Solace of the Road (21 page)

‘Must have.’ I was shaking.

‘Go on. Hurry back, love, before the train pulls out. Quick. We’re due to sail.’

I nodded in a frenzy, then turned round and ran back towards the station platform.
Hurry, hurry, Holly Hogan
. I was running, running, and I could see the
lizard dangling from the stall on the Broadway and Fiona smiling.
Before the road disappears
. I reached the platform. The train still sat there like a sleeping dragon.

I ran down past the carriages. Which one had I been in? I got to the last but one.
That’s it
, I thought.
That’s the corridor where I left the lizard. That’s it—

Then the lights in the carriages went out.
Before you end up falling, falling …

I didn’t want to get back on that dark train but I knew I had to. I stepped forward to open the door. But just as I did, the train shuddered, began to move and pulled out of the station, back into the night.

I watched it go, lizard and all. My iPod, my pink-fur purse, my mobile with the charge gone, my SIM card, my lipstick and mirror, my toothbrush, my hairbrush. And in the special zip-up pocket at the front, Mam’s amber ring. I was Jane Eyre for sure now. My trunk had gone off with the carriage. I’d lost the jewels. Just like her, I had nothing and nobody left.

Forty-one
The Harbour

I stood for a long time on that platform, with Miko’s road-dust song crooning in my head.
Hurry, hurry …
but it was too late.

Dark, alone, no lizard.

Minutes passed, then half an hour. I don’t know. Eventually I slipped away, back down the ramp. The guard had gone. I saw a big boat, lit up with tiers of decks, pulling out without me. I might as well have been a ghost, thin and dark and quiet in my trainers. I edged along the walls so nobody would see me. But it was deserted. I didn’t know where I was going in the dark. I passed a checkpoint with nobody in it and then lanes with no cars. I followed a path by a roadside and sat on a bit of smooth ground that faced out to sea. Overhead, a half-moon came out, all crooked, like it was ready to tumble out of the sky.

Time went by.

Light crept in.

The sea had no waves. Colours came. Pink, green, red and orange footballs were bobbing in the water.
I was back down in Devon with Miko by the harbour front.

‘What are they, Miko?’ I was asking. ‘The things like balls, floating?’

‘They’re buoys.’

‘Boys? Like Trim?’

‘No. Buoys. B-U-O-Y-S. They’re to tie up your boat.’

I frowned. ‘Why don’t they float out to sea?’

Miko laughed. ‘They’re tied down with chains. And an anchor, I guess.’

‘A bit like me, Miko.’

‘Yeah. A bit like you, a bit like me. Maybe we need those chains, people like us, Holly.’

‘Nah, we don’t, Miko. We don’t need chains. We need freedom.’

The buoys bobbed like mirages on the dark, quiet water. They reminded me of the blood-orange sun hovering over the Welsh hill that I’d seen on the motorbike. Then Grace walked towards me, her hips swinging, turning the pier into a catwalk. I smiled but the picture faded. I stared down at my knees and hugged them because they were warm and real. I drifted.

Daylight got stronger. There were houses on a green cliff and sheds and engine noise. I looked at the ground beneath me. I was sitting on the edge of a mosaic which was labelled:

THE FRENCH INVASION AT FISHGUARD 1797

It showed men and boats and muddled arms, and I was staring at one man hauling another from a boat with a pole. Then I realized he wasn’t hauling the man in, but skewering him with a spear.

I stood up, dizzy. In my mind, the spear dripped not with blood, but egg yolk.
Can’t stand it when the yolk’s broke, Bridge
. I staggered away down the thin strip of causeway like I was drunk.

Holly Hogan
, I said to myself.
Get a grip
.

I pinched the skin on my wrist hard.

I got to the end of the causeway and looked out at the sea. Morning came on strong and the sun came up from behind and the sea sparkled.

Holly, keep your nose pointed forward
.

Then I saw a dark blob out to sea. And as it got closer, it turned into the boat, returning like an old friend. Gulls wheeled around it. It docked. The harbour came alive. Cars drove off from the hold of the boat. Then new cars arrived, waiting to board. They drove into six long lanes. Most were for cars, but one was for lorries. I stood to the side, watching.

You are off to Ireland under your own steam
.

I walked nearer the cars. Seabirds were hopping on the rocks and seaweed. The light was dazzling. Car radios played, posh classical stuff all mixed up with easy listening. Some people got out and picnicked on the harbour-side, or bought drinks, chatted, walked around. Some went to the toilet block. Some stayed in their cars, waiting.

