A Song for Joey (29 page)

Leroy eased us out of Leeds city limits and onto the M1 motorway, heading for home.
I was exhausted. Apart from the phone call at Manchester, two days earlier, it had been
a good tour - the fans had been wonderful, the guys in the band and I had bonded, and my
Olly had been with me - but it was physically hard work, and the constant worry about
Burroughs had placed a heavy burden on us. At last we could relax a little, and I settled
back into the cushions piled on the back seat and closed my eyes.
Maybe I dozed for a few miles, or perhaps I was just letting my mind wander, but I
heard Oliver's voice say softly: "Sheffield. That's where I was born."
I looked out of the window to the right and saw the huge cooling towers of the steel
works, plumes of steam rising and dispersing in the grey skies.
"Shall we visit?" I mused.
He thought for a moment. "I was only seven when we left, and the place had been
bombed to bits. There won't be anything there that means anything to me. No, my love.
Thanks, but it wouldn't be a good idea."
We snuggled down into the cushions and fell asleep.

Travelling in a car always has the same effect on me; the swaying motion, the droning
of the tyres and and the repetitive swishing of other vehicles, all conspire to make me
sleep, like a baby in a pram. Oliver and I lay wrapped in each others arms, blissfully
unaware of the passing miles. Occasionally, I opened my eyes, looked at the face beside
me, smiled contentedly, and floated away again.

But our poor driver could not sleep, he had to concentrate, hour after hour. We had an
agreement that Leroy could stop at any time, if he wanted or needed to, and in no
circumstances would he drive for more than three hours continuously. So it was that I
became aware of a change in the motion of the car. I heard the ticking sound of the
indicators, and looked out of the window. A sign for Nottingham drifted past, then we
slipped off the motorway into a service area.

We all made use of the facilities, first the toilets, then the coffee shop. In our time
together, I had grown to love Leroy. He hid a clever mind and a wonderful, subtle sense
of humour behind a quiet façade. He had become an essential part of the background to
our lives, and I respected him enormously.

As we waited in the queue for our coffees, I picked up a leaflet of local attractions and
began to thumb through. "Why do they think everyone wants an exciting time," I said,
pushing the leaflet back in its display box.

"Are you thinking of stopping off?" Leroy asked.
"Well I would, but I just want peace and quiet. I need to unwind."
Our coffees arrived, and we moved to a table.
"It would be nice to have a day or two away from everything," added Oliver.
Leroy gave us one of his beautiful smiles. I never saw a face light up like his did; it

wasn't just his perfect teeth, shining out of a dark face, his eyes seemed to crinkle in a way
that made me want to smile back. "Shall I take you somewhere special?" he said, with an
impish dimple in his cheeks.

"Where?" I demanded.
"Oh, that would spoil the surprise," he grinned.
I looked at Oliver, who shrugged. "I'm game," he said.
"Ok, Leroy my dear," I nodded. "We are in your hands."

Two hours later, after miles of country roads that would have had me lost, we pulled
into a pretty little town on the north Norfolk coast. Neatly painted rows of old fishermen's
cottages led down to a wide beach, where colourful boats sat at unnatural angles on the
sand, waiting to put out to sea again. Heads turned at the sight of our pink Cadillac with
the striking chauffeur as we drove slowly through. I couldn't resist, I waved to everyone,
pretending to be someone important.

Leroy parked the car opposite a cluster of small hotels, and we piled out, stretching our
stiff backs. "Which one?" I asked, absently, looking up and down at a dozen or so similar
hotels. All had 'Vacancies' signs outside; I knew from experience that it was a quiet time
of year. The other two shrugged.

"Ok, first one with a name that begins with a ....... N," I announced, thinking about
Gran's little B & B,
The Nest
.
So it was that we booked into
Namaste House
, a thirties-style, bay-fronted house
overlooking the sea. Once checked in, we walked into the centre of town, bought fish and
chips, and sat on the promenade eating them, with the gulls screeching and swooping
overhead.
It was a mild spring evening, so after eating we wandered among the amusement
arcades. I savoured the feeling of detachment, watching others enjoying themselves with a
sense of voyeurism; for once, I didn't have to do anything at all.

