Mavis quietly tucked a tenner into her pocket. I asked her where Don wor kipping now.
‘In hell.’
I picked up a cardboard box. It wor heavy and full of mags. Likely as not fishing mags or footie programmes. Eric had said the only reason men go fishing is to get away from their wives. I said that’s the reason only straight men went fishing, and that gay men didn’t need hobbies, to which Eric said, ‘Antiques.’ That made me laugh out loud. I promised him I’d never collect antiques. He promised never to go fishing.
I hadn’t taken two steps when t’ bottom of t’ box gave way and all t’ mags splurged out across t’ lounge carpet. I stood there, mouth open, looking down on t’ bouncy breasts of a brunette who wor smiling winningly up at me. October’s edition of Fiesta.
Mavis let out a howl and fled the room. I dropped to my knees and scooped up all t’ magazines I could wi’ both arms, trying to stuff them back into t’ busted box.
Mother appeared sharpish from t’ kitchen, not wantng to miss the palaver. I wor still on my knees, surrounded by porn mags. Mother giggled.
‘Sorry, I wor just …’ I wor blushing redder than a tom.
Mother said, ‘Don’t you go sneaking any of them into our house.’
‘I worn’t planning on it.’
‘Not that I’ve ever found any. You must keep them well hidden. Better than Mitch did, at least.’
I ignored this. Mavis came scuttling back wi’ a black bin liner. I collected up all of Don’s mags and dumped them in t’ dustbin.
The rubbish late-spring weather wor putting Craner in a crabby mood. Sales wor flatlining. That, and Craner learning that Garthy had secretly upped all t’ prices on his round and wor pocketing the extra dosh. Then Garthy wor taken ill – appendicitis – so his appendix and the truth came out on t’ same day.
Now that the FK Club had moved from Chapeltown into t’ city centre I’d fallen out of going so often. Ultravox, Fad Gadget, B-52’s, Human League, Psychedelic Furs, Cabaret Voltaire, The Normal, wor t’ new bands of t’ new decade, playing new electronic sounds. The Warehouse Club in Somers Street wor now t’ place to see and be seen. It had plate windows, so from out in t’ street you could watch those already inside dancing, see t’ strobe lights swirling and hear t’ cut-glass sound system.
One night the Radclyffe Hall brigade (except for Terry) made a trip out to t’ Warehouse. We queued down Somers Street, underdressed, shivering, waiting to be chosen for entry. It worn’t a case of first-come-first-served; the security goons patrolled the queue, picking folk out. ‘You!’ ‘You two!’
We shuffled forward, waiting. Fizzy wor sporting a scraggy old fur coat over red PVC keks. The coat wor buttonless and looked like a million moths had gorged on it. Since he was both skinny and short, the coat hung down to his calves. I could never work Fizzy out. He never said much, never gave away owt about himsen except to say, ‘Oh, you know …’ when plainly you didn’t.
Camp David had on a friggin’ 1920s flapper dress under a greatcoat, espadrilles, Joan Collins shades and a purple scarf around his head. I wore my usual black leather jeans and boots, but wi’ a white muslin shirt wi’ floppy sleeves that I’d filched from Camp David’s wardrobe.
The security man, thick-set, Kojak slaphead, paused in front of us, then tapped each of us in turn on t’ shoulder, as if we wor being picked out for execution. We strode in wi’ our heads aloft, while t’ rest of t’ queue shuffled and gawped.
We knew that the club wanted us gays to spice things up a bit. The straight punters wor trying to act too cool to care, but you could see them gawping at us while they danced stiffly, hopping from one foot to t’other like they wor trying to avoid stepping on a hedgehog.
Just before midnight a band got up on t’ stage to some futuristic fanfare playback, then spent the next ten minutes tapping the mic heads and adjusting the mix levels. The music wor all plinks and plonks on synthesisers. They had their hair quiffed up and wor all wearing heavy eyeliner. Somehow they still managed to look straight.
