Boys and Girls (23 page)

Alan softly patted her hand.

‘Marrying
you
 …' he cooed, his smile implying derangement.

‘Oh really? Oh good. Is that true, Black? And what have you decided?'

‘Well …' said Black, shifting in his chair and making to rise. ‘Well … in the short term, Susie, just that I have to go to the lavatory again. Sorry. Thing of mine.'

‘Don't you worry, Blackie old man,' Alan cheerily assured him. ‘It's a thing of mine too. Quite common all round, you know, if you care to look into it.'

‘Why now,' Susan wanted to know, ‘have you taken to calling him
Blackie
 …?'

‘Don't know, matter of fact. Just came out. You don't mind, do you Blackie?'

‘Hardly in a position to, am I?' Black said casually, edging with care across the carpet … because I really do need to go now, no bones about it – and Lord, just look at the floor, will you? Pattern on the rug. Zooming in and out at me. Hell of a lot to drink. Still. Case of whatever gets you through the, um … ‘Do you know, there used to be three girls in the office. At work. These three girls. With names I've never forgotten. Miracle in itself. Luella, Madeleine and Nutella. Used to call them Looney, Maddy and Nuts. Didn't seem to mind …'

‘Oh Black she
can't
have been …' laughed Susan.

‘Can't have been? Was, I tell you. Who? What do you mean – can't have been …?'

‘The girl. She can't have been called …
Nutella
.'

‘That was her name, I swear it. Got to, um – go now, Susie.'

‘But Black …
Nutella
, it's a kind of a …
spread
, isn't it?'

‘Spread? What's a spread? Not with you. Anyway – got to go now, Susie.'

‘It's a chocolate
spread
, Nutella …'

‘Really? Well I'm damned. Well what did they want to go calling her that for? Some parents, I don't know. Do the oddest thing. Knew a chap once. Oenophile. Great connoisseur. Called his first son Pétrus. I ask you. Back soon. Got to go.'

‘Might have been worse,' Alan called after him. ‘Could've gone for Second Wine Of La Lagune. Pétrus – not so bad. People will call him Pete, I expect. Or Pet, conceivably. That's not too good …'

‘Do you have any idea who you are
talking
to, Alan? He's gone, Black. He's left the room. And
I'm
not listening to your pitiful ramblings.
I'm
not listening to you, Alan. Are you
really
pouring yourself another whisky? You don't think you might have had enough?'

‘It would surely seem not,' smiled Alan, adding a glug extra and screwing back the cap. ‘Else I'd hardly be doing it, would I? So tell me, Susan. Susie. How's it going, would you say? Hm? How's it shaping up? Your little scheme. Or is it a grand scenario? I'm assuming you
do
know what's going on here, do you? That you are aware? Keeping a tight rein on things? Overlooking and tweaking the general shift and drift, are you? Fine-tuning at will? Because nobody else, I do assure you – by which I mean Blackie and myself – has the merest clue. We're just drinking and smoking and chatting, and occasionally the sheer and transparent lunacy of the situation will come to spear or slash at one or other of us. Or possibly we will be struck by the comical element: I hesitate to use the word farce. Bit like the Mormons, isn't it? Except the other way round. Typical. A Mormon, he gets another young and pretty wife.
Me – I'm to be saddled with a pensionable husband. Oh well – if you get what
you
want, I suppose it will all be worth the effort. Do you think you're going to, Susan? Get what you want? Looking good, is it?'

Susan shook her head briefly.

‘It's not, Alan, what I
want
. No it isn't. That's where you're wrong. It is how I am prepared to deal with my need. My need, yes – material largely, I freely admit; I am, as you know, a sensualist with certain cravings. And of course to compensate for your truly staggering and boundless inadequacies. I should have thought that was clear.'

‘Should you? Yes, I truly do believe that you should. Have thought that. My … what was it …? Oh yes: got it. My “truly staggering and boundless inadequacies”. Very good. That's a peach. That's a keeper, Susan, that is, even by your appalling standards. I'll use that one next time I'm being cured of all cares by the genial Doctor Atherby. He'll love it. Bring a smile to his little cheeks. Make his day.'

‘Are you drunk, Alan? By any chance?'

