by Chris Ward
14
He slumped against the back of the corner bench, trying to stay upright as the world revolved around him in thousands of interlinked circles. Oh God, why now?
He hadn’t meant to, had only wanted a couple for his nerves. Just to steady himself before going to the church for the funeral service. Hell, he had only had a couple of hours to kill, but although he had still felt hungover as he walked in through the door, he couldn’t have a soft drink, he just couldn’t. Soft drinks did nothing; they couldn’t help him.
The latest in a succession of double whiskeys watched him from the table. Matt eyed it suspiciously, sure it was sliding from side to side to confuse him. The pint of Stella that loomed over it like a big brother seemed much more stable. He reached out a hand and swung it from the table, spilling a few drops as he jerked it towards his mouth.
It tasted better than the whiskey but so weak in comparison, like driving a Fiesta when you had the money for a Porsche. He had never been a great fan of beer. He rarely drank to be social anymore, only to reach a state where the world seemed to make sense. To reach the heady drunken equilibrium he craved, beer took so much effort. A few glasses of a decent whiskey, or any spirit for that matter, and he was good to go.
He didn’t remember a great deal about the pub – the Tamerton Arms – having been too young to frequent it before he left. Even so, it looked like it had changed hands or at least had a refit, for the dingy, smoke-stained interior he remembered had been replaced with shiny surfaces and new carpets, deep blue, almost black walls, pine tables, new chairs and benches. A large television hung from one corner, a hand–written poster beside it advertising upcoming Premiership games. The gambling machines were modern, rather than the old space invaders and pinball machines Matt would have expected. The windows looked newly double–glazed. The usual memorabilia that adorned country pubs remained: framed photographs of darts and pool teams from twenty years ago, a small trophy cabinet set into the wall behind the bar, the odd landscape painting, a few framed newspaper articles and numerous old beer mats pinned to the walls, but otherwise the pub possessed a sheen of modernity which, although Matt was sure it wouldn’t please the locals, made it feel at least remotely welcoming to strangers.
Such as he felt he was.
A group of people stood by the bar, four or five men, a couple of women. Most of them were older than him, in their late thirties and early forties. He thought he recognised one or two, but his vision wouldn’t focus long enough to allow his mind to remember their names. They had recognised him though; even through cloudy eyes he caught the occasional sideways glance, and the odd snippet of derogatory conversation not intended for his ears.
Bethany. They were here for Bethany’s funeral.
He noted the suits and smart dresses, a couple of veils presently pulled up, and wondered why he had not thought to bring one himself. In jeans and a black pullover he was hardly showing respect, but frankly he didn’t care. His father, and indeed Bethany, were lucky he had come at all. If he hadn’t been so keen to get away from Rachel and the kids for a while he might not have come, but it was an excuse to distance himself from the family he was gradually screwing up, just as drinking was an excuse to distance himself from work and reality.
A large, broad-shouldered man, seated on a stool at the bar slightly apart from the others, watched him impassively, not even bothering to hide his interest. Matt felt sure he should recognize the man but his memory failed him and he turned away in disinterest, back to the whiskey which he finished in a single swallow. He gagged as it burned his throat, and supped on the pint to wash it down. A couple of people had turned round to stare at him.
‘What?’ he said, spreading his arms, palms out. ‘What’s so interesting?’
There were a couple of muted responses, but most of the people turned away. Only the man sitting alone continued to watch him with those same steady eyes.
Matt scoffed at him and sipped a little more of his pint. He turned away and looked out of the window for a while, pinpointing objects in the distance and trying to focus on them. He laughed as first a tree then a kid on a bike dissolved into a swirling mess like a watercolour painting left out in the rain.
He knew he had to sober up, but the part of his mind that loved drinking so much had taken over, controlling him now like an automated robot. So what if he was drunk? He liked drinking. He could get drunk if he wanted. It wasn’t as though he had been close to his sister, after all. And like he had thought before, she was lucky he had even shown up.
