Glancing behind me at the girls, who seem oblivious or immune to the cries, I run to the door, press the doorbell several times, and bang hard on the glass. Seconds stretch out. Behind the frosted door I can see muffled figures tussle for a moment, tumbling into another room. I look back at the girls, unable to believe that they can so casually ignore what’s happening.
‘Can’t you hear that?’ I shout at them.
‘It’s always like that round here,’ one says.
‘Call the police!’ I tell them. ‘I think they are killing each other!’
‘You call the police; they’ll get here next Tuesday,’ the same girl says, turning her back on me.
I hammer on the door again, but there is no reply. No matter how hard I knock, I don’t think anyone can hear it over the yelling and the screaming. Looking around, I see a desolate-looking window box, full of dead soil and cigarette butts, leaning up against the railing. I pick it up and hurl it at the glass door before I know what I’m doing. It barely dents the toughened glass, but all I can think about is Ben, and getting to Ben, and the screams of his mother behind the door. Ben is tall and strong, but he’s never been in a fight in his life, and Mark, his stepdad, Mark gets in a fight every Friday night.
‘Fuck! Are you crazy?’ one of the smoking girls asks me, suddenly switched on to what I’m doing.
Ignoring her, I kick at the dent in the glass, and it hurts – a pain shooting up into my thigh. I kick again, and again, with first one leg then the other, each exertion more painful than the last. I double over, an explosion of coughing halting my rescue attempt, a wave of fiery pain surging up through my lungs. Maybe I could die. Maybe, in my weakened state, I could die. But it doesn’t matter. I have to keep on trying, even if I do die. I go again, but the smoking girl steps in front of me.
‘Fuck it,’ she says. ‘Stand back.’
She picks up the window box again and slams it hard and fast into the glass, again and again – clearly she’s much fitter and stronger than me. When the glass finally gives way, she reaches inside and undoes the latch, releasing the door.
‘I’ll call the feds,’ she says. ‘I ain’t saying who I am. You need any help, scream.’
I nod and barge my way into the flat. And for a tiny second, I catch myself and wonder what the hell I am doing, but then I charge on.
They are in the living room.
I see it all in a series of stills, like Polaroids coming into focus, with each swing of the naked light bulb in the centre of the room.
Ben’s mum, in a T-shirt and nothing else, stands in the corner, her hands covering her face. She wails, she keens, she screams.
Ben goes down, tumbling against a table as his stepdad catches him under his jaw. I see that Mark has an eye that is swelling shut, blood tricking from his nose. If he’s in a bad way, God only knows how Ben is. I scramble to the floor where Ben is trying to drag himself up, and put myself between him and Mark.
‘STOP IT!’ I shout. ‘Stop it – the police are coming!’
Mark lunges towards me, grabbing my arm to drag me out of the way of his target, his fury blinding him to what he is doing. His grip is strong; it hurts at once, but I resist.
Fuck it.
Clambering up, I run at Ben’s stepdad and shoulder into him, catching him off guard. He topples and I topple with him, screaming at the top of my voice, growling, yowling. I am a wild animal; I am a banshee. I only know that Mark has to stop what he is doing, and that it is going to be me who stops him.
‘Hope?’ Ben seems to come to as he sees me land hard on top of his stepdad, winding him, and he tries to reach me, while his mum is screaming and screaming. I see blood, fresh bruises forming on Ben’s skin before my eyes. Staggering, he clambers to his feet and pulls me off of his stepfather, and together we stand unsteadily in each other’s arms. Adrenaline races furiously through my blood. In this moment, I think I could defeat the world if it tried to hurt the person I care most about. The man that I love.
In obvious pain, Ben inserts himself between Mark and me.
‘So a little girl going to stand up for you, is she?’ Mark says. He’s drunk, blindly, furiously drunk. ‘A little sick girl got more fight than you, has she?’
‘What are you doing?’ Ben asks.
I dodge Ben, pressing forward, thrusting my face into the old man’s. ‘You’re pathetic. You’re just a pathetic old bully. You are disgusting … Aren’t you disgusted with yourself?’
