Bright Stars

by Sophie Duffy

Wrecking her ankle at least meant Bex was relegated to the back seat with me. We’d left the Little Chef far behind – paid for by Miss Moneypenny’s American Express. Tommo appeared oblivious to Bex’s pain, flirting outrageously with Christie. And Christie teased him mercilessly in return – which was flirting by any other name.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked her, quietly.

  ‘Just trying to get some perspective.’ Bex sighed. ‘There are foxes being hunted, sabs being attacked. Starving children in Ethiopia and floods in Bangladesh. Horrific crimes committed by men towards women all over the world, every second of every day. I’m not one of them. I’m at university, studying a subject I love. I have friends. Admittedly, one of them is Tommo who’s messing with my head in a he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not way. But he sees the world like me. He makes me laugh. And he can be sweet. Sometimes. Unless he’s showing off. Or drunk. Or in one of these weird moods. Then I want to commit a horrific crime towards him. Bash him on the head with a big stick. Ram a chair down his gob. Only, violence is never the answer.’

  Now, slouched awkwardly in the back seat of the revolting Cortina that smelled of steamed-up breath as well as its usual Hyper stink, she stretched out and let me take hold of her leg in my lap. She even let me touch her ankle, delicately and softly like she was a fragile parcel. Like she might break in the wrong hands. Tommo’s hands were the wrong hands.

  There was no cassette on this return journey, no sing-song. Instead we had to listen to the tennis match back-and-forth quips from the front seats. Christie was a good driver, despite the snow, the strangeness of the roads. When we finally hit Lancaster, the snow was replaced by sleety rain, the streetlights reflecting on the shiny roads.

  Bex moved her leg off me. I was pressing too hard, she said. Her head was banging, she said. Tommo was a prat, she said.

  And then the sirens and flashing lights. The police car.

  I thought my heart was going to hammer its way through my chest, through my ribcage and tumble onto the mucky floor of the filthy Cortina, never to beat again. We were so close to campus, we were nearly there, Christie’s driving was fine, so we had no idea why we’d been pulled over.

  ‘Any problem, sir?’ Christie wound down the window and smiled at the officer, all North American charm.

  ‘If you’d like to step out of the car, miss.’

  Christie stepped out, slowly, demurely, knowing full well the officer would be checking her out.

  ‘Students, miss?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Back from a day out.’

  ‘The pub, was it?’

  ‘No, sir. A trip to the lakes. They were really neat.’

  ‘So you’ve not been drinking?’

  ‘Oh no, officer. We’ve been hiking and my friend here has hurt her ankle so we need to get an ice pack on it.’

  He peered through the car window and Bex gave him a small smile and a little wave. I felt myself grin ridiculously, making out this was all great fun. The officer turned his attention back to Christie, sizing her up, then answered a call on his walkie-talkie. Some problem outside a pub in town.

  ‘That’ll be more of your student lot up to no good.’

  I thought that was it. I thought the policeman would turn around, get in the car with his partner and head back to town. But that’s not what happened. Instead, the other policeman got out the car and sauntered over, fingering the truncheon on his hip, like he was Dirty Harry.

  ‘Right, everybody out,’ he growled.

  We did as we were told. Bex struggled and I tried to help her but my arms were wobbly, like I had no bones. We stood on the verge like naughty children, the first officer keeping watch, while the other did a search of the car. He found nothing other than chocolate wrappers and crisp packets. There was nothing there. Was there? Unless Hyper had left something. Oh no. Please no.

  Dirty Harry straightened up, swaggered towards us.

  Christie smiled primly. If he asked to see her license she’d be in it up to her neck. It looked like he was about to ask this when he turned his attention to Tommo.

  ‘Evening all,’ Tommo said and then the smart-arsed soft southern student idiot did a PC Plod bend of the knees.

  The officer didn’t appear to be impressed. ‘Do I know you, sir?’ he asked in a tired drawl.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Tommo shrugged.

  ‘I never forget a face,’ the officer said. ‘You’re one of those hippies who like to trespass and cause havoc in the fields.’

  Tommo paused. I prayed he’d be sensible.

  ‘You mean I help rescue foxes from being torn to shreds by dogs?’

