by Nicky Black
With Davie’s head in his paper, Barry lost in his Walkman, and Betty at the sink, Tommy took Grandad’s photograph from his pocket and placed it on the table, nodding down at it subtly. Sam looked at it, comprehension making her eyes flash: first fear, then composure, her faint smile and long intake of breath denoting her understanding and agreement.
Hearing the front door open and close, he put the photograph under his arm. Jed appeared in the kitchen doorway, the buoyant smile on his face assuring Tommy that the sound and lighting was sorted, the chippies paid their deposits, and Hadgy Dodds given the cash he needed to round up his gang of uglies.
‘Generators are sorted,’ Jed said, giving Tommy a wink and a horsey click of his cheek. ‘Jimmy will meet us there, and Frankie’s on his way.’ Jed picked up a piece of black pudding and fed his face, ravenously. ‘Shift ’owa.’
Tommy slid his backside across the dining chair so Jed could perch on the edge. It was how they’d all fitted around Betty’s kitchen table as children, crammed in, Barry demanding his own seat on pain of tantrums from hell that weren’t worth it.
Tommy bit into his sausage and leant over the table to stroke Ashleigh’s cheek with his thumb, catching Sam’s eye as he heard the tooting of a horn outside.
‘Be careful,’ Sam said.
There were no tears, just a nod of consensus, and her eyes didn’t leave his as he got to his feet. He was quickly joined by Jed who saluted Sam before pulling Tommy down the hallway to the open door where Betty stood ringing a tea towel in her hands. She grabbed Tommy and Jed in a vice-like embrace, pressing them tightly to her chest.
‘Mam …’ Jed growled.
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ she said, letting them go.
As Jed disappeared outside, Tommy felt Betty’s hand on his arm.
‘Watch over my lad,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without him.’
Tommy’s eyes followed Jed, who was flinging his arms in the air at the sight of a huge, pink open-topped car.
‘I will, Mrs Foster.’ And he closed the door behind him.
***
Frankie lounged in the driver’s seat of the pink Cadillac, dressed in a two-tone suit, complete with white socks and Ska hat. He fixed his piano-patterned tie into place and removed his sunglasses. ‘Your Lady Penelope awaits,’ he said.
‘I said inconspicuous!’ Jed surveyed the car, exasperated.
‘Shut up and get in.’ Tommy took the photograph from under his arm and vaulted over the door of the Cadillac, falling expertly onto his backside next to Frankie, his heart thudding with the thrill of euphoric terror. What if the aircraft hangar wasn’t there anymore? What if it was inhabited by livestock or combined harvesters?
‘Is that it?’ asked Frankie, nodding at the photograph.
Tommy handed it over, and Frankie grinned down at it.
‘Mint,’ he said, turning the print over in his hands. ‘What’s this?’ Frankie’s fingers were picking at a small square of white card stuck to the back of Grandad’s picture with old, yellow tape that Tommy hadn’t noticed. Removing it, Frankie turned the card over and Tommy looked down at a black and white photograph of a newborn baby, the stark white of the frock and booties contrasting with the darkness of the baby’s skin and the shock of black, fuzzy hair. Underneath it, in Jean Collins’s handwriting, was written:
“Tony, 1963.”
‘Who’s that?’ Jed’s head was at Tommy’s shoulder.
Taking the photograph from Frankie, Tommy stared down at it.
Four: expect the unexpected.
‘Fucking Tucker,’ he said.
Tommy sensed two pairs of quizzical eyes darting between each other before Frankie turned the key in the ignition. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to cry, wondering if a brother like Tucker Brown was better than no brother at all. He slid the photograph into the pocket of his jeans; he’d think about it later. He had a rave to pull off.
‘Drive on, Parker,’ he said.
‘Yes, m’lady,’ said Frankie, donning his hat and sunglasses.
Today, they were doing it in style.
***
Frankie drove through the country roads like Lord Muck. The roadworks on the A1 north of Alnwick had put them an hour behind, men standing with “stop” and “go” signs without supervision, having a laugh as furious motorists stuck their fingers up at them from their open windows.
