Caravan of the Lost and Left Behind

by Deirdre Shanahan

  His phone shivered and his phone rang.

  ‘Hi mate. How you doin’?’ Marcus voice shook Torin into another place and time.

  ‘Okay. How are you? What’s going on’

  ‘Big Ian got prison.’

  The words thudded, barely registered until they did.

  ‘Prison? For what? Harjit?’

  ‘No. Not him. A job he did on a boy from South London. He had found him wandering around Vanbrugh Tower and jumped him.’

  ‘Just that? For no reason?’

  ‘The boy was only twelve. Come over to see a mate. Ends up with his face smashed in and his arms broken. So Big Ian’s sorted. Ten years. Last week.’

  ‘For real?’

  ‘You don’t think I’d mess,’ Marcus laughed.

  ‘But the knife? Didn’t the police find it?’

  ‘I chucked it in the canal. Had to think quick. Didn’t want more aggravation.’

  Torin slunk by the side of the fence. The knife gone. Sunk in the depths of water. They used to hang around under the bridges. Good place to smoke. To kip out on a warm night.

  ‘But the cameras. Didn’t they see anything? Didn’t the police check them?’

  ‘Cameras? In that poke of an alley? It’s so crap there ain’t none. On the High Road maybe, with the shops, but not there. The police ain’t been around for ages. Got too much to do in other parts. I mean, bad stuff. Really bad stuff. Rapes and such. Like this old lady got mugged in Chiswick. That’s a nice place isn’t it? She was on her way to the shops and they took her bag. She only had three pound fifty. Old ladies can’t do nothing these days. They can’t defend themselves. So you coming back or what?’

  ‘Yes. I will. Nothing to stay for.’

  ‘Let us know, then. See you.’

  His body expanded. He was free. Didn’t have to stay, or do anything he didn’t want. No one to be bothered about him. His grandad was past it. The long night ended. The evening they had met Harjit. Harjit with his hands in his pockets. Torin lay back, wanting to put his arm around Marcus and say, ‘Great news mate. Great,’ steering off to a pub or a snooker hall. Blasting out on beers.

  3

  He made his way to the old house, along the tracks and the small road near the sea. It had grown as familiar as old clothes. When his mum arrived in London, she must have been only a bit older than he was now, and it could not have been many years after that she met his dad. Tall and a former fisherman, she had told him, he had been working on the buildings. What was his father like and what was it she had liked about him? Over the years with her, he had learnt not to ask. He kicked a stone. Damn it. He should have made her tell him.

  At the door, he pulled back the stone holding up the crumpled, wretched piece of wood. He untied the knot of rope holding for a lock and pushed in. The drear call of wind rattled the roof and whistled through gaps in loose window frames. He had half expected a shifting of the stars and planets to have swept the house out to sea, but everything was as before: bundles of stale towels piled in the corner, jeans sprawling on the only chair, old bits of bread, cans, bottles, sweet papers and a tin of biscuits on the floor.

  He lay on the mattress. Through the ragged doorway, waves clattered. He had not had a good sleep for nights and he half expected Caitlin to come through the door.

  ‘You’re back,’ Pauley said, coming in. Torin raised himself on his elbows while Pauley sat. ‘You look terrible.’

  ‘My mum died.’

  ‘Oh. That’s bad. When?’

  ‘Ten days ago,’ Torin said, though the days had blurred into one.

  It was like an age away. Or a minute. Skin close. Yet so remote it was hardly possible. They stared through the open door to the ocean. He didn’t want to talk about her. It was over. She had gone. Pauley fiddled with a blade of grass, his eyes watery and blue.

  ‘I never had anyone go and die on me. I’m sorry,’ he said.

  Silence lay inside him; a thick fug he could not break out of. Pauley threw tiny pebbles out the door, their sharp spitting cutting the air. Torin slung out a pebble, some kind of an acknowledgement of Pauley’s words which came like the sea’s heartbeat. Flies circled a half-chewed doughnut from which a sickly smell arose. Crusts of bread were thrown along with empty cans. The silence was easier to bear than trying to fill it. Torin let it hang between them.

