Caravan of the Lost and Left Behind

by Deirdre Shanahan

  Caitlin leant against a wall.

  ‘Everything okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Everythings’s fine. Fine.’ He forced a smile and shoved the phone to the bottom of his jacket pocket, never wanting to hear it again. Not the rest of the evening. Not ever. He put his arm over her shoulder, drawing her in. What went on in London was not happening here. Could not touch him.

  A gang of lads bunched around the main door, either side of two burly men in dark suits. A couple of girls in short skirts smoked, and three boys kicked a ball near the chip van. Boiled eggs in vinegar stared from jars on the van’s counter. A sharp tang of salt in the air. He was hungry but Pauley and Shane were at the side of the van. Shane strode over, his hair brushed back. In a dark jacket with his best shirt, the grey one, he looked neat.

  Torin should have realised. A tee-shirt was no effort. He looked like tat. Caitlin laughed at a joke Shane told. Her face was bright and smiley. She had probably noticed but not wanted to say anything. Shane held out his wrist while she admired his watch.

  ‘I got chicken as well,’ Shane offered.

  She put a big, fat chip in her mouth. The golden skin glistened, made Torin more hungry. But he didn’t want to spend his money on chips. It was low enough and he had to watch how he spent it. The internet cost. Drink wasn’t free. If he rode on a bus it cost more than in England. Money was a nag which never left. Never got better.

  A sour, vinegary smell wafted. His throat was dry and his stomach queasy. That evening, it had been his idea to get something to eat. They could not decide where to go. He would not have minded an Indian but one of them said the smell of onion bhajis made him sick. They had walked up Palmerston Road, edging in and out of shops. The evening had been chill and he would have gone in somewhere to get out of the cold. They might have tried a Chinese, KFC or a Big Mac but instead they had stopped at the kebab place beside the alley. Fat oily chips had been stamped to the ground, a mushy splurge under their feet.

  He pushed into the crowded hall, hot with talk and sweat. Pauley struggled to carry three glasses from the bar, so Torin helped.

  The band straggled across the stage to their instruments and excitement crackled. Lights dimmed. Keyboards thundered against the low bass of a drum, the sharp strains of a guitar. Notes strained and thrashed. His hands pressed Caitlin’s shoulders as they danced in drifts and waves of yellow, orange, green and gold. He was quiet with pleasure. Slabs of music pummelled the walls, hardened. He wanted to go on, but the music rose in a torrent and she broke away, heading to the Ladies.

  On her way back, she chatted to a tall, slinky girl, then Caitlin leant towards Shane. Torin’s palms sweated around the glass. She had nothing to talk to him about. But he had to keep calm. Keep breathing. His mum used to say it was all about breath, repeating the words of a yoga teacher whose house she cleaned. You live longer if you take deep breaths, because the body produces a certain number and if we use them all up, we die. By this calculation he would go early.

  ‘They’re giving away samples of a new beer.’ Pauley tugged Torin’s arm and pushed off through the crowd. Shane and Caitlin did not shift.

  ‘You all right?’ Pauley asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Torin said, pushing out into the crowd after him. He took two glasses from the girl at the counter.

  ‘I’ve got you a drink.’ He raised the glass as Caitlin arrived back. Cool it, he told himself. ‘Beer. A new promotion.’

  ‘I don’t drink beer.’ She frowned with disdain as she sipped. It was true. She had told him. He may as well have offered her dirty water. ‘It’s awful.’ She shook her head, moving her lips in distaste. ‘I’m gonna throw up.’

  ‘Is it the new one, Avondale?’ Shane forced Torin to face him. ‘Cat’s piss, as my gran’d say. Probably why they’re doling it out to anyone who’ll take it.’

  Torin put the glass on a sill. He need not have bothered. He looked worse than useless. Two guitarists strummed; one, tall with long brown hair, stood solemnly. A drummer in tight trousers fiddled with drum sticks and took in the depth of the crowd. The guitarists checked sound levels, while in the distance, cool and calm, Caitlin and Shane gazed at them. Shane leant towards Caitlin and murmured. She smiled and nodded seriously. Heat rose in Torin. He hated her. Hated them.

  ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ Pauley asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Torin’s heart pumped. His legs were stiff. If they kept talking for any longer, he would not be able to continue to stand. He would… he would… He did not know what he would do. He pushed towards Pauley, wanting to crash into the swarm of other people to get to them.

  ‘Hold on,’ Pauley said. Caitlin and Shane had gone. Slipped out. He could see them down at the old house. Could see it all and the way it was happening. He pushed past the couple next to him. ‘Hey man. Hold on.’ Pauley grabbed his arm, to pull him back. ‘They’re only dancing.’

  ‘Are they?’ Torin stood on tiptoe to see her among others on the floor. And Shane. The bastard. Her body turned to him, while he moved in front of her. They weren’t touching but they could have. As good as. Torin strained to see. ‘Caitlin. Caitlin,’ he called.

  ‘Isn’t that her?’ Pauley pointed to the far reaches of the hall where a gang of people clustered.

  ‘Course not. The girl with the handbag doesn’t look like her.’

  ‘I mean the one at the bar.’

  Bar. Fuck it. What was she doing there? She sat on a stool at the bar, as though she had been drinking cocktails all her life. Shane was beside her. Inside, Torin was falling. The world was crumbling. His chest tightened. Shane put his hand on her shoulder. From a distance, he was thin in the face. His hair was blacker and longer. Slinky. Sly.

  ‘Want some?’ Pauley’s voice came from far off. ‘Crisps.’

  Torin shook his head distractedly, though his gut churned.

  ‘I don’t.’ He wanted to leave but he pushed through the crowd, and called, ‘Caitlin.’ She took a long time turning, pulling on the straw in her drink.

  ‘Where were you?’ He was not gonna let this go. He was not gonna lose ground.

  ‘We went round the side for a better view,’ she said.

  Shane’s eyes narrowed like a fox Torin had seen the first evening at the old house. Rusty tailed, the fox walked slowly, waiting for them to catch up and then it turned and looked at them, green-eyed, hard and centred in the soft night. Until he shot off. Gone. Clean out of the place leaving a hole in the dark.

  ‘What do you think of them, then?’ Shane asked.

  Think? He could have bloody smashed his head in.

  ‘The band? Crap.’

  ‘The bass is too heavy and the drummer hasn’t any rhythm, but they’re only starting out. How many of us’d have the gumption to stand up in front of a crowd and knock out a song? My uncle used. He was a guitarist in a show-band in America. But he got shot in the leg in a bar and came home. He was always moping around at home, trying to get work. He’d bring his guitar over and show us how to play…’

  His voice cut. Shane knew everything. Torin tried to look interested but Shane’s voice ran on. ‘I learnt a lot watching him.’

  ‘You coming back?’ Torin asked Caitlin. This was coming out wrong. All wrong. He sounded curt and bruised. He wasn’t. He was not upset. Nothing wrong with him.

  ‘Now?’

  She wore more make-up than when they had come out. Her eyes were bigger and darker. Green streaked the lids and the brows looked finer. Her lips were more red.

  ‘Yes.’ He was edgy. He sounded pissed off but he didn’t care.

  ‘They’re getting good,’ Shane shouted to a man in the crowd.

  A clutch of lads carrying pint glasses barged through. With the thrust of the crowd, she was forced closer to Shane.

  ‘She’s with me,’ Torin said.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ Shane sh
ot back.

  Behind Shane, Caitlin ran a finger along the rim of her glass, round and round. Torin was stung to silence.

  ‘We were talking,’ Shane said.

  ‘You think I haven’t got eyes in my head? I’ve seen you. All evening.’ His body closed up to Shane. The flame of a fight spat out. If Shane faced up to him, he would back down and they could all move off quietly. Everything would be as it was, as it should be.

  ‘Seen me? Seen what?’ Shane’s face became mean. His eyes were a snake’s. He had set this up. ‘You want to go outside?’ Shane jabbed Torin’s chest with his index finger.

  ‘Right.’ He tried to sound casual, the way he would answer if he was asked if he’d like a few cans back at the old house, while all the time he wanted to smash Shane’s face against the wall.

  ‘Hold on.’ Pauley grabbed him, an arm between them. ‘Keep calm lads.’

