Once Upon a Time in England

by Helen Walsh

  ‘Please. Those people who did this to my son.’ Her eyes fill up as she tugs the policeman back towards the bed. ‘Look. Look what they did to him. Please, let me wake him.’

  Vinnie blinks weakly into the sun-dappled ward. The nurses have thrown the windows wide open and a distant birdsong glides on the cool breeze. The sound depresses him, reminding him of the world out there making demands on him, trying to wrench him from his coop.

  ‘He still can’t speak.’ Sheila speaks for him. ‘He can only write.’

  The officer pulls out a notepad and pen.

  Then as though sensing his anxiety about his stale, sick breath, his weeping eyes, Sheila buys him some time to clean him up. ‘Just give us five minutes, yeah? Let me flannel him down.’

  The police officer raises his thumbs at him, but he’s glad to get away. Vinnie is used to it by now. The registrar, his mum, the night porter, his friends, all of them reacted the same way. Utterly incredulous. None of them can believe he survived the beating.

  By the time the cop returns, Sheila has flannelled his face and underarms, moisturised his hands. He feels cleaner – more able to brave the gaze of the ordeal. And he can tell straight away it’s going to be an ordeal. The thumbs-up officer is looking upon him differently now, his cooperative, commiserating stance supplanted by something else. Disdain and mild boredom drips from every drawled, robotic question.

  ‘Mr Fitzgerald. Think carefully before you answer this one. There were traces of heroin in your bloodstream when they brought you in. Was this in any way related to the attack?’

  Vinnie is too stunned to respond. He drifts out, shocked into vivid and immediate flashback: he’s back on the platform, doubled up in searing, unendurable pain. It feels like his ribs have been snapped to spears, stabbing at his lungs. It’s too painful to breathe and he yelps at Kenny in little sharp gasps, begging him for help. Kenny stoops over him, dripping his own blood onto his face. He tries to turn him onto his side to stop him choking on his blood and vomit, but shards of bone gouge into him and he screams out loud.

  Vinnie, fading quickly, feels Kenny’s hands in his raincoat pockets, then the rustle of foil. He forces an eye open. Kenny’s fingers are quivering as he rubs tobacco together with smack and rolls it into a joint. He lights it, and squats right down so his eyelids are almost touching Vinnie’s face. ‘Here.’

  He places the fat joint between the flaps of his torn, bulbous mouth but Vinnie can’t inhale and his weeping gash only dampens the papers, staining them red. Kenny retrieves it, sucks down a huge vortex of sweet, sweet smoke, peels back Vinnie’s mouth and blows hard, all the way down into his lungs. This way, they smoke the loaded joint right down to the nub, sucking and blowing till there is nothing between them but air.

  Vinnie is back in real time. He’s staring at his mum, his eyes low and contrite. She smiles meekly at him, killing him with her goodness. He feels dumb, dead, of no worth or purpose whatsoever. Sensing that, Sheila grips his hand and nods for him to answer. He struggles his back up the pillow until he is, more or less, comfortable. He takes the pen and writes, ‘It was my first time.’

  He hates that he should have to justify himself to this insensitive, unrefined man. The officer casts a surreptitious glance at the track marks on his bare brown arm, his stare lingering until Vinnie twigs and snatches it away. He flashes his eyes at the officer and tries to convey to him just how far above this whole thing he is. The officer holds his gaze a moment then returns to automaton mode. ‘So. You were alone when this happened?’

  Vinnie stares at him vacantly.

  ‘A young gentleman made the call. He wouldn’t give his name. Do you know who that might have been?’

  Unable to shake his head, Vinnie scrawls an N onto the notepad. He can see the cogs turning in the cop’s one-track mind. His dealer, that’s who made the call. The beating was over a drug debt. His dealer called the ambulance because he still wants him alive – at least until he’s paid up. From his propped-up vantage, Vinnie can see the officer is now doodling as he auto-questions him.

  ‘And would it be fair to say you’ve never seen your attacker before?’

  Vinnie pens a Y. The officer doesn’t even look at him, now. Vinnie won’t give the dunce the satisfaction of telling him he was queer-bashed. Paki-bashed. Both. He stares at the bald spot on the cop’s reclining dome and scribbles: MUGGED. Again the knowing look.

