by Luan Goldie
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Chapter Thirty-Six ,Malachi
He was always one of those children who wore the shirt and trousers of his school uniform to church. Suits were an extravagance. Even during that first year at university, when everyone, no matter how little was left of their student grant, had marched down to Hugo Boss and hired one for the summer ball, Malachi couldn’t justify the cost. But for this, for today, he knew he needed one.
Harris had helped, forcing Malachi into a fitting room and passing him several pairs of black trousers, white shirts and jackets to try on. ‘Don’t worry about the cost,’ he said. He was always saying that, but Malachi felt the debt mounting each time Harris did the food shop or topped up the electric. ‘Pay me back when you’re earning.’ It seemed so far away, but then Harris pointed out that next summer Malachi would have graduated, be interviewing for internships and starting his career. It’s difficult to think that far ahead. To imagine himself moving on. Surely it won’t happen for him, this future he had envisioned. How would he ever be able to sit in an interview and talk about something as trivial as his professional goals, while wearing the same suit he wore as he watched his girlfriend being buried?
The bus goes over a speed bump too fast and he topples slightly onto a pile of shopping bags by an old man’s legs. The man frowns and looks pointedly at each of the empty seats on the lower deck. But Malachi doesn’t want to sit down, to crush the trousers and crease the shirt. He had attempted to iron them himself this morning, but Tristan had winced and given a running commentary on all the things Malachi was doing wrong before taking over.
The sky is mostly grey, but as he steps off the bus he realises it’s warm, too warm for the jacket. Though he knows he won’t take it off today.
The church grounds are unkempt and overgrown; there are crisp packets and newspapers caught in the bushes. Pamela hated litter. Along with the dirty air and lack of open space, she said it was one of the things she disliked most about living in London. Once, as they walked down Oxford Street together, she told off some tourists for throwing their empty coke cans on the ground. It had surprised Malachi because he’d never heard her speak up about anything before.
‘Malachi Roberts?’ A familiar voice – his old art teacher, Ms Biney. She looks different here today, with her bright colours muted. She steps forward and reaches up to put a hand on his shoulder. ‘My goodness, you look so different. So grown. How are you?’
He manages a nod and hopes she’ll remove her hand. Ms Biney was always like this with him, too kind and too intuitive. For the year she was his form tutor she was forever asking him if he was ‘okay’, if he needed ‘to talk’.
‘And how is Tristan? We do get updates. I heard he’s out of hospital, but how is he really doing?’
‘Great. He’s doing great.’
They both step to the side, allowing a couple dressed in black to walk past. Malachi looks closely at the light-haired woman. Could this be Pamela’s mum? Should he speak to her?
‘Tristan’s strong, isn’t he?’ Ms Biney says. ‘You both are. So strong. What a tragedy, Malachi. I’m sorry this happened to you. Terrible. So terrible. And Pamela, poor girl. She was in my form, one of my Year Elevens.’ Ms Biney puts her hand over her mouth, as if having overstepped something, then a few seconds later she shakes her head and continues. ‘Sorry. Where is Tristan? I’d love to see him.’ She takes a cursory look around.
‘He’s not here. He didn’t know Pamela very well. Also, he’s not very able right now.’
‘No, no, of course not.’
He needs to get away from this, from the small talk that will ultimately lead to how he knew Pamela, why he’s here today. It should be enough to say that they both lived in Nightingale Point, but Ms Biney’s the type of person who always wants to know more.
‘I’m going to take a few minutes before I go in.’
Again the hand comes up, and this time gently pats his arm. ‘I understand. Take your time. I’ll be inside if you need me.’
The crisp packets rustle under his feet as he walks over to a bench and lets his head fall into his hands. The sun breaks through and spreads across the back of his black jacket. He doesn’t want to be here, he doesn’t want to have to do this. The last funeral he had been to was his mum’s. But he doesn’t remember feeling this kind of pain then, maybe because he had been waiting for it, for her death. It’s difficult to remember much from that day; he kind of just went through the motions. Propped up by Nan, shaking hands with all those people from the past, Mum’s past, Nan’s past. People who hugged him hard and whispered prayers into his ears. People he rarely saw again.
