Head Injuries (4 page)

    'Are you still painting?'

    I was taken aback somewhat by that, and touched that he remembered. 'After a fashion. I had a small exhibition in Warrington Museum last summer. Nothing grand.'

    'I'd like to see some of your stuff,' he said, packing his Filofax back into the bulky depths of his jacket.

    'Me too,' urged Helen, resting her hand lightly on my arm.

    My paranoia whispered that they just wanted to give my work a psychological once-over; that their interest would only pay dividends if they found some kind of black theme in the paintings I'd produced over the last six months. I bit down on challenging them about this because I was tired of the friction. Instead, I asked Helen if she'd talked to the police about her pursuer.

    'Of course I have. They said that they couldn't do anything unless I knew who it was or could prove that he'd been harassing me. I have to leave my bedroom curtains shut because I'm convinced hell be floating there, twenty feet up, if I open them. My work's starting to go down the toilet.'

    Helen had told me about her craft shop in those preliminary phone calls. Partly funded by the demise of a relative or two, she'd rented premises along Heysham Road filled with whatever she was making these days. She didn't make much money, but she supplemented her income by looking after Pol, who helped her pay the rent on the living quarters at the back of the shop. Helen explained how she was unable to concentrate on new projects, how the results were always misshapen or lacking verve.

    'So what about you, David?' Helen asked, throwing Seamus a look. I should have felt privileged that they needed to have my input before they could go further. 'Have you noticed anything different lately?'

    'What, spooks mooning me outside the window?'

    'If you like,' said Seamus, throwing Helen a look this time. Seamus, like me, probably wasn't too enamoured of my being here.

    'I don't know. I suppose I might have been feeling a little on edge, almost as if I was expecting something out of the blue-in this case, maybe Helen's phone call. But it might just have been frustration at being stuck in the house with nothing to do.'

    The week preceding Helen's call had been gloomy wherever I went. I'd spent much of it walking around Warrington market, hoping to find some decent old paperbacks, or an ornament with which to decorate my desk and take my mind off the painting I was trying to complete. When I was outside I wanted to be back in the warmth of home. Once there, I was stifled; outside seemed to offer so much freshness and opportunity-I felt that I was missing out on so many exciting things. But the friends I had in the town weren't as close as I'd have liked; it wasn't comfortable to drop in on them unannounced. I only ever saw them at weekends when we'd visit noisy pubs and sit around a table and talk about work. No matter how central my position at such times, I always felt as if I was the last one to the table, the one who pulls up a stool and sits just outside the circle, taking manic sips from a pint and trying to look interested. If I was silent it was because I hadn't the energy to compete with the chatter around me; sometimes my reluctance to join in was noticed and I'd be chided for it, or accused of being miserable.

    I remembered that I'd watched snow dusting the trees, turning them into twisted structures of bone as Helen spoke. Her voice had been spice-warm. Into the lowering night, streetlamps fizzed in soft coronas of orange. They climbed away into the darkness; pale bricks of flame suspended in the sky. It felt as though my minute body hairs had been brushed against the nap of my skin. I felt electric and very sick; I'd had to vomit as soon as Helen got off the line.

    I told them this, the sharpening of my senses, and the nausea. It reminded me that I'd also felt it in the pub, just before Seamus came through the door. 'Funny, it's as if getting together with you two plebs completes some circuit and switches me on,' I finished and took a drink, mildly embarrassed. As a rider I added: 'It doesn't help that in Warrington I've got Seven Arches outside my bedroom window, you know.'

    Seamus and Helen looked away from me at my casual mention of the viaduct's name. So much of our history together, the petty arguments, incests, and experiments of youth had taken place there it was hard to divorce it from our lives. It was always going to be important to us, especially when we met. Maybe that was one of the reasons for coming to Morecambe, so that our decisions and movements wouldn't be clouded by the strength of its attraction.

    'One thing bothers me,' I said, trying to bring the conversation back on track. 'I haven't had a glimpse of a person like you two have. Just a heightening of my senses. Feels like taking a quarter of E.'

