This Is Not Forgiveness (16 page)

‘Fear death by water,’ she whispers. Her eyes are huge and black as the river. ‘It was in the rune cast. On the windowsill where you let the stones fall. I noticed it after you left. What if I turn a tarot card, what will I find?’ She says quietly, almost to herself. ‘The Drowned Phoenician Sailor?’ She leans forward, her hair swinging like a curtain. ‘The card that is blank. It is something he carries on his back.’ She looks up at me. ‘
Your
card, Jamie.’

She’s acting so strange that I feel a different kind of chill, the short hairs rising. ‘Do you believe all that?’

‘Not me, stupid! T.S. Eliot.’

As if to defy the words she’s just spoken, she takes off her dress, walks back on to the slippery stones and steps straight off into the pool behind the weir where the river is deep and still. She disappears for heart-stopping seconds, then breaks the surface, sending out silver ripples.

‘You can’t swim here!’ I stand up and shout down at her. ‘There are signs up all over the place!’

The water’s got to be full of all kinds of crap, you could catch anything from it, and the bottom could be littered with all sorts of stuff: broken bottles, old crates, supermarket trolleys. She ignores me. For her, prohibition acts as some kind of permission. Rules are there to be broken. She swims out and turns, treading water, laughing at me, beckoning like some kind of dangerous water spirit.

I strip off and jump in, just to show her. I swim out a little bit and then back again. I’m careful not to swallow any water.

‘You look like a mermaid,’ I say as she pulls her self out of the pool.

‘You mean lorelei or nixie. Mermaids belong to the sea.’

‘It’s dangerous to swim here.’

‘Water’s my element. It won’t harm me.’

She lays a towel down on top of the blanket that she has brought with her. Her skin is mushroom cool and her hair smells of the river. She pulls me to her. I hear distant sounds: a shout of male laughter, a high yelping scream, a siren’s wail.

On the way back, I’m extra careful crossing the weir. Looks to me like someone has shifted the stone in the middle, the one that’s loose. It’s right out of place, set at an angle. It would take the full force of the river in spate to shift it that much. Someone must have moved it. Why would you do that?

We don’t go to the island at night again.

Chapter 21

I thought I’d throw in a little bit of scare – I knew she was planning to take him there. She likes a thrill. Midnight boating – moonlight trips to the island. Real romantic. Mind if I puke. She’s special – I’m not sure he deserves her. I know which one will go arse over tip down the weir and it ain’t gonna be her – ha fucking ha.

Her and me – we got stuff in common. You wouldn’t think it but we do. Not just the obvious.

Below the surface stuff.

I was out at her place the other night – we talked a long time. She was telling me about her dad and what happened to him and pretty soon I’m telling her about mine.

Jimbo was a little kid when it happened. The old man left him alone mostly – when it was bad I’d get him to hide in the wardrobe – make it a game like. Don’t know if he remembers that. Then he weren’t around any more and Jim wanted to know about him so I’d tell him stories – adventures with Dad as the hero. I ain’t much good at making things up so I lifted stuff from films – Andy McNab – whatever. Jim sucked it all in – eyes wide. He wanted a hero so I gave him one.

Kids need heroes – especially ones who will be growing up without a dad. Maybe I wanted one, too.

It weren’t like that in real life.

Truth was he could be a right bastard. OK one minute and next he’d be off on one. Short Fuse.

When he come home – it was like Christmas and birthday rolled together – presents and everything. All good. But after a bit he’d get edgy – restless – then he’d start drinking. If Ma said anything – he’d clip her one and go out and not come back for hours – sometimes days.

One time he bought me a Buzz Lightyear – two days later he’d stomped on old Buzz. Getting On His Nerves. Me? Buzz? Could have been either one of us. He bought me another one but it weren’t the same.

You never knew where you were with him. I learnt to wait for the sun to come out and I learnt to keep out of the way.

Now I can see how it was with him. He didn’t mean to be harsh. Just couldn’t help it. I’ve seen it in other guys – seen it in myself.

Mum told us Dad’s death was an accident. Killed in training using live rounds. She’s always stuck to that story. Truth was he topped himself. Grandpa told me when he’d had one too many whiskies and his marbles were sliding. Went like this:

HIM: You got the look of him.

ME: Oh, who’s that?

HIM: Yer dad.

Then nothing. No point prompting you just had to go with him – following the riffs of his mind.

HIM: He were a nasty piece of work. Treated yer mum like dirt. It were worse after that do in Suez.

ME: He weren’t in Suez, Grandpa.

HIM: He were out there somewhere.

ME: It was the Gulf War.

HIM: Same difference, int it?

ME: He had Gulf War Syndrome.

HIM: Syndrome my arse. We seen far worse than them lot and didn’t behave like that.

ME: Could’ve been post-traumatic stress disorder – that’s what they say I’ve got.

HIM: Yeah but you been in some real fighting not fannying about in Germany and Northern Ireland.

ME: Northern Ireland was no picnic.

HIM: Not when I were there maybe with the paras – but they was just peacekeeping – never did nothing. He were a coward, lad. Took the coward’s way out.

ME: How do you mean? His death was an accident.

HIM: Accident with live rounds – that’s what they always say to cover it up. He topped hisself pure and simple. I’m off to bed.

Fighting – killing – does damage. Grandpa says it’s the coward’s way out but I don’t agree. I bet even he’s thought about it. I’ve been tempted and I know I ain’t the only one.

No mistakes with a gun in your mouth. That’s no cry for help – just a mess for someone to clear up.

