The Ghost in the Electric Blue Suit (12 page)

“Do you ever think,” I said, “that you might have someone watching over you?”

“Never,” she said, a little sharply. “Do you?”

“I think I might have,” I said.

“Like an angel?”

“No, not at all like an angel. Maybe the opposite.”

She looked at me sideways. Then she settled back into her deck chair and closed her eyes.

The concert came to an end. The elderly folk got up from their seats and shuffled away. We were the last to get out of our chairs.

“Come on. Someone will see,” she said, standing up.

“What will they see? Two people sitting in deck chairs?”

“Yes. And that will mean a lot more than two people sitting in deck chairs.”

I made out I didn’t understand, but I suppose I did. “Are you around this evening?” I said.

“No,” she said sharply. “Madness.”

Then she walked away from the bandstand, across the grass, in the direction of the seawall.

BUT SHE WAS around that evening. And how.

I’d spent the early evening as a checker on the cash bingo in the Slowboat. Nobby called the bingo from an elevated
chair, with a glass cabinet powering numbered Ping-Pong balls through a Perspex tube. When one of the punters—it had taken me about a week to graduate to calling people “punters” instead of “holidaymakers”—shouted for a line or a house it was my job to collect the winning ticket, take it over to Nobby, and run through the numbers. If all was correct—and it usually was—play could continue and the winners collected their cash at the end of the session. It was mind-numbing, oddly comforting, and hugely popular with both the holidaymakers and the staff.

When the bingo was over most of the players drifted back to their chalets to get washed and changed for the evening, whereupon they would float back again to the very same venue. It was all a bit like the sea ebbing and flowing. During that time the Slowboat’s resident band—three amiable Brummies in silk shirts and sparkling waistcoats—would set up ready for the night’s steady stream of cover versions. One of the band—Eric, the drummer—was telling me a joke, something about an adulterer who was in church when he remembered where he’d left his bicycle. I sensed but didn’t hear him getting past the punch line.

“You’re not listening,” he said. Then he scoped where I was looking. “Don’t blame you, matey.” Eric moved away and rippled his fingertips along the edge of his cymbal as if to underscore some point or other.

Terri stood against the bar, wearing that same dark, figure-hugging dress. This time she also wore opaque black tights and a pair of shiny black high heels. Her eyelashes had been highlighted with mascara and she had on a thin trace of
lip gloss. I saw her in front of me and it was like I was speeding along a motorway with a car crash happening way up ahead, but instead of slowing down I was accelerating into it.

“They’ve taken me out of the theater,” she said flatly. “I’m cleaning the refurbished chalets in D block.”

“You look amazing,” I said.

She smiled at me, but then said, “Hush!”

“What am I supposed to do?”

She flicked her hair and glanced at me sideways. Then she looked away again.

“What’s going on?” I said.

She let out a little moan. “I don’t know.” Then she picked up her handbag from the bar and, leaving her drink unfinished, said, “I’m going into town.” Without a backward glance at me, she walked out of the Slowboat Bar.

I stood frowning at the space she’d vacated. She was going into town? Dressed like that she was going into town? I had to fight myself to stop from running out after her and bringing her back. I turned away from the bar. Eric, perched on his stool behind his kit, was watching me. He blew on his hand and flapped his wrist, as if to cool burned fingers.

8

A SEQUINED COSTUME AND A SWORD CASKET

Monday I woke after a bad night. Every time I slipped into sleep I was tortured by images of Terri giving herself to men in town. It was ridiculous. I didn’t own her. But I was torturing myself with pictures played out on the back of my retina. Perhaps it was something like this that made Colin the way he was.

Though Terri had flirted with me she didn’t seem to be the kind to toy with people’s feelings, nor did she smile or flash her eyes or lick her lips or swing her hips. Just the opposite. Neither did she ever play the double-entendre game that gave the kitchen girls so much fun. With the exception of one impulsive, stolen, dry kiss, she’d held me at arm’s length. At almost every moment she’d avoided giving me any kind of signal. Either she was the most manipulative woman since Mata Hari or she was genuinely trying to stay true to her monster of a husband. Even so, as I tossed and turned I couldn’t get rid of feverish pictures of her lavishing her favors on the men in town.

I didn’t see Terri all of that week. Since she’d been taken off the theater duty she was deployed in various places. I didn’t see her in the daytime and she didn’t show up again in any of the evening bars. I felt as though I was always looking over my shoulder for her.

On Wednesday morning I went into the briefing and caught Nikki glaring at me. I tried to catch her eye but she looked away. She’d been frosty with me for some days now and I had no idea what I’d done to upset her. I was determined to ask when I got the chance.

It was the morning of the magic show. Tony asked me to ready the props and I started by wheeling the sword casket from the props cupboard, which was actually an alcove adjacent to the theater. After a few moments Nikki appeared. She was Tony’s assistant in the show and as such she was required to wear a sequined costume and to climb into the sword casket. I made some lame remark to her about dodging the swords and she completely blanked me. Turning her back on me she stripped off and wriggled into her fishnets and her sparkling costume. Then she started brushing her long, lustrous black hair.

I’d had enough. “Right,” I said. “Will you tell me what I’ve done?”

She narrowed her dark eyes at me and brushed her hair with angry vigor. I wondered if she somehow knew about what was happening between me and Terri, and disapproved.