  ‘I got these. Want some?’ Pauley leaned towards a plastic bag, removing a can of baked beans. He pulled back the ring on top and dug in his fingers. Beans fell on the ground and glistened. Torin shook his head. ‘You should eat. You’ll feel better.’

  ‘I know, but I don’t want those.’ He stretched out. ‘Shane around?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him. Not for a while, so you’re okay. He might’ve gone away.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He’s got cousins. Different places.’ Pauley shrugged.

  Torin rolled over.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Pauley sucked on the blade of grass. It made a sound like a bird.

  ‘Wish I could go away.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Back where I came from.’ Torin laughed. ‘Not much for me here.’

  ‘I heard of a party tonight. What d’you say?’

  Torin sat up and fiddled with the lace on his trainers.

  ‘I don’t fancy it.’

  ‘You used to like parties.’ Pauley spooned out the beans and ate them.

  ‘I did. Once.’

  ‘How many do we hear of?’ Pauley took off the baggy trousers and pulled on a new pair. ‘You’ll feel better. You might meet someone you know.’ He picked up a handful of tiny pebbles, letting them fall.

  He may as well go. And after, he would go back. Back where he belonged.

  ‘If Caitlin’s there, she won’t want to see me.’ He bent to avoid Pauley’s eyes.

  ‘I know things haven’t worked out. I suppose the question is, can you go through the rest of the world without her?’ Pauley bit into a biscuit which had been in the house for weeks. ‘If you can’t, go and get her.’

  ‘Find her? I’m not sure she’d want me to. She’s not answering calls or messages.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should find out? One way or the other?’

  ‘How?’ Torin sat back.

  ‘Go to Breen’s. Ask there. If you want something, go and get it. What’ve you got to lose?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve got nothing.’ Torin picked up his jacket and followed Pauley out of the house.

  A wind swept through the narrow streets and roads until they reached the centre of town. Pauley led the way up an alley to a flat above a hairdresser’s; a woman with long black hair let them in. Men lined the hallway. A girl sat on the floor blocking the way to the living room. Pauley pointed towards the kitchen for a drink so they edged through a crowd.

  They shifted and weaved past men in denim jackets and leather coats, a girl with a thin top showing her ribs, a tall man with a blonde pony-tail. Torin followed up a flight of stairs to a lounge. A couple were talking animatedly in the corner and two blokes stood by a table, drinking.

  He and Pauley sat on a large squashy sofa. A depth of luscious, textured red cushions took their weight. He spread out and drank from a can. A fat girl approached, plonking in between them. Her rich black hair flopped, a deep fringe falling over a pale face with lashings of dark eye make-up. A streak of red lipstick made her mouth.

  ‘Hi there.’ She gave a little wave.

  ‘Hello,’ Pauley said.

  Her skirt rode up, revealing plump thighs as she sat.

  ‘How you doing? You’re not from round here?’

  ‘London,’ he said.

  ‘A bit of a way to travel for a party.’ She gave a skittish laugh. ‘I’m Natasha from Belfast. Would you like some crisps?’

  She rose and waddled to a table nearby.


  ‘She’s got nothing on,’ Torin whispered.

  ‘It’s a skirt.’

  ‘It barely covers her arse.’

  The dark was smoky. Every other kind of girl was there. He strained to find Caitlin. Holding a bowl of peanuts and two sausage rolls balanced on top, the girl plopped back on the sofa. She thrust the bowl under his nose. He shook his head.

  ‘My boyfriend couldn’t come but he knows this crowd. I kept telling him…’

  Pauley stifled a laugh.

  ‘You wanna dance?’ She leant over Torin, smothering.

  ‘No, thanks.’ He shied back.

  ‘He’s hurt his leg,’ Pauley said.

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘Real bad.’ Pauley nodded vigorously.

  ‘Shame. How’d it happen? Football?’ she asked, thinly arched brows rising from the plum depths of her eye make-up.

  ‘Eh… yes.’

  ‘No,’ Torin said.

  From a small, glittery bag propped on her knees, she pulled out a mirror. Tubes and little jars clustered, the tops gunged with spills. Balancing the mirror on her knees, she applied mascara while music thudded in from the other room, a deep bass in the background.

