by Kate Bulpitt
Vince had wandered into the kitchen, and called over to them.
‘Alright, you two,’ he said with a nod.
‘Alright, Dad,’ said Simon.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Eve, as calmly as she could through clenched teeth.
‘Not too bad,’ said Vince, wincing a little and rubbing his back. ‘Look who’s here, love,’ he called towards the garden.
Linda came indoors and into the lounge. ‘Hello! This is a nice surprise,’ she said, giving Eve a kiss. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’
‘Yeah,’ said Simon.
Eve narrowed her eyes at him and stalked into the kitchen behind her mum. Simon followed them and sat down.
‘Simon wanted to talk to you about Duncan.’
‘What’s the point of talking to them about it? Let’s just go and see him, see how he is.’
‘You do know that it’s only by some random stroke of luck that it’s not you that’s Purple, right? And that if you were, your easy, breezy life of leisure and hours at the pub would be somewhat curtailed? That you would be named and shamed and endlessly judged.’
‘I already am.’
Eve hadn’t expected that, but said, ‘Really? I wonder why.’
Linda placed their teas on the table. Eve’s mug was covered in stars and had ‘No 1 Son!’ emblazoned across it in cartoon writing.
Vince took a sip of tea, calm but bewildered. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Who on earth is Purple?’ asked Linda.
‘Tell them,’ said Eve.
Simon rubbed at a non-existent mark on the table. He sat quietly for a moment, avoiding their gaze, before clearing his throat.
‘I was out on Friday night with Duncan and some of the lads. We got into a fight after, really by accident—’
‘Oh, Simon…’ said Linda.
‘Was it by accident?’ Eve prodded.
‘I might have made a comment, bit of banter, you know, with some blokes we ran into on the way home. One of them went to start something with me, Dunc stepped in, it all got a bit… busy. Apparently Dunc is Purple now.’
‘Duncan was involved in the fight?’ their dad asked.
‘Yes.’
‘But?’ Eve interjected.
‘But only ’cause he was trying to stop them starting something with me. He got dragged into it a bit.’
‘What about the others? Are they Purple?’
Simon shrugged.
‘Sounds like you had a lucky escape, Si. Not good for Duncan though. None of you should be fighting. Look what happened to me. It could’ve been a lot worse. One of you could’ve been hurt, you could’ve hurt one of them. It does happen, you know that. You carry on that way and you’ll be bottled. Or Purple. And I won’t be able to say I feel sorry for you.’
‘You really do need to be careful,’ said Linda.
Vince took another sip of tea. ‘Got any biscuits, love?’ he asked Linda.
‘Is that it?’ Eve asked, incredulous. ‘Am I the only one that thinks this is at all serious? One of his friends is Purple because of him.’
‘Sounds like Duncan was fighting too,’ said Vince.
‘Trying to stop the fighting,’ said Eve. ‘Simon should turn himself in.’
‘What good is that going to do?’
‘He’s guilty. He’ll be taking responsibility for that.’
‘How does that help anyone?’
‘Well, it’ll be showing solidarity with Duncan, who’s less guilty than Simon is.’
‘So we’ll have two Purple people?’ said Vince. ‘Two for the price of one?’
‘Maybe. Or maybe if he explains, the police will let him swap with Simon.’
‘You want your brother to be Purple?’
‘He’s guilty! Would you have liked the guy who punched you in the pub to have got away with it? You were pleased when he was Turned, weren’t you?’
‘This is different.’
‘How?’
Their dad turned to Simon. ‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘No.’
‘No? You mean you don’t know,’ said Eve.
‘And it sounds as though they were the ones who started the fight?’
Simon nodded.
‘He provoked them!’ said Eve.
Linda handed Vince a packet of Banjos.
Unwrapping one, Vince said, ‘I do love a wafer.’
Eve looked around the table, the three of them saying nothing. She could feel herself getting redder, and wanted to cry in frustration. My father gets punched in the jaw and reels mum back in, my brother gets into a fight and his friend is the one who turns Purple, Eve thought. Leopards. Unchanging spots.