  ‘Mugged? And your attacker was, what—’

  ‘Attacker?’ Sheila can hold back no longer. ‘You really think it possible that one person could inflict this?’

  The anguish in her voice yanks Ellie from her slumber. She sits up, eyes all squiffy, her thoughts still sleep-balmed. She shoots Vinnie a lovely smile and his heart bangs with love. He couldn’t bear for Ellie to know. It would kill her, her brother a smack-head. In the parochial mind of the acid house kid, Ecstasy was changing the world while heroin and drink were killing it. He beckons to the copper, scrawls down on his pad: ‘Don’t mention drugs in front of my sister. Thank you.’

  The officer looks impatient, but nods and clears his throat. ‘The mugging. Your attacker …’ He glances at Sheila. ‘Attackers. Do you remember how many of them there were?’

  Vinnie blinks numbly. The horror, the sheer horror of all this envelops him and it’s wrong, it’s all so horribly wrong. This copper doesn’t want to be here any more than Vinnie wants him to be there and at least there’s something he can do about that. ‘Drop the charade,’ he writes. ‘You don’t give a fuck.’

  The police officer sighs theatrically. Sheila cranes her neck to see what her son has written. ‘Vin-cent!’

  ‘It’s fine, Mrs Fitzgerald. Your son’s been through a dreadful …’ He breaks off, folds his arms and levels his gaze on Vinnie, impatient now. He’s more than ready for a fag and a cup of tea, then on to the next scumbag. ‘Mr Fitzgerald.’ His voice is loaded with ennui and irony. ‘Please be assured that we will not rest until we have apprehended the thugs who have done this to you.’ He stands, pockets his notebook, nods to Sheila and is gone.

  Twenty-one

  Kenny skulks in the storeroom at the end of the ward, as he has done every day for the last two weeks since they brought him in. He waits until Vinnie’s visitors have gone, and he just sits there with him, talking. Vinnie knows he’s there – he must do, because the nurses let him come and go as he pleases – but he hasn’t said a word. He just lies there, dead to the world, barely breathing through his battered slab of face. It’s killing him. Vinnie took the hiding for the pair of them, but how Kenny wishes it had been him. Not because he was used to beatings; not because Vinnie hadn’t even known how to curl himself into a defensive ball; but because beauty mattered so much to him. It went beyond the superficial with Vinnie – it was his code for living. His religion. He often joked that the day his looks deceived him would be the day that he ended it all. Growing old was a thought that appalled him but even worse was the thought of growing ugly.

  Vinnie lies dead still. If he can’t see Kenny, then Kenny can’t see him. But then, as he always does, he takes a little peek at Kenny and affects not to know he’s being watched. Vinnie’s eyes blister up, suddenly overwhelmed. He’s cut his hair into a short, boyish crop and his supple neck tenses as he leans forward to kiss him, his fine-cut cheekbones grazing his face cage. The strain of the last fortnight is evident in Kenny’s face. He’s gaunt, but lovely. Elegantly wasted. He gets up to open the window, then just sits there looking at him, saying nothing. The words of a Cure song drift through Vincent’s subconscious: ‘Your trust, the most gorgeously stupid thing I ever cut.’

  Vinnie pushes back the tears now as he remembers their kiss – their devastating, life-changing kiss. It happened. It took place between them, and for that he’s thankful.

  Kenny seems to tune into his distress and as his eyes flicker all over his broken lover, he bites down on his lip as though deciding the time has come. ‘Vinnie.’

  No reply. Vinnie swall
ows hard.

  ‘Vin. I know you can speak now. I heard you last night.’

  It’s true. Since they removed the tube from his throat, Vinnie has been able to talk. But he’s been pretending that the delayed post-operative swelling has grabbed a chokehold around his larynx. His words are slightly slurred as he struggles to articulate his thoughts, but he could make himself understood, if he wanted. This semblance of mute excommunication is a necessary barrier between himself and the world – his mother, his sister and the daily trail of friends he barely knows. They turn up unbidden and just stay, reading to him, talking at him, smiling like there’s nothing wrong at all. He knows he’s hideous and this wall of silence is his fortress while he prepares himself for the worst.

