I am the guy who was the hero. Or, was I? Was I just the only one there at the time, who could do this thing I do? This thing I have always known I was born to do? Exist among the masses as if I am one of them, when I am anything but.
My mum always said I was a sensitive boy, even from the age of two. I used to round up friends at toddler group and give them all tasks, and shout at the ones who were nasty to others. She said I cared for things from so early on; she knew I was going to do good things. I only hope that right now, she’s looking down and she understands. Because, nobody else does. Not even Dad would. He knows something is up, though. It’s half the reason I never introduced him to Jules. Those two together would oust me.
I currently feel as though I am riding a rocky current that may never let up. I bump and drown for a while, occasionally come up for just enough air to keep me going. Sometimes I even bob along the surface, until I am dragged back down into the depths.
Now it’s springtime, it’s not as easy to do my job. In winter there are more people at the shelters, more to question, more of a network to probe and ingratiate myself with. I pretend my wife walked out, left me, and I have nowhere else to be.
I walk into the community centre and spot the man we think is Uncle Jakey, a notorious paedophile who moved into this area a year ago.
We need proof and I have been slogging for that for months. We give each other a backwards handshake and bump fists.
“Whassup, Rick?” he sniffs.
He’s got a gang of kids sat around him, and they’re eager to hear more of his stories. He tells them about his scrapes as a boxer and they listen as if he’s reeling off gospel. Nowadays, he’s well out of shape. He never even won a single bout, yet he tells the stories as if they really and truly happened, as if he was once King of the Ring. He says he does voluntary community work like this to help out kids from the wrong sides of the tracks, those who want to make themselves better, just like him. We have a hunch he’s abusing his position of authority, however. This is such a delicate issue, so fragile, and I am feeling the pressure. I am not just after him, I am aiming for a whole network to fall and collapse beneath him.
He sends the kids scurrying away, declaring, “Me and Richard here need a little chat, boys and girls.”
He makes that shoddy assumption and I don’t try to correct him. It’s better actually because then he won’t connect me to my police work.
When we’re alone, he whispers, “So, you want in? I heard it on the channels.”
Only way to get people like him to listen is from a second-hand source. I found an alleged lackey of his who let slip that ‘Uncle Jakey’ needs more hands on deck.
“If the price is right,” I warn him, my voice carrying gravity. “I have my reputation to think of, so I don’t come cheap.”
I hope and pray we are both talking about the same thing, otherwise, my cover could be blown. From what I gather, he needs more hands to groom more children. Even if he knows I am a social worker, that probably won’t bother him. Not if I hang in long enough to convince him I am bent.
“Maybe if you prove you’re good for it, we’ll see, yeah? In time.”
He doesn’t trust easily. He shouldn’t. He is standing right next to someone sidelining as an undercover police detective.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jules
It’s a very pleasant Mayday and I am walking the streets in a flowery sundress, hoping I might bump into a certain somebody. Today the Avenue has been shut off to traffic and it is decorated with banners and filled with food and craft stalls. Bands play in pop-up tents and beer gardens are full. The place is transformed with sunlight and happy people.
Through my shades I see Warrick stood outside a church. He’s handing out flyers and he looks just the same, except he’s in lighter clothing. Long shorts, flip flops and a white granddad shirt. He looks yummy and I ache for him. Hawaiian Air is playing from some speakers just outside the church.
Since I told him to get lost, I have been on a few benders, let’s say. More like, nights out where I have gotten so drunk that Ruby has just had to hold me up for most of the duration. One night, she was walking me home when she said, “Isn’t that Warrick?” I looked at whoever had caught her attention and she was right, he was there, on a street talking to some gang hanging around. He didn’t see me, well I hope he didn’t anyway, not in my legless state. All I saw was a man who was caring for his community and not me.
I sit down on a wall outside someone’s front yard and take out my phone. I hover over the buttons while I watch him. I should talk to him. It feels right.
Look behind you.
He dives into his shorts pocket and looks at my message. He does a slow turn and sees me. He contemplates it for a while before he hands the flyers to a friend and marches in my direction. I keep my head bent and he sits down next to me, but not close enough for my liking. I can’t look at him. He’s distant. The other Warrick would have picked me up in his arms and taken me home by now.
For a while there is silence until I break it. It’s right that I do.
“I’ve missed you,” I say, trying to be brave.
He doesn’t say anything for a long time but I see out of the corner of my eye that he’s waiting to see if I say anything else. Truth is, I don’t know what else to say. Is he deliberately trying to make me suffer? I search for something.
“What were the flyers about?” I ask nervously.
He delves into his pocket and hands me one that is crumpled up. It reads: Anti-Bullying Rally.
I baulk and he notices. He doesn’t say anything but I can feel him twitching with the desire to speak. I don’t know why he is doing this.
“I want to take part,” I say on a snap judgement.
“Really?” He finally speaks.
“Yes. I can help. Tell me the setup.”