A sign said the boat was sailing again at 9.00.

By 8.15 the lanes were nearly full. Car doors opened and shut. People kept coming and going.

And that’s when I had my plan.

Forty-two
The Hold

So now I’m back to where we started.

I’m breezing down the line of cars so nobody can guess I’m looking for a way to board the boat. I don’t care any more if they catch me or not. I’m Miss Devil-Take-a-Running-Jump herself. That’s when you’re most dangerous, and that was me that morning. Mad, bad Solace. Trim Trouble was nothing compared with me.

Solace whispered in my ear.
Go, Holl. You can do it
.

And when I saw the navy four-by-four, with the mogit coat-flappers yattering down the line and the doors wide open, it was like Fate calling my name. I was in and under the coats before you could say Christmas. When the mogit owners came back they didn’t see me. They were too busy arguing about con-ten-gin-seas. Even when the wig slipped off, my luck held and the man at the ticket booth saw nothing either. And then it was clatter-bang up the ramp, and voices, bells, doors slamming, and even though I was under the coats I could feel the low-slung pipes
and somewhere hot and deep an engine turning.

But then the owners got out and locked me in. All doors at once. It was like mean steel fingers around my neck, cutting off the air. And soon the boat lurched and we were sailing. Sailing into a bad, dark dream. And the white dividers of the road flew off in all directions and the road dust hit my eyes and the journey went in on itself so that the beginning met the end with the long road falling out from in between, disappearing like Miko warned it would. And the wig had fallen off and I was plain old Holly Hogan and it was the bowels of hell.

Penned in, trapped.

I pounded the window but nobody came.

Let
.

Me
.

Out
.

I was back in the secure unit, the first time they locked me in. I pounded the door then and nobody came.
Cry all you like, sunshine. The door stays shut till morning
. I tore my blankets off the bed, I turned the bed upside down, I lay on the floor and kicked the wall and screamed like my skull would burst. And drawers started opening in my brain, drawers I hadn’t opened in years, and I was slamming them shut again but bits of memory kept coming, a voice here, a scream there. I was so scared I was pulling out my own hair.
Please. Let me out
.

The engine rumbled like a beast snarling in its sleep.

Now I gave up the pounding. I was flat out, my
cheek against the window, staring at the dim lighting, car on car, lines of bumpers, empty glass, drab colours. I lay back and stared at the green and cream flecks on the ceiling and a big blank hole opened in my head. Darkness rushed in.

Mammy. Where did you go, Mammy? Why did you leave me?

The boat rolled. All around drawers slid open, spilling what was inside, and I couldn’t stop them. I didn’t want to see, but it was too late, I had. There they were. The three little figurines, Mammy, Denny and little Holly Hogan. We were locked together in the sky house, caught in that moment for all time, like the insect in the amber resin of the ring.

Forty-three
In the Sky House

Sweet dreams are made of this …
. the woman’s voice comes from the stereo speakers. Mam’s laughing, clamping down the iron on her red embroidered blouse. Denny’s laughing too and I’m staring, blinking, wondering why they’re mocking me.

‘Jeez, Bridge,’ Denny yodels. ‘Priceless.’

‘Scoot, Holl,’ Mam says. She brandishes the iron. ‘Before I melt your face. Scram.’

I creep out to the bathroom, holding the scrunched-up toothpaste tube. I’ve got my bottom teeth up over my top lip, biting. I wait. It’s silent.

Then.

‘Give me the bloody money, Bridge. Give it over.’ Denny, roaring. A plate clatters, a knife and fork. I don’t want to move but Mammy needs me. My feet are taking me back through to the lounge. The plate’s face up on the floor. The egg yolk’s set like plastic. The ironing board is over on its side, its steel leg prodding the air.
Who am I to disagree?
goes the song.

‘The whore money,’ Denny raves. ‘I know you’ve it hidden somewhere.’

It’s the money Mam and I are saving to go to Ireland he’s talking about. Sometimes Mam puts it in the breakfast cereal. Or in a saucepan in the cupboard. Or down her tall leather boots.

‘I’ve none left,’ she snaps. ‘None.’

‘Liar.’

Now Denny’s got her up against the wall, pinned by the shoulders.

‘Let Mammy go,’ I shout.

