Mesmeris (9 page)

‘We only ran ‘cos we thought you’d brought the cops,’ he said. ‘If we’d known, we’d have done you again – like we did this morning.’

‘Yeah?’ Jack said. ‘Why not have a go now then? There are two of you.’ He stepped back. ‘I know it’s not your usual four but come on.’

Dim backed away, shook his head. ‘Leave it, Jenks.’

‘Jack.’ I moved closer to him. The bench where the man in the pink shirt had been sitting was empty. The Japanese people had gone too.

‘Go back, Pearl,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

‘You reckon?’ Jenkins said, cocky as ever. ‘Better stay and look after him, Miller,’ he said. ‘You’re more of a fighter than he is. Hey, and when we’re done, we’ll carry on where we left off, eh, darlin’?’ He winked at me.

Jack swung at him but Jenkins was too quick. He ducked out of the way and laughed and Jack lost his balance, just for a moment. And in that moment, that split second, I imagined him unconscious on the floor and Jenkins and Dim turning to me and smiling, imagined them pushing me against the wall, holding my arms, Jenkins giggling in my ear while . . .

I didn’t even see Jack move. I only heard a crack, then saw Jenkins fall. The back of his head smacked against the wall and he slumped to the ground, blood pouring from his nose.

Dim’s mouth hung open, a stupid look on his face.

Jack held his hand out. ‘Give me the phone.’

‘Yeah – yeah.’ Dim’s hands trembled.

‘Let me help you with that.’ Jack shoved his hand into Dim’s trouser pocket.

Dim screamed ‘Ah! Shit! Shit!’ He doubled over. ‘Shit!’

‘Come near Pearl again,’ Jack said, ‘and I’ll permanently remove them.’

He handed me two phones, mine and Dim’s. They were warm and made me feel sick. He turned back to Jenkins. ‘Get up,’ he said, his voice calm and quiet, the same voice he’d used on Tipper. ‘Get up.’

Jenkins eyes swam, unfocussed. He spat out blood and teeth.

‘Jack!’ I caught his arm.

He shook me off. ‘Stand up, big man, so I can hit you.’ He grabbed Jenkins’s collar, dragged him to his feet.

I moved between them. ‘Stop it. That’s enough.’

Jack stared at me, eyes wide. ‘What’re you doing?’

‘He’s had enough.’

‘Enough?’ he said.

‘For God’s sake.’

‘What? You want to let him go?’ he said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s what the police are for.’

‘Oh right,’ he said. ‘And what d’you think he’d get - if they made it stick? Two weeks sweeping the streets, if you’re lucky. That what you want?’

‘You’re making me scared of you – is that what you want?’

He stared at me for a long moment. ‘Okay.’ He let go of Jenkins. ‘Okay.’

Jenkins slid down the wall, left a trail of blood on the creamy white stone. Jack knelt beside him, took the phone from Jenkins’s pocket and whispered something in his ear.

‘Jack!’ I pulled on his collar. ‘Leave him.’

‘All right, all right.’ He stood up and wiped his hands on his jeans. Then he took my arm and led me away.

I glanced back and saw Jenkins claw at the wall and slowly drag himself to his feet. Dim stared after us, made no attempt to help his so-called mate.

‘You would have stopped, wouldn’t you?’ I said. ‘You would’ve.’

He put his arm around me, pulled me close and kissed the top of my head. He was strong. He could protect me from Tipper, from all of them. No one would ever be able to hurt me as long as I was with him. But instead of feeling safe, something rankled, plucked at my nerves. It wasn’t just the force Jack had used when he hit Jenkins, the speed of the punch. It was the look in his eye when he did it. He enjoyed it.

‘Where d’you learn to fight like that?’

‘Shouldn’t have done it in front of you,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘I’ll explain later,’ he said. ‘Not now – and not here.’

There was an explanation, then – an excuse. Maybe he hadn’t enjoyed it at all. It was probably anger I saw, not pleasure – anger at what they’d done to me. It was just him being protective and that was normal - wasn’t it?

As we rounded St Paul’s, our whole group came into view. Abbi and Jess ran towards us, then stopped a few feet away.

‘Crap,’ Abbi said. ‘What’s happened to you now?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I fell over.’

‘Fell over?’

Jess hugged me. ‘You poor thing. Miss Ellis went mad when I told her you’d gone home. She is
not
happy with you.’

‘Well, I’m taking her home now,’ Jack said.

