Coming Down

by Carrie Elks

  The George and Dragon stands on the edge of a leafy green square, the Victorian edifice decaying and crumbled. The painted pub sign—depicting the moment when George finally goes in for the kill—is swaying softly in the evening breeze. As soon as I push open the heavy wooden door, I’m hit by the warm, musty air and the noise of a dozen conversations. Scanning the room, I seek out Lara, trying not to look too out of place.

  The George is a spit-and-sawdust kind of pub. It hasn’t succumbed to the gentrification of the surrounding area, although the clientele is an interesting mix of old timers and trendy young things. The older ones sit in the public bar, studiously avoiding the lounge, which is where I’m standing now, looking at the stage in the corner that’s already set up for the band. A drum kit, guitars and microphone are all patiently waiting for their masters to return.

  It’s been so long since I’ve been somewhere like this. Giving up gritty pubs has been a side effect of my marriage—as much as making sure I always shave my legs and never pass wind when Simon’s around. Yet I find that I’ve missed it. A rush of nervous anticipation fills my veins as I push through the crowds of drinkers.

  I spot them at a table in the far corner. Alex is sitting next to Lara, his tattooed arm casually slung across the back of her chair, his other hand wrapped around a pint glass full of water. I have a soft spot for Alex. He and Lara welcomed me into their lives at a time when I was at my lowest ebb. Back then, they’d talk with me into the night, before gently covering me with a soft cotton blanket when I cried myself to sleep. They’re good people, and I’m a bit annoyed at myself that I’ve neglected them. I lived with them for over a year after I managed to escape a squat. It was probably the best year of my life.

  Until I met Simon, I remind myself.

  It’s Alex who sees me first. A huge grin splits his cheeky face and he stands up and walks toward me, enveloping me in a bear hug as soon as we are within touching distance. I cuddle him back, feeling a mixture of relief and exhilaration. It really has been too long.

  “Where’ve you been, doll face? I’ve missed you,” he says.

  “I’ve missed you too.” I’m almost laughing. I’d forgotten just how cockney Alex sounds. He’s a real geezer, and he likes to play on it as much as possible. “I’m sorry, I feel really bad I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  I can feel him shrug. “No worries, you’ve been busy. Different worlds. I get it.”

  When I pull back I feel regretful, because he’s right in so many ways. Simon wouldn’t be seen dead in a place like this. But I feel at home; excited, nervy and young.

  And I like it.

  “Hey, you changed your hair.” I reach up to touch his black, gelled quiff. It’s stiff as a board. The sides and back of his hair are cut short against his scalp. “It looks great.”

  “So do you.” Alex steps back and holds me at arm’s length. He’s scrutinising me, but in a way that doesn’t feel sexual or pervy. I know this stance; he’s making sure I’m okay. “You cleaned up nicely. Not bad for an Essex girl.”

  He’s always teased me about where I come from. I love the way we slip back into our old routine, as if I hadn’t disappeared off the face of his earth for a year. I guess us both seeing Lara every day, even if we haven’t seen each other, has kept the connection going.

  “When do you play?”

  Alex glances at his watch. He has ink scrolling all the way up his arm. I spot a couple of new ones. If he turned it over, I’d see Lara’s name tattooed on his wrist. How she ever stopped swooning over that gesture, I’ll never know. “In about an hour. Do you want a drink?”

  I smile. “I’ll have a beer, please.” I can’t remember the last time I had a beer. It feels bad, almost illicit. A kid rifling through their parents’ cocktail cabinet.

  “You go and sit down, I’ll bring it over.” He inclines his head at the table where Lara and the others are sitting. I start to walk over, the smile still playing at my lips, but then I stop dead in my tracks. Leaning on the table a few seats across from Lara, staring up at me through narrowed eyes, is none other than Niall Joseph.

  My pulse instantly speeds. My throat constricts until it is painful to suck air through it, and I find myself breathing faster to compensate. All the while I’m frozen to the spot, wondering what the hell he’s doing here, and why on earth he’s staring at me like that. Then Lara turns to look at me, smiling broadly, and I shake my head a little, trying to get some sense into my brain and some movement to my limbs.

