Chapter 17 – Fran
They live in our great and ancient cities. They meander through the underground maintenance tunnels that are used by our corporations to tend to the intricate workings of a city. They access the aqueducts that carry rivers under our ring roads and buildings of city-centre commerce. They stoop through the sewers that wash our waste seaward. They trek the bricked-up, forgotten labyrinths of interconnecting tunnels that root every major city to the earth. They travel the timeworn tunnels of romantic assignation. They live in the historic dens of refuge, dug during the horror of the reformation.
At night, they skitter through the shadows and roam the rooftops, looking down on the city from fearsome heights and precipitous ledges.
You may not see them, but they are there.
They call themselves outside-people.
Fran stared over the parapet. The wind stirred the hair that lay on her forehead. She tucked her hands in tight under her arms and clasped herself. The chimney stack had not coughed smoke into the city for decades. It sheltered her from the full force of the north-westerly though the wind still managed to whip around its corners.
From her vantage point on the roof of Argos, she had a full view of Hill Street. Below her, the entrance to Studio 89. A popular eighties revival nightclub for the city's young hipsters. "Relive the eighties dancing with your mates!" she often heard the disc jockey yell, his amplified voice streaming onto Hill Street whenever Noel, the surly doorman, held the door. She came here every Friday. To enjoy the music, and to see Una.
She had been inside once. The skylight. That was her entrance. Not for her, the Noel-guarded neon-lit doors on Hill Street. She wouldn't be welcome going in the front doors. Not in her rags, not the way she was. Noel wouldn't allow that.
The nightclub was closed when she went in. She played a record, ‘When Doves Cry’. The mournful lyrics and jerky rhythm made her dance on the empty floor. Alone in a world that was cold. She cut her calf on a damaged coat hook that night, scaling the rail in the cloakroom to reach the skylight.
A solitary dance in Studio 89 had its risks, apart from pointy coat hooks. The window of opportunity was brief. It closed its doors late, and the cleaners arrived early. Noel usually left last, him and his friend with the bald head, Sharon. Noel teased his friend about his name. He was twice the size of Fran, muscle-bound to the point of staggering, and he answered to the name ‘Sharon'. Sharon would curse back at Noel in his foreign accent. Fran enjoyed listening to their coarse banter.
Fran knew some of the clients, too. Not as friends, but their names were familiar, revealed in drunken taunts and teases. "Pauline fancies Dermot." The Pauline in question would swing for her tormentor with a clutch bag. "Mark's pissed his pants, the twat!" someone shouted one night. Noel didn't let Mark in. Mark's friends unhooked his arms from around their necks and left him sitting propped up against the railing fence that led to the river. That night, Fran took Mark's shiny loafers as he slept. His trousers had absorbed all the moisture before it reached his shoes. Her brother wears them now. The shoes, not the trousers.
She envied some of the girls, their dresses, the way they wore their hair. She watched them roll up to the front door, shoving, staggering, laughing, their shrill screams echoing along Hill Street. Fran would never have that. She pitied some of the girls, too.
But Fran was in love with Una.
Una visited Studio 89 every Friday night. She was older than most of the other girls and, thought Fran, more beautiful. Her hair swished like a curtain down her slim back, or danced in curls on her slender shoulders. She was near the same size as Fran, but her clothes were stylish and sexy and complimented the curves of her body. Fran thought Una was classy. Beautiful, elegant and classy.
Una liked to arrive alone, dance for a couple of hours, and leave alone.
Fran waited for Una, and shivered. To the west was the Church of Saint John the Baptist, on Spon Street. From her position, she could see the top half of the clock face on its gothic bell tower, over the roof of New Look. The tip of a fat, golden, metal spear pointed to the XI. A longer, slimmer one pointed to the XII. Una always arrived at this time.
The music wafted the warm, heady mix of alcohol, perfume and perspiration up to her sensitive nose. Fergal Sharkey, in a falsetto voice, was explaining how difficult it is to find a good heart these days.
"Here she is. The lovely Una," Noel called.
"Hello Noel," Una said, striding towards the warmth of the entrance. "You must be freezing out here tonight."
Fran peered over the parapet and gasped. To Fran, Una looked incredible. Her hair was tied up in casual curls, but Fran knew that each curl, each strand of hair, was exactly where it should be. But it was her coat that held Fran's coveting gaze. Fran had never seen a coat like it. It was mid-length, with Una's shapely calves, perched on modest heels, supporting it off the ground. The coat's furry collar nestled around Una's delicate jawline. The material mesmerised Fran. It was ruby-red and shimmered in the breeze like a living skin, bouncing the light of the neon nightclub sign around it. Its line was only disturbed by the hunch of Una’s shoulders against the cold wind. Fran remembered to breathe.
"It's seeing you each week gets me warmed up, Una," Noel said.
Una gave Noel a tolerant smile.
Fran sucked on her bottom lip and squinted at the coat. Despite the cold, her palms were sweating.
"You do know, Una, don't you," Noel said, blocking Una's path. "You do know, that a bird like you don't need go inside to meet the man of your dreams?" He swayed in his bulky black coat, his gloved hands crossed over his groin. He twisted his head and winked at Sharon.
