by Kevin Brooks
And what about me?
What was I?
Well, I was thinking, for one thing. I was thinking about the creek, the hills, the woods, the water … how everything goes round and round and never really changes. How life recycles everything it uses. How the end product of one process becomes the starting point of another, how each generation of living things depends on the chemicals released by the generations that have preceded it …
Yeah, I was thinking about that.
I don’t know why I was thinking about it. It just seemed to occur to me.
I was also thinking about crabs. I was wondering if they did have a memory, as Lucas had suggested. And if they did, what did they remember? Did they remember their childhood, their baby-crabhood? Did they remember themselves as tiny little things scuttling about in the sand trying to avoid being eaten by fish and other crabs and just about anything else that was bigger than them? Did they think about that, scratching their bony heads with their claws? Did they remember yesterday? Or did they just remember ten minutes ago? Five minutes ago?
And I was still wondering what it must be like to be dropped into a pot full of boiling water …
I was thinking about all these things and more, but I wasn’t really thinking about them at all. They were just there, floating around in the back of my mind, thinking about themselves.
What I was really thinking about, of course, was Lucas.
And as I sat there gazing out over the creek, it dawned on me that I still didn’t know anything about him. I knew his name, but that was about it. Even then I didn’t know if it was his first or second name. He could be Lucas Grimes, Lucas Higginbotham, John Lucas, Jimmy Lucas … I smiled to myself … he could be a Wayne or a Darren for all I knew.
I didn’t know where he came from or what he was doing here or how old he was. I didn’t know what he kept in his canvas bag (apart from crabs and a water bottle). I didn’t know where he’d gone to school, if he’d gone to school. I didn’t know anything about his parents. I didn’t know if he had any brothers or sisters. I didn’t know what he liked or what he didn’t like or what he thought about girls who wore their hair in plumes …
But it didn’t seem to matter.
It didn’t seem to matter at all.
There are all kinds of feelings. There’s the feeling you get when you walk into your house and you’re feeling so good you don’t think anything could possibly get you down, but then your dad pops his head round his study door and says, ‘Simon was looking for you.’
Damn. I’d forgotten all about him.
Six o’clock, he’d said.
‘What’s the time now,’ I gasped.
Dad shrugged. ‘Seven, seven-thirty.’
‘What?’ I couldn’t believe it. I’d been out for over three hours. ‘Has he gone?’
Dad nodded. ‘Left about ten minutes ago. I told him I didn’t think you’d be much longer, but he’d already been waiting an hour. Where’ve you been?’
I shook my head. ‘Just out for a walk with Deefer … I must have lost track of the time.’
Dad grinned. ‘Perhaps you ought to get a watch?’
‘It’s not funny.’
‘Not for Simon, it isn’t.’
I sighed. ‘How was he? Was he angry?’
‘Well, it’s hard to tell with Simon, isn’t it? He’s not the most expressive person I’ve ever met.’
‘Did he say anything?’
Dad shrugged. ‘Not really …’
‘Did you talk to him?’
‘He didn’t come round to talk to me.’
‘You could have talked to him, Dad. He’s shy. You could have at least made him feel welcome.’
‘I did. I made him a cup of tea, asked him how he was … hey, what am I apologising for? You’re the one who stood him up, not me.’
‘I didn’t stand him up … it wasn’t a date or anything … anyway, I just forgot what the time was—’
He smiled. ‘Like I said, get a watch.’
‘Yeah, yeah …’
I rang Simon later but his mother said he was out. She said he’d gone to visit a friend. Friend? I thought. Some bloody friend.
I felt pretty bad about it, especially at first. I imagined how Simon must have felt as he sat there waiting for me – embarrassed, uncomfortable, self-conscious, humiliated …
If that was me, I thought, I’d have felt like hell.
But the funny thing was, although I felt bad about it, I didn’t feel that bad about it. I mean, I didn’t beat myself up over it or anything.
I went to sleep that night with a smile on my face.
Maybe that was wrong.
I don’t know.