‘Are we nearly there yet?’ Jed was turning pale, his cheeks puffed out, one hand clasped at his mouth.
‘Left, man, left!’ shouted Tommy.
‘We’ve been down here before!’ wailed Frankie.
He was right, and Tommy sucked in his lips in apology as Frankie looked with dismay at the unending road ahead, flanked by open, unfenced fields, sheep straying from their grassland onto the tarmac.
Tommy flattened the map against the dashboard, studying it, wishing he’d paid more attention in his geography lessons. ‘Definitely back that way.’ He pointed his thumb over his shoulder.
Frankie drove off the road into a field, taking the car full circle over the grass, blasting the horn at stray sheep who stared stubbornly while Jed groaned that he was about to puke his ring.
‘Do not be sick in this car,’ Frankie warned, driving back in the direction they’d just come.
Ten minutes later, they were climbing a steep, winding road, the engine roaring, Frankie’s nose almost touching the steering wheel as he willed the car on.
‘Come on, come on!’ Tommy hissed under his breath, wondering if it was possible to die of anticipation.
The road bent sharply to the right at the top of the hill, and as they turned and faced the steep incline on the other side, Frankie stamped on the breaks.
And there it was in all its splendour: Evershott Airfield, a criss-cross of weedy runways and rusty shacks, in the centre, the hangar, spectacularly gloomy and grey, its corrugated doors already wide open in welcome. It dwarfed the redundant outbuildings that scattered the airfield’s edges, its domed roof intact bar one or two missing sections. It was a thing of beauty.
Frankie grinned at Tommy for a second before they heard agonising retching from the back seat, and Jed promptly threw up over the side of the car.
Tommy jumped out and walked to the edge of the hill, staring down at the airfield, emotion swelling in his chest, the sort of emotion he hadn’t felt since he held Ashleigh in his arms for the first time.
Like her, it was perfect.
DENISE
She’d heeded Paul’s instructions with tacit hatred. She was to take the drugs in the Range Rover to Groat Hall Farm, make sure there were no police around then call him at the Joiner’s Arms in Hexham when she knew the coast was clear. He wasn’t taking any risks, he’d said. He didn’t trust Tommy, or her or anyone else.
Her rose garden had been dug up, the parade of colours now trampled and soiled. The black bin bags had been emptied out onto her kitchen table, the individual seal bags of a hundred or so pills in each crammed into a Head sports bag that was too heavy for her to lift. But lift it she would, for if she didn’t …
Paul had held a knife to her cheek and explained how he could cut someone’s face to shreds with a few quick flicks of the wrist, the tone of his voice firm enough to remind her she had no choice. He was dressed as if he was off to a funeral; her brother was quite literally dressed to kill.
He was gone now, and she stared down at her filthy kitchen floor, feeling like she could mop the linoleum with her dignity. Inside the holdall was a separate Super Savers carrier bag containing twenty seal bags of drugs. The carrier bag had Tommy’s name on it.
‘Just in case Peach sees the light,’ Paul had said. ‘Either way, the lad’s finished. Too fucking stupid.’ He’d patted the breast pocket of his black suit jacket, his face grotesquely pleased as his ring hit the jutting metal of the knife that lay there. She'd heard over the years that Paul had no time for guns; he liked to get close, smell the blood and hear the skin tear for himself. She'd t
hought it all fantasy, but she believed every word of it now.
A rolling sickness gripped her stomach, bending her double. She wanted Tommy out of Sam’s life, but she didn’t want him dead. She had enough guilt in her life.
She had to warn Tommy. She had to warn Sam. She had to do the right thing, otherwise she was finished too.
***
But Tommy wasn’t home, and neither was Sam. When she turned away from her daughter’s front door, little Carl Logan was standing at the gate, gawping at her, his face streaked and dirty.
‘Where is she?’ She marched towards Carl who stood motionless, not a glimmer of fear.
Carl gave an exaggerated shrug, his face set in a mocking fucked if I know.
