by Andy Jones
Since the age of twelve, Henry had worked in his mother’s salon, Love & Die. Perhaps the signwriters had never been employed by a hairdresser or a fish and chip shop before this particular commission, but they had taken it upon themselves to correct the perceived misspelling of Die. And so, instead of a pun on the universal connection between love and appropriate hair colour, his mother’s salon had been given a more philosophical identity. As it happened, Sheila Smith had been quite taken with the name, and besides, the signwriter had offered her a fifty per cent discount.
Initially, Henry’s duties were limited to sweeping and picking up dropped pins with a horseshoe-shaped magnet that looked like something from a Roadrunner cartoon. From there he graduated to washing hair, applying dye, rollers and perming solution. The first time he wielded scissors was to trim his mother’s fringe, her coaching him on how to pull the hair tight with the fingers of his free hand, to cut with clean confident strokes of the scissors. Next, she taught him to use thinning scissors, then how to cut over a comb. At fifteen his mother let him cut her hair into a short retro crop; he learned to cut choppy layers, clean angles and feathered textures. By sixteen he was – to the profound disappointment of his father – cutting paying customers’ hair on Saturdays. A little over ten years ago, the most popular haircut in the village and surrounding postcodes was a graduated bob. Not because the style was in fashion, but because Love & Die was offering the cut for free plus a cup of instant coffee and a biscuit. ‘If you can cut a grad-bob, you can cut owt,’ Henry’s mother claimed, and in the summer between the lower- and upper-sixth form, she was determined her son would master this holy grail of women’s hairdressing. More than once, Sheila Smith had to step in and salvage her son’s handiwork, but by the time Henry returned to school for his final year, he could style a grad-bob with geometric precision, choosing a severe decline or gentle descent depending on the set of his client’s features. For more adventurous ladies, he had created an asymmetric variation that his mother found a little showy, but nevertheless impressive. And despite this, April would not let Henry so much as tidy her split ends.
Lying in his single student bed, with his fingers twined in Bobbi’s chaotic curls, Henry had been thinking of the various ways he might tackle such a head of hair, when Bobbi, seemingly reading his mind, had said, ‘Anything but one of those Lego bobs.’ Henry found a pair of sharpish scissors in a first aid kit in the communal kitchen, and borrowed a pair of clippers from a guy on the floor below. With these less than perfect tools, he styled her a punky undercut and choppy fringe that looked fine in the campus nightclub, but was going to be as conspicuous as a lesbian kiss in their mutual hometown.
When the summer term ended, Henry stayed on in Sheffield for the first time since leaving home. He found work on a building site, and pulled pints in a rough local three evenings a week. Bobbi visited more weekends than not, and the relationship developed a layer of cosy intimacy and familiarity. Henry enjoyed Bobbi’s garrulous, playful attitude; but at the same time he found it slightly contrived – the rom-com kook – and a little exhausting: the constant jokes, and twirls, and ‘do you think?’ The sex was fantastically – almost pornographically – satisfying, but also had an element of performance about it; something he yearned for on a Thursday while they made arrangements for the weekend, but tired of by Sunday afternoon, as he looked at the clock waiting for the time when he could walk her to the station.
To her friends and family at home, Bobbi claimed her weekend excursions were trips to visit a girl befriended on an open day at Edinburgh University – a fictitious character called Penelope, whose name she adopted as a pet moniker for Henry: Where shall we eat, Pen? Penny for your thoughts, Penny. Fuck me, Penelope!
The affair ended, as they both knew it would, in September, when Bobbi began her course in Edinburgh. There were continued phone calls, but these tapered off through the autumn term. Bobbi travelled south to see Henry once in October, and he made the trip north the following month, but he saw little of the university campus. It was clear from Bobbi’s demeanour that there was another man on the scene. She didn’t introduce him to her friends, and appeared furtive when they left her room, eschewing the student bars for more touristy spots in the city. Even so, it was a beautiful weekend; the theatrics had gone from the bedroom, but it had been replaced with an unostentatious intimacy. Perhaps because they both sensed this relationship – fling – had run its course, and were both fine with that. In many ways it had been a perfect affair; perfect in its timing and duration. Henry knew Bobbi was not the one for him; that she would drive him crazy for anything longer than a week, let alone a lifetime. But she picked him up; and it was her not-Aprilness as much as her own nature that had moved him past the disappointment and sadness of splitting up with his childhood sweetheart.
