by P. D. Viner
The sea of sound is overpowering. Tom feels it in his body, working him like a marionette, pulling him this way and that as the band crashes, guitar and drums pitched at incredible decibels. To compete, the singer has to screech ever higher and louder. They don’t play like a team but like competitors racing to the finish. Exhilarating—but his head hurts.
Tom would rather be outside away from the smoke but he has to be in his seat: E5. It’s the only place he knows for sure she’ll be. The Banshees won’t be on for ages. Alien Sex Fiend has just started and there are another two support bands he’s never heard of. To be honest, he doesn’t know much about Siouxsie Sioux—just that Dani loves her. And he loves Dani.
He would have preferred to have taken her to a movie. Footloose or Police Academy—they both sounded good. In a cinema they could hold hands and share popcorn while they watch. And after he could lean over and kiss her.
Yeah, right! Like that was going to appeal to Dani Lancing. No, Dani will love seeing the Banshees, and he will bask in that.
A final screech of guitar and vocal cord end their biggest number and the crowd screams and claps. He joins in, though his applause is a little lackluster. As the band launches into another song, Tom turns round to scan the doors once more. She probably won’t come until the first chord Robert Smith plays, but he can’t help himself. He knows he should feign nonchalance, get caught up in the music. He should watch the bands. Even after she arrives and sits next to him, he should pretend not to know she’s there until a song ends and he calmly notices her.
“Oh, hi, Dani. This is cool.”
Except, even he knows that saying anything’s cool would be romantic suicide. Maybe he should keep quiet. And not dance. Christ, it’s really difficult—especially when his heart’s flailing like Keith Moon on a bender.
Under the chair he has a hip flask for them, well, mostly for her, filled with vodka he’s nicked from his mum’s stash under the bed. When she arrives he should say nothing, just hand her the flask and go back to the music. That is wha—
Someone moves in next to him, into Dani’s seat.
“No, that’s ta—”
“Hi, Tom,” the girl shouts, smiling broadly.
“Tash?”
She leans across and pecks him on the cheek, then smiles a little flirtatiously. She’s a girl from their class, not someone he knows well. She’s pretty with a very sharp nose. He’s only ever seen her in glasses before, but she must be wearing contact lenses. Her hair seems glittery too. She has a lot of lipstick on; he thinks he must have a little kiss tattoo from her peck on his cheek.
“Good to see you, Tash. Someone else will be here in a minute though, that’s her seat.”
“No. It’s mine.” She waves the ticket stub at him. “I bought it this afternoon off Dani Lancing.”
“Oh!”
“She said you’d be here. Said you’d look after me.” She smiles broadly. He pulls the hip flask from under his chair and passes it to her. She takes a chug from the flask, cut short as she coughs and splutters from the bite of the alcohol in her throat.
She laughs. “Shit, Tom.”
Later he walks her home. His eardrums still throb and hum. Tash had loved the night. She’d danced, screamed and drunk the whole hip flask. Her face is deeply flushed and she walks with a pronounced sway. She hadn’t been bad company, but Tom was deeply disappointed by the evening. He would have liked to have gone straight home to bed, pulled the covers up over his head and escaped into sleep. Not an option. He couldn’t leave Tash to get home alone, could he? But he was a bit worried about her parents chasing him down the road, screaming that he’d got their darling daughter drunk.
They barely speak on the walk home. Tash doesn’t mind; in fact it helps to build the mystique of this pale thin boy. She has just had one of the best nights of her life and is thinking this edgy young man has earned himself a reward. Just before they get to her road, she stops by a house with a large hedge. The house is dark and the closest streetlight is broken. It’s almost black in that little part of London. She takes Tom’s hand and pulls him toward her. She leans over and plants her mouth on his, her tongue pushing forward through his closed lips and into his mouth.
He kisses her back, eyes closed, imagining it’s Dani. She tastes like vodka. Tash takes his hand and brings it up to her shirt. He cups her breast.
