Some Kind of Fairy Tale

by Graham Joyce

  The boy blushed right through his acne. He coughed. “Right.”

  Peter held out a huge hand that wanted shaking. Michael had looked at the proffered paw before laying his own tiny, white, uncallused hand deep inside it.

  “You look a man in the eye when you make a deal with him, Michael. In his eye.”

  “Right,” Michael said, glancing at Peter’s eyes, then looking away quickly, then recovering quickly to look back again.

  “Give him a break!” Genevieve had almost shouted.

  “Dad!” shouted Zoe.

  “Never mind all that. Me and Michael have struck a deal, haven’t we, Michael?”

  “Right.”

  And Peter had been confident that the struck deal would stick. But here he was at ten minutes before midnight, and it hadn’t. Peter and Gen had waited up, discussing what they might say, how they might handle it. Peter admitted he was pretty cross, but he didn’t know whether to be cross with Zoe or with Michael. Gen didn’t want him to make too much of a deal of it. It was every father’s problem. He himself had spent most of his teenage years in reckless pursuit of pretty girls and he didn’t need anyone to point out what was on the mind of the average adolescent male; on the other hand, he didn’t want to make a fool of himself by draping his daughter in a chador or a veil.

  Zoe was a slim, raven-haired, doe-eyed beauty and he was relieved that she didn’t feel the need, like a lot of her contemporaries, to dress like a Hollywood hooker. He was persuaded that by the time she was sixteen the levee would burst anyway. He just felt a moral duty to sandbag right up until that moment. He and Gen had shared a bottle of red wine as they waited up, and when Zoe’s key hit the lock of the front door he felt it necessary to put his spade into the sand.

  He stood up.

  “Take it easy,” Gen said.

  “I’m not going to get mad,” Peter said.

  Someone came bowling through the front door. It was Michael, hands held up high in military surrender. Peter looked over his shoulder and saw that Zoe was just behind him.

  The boy looked wide-eyed. “Let me explain,” he began.

  “Stop right there,” Peter said.

  “No, but I want to—”

  Peter advertised a huge palm in the air, like a traffic policeman. “Stop.”

  “The thing is—”

  “Enough. I don’t want the excuses. I don’t want ‘The traffic was heavy.’ I don’t want anything. I want eleven o’clock.”

  “But listen …” Michael said, scratching his dreadlocks.

  “Give him a chance,” Gen said.

  “Dad!” Zoe said.

  “Never mind all that. I’ll come to you in a minute, Zoe. But first you, Michael. A deal is a deal, right?”

  “Dad, listen to him and stop making a fool of yourself!”

  “Careful!”

  “It was Aunt Tara!”

  “What?”

  “Aunt Tara. She was down at The White Horse. She was off her face, Dad!”

  “What?”

  “That’s what Michael is trying to tell you. We would have been home. If it wasn’t for Aunt Tara.”

  Peter looked at Michael.

  “It’s true,” Michael said.

  It all spilled out. Halfway through the evening Zoe had noticed that her aunt Tara was in the mosh pit, dancing like someone on the wrong end of a high-voltage cable, throwing herself about, clearly drunk.

  “But you said it was teenage night!” Peter said.

  “Yeh, it was,” Michael put in.

  “She was completely tanked, Dad.”

  “But you said there was no alcohol!”

  “She had a plastic bottle of water that was, like, full of vodka. That’s how they bring it in.”

  “They?”

  “Anyone who wants to get sloshed. Don’t look at me, I can’t stand the stuff.”

  “Me neither,” Michael put in helpfully. “Well, not much, anyway.”

  “I saw her and I thought, Right, you’re going a bit crazy, Aunt Tara,” Zoe said, “and I kept my eye on her, and she was kissing every boy she could find there, you know, tongue down the throat like one of those lizards after a juicy fly. I said to Michael, shit, that’s my aunt Tara, and she was out of it, doing this weird dance, jumping up and down—”

  “Pogo,” Michael said.

