If This Is Home Page 10

  ‘There was a documentary on about the Beatles last night,’ she said. ‘And I thought I might go to Liverpool. It looks like a cool place.’

  *

  Liverpool is the only other city for which Bethany has ever claimed any affinity, though we go there infrequently. Tonight the Ramones are playing and we have had tickets for months. We’re catching a lift with someone Bethany knows through a friend. He is known only as Captain, though neither of us have an idea why. We are to meet him outside the Town Hall and he is running late. Bethany is excited and a little drunk on the rum we’ve filched from her dad’s drinks cabinet.

  We stand, hugging each other by the gated doorway of the Town Hall, as people in summer dresses and chinos make their way to the Queen’s and the Carpenter’s. I look at my watch and try not to seem impatient.

  ‘He’ll be here soon, don’t worry,’ she says. ‘They’re not on till nine anyway.’

  I nod and kiss her.

  ‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘We’ll be out of here soon. Out of here for good!’

  I shout this so the whole town can hear, then a van – a battered blue Transit – lurches to a halt in front of us. Captain opens the door and doesn’t say hello. We get in the cab and say thank you. He doesn’t apologize for keeping us waiting for half an hour.

  ‘I’m Mark,’ I say, putting on my seat belt. He nods at me.

  ‘You don’t trust the Captain, eh?’

  He is in his early twenties, his hair long and straggly, his face already careworn, though not unattractive. He puts the van into gear and accelerates to a great speed. The back of the van judders and crashes with things not fastened down properly.

  ‘It’s only Dan’s drums,’ he says. ‘And he can’t play them for shit anyway.’

  I nod my head to the beat of the music. ‘Fugazi, right?’

  He nods again as we make our escape. He seems impressed.

  Five hours later and we drive back through the rain-dirty streets. Captain has assured us that he is okay to drive, but neither one of us is convinced. I’m slowly cooling down from the heat of the gig, the new Ramones T-shirt itchy on my damp skin. Beth holds my hand tightly but seems distant; not so much worried by Captain’s driving but still somehow distracted. The music is loud and Captain chews Juicy Fruit incessantly. He is talking too, telling us both to relax, telling us that it’s the best gig he’s been to, that Joey Ramone is the coolest man alive. I keep my eyes on the road and say nothing, my ears still ringing from the drums and the guitar and Joey Ramone’s voice.

  We are about four miles from home when he turns off the headlights. We are on a B-road and he is laughing; chewing and laughing and telling us that this is the best bit about night driving: the fear. He turns the wheel and we are in the middle of the road, the drums crashing in the back, Bethany’s fingers are cold and laced in mine. We both tell him to stop, tell him to put on the lights and get back in the right lane. But Captain’s just laughing at us.

  ‘Just fucking stop it, Captain,’ Beth says. ‘Just stop it right now.’

  I see the car coming towards us. Its headlights are not dipped and Captain is momentarily dazzled; he pulls the van left then right. I brace myself and pull Bethany towards me. We close our eyes and hunch our shoulders. We miss the car by inches and career off the road into a muddy ditch. The music is silenced and all we can hear is the ticking of the engine and the settling of the drums in the back. Beth is shaking; I am holding her and shaking too.

  ‘You fucking idiot,’ she shouts. ‘What was that? What the fuck was that about?’

  Captain starts to laugh again.

  ‘We’re only ever one step from death, Beth. Only one moment away from the oblivion.’

  ‘You stupid bastard,’ she says. ‘You stupid fucking bastard.’

  He puts the van in reverse and lights a cigarette. He nudges me.

  ‘Admit it,’ he says. ‘That was the coolest thing ever, right?’

  I want to punch him. I imagine how it would feel to knock him out, break one of his teeth, kick him in his throat. My right hand begins to shake. Bethany steadies it and says nothing at all. Ten minutes later, Captain drops us at a roundabout.

  ‘Be seeing you,’ he says and drives off. Mud and grass are stuck to the side of the van.

  In the street we hold each other.

  ‘I thought we were going to die,’ she says. ‘I honestly thought we were going to die.’

