Flesh And Blood (20 page)

‘Yes.’

‘Mum said you called.’

‘Yes. I thought we might meet up or something.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, I can do that. Great.’

‘The only thing is…’

‘Now you can’t.’

‘There’s this call I’m expecting. I…’

‘Why don’t you get a mobile, Dad? Join the twenty-first century like the rest of us.’

‘Kate…’

But she was gone. Elder thought about the bottle of Aberlour upstairs in his room; then he thought about Linda Shriver, sipping white wine while she waited for her husband and her sons to come home. Better the kettle, a cup of tea, an improving book. He’d finished
A Kestrel for a Knave
and thought he might try some Dickens. He’d picked up a copy of
David Copperfield
, which looked as if it might be interesting. Bulky though, not easy to carry around. But seated in Willie Bell’s one seriously comfortable armchair, it kept him occupied, more or less, until Rob Shriver called back, almost an hour later.

‘Hello, this is Rob.’

He sounded tired, Elder thought, just in those four words; tired, world-weary, older than he should have been, older than he was. Perhaps he had too much responsibility, a stressful job, maybe the commute in and out of Manchester or wherever was getting to be too much of a strain. Perhaps it had simply been a bad day.

Elder wondered if he was about to make it worse. ‘It’s about Susan Blackwood,’ he said.

‘Yes, Linda told me.’

I’ll bet she did, Elder thought.

‘You haven’t any news?’ Rob Shriver asked.

‘No, I’m afraid not. I wish I had.’

‘Yes,’ he said heavily, and then, picking himself up, ‘Was there anything particular you wanted to know? I don’t know if I’ll be able to help, it was all a long time ago, but, of course, if I can.’

‘When I was talking to Siobhan…’

‘Siobhan Banham?’

‘Yes. She told me about an occasion when you all went to the theatre in Newcastle to see the National…’

‘No.’

‘Sorry?’

‘She’s wrong. If it was Newcastle it wouldn’t have been the National, it would have been the RSC.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘But it might have been
King Lear
?’

‘Oh, you mean the performance that never was. Safety curtain came down and wouldn’t go back up. We bought pizza and ate it in the bus on the way home.’

‘You’d have been back early then?’

‘Half-nine. Ten. Ten thirty at the latest.’

‘And you were dropped off how, all together at the school?’

‘Usually that was what happened, yes. But no one would have been expecting us back so soon. Some of us called our parents, I remember, and got picked up. That’s what happened in my case, certainly.’

‘And the others?’

‘I’m not sure. Latham drove them home, I suppose.’

‘I see. Well, thanks for your time.’

‘That’s all?’

‘I think so. For now.’

‘I see.’

‘You don’t have a contact number for Stephen Bryan, do you?’ Elder said. ‘Or an address? Siobhan thought you might.’

‘Yes, I’ve got them both here somewhere. If you’ll hang on.’

The receiver banged slightly when it was put down. In the background Elder could hear voices, the fall and rise of distant conversation, family gossip.

‘Here it is,’ Rob Shriver said. The address was in Leicester, no more than forty-five minutes’ drive away.

‘Look,’ Shriver said, his voice lowered suddenly, ‘if you do find out anything about Susan… I appreciate it’s unlikely after all this time, but could I ask you to let me know?’

‘If I can.’

‘And Linda, it only upsets her, maybe if I gave you the number of my mobile…’

‘Go ahead.’

‘You do understand?’

‘I think so.’

Elder wrote down the number, thanked him again and broke the connection. How was it possible to maintain a crush on someone for thirteen years, a passion even? Someone you’ve not seen in all that time? As easy as it was, perhaps, to nourish jealousy, feed it every now and again, watching it grow.

Was Elder thinking about Rob and Linda Shriver or about himself and Joanne?

He didn’t think he could spend any more time that evening with
David Copperfield
; he’d read enough to know things would get worse before ever they got better. Half an hour later he was in bed and, surprisingly, asleep, only to be woken in the small hours by the late return of Willie Bell in his cups, slamming doors and treating the neighbours to a raucous version of ‘Dancing Queen’, transposed for the occasion into a Scottish rant.

