by P. R. Black
‘Beautifully put! Yep, we’re brothers. Wouldn’t want to be separated, though I’m sure he wants to kill me most nights. It’s like family. Wouldn’t be right without me. It can be a wrench, can’t it, when you’re parted from the person you’re closest to? Like an umbilical cord being cut… Ah, Christ.’ He drew a hand down his face. ‘Can we start again?’
‘If you like.’ The bottle of water Georgia had ordered had appeared by her side, unnoticed, and she swigged from it. ‘Maybe it’s for the best if you start again.’
‘I am truly, truly sorry. You sure you won’t have this pint?’
‘Nope. You go ahead.’
He did, too, gulping at the second drink at the table. ‘I get a real thirst on, you know. Like the thirst for knowledge, and the truth.’
‘How did you meet up with Riley? He never told me.’
‘Ah, I was an engineering student at Ferngate. Was going to work in construction. Until I met Riley and the Hephaestians, and he set me right. I always played guitar. You wouldn’t think it with these hands, would you?’
‘You were at the Hephaestians?’
‘Excellent cheese and wine nights, that’s for sure. Truth be told, I didn’t go much. Not one hundred per cent my scene. They were all so into it, you know? Tight-knit bunch. There’s always going to be trouble stemming from that, I guess. Boy-girl trouble.’
‘Like with Riley and Martin, just then?’
‘Martin Duke isn’t trouble. He’s a ponce. Look at the state of his T-shirt. What was he trying to achieve with that?’
‘Seems there’s a grudge there.’
‘Yeah. Your daughter had a lot to do with it.’
‘She was a big fan of Riley’s – is that it?’
‘Well…’ The big man scratched his chin, sipped a beer, and thought carefully. ‘They were good friends, you know? Both into the poetry.’
‘You must have been into the poetry, to join the Hephaestians?’
‘Me? I’m a pragmatist. As I said, I like booze. Cheese goes down well, too. But mainly, I was looking for a lyricist. Or, to learn how to write lyrics. It was an open society, you know. Most of the time there was just a hard core. People like me popped in and out, dropped off their work, had it marked. But mainly it was Riley, Martin Duke, Sir Percival de Insincere…’
Georgia smiled. ‘The lecturer? Tony Sillars?’
‘Yeah, him. Team leader. Dude actually looked like a novelist’s photo, you know? The glasses and that. Hand on his chin. Sir Creepy de Hands. Goes by many names. Then there was Martin Duke, of course. Plus the chick he goes out with, now. Scary goth girl. Never took to her, really. Too quiet, you know? You never know what’s going in those heads of theirs, the quiet ones.’
‘Stephanie was quiet.’
Trickett shook his head. ‘Not when she got going. Not in my book. Not when she got into her stride. You should have seen her performing her stuff. That’s what it was, a performance. She cared about it. She wasn’t there for a laugh. It was spooky in a way – not spooky-creepy, just… She was more intense than quiet, you know? They were all crazy about her. I suppose I was, too, in a way. I thought she’d be an actress, I really did. There was some talk of her trying out at the drama society; she was thinking about it. She had an amazing look. Thought she’d bob up in theatre.’ He appeared to deflate. ‘I am truly sorry. “Bob up”… what’s wrong with me?’
Georgia hurried him on. ‘There was a fight at the Hephaestians, you said. The night Stephanie vanished.’
‘Yeah. Well-known story. Stephanie didn’t show up, and that took everyone by surprise. It was the last meeting before exam season. No answer on her phone. So then, out of nowhere, Martin “The Dick” Duke starts going on about how upset she’d been the other day, how he’d had to comfort her. Riley asks what he’s trying to imply. It all goes off from there. Tables flying, the lot.’
‘What was the gist of it?’
‘That Riley had been sleeping with her. Riley says, “So what? You’re not her boyfriend.” They square up. Tony Sillars tries to appeal for calm. So do I, for that matter. Martin Duke says, “Don’t act the innocent with us. You’re the biggest tart going.” Sillars raises his hands and walks away. Then the two main contenders get stuck in. Biff, kapow, thwack. I didn’t think Riley had it in him, you know? Artist’s hands. Little dainty things.’
‘He beat Martin up?’
