Before She Was Mine (36 page)

Because it seems to me that as F’s grown older, life’s got so much riskier. Shouldn’t be that way, surely. Thought she was in most danger as toddler, with sharp scissors
& bleach & germs & falling down stairs etc. The difference is, though, I could be there for her then, stand between her & rest of the world. Why does nature give us these fierce
feelings & then expect us to quash them? Biologically pointless! A trap we spring ourselves. Some nights I’m
swallowed up
with fear.

I think I might be able to let her go if I thought she knew where she was headed.

TWO HOURS LATER

I didn’t know what I was going to say when I reached Michael’s, I just knew I had to get to him.

It’s possible I’d been building up a resistance to alcohol because by closing time I hadn’t felt too wobbly. As soon as Nicky was out of sight, I’d phoned for a cab. I
knew Michael kept late hours, but it was a risky strategy nonetheless. The whole journey there I kept wondering whether I should text ahead, check it was OK just to appear on his doorstep out of
the darkness. But what if he’d said no, actually it wasn’t convenient?
Go home, Freya. Go to bed. I haven’t the energy to deal with you right now.
I couldn’t have
stood that.

We turned onto the estate. A cluster of youths standing under a street lamp watched the car as it passed; further down, a man leaned in conversationally at a front window, his feet in a flower
bed.
What do you want from me anyway?
I imagined Michael asking. His expression if I told him. If I said, Please don’t get together with Nicky. She’s going to ask you and I want
you to say no. She’s brewing a crush on you but it wouldn’t work. It’s too soon after Christian. And even if it wasn’t, you’re not right for each other. You’re
not the same kind of people. Promise me you’ll refuse her.

Why would I want to do that, Freya?

Because, because.

When the cab pulled up, I saw with relief Michael’s downstairs lights were on. I paid my fare, scuttled up the path and rang the bell. For maybe two minutes, no one came. Then the door
swung open and there he was, shirtless and barefoot, his hair damp and springy. A wet towel was draped across the newel post.

‘Sorry, interrupting, I’ll go, it’s fine,’ I said.

‘Don’t be daft.’ He stepped aside for me. ‘Get yourself inside. I could do with the company.’

The house had looked bright from the street, but in the lounge only the wall lights were on and the TV, muted. REM played in the background.

I hung up my jacket and went to slip my boots off. ‘No, best keep your feet covered,’ he said. ‘I need to get something on myself.’ He went back out into the hall and
returned a moment later wearing a pair of unlaced trainers and a zip-front hoody. ‘There might still be broken glass.’

‘Broken glass?’

‘You just missed Kim.’

He turned and walked towards the kitchen, so I followed.

It’s not a big space – council planners in the Thirties didn’t see kitchens as a prestige area – but it would be a whole lot roomier without Michael’s automobilia.
I don’t know anyone else who keeps the engineless frame of a Honda CBR125 propped against the back cupboard, or a carburettor on his draining board, or a range of spark plugs balanced on his
window sill. The bread board’s never used for bread, but it has seen plenty of engine oil over the years. Normally half the floor’s covered in boxes of metal and tubing.

Not this evening, though, because the back door was pulled open against the wall and I could see by the bulb over the lintel all his vehicle parts piled up on the lawn. Under my feet the lino
was still glossy in patches where it had been swabbed, and there was a gouge out of the supporting wall, as if someone had bashed it with the claw-end of a hammer.

‘This evening’s special: Brick through the Window.’ He closed the back door, and where the glass top half should have been was a gaping square. ‘I struck out all the
jagged edges and wrapped them up in newspaper. Took longer than you’d think. I can’t believe I got away without a cut.’

‘Shit.’

‘It was a bit, yeah. While you’re here I could do with you helping me pin a board over that.’

‘And it was definitely Kim?’

He exhaled wearily.

‘What did you do with the brick?’

‘Chucked it over the bottom fence.’

This was outrageous. ‘But you could have kept it as evidence. The police could have taken fingerprints.’

Michael opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice. ‘Nah. I can’t do that to her. She’s got enough problems, a criminal record would finish her off.’

‘She needs
help
. You’re not being kind if you keep letting her get away with her freaky behaviour.’