‘You’re fucking lucky,’ he murmured as he finished the pint.
For a while he sat and stared forward into space, feeling himself drift away so comfortingly, as he often did. He had rebuilt that wall around him, managed again to block out his fears and the harshness of reality. He felt safe in here. Safe from harm.
But as always happened, after a while the chinks began to appear, those spots of light that pierced the comfortable darkness and hurt his eyes so much. He pushed himself up and stumbled over to the bar. He needed another drink, something to repair the cracks before they got too big and started to let the world back in.
A tall, young barman approached him with apprehension written on his face. Matt recognised the sort: the kid was loath to serve him and knew he shouldn’t, but his fear of Matt starting any trouble would compel him to pour the whiskey anyhow. Matt only had to ask.
‘Same again,’ he slurred. ‘Double. Forget the pint.’
The other man sat just to his right, a small group of people beyond him. He heard someone mention his name.
‘What?’ Matt sneered. ‘What’s the fucking problem?’
A couple of people turned towards him. A man of about his father’s age started to say something, but one of the women put a hand on his arm, pushing forward.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself, getting drunk like that,’ she said, her voice hooting like the call of an owl. Through blurred vision Matt thought he recognised her as Paula Jenkins, a local busybody who used to teach piano out of her house across from the churchyard, as well as leading the church choir. He didn’t recognise the man, but Colin Jenkins had run off with some supermarket checkout skank when Matt was about thirteen, so this was probably the replacement.
‘On the day of the poor girl’s funeral. It’s disgraceful!’ the man chimed in.
Matt felt a building rage inside him. ‘Fuck off,’ he slurred. Across the bar, the young barman had paused halfway through pouring Matt’s drink. ‘What would you know?’
‘Have some more respect, for Heaven’s sake,’ the man continued, patting the woman’s arm reassuringly.
‘Oh, just take a jump,’ Matt growled, standing up. Matt wasn’t physically imposing but he still had half a head on Paula’s protector. The man backed away. ‘Not like it’s your sister, is it?’ Matt shouted at him. ‘Not like they’re about to bury your fucking sister! You old –’
‘Now listen here –’ one of the others began. In between them, the sitting man had pushed his glass away.
‘You really think she’d give a shit about you?’ Matt snarled. ‘She didn’t even care about her own family, let alone a bunch of nosey old pricks like you.’
He swayed from side to side, putting one hand on the bar to keep his balance. The ground seemed far too close, but for the moment his anger held him upright.
‘Bethany was just a freak,’ he slurred. ‘She couldn’t even speak. Didn’t do anything, like you think she’d care for all this –’
The broad-shouldered man rose to his feet, towering over Matt. Sober, Matt knew he would recognize him, but names and faces remained jumbled in his mind.
‘Get out of here and sober up, Matthew,’ the man said.
‘Fuck off, you –’
Pain exploded in Matt’s cheek and he crumbled to the floor like a statue made of crepe paper, only aware as he rolled and looked up that the man had punched him. Pain jabbed him through the numb veil of his drunkenness and he g
ingerly touched one side of his face, wondering if anything was broken.
He heard commotion behind him; felt his eyes roll as his hold on consciousness drifted. He heard someone muttering about taking him home, then, as heavy hands grabbed his shoulders, the world faded into blackness, and not for the first time, he was grateful.
15
Matt’s face struck a hard plastic surface and he jarred awake. His cheek burned with a searing pain, and he rolled on to his back, helped by strong hands pulling at his shoulders. He peered up through a spinning haze, saw only a sterile whiteness everywhere, and reached up to rip away a hanging curtain that draped half over him like a death shroud. It left a dampness across his face, and he wiped one hand across his eyes and looked up, only to find the huge, looming figure of a man standing with one leg on either side of Matt’s body, holding something Matt didn’t recognize in his hand. It was gun-sized but made out of white plastic. Matt thought of Star Trek and ray guns, and incredibly, began to laugh.