The palm of her hand had walloped his small cheek before she could even think. It frightened her more than him, and though he staggered with the force of it, he regained his balance like a pro and stared up at her, staunchly. It unnerved her, making her feel small and useless, and him only seven or eight years old.
‘Does your mother never wash you?’ she spat. ‘You stink!’
It hurt more than any slap, she could tell by the way he flinched at her words. But the pain was short lived and Carl brought back one of his skinny legs and kicked at her shin with the force of a striker aiming a penalty. The agony was immediate and intense, bringing tears to her eyes and a barking yelp from her mouth.
‘The fucking Fosters, you fat bitch!’ he squealed in his little-boy voice. Laughing, he ran away from her across the road and into the blackened garden of the burnt-out house.
She limped towards the Fosters’, cursing with every step. She was greeted at the door by Jed’s father, a man with Lego-man hair and a jumper thrown over his shoulders. He brought to mind her ex-husband and she felt herself bristle as the man looked down at her like she whiffed.
‘I need to see Samantha,’ she said, trying to sound authoritative.
‘Betty!’ Davie called over his shoulder.
‘It’s all right.’ Sam was behind him and Davie stepped aside, still eying Denise warily.
‘Can I come in, love?’ The sight of her daughter brought a lump the size of a golf ball to her throat. She looked a spectacle, she knew it, her hair unwashed, mascara streaked, a warm trickle of blood making its way down her shin to her ankle. The look of shock on Sam’s face brought fresh tears to her eyes. Perhaps she could stay here with the Fosters. Perhaps she could be safe, too.
Sam stood back, and Denise stumbled into the house, the cosy warmth of the chintz swathing her in both relief and disgust. She followed Sam into the front room, listening to Ashleigh’s infectious laughter from the kitchen.
‘What do you want?’ Sam stood at the fireplace, her arms folded.
Her legs unstable, Denise looked towards one of the high-backed chairs, the sort you find in old people’s homes and hospitals. Imagining a faint odour of piss, she decided against sitting, so she steadied herself instead against a glass-fronted sideboard full of china thimbles.
It was Tommy, she said, he was in danger.
‘Danger you put him in. Why can’t you just keep your nose out of our business?’
‘It’s your Uncle Paul, love, I got him all wrong.’ Denise heard the bitterness in her own voice.
‘For God’s sake, Mam, you always get them wrong. There’s always something, it’s never you, is it?’
It wasn’t. She’d just had bad luck. But Sam was on a roll.
‘My dad couldn’t stand you. Drove him away to the other side of the world. Couldn’t get far enough away from you. And Marvin. I loved him, he was my dad in every sense of the word and you didn’t bat an eyelid when he fucked off with all your going on and on and on.’ Sam gave her the ‘Birdy Song’ gestures, ‘Nag, nag, bleedin’ nag. And then who did I get? Adrian? Oh, he was just dandy, the pervert, but oh no, you didn’t believe me, did you? Had to wait for him to expose himself to some poor cow before you got shot of him.’
Denise had never heard Sam so angry, so articulate. She got that from her mother.
‘And then Kevin did a runner with all our money, and now your precious brother is back in your life. You haven’t got a clue, have you?’
Denise felt the sting of undeserved blame. ‘He lied to me,’ she said, her defences unleashed. She couldn’t help it. It was in her bones. She was the victim here.
‘They all lie to you, mother, everything you don’t agree with is a lie. All you think about is yourself.’
The insult cut Denise’s gasp in half. She’d come here to tell Sam that Tommy should stay away from Paul and the drugs. She was there to warn them both after which Sam would fall into her arms in gratitude. ‘I don’t think you can lecture me on men,’ she said, still aghast. ‘Look what you landed yourself,’ and she felt the electricity of Sam’s fury.
‘I love him!’ Sam was pointing out the window at the street and Tommy beyond it. ‘I don’t want him for what he’s got, Mam, I want him for him! Do you know what that even means? Do you know what that feels like?!’ It was like a barb jabbing at her heart. ‘Well? Do you?’