“Nice,” she says and kisses harder, her teeth nipping his lip. The little dab of pain breaks the spell—it isn’t Dani. Tom takes his hand away from her breast and gently ends the kiss.
“We need to get you home,” he says and draws her out of the shadows, the way you might lead a toddler, and walks her home.
In a small grubby flat above a kebab shop on Streatham High Street, Dani lies on a sofa. There isn’t much light in the flat. What there is shows the walls are covered in drawings, like some primitive cave. The smells of greasy roasting flesh fill the room, mingling cloyingly with a sweet incense of vanilla and sandalwood, both scents fighting against the heavy fug of dope smoke.
Dani tries to get up, off the sofa, but her body doesn’t respond like it normally does. It’s as if she’s floating in treacle. Everything is disjointed. She tries to speak, but slurs, she understands nothing she hears. She feels the joint back at her lips, but she no longer has the ability to suck the smoke into her lungs. There is music from somewhere, plaintive and soulful, but she can’t make out the lyrics.
Her beautiful art student takes a final draw on the joint and holds it there, looking down at the young woman almost comatose on his sofa. Then he leans forward, opens her mouth with thumb and finger, and blows the smoke in, watching it billow around her lips and then up into the air.
She feels the tug but is not sure what it is. Her jeans are pulled down and taken off. Then her knickers. She falls asleep.
SEVENTEEN
Monday, October 18, 2010
A cheeseburger waddles past, waving a handful of flyers.
“Happy Meal?” it asks.
Patty looks blankly at it.
“Okay, have a good day.” It shrugs and ambles away to accost a large group of tourists. Patty turns to the restaurant and peers through the glass; she can see very little evidence of anyone inside feeling any joy. She pushes the door and goes in. The traffic sounds die behind her, to be replaced by the hubbub of twenty different languages fighting to be heard over the noise of deep-fat frying.
She spots Keyson immediately. He sits in the corner. Somehow he’s folded his large frame into a garishly colored booth that seems designed for toddlers. He looks like a giant in a fairy tale, made all the more surreal as he’s surrounded by a group of yelping Japanese exchange students who crowd the tables around him. Patty takes a deep breath, as if about to dive underwater, then she steps forward.
There is ketchup in the corner of his mouth, making him look a little like a vampire—eyes glazed over, sated by his gorging. Then he sees her and a genuine smile creases his face. She crosses the room, avoiding the mustard and BBQ landmines. He pulls his coat from the seat opposite and she slides into it.
“No trouble finding the place?” he asks.
“I used to work close by.”
“I’m giving evidence at the Old Bailey later, so it was a good option to meet here.” He slurps the last of his shake and dabs at his large mouth with a tiny serviette.
Then something shifts and a cloud crosses his face as he slips awkwardly into professional mode. He starts to say something but it’s obliterated by a sudden cackle of Japanese. “Where the hell is Godzilla when you need him?” Patty thinks.
“I missed that, can you repeat what you said?” she asks with annoyance and leans toward him close enough to smell the tang of gherkin and special sauce.
“There was a prime suspect in your daughter’s case, did you know that?”
The world becomes silent. Around her, mouths from across the globe chew the cud of news from home: latest fashions, crazes, diets or plain who-fancies-who and what they
did or didn’t do. The world goes on around her, but nothing touches her consciousness. Nothing but Keyson’s words.
“Prime suspect … no.”
Keyson nods sagely as if confirming some ground-breaking theory. “The detective at the time seemed to feel there was a strong case. I’m reading between the lines, of course, but there was a partial print from your daughter’s left hand on the boot of this man’s car.”
