Always the Sun (14 page)

Gently, he knocked on Mel’s bedroom door. She was already in bed. She was propped on one elbow, reading
Cosmopolitan.

He said, ‘Good night.’

She whispered, ‘Good night,’ in return and went back to her magazine.

Then he looked in on Jamie. He was a shape under the duvet, which he’d pulled fully over his head. It was how he liked to sleep. Somewhere there would be a small aperture through which he breathed. The room smelt ripe, slightly foetid: overused and underventilated.

He left off the light in his own bedroom. There was no need of it. There were few objects to negotiate and anyway there was a streetlight right outside, which cast the room in a gaudy liquid illumination. It was never really dark in there. One day, he would have to buy a heavier pair of curtains. But tonight he was pleased by the light, the honey-coloured glow that protected him from the dark, cold waters below.

11

Over breakfast, he could tell that Mel wanted to say something. She waited until Jamie had left for school and Sam had pulled on his own coat and was hunting out the long, tatty scarf, then his house keys. She leant in the doorway with a cigarette in one hand and said, ‘Of course, we could ask Frank for help.’

Sam paused in the act of winding the scarf round his neck. They looked at each other uncomfortably. It was as if a protocol had been transgressed. Something that had gone unspoken, like an ancient and filthy family secret, had casually been alluded to. He let his hands fall to his side.

‘There’s no need.’

‘I’m not saying there is. What I’m saying is, if there was a need, then—well. We could call Frank.’

‘And Frank would know how to sort it out, would he?’

She shrugged one shoulder.

‘I don’t know. But he’d know someone who could.’

‘Mel,’ he said. ‘This isn’t Kosovo. We can’t just call in a peace-keeping force.’

‘I’m not talking about a
peace
-keeping
force,’ she said. ‘I’m talking about the fucking Hell’s Angels or something.’

‘Frank’s not a Hell’s Angel.’

‘But he knows them.’

Sam shook his head.

‘Mel,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe you’re even saying this.’

‘I’m not saying anything,’ she said. ‘All I’m saying is, if push comes to shove, Frank could help us out. That’s all. God. Sorry for breathing.’

He wrapped the scarf round his throat and jingled the keys in his palm. He glimpsed himself in the hallway mirror, all bundled up against a winter whose worst was past.

‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘I’ve sorted it.’

The cigarette paused on the way to her lips.

‘That’s news to me. What did you do?’

He mumbled a response and turned to go. Mel made him repeat it.

He said, ‘I paid him.’

‘Paid who?’

‘Hooper.’

‘You gave Dave Hooper
money
?’

‘Not Dave.’

She dropped the cigarette. She screamed and batted at the fireflies that danced on her legs and feet. She bent to pick up the cigarette and looked at him.

‘You did what?’

He heard their mother in her voice. He could hurt her by telling her that.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘there was no alternative, all right? I wanted the little fucker to leave Jamie alone, and nobody was helping me do it. Do you think I’m over the moon about giving protection money to a fucking fourteen year old?’ The strength left his voice, and he finished the sentence with a broken quack. ‘I had no choice.’

Mel didn’t move.

‘I don’t believe it,’ she said.

‘I don’t believe it either. Jesus. What do you want me to do?’

‘Be—’

He cut her off.

‘Be a
man
about it? What does that even mean, Mel?’

‘That’s not what I was going to say.’

‘Isn’t it? It bloody sounded like it from where I’m standing.’

‘Be
careful
,’
she said. ‘I was going to say “be careful”.’

‘Be careful about what? I told you—I already gave him the money.’

She massaged her brow. She looked haggard and apprehensive.

‘Then who was phoning last night?’

‘I don’t know. Dave Hooper, probably. But he’s just trying to scare us. I’m not worried about him. He’ll get bored and move on, if we don’t rise to it. This is it. This is the end of it.’

Mel laughed.

‘What?’ said Sam.

‘What happens when Liam’s spent the money?’

They faced each other down the length of the hallway. Him in his winter clothes; she in her white dressing-gown and fluffy-bunny slippers and her frizzy, curly hair and her long nose and the purple scar on her shin.

‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ Sam said, and he left to go to work.

12

Sam had that Saturday off.

