Boy A (15 page)

There is a letter for Jack in the whitewood pigeon-hole, below the sticky label inscribed ‘Burridge’. He can remember the faint thrill when he first noticed that his name had appeared there, alongside the ranks of his workmates. But that is nothing compared to getting a letter in it. Not on a day like today.

‘It’s from Michelle, Jack,’ says a bloke he can’t remember even having seen before.

‘Love letters straight from your window,’ Chris starts singing. Two more lads join him, leaning in to each other like a barbershop trio, but crooning like Max Bygraves.
They peter out quite quickly, when it becomes apparent that none of them knows beyond line four, but the spontaneity and effort of the attempt has a lot of bystanders laughing. Jack grins as he puts the letter in his pocket, not wanting to read it so publicly.

‘You two can go when you’ve unloaded the stuff you didn’t deliver,’ says the yard manager.

‘Nice one,’ says Chris. ‘Time off for good behaviour, hey, Bruiser. Be like old times for you.’ Then he says sorry when he sees Jack’s expression.

But it doesn’t bother either of them for long. The life-savers invest their early finish in a pint stop. In the sunny garden of a pub that they pass every day and have never before been into.

‘Lager tastes better in the daytime,’ Jack says. Realizing this is the first time he’s tried it.

‘It’s the sunshine,’ says Chris. ‘It’s what they make it from.’ He laughs and sips his pint. ‘You know, Jack,’ he says seriously, like he’s conveying a state secret, ‘that guy, the dead guy, he was busy going about his life this morning. Now he’s gone. It’s weird, isn’t it? But we’re happy, because we saved the little girl. Just goes to show, doesn’t it?’

‘Goes to show what?’ asks Jack.

‘I don’t know, that’s the thing. Goes to show you have to grab every pint in the sunshine you can.’ Then, as if realizing the implication of his own remark, he says: ‘You’re a good friend, Jack. A good person. The thing today, and you being ready to take a kicking for me the other week. I haven’t really thanked you for that. I just want you to know that if there is anything I can ever do. Anything you ever want to tell me. I’m here.’

And for a moment Jack wants to tell him. To tell him everything, and he can imagine the weight lifting. He can feel what it would be like, for the first time in his life, to have a peer who truly knew him. But his sense of self-preservation
cuts in. It could mean the end of their friendship, moving town, leaving Michelle. It could be suicide. All to lighten the load.

‘Maybe it only goes to show you should drive slow on country roads,’ Jack says. And there’s a feeling of relief between them. A realization that it was getting too heavy for a day like today. You don’t get many days like today. Most people don’t get any.

‘Yeah, there’s some pretty rough stuff around. But it’s not such a bad world, is it?’

And Jack thinks maybe it’s not.

As it’s a Wednesday, Jack goes for a pizza with Terry. Terry is excited by the story of the accident. His excitement gives him energy, and makes Jack remember what he looked like when he was younger. In the days when Terry had no grey in his hair and fewer lines on his face, with more of them caused by laughter. When he had a wife that he lived with, and said he loved, and a son that lived with and loved them both. And a dog that Terry said loved everyone. Because all Labradors do. It makes Jack remember when he envied that son. Now he almost feels sorry for him, because he spends less time with his dad than Jack does.

‘Don’t you see?’ Terry says. ‘It means that you’ve been forgiven. You being given the opportunity to save that girl’s life, and with the first aid you learnt in the secure unit. That’s divine intervention, or fate, or something. That’s someone saying you’ve been forgiven.’

Jack isn’t sure. He’s not a great believer in God. But he usually believes Terry, and he wants to believe him now.

After he gets home he reads Michelle’s letter again. It says that she hopes he’s all right, and that it doesn’t matter about the other night. It says they were probably just rushing things, and that she cares about him a lot. It asks if he wants to go round for dinner tomorrow.

She cooks tiny conches of pasta, with oil and fresh chicken, and a lot of herbs which are sharp to the taste. They eat with two bottles of a posh red wine. Which cleans their mouths and stains their teeth.

When they kiss he can still taste the herbs. He calls her Shell, and finds that her pubis is like a shell as well. Softer in its crinkles even than the pasta, and more salty. He believes she must be a mermaid, half woman, half sea. And when he enters her he can feel the water washing him, claiming him. Waves rush over him, and he hopes that he’s drowning, so that this might be the last thing he ever knows. But living is even better. They have sex again and again and again. Until he’s sore to the touch, and still her touch arouses him. When she finally falls asleep, with his arms around her, he prays for the first time in more than a decade. His prayer is of thanks, and he thinks that Terry is right: he must be forgiven.

The children at school were probably reminded. Maybe they made cards on Friday afternoon. With pots of stiff white glue, one between two.
A
hadn’t been there, so the morning started like any other Sunday: with cereal and cartoons.

His mum got up unusually late, well into
Inspector Gadget
. She looked at
A
expectantly, purple towelling dressing gown wrapped tight round her. It had brown stains on the shoulders, from when she wore it for dyeing her hair. Getting no response but a ‘Morning, Mum,’ she started on the washing up.
A
’s father had generously told her to leave it, the night before. But had not gone so far as to touch it himself.

A
thought that something was wrong, in the way she banged the pots around in the sink. He presumed she’d had an argument with his dad. He never heard them fight. But sometimes they could be mercilessly silent to each other for days. An uncomfortable quiet would come over the house, making it impossible even for
A
to speak normally. Every basic task, requiring a little communication, became a chore, and felt like it created further friction.

When
A
’s dad got up, though, he stood behind his wife at the sink, and patted her back.

