Dreams of Leaving (46 page)

He began with, ‘Seen anything of Alison recently?'

Vince scowled. ‘No. Why? Have you?'

‘Oh, a little bit, you know.' Moses was airy. ‘I'm seeing her next Sunday. She's asked me round for lunch.'

‘Muswell Hill?'

Moses nodded.

‘What d'you want to do that for?'

‘I want to, that's all. Anyway, what d'you care?'

‘I
don't
care. I don't give a fuck.'

It looked as if Vince still hadn't got Alison out of his system. He didn't know it, of course. There was too much other shit blocking his system for him to be able to find out.

The bell rang for last orders.

‘Anyway,' Moses began again, ‘I want to meet this woman you're always going on about. Alison's mother.'

Vince flared. ‘What d'you mean always going on about her? I'm not always going on about her.'

‘All right, you've only mentioned her once or twice,' and Moses leaned into Vince's face, ‘but I want to meet her, I want to see what she's like.'

Vince pushed Moses away. ‘She's a phoney.'

‘You told me that. What else?'

Vince twisted away. His bloodshot eyes tracked a girl in black tights.
She almost took the whole conversation with her as she walked out of the door.

Moses nudged Vince. ‘What else?'

‘Christ, I don't know. She must be at least forty but she acts like time's stood still for twenty years. Fucking hippie's what she is.' Vince wiped his forehead with his sleeve. ‘She floats round the house in an old velvet dress like some kind of fucking museum-piece. Chainsmokes through a cigarette-holder, shit like that. She can't do anything normally, you know? She sits in this green chair of hers and looks at you like she's sorry for you or something, like she
understands
you. She makes me fucking puke.'

Moses smiled to himself. This was more like it. And he rather liked the idea of somebody chainsmoking through a cigarette-holder. That kind of perversity appealed to him.

‘She drinks a lot too,' Vince was saying. ‘A fuck of a lot. There's always a bottle of vodka down the side of her chair. They all drink in that house. Alison's the only one who doesn't. She's probably seen her mother make a fool of herself too many times. No wonder she's thinking of moving out. If I had a mother like that, I would've moved out when I was fucking born.'

He stole one of Moses's cigarettes. He lit it, sucked the smoke deep down. Half the cigarette was gone before he spoke again.

‘Yeah, she's always out of her head,' he sneered. ‘You'll probably like her.'

*

Closing-time.

Somebody had wedged the door open, and Moses could see a triangle of lit gravel and a strip of dark-blue sky above the darker outline of the cliff. The landlord was shouting something about glasses. His vermilion shirt was shouting too. Moses couldn't understand either of them. He suddenly felt drunker than he had for ages. Movements kept breaking up into staggered versions of themselves. If he closed his eyes, his whole body began to lift and turn in one long slow backwards somersault. Like being inside a wave. What a terrible, terrible place to get this wrecked in. No rocks, right?

He got up and the world sat down. He couldn't look at Vince. He knew the upward curve of Vince's lips would make his stomach churn. He aimed for the rectangle of darkness where the breeze was coming from.

Then he was zig-zagging over stones. A single headlamp blinded him. Tyres spun viciously, kicked up dirt and gravel. He heard a girl's laughter
submerge in the rough snarling of motorbike engines, submerge, surface, then submerge again, like someone drowning, like someone going down for the third time.

He had long since lost Vince.

He stumbled into something (lobster-pots?), cracked his shin, then found himself climbing, falling, scrambling down the steps, slamming into the scaffolding at the end of each flight, winding himself on the metal rails.

Once he looked for the fire. It had shrunk. It threw out orange starfish arms into the darkness.

When he reached the beach he thought he saw Gloria. An impish figure on a white rock. That way of sitting – arms hugging her legs, chin resting on her knees – seemed to belong to her. The next time he looked – lifting his head was so hard, like fighting the pull of a magnet – she had gone.

Halfway between the steps and the fire everything began to whirl about. This was the worst so far. It felt as if someone was stirring the night with a giant spoon, as if he was one grain of sugar in the bottom of a cup. He spun away to the base of the cliffs and collapsed on the pebbles. He retched and retched, but only bile and bitter froth came up.

