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by S. J. Morgan

  Never one for third wheeling, I decided to leave them to it. I grabbed my pint from the bar and nodded across the room. ‘I’m going to shoot some pool, okay?’ I told Stobes.

  He took a long drag on his ciggie as he looked back at me. ‘On your own?’

  ‘Got more chance of winning.’

  He eased himself away from Carys to whisper in my ear. ‘If you ask nicely, Minto might lend Sindy to you,’ he said, gesturing over my shoulder. ‘I’m sure she’d help jiggle your balls out of their pockets.’

  I followed his gaze to where Minto’s mob was taking up half the seating area; Sindy squashed between Minto and some guy in a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. She looked away as I headed to the pool table.

  While I chalked the end of the cue, I could hear the conversation behind me: Minto was spouting off about the killing he’d made selling poppers outside college. ‘Small change for me,’ he said, ‘but it’s all beer money, ain’t it?’

  I had to face them as I lined up the first ball and I could see Sindy’s twitchy fingers holding onto her glass of something canary-yellow and frothy.

  Perhaps Minto saw me looking. As I potted a ball, I heard him say to her: ‘That stuff looks radioactive, gal.’

  ‘It’s nice,’ she said, offering him the glass. ‘You want to try?’

  ‘Not like that, Sinds,’ he told her. ‘With your finger.’

  Minto’s comment caused a few guffaws and by the time I turned around, he had Sindy on his lap pushing her pinkie in and out of his mouth. It created a bit of a ruckus amongst the lads.

  ‘Come on, Sindy – don’t keep it all to yourself,’ Zeppelin-guy said. ‘I wouldn’t say no to a little suck on it too.’

  I bent to pot another ball. By the time I’d straightened up, Sindy had moved to sit on his knee.

  ‘Alec, my man,’ Minto called over. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m all right.’ I kept my eye on the pool table.

  ‘Wanna join us? We’re tasting Sindy’s sweet delights.’

  She blushed as soon as I looked over.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  I figured I’d finish my game then take off. Minto’s bunch was getting louder and, from what I could see of Stobes at the bar, he looked like he had his hands full with Carys.

  Sindy was holding her yellow drink, still on Zeppelin-guy’s lap. He kept making out he wanted to steal it from her, like she was a freaking three-year old.

  I lined up the cue ball, about to strike when a shout went up and Sindy’s new friend was on his feet.

  ‘You spilt it, darlin’,’ he was saying. ‘You’re going to have to mop it up.’ He was pink faced with anticipation, pointing down to the wet patch on his crotch. ‘You could lap it up. Like a cat.’

  They were all looking at her, straight backed with possibilities.

  The smile had left Sindy’s lips; I could see her uncertain expression, searching for clues in the faces around her. Her gaze landed on Minto.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. There was a sharp, mean edge to his voice. ‘You’ve hurt the man’s feelings, Sindy: you’re gonna have to make amends.’

  Around me, the hubbub of conversation continued; explosions of laughter; the clank of glasses; ‘Bat out of Hell’ through the speakers.

  ‘Here?’ I heard Sindy say.

  My guts tightened as I looked on: was she really only quibbling about the location?

  Minto answered her, monotone. ‘Sindy. Get on your knees.’

  I paused; my cue balanced above the ball. I couldn’t swallow, didn’t dare move. Then Sindy turned and met my gaze, looked me square in the eyes.

  I moved around the table and cleared my throat. ‘Wanna come with me?’ I said to her. ‘I’m going home now – if you need to get back…’

  Every pore started leaking as I stood there, waiting for her answer.

  I needed her to hurry up. Hurry the fuck up. Stand and turn so we could get out of there.

  At last, she smiled. ‘No, it’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’m…’ She stopped when she saw Minto was on his feet, heading my way.

  He came so close to me that my arse was crushed against the pool table. ‘You got a problem with me, Alec?’ he said.

  I braced myself, ready to feel the knee in my balls; his fist in my gut.

  He eased himself closer. ‘Well?’

  I kept my eyes on his, but I took in the periphery of his features: the Apaches logo tattooed across his neck; the piercings in his ears; the battle scar beside his eye.