  ‘That’s better. How do I look?’

  ‘Fine,’ Torin said.

  ‘Like a clown,’ Pauley whispered. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ He dug Torin in the ribs. ‘We gotta go.’

  ‘But I like talking to you.’ She pulled at his tee-shirt.

  Torin grasped his right leg in imitation of a hurt footballer and followed Pauley downstairs. Other people pressed against them. Pauley was talking to a girl in hot pants and high heels who was opening a bottle of beer.

  ‘Natasha’s supposed to be helping serve.’ The girl spread her arms out indicating a long table of food, bottles and glasses. ‘I can’t manage on my own. I have to find her.’

  Pauley talked to the man with the pony-tail. Torin strained to listen. Poetry. He had done it at school. A poem about a bird savagely eating the skin of a sheep. He had liked it but afterwards they had to read ones about flowers and snakes and he had stopped listening. He had another drink. Pauley could be right. If he kept looking, he might find Caitlin. She might be at the party anyway. Amongst the faces, the tanned men in sleeveless vests, girls in short skirts.

  An older woman floated across the room in a long yellow skirt, her face lit up. She wore a loose blouse with a flourish of necklaces and approached pony-tail man, offering a small bowl.

  Pony-tail and Pauley shook their heads.

  ‘What about you?’ Her eyes glittered on Torin.

  ‘What are they?’ He sat up.

  ‘You’ll get a kick. Feel good inside.’ She leant towards him and taking hold of a bottle of vodka from a table, poured a glass and sprinkled in the tablets. ‘Makes your head spin. I promise,’ she smiled, giving him the glass and moving on to a blonde girl in the corner.

  He sat in the armchair, leaning back. This was easy. Sleek. He was like this with Caitlin in her small room, in a bed which had been unsteady, with one leg missing so the corner was held up by a piece of wood. To the side of the cabinet, through the window, a sea of pin-pricks of light. His spine fizzed. He was alive. It was not late and she might come. Might be in the house already, in the kitchen or hall, helping herself to a drink. His body flowed out of him but his head was a realm of birds fluttering. He could not get his breath but staggered to the bathroom in time to sit down as the room turned.

  The innermost of his bones were empty and his head ached as he sank to the floor against the legs of a chair with a cushion pushed up to it. Sweet aromas from flowers filled his nostrils, working their way through the paths of his skull. A different kind of aliveness climbed in his veins. His skin opened. He was not in his own body.

  Night drove on. Harsh notes fractured the hours. He was being cut into tiny pieces. A dark face emerged but it changed and as the focus came and went, it was Caitlin. His head was heavy. Eyes stared. He raised his hand. Her head bent with intent towards him. He called but she turned away. He crossed to a table and picked up a half-used can and drank.

  ‘Hey, there’ll be full ones down in the kitchen.’

  ‘But if those girls are around?’

  Pauley turned to leftovers, the few crisps and nuts remaining, and scoffed them. Torin picked up a can shoved in the corner and drank, the lager going down clean and fast. He was an idiot to think she would be there. He slugged another half-drunk can abandoned on a coffee table. The beer, clean and refreshing, cut against the roof of his mouth. He slumped to a chair. He could enjoy this. He could stay watching.

  Natasha appeared in the door way and made a path towards them. Pauley tugged on Torin’s sleeve.

  ‘We can crash out here,’ Torin said, sick in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘We can’t. Come on.’ Pauley dragged him through the room and downstairs.

  Natasha leant against the banister in the hall.

  ‘Hi, there,’ she said, but they made for the front door where two men and a woman crowded the entrance. ‘I’d say the leg made a miraculous recovery,’ she shouted as they pushed into the chill night.

  Lone stalks of telegraph poles injected the dark sky. A glossy moon threw down light onto the solitary window at the top of a battened-up house. Scaffolding jutted from the side and bricks were stacked in a block. A skip overflowed with ragged bits of carpet, plywood and kitchen cabinets. Torin picked up a brick and, easily as he might let go a ball, powered it towards the gleam of light on the lone window. The glass smashed. Spilt smithereens shook down like stars. Drawn by the shimmering beauty of the glass falling, he was in a trance.