Sam’s eyes flashed as she contained the tears, not allowing them to flow. She got that from her mother, too.
‘I love him, Mam, and he loves me, all right?’ she crossed her hands over her chest. ‘Just accept it.’
Denise squeezed her eyes closed as if to stop the words in their tracks. Sam wasn’t getting it; the sacrifices she’d made, the dreams she’d had. All the things she had planned for their future. She opened her eyes – one last try. ‘We could go away, you, me, and Ashleigh, get out of this hole—’
‘I don’t want to go with you!’ Sam butted in. ‘I want to be with my family!’
Her family? It choked her, stung her eyes, but when she spoke again, her voice was calm and measured. ‘There’s something I’ve got to do, love,’ she said, ‘please don’t hate me for it.’ She thought Sam would look at her as if she hated her already, but she didn’t. She simply looked exhausted. ‘I’ve got to go to the farm, make a delivery.’ She knew Sam understood, but she saw indecision, hesitation. ‘I can’t say any more than that, but I’m doing it for you, sweetheart. And Tommy.’
Denise reached out, but Sam’s face darkened like night falling in the desert, swift and unforeseen. She knew then that her daughter had been told; that she knew about the robbery, the identification of Tommy’s eyes. She knew then that forgiveness was impossible.
‘We’re leaving.’ said Sam. ‘And we won’t be coming back, thanks to you and your shithead brother.’
‘Don’t, Samantha, please …’
Sam was looking towards the door, listening to her baby’s faint cries.
‘Wait.’ Denise grabbed her daughter’s hand, and Sam didn’t pull away. It gave her some hope, some semblance of redemption. There was one thing left she could do, and it might save her daughter’s life.
She rummaged in her bag, took out her purse and opened it, running her fingers over the line of cards inside. ‘Here.’ She handed a credit card to Sam. ‘There’s five or six hundred on there, you can fake my signature, I know that.’ All the notes asking to be excused from PE and showers that she’d never written. ‘Just in case,’ she said. ‘Please, be careful, love. Use it if you have to.’
Sam’s eyes questioned hers, so she had to explain. ‘If you have to get away, even without Tommy.’ Denise closed her hands around Sam’s.
‘I’m not going anywhere without my husband.’ Sam withdrew her hands from her mother’s but held on to the credit card. ‘Bye, Mam,’ she said.
And she was gone, running from the room with a gulping sob. Sam wanted her family more than she wanted her mother. She’d made her choice, and Denise felt a sharp slice of fear cut through her.
TOMMY
‘Your brother?’ Frankie squinted up at the hanger, hands folded into his armpits.
‘Half-brother, obviously,’ said Tommy.
‘I’ve heard everything now, like.’
Tommy had spent
the last few hours considering ways to approach Tucker, now the reality of it had sunk it. Maybe they could call a truce, even have a drink together. Maybe Tucker could turn over a new leaf. But it didn’t feel right. Tucker was too unknown, too far removed from Tommy’s life to be part of it. Too much of a thug. Perhaps not such a nice family that took him after all, he thought, remembering his mother’s words. But how was she to know what Tucker’s life had been like in Liverpool? If he had stayed a Collins, would he have turned out any different? Or would he have been an outcast, an embarrassment? It was hard enough not being white on Valley Park now, so Christ knows what it would have been like back in the sixties.
Still, Tommy had tried to summon brotherly affection, something akin to what he felt for the astronaut, some sort of implicit bond that could unit them. But, when he truly thought about it, he’d only ever felt that kind of attachment to Jed. And, besides, Tommy and Sam would be gone by the morning, and it had begun to sink in that his life was about to change forever. He’d never visit the garden of remembrance where his mother’s ashes were scattered again; his home would be occupied by some other family with nowt. He might never again spread Stork SB over one of Betty’s warm cheese scones. His father would be released to no one. It had occupied his mind to the point of distraction all afternoon, sending Jed into a panicking squall. Nevertheless, the afternoon was going like clockwork, everything falling into place, or so he thought.