There are all kinds of feelings: love, hate, bitterness, joy, sadness, excitement, confusion, fear, anger, desire, guilt, shame, remorse, regret …
And you can’t control a single one of them.
five
I
‘ve never really understood what happened at the regatta that day. It was such a strange mixture of things that I tend to remember it as a bad dream, a dream that swings from joy to despair and back again in the space of a few moments. I can remember everything that happened quite clearly, sometimes too clearly. I can remember the events, and how I felt about them, and what they meant to me at the time. But, although I’ve learned a lot since, I still don’t really understand what happened.
And I don’t think I ever will.
I suppose, in a way, it was the start of everything.
The beginning of the end.
We set off at about ten-thirty in the morning. Me, Dad, and Deefer. Although the sky was beginning to cloud over, it was still warm enough to walk the beach in T-shirts and shorts, but we had a change of clothing in Dad’s rucksack just in case. We also had a pile of sandwiches and cakes, a bottle of Coke, water for Deefer, a towel, a pair of binoculars, and four cans of Guinness.
A hip flask bulged in Dad’s back pocket.
I’d phoned Simon again before we left but there’d been no answer. I didn’t expect to see him at the regatta, but then I never really had. Like he said, it wasn’t really his kind of thing. Lucas, though … well, I just didn’t know about Lucas. I was half-hoping he would show up, and half-hoping he wouldn’t. Of course, I wanted to see him again. I wanted to ask him all the questions I hadn’t thought of asking him before. I wanted to know who he was and where he came from. I wanted to know what he’d really meant about Angel … what he kept in his canvas bag … where he’d learned to fish for crabs …
Yeah, I wanted to see him again.
But I wasn’t so sure I wanted to see him with other people around. Not for any underhand reason, I hasten to add, and not because I didn’t want anyone else to know about him, either. Admittedly, I didn’t want anyone else to know about him. But that wasn’t the main reason. The main reason I didn’t want anyone else around when I saw Lucas was that I wanted to keep it pure. What it was – a friendship, a kinship, a likeness of minds – I had no idea. It didn’t matter. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to see it polluted.
It was me, Lucas, and maybe Deefer. And that was it. No one else.
As we crossed the creek and turned along the path, I glanced over my shoulder at the mud flats and the woods. Dark clouds were gathering in the distance, dimming the sky above the woods in an ugly yellow wash that blurred the trees to a witch forest.
‘Come on,’ Dad said. ‘We want to get there before it rains.’
We moved on, and I turned my mind back to Lucas. What if he does turn up at the regatta, I thought. What are you going to do? You can’t just ignore him, can you? You can’t pretend you don’t know him. All right, so there’ll be other people around – so what? Is that so bad? Think about it. You never know, it might even be quite nice …
‘Hey.’
I looked up at the sound of Dad’s voice. He’d stopped on the path and was peering at me with amused eyes.
‘What?’ I said.
‘You’re talkin
g to yourself.’
‘Am I?’
He nodded, smiling. ‘I’d watch it if I were you – one of these days you might embarrass yourself.’
I felt myself blushing.
‘Luckily for you,’ he added, ‘I never listen to a word you say. So whatever wickedness you were mumbling about, I’m none the wiser. But others might not be so ignorant.’
‘Ignorant?’
‘There’s ignorant and there’s ignorant.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means – keep your mind open and your mouth shut, the world’s full of beaky fools. Now come on, let’s get going.’
He turned around and strode off along the path.
Considering all the grief he was having with Dominic, he was in a fairly good mood. Mind you, he looked pretty rough. He was wearing his old khaki shorts tied with a long leather belt, a battered straw hat, and a pair of dirty old sandals. His beard needed trimming and his eyes were tired and bloodshot.
I caught up with him and walked at his side.
‘Dad?’ I said quietly.
‘Hmm?’
‘Have you spoken to Dominic since the other day?’
‘When?’
‘You know when. In the kitchen – that row you had.’
He sighed heavily and looked at me. ‘I made a complete arse of myself there, didn’t I?’
I smiled. ‘Yep.’
