Looking for Alex (17 page)

Later Pete sits alone in the boarded-up room, staring into space and smoking. Alex goes upstairs; Celia, as ever, stays in her room. It seems as if everyone is doing some hard thinking. Fitz and I make a big pan of vegetable soup and leave it there for anyone to help themselves.

That night, in bed, I’m scared. I listen out for the smallest sound downstairs, or outside, but all we can hear is Pete and Alex arguing. I tell Fitz about the scene in the kitchen.

‘Sounds like she’s sussed things out, then,’ he says. We’re sitting up in bed, leaning back against the wall, smoking the last of some dope Fitz bought off Pete. ‘Pete’s getting an earbashing.’

‘Do you think Celia will stir things up more?’

‘If she gets the chance, who knows?’

‘I think that’s how it was today. She saw an opportunity and took it.’

‘Probably feeling frustrated.’ I ask Fitz what he means. ‘She and Pete were shagging.’

‘I thought they’d split up?’

Fitz grins, and passes me the joint. ‘Beth, how come you’re still so innocent? Yes, they’d split up, but whenever Pete felt horny he’d go up to her room. Then it’d be back to normal, the two of them hardly speaking.’

‘Christ. No wonder she’s screwed up. Bastard.’

‘Well, she’s getting her revenge now. Either that or she wants to open Alex’s eyes. Or both.’

‘She keeps saying Alex should go home, and “don’t get stuck in his little world”. Like she wants to protect her. But maybe she just wants her out the way.’

At the other end of the landing everything has gone quiet. Outside the wind is picking up, rustling the bags of rubbish by the back door.

Fitz reaches for my hand. ‘We’ve got five days,’ he says. We’ve lit the army of candles in the corner and their wavering flames throw dancing shadows onto the wall and ceiling. It’s comforting, watching little haloes of light round each one. ‘We will still see each other, you know?’

‘I don’t see how.’

‘I was thinking, what if I come to Sheffield? Get a job?’

I held my breath. ‘Could you?’

‘Maybe. I’d have to get some money together to move up. I’d have to get some work here first.’

Suddenly there’s a flicker of hope.

‘I’ll get a job, save up,’ he affirms. ‘When you’ve gone.’

‘And after that,’ I say, excited now, ‘if I get into drama school in London we could both come back down.’

Fitz turns his head to gaze at me, meditatively.

‘What?’ I say, self-conscious.

‘I can’t imagine you on the stage.’

‘That’s what everyone says,’ I tell him. ‘Because I’m quiet and people think I’m shy. But I like being someone else.’

He takes my hand, starts twisting one of the rings on it round and round, its smooth metal slipping against my skin. ‘And here was me thinking you look more like yourself than you used to.’ I laugh and say he’s speaking Irish and how does he know how myself should look? ‘I mean, you’ve stopped trying to be like Alex.’

It’s true that although my clothes still define me as semi-punk I’ve gradually given up the backcombed hair and thick eyeliner. I quite like this hybrid look: fading hennaed hair that’s now loose and free; almond-shaped eyes no longer concealed by layers of make-up; tanned, not pale skin, against the black.

That’s when he says, ‘Let’s go to Brighton.’

‘What?’

‘Brighton, you know, on the south coast?’

‘Fitz, I know where Brighton is.’

‘Well, let’s have a day out. Get away from the others.’

I frown. ‘It would cost a lot to get there.’

‘We’ll hitch. I’ve done it before. It’s only a couple of hours away. Have you ever been?’ I shake my head. ‘Let’s go, then!’

Mentally I run through how much money I’ve brought with me. We could take a picnic; we won’t have to spend much. ‘Okay. Let’s do it.’

*

We get up early and make sandwiches from whatever we can find — some old cheddar, a stub of cucumber, Marmite and salad cream. We pack them into an old bread wrapper, fill an empty lemonade bottle with some Kia-Ora that Fitz bought for Dan, and stow it all in my duffle bag. We leave a note on the table. ‘Gone to Brighton’ is all it says.

The early morning air is cool, the wind still strong, and I shiver in my jacket and a short denim skirt. But it’s a good time to travel, before rush-hour hits. We take the tube as far as Brixton, then ask for directions to the A3 and find a good place to stand. Fitz holds up a piece of cardboard with Brighton written on, and almost immediately a Transit van stops for us.

‘Must be your skirt,’ Fitz jokes, watching it pull up a few yards down.

The driver is huge, face like a bulldog, and he’s going all the way to Brighton. Halfway there he insists on buying us breakfast from a transport café. ‘You both look half starved,’ he says. We file in behind him, watched by truckers and bikers. We eat bacon, eggs and fried bread, and drink mugs of strong tea.