‘You shouldn’t have done that, pet. I was going to wash up.’

A
knew he wasn’t really going to, even if his dad didn’t. But such attention showed this wasn’t one of the silent times.

Something was wrong, though. The cold in her tone was unmistakable when she said she was going to have a bath. Normally she would fuss around the house while the water ran. Maybe make a cup of tea to drink while she soaked, if she was feeling decadent. That day the bathroom door shut with a sharp slap that was near enough to a slam. And the bolt, that was hardly necessary in a household of three, was drawn heavily across.

A
and his father were both looking for blame in the other’s face, when the TV provided the answer.

‘Because it’s Mother’s Day today,’ the excitable blond presenter said, ‘we’re going to show a wildlife special, on how different creatures care for their young.’ The camera panned in on an audience section of hand-picked cool-kids, who erupted into spontaneous cheers.

A
’s dad started tiptoeing to the front door, and motioned
A
to follow him. They eased their way out, into a cold May morning. Co-conspirators, in matching brown, Christmas present slippers. Closing the front door with the stealth of spies, and hurrying along a frosted pavement as fast as their footwear allowed them to run.

Their out-of-breath mouths bellowed steam by the time they reached the corner shop. But they both allowed themselves to smile. And
A
felt close to his dad in their crime of kindness. A fellowship he had only ever found with
B
before.

His dad paid for a card from
A
, and the last bunch of paper-wrapped pink flowers from himself. He borrowed a biro, so that
A
could write a message in his careful print before leaving the shop. The paper-shop man grinned too, because he was in on a plan.

When she got out of the bath,
A
’s mum was sat down and
presented with a tray. The flowers were in a vase, and the card was propped up against barely browned toast and fresh tea.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I thought you’d forgotten,’ and
A
’s dad slipped him a wink.

B
’s mother hadn’t lived with them for years. She had left a pound for a bag of chips each, and a note, that
B
’s brother said meant he was in charge. No one disputed it now. Their father was a drunkard, who had been made a coward by the booze. Once he must have been strong, fearless, ferocious. He was a Glaswegian, a man who’d fought in razor wars. Who had clawed his way out of that gutter. Into this one. He had arrived in England with nothing but a bag of burgled gear, and a desperate need to disappear. Stopped in Stonelee, when he discovered it was as far South as they still sold Buckfast. And stayed when he married
B
’s mother.

The wedding photo still sat on the mantelpiece. Showing that he was not always this shrivelled, sausage-skin of a person. Cowering in the corner of his own lounge. Cooking for a monster of his own creation.
B
’s brother. The great provider. Who would chuck his dad a tenner at night, to get food on the table. But would usually be gone before the lion’s share was spent on Buckfast, or Special Brew. Whisky and Irn-Bru on dole day.

None of them knew where
B
’s mum had gone. But on Mothering Sundays, it seemed, she wondered about them too. Within a few days they would always have a postcard from her. The only one of the year. Nothing for birthdays or Christmas.
B
’s dad slurred that it proved the slag thought only of herself. It was when
she
wanted attention she contacted them. The cards came from all over England, one from Wales. They contained nothing traceable. Nothing factual about her life. And also no emotion. They said nothing at all, in fact. Except that she was alive, somewhere.
But still they held the family fascinated. Each of them would pour over the words when the others weren’t there. Even
B
, who could only read a part of it.

So Mother’s Day meant anticipation. It marked the start of a short wait for something they all pretended not to care about. From someone who clearly didn’t care about them. But then, when any one of them looked at the other two, they could see her point in not giving a shit. Which made them hate and miss her all the more.

A
’s mother was the daughter of a miner. This led her to believe that she knew what she was doing when she married a rigger. She thought that she could handle the months apart, and the needling, nagging worry. Always wondering where he was and what he was doing. At least she knew he wasn’t being unfaithful, not out in the North Sea. Mostly she could handle the rest, too. But sometimes, in the heart of winter, she’d felt alone. Rattling round a cold house that it didn’t seem right to heat just for one. And when it got dark so early, when the streets were so silent, she could believe there was no one left in the world but her.

Him working on the rig, though, it had made the times they had together more valuable. Every instant anticipated, enjoyed to its utmost and then lingered over for weeks. They cheated time in their way. Made it last threefold, by revelling in the expectation and the memory, as much as the moment. She used to plan every hour of his visits, long before he came. Had to be careful to leave space just to be together. But she did, because this was the best part of all: when they did nothing but hold each other.

She hadn’t made any preparations, the weekend their son was conceived. Her husband wasn’t supposed to be back for months. But someone had been injured on the rig, and he’d cadged a lift in the chopper. Just appeared at the door, still in his denims. Like he’d bust out of a jail to see her. They made
love on the stairs, didn’t even make it to the bedroom. He smelled of oil and tasted of grit and made her forget about the sharp, carpeted edges in her back.

That weekend was the last time she would ever feel his passion as such an unabatable force. Something changed not long after. Perhaps when he stopped working on the rig, time became less precious. Maybe it was the pregnancy. Or the death of his father: their final family link severed. What ever the cause, his feelings dwindled in its aftermath. Not disappearing altogether, not something you divorced over, especially with a baby boy. But his love changed, it became dutiful rather than wonderful. They had to make time pass, instead of savouring every second. There was a blockage between them. Something they never talked about. That still lingered in every conversation.

‘We aren’t what we once were,’ she wanted to say. ‘Why? Why aren’t we? What is it?’ But she never did. And he never gave her enough cause to argue, so she could shout it at him. Which she knew was the only way to get it out.