Two girls, about Pamela’s age, slow as they pass the bench and nod in his direction. Maybe they are from the school and recognize him from when he used to pick up Tristan, or perhaps they are friends of Pamela’s, the small group of girls she spoke about, who occasionally chatted with her or tolerated her presence in class group work. One of them gives him a small smile, before walking on down to the church where a few people now gather outside.
Jay’s there too, in a dark grey suit that is too big for him, his hair shaved closer than usual. He looks over at Malachi while talking to another man. There’s no sign that Jay has softened, that his anger has been quelled. Even from here his shoulders appear too close to his ears, his face too contorted and red. The man turns to face Malachi, while still listening to Jay and nodding. He then begins to walks towards the bench.
‘Can I help you?’ he asks. It’s not entirely unfriendly.
The sun obscures the man’s face, so Malachi stands. ‘I’m here for Pamela.’
The man sucks the air through his teeth. ‘Sorry, but it’s family only.’
Despite what happened at the relief centre, Malachi had never considered that he would not be able to sit silently, unnoticed, at the back of the church. He only wanted to see what photograph of Pamela they would display, to hear her name and know it was real, that she was gone.
‘Look, I’m sorry, mate. I don’t know the story, don’t need to, but—’
‘Jay doesn’t want me to come in?’
The man looks over his shoulder, back at the church, but Jay is no longer there.
‘I’m here to say goodbye to her. That’s all I want. I have a right to do that.’
‘Look, my brother’s just lost his little girl and, for whatever reason,’ the man rubs the back of his head, ‘he doesn’t want you here.’
‘I have a right to be here,’ Malachi repeats, his voice trembling.
‘Come on, it’s a funeral. Don’t make a scene.’
Malachi can see it now, the way the man looks a little bit like Jay, a little bit like Pamela. She had never spoken about an uncle before. But then they tended to stay away from talking about family. It suited him at the time, but now it makes him feel like he didn’t know her.
‘He’s really going to stop me from saying goodbye to her?’
The man drops his head fractionally, as if embarrassed by what he’s been tasked to carry out. ‘The family don’t want you here. You should leave.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Chapter Thirty-Seven ,Elvis
Tristan Roberts has a wheelchair now, which Elvis likes very much as wheelchairs always make him think of Professor X and Elvis loves Professor X. But Tristan Roberts does not like Professor X, as he thinks all the X-Men are ‘inadequate’ and he does not like the wheelchair.
Instead, he is trying to get much better at walking using only two sticks, even though it hurts him very much and he has to wear special trainers, which he says are ‘ugly’ and ‘uncool’.
Elvis sits in the garden on a fancy white chair and watches as Tristan Roberts walks up and down the grass doing his exercises, sometimes stopping to lean on the fences. A big, bushy ginger cat walks along the top of the fence and stops to stare. Tristan Roberts looks up at it and barks like a dog.
‘I feel like this cat is mocking me,’ he says, ‘prowling about
with ease in my face.’ He bangs on the fence and the cat jumps away. Finally he makes his way back over and slowly steps up onto the decking. ‘Right, I’m tired. You wanna go play cards or something?’
Elvis nods, excited because this is what he loves about coming to visit Tristan Roberts: firstly that there are always snacks and no one to tell Elvis ‘that’s enough now’, and secondly that there are always so many games to play.
They go inside the kitchen, where Harris is sitting at the table with lots of reading books. Elvis does not know how anyone can read so many books at a time, but Harris is a super clever teacher, so he can because his brain is huge.
‘I’m making lunch. Do you want some?’ Harris asks.
Elvis is hungry but the last time Harris gave him something to eat it did not taste nice and Elvis did not want to be rude by not eating it so he went to the bathroom and hid until dinnertime was over.