    'You might be blocking it,' Helen said, 'subconsciously, or via some kind of activity. Your painting might be distracting you.'

    'Or,' Seamus intervened, a forefinger raised, 'you might be accepting whatever is bothering us
through
your painting.

    I think we should see your work as soon as possible. How about now?'

    'Hey, come on! I protested. It's my work. I should know what it's supposed to be about.'

    'Have you painted Seven Arches at all recently? Before Helen called, say?'

    'I might have done,' I said, trying not to sound defensive, 'but so what? It's there every day I open the curtains. I might as well. I've also painted Delamere Forest and Helsby Hill and the Runcorn Bridge. Cast your runes for those bastards, High Priest.'

    'David!' Helen's reproach was mingled with shocked laughter. 'Don't get so heated. We're only trying to help.'

    'I'm sorry,' I said. 'Maybe if Dr Antony Clare here stopped sounding so pompous…'

    Seamus wasn't offended by my outburst, which only rankled me more. 'We need to look at this laterally, Davey, if we're going to codify it, give it some solidity. Give us something to target.'

    I nodded, grinding my teeth together.

    'So, about those paintings?' Helen took my hand.

    'Not now. I'm still unpacking. Tomorrow. We'll see about tomorrow. I stood up, anxious to let things He as they were for the time being. It was a lot to take in. I'm shattered,' I said. Helen looked pained; she always wore her feelings so flagrantly. I wanted to lean over and kiss those thick, pouting lips of hers. 'I think I need a walk.'

    'We'll come,' said Helen, then: 'Don't go yet, David.'

    'I've really got to get out of here. My head needs clearing. Look, how about we meet later on? Go for a meal in Lancaster, yeah?' I was starting to fidget, a habit I have when I've made up my mind but can't execute the decision. Claustrophobia threatens at times like that. Thankfully, Seamus set me free, telling me he'd pick me up from my guest house at eight. Helen acquiesced; I detected the slightest slump in her broad shoulders.

    'See you later then,' I murmured, always useless at good-byes, no matter how temporary. I didn't wait for a reply. I thought back to the stripped, imploring cast of her voice on the phone when she summoned me from Warrington.

    'Please come, David,' she had said. 'You have to come. Something's
unfolding.'

    That word. It threw up so many ugly, shapeless images as I strode out of the pub and headed for the beach that she seemed to have infected me with a new disease.

    

    

    

    Iwalked back along the promenade, conscious that they'd be able to watch me from the pub window. I pulled the collar of my greatcoat up against the solid wall of wind and wished I had a hat like Seamus' to keep my ears warm. I'd walked the entire length of this promenade with Helen, either south to Heysham village or north, where, after a couple of miles, it gave way to normal pavement opposite Happy Mount Park. So much of our short history was tied into its red Tarmac, or the landmarks that lay along it. I aimed for one now-the lighthouse-and tried to make sense of the little that had been said. Why they'd been so cryptic was a mystery in itself-perhaps they just couldn't find the words to explain. I found myself searching my immediate past for associated outlandish instances; moments when I'd found myself shadowed by something that wanted to feed off my insecurity. None was forthcoming. Maybe I just wasn't as sensitised to this situation as the others; Warrington could have quickened the atrophy of my thoughts. I did harbour some degree of unease over the way certain events had attained a more intense level of detail on occasion. The first time I talked to Helen on the telephone, for example, or in the pub when I'd been intimately conscious of the tics and twitches of bodies around me. This was a new facet of my consciousness, or rather, my recognition of it was new. I don't know how long I'd been attuned to such minutiae but I suspected it had only been of late. That such a phenomenon could be associated with what Helen and Seamus were experiencing was both horrifying and heartening. Much as I was sceptical and confused about recent developments, I wanted to be involved, I wanted to be the third point of the triangle, as we had been throughout our childhood, no matter how fraught our points of contact had been. It was important I understood my involvement though, as they seemed to be able. I didn't want to just be a witness. I wanted to be a consultant, an intrinsic part of what lay ahead. Being around Helen and Seamus was not enough. I had to dig for the bad tissue in me that connected us all. I felt my stomach tightening with need: I deserved to be an ingredient; more so than Seamus. The links between myself and Helen ran deeper than those he laid claim to.

