by John Nicholl
And then there’s Jack. Where do I begin? He’s one of life’s free spirits. I think that’s the kindest way of putting it. Others would have called him a lot worse. I recall Jack telling me that a local police officer called him a cunt on one drunken night. It took me almost a week to get over the shock. That really was how innocent I was. I’m sure I could write an entire book just about Jack, but, I hope you’ll agree that this is about me. What would Mrs Martin say if I failed to do my homework properly? I will tell you about Jack, but I’ll keep it brief.
Jack became what Dad referred to as a ‘disappointment’. He went off the rails long before my fall from grace. Drugs became the most important thing in his life for a time, and we became a virtual irrelevance, unless he needed money. It was pot to begin with, followed by LSD, and ultimately heroin. By the third year of his degree course, he was missing more lectures than he was attending, and dealing drugs to pay for his habit. Mum and Dad reached out with the offer of help, but he rejected their efforts. I tried myself, once or twice, but like him, I was way out of my depth. Maybe I should have tried harder. I like to think I would have, were I a little older. But, there’s no way of knowing with any certainty.
Jack drifted away from us and lost touch altogether after his predictably unsuccessful finals. He sent Mum and Dad a postcard from New York a year or so later, but he didn’t include contact details. If I’m feeling generous, I put his behaviour down to the self-focus of youth. But, at times, when Mum’s distress was betrayed by her face, I thought that the police officer had it spot on.
Maybe Jack broke Mum’s and Dad’s hearts long before I did. I’m not trying to minimise my responsibility. The outcome was much the same. I could happily have slapped Jack, and slapped him hard, given the opportunity. But, I didn’t see him again until he arrived at my Cardiff University door, full of apologies, shortly before my nineteenth birthday. This may seem unlikely, but I didn’t recognise him at first. He’d grown an unkempt beard that dominated his features, his long hair was tied back in a ponytail, he’d gained about two stone in weight, and he was wearing round, gold-metal prescription glasses, that didn’t suit him at all. He told me that he’d beaten the drugs. I was dubious at first; addicts are notoriously prone to lies. But it turned out to be true. He’d been rescued by his Christian girlfriend, who’d loved him unconditionally, introduced him to her faith, and facilitated his recovery. She’d acted as counsellor, nurse, jailer and lover, until he finally stopped injecting destructive poison into his veins, and survived weeks of pain until the heroin eventually lost its power. I haven’t met Marie, but one day I’ll thank her in person for returning my big brother to his family.
I think that’s probably sufficient to give you a flavour of each of them. I’ve read and reread my musings, and I’ve come to the certain conclusion that nothing that happened prior to my meeting that man contributed to my current predicament. There is nothing that my parents or brother could have done to predict or prevent the misfortune that befell me. And on that note, I’ve decided to move on with the story.
4
I’ve got almost an hour before lights out, and so I’ll crack on and make the most of the time… If I hadn’t passed my A-levels, if I’d chosen a different university, if I hadn’t met Steven, I’d never have met the man who brought so much misery into the world. If is a tiny word with limitless implications. I’ve gone over it a thousand times in my mind, in an attempt to create a fictional parallel universe with different happier outcomes. But such things are not possible in our physical world. We can’t wipe the tape clean. I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried.
But I mustn’t forget the positives. Because there were positives. I can’t let what occurred subsequently pollute all that was good. Cardiff was a truly happy place when I first went to university. I was happy for the first three months or more. If only I could turn the clock back and inhabit the past forever. I wonder sometimes if I’ll ever experience happiness again.
After unpacking and going from room to room, befriending anyone who was receptive to my approaches, I arranged to meet my newfound student acquaintances in the student union bar to do the things students do on their first night of freedom.
I showered, applied subtle makeup, and took a ridiculous length of time to choose an outfit which, I thought, reflected my scholarly status. How ridiculous. The self-obsession of youth.