Jamie still didn’t want to know him. He wouldn’t even eat the food Sam prepared, preferring the martyrdom of a diet consisting wholly of toast, marmalade and peanut butter. So, because it was a fine morning, Sam took Mel to the café that served the Merrydown arcade, the shops local to Balaarat Street.

Luxuriously unbathed and unshaved, he went first into the newsagents and stocked up on newspapers and cigarettes. He and Mel took a table in the café’s small, walled garden, thick with ivy on three walls, in which there bumbled a few early bees. The sunshine was a silky weight on their shoulders as they read the papers and smoked and drank coffee. When breakfast arrived, full English for Mel, scrambled eggs and smoked salmon for Sam, they swapped newspapers across the table.

They were home by lunchtime. Sam looked around the empty house—he supposed that Jamie had gone to Stuart’s—and suggested they go into town to do some shopping. Mel was excited and ran upstairs to shower and put on her makeup.

They spent most of the afternoon window-shopping. Mel bought some clothes while Sam tried to linger inconspicuously in the corner by the changing rooms. She agreed only reluctantly to go with him to the Virgin Megastore. Here, because Saturday night maintained some residual significance, he bought a couple of DVDs for them to watch with a takeaway and some bottles of wine.

They got home during the Saturday dead-time. It was still too early to prepare anything to eat, and there was nothing on TV. Pleasantly tired, they slumped in the armchairs and read sections of the newspapers that had been omitted that morning. Sam tried to engross himself in the
Travel and Personal Finance
sections of the Saturday
Guardian.

At 6.30, Mel opened a bottle of wine and brought them both a glass.

Sam thanked her and took a sip.

He said, ‘I had a nice day today. I enjoyed it.’

Mel lit a cigarette and sat back with it in one hand, the wine glass in the other.

‘God,’ she said. She looked at the ceiling and blew smoke at it. ‘I need to get a life.’

So did Sam. He folded the
Personal Finance
section and laid it on the floor.

The sun was going down. Somewhere, somehow, Saturday night was beginning. It hardly seemed possible.

At a few minutes past eight o’clock, they heard Jamie’s key turning in the lock. By now they were on to the second bottle and were watching a gameshow whose rules were too arcane for Sam to grasp, and too sadistic for him to believe.

They shared a conspiratorial glance.

Mel called out to him, ‘Come in, we’re going to watch a video in a minute.’

‘DVD,’ said Sam.

There was a non-sound: Jamie pausing in the hallway.

‘I heard that!’ said Mel.

Muffled by the door, Jamie was sullen.

‘Heard what? I didn’t even
say
anything.’

‘I heard your lips move.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘I did. I read your lips.’

‘What did I say, then?’

‘You told me to fuck off,’ said Mel. ‘You cheeky little monkey.’

‘I did
not.
’

‘Jamie Greene. Don’t make it worse by lying to your auntie.’

On the other side of the door there was another, longer suspension of movement. It seemed to Sam that Jamie was fighting a smile. He looked at Mel and saw that she thought so, too. But Jamie didn’t come in. He went to the kitchen to make himself some toast, then straight upstairs. Sam didn’t mind. He knew by the quality of Jamie’s silence that things were going to get better.

Half an hour later, the telephone rang.

They ignored it.

An hour later, it rang again.

There was giggling on the answer machine.

Just before midnight, Sam heard something. Male voices, raised in song.

He saw that Mel’s eyes had been drawn to the window. Her brow was knit. She caught his eye and they laughed too loudly at each other’s uneasiness. Sam slapped his thighs and stood. He went to make sure the front door was properly locked and secured.

He ignored Mel’s gaze and increased the volume on the television.

But they heard it again anyway, in the pauses between adverts. It was so faint it sometimes faded to the edge of imagination. A wind-borne football chant.

Sam couldn’t sit down. For lack of anything else to do, he walked to the far corner of the room, by the window. He crossed his arms and watched TV without seeing it.

‘It’s probably nothing,’ said Mel. ‘How would he even know where you live?’

‘Christ, all your friends know where I live. And they all drink in the same fucking pub as him.’

She looked at him for a long time, without speaking. Then she laughed without any humour and said, ‘We’re like a couple of kids, scaring each other round a campfire. Relax. It’s nothing.’

