by Kate Bulpitt
‘He’s not all bad you know.’
Eve looked unconvinced.
‘I liked him. He was bolshie, confident,’ Duncan said. ‘Fearless, really. I wanted to be like that. Some of the things he’d do, even just the way he’d talk back to people, I couldn’t believe he got away with it.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Duncan shrugged. ‘We got on. We backed each other up. He was always alright with me.’
‘He was, wasn’t he?’ said Eve, not having thought about it before.
‘I probably felt a bit more rebellious, invincible around him. And maybe I was his foil, or something. The teachers thought he couldn’t get into too much trouble with me tagging along, that I was a calming influence.’
‘Yep – my mum thought you were good for him. I was thinking earlier about that day we went down to the river, when I’d got him into trouble in the newsagent’s.’
‘About what happened when he came out of the shop?’
‘Yes, he was still in a grump about the cigarettes. I know I was an annoying goody-two-shoes, but that’s what little sisters are for.’
‘It wasn’t that.’
‘Really? What, then?’
‘He didn’t tell you this?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘He saw your dad and some woman, quite cosy, going into the pub across the road.’
All these years later and Eve still felt stabbing pains at stories such as this. She swallowed. ‘But why didn’t he say something? When did he tell you?’
‘That night. I don’t know why he didn’t say anything to you. I suppose, what would have been the point? Though you might have realised why he was so angry that day.’
‘He was always angry.’
‘He really flew off the handle though, didn’t he?’
‘I was used to it. I always felt that he didn’t care about anyone. Not just didn’t care but… his behaviour was so awful sometimes. Unfathomable. We were in the garden one day… Mum and Dad were lying on a blanket, Simon and I were playing – or I was playing, and Simon was mucking about, and there was an egg which had fallen out of a bird’s nest, and he stamped on it, really hard. Mum looked over and told him not to do that, that it was horrible, and he did it again, harder, grinning. I remember looking at him and thinking, I’m sure they brought the wrong child home from the hospital. For years I hoped there had been a terrible mistake, and my real brother would be returned to us. That we’d be in all the papers as this crazy swapped-at-birth story.’
‘What did your dad do?’
‘I don’t remember. Probably nothing.’ Eve sighed. ‘I used to worry that it was having me and Simon that made my dad the way he was, but then secretly I started to blame Simon, that my dad was so embarrassed to have a son like him that he didn’t want to be with us.’
‘Did you ever say that to him?’
‘Once or twice, when I was really angry. I know how awful that is.’
‘He was sensitive about it, more than he probably let on to you.’
‘About our mum and dad?’
‘Yes.’
Eve winced. ‘I know I shouldn’t have said it, that was terrible. I used to be such a mouthy, know-it-all little sister. And I did used to wind him up. I just didn’t want to let him get away with being dreadful all the time. If he was going to be horrible to me I wanted to try and stand up to him.’
‘I remember you being very tolerant of it all. You used to sit with a book, or in front of the telly, completely zoned out from whatever tantrum Simon was having, or if your mum and dad were having a row. One time they were in the kitchen fighting about something, really shouting – it must have been something Simon had done if I was party to it – and you walked in, picked up an orange and started peeling it, as if nothing was happening.’
‘At the time I think I was testing myself, how much I could ignore it. I’d think – ’ Eve blushed – ‘what would Annie do? And try to rise above it.’
‘Annie? Oh, Annie.’ Duncan smiled. ‘Annie Morris, of course.’
‘Yes. She always had something much more calamitous on her plate.’
Outside there were shouts from the young footballers before a car alarm went off.
‘More tea?’ said Eve.
‘Yes, please.’ He reached over to put a hand on her arm, emitting a sudden moan at the sight of his fingertips before hiding them beneath his sleeves again.
‘For a while there I forgot about this,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got changed, haven’t had a shower… I can’t bear to look.’
‘It’s okay, that’s perfectly understandable. It’s a…’ Eve struggled for a suitable word. ‘It’s an impossible thing to try and get your head around. But let me help.’