‘That was the best breakfast ever,’ I say as we climb up into the van, and the driver boasts that he knows all the good stops from here to Brighton. For the rest of the way he tells the filthiest jokes, apologising to me after each one, and gets us to Brighton by eleven o’clock.

I’ve never hitched before. I love the way that one minute we’re in the middle of London and the next sniffing the salty air, watching seagulls wheel across the sky. The first thing we do is walk along the shingly beach under scudding clouds; we take our shoes off to tread gingerly over pebbles and paddle in the cold sea, gasping as cold water closes around our feet. Then we skim stones across the water, counting the bounces. I find I have a knack for it and count to eight one time, although Fitz doesn’t believe me because he doesn’t see it, too busy hunting for the perfect stone. After the beach we head for the pier, where we look at photos of the variety show — Freddy Starr, Des O’Connor, Pan’s People — and use up a whole pound feeding coins into slot machines, winning nothing. We walk along to some gardens, play crazy golf, and have our meagre picnic. The afternoon is spent wandering in and out of bric-a-brac shops in The Lanes, where Fitz yearns after an old pocket-watch and I fall in love with an emerald brooch. Towards six o’clock we return to the seafront and sit on a bench, looking out to sea. We splash out on fish and chips, and then have a smoke. My feet hurt from all the walking, but I’m happy.

Later we wander back onto the beach, a can of cider apiece, and walk down towards the marina. I collect pebbles to take home until my pockets weigh too much, then I get rid of them all except one, whose marbled pattern is shaped like a B. Darkness settles, the grey sky deepening to indigo and the sea to inky black. I start to fret a little about getting a lift this late. Fitz says that if the worst comes to the worst we can sleep on the beach.

‘Ouch. On all these pebbles? Romantic though.’ I turn to him, pull him towards me. ‘Come here. I want you.’

‘You already have me,’ he says, nuzzling my neck.

‘You know what I mean.’

I lean into him. We look around, smile at each other conspiratorially. The waves are sucking at the shingle; they make a long, dragging sound. It’s ten o’clock and there’s hardly anyone around, just a man with a dog and an older couple down at the water’s edge. We remember seeing some beach huts and Fitz says it’s worth a try, someone may have forgotten to lock up. We wander along and furtively try the handle on each door. To our delight one of them gives a little, and when Fitz pushes harder it opens. We stumble inside and shove the door shut, then stand there in darkness, giggling, listening. Gradually our eyes adjust and we can make out the things inside. Everything seems to be fold-up — table, deckchairs, umbrella, sun-lounger. We look at each other. Sun-lounger. Then Fitz shakes his head.

‘We’d fall off,’ he says, and I burst out laughing.

‘Shh!’ He puts his hand over my mouth.

We search around, feeling with our hands, and find a couple of thin blankets, stashed on a shelf. We spread them on the floor and lie down, and right at that moment, in the warm, stuffy silence, broken only by the distant shush of the sea, I think I’m going to die with unadulterated joy.

‘There will never be another moment like this,’ I say solemnly as Fitz slides his hand up my skirt.

‘Well, that’s a bit pessimistic,’ he says. ‘Let’s hope you’re wrong.’

When we make love the floor beneath us jars against my spine, gritty sand scratching at my skin; we’re quick, and greedy.

Afterwards, we unfold two deckchairs and sit in the doorway, looking up at the night sky, where stars now pinprick the darkness between gaps in the cloud, until finally we decide it makes sense to stay here until morning.

‘Better than getting stuck somewhere by the side of the road,’ I say.

We do the best we can with the blankets and a pile of towels for bedding, curled up together to keep warm.

‘We need to make sure we’re out of here early,’ Fitz says, ‘before someone arrives and gets a surprise.’ We needn’t have worried. We sleep very little, each of us waking the other as we try to get comfortable on the hard floor, and then are woken properly at half-past five by sun streaming through the window. An hour later we get up gingerly, rubbing cold, stiff limbs back into life. We tidy the hut so that everything is how it was, but just as we’re leaving Fitz turns and grabs a piece of paper and a felt-tip out of a basket on the shelf. He draws a cartoon head with a long nose, peeping over a wall.
Kilroy was here,
he writes underneath. He unfolds the little table and leaves the drawing there.

‘That’ll make them get a lock,’ he says as we sneak out, laughing, and pull the door to behind us. We walk back along the promenade, hanging around until we find an early doors café, where we spend the last of our money on bacon and eggs and mugs of tea.