  He took a slow sip from the dregs of his pint as his eyes drilled into me; the leather of his jacket creaking as he moved his arm. Then the glass was empty in that big hand of his.

  ‘Hey, Alec. We’re splitting now. You ready?’ Stobes appeared beside me, stupid smirk on his face like he hadn’t noticed a thing. His eyes slid to Minto. ‘All right, mate?’

  Minto’s pelvis released me, but his eyes didn’t shift. ‘See you then, Alexander,’ he said. ‘Back at the flat.’ He eyeballed me, second upon second before taking a step backwards.

  ‘Good,’ Stobes said, wrapping a chummy arm around my shoulder. ‘Let’s go get that kebab, eh?’

  And with that, he led me out the door and saved my freaking skin.

  Despite my telly being turned up full whack, I could still hear Stobes and Carys giving the bedsprings a good old hammering. I couldn’t settle – not just because of the thudding above me – but because Minto and his mob could be back any minute and I knew they’d be even more sauced-up after a few club visits. The way I saw it, I had two choices: I could lay low and pray he’d forget about our incident in the pub; or I could throw some clothes in a bag and make myself scarce. Cardiff was only an hour away, so I got myself a seat on the night bus.

  Mum couldn’t have been more pleased. Despite it being barely light outside, she ushered me in and went straight to the kitchen to whip up a full English breakfast for me.

  ‘So, how’s that girl from the flat?’ she asked, once she had me safely settled at the kitchen table. She stood over me with folded arms as I tucked into a massive fry-up.

  ‘She’s fine,’ I said, dipping some bacon into the egg yolk.

  ‘What’s her name again?’

  ‘Sindy.’

  ‘That’s right. Fragile little thing, isn’t she? Does she ev –’

  ‘Got any ketchup?’

  Mum went to the cupboard and put the bottle in front of me. ‘And that Mintie’s a vicious-looking sort, isn’t he?’

  ‘Minto.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re doing living with someone like that. And I mean, Sindy didn’t seem any more than a child. How old is she? I wonder if somebody should –’

  ‘I don’t know how old she is, Mum. I don’t have much to do with her. With either of them.’

  She went to the sink and squirted some washing-up liquid into the frypan. I heard her take a breath and I knew she was revving up for further probes in the Sindy Inquisition.

  ‘Dad not having breakfast?’ I said.

  ‘No.’ She stuck her hands in the suds and started scrubbing.

  ‘Not like him to be in bed after six on a Saturday morning.’

  There was a loaded pause and I watched the back of Mum’s neck stiffen. ‘Yes, well. It’s been a while since you were home.’

  I looked over to her. Perhaps Dad’s long-awaited retirement from the Navy hadn’t added the sparkle to her life that she’d hoped.

  ‘It’s good of you to come down for the weekend, though,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d remember, what with –’ She stopped as the kitchen door opened.

  Dad shuffled in wearing a pair of stiff-looking trousers and a polo shirt, nothing on his feet. ‘A visit from the prodigal son, eh?’ he said as he went past.

  ‘All right, Dad?’ I watched him as he went to fill the kettle. It might’ve been my imagination, but he seemed shorter these days, stumpier, like he was sinking into his own foundations.

  ‘So,
Alexander,’ he said, taking a cup from the hook. ‘To what do we owe the honour of your company?’

  ‘Just thought I’d come and see how you’re both doing.’

  ‘If you’re short of cash, you’re on your own. We’re having to tighten our belts.’

  Dad had been going on, for the past six months, about how he’d squandered his life for an ungrateful nation and had been cut loose with barely a brass razoo to show for it.

  ‘I don’t need money, Pop,’ I said. ‘But thanks for checking.’

  He sat next to me and stared into his tea.

  ‘Did you hear back from that job interview?’ Mum said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Yeah. No luck.’

  ‘Oh well. Never mind, love. Something’ll turn up. Any employer would be lucky to have you.’

  Dad snorted into his cup. There was nothing unusual about that, but there was about Mum’s reaction.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Jim, don’t start!’ she said, slamming the tea towel down. ‘At least he came home. At least Alexander remembered, which is a damn sight more than you did.’

