by L. V. Hay
He doesn’t know why I want it so badly. He is oblivious, unaware of his place in all this. Which gives me courage.
‘Give it to me, now,’ I demand. My voice is loud and clear, like the fresh water in the nearby brook that I can hear, but not see.
His smile vanishes. He spits out the words, each one dropping from his amphibian lips like acid. I feel them on my skin, burrowing into my flesh like maggots.
‘They’ll never let her go.’
India
POSTED BY @1NDIAsummer, 10 December 2016
36,559 insights SHARE THIS
writerchic88 likes this
Emz2011_UK likes this
markotron likes this
Alfie98 likes this
warriorwasp likes this
Milliecat_456 likes this
blithefancy likes this & reblogs this from 1NDIAsummer, adding: my shining name!
lilyrose06 likes this
Twenty-six
Grateful, I follow Blithefancy back into the front bar. Though the music seemed loud in here when I came in from the street, compared to next door it now feels sedate. The soundproof door swings shut behind us, muffling the decibels in the room beyond. I breathe a sigh of relief. Yep, I’m old.
Blithefancy leads me to a booth at the side of the room, near the bay window. The young woman then sits opposite me, her hands folded primly in front of her on the table. I don’t remember to ask her if she wants a drink. Courtesy, consideration, all other thoughts go out the window.
‘So. You’re Jenny?’
She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. She nods, instead.
I get straight to the heart of the matter. ‘You were my sister’s girlfriend?’
‘No!’ Jenny seems shocked by this idea. Then she remembers I have no clue who she is, or what’s been going on. ‘We were … close. But not romantically.’
I absorb this. Jenny’s golden-brown eyes contrast with the pasty-white make-up she’s wearing. She is a classic beauty: high cheekbones; square jawline leading to a dainty chin.
‘How did you meet?’
‘We’ve known each other a long time.’ Jenny’s pronunciation is particular. Her vowels and consonants are rounded, almost studied. I wonder if I can hear the trace of an accent there, but I’m unsure. My memory stirs, bringing with it an old adage: ‘The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.’
‘How long?’
‘I don’t know … a long time. Since we were kids.’ Jenny grabs a beer mat and starts shredding it with her long nails.
‘She never brought you to the house.’ I’m sceptical, but I try and keep my tone level, neutral. She must not think I am accusing her of anything. I don’t want her to clam up.
‘My mother didn’t approve.’ Jenny continues to tear the beer mat in front of her.
I’m confused. ‘Of you?’
Jenny meets my eye again. ‘Of India.’
If I expected that talking to this enigma would bring me insight, somehow now I feel even more lost. I mull over Jenny’s words.
‘So India was gay?’
Jenny rolls her eyes. ‘Either/or is all you people understand. Only ever two options. Male or female. Gay or straight. Why not both? Why not none?’
You people. Irritation prickles me, but I let it go. I know how words can trigger and cajole a reaction from others; I’ve seen it many times, in my classroom. Jenny is mining for one from me. But I won’t give her the satisfaction.
I attempt to change the subject, back to the matter in hand. ‘Was it you, on India’s voicemail? The night she died?’
Jenny’s mood sours abruptly, like Matthew’s did on the phone when I asked him to help me jailbreak my sister’s laptop. ‘Yes.’
‘“You shouldn’t have waited for me,” you said. What did you mean by that?’
Jenny sighs. She moves one fingernail to her eye. She remembers her elaborate make-up, is careful not to smudge it. ‘I was supposed to meet her that night.’
‘Where?’
‘At Brighton station!’ There’s something unpredictable about Jenny. She turns her attention towards those around us, as if she’s bored of me. ‘If we couldn’t meet here, we’d go there. But that night I missed her.’
I press on. ‘Did she seem suicidal, when you saw her last?’
‘No!’ Jenny seems outraged at the thought.
I take advantage. ‘She’d been prescribed antidepressants and was referred to a psychiatrist. Did she tell you that?’
