“And what did doing that get you?”
“Oh, you know, respect - ” He loved making her smile. “So, we had a few meetings, and I was only a kid and I was a bit of a tosser, so I thought I’d break the rules and ask. And he laughed like a drain and slapped me on the back, and he said, Jack, all men do this, I guarantee it. By the time he reaches forty, every man who’s ever lived a life worth a damn has got something from his past that could blow up in his face and wreck his life. I just keep mine on display.”
“And that’s your explanation for a stash of pills you can never take? Okay, I’ll think about that one. So what happened to Brian?”
“He had a meeting with this real angry young group. He was giving them advice about their live show, but they were white-hot and crazy arrogant. One of them thumped the table too hard.” Jack shrugged. “Brian’s past finally caught up with him.”
“Proper rock’n’roll.”
“I know. No-one knew whether to laugh or cry when they heard. His obituary was ridiculous. It was in The Times, but they got an NME journo to guest it. The headline was An Industry Mourns, but there were all these terrible phrases like ground-breaking talent and Brian’s death has left a huge void, and no-one was quite sure if he’d done it on purpose.” He felt the vibration of her laughter when she leaned against him. “Ask me what the band were called.”
“Alright. What were they called?”
“You won’t believe me, but I’ll tell you. This is true, I swear, they were called, Everything Explodes.”
“No! You made that up, I don’t believe you!”
“I said you wouldn’t. But honest to God, that really was their name.”
Somewhere in the laughter, they began kissing again.
chapter five (now)
Davey was at a cocktail party, and someone was jabbering tirelessly away down his ear. He held a large martini glass festooned with umbrellas and cherries, and he was naked. He thought if he could start a funny conversation with the woman beside him, perhaps no-one would notice, but he couldn’t make head nor tail of what she was saying.
“Sorry, could you say that again - ”
“ - said if you don’t wake up soon, I’m eating it myself. I know you can hear me, mate, you might as well open your eyes.”
Priss was sitting cross-legged on the end of his bed, draped in a silky red bedspread that made him think of lingerie. He looked hastily away.
“You’re turning into a Morlock,” she told him.
“Sorry.”
“I’m going to put that on your gravestone. I brought you breakfast in bed.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s a bribe,” Priss continued. “I’m putting you in my debt so you’ll be forced to come and talk to me instead of hiding in the library and pretending to write letters.”
“I’m s - ” Davey bit his tongue, and took the mug of coffee. Priss peeled off a long strip of fat and dropped it into her mouth before passing him the bacon sandwich.
“You shouldn’t eat that,” said Davey, before he could stop himself.
Priss shrugged. “I’m only sixteen, I can get away with it. Besides, that’s the only bit I’ve eaten. You’re about to eat the whole sandwich.” She licked her fingers with her pink tongue. “Get a move on. I’m not very nice when I’m bored.”
“Um, can you give me a minute?”
“To do what?”
“To get up.”
“I’m not stopping you.”
“I - haven’t g-g-got any pyjamas on.”
“You are such a fuckin’ prude.” Priss turned around. “Go on, then.”
Davey scurried out from beneath the covers, grabbed an armful of clothes and locked himself hastily in the bathroom.
“I don’t know why you’re bothered,” Priss shouted through the door. “I’ve already seen it.”
“What? When?”
“When you was dead drunk and puking everywhere, soft lad, when d’you think? Are you stopping in there all day?”
“I’m sorry, I’m cleaning my teeth - ” Davey chewed frantically on his toothbrush, struggled into his jeans, pulled his t-shirt over his head and unlocked the bathroom door. “But, but you’re not even dressed!”
Priss looked at him challengingly and folded her arms. She was wearing a shapeless black jumper that exposed her left shoulder, thick woolly socks, and a pair of boxer shorts.
“Yes, I am.”
“But you’re only wearing - ”
“If I wore this to the beach you’d think I was overdressed. You can’t see my tits or my minge, can you?”
