Never Coming Back: a tale of loss and new beginnings

by Deirdre Palmer

  ‘What’s all this, then?’ he said, laughing as she unloaded it all onto the top of the cupboard next to the kettle.

  ‘I want to get drunk with you, and then,’ – she tapped him on the chest – ‘I’ll see who you really are.’

  The look in her eye was mischievous, challenging.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Morgan grinned. ‘You think this is going to do it, do you?’

  She shrugged. ‘In vino veritas, and all that.’

  ‘For all you know,’ Morgan said, ‘I might be a hardened drinker. This might not even scratch the surface.’ He nodded towards the vodka.

  ‘That’s a chance I’ll have to take.’

  ‘Seriously, though…’ he began.

  ‘We’re not going to do serious, not tonight, are we?’

  She fetched the rug and cushions from the cupboard, tossed them onto the floor and sat down. Morgan joined her.

  ‘No, but tell me you’re okay, only this is kind of a first, isn’t it?’

  Layla sighed, and Morgan immediately felt guilty for having burst her bubble. She’d worried him, though. If there was something wrong, he wanted to know.

  ‘I’m not okay, exactly. It’s a year ago today since my friend Danni died.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. Of course you’ll be sad. It’s only natural.’

  ‘I don’t want to be sad, not tonight. I want to forget about it.’

  She made it sound like a plea rather than a statement.

  ‘Okay,’ Morgan said.

  He remembered her telling him she’d had a friend who’d died suddenly during their last year at university. She hadn’t given him any more information than that, and he hadn’t asked. They’d hardly begun seeing each other by then, but he’d learned enough to know when she didn’t want to talk about something.

  She reached for the vodka and beamed a smile at him.

  ‘Right then, get stuck into this, shall we?’

  An hour later – surprisingly it was only an hour – Morgan noted as he stole a glance at his watch – the level of vodka had moved a fair way down the bottle, while the level of lemonade had hardly changed because they kept forgetting to put it in. Propped on a cushion in front of them was the laptop. They were taking it in turns to read out bits of his book. If Poodle Chafferty was squirming under the spotlight of all this unprecedented attention, he wasn’t letting on, Morgan thought wildly, as Layla elbowed him aside to get at the keyboard.

  ‘My go.’

  She paged up and down, and back again. The laptop tilted sideways on the cushion, like a ship in a storm. Rather than straightening it, she leaned sideways to read out the words on the screen.

  ‘Chafferty crawled slowly towards the cliff edge, sliding through the wet grass like an anaconda after its prey. The dog lay down beside him, panting in Chafferty’s ear. Chafferty put out a hand, restraining the dog from going too close to the edge. Voices rose through the darkness. Two voices, indistinct. He knew at once who they belonged to. Chafferty shrank back. He doubted they could see him in the half-dark should they chance to look up, but he couldn’t risk it. The dog put his head down between his paws and whined faintly.’

  Layla stopped scrolling. ‘Can a dog whine faintly?’

  Her eyes were all bright and sparkly. There was a flake of salt-and-vinegar crisp at the corner of her mouth. He wanted to kiss her so badly that his mind refused to focus on anything else.

  ‘Of course it can.’

  ‘All right, don’t go all huffy,’ Layla said, misinterpreting the shortness in his reply.

  ‘I’m not.’

  Her bare arm was against his. Its velvety warmth made his insides feel like a tightly coiled spring, while his spine seemed to be made of plasticine. He tried to sit up straight but the most he achieved was a slight lean to the left. Immediately, Layla fell into the space and filled it with the lazy liquidity of her body.

  ‘What colour’s the dog?’

  He had to think about that.

  ‘Dark brown,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Has it got a proper poodle cut? Like with stand-uppy bits on its legs and head and everything?’

  ‘Ish a working dog, not a fucking entrant for Crufts.’

  Layla giggled and leaned further into him, her head resting on his shoulder. He ducked his own head so that it rested on hers, as his arm found its natural way around her.