‘I couldn’t help it,’ he said. ‘I tried keeping my mouth shut, but he’s so bloody infuriating at times.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s not as if he’s an idiot or anything. He knows what he’s doing.’
I looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Hanging round with Tait and the others … I saw him at Brendell’s, you know.’
‘Lee Brendell?’
He nodded. ‘Dom was on his boat. There was some kind of party going on.’
‘When?’
‘A couple of days ago … I had to go into the village for something. Rita Gray gave me a lift.’ He paused, thinking about it. ‘They were all there – Dominic, Tait and his stuck-up girlfriend, the Deans, Bill, Mick Buck, Tully Jones, a load of bikers … all strutting around like a bunch of bloody gangsters.’ He shook his head at the memory. ‘It’s bad enough Dominic being mixed up with that lot … but Bill and Angel Dean? They’re just kids.’ He looked at me. ‘What’s Bill playing at?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I thought she was supposed to be your best friend?’
I shrugged. ‘We haven’t seen that much of each other recently.’
He stared at me for a moment longer, then looked away, seemingly satisfied. He’s never been that keen on Bill. Even when we were little kids I sometimes caught him watching her with a cold look in his eye. I think he thought she was a bad influence, or at least he thought she had the potential to be a bad influence. Outwardly, Dad might not be the most attentive of fathers, but in his own quiet way he doesn’t miss very much.
He sighed again. ‘It’s not as if Dominic even likes that lot. He’s only doing it to get my back up. He knows what I think of them, especially Tait. He’s just doing it to spite me.’
‘Have you talked to him about it?’
‘Sort of.’
‘What did he have to say?’
‘Not much.’
We were nearing the country park. I could hear the sound of a brass band playing from the bandstand in the field. The forced jollity of the music had a mournful feel to it, like the upbeat dirge of a New Orleans funeral march. Small groups of people were milling around the field, some with ice creams and balloons, others standing in the shelter of trees watching a kite-flying display. There was a bouncy castle, a hot-dog stand, a beer tent. The car park was about half full with visitors from Moulton who’d come down to watch the regatta, but most of the revellers were locals. Some had even dressed up for the occasion. I saw long dresses, fancy hats, pirates, a couple of clowns, a man on stilts.
The wind was getting up now and the kite-flyers were struggling to control their kites. It was supposed to be a display of synchronised kite-flying, but the two brightly coloured dots swooping and flapping high in the sky didn’t look that synchronised to me.
Although the rain was holding off, the sky looked ominous. There was a gloomy feel to the air, and while it was still quite warm the heat was thick and heavy with moisture. It was turning out to be one of those days when the weather comes down and casts a shroud over everything.
The sea looked like thunder.
Dad had gone quiet.
‘He must have said something,’ I said.
‘Who?’
‘Dominic. He must have said something about the party on Brendell’s boat.’
Dad flicked at a swarm of midges. ‘It was nothing, according to him. Just a party. He didn’t know who was going to be there … it wasn’t his fault a bunch of young girls turned up, was it? What was he meant to do? Call the NSPCC?’
‘I suppose he’s got a point.’
‘He’s always got a point.’
I got the feeling that Dad didn’t want to talk about it any more. Neither did I, really. The whole thing was just too depressing. Dominic and Bill, Bill and Angel, Angel and Jamie, Jamie and Dominic … it was tacky and twisted and all mixed up.
‘Do you want to go through the park?’ Dad asked.
I looked out over the field. A bunch of people in animal costumes were running around shaking buckets of coins at passers-by. The band were playing a barely recognisable version of ‘I Should Be So Lucky.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Let’s go along the beach.’
To the west of the park the beach is overlooked by a bank of cliffs that gradually descend to the bay. Paths and steps are cut into the cliffs from the park at the top, but you can also reach the cliffs by cutting along the sea wall below the park and following the beach for about a kilometre until you come to a natural gap in the cliff wall. From there it’s just a short climb up a clay bank and you’re onto the main cliff trail that leads around to the bay. It’s a longer way round, but quieter. There was less chance of us bumping into anyone we didn’t want to bump into.
