by Sophie Duffy
If ever a person needed to be in two places at once, it was now. There was that flicker again on Tommo’s face. A momentary trip-up. But I saw it clear as day. Then it was gone.
‘Sorry, Christie. I can’t. Bex needs me. And I’m responsible for this.’
‘We’ll pretend we didn’t hear that, mate,’ the paramedic said.
And I stood with Christie, Dave, Hyper and Carl, watching the trolley being pushed down the corridor, Tommo trooping after it, away from the studio, away from the future they had dreamed about, away from me.
‘I’ll fricking kill that retard when I get my hands on him.’ Christie stormed off to see the producer; she wasn’t ready to give up yet but we knew it was over.
‘Bollocks,’ said Hyper.
Christie came back ten minutes later, found us in the van in the car park. ‘We’ve been bumped. I hate to admit it but my dad was right. I should never have come to England. If I was that desperate for a year out, which I was, I should’ve picked California or some other place where the sun shines.’ She released her hair from its pony tail, shook it out. ‘I want to go home. I’ve failed.’ She looked at us, shrugged, incomprehension in her eyes. ‘I never fail. And all because I relied on other people to make it work. Other people like Tommo. I’m going to kill him. Slowly and with much pain.’
‘What about Bex?’
‘I don’t want to kill her. She’s just a dumbass for taking that stuff.’
‘No, I meant, aren’t you worried about her?’
‘No, I’m not worried about her. She’ll be okay. She’s a fighter. Though she should stick to fighting for her precious foxes instead of going out with Jerk-head.’
‘Bex looked wrong, she was all wired up and puking and I did it to her, how was I to know she’d react like that, it was meant to be a one-off to give her a lift, I hardly ever do it myself but I scored some off a bloke.’ Tommo was ranting, pacing up and down.
‘How?’
‘It’s dead easy if you know where to look.’ Tommo’s voice was cracked, his eyes black and bleary. ‘I wanted to help Bex, I didn’t want to let the others down, I’ve messed up.’
‘What happened?’
‘Her temperature, her heart rate, she had an epi.’ He stood still for a moment, his brain whirring so loud you could practically hear it. ‘Maybe it was dodgy gear?’
‘Maybe you’re such a tosser you almost killed her.’
Tommo eyed me suspiciously, like he didn’t know who I was.
It was me, Cameron Spark. He should be thanking me with all of his rotten heart. I saved ‘his’ Bex.
‘Cool it, Scottie.’
‘Cool it? You almost killed her.’
‘She’ll be okay. Come and see for yourself.’ He grabbed me by the arm and hauled me along. ‘She’ll be okay.’
The hospital was a labyrinth of corridors. (Was I destined to spend my life searching aimlessly down corridors?) A bedlam of trolleys and swing doors and the shuffling half-dead. Blood on the walls, litter on the floors, the stench of illness and wrecked bodies. And more corridors.
When I finally got to see Bex, she was far worse than I’d been expecting; her face had a greenish pallor and her lips were pale and bloodless. She lay on a bed in a cubicle, quiet and still, a sleeping beauty waiting for her prince to kiss her awake. Only the prince of darkness beat me to it. Tommo had her delicate hand clasped in his dirty one, laying claim to her.
Bex didn’t see me; she smiled at Tommo. Because Tommo had chosen her over the band.
She didn’t know about his backwards glance. The hesitation. The big massive micro-second of a pause.
But I knew it. I saw it. And I didn’t breathe a word.
‘I’m so cold.’
Tommo pulled the blanket up to her chin and stroked her hair. I had to watch on, helpless, from a chair in this curtained-off hell.
‘Bone-knocking cold… like you get on the moors… with the fog lurking… so you don’t know which way to turn… you have to move fast… keep to the track… follow the landmarks before they’re swallowed up… else you’re done for.’
‘Ssh now, Bex,’ Tommo whispered, all concern, Florence Flipping Nightingale. ‘You’re safe in hospital. I’m taking care of you.’