  ‘I meant what I said,’ Shane called over his shoulder.

  Goaded, Torin followed, breathing fast and shallow.

  Round the corner from the main entrance, on a dusty road in a cul-de-sac to new houses, was not where he expected to square up to anyone, least of all Shane. While music thumped out, dense with menace, glutting with the thud of a drum, his calf muscles tightened. A vein on his temple beat. The notes were battering him. In collision. Blood heating.

  ‘See this?’ Shane held out his fist. ‘Go on with your nonsense and you’ll get it in your face.’

  Torin slung out a hit but before he could land the punch, Shane moved in. He smashed Torin’s cheek. Torin staggered back, knocked a couple of wheelie bins. They skidded towards a pale girl who was leaning against the wall and a stick-thin guy who sipped leisurely from a can. Murmurs of laughter rose from a couple of girls chatting in a corner.

  Torin gathered his force and lunged, catching Shane on the nose. He gave him a thump in his gut and made to grasp around his neck. If he could only screw off his bloody head, but a right hook from Shane caught Torin’s eye. A glint of blood trickled. He knocked Shane. They fell in a bundle on top of each other.

  ‘You want her don’t you?’ Torin struggled out of Shane’s hold.

  Shane pulled himself on top and sat astride Torin, pinning him down, keeping his arms spread out.

  ‘What are you on about? Coming over here with your little fantasies. Go back if you can’t take the pace.’

  His hand was on Torin’s chest. Torin gasped, jerked his knees up, hitting his foot against Shane’s back as he lurched forward and fell to the side. Torin’s legs ached. His eye throbbed. The world was bleary. The rough concrete area around the Centre had cracks and strangled grass. Brown rubbish bins stood in the distance. The girl and the skinny boy were over by the crates. They had seen everything. Everyone had. His head was heavy. His throat was dry and his knee hurt. Someone was bound to ring the police. The notion suffocated him. They would ask questions. He would be hauled off. Chucked in a cell.

  A pained screech of a siren ripped the air. As he lay on the ground a car drove in, starkly white, with ‘Garda’ on the side. His time was up. This was it. He pulled himself onto his knees while a thickset officer got out of the driver’s seat. A younger, slimmer man left the passenger side and crossed to Shane and the others. He was covered. The police would nail Torin. No escape. He could not even think of a line to string them.

  ‘Hello, there,’ the big officer said, approaching, as if they were old mates. Strands of ginger hair showed from under his cap. He knew. He had to. The police in London would have alerted him. Easy. Press a button. Information flying all over the place. ‘What happened here, then?’

  ‘I, he...’ Torin rubbed his stinging eyes.

  ‘You’d a falling out? Come over to the car, will you?’

  Driven away. Over before it had begun. Not a chance.

  ‘This way. I’ve left me notebook on the seat. Sit in.’ The officer held open the door. The car was warm and sweaty. The wrapper from a tube of sweets twisted on the floor. Coming around on the driver’s side, the officer edged in his bulky frame and sat.

  ‘So. Tell me what went on there.’

  ‘I was in the centre with my girlfriend.’

  ‘Her name?’

  Her name. Her name. The questions came. Time they arrived? Who they had met and spoken to, where they stood. Torin answered quietly and tried not to sound too English.

  ‘All right.’ The officer tapped his pad as he listened. ‘Sounds like you had a wee scuffle. Nothing the pair of ye can’t fix over a pint. You can get out.’ He leaned over and let slip the latch for the door.

  What else? What would happen? He dare not ask. He stumbled onto the yard of the centre in a blur. The younger officer walked towards the car.

  Shane was talking to his mates. They shot quick, sharp glances. Torin went back to where he had been standing and slumped down to sit on the ground.

  Caitlin was chatting to some girls. Her heels were scuffed. Had he messed up the way she looked? She walked towards him and a mixture of relief and fear flooded his veins. At last. She understood. How things had screwed up. How he only wanted her to talk to him. He pushed up to stand, brushing the trickle of blood away from his eye. He had to look decent. He wiped his bloodied hand on his trouser leg. Her eye make-up was smudged and her eyes flickered with a cold light, colder than he had seen before. Had somebody gone for her? His blood rose. He would get them. Seek them out. Do them over. They had no right. No right.