  ‘It’s funny, your book,’ she said lazily.

  ‘Good. It’s meant to be.’ He snapped the laptop lid down. ‘So, what have you found out?’

  He held her a little closer, breathing in the flowery, slightly medicated scent of her hair.

  ‘Found out? About what?’

  ‘Me. You said if we got pissed, you’d find out who I really am.’

  She twisted round, her beautiful eyes gazing at him in surprise. ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I? Ah, well, in that case I may have to ask you some questions, like, what’s your favourite colour?’

  ‘You could, and I would say blue but really I’ve got no idea. Or, we could just do this…’

  He kissed her.

  ***

  She wanted this. She wanted him. So much. They’d kissed before, lots of times, but never like this. Their lips hardened against one another as the intensity of their kisses increased, building to such a height that her whole body sang with pleasure and longing. The picnic rug had crept from beneath them and they were half lying on the dusty floorboards.

  They paused for breath. Moving a little apart from him, she tilted her head back. The upside-down view through the window brought on a wave of dizziness. She struggled into a sitting position.

  ‘Wassa matter?’

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed in concern. A protective arm went around her shoulders. The vodka bottle with its depleted contents stood on the floor on his other side, glinting in a shaft of pinkish light from the window.

  Layla stared at it, couldn’t tear her eyes away. That night, the party – still so uncompromisingly fresh, its images etched deep into her brain. And Danni downing vodka before she went off and did…what she did. She’d been a fool to think she could erase those pictures from her mind, by whatever means. Perhaps the vodka had been a subconscious choice, a message from that part of her brain where the narrative never went away…

  No.

  She fought the unwelcome emotion. ‘I’m okay. A bit spinny, that’s all.’

  ‘Spinny?’ he laughed, then stopped, knowing it wasn’t the right time for laughter.

  ‘Up here.’ She tapped her temple.

  ‘Shall I get you some water?’

  ‘No. No thanks.’ Her words collided head-on with his. She needed him to stay close to her. If he moved away for even a second, she would fall into the abyss.

  ‘Better now?’ he asked, after a moment.

  She smiled. ‘Yes.’

  The dizziness had passed; the rest of it had not. Perhaps if she just… Moving closer to Morgan, she linked her arms around his neck, finding his mouth again with new urgency.

  ‘My beautiful girl,’ Morgan whispered, as briefly they broke apart.

  His voice reached her through a mist of unspent kisses. She pressed her lips to the base of his neck, brushing his skin with feather kisses, while her hands moved under his t-shirt and over the hard smoothness of his back. Pulling away, he tugged his t-shirt over his head in one impatient movement, then removed her top and flung it aside. He ran his hands over her shoulders, down her back, his fingers hooking beneath her bra straps, sliding them down.

  Another moment and they were back on the floor, kissing feverishly. Her plait had come loose, or he had pulled it loose – she wasn’t sure which – and his hands were in her hair, raking it back in long, sensuous movements which arched her back and sent her mouth in search of his. As she raised her head, his fingers lost their grip. Between them, they misjudged the movement so that her head fell back and hit the floor, not hard enough to hurt but enough to
cause a jolt of surprise.

  He began to apologise. But the voice Layla heard wasn’t Morgan’s. It was Harvey’s, apologising if their lovemaking had become a bit too rough and he’d unintentionally hurt her, when she’d hardly noticed because her passion for him blotted out the entire world.

  And now she was in danger of losing herself again, drowning in Morgan, his kisses, their shared passion.

  Her heart raced, her chest contracted, wringing the breath out of her. She began to shake uncontrollably. Morgan was watching her, his expression anxious. He was talking to her; she could see his lips moving but could hear nothing except her own pounding pulse. She was on her feet, groping for her top, pulling it on. Morgan was standing, too, moving towards her. She held out her hands, the palms facing him, warning him off.

