Nightingale Point

by Luan Goldie

  ‘Hmm.’ Malachi’s eyes are now closed, his hood up.

  Tristan taps a beat from an old track, he’s not heard in ages, on the table with his fingers. He thinks he hears a baby cry and listens for a few more minutes, turning his head to the right, where his hearing is strongest. No, nothing. The tea is too hot and he has to slurp it.

  ‘Could you be any louder?’ Malachi says.

  Tristan laughs. ‘Dunno how you can lie on that mouldy old wood down there, Mal. You’re gonna get bugs crawling up your arse. I can smell those compost tubs from here. Why can’t Harris use the normal bin like everyone else? He’s so extra. And what’s with the dressing gown? When he wears that little gold and green ensemble I feel embarrassed for him.’

  Tristan slurps his tea again. ‘I like sitting up here on this chair. It makes me feel like I’m at a garden party or something. So ornate.’

  Malachi pulls himself up to sitting. ‘I thought you came out here to chill, not talk my ear off.’ He sips his tea and flinches. ‘And when are you going to learn the difference between a tablespoon and teaspoon?’

  ‘Whatever, Mal. I’m only sitting out here with you till Eastenders comes on. Got to kill time somehow.’

  ‘Can’t believe you’re still watching that.’ He lies back down. ‘As if real life doesn’t have enough drama.’

  Finally, it feels like they’re back to their old ways, how they used to be with each other in the flat. It makes Tristan feel good. He doesn’t want to rock the boat, yet can’t help but think now would be the perfect time to talk, to open up, then they can start to properly move past this.

  ‘You all right, Mal?’

  ‘You know me. I’m always all right.’

  They had first started the mantra after their mum died as an easy way to shut down conversations with prying adults, to get out of talking about how much they were hurting. When had they started using it on each other?

  ‘You miss Blondie, don’t you?’ He can hear the nerves in own his voice.

  ‘Course I miss her.’

  ‘I never really got it, Mal. Were you two serious? Like, did you wanna do it properly?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘I dunno, get a dog, buy a sofa together.’

  Malachi sighs.

  ‘I mean, would you have gotten back together eventually? Did you want to start a family with her?’

  ‘Tris,’ he says, ‘stop going on.’

  ‘You’re meant to talk about stuff, Mal. Isn’t that what your fruity therapist says? Don’t bottle this shit up.’

  ‘I’m not.’ He shoots up to sitting again, pulls his hood down and stares. ‘I just about have enough energy for each day. There’s no point in me talking about stuff that doesn’t exist anymore.’

  Tristan feels the heat rise behind his ears. ‘But I’m not talking about stuff, am I? I’m talking about her – Pamela.’

  ‘Yeah, but what about her?’

  ‘Well, was it real between you two? Were you getting back together?’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re asking me all this?’

  ‘’Cause I saw her.’ Tristan’s been holding it in for so long that it almost explodes out of him. ‘I saw her right before it happened. I knew she was back home.’

  The door to the house opens and Harris comes out, looking ridiculous in his dressing gown. ‘Boys? Everything okay out here?’

  Malachi ignores him and holds Tristan’s gaze. ‘Did she come to the flat?’ he asks.

  ‘No, I went up. She called. She wanted me to give something to you.’ Tristan should have kept his mouth shut. He doesn’t know what to say next, what to keep a secret. As Malachi comes closer Tristan sees an unfamiliar desperation in his face.

  ‘What did she want to give you?’ he asks.

  ‘Just some book, that’s all.’

  Malachi’s eyes zone in on him. ‘What book?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘What book? What did it look like?’

  ‘I dunno. Just some uni book you must have left in her rucksack.’

  ‘You kept this from me? All this time? All that shit you said to me in the hospital about never keeping secrets and you had seen her and didn’t tell me?’

  Harris tries to put his arm around Malachi. ‘Come inside.’

