Jam (20 page)

‘Like I said before, you can't buy respect. You got to earn it. Innit, Chris?'

His brother said nothing.

‘What about me having to go all the way round the fucking world at the drop of a hat?' said Monty. ‘France? Sweden? Germany? You think that's fucking fun? What with a job on top of it and all?'

‘Makes you feel like a right big man, dunnit?'

‘Fuck's sake. This is what I mean, Rhys. I just can't win with you.'

‘Ain't my fault.'

‘All right, what hits have you taken, then?' said Monty.

Rhys pushed up his sleeve to reveal several deep scars, healed but livid, mapping the back of his hand, his wrist, his forearm.

‘They'd have killed you if it weren't for me,' said Monty quietly.

‘Yeah, yeah. The big fucking man.'

‘I should have let them gut you. Like a fish.'

‘I'll gut you like a fucking fish, mate, if you don't shut the fuck up.'

There was a moment's silence.

‘So, like I said,' Rhys continued, ‘you ain't never taken no proper hit.' He inhaled deeply from his cigarette and held it up as if admiring the glowing beauty of the tip.

‘Whatever,' said Monty.

‘No, mate,' said Rhys. ‘Not whatever. Not fucking whatever. We can put it to the test.'

He took a final pull on his cigarette, then offered it to Monty. ‘Go on, big man,' he said. ‘Prove it.'

‘Prove what?'

‘Ain't no big fucking deal, is it? One in the arm for the boys.'

‘One in the arm?'

‘Yeah. One in the arm.'

Monty watched his own hand gliding up to meet Rhys's, taking the cigarette, rotating it slightly, the smoke forming a thin column, like that from a crematorium on a windless day. He looked at Rhys. A snakish smile was playing about his lips.

‘Go on then, mate,' said Rhys softly. ‘You're a proper one of the boys, like me. Like Chrissie. So prove it.'

Monty raised the cigarette and took a long drag. The smoke grated on his lungs. Only half was left.

‘Finish it if you want,' said Rhys, ‘There's more where that came from. And Chris got a packet too, innit, Chris?'

Monty took another drag. Amid all the adrenaline, an insanity was growing in him, a wild recklessness. ‘Fine,' he said. He rolled up his sleeve. ‘Pass me the cider.'

‘Dutch courage, eh?'

‘Give it here. One drink and I'll do it.'

‘Not so bothered about drink fucking driving now, then?'

‘I'll just have the one. Just one swig, that's all I want. Then I'll do it. Anyway, there's not much driving going on is there?'

Rhys brought the bottle up from the footwell and tumbled it in his hands. ‘You're out of luck,' he said, ‘it's gone.'

‘Bollocks.'

‘Fraid so, mate. You'll just have to stop being gay and fucking do it.'

‘There might be some in the back,' said Chris suddenly.

‘Just fucking do it, you poof,' said Rhys. ‘It's almost burned down.'

Monty looked at the object between his fingers. It was smouldering like a fuse in the half-light. Would it smell?

‘If you ain't got the balls to do it,' said Rhys slyly, ‘I can always do it for you. Wouldn't say no, innit?' He laughed.

‘I'm going to do it.'

‘Go on then. Fucking big man Monty. Go on. Go on.'

‘I need a drink.'

And suddenly he was in the night air again, on the black tarmac where no feet but his own had trodden, the van door slamming behind him, his arms, the backs of his hands intact. He strode round to the back of the van, crushing his keys in his fist, feeling the pain. The back door was closed but not locked. He pulled it open. There were his tools: the baseball bats, the chains, the cans of mace. But no alcohol. No alcohol. He slammed the door shut and, as if partitioning some bad memory to an obscure corner of his mind, pushed his key into the lock and turned it. Then, without giving himself time to think, he walked round the front and shouted at the window, without opening the door: ‘I'm going to get some booze.'

‘You what?' said Rhys, winding down the window.

‘Booze. To see us through the night.'

‘I'll get you some, mate. From that van and all.'

‘Look, I've said I'll do it and I will. I just want a drink first,
that's all. You should fucking thank me. You look like you need a drink.'

‘Where you going to find an offy, anyway? This time of night?'

‘Over there. On the other side of that hill. Past the trees.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘Saw it before, didn't I? Lights from a village or something.'

