by Helen Mort
On the drive home, they filled the van with the voice of Julian Cope. Pete turned it up as loud as it would go.
She’s flying in the face of fashion now,
Seems to have a will of her own.
She’s flying in the face of fashion, yeah,
Seems to have it all chromed.
‘Do you ever wonder what he’s on about?’ asked Pete. ‘All that Reynard the Fox stuff as well? I do. But then I’m very closed-minded. I’m starting to realise that as I get old.’
The time was going, so frequently,
She said if I try harder again.
She’s flying in the face of fashion now,
Sells the world annually to a friend.
‘There’s a lot I don’t understand,’ said Pete. ‘I should have fucking tried harder.’
Leigh wanted to say something about how you didn’t always have to understand, sometimes it was better to accept something than understand it. But instead she belted out the chorus and Pete joined in with her:
World, shut your mouth, shut your mouth,
Put your head back in the clouds and shut your mouth.
The lanes turned into the motorway. The coast was just an idea now. They didn’t talk to each other for the rest of the journey, but Pete winked at her in the mirror and she winked back.
They went the slow way, the roundabout way, through the town that Leigh grew up in with its derelict pubs and new community centre and multiple roundabouts and lingering, Tudor shop fronts. Leigh saw a girl she went to school with pushing a buggy. There were people dancing outside the Sports Bar in short-sleeved shirts. Pete had gone this way because he was going to drop her off in the village, but when they got to the winding roads and stomach-dropping hills that led towards Leigh’s she said, ‘Drop me off in Sheffield instead. There’s somewhere I need to go.’
Julian Cope was going round for a third time now. Neither of them minded. Let him sing. As they crawled down Eccy Road, Leigh noticed all the joggers in neon zip-up tops and thermal leggings, all glancing anxiously at their Garmins and picking up speed. All the joggers and then all the women who could hardly walk in their pin-thin heels, sculpted black dresses that pressed their legs together. The women had perfect hair, which they smoothed down in the wind. The joggers had contorted red faces and kept their heads down. Leigh wondered what it was that made everybody try so hard all the time. What were they all working up to? Maybe it was because there wasn’t enough danger in life any more. Or people didn’t want to see it when it was there. None of them know, she thought. None of them know what it’s like to climb so hard you put all your breath, all your hope into one small movement, one step that might not matter, but might be everything. At the bottom of the road, by the supermarket, two men in shorts were trying to outsprint one another. She couldn’t tell who was winning.
When Pete let her out by the converted Brewery Works, she banged on the van door for luck and waved him off. The buildings were patterned with blue panels and an appropriate amount of glass. They were embossed with gold lettering. Hop House. Sheaf House. She checked her face in the shiny door window.
Rachel answered the door in a black leather jacket with fur collar and Leigh realised she wasn’t as prepared for this as she thought. Rachel had a lot of hair. It spilled over the top of her jacket, framing her face.
‘Is Tom around?’
‘Sorry, do I know you?’
‘Sophie. I’m a new Associate Lecturer at Hallam.’
Rachel’s face softened. She had a kind face, Leigh thought. Brown, forgiving eyes.
‘He’s upstairs. I’m just off out, actually, but please come in.’
‘Thank you.’
It was a room you felt you’d entered too suddenly, straight from Union Jack doormat to leather sofas. They had a widescreen telly fastened across one wall and a Klimt painting on the other. The coffee table was covered with newspapers.
‘I’m sorry to be so rude, Sophie. I’d love to stay and talk to you, but I’m running so late.’
Leigh heard the toilet flush upstairs, then the gush of the tap.
‘That’s fine. I’m not going to keep him long. Just a question about the new mark scheme.’
‘God, I know.’ Rachel rolled her eyes. ‘Head of Department sounds like a nightmare. Listen, must dash.’ She squeezed Leigh’s arm. She smelled of sandalwood. ‘Come round for drinks sometime, yeah? Be lovely to get to know you.’