"How's your wife and child keeping, Noel?" Una said, and flashed him a disapproving smile as she stepped around him.
"Yes, Noel." Fran grinned. "Your wife and child. Una's mine. Or at least her coat is."
She unscrewed the loose nut with her fingers and raised the plastic domed skylight a fraction. The heat of the nightclub, with its familiar scents, seeped out.
Diana Ross was singing that she was in the middle of a chain reaction.
Fran listened for the sound of movement. Nothing. She lifted the cover and tumbled it onto its back on the gravel roof. She dangled her feet into the opening and hesitated. She had never seen the cloakroom lit up before. She was a girl of the darkness. Light dazzled her. Light made her vulnerable.
With strong arms, she lowered herself through the opening, stretching until her feet reached the hook rail. It looked wide when loaded each side with coats and jackets and bags and scarfs, but Fran knew she had only the narrow top edge of the wooden rail to balance on. Her fingers let go the curb frame of the skylight and she balanced, an arm out wide, six feet above the floor. She shielded her eyes until she grew accustomed to the light. She crouched and with only a squeak of the coat hook frame, sprung down onto the floor. She listened. Only Diana Ross, shining lights all over the world.
She strolled along the racks, her fingertips glancing the garments. They were all lovely, but she was after one in particular. Where are you, ruby-red? The door creaked.
"Hold onto your ticket darlin' and give it in on the way out alright my lovely?" the attendant said over her shoulder as she pushed open the cloakroom door.
Loud music flooded in around her. Diana was singing about love.
"Two, five, one," the attendant mumbled, making her way to a vacant hook.
Fran stood stock-still behind a screen of coats and jackets, her shoulders tight, the hairs on her nape raised, her hands clammy. She held her breath. Her eyes glanced up at the open skylight. She rehearsed her escape in her mind. A foot on that parcel, push up onto the rail and out the skylight. She'd be away before the doormen arrived.
The attendant paused. She shuffled her feet and looked around her as though she had dropped something.
Fran did not move.
More shuffling. The attendant sniffed, sighed and pulled opened the door. "It's a fridge in there,
Noel. And it smells," she said, leaving.
"Then put one of the bleedin' coats on, ya daft bird," Fran heard Noel say, before the door closed out.
Fran breathed and resumed her search for Una's coat.
She tried on two scarves. Both were too itchy around the neck. She moved a parcel out of the way to reach the final rail. There it was. On its own. Apart from the others, separated by space and quality and beauty. Fran approached it with reverence. The coat shimmered. She plucked it off its peg and pushed an arm into it. The arm tingled with warmth and comfort. Fran knew it would fit. She worked her other arm in and hunched the coat up around her. The collar caressed her neck. She curled her cheek into it, a feline motion. Time to leave.
She turned and kicked into the parcel. It slid, hissing across the floor. She turned to the door. Nothing. She crouched and picked up the brown package. It was light and neat and intriguing. There was writing on one side. She rotated it to see the words. She couldn't read them. Not all of them. She slid a finger under the last line. Her lips moved as she read the one sequence of letters she recognised. Fran. The parcel had her name written on it. Why? She would open it to find out. But not here. It was time to–
"Hold onto your ticket my darlin' and give it in on the way – Who're you…?! Noel!"
Fran rose. In one step, she was under the skylight.
"Noel! Quickly!"
Fran grabbed the hook rail and wedged a toe in the pocket of a brown leather coat. Pushing with the other leg, she vaulted up onto the rail.
"Bleedin'… What the hell are you?!" the attendant asked. "Noel! Sharon! Anyone!"
Fran stood erect on the rail, balanced like an acrobat.
"How d'you do that?" gasped the attendant. "Your face… What's wrong…?" She backed away to the door, the coat she carried dragging along the floor.
Fran pitched the parcel out through the skylight.
The door jolted open, knocking into the attendant.
Noel entered. "Oi! What the hell…?"
"S'what I said," the attendant whispered, rubbing the back of her head.
Fran glanced at Noel. Diana Ross wanted to hold her for the first explosion, but Fran had to leave. She flexed her legs and dived up to the opening. Her hands gripped the frame of the skylight and she pulled her upper body through. She hung through the opening, propped up on straight arms, her feet dangling.
Noel lunged for a foot.
Fran saw him move and lifted her feet, gambolling up through the gap and rolling out over the roof gravel. She cringed when she remembered she was wearing the coat.
Inside, Sharon was at the cloakroom door.
"The river," Noel shouted. "Get 'round the river path. Some creature in a red coat. Go!"
"Will I bring the clubs?" Sharon said.
"She’s half your size, ya ponce, just move it."
The two men in overcoats ran out and around the side of the nightclub, towards the river.
Sharon bumped along the railing. He stopped, breathing hard. "Not built to run, Noel. I'll wait here," he gasped.
"Ponce," Noel said and ran off into the darkness.
Fran searched for the parcel. Diana Ross screamed at her through the opening about the chain reaction. She found the parcel fallen behind the upturned skylight dome. She dusted off the front of the coat and ran for the roof edge.