Sam said, ‘Nothing my arse. It sounds like the invasion of Poland.’

She laughed, properly this time. They stopped to listen. They heard nothing.

They made faces at each other and began to relax.

Then they heard the sudden, shrieking wail of a car alarm. It was eerie and ominous, like a night ghoul’s lamentation.

The stupid grin fell from Sam’s mouth.

He said, ‘Go upstairs and check on Jamie.’

‘Sam—’ said Mel.

‘I’m not joking, Mel. Go on.’

She made a performance of rolling her eyes at his foolishness. But she went upstairs quickly enough.

Sam turned off the TV. Then he turned off all the downstairs lights—in the living room, the hallway, the kitchen—and stood in the darkness, waiting. His breath seemed very loud.

On the street, somebody called his name.

It seemed so absurd, he wondered if he’d imagined it. There was a long, dark stillness.

Then he heard it again.

Sam!

A fizzing, weakening thrill raced from his stomach to his limbs. He crept up the stairs. Halfway up, hysteria mushroomed inside him. He stopped and waited until it passed. He took a series of long, slow breaths.

On the street there was movement, an obscure series of scuffles and rattles. Giggling.

Entering Jamie’s room, Sam looked calm and brisk.

Mel was on the edge of the narrow bed. Jamie was sitting up, the duvet pooled at his waist. He looked confused, as if uncertain he was awake.

Sam knelt at his bedside.

‘Jamie,’ he said, ‘don’t be worried, but get up and get dressed, right now. Quiet as you can.’

In the gold-tinged darkness, Jamie’s skin was flawless. He jumped from the bed and pulled on the jeans and T-shirt that lay on the floor. Putting on his trainers, his fingers slipped and fumbled at the laces. Sam bent down to tie them, as he’d not done since Jamie was eight years old.

He told Jamie to sit down, to keep still and quiet. He sat alongside Mel.

To Sam, she said, ‘How many of them are there?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t looked yet.’

‘What are they doing?’

‘I don’t know. I can hear them whispering, I think.’

‘What are they saying?’

‘I’ve no idea, Mel. They’re
whispering
.’

‘Shall we call the police?’

Jamie inhaled sharply and drew his knees up to his chest.

Sam wanted to call the police more than he’d ever wanted anything. But he saw Jamie’s alarm. He knew that calling the police would result in months of unendurable mockery. Perhaps worse.

He said, ‘There’s no need for that. We’ll be all right.’

He ushered them towards the window. They crouched low, as they might in a building under sniper fire.

Mel said, ‘Maybe they’ll just go away.’

‘Maybe,’ said Sam.

On the street, a voice called out.

‘Bring out your boy!’

This was followed by muffled laughter.

Jamie said, ‘Dad,’ and scuttled into Sam’s arms. Sam hugged him. He placed the palm of his hand on the crown of Jamie’s head.

‘Ssshhh,’ he said. ‘It’s all right.’

‘What are we going to do?’ said Mel.

Jamie pressed himself harder into his father’s chest. Sam found Mel’s eye and made a furious face that commanded her to silence. She glanced at Jamie and cringed. She clapped a hand across her mouth.

They waited.

Mel lifted the hem of the curtain and peeked out.

She said, ‘It’s all the Hoopers, I think. About five of them.’

Jamie lifted his face from Sam’s chest.

‘Is Liam there?’

‘Yes, darling,’ said Mel. ‘Don’t worry. It’s all right.’

She looked at Sam.

‘They’re lashed out of their minds. They’re staggering all over the place. One of them’s pissing in next door’s garden. I don’t think they know what to do, now they’re here.’

Sam wondered if they might soon tire. Perhaps they would simply set off in pursuit of more alcohol. And if they didn’t, if they hung around on the street, then perhaps one of the neighbours would call the police. The Merrydown Estate wasn’t the kind of area where people waited long before reporting such a breach of the peace. They had property to protect. Sam was surprised to discover a secret contempt for his unseen neighbours.

There was a sound like a cannon. Reverberations rippled along the hallway.

Somebody had kicked the front door.

Outside, there was more laughter, some slow hand-clapping.

Fiercely, Sam kissed the crown of Jamie’s head and released him.