‘What’re you doing here anyway?’ Abbi looked from Jack to me and back again. ‘Have you two been fighting?’

‘Not with each other,’ Jack said.

‘I rang him,’ I said.

‘Thought you lost your phone.’ Jess said.

‘Found it. Look Jess . . .’

‘SIR,’ someone cried. ‘Sir, something’s happened to Jenkins, Sir.’

Everyone dashed towards the cathedral. ‘Come on.’ Jack pulled me in the opposite direction and we ran, and as we ran, he laughed. So, I laughed too, felt insanely elated, even though this whole thing was anything but funny. We ran along the main road as sirens wailed behind us and I felt as if I was playing a part in a movie. None of it was real. It was all a game, a fantasy and it didn’t matter. Jack turned into a side street and we stopped. I bent over, held my knees to catch my breath. As my pulse returned to normal the urge to laugh disappeared. Jack, still breathing heavily, looked up and down the road then pointed towards a doorway. Unlike the others on the street, this one had marble steps leading to a solid wooden door, no glass. A board next to it displayed the names of various businesses, each with their own tarnished brass button.

‘Stay here,’ he said, ‘and I’ll get the car.’

A wave of fear went through me at the thought of being without him.

‘I won’t be long.’ He kissed me gently on the lips. ‘You’ll be fine – promise.’

Then he was gone. What the hell was I doing? Everything frightened me, even Jack, but being without him frightened me even more. I tucked myself as far back in the doorway as I could and looked out for the car. Perhaps I should run back to St Paul’s, go back on the coach with Abbi and Jess and Miss Ellis. Half of me wanted to go home, tell Mum and Dad all about it, have a cuddle, a bath and hot chocolate in front of the TV. But then there was Jack – and Jack won.

I don’t know what kind of car I imagined he’d have but I wasn’t expecting anything like the silver sporty job with tinted windows that pulled up. I looked past it and waited. Only when the horn sounded did I realise it was him. I glanced up and down the road and dashed over to the car. He opened the door from inside.

‘Get in – quick.’

‘Wow!’ I sank into the leather seat and the door shut with a smooth, expensive click. ‘Is this yours?’

‘Uhuh,’ he said.

It was spotless, no old receipts, sweet wrappers, no dust even on the floor. The dashboard gleamed, shiny and new. Jack leaned over into the back seat, where his coat lay, neatly folded. He retrieved a cardboard pack with a shirt inside – Ben Sherman, blue and white check. He fiddled with the seal.

‘Here.’ I took it from him, pulled the shirt out and unfolded it. Thick, linen fabric - classy. ‘D’you always carry a spare shirt, just in case?’

‘No.’ He laughed. ‘Picked it up on the way to the car.’ He pulled his dirty, torn shirt over his head. I stared at his bare chest, felt an overwhelming urge to lean over and smell his skin, kiss the bruises, the red marks where they’d punched and kicked him.

He coughed.

‘Sorry.’ I dragged my eyes back to the shirt, felt for pins. There were none. I handed it to him, watched the fabric touch his skin, observed his long fingers do the buttons up. I looked away, couldn’t believe what the sight of his body was doing to mine. After everything that had just happened, how could I even think like that? When I looked back he was smiling.

‘What?’ I said.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Pretty hot, eh?’

‘Don’t kid yourself.’ I did my best to look unimpressed.

His eyes crinkled, as he started the car and pulled out into the main road.

I ran my hand over the spotless dashboard, opened the glove compartment - empty. ‘Is it new?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Wow!’ He had to be loaded. There was only one way he could earn that kind of money at his age – and I didn’t want to think about that.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘where d’you want to go?’

‘Don’t mind.’

‘Home?’

‘No.’

He laughed. ‘Okay. I’ll surprise you then.’

‘Cool.’ I snuggled down into the seat, hardly daring to believe what I was doing.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Tiredness swamped me, dragged my heavy, gritty eyelids shut. Tipper’s face appeared from nowhere. I forced my eyes open.

Raindrops spattered the windscreen. Jack fiddled with the controls, squirted water. ‘Damn it!’ He turned on the wipers, glanced at me. ‘Still getting used to it,’ he said.

The motorway flew past – seventy, eighty, ninety miles an hour.

‘You okay?’ Jack said.

‘Fine.’ My voice sounded thick with tiredness.

‘Really?’

I sat up, widened my eyes. ‘Yes – really – fine.’

My mind sank into nothingness.

When I woke, the car was stationary. Cold air hit my face as the door opened.