  “Right, pogo, shit dancing, but like someone’s put a firework up her ass, and swigging from whatever is in the plastic bottle and all these stupid boys around her have got the hots for her and I thought there’s gonna be trouble. I nearly phoned you.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Well, I didn’t. Anyway, after a while she starts flashing her tits and all this—”

  “Stop stop stop,” Peter said. “Is this true?”

  Michael nodded. “And it’s like ten-thirty and I said come on we gotta go ’cause what your dad said—and then a fight breaks out around her and the bouncers pile in, and while the bouncers are dealing with these lads there are three other lads, like on her—”

  “On her?” said Genevieve.

  “Yeh,” said Zoe, “like all over her and I thought they were trying to pull her clothes off so I said to Michael—”

  “She says we’ve got to help her and I thought no, thanks, I’m gonna get my head kicked in, but then Zoe’s marching right in, so I have to follow her”—Michael turned to Peter—“to protect her, and Zoe does her judo thing, yeh, her judo thing, and she puts one guy on his back and has another in a lock and the third one’s going to take a swing at Zoe and so I jump on him and the next thing one of the bouncers has got me by my fucking hair—sorry, Mrs. Martin—by my hair and Tara starts yelling What the hell’s the matter can’t a girl have a good time? and I don’t even think she recognizes Zoe since she’s so off her face and so we missed the bus.”

  “Right,” said Peter.

  “Right,” said Zoe.

  “But I made sure we got the next one. Which was a bit late coming, as it happened. Sorry.”

  “Right,” said Peter.

  “So is that okay?” said Michael.

  “Yes. It is. Well. Well.”

  Genevieve dived in. “Thank you for bringing Zoe back safely, Michael. Do you need a lift home?”

  “No, my parents don’t get overexcited if I’m a bit late.”

  “Right,” said Genevieve.

  “I’m not saying you’re overexcited,” said Michael. “I’m not saying anyone is.”

  “Okay,” said Peter.

  “What are you going to do about Aunt Tara?” Zoe wanted to know.

  “Never you mind that,” Peter said.

  “Well,” Genevieve said, standing up and clapping her hands. “Did you both have a nice time?”

  “GO TO SLEEP,” GENEVIEVE said.

  “I can’t.”

  “I can hear your brain rattling.”

  “I can’t stop that, can I?”

  Genevieve sat up and switched on the shaded bedside lamp. The soft amber light filtered through her hair. She put her hand on his chest. “So what are you going to do?”

  “What the hell was she doing there?”

  “She obviously thinks she’s a teenager.”

  “How many teenage girls pound vodka and flash their tits?”

  “Well. Maybe one or two.”

  “Do you ever wish you were that young again?”

  “What, and do all that stuff?” said Genevieve.

  “Yes.”

  “No. I didn’t do all that shit when I was young and I don’t have fantasies about doing it now, if that’s what you mean. What about you?”

  He thought about it. “The only good thing about being sixteen was the erections you got.”

  “Are you going to talk to her about it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m paying that basket case of a shrink to do that. Or I thought I was. I mean, what happens with that? He just has conversations with her at an hourly rate. How long is a conversation? An hour. When does he say there has been
enough conversation?”

  “When Tara makes the breakthrough, I guess.”

  “Breakthrough. From where into where?”

  “I’m turning out the light. Go to sleep.”

  She reached out a hand and clicked off the lamp. “Tara, Tara, Tara,” Peter said. “Where the hell are you?”

  AT THAT MOMENT TARA was letting herself in at her old home. She stumbled in the shadows, dropping the key she was never given when she lived there twenty years earlier. As she bent to pick it up she caught her head on the door, already ajar, and stepped back against the cabinet at the foot of the stairs. The glass pieces and her mother’s best china jingled in the cabinet. Tara steadied herself and tried to steady the vibrating cabinet.

  She took a moment to breathe in the darkness. It was around one a.m. and she was anxious not to wake her parents. But there was a soft light coming from the kitchen.

  “It’s all right, I’m awake.” It was her mother’s voice.