  Of course she would invite Niall to the pub. He’s a new colleague, recently arrived in town, and the perfect project for her and Alex to take on. If he’s anything like he used to be—arty and charismatic—they’ll have both fallen in love with him.

  It’s so easy to do.

  Somehow I manage to propel myself across the room. I lean down and hug Lara, trying not to feel resentful, reminding myself she has no idea that Niall is the guy who twisted my world until I ended up a wet dishrag. Of course she knows what happened—she’s one of the few I’ve confided in—but I don’t think I ever actually said his name. So why should I feel angry at her for inviting him?

  I haven’t felt this mixed up in a very long time.

  “Here, have this.” Niall stands up and offers me his seat. For some reason his chivalry grates.

  “It’s fine; I’ll go and grab a stool.” I look feebly around. The pub is full to bursting. There isn’t a spare seat to be seen.

  He won’t take no for an answer, standing up and lifting my bag from my hands. It’s big and heavy—containing clothes and toiletries for my night at Lara’s. He places it down next to his now-vacant seat. I swallow the irritation and sit down, squeezing myself onto the edge of the chair.

  “I can share.” I point down at the half of the seat that’s empty, offering it to him.

  He shakes his head. “I’m happy to stand.”

  “Oh come on, my bum’s not that big.” As soon as I say it, Lara shouts out a laugh. Niall grins and shakes his head again, but this time more in amusement than denial. He gracefully sits next to me, reaching his left arm along the back of the chair, stretching out his right leg to brace himself against the floor. He’s sitting close. So close our hips are touching, and our thighs are pressed together. I can smell his aftershave and the faint tang of beer that wafts from his lips. The heat of his body radiates through the thin material of his t-shirt.

  It makes my own body do strange things. My heart is still racing and my mouth has dried up. The hairs on my forearms stand on end. I’ve shared seats before—I’m small so I’m always the first to have to squash up—but this is different.

  I try to take control. “How are you?”

  “I’m good. You?” He moves his arm, and his fingers accidentally brush against the back of my neck. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Because it is. I can do this. I’m older, married. No longer that girl who fell head over heels for the beautiful art student. “There’s not a lot of room here.”

  Alex passes me a bottle of Peroni, and I notice his brow rise up when he spots me sitting so close to Niall. I reach out to take it with my left hand, my right being held captive by Niall’s body, albeit unintentionally. As I curl my fingers around the bottle, I feel him shift next to me.

  “You got married. Nice ring.” It isn’t a question, but it answers a lot of mine. The way he says it, the intonation in his voice, tells me he remembers me. Though it’s hard to believe anybody can forget what happened that summer. I know I can’t.

  “I’ve been married for two years.”

  “Where’s your husband?” He’s doing that narrow-eyed stare thing again. It pulls at his forehead, wrinkling into a frown. Horizontal lines furrow in his skin.

  I feel myself start to blush. I hate that I’m almost embarrassed to tell him about Simon. To admit I married an older man. “He’s away.” I’m not saying he’s gone grouse shooting. I’m not. Maybe I should be proud about who he is, who we both are, but the clash be
tween my past and present is making everything awkward.

  “That’s a shame.”

  I nod. “It is.”

  “Is he nice?”

  I start to laugh, because this one is easy. “Clearly. Otherwise I wouldn’t have married him. Anyway, you met him at the gallery.”

  Niall scrunches his face up in an effort to recall. I watch him for a moment, taking in the sharp jaw and heavy brow. If it’s possible, he’s only grown more glorious with age.

  He’s still silent, and I take pity on him. “Simon’s Elise Gordon’s dad. He owns her gallery.” I try to ignore the way his thick brows rise up. I feel as though he’s judging me. I start to babble to fill in the awkwardness. “We met at a fundraiser for the clinic. You’d like him, I think.” What a crock of shit. I don’t even know this guy sitting next to me. Not anymore. What right do I have to say whether he’d like my husband or not?

  “Does he make you happy?”

  It’s the strangest question. Said softly, in a way that caresses my skin. His accent hasn’t diminished in the years since I last saw him. I can recall the way he used to whisper in my ear. The memory makes me want to sigh.

  “He takes care of me.” It’s not a lie. Simon is fond of me. He looks after me. I am content.

