One Perfect Summer

by Paige Toon

  ‘Yes. Okay. Thank you.’

  I hang up the phone and go to Joe. He cries hard into my shoulder, clutching my body as his tears dampen my T-shirt. I hold him as tightly as I can, crying too. Dyson meant the world to him. He loved him so much. He was his escape from reality, his only ally in a horrible home. He won’t know what to do with himself now that Dyson’s gone.

  The bill is the next hurdle we have to face. Joe stares down at the white sheet of paper, his hands shaking as he reads the total. I take it from him and almost have a heart attack. My eyes dart up to his. For the first time in my life I consider doing a runner, but Joe reaches into his pocket and pulls out the wad of hard-earned cash that he asked me to retrieve earlier. He swallows, trying to keep his tears at bay.

  ‘Maybe my parents could help,’ I say.

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head.

  ‘But that’s for your car.’

  He doesn’t answer. The bill is even higher than it would have been because the vet had to open after hours. Even now, on Sunday morning, they would not normally have to deal with customers. But it’s all money for nothing. Dyson died anyway.

  ‘Would you like him cremated?’ the vet’s wife asks as she relieves Joe of a large chunk of his earnings.

  ‘How much does that cost?’ I interject before Joe has time to think about it.

  She tells us. We both fall silent for a moment. Joe speaks first. His voice is practically a whisper.

  ‘What will you do with him if I can’t pay?’

  ‘We’ll dispose of him,’ she replies sympathetically.

  I put my hand on Joe’s arm.

  ‘Would you like a moment?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, please.’ I reply for both of us. As soon as she’s gone, I turn to Joe. ‘Maybe we could bury him? In one of the fields that he loved running around in.’

  ‘He’s too heavy. We wouldn’t be able to carry him. And, anyway, I’m sure it’s not allowed.’

  ‘What about . . .’ I imagine conducting a serious funeral ceremony at the edge of a cliff, before dramatically easing Dyson’s weighted body into the water far below, but, again, we wouldn’t be able to get him there.

  ‘I’ll have to leave him,’ Joe says dully.

  ‘No, you can’t . . .’

  He nods abruptly, and knocks on the counter. The woman returns. He informs her of his decision and then walks out of the door. I bolt after him.

  ‘Don’t you want to say goodbye?’ I call after him. ‘We could ask to see him!’

  He spins around, his face wracked with pain. ‘He’s gone!’ he cries. ‘Last night is the memory I’m left with. I don’t want to see him dead too.’

  I rush to him and hold him in my arms as sobs ricochet through his body.

  ‘What’s the time?’ Joe asks flatly when we’re in the car.

  ‘Ten forty-five,’ I reply.

  Silence.

  And then he sighs. ‘I need to go home.’

  ‘No way.’ I shake my head vehemently.

  ‘Alice . . .’ He reaches over and puts his hand on my knee. I concentrate on driving. ‘It’s not to stay. But I want to get my things. It’s a good time,’ he adds. ‘The pub doesn’t open until twelve thirty – my parents will still be in bed. They get absolutely wasted after closing time on Saturday nights and they’re usually out cold until close to noon.’

  ‘In that case I’m coming with you,’ I tell him.

  ‘You can stay in the car,’ he replies. ‘I’d appreciate the lift.’

  ‘No. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Even if they do wake up I don’t suppose they’ll do anything to you after Ryan landed me in hospital,’ he muses. ‘They’ll know your parents will get them locked up . . . Okay,’ he decides.

  The pub is dark and quiet. His parents must still be asleep, but I’m acutely on edge as I follow him up the stairs to the poky bedroom overlooking the car park. The door to the bedroom on the other side of the corridor is open. I can see the view across the fields to the ocean. That must be his old room. The bed is empty, I note with a shudder. Which means Ryan is still missing. I turn back to Joe. He’s frenziedly stuffing his belongings into plastic bags.

  ‘Are you going to tell your parents you’re leaving?’ I ask quietly.

  ‘No,’ he mutters. ‘They didn’t give a shit about me while I was here, so they should be happy once I’m gone. Give them more time to devote to their precious favourite son,’ he spits.

  ‘They’ll miss you behind the bar . . .’