  There was a big moment where no one moved or said a word. Cars swished by on the road. The wind blew. The rain fell. I wanted the dark to swallow us up.

  ‘Empty your pockets.’

  Tommo hesitated for a second then pulled out the contents of his leather jacket pockets. Cigarettes, a lighter, scrunched up tissues, chewing gum. Nothing incriminating.

  But then the police officer panned in on the chewing gum. A packet of Wrigley’s Spearmint. ‘May I have that please, sir.’ It wasn’t a question.

  Tommo held it out, offering it up like they were best friends. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Don’t be clever with me, lad. Hand over the packet.’

  Tommo did as he was told, his fingers quivering. It could’ve been the cold or it could’ve been that he was actually scared.

  The moon shone down on us. Tommo’s face was silver-pale waiting for the officer to do what he was going to do. He slipped out each of the pieces of gum, one by one, then shook the empty packet over the palm of his big fat hand. Out rolled a piece of silver foil. Inside the foil, like an anti-jewel, was a lump of brown stuff the size of a piece of Blu Tack you’d use to stick up a corner of a poster. I’d seen it before in my brother Andy’s room, thought it was a rabbit dropping till he told me to keep my mouth shut.

  If Tommo kept his mouth shut, was polite, sensible, he might possibly wrangle out of this. Christie was biting her tongue for once. Either she didn’t want to draw attention to herself, or she’d had it with Tommo. Maybe both. And there was nothing I could do. But Bex tried.

  ‘Please, officer. It’s only a small amount. You could just confiscate it and I’ll make sure he doesn’t buy anymore.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me how to do my job, lass?’

  Bex took a deep breath. I could see how hard she was trying to save her boyfriend’s neck. The one who’d taken speed a few weeks earlier. The one who was carrying drugs around in his pocket. All she could do was shake her head.

  He scratched his bristly chin, took a step towards her so he was right in her space. ‘You were there too, miss, the hunt. Up to no good.’

  ‘We saved a fox.’ She stared at him defiantly.

  He swept his eyes over me. I smiled weakly, stood up straight, hands by my side, rigid and still, boy scout on parade. The officer dismissed me. No recognition. I wanted to scream, I was driving the van! But he’d already turned back to Tommo.

  ‘Right, lad. Get in the car. You’re coming down the station. The rest of you, I suggest you get back to your ivory tower and stay there.’ He adjusted his trousers. ‘And keep your nose out of other people’s business.’

  So that was it. The policemen marched Tommo to the patrol car while the three of us stood on the verge, wet, cold, motionless, watching Tommo disappear inside and speed away towards Lancaster, red brake lights blurry in the sleet, shrinking into the distance.

  Edinburgh, December 2013

  Lock

  I am submerged in the deep old enamel tub of a bath, suds up to my ears, eye mask on, listening to a Desert Island Disc podcast, one from the archives, Kenneth Williams. Quite a different experience for this bathtub from when we were bairns, paired up, two out, two in, puddles of soapy water on the floor. I always got Edward and his torpedo bubbles of the kind you don’t want to be bathing in. What would his English Katie say if I told her about that?

  As for my Engli
sh Amanda, well, we’ve shared a bath or two. She’d sit behind me, her soapy breasts pressed against my back, her arms around me. She’d wash my hair. She’d soap my chest. She’d hum a tune in her head, unrecognisable, hypnotising.

  She’s my wife but she doesn’t want me at home with her. I’d sell my soul to the Tory party, to the Raving Monster Loonies, to the Devil himself to have Amanda here in the bath with me right now.

  Amanda.

  Once my skin is crinkly and shrivelled, I remove the mask. Myrtle is sitting side-saddle on the toilet, staring at me, cold-eyed and menacing, believing herself to be a much bigger and less ridiculous-looking dog than she actually is. For a stumpy-legged mutt she can scale whatever heights she sets her mind to.

  I put my flannel in a strategic position, switch off the podcast.

  Barbara Dickson floats up through the floorboards. ‘Caravan’. Maybe I should get a caravan. Travel around Scotland, seek refuge on Granny’s Orkney croft, wreck that it is, just me and the birds, the sea and the sky.

  The door opens.

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea, son.’ He removes Myrtle from the loo and sits himself down. ‘Having a nice soak there, I see?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Your phone was ringing.’