  Malachi shoves him away and slams his fist on the table. ‘We’re not meant to keep stuff from each other.’ The tea splashes everywhere; it runs through the twists of iron and onto Tristan’s legs. ‘It’s not what we do.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mal. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I can’t believe you kept this from me. I can’t believe you saw her. Right before it happened. You saw her last. You realise that? You had her last words. Her last smile. Her last …’ He throws his arms up and lets his hands come to rest on his face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mal. I was too confused at first and then I didn’t know what good it would do for you to know. It wasn’t a big deal.’

  ‘So why tell me now? Why wait till I’m just getting okay, then tell me?’ He drops his hands and shakes his head at Tristan. ‘I can’t be around you.’

  Harris follows Malachi back into the house. The muffled sound of their voices briefly fills the air, then the front door slams. Malachi’s probably gone back to the estate, to stand on the field and torture himself by looking at it. Tristan wishes he could chase him, stop him and apologise, put things right again. But none of this seems within his power. His head feels heavy; he lays it in his palms. He can’t let things get worse than this, he knows that for sure.

  All sounds quiet in the house and he heads back in.

  Harris looks down at Tristan’s wet trousers. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Course, just a little fallout. He’ll be all right?’ Tristan doesn’t mean it as a question but that’s exactly how it comes out.

  ‘I’ve not wanted to get involved with this,’ Harris says. He stops and pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘But if you’re hiding something from Malachi about Pamela—’

  ‘I’m not hiding anything.’ He feels defensive again.

  ‘Tristan, I know there’s a letter. I saw it at the hospital.’

  ‘I know Mal and I can’t give him that letter. It would kill him, the stuff in it.’

  ‘Well, then, that’s your decision. But whatever you decide you need to stick with it for the rest of your life. So think about it. Think about if it’s really a secret worth keeping.’

  Tristan doesn’t need to think about it, he already knows what to do. He goes to his bedroom and from under the bed he pulls out the plastic tub that contains his school books and hospital records. Under this is a pile of magazines, well-thumbed and read cover to cover during his hospital stay. He finds the issue of Men’s Health. Pamela’s letter falls out. Flat thirty-three had been destroyed the minute the plane exploded. He would have been dead if Pamela hadn’t called him up to get this letter. He was meant to have it. It rips slightly as he pulls it from the envelope and unfolds the three pages of Pamela’s big, swirly writing.

  He sighs as he skim reads. It feels different to how it did before when he read it in the stairwell. He remembers laughing then, thinking Pamela was just some ridiculous girl quoting Aaliyah songs at his brother. But now, reading this is upsetting and kind of emotional. He stops on the third page, he knows what’s coming, and feels the urge to destroy the letter. But no, he needs to be one hundred percent sure that he’s doing the right thing here, so he takes his time and tries to imagine what each of Pamela’s last sentences would do to Malachi.

  I know this wasn’t part of our plan, Mal, but it’s happening. I’m pregnant. I can’t believe we did this and now here’s the consequence. Obviously I’ve not been to a doctor yet but I think it’s still really early days (I only realised once I arrived back in Portishead and started feeling sick). We need to talk about this. We need to make the decision together and quickly. There’s so much we both want to achieve and I realise how this will make things harder for us both, but I’m prepared for i
t, if you are. But of course if you’re not then let’s talk about that too. I’m so confused. Don’t know what I want, except for us to be together again.

  Please, please let’s talk. Dad is still furious, locking me in and even talking about walking me to and from school! But he can’t stay mad forever. He’s working long hours, so please phone me and we can talk properly, like we used to.

  I love you. I miss you.

  Pam

  There’s no way Mal can know about this, no way it will help. Tristan begins to rip the paper up into the tiniest pieces his fingers can manage. Then, despite his exhaustion and the pain in his left leg, he walks back outside to the end of Harris’s garden. There, he puts Pamela’s last words into one of the big green compost bins.

  Six Months Later

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Chapter Forty ,Malachi

  They sit outside the town hall in the little bronze car. Malachi’s knees bend awkwardly as his seat is pushed forward to make space for Tristan in the back. He feels so big for everything these days, like he can no longer fit into his old life.

