Taking Flight (20 page)

Chapter 36

VICKY

‘OK. You can look now.' Becca handed me the mirror.

I gasped. It wasn't that I didn't look like me, but I looked like a shinier, airbrushed version. My hair was pulled back with loads of tiny, sparkly turquoise clips and the bits hanging round my face were curled into loose ringlets.

‘Wow! You are so clever! Thank you!' I hugged Becca though she cried out, ‘Mind your curls.'

‘Let's see.' Fliss came in from the loo. ‘Oh, very sophisticated. Clever old Becs.'

‘I used to cut my Barbies' hair all the time,' said Becca. ‘I used to want to be a hairdresser when I grew up.'

‘Bet your mum loved that.' I half-turned to admire the way she'd caught the back of my hair up in the little clips. The mirror gave me a tilted view of part of my room, looking like a beauty parlour. There was make-up all over the dressing table and the wonderful turquoise dress hung on the wardrobe door, waiting for me.

‘Yeah, well, I was like, six, or something.'

‘OK, let me check that make-up,' demanded Fliss. ‘More lippy, I think. And don't forget to take it with you. You'll need to put more on after the meal.'

My stomach somersaulted at the idea of food. ‘There's no way I'll be able to eat!'

‘Course you will.' Becca gave my arm a squeeze through my fleecy dressing gown sleeve.

‘You have to eat to soak up all the alcohol,' said Fliss, just as Mum came in with a tray of glasses full of something fizzy.

‘What's that about alcohol?' she said, her parent radar obviously working overtime.

‘Wow! Champagne!' said Becca. ‘Thanks, Mrs Moore.'

‘It's only pretend,' said Mum. ‘I don't think your parents would take too kindly to me plying you with drink.'

‘Oh, well, it's still lovely,' said Becca, taking a sip.

‘Hey, Mrs Moore, you're looking pretty good yourself,' said Fliss, who could always talk to people's parents.

For the first time I looked at Mum properly. She was wearing a new dress – OK, it was a bit homespun and hippyish for me, but it was a pretty, rusty colour that looked good with her dark hair and eyes. I hoped Brian was going to take her somewhere nice.

‘It's my birthday,' said Mum. ‘And do you think you girls could stop calling me Mrs Moore? It makes me feel about ninety.'

Anyway, I thought, Fiona's Mrs Moore now. When Mum and Dad got divorced Mum said she was going to go back to being Ms Kelly but I'd begged her not to. ‘I'll die of embarrassment if you have a different name from me,' I said when I was starting senior school. She'd said
OK but I could tell she didn't really like keeping Dad's name. I wondered what Brian's name was.

‘You're, like, half the age of my mum,' said Becca.

Mum laughed. ‘I was a child bride,' she said. ‘And no, I wouldn't recommend it.'

If she went out with Brian for, say, a couple of years, and then I went away to uni – Glasgow or Edinburgh, I thought, though lately I'd been thinking Cambridge might be nice if I was clever enough – well, I supposed she could marry him then. She'd probably be a bit lonely when I left. Then I caught myself on and laughed.

Fliss gave me a concerned look. ‘Don't let the excitement go to your head, Victoria,' she said in Mad Max's voice.

‘It must be nearly time for the dress,' suggested Mum. ‘I want to see you in it before I go.'

The silk shimmied over my body, cool and creamy. Mum did up the criss-cross lacing at the back. I turned round to face my beauty therapists. ‘Well?' I breathed nervously.

‘It's gorgeous!' They all stood back and looked at me.

‘God, you are so lucky!' cried Fliss for the billionth time. ‘There is no way he won't jump on you in that dress.' Then she caught Mum's eye and shut up, thank God.

‘You don't think I should have got a fake tan?' I said to change the subject.

‘No, Vicky; it's January. You don't want to look like that crowd in Year Eleven – they're orange!' said Fliss, sounding so firm that I relaxed.