‘You little …’ He raises the back of his hand, but I don’t move. And I see it in his eyes: as drunk and angry as he is, he knows that hitting me will have consequences; he knows that I wouldn’t just take it.
‘You’ve got no right coming round here, telling me how to live, you little bitch,’ he says, but his hand retreats. ‘He lives under my roof, by my rules. I deal with him as I see fit.’
‘It’s not your roof,’ Ben’s mum says, her hands trembling as she lights a cigarette. ‘It’s mine. I’ve put up with a lot of your crap, Mark, but not that. You are not getting into a fight with my son in my home.’
‘He started it,’ Mark protested. ‘Did you see him start it, going on at me, baiting me?’
‘Didn’t take much, did it?’ Ben says, straightening his shoulders. ‘You’ve been itching for an excuse to beat the crap out of me since you moved in.’
‘Not any more. Get your stuff, you’re out.’ Ben’s mum’s voice grows in strength with each drag on her cigarette.
‘You can’t throw me out,’ Mark laughs. ‘You can’t even light a fag without popping some pills. The three of you can’t throw me out.’
‘Want to chance it?’ I say, staring at him hard, and in my head I am six foot tall and invincible, imperious, powerful. I am Wonder Woman. I am an Amazon queen.
Ben steps past me and goes toe to toe with Mark; he’s a good few inches taller.
‘Get out, Mark. Just get out.’
The man stares at him for a long moment, and I wait. And then the sound of sirens can be heard in the background. Maybe they are on the way here, maybe not, but it doesn’t matter – he grabs his coat.
‘Fuck the lot of you,’ he says as he exits. The second he is gone, Ben sinks down onto the sofa; his mother approaches him warily, blinking in bewilderment.
‘What did you do that for?’ she says, and her tone is full of confusion. ‘It was like you were spoiling for a fight from the second you got in; you wanted that to happen.’
‘I couldn’t stand us living under his hair trigger all the time,’ Ben said. ‘He was waiting for an excuse, so I gave him one. Didn’t take much, did it?’
For a moment I watch the two of them, mother and son, exchanging gazes full of hurt and wonder. I see what I have always known: how much they love each other and how little they understand each other, too.
‘You need an X-ray,’ I say, to break the deadlock. As I gingerly lift up the edge of Ben’s T-shirt, the bruises on his stomach are already beginning to flower. ‘Internal bleeding, maybe.’
He shakes his head. ‘No. Hospital means police, police means interfering. And I was spoiling for a fight, Mum. You let these men come into your home and walk all over you. You’ve got to stop it; you’ve got to get your act together. I can’t live here for ever, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asks.
‘I mean, I think I want to get away for a few months. Travel, maybe. I dunno,’ he says. ‘But I can’t do that if you are like this – like a zombie. You’ve got to sort yourself out; for me, if not for you.’
She drops her gaze, twisting her fingers together. She look old, frail and frightened – not like a woman who can only be in her forties.
‘Maybe a cup of tea?’ I suggest, wanting to give her something to do.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ she says, as if she hasn’t heard me.
I wait for her to go to the kitchen before sitting down next to Ben. He refuses to look at me.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask him.
&nb
sp; ‘Do you care?’ he asks angrily.
‘Ben, what do you mean? Of course I care, of course I do. But this, this isn’t you. Picking a fight with a bloke who’s got love and hate tattooed on his knuckles!’
‘How do you know?’ he asks me. He winces as he tries to widen the gap between us. ‘Do you think you really know me at all, Hope?’
He’s hurt and angry, and still pumped up from the fight, and words aren’t going to work now, so I move closer to him, and put my arms around his neck, and rest my head on his shoulder. After a while, one bruised and cut hand comes to rest on my knee.
‘Were you impressed by how I came here and battered a door down to rescue you?’ I ask him softly.
‘I didn’t need rescuing,’ he points out, but the anger has ebbed out of his voice. ‘But, actually, yes. Actually, I think it’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.’
There’s the smallest wobble in his voice, and neither of us say a word or move a muscle until he is calmer.