‘Yeah. In a manner of speaking.’ Trickett chuckled. ‘You know how you get someone giving it, “hold me back, hold me back”, when stuff kicks off? When he doesn’t really want to fight? The pair of them were at it for a bit. Then Riley really lost it. I don’t think he laid a hand on him, but he upended a table and bashed him a couple of times with a chair. Could have really messed Martin Duke up. Lucky he didn’t get him on the head.’
‘And what then?’
‘Then, it’s fair to say that particular meeting of the Hephaestians dissolved. I think Colette tended to Martin’s wounds. Me and Riley went on the sauce. Creative fires were set, though. We wrote our first big single that very evening. “Classical Studies Society Barn Dance”. Shortened the title to “Classical Studies”. Wise decision.’
‘So, you write the music, Riley writes the words?’
‘It’s a bit of both. Riley’s a great songwriter. He’s more into the melodies. I sometimes come up with the key, the chord progressions. And the solos. Though truth be told, I don’t like the spotlight.’
‘You didn’t seem keen tonight.’
‘It’s not the occasion for showing off.’ He looked thoughtful. Then he cocked his head closer. ‘You in town for a while, yeah?’
‘We’ll see. I’ve got a few days off. I might stick around.’
‘Good. You could do some digging. For Stephanie. I mean…’ He slapped his forehead.
Georgia swallowed back a pulse of anger. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if you have an actual condition.’
When Trickett drew his hands down his forehead, she could see he was laughing. She didn’t like this at all, or the size of his pupils. ‘Now you know why I don’t sing lead!’
‘What did you write at the Hephaestians?’
‘Ach, doggerel. Comic poetry. I wrote these paragraphs of monotone stuff, made out it was verse. Sillars was kind about it. I used to joke that I was actually Hephaestus. Cos I can actually build stuff. When the apocalypse comes, they’ll all come to me for help, and shelter. They’d not survive, otherwise. They’d get picked off, one by one. Oh. Sorry.’
‘I said before – you don’t have to apologise. So, you must have known Stephanie’s work?’
‘Not loads. Just the poetry. I remember the performances rather than the actual words. She was a bit of an enigma to me, I guess. I knew her, just to see her. Nodding acquaintance. She didn’t take to me, I have to admit. For obvious reasons.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well… look at me.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Like I say… great writer.’
‘Did she ever mention any projects she was working on?’
‘Well, I don’t know for sure. She said she was spending a lot of time on Bewley Street.’
‘Bewley Street?’ Georgia struggled to recall what the place was. Somewhere in her consciousness, an alarm pinged.
‘Yeah. She mentioned spending time among the girls, there. Doing what, Christ only knows.’
‘No one else mentioned this. The girls on Bewley Street… Is that the place down by the old corn exchange?’
‘Yep, that’d be the place.’ He drained his drink, and grinned. ‘Don’t quote me on it, though.’
‘It’s the red light zone? Jesus. What was she doing there?’
‘Some project. I don’t know what, exactly. Guess the cops would know.’
Her heart was racing. Here was something new; the thing she’d been looking for. The flaw in the picture. ‘You’re sure? How did you find out about this?’
‘Someone told me. I can’t remember who. I
’m not the guy to ask. I’ll be honest, I didn’t know her that well. Not as well as Riley knew her. Or Martin Duke. Or the lecturer. Or that other guy, what was his name now?’ He placed a finger to his lips.
It was only then that Georgia knew for sure she was being mocked. She took a deep breath and sipped at her drink, trying to stop her hands from shaking. ‘What other guy was that?’
‘It’s just a figure of speech, Columbo.’
‘Signifying what, exactly?’
‘I’m sure you’re bright enough to figure it out. Some guy, any guy, lots of guys…’
Before she could stop herself, she took a bite. ‘Lots of guys – but not you. Correct?’
He smiled. ‘You know… I wonder, how do you keep functioning? I have to know.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Knowing that she’s almost certainly out the game. How do you keep going? Do you fool yourself? Do you cling on to hope? Or do you think of the practicalities?’
‘Practicalities? I think you should leave, son, before I lose my temper.’