Eve went upstairs and began to run a bath, searching amongst the few, blue masculine products for something foamy which might create some body-obscuring bubbles. She found some at the back of the bathroom cabinet – lavender, ironically, in a dusty bottle with a purple lid – and poured it under the tap (wondering, had this belonged to an ex?). Then she had what she considered a fairly ingenious idea, and returning downstairs, dug around in her handbag for the eye mask that she’d been given on her flight.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘There’s a bath running, and before you get in, you can put this on.’
They went up to the bathroom. Duncan stood apprehensively in front of her. ‘How will I see?’
‘I thought you didn’t want to see.’
‘What if I fall over?’
‘That’s why you’re having a bath, not a shower.’
‘But I—’
‘Trust me.’
With sleeves still covering his hands, Duncan took the mask from Eve. ‘What’s that smell? It reminds me of—’
‘Oh, I found it at the back of the cupboard. It’s quite girlie, I know – must have belonged to a former lady of the house,’ said Eve, thinking that, at this particular moment, failed relationships were a better connotation than the word ‘lavender’.
‘So I put this on, get undressed, and climb carefully into the bath.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I don’t want you to see me.’
‘I won’t.’ Eve left the room, pushing the door to behind her. Then she stood there, on the landing, listening to the muted splashes, trying to imagine Duncan – the whole of him – and his bruised skin.
Chapter Twelve
Eve stayed the night at Duncan’s, worried about leaving him on his own feeling so distraught. They’d sat talking, and not talking, until late, eventually falling asleep on the sofa midway through a ridiculous film on television that featured werewolves running amok in a small town. Duncan must have woken in the night, for the following morning Eve found them covered in a blanket, soft but ticklish wool. It was a blue, green and orange tartan, and she ran her finger along one of the orange lines until it stretched beyond where she could lazily reach. She gazed up at the ceiling, at the pale, papery lampshade, the new-looking grey carpet, and the chic, chunky coffee table which Duncan had made from reclaimed wood. Rough but beautiful, sanded but smoothly lumpy blocks of timber. She’d learnt last night that Duncan had built much of the furniture in the house. Solid, dependable, graceful, and in most cases made from rescued wood. Saved, nurtured, given another chance.
Eve turned carefully and looked towards Duncan, who was deep in sleep. He appeared peaceful, his skin paler, a little pinker, making it more lilac than greyish mauve. Not wanting to disturb him, she laid her head back down, now resting just under his shoulder. He stirred, instinctively crooking his arm around her. Eve bit her lip, wondering if she’d be able to get up without waking him.
She could hear a radio playing next door, and tuned her ear to the sound, trying to identify the song that was playing. It sounded like an oldie, optimistically melodic, with jangling harmonies. Which reminded her of dancing around the kitchen with her mum one time, to ‘He’s So Fine’, an old record by The Chiffons. Her mum had twirled, long hair swing
ing, and they’d laughed, while Eve’s dad sat at the table, sufficiently distracted from the sports pages of the paper to smile at them, winking at her mum, and then Simon.
It was strange, Eve thought, that she had so many snapshots like this – happy times, which seemed so idyllic – when actually she’d spent much of her childhood worrying about her parents’ relationship, the tumultuousness, sensing her father’s one foot out of the door, and her mother’s trying to keep his wandering eye focused at home. The sunny moments had seemed significantly dwarfed by the cloudy ones. It was interesting too, she pondered, that in this particular flashback, Simon seemed so agreeable. She had few memories like that, what with the stockpile of mortifying recollections filed, featuring him as the villain of the piece.