  ‘Can’t be important.’

  ‘It was quite important.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘It was Amanda. I saw her name flashing.’

  I dip my head under the water, a whoosh inside my head, cleaning it out, purging it, and when I come back up Dad is still talking but he could be saying anything.

  ‘Can you leave me to finish my bath?’

  ‘All right, son. But we’re going to talk, okay.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  The dog barks. Dad clutches his ears in a dramatic fashion. ‘Be quiet, Myrtle. My tinnitus. And mind poor wee Cameron. He wants to be left in peace.’

  He goes. My dad who wants to talk to me. And his dog. I don’t want to talk. I just want to write it down. Get it out my heid. And buy a new lock for the door.

  Lancaster University, 1986

  Doodle

  Bex came to the library with me. She needed the peace, she said. To be surrounded by earnest students, she said. You’re a good friend, Cameron, she said.

  We found a free table, organised our piles of notes and stacks of books, highlighters, Post-it Notes and pens. She was writing an essay on Care in the Community, her Social Work unit, trying to focus on something solid, knowing Tommo was across the way in Senate House, in a formal boardroom with faceless men and women who were footering over his future.

  ‘I’ve made a deal with myself,’ she said. ‘If he’s kicked out, he’ll go back to London. He’ll start another band and he’ll move on. I’ll forget him, carry on with my life up here, concentrate on being an earnest student.’

  ‘And if he stays?’

  ‘I’ll give him another chance.’ She sighed. ‘And still try my best to be an earnest student.’ She closed her book with a clap. Shuffled through her notes. ‘Don’t worry, Cameron,’ she said, irritated. ‘I’ll be fine. Either way.’

  ‘Infamy. Infamy. They’ve all got it in for me.’ Tommo tried out the pathetic joke on us. Christie was with him, beaming away that smile.

  ‘Sshh,’ Bex said. ‘Sit down.’

  He’d found us. He’d only been in here a few times to use the photocopier, couldn’t even find his library card. But now he was grinning at us, Laird of the Manor, Monarch of the Glen. He was allowed to continue with his degree, he informed us, but had to be on his best behaviour from now on.

  ‘Best behaviour?’ Bex snorted. ‘Do you know what that is?’

  She looked relieved all the same. He had a criminal record but it wasn’t like he’d done GBH or robbed the Abbey National.

  ‘Am I forgiven?’ he asked, penitent and contrite.

  ‘That depends,’ she said.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether you make the most of this second chance.’

  Second chance. The university was giving him a second chance. And Bex too. I’d persuaded myself that Tommo would be leaving; now the reverse was true. And as for Bex, well, I was taken aback that she was reconsidering, a strong woman like her. She obviously thought she could handle Tommo. But I didn’t reckon anyone on earth could handle Tommo. Except maybe Christie.

  Bex might not want me to look out for her but I had no choice. I’d do whatever it took. I loved her. And love was not selfish. Or proud. It was patient. Persistent. Protective. And usually unrequited. But sometimes, for a moment, you could believe in miracles.

  ‘Christie was amazing.’ Tommo planted a squelchy kiss on her peach-soft cheek.

  Bex bristled.

  ‘All he had to do was say sorry like he meant it,’ Christie said. ‘They wouldn’t kick him out just for being a space cadet. Those professors in there were all graduates of the Space Cadet Academy of the 60s. Geez, you should have seen them.’

  ‘But you gave a convincing witness statement and character reference,’ Tommo said gallantly. ‘Thank you.’ He bowed and gave her a hug.

  Bex bristled some more.

  ‘Come on, MacSunshine,’ said Tommo. ‘Let’s push the boat out and get a pint of shandy.’

  ‘Not for me,’ I said. ‘I’ve got an extension on my extension to meet. And some of us don’t get second chances.’

  ‘Some of us have just got it, mate,’ the bastard said. ‘Catch you later.’

  I gave the weakest smile of acknowledgement, then stared down at my notes. A doodled mess that meant diddly-squat.

  The Great Hall

  Generations of students graduating from Lancaster will know the Great Hall best for its hosting of the summer exams and the graduation ceremonies. The building remains largely unchanged to this day. The design of the Hall was a compromise because it had to fill a variety of functions ranging from the staging of concerts and dances to exams and degree ceremonies.