  ‘’Arry, this lack of heating is becoming an issue,’ Tristan says.

  Harris turns the engine back on, filling the car with air that’s too warm and close.

  Malachi was the last one to get up this morning. He didn’t want to face this day, this six-month marker, but they had made him, insisting he came along to the town hall to walk with all the other survivors in solidarity. His head thumps; the headaches are coming more often these days.

  ‘Mal, there’s Bob Ferris.’ Tristan taps on the window as he spots the caretaker from the estate. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen him outside of the blocks before. In fact, I’ve never seen most of these people anywhere other than on the estate. Weird, innit?’

  Malachi vaguely recognizes some faces as they pass. No one in the car needs to say it but it’s obvious the only person they all really want to see here today is Mary.

  Little crowds form, coming together in hugs and tears. Some have brought signs and placards painted with demands for answers. Others hold flowers and unlit candles. On the other side of the road stand a huddle of photographers talking among themselves. One breaks away from the pack to take pictures of the three men in navy uniforms: representatives from the airline.

  What’s the point of gathering here today, asking for answers about what happened, going over what could have been? None of that will change anything.

  ‘It’s quite a crowd now,’ Harris says. ‘Well, they said from midday, so we should go. Are you both ready to join?’ He switches off the heat.

  The cameras flash in the corner of Malachi’s eye and when he looks over he spots Pamela’s dad, Jay, sloping in behind the crowd. His isolation makes him stand out. Had he always looked so dirty? So poor? Malachi hadn’t thought about him in months, but now he wonders about this man, where he was when Pamela was dying in the flat.

  ‘Tris, I need you to tell me the truth about something.’

  The car falls silent.

  Malachi watches Tristan’s face in the rear view mirror. ‘This book you got from Pam. You told me you went up to get it. Why would you do that?’

  The backseat squeaks as Tristan shifts in it. ‘I already told you what I remember: she had a book to give you. You two were always swapping books and stuff.’

  ‘Yeah, but why did you have to go up?’ Malachi turns around now, needing to see his brother’s reaction when he asks the question he should have all those months ago. ‘Why didn’t she come down and post it through the letterbox?’

  ‘Is this really the right time to do this?’ Harris asks.

  ‘Why didn’t she post it?’ Malachi asks again.

  ‘I dunno. Maybe she was still funny about seeing you after whatever happened—’

  It’s obvious now, the story doesn’t make sense, and he can see it in the desperate way Tristan keeps looking out of the window, fussing with the blanket over his legs.

  ‘You’re lying to me.’

  ‘Mal, why would I lie to you about something like this?’

  ‘Because you know she was locked in, wasn’t she? Her dad locked the gate. He always used to threaten her with it, ever since she lost the key. He did, didn’t he?’

  Harris intervenes. ‘Malachi, what is the point of this? Stop.’

  ‘Why?’ It’s the only thing he can think of now, why why why. He’s filled with questions, they take over and push him out of the car and through the crowds towards Pamela’s dad. Malachi doesn’t even know what he’s going to say or do, all he knows is that he needs to be standing in front of him right now.

  The man flinches as Malachi approaches. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You locked her in?’ He can feel it now that Jay killed her, locked her in that flat, and made sure she couldn’t save her own life. ‘Say it out loud. You locked her in.’

  Jay stands, blank-faced.

  The silence builds and Malachi moves closer, the rage mounting as he imagines what Pamela’s final moments must have been like, alone and scared, waiting for the smoke or flames to take her. It makes him crazy to picture it; it hurts.

  He grabs at Jay’s jacket. ‘I want to hear you say it. You killed her.’ Their faces are so close now and it makes Malachi sick to notice, in this moment, a reflection of Pamela in the colour of Jay’s eyes.

  ‘What does it matter?’ he finally says. ‘She’s gone. I locked the gate to keep her safe from you. And I would do it again if I had to. You wanna blame me for it?’ Jay spits. ‘You wanna put it all on me?’