He punches her hard, the lip is ripped by the teeth, blood vessels burst bleeding into soft tissue, the bruise blossoms like poppies on her cheek. The blow spins her, balance shifts and she falls sideways—her hand strikes the car just before her hip does. Slam! She is lifted off her feet for a fraction of a second as her head snaps back. Even six years of ballet can’t keep her on her feet as she begins to fall. Her arms start to wave, trying to regain balance but it is too late, she is past the point of no return as she falls. In a second he is on her, punching her chest, face, shoulder, forehead—until all goes black.
“Patricia?” Keyson waves his hand in front of her face, bringing her back.
“Yes, yes, I’m … please, tell me the rest.”
He hesitates, seeming to be unsure of what to say next. “There is also a sample of …” He stops and looks down to his notes.
“Tell me.” She holds her breath.
He coughs and, in a monotone, continues. “Semen was recovered postmortem. It may be adequate for testing.”
Patty gulps in air. “That’s wonderf—”
“But …” he cuts her dead, “there is no sample from any suspect.”
“I don’t fully understand what—”
“It means that when the police get around to your daughter’s case they can profile the DNA and check it against the national database.”
“And that’s over five million people.”
“Exactly. And you might be lucky and find that the killer is in there.”
“But …”
“The but is that your prime suspect may not be in the database—won’t be, unless he’s had a DNA sample taken for another reason.”
Patty nods. She feels the hopelessness spreading around her like ink in water.
“And …” He shakes his head. “I spoke to someone at the DNA database. Your man was right—it will be at least four years before your daughter’s case is opened. I even told them you might be dead before then. They didn’t care.”
Patty wants to roll into a ball. Tom was right: she shouldn’t have got her hopes up. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Well …” He leans in closer to her. “I have a contact.” He stops and chews his lip.
The penny drops; now she understands why they’ve met here and not at Keyson’s office. She’s seen men act like this many times, when they had information to sell to the newsroom. This is about a bribe.
His voice drops as low as it can possibly go. “I can get your daughter’s case file. That would include all samples.”
“But …”
“You’re right, there is a big but. Two big buts. The first is that I would need a pretty hefty amount of money to secure this.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand pounds. That’s for my contact, you understand.”
She nods. “The second but?”
“Do this—get the evidence illegally—and it will destroy any case against the killer.”
“But if the sample matches?”
“Doesn’t matter. If the evidence is out of police control, even for a second, it’s useless.”
“But with the DNA match I could prove it was him, show the results to the news.”
“You could. But he’d still have to give a DNA sample voluntarily. And the publicity would mean he could never be charged. Any legal case would be impossible. You’d never get justice through the courts.”
“Justice …” She wants to laugh at such an outmoded concept. Funny guy. “I’ll get you the money, Dr. Keyson. Thank you.”
She stands and holds out her hand, like shaking on the promise of a new job or the price of a house.
“I’ll be in touch,” he tells her.
“Soon,” she says. “Soon I hope.” She turns and leaves.
He watches her walk to the door. She is swallowed up by the maelstrom of London life. Then he smiles.
INTERMISSION SIX
Friday, May 4, 1984
Dani holds Tom’s hand tight, almost crushing it. He doesn’t mind. They don’t speak, there’s nothing to say. It was all said last night when she lay on his bed and told him the story.
“I can’t tell them, I can’t, Tom. They’ll be so disappointed in me—I am so fucking stupid.”
“Dan—”
“Don’t, Tom. I’m an idiot, a comedy stereotype: teenage and pregnant. A fucking joke … a joke.” She finishes with a tiny voice, then lies her head back on his pillow and sobs.
The injustice burns in Tom’s stomach like poison. He’s never felt anger like this, sulfuric in his veins. He wants to run out into the night and kill him, to beat him to a pulp. Except he needs to stay here, with her, to hold her and tell her it will be okay. Tell her that he loves her. But he does neither. Instead, he sits and watches as the girl he loves falls apart on his bed.
