Another Life

by Jodie Chapman

  There was no question which side I was on. And there was no question about my school friends, with their birthday parties and their trick-or-treating and their glittery, evil Christmas. In my head, they were the ones whose mothers would be screaming. They were the ones who would be limp in their mothers’ arms.

  How can I tell you that? How can I tell you that my salvation can only come with the destruction of others?

  By the front door was a small table of china figurines, trinket boxes, snow globes, little toys, and all these useless ornaments had price stickers – 10p, 20p, 50p. Every Sunday, May dropped every penny she made from these sales into the contribution box at the back of the hall. When the book study ended, I’d browse the items on offer before begging my mum to let me spend my pocket money on a china dog, or a dented brass pot, or a glass guitar filled with multi-coloured sand. The answer was usually no, but I felt bad not buying May’s items, especially as no one else ever did. But the money goes to the congregation, I would plead as my mother silenced me with her eyes. How can she say no, I thought, when it would make May so happy if I gave her twenty pence, and it would make God happy too. Why could my mother not see that I was trying to make others happy? Isn’t that what I was meant to do?

  I tried to leave this life before, but something pulled me back. It does even now. How can I leave the only world I’ve ever known? How can I break those neurons in my head, the ones that call this Truth, the ones that began to form as I learned to walk and talk? How can I turn my back on Beryl and May and God? If they are so certain that this is true, who am I to say it’s not? How can I make my mother the woman in the picture, the one carrying her dead, wicked child? How can I risk finding out that she wouldn’t pick me up when I fell?

  I’m asking questions you can never answer.

  Do you see? Do you see now?

  Of course you don’t. Who the fuck could.

  Summer 2003

  After the Second Night

  ‘I hope you’re making a bacon sandwich again,’ Anna whispered in my ear when I woke that morning.

  I rubbed my eyes and looked at her. Her make-up had smudged overnight to give what I’ve heard described as a smoky eye. She was smiling, her hands tucked neatly under her cheek on the pillow. What the fuck was I doing with a girl like this in my bed?

  ‘I’ll make you anything you want,’ I said.

  Sal was at the kitchen table, and he blinked and gave a sleepy wave as we entered. He wore the proof of several pints on his face.

  ‘Rough night?’ I said.

  He covered his face with his hands. ‘You’ve no idea.’

  ‘Tea?’ said Anna, picking up the kettle. She had pulled on my T-shirt and her denim shorts before coming downstairs barefoot. I’d slipped on a clean top, but Sal wore nothing but boxers.

  I started on the bacon as Anna asked Sal about his evening. As he talked of drunken fights outside the club, I thought of my own night – how I’d lain with her on my bed, talking and not talking, feeling our way around each other’s bodies. I turned and leant against the counter, and she caught my eye and smiled.

  ‘This’ll help,’ she said, when the tea was poured. She placed a chipped mug on the table in front of him and stroked his head. ‘Or I can make a Bloody Mary if that’s more your thing. Hair of the dog?’

  Sal looked up at her adoringly. ‘Marry me and have my children,’ he said in a serious voice.

  Anna laughed. ‘One day, perhaps.’

  ‘You do want kids then?’

  ‘Of course. Who doesn’t?’

  Sal glanced over and gave a long whistle like a falling bomb. Anna blushed as she stared at her feet, and there was a heavy silence until the bacon began to spit.

  ‘I thought you wanted to run off to New York and be a painter?’ I said at last.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Hard to be bohemian when you’re married and saddled with kids, though.’

  Finally she looked at me and it was my turn to look away. ‘We can have it all these days, or haven’t you heard? You just have to use your imagination.’

  We went out one night with the work crowd.

  I walked into the pub to find them huddled around a few tables at the front. She was in the corner with Lisa, deep in conversation. I raised a hand in greeting to the group and she saw and continued talking. No wave, no smile, no acknowledgement. I went to the bar.

