Winterton Blue (8 page)

The van was parked half on, half off the pavement. Manny eyed the rust on the bonnet and over the wheel arches, and the numerous dents in the bodywork. While Lewis made a pretence of unlocking it, Manny made a pretence of not noticing, folding and unfolding the slip of paper in his hand.

Why don't we try the phone book first? Manny suggested, Give her a ring? She might have moved again. She always was a bit of a wanderer, your mam.

Lewis could hear the caginess in the old man's voice. He chose to ignore it.

Itchy feet, he said, And I've tried to phone. So let's go and find out, shall we?

Manny wouldn't budge. He stood at the open door, staring across the seats of the cabin, and waited until Lewis slid in.

Are you sure, son? he asked, and at Lewis's nod, hauled himself into the passenger seat.

Lewis reached his arm through the window and peeled a parking ticket off the windscreen. He handed it to Manny.

What am I supposed to do with this? Manny asked.

Dunno, said Lewis, It's not actually my van.

Rented?

On loan, Lewis replied.

What about this fella? asked Manny, flicking the plastic skeleton which hung from the rear-view mirror, Hitchhiker?

Lewis gave a pained expression, then sighed.

It's a reminder. Sort of. Long story.

Manny said nothing, but sat upright, shaking his head and tutting. He appeared very Gallic doing this, or perhaps, thought Lewis, perhaps it's just the beret that does it. The beret looked brand new, as did the large patent leather holdall which Manny wore slung sideways across his body. He had the air of a geriatric dispatch rider.

What d'you keep in there? asked Lewis, mainly to avoid the subject of stolen vehicles.

Manny didn't reply, just flipped the clasp and held open the flap. He angled it in Lewis's direction, gave an artful smile.

See? He said, triumphant. Lewis took his eyes off the road for a second and glanced across.

I don't want to upset you, mate, but it's empty, he said.

I
know that, said Manny, Do you think I'm gone senile? But
they
don't, do they?

Who?

Them robbers down the precinct. It's my decoy. They lie in wait, you know. Scagheads. Pension day, it's like high bloody noon.

Should you be drawing a pension if you're still working? said Lewis, with half a smile to show he was joking.

I've paid my tax, said Manny, not smiling with him, Here we are now.

The house where Lewis's mother lived was exactly the same in style as the house they'd rented twenty years before, except, at a glance, he could tell that she'd decided to settle. The garden had a clipped front lawn, neat rows of flowers in the borders, a giant yellow butterfly pinned to the outside wall.

Manny flapped his hand at Lewis as he slowed to a halt.

Round the bend! he shouted, ducking as if he were about to be shot, Don't let her see us in this!

Lewis sighed, scraping the van round the corner, parking it next to an overgrown hedge.

Manny ran ahead of him, crabbing along the hedge, peeping over into next door's garden, then racing up the path.
He looked faintly comical in the open air, and he knew it, grinning widely at Lewis before stooping to look through the letter-box. Manny stared for a good long while, made a pantomime of cupping his ear to the door, then turned on his heel and trotted back.

She's not there, he gasped, winded by his efforts.

How d'you know? asked Lewis, We could see round the back.

Post on the mat, said Manny, pushing a hand to Lewis's chest, C'mon, chief, we'll try again later on.

Lewis moved the hand away and stepped up the side path. There was a bicycle leaning on the wall next to the back door, which was slightly open.

Mam? he called, and feeling Manny's protestations behind him, called again, louder, Mam, are you in there?

Who's asking? said a man's voice. It came from the stairs, followed by quick footsteps.

Who's asking
me
? Lewis shouted back, blinded by the darkness of the inside, I'm looking for my mam!

Well, I'm her bloke, grinned the man emerging from the shadow, So I suppose that
could
make me your dad.

Lewis's Real Dad is dead. So whoever the man with the builder's tan and the goatee thought he was, he wasn't Lewis's father. He was just having a joke. Lewis's ‘dads' went like this:

D
AD
#1:

Dead. As a child, Lewis didn't often think about his real father; he was too busy coping with

D
AD
#2:

Errol was Lewis's uncle-dad. Lots of their friends had them, even the boys who had real fathers at home had uncledads
lurking around. Errol was self-employed, which meant he was on the dole, and spent a lot of time lying on the couch. Lying in Wait, he called it, for the Right Moment. Lewis's mother once made a comment, picking his socks up off the carpet, that it was more like lying in state. You only had to say the wrong thing once to Errol to not make the same mistake again. It was a lesson the whole family learned.

Errol claimed he was in the SAS. He had to make himself available at all times, he said, but the closest he ever came to the SAS was watching
The Dirty Dozen
at Christmas, lying on the couch with a box of liqueurs in his lap. He'd be chewing at the sides of his moustache and shouting, You don't do it like that! And, Never in a million years, Telly-boy! Only Lee Marvin made him happy. There's a real man, he'd say, You wouldn't mess with him.

It was messing with a real man that got them into trouble. That's what his mother had said, when they were packing their bags in the middle of the night. She was leaving Errol for a real man, only Errol mustn't find out, ever, and no one must know their business because he'd come after them. They were going to make a fresh start, in a house she'd found across town. She tried to make it sound like a thrilling adventure. Wayne was happy enough that they were leaving, but Lewis remembered the first time his mother had mentioned Errol: he'd been a
real
man too, in those days. Lewis was beginning to distrust real men, and anything that was made to sound like an adventure; he knew they weren't at all thrilling, and he knew that there was nowhere, really, to run.

