Heaven's Promise (11 page)

‘Yes, you are,' she replied, ‘but it's nice.'

‘You on one?' I asked. Aretha nodded faintly and then I kissed her again, moving away from her mouth and onto her neck until I felt a pinch on my arm and there was Dillon.

‘Easy, you're being watched,' he pointed out, nodding to the dancers around us who were smiling at our public indiscretions. Once again, I had totally forgotten Dillon but he didn't seem to mind. He just turned away and started his manic dance, the one that I had witnessed that morning.

I took Aretha's hand and whispered in her ear, ‘would you like to come back to mine. We can have a smoke and listen to some tunes, if you like.'

A look of doubt flashed into her eyes.

‘And tomorrow?' she asked, ‘what happens then?'

‘Tomorrow,' I grandly announced, ‘we can go out again,' and I meant every last word. ‘Promise.'

‘Cub's honour.' Aretha gave me a discreet nod and then said, ‘don't tell your friend, okay?'

‘Sure, not a word.'

‘I'll get my coat and meet you outside.'

I went over to Dillon who was now standing by one of the speakers, his eyes closed as he jerked to the music.

‘Dillon,' I said, ‘I'm outta here. Early start tomorrow. I've really enjoyed it tonight, it's been great. We should go out more often. I'll bell you at the shop.'

And then I hugged him and, believe it, if you had told me that very morning that I would be standing in a house music club embracing Dillon, of all cats, you would have won an awful amount of cashola off me, and that's the truth, Ruth.

But there it was and before I knew it I had made it to the cloakroom, where Aretha was waiting, and she took my hand and up the stairs we went, two at a time, past the security guys and into the cold night air which I greedily gulped at, for it seemed to put me right back on top of the high, and we went in search of a cab.

Removed from the club's noise and chaos, it took me a minute to re-orientate myself and it was then that I caught my reflection in a shop window and I was stopped dead. My hair was all over the shop, my eyes were half closed like a boxers, even though I had perfect vision, and I chewed my gum like a camel, my jaw relentlessly working overtime.

Yet, description above exempted, rarely had I felt this contented with life. As far as I was concerned, the world was as it should be, neat and ordered and without hassle, and as for myself I felt no fear about anything or anyone because in this mood I could take on the worst and come up smelling of roses each and every time. Such confidence is near impossible to find, believe it, for all of us live and breathe our insecurities, battered every day by clouds of doubt and covering up our weak points as best we can. On this shit, such notions don't even come into play and, once again, I wondered why I and everyone else couldn't be this way all the time.

A cab came into view and we hailed it down, and, safely ensconced in the back, holding hands, Aretha asked with a please prove me wrong smile, ‘I suppose you've got a girlfriend.' The word instantly brought Tuesday into my mind. I thought of her at the record fair, and then I was at the hotel room and she was putting her arms around me, but this time, instead of feeling grief or sadness at her vision dancing into my mind, I felt a strange contentment as if I was finally letting a bird out of its cage to fly off into the free beautiful sky.

‘No,' I said with a smile, ‘I'm not linked up at all.' The next thing my mind brought up was Sandra but, as you can do in a dream, I quickly moved her out of the way, the only real value of her appearance being that it forcefully reminded me I needed some condoms, and that we should stop off at the 7-11 near to where I lived. Directing the cab there, I held Aretha's hand all the way, stroking her fingers and pleasantly coming down now that we were away from the chaos and it was just the two of us anticipating what was to come. I could feel John Thomas twitch every time I looked over at her dungarees which I intended to remove with the care of a surgeon. It was 3.30 in the morning when I entered the 7-11, telling Aretha I needed sugar and milk. I gave a cheerful, hello-ah! to the extremely bored looking guy behind the counter and made towards the fridge to get some juice. It was there that I ran into my first spot of bother because, without warning, I suddenly became transfixed by all the bright and garish packaged cartons of juice in front of me, a riot of bright words and colour that literally hypnotised me, and if it hadn't have been for the polite couple who waited patiently behind me to grab some milk, I guess I would have been there all night.

