Another Life

by Jodie Chapman

  Afterwards, we took it in turns to visit the bathroom.

  Daz belched and stretched his arms towards the ceiling. ‘How’s that for skiving off?’

  Sal appeared in the doorway, dressed in casual clothes. ‘I’m going out on my bike,’ he said, putting on his bucket hat.

  ‘I’m up for that,’ Daz said, getting up.

  ‘But you haven’t got your bike?’ I said, ejecting the video and handing it to Daz. I picked up the crisp packets and hugged the empty cans to my chest.

  ‘He could ride Dad’s,’ said Sal as he opened the back door.

  ‘What? No.’

  ‘He never rides it,’ said Sal, sitting on the step and pulling on his trainers.

  ‘It’ll be safe as houses, Nicolas,’ Daz said, doing a Scout’s honour sign.

  I continued shaking my head. ‘No way. Definitely not. Now wait while I put this stuff in the bin.’

  The living room was empty when I returned. I pushed my feet half into my trainers so my heels hung out the back, and ran round the side to find Sal and Daz pulling the bikes out of the garage.

  ‘Is anyone going to listen to me?’ I said, blocking the entrance. My larger frame had to count for something.

  Sal pushed past with his bike. ‘Here,’ he said, tipping the handlebars towards Daz. ‘You ride mine. I’ll ride Paul’s.’

  ‘No,’ I said, putting my hand out against Sal’s chest. He looked at me with a bored expression. ‘I’ll ride Dad’s. You take mine.’

  Daz climbed on to the saddle and cleared his throat. ‘If we’ve finished Pass the Parcel, can we get the hell on with it?’

  I remember ’97 as a hot summer. It was only early spring, that day we skipped school, but there was already a sweat in the air and down our backs. Daz and Sal stripped off their tops as we rode, Daz swinging his like a lasso as he cycled with no hands. This was the year he bleached his hair, and he’d gelled it into spikes so it resembled a pineapple.

  Our BMXs were second-hand when we got them, and the frames and wheels bore the marks of a full and active life. There were scratches from the wheelies in nearby country lanes, hours of practising and whooping each other, and races to see who could go longest. There were times we’d sped downhill and hit potholes that took us over the handlebars, the wounds on our bodies healing but leaving dents on the chassis to tell the tale. When we fell, we got up and climbed back on. Bike rides and stolen pornos were how we spent those days.

  Sal and Daz did bunny hops and endo turns while I followed further back. I was taking no risks on Dad’s bike. His had been brand new, the one awarded top marks in all the magazines, and he’d hardly ridden it in the ten years since. Any mark would show.

  ‘Fuck, I’m roasting,’ said Daz, wiping the sweat from his chin.

  We were approaching a built-up part of the country lane, with houses of all eras spread out either side. They had generous gaps between boundaries and long gardens out back. Being in the countryside, Sal and I were used to these kinds of roads, but for Daz, who lived on a council estate, these were ‘posh houses’. They had driveways for more than one car and you could shout inside without disturbing the neighbours.

  We slowed down to let a van pass, and as it did, the driver gave us a hard look. We were used to this look. It was something only adults did, where they found us guilty of the crime of being young and not giving a damn. Daz stared back, and as it sped off, he stuck up his finger for the rear-view mirror.

  Sal grabbed his arm.

  ‘He didn’t see,’ said Daz.

  ‘No, look,’ Sal said, pointing at the house next to us. He edged his bike forward so he was hidden from view by a clipped privet hedge along the front. ‘In the garden, through that gate.’

  Daz and I leant forward on our bikes for a better view. Between the house and garage was an open gate and through it we could see much of the back garden. A long line of bushes divided it from next door, and facing this was an expensive-looking wooden deckchair. What caught Sal’s attention were the two bottles of beer in the fancy cup holders of the fancy deckchair.

  ‘God, yes,’ said Daz.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I said. ‘If you want to get pissed, let’s go home and raid the drinks cabinet.’

  ‘Who wants whisky on a day like this?’ said Sal.