Icy water doused him, and he cried out, lifting his hands to divert the flow. The man simply moved the shower nozzle to the side, until it once again pointed straight into Matt’s face.
‘Okay, okay, get that off me!’
The water slowed to a thin trickle then stopped altogether. Matt writhed on the floor, feeling sick and wet and utterly pathetic.
‘The funeral starts in an hour,’ the man said. ‘If you’re not there, I’ll come looking for you. When I find you I’ll give you a real hiding, one you’ll never forget, and one you’ve really deserved for a long time. Don’t tempt me to start it now.’
‘Okay, okay . . .’
‘Similarly,’ he continued, ‘If you show your father up . . .’
‘All right, I get the picture.’
Matt climbed to his feet, one hand wiping water out of his eyes. A hand gripped his hair and he found himself shoved backwards into the shower. His feet slipped, the man let go and Matt slammed against the side of the plastic cubicle and slid down to the floor. He clutched at his side where a metal hand rail had struck him. He waited for the water, but it stayed off.
‘Don’t get fucking cocky with me,’ the man said. ‘I’m not your father. You don’t push me around. You’ve got a nerve coming back here after what you did –’
‘Dad invited me –’
‘I don’t give a bag of chicken shit. We were well rid of you. At least we found out what you were really like.’
‘Like father like son, eh?’
Matt heard rather than saw the man step forward, and he waited for the strike. None came. Standing over him, he could sense the man’s tension, sense him holding back, wanting desperately to hit out, to smash Matt up like an old wooden bed frame.
‘Like I said, the funeral begins in an hour.’
Drunk or not, Matt remembered him now. Why he hadn’t picked up that stern, gruff voice before he just blamed on the whiskey.
‘Good to see you again, Uncle,’ Matt said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
‘Don’t “uncle” me, Matthew,’ he said. ‘Sober up, for your own worthless sake and show some damn respect. I’ll see you in an hour.’
Uncle Red began to walk away. Matt looked up at the man’s back, the huge arms and wide shoulders. He suddenly felt a little foolish, adopting such an aggressive attitude when threatened by this bull of a man. Whatever affection they had once shared had clearly died the night Matt had walked away from Tamerton with the intention never to return.
Red stopped in the doorway and turned back. A couple of huge strides brought him back close to Matt, and his taut, lined face peered down. His eyes revealed not a hint of compassion, just a complete, utter contempt.
‘One more thing. I don’t ever want to hear you speak ill of Bethany again. Your sister was worth more than you’ll ever know. To your father, and to me. If I hear you speak like you did of her again . . . I will destroy you. Do you understand me?’
Matt felt the resilience drain from his voice. ‘We used to be friends –’
‘You left it all behind. You shattered it all.’ He glared at Matt for a moment before continuing. ‘Bethany, for all her frailties was twice the person you’ve clearly become.’ He sighed. ‘I often wondered what became of you, whether you made yourself into a man or not. Huh. It seems you’ve managed to make yourself into a sniveling wreck. So much for the big, wide world, eh? You’re pathetic.’
Matt started to rise, but Red’s hand dropped on to his shoulder, holding him down, and Matt felt the iron strength in the man’s arms.
‘Remember what I’ve said. I’ve marked you. Do not cross me, Matt. I have nothing to lose that hasn’t already been taken.’
A warning flashed in Matt’s mind like a neon sign: do not mess with this man.
Red glared at Matt a moment longer, then stood up and went out without waiting for an answer.
Matt’s throat felt dry; his body trembled and he tried to tell himself it was because of the cold water. He had known Red his whole life. He was the closest thing his father had to a brother, and he had been around a lot even when Matt’s mother had still been alive, staying in one of the many spare bedrooms of their house for days on end. After his mother died Red had practically moved in, living and working with his father, helping out in the house and with the maintenance of the grounds. He wasn’t married, and didn’t have any immediate family Matt knew of. He had a small cottage tucked away down a little lane a short way out of the village, but Matt had never been to it. Red had been around Matt’s family almost daily, but his own life was one of much rumour and speculation.
