Open Your Eyes

by Paula Daly

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Why don’t you go to bed if you’re tired? You’d be more comfortable. You could stretch out.’

  ‘I like it here. How was your class?’

  ‘You remembered,’ I said, surprised.

  And he flashed me his palm. On it, he’d written: ‘Class’.

  ‘Do you remember what the class was?’ I asked.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Creative writing.’

  He sat up. ‘Oh yeah,’ he said, suddenly enthusiastic, ‘you want to be a writer. You want to be a writer like me.’ He clapped his hands together, pleased with himself, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was in charge of the class rather than attending as a student. ‘You want to be a writer like me,’ he said again and he looked around the room: took in the shelves containing his books, his foreign editions, his audio books that I’d moved up here for him to listen to if he wanted.

  He gazed at the computer and the desk where the magic happened; on it was the paperweight I’d given him, the fountain pen that he liked to use to write his outlines. He shifted his gaze to the shelves and he took in the Gold Dagger, awarded to him by the Crime Writers’ Association for the best crime novel of 2014. ‘I’m a writer,’ he said softly.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What sort of books do you write?’ he asked.

  ‘Not very good ones.’

  He smiled. Waited for me to answer properly.

  ‘I write about family. That kind of thing. Family drama, I suppose you’d call it.’

  ‘Is there a market for that?’

  ‘It’s not as popular as crime. Crime’s what’s selling.’

  ‘Ever written about me?’

  I shook my head. ‘Sorry, Leon, but to use one of your own sayings, real people are just not all that interesting. Maybe I will now though. Maybe, you know, after all that’s happened recently, I might finally be able to put you into a book. Maybe this will be the one that gets published.’

  Leon looked at me, alarmed. ‘Don’t write about me like this,’ he said, gesturing to his temple. ‘Not while I’m still like this.’

  ‘I’m kidding, you idiot.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I moved towards him. Suddenly he seemed very sad and I sat down beside him and rested my head on his shoulder.

  ‘What is it, Leon?’

  ‘I can’t do it any more.’

  I lifted my head. ‘Can’t do what?’ I said, mildly panicked. Did he want to leave? ‘What can’t you do any more?’

  ‘I can’t write.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, letting out a breath. ‘I thought you meant … Doesn’t matter what I thought you meant. Of course you’ll be able to write.’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t even read, Jane.’

  ‘Yes, you can. Look at your hand. See? You wrote that. “Class”. Right there. And you can read that, so there you go. You can read and write.’

  ‘No … I asked Eden to look up what it takes to be a writer. Authors’ top tips, stuff like that. I thought it might spark something. I thought there might be a secret that I’d forgotten and I could maybe remember what I needed to do.’

  ‘What did they say?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘Mostly you need to read a lot and you need to write a lot, and I can do neither. I tried reading one of my books and I couldn’t get past the first paragraph. I kept forgetting what I’d already read. I’m not going to be able to do it.’

  ‘You’re not going to be able to do it yet. Focus on the “yet”. That’s what you used to say to me when I’d be moaning that I hadn’t been published and I wasn’t good enough. You’d say, “You’re not a good enough writer yet. But you will be, Jane.” That’s what you used to say.’

  He took my hand. ‘You’re kind,’ he said.

  ‘One of the reasons you married me.’

  ‘What were the other reasons?’ he said earnestly.

  ‘Charm, wit, my good looks. And I was a better cook than Gina. Or at least that’s what you told me. I imagine now though that that was bollocks, to be honest. You just hated cooking yourself, so you thought you’d better flatter me into it.’

  He smiled. ‘I need help, Jane.’

  ‘You’re doing so well! You don’t need help; you just need time.’

  ‘No. We need help. Eden says we have no money. That the money you’re making is not even covering the basics and—’

  ‘How would Eden know that?’

  ‘I think my sister told him. Or else he overheard. Anyway, I made him tell me what the score was.’