She slammed the door. Leigh sat down awkwardly on the sofa. The leather felt cold. Rachel’s boots and shoes were lined up neatly by the radiator. Some had impressively pointed toes. She tried not to look at the shelf below the TV, but her eyes kept being drawn to it. Tom’s head and Rachel’s head were angled together in every photo. They wore matching smiles. Rachel always stood on the right, she noticed, and Tom on the left.
‘Jesus fucking Christ, Leigh.’
He was framed in the doorway, topless, in a pair of loose jeans. He was gripping a white towel very tightly in his left hand.
‘Your girlfriend let me in.’
He was holding the towel in front of himself now, as if he was suddenly frightened of Leigh seeing his skin. Panic seemed to make all his features bigger. His chin seemed uncannily large.
‘Don’t worry. I said I was a new AL. Sophie.’ She laughed. ‘I don’t know where that came from. The only Sophie I can think of is Sophie Dahl.’
He came and sat opposite her and looked at her very intently. She couldn’t work out his expression. It was a bit like pity, but there was something else, too.
‘I’m glad you came. In a way. We need to talk.’
‘We’ve always needed to talk.’
‘I’m sorry I haven’t called, since the party, I mean. It’s been a strange week.’
She smiled at him. ‘Tell me about it.’ She was surprised that she didn’t feel angry with him, that she couldn’t. She knew that for certain, now she was looking at him, now he was within touching distance. She felt like she’d been walking into a strong breeze and it had suddenly lifted.
‘Are you OK? Did something happen?’
‘No more than usual.’
Tom on the mantelpiece watched Tom on the sofa. She’d never understood why people would keep photos of themselves.
‘Leigh.’ Tom sounded like he had too much breath in his chest. ‘There’s no easy way to say this …’
‘Go on.’
‘We’re going to make this work. We’re engaged.’
Leigh wondered if he wanted her to look surprised. She could try, but most of her facial expressions just made her look anxious. Everyone said so.
‘And she knows about you.’ He paused. ‘Well, not you. Not what you said you were just now … I mean, she knows about Leigh.’
Leigh thought how curious it was to have herself referred to in the third person. How funny it was to have Tom address her like that. And yet how natural it felt. She knows about Leigh.
She reached across the coffee table and took his hand. It was very unlike her. Very unlike Leigh.
‘Of course she knows,’ she said. ‘She’s probably known all along. People do. It doesn’t stop them from loving you.’
Her voice was cracking a little bit. There was something in the corner of her eye.
‘I’m happy for you,’ she whispered. ‘I am. Honestly. That’s what I came here for. I was going to tell you to do the right thing. It’s been coming a long while.’
She squeezed his hand. He wouldn’t look at her.
She laughed. ‘At least this way we can be friends. Instead of getting bored and bitter.’
‘There’s no one like you, Leigh.’
She looked at Tom and Rachel, joined in their photograph, her hair curled round the back of his head, caught by the wind, a white sky behind them. When Leigh was small, she used to stay up late reading books about girls at boarding school, straining her eyes by torchlight. The girls wore knee socks and they were always having midnight feasts with chocolate and marshmallow
s and ginger beer, speaking properly and playing lacrosse. Their lives were so unlike Leigh’s she could read about them forever. On the cover of one book was a girl with soft, black hair and eyes that weren’t exactly blue but lilac. Violet, wasn’t that the word for it? She was called Helena. Len for short. Leigh used to draw pictures of her at school, getting her gingham dress just right. Eventually, she tore the cover from the book and folded Helena under the pillow. In the playground with her pleated skirt uncomfortably high, showing her scabby knees, Leigh’d imagine she had black hair over her shoulders and a rosebud mouth.
Tom was still speaking to her earnestly, as if he wanted to make sure she had heard. ‘No one,’ he repeated.
‘Good job,’ said Leigh. ‘One’s more than enough.’
