by A J Waines
‘You know me, I get bored easily. Science is blinkin’ tedious. It always needs tons of bloody equipment and the little twerps keep setting fire to things.’
‘So what now?’
Rick wanted to be an oceanographer when they were at secondary school, but mainly because he thought it would turn out to be one long cruise around the world. Then he wanted to be a meteorologist, but his IT skills weren’t good enough. He ended up with a 2:2 at Oxford, but was easily smart enough to have got a first. He barely turned up to lectures and only went to the library once in the final term, because he had a date with one of the assistants. In contrast, Daniel only managed to come away with a 2:1 from Reading after swotting long into the night for months.
Rick took a long gulp of beer and let out an appreciative burp. Daniel saw from his open mouth that Rick was chewing gum and wondered how he could bear to let it spoil the flavour of the beer.
‘Last time I saw you, you were thinking about starting an evening class in figure drawing,’ said Daniel.
‘Only because you get to ogle at nude models. Anyway, I changed my mind. I’ve decided. I want to be an actor.’ Rick was now leaning forward and idly drawing a line in spilt beer on the table.
‘Isn’t it a bit late for that?’
‘I don’t see why,’ he said stiffly. Rick had never been a huge fan of other people’s opinions.
Daniel hid a sigh behind his next sup of ale. At this rate, one pint wasn’t going to be enough, after all. Always on the verge of some ‘stonking deal’ guaranteed to make him rich and famous, Rick could best be described as a chancer. Never satisfied, he spent his time brewing up plans to jump on the latest bandwagon and rake in a packet. In all the time Daniel had known him – twenty years now – the winning schemes had invariably been just around the next corner. Nevertheless, Rick had refused to run out of steam.
A bunch of teenagers nearby were becoming so boisterous Daniel moved his glass away from the edge of the table just in case.
‘Kids, eh?’ Rick took the gum out of his mouth and rolled it into a ball, before sticking it under his seat.
‘You didn’t fancy bringing Donna along, tonight?’ asked Daniel.
‘Who?’ Rick looked surprised. ‘Oh, her. Haven’t seen her in ages. Not my type really. I’ve never had the same luck with women you’ve always had.’ Rick raised his eyebrows and made a rude gesture with his fist and crooked arm. ‘Anyway, enough of that. Let’s see your war wound.’ He dropped his eyes to Daniel’s chest with voracious enthusiasm.
Daniel reluctantly unbuttoned his shirt to get the inevitable sideshow over with.
‘Jeez – she really had it in for you, mate,’ he said, squinting at it. Rick always managed to overstep the mark somehow. Daniel should have been used to it by now. ‘Sorry, mate. Stupid thing to say.’
‘Sophie got it all wrong. I’ve never touched another woman since I met her.’
‘Yeah. Absolutely. Still, you must have some cracking memories from Latimer High… every girl’s dream, if I remember correctly. James Bond meets Poldark, eh?’ Rick ruffled Daniel’s thick black hair and pulled him into his shoulder. ‘But not Sean Connery, more Pierce Brosnan… or even––’
‘Shut up!’ said Daniel, only half-joking.
With the warmth of Rick’s embrace, Daniel was thrown back to thoughts of Sophie. Since meeting her, he’d left all his conquests in another dimension and only mentioned his ‘former playboy’ persona in a general, embarrassed kind of way. He’d convinced her of his loyalty, mainly because he was wholeheartedly convinced of it himself. Those days of one-night stands were over for good. Other women had held no attraction for him, once he had Sophie by his side.
She was his Golden Fleece, his Aladdin’s cave, his flame in the darkness. And under the duvet, she was the sparkler that erupted into a thousand colours in the night sky.
Without warning, a guy backed into their table, followed by another with a shirt collar hanging off. The second man wiped his nose, smearing blood across his cuff. Daniel turned away.
‘Flaming Fishbuckets – it’s a punch-up,’ cried Rick, gleefully, standing up.
Daniel tried to grab his arm, but Rick was already moving into the fray. Trust Rick to have brought him somewhere that could so easily erupt into volatility.