‘I mean – the meat and bones of it. The harsh reality. You’ve got to be thinking – is she underwater? Is she in the ground? Is she in separate pieces, somewhere? Is she an ornament? Did she fulfil her destiny and become a chili con carne? Was she a good meal for someone? Or for the pigs?’
Georgia had never, strictly speaking, punched anyone in her life. She made a fist of it now; a poorly constructed one, thrown overhand, downwards, into that bloated, mossy face. He didn’t even try to dodge it; merely said, ‘Ow!’
‘You evil, miserable fat bastard. How dare you|? How dare you say that to me?!’ The plastic water bottle rebounded off his chest, and rolled to the floor, spilling out the mouthful or two she had left. Only after seeing this did she realise that she in fact had thrown it, in reflex.
‘Help! Police!’ The big man was giggling, his breasts wobbling beneath the tight white T-shirt. The bouncers hesitated, seeing Georgia, knowing who she was.
They parted to let Riley through. He sat in the seat vacated by the blond boy from Prat Spaniel. ‘Hey, rock stars. What’s going on? You’re spooking the horses, brothers and sisters.’
‘That big girl, she hit me!’ Trickett spoke in a Shirley Temple falsetto, affecting a shaking hand as he pointed at Georgia.
‘Your friend’s sick,’ she hissed at Riley, ‘and I’ll be telling the police about him. I think it’s time I was going.’
Now, Trickett affected solemnity. ‘I was just saying, we have to be honest about things, Stephanie’s probably…’
Riley punched him – a much better blow than the one she’d thrown; probably the cleanest of the night. It thwacked him plumb in the left cheek, a meaty contact that turned the big man’s head and drew gasps from onlookers.
‘Mind your manners,’ Riley said.
The punch could have dislodged some teeth, or detached a retina, had it been an inch or two higher or lower. But still the big man laughed. ‘I’m being beaten up here! Call a constable.’
‘Apologise,’ Riley said.
‘Ha ha. What? Fuck off. Bitch is crazy, man.’
‘I said, apologise,’ Riley said, taking Trickett’s shaggy head in his hands and leaning close.
Trickett stole a kiss – uncomfortably tender. ‘Sorry, Daddy.’
‘Not to me, schmuck.’ Riley’s eyes were hard, and he kept the head in his hands. He turned it, a puppeteer, and the big man looked into her eyes.
‘I’m truly sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m an idiot. Please forgive me.’
‘I’ll say this for your bandmate,’ Georgia said, her voice quaking, ‘he’s a delicate guitar player, for such a clodding tit.’
‘Ha! Very true.’ Riley let go of Trickett, and then budged up beside him. Trickett grinned and hugged his bandmate. It was as if nothing had happened. Then he got up, gathered his drink, waved heartily at Georgia, and left.
‘Aw, he’s a big cuddly bear,’ Riley said. ‘He does, unfortunately, have a sense of humour. His default mode is inappropriate. I would have tried to stop him. I didn’t want him to sit next to you.’
‘Does he get punched a lot?’
‘Yeah. Between you and me – I believe he likes it.’
‘I’m not sure I like him, at all.’
‘He’s harmless.’ Riley shrugged. ‘You coming to the party?’
‘What party?’
‘My place. I live in Ferngate, you know. I’m a local boy.’
‘Oh I know,’ Georgia said. ‘I know that, for a fact.’
Then she giggled – a high, out-of-control sound. Riley smiled and nodded. That was the first, and perhaps only indication that something was wrong.
16
Stephanie Selkie dived deep, deep. Her eyes were used to the dark, and she could see the creatures that lived there from a long way away. Some had flashing lights like a Christmas tree. Some slithered in the slime at the very bottom, where no light ever came. Some were huge but gentle, and they sang their sad songs to each other out in the deepest of deeps. And some had teeth, and bit you just for the joy of biting you.
From ‘The Chronicles of Stephanie Selkie, Princess of the Sea’
The big lump followed me home the other day. The Trickster. His modus operandi was frighteningly similar to Neb’s – so much so I wonder if he’d been following us both, and taking notes. I saw him waiting for me outside the phone box, which got converted into a mini library, which was then of course converted into a latrine. It suited him. I dodged him quite easily. Every time I think of that dense expression on top of his dense facial foliage, I still laugh. I had half a mind to walk past him once or twice, to mess with his mind, but I’d already wasted enough time.