Errol found them on the second day in their new house. Lewis and Wayne were putting up posters on their bedroom wall, arguing about who was going to have the top bunk. Lewis knew he would get his way; he was the oldest, and bigger, but Wayne was good at putting his case; he was more agile on the ladder, he would suit the top bunk. Lewis was, he reasoned, always restless at night, and occasionally sleep-walked.

Wandering about on that top bunk, it could be hazardous.
Better all round—Wayne was saying, when he stopped mid-sentence. It was just the one scream. The boys stared at each other. Standing at either end of the bunk-bed, they felt, through the floor, a thud.

Downstairs, Errol was lying on the carpet, streaked with blood. There was blood on the wall above him and on the door-frame. Lewis knew it wasn't Errol's blood. It was a facility he had, for seeing things precisely, as if someone had showed him a film still. What Lewis saw, then, was someone else's blood, and Errol in a faint: what Wayne saw was murder. He stood over Errol with an air of thrilled satisfaction.

Quit ya jibba jabba! he cried, raising his fist to the ceiling, and in a mock-American accent added, I pity you, fool!

Lewis carried on through to the kitchen. His mother was bending over the fridge, so at first he didn't understand what had happened. He'd already taken in the strings of blood in a trail over the floor and the worktop, and a zing in the air, like an electrical charge; it was the smell of panic. His mother had one hand wrapped in a tea-towel and the other gripping a pack of frozen peas. She was biting it open, pulling at the plastic with her teeth. She looked at him and passed the packet across the worktop.

Open that for us, babes, she said, in a calm voice, the one she used when she was doing something ordinary, like cooking their tea.

And then run down and fetch Manny. Tell him it's Della, she said, Tell him it's an emergency.

Behind Lewis, Wayne was over his euphoria; Errol was coming round. They could hear him groaning.

What's he done to you? Wayne shouted, his voice going up at the edges.

Nothing, said their mother, Now will one of you go and fetch us a taxi before I bleeds to death!

At the hospital, she presented the packet of frozen peas to the casualty nurse, who was already shooing her to the front
of the queue. They went on through the double doors and out of sight. Lewis and Wayne and Manny sat in the waiting-room and said nothing, until Manny saw Lewis's face, like plastic melting, and said,

Don't worry, son, they'll sew that finger back on. She kept it nice and cold. Shall we get us a drink from that machine?

Manny always was good at evasion; back then, it was about his mother's finger—or maybe he didn't understand that sometimes truth was a better option. As they walked back to the van, Lewis had the distinct feeling of being a child again, and that Manny would happily lie to comfort him. But he was no longer a child. He didn't care for comfort.

Manny sighed heavily behind him. It might have been out of frustration at the way Lewis had behaved, or in sympathy with the reception he received. Either way, Lewis didn't care. He had to resist the urge to turn about, push past Manny, and run back inside; he would have knocked the boyfriend flat if Manny hadn't stopped him. Neither of them spoke as they climbed in the van, but Manny let out another sigh, loud and long.

Something on your mind? asked Lewis

No, chief.

What did he call himself again?

Gary Barrett, said Manny, He's local.

You know him?

Not really, said Manny, then after a beat, He drinks in the Old Airport with our Carl. They do scuba club on Tuesday nights.

Lewis did a double take.

Your Carl? Scuba? Fucking
scuba
?

Manny grimaced.

I know, son. Unbelievable.

And this Gary Barrett, said Lewis, D'you think he was telling the truth? About her?

Search me.

Lewis pondered this. The man was polite enough after the initial encounter, but he wouldn't tell Lewis anything about where his mother had gone or when she'd be back.

It's not really my place to say, he said, But I'll tell her you called. Leave us your number, just in case she wants to get in touch.

It was the
just in case
that made Lewis's blood pump in his neck. That, and the feeling he had, that his mother had been upstairs, standing behind the bedroom door, listening.

Manny watched the skeleton dangling off the rear-view mirror, swinging his head in time to the rocking motion it made. Now and then he'd flip a finger at it, making it twirl.

Does he glow in the dark, then? he asked. Lewis shrugged.

Like I say, it's not really my van.

He turned the radio up, and they sat together, staring ahead, listening to the music. Manny turned it down when the disc jockey started to talk.

Can't stand all that yakking, he said, finally.

Lewis didn't respond. They remained silent until Manny started to fidget again. Lewis could tell he was building up to something; he waited for it to work itself out.

You could always stop with me, Manny said at last, Just for a bit, until you've sorted something for yourself. And since Sylvie went—it'd be company. After a fashion, like.

Thanks, said Lewis.

You'll want to think about it, of course, said Manny, offended, I expect the offers are flooding in.

How old is Gary Barrett, do you think? Lewis asked.

Manny shrugged.

Don't know. Mid thirties? About your age, I reckon.

Exactly, said Lewis.

And that's what's eating you?

Yep.

Well, you know, son, squaring up to her boyfriend—however old you think he is—isn't going to get you in her good books. You can't just go barging into people's lives without a by-your-leave. Not after all this time.