“It’s j-j-j - ”
“July,” said Priss, leading the way down to the kitchen. “Justice. Juvenile delinquency. Jeeves.” She switched to a bad approximation of an upper-crust accent. “Jolly good show. Just not on, what? No, that’s fuckin’ terrible, that, isn’t it?” Davey wasn’t sure what the polite answer would be, but fortunately she just kept talking. It was a bit like having the radio on. “Do posh people really use ‘what’ as a placeholder, or is that people like me are supposed to go round saying Go ’ed all the time? I’ve always wondered. Hey, Kate, look who I found snoring under his covers like a pisshead farm-hog.”
“I don’t snore,” said Davey feebly.
Priss sniffed. “Like you’d know.”
“Why are you always so horrible in the mornings?” asked Kate, ruffling Priss’ hair.
“I’m horrible all the time.”
“Yes, but you’re worse in the mornings.”
“The badness builds up overnight while I’m asleep.”
“So you did sleep?”
“Don’t fuss.”
“Did you?”
“I was exploring the Dark Side. I found a dinner service in there. I think it’s Meissen.”
“What makes you think it’s Meissen?” asked Davey.
Priss favoured him with a pale-eyed stare. “’Cos it’s got a Meissen mark on the bottom.”
Davey opened his mouth to ask how Priss knew what the Meissen maker’s mark looked like, but then closed it again.
“It’s not safe in there,” said Kate. “And it worries me when you stay up all night.”
“I’m a teenager,” said Priss airily. “I’m supposed to have messed-up sleeping patterns and a shitty attitude.”
“So you are.” Kate put her fingers under Davey’s chin and tipped his face up so the light caught his bruises, finally fading under the influence of time and rest and sunshine. “And how are you?”
“I’m fine,” said Davey. Was this the start of an interrogation?
“Good.”
“You look like George Best,” said Priss. “All yellow.”
“I’m sorry I slept so late,” said Davey. He glanced at his watch and was appalled to find it was nearly eleven o’clock. He hadn’t made it downstairs at a decent hour even once in the five days since he’d rocked up here. Priss was right. He was turning into a Morlock.
“Why?” asked Tom. “We’re not exactly living on a schedule, you know. Have some coffee, it’s fresh.”
“But you keep f-f-f-feeding me and m-m-making me coffee and - ”
“Oh, I expect we’re just madly overcompensating for the hideous crimes of our past lives,” said Kate.
Her tone was light, but for a moment, the whole room seemed to freeze in place.
Then, in unison, Kate and Tom began to move again. Tom said, “Right,” and walked out through the patio doors. Kate murmured something in which the only distinguishable word was ‘later’, and disappeared into the house.
“We’re going out for a walk,” said Priss to Davey.
Davey wondered what would happen if he argued with Priss.
“Here’s the thing,” said Priss. “I really, really want to talk to you. And I’m tougher than you, and we both know it, so I’m always going to win any argument we have. Which means it’s much quicker and less painful if you give in. Also, I brought you breakfast in bed, which, as I may have mentioned, w
as a bribe, and you took it, which means we’ve got a contract. Right?”
“We could talk in the library,” Davey suggested.
“No we couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Never mind.”
Davey noticed for the first time that Priss looked pale and tired, and she had dark shadows under her eyes.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“’Course I’m fuckin’ alright, why wouldn’t I be?”
As they crossed the lawn, she slipped her hand into his. He was surprised by how small and soft her fingers felt.
“So,” said Priss. “Is Alice In Wonderland your favourite book?”
They were sitting in the branches of a gigantic tree whose branches grew horizontally out from its red-skinned trunk and then shot up into the sky. The shape of the branches and the resiny scent made Davey think of a church.
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I can’t choose just one. I don’t know why I brought it really.”
She glanced slyly at him from underneath her hair.
“Is self-knowledge just a word beginning with ‘s’ where you’re from?”
“Okay then,” he said. “If you’re so clever, why do you think I brought it?”