‘Look after yourself, Penelope.’ And when they kissed on the platform, Henry felt a small warm lump in his chest.
When Henry went home for Christmas, it was the first time he had returned to his hometown in seven months. When eventually he did bump into April (Tesco’s: her buying a bottle of wine and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s icecream; him buying a twelve-pack of toilet rolls) it had been less awkward than he had feared. They had talked easily; April seeming pleased to see him and genuinely interested in how he was getting on at university. Henry had nodded at the wine in April’s hand. ‘Quiet night in?’ he said, his expression making the deeper enquiry. ‘Something like that,’ she said, blushing. They laughed off their embarrassment, but Henry also felt a pinch of sadness. Or maybe jealousy. He didn’t imagine for one second that April wouldn’t have seen or dated other men in the half year since their break-up, but here was the confirmation – and at Christmas, too. They kissed on the cheek and wished each other a Happy New Year.
It was inevitable they would get back together, April liked to tell people. ‘We just needed some time and perspective to appreciate how lucky we were, didn’t we, Henry?’
Three years, it turns out, was sufficient.
Fate – good or bad? – nudging them back towards each other.
Henry was qualified and working in Sheffield when his mother called to say Big Boots had been in an accident. The call came past midnight, waking Henry from a deep sleep, and before he even picked up the phone, he had a sense that something serious had happened. His father had been rushed to hospital with fractures to both wrists and three ribs, the latter precipitating a collapse of his right lung. Henry’s first thought was that his father had been assaulted, whereas the reality – a drunken tumble into the cellar – was both more mundane and, somehow, more frustrating. Henry left a voicemail at the surgery, cancelling his list, then jumped into his car and broke the speed limit all the way to the hospital.
Big Boots’ injuries required a chest drain, two surgeries and intensive rehabilitation. And despite his determination to prove the quacks wrong, the old fighter was barely able to feed himself, let alone run a bar and throw out drunks. As he had several years before, Henry fell into a routine of weekly trips home, this time so he could help to run the pub and care for his father. Since April was working full time in Love & Die, it was a natural step for her to help out in the Black Horse at this difficult time. Frequently, Henry found himself tending the bar with his ex-girlfriend, the old affection coalescing around them, a more mature and meaningful thing now. Sometimes he would walk April home after a shift, occasionally sneaking up to her room before returning to the pub to clean the tables and help Big Boots brush his teeth the following morning.
There were complications, both medical and romantic. April was in a relationship, but unhappily so, and the extent of her affections were uneven and unpredictable. But on the other hand, she did save his father’s life. After successful treatment on his lung, his symptoms deteriorated. Unknown to anyone but the man himself, Big Boots was in constant and worsening pain – experiencing a stabbing sensation in his chest every time he drew breath. During a lull behind the bar one weekday night,
April had popped upstairs to make him a cup of tea, only to find the old man on his knees and sweating glass beads. Refusing to take no for an answer, April drove Big Boots to the hospital where it was ascertained that he had developed empyema – a collection of pus on the lung. Left untreated for much longer, the outcome would very likely have been fatal. Further surgery was required, and Big Boots’ recovery was pushed back further still. Towards the end of October, some seven months after the initial accident, Big Boots was finally and fully discharged. April, always doted on by Henry’s parents, was by now as much a family member as Henry himself. And having fallen in love as smoothly as they had fallen out of that same state three years ago, the expectation was that he would make it official.