While t’ band wor on, Fizzy skedaddled off somewhere. He reappeared much later, looking all smug wi’ himsen. He had a man in tow. They wor coming toward Camp David and me. We wor in t’ middle of t’ dancefloor, shimmying to some Grace Jones number and checking out who wor eyeballing us. The man wor just a dark block outlined by a purple strobe, but when he stepped out of it I nearly fell to t’ floor. It wor a good-looking bloke wi’ loose, dark curly hair and neat-looking specs. He grinned at me knowingly. It wor my friggin’ old schoolmate, Warren.
I pushed the pillow back and sat up in bed wi’ my arms behind my head. My head thudded, I wor thirsty and my throat wor dry as sand. Warren wor leaning on his elbow. He leant across, picked up his specs from t’ bedside table and hooked them back on.
I said, ‘You know that time years back when you pitched up at Gay Lib? I thought I’d scared you off.’
‘You sure gave me a fright. You said you were meeting a girl. I kept thinking, “Here, of all places.”’
‘I said that cos I thought you’d just dropped in by chance. I wor bricking it.’
Warren shook his head. ‘I would have come back, only not long after I started at Manchester Uni and then I joined Gay Soc.’
‘Gay Soc?’
‘The University Gay Society.’
‘Oh, right. I always hated you at school cos you wor a bright bugger. Way cleverer than me. Never had you down for being gay though.’
‘I knew by the time I was twelve. Realising I was turned on by other boys terrified me. But you just know, don’t you? So I kept my head down and studied. Going to university was my escape route.’
‘For me it wor t’ opposite. I thought, “Brilliant, I’m different. Special.” I thought, “Yeah – this is all right, really.” Cos it meant I wouldn’t be tied down by all that girlfriend, relationship, family crap, and I wor free to do what I wanted. I knew enough to keep shtumm about it though. I couldn’t see the point of school, cos all they did wor bang on about getting a job and marriage and supporting your offspring. The same old bicycle wheel going round and round. Remember that book we had to read in t’ third year? The Chrysalids? Where these kids wor different, cos they had telepathic powers, and they knew they had to keep it to themsens? For me, that’s what being gay is – summat special that you have to hide from most folk. I don’t want the whole world knowing about me, if I’m honest.’
‘Like the Masons?’
‘If you say so. I can’t say I’ve ever met the Masons.’
On t’other side of me, Fizzy slept on, flat on his back wi’ his mouth wide open.
‘So what you going to do? After uni?’
‘I want to be an optometrist.’
‘Sounds posh.’
‘You?’
‘Me? Dunno. I won’t be working delivering pop, I can tell you that for nowt. I’ve got plans to be someone one day.’
Fizzy snorted in his kip like a choking piglet. We both started laughing. My laugh wor a dribble, and then Warren egged it on wi’ his own little laugh, and then it wor like we wor trading laughs ’til we wor nearly crying.
‘Oh God,’ Warren said, wiping his eye behind his specs wi’ his finger, ‘I think the residue of last night’s spliff is still in the system. Where did he get that from?’
‘Fizzy? Dunno. I don’t ask. I know he deals a bit. All he said to me was that it wor Moroccan black.’
‘Whatever it was,’ said Warren, throwing the covers back, ‘it was strong stuff. I think I need a black coffee and a fag. I’m booked on the National Express back to Manchester this afternoon.’
I wor putting out the household rubbish when a shadow fell across me. I looked up. Even though he’d lost half a hog of weight, even though his clothes hung from him and his greying hair hung lankly about his lugs, there wor no mistaking him. I kept my hand on t’ dustbin lid.
‘Don?’ I said guardedly.
‘Hello Rick.’ He spoke rapidly, in a hoarse whisper, like time w
or pressing. ‘How’ve you been?’
‘Well enough. What brings you round here?’
He gestured like he wor mulling over t’ answer. ‘Have you heard from Mavis? I mean, how’s she keeping?’
My left hand stayed firmly on t’ dustbin lid.
‘Bearing up, I hear.’
Don nodded. ‘Not like Mavis to buckle under.’
I looked about t’ street, trying to work out where he’d come from. ‘So where are you kipping?’
‘In t’ back of that van.’ He nodded toward a decrepit, dark-blue Leyland van parked on t’ opposite side of t’ street. ‘I’ve got me a mattress, a camping stove, radio – could be worse. Got it parked up a lane toward t’ tip. I wor on a mate’s sofa ’til his missus got fed up wi’ me.’