As it was, I snapped out of my trance, took out some drinks and, making towards the counter, I noticed the girlie magazines on display which hastened my journey back to Aretha considerably. I went straight up to the counter, and asked for a pack of condoms with a brazen approach I would never have thought was within me. The bemused look on the guy reminded me of the bar woman at the club but I simply didn't care about what he or anyone else, come to that, thought, such was the high. I fished out a fiver so I wouldn't have any problemos with the coinage again, received my change, went back to the cab and we drove back to my yard. In my front room, I put down the drinks, and we eagerly started kissing, only this time Aretha made no fuss as I slid my hands onto her cheeks and pulled her even closer. Then I guided her into the bedroom.

I have to say that sex on E bought out a side to me which I had never experienced before. We literally ravaged each other, lasciviously licking the other's body, both of us ravenous for scent and sensation as we explored each other with a fervour that I wanted to last forever. As we vigorously coupled up I suddenly found myself whispering into her ear all kinds of instructions, demanding she tell me of her fantasies and desires so that we could satisfy each other to the total max. When she related her story of how she met a stranger on a train and within half an hour they were both locked in the toilet, her on the sink holding on for dear life as he rammed into her, that, people, was the end of phase one. Twenty minutes later, I found myself nuzzling up to her, pushing myself against her side and making signals she could not ignore. Truth be told, phase two was even tougher and dirtier, finding new positions, utilising certain bits of clothing, the lust never wearing off as sensation after sensation came through until, finally, we lay there on my bed, exhausted, sweating, our minds whirring away at a hundred miles an hour, until, unbelievably, John Thomas stirred once more and phase three began. At eight that morning I fell into a light sleep and when I awoke with a start, Aretha had just pulled on her underwear

‘I thought I'd just nip out and get some cigarettes,' she explained. I got out of bed, encircled my arms around her and began kissing her neck. I moved my hands up to her breasts and massaged them through the thin material. Then I stood back and undid the clasp on her back.

‘No,' she said, ‘I'm too tired.'

I continued removing her bra and then turned her to face me as I buried myself into her chest, pulling her down onto the bed and not even bothering to remove anything else as I moved her legs apart and entered her. After, we both fell into sleep and when I awoke with a start it was because I was now sober and every part of me was exhausted beyond belief.

‘Hi,' she said, cheerily.

I just wanted to curl up and drift off into darkness. ‘What time is it?' I grunted.

‘Two o'clock. What time we going out tonight?'

The words hit me like a sledgehammer. All I wanted was to be solo. I had no words to say to her, nothing to talk about and, people, that is such a horrible sensation to feel towards someone, especially when you've just done the do and made rash promises that you wish your mouth had never uttered. My jaw throbbed badly, my mind was on a true downer and all I wanted was oblivion. As we made polite afternoon conversation, Aretha started to sense my disinterest and although she tried to revive me with numerous cups of coffee, she could see the task was hopeless.

God bless her, though, because, still acting like everything was hunky dory, she placed a little kiss on my cheek as I lay in bed and said, ‘Perhaps I'll see you next week down the club then,' and left. I knew I was in the wrong but my exhaustion outweighed my guilt and I struggled back to sleep. The world had suddenly gone from radiant colour to a very horrible grey and it was only at nine that night, when I stumbled out of bed, did I realise that there was a message for me on the answer machine. It was Sandra.

‘Hi. I've decided to go over to Trinidad for a holiday and weigh things up. Whatever I decide will stand. I'll call you when I get back. Laters, loverboy.'

Her tone was polite and firm but the message, although I was in no state to realise it at the time, was devastating. Fact is no West Indian goes back to their island for a couple of weeks if they can help it. They stay for as long as possible. By the time Sandra arrived back in the country it would be legally impossible to terminate the baby. She had already made up her mind and she knew it. She was going to have my child. At that precise moment in time I had no inkling of this. All that came into my mind, as I briefly pondered the situation, was the line of a Lennon song my mum used to sing around the house.