‘It’s a kind of bean stew,’ Harris says.
Tristan Roberts sticks out his tongue and makes a funny face, which makes Elvis laugh.
‘No, thanks, we’ll wait for Mal to get back and run down the chip shop.’
They leave Harris to his bean stew and lots of books and walk very slowly over to the sofas. Elvis likes the sofas here because they are covered in squashy cushions that have pictures of elephants sewn onto them.
‘Elvis, I almost forgot, I got you something.’ Tristan Roberts hands Elvis a little blue-wrapped parcel. A present – this is exciting. Elvis has not received a present since Christmas, which was already so many months ago.
‘Can I open it?’ he asks to be polite.
‘Course, go for it.’
Elvis rips the paper and inside is a very fancy notepad with drawings of small tomatoes all over the cover.
‘I’ve wanted to get you something for ages, but I don’t have much money. In fact, I have no money. But when I saw this I thought of you. Solanum lycopersicum. You can start to keep notes on things again, like you used to. Just don’t go drawing me this time.’ He smiles and shrugs.
Elvis knows when you get a present you should always say thank you, even if the present is something rubbish that you do not want. But Elvis does want this present and likes it very much, so it is strange that he cannot say thank you straight away. Elvis feels a little bit sad but also happy.
‘There’s so much I regret about that day, Elvis.’ Tristan Roberts looks sad too. ‘I’m so sorry about what I did to you, what I said. I was an idiot. Sometimes I don’t even feel like I deserve to be here. But there must be a reason, right? For you to have found me behind the door? To have had the strength to get me out of there. I think about it a lot. My flat was destroyed completely by the plane.’
Now Elvis does feel really sad, because he does not like to hear about the plane and everything it destroyed. He does not want to remember that horrible day and the way Tristan spat blood, and the vomit that came out of his mouth and went all over Elvis’s shorts.
‘I only left to go and see Pamela, Mal’s old girlfriend, the one who used to run around the field all the time.’
‘The running girl who died?’ Elvis saw her photograph in the paper and was very upset as she was so pretty and so fast.
‘Yeah, that’s the one. As much as I didn’t like her, thought she was a bit dull and that, I knew Mal was really into her. So I went up to her flat to get some love letter for him, then boom.’
Elvis is interested in the idea of a love letter, especially from the blonde running girl. But love letters are private.
‘I was only on the other side of the block because she called me up. First she saved my life, then you did.’
Elvis knows he saved a life, that is why he was in the newspapers, why the nurses were all very kind to him and why he got a free dessert at the café George took him to last week. Everybody loves heroes.
‘Do you like the book?’
Elvis allows the pages to flick over from the first to the last. So many pages to fill with important information. He nods.
‘Elvis, you saved my life. We’re like brothers now.’
Elvis smiles as he thinks being Tristan Roberts’ brother is a good idea, a very good idea.
Three Months Later
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Chapter Thirty-Eight ,Malachi
Harris turns up the car radio and slaps the steering wheel as the newscaster announces Labour gains ahead of next year’s election. Malachi smiles at him, then catches Tristan’s look in the rear view mirror.
‘You all right? Comfortable?’
‘Yep,’ Tristan says.
He’s been in a mood all morning after he found Malachi’s letter from the university, expressing regret that he’s ‘chosen not to progress with his studies’. Malachi should be the one in a mood. Why should he have to explain his life choices to his little brother? Giving up university to sell flat-pack furniture and sovereign rings on the high street was hardly an easy decision for him, but it was one he had to make.
Malachi has come to the realisation that easing Tristan’s physical pain is the easiest part of his new role. He bought him a watch to beep reminders to take his painkillers, he helps to clean the hard-to-reach weeping wounds, and he makes sure Tristan rests, despite a stream of visits from Elvis, as well as a girl from the youth club, nicknamed Red Weave. But the psychological pain, mood swings and attitude are things he can’t help with. He hoped the course of therapy they had both been directed to through the survivors’ network would take care of this, but Tristan went just once, returning home furious that the therapist, who he described as ‘an old guy with tattoos and a ponytail’, asked him to say what he liked best about the way he looked.
