Living in the Shadows (4 page)

Unzipping his coat, Richard checked his reflection in the window. He adjusted the neck of his black polo-neck jumper and, bending his knees slightly to get a better look, combed his fringe over his forehead.

The door opened, letting in more noise, and Richard fastened his parka, pulling the hood over his head. Not William. A woman, carrying shopping-bags in one hand and a sleeping child in her other arm, sat down with a sigh.

‘Waiting for my husband,’ she smiled, as though an explanation was expected.

Richard nodded and returned the smile. ‘Waiting for my cousin,’ he said. There was an uncomfortable moment. ‘Think I should go and look out for him.’ He pushed his way through the door

It closed with a click behind him. The platform was empty now. Across the rails, lines of waiting passengers stared across with indifferent, blank faces. In contrast to Llamroth, the place seemed unfriendly and, for the first time, the excitement of an interview in a big city hospital waned. He was almost guaranteed a place at Pont-y-Haven where his mother had worked and where his father was so well known. Was it worth all this anxiety? To go somewhere new?

Even as he asked himself the question he knew the answer. However much he loved his parents, their over-protectiveness had stifled him all his life. His father’s hang-ups about being German were way over the top; his position in the village as the GP had always shielded him against resentment as far as Richard could tell.

And his father’s nationality hadn’t caused any problems for Richard. Unlike Vicky, he’d never had any trouble making friends, even though, or perhaps because, he couldn’t hear properly. Maybe kids like Stephen, his best friend then, had liked being his mouthpiece.

Leaving the station he looked up and down the road. Nothing. The other passengers had gone. He felt the reverberation of another train arriving. When he turned back to the platform an old freight-engine clanked slowly through the station, a long line of empty trucks behind it. There was no one else around except, at the far end, a porter pushing a trolley and chatting to the station-master who walked alongside him.

His cousin had forgotten about him, there could be no other reason William wasn’t there. Hitching his rucksack onto his shoulder Richard dithered. It was only September but already the nights were drawing in and the weather didn’t help; the sinking sun could only be glimpsed now and then through layers of grey cloud in the steadily darkening sky.

He remembered from past visits to the north of England that there was a bus-stop along the road from the station and decided to take his chance. There had to be a bus that went to Ashford eventually and, once there, he was sure he’d remember the way to Henshaw Street. The sky had blackened even more and he glanced upwards; hopefully the rain would hold off until one came.

But then a sudden streak of lightning silhouetted the hills in the direction of Ashford, followed, after a few seconds by a low growl of thunder.

He heard the muffled rumble before they came into view. At first he thought it was more thunder. But then, out of the shadows of the houses just beyond the railway station came a group of motorbikes. He peered round the fur of his hood. About fifteen of them. All the riders in black leather. Rockers. They’d see him as fair game: a Mod on his own.

His skin tingled. He felt a sudden trickle of sweat run down the back of his neck. He’d been persuaded by some friends to go to Penarth in November two years ago. They’d said it would be a laugh but he’d never been so scared. They were almost caught up in the riots. Gangs of other Mods fighting with Rockers on the beach. Kicking hell out of each other. He’d not forgotten the fear.

Things had quietened down since but they were still enemies. His heart thudded as he slowly turned his back to the road. The Rockers were now behind him. As the last bike passed him a light came on in the upstairs window of one of the houses, throwing his shadow against the wall. There was a shout. He held his breath, his stomach roller-coasting. The motorbikes slowed, revving grew louder. They were coming back. Idling a few feet away from him.

‘Hey, you little Mod!’

Richard ran, his rucksack bouncing against his back. He swerved down the alleyway behind the houses, pulling over the dustbins at the back gates as he went. He heard a crash as the leading bike ran into one of them. A lid skidded alongside him, rolling unsteadily. He jumped over it. They couldn’t follow him.

At the end of the alley he hesitated, crossed a road. There was another long rumble of thunder, followed almost immediately by a flashing sheet of lightning and more thunder. He stopped, grinned, the reprieve a surge of triumph. He’d lost them. He dived down a dark side street and then another, sweating under the weight of his parka. But then there they were again. Following slowly. Shouting and whooping. Taunting him. The beams of the headlights wavering around him.

The outline of a cat darted in front of him, disappeared into the darkness. There was a yowl, then another.

