’d try.”

  “Well, thank you all very much. It feels really good to be ganged up on.” She pushed back a tendril of damp hair. “It’s over, Ollie. It never should have started and now it’s over.”

  “But I love you.”

  She stood up. “No. You loved Pete and so did I, and that’s what this was always about. To you, I was just an extension of him.”

  Ollie leapt to his feet and grabbed her wrists. “What do you mean by that?”

  Paula heard herself speak. “I saw you in the garage.”

  The words she thought she could never bring herself to say.

  It’s a boy, you muppet

  Three podgy teenage girls in matching pink fairy outfits huddled on the pavement outside Renton’s Newsagents. The largest had satin wings that hung at an angle halfway down her back. She dropped an empty crisp packet in the gutter, wiped her chubby fingers on her net tutu and took a swig from a can of Coke.

  “Come on,” she said to her companions. “I’m no’ missing my brother arsin’ up the sack race.”

  Paula followed them along Main Street. Most other people were going in the same direction. Two young men, one dressed as a penguin, the other as a badger, jogged awkwardly past on the opposite pavement. They were carrying a crate of beer between them, costume heads clutched under their free arms.

  “Swap you,” the largest fairy yelled, waving her can at them.

  “You’ll have to catch us first,” the badger called back. “We’re late for the arm wrestling.”

  “I’ll arm wrestle ya,” she shouted.

  The penguin waved his disembodied head at the girls but he and his companion didn’t stop.

  The football field was on the far side of the village at the top of a long hill. A banner tied to the railings trumpeted, Welcome to Craskferry gala games!!! The smell of fried onions hung in the hot, still air.

  A woman stood behind a trestle table at the gate. As the fairies handed over money, she gave them each a ticket and a yellow plastic token. They skipped past, giggling and poking each other with their wands.

  Paula bent towards the ticket seller. “I need to find someone – I’m not staying. Can I go in without a ticket?”

  “You’ll need a ticket, hen. It’s £2 for adults, £1 for weans or if you’re takin’ part, and £2 on top if you’re huvin’ the hog roast.” The woman indicated a card that read Get roasted, propped beside a shoebox of tokens.

  Paula checked the pockets of her jeans. “I haven’t brought any money, and I have to find my friend. Can’t I just take a quick look?”

  The woman sighed. “You cannae go in without a ticket.”

  Paula’s eyes welled up. “I’ll get my purse.”

  Turning away from the table, she felt a touch on her shoulder. It was Kyoko pushing a baby in a buggy.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “You’re very pale.”

  Paula managed a smile. “I’m fine, just a really bad head. I should learn when to stop. How are you?”

  “A bit groggy – Nora and Terry don’t do things by halves. Mitsuko and I have come to watch her daddy in the tug-o-war. Goodness knows how he’ll get on.” Kyoko stroked her daughter’s dark hair. “Did you change your mind about going in?”

  “I forgot my purse. I’m going back to get it.”

  “You don’t need to do that. I’ll treat you. Are you going to the hog roast?”

  “Just the games.”

  Kyoko paid for their tickets and they walked in together. Paula glanced around the packed field. It wasn’t going to be easy to find Sanders.

  “Not Ollie’s kind of thing?” Kyoko asked.

  “Sorry, I was miles away.”

  “The games, didn’t Ollie want to come?”

  “He had to get back to London.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  Paula didn’t reply.

  “People come from all over to Cra’frae games – it’s a big event in these parts,” Kyoko said. “Did you watch the parade?”

  “I missed it. Do you know if Sanders was there?”

  “Sanders?” Kyoko thought for a moment. “I think I did see him.”

  Paula tried to sound casual. “What was he wearing?”

  “I don’t know. I was in the shop, covering the lunch break.” Kyoko bent to lift Mitsuko out of the buggy. “I just saw his head bobbing past the window. He’d done something with his hair though – tied it up in bunches or something. Was he planning to dress up?”

  “I think so.” Paula scanned the crowd once more, but there was no sign of him. “I’m going to have a walk around.”