    Or so I hoped. I turned on to the pier, the Midland Hotel pale and scabrous at my back, and marched into the teeth of the wind towards the lighthouse. At the pier's end it stood, by a cafe and a building where mussels and the like were cleaned and sorted. It was a short, unimpressive affair, with a static light. It did its job though; you could see the white tip clearly from all points on the promenade at night. The pier itself was deserted; not so the first time I'd been here, early October some years ago. There'd been men night-fishing, their rods tipped with luminous yellow bite indicators which hung in mid-air like fire flies. And cars, their doors open, music and the low muttering of men waiting for something to happen. Alone, it would have been a menacing sight but we were buoyed by bottles of red wine drunk on the armoury of rocks that reached into the sea. Ten days I'd known these people back then: Helen, Seamus and who else? I remember a girl and a couple of blokes whose names escape me. We clattered on to the pier under a sky readying itself for winter. That night was not so cold but we wore heavy coats anyway, as though living by the sea tugged at an innate rule that said we ought to. Helen wore a hat. There'd been some kind of electricity that drew us together in the first week: I was excited to discover we were both reading the same book-that
had
to count for something. After a day or two, when we went in a group to The Three Mariners, we drifted out in front, holding hands or linking each other as if it were the most natural act in the world. It seemed a pre-ordained matter that we should sleep together.

    On the pier. We stood in a semi-circle trying to snatch our breath back from the suck of air above the sea. Helen unscrewed her jar of lip balm and smeared a little over her lips.
Want some?
she'd asked me, stepping up close before I had chance to answer and planting a kiss that tasted of pineapples on my mouth. It was an exciting kiss, perhaps because it was so sticky, because it stands as a signpost in my memory for what was to ensue. I think too it was remarkable because I'd never before kissed a woman who was the same height as me. Not having to lean down, feeling our lips meet vertically-I could look directly into the dark gleam of her eyes-made for a thrilling moment. We flapped and fussed in the wind for a while and I broke away from the group, sidling down the cafe verandah to a section of fencing beyond which lay pallets emptied of shellfish and a large, oily black tractor which smelled of burned diesel. I was hoping she'd follow me. I heard her heavy boots clomping my way, her hand thrust into the crook of my arm; I could smell the dizzy warmth of her perfume. Her hair brushed against my cheek.

    
What shall we do now?

    

    

    I stood at the end of the pier, looking into the grey-green swell of dead water. A boy on a mountain bike skidded to a stop by the railing, spat twice over the edge then pedalled away, shouting at a dog whose lead dragged behind it on the floor as it ran to keep up.

    The current roiled under the water, pulling its surface tight like a piece of clingfilm before eddies of foam split it apart again. For a lunatic beat I saw myself leaping to become a part of its mystery: it seemed desperately vital that I consign myself in some way to the lighthouse and what it stood for. Ghosts clung to me, keen as sea spray.

    I could see The Whistling Clam from here, one of those homogeneous fun pubs on the front which boast all the enticement of a dogshit flan. I was not looking forward to it. Keith, the manager, when I'd asked him for a job a few days after I'd arrived in Morecambe, had given me a twice-over with gimlet eyes the colour of blood oranges and asked if I had hair on my chest.

    'A little,' I'd said.

    Then you'll wear this and unbutton the top of your shirt.' Into my hand he pushed a small phallus made of wood, depending from a thin strap of leather. 'We get a load of old giffers in during the week, coming for a last hurrah before they peg it. Come from all over. Ireland. Denmark. Spain. Penge. If I'm having a bloke on my staff, he's going to fucking well act like one. Black trousers. Tight. I want to see a bulge in there the size of a baby's arm. Put something down there-I don't care what. Banana, Black Mamba, pound of fucking tripe. Not bothered. As long as you're long. See you Wenzdy night. 7 o'clock. You'll be on four quid an hour. Love it or shove it.'