  He snorts. ‘Yes, they fucking will. No more slave labour.’

  He angrily dumps another bag on the carpet near my feet and reaches for a fourth to fill.

  ‘I’ll take these down to the car,’ I tell him. He nods and gets on with the job at hand.

  I return to the pub afterwards, still on edge in case his parents have woken up. I push through the doors and head to the stairs, before freezing in my tracks. Cigarette smoke. Almost in slow motion, I turn to look at the dark lounge area, curtains still closed against the sunlight. There, in a corner booth, is Ryan, lazily smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Hello, beautiful,’ he drawls.

  My eyes dart towards the stairs, but he’s on his feet and over to me more quickly than I would have ever imagined possible, given the bulk of his frame. Fear fills every part of me. He grips me round the waist, the smoke from the cigarette trailing up his fingers and into my nostrils. It’s suffocating.

  ‘You smell . . .’ he whispers sinisterly into my ear, ‘of sex . . .’

  His breath reeks of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol. I can’t move. My feet are glued to the spot. Where’s Joe? God, where’s Joe? I want him here with me, but I also want him as far away as possible.

  Ryan throws his cigarette onto the stone floor and stamps on it without moving away from me, not even an inch. The next thing I know, his hand is up my skirt and groping me.

  SMASH! I hear the sound of breaking glass, and at the same time the weight of him is thrown away from me. I clutch my hands to my head and stare at the scene before me. Joe, his face ripped with anger, is gripping the jagged end of a broken liquor bottle . . . Ryan’s unconscious body is sprawled out on the floor, blood oozing out of the back of his head. Joe and I meet each other’s eyes at the same moment and then two things happen: one, his dad shouts something from upstairs and we hear his footsteps stumbling across the floor above our heads, and two, Joe grabs my hand and pulls me out of there. Then we run, run, run, as fast as we can to the car.

  His hands shake violently on the steering wheel. I want to put my hand on his knee to calm him, but when I try I find I can’t move. My whole body is juddering in shock and fear. Joe glances across at me and screeches to a stop – just in time for me to open the door and throw up on the grassy verge. I retch and retch until there’s nothing left inside me except bile, but even then I can’t stop. Joe rubs my back gently while tears, brought on by the incessant retching, stream down my cheeks. Finally I’m done. Joe opens the glove box in front of me and pulls out some tissues. I clean myself up, without looking at him. When I do eventually face him his appearance is pale and he’s staring straight ahead, but his hands have stopped shaking.

  I reach across and touch his knee, able to do this now that I’ve cleansed myself, but he doesn’t move.

  ‘Joe?’ My voice sounds croaky.

  Slowly, he turns his head, but his eyes won’t meet mine.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.

  Then his eyes sear into me and I almost reel backwards at the rage I see in them.

  ‘You’re sorry?’ he spits. ‘YOU’RE sorry?’

  ‘Joe,’ I say worriedly, stroking his leg.

  He bats me away, violently. I stare at him in shock.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he screeches, staring out through the front windscreen again. ‘What the FUCK! What the fuck just happened?’

  ‘Joe,’ I soothe. ‘It’s okay. I’m okay.’

  His head whips back around to me. ‘Did I k
ill him?’

  ‘No!’ I exclaim. ‘No, I’m sure you didn’t.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  I realise he’s terrified, utterly terrified. ‘Do you want to go back to check?’

  He hesitates for a long moment, before nodding. ‘Put your seat-belt on,’ he instructs me.

  I do as he says, then tell him to do the same. He ignores me, doing a manic five-point turn in the middle of a country lane. We speed back the way we came.

  He pulls up at the bottom of the hill and we look at the pub. There’s no sign of life inside.

  ‘Maybe your dad called an ambulance,’ I say.

  He reaches for the door handle.

  ‘NO!’ I shout, pulling him back.

  He looks across at me, regretfully. ‘I’ve got to check.’

  ‘You’re not going up there! There’s NO WAY you’re going up there!’

  Why did I suggest coming back? I thought we’d see something from the outside, some proof that Ryan is alive and . . .

