Snake in the Grass
Page 17
‘She got the wrong idea, that’s all. I mean, I like her, but …’
‘But what?’
‘It wasn’t as if I was trying to take her for a ride or anything. Things just got out of hand. And I don’t deliberately go out of my way to hoodwink people about … about my mutilation. It’s just easier not to have to explain. It sort of kills the mood, if I start explaining.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you?’ His muffled voice grew anxious. ‘You do realize that if you tell anyone about any of this, I will never speak to you again?’
‘Promises, promises.’
There was another pause. His body, which had been tense in her arms, now began to relax. She could smell washing powder on his clothes, beer on his breath. The television boomed and burbled, filling the silence.
‘I can feel your bump,’ he said at last.
‘Nonsense. There is no bump.’ It was her turn to be anxious now, reminded of the child growing inside her. ‘Not yet,’ she whispered. ‘No bump yet.’
‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who the father is?’
‘You suppose correctly,’ she said in a tone that might have been called droll, which might have been mistaken for sexy.
‘For what it’s worth….’ He was hesitant. ‘I’d give anything for it to be mine.’
‘Is there no chance, then, of you ever…?’
‘There were supposed to be ways and means. Contingency plans were put in place. But … well, things don’t always work out.’ His voice was bleak.
‘You could always,’ she said very slowly, ‘be godfather to my production.’
She felt him shaking with laughter. ‘What, an oik like me? A slob? A— What else was it?’ The laughter drained away. He said cautiously, quietly, ‘You’re serious?’
‘Absolutely. I shall need all the help I can get.’
‘Well, in that case … I mean, yeah, thanks, I’d … I’d love to.’ Another pause, then, ‘Um….’
‘What?’
‘Are you going to let me go? Or do we stay like this all night?’
It was an awkward moment. For a second as they pulled apart their arms got entangled, then they suddenly sprang away from each other like strangers who’d collided on the pavement. They hung their heads, avoiding each other’s eyes. Richard, a sheepish grin on his face, aimed a casual kick at the sofa, mistimed it, stubbed his toe.
‘Ouch! Ow! Shit!’
She laughed, making her way to the door.
‘You are laughing at my pain! That’s harsh!’
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it,’ she said, closing the door behind her.
Picking her way downstairs, she tried but failed to put her thoughts in order. By some miracle, her car was where she had left it, unmolested. As she unlocked the door, it occurred to her that whatever you might say about Richard, it had to be admitted that he was nothing like Nigel. Not all men were like Nigel.
Holding on to this discovery, she started the engine and drove off into the twilight.
TWENTY-ONE
CHARLEY’S HOUSE WAS massive. It could easily accommodate half the population of the college: which was just as well, seeing as half the college appeared to have turned up. Dean had thought (secretly) that it must be something of an accolade to get an invite to one of Charley’s legendary depraved parties, but he realized now that it would have been an affront not to have been invited.
Charley was in transit through the spacious hallway when Dean ventured in through the open front door.
‘Hey, Morley! You’ve come! Nice one! Grab yourself a drink or whatever. There’s booze, pills, weed. I’ll be back down in a sec. I’m just going to get some more CDs.’
Charley bounded up the stairs, leaving Dean to make his way along a corridor where people were standing chatting, laughing, smoking, drinking. From a room on the left came the sound of music. Girls were shrieking, boys guffawing.
Where was the booze? If there was any booze. He’d heard people at college sniggering. ‘Booze, pills and weed. Ha, ha! What he means is cola, aspirin and tea leaves in your tobacco.’ But the sniggering people might be those who never got invited, so possibly their opinion should be discounted. At the very least Dean was counting on booze. He needed booze. He’d made his mind up to get drunk. It was to be an experiment. He’d never been drunk, not properly, and it was important to experience these things. (The pills and the weed could wait for another day: it didn’t do to mix up your experiments.)
In the kitchen, Ash was sorting through a promising array of bottles on the table. The back door was wide open like the front. There were people in the garden, some playing football, others trying to push each other into the pond.