  ‘Of course it’s on you. You killed her.’

  ‘Why d’you think I had to lock the gate? You think I liked doing it? You’re the one who gave me the reason.’

  Other people surround them now. Malachi can feel them looking, questioning what’s going on.

  ‘You’re the reason I locked her in that day,’ Jay shouts. ‘You’re to blame.’

  When Malachi hits him, it’s not only from anger about Pamela, it’s a build-up of rage from everything that’s ever happened to him: of losing his mum, of watching Tristan in pain, of every time he said he was all right when inside he felt like he was one step away from giving up.

  Malachi’s not to blame. He would never have hurt Pamela.

  He hits Jay again and again, until he stumbles backwards and Malachi feels his hand go limp and tingly from the impact. An unwashed smell rises from Jay as he falls to the ground, not even putting up a fight. Malachi pulls him up by the jacket and stares at the white and red clusters of skin gathered on his cheeks and forehead.

  He’s vaguely aware of Tristan’s voice calling him, someone screaming, but he can’t stop now. Something takes over, causing him to wrap his fingers around Jay’s neck, which feels easier and much more satisfying than the punches. But then he’s being pulled up, his fingers peeled away from the stubbly skin of Jay’s neck, and it doesn’t matter that he didn’t finish what he started, because for the first time in months, he feels like he’s let it out.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Chapter Forty-One ,Mary

  It’s another normal day in Julia’s house. Mary gets dressed, she eats breakfast, she marinates the beef and grates the papaya for the empanadas – the only traditional food her grandbabies will tolerate. She complains about her daughter’s kitchen, the electric hob that burns everything, the ordeal of removing tea stains from the white worktops. Julia asks several times, ‘Mum, you sure you’re okay today?’ and each time Mary replies, ‘I’m fine. Go out.’

  But then Julia leaves, and without her distraction, Mary feels herself shrink. She sits on the sofa and watches TV for hours. She absentmindedly scratches at her left elbow till the skin breaks and bleeds. She doesn’t feel like she is okay today after all.

  The headline on the newspaper bothers her. Mourning Dad Battered by Local Thug. And next to it a photo of Malachi, looking as he always has, fed up and miserable, but in this context he also looks malicious. Maybe this is who he’s b
ecome, another violent stranger angry at the world. It would be impossible to go through what he has without being changed by it.

  ‘Nanny Tuazon!’ Ruby, the oldest of Mary’s grandchildren, shouts as she runs through the house. ‘The washing’s getting wet.’ She stops in front of Mary. ‘Nanny?’

  Mary folds the paper and throws it under the coffee table. Then the other two children bound into the living room. They’re draining to watch, the speed of their movements, the life that radiates from their small flushed faces and the smell they carry, of grass and rain, tinged with something sweet like Coca-Cola.

  ‘No, stop it,’ the youngest child squeals as she grabs Mary’s skirt. Her big sister pokes and tickles through the material.

  ‘Get out,’ Mary tries. The children run away. As they leave, one of them knocks against the small wooden table, on which stands a gold-framed photo of David and two burnt-out tea lights. Mary walks over and lifts the frame. It’s an old photograph, David at his peak. Years ago she had told him how disappointed people must be when he shows up to bookings with his middle-aged face, but really she could not deny how little he aged over the years. This will forever be the case now: she will age and wither, and he will always look like this, beautiful and wrinkle-free, preserved.

  The children play on the stairs now, a game Julia shouted about when she caught them playing, a game she slapped her oldest child for making up.

  ‘Fire! Fire!’ Ruby’s call makes Mary recoil. She needs to stop them, but can’t face the march out to the hall, the energy it will take to discipline them.

  The children share tales of their imagined heroism and bravery should a plane ever crash into their home, how they would run fast, save one another and put out fires, throw mattresses from the top floor and jump down to safety.

  ‘Fire! Fire!’ The imaginary plane has crashed.