As well as pulling pints and flirting with the locals, April took great care and pride in what passed for interior decor in the Black Horse: spray-can snowdrifts in the windows at Christmas, patriotic bunting for internationals, poppies and flags for Remembrance, coconuts and plastic palms in the summer. With Big Boots back on his feet in time for Hallowe’en, April took to her task with unprecedented enthusiasm: cobwebs, lanterns, haunted bed sheets and plastic critters. When Henry came home one weekend with pots of alginate normally used for taking impressions of teeth, he told April they were making severed jelly fingers. And as she pressed her small hands into the goopy compound, she did not for one second suspect Henry was measuring her finger for a diamond ring.
When Henry thinks back to that Hallowe’en night, the memory doesn’t make him smile the way it should. Maybe April sensed something was coming, there were too many familiar faces in the pub; friends from school, both sets of parents. Henry’s mother as excited and awkward as a toddler on Christmas Eve. Even April’s brother, Mad George, was in attendance. Of course she knew. So when Henry knelt on the sticky carpet, and the chatter died away, April’s eyes went wide in expectation rather than shock. Her hands going to her heart, the way they do it in the movies. ‘Will you marry me?’ Henry had asked, presenting the ring that would fit April’s finger perfectly.
And as the question floated in the air, he watched April’s eyes flick towards the ring. For a fraction of a second he registered a trace of disappointment on her face. And then it was gone – her eyes found Henry’s, her smile pulled wide. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’
The following day they caught a train to Liverpool, exchanging the ring for another, larger and more expensive one. The difference in price wasn’t extraordinary, and Henry didn’t begrudge spending the money. But even so, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had made a mistake.
And this is the problem – he can’t be trusted with himself. He cannot be relied upon to intelligently sift his emotions and find the truth beneath all the layers of thought and doubt and indecision. Henry loved April, right up until he didn’t. And then back the other way, changing his mind like a kid in a comic shop. Changing his heart. April never asked how he had known what size ring to buy, so Henry never told her.
He has finished his tea and the clock tells him it is now 3.31 a.m. Tomorrow morning he will wake up next to his wife in the four-poster bed on the other side of the castle. Their suitcases are packed, passports and sun cream all in the appropriate compartments of their luggage. The newlyweds will take a ten-minute taxi ride to the train station, a train to Manchester airport, an internal flight to Heathrow then a long wait before a two-hour flight to Ibiza. They will arrive at their hotel close to midnight, fatigued and clammy with travel. There is an earlier flight, arriving at a more civilized time, but to make all the connections they would have to catch the 5.28 a.m. from the local station – the first train of the day. It is Saturday morning now and Henry wonders whether the trains run to the same timetable today as they will tomorrow.
He estimates the station is six miles from the castle, a cold walk along dark twisting lanes. On foot it would take ninety minutes, maybe as long as two hours. He looks at the clock as it clicks over to 3.33.
Zoe
Fingers To Shred
Of course he had a girlfriend.
Zoe all but laughed when he told her.
Alex was already in the pub when Zoe arrived, drinking what she guessed was a gin and tonic. He spotted her walking towards him and immediately stood up, waving a short salute across the room. She was surprised to see DJ Lexx wearing a suit, but before she had a chance to make a glib comment about it (scrolling through her mind: Been to court? Been to a wedding? Blimey, is this what all DJs wear on their days off?), Alex had stepped away from the table, gesturing for Zoe to sit while he asked what she was drinking.
The pub Alex had suggested turned out to be a charmless cave tucked away in a knot of narrow cobbled streets with names – Ludgate, Newgate – that reminded Zoe of Dickens and his city of urchins, riots and Victorian gaols. They were a stone’s throw from St Paul’s Cathedral, and this grotty boozer seemed a peculiar choice in an area replete with far more salubrious wine and cocktail bars. Perhaps Alex thought it was cosy, or characterful or intimate.
When he returned to the table with Zoe’s drink, Alex was visibly awkward. If they’d been dating already she would have sworn he was about to dump her. She’d been planning what type of kiss to greet him with (cheek or lips; peck or subtly lingering, delicately foreshadowing), but the moment had gone and Alex’s discomfort was contagious.
