Winterton Blue (5 page)

Lewis's first actual meeting with Carl passed without incident. He'd been sent to fetch Manny by his mother; she needed a lift, and in those days Manny ran his own taxi firm. Lewis passed lots of houses with cars in the drives, but they were on blocks, or had the bonnets winged to the sky, or were lying dismantled on the scrub grass and the path. None of them looked like a taxi. Manny's garden was a neat square of tarmac, with a polished saloon parked beneath the window.
Another car was parked on the kerb. Lewis rang the bell and waited.

The boy that answered the door was small, but already had the start of growth on his face. He was wearing just a pair of football shorts, and he didn't even look at Lewis, who was red and sweating. Carl turned and called upstairs, one word—Dad!—and then retreated, leaving Lewis on the step. They had a dappled glass door shutting off the living-room from the hall; Lewis watched as the boy's shape, in ripples and breakers, receded into darkness. Manny came down the stairs in his socks. It was also Lewis's first meeting with Manny, and he would remember it, as he would remember everything about this father and son. Lewis thought Manny looked how a dad
ought
to look: a bit put out but smiling all the same, his hair uncombed and all over the place. Lewis waited on the doorstep as Manny sat on the stairs and pulled on his shoes. He gave off a smell of stale tobacco and sleep.

Round here, said Manny, We have an ancient tradition called the Siesta. Tell your mam for me, son, tell her there are lots of lifts to be had. She'll find them in the phone book, under Taxi Firms.

Lewis wasn't sure about this speech, but Manny smiled and said, I suppose your phone's not connected yet?

I don't know, said Lewis, We just moved in yesterday.

Manny followed him down the path, grumbling. He pointed out the different houses as they walked.

That's the Robsons' place, Manny said, gesturing with his fob to a house across the road. The render was painted fresh white, and bordering a neat square of garden was the white wall, with
SHARKEY
scrawled across the brickwork. He bent close to Lewis's ear.

We calls them the Snobsons, he whispered, But not to their face, of course. And them opposite you is the Prices'. She's all right but her lads are proper little villains. Take your eye and come back for your eyebrow.

Manny wriggled his own eyebrows as he said it, which wrested a smile from the boy.

So, how're you settling in? All right? Manny asked, Just you and your mam, is it?

And my twin brother, said Lewis. He's called Wayne.

And you are?

Lewis, he said, dying of shame at having to say it out loud.

Manny leaned into him, whispering.

I'll give you a tip, Lewis, as you're new and you look like a good lad. There's
lots
of little villains round here—I should know, my Carl's one of them. Keep out of their way and you'll keep out of trouble. That's it, sermon over. Now, he said, holding out his hand, Are we going to be friends?

Trick or treat, mister, the voice says.

It takes Lewis a moment to bring himself back. Blinking in the sunlight, he opens his eyes on three children: two boys, and a girl, lagging behind. The boys wear sweat tops and jeans and sharp white trainers. The tallest boy sports a diamond stud in each ear, and has a half-empty Coke bottle in his hand. His thumb is pressed on top of the neck. The smaller boy is eating a bag of chips, with his Coke nestled in the crook of his arm. Looking at him, Lewis feels a stab of pity. He can't be more than six years old.

You're way too early, son, says Lewis, rubbing a hand over his eyes, Come back in a couple of weeks.

The girl breaks away from the others, sidling round the back of the bench, dancing her fingers along the wood, nearly—but not quite—brushing Lewis's lapel.

Penny for the guy, she says, and all three burst into fits of laughter.

Lewis turns his head to look at her. She's wearing a matching sweat top and jogging pants in pale pink. She too has small white diamond studs in her ears, and blonde hair tied up in a top-knot. She's pretty but her eyes are dead.

Where's the guy? he asks, smiling, trying to share the joke he doesn't understand, Aren't you supposed to have a guy?

Uh?

I said, where's the guy?

The girl sits now at the other end of the bench, pulling at a piece of rotten wood and throwing it at the boys. She flicks a long black strip at Lewis. He senses more than understands the change in the air.

You're the guy, she says, smiling sweetly, But we don't want to put you on the fire.

What's a guy? says the youngest boy.

He's
the guy, she says, Gimp!

You're the gimp, says the older boy, shaking the bottle and releasing his thumb. A shower of foam shoots across at her, but the girl is quick, ducking out of the way with a delighted scream and running behind Lewis for protection. He puts his hands up, catching the last of the spray, shouting at the boy.

Hey, hey, c'mon! Cut it out!

The boy launches the bottle into the grass.

You've got to give us money, he says, nodding at his small friend in confirmation, Or we'll report you.

Penny for the guy, repeats the girl, laughing again. She dances back behind Lewis, whispering something as she passes.

Dirty old . . . guy, she says.

This time, her hand trips along his shoulder, making him fly up off the bench, whirling, clutching his kitbag and shouting.

Clear off! he says, feeling his heart banging with fright, Go fuck with someone else.

They openly laugh at him. Even the little one is brave now, jumping from one leg to the other and letting out a high, false giggle that seems to echo through the trees. A woman passing with her dog stops to take in the scene. She gives Lewis a long look, as if she will need to remember him. Cars are queuing on the road that cuts across the green.
Lewis throws his bag over his shoulder and walks fast, not caring that he's heading straight into the traffic, feeling his face and neck burning hot. Something bounces off his back, and again something hits him, and then a third missile flies past his head. Chips. They're throwing their chips at him. They're throwing their chips and they're calling him names.