Noel panted to a halt, reached into a coat pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He stripped off a glove and activated the spotlight. Grey clouds of breath lit up around him. He glanced back over his shoulder. The huge silhouette of Sharon was placating a group of curious people from the nightclub. He directed the narrow beam over the riverbank path, and ran on.
Fran got to the edge of the rooftop, tucked the parcel under one arm and swung her feet out over the guttering. Snatching at the downpipe, she stepped her way down the corner of the building. She leapt onto the path. Sharon stumbled towards her, a group of inadequately-dressed people behind him. She turned and dashed away along the riverbank. Within moments, she saw Noel, trudging with a resigned gait towards her, through clouds of breath. A circle of light wiped the ground in front of him. She turned back to Sharon. There was no escape. The high brick wall of Phillips’ Furnishings ran down one side of the path, the river the other. The roof of Phillips' was lined with angry curls of barbed wire. The rushing river was filled with furious whirls and eddies.
Fran wiped sweat from her forehead with a sleeve of the ruby-red coat. The fur around the collar itched and irritated her. She stared wide-eyed up the path at Noel's light, sweeping its way towards her. Shouts from the other direction made her turn to see Sharon holding back dozens of yellow and white flickering lights. Her heart beat against the silk lining of the coat. She stared down at the parcel and at her name.
"Fran!"
She looked across the river, searching the bank for the source of the whispered shout.
"Fran, here!"
She couldn't see him.
"Fran, idiot. Up here!"
She scanned the trees and despite the river's width, she spotted him, balanced on a branch overhanging the river. "Tam!"
"You're going to have to cross the river," Tam said.
"I can't…" She could smell the chill of the flowing water.
"I know. I'll come and get you."
"No!" She looked back along the path. Noel's light rushed towards her, jerking its beam from side to side.
"Yes. You can't swim,” Tam said. “I'm coming over. Start wading in, it's not deep at the–"
"No, stay! Nor can you," she shouted to her brother.
Noel's shoes crunched to a halt on the path. The light shone in her eyes. "Stay where you are," he shouted.
She raised a hand to her eyes.
"What were you doin' in the cloakroom, eh? You're comin' back with me and I'm callin' the police," Noel said.
Fran dropped the parcel. It rolled onto the riverbank. The area around her flooded with what seemed to be a hundred torches. There was the rustle of many feet and the murmur of many indistinct whispers.
"What happened your face?" Noel said, stretching the words.
"Hello, my name's Una."
Fran spun around. Una had pushed her way through the small crowd and stood in front of Sharon.
"It's alright, it's alright. I'm Una. I think that's my coat."
Fran yanked the lapels of the coat together. The lights dazzled her. She covered her face with an arm.
"It's alright, you can wear it, it's alright," Una said.
Fran heard Una edging closer. "Stop!" she shouted.
"I've stopped, I've stopped," Una said. "Listen, I know who you are. I know about you. You're outside-people. And I've seen you on the roof. Here. Fridays. This is the first time I’ve seen you close, though."
Fran listened for the sound of movement. None. She focussed on the music of Una’s voice.
"What's your name?" Una asked.
Fran said nothing.
"Listen," Una said. "Your face. I can fix it. I'm a doctor, that's what I do, fix faces. Yours will be simple, I'm sure… Will you come back with me so I can look at it?"
Fran dropped her arm and turned towards Una. A groan of revulsion came from the crowd behind Sharon. The lights made Fran blink.
"You cannot change this," Fran said. A tear ran over her ruptured cheek.
"I can," Una said and took a step forward.
"No!" Fran said, raising a hand. "No closer. Have your coat."
"I don't want the coat."
Fran slipped the coat down her back.
"You won't tell me your name, that's fine. But come back with and I'll examine your face. I can fix it."
"Not before I hand her over to the police," Noel said.
Fran let the ruby-red coat fall to the path. She spun around and ran for the river.
"Wait!" Una screamed.
Fran leapt from the bank, arms and legs clenched tight to her, and splashed into the black, icy water.
"Noel, an ambulance!"
Una said. "Phone an ambulance. That water's freezing, she'll be hypothermic in no time. We must get her out."
As the splash subsided, the eddies and the whirls closed in over the spot Fran entered. Una, Noel, Sharon, the people from Studio 89, all played their torches over the river and the bank. Fran was nowhere to be seen. They edged downriver, Noel barking out orders to point lights here and there. No Fran. Una had to get help from Sharon to restrain Noel from jumping in himself. Meanwhile, nobody saw Fran resurface.
Paramedics arrived, dressed in yellow fluorescent jackets, carrying medical bags and strong torches. They beamed their lights over the river where Una directed and continued the search along the bank. There was no sight of Fran.
On the opposite bank, in a sheltered spot away from the river, Tam wrapped a shivering Fran in his jumper and coat. He lit a fire and lay Fran next to it. He lay down beside her and wrapped an arm over his sister. Fran's teeth chattered behind blue, disfigured lips.
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The Parcel Page 17