Unfortunately, less chance doesn’t mean no chance, and as we were crossing the sea wall an unwelcome voice called down from above.
‘Hey, what are you doing down there? You’re missing all the fun.’
We both looked up to see Jamie Tait and Sara Toms leaning over the railings at the top of the four-metre wall. Jamie was dressed casually in a V-necked jumper and jeans, but Sara had thrown herself into the costume spirit and was dolled up like something from the cover of a glossy magazine: tight black dress, stockings, heels, black lace gloves, pearls, and a chic black hat with a veil. I wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be, exactly, and I don’t think she knew, either – but whatever it was, it suited her. She wore the darkness well. As she stood there looking down at us, the scent of her perfume drifted on the breeze: Chanel No. 5 – the smell of money.
Lee Brendell was off to one side, smoking a cigarette and gazing sullenly out to sea, and in the background I could see Sara’s mum and dad talking with a couple of old ladies sitting on a bench. Bob Toms, Sara’s dad, was dressed in his full police uniform, all shiny buttons and ribbons.
Jamie was slurping on an ice cream cone and his face was flushed. I think he was a bit drunk.
‘Come on up, Johnny,’ he grinned at Dad. ‘They’ve got it all up here – ice creams, fancy dress, candyfloss, cold beers – everything a fun-loving man could wish for.’ He looked at me. ‘You want me to get you some candyfloss, Cait?’
Sara gave him a dirty smile, then looked down and gave me a dirty look. She was good at dirty looks. She had the face for it: high forehead, long black shiny hair, a hard, lipsticked mouth, porcelain skin, and acid green eyes. Her face was so beautiful it was almost ugly.
‘Come on, Cait,’ Dad said quietly.
He took me by the arm and started to lead me away
.
Jamie called down after him. ‘Hey, Mac – where’s Dominic? Where’s the boy?’
Dad paused. I could feel him stiffening.
Sara laughed – a horrible plummy sound – and said, ‘He’s probably locked away in his bedroom for being a naughty boy.’
‘Knowing Dom, he’ll be locked in someone’s bedroom,’ added Jamie.
Dad didn’t say anything, he just looked at them. They stared back with mocking seriousness. Sara lifted a cigarette to her lips, took a scornful puff, then hooked her hand into the back of Jamie’s belt. She’s one of those clingy types who display their affection – or their ownership – by constantly groping their boyfriends. Jamie seemed to enjoy it. As they stood there leering down at us, a pair of heavily browed eyes and a severe peaked cap appeared beside them.
‘Good afternoon, John,’ Bob Toms said. ‘Hello, Cait.’ He gazed at the sky and rubbed his hands. ‘Doesn’t look too good, does it?’
‘Not from here,’ replied Dad.
Toms smiled tightly. ‘It’s good to see you out and about for a change. You should do it more often.’
Dad nodded. ‘I see you’ve made an effort.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The fancy dress … that’s the best Heinrich Himmler I’ve seen in a long while.’
Toms looked down at his police uniform. ‘Very funny.’
Dad glanced at Brendell and Tait. ‘And you’ve even taken the trouble to bring along a couple of stormtroopers for added authenticity. Now there’s thoroughness for you.’
‘Still the joker, I see.’
‘Who’s joking?’
While this was going on Brendell had turned his attention from the sea and was staring down at me with the pale vacancy of a corpse. A string of faded tattoos discoloured his neck, a crescent of crudely drawn stars, and I wondered what they were supposed to be. Something nautical? A sign? A constellation? I decided they weren’t supposed to be anything – they were just tattoos. He was a big man, and from down here he looked even bigger. Heavy hands, broad shoulders, and a huge square head with battle-scarred features. He looked as if he’d been hit in the face with a shovel. Flat nose, flat lips, bruised yellow eyes … and without taking those eyes off me he plucked his cigarette from his lips, leaned over the railings and spat. The gob of spit landed next to my feet with a flat splat. I looked down at it. It was brown and stringy and it made me feel sick.