“Ha! You ready? Answer one: ’cos it’s about a fantastical journey from reality, and that’s what you were hoping for when you ran. Answer two: ’cos it’s a book in which altered states are a major feature, and you were absolutely off your face when you packed your bag. Answer three: ’cos it’s a child’s book, and you haven’t been happy since you were a child. Answer four: ’cos you, like its author, are a shy, socially awkward misfit with a stammer.” She laughed at the expression on his face. “I can keep going if you like.”
“How, how, you don’t know anything about me!”
“I know loads about you,” said Priss loftily, without looking at him.
The wind rippled through the tree and blew Priss’ hair away from her immaculate profile. When she wasn’t speaking, he could see past the theatrical make-up and piercings to the classical serenity of her lovely face. He wished he could draw. Raphael, he thought vaguely, or maybe Caravaggio -
“It’s really rude to stare,” said Priss, still not looking at him.
Davey felt himself flush a deep and unbecoming scarlet. “I um, I wasn’t - I wasn’t st-st-st-st - ”
“Stagnant. Strait-jacketed. Streaking. Stalking the girl from round the corner. Stuck up the chimney. Forget it. What do you make of the house?”
“It’s great. The décor’s really interesting.”
“You know interesting’s what British people say when we mean fucking awful, right?”
“It’s just, I don’t know, it’s fashionable.”
“Fashionable?” Priss laughed. “Is that what you think?”
“My mother’s really interested in interior design,” said Davey, knowing he was going to win this one. “The retro look’s been really big recently.”
“Christ,” said Priss. “I’ve met out-of-date cheese with more brains.”
“Sorry?”
“It’s not fashionable, you twat. It’s so old it’s come back in style.”
Davey looked at her blankly.
“It’s the original deal, thicko. Someone half-did that place up back in the late seventies and it’s never been changed. That’s why there’s no books in the library past nineteen-eighty.” She pulled the sleeves of her jumper down to cover her hands. “It’s horrible. Like a tomb. Or a labyrinth. All those fucking rooms, looking out at us. Nothing matches up, I swear it moves around while we’re asleep or something.”
“But it’s beautiful,” said Davey, in surprise. “It’s the best place I’ve ever lived in. I mean, I know I don’t l-l-l-live there, n-n-n-not really, but - ”
Priss laughed. “You need fuckin’ analysing, you do.”
“I’ve been - ” Davey stopped suddenly.
“That figures,” said Priss. “For all the good it bloody did you. Bet you had a crush on your therapist as well.”
“I did not.”
“Your problem is, you get distracted by appearances.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Hard to see through those rose-coloured spectacles, is it? You probably think this place is some sort of Paradise, right? Luckiest break of your life the day you turned up on the doorstep?”
“But it was! I don’t know what I’d have done if - ”
“Look, just ’cos I look like a fuckin’ angel doesn’t mean you can trust me. And just ’cos Kate and Tom did one nice thing doesn’t mean you can trust them.”
“They saved my life!”
“So? Stop feeling grateful and start thinking!”
Reluctantly, Davey remembered the scene in the kitchen this morning.
“It’s not their house, right? Although I reckon they only told you that ’cos they knew I’d say something, they didn’t mention it to me for fuckin’ ages. So what happened to the real owner?”
“I don’t know and I d-d-d-don’t care,” said Davey resignedly.
“You mean you don’t want to think about it. But you’ve got to, okay? We’ve got to. Just look at this place! Whoever owns it must have loved it once. Spent a fortune doing it up. Made it into a real home. And then, they just left. Walked away and never came back. Didn’t turn the power off, didn’t nick the light bulbs, didn’t take the crockery, didn’t take the pans, didn’t take the books off the shelves, left all the clothes in the wardrobes.” She looked meaningfully at Davey’s t-shirt. Davey shivered. “And then one day, Kate and Tom walk in.”
“So what?” said Davey.