Sheffield-on-Sea
I’m the city that doesn’t exist, the place you laugh about, imagining the long stretch of The Moor as shingle and groups of lads surfing in the Peace Gardens. Big waves, dwarfing the cathedral and jellyfish stranded on Fargate. In the Nineties, when you were still a kid, someone took a sign and planted it in the underpass near Bramall Lane: TO THE BEACH it said, white letters on blue. Nobody shifted it, not for weeks. One morning, the first offering appeared at the foot of the sign: a pink plastic bucket and a spade. Then people brought shells and scattered them. Somebody dropped an ice-cream cone – might have been an accident, might have been on purpose. Girls started posing next to the sign, making peace signs in their sunglasses and bikini tops, tongues stuck out for the camera. Men sunbathed topless on the way back from The Rutland, staggering up to the sign and pointing at it, then collapsing to the ground, rolling their trousers up the way they would in Skegness. By September, the council had placed a cordon round it as if it was the scene of an accident. By October, it was gone – they left the bucket and shells behind. One day, you’ll find me. You’ll step down an alleyway and the water will rise to meet you, salt and seaweed. You’ll be lifted then, you’ll know how to swim.
Alexa & Leigh
Alexa waited until the bread and miniature olives had been cleared away and the waiter had topped up their wine glasses, filling hers nearly to the brim. Then she said:
‘To what do I owe this pleasure, Dave?’
Dave had tucked his napkin into the top of his jumper. This wasn’t the kind of place where you did that, not really. It was a smart chain, branded bread sticks and silver embossed menus and cutlery that shone your face back at you, curved and ruined in a spoon. Dave belched quietly and looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
‘Belated birthday treat,’ he beamed. ‘Got to look after my best co-worker.’
His nervous smile meant he wasn’t telling the truth. Their waiter was back too quickly with the mains. He placed a doughy volcano in front of Dave, an Italian flag on a cocktail stick impaled in it. For Alexa, he shaved tiny flecks of Parmesan over a plate of carbonara, then produced a huge, phallic pepper-grinder and doused the pasta with black flakes. She was losing her appetite. It looked sooty. Alexa had trouble with food, sometimes. She pushed the pasta round her plate as Dave shovelled his calzone. She placed a hand on her stomach. She could feel a lip of skin bulging over the band of her tights. She took a large gulp of wine instead.
Dave didn’t say anything until his plate was scraped, smeared with oily residue, his salad neglected in the corner. He clattered down his knife and fork.
‘Belting. Mind if I go to the little boys’ room?’
She shook her head. While he was gone, the waiter came back and asked her if everything was OK.
‘Great, thanks. I’m just not very hungry today.’
He swooped away with the plates and left Alexa gripping her wine glass, turning the stem round and round. When Dave got back, he knocked the table with his knee. A drop of wine spread across the tablecloth. It was only a small stain, but she couldn’t stop looking at it.
‘That’s better,’ said Dave. ‘Got to make room for dessert.’
‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about now?’
The restaurant was emptying. They had booked late. The staff were joking around behind the till, hitting each other with napkins. A teenage lad was being escorted out, propped up by two of his mates. Dave looked over his shoulder, as if someone might be watching them.
‘I’ve been concerned about you Alexa. I spoke to Sue …’
Ever since their outing to Parson Cross, Sue had been kind to Alexa. Cups of over-sweetened tea. Smiles in the corridor. She had left her to her usual beat in Page Hall.
‘She told me about your dreams. About, you know …’
Alexa had hardly been sleeping. She wondered if it showed. She’d thought it might be easier while Caron was in hospital, no 3 a.m. cigarettes with the windows open, no late-night reggae from Leyton’s room, but in truth, it was as bad as ever. She woke up every hour, on the hour. Or she drifted straight into the same dream, the steering wheel and the gear stick, the equipment that gave away the ambulance. The bodies. The people she needed to help. Sleep was something she had come to fear. She had started wearing more make-up, sculpting the hollows of her face with tinted moisturiser and concealer and two dots of blusher.
‘Do you remember Keeley, who used to work in the force?’
Alexa wasn’t sure she did.
