Billy and Girl (15 page)

Louise shaking her head, letting her mother, who is perched on the side of her bed, brush out the tangles in her hair, stroking her cheeks, fussing over her. It is very important to her mother that Louise is all right. The agreement is that if Louise is not all right, she’ll tell her mother, who will do everything she can to make her all right. More than all right. Everything that her mother can control in the world, to do with Louise, she will. Every detour from what she knows, every journey to the turbulent geography of her daughter’s inner life she has to make, every astonishing nightmare she has to understand as if it is her own, this is her project for whatever is left of her motherly life.

She wants the pain in Louise to settle. Her image for it is like the fake snow in those paperweights with Christmas
scenes inside them. It is very important that Louise is not shaken. Louise’s body contains multiple pain pathways. It is entirely necessary for her face to appear to be impassive and emotionless. Start feeling a little at a time. That’s what her mother says to her. Eat the elephant in bite-sized mouthfuls.

Louise and her mother chewing the elephant, gargling with Tizer afterwards.

Mr England. Louise was clever, she found him with only the dimmest memory of his address. Danny drove her all the way there. Took the day off work and crawled up and down one particular street in Nottingham. Louise pointed to the door she thought was more than likely the entrance to Mr England’s castle. Despite the fear fever that had set in, she always knew she would find him. Told Danny to wait in the car, she would be about forty minutes at the most.

Danny wasn’t worried cos he had the local newspaper with him. Danny is crazy for the Lonely Hearts section of any publication. Likes to read how people describe what they want. ‘Sartre seeks De Beauvoir: a mentally elegant and clear-eyed mature woman for gentle cultural activities.’ Yeah? Not exactly. Not for him. He’s not a Lonely Heart anyway, it’s just recreation. He’s got Louise and she takes up all his time. Completely out of it. But he loves her. Most of the time. He told her mother so. ‘I love your girl, Mrs O’Reilly. What a fucking dream queen but she’s got to me.’ All of them looking after her. Mr Tens the Christian. Got God in a big way, has Mr Tens. Plays golf with the Christian Sportsman Club. All of them looking out for Louise. After Mrs O’Reilly explained to them how she found her adopted daughter. Runaway teenage grief mess. Snot and tears and a little pink lipstick hidden in her Chinese silk purse. Mrs O’Reilly loves Louise and so
does Danny the dog prince. He loves fucking her and she loves fucking him.

There she is, knocking on the door dressed in her orange ankle boots and matching orange mohair miniskirt her new friend has given her. Louise is changing on a daily basis. Wears her hair up now, little heart and butterfly clips all over her blondness, even painted her fingernails orange – which Mr Tens gave her a lecture about. Mr Tens the Christian. Danny knows him because they were at school together. Titchy Tens was in the sixth form when he was just a second-year learning how to smoke in the toilets. Even then Terry Tens had started the Christian club. ‘Oh, come o-n, Ter-ry, oh, co-me o-n, Te-r-ry, if you’re a ten take down your drawers and prove it, oh, come and adore it, oh, come and adore it.’

Yeah, she’s gone in now. Some bloke in a lumberjack shirt opened the door.

Mr England. Handsome. A big man in a checked shirt. The kind of shirt healthy men wear in the cigarette ads. He still had his hair. Styled like a rocker, greased back with long sideburns. Said he was trying out a new product called Bíre d’Alsace. A full-flavoured premium-quality lager. A charmer who had to lean against walls on account of his enthusiasm for the new product. Banging into the corridor walls, smearing his hair grease over the cheery sunflower wallpaper.

What did she want? Louise felt the right side of all right because she had nothing to lose. Except the love of her mother and she had already risked that when she broke faith. Nothing left apart from that. Nothing makes you reckless. She just fucking barged in. He followed her. Walking straight into the lounge room with its TV blaring and empty bottles strewn on the immaculately hoovered carpet. Apart from the bottles the
place was spotless. A tatty Elvis poster above the mantelpiece. Elvis when he was old and fat, groaning into the mike. Mr England pointing his beer bottle at the TV screen. Said he liked watching the American chat shows. Could always tell which audience member was going to do something outrageous like take their clothes off for the studio cameras.

Yep, he’s been watching a lot of TV recently. Funny how the most popular presenters put the audience down – he especially enjoys it when they put the guest celebrities ‘in a tight corner. Celebrities are just tanned targets in nice clothes, aren’t they?’