  ‘But you can’t see the whole garden,’ I said, hearing my whining desperation. ‘They might be round the corner.’

  ‘He’s probably inside having a dump,’ said Daz, rubbing his hands together as if this was a master plan of his making. ‘He’s clearly coming back, though, so we’d better move fast. Go on, Salvatore. Make our day.’

  I shook my head, but didn’t say anything. I was tired of playing the dad. And a cold beer was a tempting prospect.

  Sal propped his bike against the hedge and leant round into the drive. He looked at the windows, then strode across the brick paving, his feet silent beneath his skinny frame. He ducked down along the side of the house and peered round to look in the garden. It must have been clear, because he crept across the lawn and picked up the beers. Then he looked up at the hedges and stopped.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ I said. ‘Why isn’t he coming back?’

  Daz shrugged but I could tell he was nervous. He moved from side to side on his toes and tapped his hands on the handlebar. Finally he gave a low whistle. ‘Sal,’ he hissed. ‘Move.’

  Sal looked at us, his mouth open, then turned back to the hedge.

  Daz leant his bike against Sal’s and crossed the drive like a secret assassin, but when he reached Sal, he too stopped and stared.

  Seconds passed like hours. I looked about at the quiet road, but the only sounds were birds in the trees and the distant pulse of a radio. I leant Dad’s bike against the hedge and tiptoed across the drive and down the side. I was concentrating so hard on not being seen that I didn’t notice a large metal wind-chime hanging from the garage roof. Sal and Daz jumped at the noise and my hands flew up to stop the bars banging together, but this just made it worse. I ran across the grass and pulled at Sal’s arm.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ I said under my breath. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ said Daz in a trance. ‘Look at that.’

  I turned and looked.

  The hedge was thick apart from a patch in the middle. Here, the twigs had been newly cut or snapped off, and provided a near-perfect view to the other side. Through the branches, we could make out a girl of about seventeen or eighteen on a sun lounger. She wore nothing but sunglasses and the bottom half of a bikini, and lay sprawled out on the lounger for the sun’s rays to penetrate her skin.

  Perhaps it was the porno we’d watched, or the crazy heat, or the fact we were teenage boys who’d never seen a naked girl in real life, but we stood there frozen and forgetful about this view not being ours.

  I was first to look away, and that’s when I saw the deckchair positioned up against the hedge and the beers in Sal’s hands, dripping with cold dew.

  Before I could speak, there came the sound of a door being thrown open and hitting a wall.

  ‘What the—’

  We spun round to see a half-naked bloke in shorts and flip-flops coming out on to the patio. I half recognised his face. A pair of binoculars swung round his neck and the swell of a middle-aged gut leered over the tight band of his shorts.

  Daz was fastest. He was across the lawn and back on his bike before the guy had found something to pick up. Being closest to the road, I wasn’t far behind, but Sal had been on the wrong side of the deckchair, and this added precious seconds that left him in direct fire when the man rained a garden rake down on his head. Sal shouted as the rusty teeth sank into his shoulder. He dropped a bottle and it smashed to pieces on the slabs.

  Sal stumbled through the gate. The man followed behind, still waving the rake and shouting something I couldn’t make out.

  Sal began pushing his bike down the road, then jumped on and pedalled away. Daz had taken the bottle and he took a swig and raised it
in a toast to its naked owner, who stood breathless at the entrance.

  We screeched to a halt when we’d turned the corner and I lowered the bike to the ground and ran to check Sal’s shoulder.

  ‘Let me see,’ I said as Sal winced. His T-shirt had taken the brunt of the rust, and it was the force of the hit between his shoulder blades that seemed the source of the pain. ‘There’s no blood,’ I said, relieved.

  ‘That was epic,’ said Daz, shaking his bleached head. ‘Shame you dropped one, Sal.’

  ‘He knew who I was,’ Sal said, catching his breath.

  ‘What?’ I blinked.

  ‘He said I was Paul Mendoza’s son.’ Sal rolled back his shoulder as if warming up for a fight. ‘The bastard recognised me.’