It ran, ‘Nothing's going to change my world,' and that for better or worse, was exactly how I felt.

This was when I loved up London the most, when the sun blazed down from an azure sky of such staggering beauty that the people seemed to hit the relax mode and lose all their burdens, for even if you held no cashola, which is the biggest drag there is, just to be a character in such an oil painting was a rare treat in itself. That Mary in ‘Brief Encounter' certainly hit the spot when she went into one about Britain being so much better to live in if the sun came out and about a lot more, and quite right too, madam, for the heat, like a great massage, loosened up all the glum faces and tight mouths as smoothly as a top burglar picking locks. Invigorated by the disappearance of winter's grey skies, which depressingly blended in with so many of the City's buildings that it made you wonder if the architects of these drab, grey edifices had never been introduced to colour, everyone seemed to re-energise themselves as they were reminded just how beautiful the world can be. It was a welcome respite from the intolerable strain of winter but, even so, there was no getting away from the fact that this heat, which now spread itself so languorously over town, came from a different kind of sun, one that gave off a dry and brittle heat that no one was used to. Apologies for hitting the same riff but there was something slightly disturbing about this relentless heat because that summer, as the sun's harsh rays mingled with the city's fumes, cyclists flashed by with huge pads of cotton wool stuffed in their mouths, a flash of a future that I didn't want to live in, and confirmation that severe adjustments in our way of life would have to be made, no doubt about it, if we were to enter the next decade in some kind of shape. Over at Papa's, in endless cappuccini discussions, Brother P. and I debated the changes that we could sense in the air and tried to make sense of all this shifting scenery, but, unfortunately, and much to our distress, we were constantly interrupted by the raging arguments that erupted every time Papa and his son were within ten yards of each other. Paolo, a good looking 14 year old, who had been blessed with his father's large eyes and his mother's delicate facial features, which was topped off by a lustrous mop of curly, jet black hair, would be sharing a capo with us, his football bag ever present and correct, when Papa would shout over to him, ‘Eh, the football season is over. Where do you think you're going? Don't you think you should be helping out your famiglia?'

‘I'm going training, Papa,' the reply would come, Paolo not even bothering to look over to his illustrious padre.

‘You're going training? Training on a day like this when we're rushed off our feet, sweating like pigs to put food in front of you. What about doing some training for here? Eh, what about that? One day this will be yours and then what you going to do? Eh! Answer me. And what about me and mama. You ever think about us when you're training? You ever think about us when you're kicking a ball around all day? What is the matter with you?'

‘Nothing's wrong with me, Papa, except the father I was given,' and then Marissa, who had been carefully clocking the argument, would put down everything and quickly stand between the two of them before it really got out of hand, and tell them to act like grown men instead of bambini.

‘Stop it now,' she would command as Papa shouted at the top of his voice that his son had no respect, and that he would teach him a lesson, and Paolo responded by turning his back on him even more.

Brother P. and I never interfered, as you can imagine, but I have to say that my votes were with Paolo. To most people, his dream of playing the professional seemed a thousand miles away but, as he always insisted, and quite right too, why shouldn't he realise it? Others had, why not he?

‘It's only yourself who stops you in this life,' Paolo told us, so bright and clear for a boy of his age.

‘Even if I fail, so what? I tried and that's more than most people even attempt. But I'm good enough. I know I am. I feel it. Here,' and he tapped his heart twice with a confidence that was proud and, I have to say, not a little inspiring.

‘See,' he continued, ‘I don't know why but I've always been haunted, from an early age, by the thought of getting old and realising that you never did in life what you really wanted to, never even tried it, just thought to yourself, ah, I can't do that and left it at that. A whole life wasted because you talked yourself out of your purpose. That's terrible. Papa doesn't see it because he achieved what he wanted but it's not what I want. It's unfair to force it all on me because I never asked for all this in the first place.'