  When we stumbled down the hill to the club a few drinks later, she marched on ahead with her arm linked through Lisa’s. I followed further back, smoking and laughing at a crude joke. She’d still hardly looked in my direction.

  I found myself next to her at the bar. The music was so loud that I had to lean into her ear to make myself heard. ‘You going to say hi then?’

  She glanced at the dance floor and smiled. ‘You haven’t said hello either.’

  ‘Hello.’

  She looked at me. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Come here often?’

  She laughed and flicked her hair over her shoulder. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

  ‘Careful, Nick,’ shouted one of the lads from behind. ‘Her fella will be back soon. Or are you still “on a break”?’ He mimicked quotation marks with his fingers.

  Anna made a face. ‘Mind your own business, yeah?’

  He put both hands up in mock defeat and moved off through the crowd, leaving us in the cold shade of his words. There was a heavy silence despite the music and we turned away from each other.

  ‘Drink?’ I said finally, and she nodded and folded her arms.

  I watched her dance for a while. I kept to the edges, talking with the others and a few of the old school gang who were also out. Every now and again, she threw me a glance, and each time, I’d sip my beer and look elsewhere.

  A couple of drinks in, she left the dance floor in the direction of the toilets. Lisa followed close behind, stopping when she saw me. I gave a friendly smile and looked away, but she was already striding over.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ she said, taking my arm and leading me into a quieter corner where we didn’t need to shout. She did it quickly, looking over her shoulder, I assume to check Anna hadn’t seen.

  ‘You good?’

  Lisa put her hands on her hips. ‘What are you doing?’

  I frowned. ‘In life, or …?’

  She shook her head and I knew comedy wouldn’t cut it. ‘You like her, right?’

  I took a sip of my beer.

  Lisa gave a sarcastic smile, like she’d already figured what type of man I was going to be. ‘Let me tell you a story,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘It’s about a girl called Anna, who fell in love when she was seventeen. Fell in love with a prize prick, that is. She worshipped the dickhead, so much so that she did things she wasn’t meant to do.’ Lisa raised her eyebrows as if I knew what she was talking about. ‘Her parents kicked her out when she refused to break it off. Called it tough love. Yeah, right. She came to live with me because none of her family wanted anything to do with her. I was there when she cried herself to sleep because she loved and missed them, and I was there when she cried because that bastard went and broke her heart.’

  I looked down at my glass.

  ‘Are you going to be another bastard, Nick?’ said Lisa. ‘Because I don’t know you that well, but I think you have the potential to be a decent guy. And I can tell she likes you far more than she should.’

  I knew she was waiting for me to speak and I turned towards the dance floor.

  ‘She’s not like us,’ Lisa said. ‘You know her shit. What we think is normal in a relationship she’s only meant to do if married. And she’s only meant to be with someone of the same faith. Personally, I think her family are vile for what they did, but it’s all she’s ever known. She doesn’t want to lose them again.’

  Anna came back in and looked about the room. She seemed to be searching for someone.

  I glanced back at Lisa. ‘I know what you’re saying.’

  She studied my face
and gave a slow nod. ‘Don’t mess her around. I swear you’ll regret it.’

  I didn’t reply and watched her disappear through the club towards Anna. I waited in the corner for a while, finishing my drink, trying not to look across to where she stood.

  I thought about slipping out and going home. I knew that was what I should do.

  Just after midnight, Anna brushed past and took hold of my fingers. ‘Fancy getting out of here?’

  I looked at her and nodded.

  We met outside. I was smoking in the road, and she put on her denim jacket and stood a few feet away with her arms folded.

  ‘Where do we go?’ I said.

  She glanced up the hill towards town. ‘I’m pretty hungry.’

  We began towards the bright lights. When we were out of sight of the club, she stepped close and put her arm through mine. Neither of us spoke.

  Near the top of the hill, she led me off into a side street behind some old Victorian buildings. It was more like an alley, dark and secluded and away from the road. It stank of piss.

  She pushed me against the wall and kissed me.

