Head Injuries (15 page)

    I heard a female voice call, 'Come back,' from deeper inside the house. It sounded like Eve-which set off a chain of feelings inside me which began with excitement and ended on a downbeat note, a sadness the origin of which I couldn't trace. Disconcerting too, considering I'd just talked to her on the phone at what I'd guessed was her house.

    'Who you after?' he asked, coming into the light. His chin was furred and I noticed he was younger than I'd first estimated.

    'Any of Deep Pan's band around?'

    'No. Well, I don't know. Come and have a look for yourself.'

    He left me on the doorstep wondering if he was the object of the voice's call.

    For a moment the thud of drums was replaced by something frail, a pizzicato calm fronting a melody which came and went in delicate loops. A booing came from the stragglers and, before it ended, the music fell into its blunt rut once more.

    There was a smell of spilled beer, stale and malty and the ubiquitous stink of dead cigarettes. Mixing with that were recent odours, of fried breakfasts and the sour whiff of vomit, which reminded me of the deposit I'd made in the bathroom. I stood in the hallway, looking at the wall upon which hung a print of The Green Chinaman. An arc of red bisected it, and much of its background Anaglypta, like a spray of arterial blood or, more plausibly, the result of a ketchup fight. Whatever, it was a stark colour in the midst of so much brownish monotony, and something about the way it glistened made me nervous. I was suddenly thinking of the man on the beach with his metal detector and of blurred faces bearing down on me from behind opaque glass doors. And creatures made of smoke. 'You all right?'

    He followed me into the kitchen. There was no body there now, of course, but it didn't stop me from skirting the area over which she'd been spilled.

    'Who was the girl? Did you know her?'

    'Nah,' he said. 'She gatecrashed.'

    The way he said it made it sound like she'd deserved what had happened to her. I gave him a look and drew a glass of cold water, sipped it. 'I want to speak to Eve,' I said, desperate for a friendly face.

    'Eve went home yesterday. I just checked upstairs and there's only me and Jeff and The Shrike Twins-can you hear 'em playing upstairs? They're on at the Alex tonight. You want to come? Get you tickets?'

    'No, no,' I managed, concentrating on my shoes. 'I just wanted to talk to, um… never mind.'

    'My bet is they've fucked off down town for some decent grub-there's only a packet of Ritz crackers in the cupboard. Shall I tell 'em you came if I see 'em-whoever you are?'

    'I'm David. And it doesn't matter. Really. Thanks.'

    
Come back. Come back. Come back.

    

    

    As the broad, mud-streaked snout of the Intercity glided into the station it began to rain. The sky was that live shade of grey you get with thunderstorms, where the clouds seem to possess their own core of light. I pressed myself back against the wall-I've long had a fear of being pushed into the path of an oncoming train-until it stilled, and checked the destination stickers on its windows before boarding a non-smoking carriage where I tossed my bag on to an overhead shelf. It was nice not to have to search for a seat; my travelling companions numbered just three: a man deep in slumber, breathing through a mouth barred with saliva, and two young women who had turned their seats and table into a campsite. They talked to each other over a mass of Sunday newspapers and empty coffee cartons. Somehow they'd managed to curl their legs up on the narrow seats. Coats and cardigans swaddled them.

    Outside Preston, one of them leaned over and passed me a camera; asked me to take a picture. As I was about to depress the shutter button, the bank of cloud shifted, allowing a spear of light to pierce the train. The girls smiled and I saw mouths full of fire. They thanked me and told me they were from Canada visiting relatives. I spent the rest of the short journey trying to convince myself that the flames weren't real, that all I'd witnessed was the sunlight reflecting off their dental braces.

    

    

    Warrington seemed to have contracted since I'd last been here. I didn't know why this was. Perhaps it had something to do with the space Morecambe provided once you were confronted with its bay and the range of hills across the water. The roads and buildings there were, if anything, more tightly packed than the streets I now navigated as I aimed for the town centre. One advantage in being here was that the weight of threat piling against my heart was lifted to such an extent that it was as if the events in Morecambe had never taken place; I was viewing them through a haze that was more usually found around ancient memories. The thought that I would have to go back did not fill me with as much apprehension as it probably should.