‘Oh God I do hope so. Numb, anyway. Which is nearly as good. Hope old Blackie's all right. Been a while, hasn't he? Maybe he's having a well-earned forty winks. Possibly he's through the window and doing a runner. Break for freedom. Hardly blame him. Don't know, though … windows and running … not quite his style.'

Susan sighed, and then she smiled.

‘You like him, don't you Alan?'

‘Oh I expect so. Nice enough chap. Very nice, actually. A whole lot nicer than
you
anyway, Susan – but then let's not be coy: most people are. Got to be faced.'

Susan then actually did scream – jumped up in alarm as the
crumpled boom and then tinkle of a nearby catastrophe was driven over and into the two of them – just standing there now, fingers rigid or uselessly limp, their flicked-over eyes very briefly fusing, lighting up on contact into the frightened dazzle of fractured suspicion (the dying of hope for the merest reassurance) before Susan gasped and just ran into the hall, so completely amazed by the sight of the splintered jamb and broken glass, the unsettling angle of the hanging front door – and she whimpered as it grated and was now cranked open and Amanda spun wildly into the hallway, grog-eyed and exultant, though seemingly astonished to be finding herself there. Susan – quite breathless – stumbled towards her, aware of dishevelment and the hardened blood on Amanda's neck. As Susan howled for Alan, Amanda dropped the bottle she had forgotten she was holding – laughed and half choked, closed her eyes and was fussily beating off from her the frantic attentions of Susan, her boneless hands quite suddenly exhausted and now just drunkenly swatting at the air. Alan said Blu-Dee-
Hell
 – was sighing with wonder as he reached and touched with tentative fingers the dented wing and stove-in shattered headlamp of, Christ – the fucking
car
, for Christ's sake – the fucking car's sticking into the fucking hall …!

‘Amanda …!' Susan tried to scream it, but it came as a cracked and broken, horrified whisper. Her skittering hands had hovered and fluttered around and over all of Amanda's white and soft and tender parts, and now just relented and attempted an embrace – but were being rudely pushed and slapped aside by a now quite malignant young woman, scowling and eyeing her like a targeted animal, on guard, grudging, and sensing a trap.

‘Amanda …! You're –
bleeding
 …! Alan – where are you? Come and …! Oh my God, Amanda – what have you—?! You're
bleeding
 …!'

Amanda chortled and rolled up her eyes, Susan now lurching forward to catch her as her knees just buckled and she stumbled on forward into her arms.

‘Not
bleeding
 … Oh well yeh I
am
bleeding, yeh I am – but I'm not like
injured
. Car crash didn't hurt me.'

She reeled about and nearly fell, Susan's arm now waggling frantically at a seemingly paralysed Alan, still just marvelling at the smashed and ugly juxtaposition of car and front door, a little light drizzle from the black of outside moist and cold on his eyelids. And just staring at it all, he backed away and his arms were vaguely involved in helping Susan to support Amanda whose own arms now were flailing about her head as if in time to an awful tune, her eyes so stark and wide, blazing with the light of triumph, swollen by the surge of victory, all aglow, mad and wicked.

‘I took the
car
 …!' she giggled – thrilled, though hardly daring to clutch at the truth of it.

‘Alan,' snapped a now much less agitated Susan, perceiving as usual and quickly her need to take control. ‘Alan – help me upstairs with her. She's drunk, I'm pretty sure. I hope she's just drunk, anyway. Oh God. Here – get her, can you? Yes – get her under the arms, and I'll … Amanda? Are you hearing me? We're going upstairs now, yes? Get you to bed. Got her, Alan? Yes? Come on then. Now, Amanda – first step, OK? Where are you hurt? Do you know where you're hurt, Amanda? Oh God's sake take some
weight
, can't you Alan? You're just worse than useless. Oh my God it's your
ear
 – it's your ear, Amanda! How on earth did you—? Now come along – two,
three more steps and we're there.
Lift
, Alan – lift, Christ's sake.
Wrong
with you at all …?'

All of them stumbled up the last few stairs and on to the landing, Amanda now sagging, though still just about slung between the two of them.

‘Not
ear
 …!' she laughed – near-dementedly, it sounded to Susan. ‘
Ears
! Two ears. Both my. Both ears.
Pierced
, you see? Not hurt, not injured.
Pierced
 …!'