  ‘So when is he back?’ I don’t know why I said it. I didn’t want to know.

  She stopped. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Why are you with me right now?’

  She gave a sharp intake of breath and looked down, leaning her head slightly against my chest. ‘I don’t know. You’re like a drug to me. A fix I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘What are we doing here?’ I said, stroking her hair. She was looking up at me and searching my face for something. ‘Are we mad?’

  ‘I’ll probably marry him,’ she said, looking at my mouth. ‘You won’t understand, I know. But that’s probably what I’ll do.’

  And then she pressed herself against me and her mouth was on mine, and I knew I was playing with fire, but sometimes we crave the heat. She reached her hands under my shirt and touched my skin. The electric jolt of some unknown thing flooded my veins.

  ‘I have to let you go,’ she said, but she didn’t pull away and I drowned out her words with my tongue.

  There was a difference in Anna after I told her about Mum.

  It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what changed, and really, nothing much did. We still teased each other, we still argued, we still feverishly made up, but there was a newness to the way she looked at me. I’d notice her watching from the sidelines, when the telly was on or sitting in traffic. Her fingertips would brush along the back of my neck, she’d break away during a kiss to press her lips against the tip of my nose, or she’d insist on me having the last mouthful of the food we were sharing. It was as if the shape of whatever was between us had shifted into something softer. The change was slight, but potent.

  She was the first girl I’d ever told. Part of me regretted telling. I knew how to deal with other people’s tears – soothe their backs, calming words, suggest a pot of tea – I was used to those. But I didn’t want pity, and I especially didn’t want pity from her.

  She held me longer than before. When we embraced, it had always been her pulling away first, but now she lingered. Now it was me that drew back.

  One time, on my bed, she made me take off my T-shirt and lie on my front, then traced her fingers softly over the skin of my back, not even stopping when I opened my eyes and saw that an hour had passed.

  ‘I can’t describe how good that feels,’ I said. ‘But stop if you like.’

  ‘Close your eyes.’

  I didn’t fight. I couldn’t.

  ‘I read once that a person’s touch can mend a broken heart,’ said Anna. ‘I hope that’s true.’

  I didn’t stop to ask whose heart she meant.

  September 1991

  Its name is Maison de la Cascade, and we practise saying it in exaggerated French accents on the journey down from Calais – Mum, Stella, Sal and I. Dad is driving, mainly in silence, although he occasionally switches on the radio to search for a transatlantic sports channel. This is code for shut up now, and we retreat into our worlds, turning our faces to the flashes of countryside rolling by. I nudge Sal whenever I see a chateau in the distance and he does the same to me. Mum has secretly given us each a tub of legit Pringles to last the journey, and we suck each crisp against the roofs of our mouths so as to prevent the driver from hearing the crunch. Greasy fingers on leather seats is apparently a problem, even when the seats are second-hand and have had ten years of arses farting into their crevices.

  The roads are mainly clear, it being the end of summer and everyone back at school. Holidays are cheaper at the start of term. Sal and I rarely got our pick of the classroom desks, but it was that or no trip at all.

  We reach the house at dinnertime. It’s set down a little lane, away from the main drag of the village. There is a sweeping driveway made from crazy paving, bright red shutters fanning every window, and terracotta pots of red flowers – geraniums are my favourite, says Mum – sitting in the sun.

  Mum opens a can of beer from the cool box in the boot and hands it to Dad, and he takes it without a word and heads inside, likely for the nearest sofa. Stella and Mum begin unpacking the car, and Sal and I run off to explore.

  To the right of the garage is a path of steps that snakes down around the fig trees. We run with the energy that comes from being confined to a car for several hours, and as we descend, the trickling water heard at the top gets louder and stronger, so that when we leap off the final step, the sound is a screaming crescendo of a waterfall gushing into a pool. Maison de la Cascade.

