by Alex Marwood
The anger has drained from Bel’s face, leaving her as pale as ashes beneath her suntan. Jade notices the smattering of freckles across her nose; that ugly mole standing out like an ink blot. She goes to try the hand again. Bel grabs her wrist.
‘Don’t.’
‘We have to see,’ says Jade. ‘We can’t just leave her.’
Chloe lies like a rag doll, her legs still in the water. Bel feels as though she’s wallowing beneath the surface. Jade’s voice comes to her distantly, through the sound of rolling waves. She looks again at the small body, its face pressed into the riverbank where they turned it in a last despairing hope that the water would somehow drain out. ‘Let’s turn her over,’ she says.
It’s worse when they can see her face. They know she’s really dead now. There’s mud, got into her eyes. They lie open, unblinking, staring at the sun through a film of dirty brown. The face is a mosaic of mud and gravel, of leaves and tiny petals; a string of duckweed tangled in hair that itself resembles weeds and string.
Oh God, her eyes, thinks Jade. I will remember this. I won’t forget this, the way her eyes look, for the rest of my life.
Chapter Fifteen
He is giddy with outrage, white-hot in the head and unsteady on his feet. His brain seethes as he strides down London Road from the Wordsworth to the centre of town, his vision so impaired by the tunnelling effect of adrenalin that twice he lurches on the pavement and feels the scrape of his nylon sleeve against the plate-glass windows of sleeping shops. Amber Gordon. That fucking bitch Amber Gordon. Who does she think she is? And she pretended she didn’t even know me.
It’s all clear to him now, clear as day. Amber Gordon is the reason why Jackie has cut him off. She’s Jackie’s boss, he remembers that. And she’s Vic Cantrell’s – something. Because there’s no way that hard-faced bitch could fool anyone that a man like Vic is interested in her for anything other than what he can get from her. You just have to look at her standing next to him – the cheap dye job, the leather jacket that must be twenty years old, that fucking mole in the middle of her face – to know that they’re a mismatch.
But Jackie? He understands now; at least partially. Jackie’s weak, she’s greedy, she’s a coward – but the power behind the throne is Amber fucking Gordon.
His blood has turned to ice. He elbows his way through the queue outside DanceAttack, barely hears the cries of protest that follow in his wake. I hate her, he thinks. She’s not worthy. I don’t know why I ever thought she was.
The girls are out in force tonight: another Whitmouth party night. Blond and black and neon-red, their hair is piled up, hauled straight, built out and supplemented. They swish improbable nylon tresses into his face as he passes, clutch Primark purses to diamanté belly buttons, slip credit cards deep into their padded bras for safekeeping. And as usual he is invisible. All these girls, looking for excitement, and not one of them so much as glances at him.
Who is she? Who the fuck is she? Who the fuck does she think she is?
He despises her, now he knows. She’s not his chance at salvation: she’s a weak, greedy slag. I don’t know why I ever thought that she was different, he thinks. I need my head examining.
She has to pay, he thinks, though he’s not sure which ‘she’ he’s thinking of. I have to make her pay.
He’s too wound up, his muscles aching with adrenalin, to go home, to lock himself inside those enclosing walls and pace the cluttered floor while the party goes on outside. He feels isolated enough on a normal night; on a night like this he feels like it will drive him mad. He’s uncomfortably aware that his rage has given him a flabby, half-hearted erection. It throbs awkwardly against the front of his trousers as he walks, anorak-pocketed hands crossed in front of him to hide it from the people who are no more looking at him than they are wondering what their mothers would say if they saw them now. His temples pump with frustration, with rejection, with rage. He can’t go home. The walls won’t let him breathe.
He checks the contents of his pocket, finds fifteen pounds and a handful of change. Not enough for any of the nightclubs – even Stardust is twelve pounds to get into these days, and a glass of Coke alone costs three. I’ll get some chips, he thinks, and take them up on the war memorial. It’s quiet on Mare Street at this time of night. Maybe if I’m there long enough, the noise will have died down a bit by the time I get home. And if Tanqueray Tina is up in her usual spot, I might be able to parlay something out of my tenner.