Even as Dani lies there crying, she knows it’s unfair on poor Tom; she feels so ashamed of how she has treated him. She can’t tell him that it happened on the night she should have been with him at the concert. Of course, had she have been there, she would never have been in this state. She feels so lost, alone and stupid. She loves her parents, but could never tell them what she has done. They would help her, of course. They would love her, of course, but they would always look at her with such disappointment. Her mum would hold it over her—in some weird way Dani thought Patty might be pleased. It would prove forever that her daughter doesn’t have the strength, the moral purpose, the drive that she had. And her dad … oh, her dad. He adores her and she could not bear to watch the disappointment, even pity, spread across his face for the first time in her life. She could not, would not, be less than the perfect daughter for them.
“So will you come with me tomorrow?” she asks Tom.
“Of course. I’ll always be there when you need me.”
“Thank you,” she says as she takes his hand and squeezes it.
The appointment was made through rape crisis to make sure her parents would not find out the truth.
When they first arrive at the clinic they are led into a private room. The nurse asks Dani to come in alone but she refuses, wanting Tom to be allowed in. The nurse eyes him with distrust. She obviously wants to make sure this is not coerced; she assumes Tom is the father … father? Hardly a father. Inseminator, perhaps?
Tom blushes under her gaze. He is not the man who has done this—but inside, to his shame, he can’t help but think that he would give anything to have been the one who had begun a life inside Danielle Lancing. And he hopes that one day he will, when they are married.
After Dani gives her details she’s examined. This time Tom stays the other side of the curtain. Then they are both asked to wait.
They sit with four other pregnant teens—two of them are obviously with their mothers, all tearful. One teen sits alone, her back rigid, her head held high. The last has fourteen-month-old twins, who play with Legos on the floor. She looks like the devil is at her heels.
They wait for two hours until Dani is called. She smiles weakly at Tom when finally it’s her turn.
“I’ll be here when you come round,” he says.
“I know you will. You’re my Galahad,” and she kisses him on the cheek. There is no passion, but for Tom it’s the best kiss of his life: there will never be another to beat it. Then she turns and follows the nurse.
An hour later he’s called to see her in the recovery room. She sits up in bed wearing one of those awful gowns that no one can be glamorous in. Dani sits drinking tea that is so sweet it makes her grimace with every sip. She looks incredibly pale. Tom thin
ks her more beautiful than anything he has ever seen.
“I can go any time. I just need to get my clothes on.”
He nods. “I’ll go and call a cab.”
“I can get the bus.”
He shakes his head, taking charge, possibly for the first time in his life.
“No. You get dressed and I’ll get a cab.”
She holds on to his arm as they walk down the front steps. The cab sits there, the diesel engine chugging, ticking the clock round. Tom had raided his room—the large Roses chocolate jar and his Star Wars pencil case had been full of change. Now about thirty pounds in coins weighs down his backpack. He hopes the cabby won’t make a scene about being paid in shrapnel.
They get inside and Tom reels off Dani’s address but she corrects him and instead gives Tom’s. She looks at him, her eyes pleading. He nods. Then the cab wheels away.
They sit on the backseat and Dani slides sideways and lays her head on his lap. Tom watches the cabby tilt his mirror down so he can see if any funny business is going on in the back. Tom strokes her hair and tries not to get an erection.
At the end of the journey he pays the fare. He gives a decent tip to stop any complaint.
Then Dani laces her arms around him and he helps her up to his room. He puts her into his bed, fully clothed, and she falls asleep. He sits in a chair and watches her.
At about 9 p.m. she wakes and asks for water. Then she gets up and uses the phone, calling home to tell them she’s staying the night with a friend. Her dad answers, he wants more details, but she tells him all is fine, that she’s tired and is going straight to bed. He isn’t pleased but says “okay.” Then she goes back to Tom’s room, strips to her underwear, gets into his bed and sleeps for another eighteen hours.
When she finally awakes she finds him sitting in an armchair by the bed, watching over her. She holds her hand out to him and pulls him onto the bed with her. They spoon together though she is under the sheets and he on top of them.