He closed in on me. He whiffed like a blocked drain. If he wor wanting to kip on our sofa, or even park up outside our house, it worn’t going to happen.
‘You know what I miss, Rick? Liver and onions. Can you believe that? I have cravings for braised liver and onions.’
‘On t’ menu in any caf …’
‘Not the same though, is it?’
‘You didn’t come here to blather on about liver and onions.’
Don fingered the ends of his hair.
‘Did you know the bastards had me banged up for nearly eight hour before they told Mavis? She’d been going frantic, ringing around t’ hospitals and everything, fearing the worst. I tell you, when this fucking jumped-up copper asked me if I wor t’ Ripper I just lost it. Totally lost it. I wor panicking, thinking they wor going to fit me up for all t’ murders. It took four of t’ buggers to hold me down.’
‘She rang Mum.’
‘I know. Pam’s a good’un, all right.’ He ran his sleeve about his nostrils, then said, ‘Will you get a message to Mavis? Tell her you’ve seen me? Let her know … you know …’
‘That you miss your liver and onions …?’
‘Aye, well …’
He nodded, as if this wor as much as he could hope for. He stuck his arm beneath his sweatshirt and scratched his belly.
‘Living rough gives a man time to think.’
He produced a crumpled envelope that had been tucked in t’ waistband of his keks and held it out to me like a kid wi’ a sicknote.
I said, ‘If that’s for Mavis, I’ll not be your errand boy.’
‘It’s not.’
I took the envelope, folded it, slid it into my pocket. ‘I’ll read it later.’
‘You know, Rick, without me your mother wouldn’t have got that job at Clark’s. Christ knows, jobs are scarce enough.’
I lifted my hand from t’ bin lid. ‘At some point all t’ back-scratching gets a bit raw.’
‘We had a nice little business going, me and Mitch. Things ran very smooth for a while. Very smooth indeed.’
‘Until you mucked it up and the law got wind of it.’
‘There’s still some stuff of mine in your garage, you know, that Mitch wor looking after for me. I’ll give you half of what I get for it …’
‘I don’t have it no more.’
‘You didn’t get shot of it? Cos, if you did, then I’m owed … I …’
‘I burnt it. I didn’t want Mother finding it. Or anyone else for that matter.’
Don’s eyes roved about before settling back on me. Only he worn’t looking at me directly, but behind my left ear.
‘Burnt it?’
‘Aye.’
‘All of it?’
‘All t’ knocked-off stuff. The cops have showed up twice here already on Ripper business. That don’t stop them sniffing about for other reasons. I’m not getting nabbed for it.’
Don gazed up at the neighbouring rooftops. A few pigeons wor nestling up on t’ TV aerial, like we had a small audience.
‘All of it?’
‘As good as.’
Summat frighted the pigeons, cos they took off. I said, ‘Can I ask you summat?’
Don turned back toward me and he blinked slowly. Like a reptile.
‘About Gerald. I mean, that …’
‘You did know that Gerald’s carpet business wor just a front? You don’t seriously believe that selling a few fancy rugs would get him that nice house and car? He had a nice young dolly-bird wife, ’til she left him. A couple of years down t’ line things had got a bit hairy for Gerald. He ended up owing some gang up in Tyneside. Some big fish he’d got mixed up wi’. They came for their money. When he couldn’t pay up … That letter …’
‘I’ll read it later.’
‘It’s important that you do.’
He stretched out the fingers of one hand, examining his calluses. ‘You think you know people, Rick? Truth be told, you never really do. Everyone’s just putting out a version of themsens. The one they think the world should see. And that might be different to different folk – one face for t’ missus, one for your mates, another for t’ boss. Gerald …’
‘Heart attack. It wor in t’ paper, Gran read out the death notice. She wor always reading the columns.’
‘A heart attack? I never knew that. Is that what it said?’
Don’s voice wor fraying in his throat.
A neighbour drove by. She tooted a greeting and I waved quickly. I said, ‘Does it matter how he died?’
‘The letter.’
‘It’s about Gerald, ain’t it?’
‘Every time I look at you I’m reminded of him. The older you get, the more I can see him in you. It half kills me. The past plays on your mind like some shitty song that won’t leave your head. That letter …’
‘Am I supposed to read it right now?’