  And then, without knowing how she got there, she was on the towpath, and running.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Layla paid off the taxi with half the money that was supposed to last for the rest of the week and hurried across the silent quadrangle. Around its perimeter rose the faceless blocks of the first year halls of residence. Filtered light shimmied its way through the frosted glass of the stairwells and shone from a few curtainless windows high up. Otherwise, all was in darkness, apart from a row of street lamps spinning nests of blond light at intervals along the tarmac path.

  Harvey had given her a key pass; one he’d obtained at small cost from a student who was leaving. It had only worked for a couple of weeks before it had been deactivated by the university authorities. With too much at stake for a halls’ occupant to be caught letting in a night-time visitor, there was only one option remaining. Dodging round the side of the building, Layla waggled open the high metal gate that had a faulty lock and a steady flow of illicit traffic as a result. At least Harvey had a ground floor room; it would have been mission impossible otherwise. Her heels sank into the grass as she felt her way along the back of the building in almost total darkness, counting the windows as she went. All this for love!

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Harvey steadied her as she swung her legs over the windowsill and landed in a giggling heap at his feet. ‘Keep the noise down! You’ll get us both shot.’ He helped her up. ‘Are you pissed?’

  ‘Not much. It’s worn off now. Anyway, they can’t shoot me, I’m graduating in a few weeks. That makes me immune. You, on the other hand…’ – she grabbed him, pulling his head towards hers and kissing him hungrily, running her hands over the naked top half of his body – ‘you…’

  ‘Me what?’

  ‘Don’t know. I forgot.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Say it back.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Say it.

  Layla’s hair was gathered up and yanked back from her face, stopping just short of painful.

  ‘Okay, okay! I love you.’

  Nestled into the crook of Harvey’s arm in the tousled single bed, soothed by the steady rise and fall of his huggable rugby-player’s chest, Layla was almost asleep. And then, from somewhere in the shadowy room, music began to play – a soft, repetitive tune that she half recognised. Oh yes, her phone. With effort, she opened her eyes and saw its flashing light on Harvey’s desk where she’d dropped it. She should answer it. It was two o’clock in the morning; it might be important. On the other hand, it was probably a wrong number. Or a nutter.

  Yes, that, definitely.

  After all, it was two o’clock in the morning.

  And then she must have fallen asleep properly, because the next thing she heard was Harvey whispering in her ear, whispering silly, wonderful love-gibberish, as his hands slid over her body.

  ‘You didn’t think I’d finished with you yet, did you, Miss Mackenzie?’

  Layla turned in his arms, breathed in his scent that mingled inextricably with her own. In Harvey’s bed, in his embrace, she was in heaven. Nothing, nowhere, could be better than this. Not ever. She found his mouth with hers.

  Over on the desk, her phone rang again, stopped, beeped a message, then another.

  It was twenty-five minutes before she read it.

  ‘Harv! Wake up! Something’s happened. I have to go.’

  ‘What?’ Harvey rolled over and lay with his hands behind his head, watching as she retrieved her clothes from the floor, stubbing her toe painfully on the corner of the bed as she threw them on. Her shoes – where were they? She switched on the overhead light to find them. Harvey screwed up his eyes.

  ‘Christ, d’you have to?’

  Layla threw him her phone. ‘Read it.’

  ‘Read it to me.’ He pulled the duvet over his head.

  ‘Haven’t got time.’ Layla reached over her shoulders to fasten the top button on her dress. That would have to do. ‘It’s a message from Danni’s phone but it’s not from her. Someone else at the party sent it. They’re really worried about her. I’ve got to get back there, now. Do you want to come with me?’

  Harvey emerged from the duvet and half sat up. ‘Must I?’

  ‘Not if it’s going to take you ages to get dressed, no.’

  He lay down again, glad to be let off the hook. ‘You’re panicking for nothing. I bet it’s someone winding you up.’

  ‘No, it’s not. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. You don’t have any money, do you?’

  ‘Try my pockets.’

  His voice was muffled by the pillow now. Layla raided the pockets of his jeans and came up with a ten pound note.