  Tara swayed slightly, rubbed a hand across her face, and stepped through from the hall to the kitchen. She went straight to the sink and filled a glass with water, which she drank quickly. Then she slumped down into a seat at the kitchen table.

  “Though if you were trying to be quiet,” Mary said, “you made a poor job of it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I thought I’d wait up for you.”

  “No need for you to do that.” Tara released a tiny burp.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “I had a little weeny weeny weeny drink. It’s true enough.”

  Mary stood up. A plate, covered by a second inverted plate, rested on the worktop. She removed the top plate. “Here, I’ve made you a sandwich.”

  Tara took it gratefully.

  “I can’t get used to the idea of going to sleep before you come in. Your father says I must leave you to do what you want. Though he wouldn’t be happy to see you in this state.”

  Tara munched on the sandwich. “I’m not a child anymore, Mother.”

  “Aren’t you?” Mary said sharply. “What are you, then?”

  Tara stopped munching. She put her half-eaten sandwich back on the plate. Then she stood up, swaying slightly. “I’m going to bed. Good night.”

  Mary watched her daughter weave along the hall and heard her ascend the stairs. It was another hour before she followed her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Deeper meaning resides in the fairy tales told me in my childhood than in any truth that is taught in life.

  JOHANN SCHILLER

  Richie woke to the sound of his doorbell ringing and a hefty banging on the door. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his eyes before reaching first for a cigarette, then for his lighter, and after that for his spectacles. Only then did he pull on a pair of boxer shorts and pad over to the window. He looked down and saw Tara. She was holding on to a bicycle and was hammering on the door with her free hand. Some instinct made her look up. The weak morning sunlight glinted on her dark glasses.

  Richie opened the window. “Wait.”

  He shuffled back across his bedroom, stuck his cigarette in his mouth, and rifled the pockets of his jeans until he found a set of keys. He went back to the window and flung them down to Tara. They landed beside her on the concrete flagstone. “Get the kettle on. I’ll be down.”

  By the time Richie had showered, dressed, and hauled himself downstairs, Tara had made tea for both of them. When she heard him coming she poured them both a cup.

  “Where’s my mug?” he said. “That’s not my mug.”

  “What?”

  “I want my favorite mug.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Richie, when did you turn into such an old man? I want my favorite mug.”

  “When? When you were away is the answer to that. I am an old man.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You’re not.”

  “This is fun. We could do this for hours.”

  Tara made a moue.

  “Just give me the tea. What time is it?”

  “Half past ten. Richie, I’m struggling. I’m struggling.”

  “What?” Richie lit another cigarette.

  “I’m telling the truth. I’m telling the truth and no one believes me. Not my own mother or father. Not Pete. Not you. Not that freak I have to see.”

  Richie snorted. “Vivian.”

  “Yes, Vivian. You think it’s funny?”

  “Well, yes. Just his name. It always makes me laugh. I don’t know why. I really don’t. I know another Vivian and his name doesn’t make me laugh in the same way. Funny. Smoke?”

  “No. I’m glad you find it amusing. That guy is trying to persuade me that I’ve had a giant hallucination, and I’m giving him a chance. Really, I am. Perhaps that’s what happened. The thing is, when everyone is trying to persuade you that a thing you know to be true isn’t actually true, you start to believe them: not because it is true but because it’s easier. It’s just the easy way out.”

  “Right.”

  “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

  “Let me tell you about the day I was taken to the police station and asked to confess to killing you. I do have an idea, Tara. I do.”

  Tara took off her sunglasses and looked hard at him. Then she put them back on again.

  “Do you have to wear those? Even indoors?”

  “Since I came back the light plays tricks on my eyes. I get a kind of grit in my eyes if I don’t wear them.”

  “Sleep? We used to call that sleep. Like the sandy stuff that washes out of your eyes when you are sleeping.”

  “He used to say that.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, this guy. The one who led me away. He said we—meaning us, here, in this place—we were all sleeping.”