‘No money for the tube now,’ I say. ‘We’ll have to just hitch all the way home.’

Warmed and fed, we find the road we came in on and get taken to the outskirts in a plumber’s van. Here we get picked up by a travelling salesman, who has an eight-track stereo system in his car and plays Northern Soul all the way to London. He and Fitz talk music while I doze, with my head on Fitz’s shoulder. Lucky for us he drives us right back to Camden on his way to Hampstead, dropping us off at the top of Empire Road just before midday, and arm in arm we walk down to the house, laughing about yesterday’s Transit van man, and how he kept saying, ‘Pardon my French’ after every rude word.

The bolts are drawn across the door but Pete’s up, and lets us in. Alex isn’t around.

‘Good day at the seaside?’ he says. He’s standing at the cooker, stirring a pan of beans and flipping toast under the grill. ‘Have you brought us some rock?’

My stomach tightens and all the joy of the day seems to float right out of me. Fitz sits down and starts talking to him.

‘Where’s Alex?’ I ask.

Pete doesn’t look at me. ‘In bed. She’s tired.’

I make some tea, and then say I’m going to lie down. Passing their bedroom door, I loiter outside then lift my hand to knock softly. What if there’s been more trouble? After a moment or two Alex calls to come in. The room is dark; it’s one of the only rooms in the house to have proper curtains, which are still drawn. Alex is sitting up in bed, leaning against the wall, reading by the light of a candle.

‘Hi, Beth,’ she says, not looking up.

‘Hi.’ I go and sit on the edge of the mattress, stretch my legs out on bare floorboards.

‘Did you have a nice time?’ she asks.

‘Brilliant.’ I want to tell her about it but her eyes are still scanning the page. I wait for her to ask what we did, and where we slept the night, and when she doesn’t I say, ‘What are you reading?’

She holds it up.
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
.

‘That’s a bit depressing.’

‘Yeah. Got it cheap on the market.’

She carries on reading and I wonder if she’s annoyed with me.

‘Alex?’ I say, and she looks up quickly and then down again, but not before I’ve seen the dark bruise on her cheek. ‘Alex!’

Her head comes back up. Her cheek is puffy and a red mark blooms on it, circling the outside of her right eye. She holds my gaze. ‘What?’ she says.

‘What do you mean, what? That’s what.’

‘All right, don’t get excited. It was an accident.’

‘An accident? How?’

She sighs deeply and puts her book down. ‘Beth, you’re doing that thing, like an echo. It was an accident. Pete caught it with his elbow. We were messing about.’

‘Mess—’ I stop myself. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘Yes, of course it hurts.’ Silence. ‘Did you like Brighton?’ she asks in a polite little voice, as though we haven’t known each other for years.

‘Yes. What were you doing? I mean, how were you messing about?’ Pete’s not the sort to ‘mess about’; it would be too undignified. ‘It must have been a real thump.’

Alex folds her arms and presses her lips together. I know she’s lying, covering up. I stare at her, feeling rage bubbling up, hot, helpless rage.

‘Alex—’

‘Beth, don’t you dare say anything. It was my fault. I got in his way. All right?’ She’s on the verge of tears. ‘It wasn’t his fault, Beth, and if you say anything you’ll just make it worse. Please.’

This isn’t right; I know that. I know I shouldn’t say nothing, do nothing. But I’ve been saying and doing nothing for the last two months and it’s a bit late to start having a conscience now. And anyway, what if I do make things worse?

‘Alex!’ Pete’s shout makes us both jump. ‘Food’s ready.’

‘Okay!’ she calls. She picks up her book, turns down the corner of the page and shuts it. Then she stands and goes to the door, avoiding my eyes. ‘Don’t make trouble, Beth. You’re going back home. You’ll soon be back at school and then you can forget all about Pete. You’ll never have to see him again.’ Listening to her speak, I feel like a little girl. ‘I’ve got no choice but to live here, for now, and I can take care of myself.’

She leaves the room and I hear her footsteps on the stairs. Once I judge she’s reached the bottom I go to the top, to eavesdrop. She’s putting on a little giggly voice for Fitz’s benefit, telling him how she and Pete were play-fighting and she walked into his elbow. In Fitz’s silence I hear his stunned disbelief. Then he asks if she has anything to put on it and she jokes that she’s sending Pete out to buy some steak. Pete’s talking kindly, telling her to sit down and eat, that he’ll get some arnica and aspirin soon, that arnica is the best thing for bruises. ‘Have some breakfast,’ he says. ‘It’ll take your mind off it.’