Jack shook my shoulder. Pressed his lips against mine.

I put my hand out, felt the back of his head but couldn’t open my eyes.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you some food.’

I climbed out of the car and leaned against him, snuggled into his coat where it was warm and safe. His heart beat against my cheek, regular, strong, hypnotic. The wind whipped at my hair. It smelled of salt. Seagulls screeched overhead, competing with the crash and hiss of waves and the clatter of pebbles as they collided and tumbled over each other. I opened my eyes.

‘Where are we?’

‘Brighton,’ he said. ‘I lived here for a while. I like the sea.’

‘Me, too.’

‘I should’ve taken you home,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a shock.’

‘No.’ I tried to look alert, healthy, happy. ‘I need a cup of tea, that’s all.’ My eyes filled with tears. My bottom lip wobbled - such a fool, such a child.

‘Oh, come here.’ He hugged me. I could have sobbed on his chest. I wanted to but I held it in, afraid of looking needy.

We walked along the promenade. To our left stretched the English Channel, a seemingly endless stretch of grey-blue water. To our right a terrace of five storey, elegant hotels, all the same, all white. They were beautiful, in a tired, faded sort of way and stood out starkly against the cold, deep blue sky. We found a cafe right on the beach and sat at one of the panoramic windows. We drank tea and ate fish and chips. Jack kept asking if I was okay and, every time he asked, he studied my face so I wondered what the hell I looked like. His swollen eye seemed better, the redness less obvious and, with the new shirt, he looked almost respectable, unlike me.

‘So, where did you learn to fight?’ I said, after a while.

‘Can we not talk about that?’

I just stared at him, raised my eyebrows and waited.

‘Let’s find a pub,’ he said.

‘Why can’t we stay here?’ It was comfortable and warm. I didn’t want to move.

‘You’ll need a drink.’

‘You reckon? Immensely brave, remember?’ I smiled.

He didn’t. ‘You’ll need a drink.’

‘Pub, then,’ I said. My insides tightened.

We found a busy one, all dark wood and red plush upholstery, sparkling glasses, and middle-aged, well-to-do customers. Jack bought a bottle of wine in an ice bucket. The barman hesitated, looked at me and went to say something. Jack waved a note in front of
his face. He took it, but with a look that said he wasn’t happy. People stared as we walked through, turned to have a damned good look. I shouldn’t have cared but I did. They looked away when I stared back and widened my eyes. We sat at a round polished-wood table next to a pillar, out of view. I gulped one glass of wine straight down. Warmth crept from my belly, seeped through my body and relaxed my tired muscles.

‘So,’ I said, ‘where d’you learn to fight like that?’

He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘In the home.’

‘Your home?’

‘
The
home.’

‘You were in care?’

‘Care? You’re funny.’ He laughed a humourless laugh. ‘No – it’s a home run by Mesmeris.’

Something Jim had said popped into my head. ‘Is that . . ?’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘Nothing.’ For once, I wished I’d paid more attention to Jim’s waffling. I took another large swig of wine.

‘It’s a kind of religion.’

‘Religion?’

‘Well, that’s what they call it. Nothing like the one you’re used to.’ He laughed, then caught my eye and straightened his face. ‘They took me in.’

‘What, when your parents died?’

He shrugged. ‘Suppose.’

‘And they taught you to fight?’

‘And the rest,’ he said.

‘Doesn’t sound like much of a religion to me, or much of a home.’

‘It isn’t. Useful, though, when it comes to dealing with people like Tipper.’

My stomach rose up. Sickly sweet saliva poured into my mouth. I stood up. ‘Sorry.’ I rushed into the Ladies, my head full of jumbled up words and pictures and sounds. I leaned over the sink, washed my hands and stared into the mirror. Nothing made any sense - the battered face in the mirror, the panda eyes, the swollen lip didn’t look like me. I laughed. My mouth laughed anyway, wide-open, silent, proper belly laughs. My eyes didn’t laugh. They should have laughed, but they didn’t.

Something was stuck under one of my fingernails, a sliver of flesh. Then it was gone, washed down the plughole. I heaved, retched over the sink, my mind back in Southwark with their filthy hands all over me. I must have scratched someone but couldn’t remember who.

I washed my hands again and again, in scalding hot water, until they were red raw. I scraped viciously under each nail, hurting myself, making them bleed, until no particle of anybody could be anywhere on my hands. I looked up.

Jack was watching me in the mirror. ‘What’re you doing?’ he said.