He poured two glasses of juice and handed me one. ‘It’s only attention-seeking. She’s not a real threat.’

‘Not much. If you’d been in the kitchen—’

‘I wasn’t, though. She’d have known the room was empty because there were no lights on. I understand how her mind works. She could have thrown it through the front, but she
didn’t. She wouldn’t physically hurt me.’

Not so far
, I thought. ‘You always make excuses for her. You should hear yourself.’

‘They’re not excuses. Some fires need fighting, and others go out by themselves. I genuinely think it’s best for everyone if I don’t inflict any more damage on
her.’

‘Although it’s fine for her to damage you.’

‘So easy to solve someone else’s life for them, isn’t it?’

Oh, bog off
,
Michael,
I told him silently.
If you want to be pissy, be pissy with Kim. I’m not the one lobbing missiles about like a lunatic.
I could have spoken those
words aloud, thrown the jibe right back at him. I could have acted hurt. Or I could have challenged him again, confronted him with the possible consequences if he let things ride. But all that
would only have made him angrier, and I knew he wasn’t really angry with me, he was angry with himself. Funny how a filter of alcohol sometimes gives you clearer vision.

I said, ‘So are we nailing a board up over that window or are you going to let me freeze to death here?’

Any request to do with tools takes him out of himself. Immediately he was opening drawers, lining up hammers and screwdrivers, shaking boxes of nails, frowning at the size codes. He found a
torch, took it out with him to the garage and came back with an A-frame shop sign promoting cut-price MOTs. I sipped orange juice and water while he laid the sign on the floor and commenced
dismantling it, undoing the back panel from the struts. When it came off I slid the spare wood away and leaned it against the cooker to give us space. Meanwhile he measured the window with his arms
and came back to the panel, checking the size against the opening it was meant to cover. ‘Too narrow,’ he muttered, but carried on anyway.

I gazed out of the still-intact window over the sink, watching car headlights travel along the top road. A neighbour’s dog was barking; someone revved an engine. I wondered where Kim had
taken herself to recover. As I stared, the hedge behind his wheelie bin seemed to shudder, as if a body had passed close behind it.
Do you think she might have hung around?
I wanted to ask.
But he looked so absorbed with his mouth full of panel pins I didn’t like to trouble him.

He carried the board to the door and I held it in place while he knocked in half a dozen nails. He’d been right, the opening was very slightly too big for the material we had, and left a
five-centimetre gap down the left side.

I assumed he’d use more wood to fill it – a leg off the A frame would have done the job if he could have freed it and cut it shorter – but instead he pulled some towels out of
a drawer and stuffed them into the space.

‘Will it be secure enough?’ I asked.

‘It’ll stop the wind and rain. Be fine till Monday.’

‘You might get burglars.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘What do I own that’s worth nicking?’

‘Fair point,’ I said. ‘Did you know it’s my birthday?’

‘I did.’

He put his tools away, wiped his hands and then we went back through to the lounge. It was half past midnight.

‘Here,’ he said, sliding a plastic bag across the carpet at me.

‘Aw, no, you’ve not bought me something again, have you? You have to stop this, Michael. Either we do presents, or we don’t.’

‘They’re only off the market. Impulse buy. I was going to drop them off at the nursery, only – are you working today?’

‘Nope.’

‘Me neither. The night is ours, then.’

He settled himself onto the sofa while I attacked his present. ‘Although it does look as if you wrapped it wearing boxing gloves.’

‘At least it is wrapped.’

‘In Christmas paper.’

‘I’ll take it back if you don’t shut up.’

The outer layer ripped and something grey and fluffy burst through the gap. Surely to God he hadn’t bought me a teddy bear.

‘What is it? Oh, slippers.’

They were those giant comedy animal feet you can get: wolf, I think these were meant to be on account they had vinyl claws sprouting from the toes.

‘They called to me. They said “Freya”.’

‘Did they really? Fancy.’

‘You like them?’

‘A girl can’t have enough fake paws, I always say.’

I wriggled my feet down into the fur, feeling ridiculous.

‘They’re a bit of fun,’ said Michael. ‘I’ve a card for you somewhere.’

I pointed to the side of the sofa. ‘Pass us that bag, will you? It’s got Nicky’s present in it. Might as well open that while I’m here.’