‘Well, brilliant,’ she said. ‘Let’s just carry on the family game of no one ever owning up to anything, or taking any responsibility, shall we? I don’t know why I thought this would be any different. For the record, Dad, you’re useless. Always too wrapped up in yourself and your quest to be some kind of Lothario. Couldn’t have given two hoots about mum, or me, or Simon, so is it any wonder how he turned out.’
‘Eve!’ said Linda.
‘You.’ She turned to her brother. ‘If there’s the slightest shred of decency in you Simon, you’ll do something to help Duncan, who’s apparently shown more loyalty to you than you deserve.’ She looked to Linda. ‘And mum… Honestly, why do you put up with all this?’
‘Look, love,’ said Linda, ‘I know things weren’t always easy, and that you don’t agree with some of the choices your dad and I have made, but… well, we’re happy. And Simon is your brother, and you just need to accept the way he is.’
‘What about Duncan?’ Eve asked, looking from her mum to Simon. ‘Should he be happy? Should he accept the way he is?’
Simon said, ‘Dunno what makes you think you can just swan back and start—’
‘Start what, telling the truth? Letting a near-death experience in the family shock us into gaining some perspective, showing a bit of sense, seeing the bigger picture? Not carrying on behaving idiotically – hurtfully – all the time?’
‘’Cause you’re so perfect.’
‘Hardly. But at least I’m not living my life like this…’ Eve flung her arms out, gesturing towards the three of them, and knocked her mug onto the floor. It smashed loudly on the kitchen tiles, dribbles of liquid running into the cracks. The bubbly writing was broken into pieces, its sentiment shattered.
‘I’ll leave you to clear that up,’ she told Simon, ‘which would be a first, wouldn’t it?’
Eve headed for the door.
Chapter Thirteen
The walls at The Happy Hen were a striking shade of custard, seeming to will the place into perpetual sunshine. With a piece of toast, Eve mopped up the even yellower remains of a fried egg and pushed her plate to one side. She stared ahead, out of the window.
There had been both encouraging and discouraging developments. After Eve’s departure, Simon had visited Duncan, who now appeared to be in somewhat better spirits, aided not only by his friend’s arrival, but by the multiple cans of beer Simon had brought with him. Duncan assured Eve that Simon was going to stay and keep him company, that they were going to eat pizza and watch films. He gave a tipsy burp as he told her this (in the background, she heard Simon exclaiming, ‘Bloody anchovies!’). Eve figured that given Duncan’s heathered state, they wouldn’t be venturing out, so even with Simon’s influence, there had to be a limited amount more trouble they could clamber into.
Eve paid her bill. She decided to make a detour.
The long, residential road curved around one side of town, the terraced houses interrupted occasionally by a convenience shop or a specialist store that either couldn’t afford high street rent, or knew its customers would travel the literal extra mile to visit. A flyer in the window of Gary’s Fish Tank & Supplies featured a smiley purple face, which implied even those Turned were welcome. The nearby chip shop was not so neighbourly, with a sign proclaiming ‘NO LAVS’ taped to the door. You can buy fish, b
ut you can’t eat it, Eve thought, before remembering Duncan and feeling a jolt of anxiety on his behalf. Hopefully he was at least for now enjoying Simon’s company, the ale and the anchovies.
Ahead of her, a denim-clad woman with a panting spaniel jogged out through the rusting cemetery gates clutching a large stick, which the dog’s eyes flicked towards, ready for action. Once on the pavement, the woman stopped, taking deep breaths and gripping the wall with her free hand, steadying herself. The spaniel sat, watching her, the woman’s face now of more interest than the stick. Distracted and facing the road, the woman didn’t see Eve enter the cemetery behind her.
Eve hadn’t been here for years but, as always with such places, found the tangled, overgrown greenery and crumbling headstones instilled a sense of calm rather than decay, the crunch of dry grass and sweet, sporadic birdsong scoring the stillness. This peace, respite from the adjacent streets, was encouraged by the high stone walls which circled the grounds, cloaked in perpetual fashion by stealth ivy. Eve stood for a moment, absorbing the tranquillity.