‘Morley, have some single malt!’ Ash waved a bottle under Dean’s nose. ‘Charley’s old man’s got loads of the stuff.’
‘Won’t he be angry if we drink it all?’ asked Dean doubtfully, imagining Basil’s reaction if anyone helped themselves to his whisky.
‘No, man, he’s cool. He likes it when Charley drinks all his booze. He thinks it’s good for Charley’s development and crap like that. That’s why Charley has all these parties. He has to. His parents went away once and he didn’t have a party and they thought there must be something wrong with him. They wanted him to see a shrink and everything, innit.’ Ash poured a large glug of whisky into a wine glass and handed it to Dean. ‘It’s sick, man. Try it.’
Dean held the glass up, sniffed. What was single malt, anyway? How did it differ from ordinary whisky? ‘Is this one measure or two?’ he asked Ash. ‘How many units is it?’
‘Units? What are units? Morley, man, you’re such a geek!’ Ash lowered his voice, said reverently, ‘Mike Somerville’s got some skunk.’
‘And? So?’ Dean hoped he looked suitably unimpressed.
Ash tittered. ‘Bet you don’t even know what skunk is, innit.’
‘Of course I know what it is!’ Dean was scathing. Did they think he was thick? Had they never heard of the internet? Were they strangers to Wikipedia? Freak he might be, but he wasn’t stupid.
Ash was sorting through the bottles again. ‘Here, Morley, what can I give that Cally bird to get her pissed? I’m gonna get her pissed and then try it on. Think it’ll work?’
Dean drained his glass. His face twisted with the taste of the whisky, the fire of it; but it was the thought of Cally that made his heart race. She must be here, then; but where?
‘I reckon she fancies me, man, innit!’ Ash grinned lasciviously.
Dean experienced a strong urge to find some of Mike Somerville’s precious skunk and stuff it down Ash’s throat until he choked on it. It was unexpected, this compulsion for violence. Did it mean he was already a little drunk? Was it a symptom?
‘What’s eating you, Morley?’
‘Nothing.’ Dean squeezed his fists tighter. ‘Why do you talk in that stupid accent and say innit all the time? You don’t talk like that to your mum and dad. You talk posh to your mum and dad, I’ve heard you.’
‘Ah, man, you don’t get it.’ Ash’s grin faded. For a moment he looked like he really might be choking. ‘It’s not easy, know what I’m saying? You’ve got your mates, you’ve got your folks, you’ve got about a million relatives, you’ve got the mosque, too; and it feels like they’ve all got a piece of you, and they’re all pulling you in different directions. Half the time I don’t even know who I am, I don’t know who I’m meant to be, know what I mean, Morley?’
For a split second, Dean thought he did know what Ash meant. It was as if there was a different Ash locked up inside Ash’s body, the way the real Dean Morley was hidden away inside him. You could almost see the different Ash peeping out as he spoke.
But then the lascivious grin snapped back into place and the illusion (it had to be an illusion, right?) was shattered.
‘Anyway, fuck all that, Morley. I’m going to look for Cally.’ He held up both his hands. There was a glass in each, filled with some reddish potion. ‘I reckon this s
tuff will do the business. This’ll get her pissed.’
The urge to do some severe damage to Ash came back, even stronger than before, but Ash was already on his way out of the room. He was lucky, muttered Dean.
Picking out a bottle, Dean poured himself a glass of something green. It tasted of peppermint. You could get drunk and freshen your breath at the same time: ingenious!
Cradling his glass, he set off on a tour of the house. Cally had to be around somewhere. He needed to warn her about Ash.
First of all he stepped outside. Charley was now in the garden with the football-playing lads. They had stripped off their shirts, showing off. Pathetic, thought Dean, who wouldn’t have lowered himself. Apart from anything else, it was March, freezing cold, the wind gusting. And anyway, they weren’t impressing anyone. There were some girls down by the garden shed, drinking wine, giggling, but they seemed entirely indifferent to the footballers, shirts or no shirts.