Anger overtakes Jenny. ‘She was not suicidal!’ She leans towards me, resentment etched on her pale face. ‘You weren’t here. India was fine. I know.’
‘I believe you.’ I reply.
Jenny’s scornful expression softens. She seems relieved to be taken seriously. She takes a deep, juddering breath. ‘I miss her.’
‘Me, too.’
Instinctively, I reach forward, place my hand on hers. She leaves it there for a moment, her eyes focused on something far beyond our booth. ‘They don’t understand.’
‘Who don’t?’
She’s back with me. Jenny’s eyes stare at me and she shivers, before averting her gaze once more. Then, as if embarrassed, or not used to contact, Jenny jerks her hand away from mine. She places it in her lap under the table.
‘India was murdered.’
She mutters the words so quietly, I barely trust my own ears. At first I think I have misheard. I’ve wanted to hear these words since I came back. I open my mouth, accusations on my tongue. How can I trust this girl? Suspicion, dark and red, floods through me. Maybe Jenny knows India was murdered because she was the one who pushed her from the bridge!
‘How do you know that?’ I demand.
Jenny’s pale-brown eyes meet mine again. Her tone is incredulous. She can’t believe she has to say it. ‘Because India would never kill herself?’
I sigh. ‘Sorry. I know. It’s just … I worry it might be because of me.’
Now the words are out there. I can’t unsay them. This is my fault. The ugly thought that bloomed in my brain the night I found out about my sister’s death has now taken root. It’s sent out spores into my chest, grasping my heart and throttling it.
I was the one who caused the rift between us. Could India have been so lonely she could have taken her life? I cast my eyes downwards in shame. I expect the mercurial Jenny to tell me to stop thinking about myself.
But Jenny is distracted. Adonis appears at our table. He leans down, whispers something in her ear. Jenny’s eyes widen. She grabs her bag, pulling her long red wig from her head and shoving it inside. Underneath, her hair is black, poker-straight and shoulder-length. It’s only a little shorter than my own.
‘I have to go.’ Jenny hurries out the booth, her hair a shield over her made-up pale face.
‘Wait!’
But she turns away from me. I watch her go over to the bar with Adonis, his hand at the small of her back. He pulls up the bar hatch and lets Jenny through. She disappears out the back.
Adonis turns on his heels and tends to other patrons at the bar, his wide, innocent smile on display. Like nothing has happened.
Confused, I look towards the bay window. Through the flower garlands, I can see a fracas outside.
A small crowd has gathered. I can see the Korean bouncer laughing, her breath steaming. The male doorman surges forward, but then dips out of my sightline. I stand, but beyond the glass, yet more people gather, obscuring my view. I can hear muffled jeers. I wait a few more moments, but as the small crowd disperses, whatever they were looking at disappears as well.
No one is waiting for a drink as I approach the counter. Adonis’s attention is on me straight away.
‘What can I get you?’ He smiles, but I’m aware he’s cagey. His eyes flit all over me, trying to size me up.
I don’t order. ‘Jenny a friend of yours?’
He doesn’t miss a beat. ‘She’s a regular, yes.’
Adonis leans on the bar like Matthew did at Elemental. He
’s perhaps as tall as Matthew, but that’s where the similarity ends. This guy is white, thinner, slighter, blue-eyed, blonde. His hair is carefully sculpted and gelled, a crew cut. Both his arms are heavily tattooed. They’re not scrawled, hand-drawn prison tats like the big doorman’s outside, but vibrant with colour and detail.
‘Jenny here a lot, then?’
‘As often as she can.’ Adonis picks up a hose and squirts some soda water into a glass.
‘So you would have seen my sister with her?’
Now I finally have the barman’s attention. He regards me with those baby blues. He clocks the dress I’m wearing, or perhaps he finally realises the family resemblance. I see in his eyes what I saw in Cerise’s: pity.
‘Sometimes,’ he admits. He drinks. He holds the tumbler like it’s a champagne flute, pinky finger extended. It’s so hot in here.
I’m surprised. ‘Not every time?’