    The rain grew unpleasant, fine yet heavy-a wetting rain, as my dad might say-trickling down the gap between neck and collar. Because it was Sunday I didn't know how long I would have to wait for a bus so I had no choice but to trudge all the way to the bus station. By the time I arrived, the hand which held my bag was stiffening and my fringe was plastered flat, dripping water into my eyes. I found out that bus journeys were disrupted because someone had started a fire at the company's depot the previous night, damaging some of their fleet. I wasn't going to hang around the bus station for two hours: coffee was the only option. From a cafe on Bridge Street I drank gritty Kenco while a whimpering radiator did its best to dry my coat at a temperature barely rising above zero. Fat black bins sat squatly in the middle of the pedestrianised thoroughfare-bombproof jobs that looked so mean they might conceal defensive weaponry of their own. Pigeons scuffing about the shoes of teenagers outside McDonald's put me in mind of Helen and I turned her away quickly, but not before I conjured a smirk for her lips.

    Warmth from my cup seeped through the damp wool of gloves I couldn't bear to peel from my fingers. I saw a girl I knew from school walk past the window, which helped cement the feeling I'd returned home-things hadn't seemed real up until that point. Everything moves on. Images from school flashed through my head; here were the first heroes I'd known, more vibrant than anything our local Odeon could offer. But even into these safe, solid memories, abominations threatened to tread. Bleak glimpses, like that time by the canal or an incident in my second year when I saw Pete Spearo, one of the seniors, walk up to Glenn Snelson, the Deputy Head Boy and punch him in the face. Snelson went down really quickly, not like the dazed swoon you find in boxing rings. His eyes had rolled into his head and he was leaking blood from his mouth, twitching all over.
Spastic paralysis
were the words whispered by staff for a few days after, when it became clear that Snelson had suffered brain damage. I don't know what happened to Spearo, other than his expulsion.

    I tried to dig for sweeter things: Clare Walsh sitting on the edge of a desk in English Lit and stretching gorgeously, the smooth mounds of her breasts rising and separating like proving dough; sharing coconut cake with Barnesy and Rolo after they'd raided the canteens; Gozzo spilling copper sulphate over his shoes in a chemistry class when we asked him the time. But these thoughts failed to obscure my tainted memories. I finished my drink and ordered another and then I was surprised out of my funk. The low bank of cloud passed over, taking the rain with it, and the street became uncomfortable to look at thanks to a blaze of reflected gold from the sun. The people outside seemed to change from thin, decrepit phantoms into beefy characters, bursting with zip. A feeling of goodwill and contentment swelled from my centre and I was newly excited about seeing my parents and the cat. I swigged my coffee and paid at the till. Forget the bus. Though it was still chilly, it was pleasant enough to walk the mile home.

    Mum was at the window, in a stance I had seen her in a thousand times before. Left hand on hip, right hand buried in her wheat-blonde hair, twisting it through her fingers. Loot saw me first; mid-wash he looked up at me, superior as you like. His face said: 'Who the
hell
are you?' I laughed and Mum waved, her eyebrows disappearing into her fringe.

    That Munro smell greeted me as the door opened. A smell from childhood, it was comprised of Dad's stamp albums, Silvikrin hairspray, vinyl, suede and that smell peculiar to very old teddy bears. I breathed it in and gave Mum a hug.

    'Had to come home,' I said, to quash any burrowing questions Mum might have about the reasons for my return. 'Cat-withdrawal symptoms. Where is the little bugger?'

    I lost myself for half an hour in Loot's belly, the throb in his throat. Now and again, he'd make a little noise.
Pert,
he'd say. Or
Marie?
I picked him up and his soft, warm weight drifted into me, relaxing the bunches of tension which I'd been unaware of until now. After a while he got bored and stared into the corners of the ceiling where things dwelled that only cats can see.