Mam’s wriggling and shoving. She has the hot iron in her hand and lands it on his arm. Denny howls. ‘Liar yourself,’ she shouts. ‘Thief!’

‘Bitch.’ He wrenches the iron from her hand and slaps her cheek. ‘It’s your face I’ll melt,’ he says. He puts the iron surface up close to her cheek.

They are still.
Everybody’s looking for something
.

‘Please, Denny. Stop,’ Mam whispers.

‘I’ll melt it, Bridge,’ he hisses. ‘I’ll turn your face to broken yolk. I will.’

‘Denny. Please.’

‘It’s in the boot, Denny,’ I squeak.

But I don’t exist. He’s eyeball to eyeball with her, his hip jutted into her stomach like she’s plasticine.

‘The money’s in Mam’s boot,’ I yell.

Softly, like it’s a kiss, he puts the iron down on her hair so it frizzles, just a little.

‘Serves you,’ he says. He laughs, steps back.
Sweet dreams are made of this, sweet dreams are made of this …
‘Only joking, Bridge.’

She’s holding her hair, her mouth open like an O. And Denny’s handed her back the iron and he’s pushing past me into the bedroom. A boot’s being thrown against a wall. Then he’s passing back through the lounge and his face is like the mask in the museum, empty and thin, with the dark curls framing it, and his hand’s waving. ‘Bye, all,’ he goes, but he’s not looking back.

The front door slams.

‘Denny-boy,’ Mam whimpers. ‘Come back, Denny. Come back.’

But he’s gone and I’m glad. He must have used the stairs because there’s no sound of the lift whirring.

The Denny figurine’s fallen off the edge. One down, two left. Mammy and me.

‘Mam?’ I’m saying. The music’s still playing. She’s on her knees, hunched over the toppled ironing board, making sick animal sounds, and her dressing gown’s splayed out on the carpet.

I go up and touch her hair. ‘Mam?’

‘Denny,’ she moans.

She looks up and sees me and her eyes go like slits.

‘You. ’S your fault, Holl.’ She yanks me up close to her face by my pyjama sleeve. She’s shaking me. ‘Why d’you have to tell him where the money was? You monkey, you. That was my money, mine.’

Now it’s me against the wall. And it’s the silver flatness and the little holes for steam coming towards me and Mammy’s red hand and bony wrist holding it, and I’m kicking her but she’s holding me fast with her arm pinned across my neck and I’m biting her and she
curses and the iron crash-lands on my head. The smell of the hair is like sparklers after they’ve died. My head’s exploding and the hot metal’s on my ear and I’m kicking and screaming and the iron drops hard-bang on my foot. I screech.

‘Whisht up, Holl.’ She hits me round the face. ‘The neighbours will be onto us.’

So my face scrunches up and my shoulders go up and down but no sound comes out.

Me and Mam. Stuck in that moment.

Mam staggers back, shivering.

‘Holl,’ she whispers. ‘You hurt, Holl?’

Now she’s got me on the sofa and she’s crouched on the floor by my head, putting the red blouse under me like a pillow, and she’s more like my own mam again. She’s doing it in a dream and her eyes are drifting in and out of focus. ‘You all right, Holl?’

‘Yes, Mam.’

‘You hurt bad?’

‘No, Mam.’

‘I’m going now, Holl.’

‘OK, Mam.’

She crawls over to her bedroom like a baby. She shuts the door behind. I hear a chair fall, a glass break. I hear a drawer being dragged open. Then she comes out, dressed in her best white coat with the grey fur collar. She has her white handbag with the thongs and fringes on her shoulder.

‘Gotta run, Holl.’ She’s shaking like a wind-up toy. ‘You stay there on the sofa. I have to find that
Denny-boy and get the money. The money for us, Holl. For us and Ireland.’

‘When will you be back, Mam?’

‘Soon, Holl. Soo-oo-oon.’ She’s at the amber ring, pulling it. ‘Take this, Holl. Keep it safe. They’d chop your finger off for a ring like that.’ She’s working it off her finger, pressing it into my palm. ‘Keep it safe.’ Her words are rattling together like the ice cubes in her see-through drinks.

Her heels are click-clicking away and she’s swaying like she’s in a ship’s corridor as she goes.

‘Bye, Mam.’

The front door bangs and the music ends. I hear the lift coming up with its whirring grind. A pause. Then it’s falling, taking Mam down, and only the faraway hum of London is left.