Adonis shakes his head. I’m about to ask another question: about why he helped Jenny escape, or where she went. But a couple of customers come up behind me. Adonis’s gaze flits to them as they bark drink orders over the noise. He turns his back to me, so he can serve them.
An impulse grabs me. I take a quick look around, ensuring no one’s attention is on me. Then, as Adonis leans down to grab something towards the opposite end of the bar, I duck under the counter hatch without opening it.
I speed through before anyone sees me, into the back room.
Twenty-seven
I don’t know what I’m expecting to find.
I appear in a small kitchenette. There’s a fire exit directly opposite. It’s not alarmed. I open it to see what’s out there. Behind the building, there is a deserted car park. As I could have predicted, Jenny is nowhere to be seen. Long gone.
I let the fire exit close shut again, remaining inside the back room. My eyes dart around, taking the place in. To my left, there’s a food-preparation area and a sink. A selection of mops and brushes stand next to it. On the counter in front of me, a plate and cup rack, plus an industrial-sized glass washer. Its metal lid stands up, empty, waiting to be loaded and set off again. To my right, there’s a large bottle of hand wash, some tubs of cleaning chemicals, plus two catering-sized drums of tea and coffee, as well as a couple of crates of mixers. On the wall is a selection of the staff’s coats and bags.
Then I spot it.
A black bag shoved in between two large boxes of crisps, near the sink. On the side of it: a local gym’s name. It might be Adonis’s. He would have to work out a lot to maintain that physique. Maybe I can find out something about him, his connection to Jenny.
I can hear Adonis’s hearty laugh from out front. I should have a few moments yet. Hurrying, I grab the bag and unzip it. There’s a crumpled wad of black clothes inside. I pull them out, expecting a tracksuit or similar. But it’s not.
It’s a black top with bell sleeves. A long black maxi skirt. Perilously high heels. And that long red wig, like doll’s hair.
Jenny’s.
I don’t have time to puzzle this out. Adonis opens the door to the kitchenette. Caught in the act, I freeze where I am.
But the barman’s head is turned away from me. He’s still deep in conversation with someone in the bar itself. Not seeing me, he moves back towards the voice, letting go of the door. It swings back, leaving me alone again.
That was close.
I know I won’t be so lucky a second time. I shove Jenny’s clothes back in the bag, returning it to where I found it. I race to the fire exit and slip out, just as the kitchenette door opens again. Phew.
Outside, I run away from the Prince Albert, across the car park. I pause as I make it back to the front of the club again, unseen. I stop, panting and exhilarated. Standing in the biting night air, I feel a surge of adrenaline coursing its way through my veins. I’m almost woozy with it.
Jenny is real.
I thought uncovering this fact would bring me an answer. In a way, it has: like me, Jenny thinks India didn’t kill herself. It feels good to be taken seriously, even if Jenny has no more proof than I do. But I don’t believe that.
I’m certain Jenny knows more.
I dodge drunks in fancy dress (and in various states of undress) as I amble downhill. All around me, Brighton erupts with New Year’s Eve party-goers. I remember Matthew’s emotionless face in the churchyard after India’s funeral. He didn’t say he believed me about Jenny, but I still want to tell him my news.
Elemental looks different at night. I wander inside, pushing against warm bodies as I go. People peer at me as I shift past. A couple of men smile at me. I take no notice.
The bar is busy; New Year’s Eve is one of Brighton’s most popular nights outside of the main season. The black lights are on, making everything white shine luminously; teeth and t-shirts and jewellery are bright in the dim, blueish-tinged darkness.
I make it out of the crush near the door into an empty space by the bar. A harassed-looking redhead fulfils drink orders for two men in suits. She’s not alone: there’s also a young bloke behind the bar; a geezer – all chewing gum and swagger. He’s clearly not interested in work. He leans on the counter, a lazy smile on his face, attempting to chat up a young blonde woman who twirls a straw around a glass. She averts her gaze from his, coy.
Behind them, there’s a group of young bucks playing drinking games. They erupt in cheers and beat on the tabletops with their tattooed fists.