  ‘Leon, it’s not your job to worry about this. What you need to focus on right now is—’

  ‘Jane, stop.’

  I stopped.

  ‘Write the end of my book,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Eden says there’s a book. A book I didn’t finish, and we can’t get paid for it until it’s done.’

  I turned to face him. ‘Leon,’ I said, ‘I can’t write that book.’

  He paused. Regarded me. ‘You have to write it.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. I would if I could. I’d love to write it. But you and I don’t write in the same way. Our styles are very, very different. You write short punchy sentences; you write about death and gore and mystery. I wouldn’t know where to start with all that. It would be like me trying to write science fiction. Or a misery memoir. Or a clogs and shawls saga.’

  He went to interrupt me, but I cut him off.

  ‘Honestly, I have thought about it, Leon. Fantasized about it, actually, because, yes, it would mean the end of our financial problems … but I know I’m just not capable.’

  ‘So,’ he said simply, ‘find someone who can.’

  35

  We met in the Cavern of all places. Don’t judge, but after spending my entire adult life in Liverpool, I’d never actually been inside the place. Sacrilegious, the Beatles being our major export and all.

  Frankie said it was one of the best places to watch life go by. One of his favourite places in the city. ‘You get a crazy cross section of people in there,’ he said.

  On Mathew Street there was the usual low level of chaos as people hovered between the Cavern Club and the Cavern Pub opposite. A couple of ladies in their early seventies from the North East were taking pictures of one another outside the club and I asked if they would like one of them both together. I was a little early and Frankie was often late, so I thought I’d kill a few minutes. It was only as I was holding down the button of their digital camera – which seemed ancient, antiquated now – and they were fixing their scarves, their hair, their smiles, that it occurred to me that this was perhaps a seminal moment for them. Sure, everyone thought they owned the Beatles. That the Beatles belonged to them. But these women had actually lived through it. They had probably screamed at their radios until they hyperventilated and passed out.

  ‘Who was your favourite?’ I asked the woman on the left as I handed back her camera.

  ‘Oh, Paul,’ she said firmly. And then a wistful look came over her. ‘I always thought I’d marry him … though I don’t think I could’ve become a vegetarian,’ she added quickly. ‘But then again, maybe I could. I suppose you can suffer anything if you want someone bad enough.’

  I addressed the other lady. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m not a vegetarian,’ she said.

  ‘I meant which Beatle did you like.’

  ‘Ringo.’

  Her friend gave me a withering look. ‘She’s always been a bit strange. Haven’t you, Sheila?’ and Sheila nodded, agreeing that she had.

  I looked both ways up and down the street for any sign of Frankie but there was none, so I descended the stairs to the Cavern. I lost track of how many flights there were, but it was a long way down, further than I’d imagined, and I didn’t like the fire risk. Add to that I’d always heard the Cavern was a bit of a shithole and I was not exactly looking forward to this meeting. Typical of Frankie to want to
meet somewhere inappropriate. Somewhere only he found cool – but in an ironic way. I had asked if I could pop round to his house. Told him I had something I wanted to discuss, but he’d insisted upon meeting ‘Anywhere except home’ and I suspected things were still not good with Oona.

  After the final set of stairs, I emerged into an intimate, agreeable, underground space, where it all began, so to speak, and I was pleasantly surprised.

  ‘Well, isn’t this nice,’ I said aloud, and found myself drawn to the black and white photographs mounted on the walls, to the artfully lit alcoves in the brickwork displaying Beatles memorabilia. I was wending my way between tables when I heard ‘Jane!’ and looked to my right to see Frankie. He was sitting at a high table next to the small stage, on which there was a drum kit, various guitars, and a couple of large amps.

  ‘Quaint,’ I said to Frankie as I approached.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  He had a bottle of red on the go and as he went to pour, I said I didn’t want one. ‘I don’t drink during the day, Frankie,’ I explained, but he said, ‘Nonsense,’ and completely ignored my protestations.