It started to rain: heavy slow drops at first and then faster, plastering his hair to his scalp. His rucksack slipped heavily down his arm. He let it drag along the ground, fingers clenched around one strap.

Turning another corner he looked left, then right. At the end of the street he saw a main road: neon signs over shops, advertising boards illuminated by streetlights, people walking, crouched under umbrellas. He lengthened his stride. His throat and chest burned with the extra effort of taking in air.

At first Richard didn’t see the red and white plastic barrier through the rain. But then he did. The street was fenced off. Roadworks. He was trapped.

He faltered, choking on the iron taste that had risen in his throat. When he started to run again he couldn’t feel his legs. He willed himself forward, focussing on the barrier.

At the same time he heard the Rockers open the throttle of their bikes, revving the engines as they closed in, yelling and shouting. The front wheel of the nearest caught the strap of Richard’s rucksack that trailed along the ground and momentarily threw him off balance. He staggered, wrenched at his bag but had to let it go. Now there were two motorbikes on either side of him. He could feel the heat of the engines even through his parka. They were cornering him. He felt a thump between his shoulders.

And then he leapt over the barrier towards the main road, arms and legs flailing.

Winded, Richard lay still, his eyes closed. He hurt.

‘Get in! Get in!’

The voice was muffled. Instinctively he checked his hearing-aids. One was dislodged. He pushed it back into place.

‘Hey, you. Get in.’

He opened his eyes. It was a car, stopped in the road: a Mini, with the passenger door wide open. People walked around him, muttering disapproval. He rolled onto his side on the pavement. And then, with a start, he heard yelling. ‘Get the Mod. Don’t let the bastard escape! Come on, get ’im!’

Scurrying on hands and knees, he scrambled into the car.

An arm reached across him, slamming the door shut at the same time as the Mini set off, driving erratically into the traffic.

‘I saw you were in trouble way back. I thought I’d never find you in time.’

Richard willed himself to stop shaking. He twisted his head to look at the girl. She was bent over the wheel, gripping it tightly and staring straight ahead. Her jawline was taut with concentration.

‘Thanks.’ He could hear the wobble in his voice. He cleared his throat. ‘Thanks,’ he said again, louder.

‘I’ve seen that lot before.’ Still she didn’t look at him but she raised her voice. ‘They would have half-killed you if they’d caught you. Mind you, you can really move when you run … er…?’

‘Richard.’ He’d heard the admiration in her voice. ‘It’s called being shit-scared,’ he said.

She laughed, glancing across at him for the first time. ‘My name’s Karen.’

‘Hi… Karen.’ He inclined his head in a mock bow. ‘My saviour, isn’t it.’ He realised he was shaking. ‘I mean it. You did save me. Thanks. How did you know what was happening, though?’

‘I told you. I saw you being chased down Argus Street by that lot of clowns. I sounded my horn but you disappeared. I figured this was only main road you could be heading for. I had a line of cars behind me, I was driving so slowly. I just kept looking down every side-street.’ She laughed again. ‘But I certainly didn’t expect you to come leaping out like you did.’

‘I hadn’t a clue where I was going. I was lucky you found me.’ Very lucky, he thought, swallowing. His eyes stung and he blinked, staring out of the side window.

After a couple of minutes Karen switched the windscreen wipers to go faster as the rain increased – and then indicated. ‘Do you mind if I pull in here?’

Richard didn’t catch what she said. He leaned forward to look at her. ‘Sorry?’

‘I’ve not been driving long and I don’t like this weather. I’m going to pull in here.’

‘Iawn.’

‘What?’

‘Sorry. Sure. You’re the driver.’ Richard didn’t speak again until she’d parked the Mini in a car park at the back of a pub. ‘It’s really coming down now.’

‘Yes.’ She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘What did you say before?’

‘
Iawn?’

‘That was it.’

‘It’s Welsh. I come from Wales.’

‘Oh. Couldn’t make out the accent; I’m hopeless at that sort of thing,’ she said.

‘Just good at rescuing people.’ Richard grinned.

‘Been to Wales once for a holiday. Can’t remember where; I was only little. Gorgeous beaches.’

‘Yeah.’