  No, I don’t want him to be well. I want him to be gone for good, but not dead. The thought of Joe going to jail for man slaughter – or, worse: murder. The thought is too awful to contemplate.

  ‘I’ll be quick.’

  ‘NO!’

  ‘I won’t go inside. I just need to get a bit closer.’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘Alice, I’m going.’

  ‘Joe! No!’

  But I can’t stop him. I know that he needs this, but I feel like I’m going to throw up again. I put my hand on my door handle. I don’t know what I’ll do if Ryan goes for him again. I can’t protect him. But I want to be able to get out of the car quickly if I need to. If something bad is going to happen to him I have to be there, even if the bad thing happens to me too.

  I can’t stand this. I shove the car door open and fall out onto the road. Joe hears my footsteps as I run, but it’s too late.

  ‘ALICE!’ he shouts. And at that moment, the pub door opens and Ryan stumbles out, fury contorting his features.

  He lunges at Joe, wrapping his arm around his neck and dragging him backwards. Then, suddenly, Joe’s dad appears.

  He tears his eldest son away and nails him against the pub wall. Joe’s mum runs out of the door.

  ‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?’

  It takes a moment for me to realise that she’s screaming this question at her husband. She turns to Ryan, yanking her husband’s crushing arm away from her son’s chest. She caresses Ryan’s blood-splattered face, calming him down, quietening him. Then Joe’s dad turns on Joe.

  ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE RUNT?’

  ‘I . . . I . . . I wanted to check he was okay,’ Joe stammers.

  ‘Well, he’s not okay, is he? You hit him over the fucking head with a bottle.’ Yes – just like Ryan did to Joe!

  ‘You CU—’ Ryan’s angry words are cut off by his father.

  ‘SHUT IT!’ Joe’s dad points his finger at Ryan as his wife shushes him soothingly. ‘Take him inside,’ he directs her.

  She walks Ryan to the door. His blond hair is matted with blood from behind, but he looks over his shoulder and smiles at Joe. A chilling smile. An evil smile. ‘I’m gonna get you,’ he says in a sing-song voice. And then he looks at me and my blood runs cold. ‘I’m gonna get you too.’

  ‘Shush!’ Joe’s mum snaps at him as she leads him inside.

  ‘Get out of here!’ Joe’s dad pushes at Joe’s chest. ‘Go on, scat! I never want to see you again, you good-for-nothing little shit. You’ve always been a wuss. A fucking pansy with your long hair and your earring. You’ll never be a real man like your brother. And if I hear you’ve gone to the police about him –’ he looks at me, then looks back at Joe, meaningfully – ‘I won’t stop him.’

  Joe backs away, then turns and hurries towards me. He takes my arm and ushers me to the car, waiting until I’m safely inside before going to the driver’s side. He pauses before climbing in, and I turn to look at what he’s seeing up there by the pub: his dad’s departing back as he walks through the door. And then Joe is in the car, beside me, his hands shaking violently once more as he turns the key in the ignition.

  We only get a mile down the road before he pulls over, and this time it’s him throwing up outside the car while I rub his back. But his tears are not brought on by the vomiting. His sobs are real and heart-wrenching, and they make me cry too.

  In an odd way it occurs to me that he’ll despise himself in the future. He’ll think of things that he could have said to his father, clever things, cool things, cutting things, but he said nothing. He’ll never get that moment back. And I know that he’ll regret it for the rest of his life.

  ‘You have to leave,’ Joe says when he’s calmed down a bit. ‘You have to leave, today. You can’t stay here.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not staying, either,’ he replies.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘But your car! Your money!’

  ‘I’ll catch the train. I have to go now, Alice. And so do you. I won’t be able to relax until I know you’re safe.’

  ‘I’m not going without you!’

  ‘Stop it! Give it a fucking rest, would you?’

  My mouth falls open.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he snaps, not sounding it. ‘But I have to go. I have to go to London.’

  ‘What about Cambridge?’

  ‘I’M NOT COMING TO CAMBRIDGE!’ he shouts at me. I’m lost for words. Totally and utterly lost for words. ‘I can’t, alright?’ Now he sounds frustrated. ‘I can’t. Not yet. Not until I’ve got myself sorted. I have to go to London.’ He sounds adamant.