Duncan twitched, and turned onto his side, now facing Eve. She stared at his skin, so close, and so incongruous; so alien, next to his dark, unaffected eyebrows, eyelashes, and morning stubble. She thought of the murky water that they’d clean paintbrushes in at school, the bottom halves of washing-up liquid bottles filled with water that would turn milky and grey by the end of class. Or the fake bruises she and her friend Sophie would create using a palette of cream eyeshadows. They’d swirl the green and mauve with a slick of red lipstick, then wave apparently hurt arms in front of their mums, who would look appalled and worried until the girls giggled and admitted the ruse. She glanced at his lips, which were a deeper, rosier purple than his skin. Eve was staring at them as he woke; she and Duncan both blinked at their unplanned proximity.
‘Morning,’ said Duncan.
‘Hi,’ said Eve. She liked the closeness.
He was about to smile, then caught sight of his hand resting beside her. He let out a low groan and pulled his arm away from her, tugging sleeves back over his hands, which he folded in front of his face. At that moment the phone rang. Neither of them moved. The answer machine kicked in.
‘Who knows what I’m doing,’ said a cheerful, recorded Duncan, ‘but leave a nice message, and I’ll probably get back to you.’
There was a pause. ‘Dunc, you there? It’s Simon. You didn’t call me back the other night. You alright? Got a bit hairy, didn’t it? That lot, honestly, on the lookout for trouble. Bit lively, eh? Sorry ’bout that, mate. But ring me, yeah? Let’s have a pint. Without the excitement, this time… probably. Right. Bye.’
Eve, sitting upright, looked from the phone to Duncan, who closed his eyes, now with something else to try and wish away. The room was still, silent except for the sound of Dusty Springfield singing next door. Eve noted that her heart was galloping, beating so much faster than the music.
‘Simon?’
Duncan could look her directly in the eye, but had no words. He turned away.
‘Simon was the one who got into the fight? Who you tried to help? Who made this happen to you?’ She was presenting these as questions, which was pointless, she knew. ‘Oh, Duncan.’
‘I was with Simon,’ he conceded. ‘He couldn’t have known—’
‘So Simon started the fight?’
‘Eve, this isn’t going to help…’
‘Did he start the fight?’ she asked quietly.
Duncan sighed and nodded.
‘Simon. Unbelievable. But believable. Ruining things, all the time.’
‘He doesn’t mean to…’
Eve looked at Duncan, faintly puzzled. ‘You always support him.’
‘He’s my friend.’
‘I know… But that seems like a much better deal for him than you. He makes a pretty lousy effort to avoid trouble. And somehow it’s always someone else who suffers the consequences.’
Duncan said nothing.
‘Why didn’t you call him the morning after this happened? He might have been Purple, too.’
‘I knew he wasn’t.’
‘How?’
Duncan looked away.
Eve leant back against the sofa. ‘Because if he was, he’d have called you.’
She put a hand on his arm, giving a gentle squeeze. ‘I’m so, so sorry this has happened to you. I’m going to make it right, I promise.’
‘I don’t think I can live like this.’
Eve thought of Luke, the Lav from the hospital.
‘Don’t say that,’ she said. ‘We’re going to look after you. We’re going to fix this.’
‘I just want to be on my own,’ Duncan said, wrapping himself tightly in the blanket.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea…’
‘Please.’
‘I don’t want to leave you.’
‘I just need some time. It’s hard to see you – ’ his voice became a whisper – ‘and see what I’m not any more.’
‘Duncan…’ Eve reached towards him, but he recoiled. ‘What can I do?’
‘Just leave me. Please. Go.’
Eve stood, feeling wretched, wanting desperately not to leave him.
‘I’m coming back. Soon. So don’t go getting comfortable on your own.’
Eve tried to hug him, but he gave a small shake of his head.