Within moments, the space in front of him turned into a landscape of legs and elbows, shoving and thrashing at each other. A shoe skidded across the floor and stopped at Daniel’s feet. Then a fist swung above him and hammered into a tall man’s cheekbone. Rick seamlessly embroiled himself in the scrap, cleverly dodging punches and managing to land a few random swings at no one in particular. He seemed able to bob up and down like a jack-in-a-box, weaving between the mass of bodies without getting hurt.
The frenzied activity around him seemed to be stealing all the air and Daniel could hardly breathe. He needed to get out, but his exit was blocked on both sides.
The grunt of a man as he hit the floor took Daniel straight back to the moment Sophie swung at him with the carving knife. People say that after a traumatic incident, you either remember nothing at all or everything in acute detail. With utter clarity he could still see the plaster hanging off Sophie’s left heel and the poppyseed trapped between her two front teeth. Strange what the mind will pick up at a time like that, he thought. Not, I’m about to die, but, she’ll need floss to get rid of that black speck.
He reared up towards the bar to see if anyone was coming to stop the brawl, but all he could see were tangles of body parts. The jukebox was playing Another One Bites the Dust. Someone’s idea of a joke. With his heart pumping at a rate of knots and his skin breaking out in a sweat, he was going to have to wait it out on the sidelines.
Unfortunately, the man wearing a pink shirt who’d appeared to his left wasn’t going to let him. He lunged at Daniel, letting out a drunken battle cry, but failed to notice there was a table in the way. It tipped over, taking the two glasses with it and the man landed face down on Daniel’s lap with a snarl. Daniel wanted to push him away, but didn’t want to antagonise him. His tender wound had rendered him tentative and vulnerable. He should never have come.
Behind him, Rick was grinning and lining up his foot to kick the man’s backside. When the blow hit him the guy crumpled to the floor and lay there, immobile.
‘Time to shift our arses, don’t you reckon?’ said Rick, dusting off his hands. Daniel was scrabbling to escape, acutely aware that Rick had saved his neck yet again. He ducked and dived around those who were still upright, not waiting for Rick. Desperate to get out into the fresh air before he was consumed by his first ever panic attack.
Chapter 11
Shoving his way through the boisterous crowd, Daniel made it out of the pub door and across the pavement to the wall running beside the Thames. He thought he was going to be sick, but once he filled his lungs with the familiar salty, detergent smell of the river, he calmed himself down.
When Rick bounded outside to find him, Daniel was still shaking and he folded his arms so Rick wouldn’t see.
‘Same again?’ said Rick, looking as though the party had only just started. ‘We can drink outside.’
Daniel thought they were leaving.
‘No, nothing for––’
Not waiting for a reply, Rick had already disappeared back inside.
Daniel leant over the wall and stared at the tranquil black water. The bridge, to his left, was still humming with traffic. The rhythmical clunk as tyres bounced over the expansion joints, soothing. It wasn’t far from here, he recalled, that Sophie had first told him she loved him.
It was three months after they’d started seeing each other. They’d set off on a walk along the towpath from Putney and had been discussing a film, when without warning she’d dragged him into the undergrowth. Even though it was broad daylight and they were close enough to the path to be seen, she feverishly began unfastening his jeans. He put up no fight, of course. She drove him wild teasing him, playing with him, until she eased him
onto his back and lowered herself down on top of him, at first gently, then with a greedy, thrusting pulse that made him cry out in ecstasy.
When they fell apart, she’d said those spellbinding words for the first time. I love you. Spoken with such depth and seriousness that Daniel almost wanted to cry. A month later, they were engaged.
A shout from inside the pub snapped him back to the present. Lurching out of the door came a figure which dived straight into a nearby bush to throw up. Daniel checked his watch and wished he was at home watching a tame American police drama. This was not the kind of evening he’d had in mind.
Rick eventually re-emerged with a man on either side.
‘Look who I’ve found! This is Dave. Teaches English and Drama at the hell hole.’
Daniel had been all set to call it a night, but now it seemed rude to walk off. Five more minutes, then he’d go.