At the death-burger van he buys a saveloy, its brazen tumescence mocking the half-formed thing inside his Y-fronts, to go with his chips, snatches up a chip fork, a little devil’s prong of plywood, and a handful of napkins and hurries off across the Corniche.
Mare Street, as he had expected, is almost silent, the sounds of the crowds behind him quickly fading away to film-soundtrack level. Now the centre of town has been pedestrianised, the road leads effectively nowhere, and no one much comes up here once the shops have closed. He idles his way along the pavement, feeling the heat of his food emanate through its polystyrene tray, and turns the corner into Fore Street, suddenly longing for the salt-and-stodge mouth-feel of fried potato. He stops by the old horse trough and pulls open an edge of the bag. He won’t unwrap it fully now; hates the sight of people eating while they walk. He just needs to get it open enough to access a morsel or two.
Someone coughs, up ahead.
Tina stands half in the shadows at the mouth of an alleyway: mini-skirt, denim jacket garnished with studs and fringing, white stacked heels, no tights. She carries an oversized black bag, the sort of bag you’d expect to find on a mother. He can’t imagine that a bag like that could house any load other than baby wipes and half-chewed rusks. But there it is, hanging off the shoulder of an alky grandmother looking for trade.
‘Hello, love,’ she says. ‘Haven’t seen you up here for a bit.’
Martin feels a rush of irritation at the familiarity. It doesn’t matter that he’s been forced to use her services before; he feels affronted that she should treat him like a regular. But he tucks his chip fork back into his palm and goes to meet her.
‘Aah,’ she says. ‘You brought me some chips.’
He doesn’t reply; clutches the bundle of food closer to his chest.
‘You after some fun tonight, then?’ she says.
Martin looks at her. Thinning scarlet hair scraped back into a high ponytail, thyroid eyes and lines like gouges on her forehead. He can smell the gin fumes rising off her, even from four feet away. And yet. The insistent, angry pulsing in his crotch is still there, and he fears he’ll never have peace till it’s gone.
She steps towards him, reaches out a hand and lays it over the bulge. ‘Ooh,’ she says. ‘Looks like you are. Give us a chip. I’m ravishing.’
‘Not opening them yet,’ he says.
‘Whatever. So what’s it going to be, then, Mart?’
How does she know my name? I’ve never told her. I’m sure I’ve never told her. He feels his anger rising again, deep and itchy. It’s a network of witches. They know fucking everything.
He shakes his head, tries to walk on. But she tightens the grip on his crotch, squeezes in a way that both enrages and engorges. ‘Come on, honey. You don’t want to waste it. I can make that better, quick-time.’
Oh God. Those fingers, with their chipped scarlet nails, an inch long and sharpened for fighting, are frightening, but the thought of them pumping up and down around his cock, of the pull and squeeze and professional twists of someone else’s hand, is too much to bear. ‘I don’t have much money,’ he says.
The grip loosens. She steps back.
‘How much?’
‘Thirteen quid.’
‘Thirteen quid?’
He nods feverishly. Knows that even to someone as far gone as this, thirteen quid is a pitifully low offer.
‘Never mind,’ he says. Starts to walk on, though his cock seems to have taken on a life of its own now. There won’t be anyone up at the war mem
orial. Needs must, he can relieve himself quickly up there, use the napkins for clean-up.
He gets five paces along the pavement when he hears her ‘Oi!’. Stops and turns and sees that she’s got her hand on her hip and has hoisted the bag further up her shoulder like someone who means business. ‘Thirteen quid and some chips,’ she says, ‘but you don’t get no French for that.’
Martin follows her up the alleyway.
She leads him deep into the dark – further than he thinks is necessary to hide them from casual eyes – and steps in behind a dumpster. Smiling, he deposits the chips on the lid, steps forward wolfishly and leans a hand, still gripping the chip fork, on the wall behind her shoulder.
‘Come on then,’ she says, and yanks at his buttons.
Martin doesn’t want to look at her, doesn’t want to see that raddled face, the inch of roots on the hair that’s bent towards him. He looks up, stares at the patch of grey night sky between the gables, and feels her hand delve into his pants, the grab of flesh on tender skin. Yeah, he thinks as she hauls his member into the damp night air, spits on her palm and starts to work it. Thirteen quid well spent. I don’t need Jackie Jacobs. What made me think I wanted her and her—
A flashback. A car park, Jackie tugging at him like this woman’s doing, frustration mounting, a tipsy swearword falling from her lips.