  ‘Honestly, I—’

  ‘It’s one of the joys of not having a proper job, Jane,’ he said. ‘If you can’t indulge when all those poor sods are stuck doing nine-to-five, then what’s the point? I mean, if you think about it, you owe it to them to be enjoying yourself.’

  I took the glass.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘what did you want to talk about? I sensed from your call that you require my services. Hope it’s not babysitting.’

  ‘It’s not babysitting.’

  ‘Then glad to help. Fire away.’

  ‘It’s Leon’s book.’

  Frankie put down his drink and sighed heavily. ‘Aw, Jane,’ he said, ‘not this business again. I’m sorry but I really think you need to drop the whole Alistair Armitage thing and just put it behind you. There’s little point raking over old coals when—’

  ‘Not that book. I don’t mean that book. And besides, Alistair Armitage won’t speak to me.’

  ‘You’ve phoned him?’

  ‘Emailed. But I’d really like to meet in person. Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. It’s Leon’s book. His latest book … The unfinished book.’

  ‘Oh,’ Frankie said, brightening. ‘What about it?’

  ‘It needs finishing so we can earn some money.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said again, though not quite so enthusiastically.

  Frankie took a swallow of wine. He looked past my shoulder towards the entrance to the club. Then he fiddled with the inside pocket of his jacket.

  The silence was uncomfortable, so I said, ‘Leon’s asked me to find a way of completing it.’

  ‘And how are you going to go about that?’ he said carefully.

  ‘I thought you might have a suggestion.’

  ‘Me?’ and he laughed a little.

  ‘Why’s that funny?’

  ‘Jane, you don’t honestly think I could do it, do you?’

  I paused before answering. It was such a loaded question.

  Yes, I did think Frankie was capable of finishing Leon’s book. I’d read most of his work, and to be honest, their styles were not all that different. The only difference was the subject matter. Frankie tackled what were considered more literary themes: modern man’s place in the world; the emasculation of modern man in the family setting; modern man’s inability to grow up until he reached the age of forty; modern man’s relationship with his ailing, beginning-to-dement father.

  Frankie’s books were given serious consideration by serious journalists in serious newspapers. They were marketed to the thinking man. To book groups. To people who didn’t read shitty genre fiction. But the truth of the matter was that if they’d been written by a woman, about women, they would have been immediately fitted with candy-pink jackets, and the author’s name would have been changed to something like Amethyst Buntin or Sparkle McPhee. The books would not have been given serious consideration, by serious journalists, in serious newspapers, because they would have been regarded as chick-lit, or women’s fiction. Tosh, basically.

  ‘I thought you might know of someone who’d be willing to help,’ I said to Frankie.

  ‘Ah.’ Frankie was instantly relieved. ‘Ah, right, yes of course,’ he said, ‘because for a second there I thought you were suggesting that I should be the one to finish writing Dead …’ Frankie paused. ‘Dead …’ he said again, this time his eyes cast skywards, searching around for the word. ‘What’s the bloody book called?’ he said, frustrated. ‘Dead something?’

  ‘Red City.’

  Frankie poured more wine and this time I did put my hand over the top of my glass and managed to stop him. He shot me a look that was supposed to mean I was being a killjoy. ‘The kids, Frankie,’ I said. ‘They need a mother when they get home.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Gotcha.’

  He swallowed half a glass and then, after a moment, surveyed me with what was supposed to be a puzzled look, but the edge of his mouth was lifted slightly. A half-smile.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Just thinking.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘About you … I’m a little bit in awe of you actually, Jane.’

  I didn’t speak.

  Frankie could be a charming bastard.

  He sat back in his chair. He had his fingers laced behind his head and looked like a cool university professor. One who had, at any one time, a series of clear-skinned, nubile young students hanging on his arm, hanging on his every word, hanging off his—

  ‘You’ve been so strong throughout all of this,’ he said.