‘Besides,’ Tristan said, ‘I don’t need to see some fruity therapist. This is the clearest I’ve felt in ages.’
The clearness was probably because after smoking weed every day, Tristan declared himself ‘reformed’ and said that his former favourite pastime now only served to make him nauseous. Weed was now Malachi’s thing, his only break from reality, a slow spliff while sat on the wrought-iron chair in Harris’s garden, despite how much Tristan bitched about it. Always the opposite of Tristan, weed and therapy was what got Malachi through one day and onto the next. Malachi loves how he feels so light after each session of therapy, exhausted yet purged of all the things that eat away at him day after day. Therapy is a chance to talk, to ask all those questions out loud. Will he ever be able to be with anyone again? Or will every woman have to compare to the girl he lost at twenty-one? The girl he wants to stop thinking about. When she enters his mind, he pushes her away. It hurts too much. Though he enjoys when she appears in his dreams, sitting in their booth at the café, picking at a plate of a chips, gossiping about the arguments her insane neighbours have with each other.
‘I think this is it?’ Harris says as he pulls in by four small blocks of flats.
The letter from the council confirms it. ‘Yeah, it’s that one on the left.’
It’s almost half three on the dashboard clock – it has taken them fifty minutes from Harris’s place, without traffic. Malachi calculates this in his head: that’s a two-hour round journey to the hospital for every appointment. He hopes Tristan hasn’t noticed. Between the fortnightly check-ups with the consultant, weekly physiotherapy, and random scattered appointments with the ear consultant, his recovery was already a full-time job without adding in a commute.
Malachi jumps to open the back door and put his arm out for Tristan, who, despite obviously struggling to rise, pushes the helping hand away. Why can’t he be grateful for the help? It’s Malachi’s role as big brother to be there.
‘I’ll wait here,’ Harris says as he takes out his box of cigarettes.
It’s a bit chilly and Malachi pulls a grey fleece jacket on over his red work shirt. He catches Tristan glance over. ‘What?’
‘What is this look you’ve got going on today?’
‘I’m on shift at two. I’m not going to go back just to get
changed, am I?’
‘I know, man, but Argos.’ Tristan shakes his head and grabs the paper from Malachi’s hands.
Something about this housing estate doesn’t look quite right. Each block is three floors high and white pole bars run alongside ramps up to the front entrances.
‘An old people’s home?’ Tristan says. ‘Three months waiting and this is what they offer? Are they serious?’
‘I don’t know, Tris. Let’s look properly.’ Malachi can feel his brightness fade, his shoulders slump. He’s too tired for disappointment.
‘This place is adding insult to injury, ain’t it? Literally.’ Tristan leans his weight on the roof of the car, then takes hold of his crutches.
They move slowly towards the glass entrance doors and both sets of eyes go to a hand-drawn poster. Do you want to learn cross-stitch in a friendly environment?
‘Yeah, this is not going to work,’ Tristan sulks. ‘Let’s go down the council now. Let’s kick up a fuss.’ His voice echoes around the silent close. ‘They can’t palm us off with this. It’s been months. They need to house us.’
‘They need to house a lot of people.’
One of the wall boys had told them the council had dispersed families across bedsits all over the city, sharing kitchens with battered wives and ex-junkies, while the housing office struggled to find permanent homes. It was a scandal. Worse still, one of the tabloids had run a story last week about residents being ‘picky’.
‘But we get priority, Mal.’
‘A priority case’, those were the exact words Tina from the council had used when their application was made.
Tristan begins to read the letter: ‘We are delighted to have found you somewhere that fits with your brother’s physical needs. Flat Seven, Bridge House.’ He huffs. ‘We need our own place again, man. We need it to be like the old days. Can’t stay homeless.’
‘We’re not homeless. We have somewhere to stay. What? Why you shaking your head?’