He spends the next ten minutes filling me in on the details, talking in his professional tone as if I have never been laid beneath him before. That thought catches me off guard and I miss some of the things he’s telling me. I take my sunglasses off and turn my eyes on him.
“Rick, I…” But I lose my bottle. I want to say that I miss him a lot.
Before I know it, he jumps up and away. He is back across the road chatting to people like I don’t exist. I have the flyer in my hand and I hold on to it. I’ll be there.
***
Three days later I am inside the church. There is a massive gathering of people raising money for anti-bullying charities. It’s the conclusion to a week of fundraising events around the city. I search him out but he’s nowhere to be seen. I am wearing a tight black dress and heels. I am done up the nines. I get a few looks and ignore them. I am only interested in Warrick.
Rick.
I still prefer Warrick. It’s the name he gave himself when we first met.
When I see him my heart drops three inches in my chest. He’s with a girl. She’s pretty. Older than me but pretty. Holding his hand. I step away from the crowds and take a seat at the back of the room in anticipation of the presentations. Eventually the hall quietens and everyone sits down. I notice Rick and he sees me. I see him gulp and he sits next to his new girlfriend. I decide he is a mean-hearted git, just like all the rest. I ignore his eyes.
There are awards and announcements. Local volunteers who have helped tackle bullying in the community are commended and given little plaques. The totals raised for the various charities are revealed. Figures in the thousands are mentioned. I never knew it was a cause so well fought for.
There is a reason I am dressed like this and when the call is made for testimonials, I sink in my chair. Other people go up and express how much the event has meant to them. Girls and boys, men and women. When they ask if there’s anyone else, I gingerly raise my hand. It is now or never. Life without Warrick has shown me what I should strive for. To be better, and, to have him in my life. I won’t be beaten. The speaker waves for me to come forward and I stand and walk, my hee
ls clacking. I take the microphone and feel my heart racing at one hundred miles an hour, drowning my hearing. Heat hurts my cheeks to the point of pain and I sense people gawping. I am ready for a night on the tiles, the way I am dressed.
My voice is a croak as I attempt to speak and I think I see Warrick almost shoot up out of his seat to rescue me, or maybe just to prevent me making a total fool of myself. He’s near the front. But perhaps it was just him flinching. I imagined it.
I clear my throat and words come out, eventually.
“Hello, everybody, I teach at St. Clare’s. My friend Warrick invited me today and I had to come,” I pause and everyone looks at him. He turns beetroot. “I didn’t dress like this to impress you, I did it for a reason. Many of you may imagine bullying could never happen to a girl like me. Look at her, you might say, it could never happen to her. You’d be wrong. It did.”
There’s a gasp from the audience and I see Warrick holding his hands at his cheeks. He’s kind of a deep shade of mauve now. It’s off the spectrum. I can’t describe it.
I move about. I need to. I might fall through the floor otherwise. I cannot look at the audience so I look at the floor as I move.
“Maybe I was an easy target. Maybe I was a random pick. I’ll never know. They dragged me through some bushes and kicked me… they called me names. I brushed it off. Thought it never really affected me. I guess I never wanted to admit…” I raise my eyes to the audience, “…it was abuse.”
There is silence and I hear some people crying. I block it out. I have this preset in my head, this speech. It is the one that will make Warrick realise I love him. I do. I knew it the first time he kissed me. But to be with me, he has to realise what he is taking on. He needs to know. I need him to fill a dozen roles and I need him all the time.
“Certain events in my life have been difficult to deal with because of this past abuse. I never like to witness bullying and I try to turn a blind eye to it, even now. I sometimes see kids and wonder if the pain I see in their eyes is real. But it is wrong to say to a kid, ‘Hey, you’re being bullied, aren’t you? You must be a freak or something.’ You cannot do that. I stand before you because if there are those around you being bullied, or those of you currently being bullied, you need to speak up. Talk to your teachers or your community workers, your social workers, or anyone who will listen. Don’t let them make you think you’re worth nothing. They have the problem.”
I stop talking even though I planned to say a whole lot more. I notice there are tears in everyone’s eyes on the front row. They think I am finished so the whole crowd get up to clap. I walk to the speaker and hand him back his mike. I feel my body going into shock and I need to get out of here. I need to escape. I stride toward a fire exit nearby and I grab my heels from my feet. I am away and down the street, running towards home within seconds, in my bare feet. I hear his pounding feet behind me and I run harder. I can’t do this now. I can’t have his pity.
I turn toward my cul-de-sac when he chases ahead of me and halts my strides, his body a brick wall to my flight. His arms take me in a fierce embrace and his mouth buries itself in my neck. He gasps and I cry uncontrollably. Loudly. It all falls away. The whole lot. The pain. The anguish. It evaporates. I move my face into his throat and smell his skin. It’s fresh and clean. We’re locked in such a tight embrace that he doesn’t immediately realise I am kissing his throat.
I whisper in his ear, “Warrick.”
“Let me take you home,” he says.
I nod and he tries to walk me in the direction of where I used to live, but I shake my head. I point and let him know, “I live there now.”
