by West Camel
‘You’re a bit young to be so cynical, aren’t you?’
He chuckled. His hands were deep in the tangle of loops and frays, the fabric concertinaed.
‘Julie used to make stuff up about me when she was a kid,’ said Anne after a few moments.
‘Julie?’
‘My daughter – the girl in the flat with the baby.’
Sam lifted his eyes briefly, trying to see any similarity between Anne and the girl he’d seen. Nothing struck him.
‘I wasn’t there a lot when she was little. She used to tell the other kids that I was an air hostess; when a plane went over she’d say, “My mum’s in that”; and she’d fight them if they didn’t believe her. That was her dad coming out in her.’
‘Where were you if you weren’t an air hostess?’ And Sam instantly regretted asking.
Anne looked down at her pale, plain carpet, at the blank TV screen, then out of the dark balcony window again. ‘I was a scaghead.’
‘A what?’
Anne angled her body towards him, and tucking her hair behind her ears, took a breath. ‘A scaghead – a heroin addict.’
She didn’t expect Sam to respond. His face looked confused in the lamplight, then he ducked his head back to his unpicking.
Perhaps she should leave it there, she thought. But it seemed important that before they embarked on this journey together, he knew her defining feature. Or, what had been her defining feature. She looked at the blank TV again. What defined her now? Did all that past sludge still stick to her?
‘I gave up about eighteen months ago. I’m what they call “recovering” – whatever that means.’
Sam paused before replying. ‘Perhaps it means it happened, but you’ve moved on. You remember it, but you don’t look forward to it. You look forward to something else.’ He was surprised at his neat little speech and gave the tangle of loops in his left hand a tug. A large area of the fabric was suddenly clear, the thread slipping and slithering, through his fingers and falling into his lap, making a small hairy ball.
Anne touched the springy mass, a nest between Sam’s legs. It was like soft, curling hair.
Over twenty years she had become adept at avoiding the image of the shining hairy head, the wet bluish ball of a body. But now, her hand so close to a man she hardly knew, she let herself listen to the quick snip of the cord being cut and watched as her dead baby was bundled up in a soft, white blanket. The nurse’s back was broad; she held the baby’s head as she pushed through the swing door. Anne had waited for a cry.
‘I had another child before Julie, you see. But she was stillborn. That’s what happened.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Well, it happened.’ And she wondered, as she often did, whether this time she would tap a well of grief somewhere. But no, still not. From a long distance, though – from somewhere out beyond the balcony, perhaps from over the creek, from over the river they had just sailed on, a breeze blew, nudging the door slightly ajar.
‘Yes, that’s what happened,’ she said again.
Sam examined the blank areas on the fabric, pushing at the minute holes where the thread had passed through. He checked to see if Anne was crying, but her face was calm as she stared at the progress he had made. She must have been beautiful once. Still was, in a clear, plain way; the warm lights made her skin even and picked out her cheekbones and hard, almost masculine jaw.
‘When I was a kid,’ he said, ‘my mum always told me that after she’d had me she’d wanted a little girl, but her and my dad couldn’t have any more children. She never said why. But she used to make me promise that when I grew up I’d have a little girl for her.’
Anne nodded without speaking; Sam wasn’t sure whether she was hearing him or thinking about the child she had lost. He pressed on, picking quickly now at the loosened threads.
‘And I suppose I always thought I would. Until now. Until the past few weeks with Derek.’
Anne rested her head, against the back of the sofa, as if it had become too heavy, her eyes still on his hands. ‘Gay people can have kids these days, though. Adoption, surrogates – all that?’
‘I know, but not like, you meet someone, you fall in love, have sex, get pregnant, bring the baby up together.’
‘Yeah, but it’s not really like that for most people.’
‘Well, especially not with Derek.’ Sam bit the edge of his tongue and tried to cover up his blush by seeming to be having a problem with a particularly tightly stitched area.
Anne must have seen his colour. ‘He’s infertile, I know. Lia, his ex, she’s been telling the world and his dog about it.’
Sam laughed at her slang and relaxed.