    Dad arrived then and we talked about Morecambe. He told me about the Ferris wheel and the piers that once bracketed the bay. I tried to imagine them but Morecambe was too flat in my mind, almost trodden into the ground. I gave them a sanitised and diluted version of events in the town and they sympathised with my feelings of alienation. Then they offered me my bed for the night. I accepted, but I was upset that the offer had to have been made at all. A distance had developed here too it seemed. So be it. I couldn't expect to just flit in and out of my parents' life when it suited me.

    I asked if Kim, my sister, would be around later but Mum told me she was going into town for a meal with her colleagues from work.

    'Good,' I said. 'I'll give her a surprise.'

    It would be nice to have a drink with her; I'd not seen her for ages. She had spent much of the year either abroad visiting clients or trying to find a house to suit both herself and Will, her fiance. Chances were, she'd pop into the Barley Mow for an aperitif. If she didn't, it was okay. I'd drunk on my own before.

    

    

    Later, I showered and shaved then spent some time looking out of my bedroom window at the view of my old school, which was being demolished, and the spread of Sankey Valley Park beyond. I saw two figures standing close together by Seven Arches. One was wearing a long skirt, the other, a black skull cap. A thin, grey haze, like net curtain, hung in the air over the brook, softening them to the point where they looked featureless and fused at the hip, like plasticine people pressed against each other. Gradually the mist thickened, blotting them out. I dressed quickly, one eye on the gathering night where they'd been, worrying that the mist hadn't thickened at all; that they had simply dwindled to nothing. But no, there they were again, shifting in the mist like fish under water: suggestions of bulk, shadows. I pulled on my boots and slipped outside, moved to the back of my parents' garden and climbed over the fence, trying to keep track of the figures wadded in grey by the viaduct. I jogged along the sliproad that had once fed the school and cut across the fields where, as a kid, I'd scored goals and chased girls in the hope of kisses that never came. The skeletons of houses reared up, unfinished estates that had fallen foul of the recession: either the building company had gone bust or nobody could afford to buy them, I didn't know which. Up ahead, the mist had thickened, threatening to consume the couple, who were moving parallel to the canal, towards the Arches. I hesitated, my fingers hooked into the links of a wire fence that had failed to keep out the local vandals, and wondered if I should simply go home and contact Helen in the morning, find out what she was playing at. It was not a place at ease with our ghosts; not a good locus for any kind of fond reminiscence.

    A bloom of orange, smudged into the lowest band of mist, drew my eye away from their movement. The area around the colour shivered and pulled back, creating a pocket of light. Directly above, the mist churned, turning dirty as smoke from the fire mingled and drew its mischief into the sky. Maybe it was that plain promise of warmth, that remarkable smear of colour, couched in such a derelict setting that decided me, pulled me on as though appealing to the primal root in me, the part that recognised the bleak glimpses of other worlds that seemed to be breaking into my everyday regimes.

    Nearing the arch-our arch-I could smell a mix of wood and damp paper, of reeds and polythene bags. We'd once thrown the carcass of a large rat on one of our arch fires, found squashed on the road outside the hospital, and we'd marvelled at the speed at which it cooked and the smoke as it funnelled out of its eyes.

    The couple seemed to come apart in the mist within the arch, shredding as though their inner bodies had caught some of the fun which the mist was having with its corporeal surroundings. It was only as I stepped beneath the curve of sandstone, scattering echoes as easily as a careless foot scatters the ashes of a dead fire, that I realised I'd been wrong all along. It wasn't Shay and Helen. And it wasn't the mist that was making this figure seem less than whole. I watched, my breathing becoming increasingly ragged, as the figure struggled with its inner desire to disintegrate. Slowly, it solidified, drawing some of the substance from the brickwork behind it so that at one point it seemed to be wearing a slice of yellow graffiti across its piecemeal face. It was wearing little more than a pair of ripped Y-fronts and a school tie strung loosely at the throat, knotted ridiculously large-the way we'd worn them at school, as a tiny act of rebellion. I backed away, as if in a dream, drugged into soporific calm. I didn't feel threatened, although I could sense it was smelling the air and tensing, a red tear appearing in the pink, wet cloud of its head. There seemed to be teeth there, broken and misshapen, like chunks of opaque glass set into the coping stones of a wall for security.