  During the early days of the university, there used to be student meetings in the building. The hall also played host to a number of popular bands until the student population got too big and concerts became a fire hazard. Bands such as Pink Floyd, Bob Geldof and Eric Clapton played in the Hall before the construction of the Sugarhouse.*

  _________________________

  *http://www.lancaster.ac.uk

  Spin

  This was the biggest night of Tommo’s life and he was sober and chemical-free. Even the other lads were off the beer. They were nervous as hell and couldn’t stomach anything other than jam sandwiches and Lucozade courtesy of Christie who was taking her job as manager to another level, a nagging sergeant major.

  I left Bex with them backstage, hid myself in the crowd out front.

  A growing cheer blew like a howling gale, gathering force. On they went, one after the other. Dave. Hyper. Carl. Tommo. The stage was dark. Dry ice. No kilt this time. Tight trousers from the vintage shop in town. The hair, the attitude, the desire, the need to shine. Tommo was ready. They hit the ground running and by the end of the second song they were flying, using the crowd, the energy to keep them up there, the mass of students feasting off them, off Tommo.

  I watched, mesmerised, standing alone in that mass, heavy bodies pressed alongside me, pushing and shoving and jumping and sweating, until finally a wave of calm rolled over us and we were all watching Tommo, watching him as he sang in that voice that really wasn’t a good voice but was different. No long notes because he couldn’t hold a long note. Short and sweet. They were good, really good, together and flowing, a proper band who could play their instruments, with their own sound and identity, though they’d swiped parts of my culture, the whole drumming tattoo, the beat, the rhythms.

  And then the third number, ‘Bright Star’, slower but keener, they kept it going, this heat and fizz, the song catching up the crowd to new heights, holding them up there, believing in John Keats, the young, tortured genius, wracked with co
nsumption, separated from his soul mate, never able to consummate their passion.

  Tommo had them entranced. Not bad for a support group.

  But I couldn’t feel any of this for myself. No pride at knowing the man with the swagger and the moves. No happiness at their success. Not even jealously. Or hatred. I was numb, dead inside, like I could be mistaken for a corpse, worms crawling through my eye sockets and mud in my mouth. Why had I ever thought I’d fit in? I’d never belong. I was always found out, singled out, pushed out, used to make other people feel better about themselves.

  I was knocked and swayed, against the tide as always, this urge to give in, lie down and be swept away, but the floor was littered with plastic beer cups and fag butts, so I swam my way through the hot bodies and finally made it outside to a place where I could breathe, empty my lungs, and fill them up again.

  Then I stumbled back through the Baltic night to my dank, empty room.

  Later, much later, unable to sleep, unable to work or read or do anything useful, there was a knock on the door and it was him, surprisingly undrunk, shockingly coherent.

  ‘Guess what, mate? We’ve only gone and bagged a record deal.’

  And I laughed, actually laughed at Tommo’s joke as it must be an actual joke, only after a few moments I realised it was serious. Tommo was being serious. He was blethering on, barging in without an invite, sitting on my bed, running his hands with the grimy fingernails through his messed-up hair, thick with gel, glistening with rain or sweat or gob.

  ‘And we’re releasing ‘Bright Star’. Can you believe it?’

  No, no, no, I couldn’t believe it. How was this happening so fast?

  ‘Christie did it,’ he said. ‘What a woman. I’m so glad you broke her rib. I might never have met her. You lot were right, she’s amazing.’

  I didn’t break her rib, I wanted to say. I cracked it. But I couldn’t speak, didn’t know what I would say if I did. The world was spinning, spinning, spinning and I was barely hanging on, back on that rusty roundabout in the park with my brothers, dodging the dog dirt and fractured glass, gripping the metal bar as hard as I could, lost somewhere between laughing and crying, joy and fear, Edward with one foot on the floor, pushing us round, faster and faster, Adidas trainers skidding on the asphalt that gave you serious grazes if you lost your hold on the slippery handle, the greasy pole. I could remember the feeling of being hurled through the air, that moment before the fall. I was hurling now, hurling through space with no gravity to pin me down, nothing to hold onto, waiting for the painful fall, the cuts and bruises, the tears.