by Alex Wheatle
This final conflict had lasted no more than a minute.
Underground train guards raced to Flynn’s aid. While Brenton made his getaway, bloodying everything he touched.
Oblivious to the shocked eyes that stared at him, Brenton caught a bus to his mother’s home. Whilst on the upper deck, ignoring the amazed gawps of passengers, he pulled off his T-shirt, rolled it up and pushed half of it onto his blood-flowing nose, and the other half onto his badly bitten shoulder. Limping off the bus, he somehow made it to his mother’s home, only kept going by his determination to see Juliet.
Fresh from her visit to the doctor, she opened the door.
“Oh my God!” she screamed. “Brenton; what has happened? Oh my Lord, oh Jesus!”
Brenton looked as if he was about to join Mr Brown. Juliet quickly supported him, grabbing his arm and helping him inside.
“Juliet, Juliet … Jul … Jul … iet.”
He fell on the hallway carpet, blood still pouring from his shoulder, and his knees giving way to shock.
“Brenton! Brenton! What has happened to you? Oh my God, I have to call an ambulance! Oh Jesus. I love you! Love you, with all my heart!”
Brenton prised his eyes half-open, thinking he was going to die. His head swam about in whirlpools, causing his vision to become misty. But he could see an indistinct figure at the top of the stairs. Was it Mr Brown? He’d promised that he would always be there for him, Brenton recalled. Thank God for Mr Brown.
Juliet became hysterical. “Jesus forgive me!”
She laid Brenton on the carpet and picked up the phone, dialling frantically with her blood-drenched fingers. Brenton focused his eyes, and watched his mother coming dreamlike down the stairs. Where’s Mr Brown? he dismayed, before slipping into unconsciousness.
After Juliet had called the ambulance, she spun around and tended to Brenton, tearing off her blouse to stem the blood from his shoulder. She was unaware of her mother, standing in acute shock halfway up the stairs, looking as though someone had kidnapped her heart.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” Juliet whispered. “An ambulance is on its way and you’re going to be all right. You’ve got to be - for your baby. You hear me, Brenton? For your baby!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mother Of Silence
Cynthia Massey’s mind exploded with the thought that perhaps in seven months or so her son would become the father of her daughter’s child; if he lived.
Juliet felt a chilling presence behind her. She turned around and beheld her mother.
For a stretched second, the two women looked at each other. Then Ms Massey rushed to her crimsoned son, cradling his head, wiping blood away from his mouth and nose with her experienced nurse’s hands.
“Is de ambulance coming?” she asked briskly.
“Yes, yes, Mum. I just called them.”
“Run go fetch a towel.”
Her face stained by tears, and forgetting the life inside her, Juliet raced upstairs, marking the banisters with Brenton’s blood.
Ms Massey managed to turn Brenton onto his side and continued swabbing the blood from his torso, praying that he hadn’t gone into shock. He was still breathing; but his body oozed blood, slowly curdling in sickly trickles. She pleasured in Brenton’s faint exhales. How she had wanted to mother him when he was a baby; there was so much she regretted.
Juliet bounded down the stairs clutching two bath towels. A strange irony struck her as she took in the sight of her mother tenderly nestling her son’s head.
Using one of the towels, Cynthia pressed firmly on Brenton’s shoulder wound. His torso convulsed, like a fish that has been freshly caught and thrown down on a ship’s deck. His eyes were vacant.
Five minutes later the ambulance arrived, its siren blasting. After the crew were satisfied that the bleeding had ceased, Brenton was stretchered into the van. As Ms Massey climbed in beside him, Juliet followed, hoping her mother would give her a forgiving glance. But Ms Massey turned her back on her and tended to her son, looking him over with such a powerful maternal care that Juliet felt the lurking presence of jealousy embedding itself into her heart. He’s mine, he’s mine, she thought. I loved him first and I will love him last.
The ambulance hastened its way to Kings College Hospital, where Brenton had made himself a regular visitor. He was wheeled away to receive immediate attention, overlooked by the critical eyes of his mother. Juliet sat brooding in the Casualty foyer, wondering if Brenton would call for her when he regained consciousness.