‘It’s like I said to Derek on Saturday,’ Anne went on, ‘there’s too much put on having kids, like they’re the point of everything. I don’t believe that.’
‘I think I see what you mean.’ Sam studied Anne’s long body for a moment, easing thread out of the grip of the fabric. ‘I was ready to chuck him last week, you know.’
‘Why?’
‘It was all too messy. But I couldn’t do it in the end. Whatever he’s like, and whatever he’s done, it feels like he’s the point. I’ve found what I was looking for without realising I was looking for it, if you see what I mean.’
‘Lucky boy.’ She smiled; her gums were receded and her even teeth were slightly discoloured, but it was a mother’s smile, Sam thought. It sat well in the creamy light of the room.
‘I never had the first idea he was gay, or bi, you know. But when I realised – well, put it this way…’ She stroked her hair gently, the smile still brushing against her face. ‘I can imagine the two of you together.’
Anne continued to stroke her hair and looked past Sam out into the dark again, trying to see why her last comment was true. She had known Sam too briefly to say why he and Derek suited each other. When Rita met a new couple, she would always comment about the babies they might have: the child growing in Lia’s belly was already being pitied; Tom’s unknown father made her worry. And then, of course, there was Julie, and the dead one.
Lights crossed in the sky; she couldn’t tell which was nearest, which was a plane, which a helicopter, which a moving star. They merged briefly, and drifted apart again, winking.
Sam turned around to see what Anne was gazing at. She had a good view from up here, he thought – in the daytime she must be able to see a long way. But now it was a carpet of dusty blue-black, speckled with lights. He stared hard, trying to decide what they were, where the horizon was – and what was beyond it. What was at the end.
His neck began to ache so he turned back. But his throat remained tight and a sudden physical need made him pull hard at the threads. It was the tiniest moment before he realised that the need was for Derek. Something gave in his hands and, with some sharp, plucking twists, all the rest of the stitching came undone. In his lap were a blank, tawny strip of fabric and a tangled mass of used thread.
The lights flickered, making Anne look up. It was only a power surge; it was nine o’clock. Children were being put to bed and teenagers were showering before nights out. Water heaters and bedroom lights were being turned on. Kettles set to boil after the soap operas. TVs and computers were humming.
She picked up the blank strip of fabric. It was pricked with tiny holes and covered in criss-crossing track marks from the years when it had held the motif. And, despite Deborah’s care, it was stained and a little frayed at its edges.
‘She said that whenever she’d tried to undo one of the copies she’d made, it just became a big tangled mess,’ Anne laughed.
‘I wonder if she ever really tried.’ Sam’s voice cracked slightly. Anne wanted to cup his head.
She threw her arms up in the air and stretched. ‘I’m exhausted. I think I’ll lie down for a bit, recharge my batteries before tonight.’
Sam blinked up at her, his fingers massaging the undone thread.
‘If you want to lie down on the bed too, you’re wel
come to. I think this sofa will be too short for you.’ She dropped her arms back by her sides, surprised at herself, but then not: they had been places today, and were going to do more – it was all unusual and surprising.
Sam didn’t speak for a moment; she watched his eyes roving around the room. Julie would have made some sneering expression and said, ‘No, ta.’ But Sam laid the mess of thread next to the strip of dirty fabric on the sofa cushion and stood up.
‘Sounds like a great idea.’
‘No funny business, though.’ Anne pushed him ahead of her to the bedroom.
‘I don’t think you need to worry.’
It seemed very safe and comfortable to Sam to lie down by Anne’s side. The darkness was incomplete with the living-room lights still on and the glow from the courtyard; and the night-time quiet was still hours away – a tick-tock of a drumbeat from a nearby flat underlay a stream of chatter from a balcony somewhere close. But no one knew what he and Anne were doing. That they were lying together, and that later they would be in someone else’s house – and then not.
He closed his eyes and was following a path under the railway, past the church – bluey-white in the darkness – into Albury Street. Which end would they enter?
‘We’ll be alright, won’t we?’ Anne said, her voice close to his ear.