A hooded figure suddenly loomed from behind a tree – a man with mauve skin, dappled with acne – and Eve jumped, a hand to her fluttering heart. Was he lurking, intending to harm, or simply seeking refuge? He stood, eyes fixed on her, and Eve, briefly stunned, stared back. He took steps towards her, and Eve felt her knees weaken, wondered if she should scream – or if she could find the breath to. Aside from being, as intended, a most public curse, in circumstances such as these Purpleness could strike unquestioned terror. Here was a bell-clear warning, a telegraphed signal, a statistical likelihood that this person may do you harm.
‘Can I help you?’ said Eve, mouth dry but voice even.
Dappled moved closer with cocksure bluster, his neck craning forward so that the tip of his purple, pointy nose almost touched hers. Had she found herself in this position with someone of a more natural tint, Eve would undoubtedly have veered backwards, shrinking away from him. But instead she peered at his complexion, with its criminally-toned craters – pores for thought.
She wanted to ask: Why? Why Purple, why hiding, why here, why her, why frighten? Eve remembered the woman with the spaniel; she must have encountered him, too.
‘What do you want?’ Eve asked, voice less certain.
Dappled gave a mocking grin.
‘Trouble, of course,’ he said.
I can see that, Eve wanted to say, but given that he already seemed a loose enough cannon, held her tongue (and thinking of tongues, she wondered: if you were Purple on the outside, had you become Purple on the inside, too?).
‘You alright, love?’ shouted a man who appeared near the crypt, making his way towards them. His skin was agreeably brown, and running ahead of him was a Border Collie, who barked as she approached this strange encounter.
Relief washed through Eve’s veins. The cavalry, in shorts and a Hitchhiker’s Guide t-shirt.
Dappled hadn’t scarpered, but instead started to take lethargic steps back, turning to half-look over his shoulder at the new arrival with a brassy smile that said, I’m going, but in my own time.
T-shirt tucked a cigarette back in his pocket as he reached them; Eve noted the flicker of recognition in his face as he spied Dappled’s damson-ness. Looking towards Eve, T-shirt raised his eyebrows in kindly enquiry. She gave a small nod.
‘I know you, don’t I?’ asked T-shirt. ‘From the Thistlemore Centre?’
Thistlemore was a local rehab facility.
‘Do you?’ said Dappled, who apparently couldn’t care less.
‘What’re you up to, son?’ said T-shirt.
‘Nothing,’ said Dappled, supercilious, still retreating.
‘Didn’t look like nothing.’
Dappled shrugged. ‘What you going to do? Get me Turned Purple? Oh wait – ’ a smirk – ‘I already am.’
He laughed and continued to walk away, now facing his direction of travel, and picking up speed.
Eve thanked T-shirt.
‘That was some timing. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen next.’
‘Are you alright? Can I do anything?’
‘I think I’ll be fine, but thanks.’
‘I might follow our friend, see what he gets up to next.’
Eve nodded, stooping to pat the Border Collie before the dog followed T-shirt away through the gravestones.
*
Eventually Eve found what she’d come here for. A recently filled plot, with a simple plaque on which was engraved the name Luke Burns. Underneath the dates of his too-brief years on earth were the words:
*
Our sweet boy
May you find release from your demons
You will be forever in our hearts
*
Oh, Luke, thought Eve. Might you have survived in un-Purpled times? She considered the nurses’ conversation when he’d been admitted to the hospital, of his role as curiosity, or, worse, present-day freak show. And remembered, with guilt, how she too had wanted to glimpse him.
‘This can’t be right, can it?’ she whispered.
A bird flapped away from a nearby tree, startling Eve. She glanced about, half expecting to see Dappled. Had his Purpleness helped or hindered their encounter? Didn’t he seem like just the sort ripe and right to be Turned?
But… Duncan.
Then: Stone Age. The policeman sprayed with paint.
It was one enormous Purple pickle, and still Eve didn’t know what to think. Despite Duncan, and Helena, and – she hoped – an inherent sense of kindness, and fairness, if she was honest, really honest, Eve did feel safer because of the scheme. It wasn’t a simple in or out, yes or no, all wrong, or all right. Could they finesse the Turning, who they targeted? Or was any collateral too high a price?