At last she spoke. “Let’s just have a think, shall we? A think.”

It didn’t seem possible that she could be jealous. It didn’t
seem possible that she could even know. I shook my head. I had no idea.

“Didn’t take you long to team up, did it?”

“What?”

“Fun, was it?”

“What fun, Nikki?”

“Joined the gang, have we?”

“The gang?”

“You went to one of their meetings.”

“Meetings?”

“What do you think that says to me, David? You know what they want to do to people like me and my family? They want us sent off in cattle trucks, that’s what they want.”

I felt embarrassed and stupid at the same time. I hadn’t realized that in Nikki’s lovely dark looks she carried the genes of a different race. Nor had I considered what others might think about my attendance at that meeting. I was horrified. “No! Wait! Nikki! I didn’t even know you were …” I couldn’t find a word or phrase that wouldn’t compound the problem.

She supplied one for me. “Half-caste? Mixed race? Oh fuck off, David.”

“I swear! I didn’t know what I was getting into! Tony said come and meet some people and I thought it might be like a conjuring circle … or I don’t know what. Next thing I found myself up to my chest in flags and skinheads and … I had no idea.”

“You came home with all their horrible literature though, didn’t you?”

“Literature?” I suddenly recalled the copy of
Spearhead
in my room. “Who told you that?”

“Nobby saw their papers in your room.”

Nobby had reported to Nikki! My roommate had grassed me up.

“One. One paper. I was about to throw it out. That’s the truth!”

“So why have you even got one? Why, David, why?”

Her dark eyes were moist with anger and hurt and my protestations were getting me nowhere. “I swear to you, Nikki, I have nothing to do with those people.”

She shook her head. “David. You’re like … like a little puppy. You’ll follow anyone anywhere. You’ve got to be careful about where people will lead you.”

“I’m sorry! I really am.”

She gazed at me in silence before someone came blundering into the semidarkness of backstage. It was Tony, still wearing his fez. “Lovers’ tiff, is it?” he said cheerfully. Then he began singing loudly, something about the course of true love never running smooth. Nikki sighed and headed off toward the ballroom.

Tony took off his fez and became serious. “You have to be precise about how all this stuff unpacks and gets put away afterward, look here. Take hold of that box.”

Later I asked Nikki how I could make things up to her.

“You can buy me an ice cream.”

I agreed, as if to do so would solve the pressing problem of racism that was hawking the country.

“On the pier. Saturday.”

9

YOUR FUTURE FORETOLD WITH YELLOW UNDERLIGHTING

When Saturday came I had breakfast in the canteen in my civvies. Every time someone came in I looked up, thinking it might be Terri but fearing it might be Colin. Neither appeared. I was eventually joined by one of the security guards who asked me if I was interested in Formula One car racing. I said I wasn’t and he proceeded to tell me about the history, business, and current state of competition in the sport, just as if I’d said yes. When he finally paused for breath, I asked him if he’d seen Colin.

“You don’t want to have anything to do with him,” he said.

“No. Have you seen him around?”

He shook his head. “What’s he to you?”

I gathered up my tray and said, “Look at the time. I’ve got to put my foot down.”

Nikki sat on the seawall just outside the resort. We were going to walk together into Skegness and spend some time
there. She looked very pretty. She wore a simple pink dress that bared her shoulders and she had tied her dark hair back into a ponytail. She dipped her sunglasses as I approached and squinted at me. “That ice cream,” she said. “It has to be a big one.”

“I can do that.”

She linked arms with me, as if we were a couple, and we walked along the promenade in the direction of town. Where the promenade ran out we crossed the dunes of the North Shore Golf Course and walked a little way along the beach before going up onto the road called Roman Bank and into town. Nikki took off her flip-flops and carried them as we crossed the dunes. Before we’d gone but a short distance she trod on something sharp and let out a little yelp. I made her sit down while I had a look at her foot. There was a bead of blood under her toe, a bead the size of a ladybug, already clotted with sand. I could see a thorn in her toe and I pulled it out. I put a bit of spit on my finger and cleaned her toe.

She dipped her sunglasses again and looked at me strangely.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

I suggested she’d be better off wearing her flip-flops because there was quite a lot of thorny debris among the dunes. She did what I told her.

“You’re funny,” she said.

I couldn’t think of anything I’d said that was funny.

When we got into town I bought her the promised ice cream. I wanted to sit somewhere up on the Grand Parade
and look out to sea. But she studied her thin gold wristwatch and said no, we had to go and find somewhere to sit on Castleton Boulevard. I said I didn’t think Castleton Boulevard offered much of a view.

“Who’s in charge of this trip?” she said.

“You are.”

So we went to Castleton Boulevard. There we found a bench and ate our ice creams. She glanced at her watch again. “Are we waiting for someone?” I said.

“Be patient, will you?”

I finished my ice cream. The sun was already hot in the sky. You could feel it pulse. I felt a trickle of sweat run under my collar as we sat in silence. Then a lion came down the street.

The lion was on a leash. It was a young lion but it was already the size of an Alsatian dog. Bigger even. It pulled at the leash, and only just managing to restrain it was a small man in a lightweight suit. His companion, a middle-aged woman in heavy makeup and an extravagant, broad-brimmed hat, clutched a small handbag tight to her side and walked with a slightly theatrical swing.