In contrast, this parcel was done up in white and pink stripes with a white rosette on the top. Typical Nicky. Inside was a bracelet of tiny silver skulls and bells that I’d seen in a shop
window in town a good six months ago and commented on. She must have gone back afterwards, bought it and put it away for me. That’s how organised she is. That’s the kind of thing
she’d do for Michael, if they ever got together.

The accompanying card was large and bulky. I drew it out gingerly to discover a black and white publicity shot of Cliff Richard from about the 1960s. He had his hair slicked into a glossy quiff
and wore a shirt so bright it was dazzling.

‘Interesting choice,’ I said, holding it up for Michael to see. As I did so, a zig-zag strip of card fell out onto the carpet. I bent to pick it up; read aloud: ‘“WWF
Wrestling Mania: Ultimate Smackdown”.’

‘Hmm. I didn’t have you down as a wrestling fan, Freya.’

‘I’m not. Mind you, I say that: I’ve never been.’ I studied the tickets. Then I opened the card.

At once music blasted out from between the covers. ‘
The young ones
—’ Cliff sang out. The sound was tinny and blurred, like Geraint’s old-fashioned transistor
radio. I snapped the card shut and the song stopped. ‘Blimey. Wasn’t expecting that.’

‘Open it up again.’

So I did, and it played the whole of the first verse, Cliff warbling cheerily about how we
were
the young ones and how we mustn’t be afraid to live and love while we still had
some sort of flame burning inside us because, to be brutal, we wouldn’t be young for very long.

‘Well there’s a cheery thought,’ said Michael after Cliff had finished.

‘Tell me about it. Do you know what Melody bought me? Anti-ageing neck cream.’

‘Neck cream?’

‘Made me feel about ninety. She says necks are the classic neglected area and it’s never too early to start protecting the skin there. Sometimes she soaks a scarf in almond oil and
wears it round the house for an hour.’

He shook his head in disbelief. ‘She is mad, isn’t she?’

‘Yup. Aren’t you glad you don’t share any of her genes?’

‘Daily.’

I let the card play again while I read Nicky’s message:
Thought
you might like to try something different! I checked the date with Liv and next April’s OK, you’re not
going anywhere.
☺
X X X

Not going anywhere. Slippers. Neck cream. It was hard to avoid reading a message into my birthday gifts. Only Liv had got it spot on with a Flip video camera, and only because I’d picked
it off the internet for her. But she hates buying electrical goods on principle, so I did appreciate the gesture.

I said, ‘Do you think twenty-four’s old?’

‘Sod off, Freya.’

‘No, I mean in terms of society, what people—’

But he held up his hand to shush me. ‘Wait,’ he whispered.

I strained my ears; at first heard only the doleful voice of Michael Stipe singing out his pain in the background, then over the top of that a scratching, clunking noise coming from the
hall.

‘What is it?’ I mouthed, though I knew, really.

‘She’s posting something through the letterbox, I think.’

Dog poo? Live snakes? Petrol-soaked rags? The lounge door was ajar, so I attempted to tiptoe round and see what hideousness had made it onto the mat. The slippers made it hard to manage any
other step than a shuffle, however, and I had to walk with my legs slightly astride to avoid one paw catching the other. For all the tension of the moment – or possibly because of it –
Michael began to laugh.

‘Having a spot of bother with your footwear?’

I shot him a look. ‘I’m sure there’s a technique. I just have to practise.’

‘Told you I was crap at presents. Next year I’ll send you money.’

From where I was now I could see the hall and what had landed in it. ‘She’s posted you a book, I think. Unless it’s a book-shaped bomb.’

‘Leave it.’

‘I want to see.’

I knelt on the threshold and reached across to where the paperback lay
. Angels Inside Us
was the title. The flap on the letterbox stayed perfectly still, even though I was expecting it to
fly up at any second and Kim’s eyes blaze through. Nevertheless, I still had the feeling she was on the other side, crouched down maybe, ready to attack. I’d seen too many zombie hands
punching through door panels.

I slithered backwards to the safety of the lounge, losing a slipper in the process.

‘Here.’ I held the book up for Michael to see.