  I tried to think how I knew the man’s face. ‘Shit,’ I said. ‘He’s from the golf club.’

  We looked at each other and Sal put his head in his hands.

  ‘What about those tits, though,’ said Daz. ‘Did you see how close that chair was to the hedge? And two beers …’ He gave a high-pitched trill. ‘He was all set for the afternoon.’

  ‘He’s a fucking perv,’ said Sal.

  ‘To be fair, we were watching her too,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s not like we planned it. She was, like, seventeen, and what was he – fifty?’ He shook his head. ‘That ain’t right.’

  Daz cleared his throat. ‘Yeah. Disgusting.’

  I felt the dangerous rush of something course through my veins. It comes to me every now and again, this feeling, in the first few seconds after Arsenal lose a cup final, or back at school when I was one of the last picked for PE. It falls somewhere between anger and helplessness, a terrifying knowledge that the sensation is too big. I never know what to do with it.

  That day, I listened.

  I picked up Dad’s bike and began cycling back. As I built up speed, the breeze rushed through my ears like music. Nearing the driveway, the whirr of Sal and Daz’s tyres sounded not far behind.

  It was only then I picked up the rock. The idea had come to me earlier, but I knew that returning to the scene of a crime with a weapon would count as premeditation, and any punishment upped accordingly. But now, I leant down and chose a large stone from the side of the road, smooth and polished with a pointed end.

  I stood in full view of the house. I turned the rock over and over in my hand, as if to channel the energy of the force in my veins into this lump of stone. Bring it to life.

  ‘Do it,’ said Sal, behind me. ‘Do it, Nick. Do it now.’

  I’ve always been fairly good at throwing. The times when I’d be picked first were during basketball or if something needed dislodging from a tree. Then it would be Get Nick. I’m good with my hands too. Dad thought I’d have made a great boxer if I worked on my nerve.

  You’re too fragile, he said. They know where to hit you and take you down. There are no second chances in the ring. It’s do or die.

  The rock hit an upstairs window and there followed the expected and satisfying smash.

  We didn’t wait around to see what happened. I sped off up the road, feeling the wind on my face as Sal and Daz followed behind, whooping and cheering me on.

  Late 2018

  Six months after we buried Sal, Dad rang me at the office. He never did that.

  ‘Son,’ he said. ‘I’ve got lung cancer. Doctor’s given me twelve weeks, six months at most.’

  ‘Dad,’ I said.

  ‘I’m quite all right in myself. You’d best come over, though, so we can make arrangements. Friday works for me.’

  On Friday night, I stood on the doorstep of my childhood home cradling a six-pack. I lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall, and the thud reverberated through the empty hallway on the other side. As I waited for the door to open, I noticed one of Mum’s terracotta pots by the step. It had been almost thirty years since the baked earth had known geraniums.

  When the door opened, a pale and shrunken face looked out and it took me a moment to realise it was Dad.

  ‘You look well,’ I said as I stepped inside.

  He took the beers without saying anything and gave them a critical look. ‘I’m on the whisky. You want a glass?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, slipping off my shoes.

  He fixed my drink and took me through to the dining room, where he’d laid out piles of paperwork across the mahogany table. He pulled out a chair and gestured to me to do the same.

  ‘Dad,’ I said. ‘Could we sit in the lounge?’

  ‘But I’ve got everything here.’

  ‘This can wait, surely?’

  ‘No time like the present.’ He sat down on the other side. ‘That’s all I have, anyway. Sit.’

  I took a gulp of whisky.

  ‘Now, I want a burial, you know that. Here’s my list of requirements for the service.’ He handed me a crisp piece of white paper with typed bullet points. ‘I don’t want a wake. No food or photo montage, no crowd of people I’ve not seen in years pretending that they cared. No hypocrisy, thank you. Just put me in the ground.’

  I sighed.

  ‘I’ve made preliminary enquiries regarding a plot. I want to be as close to your mother as possible, but I’ve asked to reserve the one alongside your brother in case there’s nothing they can do.’