As she walked away Eve looked back at the plot – horrified to see that, already, the word ‘Lav’ had been daubed in purple paint on the back of Luke’s plaque. So much for letting him, or his family, rest in peace.
*
Eve stood outside the back door at Duncan’s house, watching a bird nabbing nuts from a feeder hanging nearby. There was the sound of a key being turned, and it wasn’t Duncan who opened the door, but Simon.
‘Hi, sis,’ he said, with a nod.
‘Simon,’ she said, ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d still be here.’
‘It’s Eve,’ he called to Duncan, stepping back to allow her in. ‘Shall I make us another cuppa?’ As he ambled towards the kettle, Simon turned back to Eve, ‘Tea?’
The water rushing from the tap filled the seconds in which she might have made a snippy comment about it being nice to see Simon doing something for someone else for a change; instead she managed to hold her tongue until the moment had passed. Eve left him rinsing mugs with haphazard squirts of Fairy Liquid – was it her imagination or did he lack some of his usual bluster? – and went to greet Duncan, who had his eyes on the doorway and was just standing up as she entered.
‘There you are,’ he smiled. ‘I was contemplating whether there might be silent ninja warfare breaking out in there.’
‘No, no.’ Eve clasped Duncan in a hug, which he not only allowed, but reciprocated. Making progress, she thought. Both the boys seemed to be mellower than usual, and Eve sniffed the air. She couldn’t detect the scent of any illegal substances, but there was the whiff of white musk.
‘You’ve been doing some laundry,’ she said, still tickled by the scent-assault of these appliances.
‘Simon has,’ said Duncan.
Eve turned towards the kitchen, where Simon was sloppily trying to gather three dunked teabags onto one spoon. Duncan stood behind her.
‘You know how to work a washing machine?’ Eve teased.
‘Yeah. You may think I’m completely useless, but…’
Duncan winked at Eve.
‘Yeah, well, alright. Maybe I hadn’t used one like this before, this model, but Dunc told me how.’
‘He can be quite the housewife when he puts his mind to it.’<
br />
‘Steady on, mate!’ Simon handed Duncan a mug, adding, ‘Though your clobber smells lovely now, if I say so myself.’
They both chuckled.
Duncan glanced down at his tea. Simon noticed and looked at his own.
‘Did I give you the sugary one? Sorry.’
They exchanged mugs.
‘Poisoning me with sweet tea.’
‘I know, I know. But if that’s the worst thing I’ve done today, I’m doing alright, eh?’
‘You say that, but that toast was a disaster.’
‘Nah, it was just—’
‘Well done!’
Eve watched them, their easy chemistry.
She wandered back into the living room, which was looking tidier, plus the curtains seemed to be open a fraction more than when Eve had first set eyes on damsoned Duncan. He followed her.
‘How are you feeling?’ Eve asked. ‘You seem brighter.’
‘Simon ended up crashing here,’ Duncan said. ‘It’s been fun spending some time with him. He’s been on good form.’
So he should be, under the circumstances, Eve thought.
‘I’m glad you had some company,’ she said.
There was a thud and an exclamation from the kitchen.
‘You smashing up my house?’
‘Yeah, sorry.’
Duncan looked at Eve. ‘Would you see if Simon managed to find the biscuits?’
‘The biscuits?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind…’
‘Duncan wondered if you’d found the biscuits,’ Eve said, uncertainly, standing in the kitchen doorway, thinking that she could do without a digestive right now.
‘Uh, not yet.’
‘Should I look for them?’
‘Nah, you’re alright. You sit down.’
Eve was about to retreat into the living room, when Simon added, ‘Here. Sit here a sec.’
Eve pulled a chair out from the kitchen table, wiggling it to untangle a leg from a plastic bag on the floor. She sat down.
Simon twitched, fiddling with a spoon he’d just lifted out of the washing up bowl. Eve was finding it incongruous seeing him doing housework.