  Dad’s brow furrowed and the obvious bewilderment about exactly what he’d forgotten seemed to be the last straw for Mum. She wrestled a chair out the way, flung open the door and marched from the room.

  The thing about being home when you don’t live there anymore is that everything changes. And everything stays the same.

  In my room the chest of drawers stood in its usual spot; the mirror askew like always. A grease mark remained on the corner of my Clash poster and there was the familiar rip on Joe Strummer’s cheek from where I’d fallen against him after too many ciders. But this wasn’t my room anymore, not really. It was a place I stayed; a throwback to a former time; mine because of the memories. But it couldn’t ever be really mine again, because I was living a different life.

  I hopped onto my bed and settled down on the duvet, hands behind my head, looking up at the ceiling. Near the Bluebirds lampshade, I could still pick out the spot where Gina used to keep a horse poster. I always teased her about it, just to annoy her: I hated having to share my room, so I’d do whatever I could to tick her off. She used to threaten to call Mum whenever I got out my darts: she knew I’d start aiming upwards for the horse’s eye on her poster. ‘Stop it, Lalec!’ she’d yell at me. Lucky for her, I was such a shit shot: I never touched the picture, let alone land a dart in the horse’s eye. Made a right mess of the ceiling though.

  I thought back to that poster, wondering if Mum had kept it. She’d kept everything else, all boxed up in that same room she’d earmarked for Gina.

  And that was when it hit me. The date. Tomorrow would be August 7th.

  I couldn’t say that I really remembered Gina. Not in a concrete, 3-D way. There were photos, of course: most of them in those boxes. But Mum kept one framed black and white picture of us on the mantelpiece. It was taken at some campsite near Rhossili a few months before Gina got sick: me and her were looking up at the camera, both of us smiling to order, spades poised above sand-laden buckets, Gina with her podgy legs straining to hold herself steady. She still had little dolphin teeth and a tiny ponytail on top of her head, slightly off-centre. And to be honest, that was all I remembered of her: three-year old Gina of the photo, not Gina herself. Not Gina on the other side of the bedroom, groaning that her head hurt. My memory of her was snapshot quick, impersonal, unreal. And she was forever grainy grey in my mind, never quite making it up there to full colour status.

  Had I not gone to John Walsh’s birthday party that particular day, it might have been different. I mightn’t have been so tired; perhaps I’d have even got out of bed sooner to get Mum. But I didn’t. So, Gina kept moaning and I kept right on telling her, in my seven-year old way, to shut the hell up. It was the middle of the night when I woke and heard her retching. Then there was the distinctive splat sound of vomit-on-carpet. Gina was very quiet about it though: I remember the almost-peaceful murmur she made. Then a gurgle; an odd, wet sound that didn’t even seem human.

  ‘All right, all right. I’ll get Mum.’ I remember the deliberate sigh – hefty as I could make it – so she’d know what a nuisance she was being. I trod on the sharp, unforgiving leg of one of her Sindy dolls as I got out of bed. That pissed me off too, so I kicked it under my bookshelf, glad she wouldn’t be able to find it next time she went looking.

  It was only when Mum turned on the light that I realised. Gina was purple, like a beetroot. It was a colour that haunted me forever afterwards: I hated seeing clothes that colour, cars, books, bags – anything. Maybe it was just as well I only thought of Gina as grainy grey after that. I remember Mum half-lifting her out of the bed and Gina was stiff and taut, like a stick. I’d expected her to be like a rag doll, but no. It was like every muscle had gone into spasm.

  ‘Go down to the phone box,’ Mum yelled at me. ‘Dial nine, nine, nine. Tell them we need someone now. Now!’

  I shot barefoot down the street in my pyjamas. I gave a brief and breathless account of what was going on and where the ambulance needed to go. As soon as I put the receiver down, I wet myself and I stood there for a few minutes not knowing what to do. I think I was glad for an excuse not to go home, not to have to face whatever mayhem might be waiting for me.

  It went without saying that Dad wasn’t there. Dad was never there. Anytime anything happened in our family, Dad always missed it. It was like he had a sixth sense. Son’s first day at school? Absent. Moving house? Couldn’t make it. Death of the youngest child? Late again. Yet choose a day when I’d been caught nicking tapes from Woolies – oh yeah, he’d somehow manage to be around for that.