So how does Mr England identify the lone crazy in the studio then? Oh, just a little talent of his. Louise with her blue eyes. Blue for danger. ‘So what do you think I am going to do next then, Mr England?’

He opens another bottle of his d’Alsace beer and takes in her orange mohair body. The cute little clips in her hair. ‘I used to meet girls like you when I drove lorries.’ He’s trying to keep himself together, distracted but half enjoying himself, not got the strength to chuck her out. Oh, yeah? And what were the girls like? Oh, (making his voice amused) they used to admire the big teddy bear he hung on the roof of his vehicle, it was his good-luck motif, every trucker had something for luck. Some of the girls used to take the teddy bear down and cuddle it. They just wanted something to cuddle, didn’t they?

‘Oh, yeah?’ Well, she doesn’t like teddy bears, does she? Their glass eyes freak her out. Their nylon fur makes her sneeze. The little stitched-on paws make her cry for no good reason. So how else is she like the girls he gave lifts to?

The big man hides his face in his beer. Forget it. Was a long time ago. It’s history now. Would she like some cheese on toast?

Yeah, she would. That would do her fine, as it happens. Been
a long journey. No, she won’t wait in the front room, she’ll talk to him in the kitchen while he makes her that little snack. By the way, her name is Louise.

That information stopped him in his tracks. Zigzag tracks of electrified wire volting through him. Sizzling him. Singeing his eyebrows. ‘Did you say Louise?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Louise.’ He straightens up a bit. Tries to say something but he can’t. Just staring into the d’Alsace label on the bottle. Stands completely still and silent. His eyes full of terror and beer tears. ‘I’ve not got any bread.’

‘Well, don’t fucking offer me cheese on toast then.’

Mr England walks back to the front room, banging his head on the door. ‘Sometimes I cook up a feast. Know what that is, Louise?’

Louise shakes her head. Glad the TV is on. Something to look at so she doesn’t have to stare at him all the time.

‘I fry myself a bit of road rat.’ He points at a gormless bloke on the TV. ‘Him, you see him, the one in the Pizza Hut T-shirt? He’s going to take off his kit any minute. I bet you a tenner he’s going to streak right in front of the cameras.’

The magnified image of the TV man. Blowing his nose into a king-sized handkerchief. Not a looker like Mr England with his hairstyle and well-pressed shirt. ‘Sometimes I cook myself a cheeseburger just like Elvis’s cook used to make him. See, Louise, every Elvis song is about loss.’ The Pizza Hut bloke jumps up and his trousers fall round his ankles.

Louise stands right in front of the television. Time for the facts.

‘I’ve come for my share of the money.’

‘What money?’

‘The money Billy and Girl gave you.’

Mr England looks amazed. ‘What’s it to do with you?’

‘They got it from my till, see. Express.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Yeah. It is fucking right, Mr England. So give me two hundred quid and I’ll go.’

He’s sobering up now. ‘I don’t know anything about your till or whatever. I sold them a car. You got to get the money off them.’

‘Naaaaa. You took it all, didn’t you? Took the whole fucking lot off your kids.’

DONT FUCK ABOUT. PUT THE NOTES ON THE TABLE
.

Mr England is staring at her moist-eyed now. ‘I ain’t got nothin’ for ya,’ he croons in a good ol’ Southern boy voice, unbuttoning his healthy man shirt. Revealing a spotless white vest. ‘I haven’t got any of the money. It’s gone. I had a few debts, Louise.’

Throwing the shirt on the carpet over the bottles. Taking off his vest. Turned away from her so she can only see the slack muscles turned to fat. A broad back. Turning towards her now. Full of self-exhaustion, the world-weariness of an ex-heart-throb.

Dad is just a hole. He hasn’t got a chest. Putting his face close to hers. She can see the scars on his face now. His face has been built up. Layers of skin taken from his chest and put on his face. Layers of skin scraped from his chest.

‘See, Louise. My girl set fire to me.’

‘I did, didn’t I?’ Louise replies.

‘I lost my own flesh. I don’t owe nothing.’

‘I did, didn’t I?’ Louise says again.

‘Ey?’ Mr England completely bewildered. He’s backing away. Moving his hands over the holes in his chest. A man full of holes. A manhole.

‘You’re not Louise,’ he whispers.

‘I am.’

‘You’re not
my
Louise.’