He couldn't have guessed how long he spent there, his forehead pressed to a boulder, cooled by the damp chalk. An hour, maybe. Even two. His hair, wet through with sweat, gradually dried into stiff strands. He was shivering, but being cold made him feel better. He scooped up handfuls of shiny wet pebbles and rubbed them into his face.

Once he saw Gloria run past, light steps, light years away. He didn't call out, and she didn't see him.

He was glad about that.

*

Afterwards he couldn't remember exactly how the fight had started.

When he stood up, shaky but clear, he walked down to the sea to rinse his face. By the time he reached the fire it must have been late. Only a few people were still awake, talking in low voices. The evening had divided them into couples. He sat down next to Gloria.

‘Where've you been?' Vince asked from the other side of the fire.

Moses smiled. ‘Throwing up.'

Gloria murmured, ‘Oh, Highness,' and rested her head against his shoulder.

Highness?
he thought.

‘I'm all right now,' he said.

He stared into the mass of collapsing red embers. Sometimes a flame
leapt up, like something growing, only to wither, fall back, die out. Jackson said he was going to gather some more wood so the fire would last the night. Louise went with him. Then Moses felt hands on his shoulders and suddenly he was somersaulting backwards down a steep bank of stones. He lay still, not understanding what had happened. Then he looked up and saw Eddie standing over him. Eddie grinned.

Moses propped himself up on one arm. ‘Hello, Eddie.'

Eddie kicked the arm out from under him. ‘Come on, shithead. This is a fight.'

Moses laughed good-naturedly. A fight. What next. But as he tried to clamber to his feet Eddie pushed him over again and something competitive took hold. He shoved Eddie in the chest. Eddie staggered backwards down the beach.

Moses stood up. He was a head taller than Eddie and he had a seventy-pound weight advantage, but Eddie was muscular and his muscles were hard and supple from sleeping with at least fifteen hundred women and he was using his muscles with a frenzy Moses hadn't seen before.

Their struggle took them some distance from the fire and now they faced each other, panting, watching each other's eyes for the next move. Eddie was grinding his teeth together, his face contorted by a kind of predatory glee. He looks as if he wants to kill me, Moses thought. Why? he wondered.

He glanced sideways, brushed some chalk off his sleeve. ‘Isn't that enough now, Eddie?'

‘
Isn't that enough now?
So we've had enough, have we? Poor little Highness has had enough.' And, lowering his head, Eddie charged.

Moses stepped to one side and, using Eddie's momentum, sent him diving headfirst into the pebbles. It was too easy. Eddie picked himself up, slowly but automatically. He shook himself. He leered over his shoulder at Moses, his features stretched wide across his face. He was breathing through his open mouth like an animal.

He charged again. The same thing happened. Moses the matador. For once, though, Moses didn't see the funny side. He was tired. Bored too. But Eddie wouldn't let up. He charged a third time, arms extended like horns, fingers curved and spread. This time he caught Moses, clawed at his collar, clung on. They both crashed to the ground. Moses heard something rip. He rolled over, twisted free of Eddie's grip. He scrambled to his feet. Eddie lunged for his ankle, but Moses stepped out of reach. He noticed that one of his pockets was torn. All his treasures had fallen out.

‘You bastard. Now I've lost all my stones.'

‘Ahhh. Now he's lost all his stones.'

Moses looked at Eddie and saw fury running in his veins instead of
blood. When Eddie rushed him again, he seized Eddie by the wrists.

‘What do you want, Eddie?'

‘
Nice
Highness.'

‘Look, can we stop this now? I'm bored, OK?'

‘You're so
nice, aren't
you, Highness?
Everybody
likes
Highness. Don't
they, Highness?'

Eddie was spitting the words out from a distance of six inches. Moses could feel the saliva hitting him in the face.

‘What d'you want?' He shook Eddie by the wrists. ‘D'you want to hit me? Is that what you want? All right. Hit me.' He flung Eddie's hands away from him. And waited.

Eddie swayed from the waist, almost lost balance. His laughter sounded like heavy breathing. Then his arm uncoiled through the air and the palm of his hand landed hard and flat on Moses's face.

‘That'll teach you,' he hissed, ‘you bloody martyr.'