Jamie said, ‘Where are you
going
?’

‘To sort this out,’ said Sam.

Mel got to her feet.

‘Don’t be a fucking idiot.’

‘I can’t just cower here while they kick the door down.’

‘Then call the police.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘Yes, you can.’

‘But what if they kick the door down before the police arrive, Mel?’

Jamie ran to protect his aunt, and be protected by her. All three of them were standing now. It occurred to Sam that, gradually, they were following each other around the room.

Mel said, ‘Now you’re frightening Jamie.’

There was no answering that.

Jamie said, ‘I’m not scared.’

Sam crouched and put his face close to Jamie’s. The boy didn’t flinch from him and that was good. Sam could smell his night breath, as personal to Jamie as his fingerprints, and more intimate.

‘It’s all right to be scared,’ he said. ‘Of course you’re scared.’

Somebody kicked the door again.

Somebody else, further away, called Jamie’s name.

‘
Jay-mee
…’

Sam took Jamie’s face in his hands and kissed his forehead, a promise.

The same voice called out Mel’s name, the same sing-song tongue breaking the words into syllables.

‘
Yoo-hoo, Mel-an-ie
…’

Sam recognized the voice. It was Dave Hooper.

Dave Hooper, drunk. Not the tattered, fox-eyed spectre of his worst imaginings.

Mel’s temper broke. She stamped to the window, yanked aside the blinds, opened the window and stuck out her head.

‘Why don’t you just fuck off, Dave Hooper?’

Her derision was met with snuffling male laughter and a couple of half-hearted cheers.

Sam wished she hadn’t done it. He knew how easily humiliation could turn into violence. That was the mundane alchemy at the heart of so much misery. But he looked at Mel, arms crossed over her breasts, glowering magisterially from the bedroom window, and he was proud of her too.

He left Jamie with her and closed the door behind him. He took the stairs slowly. With each step, he negotiated with God to provide a police car and a number of uniformed young men and women to bundle the Hoopers, bent and headfirst, into the back of a white van with wire-mesh windows.

But it was Saturday night. God and the police were busy elsewhere.

Somebody kicked the door again. Sam saw it jump in its frame.

Outside, the Hoopers cheered.

Sam knew that doors didn’t collapse like they did on television. But his imagination was powerful. He imagined that one more kick would see it sagging broken from its hinges.

He approached the door, gathering pace as he drew near. He could sense the presence of a man on the other side. He could see movements cast in shadow. And he could hear the gravelly scuff of trainers.

In a single, unbroken movement, Sam disengaged the Yale lock and hauled open the door.

There was a man on the doorstep. Jeans and trainers and an Adidas sweater. His back was turned. Perhaps he was seeking his father’s approval.

Sam grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it. Then he jerked the hand up between the man’s shoulders.

The man screamed and bent double, away from the pain. He smelt of CK1.

Sam marched him towards the gate. His face was set like it was when he took out the rubbish.

Halfway there, he gave Hooper’s son a shove that sent him stumbling to his knees on the pavement.

Dave Hooper’s eyes were blank. In one hand, he held a can of Stella Artois. He knelt down at his son’s side. Then he stood to face Sam.

With the house behind him, and with his son’s expectations focused on him, Sam felt buoyed and capable. But he could think of very little that would compel him to take a step further.

Upstairs, Mel switched on the bedroom light. The 100-watt glow erupted behind him. Its beam fell parallel with the garden path and lit the edge of the lawn. It threw Dave Hooper’s shadow away from the house and into the road.

Hooper and his sons stood there, ranked and silent. At the edge of the group, Liam looked disengaged and sullen.

Sam made no attempt to move. Neither did Dave Hooper. They stared at each other.

If Sam took another step, he would be attacked. He was big enough to hurt them, he knew that now, with his house and his sister and his son behind him. And if Dave Hooper and his sons hurt Sam badly enough, they’d do time for him. A scrap of life for each blow.

The attention of the
neighbours had been drawn to them. Sleepy-faced men and throat-clutching women stood at bedroom windows.

Sam said, ‘Just go home.’

Dave Hooper looked up. He looked at Mel, backlit in the bedroom window. Then he looked at Sam.