Dave raised his hand by way of greeting. He was a long way from forty, but already bore the telltale signs of middle age: a beer gut that looked like it was there to stay and shiny patches of wasteland on his temples.
The second man was introduced as Stuart, a theatre friend of Dave’s, who wore a bile-green tweed jacket. Daniel noticed a stale smell of charity shops when they shook hands. Rick handed Daniel a dribbling glass and all four of them stood their pints on the wall.
Snippets of conversation suggested Stuart worked in the West End, but Daniel couldn’t tell whether he was an actor or backstage and he didn’t much care.
Stuart turned to Daniel. ‘You known each other long?’ His strong Birmingham accent made him sound like he had a permanently blocked nose.
‘Buddies now for over twenty years,’ cut in Rick.
Dave lit a cigarette. His forehead resembled a stretch of sand, carved into furrows by the wind. Daniel made a mental note to get back into his running as soon as his wound felt less delicate.
‘Blimey…’ Rick sniffed loudly. ‘Makes us sound like a bloody married couple.’
Daniel tried to smile. Marriage was the last subject he wanted dragging into the conversation. He wasn’t really listening to what they said next. Although aiming to smile in the right places, his mind had switched channels. All he could see was a cold house, a bewildered son and a vacant future.
That afternoon, he’d made the decision to clear away a pile of Sophie’s belongings. He was fed up with being jolted whenever he came across her creams, shampoo, comb, flannel or sponge – personal items saturated with her presence. It was like touching her skin every time and gave him fleeting deceptive assurances that she’d only gone away for the weekend.
So, he’d cleared out the bathroom cabinet and shower, the dressing table and her bedside cabinet, shifting old medication, toiletries, make-up, magazines and paperwork to the filing cabinet in the cellar. He’d taken her insulin out of the fridge and added that to the pile, too. It would be past its use-by date any time soon and best left out of reach of his son’s inquisitive fingers. He could always sort things out properly when he wasn’t feeling so distraught.
Stuart was looking at him, saying something. He had a permanent layer of fatty sweat over his face and there was something forced about his manner, as if he was trying too hard to be liked.
When Dave suggested another round, Daniel made his farewells. An unexpected cheer from a nearby group took most of Rick’s parting words with it. All Daniel heard was: ‘… decent night’s sleep after everything you’ve been through.’
Dave and Stuart threw a glance at each other and several unspoken questions were left in the alcohol-sodden air, like tiny feathers slowly swinging towards the pavement.
Daniel waved and walked away, pretending he hadn’t heard a thing.
He wished Rick wasn’t such a bull in a china shop.
Tonight had been something of a rude awakening, but real life didn’t come with built-in shock absorbers.
He was going to have to toughen up.
Chapter 12
Sophie had been waiting by the window, her throat dry, her stomach bubbling in anticipation.
‘Here we are,’ announced Annie, showing Sophie’s father into the dayroom. He was a broad, stocky man, wearing a thick tweed coat and a striped woollen scarf that Ben was nestling into.
Sophie hadn’t been able to eat breakfast; she was too excited about seeing her son again, but it was underpinned with a daunting anxiety, sitting like a boulder in her stomach. She desperately wanted to get it right this time. To feel a deep connection with her son, to show him – and her father – what a strong and capable mother she was.
The three of them hugged. Seeing her father was more emotional than she’d thought it would be. His face was barely one shade lighter than the grey scarf around his neck. Sophie lost herself in the woody smell of his coat, reluctant to let go. Ben started to wriggle between them, so her father pulled away and handed him over.
‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she said, brushing her fingers through his hair and softly squeezing his cheek. ‘Hi, Dad,’ she said, looking up. ‘Thanks for bringing him.’
Ben wanted to show her his new book, so she sat down. Her father dragged his chair closer, looking tired and taking shallow breaths.
‘Not very private, is it?’ he said, lowering his voice.
‘You get used to it.’
He reached out and stroked Sophie’s face.
‘Look at you – so beautiful, even after all you’ve been through.’