Red was a carpenter by trade. He sold homemade furniture; his craftsmanship was exquisite and widely desired. He had never owned a car, and rumour claimed he felled the trees himself and hauled them back to his house by hand, which went some way to explaining his legendary strength. As a boy Matt remembered Uncle Red as a fiercely warm man with big hands and tender words, but as a teenager he had heard stories about foolhardy men who’d taken Red’s strength on in the bar, and what had happened to them. Uncle Red wasn’t a man to cross.
Red wasn’t actually his name. Matt didn’t know his real one, but Red was a nickname, taken, Matt assumed, from the copper-coloured hair that grew in thick curls down over his ears and around the base of his neck. Matt still couldn’t believe how he hadn’t recognised the man he had once called Uncle. Red had barely aged in fourteen years; his hair was just a little shorter, his face just a little more grizzled. He looked harder and stronger if anything, unlike Matt’s father who had once been the only man in the village close to Red’s size. Now Ian Cassidy looked faded, a shadowy specter of the man he had once been.
As he climbed to his feet, Matt felt wearier than ever, and just wanted to get through the funeral and get out of Tamerton. Red scared him, though he hated to admit it. He didn’t like to think what Red might be capable of. The man was an enigma, certainly, but to a young, pre–adolescent Matt, he had always been a harmless one.
Once upon a time, they had got on fine.
Matt closed his eyes, squeezing the pain from his mind. Physical and . . . more.
(He sees his father’s face, those desperate, pleading eyes, mud–flecked but also speckled with blood, a wide cut beneath his eye, his lip split open and a gash on the left side of his face. No, please, no more.
And then his own face, as though seen from without – lips pulled back in a snarl, vicious, evil eyes that couldn’t surely be his own –
And the weapon, the length of wood, a tree branch recently fallen, still with some leaves that hung like crash survivors on tiny shoots.
Pulled back over his head.
No more.
(Down)
(Down)
(Down –)
Moans, the sound of a broken man crying for forgiveness –
No more.
Anger and violence and hatred boiling in his head –
(Again)
And power: wonderful, lustrous power –
> (Again)
Strength, oh what strength, power, oh what power
(Again)
No . . . more . . .
(Down –) until the sounds die, until the cries fade to moans, and the branch lies in two battered pieces at his feet.
With the speed of air escaping through a torn tire, his anger is sucked away. Bloodied with another’s blood, crying the tears of a child, he backs off into his own tragedy, defeated.
Through his father’s bloody gaze he sees himself running away).
###
Bethany’s Diary, February 15th, 1985
Tonight I followed her footprints in the snow. I knew she’d come back sooner or later, come back to visit me, and she did. She loves me, Mummy loves me.
They were big footprints, as though Mummy was wearing shoes. I didn’t realize Mummy needed shoes where she went, but I guess even angels get cold feet.
They led down through the wood towards the stream, frozen over by the cold, and up the hill on the other side. I had to cross by some stepping stones and very nearly fell in, they were so icy. I followed the path up to the old chapel, where Daddy tells me never to go. I don’t know why, it looks just like an old ruin to me.
I’ve only ever seen it once before, when I followed Matty up one day last summer. I found him sitting by a stone rising from the ground, just outside. He looked like he was praying, but when I got closer I realised he was crying. I reached out and touched his shoulder but instead of being comforted like I’d hoped, he went mad. He screamed at me and ran away into the woods. I don’t know why I scare him so much but ever since then he’s never looked at me the same.
I couldn’t find my way back and wandered around there for hours. I wondered what Matty had been crying about, and looked at the rock sticking out of the ground, to see if there were any words written on it that might explain to me, but it was blank. I think Matty must have been in trouble at school or something, I don’t know. Perhaps he just goes out there to be alone.