‘What are you …? Oh my God, Alan – she's had her ears—!'

‘So? You've got pierced ears,' said Alan, flatly – trying then to shrug away the glare she threw over, with all of its viciousness.

‘Are you a
fool
, Alan? Are you? Are you a complete and utter
imbecile
? Look at us, can't you? The position of the three of us. What on earth did you go and say that for? What relevance can it possibly—?'

‘Just stating a fact. That's all. Are we going to get her into her room or not? Because I'm pretty tired actually, now.'

Susan just let go of Amanda, which took Alan severely by surprise as he and she were swaying and then lurched over heavily, just about and eventually retaining a sort of balance as Alan reached out and grabbed for the banister rail. Susan continued to stare at him. Her eyes were large and hard in a way he knew well, her lips so very unyielding and drawn back stiffly as she began to slowly and with deliberation spit out the words, and into his face:

‘You. Are.
Tired
 …? Did I hear you correctly? Is that what you said to me, Alan? That you are –
tired
?'

Alan sighed, and looked away.

‘Just stating a fact. That's all. So are we? Going to get her into her room? I wish you'd take her arm. Hell of a weight.
Look at her, Susan – she's, look … dribbling a bit. Quite a lot. Seems a bit crazy. Doctor, do you think?'

‘She's not crazy, Alan – she's drunk. Just as you are not –
tired
, as you put it. You too, Alan, are drunk. I find myself in a situation where my only child has apparently driven our car into the front door of our house, having drunk a bottle of … I didn't see what the bottle was, what she was waving about – not Coca-Cola, I think we can assume. She is bleeding from a rogue piercing and—! Oh my God. Oh no. Look, Alan –
look
!'

Alan was caught by this new and more serious tone – much less oratorical and declamatory, so maybe then worthy of a bit of attention. His eyes did their honest and well-meaning best to follow the quivering thrum of Susan's appalled and rigid finger (because Christ, she was quite right, of course – he was, wasn't he? Drunk, very) and now they more or less focused upon a mess of indigo, a smudge of plum, livid and glowing on Amanda's forearm.

‘Christ …' he murmured. ‘Is that a …?'

‘Yes, Alan. Mm. It is, yes. A tattoo. Amanda now is scarred for life. Excellent. Very good. Couldn't be better. On top of all the rest.'

‘Tatt-
oooo
 …' slurred Amanda, sliding into unconsciousness, and out of Alan's wilted grasp.

‘Let's just get her into her room, can't we Susan? I can't hold her any more. We'll just have to sort it all in the morning.'

Susan remained silent until – half dragging, half lifting – they finally could let Amanda fall down into her bed, where she bobbed around for a second or so, her arms flopped out over the counterpane, dead at the elbow. And then Susan remained silent no longer.

‘That's what will happen, is it Alan? I see. Come the
morning – the fresh and rising dawn – we will sort it all.
We
. That would be you and I then, would it Alan? The two of us – sorting it all.'

Alan exhaled, and turned to go. ‘Christ, Susan …'

She wheeled around – grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and spun him back to face her. Her cheeks were white, and Alan saw there small and pulsating patches of just that second the deepest rose, shading into crimson, lightening up into the nearest to pastel before shading back down into vivid again.

‘Never mind –
Christ
. Christ, Alan, believe me, has nothing whatever to do with this. Or if He does, then He should hang His head in abject shame. What we have here is a case of a child who has, in rather spectacular manner, quite as she intended, run off the rails. And
we
are not going to sort it all, no we are not. Because
we
 –
we
don't sort anything, do we Alan? And nor have we – for years and years and years.
I
, Alan –
I
will sort it, along with just everything else, you stupid, dumb, ineffectual little—!'

‘Wait!'

Susan was caught by the suddenness, and then by the insistence when he said it again.

‘
Wait
!'

Alan's eyes were now dulled by fury. He was amazed to be roused by the thud of anger low in his stomach, an anger that seethed and had rapidly bubbled – up now to boiling. Susan was startled, though she gamely opened her mouth to retort – not enough time though, because Alan now was stabbing at the centre of her face a hateful throbbing finger as his voice started in at a rumble, as low as distant thunder.