  ‘What d’you do that for?’ Pauley pulled his arm.

  ‘It was so perfect. I wanted to kill it.’

  ‘You’re sky-high.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong,’ Torin slurred and hung on to a lamp post. He wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘We can kip here.’ He sneezed and shook, thinned out by the cold.

  ‘We bloody can’t. Come on.’

  Pauley held him and they walked, reaching an industrial estate at gone three. A grey monochrome of warehouses spread. His head was clearer. He was an idiot. Anyone from the houses nearby might have called the police. They could be onto him already. But they could hide. Crash out. Bring down the blinding sky over him and block out the light. Fold into the dark. There was nothing he could do to make things better.

  Pauley gripped his waist so they walked in step. If he was not with Pauley, he did not know where he would be. Lying pissed out on the edge of the road. Rain fell as they passed a scrubby field bordered by a wire fence. A bedraggled tortoiseshell cat slunk along and a cluster of kittens watched dartingly from a bush.

  ‘This looks all right,’ Pauley said.

  They scanned the walls of the biggest shed until Pauley found a door. He pulled on the bolt, sliding it open. If a security man caught them it could lead straight to the police. His head rang with worry but he followed Pauley. Pauley knew what he was doing.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve all come this road some time or another.’ Pauley’s eyes were hard and bright.

  They entered the space as though owning it. Torin walked the length of the walls. Big enough to hide in. Lose yourself. Plastic crates were stacked in a corner at the far end, the dark lozenge of a laptop on the floor beside them. He bent to open the lid and pressed the switch but the screen was dead. The keys were battered and the middle ones were missing. Useless.

  Calmly and without looking back, Pauley jumped on plastic crates the height of himself. Stacked against the far wall, they shifted slightly but stayed in place as he sprang up, grasping edges, finding hand holds. He balanced. Moved with the quickness of a fly. Stiff with fear, Torin held his breath. Pauley climbed higher, hands leading the way, feet nipping after, his legs tak
ing the strain of him. He lay his arms against the bare walls, driving on. He skimmed the walls, as if barely clinging. He scaled the wall, climbing the air, leaping from crate to crate. Like an insect, alert with tension to each hold, he made his way.

  ‘This is good,’ he shouted. ‘But not as good as the sea in winter. You ever swum in it naked? A chill up your backside to get the blood racing. Then you’re really alive. The whole of the world tingles through your veins.’

  In a sleek jump from the height of four packing cases, Pauley dipped into the space beneath with a quick scissor collapse of his legs. Torin blinked and shivered, hating the way Pauley scared him. Climbing. Diving. Pauley slipped into other places Torin could not hope to arrive at.

  ‘Where’d you learn that stuff?’ he asked.

  Pauley laughed.

  ‘I was eight. Used to climb out the bedroom window after me dad’d lock me in.’ He straightened, brushing his face with his hands. He walked around the shed, inspecting it. ‘Look. Covering.’ He lifted a large sheet of canvas. ‘We can make a bed for the night.’ He dragged out a couple of sheets from the corner. ‘They don’t smell either.’ He lay them on the floor and fell down on top.

  Torin lay and pulled a sheet over and stretched out. It was good to float into his own thoughts.

  ‘You still awake?’ Pauley folded back a corner of his sheeting.

  ‘Yes. But my head’s banging all over.’ He should have taken more stuff to block out the night. He turned to one side. Distant traffic hummed in the thick dark.

  ‘This is good,’ Pauley whispered, close.

  Torin shut his eyes. He and Caitlin had rolled into one another, skins enveloping, defining lines collapsing.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Pauley asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Something is.’

  ‘Not much.’ Torin wished he could hide his eyes.

  ‘Your mum?’

  Torin shook his head.

  ‘The old man?’

  ‘No.’ He threw down the word. ‘I’ll head off soon.’ His eyes stung. He closed them and tried to sleep. Pauley’s hand on his shoulder, cupped the bone. Warmth spread through the thin fabric of his tee-shirt.