  ‘What was that about?’ Caitlin came over.

  ‘Sorry. I never meant—’ he began.

  ‘Sorry? You were crazy going for Shane. And you look a mess. You made me look foolish, too. Don’t bother coming after me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t want to see you. I need a break.’ Her bag dangled from her shoulder as she stomped off.

  ‘Caitlin!’

  She walked away, while from inside the centre music thrashed the walls as night wore on. Too drained of energy to stand, he slumped and closed his eyes to cut out the light.

  ‘You okay?’ Pauley leant down to him.

  ‘Yes. I mean I don’t know.’ Torin opened his eyes. ‘I don’t understand anything.’

  ‘Who ever does? Let’s get out of here.’ Pauley tugged him up to standing.

  In the old house, laying on the mattress, the throb was worse. He eased out his legs. A dry run of bushes ran by the field and in the distance two gnarled trees fought for light. A van passed on the narrow strip of a road, climbing to higher reaches, past lumbering rocks and boulders.

  He was dizzy and closed his eyes. He was in two places at once and they were closing in on top of him. He needed to get back to London. Whatever was going on, he may as well face it up. At least be there. But Caitlin. His heart rammed. If only it would slow down. He wanted the night to wrap around him and take him in but his body was strangled into a form he did not know. He saw Harjit’s blood staining the ground. Big Ian lived in Gainsborough Tower, the flats due to be done up. Had the police gone there? They must have. Must have climbed the stairs or got in the piss-stained lift which always broke down. Had Big Ian said what had gone on between them? Someone would let slip his name. Soon the police would make connections. They weren’t stupid. They would come after him. Harjit had been too good. He was due to start a business course. Used to talk about his mum and dad and his sisters. He had proper love for them. They were a real family. He had felt that for Caitlin. Or something like it. Bigger than himself. And he had thought she felt the same about him. The question tore at him until he fell asleep, exhausted.

  He woke knowing only that Pauley had heaved him like a sack of potatoes, helped him to lie down and be comfortable. He smelt mouldy bread and stale, sweet biscuits, or was it himself? He was disintegrating.

  ‘How you feeling?’ Pauley’s thin face strained with anxiety. Delicate silvered veins ran on his temp
les.

  ‘Like crap.’

  ‘Your face’s pretty smashed. You were flat out.’

  ‘Did the police come?’

  Pauley shook his head.

  ‘No. Why would they? They’ve seen you and weren’t bothered with the two of you. They were asking who’d rung to bother them in the first place.’

  Torin sank back. The bone around his eye hurt. The police in England might come calling. Crawling like insects in the house. Ants outside the walls. Spider hanging in the chimney. A mate of Marcus had got six months. Aggravated Attack. Or was it Grievous Bodily Harm? Public Affray. Public Afraid. He was afraid of them. Shane. His mates. The police. Everyone. Caitlin. Time would creep up and he might be found. Hauled down to the station. Charged. And charged in a different country, where he did not know anything or anyone.

  ‘My head’s bustin’ all over. A firing squad in there.’ He closed his eyes.

  Shane’s face scrawled in front of him. His pudge of a nose. Beads of blood on his cheek. His sheer bewilderment.

  ‘He did a right job on you. You should go to hospital.’ Pauley knelt by him.

  ‘I’m not going there. Not like this.’ He touched around his eye.

  ‘You’ll have to put something on it. Like ice. I’ll see what we’ve got.’ Pauley said and pulled a towel from a hook, dipped it in the bucket of water which they kept for drinking and wiped Torin’s eyes. The moist rag of a towel was comforting even while anger crawled inside. He did not know what time it was or how long he had been sleeping. The old house was so dark, day and night crashed into one.

  ‘What do I look like?’

  Pauley helped him to sit and gave him the small cracked mirror. Holding a torch near, Torin’s pale and shocked face looked out. He turned on his side, wanting to hide from the shred of light through the windows.

  Pauley sat back on his haunches.

  ‘I know how it is. You meet someone you’re crazy about. You have a good time but in the end they’re off. You’ve taken a few mighty punches. But no girl’s worth it.’