In my silver sandals my toenails, painted by Fliss, twinkled. ‘I feel like a princess,' I couldn't help admitting. ‘Thank you so much – you guys are the best friends in the world.'

‘We know,' said Fliss. A car horn beeped in the street. ‘Hey, that's my mum. Better go.'

‘Text us all the goss!' they ordered, shrugging themselves into coats which looked suddenly clumsy and heavy beside the cold silk of my dress. ‘Bye, babes!'

When the doorbell went I shrieked, ‘I'll get it!' and was gliding – my dress seemed to make me glide – across the hall before Mum could stop me.

A man. An actual
man
. Old, I thought at first, but it was only because he was grey. I supposed any hair was a bonus at their age.

‘Hello,' he said. ‘You must be Vicky.'

OK, not the most original, but then he was probably a bit taken aback to see a girl in a ball gown instead of Mum in her hippy dress. I willed myself not to blush under Fliss's careful make-up. ‘Um, yes,' I said. ‘I'm going to a formal.'

Apart from being grey, Brian was short and beardy with round glasses. He was definitely the absent-minded professor type in his tweedy jacket and not-terribly-new-looking chinos. But he didn't look like he would break Mum's heart. Mind you, neither did Dad.

‘Where are you taking Mum?' I asked, just to be polite.

‘I've booked a table at the Rowan Tree.' He sounded a bit anxious. ‘Do you think that's all right?'

I relaxed. ‘She's never been there, but I have. I really like it. The crème brûlée is amazing.' I had only been to the Rowan Tree once, for Fiona's birthday, but it would do no harm for Brian to think I went there all the time.

‘Oh. Well, that sounds a good endorsement,' he said. He blinked. I wondered if he had met many girlfriends' daughters. I sort of suspected that this was as new to him
as it was to me and I couldn't help liking him a bit more for it.

Then Mum was there. ‘Vicky, you shouldn't have left Brian standing on the doorstep,' she said. Her voice sounded a bit high or breathless or something. She had her coat on already and her cheeks were pink. They didn't kiss or anything, thank God. Mum kissed me instead – very carefully because of my make-up.

‘Have a lovely time,' we all said at the same time and Mum laughed. ‘Careful with drink,' she whispered.

‘Mu-um! I've told you a million times I am not going to do anything to spoil this night!'

I waved goodbye and checked my reflection in the hall mirror. Just a tiny rub of lip gloss, I decided. Twenty to seven. In five minutes Rory would be here. Then this magical night would
really
begin.

Chapter 37

DECLAN

I look at myself in the hall mirror. Even in the half-light I look like shit.
Do you have no self-respect, boy?
There's no way I'm going to face Barry in a dirty school uniform with BO so I force myself to have a cold wash – not a shower, I'm not that brave – and get changed. The house is like a fridge but hopefully not for much longer.

If I get the money I'll buy stamps on the way home and post the letters before I chicken out. Dermott gave me envelopes and all. I find a pen – for a minute I think, ‘Where did this gay-looking pink thing come from?' before I remember it's Seaneen's – and write Vicky's address on hers. Then I look at Cam's. I force myself to think about Cam. She liked me. I mean, she must hate me
now
, but she liked me
then
. I know her address – Old Farm Stables, Mill Road – so I write it out and put both envelopes in the pocket of my fleece with the pen.

The chill from the house follows me out, clinging round me. I pull my woolly beany hat out of my pocket and over my head. It's raining and the street's empty.
Walking past some of the houses I smell dinner – frying meat, chips. If I get the money I'm going straight round to Fat Frankie's.
When
I get it. Think positive.

I have my head down against the rain so I don't see Seaneen till we nearly bump into each other.

‘Alright, Declan?' She sounds quite friendly.

‘Oh, hiya.' I kind of want her to stay so I try to think of something else to say and end up going, ‘Here's your pen.'

‘Oh, that's OK.' She grins and takes it. The rain's frizzed her hair and she's holding a brown paper bag to her chest. You can see the patches of grease and smell the salt and vinegar.

‘You been for chips?'