The twelve of us sat at two tables directly opposite the bar, and spent the first hour drinking too much cheap alcohol, attempting to communicate above the pounding rock music, and flirting with any boy in our vicinity. And then it happened. On that first night. I glanced towards the bar and noticed him immediately, despite the seething mass of people, despite his diminutive build, as if he were standing in a glaring white spotlight on a West End stage. And the remarkable thing was, that he had noticed me too. We stared at each other and became the only people in the room. I just had to meet him, I had to touch him, and this is going to sound ridiculous, I had to love him.
I can picture the scene now: Steven walking towards me that first time, in faded jeans, a red sweatshirt and white leather trainers that had seen better days. I can see the unkempt black curly hair framing his face, and those doe-like eyes that penetrated my soul. I can tell you that love at first sight is a reality, because it happened to me. It was the best of times. The happiest of times. I’d never smiled so much. I’d never laughed so much. Heaven was a place on earth. Or at least, that’s what I thought at the time. If only it could have lasted.
We left the student union together within ten minutes of meeting, and walked the streets of Cardiff, hand in hand, until we found a quiet bar and sat in a corner getting to know each other. Steven was from Plymouth, a seaside city I still haven’t visited. He’d visited the Welsh capital to watch England play Wales at his beloved rugby union, and he formed an immediate bond with the place that remained unbroken. He liked the ambience, the people and the Brains bitter ale. It may well have been the beer that swayed him most, although he would very probably deny that if he could. I don’t mean to be unkind. I really wouldn’t want that. He was the love of my life.
We began a heated, passionate love affair that night, and I quickly grew to love everything about him. He became my soulmate. Our love could have endured for an eternity given the opportunity. But that’s not the way it worked out. I can’t rewrite history, not for the sake of the story or in the interests of my sanity. What happened, happened. I wish it hadn’t, but it did. I set out to tell you the uncensored truth and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Please give me a second to collect my thoughts. These things are never easy. I’ve only got about two minutes before the bastards flick the switch and all becomes darkness. I think it’s best if I stop writing now, and place the notebook under my mattress for safekeeping. I need to brush my teeth before saying goodnight to Gloria, closing my tired eyes, getting my head down, and trying to dream of Steven. He doesn’t make many appearances these days. If only I could drive what happened subsequently from my mind.
Oh, there is one last thing I should tell you before bringing this session to a close. He was there that night. At the students’ bar and later at the pub. I didn’t know that at the time. I knew nothing of his existence back then. If only it could have stayed that way. If heaven can be a place on earth, then so can hell.
Goodnight for now. Say a prayer for me, if you’re so inclined. I’d like to think God is a far more proficient demon-slayer than I am.
5
I didn’t have a great night last night. Thinking about that evil bastard before trying to nod off is never a good idea. Even thoughts of Steven were a lost cause after that. You’d think I’d have gotten used to the nightmares by now. It’s been almost four years and he still haunts my dreams like a malevolent spectre, spewing hate and destruction from every pore. He brought nothing but suffering into this world. He damaged so many lives. What the hell was wrong with the man? I could tell you a bit more about him now,
but I think it’s best if I address that thorny issue at the logical time in the story. I may simply be putting off the inescapable, but there’s no point in leaping ahead months at a time. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. If you try hard enough, you can justify almost anything.
There is one more thing I wanted to mention before I refocus on the past. Gloria’s gone! I don’t mean she’s died, or anything awful like that. Gone isn’t one of those ghastly platitudes for death people resort to, to save each other’s sensibilities. She’s been moved to an open prison to prepare for her release back into the world at large. I’m happy for her. I really am. She was dealt a poor hand from an early age. No lucky breaks for her. No silver spoon in her mouth. She’s due some good luck for once in her sad life. Perhaps some of it will rub off on me.