The doctor informed Ms Massey that Brenton had passed out due to loss of blood and shock. He required many stitches in his shoulder and knees, and his nose would have to be reset. He might well develop sinus problems in the future.
After the doctor had left Brenton’s curtained cubicle, Juliet stole inside, unable to keep away from her brother’s side any longer. She saw her mother seated by Brenton’s bed, gazing at her son, wondering how he had sustained his injuries. He was stirrings‚ tossing his head from side to side, as if reliving a childhood nightmare. His eyes half-open, he mumbled something.
Juliet’s gaze searched her brother’s eyes, willing for him to see her. “He’ll be all right, Mum.”
Ms Massey said nothing, and acted as if she heard nothing.
“Do you want a cup of tea or something, Mum? There’s a vending machine outside in the foyer.”
Ms Massey surveyed her son. “Take time, try and stay still.”
Juliet ambled warily to Brenton’s bedside.
“Don’t touch him!” frosted her mother, feeling a terrible anger.
“He’s my brother.”
Brenton moaned and his eyes flickered wildly, as if he was dazzled by a myriad of disco lights.
“An’ so you jus’ realise‚” whispered Cynthia, her voice echoing a passionate accusation, finally meeting her daughter’s eyes.
The tiny life inside Juliet suddenly grew heavier. Her features abruptly appeared drawn as she felt the dawn of her morning sickness.
Ms Massey’s eyes returned to the helpless sight of her son. Juliet’s gaze dwelled on her stomach as Brenton muttered again.
“We all make mistakes, Mum,” Juliet finally replied.
Ms Massey chose to ignore her daughter once again.
For close to an hour, mother and daughter sat in silence, observing Brenton’s every fidget, while a nurse entered the cubicle, monitoring his stability. He regained semi-consciousness, but was in too much pain to worry about his mother and sister exchanging silent glares. His shoulder felt as if someone had drilled a hot poker through it. Trust Terry Flynn to fight like a girl, he thought.
Soon, Brenton was wheeled away to a ward, through the hospital corridors. He wondered what Mr Lewis would say about it all. And what had happened to Flynn? he suddenly thought. He might have been brought to the same hospital. Could be interesting if they were parked in adjoining hospital beds.
Ms Massey escorted her son to the ward, while Juliet, sick of her mother’s contempt, sought out a pay phone to call Mr Lewis. Floyd received the call. “Hello, is Mr Lewis there?”
“No, it’s Floyd.”
“This is Juliet. I’ve got some bad news. It’s Brenton, he’s in hospital.”
“In hospital! Again?”
“Yeah, I think he’s been in a fight.”
“Oh no … Flynn. Is he all right?”
“Who’s Flynn? Yeah. He’s all right, he just came round. His shoulder is ripped open, his legs are cut, and he’s got a broken nose. Who’s this Flynn?”
“Er, one of his enemies.”
“One of his enemies?”
“It’s a long story. Don’t worry about it now. He’s all right now, innit?”
“Yeah, he’s at Kings College.”
“Where else? I’ll tell Mr Lewis as soon as I see him, all right?”
“OK, then. Thanks, bye.”
“Bye.”
Floyd dropped the phone and raced upstairs to his room, where a smoking Bis
cuit was studying some newly acquired watches.
“Brenton’s in hospital,” Floyd blurted out. “Flynn must have catch up wid him. His shoulder is all tear up.”
“Shit, they must have had a serious clash. I wonder what happened to Flynn?”
Floyd dropped himself on the bed. “And I wonder where they clashed. Brenton was going on weird yesterday, after he lost his job. He mus’ have got all vex and started looking for Flynn.”
“Nah,” Biscuit disagreed, taking a Mars Bar out of his pocket, “he ain’t that mad. They must have clashed on the street, innit.”
“And Flynn always carries his blade,” added Floyd gravely.
“I hope he’s safe and t’ing. Where is he?”
“Kings College. He might as well move in there; doctors probably recognised him when he reach.”
“So what – should we forward there and see how he is?”
“Yeah. His sister’s there already, and your eyes are gonna think they’re having a feast when you look ’pon her.”
“Let’s step it up then!”
“Hold up. I’ve got to leave a message for Lewis.”
