She goes to see him in concert with his group Augustus. Cramped in the tiny club with sixty sweaty fans, she’s intoxicated. She’s liberated from everything she’s ever been. Free, invisible in the crowd, she is the music. She is the thrashing drums. She is the shrieking electric guitar that reverberates through her body and bursts her into a thousand radiant fragments. On stage, Gus strips to his waist, throws his drenched T-shirt into the horde and blows her a kiss. She screams out his name. Her voice is exquisitely lost in the screech of whistles, the stamping and bellowing of heavy-rock junkies. She’s neither Mary nor not-Rainbow anymore; she just is.
They spend the summer shoplifting, heckling strangers and hanging out together. Inside the warehouse his group has rented to live and work in, she lolls on his mattress and watches them rehearsing. Sometimes, in the protective haze of the musicians’ smoke, a long-ago memory seeps in. She has to drag her thoughts away from comparisons.
This is an adult environment, different from the baby world of school. She feels good here. The musicians accept her without asking questions or telling her what she should be doing. Her contact with this underworld excites her. R– would never have done this. It’s exactly the kind of life that squeaky-clean people are afraid of.
At the same time, she’s aware that Gus protects her from the darker, easy-sex-and-heroin world she has heard about and seen on television and in films. If she could sing, she’d choose musician as a career. Since she can’t, she’ll be a groupie. The simplicity of this idea ripples with clarity. The obvious answer to which career is the non-career.
Social conversation isn’t necessary with Gus. She learns nothing about his family or his childhood. After several weeks, however, she knows he hates the seedy slime inside tomatoes. She knows he loves the sound of heavy rain on the metal warehouse roof, and that he’ll hit a man bullying a weaker person.
He laughs when she acts the rebel. He smiles when she tells grannies to get lost. He applauds her when she crouches down to relieve herself in a flower bed in the town centre. He joins her when she lights up in no-smoking zones. And he approves when she runs her keys down the sides of posh cars. It’s impossible to shock him.
Once, she started to skirt around the black pools of before. He stopped her. “Your past doesn’t matter,” he said. “Who gives a toss about it? It’s what you do that makes you who you are.”
She thinks about this. It suits her to forget her past. Ever since the accident she has been rebelling against everything that was instinctive to her before. She is no longer the same person. Thanks to her rebellious acts, she has become a rebel. And now, by following Gus, she can become a groupie.
Chapter 21
After the best summer since before, Mary lurches into Year 11. Trish is motivated and works hard for her exams, but Mary finds school is more of a waste of time than ever.
She’s in a maths lesson, and is so lost it seems pointless to even try to follow. Before Gus, there was no alternative. She amused herself as best she could in the only life she knew. Now, the time she spends in overheated classrooms with giggling girlies and mummies’ boys is time she could be living real life with Gus.
She yawns, slouches in her chair and counts the numbers and squiggles that dirty the white of the board. Trish and Helen are sitting in front of her. Trish’s eyes water constantly because of her new contact lenses and she has to sit closer to the board. Mary refuses to sit any closer to the teachers.
Trish balls up another soaked tissue. Mary is speared by annoyance with Helen for her vanity. How dare she make Trish suffer? Trish is perfect as she is. But Trish and Helen swap pens and smiles. A few months ago Mary would have split up their deepening friendship. Now it doesn’t seem important.
Outside, the October sun beckons her. She thinks about Gus hanging around in the town, ready to follow up anything that interests him. There’s no reason to stay here. She’ll pretend she’s ill and skip the afternoon’s lessons. Her decision made, she leans forward in her chair and flicks tiny balls of paper into Helen’s perfect hair.
When the bell rings, she grabs Trish’s arm and tells her she needs to speak to her alone. Helen looks sour. She gives Trish a commiserating look and stalks off to the canteen alone. Trish’s eyes linger on her retreating back.
“What is it?” Trish asks Mary.
“I’m going to skive this afternoon. Can you say I’m ill?”
“Mary! You’ll get done. Mam said this would happen.”
“What do you mean?”
Mary pushes her fringe to one side and studies Trish’s face. She hasn’t seen Mrs Bellamy for months, not since she started hanging round with Gus. As much as she loves the friction between Mother and Gus, she doesn’t want Mrs Bellamy to meet him.
“She said you’d start skiving,” says Trish. “Your mother phoned her and they had a long conversation about you.”
“Interfering busybody. She’s my mother, not my owner,” mutters Mary.
“Mary! Anyway, now Mam keeps nagging me to look out for you. She’s always asking where you are and what you’re up to. What am I supposed to say? You don’t tell me anything anymore. It’s like it’s my fault. She’ll be really fed up if she finds out you’re skiving. I’m the one who’ll have to listen to her worrying.”
“If you don’t say anything, she won’t find out.”
Mary can’t bear the idea of Trish and Mrs Bellamy discussing her. She knows Trish adores her mum, but – really! She should keep at least a few secrets from her.
“And tell her to mind her own business,” she adds.
Trish backs away. Her eyes are wide and teary. “You’ve changed, Mary. Again. All you’re interested in is Gus, Gus, Gus. Mam’s worried about you, that’s all.”