At night he lay awake and waited for her to come. It was colder now and he had two blankets spread across his sleeping-bag. There was movement always: even on the edges of the city it was never quite still. And sounds. Smells. The smell of popcorn and hot dogs that lingered, diesel fumes and what seemed like burning rubber, slow-burning rubber, smouldering somewhere distant.

He listened for her and sometimes thought he could hear the catch of the caravan door as she pushed it shut; sometimes he heard her steps as she approached, and sometimes, like tonight, it was like the first night when she had surprised him, even though he had been sleeping then and now he lay waiting.

How long had it been? A week? Less than a week.

Angel lifted the doubled edges of the blankets and drew down the zip of the sleeping-bag far enough to allow her to slip inside.

‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘I’m cold.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘It’s cold outside.’

‘Not in here.’

‘Be careful of my feet, they’re freezing.’

‘’Sall right.’

‘No. They’re like ice.’

‘I’ll soon get ’em warm.’

‘Don’t touch them. Don’t let them touch you.’

‘Don’t be stupid. Put them against me.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I said so, didn’t I?’

‘All right. Only don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘Ow! Jesus! They’re like fucking ice!’

‘I told you.’ Laughing.

‘Get them fuckin’ off me.’

‘All right, all right, all right.’

By now she was laughing so much she was rolling a little from side to side, as much as the sleeping-bag allowed, and the laughter came close to tears and then both laughter and tears became coughing and he was holding her as she rocked forward against him, the harsh barking sound from her mouth and the hard small knots of her spine.

This had happened before and it frightened him.

‘You okay?’

‘Yes… yes…’ She was struggling to catch her breath and stop the persistent coughing which was hurting her chest.

‘You should go to the doctor, you know that, don’t you?’

‘It’s all right.’ Quietly. ‘I’ll be okay. Just give me a minute. Just…’

She turned away, turned as much as she could, and he followed her face with his face, wanting the fit of coughing to be over.

‘Angel, you’re okay, yeah?’

‘Yes. I’m fine.’

He kissed her and moved his hand across her. She was wearing a sweater over her T-shirt and he ran his hand up under both of them until it reached her breast. For a moment, as he touched her, she arched her back and then, settling, she wrapped her legs around his and said, ‘How are my feet now?’

‘Warm.’

‘Really?’

‘Warm enough.’

♦

The day before she had come running to him, running like a young girl across the fairground, arms waving in the air. So excited that at first she could scarcely speak.

The fair was moving on and Shane could go with them. She had asked Otto and it was all right. The Croat was going north to Scotland with his girlfriend, who was one of Otto’s nieces, and Shane could run the slide all by himself. Not only that, Otto was willing to let them rent the caravan his niece and her Croat had been living in, it wasn’t expensive, not too expensive, she was sure they could afford it between them and if they couldn’t then Della had said she would help.

‘Well?’ Angel had said. ‘T’rrific, eh?’

‘Maybe.’

‘What d’you mean, maybe?’

‘Yeah, I suppose… I dunno.’

‘But what’s wrong? What’s wrong with it? I thought you’d jump at the chance. Jump at it.’

He wouldn’t look in her eyes.

‘You only want to fuck me for four nights and that’s it. That what you’re saying?’

‘No.’

‘Then what is?’

‘I dunno.’

‘What do you want, Shane? Just tell me. We’re leavin’ the day after tomorrow and you’re gonna do what? Say goodbye and thank you very much. Get me in the truck for a last feel, a last fuck.’

‘Stop it.’

‘That what I am, Shane, just some stupid fuck, a slapper, a slag, a cunt for you to come off in, a tart, a whore?’

‘Stop.’

‘Is that all I am to you, some stupid little fucking whore?’

‘No.’

‘No, Shane?’

‘No, I swear.’

‘Then prove it.’

They went to Otto together, Shane afraid that he would start asking more questions now, as if he were Angel’s father, though he knew she had no father, not really, and Otto knew it too. Otto would want to know about his family, where he had worked, where he had been, why he had been in prison. If Della knew that he had been inside, then Otto would also. But instead of this Otto told stories and joked and teased them, trying to embarrass them as if they were children. And then he poured all three of them a drink and talked to Shane, man to man, about the rent, the responsibility for the slide, all the while Angel watching and smiling.