  We stop and stare, our mouths agape. As an eleven-year-old boy, I’m sure the words that is beautiful do not appear in my head, but I’m transfixed by the sight and sound of the pool, by how the drops of water look like diamonds, by how it rushes in and out and never stops. We have never seen anything like it and it feels like a dream. I don’t know what Sal is thinking, but I sense he knows this too.

  I hear a splash and then Sal is in the pool. It’s more of a large pond, not wide but deep, surrounded by layers of natural stone and long tufts of reeded grass. Sal’s clothes lie in a pile beside my feet, and as he turns in the water and floats on his back, his lean torso gleams in the sunlight. I kick off my shorts and jump in, and we float around together like fallen leaves. The sun weaves in and out of the spiky plants surrounding the top of the waterfall, and when I close my eyes, an imprint of the scene remains.

  ‘Let’s do this every day,’ I say to Sal, but the only reply is the sound of rushing water.

  The first few days pass in a blur. It is much like when we are at home, with Mum in the kitchen and Dad sitting and watching something. Sal and I spend most of the time in the pool. We go inside only to use the toilet or sleep, and even then we would do both outside if we could get away with it.

  We swim and play football in the sun. We paddle our feet in the stream that leads to the waterfall, making dams and bridges with twigs and leaves. Mum brings us little bottles of Panaché and we kick back and pretend to be men. We climb the steep banks that surround the house, or at least I do until we spot a thick, dark snake uncurling itself in the sun on a ridge halfway up. After that, I keep to the grass and the water, but Sal still climbs. I think now he is looking for snakes.

  We don’t really do much. It feels great.

  From the pool, we hear Mum and Stella laughing as they prepare the meals. The radio is permanently blaring, and they sing along to ‘Joe le Taxi’ and chain-smoke out the open window.

  The day before we’re due to leave, we’re all out at the pool – Sal and I swimming, Mum and Stella sitting further out on sun loungers – when Dad comes down the steps, jingling the loose change in his pocket.

  ‘You all right, love?’ Mum asks, starting to sit up. ‘Want me to make you something?’

  ‘Why would I need you to make me something?’ he says. ‘Am I not allowed to come down and see my own family?’

  Mum gives a small, st
rained smile and leans slowly back.

  ‘Hello, boys,’ he says, bending down to ruffle our hair. ‘Enjoying the holiday, are you?’

  Sal flinches at his touch.

  ‘You know, lads,’ says Dad, kicking off his clothes. ‘I used to be on the swimming team in the army. Best bomber in the air and best bomber in the water.’

  ‘No, Paul,’ says Stella from under a big floppy hat. ‘We don’t want to be soaked just so you can prove yourself.’

  He stands back to take a running leap and launches himself, expertly moulding his body into a ball that hits the exact middle of the pool. A plume of water rains down around the grass. Moments later, he appears at the surface and puts his hands up in anticipation of an adoring audience.

  Mum and I are the only ones clapping.

  Sal climbs out of the water and shakes himself dry. He grabs a towel from the lounger and rubs hard at his hair. ‘I’m going inside. Anyone want anything?’

  ‘A lolly, please,’ I call out from the pool.

  Mum is drying the pages of her book against her skirt. ‘Bring out the box, Sal.’

  He nods and runs up the steps.

  ‘You having a good time, son?’ asks Dad as he gets out. I nod as he stands there in the sunshine for a moment, his hands on his hips and his eyes closed against the sun. He looks like one of those Greek statues in the British Museum. He flicks back his hair and walks to the loungers, where he sits down behind Mum, who is still drying herself with a towel.

  ‘Make the most of it,’ he says, pulling her towards him and doing something to make her squeal. ‘You’ll be back to reality soon enough.’

  I watch as he whispers in Mum’s ear and she laughs and gives me a wink. Sinking back into the water, I turn and float on my back. In the distant blue sky, an aeroplane is passing and I think of the people in their seats, eating rubbery food in little trays with their suitcases stowed underneath them. I imagine a bomb exploding and them raining down in pieces.