  ‘Dad, I can’t do this right now,’ I said, standing up. ‘I promise I’ll read it, but can we just go in there and put the telly on.’ I reached out for his glass. ‘Here, I’ll make us another drink.’

  In the lounge, I poured two whiskies from the almost empty bottle on the sideboard. Dad sat in his armchair and I took the sofa across the room. He switched on the news.

  There had been an earthquake in Indonesia and we watched footage of collapsed homes and crying children. The scenes of devastation made me think of Anna. She does that sometimes, appears all of a sudden, and then I can’t help but think of her for a while.

  ‘One more thing,’ said Dad. ‘I’ve written to Arsenal to request they pass the season ticket on to you. It’s all paid up to the end of the season, but after that, I’m hoping they’ll put it in your name so you can go in my place.’

  ‘I’m not sure you can do that, Dad.’

  ‘Fifty years, I’ve been standing on those terraces. That’s half a century. Besides, I want to leave you something. You are my son, after all.’

  Like I said. Nothing for months, and then a grand, sweeping gesture.

  Dad refused to go into a hospice.

  ‘What’s the point in making myself comfortable? Face facts. This is my home and I’m not leaving it while there’s breath in my body.’

  He compromised and agreed to a carer, on the sole condition it was a woman. He had strong views on whether it was right for a man to be a nurse, and had no problem expressing an irrational, deep-seated fear of turning homosexual if he allowed a man to wash his body.

  Sheila was a no-nonsense woman with grown children, whose own husband had died a few years before. She wore half-moon glasses attached to a pink cord looped around her neck, had a tight perm and took no crap from Dad.

  ‘I had a bath two days ago,’ Dad said to her when I visited. It had been a month since his diagnosis and he was spending more time in bed. ‘It’s not as if I’m working up a sweat. I’ll take another at the weekend.’

  ‘No, Paul, you’ll take one right now,’ she said, rolling up her sleeves. ‘You don’t mind waiting, do you, Nick-love? No patient of mine has developed bedsores and I’m not about to let that start now. Come on. Up.’

  Dad gritted his teeth and threw back the covers. One–nil to Sheila.

  The end came quicker than we thought. I began sleeping in my old room, taking the night shift so Sheila could manage the day while I was at work.

  He called out my name at two o’clock on the Friday night before Christmas. I stumbled out of bed and into his room to find him sitting up, the cover pulled tight around him. His hands were clasped across his lap and he looked up at me like a boy waitin
g for his goodnight kiss.

  ‘Everything okay?’ I said, rubbing my eyes.

  ‘Son, I’d like a whisky.’

  ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘Will you join me?’

  I made my way downstairs. The hall was dark apart from the moonlight shining in. It threw patterns of the trees on the high Victorian ceilings, and when I reached the bottom, I looked out at a full moon.

  I poured a couple of whiskies from the bottle on the lounge sideboard and returned upstairs, taking care through habit to avoid the floorboards that creak.

  I passed him his glass and sat at the end of the bed, holding mine with no desire to taste it. He took a couple of sips and looked about the room.

  ‘Look at these yellow walls.’

  The ornate cornicing had taken on a grubby, golden patina from years of neglect. ‘I guess it must be thirty-five years since it was decorated,’ I said, remembering Mum with a paintbrush shortly after we moved in. She had Sal on her hip.

  ‘And the rest. Look at it. Hardly fit for human habitation. I expect they’ll tart it up nicely for the next tenants, though.’ He took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Here you go, Paul Mendoza. About to die in a room that’s not even yours.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Your mother wanted to paint this room a rich mustard. Said it would give the walls a sense of grandeur. It was double the cost of a tin of magnolia, but look at it now. Yellow from dirt. I should have let her.’

  I took a mouthful of drink.

  He looked down at his glass and swilled the liquid around. He stared at it for a while, then threw back his head and drank the lot.

  ‘I should have let her,’ he said again, and rested his head against the wall.

  ‘Do you miss her?’ The words just came out.

  He opened his eyes and looked straight through me. I turned to see if someone was behind, but there was just us.