  Still Vinnie says nothing. Kenny pulls out a small, leather-bound notebook. ‘I took this. I … I wanted to keep something.’

  That does it for Vincent. More so than at any stage since he’s been here, he feels helpless to defend himself. People can do whatever they want to him, and he has to lie there and take it. He opens his eyes as wide as they’ll go and fixes his gaze on Kenny. He almost faints with love for him. But he’s also horribly, bitterly hurt. His voice comes out, barely decipherable at first. But then the dry, staccato clucking morphs into words. ‘You r-r-read my nn-n-nnnotes?’

  Kenny’s eyes, his mouth, his whole face is smiling. It’s as much as he can do not to dive on Vinnie and hug him, hold him, squeeze him. Instead he smiles right into him eyes and tries to keep his voice even, as though they’re picking up a conversation from a moment ago. ‘Yeah, mate – your notes, your ideas, the everyday things you see. I read it all in one go.’

  Vinnie looks away, stung.

  ‘Vin. It’s beautiful. It’s the most beautiful thing …’ He tails off and waits for Vinnie to come back, to look at him. He needs him to know. Sensing it, Vinnie turns back to him, eyes still angry but willing to be persuaded. Kenny recites from the heart. ‘The winter sun glancing off the flat bitumen of the ship canal … trembling like the flame of a gas stove … the oil-slick water takes hold of it and spits it off across the surface. And the young lad watching it all from the locks, waiting, waiting … waiting for the big fat fireball to turn down the light, turn up the night … and only then is it safe for him to steal back through the streets, unseen. Unnoticed.’

  Vinnie turns away. He’s shaking slightly.

  Kenny gulps back a heave of tears. ‘That’s you, Vinnie.’ Then, more quietly, ‘That’s you.’

  They sit in silence. Eventually Kenny clears his throat.

  ‘Vin. Listen. Don’t say nothing – just listen to every word and understand what I’m telling you. Yeah?’

  The slightest flicker of agreement in Vinnie’s eyes. OK. If you must. Talk. Kenny talks.

  ‘I read. I read fuckin’ everything, man, and …’ He sighs and tries another tack. ‘Look. I’m going nowhere. You and me – this is it. This is us. I’m staying right here, by your side.’ He’s breathing more heavily, the more animated he gets. ‘We’ll get you right. I promise we will, yeah – get you right as rain. And you and me, we’ll get a little place out on the moors. And you’ll write. And I’ll chop wood and grow vegetables, yeah? And we’ll …’

  Vinnie looks up at him. Beautiful. Full of hope. His whole life ahead of him. He can’t do it to him. He loves him too much.

  It’s over.

  He buzzes for the nurse. He won’t look at him. And Kenny doesn’t make a fuss in front of the nurse. He leans down low into his face and whispers in his ear, ‘I love you. I love you, Vinnie Fitzgerald – and I will love you. Nothing can change that.’

  Vinnie turns away. He says nothing. He listens to his footsteps fade away down the corridor. Even from where Vinnie lies, there’s something strangely beatific about the rhythm of Kenny’s stride. He still has hope. If only he knew.

  Twenty-two

  Such inner rage is alien to Sheila, yet with each imaginary argument, with every stark confrontation that eats up the miles the closer she gets to Blackpool, her mounting outrage at Robbie’s sheer carelessness consumes her. How could he not be there, by his son’s side, as he lies in pieces in hospital? How could he not be there, when she phoned? What is the point in his having a damn phone? Well, he isn’t getting away with it. Sheila doesn’t give two hoots how he chooses to piss away his wretched life, but his children still need him. And not just Vincent, either. If anything, Ellie’s need for love, for safety, for comfort is even greater than Vinnie’s, and where is bloody Robert when he’s needed to provide some of that? He’s at the exact same place he always goes when things are needed of him. Away.

  She parks the Lada in a parallel street, as close to Robbie’s lodgings as she can get, and, trying to keep the violent waxing and waning of her heart in check, she goes to put him right. She locks the car and marches forth. She’s immediately stricken by the shabbiness of the building – its vicious, peeling orange paint, its slurry-stained windows and threadbare, dingy curtains – as she steps into the street, checks the details on her paper with the number that’s just visible above the door. She takes down a slug of sea air, steels herself and rings. Nobody comes. She rings again, longer this time. She will stand here all night ringing this bell until somebody answers. But it doesn’t come to that. A hunched figure appears at the inner door and shows his displeasure at the sight of a dark woman. ‘No vacancies,’ he spits past the Vacancies sign.