With some difficulty, Priss tore off a cluster of long, needly leaves. “See, the thing is,” she said, tugging hard at the tough stalks, “Tom and Kate, they don’t bother you with questions. They just let you, you know, be. It’s not like they don’t care – Christ, anyone that’d mop up your spew, the state you were in – but they just, they don’t pry.” Her smile was brief, but bewitching. “They’re, like, the opposite of parents. And I want to think they’re everything they seem, I really do.”
“Well, maybe they are.”
“And maybe there’s fairies living in the brook and a giant pink teapot orbiting the Earth and Our Lady really does make stone statues cry, but - really?” She wiped her nose on her sleeve, leaving a trail of wet silver. Even this disgusting action, when performed by Priss, seemed almost charming.
“Why can’t you just let it go? I mean, why look a gift horse in the mouth? We’re all happy here.”
“Please,” Priss begged. “Look me in the eye and say Priss, you’re a cynical cow and two adult strangers are being ludicrously nice to us ’cos they’re a couple of living saints, and I’ll shut the fuck up forever, scout’s honour. But tell me this. Why are they hiding in the middle of nowhere, in someone else’s house? And how do they know they won’t get caught?”
Davey shook his head stubbornly. Against all possible odds, he’d taken flight from an impossible situation and found a secret, magical haven. Now Priss was spoiling it all. Why couldn’t she leave it alone? Why did she insist on making him see?
What was so great about the truth, anyway?
“Maybe they’ve done - something bad,” said Davey at last, with deep reluctance.
“Oh, you reckon? Just man up and say the bloody word.”
“Like m-m-maybe they m-m-m - ”
“See, I don’t want to think that,” said Priss. “’Cos I love ’em. Both of ’em. I do. That’s the trouble with love, though, isn’t it? It stops you seeing the truth.”
They sat in silence for a while, Priss tearing at her clump of leaves, Davey desperately trying to find the flaw in her logic. The scent of resin was enough to get drunk on.
“But,” he said at last, “if you really think they’ve – you know, done that – shouldn’t we go to the police?”
“We might be wrong! Do you want to go to the coppers just on the off chance
you’ve caught a murderer? ’Cos I don’t know about you, but I could do without stickin’ my head over the parapet unless I really have to, you know?” Davey looked at her in appalled fascination, but she left no gap in the conversation for him to ask. “We’ve got to find out ourselves. I’m not dobbin’ them in if they’re just hiding from the taxman. I’ll do it for a dead body, but not for anything else.”
“But - ”
“Look,” said Priss, “These are the choices we’ve got. We could walk away and say nothin’. But then what if they have killed someone? What would that make us? Or we could turn ’em in to the police. But what if it is just the taxman? Besides - ”
“What?”
“I want to fuckin’ know,” said Priss. “I’ve got a million ideas and I can’t stand not knowing which one’s right. I mean, maybe Kate’s husband was hitting her and Tom’s her brother and he helped her get away, or maybe Tom’s claustrophobic and Kate’s agoraphobic and they met in therapy and decided to run off together, or maybe they’re both on the run from some dodgy London gang. Or maybe they’re cyber-criminals who’ve had half a billion off the Bank of England, or - ”
“Or maybe they’re star-crossed lovers,” said Davey eagerly, “and they’ve waited decades for their children to grow up so they could be together, or - ”
“Oh, shut up, you dozy twat. You think I’d hang around here for one fuckin’ minute if I thought this was some soppy love story? One of the best things about getting old is you can stop bothering with all that hearts and flowers shite. Anyway, they don’t share a room.”
“And what if we do find out?”
“When we find out,” said Priss, “we make a decision. Maybe we dob ’em in, maybe we just walk away.” She tossed the tuft of needles away. “And if it’s a good enough story, I’ll change a few names and write a bestseller.”
“ - ”
“Good. That’s decided.”
Was it? What had he just committed himself to?
And what if Tom, or Kate, or both of them, really had done something. Wouldn’t that mean they could do the same to - ?
The Summer We All Ran Away Page 7