He takes me inside and climbs the stairs with me. He seems to be struggling to believe the place is mine. There are no more candles, no more magazines, more modern furniture and books in neat piles on shelves. He slides into bed with me and he holds me while I cry some more.
When I feel on the edge of sleep, he starts to slip out of bed.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to get back. I have…”
I turn and see his face. Guilt written all over it.
“…a girlfriend,” I guess.
He nods and turns his face away.
I haven’t spent a day not thinking about him.
“I really have missed you, more than you’ll ever know,” I say into my pillow.
I hear the door slam and I decide, Very well. That’s that.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jules
Another sunshiny Monday morning where I feel as wretched as anything… I land in the English office with a crash. My bags collapse on the floor with a thud and books tumble everywhere, but I don’t care. I rest my head on my arms and moan. I thought nobody else but me was here but when I hear mumbling, I know there are two people at the doorway. Two people scared of what they might find.
“Are you really mardy today, extremely mardy or just crosser than cross,” Ruby asks.
“All of the above,” I respond.
She and Vernon walk in. Her latest hair colour is green but for some reason, her clothing has recently transformed. She wears pinafore dresses all the time now, all different colours with different tops, different pairs of tights and heeled shoes. I expect that’s as far as she will allow her wardrobe to stretch in terms of smart wear.
He is six foot six and as thin as my garden rake. He wears three-piece suits in nearly as many shades as Ruby. He’s handsome however, and charming. He’s been as much of a friend as Ruby has since Warrick and I split.
“Tell, us, all, daa-hhhaaa-hhhaa-ling,” he calls dramatically, ever the luvvie.
I keep my head buried in my arms and mumble, “He’s got a new girlfriend.”
“Fuckin’ wanka,” Ruby says, her southern tones pushing through.
“Yeah, the tosspot, who does he think he is?” Vernon decides.
I lift my head and thank them for their dramatic support but it’s not making me feel any better.
“What are you going to do?” he asks with a wide grin, “burn her at the stake or cut off his goolies?”
“Probably just cry into my cocoa like I have been doing all weekend…”
They both raise their eyebrows and fold their arms accusingly.
“Sorry, wine glass…”
It has been one of those weekends. I had Missing by Everything But The Girl on repeat.
“Jules, don’t listen to Vernon. He’s a tote pillock, yeah, babe? What you have to do is decide whether you are ready for battle or ready to play dirty? Battle and you might lose, or dirty and you might just show him how far you are willing to go to get him back?”
“You should be on radio, you two.”
“Tut. You saying these faces aren’t good enough for telly?” he asks dramatically, striking the most ridiculous pose.
Vernon leaves the room with his files and books, a slice of toast in his hand, and Ruby says when he’s gone, “At the Christmas party, I saw he was so in love with you Jules. So in love. I’ll never have that. Never. I made peace with that long ago. Now, if I were you, I’d fight. Do whatever it takes. Don’t give up.”
She goes off to teach her own class while I sit and mark some of the practice papers I have been giving my Year Tens. They’re all getting straight As since Liza came into our class and changed the state of play. Her influence and contribution to discussion has made my class a full complement of top scores, and we are not even in Year Eleven yet…
When the bell goes and I toddle off to my first lesson of the day, I swing by Vernon’s classroom and ask for a word.
“What would make you realise a woman really loves you?”
“Depends what context we are thinking here,” he says, chewing his pen.
“Me and Warrick.”
“Well, if you’d tell us exactly what went on, maybe we’d figure it out…”
I can’t tell him…
“Just, tell me what might impress you? Or compel you?”
“Cold shoul
der. Works every time.”
I roll my eyes.
When his Year Eight class sees me at the door as they start piling in, they wonder how to behave in front of me but Vernon waves them all in quickly, gesturing he will get it in the neck otherwise. He then starts throwing bits and pieces around the room, stuff from his dressing up box.
Anyone who finds an item on their desk will most likely have to don it and act out a scene from their current read, Animal Farm. He’s obscene. I smirk as I watch him wiggle his eyebrows and I march to my own classroom, where I decide I may have to invent my own dress code. Shake things up a bit. Then, an entirely new train of thought hits me.
Later that afternoon, I gather all my English students from Year Eleven. It’s English afternoon for them (double period) so that makes it possible to get them all together. They all march down to the hall and everyone has a bemused frown on their face. I did rather decide to do this very last-minute. When they all enter the assembly hall and see me on the stage in my leotard, tights and black plimsolls (best I could manage) they start laughing.
Vernon hushes the lot of them and I see Hugh sniggering. I give him a vile glare and he shakes off his amusement, ever the wind-up merchant. I like him really, and I know he secretly likes Vernon… so I glance in the taller man’s direction and Hugh flushes bright-red with my acknowledgement.
Perhaps a stage and a set, some technical lighting and a costume would serve me better, but this is all we have to work with at present, and I don’t know when the mood will take me again.
Angel Avenue Page 23
