by L. V. Hay
Tim’s eyes look skywards. He shakes his head, as if he cannot believe what he’s hearing or I am a lost cause. Maybe both.
He steps away from me and leans on the counter, as if he can’t support his own weight. Seizing my chance, I take the stairs from the kitchen two at a time, towards my room on the third floor.
On the landing, I glance sideways towards my parents’ bedroom. The door is open. Mum, so active before the funeral, now lies on the bed. She’s fully clothed, facing the wall. I go into the room, expecting her to sit up. She doesn’t.
‘Mum?’
She doesn’t stir. Perhaps she is asleep. I negotiate around the bed, towards her side. I see her eyes are open. She’s staring at the wall, her lips mumble something I can’t hear. Lost in the past.
‘Oh, Mum.’
I sit down on the end of the bed. I put one hand on her leg. She’s wearing tan tights; there is the static-feel of nylon under my fingertips. More tears well up behind my eyes, that familiar stab of pain in my throat.
‘I will find out what happened to India.’ I repeat, hoping this might pique her interest, if only to have a go at me, like Tim did. But Mum does not move, nor give any indication she knows I’m there.
I get up and drift towards my own room.
As I go, I feel the familiar vibrating tingle in my pocket: India’s phone. I snatch it out, hoping it is Jenny.
It’s an email notification. I open the inbox, expecting yet more spam. I stare for a second, hardly able to take in the username. There is no subject line, because I had not specified one. It is a reply to my question, ‘How did you know my sister, India?’
The email is from Blithefancy.
I press my finger on the screen, opening the message. The pessimist in me expects it to be bad news. Perhaps Blithefancy didn’t know India in real life. Maybe she or he just read India’s blog. It has to be yet another dead end, doesn’t it?
It takes me a moment to decipher the real message, versus the semantic noise in my brain. I take in the words, at last:
‘Quicker to explain in person. Am in Brighton too. Meet me @ the Prince Albert, tonite, 9 pm (or as close as I can make it 2 then). I WILL be there.’
I do not hesitate. I tap out a reply straight away, hoping my response gets through before Blithefancy logs off again: ‘See you soon.’
Twenty-three
New Year’s Eve. I am dressed up. It feels wrong, going out like this, just days after my own sister’s funeral. But I’ve watched enough detective movies to know I need to blend in at the Prince Albert. It’s a well-known meat market and dive of a pub, between Kemptown and The Lanes. I recall going there as a teenager: it was frequented by horny teens looking for hook-ups back then.
So I’ve raided India’s wardrobe again. Even though it makes no sense, I haven’t wanted to take more of India’s stuff than I need to. I arrived without luggage, and I’ve not managed – or rather, felt like – going shopping for more clothes. So I’ve taken a few pairs of my sister’s leggings, Mum being so much shorter than me.
Now, I discover India developed a taste for the flamboyant and punky in my absence. Some of the garments still have the tags attached, never worn, bought from online alternative clothing stores. There are dresses with rips cut out of them, plus tops and skirts held together with safety pins and buckles. Shoes with heels you could break your neck in. If India went to the Albert with Blithefancy, then this must be the type of thing you wear to a place like that nowadays.
I am relieved to find my options are limited. Though India and I are – were – of similar heights, I am considerably broader across the shoulders and fuller in the bust, like our mother. What’s more, my feet are way too big for any of India’s insanely high heels. My own boots will have to suffice.
Eventually I find a red tartan mini-skirt with chains hanging down from the belt loops. I team it with a black vest top that has a zip across the bust. I unzip its teeth: sure enough, my cleavage is on display. I regard myself in my sister’s full-length mirror. I stifle a laugh. I look ridiculous. I am too old for this shit.
I pull the clothes off again and find a silver-grey mini-dress at the back of the wardrobe. It’s made of t-shirt material, and, like everything these days, is decorated with sequins – more a day dress than one for going on the pull – but I’m past caring. Maybe I can jazz it up.