“I can look after myself. I don’t need anyone telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. Not even your mum.” Mary lets her fringe drop back down. “I’m not hanging around here any longer. Don’t bother covering for me.”
She heads for the school gates and leaves the complications behind her.
A week later, when Mary comes down for breakfast, Mother is waiting for her.
She has skived most days after the morning register. Trish has told her no one is bothered about her absence apart from Mrs Beacon, the French teacher. But Mary knows that at some point she’ll be challenged.
She sees the letter in Mother’s hand and smiles to herself. Mother used to skive school too.
“This is Gus’s fault,” says Mother.
Mary snatches the letter, skim-reads it and then drops it on the table.
“It’s nothing to do with Gus.”
“You didn’t skive before you met him.”
“What do you care about whether I skive or not? You just can’t accept that someone likes me more than they like you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! If you don’t go to school, you’ll end up like … on the streets.”
“Like Gus?” Mary snorts. “Well, it’s better than ending up like you.”
Mother fills the kettle. Her hand is shaking. “How do I reply to the headmaster? Do I tell him you’re hanging out with a lout and ask him to put the police on you both?”
“Tell him whatever you like. In any case, we’re thinking of leaving altogether. The police won’t find us in London.”
She pushes back her chair, picks up her bag and strides the three steps out of the kitchen. Mother pleads for her to come back. Mary ignores her and slams the front door shut.
She’s fed up with people interfering in her life. With London in her thoughts, she marches to Gus’s warehouse. She needs some action to calm her down.
Gus is always ready to search out adventure. Today, they head towards the new lingerie shop, discussing the best strategy for stealing the bra, knickers and suspender belt set that Mary fancies.
The shop is designed so that people can hide their embarrassment from other shoppers. The high racks form a maze that is ideal for shoplifting. Mary strolls along the aisles and then stop
s. A voice she recognises is coming from the discreet fitting rooms. But she can’t place the low, masculine growl that accompanies it.
She sidles along the nightwear aisle and peers between lilac and pink negligees. On the other side she sees a plump hand emerge from a cubicle and pull back the heavy curtain. It’s Trish’s mum. Mary ducks down and watches Mrs Bellamy’s face fold into a shy smile.
Mary has never seen her with such a dreamy, girlish expression. She looks blithe. A short man is sitting next to her cubicle. He’s wearing a nylon jacket and his hair is combed into a Playmobil cut. He springs up and reaches for the crimson bodysuit in Mrs Bellamy’s hands. She shields it with her handbag, but Mary has already seen its G-string cut.
They kiss. It’s an appreciative, tasting kiss – the kind young people like her and Gus share – not the quick, routine dry pop she uses with her husband James. Mary counts to five before their lips separate.
The flimsy hangers in her hands ping under the strain. She gropes back along the aisle to Gus. He is fingering the magnetic anti-thief discs on the black lingerie they have chosen. There’s a volcano in her stomach. It threatens eruption. The person she trusts most is betraying her family with a slimy stranger. She’s going to be sick. She has to get outside.
“Run,” she hisses to Gus.
She snatches the lingerie from him and bolts to the door.
Gus is a couple of seconds behind her. The burglar alarm pillars shrill into action. Behind the cash desk, the shop assistant drops Mrs Bellamy’s purchase and rushes to the door.
A few streets away Mary slows down. She wrenches the underwear from the hangers and stuffs it into her jacket. Gus catches up.
“Why the hell did you do that?”
“I know her,” says Mary.
“Who?”
“The woman in the shop. The customer.”
“So what? You could have given me more warning. That old cow of an assistant almost caught me.”
“Get yourself some new legs then.”
She starts to stalk off.
Gus grabs the back of her jacket. “What’s this all about? We were going to do it properly.”
“Let go of me.”
Gus keeps hold of her. She glares at him. He examines her face.
“You wanted to shock her,” he says. “Who is she?”
“Mind your own business.”
She could explain, but he will think she’s being petty. He won’t care that her ideals of what a family should be have just crashed down into the gutter.
“It is my business. Why did you run?”
Mary, her hair lowered over her face, refuses to answer.
Gus shakes her.
“You’ve no idea why, have you? D’you know what your problem is? There’s no substance to you. You’re empty inside. When I think about what you’re like, all I can see is what you’re not like.”
That’s exactly how she feels: a non-person. She glares at him. “Let go. You’re hurting me.”
He takes his hands away.
“You’re like a black hole,” he continues, “an inverted black hole; a black hole that rejects everything instead of attracting things. You rebel against everything, but there’s no real you underneath. You can’t live your life like that.”
“I’ll live my life the way I choose. If you don’t like it, get lost.”
“I may just do that. Hanging out with you is getting boring.”
He turns around and marches off.
“I thought you liked rebels,” she says. She raises her voice. “You liked my sharp corners.”
“There’s usually something interesting behind corners,” shouts Gus over his shoulder.
“You’re not exactly the world’s most interesting person either,” she shouts back.
Silence.
“And your music’s crap!” she screams.