  We walk to her house and make love. Afterwards we smoke a cigarette and suddenly she starts to laugh. We both get a severe attack of the giggles and kiss until they pass. I get dressed and remind her that there’s just one more week to go. One more week before we escape. She says nothing. I kiss her goodbye, almost like it’s the last time.

  *

  Rosa crooked a finger down my cheek.

  ‘You were fast asleep,’ she said. ‘Out, just like that.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘You’ve got to look after yourself better. Take better care of yourself.’

  I looked at my hands.

  ‘How long have you known me, Rosa?’

  She shrugged. ‘Eight months nearly now, Joey.’

  ‘And you know me? You know men? You feel like you know me?’

  She was about to answer me when the intercom went again. Boulder had finished. She looked at the clock and then at the floor.

  ‘Maybe we should get away? Head into the desert. Stay at a motel and get drunk and play cards. Maybe read a book,’ she said.

  It was hardly an improbable dream, but I couldn’t picture it. I said nothing and looked at the map again; Rosa coughed.

  ‘You sure know how to make a girl feel wanted.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just I—’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said wearily and stood up. ‘I just thought it’d do you good, is all.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Yeah, well, thank you very—’

  The intercom went again in a shriek of static. Harry was shouting code blue code blue, and in the corridor we could hear raised voices, scuffling noises, bodies being bumped against the wall. Rosa and I ran for the door. In the corridor, two of the security guards were restraining Brooks. He was smiling, no longer struggling, his trousers unfastened. The men held him against the wall, his face still, his body loose. Rosa rushed past me and into the room.

  I followed her in. Lydia was on the floor. Her face was covered in blood and semen. There was blood on the wall. Her nose looked broken and there were teeth on the floor; small, like milk teeth. She had bruises on her thighs, welts on her arms. She tried to wipe her face, but just smeared the mess over her hands and wrists. Lydia was the youngest girl we had; she didn’t look older than sixteen. Rosa scooped her up and carried her down the corridor. As she passed, Brooks spat at her.

  ‘Learn to suck dick properly, you useless cunt,’ he said, then laughed.

  I pushed him back into the room and closed the door. I had him by the lapels. The room smelled of shit and Brooks was still laughing.

  ‘So what you going to do, Jones? I can do whatever the fuck I want, right? I thought that was the point. You really think that was all I wanted to do to her? I had such plans for that bitch—’

  I punched him first in the stomach, then went for his face. He dodged my fist and kicked the back of my legs. Everything was light for a moment and then I was flat on the floor. He stamped on my wrist and then jumped on my arms.

  ‘I should fuck you like I fucked her,’ he said. I had my hands over my face and he went to work on my torso. Left and right, right and left. The rhythm was soothing. The blows no longer hurt. I stole a look at him, the redness of his face, the sweat dripping down on mine.

  *

  The news report is read by Gordon Burns. The broadcast cuts to a picture of Bethany taken from the carnival; the production team must have rushed to develop the photos. It does not look like her. It could be anyone in that crown, in that dress, smiling and waving.

  They cut to the crime scene, a roving reporter in shirtslee
ves reiterating the finer points of what can be disclosed. DI Simon Parks denies reports that the killing could be linked to others in the North-West. Then they show a picture of the man they have arrested. This is unusual, but they are appealing for people who know him to come forward. I do not recognize him. It is a mug shot and he does not have the face of a killer. No one has the face of a killer. On the floor in front of me is my suitcase, my small army rucksack, my passport and my tickets. The funeral will not take place for weeks while Bethany is sliced and weighed and jointed. We still have the tickets; we are still going to New York.

  I see the man’s face again and cannot feel anything. No anger, no desire for revenge. I just think of the flight. How much Bethany will enjoy it. The feel of her hand in mine as we land.

  *

  I had broken his nose somehow, an awkward punch that caught him square on the bridge. I punched him again and blood landed in my mouth. He clutched his face and I kneed him in the stomach. He howled as I stood, howled as I kicked his face, stamped on his head. I was grinding my heels into his chest when they came in and stopped me.