‘Yeah. My ma's got the plates warming. See you.' She crosses over the street to her house. I imagine them all sitting round the TV, the wee twins getting their fish cut up for them, Mairéad pouring out big glasses of Coke.

Pity she was so keen to pour out big glasses of vodka on New Year's Eve. Pity she invited Barry the Bastard and my mum to her stupid party. But I know Mum and Barry would have sniffed each other out anyway.

Barry's flat's up on the main road near the chapel. I've hardly ever been in it. It's pretty well known for knockoff booze and cigs and stuff; they say Barry can get you anything you want. It's been busted a few times but the pigs have never got anything. He's not stupid.

Walking up the main road, taking my time even though I'm getting wet, I wonder if my dad would have turned out to be a lowlife like Barry. I like to think not but how would I know? ‘You're very like him,' Colette told me a few times, and I don't know if that's good or bad. My dad was dead at twenty-two. Too reckless, Gran
used to say when she talked about him, which was hardly ever. The day Colette brought me home, when Mum was inside sober and arranging the roses and everything was still OK, she'd said, ‘If I can do it so can you.' I thought she meant I was like her, a bit, and I liked that idea. But then what Dermott said –
passive
– makes me sound like
Mum
. The way I've felt for weeks – dragging myself round, not leaving the house, not getting washed some days and feeling this heaviness weighing me down – is that what it's like being her? Is that why she drinks?

Even what I did on my birthday – I knew I was an eejit, but it didn't stop me.

I love my mum – I think – but I don't want to be like her.

The main road's busy. People late from work or early for a night out. I stop at the crossing. Press the button. WAIT. Red man. I sort of don't want the green man to show up but soon he's beeping away and I've got to cross.

What's the worst he can do? He's not going to like me coming round but Mum's not going to send me away without the money. She can't be so drunk she won't understand that I can't live without electric and food all weekend. Maybe she's even ready to come home. She might not even still be drunk. Maybe she's slept it off and she's just waiting for that kick up the arse that'll get her home and she'll be dead glad to see me and she'll say, ‘You know, son, I was just having a final fling there, but it wasn't like it used to be. That's me finished with Barry. That's me finished with the drink. I never knew how fed up I was with it until you showed up. You've rescued me, son.'

Yeah right.

Past the waste ground. Past the shops. Way too soon the block of flats rears up. It's on the first floor. Up the
concrete steps. Follow the iron handrail. His is the first door you come to, just at the top of the stairs. Maybe he'll be out. But through the wee window at the top of the door I can see light.

I swallow. It's not too late to turn back.

To what?

I square my shoulders. My first ring is annoyingly feeble so I push the bell hard. The low drone of a TV gets louder – someone's opened the living-room door. Oh God, let it be Mum.

Then the door's pulled open just enough for Barry's big gob to look out.

‘Yeah?'

I take a deep breath. ‘I need to talk to my mum.'

‘She's not here.'

For a second I believe him. Christ, she could be lying dead somewhere. Two days and nights and I haven't done anything to find her. Then I wise up. She
said
she was going to Barry's; where else would she be?

‘She is here.' I can't get over how confident I sound. ‘I need to see her.'

‘She's out of it.' He sounds disgusted.

‘What d'you mean?'

‘You know fine rightly what I mean.'

‘I need to get something off her.' I am not going to say please, not to him.

‘Oh yeah?' He laughs. His belly, straining under a Manchester United top, blocks the doorway, solid, like a sweaty, nylon drum. I wish I was brave enough to put my fist in it.

‘I'm not leaving till I see her. She's my mother.'

‘And this is my house. So piss off and don't come whingeing round here again. Do you need your ma to
come home and tuck you in? Read you a wee bedtime story?'

‘Piss off.'

‘Don't you get cheeky with me, you wee shit. D'you think I've forgotten what you did to our Emmet? I'm going to have to take him private to get his nose sorted out properly. Never mind grassing him up to the pigs.'