  “I’m glad.”

  I turn to look at Niall. His deep blue eyes stare right into mine. Our faces are only inches apart and I can feel the warmth of his breath on my skin. Maybe I’m reading all kinds of things into his expression that probably aren’t there: accusations, recriminations, apologies. Each one of them makes me yearn for things I cannot have. He’s close, too close. It’s as if he’s taking me over, nucleus by nucleus, and as with years before, my thoughts are filled with him.

  Then our silent conversation is interrupted by the first strum of a guitar as it reverberates from the speakers, and I find myself breathing a sigh of relief. The excitement flowing through my veins feels more potent than any drug I’ve taken, and it’s laying me bare.

  * * *

  As the evening goes on I get progressively drunker, finding solace in the bottom of a beer bottle and each popping of a new cap. Lara watches me with worried eyes and I flash her the occasional reassuring smile, trying to let her know that my inebriation has nothing to do with substance abuse and everything to do with avoidance.

  By the time Alex’s band launches into the second half of their set, I’m dancing in my seat, relieved Niall has moved into one of the now-vacant stools across the table, giving me space to breathe, to move, to be. My skin still tingles with the memory of his closeness, and it’s giving me an artificial high. Being near him makes me feel as though I’m nineteen again. I love and I hate it.

  “You okay?” Lara pulls her chair close to mine. “You’re not acting like yourself.”

  “I’m good. Great.” I flash her another smile. It doesn’t wipe away the worried expression on her face.

  “You don’t usually drink this much. Not recently, anyway.”

  “I don’t usually have to sit next to Niall Joseph.” I regret the words as soon as they escape from my lips. Lara angles her head to the left, scrutinising me through sober eyes. I fidget beneath her gaze.

  “What’s going on, Beth?”

  I glance across at Niall. He’s talking to a friend of Alex’s. He looks so comfortable, so easy-going. He has this aura about him that draws you in. Luckily, he’s far enough away from me to talk about him without him overhearing.

  “I’m fucked,” I admit, resting my head in my palms.

  “What’s going on between you two?”

  “Nothing.” I laugh harshly. “Not now.”

  Her eyes widen. “When? Did something happen at the clinic?”

  I shake my head. I’m not trying to be enigmatic, I’m just finding it hard to get the right words. “Before. At university.”

  Lara knows my history. She knows me. “Niall? He’s the one who...” Her voice trails off. She doesn’t need to say anything else, we both know the rest of her sentence. I nod my head vigorously. She lifts up her glass and downs the remains of her Coke. “Oh shit.”

  I follow suit and finish my fourth bottle of Peroni. The beer’s grown warm where it’s been standing for a while, but I swallow it anyway. I like the buzzed feeling it gives me; it’s so much better than panic and nervousness.

  “Why didn’t you say something before?” Lara hisses. “You should have told me.”

  “I thought I could handle it.”

  “But you can’t. Not on your own. That whole situation, the memories, the feelings. Oh, Beth...” She trails off again as Alex walks over and kisses her, biting her lip as if she’s afraid to say anything. From the way the rest of the guys are laughing with Niall, they have no clue what’s happening here. I’d like to keep it that way.

  “Later.” I promise. The way she looks at me tells me she’s going to hold me to that.

  The party carries on into the night. We’re thrown out of the bar at one in the morning, and find ourselves walking back to Lara and Alex’s flat. Even in the early hours the city seems alive, the streets pumped with energy and expectation. Alex and Lara have gone ahead in the van carrying the band’s instruments, leaving me with a few of their friends... and Niall Joseph. He’s wearing a slate-grey hoodie, zipped to the neck, along with faded jeans and Nike Airs. It seems strange to look at him and know that I was once in love with this guy, that I spent hours beneath him and on top of him and beside him. Sometimes we were so high we couldn’t work out which body part belonged to whom.

  “How did you end up working at the clinic?” he asks.

  “I started as a volunteer. Then I was lucky enough to be offered a job. It doesn’t pay much but I love it.” I shrug. I can’t even be bothered to pretend I don’t know him anymore. I’m too drunk for that.