  ‘You’d better get going,’ Harry said, looking down at Brooks, a pair of his teeth on the carpet. ‘I’ll sort this out.’

  Rosa looked away from me and began to talk into her cell phone. Harry pushed me through the door.

  ‘Go,’ he said. ‘You really need to leave. Now.’

  From the telephone in the office, I called O’Neil. He answered after five rings, and for a long time I said nothing, listening to the sound of him move from the loudness of whichever place he was in, to somewhere he could speak.

  ‘Talk to me,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

  I couldn’t speak.

  ‘What is it?’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said eventually. ‘I’m so sorry.’ I kept saying it, over and again.

  ‘I’m coming over,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m …’ I said and looked around. ‘I’m leaving. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. I can’t stay here any longer.’

  ‘Just wait, Joe. Just stay where you are. I’m coming, okay?’

  I put the phone down. There was silence and stillness and then there was Bethany Wilder. Electric, living, her hand on one hip, her legs crossed, a cigarette tucked in the corner of her smile. I followed her up to my rooms. She watched me from the bed as I packed, wound her hair around her fingers as I checked my passport and credit cards. She said nothing. There was nothing to say. With a small bag over my shoulder, I headed out and followed her back through the corridor, down the elevator, through the atrium and then on to the airport.

  Saturday, 7th July 1990, 10.41 am

  There has been just one run-through, down at the scout hut on Higgins Lane, and all she was asked to do was stand on a series of boxes and wave. She was told to smile at all times, reminded to concentrate on the fact that this was all for charity. The previous carnival had been organized by another Rotarian, and David Waller was clear in his objective that more money would be made in 1990 than in 1989. He knew the exact figure and in any conversation he would mention the precise amount – £27,512 – as if it were a living person.

  ‘Remember, smile and they’ll put the money in the buckets,’ he tells her before she gets on the float. ‘But you’ve got to smile. You’ve got to look like you mean it. Poor girl last year, she was never convincing. But I know you’ll do your best for your dad. And for the town. And for those little kiddies at the hospital.’

  She is standing in the car park and the smell of the Impulse she has borrowed from Hannah is overwhelming. Around her kids are milling about, their faces painted like animals. They chatter incessantly, excited at the prospect of shaking the red buckets set out on a row of picnic tables, all of them pre-lined with one-penny pieces.

  ‘I’ll see you at the Queen’s, then?’ Hannah says. ‘Just after six?’

  Bethany looks at the children again, then at Hannah. ‘I’ll try. If I’m not there by half past, assume I’m not coming. Queenly duties and all that.’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘I know, but you’ve seen what they’re like. Waller’ll have me selling kisses if he doesn’t get more than Fordham did.’

  ‘Just be there, okay? Bad enough that you’re with all these old men in the evening, let alone not seeing you to celebrate your reign.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘We haven’t got too long together, you know,’ Hannah says. ‘What with work and all that.’

  ‘I know, Han. I’ll try my best.’

  The lie doesn’t hurt as much as she thinks it should.

  *

  Hannah was the first person Bethany told. Her head was full of the kiss and they sat on Hannah’s sofa, watching videos, drinking tea and eating toast, while she was made to tell Bethany everything she knew about Mark, where he lived and where he drank and what he was like in general. Hannah confessed that there wasn’t much. Except one thing she’d heard.

  ‘You know I told you about Vikki Palmer?’ she said.

  ‘School bike, right?’

  ‘Yeah. She says he cried after he shagged her.’

  There was a moment of stillness, The Lost Boys playing on the television screen.

  ‘She said that he wanted it to be special and they were on a school trip. She says he still denies it.’

  ‘The crying?’

  ‘The whole thing. Said it never happened. But why would Palmer lie about it? Boys don’t like to admit they fancy her, but they do. Even someone like Mark.’

  Bethany pulled her legs underneath her and blew on the top of her mug.

  ‘So you think he did it, then?’ Bethany said.

  ‘Of course he did.’ Hannah paused. ‘But I wouldn’t mention it if I were you.’