He opened his eyes again and saw a ragged edge of light slipping through the pleat at the top of the curtain.
Anne went on, almost in a whisper. ‘We go down there; we find Nigel; we let him out. We’re not going to make things worse, are we?’
Sam crossed and re-crossed his ankles. ‘No, we’re doing the right thing. He doesn’t deserve to be down there, and Derek would want me to get him out, I’m sure. And someone has to stand up to Mel, don’t they?’
‘There’s no standing up to Mel.’ Anne spoke in a normal voice now. ‘I’m just worried we’re putting ourselves in more danger. We’ve already nearly been run down by a ship today.’
‘We were safe. It just felt more dangerous than it was. And anyway, I’ve been down the tunnel. It’s fine, honestly – they built things to last when they dug it.’ And on an impulse he put out his hand and found Anne’s.
Anne felt his fingers on hers, and almost pulled her hand away; but then checked herself and left it where it was.
Chapter 29: Anne and Sam
By the time Anne followed Sam into the garden in the middle of the small estate, the warm late-spring evening had evaporated, leaving behind it a cool night. The low lamps nuzzling into the bushes cast a bluish light across the lawns and gave Sam’s face a ghostly, pantomime appearance as he turned back to Anne to check she was close. They stalked across to the cover of the tree in the centre and stood near to its trunk. With the branches bending over them, she felt safe and unseen.
Sam silently pointed out to her the back of thirty-six Albury Street. All the lights were out, but there were several yellow squares floating about the garden. They waited. Anne could hear their breathing blending in with the movements of the new leaves.
After ten minutes, the whole of the Albury Street terrace was dark; it was 2am. Sam signalled to her with a crooked finger and they glided the few paces to the white gate. It opened with a whispered scrape. Anne trembled slightly as she closed it and followed Sam into the paved garden. She had a police record: arrests, but no charges; cautioned, but nothing serious – never anything like burglary.
She pressed herself against the garden wall as Sam carefully placed the Yale key into the lock of the back door. In the low blue light, with the prospect of the tunnel inside the house, it seemed impossible that they could be caught – it was just a game. There was a basement window in front of her; that must be where Mel’s fat arse had become wedged. Her belly shook with a growing laugh and she had to fold her lips between her teeth. Then she bit down harder: Mel and Derek had been arrested right here. Nigel was really down in the tunnel – she was sure of it.
The door was open. Sam was inside and at the top of a flight of stairs. Anne slipped in beside him. They were inside someone else’s house now – someone who slept upstairs. Or perhaps they were sitting up in bed, trying to stay still, listening, sure they were hearing footsteps? She wanted to reassure them, lay them back down and cover them with the bedclothes; we’re just passing through, she would say.
They were at the bottom of the stairs and in a kitchen. The window Mel had got stuck in let a little light in. Through an arch, to the front of the house, was a pitchy room. Sam seemed confident. He walked through the archway into the blackness and then Anne saw the beam of a torch appear, lighting up a door in the wall. A few steps and she was beside him again; he was fiddling with the large, old key. This lock was noisier, stiffer and more demanding.
The lock turned with what seemed like a deafening clang. Sam turned to Anne with a grimace that was exaggerated by the torchlight. They were both immobile, listening for movement; Anne again imagined the people upstairs. She had an urge to let out a shout, but instead she spoke in the quietest of whispers: ‘Let’s just get in there.’
Sam nodded and pushed at the door. It creaked, of course – it was old and heavy – but he continued and stepped inside. Anne pressed up behind him, then gave him space to close and lock it. It seemed that it banged into its frame and the lock turned with another ringing thud. But they were in the tunnel now – they’d slipped off the edge, and falling seemed easy.
‘Deborah managed to get in here with almost no noise at all,’ Sam’s breath puffed into her face. ‘I guess she stole the Yale key.’
The torchlight showed a passage lined with brick; the floor crunched beneath their feet, and ahead, where Sam shone the beam, there were bars running from floor to ceiling. He was already squeezing between them. ‘If they’ve heard anything, we’re better off getting as far into the tunnel as we can.’ He was on the other side, looking back at Anne.