Louise is shaken. Snow falling over the Christmas scene. She’s on a pain pathway. Can’t get off it.

‘I’m as evil as a blonde can get,’ she whispers.

‘What you saying?’

‘I said I’m as evil as a blonde can get.’

The mister, the man, ghost Dad, manhole, something man staring at her, all beer and confusion, the smouldering bits of him, burning up, combusting.

‘Go on. Say it to me.’

‘Say what?’

‘Say you’re as evil as a blonde can get.’

Mr England searching for his vest. Staggering about for his checked lumberjack shirt. Louise has placed her orange boot over it and he doesn’t dare ask her to move. He’s been here before. Girl Danger announcing itself. The holeman remembers.

‘You’re as evil as a blonde can get.’

‘Say it more.’

‘You’re as evil as a blonde can get.’

‘Say it over and over.’

‘You’re as evil as a blonde can get evil as a blonde can get evil as a blonde evil evil can get.’

He stops. Some kind of knowledge pulling through the manhole. ‘I’m not your dad, Louise. You know I’m not. Pull yourself together now. C’mon now, there’s a good girl.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You can. It’s happening. I can see it’s beginning. I’m
not
him, okay? I don’t think you’re evil.’

Louise sobbing into her see-thru cleavage. ‘Where’s their Mom?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’

‘You got to tell me for
them
.’

He grabs his shirt and starts to struggle into it, taking his time, doing up the buttons at his own pace. Wiping the beer off his lips with the back of his hand. Forget the gas fire and brown hundred per cent wool carpet. It doesn’t stand for anything. It’s what’s inside that matters. He is a rugged individualist, with a past. The stranger who swings open the saloon doors and the guys at the bar know he’s seen a bit. Been through it. Don’t ask any questions. A loner, living in the suburbs with coyotes and his horse. Except this is the moment Mr England has been dreaming about these past few years. He’s played it over and over in his head. Practised his TV interview to the nation till he knows exactly what he’s going to say. If he imagines the cameras are rolling he can get across his point of view. Mr England makes an attempt to get a media-friendly tone into his voice. Preparing himself to touch the hearts of the five-o’clock viewing population. Puts a comb through his hair. Rubs his hands over his face. Does a few excercises to relax his jaw. Makes sure he’s sitting straight and not like some slob from Bumford. Checks out where the cameras would be if they were actually there. Positions them in his head so he never looks straight at them. Takes a deep breath. Caressing Louise with his eyes, and, by implication, the viewing public. Best to use everything you got in this life.

‘I don’t know why I’m supposed to be the big bad wolf in all of this. Up to a point I’ll take my share. I’ll take fifty per cent but not a hundred. Like Elvis said, I wasn’t made to be married. I don’t like it. Husband walking around farting. Wife walking around scratching. Kids going around hollering. Yes, I hit my lad because he ran away with my wife. In a manner of speaking, you understand. I’m not a basket case. I was out of order. But he provoked me.’ Dad pauses. Shaking his handsome head at the pathos and beauty of being a dysfunctional. ‘I loved my
wife. She used to have a beehive and that. After the birth of the lad, I lost her. She had eyes only for him. I went on an eating binge. Stuffing myself with mashed potato and gravy, nine Suffolk porkers in one sitting followed by a packet of biscuits.’

Louise doesn’t know how to conduct this interview. What tone of voice or questions to ask. She doesn’t even know about bringing in the studio McPsychologist to tell the nation how Mr England did not have a reliable role model for fatherhood and masculinity. Boring. Well, if it’s so damn fucking boring, why are they all watching?

Information to make the viewers gawp, coming up.

‘My girl, my daughter, twelve years old, I loved her above myself, would have done anything for her, my little princess even though she was a secret smoker, set fire to me after I went a bit far with the lad. I went to have a lie-down. My girl poured paraffin over my head, set fire to me with my very own Elvis lighter, the one with “Don’t Be Cruel” printed on it. A collector’s item.
No one
helped me. Not the lad, not the wife, not the daughter, not the neighbours. The bed sheets on fire. By the time the ambulance finally pulled up with a puncture and three so called medics – poets in white coats who’d just done a first-aid course – I was nearly gone. They carried me on a stretcher down the stairs trying to work out what rhymes with dead.’

The nation holds its breath. That’s quite something, isn’t it?

Mr England thinks he’s doing well. When the time comes for the real cameras he’ll be well rehearsed. Word-perfect.