But the weather changed overnight, and the next morning, as we sat in the dining room
of Namaste House, eating our bacon and eggs, we looked out of the window upon a wild
scene. Strong winds had the trees leaning and swaying, hail and rain bounced against the
pavements, and huge waves crashed upon the deserted beach.

I was looking glumly upon the storm-lashed promenade, when Leroy leaned across the
table. "Fancy a walk?" he beamed. I thought he must be joking, but something about his
expression suggested otherwise.

I thought for a moment. It wasn't cold, we would be alright if we covered up well
against the rain. It could be fun. I remembered 'my' beach at Great Yarmouth, and all its
moods.

The landlord of the hotel lent us all some boots and raincoats, tutting good-naturedly as
he did so, and we set out into the raging gale.
Once we reached the beach, we were slightly sheltered from the wind by the cliff face,
and we made our way slowly along the base of it. It was one of the most amazing
experiences of my life. Off to our right, the waves curled and broke onto the sand in great
plumes of stinging, salty spray as we walked, leaning into the wind, along the avenue
between the cliff and the tides edge. We passed a wreck, a statuesque steel monument that
was once a steam trawler, smashed onto the shore, perhaps, on a day like this.
I felt free, for the first time since those innocent days of my childhood. I smiled at
Oliver, remembering how we had met, and he returned the smile; perhaps he was
recalling that time, too.
We reached a flight of stone steps, rising up a less steep part of the cliff in a long zigzag.
By silent agreement, we started to climb. I found myself counting the steps - sixty-four to
the top. Then, hand in hand, we allowed ourselves to be carried back to the hotel like
sailing ships before the wind. I felt elated.
When we were once more in the warmth and shelter of the hotel, I hugged both of them.
"Thank you, this was just what I needed."

At my request, we stayed a second night. The closeness of the sea, and the lack of
pressure on me to do something, be somewhere, deal with someone, were washing from
me the tensions of the past weeks. We resumed our journey southwards early the next
day, arriving in London just after noon.

Chattering away, we pulled up at the entrance to the mews. While the boys started to get
our bags from the boot, I headed for the alley. "I'll go ahead to open the pad," I shouted.
Their heads lifted in acknowledgement, then disappeared again into the trunk.

But I didn't get far. They found me standing at the end of the cobbled passageway,
where it emerged into the yard beyond, staring at the ruin that stood where my home used
to be.

The top half of the building was a blackened shell. Most of the roof was gone; just a few
beams remained, charred and smoking, silhouetted against the sky like the skeleton of
some great, dead beast. Ghostly grey shapes shimmered behind the gaping holes that had
once been windows, but were now blind eyes in a wall of soot.

A faint sound, like a handful of stones thrown into a pool, announced that something
had collapsed inside the building, and a puff of dirty smoke, speckled with glowing
sparks, rose through the gaping roof timbers and drifted away into the bleak afternoon.

I heard Oliver and Leroy put the luggage down, and they brushed past me, running
across the yard to the foot of the iron stairs, crunching over broken glass and charred
debris.

Oliver tested the stairway with several hard pulls at the railings, before taking each step
gingerly to the top. I watched, anxiously.
Now that I had absorbed the initial shock, I realised that I could smell the aftermath of
the fire, a combination of stale smoke, acid charcoal and steam - the stench of my home
destroyed. And there was another smell ... petrol! Water lay in puddles all over the yard,
glistening with an oily sheen.
At the top of the steps, Oliver peered in through the gaping doorway. "There's no way
anyone is going in there," he called down. "I can see daylight through the ceiling, and half
the floors are missing."
"Come down, please," I begged, and followed every step as he carefully climbed down.
At about the moment he reached the ground, a dreadful thought occurred to me.
"Connor!" I exclaimed. "Oh my god! Where is Connor?"