‘There was this girl at our school,’ she blethered on, eyelids closed like she could see an image of this girl imprinted on the inside of them. ‘Years ago. She went on this cross-country run. Never returned. They found her the next day… face down in the shallows of the Dart.’ A tear ran down her cheek and I wanted to collect it, keep it safe in a jam jar. ‘But our sadistic teacher still sent us out in all weathers. And you get all weathers up there. Snow in May. Bright sun in November.’ She shuddered. ‘I feel so sick. There’s this smell. I think it might be me. I want to go home… I haven’t got a home… I want my mum.’
Tommo looked at me, then back to her. ‘Join the club.’
To be fair, he was doing a good job of playing the penitent lover, all meaningful smiles and soft body language, his spikey edges shaved off.
But then Bex asked this weird question and the dread of it was overwhelming.
‘Am I dead?’ she asked Tommo.
‘No, you’re not dead,’ he said, shaking his head and grasping her hand ever tighter. ‘Cameron got to you in time,’ he said. ‘He saved you,’ he said.
‘Cameron?’
‘Yes, Cameron,’ he said.
Aye. It was me, Cameron. The superbloodyhero.
_________________________
*Like the non-twin in 80s pop group Bros. Bez in the Happy Mondays. The bloke in Boney M who seemed happy enough to dress in white Lycra and mime. I wasn’t even a part of the act. I was a spare part.
Edinburgh, December 2013
Boots
There’s a God Almighty hammering on the front door, shattering the peaceful half hour that is Countdown. Myrtle, who has been blissfully conked out on the back of the sofa, launches herself against the window, gnashing her teeth against the glass, claws skating across the paintwork.
‘You don’t fool anyone, Myrtle. You’re a big daft softie.’
‘I’ll get it then, shall I, Dad?’
‘Don’t worry yourself. I thought I had that conundrum then.’
The banging starts again. ‘Is it Sheena?’
‘No, Sheena always has a nap during Countdown. She hasn’t been able to watch it since Richard Whiteley died.’ A moment while we give silent thanks for St. Richard of Whiteley. ‘She’ll be over later for her tea.’
More banging.
‘Can’t be important.’
‘Dad, are you hiding from someone?’
‘Me, no. There was a time I had to be wary of the heavies but you sorted that out, didn’t you.’ He glances out the window, pulls back sharply.
‘Who is it?’
‘Your wife.’
‘Amanda?’
‘Unless you have another one tucked up your sleeve.’
‘No, just the one. Just about.’
I’m out of my seat and on my reluctant yet expectant way to let Amanda in, when I see that she has already done that herself, standing on the doormat, in the shadows, handbag swinging from her arm like Margaret Thatcher.*
‘Cameron,’ she says.
‘Amanda.’ I’m going to make her work for whatever it is she is after.
‘I’d like to talk to you. Can I come in?’
I think about pushing her out the door and onto the street but that would be cruel and disrespectful and whatever my feelings now, I should remember that I loved† this woman very much. I married her. I was committed and faithful to her. But, as Jeremy says, I didn’t let myself be happy. But he hasn’t yet explained to me how it is exactly that one can make oneself happy.
‘Come in the kitchen,’ I say. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
‘You might want to put a drop of something strong in it.’
While I’m pondering this, Myrtle has extricated herself from the front room and is
skidding after Amanda down the hallway to the kitchen.
‘Sit down,’ I say politely.
Amanda sits at the table. Myrtle sits at Amanda’s feet, feet that are shod in fancy boots that wouldn’t be suited to hiking up Arthur’s Seat.
She reaches down to stroke the dog’s ear. Myrtle licks her hand in return, the fickle traitor.
I remember my manners and make my wife a cup of tea. I am about to ask her what she wants to talk about when Myrtle launches on a new attack of barking as she scoots back down the hallway, crashing into Sheena who has also let herself in.
Myrtle herds her straight into the kitchen.
‘Ah, Cameron. Good afternoon.’
‘Afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon, Amanda.’
‘Afternoon, Mrs Paterson.’
‘Is your father about, Cameron?’
‘He’s in the front room.’
‘I’ll take him a cup of tea, shall I?’
‘Okay.’
She clangs about, sorting a cup for her and a cup for my dad while Amanda and I discuss the merits of an electric collar because Myrtle is at it again, yelping with passion at a shadow. Maybe my mother has come to shoo away Sheena.