He has gone. She’s not going to run after him. She yanks the stolen lingerie from under her jacket and slams it into a nearby bin. Then she walks off in the opposite direction, her hands stuffed into her jeans pockets. So much for Mary the Rebel. It would have been better to risk him thinking she was petty, to have confessed how knotted up she’s felt since the accident.
She hides in the playground close to the school for the rest of the afternoon and counts the passing birds. She doesn’t want to bump into Gus. She certainly doesn’t want to go to her lessons. Sitting on the swing, she tries to figure out what she can do about being an inverted black hole. Her concentration is plagued by images of Mrs Bellamy sporting her new underwear in a hotel room with that creepy businessman. What will the family do if Mrs Bellamy leaves them? Flash visions of James Bellamy heating up his single-portion lunch alone in the big kitchen haunt her. How can she look Trish in the face when she talks about her wonderful mum? Trish is going to need her support. She should go back to school.
Chapter 22
The morning after her argument with Gus, Mary doesn’t skive. The headmaster calls her into his office. He spends twenty-three minutes telling her he’ll expel her if she doesn’t attend her classes. Mary exceeds all her previous records by uttering just four words during the whole interview. After his lecture the headmaster leaves her in the corner of his office to meditate on her attitude until break-time.
At break she searches for Trish. She finds her sitting, huddled in her coat, on a bench with Helen. The wind whips the dead leaves into eddies around them. Mary sits down next to Trish and hands her the caricature she made of the headmaster.
Trish giggles. She shows the picture to Helen, who looks down her nose at it and then walks away. Trish turns towards Mary.
“Not with Gus today?”
“No. Had a domestic.”
“Never mind. Plenty more fish in the sea.”
Mary grimaces. “What would you know about that?”
“That’s what Mam says.” Trish slides her arm through Mary’s.
Mary conjures up an image of Trish and her mum cosily discussing her over their bedtime hot chocolate. She unlinks her arm and stretches. Trish rolls up a corner of the caricature.
“So why did you split up?”
“We haven’t split up. I told you. We just had a row.”
“Oh. Anyway, you could find someone much more suitable than him.”
“What? Two-time Gus, you mean? Is that what your mum suggests?”
“Of course not. Mam would never suggest such a thing. I mean you could chuck Gus and go out with someone who isn’t such a bad influence on you.”
Trish’s faith in her mum is unshakeable. Mary can’t tell this naive kid that her mum is an adulteress. She realises she has missed their chats over the last few months of being an inverted-black-hole groupie. There’s an innocence she’s never appreciated in Trish’s comments before, a kind of playing at being grown-up.
“Gus is all right. He’s not as bad as he looks. Why don’t you get yourself a boyfriend and leave mine alone?”
She nudges Trish to show her she’s not upset. Trish doesn’t react. She’s studying her new patent leather boots, the ones Mary saw Helen choose for her at Curtess’s. Her cheeks are pink.
“I don’t believe it! You’ve got a boyfriend,” Mary says. She squints at the boys playing football or loitering near the bicycle sheds. “Who is it?”
“Shh. Stop ogling.”
“Which one is it? Not Rob. Don’t tell me it’s Rob.”
“Stop it.” Trish pulls her back down onto the bench. “Why don’t you come round tonight and I’ll tell you?”
“I don’t know. I planned to sort things out with Gus, but maybe I’ll let him stew for a bit longer. Will your mum be there?”
“Stupid question. Of course she will. Why?”
“Just wondered. So you’ll tell me who your mystery man is tonight?”
“If you’re good.”
Something isn’t quite right. Trish looks guilty. Mary folds her arms and waits.
“Actually,” Trish says after a few seconds, “I haven
’t got a boyfriend. It was just an excuse to get you to come home with me. Mam wants to talk to you. About skiving, I expect. She’s promised me a new stereo if I persuade you.”
Mary considers backing out. But Trish looks happy – though this may just be the prospect of a new stereo. And Mrs Bellamy might have a logical explanation for the incident in the lingerie shop. Maybe she won’t lie, unlike some mothers.
“Okay. I’ll come if you promise to lend me the stereo.”
Mrs Bellamy turns from the Aga to greet her. Mary holds her breath. She’s not sure she can control her disgust. They exchange cautious hellos. Mrs Bellamy says she’s glad to see her after so long. She looks her in the eye and darts a warning glance towards Trish.
“So,” Mrs Bellamy continues, “how are things with your boyfriend? Gus, isn’t it?”
Mary teeters on the edge of a crevasse. Vertigo presses her to drag Mrs Bellamy into the emptiness with her.
“My boyfriend’s fine. How’s–?”
“James is fine too.”
“I was going to say ‘your family’,” says Mary.
Trish looks puzzled. Mary takes her arm.
“Let’s go upstairs, Trish.”
The telephone rings. Mrs Bellamy goes into the hall to answer and then comes back into the kitchen.
“It’s Helen. Take the phone upstairs, Trish.”
Trish leaves. Mary and Mrs Bellamy are alone. Mrs Bellamy closes the door. She pulls a chair out from the table for Mary and perches on the edge of another.
“Can we talk?”
“All right.” Mary leans against the worktop and prepares to glower her way through a lecture about stealing.
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