I want to say, ‘Wise up, his fingerprints were all over that car; the pigs aren't stupid,' but I don't. Don't react. Stay focused.

‘Look, if you could even just bring me out her purse. I need … I just need to get something.' I keep my voice dead steady.

But Barry laughs. ‘Aye, right. Think I'm going to let you rob her blind? Take advantage of her when she can't defend herself? No way, sonny. Just take yourself off.'

He goes to slam the door. Instantly I thrust myself half inside the flat, but just as quick he grabs me and throws me out again. Something – the door or the doorframe – whacks into my left shoulder. Pain knocks the breath out of me and I grab my arm.

‘Got the message?' he snarls.

I've no free hands and he's hulking there, huge and horrible. I've never defended myself against him. Not once. But I feel my knee draw back – it's like slow motion but at the same time it happens dead fast – and wham it between his legs. Feel the contact with his balls through his loose trackie bottoms. Disgusting.

With a grunt he grabs at his groin, and I step back, excited and terrified.

But Barry recovers fast. ‘You … wee … bastard,' he breathes. His fist gets my jaw so fast and hard my head feels like it's going to jerk off.

Before I can get a breath he's got me with both hands. When he grabs my left shoulder my whole body vibrates with pain.

‘You were told to fuck off my property.' His voice seems far away. ‘Now don't come round here again.'

It's not a hard punch really. But there's nothing behind me except the empty space of the stairs. As my body hurtles down I have no thoughts, only the bang bang bang of each step until some instinct makes me grab for the handrail, then it's more of a bump bump slither to the ground.

Above me I hear the door slam.

Then nothing.

* * *

Cold. Concrete. I open my eyes and my head splits in two. Every breath sends a shudder of pain through me. I close my eyes again. Just stay like this, inside the pain, don't try to move. Eyes still shut, I test myself. Legs seem to work. Arms: a dagger of pain stabs me when I try to move the left one. I let out a moan.

Stop it. Get a grip.

Using my right arm, I raise myself onto my hands and knees. Risk opening my eyes. Grey concrete. Red flecks. Blink. Something drips. Rain. No, blood. I dash my hand up to my face and it comes away warm, wet, red. I swallow. I'm on the road with Flight. He's bleeding.

No, no, no. Come on. OK, sit up. The ground tilts and settles. Not the road. Hallway of Barry's flats.

Go on, stand up. Yes, you can. Hold the wall. OK. Breathe. You're standing up, you're fine. One step. Go on. And another. Yes, you can; you have to.

Outside door. Too heavy with one hand. No, I've got it.

Outside hits me with cold, damp air that knocks a bit more sense into my head. Keep moving. Don't meet anyone's eye. Don't let anyone stop you or you'll be down that road to the hospital and questions and social workers and all that shit. You just need to get home.

But the further I walk the worse I feel. It takes so much effort to keep going that if I want to think at the same time I have to stop.

So. It's Friday. Barry pushed me. I know that so I don't think I'm concussed or anything, only dazed and a bit sore. Frigging sore. I'll just go home and sleep it off.

But I failed. I didn't get the money. What if I go home and go to sleep in the dark and cold and don't wake up?

You don't like asking for help, do you, Declan
?

My phone jabs against my hip. It probably got buggered in the fall. I pull it out. If it's wrecked I'll go home. If not –

It's OK. Not even cracked. 18.43, says the screen.

A man stops beside me. ‘You alright, son?'

‘Yeah, bit of a fall. I'm nearly home.' I wave my good arm vaguely at the next block and he goes on his way looking relieved he doesn't have to get involved.

Shops, closed now. I lean against the wall of the bookies. Come on; she said to keep in touch. She said, ‘if you needed anything'. And it's Friday. Vicky won't be there.

OK. Breathing hard, I push in the number. It rings. And rings. No one there.

Suddenly I know I can't make myself do one more step. Despair floods me. I can't do this any more.

Come on! I breathe in slowly. Try again. I hit the green button and Colette's phone bring-brings in my ear again.

On and on and on.