From the diary of Stephanie Healey
‘I’m sorry,’ Georgia kept saying, every time Scott Trickett’s face swung into view. She fussed over him, asked for some ice, tried to create a cold compress for his face. It was difficult to tell if there was any swelling thanks to his general condition and the mossy beard.
‘Could you get me a bandage?’ he asked, his head cocked for his audience. ‘Could you do me up like Mister Bump?’
And she did – rummaging in kitchen drawers, picking her way through old bills and plastic bags.
Adrienne Connulty caught her by the wrist. ‘God’s sake, Georgia. What’s going on, here?’
‘Nothing,’ she’d said. ‘I’m perfectly high. I mean fine.’ And she giggled. ‘What’s your story, Adrienne? What’s going on, exactly?’
‘Just take it easy. Do you fancy a cup of tea?’
‘Yeah, why not? Cornfed tea – how about a nice cup of that?’
Adrienne frowned, but only a little. ‘Hang on, I’ll put the kettle on.’
They were in what Riley had called his flat – in fact, it was a huge, detached house, somewhere out of town. It was a new design, clearly not more than a year old, spotlessly kept. The kitchen was whitewashed, open plan, with gigantic windows looking out into an indeterminately large garden space, swallowed up by the night. The fittings on the kitchen were clean, to the point of clinical, and there were dozens of seats lined up around the worktops and plinths, without any clear sign of a proper kitchen table. Wood seemed alien to those surroundings, utterly incongruous, and most of it had been stripped out bar the sideboards.
The space was dominated by an atrium and a raised area, which it took Georgia far too long to realise was a stage. Two stools were set up, and two guitars as red and shiny as freshly peeled conkers stood on stands.
The stage had an audience. Males were strictly in a minority, here. In fact, the only men were members of the support band, Prat Spaniel. Howie the singer was already sitting with one of the many young women who were sat around waiting for the secondary show to start. ‘Select invitation,’ was all Scott Trickett had said on the matter, to Adrienne.
They were all so horribly young. Some surely not old enough to drink, and yet they’d been at the concert. When she’d been driven along to R
iley Brightman’s house, not long after midnight, she’d gone past the three girls who’d been stood in front of her in the queue. They were still stood at the door of The Orchard, quite alone, waiting for Riley or Scott to appear. They’d already left by another exit. The three girls peered into the car, straining to make out who was sat there.
Now they were in Riley’s kitchen, and although Georgia realised that she wasn’t quite right, she couldn’t quite figure out why. She took on a Mother Hen persona, a warped version of what her husband had called her GP stage act. She fussed over some of the girls, who all reacted to her with some alarm. Almost without exception, they were sober, very well dressed, with perfect hair and make-up. ‘Are you Riley’s mother?’ one of them asked, with incredulity. A girl who Georgia could have believed was 13 years old – a daffy, naïve question.
‘Not Riley’s mother,’ she had sneered. No one had cottoned on whose mother she was, of course. No one twigged. They weren’t there for her, and they weren’t there for Stephanie. Some of them screamed when Riley and Scott reappeared. Most of them had their phones poised, ready to film.
Riley had gotten changed into a blood-red shirt, just messy enough to look fashionable, in some kind of gypsy style, Georgia supposed. He had reapplied his eyeliner, and his pale, thin chest poked through a gap in his shirt. Scott Trickett still wore the white campaign T-shirt, stained in patches with what Georgia hoped was beer. But there was something wrong with the garment. Something was written on it, in black marker.
The “FIND” in “FIND STEPHANIE” had been crudely crossed out. “STEPHANIE” had been amended to read “STEPHANIE’S DEAD”.
As the two men appeared on stage to rapturous applause and even screaming, Riley Brightman had spotted this for the first time.
All those mobile phones, held up to record.
He crossed over to a kitchen drawer and brought out a pair of scissors, as shiny bright and barely used as everything else in the cavernous space. Then he appeared to grip Scott Trickett by the chest, who grimaced through his beard. Pulling out the material, Riley snipped off the offending word and stuffed it into his pocket. Trickett remained where he was, mock-crestfallen, examining the furry chest space exposed by the surgery.