No one gets away free – not me – not Dad – not Grandpa. He can say what he likes. He don’t do terms like syndrome – disorder – but they’re just names for things he’d rather not talk about. I bet he gave Gran a hard time sometimes. He had his black moods when they all had to tiptoe round him – Mum told me. He’s always preferred his mates or why was he forever down the Legion? He’s always liked a drink or three. Sometimes even your mates are too much and you have to be on your own. He knows that – else why’d he spend so much time down the allotment and going fishing?

Death is the end of the road – the ultimate destination where you can be alone. Maybe that’s what Dad figured out – it was the only place left to go.

Jamie still don’t know what really happened to Dad. I told her not to tell him.

We talked all night. In her own way she’s as fucked as I am. I told her things I’ve never told no one. I never felt that close to anyone – not even Bryn or the other guys. Sure, you’d die for them – them for you – that’s a given – but you never talk about deep stuff – personal stuff – about your dad and from when you were a kid and that, for fear of looking weak and them taking the piss.

She makes me feel real – it’s painful – like blood pumping back into a limb that’s been kept immobile but she makes me feel like I’m coming alive.

She says she don’t do love. I don’t neither – but she’s the nearest I’ve got to it.

Chapter 22

She doesn’t say anything about where we are going. I might as well be blindfolded. I catch the sweetish scent of alcohol on her breath as we wait on the bridge for the temporary lights to change.

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘Might have been.’

‘You shouldn’t drink and drive.’

‘No shit!’ She shakes her head. ‘I didn’t know that. Thanks for telling me.’

I settle back in my seat and hope we don’t have far to go. Nothing happens. There are no police sirens. She drives more carefully, if anything, but I’m relieved when she takes the turning into the Meadow Crofts development and I know we are going to her place.

She has a bottle ready on a tray, together with lime and salt.

‘I don’t like tequila,’ I say.

‘It’s
not
tequila,’ she says. ‘It’s
mescal
.’ She shows me the scorpion in the bottom of the bottle, shaking it, making it float about, like it’s swimming in there. ‘It is the best and only the best is good enough. Drink up.’

We are sitting on the floor in the living room. I pass on the next round but she pours herself another. And another. She puts down the bottle, nearly missing the edge of the smoked-glass table. She did have a bit of a head start, but she seems to be getting really pissed. More than I’ve ever seen her. Mescal is strong stuff. She doesn’t slur her words. The way she speaks, all her movements become slower, more deliberate, and she’s very careful, like she doesn’t like to lose control. She never talks about her past, other boys, the men she’s had. She rarely talks about herself at all. The less she says, the more I want to know about her. I decide now’s my opportunity.

I go into the kitchen to get a beer, play for time, think about how to approach her.

The fridge is stacked with champagne bottles and the table is covered with shopping bags, the glossy, expensive kind, like she’s just come back from a spending spree.

I turn to find her standing in the doorway.

‘That one is for you.’ She points to a dark green bag, marked Ralph Lauren. ‘It’s a shirt to replace the one you spilt ketchup down. I had to guess the size.’

I take the shirt out of the packing. It’s a pink and white striped button down. Not what I’d wear normally, but I’m touched that she thought of me.

‘Hey, thanks!’

‘Try it on.’

‘Now?’ I follow her back into the lounge.

‘Of course, now. No point in buying things if you aren’t going to wear them.’

I do as she says. It fits perfectly.

‘Let me see,’ she says, moving me round like I’m a mannequin. ‘Looks good.’

‘How come you can afford all this?’ I ask her as I finish buttoning the shirt.

‘She left me money and Trevor gave me more. Plus I’ve got a credit card.’

‘What about your dad? Do you ever see him?’

‘My dad, my real dad, the one who is not called Trevor? No. I don’t see him because he’s dead. He shot himself,’ she says after a pause. ‘We have that much in common.’

I choke on my beer. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What I said. He’s dead.’

‘No, not that.’ I put the bottle down. ‘What you said about my dad. Having that in common. My dad was killed in an accident. He was a soldier, out on exercise. They were using live rounds. It was an
accident
,’ I repeat. ‘What makes you think it wasn’t?’

‘I dunno. I just thought. . .’ Her eyes are unfocused, distracted. All that mescal is getting to her. ‘Maybe it was something Martha said –’

‘But it’s not true, so why should she say it?’

‘I don’t know.’ She tips the bottle. ‘Almost empty.’

She gets up to go and get more, but I pull her back down again.

‘No.’ I take the bottle from her. ‘Not until you tell me. How do you know?’

She pulls away and goes to the kitchen.

She comes back with another bottle ‘Want some?’ I shake my head. ‘Please yourself.’ She pours herself a shot and knocks it back. ‘Dead’s dead. You just have to accept it. My dad went out one day and never came back. He got into the car, drove to a wood and shot himself.’

She’s quiet, staring into space, as if revisiting that time, going back to that place.

‘That’s terrible,’ I say into the silence. ‘A terrible thing to happen but that’s not what happened to my dad. His was an accident.’

‘Oh,’ she looks at me, eyes heavy. ‘How do you know?’

‘It’s what I was told.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Not very old. Three.’

‘There!’ She sits up. ‘You’ve got it right there. They lied to you. They’d have lied to me, too, if I hadn’t been old enough to see through it. People don’t like the truth. They translate it into something easier for everyone to accept.’

My turn to be quiet. Everything I’d ever believed. Everything I’d ever been told. She’s rocking my world. I reach for the mescal bottle and take a swig. Little things come together in my mind. A word here, a word there. Hushed conversations I wasn’t supposed to hear. The more I think about it, the more I know what she is saying is true.

Just when I think it can’t get worse, it does.

‘But how do you know?’ I ask. ‘When it’s something I didn’t know myself. How do you know?’ It can’t be from Martha. I’m pretty sure she knows as much as I do.