I can’t see Matthew anywhere.
It must be a live music night. On the stage is an Alanis Morissette wannabe with panda eyes and long, curly hair. She strums an acoustic guitar while waving her body left and right in erratic half-circles. ‘Alanis’ caterwauls her way through an angry song about a man who is not good enough for her. I wince as she attempts – and misses – a painful high note, before her song finishes.
The small audience gathered around the stage claps politely, more with relief than esteem. Alanis doesn’t seem to notice. She bows twice and waves with both hands as she leaves the stage, a wide smile splitting her features in two.
Just as I’m thinking about phoning Matthew, he appears on the stage. He’s wearing a white shirt that glows in the bar light, the cuffs undone and rolled back to the elbow. He approaches the microphone, unaware of the effect he’s having on the women – and a couple of the men – down the front, by the stage. He never did have a clue how fit (adjective, British slang. attractive. Related words: hot, sexy) he is.
Matthew mumbles something about a song he wrote, only for someone to heckle him. It sounds a good-natured taunt, but Matthew’s eyes flash with anger. Just as quickly, his vitriol disappears. He shrugs, launching into a witty piece that’s half song, half performance poetry.
Within moments people are clapping along and laughing. I’m glad, but also taken aback. I knew how talented Matthew was right from when we were teenagers. Yet I’d never been able to get him to do anything about it. He wouldn’t even take music lessons. The spectre of his father’s disapproval dissuaded Matthew from the arts: as far as Alan Temple is concerned, music is for poseurs. Better to get a ‘real’ job like his: buying and selling and building.
As Matthew entertains the growing crowd around the stage, I wander over to the lazy young guy behind the bar. The redhead is still run off her feet and he’s still desperate to hook up with the blonde woman. I know he will be easy to mislead.
‘Hi,’ I lift up the bar hatch and slide through, so I’m standing next to him.
The young barman’s gaze flits from the blonde woman’s ample chest to my face. He’s irritated at being interrupted. ‘You can’t come back here…’
‘I know, I know.’ I’m apologetic, all smiles. ‘But I’m with Matthew. He said to go through to the back and wait for him.’
‘He did?’ the young barman just wants me out the way. He looks across the bar. Matthew is still on the stage and has just announced a second song. ‘Fine.’
I grin and go through. I catch the redhead’s
eye as she pushes yet another glass under the optics. She regards me with suspicion, but doesn’t say anything. She’s far too busy picking up the slack.
I find myself in a large version of the kitchenette behind the front bar at the Prince Albert. In this one, there’s a kitchen porter in a white chef ’s jacket and checked trousers stacking the dishwasher. She’s a girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen, no make-up. Her hair is tucked under her checked bandana.
I front it out, giving her a wide smile. This is obviously good enough for her, because the teenager lets me continue without comment. I crash through the next door and find myself in a corridor with two doors leading off.
Both are open. On the left, I see a small dressing room, next to the stage entrance. Alanis sits there, her guitar across her lap. Her eyes are closed in rapture, as if she’s meditating.
The other door leads into a small office. It’s little more than a broom cupboard; no window, and just enough room to fit a desk and chair, plus a rack on the wall, filled with paperwork. I know it must be Matthew’s.
I go inside, closing the door behind me. I sit down on Matthew’s chair and wait for him.
Twenty-eight
‘What are you doing here?’
Twenty minutes after I begin my vigil, the door opens. Matthew appears to deposit his guitar. He doesn’t seem particularly surprised or annoyed. He’s not welcoming, either.
I try and mask my disappointment. ‘I wanted to see you.’
Matthew props his instrument against a slim-line filing cabinet I haven’t noticed. He leans against the wall. ‘So, Poppy Wade. What can I do for you? Only I am very busy…’
Hurt pools in my chest. So that’s how he wants to play it? Fine.
‘I thought you’d like to know: The girl – Jenny? – the one my sister wrote to on her final blog post … she’s real.’ I feign nonchalance as I lean against the desk, my body inches away from his.