*
The paintwork on Duncan’s front door was immaculate; even if you peered really closely, you could barely see the slim stripes from the brushwork. Proud but unassuming quality, a fine attention to detail, all transmitted in sage-green gloss. Having pulled the door shut behind her, Eve stood on the step, questioning her agreement to leave. She could stand here, waiting, until he was ready for company again. Eve thought of Luke, and of Kelly or Nurse Attride having to tell any of Duncan’s friends that something similarly dreadful had happened to him. Surely Duncan wouldn’t feel that desperate. But Eve really had no idea; after twenty-something years, the two drinks she’d had at the pub with him the other day gave her exceedingly limited insight. She considered him up the tree in Horton Forest, fighting for its survival, and imagined he could find that strength for himself. But wasn’t it often easier to go into sure and blinkered battle for an external cause than it was to assume that same belief for oneself? Eve laid a finger lightly on the doorbell, but didn’t push. Though doubtful, instinct told her he’d be okay, for now, that if he really wanted her to go, there were more practical things she could do than standing here, limply fretful.
*
Another door. More admirable paintwork; this time the number plaque Linda had crafted during the Easter holidays one year, which was only slightly weatherbeaten, despite its age, still greeting visitors in all its hand-painted floral glory.
Eve knocked again, louder this time. Simon came to the door. His skin was as peachy as hers.
‘Alright, sis,’ he said, stepping back to let her in. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘I see you’re looking well,’ Eve said, bitterly.
Simon was nonplussed. ‘Thanks,’ he said, perplexed. ‘Good to know I can have a couple of big nights out and not suffer too much, eh.’
‘Oh, yes. Good to know you’re not the one suffering after one of your nights out.’
Simon looked cautiously concerned about what she might be implying, and followed her through to the lounge.
Eve glanced around. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Out back with Dad.’
Looking into the kitchen, through the window Eve could see their parents sitting on garden chairs, Vince dozing, Linda reading. There must have been something buzzing close to Vince as, with her magazine, Linda swatted it away.
Simon leant against the wall. Now he appeared faintly bored, long desensitised to hysterical tongue-lashings from the females in his family. Eve looked at him, slouching, disinterested, and wondered if there was any point in even trying to get him to see the error of his ways. So much wasted breath; she imagined those heated words airborne, floating up to fill a hot air balloon, and lifting her far, far away. Then she thought again of Duncan. Poor, purple Duncan.
‘Look,’ said Eve, ‘I’m here about Duncan.’
Still slouching, Simon didn’t even look at her as she addressed him, instead pulling at a t
hread on his t-shirt. Eve thought of Duncan’s sweatshirt sleeves, how he couldn’t even bear to look at his own hands.
She began again, more venomously this time. ‘Duncan is Purple. Because of the fight outside the pub the other day. Because of you. He is Purple, and you’re to blame. But never mind, because you’re okay.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. Duncan is Purple. It’s your fault.’
‘He can’t be.’
‘He is, I’ve seen him with my own eyes.’
Eve couldn’t remember Simon being speechless due to anything other than sulkiness or insolence. He appeared genuinely shocked.
‘Anything you’d like to say?’
‘I didn’t know. I didn’t see anything… If I’d known I wouldn’t have—’
‘Wouldn’t have what? Let Duncan bear the brunt for something borne of your stupidity? And recklessness? How, how do you get through life caring so little for anyone around you? I just don’t understand. It boggles my mind, it really does.’
‘Is he alright?’
‘Oh Simon, please! He’s Purple! He’s terrified, and miserable, completely beside himself. He hasn’t spoken to anyone, let alone left his house. How do you think he feels, you moron? How do you think he feels for suffering for something that you got him into?’
Simon looked down.
‘I’m telling you, this is it. Enough. You are going to put this right. You’re going to explain that it’s your fault Duncan’s been Turned. For once you’re going to behave like a responsible, truthful, human being.’
Simon said nothing.
‘I’m not kidding, Simon. All these years – all the worrying, and fretting, Mum wondering what would happen to you—’
‘She wasn’t bothered. She knew I’d be alright.’
‘God alive, Simon, what goes on in that head of yours?’ Eve asked, incredulously. ‘She never stopped worrying about you, wondering what disaster was around the corner, what the police would roll up to tell her next, preparing for the worst. You never take responsibility for anything. Leave destruction in your wake and just amble off, completely unconcerned about anyone else. I know that for some reason—’