I met my new cellmate this morning, when one of the nicer guards brought her to what is now our cell: Sheila Davies, forty-three years old, and English, despite the blatantly Welsh surname. I haven’t asked what she’s in for or for how long. It’s not the done thing. Prison etiquette and all that. But, my first impressions are positive. We seem to have things in common, and I’m hoping we can share more than a cell. I’m not talking about anything sexual. Women just don’t do it for me. I’m talking about companionship: close bonds born of shared adversity. I’ll let you know how things turn out when I’ve got to know her a little better. That’s more than enough mindless gossip for one day. I was telling you about Steven.
After that first night of unbridled passion, things went from good to better. We were in love and spent every available moment in each other’s company. I’d never experienced such contentment or felt more alive. I feel blessed to have known him for as long as I did.
Within two months of our lightning-bolt meeting, Steven asked me to move into his one-bedroom Canton flat. Or at least I think he asked me. I was spending more and more time there and many of my possessions moved in before I did. Maybe my memories are fading. Maybe the pictures playing behind my eyes are blurring slightly at the edges. I hope not. I don’t want to lose more of Steven than I already have. Hopefully, my journal can become an insurance policy against further loss. Do you think it’s possible to amplify the good memories whilst eradicating the bad? Or are you beginning to doubt my sanity? I wonder about it myself sometimes.
We’d already been living together for a month when I eventually built up sufficient courage to tell Mum about our relationship during one of our regular Sunday evening catch-up telephone conversations. She told Dad all about it later when she thought the time was right. To my surprise they didn’t disapprove. They invited us to stay with them at their home for the first weekend in November. I had no qualms about going, but I feared Steven may have a different take on the matter.
I told Mum I’d love to come, which was true, but that I’d have to find out if Steven was free that weekend, which wasn’t. I’m sure Mum must have read me like a large-print book, but at the time I believed I’d pulled the wool over her more experienced eyes.
Steven arrived back at the flat after one of his mile runs along the banks of the Taff about twenty minutes after the call. I made him cheese and tomato on toast whilst he showered, and poured him a glass of chilled lager from the fridge. He came into the kitchen wrapped in a white bath towel, sniffed the air, smiled and said, ‘What are you after?’
I have to admit that I chose to appeal to his base instincts, knelt down and pulled off the towel with my pearly whites rather than plead my case. It was easier, much more effective, and a lot more fun. I’m not going to torture myself by outlining the intimate details of our lovemaking. In my restricted world of insurmountable want, this sexual desert, that would be far too much to bear. But, suffice it to say that by the end, he would have agreed to anything in the interests of securing an encore. He did attempt to wriggle out of it the next day when he’d indulged his erotic desires to the full, but I was never going to let that happen. I was a self-confident woman back then, not a cowering mouse. The mouse was born later in my tale.
Twelve days later, on a windy autumn afternoon, Steven and I were standing on platform three at Cardiff’s railway station. Steven was more nervous than I’d ever seen him. Crazy really, if you think about it. All he was going to be doing was meeting two people who were new to him. Two people who cared for me, as he did. And the strange thing was, I was at least as nervous as he was, despite my denials to the contrary. I kept adopting a pensive expression and saying the same statement, ‘I’m not nervous, Steven, really I’m not! They’re my parents, why would I be nervous?’
I kept repeating it, and each time he’d laugh in that infuriating sexy boyish way of his, and say, ‘Yeah, yeah, you never were a good liar, Cynth. Who are you trying to kid?’
I recall it as if it were yesterday. It’s almost as if I could reach back in time and touch him. I really wish I could.
Mum and Dad met us at Swansea Station, and walked toward us as we negotiated the ticket barriers with the help of a friendly, overweight guard, who opened the disabled access gate to allow Steven and his large orange rucksack through the more generous gap.
Dad shook Steven’s hand warmly, before turning away and giving me a generous hug. Mum smiled, said, ‘Hello, love,’ kissed me on the cheek, and hugged us both in turn, as Dad began walking in the direction of his car, parked opposite the station’s entrance.