  “You mean your fairy fellah?”

  “They’re not like what you think, Richie.”

  “What do I think?”

  “I don’t know. Little people with lacy wings and hats made out of acorn cups. They’re not like that at all, Richie. They are fucking dangerous.”

  “Right.”

  “You would never mess with them. Not if you knew. Never.”

  “Right.”

  “You say ‘right’ one more time and I will kill you. What’s that cut on the side of your head?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you want anything to eat?”

  Richie told her to get something from the bread bin. She set about toasting the bread and poaching eggs, and she put the kettle on again to make more tea. She gave a sudden start. “Richie, you’ve got mice in your kitchen.”

  “I know that. They have a nest behind the fridge.”

  “This place is a wreck. It’s unhygienic.”

  “What do you care?”

  “I want to move in with you.”

  Richie shook his head quickly. It wasn’t a negative response. It was an involuntary twitch, the kind of response he might have made if a gnat had flown into his ear. Now it was his turn to take off his spectacles. He polished them on the hem of his T-shirt, replaced them on the bridge of his nose, and stared hard back at Tara.

  “You’re not against the idea, then?”

  “What’s brought this on?”

  “I can’t stay at Mum and Dad’s much longer. It’s driving me crazy. They watch everything I do with bated breath. They watch me brush my teeth. They watch me brush my hair. They watch me eat. I suspect they even come into my room at night and watch me sleep. They don’t say much. They just watch. I feel like a bomb is going to go off. Plus Pete is going to call you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s going to tell you stories about me being out on the town.”

  Richie’s mobile phone chirruped at that exact moment. Richie picked it up. The screen told him that it was Pete calling. “You’re psychic, you are.”

  “Don’t tell him I’m here.”

  Richie clicked to answer and p
ut the phone to his ear. He turned around and looked out of the window. “All right, Pete? Yeh? She’s here right now. Yeh.”

  Richie listened. He interjected occasionally with a few grunts. Then he clicked off and put his phone in his pocket. He looked at Tara.

  “I went down to The White Horse.”

  “Right. Teenyboppers pub. Sounds like you had a good time.”

  “I just wanted to be with people of my own age, Richie.”

  “Your own age?”

  “Yes!”

  “So why do you want to move in with me? I’m an old fuck.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am! I don’t want to go down to The White Horse drinking snakebite till I vomit! I don’t wanna dance in the mosh pit with my nose trapped in someone’s funky armpit. Do you know what? I don’t want to be young. I actually fuckin’ like getting older. I do! I’d rather stick my dick in a high-speed kitchen blender than go back to being a teenager. If that’s what you wanna do, Tara, if you want to get off your face down at The White Horse, you got the wrong guy coming back ’ere. I got my whisky, I got my bit o’ puff, I got my mug for my tea, and I got my carpet slippers. End of story.”

  “I have to get out of that house, Richie.”

  “It ain’t gonna work, darlin’.”

  Richie collapsed onto the sofa and lit another cigarette. They sat in silence for a while.

  “You said I used to roll sweet joints for you.”

  “You’ll find even that’s changed if you haven’t already. Most of the smoke you get nowadays is called skunk. It’s rubbish, and it’s so strong all you can do is sit with your mouth open, drooling at the world, like you’ve had a lobotomy.”

  “I still do a good back rub.”

  Richie sighed. “You’d have to take me as you find me.”

  “I’ll clean up the place.”

  “That’s up to you. Don’t expect me to weigh in.”

  “The mice would have to go.”

  “I’ll set some traps.”

  “You don’t have to do that!” Tara was on her feet. The argument had been settled. She was moving in with Richie and they both knew it. “What time is it? Okay. You got any incense?”

  “Incense?”

  “Joss sticks.”

  “Maybe in that drawer over there.”

  Tara rummaged through the drawer he’d indicated. She found some old broken sticks of sandalwood and busied herself arranging them in the kitchen in a half-circle, poking them into any available crevice. Richie stood in the doorway, watching, bemused.