His cock goes soft.
‘What?’ says the woman. ‘Come on, lover. I’m not going to spend all night.’
Martin feels his cheeks begin to burn. It’s gone. There’s no more feeling in it than if it was someone else’s. The woman yanks at his flaccid organ like it’s a cow’s udder, pulls harder, gives the head a couple of backhanders and gives up. Lets out a laugh.
‘Better luck next time,’ she says. ‘Quickest thirteen quid I’ve ever earned.’
He’s outraged. ‘You what?’
‘I’m not bloody staying here all night,’ she says.
‘You don’t think I’m going to pay you for that?’ He’s hot with wasted ardour, with humiliation. Walks backwards, tucking the useless appendage back inside his damp pants.
‘Course you are.’ Her voice starts to rise. ‘I done what you wanted. Not my fault you can’t bloody keep it up.’
‘Course I couldn’t,’ he grumbles. His fingers have turned to thumbs, fumble at his buttons like they’re anaesthetised, the chip fork hampering his efforts. He’s angry again, disappointed. Had needed the relief of quick, dirty ejaculate and is livid with frustration. ‘I saw your fucking face, didn’t I?’
He turns and starts to walk away towards Fore Street.
‘Oi!’ she shouts again.
‘Fuck off,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘You got your chips, didn’t you?’
There’s a moment’s silence, then the woman lets out another squawk of rage. ‘Oi!’
Unsteady footsteps clatter up the alley behind him. Martin whirls to face her, raises a fist, chip fork sticking out from gripping palm, towards her face. She halts, abruptly. Stares at him in alarm for a moment, then sees the weapon he’s wielding and bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, you sorry little fuck,’ she says.
His erection is back. He can feel adrenalin like speed in his blood.
‘Don’t laugh at me,’ he threatens. ‘Don’t you fucking laugh at me, or I’ll—’
‘You’ll what?’ Wide-eyed with mirth, she motions at his fist. ‘You’ll stab me with a chip fork?’
Martin looks over at his raised hand, sees his plywood weapon. Thinks vaguely, as though the thought were coming from far away, yeah, what the fuck?
He punches it into her neck.
He steps back, shocked at his own strength. Tenses in preparation for a fight, because he knows one will be coming now.
The woman slaps her hand to her neck like she’s been stung by a wasp, feels the plywood handle protruding from her flesh. Looks astonished, then outraged, then blackly furious. ‘You little fuck!’ she says. ‘You bloody little fuck.’
She feels her way round the handle, grips it between thumb and finger and pulls it out. Brandishes it at him, lips drawn back over yellow teeth. ‘You little fuck!’ she shrieks again. And then she notices the blood that spurts across the pavement, that hits the wall, and understands the truth.
‘Oh fuck,’ she says, and clamps a hand over the wound. It’s a stupid wound, a tiny double puncture, but the skin is ragged and her carotid ripped. Her hand is immediately slippery with blood; it gushes out from between her fingers, pours down her neck. Quickly, blackly, soaks the stonewashed denim on her shoulder.
‘What have you done?’
Martin stands there and watches. This wasn’t what he’d expected, but now it’s happened, he feels a rush of startling pleasure; a sense of power he’s never felt before. Look at her. Look at the silly bitch, she’s all over blood. I did that. I did that to her.
‘Fuck, help me,’ she says, and puts the other hand up; pleads with her eyes, understands that no help is going to come. ‘Jesus. Oh Jesus.’
She takes a step towards him, and he sees it turn into a stagger. She can’t be bleeding out yet, he thinks. It must be panic. She’s scared. Yes. The fucking bitch is scared. I did that. Me. She’s scared because of something I did.
‘You’ve got to call an ambulance,’ she says. ‘I’m really hurt.’
He’s cold all over, but his cock is magnificently, triumphantly hard. He shrugs indifferently. ‘Got no phone,’ he says, and walks away.