  “Are you not coming to the tug-o-war? Terry and Adrian are in it too.” Kyoko checked her watch. “They’ll be starting over by the pavilion any minute.”

  “I’ll maybe see you there.”

  In the distance, Paula caught sight of the penguin disappearing into a large green tent. Without knowing why, she began pushing through the throng towards him. D:Ream’s Things Can Only Get Better was playing at full volume inside. A hand-written notice on the door flap said Disco. She lifted it and went in.

  It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the flashing red and blue lights. There were several dozen people dancing, but she couldn’t tell if Sanders was one of them. She spotted the bulky silhouette of the penguin standing beside the DJ at the far end of the tent. Walking down the side of the floor towards them, she scrutinised the dancers. There were a few faces she recognised from the village but no Sanders.

  The noise and lights were making her dizzy. Edging behind the DJ and the penguin, she made for a thin line of brightness that seemed to indicate another flap at the back of the tent.

  She was just about to step outside, when someone blocked her path.

  “Well, I never, it’s the girl who likes donkeys.” It was Bill Thompson. “Not going in for the fancy dress, then?”

  He was squeezed into a white three-piece suit that might have looked stylish in a retro way on a younger, slimmer man. He held a thin hand-rolled cigarette, and the smell of cannabis was overwhelming.

  He leant close to her ear. “Fancy a dance?”

  “No, thank you. I’m looking for someone.”

  “What about a wee puff o’ the naughty stuff then?” He grinned and took a pull on the joint. “You here with your little friend?”

  “Have you seen him?” she demanded.

  “Sorry.” He held out the joint. His fingers were stained yellow with nicotine. “Sure you don’t fancy a puff?”

  Paula shook her head and pushed past him through the tent flap. The sunlight was dazzling after the gloom inside. She closed her eyes for a couple of seconds. Reopening them, she glanced around – no sign of Sanders. As she weaved through the crowd, she searched for his white blond head, but there were so many people, it was as if they were all trying to impede her. Every time she saw a route through, or caught sight of a figure of roughly the right height and hair colour, the crowd seemed to close in round her.

  Her temples were pounding. The colours, smells and sounds of the gala were so churned up inside her head she could no longer tell one from another. All she knew was they were too bright, too strong, too loud, way too loud for her to think clearly. Her hands trembled and her T-shirt was stuck to her back.

  “Come on,” she told herself. “Get a grip.” She hadn’t inhaled enough of Bill Thompson’s smoke to affect her. It was more likely to be dehydration from the wine combined with delayed shock from her near accident with Ollie. Find Sanders, make sure he’s okay and get back to the flat: that was all she needed to do. After that, she could lie down and sleep forever if she wanted.

  She drew in a long breath and set off towards the tiny football stand, where a banner strung under the eaves suggested Make a hog of yourself here.

  Two long queues led to
red-clothed tables. Behind them, a pair of men in striped aprons sliced meat from a row of pigs roasting over a pit. A woman in a nylon overall spooned in glistening fried onions before passing them to a colleague to wrap in napkins and hand out in exchange for tokens.

  Paula was turning to retrace her steps, satisfied Sanders was not in this part of the field, when a commotion off to the side caught her eye. A group of teenagers were gathered round something on the ground, booing and laughing. A few other people drew closer to see. She went across and peered over the shoulders of a couple of teenage boys. The largest of the trio of plump fairies was kneeling on top of a smaller girl, who was lying on her front with her face in the grass. She had blonde hair tied in bunches.

  The other two fairies stood nearby. “What’s going on?” Paula asked them.

  One shrugged and bit into an oozing pork roll.

  “Dunno,” the other offered unhelpfully.

  “You must have seen what happened,” she persisted. “What’s your friend doing?”

  “It’s that weird kid,” the girl with the roll said. “Daniella said she was going to kill him.”

  Paula felt as if she was spinning again. “Kill him?” she echoed.

  “Yeah. He called her a fairy elephant.” The girl used the back of her hand to wipe a rivulet of pork fat off her chin. “Daniella said she’d be doing the world a favour.”