When Sheena has been shooed, Amanda coughs, clearing her throat in the way she always does to get my attention.
‘I just wanted to say that I’m sorry it has come to all this. I don’t know how I feel about anything anymore. Mum asked me to go and stay at hers for a while so I’m going tomorrow.’
‘I see.’ I picture Amanda back in her childhood bedroom in Edgbaston, rosettes pinned to the picture rail, a clock in the shape of a pony’s head, a window overlooking a stripy lawn, cuddly toys lined up on her frilly bed.
‘How long for?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shrugs. ‘A week, a month. I don’t know.’
‘What about your job?’
‘I don’t like my job. I hate doing admin. All I ever wanted to be was an actor.’
I remember her when we first met at Skeletours, dressed as a wench, acting a part of history, putting on a very fine Scottish accent. I remember the curry. Her hand on my leg. I remember her disappointment at her career. Her realisation that she needed what she called a ‘proper job’.
‘What about the flat?’
‘That’s what we need to discuss.’ Amanda fiddles with her bracelet. ‘You could stay there if you want. Or we could consider other options?’
‘That makes it sound like you’re going for a long time. Are you going for a long time?’
‘I told you, Cameron. I don’t know.’
There’s an irritating noise working its way through the following silence and I realise it’s my foot tapping.
‘I’ve got my disciplinary tomorrow.’ I blurt this out, not intending to, but I have to tell someone and I realise how much I need that person to be Amanda.
‘Oh, right. Where’s that? I mean what is that?’
I show her the email on my phone. I’ve not shown Dad as there’s no point. It will all be over tomorrow. One way or another.
She reads it quietly, hands my phone back.
Oh, she says. Tomorrow, she says. Good luck, she says.
She gets up then, washes her cup at the sink, splashing water all down her coat. A smart new coat I don’t recognise, dark blue, bringing out the colour of her eyes. She wipes herself down and I am ashamed of the grubbiness of the tea towel. I follow her down the hallway, open the front door for her. She dips towards me and kisses my cheek.
‘Let me know how you get on,’ she says. ‘Text me,’ she says. And she’s gone, leaving behind her familiar scent, something that hasn’t changed.
_________________________
*Did I say Amanda’s English? From the posh bit of Birmingham. Rich parents, only child, spoilt. But kind and funny and passionate.
†Seeing that word in the past tense is wrong. I love her. I love her. I still love her.
London to Lancaster, 1986
Metal
It was a crappy morning. Rain and more rain. I went down to breakfast, a crappy buffet, but I only managed some crappy tea.
‘How did you sleep?’ Christie was there. ‘You look totally wrecked. Like you’ve been in a fight.’
‘I didn’t sleep. The bed was lumpy, there was a team of gymnasts somersaulting in the room above and the whole cast of Cats was singing outside my window.’
‘They were?’
‘No, Christie. That’s called irony.’
‘I know irony, you patronising pig,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry. I’m exhausted.’
‘You worried about Bex?’
‘Of course. Aren’t you?’
‘Yes…’
‘But?’
‘Well, she’ll be okay, right? She can put this down to experience. But Tommo and the band, well, you know it’s over.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘It is. It’s over.’ She swigged back her coffee, pulled a face. ‘See you back down here in ten. We’ll go see if she’s ready to be discharged and get back to Lancaster. There’s nothing for us in this city anymore. No streets paved with gold, that’s for sure.’
The van was packed up and ready to go. Déjà vu. Hard to believe just two days had passed. Now, back to campus, back to life, as if this had all been a dream.
The wind bowled along the street, howling and cruel, and the rain lashed down on us. I’d always remember London like this. My first time and I never wanted to repeat it. My coat was heavy with rain and my legs were leaden, like one of those old-fashioned divers weighted to the seabed. Even the relief of Bex being alive didn’t lighten my load.