But she stayed where she was – in the limbo between the well-equipped kitchen with its dishwasher and stone flags, and the damp maze where Deborah said she prowled alone.
‘What’s wrong? Come on.’ Sam’s whisper was insistent.
Anne stepped forwards, then remembered the thread Deborah had given them. ‘Hang on.’ She took a reel from her pocket and paid out a length, turning it around one of the bars a few times, before passing the reel through a loop. She checked it was fastened tight, then stepped between the bars. Sam took her hand, holding it with a much tighter grip than when he had held it in her bed, and strode ahead, pulling her with him. She let the thread unwind behind her.
Sam led her at a brisk pace, the torch steady in his hand. They stopped at a junction and he paused only for a moment. ‘This way,’ he pointed the beam to the right. ‘I remember this.’
It was all much as Anne had imagined it. The mud walls, brick arches, wooden supports and blocked doors; the cool, damp air, the musty crypt smell, shot through with a hint of the creek: it was just how Deborah had described it.
Anne reached out a hand and touched the wall, dislodging a few crumbs of mud with her fingertips. She gripped a wooden upright as she passed, briefly feeling its grain. She had thought that she might panic down here – she had expected some kind of crisis – but the chilled emptiness sucked away any drama, and she was left with an intense curiosity. Her pupils must be wide and deep in the dark, she thought, turning her head frequently to take in every element, and somehow expecting to see Deborah turning a corner ahead of them, or standing squat and strong in a recess.
She walked into Sam’s back, and had to grab his waist to stop herself. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ She stood back. ‘It’s confusing down here.’ She laughed longer than she needed to. Her voice sounded small and odd – as if she were still in her living room.
Sam was casting the beam around; they were at a junction of three passages. ‘I don’t remember this; I felt sure we’d come the same way I came with Deborah.’ He flashed the torch around again. ‘But Nigel could be anywhere, so it makes no odds if we go
Deborah’s way or not, I suppose.’
Anne studied his intent face – he looked a little older when he frowned. She wondered if he was having the same thought as her: that they had intruded into Deborah’s fantasy world, only to find that it was a dead end she had wandered into as a puzzled child.
She held up the cotton reel, ‘We still have this to take us back.’
‘Let’s just go on.’ Sam gestured with the torch. ‘No point going back over ground we’ve already covered.’ And he strode into the right-hand tunnel.
Anne continued to pay out the thread, and soon she had to stop Sam, take out another reel and tie it onto the end of the first. She dropped the empty plastic cylinder on the tunnel floor. ‘How long will that stay there?’ she said. But it wasn’t a really a question and Sam didn’t answer.
The new thread seemed more delicate than the first. She was careful not to pull it too taut, imagining the sudden slack as it snapped somewhere far back down the tunnel. All that tied her and Sam to the world above was this wisp of twisted fibre.
The thread snagged on Anne’s zip and she gasped and almost tripped. She quickly released it and hurried on after Sam, trying to take more care.
As she trotted along, she tried to picture her mother, Julie and Tom. Expecting it to be difficult, of course she found it easy; she mouthed their names. What was hard to appreciate down here was that they really existed. She was in one of those waking moments when the dream just dreamed seems to be reality, but the dim room and rumpled bedclothes insist that they are. She tried to open her eyes wider, but the darkness was ever deeper. A drop of cold water hit her face. She had somehow stopped and Sam was far ahead. She stumbled a couple of steps in her hurry to catch up.
Mel had been down here, she thought. What had he made of this place? She recalled, for the first time in many years, his shout as he sprang out of bed, pulling sheets and blankets with him, standing braced and naked, still in the grip of a night terror. Had the tunnel drawn him into that nightmare he would never speak about – or had he shrugged, looked about him and folded it into his knowledge of the streets above? He had certainly never known someone like Deborah. He had always been on solid ground at the centre of things. He had never been pushed off to the edge, where space spanned out and there was room to tell tales.