  ‘This’ll do. I’ll ring you later, let you know if anything’s happened.’

  ‘Which it won’t have. Switch the light off on your way out, babe.’

  Out in the quadrangle again, Layla forced herself to breathe and slow down. Perhaps Harvey was right and she was panicking for nothing. But Helen, the girl who’d rung her using Danni’s phone, was a friend from her course; a responsible type. She wouldn’t mess about.

  At least she’d been able to leave the building by the front door. Getting out wasn’t as problematic as getting in. She’d have to take a chance on the CCTV. As she rounded the corner into the street, she began to hurry again, her heels click-clacking loudly on the pavement. There were sometimes taxis along here, outside the all-night kebab place… Ah, here was one now, coming along the street. She hailed it.

  As the taxi skeltered through the deserted streets, the driver having picked up that there was no time to waste, Layla sent a reply to the text:

  On my way. Don’t leave her.

  Even as she sent it, the feeling was returning that this was a fool’s errand, after all. Even if the girl who’d made the call had been genuinely concerned at the time, she might have been overreacting, and whatever had been going on was probably all over by now. Danni would be tethered in a passionate embrace with that awful Art character – Layla pushed the image from her mind – or dancing, or she might even have taken herself off home. Another little crisis averted.

  How she would laugh at Layla in the morning, tell her what an eejit she was. Layla could hear her now. And to think she’d left Harvey for this. She almost laughed out loud herself.

  And then the taxi slowed as it turned the corner into the street where the party was, and Layla saw the gathering of people outside the house, the red flashing lights of two police cars, and the blue flashing light of the ambulance. And the laughter died inside her.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Three weeks. Three whole weeks and nothing, apart from one text message, received in eventual – and probably exasperated – response to the three he’d sent her. If it wasn’t for that, Morgan might have believed Layla was entirely his own invention, like the imaginary friend he’d had when he was seven. Her name was Honey-Belle, and she’d had blonde hair so long she could sit on it. He used to spend hours in the tumbledown garden shed, arranging old chairs and upturned crates, and crayoning pictures which he fixed to the walls with drawing pins; making a home for her.

  He was going to marry her, too. />
  He didn’t need to read the message any more. He knew it by heart.

  I can’t be with you. I can’t be with anyone. I thought I could but I can’t. I will explain, one day. I’m so sorry. I’m all right so please don’t worry about me any more.

  L. xxx

  How could he not worry? She’d flown out of the boathouse like a tormented spirit, her eyes wide and darkened by…what? Fear, it looked like. Had he frightened her away by loving her, wanting to make love to her? And yet she’d wanted that, too. He wasn’t such a dummy around women that he could have misread her. And she had brought the vodka, which led him to another question – did she have to be drunk in order to have sex with him? Was he really that unappealing?

  In his second text – the first had been a hurried one-liner asking if she was all right – he’d apologised if he’d upset her in any way, but asked if she would please come back so that they could talk. The third, sent after a chequered hour of anger and misery, simply demanded:

  Tell me you’re all right and I’ll leave you alone.

  Morgan rolled over onto his back. The sofa-bed springs twanged. He opened his eyes, then squeezed them shut again as the light hit him with a retina-splitting dazzle. It struck not only through the corrugated plastic roof above but from all sides – he hadn’t pulled down the window blinds last night.

  Once unfolded, the sofa-bed filled most of the space in the lean-to conservatory which doubled as a guest bedroom; the room, which in a former life had been the bungalow’s second bedroom, had been converted to an art studio. Gina, Connor’s partner, taught art to various groups and displayed her paintings at the riverside gallery housed in the old rope factory.

  Connor and Gina had been generous in inviting him to move in with them. Under the circumstances, it was the least they could do, Connor had insisted. He’d been made very welcome, but he couldn’t hang around cluttering up the place for too long. Besides, last night as he’d passed their bedroom door on his way to the bathroom, he’d heard them making love. It had made him feel lonely.