Mum and Dad were making an effort to make a potentially stressful situation as easy as possible. I appreciated that, and so did Steven. We chatted and listened to seventies’ music as Dad drove west along the M4, through the rolling hills of rural Caerystwythshire and towards the coastal kingdom of Pembrokeshire.
It took us another forty-five minutes to reach Tenby. Dad made a quick circuit of the town to introduce Steven to its impressive medieval walls, scenic picture-postcard beaches and impressive harbour, before heading in the direction of the house. Even my familiarity with the place hadn’t dulled my appreciation of its picturesque allure. It’s as pretty as a postcard. If you haven’t been there, you should make the pilgrimage one day. You won’t be disappointed.
If I close my eyes tight shut and concentrate hard, I can picture the four of us staring at the tall, angular, pastel-painted houses that frame the harbour. But the mirage quickly fades and vanishes back into the unreachable past. What happened subsequently is all too powerful, all too dominant, and it drives the happy times from my mind with such force that it leaves me giddy. Things can change so very quickly. In the blink of an eye. If only we’d stayed in Cardiff.
Oh, there is one thing I’ve neglected to mention, or chose to forget. When we were sitting overlooking the harbour, Steven thought he recognised a Psychology lecturer passing in the driver’s seat of a red convertible with a canvas hood. He waved, but the man didn’t respond. Steven wasn’t certain of the driver’s identity, and it didn’t seem to matter a great deal. Maybe I should have taken note. Perhaps if I had, things would have worked out differently. Or maybe the story was already written, and it would have happened anyway.
We picked up a curry before heading for home, and the four of us sat around the kitchen table to eat, drink and give Mum, Dad and Steven the opportunity to get to know each other better. Conversation was stilted at first, but by the time Dad opened the sixth bottle of beer, the alcohol was oiling the conversational wheels very nicely. When Dad and Steven discovered their shared love of rugby union, their relationship was sealed. Within the hour, Mum and I were watching a romcom in the lounge, whilst the men plotted an overnight trip to Twickenham to watch Wales play the old enemy England in the annual championship.
We were up early on the Saturday morning, due to the bright sunshine flooding through the thin bedroom curtains. We decided to take a walk after breakfast, strolling through the quiet town, around the headland, past the lifeboat station, the bandstand and St Catherine’s Island, towards the sweeping south beach with its views of Caldey Island. It was a happy morning filled with laughter, chatte
r and smiling faces. We treated ourselves to fish and chips for lunch, and sat on a bench overlooking the harbour to savour them, whilst large grey-and-white seagulls screeched and soared and swooped and dived to skim the waves with the beat of a wing. I wonder if the gulls appreciate such glorious freedom. I like to think that they do.
We returned to the house sometime after lunch, and spent the afternoon reading newspapers, and listening to the radio. At about 3:00 p.m., Steven asked if I minded if he went for a run. Why would I object? It was something he did every day. Something he loved. Mum and Dad didn’t see a problem with it either. If they’d thought it was ill-advised, surely they would have said so at the time.
Steven got changed into navy shorts, a white replica England rugby union shirt that irritated the hell out of Dad, and his well-worn running shoes, before leaving the house in the direction of the town. I watched from a window as he jogged down our street, full of youthful energy and the joys of life. If I’d known then, I would have stopped him. I would have called him back. But life’s not like that. How could I possibly have known what would happen next? Maybe we all have inescapable destinies. I think some believe that’s the case.
I didn’t actually begin to wonder where Steven was until almost two hours had passed. I feel guilty about that now. He usually returned from a run well within the hour. I guess I must have assumed that he was taking his time and enjoying the Pembrokeshire coast whilst he had the opportunity.
When I finally looked at the clock on the mantle above the gas fire, I began to wonder if Steven had lost his way. He was new to the area. It would be entirely understandable if he had. Dad grinned when I told him, but he reacted immediately when he saw the concern on my face.