  Sheila rings again, and thumps hard on the glass panel. He turns sharply.

  ‘Hey! Hey! You’re gonna break that glass.’

  ‘I’ll break the door down if I have to! Open up!’

  He clicks the safety snip and opens up, keeping his foot in the door. ‘Look, lady—’

  ‘Save it. I wouldn’t stay in this heap if it was you paying me. I need to speak with Robert Fitzgerald. He’s—’

  ‘Another one, hey?’ He seems relieved that there’ll be no awkward confrontation. ‘It’s not me, love. It’s just some of the guests here are very set in their ways.’ He steps back, knowing he won’t have to ask her in. ‘Robbie’s gigging tonight.’

  ‘Can you tell me where?’

  ‘Dunno if he’ll thank me for it.’

  ‘I’ll thank you for it.’ She steps back, eyes beseeching. ‘Please. It’s nothing romantic. It just happens to be very, very important.’

  The rheumy old landlord eyes Sheila again, shakes his head and directs her to the Cartwheel, way past the South Pier. ‘It’s a tram and still a good walk after that.’

  Unwilling to waste time, and unready for Blackpool’s charms, Sheila hastens back to the car.

  Ellie lies on Vinnie’s bed in his room at home, flicking through the guides and brochures the Sussex tourist board has sent. Brighton looks fun. She can’t wait to show him the itinerary she’s shortlisted. The record ends. ‘Isolation’. She didn’t really like that one. She goes back to the Bowie album, Station to Station, and puts it on again, the beautiful, maudlin song about the wind. That’s her brother, that is. She sighs and smiles as she picks up The Outsider again. She’ll have this finished by tonight, he’ll see. By the time she goes to see him tomorrow, she’ll be able to hold down a chat with him about the weirdo who didn’t even cry at his own mother’s funeral.

  From the moment she takes her seat in the remotest corner of the club, Sheila is blindsided. Unable to swallow, she grips her glass of Coke and hopes, prays he hasn’t seen her. But there’s little danger of that. As though living out some deep, personal shame up there in the glare of the spotlight, Robbie scarcely looks up. Is this the man she used to adore? Her heart aches for him, truly. All that feeling and sympathy and the base animal desire to protect her man returns. She wants him out of here; out of this.

  ‘Oh yes – I’m the great pretender …’

  It’s Robbie, all right. It’s his voice – or a splinter of it – doing the business, making the ladies go to pieces. A group of garishly dressed, fiercely made-up women gather self-consciously at
the foot of the stage, variously swaying together, tears in their eyes, occasionally nudging one another and over-laughing, reminding themselves it’s all a bit of fun. One or two of them make a separate stand, doggedly sticking to their territory either side of the giddy knot, avidly trying to make eye contact with Robbie. It’s not going to happen. Even in his pomp, that raw, prowling, sexual creature who used to rule his stage when Sheila first heard him sing, Robbie kept his eyes closed. Head back, eyes shut, lost in the ecstatic moment of his song, that was Robbie Fitzgerald. This is not. The man up there – the shadow of the man she’d loved – is dressed in a cheap white suit, a comical, hideous, tragic black Teddy boy wig rammed tight onto his head – so tight that stray red tufts spring out from the sides. She’d laugh if it weren’t so sad, so very sordid. Behind him, an orange poster as bright and immodest as their Lada and in bold, cheap, black perma-print: ‘Robert Fitzgerald is LYTHAM ELVIS’.

  Not that any of this seems to bother his hardy troupe of fans. She can tell from their body language, that odd combination of coquetry and hopeful propriety, that many of these chunky lasses are regulars. Finally able to take a sip of her Coke, Sheila fights back tears of pity, tears of anguish, then tears of rage. She hooks her bag off the back of her chair and takes one last look at the spectacle. Lytham Elvis was going to be neither use nor ornament to his injured family. She could cry for him. She could cry for them.