Chapter Sixteen
She’s never unlearned the habit of hope. Ever since she can remember, Amber has woken with the same thought: today will be a good day. She learned the practice in her stepfather’s house, clung fast to it at Blackdown. Has marked her life out in small milestones of happiness – the dogs, Vic, her home and its improvements, birthday parties, small gestures of friendship – and refuses to dwell on negatives.
She lies on her back, arms spread across the empty bed, and stares at the daylight leaking past the curtains on to the bedroom ceiling. Day workers are beginning to come home; she can hear engines and car doors and bellowed greetings out on Tennyson Way. The bed is hot, the room frowsty. She throws off the covers and lies there, cooling off. The sun has obviously come out while she’s been asleep. She’s missed another summer day. But thank you, thank you, for giving me summer. It’s going to be OK, I can feel it in my bones. I worry too much, that’s the problem. Nothing bad can happen, I’ve come too far.
Amber gets up, takes a shower and washes last night’s work out of her hair. The water, lukewarm, wakes her up a little. She can hear faint sounds of movement downstairs. Vic is still home – it must be his day off – but she doesn’t hear the sound of voices and guesses Jackie has gone out.
Rubbing her hair with a towel, she checks the clock by the bed. Five p.m. Several hours to work-time. For once, it’s worth putting on home clothes. She digs through the wardrobe and chooses a sundress, gaily printed with a pattern of birds and tropical foliage. Slips it over her head, feels the pleasure of dressing pretty for once, and goes down to find her common-law husband.
He’s sitting at the kitchen table, all the windows and the back door thrown wide. Her bag sits before him, open. He holds something loosely in his hand. She greets him brightly. He merely looks at her, silently, in return. Amber feels the smile slip from her face. The day goes dark.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.
He opens his hand and shows her. ‘So what else have you been lying to me about?’ he asks. His voice is cold, reptilian. She blanches. The Other Vic is back.
He’s holding the cigarette packet Jade pushed into her hand yesterday. She’d shoved it into her handbag and forgotten about it. She stares at it like a rabbit caught in headlights. ‘No, Vic, I … They’re not mine,’ she stumbles.
He raises his eyebrows, then drops them so his eyes are hooded. ‘Liar!’ he says accusingly. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Don’t lie to me. I told you, Amber. I will always find you out.’
‘Vic …’ Lyi
ng is his big bugbear, his pet hate. He’s always said it: lying is the biggest betrayal of all. ‘Vic, I’m not lying to you.’
‘Or what?’ he asks. ‘You think I’m stupid then? Don’t take me for a mug, Amber.’
‘I’m not. I—’
‘The whole place stinks of fag smoke. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?’
‘That’s Jackie. C’mon. You know she smokes like a chimney. I’m sorry. It was raining and I let her smoke in the kitchen.’
‘Yeah,’ says Vic. ‘Good try.’
‘No,’ she says, knowing she’s fighting a losing battle. Once he’s got the bit between his teeth, there’s no stopping him. He’ll twist and twist her words until whatever she says sounds like lying. He’ll do it once a month or so, and leave her wrong-footed, shaking. And yet, every time he does it, she tries to protest, tries to assure him he’s wrong, keeps hoping that one day the outcome will be different, the way she did as a child. It’s like some ritual dance they have to perform with the dark of the moon. He’ll apologise afterwards, beg forgiveness, but the intervening days will be a cold, baleful hell of accusing looks and silent judgement. ‘No, you’ve got it all wrong. I swear, Vic.’
‘If you’d just tell me the truth, it’d be a different matter,’ he says, ignoring her. ‘That’s the thing I don’t understand. Why you have to lie about things when you know what it does to me.’
She’s aware that a big fat lie is coming from his own mouth. Come on, she thinks. You don’t really think that. If I came to you and said, ‘Hey, Vic, I’ve decided to go against your wishes and take up smoking again,’ you’d never just say, ‘Oh, OK, babe, that’s fine as long as you’ve told me.’ You know I only gave up because you made me; because the sulks and the barbed remarks about my body smell and the refusal to kiss me wore me down. And the stupid thing is that I know, deep down, that you don’t really care either way. That the reason smoking was an issue was nothing to do with any of those things, or with fear about my health or yours, it was all of it about control. All about imposing your will on mine and watching yourself win.