Moses had forgotten about his fractured cheekbone, but as he felt the pain exploding inwards through his head, as he watched Eddie laughing at the surprise on his face, it seemed to him that Eddie had chosen that side of his face quite deliberately.

‘You fucking shit,' he shouted.

Eddie's eyes lit up. ‘Now, now,' he said. He began to run backwards, dance backwards on his toes, like a boxer, but when he stumbled on an empty bottle Moses jumped at him and landed a punch on the side of his head. They rolled down a slope towards the sea. Moses forced Eddie on to his stomach. He placed both his hands on the back of Eddie's head and, mustering all his strength, twisted Eddie's face into the beach. He heard Eddie laughing through a mouthful of stones.

Then he got to his feet and walked back to the fire.

*

The sea was breathing deeply like someone sound asleep, each wave a soft exhalation through its open mouth. In the silence between waves Moses could hear the softer breathing of the people all around him.

He had been trying to get to sleep himself, thinking that if he synchronised his breathing with the rhythm of the waves, if he harnessed himself to all that natural hypnotic power, then maybe he would drift off.

No such luck.

His eyes stung so much they wouldn't stay closed. The coldness of the stones soaked up into his hip. He looked around for the blanket Gloria had brought down from the car, but it had disappeared.

Jesus, he ached all over. Skinned knuckles on both hands. His left shin caked with blood. A jarring pain in his cheek. He rubbed the back of his neck and his hand came away sticky with tar.

He just hoped Eddie had come off worse.

The sky had diluted – black to grey. Instructions for the creation of dawn: just add water to the colour of the night. Not a hint of sunshine anywhere. It looked as if the weather had broken.

He glanced down at Gloria. She was still asleep, burrowed into the bay-shape he had made with his body when he lay down, her head resting in the hollow between his hip and his rib-cage. She had curled up very tight, like a fist. There was oil on the soles of her shoes, and on her neck, just below her ear, he saw two tiny moles that he had never noticed before. Dracula scars.

‘Gloria?' He ruffled her hair. Her mouth twitched, but she didn't wake up.

‘Gloria?'

She jack-knifed into a sitting position, her eyes wide open. ‘I was dreaming,' she said.

‘What were you dreaming about?' he asked her as they trudged across the beach.

She frowned. ‘Someone had hidden my voice. Someone had stolen my voice while I was sleeping and hidden it somewhere.'

They walked up the steps, their heads bent, the wood creaking under their feet. The grey air flapped around them like damp canvas. Their clothes were stiff, sticky with salt.

‘Why do I feel so cold?' Gloria spoke through mauve lips. ‘I don't think I've ever been so cold.'

When they reached the top they paused, looked back down. It was high tide. Grey sky. Grey sea. There was no way of telling where the horizon was, nothing to suggest a division of any kind. A foghorn groaned in the distance. An explanation there, perhaps. Grey sea. Grey beach. At the base of the cliffs, a splash of colour, the only splash of colour visible. The reds, greens, blues of sleeping-bags. Sudden and out of place, like something spilt or dropped. An accident. The scattered pieces of a puzzle.

‘Come on,' Moses said. ‘It'll be warmer in the car.'

On their way across the car-park they passed Eddie's car. Moses peered in through the windscreen. He smiled at what he saw.

‘Hey,' he called out. ‘Come and look at this.'

Gloria stood ten yards away, her hands tucked into her armpits. ‘What is it? I thought you said we could sleep.'

She trailed back to Eddie's car and looked through the window. Eddie,
Vince and Debra were sitting inside. All three sat perfectly upright in their seats with their eyes closed. They were all fast asleep.

‘So?' Gloria said.

‘What does it remind you of?'

Gloria shrugged. ‘I don't know.'

‘Old Dinwoodie.'

‘Old who?'

Moses stared at her. ‘Old Dinwoodie. You know. It was just before his bike went off the road. He was driving along with his eyes shut. Don't you remember?'

‘I didn't see that.' Gloria turned away.

Moses's smile had narrowed, but a trace of it still lingered as he followed her to the car. Some part of him was immensely pleased that she had seen Eddie sitting there with his mouth open like that.