‘Doesn’t matter. She left years ago. She’s changed her whole life around. Got into all this clean-living stuff. Green tea and physiotherapy stuff. And then she trained to be a kinesiologist. Have you heard of that? Holistic healthcare. Linking the body and the mind. All of that. To tell you the truth, I thought it was all hippy crap at first. Sticking pins in people’s backs. I mean, what good will that do? He’s got a pain in his back. Whack a needle in it! Do you want some more wine?’
He waved his hand and the waiter came over.
‘Same again please, mate.’
Alexa drained her glass. There was something gritty at the bottom of it. Residue. Dregs.
‘Anyway, Keeley. I started going to see her when I had that trouble with my heart last year. Thought it couldn’t do any harm. And she was really good, actually. Taught me loads of stuff to do with my breathing, diet and all that. And we just got talking. About life and stuff, about the police. I just kept going because, if I’m being honest, I could talk to her easier than the missus. She was interesting. It was nowt like that, don’t get me wrong. I just like to talk to her.’
The waiter stooped to fill their glasses, first Alexa’s, then Dave’s.
‘Where’s this going, Dave?’
She noticed that the restaurant was empty now, except for them. A waitress was arranging knives and forks on a far table, inconspicuously.
‘I’m getting to the point.’ Dave shot Alexa a reproachful look. It made his face briefly childish. ‘The thing is, she’s learning all the time. Keeley, I mean. She’s into a bit of everything. Druidism. Psychotherapy. Reiki. I don’t know how she does it, how she finds the time, but she’s just so in touch with all these … ideas. And at the weekend she was telling me about trauma. Bear with me here, I want to get this bit right.’
He took a gulp of his wine for luck. They still had most of the bottle to get through. Dave folded his hands into a steeple in front of him on the tablecloth.
‘You’re going to think this sounds daft, but Keeley reckons we all carry these memories in our bodies. Memories of things that didn’t necessarily happen to us, but they happened to people close to us. Family and that. Friends, even. Sometimes, it’s a physical thing. She was telling me about this man who had really bad neck trouble that he couldn’t explain, not properly. It bothered him for years and years. He hadn’t had an accident to set it off. No.’ Dave leaned in over the table for effect. ‘It was only when he started doing some family history, looking at the family tree, that it all made sense. His mum had a twin she’d never told him about. Twin brother. He hanged himself in their house when he was twenty-five. Same age the bloke was when his neck pains started.’
Dave seemed agi
tated now, twitchy. There was a vein pumping on his temple. His nerves were infectious. Alexa found herself shifting in her chair.
‘Have some more wine,’ said Dave.
‘Thanks.’
‘Anyway. It’s not just a one-off. Keeley’s got loads of others like that. Clients of her own. People she knows about. She says we carry these stories around in our bodies and we hardly even know it. Summat like that, anyway.’ He paused, more dramatically than he had intended. ‘It got me thinking.’
‘Of course it did.’
Alexa felt nauseous now. She’d hardly touched the carbonara, but she could feel what she’d eaten curdling in her stomach. She could taste the heavy cream.
‘Alexa, has your dad ever talked to you about Hillsborough?’
Alexa wanted to look to the sky, but there was no sky. She looked at the floor instead. A constellation of breadcrumbs.
‘Dave, my dad doesn’t talk to me, full stop.’
He knew that. Dave knew that, even if he didn’t know why. He was humiliating her, dredging this up.
‘Look at me, Alexa. It’s OK.’
Alexa raised her chin slightly. She didn’t want to cause a scene. She didn’t want the waitress with her neat chignon and pinched waist to think they were having some kind of argument. To think they were involved with each other or something. He was still talking to her. He had lowered his voice.
‘Alexa, did he ever tell you about it when you were a kid? At the time, I mean? Did he ever say that’s why he left the force?’
She tried to think. She tried so hard she wound the tablecloth into her fists. She couldn’t remember him talking about anything at all. After Mum died. After her last good birthday party. When she thought back, she could see the shape of him, but she couldn’t hear his voice.
She pushed herself away from the table. Her vision was blurred.
‘Alexa? You all right?’
She got up.
‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