I pull the dress over my head. As I’m a larger build than India, it’s much more figure-hugging, but that works. I grab some of India’s make-up, slapping on some foundation, some silver eye shadow. She only has bright-red lipstick, but that’s a bridge too far for me, so I slick on some salve instead.
As an afterthought, I grab India’s black kohl eyeliner and ring my eyes with it. We shared a similar colouring, so I brush my hair into a knot on the top of my head, tying a scarf around it in a bow as I’ve seen her do. From a distance, I could be India. That will help Blithefancy to recognise me.
I pull on one of India’s old leather jackets. I note there is a sugar skull painted on the back. It must have been too big for her, because it fits me perfectly.
Blithefancy can’t miss me.
The night over the city is starless; cloud obscures the sky. My boots crunch on the frost on the ground as I make my way towards the seafront. As I progress, I can hear bells on the pier; the sound of pennies cascading into the slots; the buzzer of the ghost train shrieks. The tide laps the pebbly shore below.
Matthew said once that, if you’re ever lost in Brighton, you don’t need to look. All you have to do is walk downhill and you’ll always end up by the beach. When I was fifteen and he was nearly eighteen, we’d gone on our first date – to Gay Pride, of all things – and got separated. I didn’t have a mobile phone back then, so I spent ages looking for Matthew among the riot of colour and people on stilts that is the procession and after-party in the park.
After an hour of searching, I remembered Matthew’s advice. I made my way downhill, sure by now I’d never find him. Yet there he was, waiting under the archway, hands in his pockets, the big yellow letters of Brighton Pier over his head. Now, I can see teens milling about there, the next generation, unaware and uncaring about what’s gone before. Why should they? No time like the present.
I turn down a side street. I can see the Prince Albert straight away. It’s changed. The outside of the building is decorated with specially commissioned graffiti, forming a rainbow even in the dim evening light. On one of the walls is the bar’s Twitter username in neon paint, surrounded by stars and hearts. The pub is sandwiched between a shop with its shutters down and a bar that Australian ex-pats frequent. I hear their accents, harsh and twanging in the cold air, as I stalk past.
After two or three minutes, I’m at the head of the queue. A small female bouncer appears in front of me. She’s wearing a suit, her earpiece looped around her tiny neck. She’s shorter than I am, Korean descent, maybe, with a buzz cut.
She looks me up and down with obvious appreciation. ‘So. Not seen you here before?’
I flash her a dazzling smile. ‘My first time.’
She smirks. ‘We’ll be gentle with you.’
She holds out both hands. I realise she wants to check my bag. I undo the clasp and show her I have no contraband. She nods, waves me in.
Inside, I discover there are two areas. The first looks like I remember it: an old soak’s bar, smelling of beer and old cigarettes. There’s some beaten-up leather sofas, along with scarred oak tables, chairs and booths.
But that’s where the similarity ends. There’s more graffiti on the walls, plus plastic-flower garlands lining the bay window. Elaborate curtains have been fashioned around a giant TV screen, which is off. Rainbow flags are strung up across the room, looping around the bar and over the pool table. EuroPop plays loud. A sculpted Adonis pulls pints, rather than shaking cocktails, like Tom Cruise.
Everywhere are seated couples. Many of them with their heads close together, so they can hear what each other is saying, or steal a
kiss on the sly. I don’t fail to notice the vast majority of the couples are the same gender.
So the Prince Albert is a LGBT joint now.
My eye settles on a corkboard near the bar. On it, flyers for cabaret acts, Gay Pride events and various support groups. At the top of the board, someone has scrawled a handwritten message, just in case any tourist barflies still don’t get it:
‘We’re here. We’re queer. And we will serve you beer!’
If I’m surprised, it’s not because it’s an LGBT bar. I’ve lived in Brighton most of my life. I’ve grown up seeing same-sex couples together: in the street, on posters, carved in sculptures and emblazoned as public art. Brighton has led the way for LGBT-friendly spaces, so it stands to reason this community continues to expand.