‘That door will need boarding up tonight,’ Mrs Dargue calls from the kitchen, as if nothing very much has happened. ‘We’re out of milk.’
I take Ben’s broken, bruised hands in mine. He has such long, fine fingers, gentle and kind fingers.
‘Are you really going?’ I ask him. ‘Will you really go travelling?’
‘I’ve got to do something, Hope,’ he says. ‘I can’t spend my whole working in a phone shop and … hanging around with you. We’re grown ups; we should probably start acting like it.’
‘But it doesn’t have to be, like, today, does it?’ I ask him. ‘We could start tomorrow, maybe – because I just got out of hospital, and I was thinking gluten-free pizza and a Buffy The Vampire Slayer marathon?’
He pauses for a moment, and the sweetest little smile lights just one corner of his mouth. ‘Fine, but from tomorrow onwards we are all about maturity.’
‘Ben.’ His mother reappears, and it is as if she has erased the scene that has just happened from her mind entirely. ‘What are we going to do about the door?’
‘Leave it to me,’ I say.
I go into the hallway. And I do what girls who are going to start being women tomorrow do. I call my dad. He arrives in less than twenty minutes with his toolbox and some plywood and my mum in tow. My mum runs a bath for Mrs Dargue. We try to persuade her to come and spend the night with us, four streets away in our nice Victorian semi, but she won’t come.
‘My flat,’ she says. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘But you’re coming,’ I tell Ben. ‘Buffy.’
‘Come on, son,’ Dad says. ‘Do as the girl tells you. You can’t refuse that face, can you?’
I colour as Ben looks at me. ‘Never have been able to say no to her yet.’
Dear Hugh,
I’m sorry to do this to you in a note, I really am, but I simply can’t wait for you any more. Maybe that was the trouble between us. I wanted love and laughter and homebuilding. And you wanted fun – and never to be serious.
I thought that you and me were going to be together. I thought that I could change you, but I should have known better. The trouble is, Hugh, that I am not the right person to love you. We don’t want the same things. You think you are happy, but you aren’t, you know.
I’m leaving Jake with you because Angus is allergic to cats.
Good luck,
Mel x
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
HUGH
When I wake up, I am immersed in a shocking, sudden, cold drench of panic.
I fumble for my phone at once and call my new, but somehow already familiar, friend Stella.
‘Is she …?’
‘She’s here. She’s stable,’ Stella says. ‘I’m not on duty, but I wanted to come in, in case you needed me. I’m here and everything is fine for now.’
‘I slept,’ I tell her, sitting up, taking a moment to become orientated to my unfamiliar surroundings. ‘I didn’t mean to. It’s what – seven? I must have slept all day.’
‘Well, you must have needed it,’ she says. ‘How are you feeling?’
It troubles me that both Sarah and Mikey must have had to creep quietly around me all day, while I was completely oblivious to them. Either that or I kept them out of their own living room on one of the few days they get together. However, I’m also aware that I’ve not slept such a deep and dreamless sleep for so long, completely unaware of where I was or of the passing of time, which was running out.
‘I’m OK, I think,’ I say.
‘What have you decided?’ Stella asks me.
‘I don’t have to decide,’ I say. ‘In the end it’s obvious there’s no choice. I’m coming, now.’
‘Do you want me to warn her?’ she offers. ‘After all, this is my fault.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I have no idea how to do this.’
‘Just come. We can talk when you get here.’
When I put down the phone, I see Mikey in the doorway watching me, curiously. He looks somehow younger out of school uniform, in a pair of jeans that are a fraction too short.
‘Are you having a nervous breakdown?’ he asks, matter-of-factly. ‘Our maths teacher had a nervous breakdown. It was sort of our fault.’
‘I’m sorry I crashed out on your sofa all day,’ I say. ‘I must have pissed you off, keeping you away from Zombie Death Fighters.’
‘It’s all right.’ Mikey shrugs. ‘Mum said you needed your rest. She said you’d had a bit of a hard time and gone flipping mental!’
‘That’s exactly what she said, is it?’ I ask him.