‘Where is it we’re going?’ Shane asked.

‘Angel didn’t tell you?’

‘No.’

‘I didn’t know,’ Angel said.

‘Newark.’

Shane couldn’t believe it. ‘You’re putting me on.’

‘Newark-on-Trent. Five days. It is a good place for us, you’ll see. But you know it, maybe?’

He knew it right enough.

It was where he had first seen Alan McKeirnan, the rain driving hard, almost horizontally, across the open space where the fair was being pitched. ‘You gonna stand there like a fuckin’ statue,’ McKeirnan had called out, ‘or lend a hand?’

Of course he couldn’t go back. Not there. It would be lunatic, stupid. Back where it had all started, where they would be on the lookout for him, where he was known. Smack in the backyard of that bastard who was out to get him, get even for what had happened to his daughter, swearing vengeance, what he wouldn’t do.

‘What’s the matter, Shane?’ Angel had asked once they were outside Otto’s caravan.

‘Nothing. Nothing’s the matter, why?’

‘You went all quiet, that’s all.’

‘I was thinkin’.’

‘What about?’

‘For fuck’s sake, Angel,’ he had said, rounding on her. ‘Why can’t you ever leave me a-fuckin’-lone?’

The rest of that day, that’s what she had done. Steered clear and when he’d seen her, laughing with the other lads, those who worked the fair and those that were simply hanging round, passing time, it had gnawed at him, like a rat at his insides. But Newark, Mansfield, Worksop, Notts., how could he go back there? And where after that? Gainsborough. Lincoln. Louth. Then Mablethorpe, Ingoldmells, Skegness, Sutton on Sea: up and down that North Sea coast, backing trailers and caravans in and out of winding coastal roads, the mist drifting in off the sea. McKeirnan spotting Lucy Padmore on the front at Mablethorpe, fair hair catching the sun as she turned unknowingly towards them. ‘There,’ McKeirnan had said, nudging him. ‘There’s the one.’

♦

He lay now on his back, head and shoulders clear of the sleeping-bag, smoking a cigarette. Angel was curled against him, arms and legs across him, head against his chest. He could hear the faint rasp and sigh of her breath, feel the movement of her ribcage against his side. It was never really dark there, Shane thought, a dull yellowish light always, one or two stars only shining through. McKeirnan had tried to tell him something once about the stars, but almost as soon as he’d told him, pointing out shapes that were difficult to make out, Shane had forgotten their names and McKeirnan had sworn at him, angry, and told him again how he was next to useless. Useless. Maybe Angel, Shane thought, knew something about the stars.

She stirred against him and her breathing changed and he knew she was awake.

‘Shane,’ she said eventually. ‘You are coming with us, aren’t you? You are?’

Shane didn’t answer; closed his eyes.

Somehow Willie Bell was up before him, already several slices of toast to the good, arguing with the
Today
programme on the radio before switching to Radio 2 and harmonising along with Neil Diamond as he poured fresh water into the pot. ‘Tea’s here, help yourself to anything else.’

Elder filled his cup and sat at the far end of the kitchen table, riffling through last night’s
Post
.

‘Sleep well?’ Bell asked.

‘Not so bad.’

‘You’ve got rid of the dreams then?’

Elder slid the paper aside. ‘What dreams are these?’

‘First couple of nights here you were calling out something dreadful. Of course, you could’ve sneaked some woman back in, you crafty bugger, in which case I’d not like to know what the two of you were up to, but without that I’d say, no, you were dreaming right enough. Not pleasant either. A wonder you didn’t wake yourself up.’

Elder nodded. Since leaving Cornwall he’d thought he’d left the dream behind.

‘I’m going into the city,’ Bell said, ‘if you want a lift.’

‘I wouldn’t mind. My daughter says I have to buy a mobile phone.’

Bell laughed. ‘Be a new haircut next. Something more fashionable in the way of clothes.’

Twenty minutes later they were heading south towards the centre, progress slow in the morning traffic.