Interesting, thought Dean, sipping his mouthwash cordial. It was obviously not enough to simply strip off: you needed something else, too – the sort of something that Richard had got. Charisma for want of a better word. It was a very crude sort of charisma, appealed to people’s baser instincts, but the problem was, so few people saw through it. They didn’t stop to think that it was brain power that had created the world’s civilizations, not brawn and blarney. Mind you, Dean added, taking a last glance at the footballers, Charley was fooling himself if he thought his chunky frame was all brawn. Flab would be nearer the mark. And he had spots on his back. At least my spots, said Dean, turning away in disdain, are confined to my face. And even those have all gone. Well, nearly.
Passing back through the kitchen, Dean helped himself to more mouthwash liqueur then went to check out the dining room. This was Mike Somerville’s room. Any room with Mike Somerville in it became Mike Somerville’s room: that was the way he was. He was a bit like Richard, only grungier. Dean watched from the doorway with a curl of his lip as Mike and his mates sat around the table smoking dope and playing cards – playing for money, of course, because Mike was such a poseur. Everything about him was a pose: the way he was slumped in his chair, the way he fanned his cards out using only one hand, the way he held the joint between his lips, the way his trousers were half way down his thighs. Girls were grouped round him, some were draped over him. Little did they know, said Dean to himself, that smoking dope was not only giving Mike lung cancer, it was also destroying his short-term memory. By the time he was twenty-five (if he lived that long), he’d be a zombie with no idea who he was or where he was going. So much for Mike Somerville.
Next door in the living room, the curtains were closed and the noise intense (hip-hop on the stereo, people shouting over the top of it). There was no room to move and no sign of Cally. Where was she?
Back out in the hallway, a hand appeared as if from nowhere and grabbed his arm. ‘Dean! Dean! I want to talk to you! Dean!’
It was Sandra. He tried to twist his arm away, but she was clinging like a limpet.
‘Dean! Dean!’
He looked more closely. She looked dishevelled and rather red-faced. Her eyes were rolling. Perhaps getting drunk was not such a good idea – even for experimental purposes – if it turned you into a shambolic mess like this.
‘Dean! Dean! Are you listening? Where’s Richard? Where is he?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t—’ He tried again to prise her fingers off his arm ‘—care.’
‘Why won’t he talk to me, Dean? Why won’t he answer my calls? Tell me! You must know! He’s your brother!’
‘He is not my brother!’ As fast as he removed one hand, she clamped the other in its place. It was like wrestling with an octopus – and it made his flesh crawl, being pawed and groped: being touched.
‘What have I done wrong, Dean? I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong!’
She was starting to frighten him. Well, not frighten exactly (he wasn’t a wimp, he wasn’t frightened of girls … well, not much, anyway), but it was like she wasn’t even human – as if she’d been taken over by some alien virus. All this Dean, Dean: it was setting his teeth on edge. He’d had enough of it.
‘Ouch! Ow! Dean, you’re hurting me! Ow!’
‘Then get off me! Leave me alone!’
‘But I want to talk—’
‘Well, I don’t. I hate Richard – and I hate you!’
He had to be brutal in the end: there was no other way. Suddenly Sandra was in a heap on the floor, grizzling like a baby. He backed away, stumbled against the stairs, turned and fled up them, putting distance between himself and the alien virus.
The upstairs corridor was empty. It was quieter up here, too. Dean moved stealthily, warily. The bathroom door was open; all the other doors were shut. One door had a sign on it: Charley’s Room, Keep Out. Dean wrinkled his nose. How juvenile. He must remember that, mock Charley about it later. And perhaps if he had a quick look round inside, there might be other evidence he could use against Charley.
Dean opened the door, stepped into the room, and—
‘Oh, sorry. Sorry—’
He stepped quickly out again, pulled the door shut. How embarrassing! But how was he supposed to know there’d be people in there? John Beresford, by the looks of it, rolling around on Charley’s bed with that girl who was supposed to be a right slapper. Mind you, John Beresford was no better. He shagged anything with a pulse: girls, boys, his dog. That was what people said, anyway. Not that people were exactly reliable when it came to things like that, but even if John Beresford didn’t do it with animals, he was certainly acting like one, snogging that girl right there in Charley’s room when anyone could walk in and see. They could have found somewhere a bit more private.