  “I guess you don’t need the money—with a rich husband and all.” His word sting. I look up at him in confusion. He’s staring down at me with those narrow eyes again.

  “I didn’t marry him for his money,” I reply.

  “So why did you?”

  The others have moved farther ahead. We are lagging behind. I find myself shrinking away from him. “Because Simon takes care of me. He’ll never hurt me, he loves me.” I don’t need to add anything else; the implication is there. He’s everything that Niall wasn’t. Back when I needed him the most.

  When he needed me.

  “You’ve just told me why he married you. Not why you married him.” His voice is almost too soft. I have to strain to hear it. “That summer, God, Beth. Everything changed. I hoped you’d gone off on an adventure, followed your passions. Not once did I think you’d just go and settle.”

  I whip my head around. “You don’t know anything about me and Simon. Nothing.” My voice is thick with fury. “Somebody died, Niall. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t get over it that easily.” I’m finding it hard to breathe. Memories of those summer days, nine long years ago, assault my thoughts. The aching, the longing, the stupid choices I made. The shock, the fear and the ambulance. All of it was our fault. I lost everything that summer. Including myself. “I noticed you never called me. You just disappeared.”

  “I didn’t disappear. They sent me away, just like they did to you. It fucked me up, all of it; I couldn’t even think properly. I wanted to call you, to talk to you, to check you were okay. But after you pretended you didn’t know me…”

  I feel sick. Nausea starts to clutch at my stomach with a vice-like grip. “I didn’t know what to do. My dad was so angry. Everything was fucked up. And you just showed up with a bloody joint in your mouth.” We’ve stopped walking altogether. Standing in the middle of a lamp-lit London street, we stare at each other accusingly. I wrap my arms around my waist as if to ward him off.

  “You broke my heart when you said you didn’t know me. I spent the first few weeks in a drunken fucking stupor.” Niall averts his gaze. His expression changes. Suddenly, he looks like a young boy; lost, afraid, alone. �
��And then I ended up in hospital, too. Whenever I think of that time, about Digby, it messes me up all over again.”

  Tears sting at my eyelids. My throat is so tight I can barely get the words out, but somehow I manage. “Me, too.”

  It’s dark in here—shady and damp, loud and alive. Sweat hangs in the air like mist. We dance wildly, our hair whipping across our faces in wet, ropy tendrils, beads of perspiration peppering our foreheads and upper lips. Bodies press in on me from all sides as we raise our hands in the air, laughing and screaming and dancing to the hypnotic beats.

  I love them. I love everybody in here. I can’t understand how wars ever happen, how hatred exists, because these people are perfect, beautiful, amazing. I don’t know most of them, but when we catch each other’s eyes we grin with bared teeth and a surge of emotion rushes through me. My heart is so full I think it might burst.

  I feel arms encircle my waist, a hard body pressing against my back. I melt into him, reaching behind me, pushing my fingers into short, wet hair. I can smell him so clearly. His soft, musky skin is mixed with the faint aroma of aftershave. He runs his hands up from my waist, brushing fingers up my sternum, then cups my breasts, pressing his thumbs into my already hard nipples. When I arch my back in gasped response, I can feel his erection digging into the side of my hip. He starts to kiss the sensitive skin of my neck, and I think I’m about to explode.

  I love him.

  That’s all I can think of as he grinds himself into me, and I twist my head until my lips meet his. They’re soft and gentle and move slowly against my mouth until I’m practically begging him to slide his tongue inside. He takes his time, breathing into me, tasting my skin, murmuring words against my lips that I can’t understand.

  Suddenly, he spins me round until our bodies are meshed together, pushed into one mass by the people surrounding us on all sides. He laces his fingers through my damp hair, angling my head until it fits his like a glove. Then we kiss and we touch and we roll for long minutes or hours or days until we are both breathless and needy. We both know we should leave or we’ll have sex right here, in this club, and he curls his hands around mine and pulls me through the crowd. It’s similar to walking through thick mud; we’re fighting against the tide and more than a few times we have to stop and make out again. Each time we do I feel my heart race a little faster as Niall’s fingers push into places that throb and undulate and beg him for more. Every time we kiss, colours explode in my mind, and I feel them burn me from my scalp to the tips of my toes.