‘Cheers,’ she said, raising her glass, air-clinking and taking a sip of generic red wine. ‘So, is this what all DJs wear on their days off?’
‘Sorry, what?’
Zoe thumbed invisible lapels. ‘The suit.’
‘Ah, oh, right, yeah. Actually, I . . . I work in the City. Well, kind of, oil and gas. It’s a bit . . .’ Alex made an apologetic shrug and blew air through his lips. ‘Well, it’s oil and gas.’
Zoe nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. ‘Cool. I mean . . . great! That’s . . . people always need oil and gas. Do they?’
‘Well, let’s hope so, otherwise I’m out of a job.’
‘You could always DJ?’
Alex laughed. ‘That would be nice.’
‘So . . . at our party thing, what was that?’
‘Favour for a friend. Well, I got paid, but . . . not much.’
‘And free champagne.’
Alex smiled. ‘Yes, and free champagne. But not enough to give up the day job, unfortunately.’ He seemed to hesitate a moment before saying: ‘I did play at a fairly big club in Thailand for a while.’
‘Thailand?’
After graduating, Alex had secured a job at the firm where he still works today. He had managed to defer his start date for twelve months, planning to DJ his way from Asia to Australia to America and anywhere else the wind blew him. But finding gigs that paid anything other than alcohol was easier imagined than realized. Alex was running dangerously low on money and optimism, when various circumstances aligned and the DJ gods span him in the direction of a regular set paying paper wages. The location was less idyllic than Koh Lanta or Rai Leh, but it was a good opportunity to bank some much-needed cash. Four weeks into Alex’s Phuket residency, however, the club owner accused him of stealing, threatened him with a machete, and said if Alex was still in Phuket by the weekend something ‘crinical’ would happen to him.
‘Crinical?’
‘I didn’t know if he meant criminal, critical or what,’ Alex continued. ‘I mean, considering the mad bastard was waving a machete around I guess it all amounted to the same thing, but – have you been to Thailand? – I’d had a bunch of diet pills, speed basically, and a magic-mushroom milkshake, and, well, I was having trouble processing it, danger and all, so I’m saying to him: “Crinical? What’s crinical?” And he’s practically foaming at the mouth, shouting: “Crinical. I send you to the doctor’s crinic. You understand me now?”’
Something – besides the vaguely Alex Garland plot – didn’t ring true about Alex’s story; he was fidgeting with his watch and seemed reluctant to hold eye contact. On the other hand, the detail (‘crini
cal’) felt too specific not to be authentic. But if Zoe doubted him, Alex didn’t seem to notice. He went on to tell Zoe how the club owner not only refused to pay his four weeks’ outstanding wages, but also ‘confiscated’ his record collection and headphones. So with neither money nor music, Alex had little option but to return to the UK. A friend put him up on their sofa, and through various contacts Alex was able to land a couple of ‘eighty-quid gigs’ in large pubs and small clubs.
‘What about your records?’ Zoe asked, trying not to sound like she was interrogating a flimsy story.
‘Borrowed some off a friend.’
The answer felt deliberately terse, something in its delivery seeming to say: Can we leave it at that?
Zoe nodded.
Alex laughed. ‘Sorry, it’s a mad story, I know. I tend not to bring it up because it sounds like so much bullshit. Like The Beach with DJs.’
Zoe laughed now. ‘The thought never crossed my mind.’
Alex took a sip of his drink and continued. ‘And so I played a few gigs in London, but by the time September rolled around I had two hundred quid in the bank, a ten grand loan, and so . . .’ he pulled at the lapels of his very nice suit, ‘. . . oil and gas.’
‘At least you got a good story out of it.’
Alex nodded as if this was fair enough. Then he sighed. ‘There’s something I should tell you.’
Zoe closed her eyes, took a breath. ‘If you tell me you’re married or you’ve got a girlfriend, I swear to God’ – she raised her glass of wine – ‘you’re going to need a dry cleaners.’
Alex smiled at that, briefly. He reached across the table, took hold of Zoe’s wrist and lowered her glass-holding hand to the table.