What surprises me is that India was frequenting a place like this. I feel certain I never had any hint my sister could be gay. I cast my mind back. I recall she brought boyfriends to the house when she was a teenager. But maybe those boys were a phase. Or maybe India was bisexual. How the hell would I know?
I move through the first bar, weaving my way past tables and chairs. A couple of people look up and smile as if they recognise me; but then avert their eyes when they realise I am not who they think I am. India, no doubt. Good. Blithefancy will find me.
I reach the door to the second bar. I push on it. I discover it’s a fire door and soundproof. A wave of loud music hits me in the chest as I cross the threshold.
The beat feels like it’s travelling the length of the floor, enveloping me in a ball of noise. My ears ring. I suppress another laugh. I really am getting too old for this shit.
After taking a moment to acclimatise, I drift around the room. My eyes alight on everything in it. The back wall is all mirrors, to give the impression that the bar is bigger than it is. On the stage, an impressively tall drag queen lip-syncs to a Kylie song; the audience lap it up. Faces blur in the darkness, contrasting with the tiny glittering spotlights of the giant disco ball overhead.
A young boy, fresh-faced, just out of his teens, walks towards me. He smiles. As he draws nearer, I realise he is perhaps in his early twenties … and female. Her build is small, diminutive. She gives me a lazy smile. A chancer.
‘Buy you a drink?’ She has to speak right into my ear, so I can hear. She smells spicy and definitively masculine, but her skin is smooth, like porcelain.
I smile. ‘I’m not into women.’
My admirer scowls. ‘I’m not a woman!’
I realise my error. ‘I’m sorry…’
But my admirer has already turned away, my words snatched by the pounding music.
I feel a finger poke me in the small of my back. It’s what India always used to do to get my attention. I swing around, sure for a dumb moment my sister is standing behind me. In that instant India is alive to me and I’m so glad to see her.
But of course it’s not her.
It’s another young woman. She’s shorter than me, but much skinnier. I notice her clothes are a little baggy. She’s wearing a black top with bell sleeves, plus a long black skirt slightly on the big side. Like mine, her eyes are ringed with kohl. She has added a black teardrop under one eye, a spider web drawn crudely on her other cheek. She’s wearing black lipstick to match, and a long red wig that looks like doll’s hair.
‘Blithefancy?’
The goth girl nods. She has pale, brown-gold eyes under her pasty white make-up. She hesitates, then indicates with a hand we should go through to the other bar. I see her lips move, but her words are snatched away by the music.
‘Come with me,’ she is saying.
Twenty-four
On the dashboard, his mobile vibrates, the LCD shining upwards, creating patterns of light on the windscreen. She Who Must Be Obeyed again. He grits his teeth, ignores it. She can wait.
For once.
He turns his car down the dark street. Parks, avoiding streetlamps directly overhead. He has the perfect spot. Cloaked in shadows inside the car, facing away from the venue, he can take in the scene via his rearview mirror. The building is bathed in orange light, revealing all. Out the front, a big bouncer and a much smaller Korean woman, also in black tie, wait. Both their faces are impassive.
The Prince Albert pub.
He jumps as a carouser outside slams both hands on the windscreen. The guy is bearded, yet wears a dress, a feather boa around his broad shoulders. Sensing his antagonism, the bearded man utters a hearty chuckle, audible through the glass. His companion attempts to peel him away.
Inside the car, he pulls a face, then makes an obscene hand gesture at the reveller. Fucking queers. The reveller finally shuffles off with his boyfriend, a tall, thin waif of a lad, bare, tattooed arms and eye-wateringly skinny jeans. They meander towards a small queue of similarly dressed attention-seekers.
Tension pulls his body into angular shapes. Sensing the stress in his forearms as he grips the wheel, he lets go and flexes both hands. His wrists roll with a satisfying crack. He does the same with his shoulders, limbering up. He’s had to do this so many times; there’s no telling how it might go. He waits for the queue to clear a little more, then gets out of his car.
He presses the key fob as he goes, the alarm chirrups behind him.