So, what d'you think?

Brendan pushes back the metal door, revealing his handiwork to Anna. She'd texted him from Great Yarmouth station to tell him the news, and before she had even got on the train, he'd texted back: BIG suprize @ home.

He led her straight through the garden—which had not been altered—and across the yard to the lock-up.

It's my car, says Anna, Just where I left it.

You mean you can't tell the difference? God, you're going blind as well as deaf. Take a closer look.

Anna walks round the car. The outside has been washed and polished, and there's a new badge on the bonnet. Anna pings it with delight.

New badge, says Brendan, pointlessly, I got the man from Merc to take the old girl away for a day or two. He took that badge off a wreck. He was
very
helpful.

Did he fix the leak? asks Anna, running her hand over the bonnet.

No, he couldn't be bothered . . . Of
course
he fixed it, that's why I called him in the first place. That—and one more thing. Look inside.

Anna opens the door. The interior has been valeted and the passenger seats cleared of debris. It smells of fake pine,
but underneath is the more familiar, warm scent that Anna loves: old car.

CD player, says Brendan, Thought we'd bring you into the twenty-first century.

Brendan, it's fantastic. How much do I owe you?

Let's call it a gift, he says, but before she can thank him, he adds, Well, okay, then, let's call it rent.

Rent, she nods, suddenly catching on.

Because you'll want to rent this place out while you're gone, Brendan muses, leaning a hand on the hatch, And I can't think of anyone more trustworthy, and—aw, no!

He holds his fingers close to his face and sniffs them, Is nowhere sacred? Those squirrels crap on everything.

How do you know it's the squirrels? says Anna, Could've been a rat.

Trust me, he says, I know. All my washing got ruined. No wonder you don't use that clothes-line.

How have they been? she asks, watching as Brendan scuffs his hand against the gatepost. Even though she's been gone just a couple of days, she feels a peculiar sense of guilt at abandoning them. Brendan's face fills with horror.

A great big fella came and knocked on the kitchen window yesterday morning. I tried to ignore him, but he kept knocking with his paw—do you call them paws?—honest, what're you supposed to do?

Ah, smiles Anna, That'll be Kong. I usually throw a handful of muesli out. They'll leave you alone once they've had their breakfast.

Breakfast? I'll be getting myself a water pistol, says Brendan, Speaking of which, how's mater?

Mater is as normal as she can be in the circumstances. Some old thesp called Vernon Savoy is ‘looking after' her until I go back up.

The
Vernon Savoy? Brendan's face lights up.

Is he famous, then? Asks Anna.

Is he? He is the
famous
Vernon Savoy. Don't you remember him?
Saturday Night at the London Palladium
?

I didn't do much telly watching as a kid, Brendan, says Anna, Too painful on the ears.

Brendan laughs at this unintended joke.

You're not kidding! And didn't he have a dummy in the act for a while? What did he call him? You know, the butler, with the s-s-stammer. What
was
he called?

Brendan, I haven't got the faintest idea what you're talking about. Vernon Savoy's only famous in my book for sponging off my mother and wearing awful waistcoats.

He doesn't! cries Brendan, And has he still got that ludicrous moustache?

Ludicrous, nods Anna.

It sounds a riot, he says, Anna Calder, confidante to the stars! I bet it's just like The Good Old Days.

They're a complete embarrassment, the way they carry on, says Anna,
You
go and stay with them if you don't believe me. See how long it is before you're sectioned.

Is it really that bad? asks Brendan.

It's worse. But I've been left with no alternative.

They both stare at the car for a minute. A fine drizzle starts to fall, sprinkling them with tiny beads of rain. Brendan puts his arm around her as they turn back towards the house.

Oh, look on the bright side, he says, At least we didn't bother wasting time on that scrap of dirt you call a garden. And give me bedlam over boredom any day.

The idea Lewis had—of returning to Cardiff, of finding his mother again—seems pointless now, in the middle of the day in the middle of a busy London street. He stands on the corner and tries to regulate his breathing. He'd run non-stop from the common until he realized he was drawing attention to himself: a man fleeing down the high street in broad daylight. It wouldn't do. It would look weird. He sees himself as a stranger might; chaotic, dishevelled, wild-eyed: like an escapee from a mental ward. Trying to behave as a normal person would, Lewis tags on the end of a queue of people waiting for a bus, half-sits on the low wall, just like the man next to him, like those two girls further along. His legs are trembling, he has to fight the urge to cry. He rests his back against the railing and puts his kitbag on his lap to stop his knees from jumping. He wants to be no one again, the invisible man, but the confusion—and then the realization—washes over him like sweat: he's run away from one bad situation, and straight into another. For a second, he sees himself as if he's been tied on a long piece of invisible elastic, getting catapulted from one place to the next, only to return twice as quickly. He fights the thought. More like a wrecking ball, he says, under his breath. But if he isn't on elastic, what is he doing in Clapham, directly opposite the Café Salsa, the very place where the rot set in?