  ‘Haven’t exactly had a lot of choice. I did look at the option of falling apart but decided against it.’

  ‘Jane, I’m serious.’

  ‘You think I’m not?’

  He leaned forward.

  He touched my face.

  ‘You’re remarkable,’ he whispered.

  I didn’t move.

  I stayed where I was.

  I stayed where I was as Frankie ran his fingertips from my temple all the way down to my collarbone.

  Don’t, I heard myself say, but not out loud; it was inside my own head.

  I’d been starved of touch for so long that I couldn’t bring myself to pull away. My hair being touched, my face, reminded me just how much I needed to be touched, how numb and unfeeling I’d become without it.

  ‘Run away with me, Jane,’ Frankie whispered. ‘We could be so good together; you know we could. You know I’ve always been enamoured with y—’

  I scraped my chair back and stood.

  ‘Christ,’ I said, putting my hands up to my face. Through my fingers I could see Frankie was looking at me dolefully. ‘Don’t say you want an affair, Frankie,’ I said. ‘I don’t want a fucking affair. In fact, don’t say anything. I don’t want to know what this is. I don’t want to know what’s going through your head right now.’

  ‘Please stop,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Stop hating yourself for needing this. You do need it. We all do. You’re human, Jane, that’s all.’

  ‘Human? Is that your bloody answer for everything?’ I leaned over, grabbing my bag from beneath the chair, but Frankie reached out and seized my hand.

  ‘You’re overreacting. Please. Sit back down and finish your drink. You’re in no state to leave. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that; I misread the signals, that’s all. You just seemed so … lonely.’

  ‘I am lonely!’

  I snatched my hand away and out of nowhere, I started to cry.

  I was lonely. So lonely and always so bloody afraid all the time. I didn’t know how to behave, didn’t know how to react. I couldn’t act like a normal person any more.

  I searched my bag for a tissue, couldn’t find one, and Frankie set off for the bar, returning with a red napkin.

  ‘This do?’

  I wiped my face, blew my nose. ‘H
ow do I look?’ I asked sarcastically.

  ‘Pretty,’ he said, and he gave me a sad smile.

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Please don’t flatter me. I don’t want to be this person, Frankie … I don’t want to sit in a place like this and have you touch me like you just did. It’s not who I am. It’s not who I am and Leon …’ I paused, unable to say his name without my voice faltering. ‘Leon doesn’t …’ I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘Leon doesn’t deserve this?’ he said.

  I nodded numbly.

  ‘No, he doesn’t, but then neither do you. You don’t deserve to find yourself where you are right now. Alone. Scared. Trying to cope with all that’s happened to you. Life’s fucking cruel, Jane.’

  I was nodding. Blowing my nose and nodding at the same time. ‘Sometimes I think it would be easier if I knew why this happened to us. It goes round and round in my head all the time, driving me insane. Why did it happen? Why us? And how do I make it stop?’

  Frankie’s face was full of concern and now I felt bad for shouting at him. He was just a man after all. A man with an inflated sense of his own importance, faced with a vulnerable woman. He had limited resources to make things better, and had probably gone with the first thing that came into his head.

  Then a thought struck.

  I wavered for a second, undecided if I should take the risk. Then I sat back down again and intimated Frankie should do the same.

  Leaning across the table, I whispered, ‘I have the name of someone.’

  Frankie looked blank.

  ‘The name of someone involved.’ I swallowed before continuing, checking over my shoulder to ensure we were not being overheard. ‘When I was at Walton Gaol there was an incident. I was threatened.’

  Frankie widened his eyes.

  ‘It’s OK. I was shaken up, but I wasn’t hurt. But I was warned to stay away from asking questions. I was told by a prisoner that if I continued to ask questions about Leon’s attack they would come after me and the children.’

  ‘Jesus, Jane, did you tell the police?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not at the time. I was too scared, and I didn’t want to risk it. But you still have contacts, right? You still drink with that group of scallies, those ex-cons you get your material from?’