Floyd went downstairs to the kitchen where he found the notepad and pen, and hurriedly scribbled a message for the social worker while Biscuit waited impatiently at the front door.
Two hours later, Juliet returned home, finally satisfied that Brenton was no longer in any immediate danger. Why did I open my big mouth? she chided herself. What was Mum doing at home at that time, anyway? How long had she been waiting on the stairs?
Fate had conspired against her, and was wearing its full battle armour. Her mother would have found out about her pregnancy in due course. But now! She herself could scarcely come to terms with it, let alone coping with the fact that her brother was the father. And now, that bastard Fate had to meddle in her affairs, when it had no right to.
She left her mother at the hospital; Ms Massey was showing everybody how concerned she was about her son. Floyd and Biscuit offered their sorrows, affirming that Brenton had a ‘solid body’, so his recuperation would be swift. Biscuit was particularly charming, running errands, collecting coffees and generally being the antidote to the gloom with which everybody else was infected.
An hour or so since Floyd and Biscuit made their hurried way to Kings College, Mr Lewis appeared in Brenton’s ward. He found Ms Massey stooping over her sleeping son, appearing washed-out and frail. Poor woman, he thought. Only recently she found her son, and now this.
Floyd and Biscuit were standing at the foot of the bed, whispering to each other, with the name Flynn resurfacing from time to time.
“Ms Massey, I believe?” Mr Lewis addressed her.
“Yes. An’ you are the social worker?”
“I came as soon as I received Floyd’s message. How is he?”
“He’s not too bad now. The doctor says he’s stabilised but he lost a whole ’eap of blood. He nearly bled to death. He’s sleeping now but he’s conscious.”
Mr Lewis stole a glance at Floyd and Biscuit, still muttering to themselves. “Does anyone know what happened? Was it a fight?”
“It seems so,” replied Cynthia. “The doctor say it look like as if someone tek a chunk outta him.”
“Someone bit him?” Mr Lewis gazed upon Floyd once more, asking a thousand questions. “Floyd, do you have any idea what happened?”
“No. But I know he was upset yesterday ’cos he did lose his job. He was made redundant, and he was going on weird when he reach home yesterday.”
“Did you see him this morning?”
“No. By the time I got up, Brenton lef’ the yard.”
Mr Lewis’s eyes turned to Brenton’s mother. “Is there anything I can do? If you want I can drive you home when you’re ready.”
“T’ank you, dat would be very kind.”
An hour later, Mr Lewis drove Cynthia home, accompanied by a subdued Floyd and a crisp-eating Biscuit. The quartet talked little on their journey, all of them shaken by Brenton’s near-death.
Mr Lewis saw Ms Massey to her front door, aiding her as she walked. She thanked him, offering an exhausted smile, then went inside, leaving Mr Lewis to ponder if Brenton’s assailant was the same one as before.
Juliet heard her mother come in while preparing something to eat in the kitchen. She looked along the hallway and found the carpet still specked with Brenton’s dried blood. Ms Massey took off her coat and noticed the hideous sight of a bloody hand print on the banisters. Juliet’s hand.
It was as if the bones that had remained hidden under the floorboards for years had now crawled out and were bleeding over everything, reminding everyone of the anguished suffering of their solitary existence.
“You want something to eat, Mum?”
Ms Massey silently trundled along the hallway, towards the kitchen.
“I’m doing a bit of mackerel on ’ard-dough bread,” Juliet offered, her heartbeat racing.
Cynthia sat down at the kitchen table, her eyes unforgiving, and her fury obvious. As Juliet nervously buttered the bread, a little dob of margarine dropped onto the floor. Cynthia’s eyes followed it.
“The devil himself mus’ ah possess you! Wha do yuh, chile? You ’ave destroyed everyt’ing. You’re nutten but a leggo-beast. Do you realise what you ’ave done?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mum.”
The fish and bread suddenly looked unappetising.
“So you sorry. Sorry can’t repair the damage. What the Lord God ’ave I done to deserve dis?”
“Sorry.”
“Stop say dat ’cos you mek me sick.”