‘You're desperate, Monty my son. Fucking desperate. You're just shitting yourself, aren't you? You're shitting yourself good and fucking proper.'

He stepped away from the van, trying to ignore the peals of laughter that rang out inside the vehicle. His face was burning. A primal fear that he had not experienced since childhood was coursing throughout his body, making him feel nauseous and enfeebled and humiliated.

Half walking, half running, he reached the barrier and struggled over. It was as his feet nested into the long grass on the other side, the mud giving way with gentle reluctance, that he looked up.

There, to his surprise, was Shauna, making her way laboriously up the hill. Monty took a deep, wavering breath and began to clamber up the groove she had trodden in the grass.

And she looked back, and saw him, and took a breath.

Monty and Shauna

Shauna was clearly struggling in the long grass; she wasn't dressed for walking, and didn't seem comfortable outdoors. The silhouette of the hill hunched darkly up against the sky, the faint glow behind making it look flat, like a stage prop. The place on Monty's arm that had escaped a branding was tingling, as if something physical had actually occurred, rather than been avoided. As he trudged through the grass, he cradled his forearm as if its wholeness was the result of a recent healing, as if he suddenly appreciated how vulnerable this body can be. I'm not cut out for this, he thought.

The girl reached the summit; she turned, saw him, made an ambiguous gesture, and then appeared to diminish in height as she disappeared over the other side. Why wasn't she waiting for him? Had he been misreading the signals all along? This was typical of his life, he thought. But he was determined to break the cycle.

When Monty bridged the peak of the hill, Shauna was leaning heavily on a fence. Trying to tame the turbulence of his emotions, he approached.

‘Jesus Christ,' she said.

‘Have you been drinking?'

‘No. I mean, yes. Last night though. I've still got a raging hangover.'

A blonde female (though it was dark and there was not much in the way of colour to rely on); five feet six; rather underweight; professional; fairly well-off; functioning alcoholic, perhaps. Mental health problems, question mark? She was beautiful.

‘What are you trying to do?' he said, hearing his accent change to match hers.

‘Get over this fucking fence. Who would put a fucking fence here? What's the point? Who would even do that?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Tell me about it.' She stopped, rested against the fencepost more heavily, feet splayed, as if going into labour.

‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes, fine, fine. Just feeling a bit queasy. It'll pass.'

‘Just try to relax. Maybe you should go back to your car.'

‘Maybe. Fuck, I think I'm going to chunder.'

‘Do you want to sit down?'

‘Don't worry, it'll pass, it'll pass.'

‘Take deep breaths.'

She did not answer this time, just continued puffing, slowly, rhythmically. She closed her eyes, looked faint. Monty stepped closer and put a hand gently on her shoulder.

‘Are you . . .'

‘I've told you, I'm all right,' she snapped. ‘It's the altitude.'

‘Altitude? We're only on a little hill.'

‘Shut up.'

‘Look, you don't seem well,' Monty said. ‘If you've taken any illegal substances, you need to tell me now.'

‘It's just a fucking hangover, Christ's sake. Have you never had a fucking hangover?'

The exertion of this line proved to be the final straw. She just had time to turn away before the vomit came; she retched into the grass, holding her hair away from her face. Monty put his hand on her back, supporting her. It went on, great grey plumes splattering into the grass, until there was nothing left to come, and even then she continued to gag, making reptilian croaking sounds. The smell was fetid and sour. Finally, she sat down in the grass. Monty gave her a tissue.

‘I'm sorry,' she gasped. ‘What an utter tit.'

‘Have you taken any drugs?' he said.

‘I keep telling you. I haven't taken drugs, I'm not drunk, I'm not suffering from AIDS or fucking myxomatosis. I'm just hung over. All right? Hungover.'

‘OK, sorry.'

‘What are you, anyway? Drugs squad or something?'

Monty flushed. ‘Me?' he said. ‘God, no.' He turned towards the fence and contemplated scaling it. Not a difficult task, he thought. About five feet high, obvious footholds, almost as if it had been designed to be climbed. Moisture-soaked wood. No barbed wire or rusty nails that he could see. And beyond it, unmistakably, the few late-night lights of a village. He turned back to Shauna. ‘You came all the way up here just to be sick?'