Inside, the windows were misted over and there was a smell of wet dog. I was wedged in the back between the drum kit and an amp. Hyper and Carl had gone on ahead in the Cortina to collect Bex and Tommo. The registrar had agreed to discharge her as long as she got plenty of rest and consulted a doctor back in Lancaster. Which was just as well seeing as they didn’t have a bed and she’d spent the night in a corridor.* Meanwhile, Christie would stay and organise the van, she said. She was going to ride with Dave and me, she said. She couldn’t bear to breathe the same fetid air as Tommo, she said.
Mid-morning we pulled away, retracing our journey, through the hectic, blurry London streets, the northern suburbs, the greenbelt, the M1.
I took off my duffle coat, made a pillow out of it. The damp crept into my skull and I got a stomping headache but somehow that was a pleasant sensation. As if pain was a good thing. I stared at the back of the skuzzy seat in front where Christie sat, listened to her moaning to Dave, slagging off Tommo. I counted the words they were saying. Ten of Christie’s to every one of Dave’s. I thought about my brothers, wondered what they were doing right now. Remembered the giddiness of the rusty roundabout and wanted to get off. I wanted the van to stop. I wanted to leap out and run. Along the hard shoulder, across the lanes, ducking and diving the cars and trucks and lorries, hurdling the crash barrier in the central reservation and doing it all over again on the other side, and on beyond into the wet endless fields. But the van kept moving northwards.
We were in a convoy, had somehow met up with the others; Dave was keeping an eye on Hyper’s Cortina in his wing mirror. Tommo was in that car, no doubt nestled in the back with Bex, playing the caring lover. It should’ve been me with Bex, her leg in my lap, like the other day. But I was too tired to move my head, too tired to think about anyone else right now, even Bex. I wanted it all to go away.
Rain bombarded the tinny roof, like mini bullets fired from rooftop snipers. The windscreen washers squeaked every few seconds as they battled unsuccessfully with what was quite clearly a storm. Dave swore and lit up his four hundredth fag of the day. I gave in to the moment, the pain in my head, the squeak in my ears, fag smoke curling up and settling in my lungs. My breathing slowed and I twitched my way into sleep.
When I woke later, the rain was still lashing. Dave wasn’t going his usual speed
, and Hyper didn’t seem bothered. They were dragging their heels, reluctant to put more miles between them and their broken dreams.
What was going through Tommo’s mind? Was he wondering if he had made the right choice? Bex instead of the band… Whatever his choice, he’d ruined it for everyone: Dave, Hyper, Carl, Christie and most of all Bex.
When we stopped for a break at Knutsford, Tommo queued up to buy some soup for Bex who was waiting in the van. ‘Stop staring at me, Cameron. I didn’t mean to hurt her. She’s fine. And yes, I know, it’s the end of my beautiful career. All my fault, okay, you don’t have to tell me.’
I said nothing.
‘All I can see is my father’s face, disappointment fixed upon it and I’m relieved he never bothered coming to see us at the studio.’
‘You asked him to the BBC?’
‘For some unknown reason.’
‘And?’
‘I got his secretary. He was unavailable. A meeting in Manchester.’ He let out a huge sigh, a punctured balloon. ‘You know what the worst of it is?’ he asked. ‘All this is my fault but, for some reason… I blame Bex.’
I blame Bex.
I left him then, slumped in the queue, and went out to check on her.
She was blotchy-faced and weary, leaning against the window, her breath fogging it up. I wanted to put my arms around her but I couldn’t manage it.
‘Leave me alone, Cameron,’ she said. ‘I’m tired.’
So I left her.
Hours later, the rain had cleared, miraculously for Lancashire, and we finally crawled off the M6 and onto the A6, through countryside and villages, past dark fields and bare trees. We were just minutes away from campus when we lurched to a sudden stop outside a pub. Tommo’s last minute idea, his insistence more powerful than our protests.
Inside, we found a table by the fire. Someone got the drinks in. The mood was quiet, surly, sour. Christie went to the loo and as she made her way back, fresh lip gloss and brushed hair, she halted for a moment. She’d seen someone. I followed her gaze and spotted him, her tutor, over in the corner, on his own with a newspaper and a pint of bitter. And a pipe. He hadn’t noticed her, too engrossed in his middle-class, middle-aged world. She sidled her way to our table, sat down next to me, her back to him.