With the engine off the only sound was the rain pelting down on the roof. The lights from the pub reflected in the puddles on the ground, shimmering through the streaming windscreen.

‘Fancy a drink?’

‘No. No, thanks.’

She turned to face him. Even in the shadows Richard could see she was pretty. Very pretty.

‘You’re wet through.’ She reached over to the back seat. ‘I’ve got a towel here. It’ll be a bit damp, I went swimming this morning and forgot to take the bag into the house.’

‘Thanks.’ Richard took it off her and scrubbed at his hair. ‘I’m sorry – I’m dripping all over the seat.’

She waved her hand, dismissing his words.

‘Mind if I take my coat off? I’ll put it on the floor.’

‘That’s fine!’ She smiled at him.

Heck, she was gorgeous. He became aware how small the car was, how close they were. He leaned self-consciously against his door, running the towel over his face and around the neck of his polo-neck jumper. He’d need to change it, but not here. He stopped. ‘I’ve lost my rucksack,’ he said. ‘I dropped it back there. It had all my things in it.’ His spare clothes, his best suit for the interview, his shoes.

‘We can’t go back,’ she said. ‘Anyway, they’ve probably trashed it by now.’

Richard picked up his parka and rummaged in the inside pocket. ‘Still got my wallet.’

They lapsed into silence. Yet it didn’t feel awkward. Richard couldn’t remember the last time he felt so comfortable in someone’s company. And, despite the odd circumstances they were in, she must have felt the same, because she leant her head on the back of her seat and closed her eyes.

When she spoke she kept them closed. ‘You were coming from the station?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where were you going?’

‘Staying with relatives in Ashford for a few days,’ Richard said. ‘I’m hoping to get a place in the university hospital in Manchester that specialises in training medical students. I’ve got an interview next Monday.’

‘Oh, really? You must be brainy!’

‘Not really.’ Richard laughed. ‘But I do want to be a doctor, if I’m good enough. How about you?’

‘I’m in college, training as a hairdresser. And eventually I want my own salon…’ She stopped.

Richard raised his eyebrows: why did she sound so defensive?

‘My mother thinks I should do what I want… My stepfather … he keeps pushing me to drop the course and work in his office.’

‘Ah. What is it?’ Richard shifted around so he could see her mouth better. ‘The business?’

‘Painting and decorating. Mainly commercial property, now.’ She grimaced. ‘It used to be my dad’s business. He liked doing up people’s houses, but after he died Mum married George. He went for shops and offices. He says there’s more money in it. And you don’t have to “kowtow” to what he calls “jumped-up nobodies”.’ Richard was stunned when she said, ‘I hate him.’

‘Oh.’ He couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘He’s a pig … and a bully.’ She turned to look out of the side window.

He could see her long eyelashes moving furiously. He touched her hand. She didn’t pull away but clasped his fingers tightly for a few seconds. They didn’t speak.

Finally the heavy rain stuttered and stopped. Karen leant forward and switched off the wipers. She studied the car park for a few seconds. ‘I think that’s it for now.’ She tucked her hair behind her ears and peered upwards at the sky. ‘Where can I drop you off?’

Richard started; he’d been admiring her profile. ‘Nearest bus stop, if you don’t mind?’

‘Rubbish, I’ll drive you to Ashford. It’s only twenty minutes.’

‘Haven’t you somewhere else you need to be?’

‘No.’ Karen paused. ‘I was on my way to visit my mum in hospital.’ She pushed the sleeve of her jacket up to look at her watch. ‘I’ve missed visiting-time now, though.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He felt it was his fault. ‘Your mother’s ill?’

‘No.’ She settled in her seat and turned the ignition key. The engine hummed into life. ‘No, she’s not ill.’ She shook her head.

Richard waited.

‘I can go and see her tomorrow.’ Karen put the Mini into gear and took the handbrake off. ‘She won’t mind. She’s not ill or anything like that. She … she’s just had a baby.’ She stopped at the entrance of the car park, waiting for a break in the line of traffic.

‘Oh.’ There wasn’t much else he could say, except, ‘That’s nice … isn’t it?’

‘Depends.’ Karen clamped her teeth over her lower lip. ‘Right – whereabouts in Ashford?’

Chapter 7: Richard Schormann

Ashford, evening: Wednesday, September 17th