  So, it was left to Mum to deal with. The ambulance arrived, and the greasy, balding paramedic shouted to Mum over his shoulder as they were wheeling Gina into the vehicle, ‘It’s not looking good. You do realise that, don’t you?’ Even at seven, I got what he was saying and if I hadn’t, I could have worked it out by the look on Mum’s face. I remember watching her mouth slacken, like her puppeteer had cut the string. ‘What are you saying?’ she said.

  The guy pretended not to hear; probably realised he might have been better keeping his fat, insensitive mouth shut. I heard Mum behind me whisper, ‘Oh, dear God!’

  When it was all over, we went home in a taxi, just me and Mum. I’d changed my pyjamas, but I still smelt of piss. I kept sniffing, breathing it in, wanting to suffocate in the smell of it, because at least it took my mind off the moment. Our family had just been cut by a quarter and all I could think about was the strange murmuring Gina had made and wondering how she could have been so fucking peaceful about dying.

  Chapter 9

  I couldn’t face a Saturday night at Mum and Dad’s with only The Sweeney to keep me entertained so I rang Jake Hoskins. I’d known him since primary. Now he was a sales assistant at some clothes store on Queen Street. Always said it was just a holiday job but after three and a half years, even he had to admit it was turning into one hell of a long vacation! He told me where he was meeting up with his mates, so I invited myself along for the ride.

  Just before I went out, Mum knocked on my door. I was cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a pile of LPs. She came in and sat on the edge of my bed, smoothing out my pillow like it was her favourite pet.

  ‘You all right for money?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah, yeah,’ I said. ‘I’ve signed on: I’m due for a Giro on Monday.’

  She reached into her pinny pocket and took out a tenner. ‘Have this,’ she said, placing it under my alarm clock. ‘At least it will help with your coach fare.’

  ‘Cheers, Mum.’ I looked up from my Pretenders album and gave her a smile.

  It was unusual to see Mum wearing an apron when she wasn’t mid-bake. She was one of those ironed women who always made sure they were dressed for visitors. Except that day. That day she looked like she’d had enough of the bullshit. Her mouth wasn’t lipstick-coated like it normally was; there was no furry film of powder on her c
heeks and, for once, her bunions weren’t wrapped inside pink slippers. They were out there, bulbous and bony as if she was finally fed up with apologising for them.

  ‘You okay, Mum?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’ She forced a smile. ‘This weekend was always going to be...difficult.’

  I flipped through more albums. ‘Yeah, course.’

  ‘Alexander?’

  ‘Uh-huh?’ I pulled out my Regatta de Blanc ten-inch.

  ‘It means a lot that you remembered.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘I…knew you would.’

  I nodded, guilty, but figured that perhaps my subconscious had indeed remembered. Maybe it wasn’t the prospect of Minto’s revenge that had sent me scuttling east, but Gina.

  ‘Could I ask you something?’ Mum said.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Would you come with me to the cemetery tomorrow? We could take something for Gina.’

  ‘You want to go to the cemetery?’ I hadn’t gone back there since the funeral. I used to tell Mum I called in sometimes on my walk home from school, but I never did, really: could never stomach the idea. It had all seemed so cruel, so inhumane. Gina hated the dark; hated being shut in anywhere. Yet that’s what we’d done to her: placed her in a box, put her in the ground and left her there to rot. I’d never been able to forgive the treachery. ‘Okay.’

  Mum stood and smoothed down the frills of her apron, hands pausing as if it had suddenly dawned on her what she was wearing. ‘Thanks, love.’ She hesitated by my bed. ‘Don’t mention anything to your father, will you? No point in upsetting him.’

  I looked up from my album, but Mum had already made a beeline for the door.

  ‘Whatever you say,’ I told her. Though the way that Dad was lately, the chances of him being upset by anything – even a dead daughter’s sixteenth – were pretty much nil.

  The Windsor in Cardiff’s docklands was no Hammersmith Odeon but a few decent bands played there on a Saturday night. The place had that closed in, suffocating feel of too many paunches enjoying too many pints, but the jukebox was cheap and they had good beers on tap.