  ‘But why?’ I ask hopelessly. ‘Why London?’

  ‘It has to be London!’ he shouts.

  ‘But why?’ I plead with him.

  ‘It’s my plan! It’s my fucking plan! I’ve got to get something right. Stop going on at me!’

  I stare at him as he puts his hands to his head. He looks almost shocked when he feels bandages there instead of hair, and then he’s trying to rip the bandages off.

  ‘Stop it!’ I cry, reaching across to him. He knocks me away roughly.

  ‘You have to go,’ he says in a low, serious voice. ‘You have to go today. Tell your parents what happened. Tell them to take you away.’

  ‘No! I won’t!’

  ‘Then I will.’ He tears away from the kerb.

  ‘Joe, stop it!’ I scream at him.

  He screeches around the corner onto the dirt track leading to the cottage.

  ‘Slow down!’ I yell. But he doesn’t. He slams on the brakes outside the cottage and my head jerks forward painfully. He’s out of the car before I can even register.

  ‘No!’ I cry. I don’t want him to tell my parents. He’ll get his wish. They’ll take me away. They’ll take me as far away from his family – from him – as possible.

  I run after him, but he’s already banging on the door.

  ‘Please!’ I beg.

  He pushes open the door and storms inside.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  I arrive just in time to see my mum asking these questions as she comes into the kitchen.

  ‘Where’s Alice?’ my dad asks from behind her.

  ‘I’m here!’ I shout back. ‘Joe, STOP!’

  ‘You have to take her away!’ he urges my parents. ‘Get her as far away from here as possible!’

  ‘Why?’ my dad demands to know.

  ‘It’s my brother. He hurt her.’ My mum gasps. ‘Not . . . seriously. But he’ll hurt her worse next time.’ Joe meets my eyes, and his face is full of pain and regret. ‘He’s a serial rapist.’

  My jaw hits the floor. He told me his brother was a bank robber.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers to me.

  ‘I’m calling the police!’ my dad erupts.

  ‘PLEASE!’ Joe shouts. ‘Please,’ he begs. ‘Please, just leave. Just get aw
ay from here. As far away from here as possible. He’ll find you. He’ll find Alice. He won’t forget. If you call the police he’ll never forget even if he’s locked up again for years. PLEASE!’ he begs again.

  My dad hesitates, then turns to my mum. ‘Marie, get your things,’ he tells her firmly, then to me: ‘Go and pack.’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘ALICE!’ he shouts. ‘Go and pack!’

  ‘Go,’ Joe urges me, nodding at the stairs. ‘Go.’

  ‘Come upstairs with me.’

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ he tells me.

  I glance at my dad, who I know was about to object to my request. He gives Joe a hard stare, then turns his eyes on me. ‘Be quick,’ he says. I notice his bag is already packed and by the door. He was about to leave for London himself.

  ‘Wait!’ The thought suddenly enters my head and hope fills every part of me. ‘We’re going to London tonight. You can come with us.’

  ‘Just go and pack,’ Joe says gruffly.

  ‘But you can! Can’t he, Dad? We can give him a lift?’

  My dad doesn’t reply.

  ‘DAD!’ I shout.

  ‘Go and pack!’ he snaps at me.

  I glance at Joe. ‘I’ll wait here,’ he tells me.

  I regard him warily.

  ‘Go,’ he urges once more.

  I take a couple of steps towards the stairs, then turn back to look at him. He smiles a small smile. His eyes are sad: shining, not sparkling.

  He’s gone by the time I return downstairs.

  I’m sitting in my room in Nightingale Hall, staring out of the window. I can see treetops, church spires and the roof of the Fitzwilliam Museum from here. I sit here a lot, just staring. I go to most lectures – the ones I can face – and I do enough work to get by. The rest of the time you’ll find me here. Staring. Wondering. Wishing. And trying to read the many, many, many books I need to get through in order to acquire my English Lit degree.

  When I first came here some well-meaning students tried to coax me out of my room and down to the pub. They asked, often at first, for me to join them on nights out. They thought I had a shell that could be broken. They didn’t realise that I was the broken one; my shell had nothing to do with it.