‘Jesus,' she said, scrambling to her feet. ‘I'm trying to get down to the village, get some water, some paracetamol, you know. This has been a really shitty weekend, and an even more shitty night. I should be tucked up in bed right now. I had the evening all planned out. A nice bath, soaking in essential oils with a glass of Bordeaux . . . aren't you heading there too?'

‘To the village?'

‘No, to Bordeaux. Yes, to the village.'

‘I suppose so.'

‘Well, then.'

‘Are you feeling better now?'

‘Yes. Throwing up usually does that, don't you find? God, what a total tit. I'm sorry, Monty.'

‘Don't worry. Seen it all before.'

‘Yeah, but it's not exactly dignified, is it?'

He smiled. ‘I'm sorry I haven't got any water.'

‘If you wouldn't mind giving me a hand over the fence, that would be fab,' she replied.

He linked his fingers to form a stirrup. She pushed her foot into it and he tried to boost her up, but her leg did not have sufficient strength, and she did not have sufficient coordination, and she almost lost her balance.

‘Christ,' she said, ‘this is hopeless.'

‘It's probably better if you just climb over by yourself,' he said. ‘I'll tell you where to put your feet. Look, sort of stick your foot here . . .'

Slowly, falteringly, without elegance or panache, Shauna dragged herself up the fence, rolled over the top, and dropped heavily to the other side, where she lay sprawling in the grass. One of her shoes had come off.

‘You haven't sprained anything?' said Monty.

‘No, I'm fine. I'm fine. Just having a breather.'

He climbed the fence in one fluid movement, brushed himself down and helped her to her feet.

‘Look,' said Shauna, ‘shall we walk down together? If you don't want to, just say. I haven't exactly made a fabulous impression.'

‘No, no, not at all. I know how it is. I've been there.'

‘How I'm going to get back up that fence I don't know. I think I'm losing it.'

‘Maybe there's some way you could go round.'

‘You're not a crazy guy, are you?'

‘What? No. I'm not a crazy guy.'

‘Good. Because I just couldn't deal with that right now.'

‘No. And why should you?'

‘Though if you were a crazy guy, would you tell me?'

‘Of course I would.'

‘That proves you're not.'

They began to scramble slowly, side-by-side, down the steep, bumpy hill toward the village.

As it turned out, they could have simply accessed the village by following a half-hidden path that carved a shallow groove around the hill and led directly to the High Street. When they got there, they could see it signposted. The shops were closed and a timeless slumber lay across everything. The place was deserted. A helicopter passed overhead, its bulbous nose tilted towards the earth; they speculated as to whether that meant
that the traffic would soon be moving. They both worried about what would become of them if that happened before they got back, she to her Smart car, he to his van, with his two passengers in it; but they had been sitting in traffic for so long, and both, for their different reasons, felt so alienated from their vehicles, from their lives, from themselves, that they preferred to suffer the worry than return to the queue of traffic, in Shauna's case, without water, food and paracetamol; in Monty's case, without protection from Rhys. But a garage, thankfully, was open. Can't do much business, Monty thought, considering it's not a service station, considering it's not signposted from the road. The man behind the counter was nonplussed. Shauna bought a packet of paracetamol and a large bottle of cold water; Monty bought a large packet of Doritos and some Maltesers, knotting himself with anxiety over whether or not to pay for Shauna's purchases. Either way, she wouldn't have it. They took their booty to a small bench on a patch of drab-looking grass opposite the garage and shared their spoils. Both felt dreamlike; their evenings had taken such strange turns. They began to talk in a way that was both abstract and personal about their lives. Shauna described in a rather abridged fashion how she had humiliated herself at the wedding of an ex, and talked obliquely about her fears for her future. The conversation steadied her nerves, made it easier to accommodate the stress of not knowing when the traffic would move, whether her car would end up marooned in the middle of the motorway. Monty described in general terms how he was in a bad place, in over his head, in a situation he had never signed up to; how he felt trapped; how he just wanted to go back to having a normal life again, like any other normal person. Shauna said she knew what he meant. Then she asked him what exactly he meant, and he shook his head and said sorry, I can't really tell you. Which should have made her feel rejected, but in the event far from it, as she could tell that he was being more open with
her than he would ever normally be with anybody. She could tell, somehow, that he wanted to tell her everything. And so strangers became friends, in the space of half an hour.