One by one, the pigeons wor returning to roost on t’ aerial.
‘You decide.’
Don turned and walked slowly toward t’ van. I called out after him, ‘Did he know about me? Did Gerald know he had a kid?’
Don’s step broke for a moment, and he cocked his head a little. ‘If it hadn’t been for all this Ripper nonsense …’
As his van pulled away I turned the envelope over and over, stroking it between my forefinger and thumb. I filleted it open and pulled the letter partway out. ‘Dear Richard,’ I read. I stuffed it back into t’ envelope, went indoor and threw it in t’ kitchen waste bin.
Gordon lived in a prefab. He’d been blathering on at me for yonks about wanting me to come over to his ‘abode’ so he could play me some of his favourite 78s. Finally I gave in, if only to get some sort of duty behind me. Truth be told, I wor curious to see how he lived.
There wor seven other prefabs on t’ site, all wi’ neatly turned-out gardens except for Gordon’s, which wor hidden behind a humungous hedge. The prefabs had an air of permanence, like caravans on bricks. There worn’t no bell, so I tapped a coin on t’ porch glass. Gordon opened the inner door, then t’ outer door, looking flustered. He said I wor a tad early, but that it didn’t matter none. Clearly it did.
He tried a light switch, apologised, and footled wi’ t’ leccy meter. The room wor chilly and smelt of stale ciggie smoke and wet wood. I heard a coin clunk into t’ meter box and the dull, cold light brightened slowly, revealing a room of solid dark furniture and threadbare rugs. In t’ middle of t’ room wor two faded leather armchairs, between which stood the 78 gramophone player like a prize exhibit at a show.
Gordon plugged in a lampstand wi’ a fringed shade. All t’ plugs wor dark brown and round-pin. He clicked on t’ lamp, then turned off the overhead light, and the furniture retreated into deeper shadows.
‘Tea?’
‘Aye, if it’s brewing.’
While Gordon wor in t’ kitchen making tea, I nosied about, stroking my fingers along t’ backs of t’ chairs and upending ornaments. The place clearly hadn’t seen a duster in a while. I picked up a paperweight, testing its heaviness in my palm.
Gordon called out from t’ kitchen, ‘Coconut slices?’
I set the paperweight back down.
‘Not for me, ta. Don’t like coconut none.
’
I could hear t’ kettle on t’ gas stove starting to wheeze. I stroked the neck of a candlestick.
‘So you didn’t live here wi’ Brendan?’
I crouched down before a wooden cabinet crammed wi’ 78s in their paper sleeves. I lifted one out, tried to make out the faded silver-on-black lettering. Benny Carter and summat else. I slid it back. Just the thought of ploughing through this lot wor giving me a belly-ache. Why had Gordon insisted that I listen to a cartload of scratchy old 78s? He’d been so friggin’ enthusiastic about it, gassing on and on, and then when I gave in and said I’d come, he’d taken off his specs and looked at me wi’ eye-bulging astonishment and said, ‘Wonderful!’
Maybe, I thought, it wor a test to see if I wor worthy of my friggin’ inheritance. I flipped my fingers along t’ lines of paper-bag-brown, dull red and green sleeves. There must have been hundreds of ’em. What would I do wi’ this lot?
‘I wor saying … Brendan?’
‘Brendan? Heavens, no, we’d gone our separate ways many moons before. Brendan and I lived together in Bristol.’
‘Bristol?’
I stood up. Above a low bookcase of crusty old books hung two framed pictures of racehorses and riders jumping a thicket fence. I heard Gordon rooting around in a cutlery drawer. All I knew of Bristol wor that it had two rubbish footie teams and the Two Ronnies making a joke about Bristol being twinned wi’ Brest. Which is in France. I could hear Gordon opening and closing cupboard doors.
‘During the war I worked at Parnell’s near Bristol on developing radio communications. Highly secret stuff!’
The kettle wor starting to whistle. Gordon wor still conversationalising loudly from t’ kitchen.
‘Brendan came from down that way – I met him while he was on leave. We kept in touch. After the war ended and he was demobbed, we rented a small terraced house in Bristol and moved in together.’
Blood Relatives Page 25