Oliver reached my side. "You run down to the hotel," he said, urgently. "See if you can
find out if he's ok. Leroy and I will put the bags in the car and drive round."
"No," interrupted Leroy. "You go with Belinda; I can manage here. I'll get there as
quickly as I can."
Oliver nodded, and we sprinted out of the yard, heading west for the two blocks to the
Imperial
.
The streets were crowded, as they always seem to be in London, regardless of the time
of year. I was shouting "Get out of my way!" and receiving reproachful looks from
people. I didn't care. If they blocked my headlong charge, I shoved them aside.
A man came out of a shop doorway right in front of me; I couldn't miss him, and hurtled
into his unresisting bulk. He was tall and wide,
built like a brick shed,
as Joey would have
said, and it was, indeed, just as though I had run into a solid building. I bounced off him,
crashing against the shop window and falling to the ground. He scarcely seemed to notice,
or care; he looked down at me disinterestedly, then continued on his way. Oliver helped
me to my feet and we ran on; I didn't notice the scrapes to my arms and legs, or the dirty
wet stains on my clothes.
Oliver made it to the doors a few seconds before me, and held them open for me to run
through to the reception desk.
"Connor O'Connor," I blurted to the astonished receptionist. "Is he here?"
She stared at me uncomprehending, and I realised I must look a sight: chest heaving,
scratched and dirty from my fall, my eyes wide with near hysteria.
"Don't bother," I said, "I'll go down." I turned and ran for the stairs, Oliver easily
maintaining station beside me.
We burst into the restaurant, empty of diners at that time, and no staff in sight.
"The kitchens," I said, pointing.
Hotel kitchens are rarely quiet, never deserted. The huge cave echoed to the clattering of
pots and raised voices. Chefs and staff were bustling around, preparing the evening meals,
and there was Charles, the restaurant manager, talking to the head chef.
"Charles," I cried, running over to him.
"Miss Bellini," he smiled, holding up his hands to steady me. "Don't worry. I know why
you are here, and I can assure you he is perfectly safe."
The relief I felt at his words was intense; I felt it flood through me, replacing the panic
that had been driving me, occupying every corner of my consciousness. I tried to speak,
but the words echoed in my head. I turned to Oliver, saw his his mouth moving, heard his
voice, watched as the camera zoomed out until the world vanished in a pin point..
-♪-♫-♪

"She's coming round," I heard Oliver say, close by my face. I opened my eyes. An
ornate, vaulted ceiling was swinging wildly above me, replaced almost immediately by a
small, plain panel, with glaring lights inset.

Leroy's voice behind me said: "I'll bring up the cases," and Oliver acknowledged with a
grunt. A humming sound followed, then I experienced a heavy feeling.
Seeing my puzzled expression, Oliver smiled. "We're in the lift, my love. I'm taking you
up to your suite. The hotel reserved it for you when Connor told them about the fire."
"What happened? Why are you carrying me?" My voice sounded blurred, the words illformed, as though my lips belonged to a stranger.
"You fainted, in the kitchen, when Charles told you that Connor is ok. Do you
remember?"
"Yes. Yes, I remember, now. Where is he? I must see him." I tried to turn, but, of
course, I was in Oliver's arms, being carried like a baby.
"Relax, my love," he said quickly. "Charles has gone to tell him you are here."
A momentary sense of weightlessness announced our arrival at the fourth floor. Oliver
carried me through doors into my bedroom, and laid me on the bed.
"You're shivering," he said, carefully covering my body with a sheet and a thin blanket.
"It's the shock of all that has happened.
I held out my arms to him, and he leant over to embrace me. I was still clinging to him
when I heard the soft sounds of someone approaching. Oliver looked up, then stepped
back.
"Connor?" he asked.
"That's me," replied the familiar voice with its sweet Irish lilt.
The two men shook hands, then Oliver moved away to allow Connor to reach me.
Again, I held out my arms, afraid to speak in case my emotions took over again, and we
hugged each other tightly. When he released me, I kissed his cheek, feeling better.

"Connor, my darlin' boy," I said, mimicking his accent, as I often did - not mocking, but
an intimacy we could share - "this is Oliver, my long lost love." I smiled proudly at the
two men I loved most, equally but quite differently.