  She didn’t. And at first it didn’t bother her. But afterwards, she often wondered whether he saw their first time together as the real first time. She could never be sure without asking – and he always clammed up when she skirted the issue.

  *

  The float is waiting in the shade of a stand of ash trees. A sweating youth dressed as a footman helps Bethany onto the float. She gives him a coy smile. Two of them will flank her as she moves through the streets, their buckets bigger and coloured gold. There is an x made from two strips of gaffer tape at the centre of the float, which is where she is supposed to stand, though there is precious little room to stand elsewhere. Above her is a wire arch, covered with flowers, and in front are two boys who will throw confetti to announce the arrival of the carnival queen, and they beam with the heat and their responsibility. There is a bullhorn at the back of the float which will play the soundtrack to Disney’s Fantasia.

  ‘You look wonderful,’ one of the footmen says.

  ‘Aren’t you hot in that uniform?’ Bethany says.

  ‘Baking,’ he says. ‘But it’s worth it, though, isn’t it?’

  She nods and the engine starts, a puny sound, like a scooter. They will be travelling at a speed just under three miles per hour for what Waller describes as ‘donation maximization’. From the pavilion her father waves, Hannah waves and she waves back. The back gates to the cricket club open slowly. She can hear the drums and horns of the Boys’ Brigade in the distance and tries to work out how long this can conceivably take. There is a drone, followed by heavy footfalls. Waller gestures and the float lurches forward, almost catapulting Bethany from her queenly bier. Everyone laughs except Bethany who is too busy adjusting her crown and ensuring that no more flesh is visible than is absolutely necessary. The force of the sun is shocking, the bonnets and windscreens of cars refracting the light and momentarily blinding her. The float makes a casual turn to its left and Waller waves maniacally.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, love, smile!’

  *

  The floats and people follow her; they fill the street, noise and clamour, costumes bright like the sun. In front, people are congregating and they whoop and holler as she makes her first tentative wave.
Without thinking, she smiles too, her teeth on show, her arm tick-tocking as she comes up to the first of the spectators, loosely banded behind metal barriers. There are young girls in fairy outfits, their fathers holding on to their shoulders; boys in football kits – Liverpool, Everton, Manchester United, Stoke – and mothers holding bags and handing out coppers from their purses. Bethany smiles and waves and expects to see people she recognizes from the town, but these faces are unfamiliar and they are clapping as though seeing her for the first time. She feels like an actress taking the stage to collect her encore.

  At Jackson Street there are even more people lining the road. Some are waving flags, some blowing hooters, all are applauding; she has done nothing but wear a dress and yet they’re all giving her their encouragement. There is a constant beat from the shaking of the buckets and the loud shouts of the kids and the footmen asking the crowds to dig deep. ‘Look at how beautiful she is,’ one of them says. ‘She’s worth more than that, surely!’ Bethany doesn’t catch what the man says back, but the look on his face suggests that it’s probably just as well.

  She keeps waving as they go past the Chinese place; the proprietors lean out of the window of the flat above. It is where she and her father used to buy their Friday night takeaway: spring rolls, vegetable chow mein, king prawn curry, prawn crackers. Before it had been a chippy, but the owner had been forced to sell after – at the height of the ‘Don’t Die of Ignorance’ AIDS campaign – threatening a male customer with a hammer when he’d ordered a fishcake. ‘That’s a poof’s order,’ he’d shouted, running the man out of the shop.

  Slowly now past the Gladstone, a pub that no one she knows has ever entered. They have flags hanging from every part of the building, two huge Union Jacks on the roof. Outside, she recognizes a group of lads formerly of her school. Three have their shirts off and are drinking cans of lager. She keeps her smile firmly set and keeps waving, alternating hands when it becomes painful.

  ‘It’s big tits, bad boots,’ Kelvin, the tallest of the three, shouts. ‘Oi, big tits, where’s your boots?’ The three crunch up in laughter, then start to sing ‘Get your tits out for the lads’. Bethany colours and thinks about just getting off the float and walking home. She can’t see why not – her father would understand – but she continues to wave and mouth thank you to the people who are throwing money into the buckets.