Dean opened another door, took refuge in a different room. This was a flashy, flaunty sort of room. There was a massive wardrobe, a huge bed, mirrors, plush carpet, a window festooned with curtains. It had to be Charley’s parents’ room. They were like that, Charley’s parents: over-the-top, in-your-face. And that bed…. Dean found he couldn’t keep his eyes off it, couldn’t help but imagine Charley’s mum and dad rolling around on it the way John Beresford and the slapper were rolling around next door.
Dean slid slowly down with his back to the door, sat on the floor with his head in his hands. Sex. It was everywhere. You couldn’t get away from it. And it was vile. Odious. Charley’s parents flaunting, John Beresford rolling, Ash leering – not to mention Sandra, reduced to a quivering wreck. The worst of it was, Dean admitted with a groan, he had been sullied by it too. He had been touched, fingered, fouled, despoiled by the panther. He could never go back; he’d never be free of it now.
He scrambled to his feet. He felt sick, needed something to settle his stomach: more of that mouthwash liqueur would do, the whole bottle for choice. Forget about the experiment and measuring the units. He’d lost count anyway.
Down in the kitchen, he dosed himself with medicinal mouthwash and glanced out of the window. The garden was empty now, the football abandoned in the middle of the lawn. Dean went out, wanting to be on his own. He was beginning to think that coming to Charley’s party had not been a good idea.
There were some glasses and bottles down by the shed where the giggling girls had been. The shed door was ajar. A bolthole, thought Dean. Somewhere to sit and sort himself out, take stock of his experiment, produce some preliminary findings, make a few mental notes for later.
He opened the shed door – and there was Cally, sitting on top of a stack of garden chairs, a bottle in her hand. There were sacks of compost and wood chips, garden furniture nestling against a lawn-mower. Gardening tools were hanging from hooks, shelves were laden with pots, containers, plant food. No room to swing a cat, as his mother would have said (his mother was always saying ridiculous things like that with no thought as to what the words actually meant: why would anyone want to swing a cat in the first place, and if they did, wouldn’t the RSPCA have something to say about it?).
He felt unsteady on his legs – the alcohol, of course, but also Cally, staring at him: improbable and unscientific as it sounded, there really did seem to be some correlation between her looking at him and the fact that his knees had turned to jelly.
He sat down on a plastic sack of compost as a gust of wind caught the door and blew it shut with a crash. They were suddenly alone together, cut off from the garden, the party – from the whole of the rest of the world. Daylight came in through cracks in the wooden walls, but it was very dim in the shed. There was a strong musty smell from the bag of compost. Spiders’ webs dangled.
Dean was not sure that he liked this situation. It made him nervous.
‘Why have you upset Sandra?’ Cally spoke at last, rather guarded.
‘I didn’t. I haven’t.’
‘She says you won’t talk to her. She says you were rude and walked away. She was crying.’
‘She wouldn’t leave me alone. She kept going on and on about Richard.’
‘Oh. I see.’ There was a pause, then Cally added, ‘I think he’s dumped her. She won’t say.’
Dean’s eyes moved rapidly from side to side, looking at everything except her: he dared not look at her. He knew that she was watching him, knew that he was blushing. He wished he was back in the old days, playing mummies and daddies. He’d never felt awkward with her then.
‘What are you drinking?’ she said after another long pause. She was less frosty now.
‘It’s … er … peppermint. Like mouthwash.’
‘Crème de menthe.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’ve got a WKD Blue.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m squiffy. Are you? I smoked some stuff. Mike Somerville gave it me. I like Mike Somerville.’
Mike Somerville’s a poseur. He’s destroying his brain, turning into a zombie. Don’t like Mike Somerville. Like me instead: me, me, me.