He strides across the road, his sights on the Prince Albert. He barely flinches as he’s almost knocked down by a student on a pushbike with no lights, who swears at him. This draws the eye of the lady bouncer, who, despite being literally half his size, squares up to him, her arms in front of her in a mock ‘street’ pose.
‘Hey … it’s Ken! Lost Barbie, honey?’
‘Outta my way.’
The Korean bouncer kisses her teeth. ‘Y’see, that’s not the way it works.’
She indicates her brick shithouse of a partner behind her, who appears in his full view for the first time. He doesn’t remember seeing him before; he must be new. He’s surprised to find himself looking up at him. With his height, that doesn’t happen often. The doorman is huge.
He regards both door people, deadpan, his fury hidden as always. ‘You want money, that it?’
He makes a show of taking a money clip from his back pocket. He waves the roll of notes at both of them: How much?
The Korean flashes him her pearly whites. ‘How about … a million?’
He sighs. ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’
‘Then no deal, hombre, piss off!’ The Korean sweeps her hands to the left, gestures for him to step aside.
Behind him, he can hear the renewed babble of intrigued voices. He doesn’t turn around to look at the freaks and queens. Instead he meets the eye of the male bouncer, who has not spoken once, yet has not moved his gaze.
‘You like a lady boss? Figures.’
The door to the pub is agonisingly close. Maybe if he can get the big man to swing a punch his way, he can duck under and squeeze through.
‘You a giver? Nah, a receiver, I can tell. Pillow-biter.’
But the doorman shrugs. ‘Hey, don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it, love.’
There is a chorus of guffaws and heckles behind him now. He knows when he’s beaten. Grudging, he moves aside, allowing two women holding hands to wander past. One gives him a mock-sympathetic smile. She takes a paper flower from her hair and attempts to tuck it behind his ear. Exasperated, he bats her hand away. The decoration falls to the pavement. She and her girlfriend seem to find this hysterical.
‘Chill out, fella. Life’s a lot more fun,’ she advises, before disappearing through the glass doors.
Ever the opportunist, he surges forward after her. He hopes to slip through, before the male doorman can grab him.
It’s not to be. A meaty hand grabs his left arm. He throws a right hook in response that finds only air; the other guy dodges it with ease. The doorman pushes his left arm up behind his back, almost between his shoulder blades. He bares his teeth in pain, but refuses to cry out. It’s been a long time since he’s been beaten in a fight; even longer s
ince he was bested straight off the starting blocks. He flinches in expectation of another blow.
But the male doorman does not kidney punch him as he expects. The huge bruiser pushes him forwards. He falls to his knees, arse in the air, prostrate. He throws both arms out to steady himself before his forehead connects with the bumper of a car parked near the kerbside. Cue more laughter behind him.
‘I like him better like that,’ the Korean bouncer quips.
Adrenaline and embarrassment flooding through him now, he stands, brushing his jeans down. He does not look behind him, at the goading faces. He sucks in the night air, attempting to calm himself.
In his pocket his mobile rings. He pulls it out, not even bothering to check; he knows who the caller is, after all. But his thumb finds ‘reject’, followed by the ‘off’ button. As the phone powers down, he resolves to go home. He can deal with her wrath another day. Fuck this shit!
He stalks back to his car.
Twenty-five
Frog King
I dream when I am awake. Do you?
In my dream, I chase a golden ball across a meadow. In its green centre, a pond. There is a name is written on the ball. I know I will need to catch the ball to read it. But every time I reach for it, it strays out of my grasp. My treacherous foot kicks it ahead of me in the dew-laden grass.
The golden ball hits the pond in the meadow’s centre, creating ripples on the top of the stagnant water. The pond looks so beautiful, but now I’ve disturbed the surface I can smell the rot: sweet, stomach-churning bile in the air.
He brings it back.
Wide facetious smile, pebbly skin. He’s smaller than me, yet his strength undulates through his forearms. He is not to be underestimated. He is unpredictable, despite his size.
He clenches the ball in his webbed hands, curious at my desire for it. The name on the ball is turned towards him, so I still can’t read it. Frustration courses through me, but I force myself to smile.