‘Well, not exactly. You all right now?’ He advances further into the room to peer at me, like I am one of the more curious exhibits in my museum. ‘She said your mum came back from the dead and it freaked you out. But not like a zombie. I thought, if your mum was a zombie, that would be cool.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That sums it up pretty well. And, no, not like a zombie.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ Mikey says. ‘I don’t really see my dad much, and it’s odd because when I don’t see him, I miss him. But when I do see him, I feel like shit. So, you know, what’s better?’
I’m touched that he’s shared that experience with me, that somehow he’s sensed that the one way to make me feel better is to feel less alone.
‘Do you like fishing?’ I ask him.
‘No.’ He looks offended.
‘Have you ever tried it?’
‘I’m not gay,’ he says.
‘Whether or not you like fishing isn’t a marker of your sexual orientation.’
‘You like long words, don’t you?’ he says. ‘And bow ties. But I don’t think you are gay because you fancy my mum.’
‘I …’ Two spots of heat ignite on my cheeks, and he grins, pleased to have caught me out. ‘I like fishing. Look, I’ve still got loads of kit, but I haven’t been – not since my dad died. Would you come with me one Saturday, just to see if you like it? Because, you know, I’ve had a shit time and so have you.’
Mikey screws up his nub of a nose, looking thoughtful.
‘Can Mum come?’ he says.
‘Sure,’ I agree at once, because the idea of a Saturday with Mikey and Sarah makes me curiously happy in the middle of an ocean of sad.
‘And you can work up to asking her out,’ he says by way of agreeing. ‘I’m going to put the telly on now.’
I stand up, stretching my arms above my head, then running one hand over my stubble, and that little bubble of tranquillity is replaced in my gut by churning, sickening nerves.
This is it.
It’s time.
‘Right. I’m off,’ I say, to myself more than to him.
‘No, wait,’ Mikey says, as I pick up my coat. ‘Wait a minute.’
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘Well, give me a chance to shout “Mum”, and get my trainers on,’ he says. ‘We can’t let you go there on your own. We can walk you, at least.’
As good as Mikey’s w
ord, he and Sarah walk me to the high street, where they say their goodbyes – Sarah grabbing my hand just before she leaves and squeezing my fingers, leaving a trace of her warmth behind as she departs. Then Stella meets me at a green wooden side door set into a rough brick wall. I follow her down a stone path, surprised by the sense of space.
‘I never knew this was here – all the open grounds,’ I say. ‘It’s rather beautiful.’
‘Bequeathed in perpetuity by Marie Francis Bonne,’ Stella tells me, as if she is quoting something. ‘For the well-being and respite of the weary and sick.’
‘Funny,’ I say. ‘All I have to bequeath is a fishing rod and some DVDs.’ I’m babbling because I am terrified, heartbroken, furious and needful. And somehow I know that Stella knows that. She listens to me talk, opening the door for me and leading me to what I guess must be the nurses’ station.
An older woman, with short hair and huge earrings, greets me with a polite but surprised smile.
‘Mandy, this is my friend Hugh,’ Stella says, adding quickly, ‘Hugh is Grace’s son.’
Mandy’s eyes widen.
‘Oh?’ she says, looking at me, and then back at Stella. ‘I thought she didn’t have family; she never mentioned any.’
‘Didn’t she? She told me all about him,’ Stella says.
‘Well.’ Mandy looks at me, her smile full of sympathy. ‘It’s wonderful that you are here. The doctor’s on her rounds, but I’ll get her to pop in and see you in between patients.’
‘Ready?’ Stella touches my arm briefly.
‘No,’ I say, and I feel my knees threaten to give way and my throat tighten. I am afraid. Stella takes my hand in hers and squeezes it hard – hard enough to hurt.
‘You will be OK,’ she says, looking into my eyes.
I nod, and she opens the door to where my lost mother is sleeping. And the strangest thing happens: Jake, my cat, looks up as I enter the room and gets off the bed, and trots towards me. Bending down, I scoop him up into my arms, heartened and confused at the same moment. How can Jake be here?
We Are All Made of Stars Page 24