  “Sanders,” Paula yelled as she pushed between the teenage boys.

  Daniella had rolled him over and knelt on his chest. He looked tiny pinned beneath her vast pink bulk. The heavy girl held him by the ears and banged his head off the ground. His face was a blur of mascara.

  “Now who’s the fucking fairy, you pervert?” she roared.

  The crowd stood mesmerised by the bizarre scene taking place in front of them.

  Paula lunged forward, but nothing happened. Had she merely imagined moving? She tried again. Still nothing. It was just like in her dream. She opened her mouth to call for help, but no words came out.

  Sanders raised a fist and punched Daniella square on the nose. The girl bellowed like a wounded animal and tumbled off him. Blood oozed down her face and onto the front of her dress. He was on top of her immediately, pummelling her torso with both fists. The teenage boys clapped and cheered.

  “Get off me, you little fucker,” Daniella yelled as she rolled him over again and grabbed his throat.

  “Oot ma road!” a voice from behind Paula ordered. “That’s ma wee sister gettin’ belted.”

  Daniella’s brother stepped into the circle. He wore a large yellow rosette that said, Sack Race: 1st. He made a grab for the back of Daniella’s dress but her wings came away in his huge hand. Hurling them to the ground, he tried again, this time lifting her out of the way and dropping her onto the grass as if she were a bag of shopping.

  He seized Sanders by his T-shirt and pulled him to his feet. “Right, ye wee shite.”

  “Get him, Fraser,” Daniella urged. “Get that skirt off him and pull his knickers down.”

  “Eh?” Fraser paused and glanced over to his sister for clarification.

  “It’s a boy, you muppet.”

  “A boy?” He looked at Sanders. “Is it?”

  Sanders glared silently back, his muddy, make-up streaked face expressionless, an almost imperceptible tremor in his bottom lip the only chink in his defiance.

  In what seemed like a single movement, Fraser ripped his skirt and pants to his ankles.

  Sanders stood ringed by the other spectators, naked from the waist down. His eyes met Paula’s, yet their focus seemed to go far deeper, as if he could see right inside her, all the way to the curiosity she was trying to keep hidden, curiosity he was challenging her to deny.

  Paula fixed her gaze straight ahead and urged herself not to look down no matter what.

  “Girlie, girlie, poofter, freak,” someone chanted.

  “Poofter, weirdo, freak …” The crowd picked up the call.

  “What the fuck …” called a boy standing next to Paula.

  “That’s just no’ right,” his pal exclaimed.

  “Is that a boy or a girl?”

  The question hung in the air.

  “That’s Carole McCormack’s lad,” a young female voice said.

  “The junkie? No wonder then.”

  “Girlie, girlie, poofter, freak,” the chant continued.

  “Is that really a boy?” another voice asked.

  “Well, it’s no’ a girl.”

  “But that cannae be his willy.”

  “Stop staring at the poor laddie,” an elderly female voice ordered. “You shouldnae all be staring.”

  “You’re starin’ yourself, missus,” a young male voice called out.

  Paula felt Sanders watching her as, of their own accord, her eyes travelled down his body. His penis was a lump of flesh no bigger than a raspberry, a miniature nub of a thing.

  She forced her eyes back to his face and opened her mouth, praying for something to come out.

  “Sanders.” It was barely a whisper.

  For a fraction of a second he drew his focus back to meet her gaze, then everything went dark.

  She opened her eyes to find Kyoko and Felice crouching beside her on the grass. “Paula, can you hear me?”

  Kyoko patted her cheek. “Are you all right?”

  “I think I must have tripped,” Paula said.

  “It looked to me like you fainted,” Felice corrected.

  “I …” Paula sat up.

  “What?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t feel too good.”

  Kyoko held out a bottle of water. “Drink some of this. You’ve probably had too much sun.”

  She took a sip. “Where’s Sanders? Is he okay?”

  “I was just coming to break it up. He ran off,” Felice said. “Have some more water.”