Juliet’s eyes became sodden. For a fraction of a second, she considered taking the bread-knife and plunging it deep into her stomach. She wanted to tell her mother how she loved Brenton. But how could she?
“My own son,” Ms Massey continued, “who I ’ave prayed to see again for years. An’ my own daughter is carrying his chile! Haven’t I paid enough, Lord? You’re a disgrace! A damn disgrace!”
“Well, at least I done it out of love,” Juliet retaliated, “which is more than you can say for how you felt for my father!”
“Your fader has not’ing to do wid dis.”
“But it’s true.”
“What do you know what is true! You’re carrying my son’s chile!”
“Yes, that is true. Your grandson! Are you gonna abandon him like you did your son?”
Cynthia’s senses imploded, and a thousand regrets attacked her memories. Juliet would have given anything to take that last statement back. Her mother raised herself deliberately, as if every movement bred a considerable pain. Juliet watched her struggle along the hallway, and realised that nothing would ever be the same. Had her consuming lust caused her family to be torn apart? she asked herself. Whoever dig the ditch, she thought, shall fall in it; a song from the Gong she had heard while in Brenton’s bed. And she visioned herself wiping the sweat off her brow as the other hand held the spade.
EPILOGUE
Coming In From The Cold
30 May, 1980
Mr Lewis drove Brenton to his mother’s home from the hospital, escorted by Juliet. Something disquieted him on his journey; he didn’t know what, but the tension in the air was tangible. Why didn’t Ms Massey come with Juliet to collect her son from the hospital? And what had alarmed the girl? She looked as guilty as an accused burglar in the dock wearing the victim’s dress. But what was she guilty of?
Brenton looked like a war casualty. Cotton wool and plaster masked his nose, and the padded dressing on his shoulder made him resemble an American footballer. His knees seemed to be wailing for air under the recently wrapped bandaging. Oblivious to his appearance, Brenton peeked out of the window and saw the late May sun playing hide-and-seek behind a flimsy cloud.
Juliet took note of the road signs, wondering what Brenton’s reaction would be when she told him about her pregnancy.
The social worker pulled up outside Ms Massey’s home and helped Brenton out of t
he car.
“All right, I can manage.”
“Brave to the last, eh?” Mr Lewis laughed. “Some thanks I get.”
“Didn’t I thank you at the hospital? What do you want me to do? I can’t get down on my knees and say thanks and praises ’cos my knees ain’t too good.”
Mr Lewis laughed again and returned to his motor. “I have to get to Blue Star House for a meeting. Take care, won’t you.” His eyes searched for Juliet, who was turning her key in the latch. “Bye, Juliet. Say hello to your mum for me.”
“Yes I will, thanks for everything.”
The social worker performed an abrupt U-turn, again wondering as he did so if Brenton would ever come back to the hostel again.
Once inside the house, Juliet took Brenton by the arm and helped him into the front room.
“You want something to eat, or a liccle something to drink?”
“Yeah, but later. I wanna hear what you said you have to tell me.”
Brenton laid himself gingerly on the sofa, and once comfortable, massaged his right temple. Juliet inhaled sharply, then placed Brenton’s bag of clothes in an armchair. Before she could speak, her brother asked, “Where’s Mum?”
His sister’s eyes flicked towards the ceiling. “She’s not well. She’s been in bed for the last couple of days, but she wants to see you after I chat to you.”
She closed her eyes for a long second, sensing her body temperature warming like a switched-on kettle. “You sure you don’t want nothing to eat?”
“No.”
“Well, er, this ain’t really fair after all what has happened to you.”
“What ain’t fair?”
“You comfortable?”
“Yes!”
“Promise you won’t go all cuckoo?”
“I’m hardly likely to in the state I’m in.”
“All right, all right.” Her voice dropped. “I’m pregnant.”
“You’re what?”
“Pregnant.”
Juliet collapsed beside her brother, as if someone had kidnapped her legs. Speechless, Brenton looked upon her stomach, thinking dazedly that part of him was now part of her; his cherished sister. But should he skin his teet’ or bawl for mercy? He did neither, but wrapped a supportive arm over Juliet’s shoulders. “Shit” he breathed. “What you gonna do? You all right?”