Sophie took his hand. At last, someone was acknowledging that she, too, might be suffering.
‘I don’t feel very beautiful.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘It’s been really tough, Dad. I’m so glad you’re here.’
Ben tugged at her sleeve. ‘Mummy read,’ he demanded. Sophie opened the sturdy picture book. It was called Good Night, Gorilla and she could see from the first pictures that it was about the antics inside a zoo. Her father joined in as she read, pointing to the vivid illustrations of animals that accompanied the story and making animal noises. Ben laughed and giggled and insisted that Sophie start all over again once they turned the last page.
‘In a minute, darling. I need to talk a little bit to Grandpa.’
Suddenly a face appeared from behind Sophie’s chair. It was Shareen.
‘I can read to him if you like… then you can talk to your old man.’
Sophie leaned away in horror, wrapping her arm round the boy. ‘Er… I don’t think so,’ she said, looking up for Annie, hoping she would rescue the situation.
‘I’m Shareen, by the way,’ she said, extending her hand towards Sophie’s father. ‘I share her room.’
Hesitantly, Sophie’s father took hold of her hand, a bemused look on his face. ‘Vincent Barnes,’ he said.
‘Sorry, Shareen, but we’re having a private conversation here,’ said Sophie.
Ben started to fidget. ‘Story, Mummy,’ he wailed, digging his boots into her thighs. She winced. Her father caught her eye, sending a questioning message back.
Shareen wouldn’t go away. ‘I could sit right here with the boy, then you can see him,’ she said. She sounded like someone on a market stall, trying to convince a customer that the cheap toy she was selling was completely safe.
Sophie wasn’t sure. She didn’t like the idea of Shareen, with her smelly breath and grubby sweatshirt, getting anywhere near her son.
Vincent puffed out his lips. ‘We could give it a go,’ he said. ‘Would you like this lady to read you the story Ben, if you sit right here in front of Mummy?’
‘Story,’ said Ben, emphatically, as though there was no debate about the matter.
Vincent lifted up the boy with a wince and sat him on Shareen’s lap. Sophie reluctantly handed over the book.
‘Okay, so what is this lovely story about?’ asked Shareen.
Sophie turned to her father, watching Ben out of the corner of her eye the whole time, expecting him to call out for her at any moment.
‘How are you?’ he asked, looking deeply into her eyes.
He wafted his hand dismissively. ‘Let’s not worry about that. I’m still here, that’s what counts.’
There was a point last year when he’d been given only weeks to live, but somehow he’d weathered the storm, defying all the odds. Sophie knew it wouldn’t be a reprieve for long.
‘Sorry, Sophie, time for your medication.’ It was Annie.
She handed Sophie a small saucer with a syringe alongside two blue pills, a white one, a larger yellow one and a plastic cup of orange squash to wash them all down.
‘Don’t look, Dad,’ Sophie instructed. She lifted her blouse, pinched a fold of flesh and expertly injected the needle into her side.
‘I still get squeamish when you do that,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘Still twice a day?’
‘Yeah, it’s fine – I don’t even think about it any more; it’s like cleaning my teeth.’ She smiled, realising it was probably the first time she’d done so since the attempt on Daniel’s life.
Annie passed her a small capped bottle.
‘You’re like me,’ he said. ‘I need a nasal spray every day, now.’
‘When I came here they reassessed all my medication. I’ve got a stronger one than I had before.’
Annie left them.
‘I’m so glad you came, Dad… did I say that already?’
He smiled.
‘How’s Mum bearing up?’
‘She’s much the same. Still refusing to use a wheelchair.’
Not long after her father’s cancer diagnosis, Sophie’s mother was told she had MS. She was now at the stage where she was wilfully opposing anything that made her look like she’d given in. But she was fighting a losing battle. Her father couldn’t pick her up any more when she fell and the doctors were warning that one day she’d hit her head or break her hip. ‘They’ll have to hold me down with chains,’ her mother had declared when the specialist suggested the wheelchair. ‘Because I’m not going in one of those bloody things while I can still breathe.’