  Paula turned her head away and threw up on the grass. Mitsuko started to cry.

  A note in the night

  Paula sat bolt upright and switched on the bedside light. There was a gentle crunching sound as if someone was tiptoeing down the shell path. She crept to the window, lifted a corner of the curtain and peeked out in time to see a figure closing the gate and turning down Shore Road. It was 4.45am. Mrs McIntyre wouldn’t be going out at this time of the morning. And the figure was too small to be her landlady.

  She wondered if it might be Sanders, so she pulled on her dressing gown and went into the hall. Snapping on the light, she opened the inner door. A white envelope lay on the vestibule mat. One word was written on it in a large, childish hand: Paula. Inside, a sheet of lined paper contained a single sentence:

  Stay away from Sanders or I’ll tell the police you molested him.

  Paula stared at the paper, brain frozen by the enormity of those few words. Her body took in an involuntary gulp of air and she realised she had been holding her breath. The sudden movement shook her out of the paralysis and she began to shiver uncontrollably. Still clutching the note, she wrapped her arms around her torso and felt goose-pimples through her sleeves. Tea, she needed tea.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, she tried to make sense of the coursing emotions. There was shock and guilt for standing and watching along with the others, for not going to his aid as she should have done. She also felt anger. How could Sanders make such a dreadful threat? She hadn’t given him the support he was looking for, but this … this was too much. Every time she tried understand it, her brain seized, unable to get past the fact that a boy she cared about, had thought of as a friend, had done something so horrible to punish her. Had she really let him down so badly that he could hate her this much, that she could deserve such a mean threat? Spreading a rumour like that could ruin a life. Yet she had seen him deliver the note with her own eyes.

  Paula felt as if she would never be warm again. She thought fondly of the bath back in her own flat, imagined herself lying up to her neck in steaming bubbles. Somehow a shower didn’t have the same allure. S
he checked the clock above the cooker: almost 6.45. She had been sitting there for two hours. Getting stiffly to her feet, she refilled the kettle.

  Paula put the fresh mug of tea on the bedside table, climbed into bed and, pulling the duvet tightly around her, hugged her knees to her chest. Closing her eyes, she waited for sleep to claim her, but the note wouldn’t leave her. A pain in her temples made her feel queasy, and her legs ached from hips to toes. Every fibre felt exhausted, yet she could not imagine being more wide awake.

  Still shivering, she sat up and took a sip of cold tea. She needed to get up and do something, but what? She could go and confront Sanders, but what if he carried out his threat? If he was angry enough to write it, maybe he could do it. And then what? She was a stranger, an incomer. What if the police believed him? Even if they didn’t, they would have to make a show of investigating. She couldn’t stay in Craskferry after that. She would have to go back to London, and if word of what had happened followed her there …

  Her head pounded so hard she could barely see straight, let alone think. She needed air. She pulled on her running things and, without bothering to brush her teeth or comb her hair, let herself out the back gate.

  The sky was flat and heavy with the prospect of rain, and the beach deserted apart from half-a-dozen seagulls down by the water’s edge. Their mood appeared every bit as disturbed as her own. She watched as they circled and landed only to take off again almost instantly, flapping desperately against the mocking pull of the gusty wind. It bullied and toyed with them, tugging their ruffled bodies backwards or casting them from side to side until, tiring of its game, they dropped back onto the sand, where they paced, dazed and squawking, and the process began again.

  Paula turned and began jogging towards the cliffs, the wind hurling handfuls of stinging sand against her calves. Picking up her pace, she tried to outrun it, but it would not be beaten. It swirled, drying the sweat on her arms and legs almost before it had a chance to form and snapping tendrils of hair across her cheeks. Turning when she reached the cliffs, she faced its full force. Leaning into it and drawing on every bit of strength, she fought her way back along the beach. Every step seemed slower than the last. By the time she reached the post with the red and white lifebelt that marked the start of Shore Road, she was virtually going backwards. She walked a bit further then sat down on a set of steps to catch her breath.