Something Only We Know (39 page)

I remembered him picking me up from school and having ash key competitions by the gates, throwing the helicopter seeds into the air and seeing whose took longer to spin to the ground. And there
was another time when the three of us were mucking about on a canal bridge and he managed to kick his shoe right off so it landed in the water. Helen didn’t half scold him for that. She and I
had to get one on either side and support him, wounded soldier-style, as he limped along. Miles from the car, we were, and the ground was filthy-wet, and I ended up nipping into a newsagent’s
and begging a flap off a cardboard box to tie round his foot.

‘We should go for walks in the countryside,’ I said to Owen as the van crested a hill, opening up a stunning view of rolling farmland.

‘Yeah,’ he said non-committally.

‘I mean, look at it round here. It’s beautiful.’

‘It might look nice, but the trouble with modern farming is that it’s creating monoculture deserts. Industrial-scale crop production is death to the land. These spaces around us are
actually sterile, it’s deceptive. I was reading up about it last night.’

We slowed down for a blind bend, and at the same moment a mouse shot out of the verge and across the tarmac. It reached the far side and did an odd little dash backwards and forwards before
finally flinging itself into a shallow ditch. ‘Geronimo!’ I imagined Ned narrating.

‘Ha! Did you see that?’ I said to Owen.

‘No, what?’

‘That mouse.’

‘Where?’

‘Down there. It’s gone now. Only, it was funny, that scurrying way they move. Really intense and serious. Made me laugh.’

‘I didn’t see.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

He shrugged and changed gear. I was trying to imagine us running through a field, waving grass stems and throwing sticky burrs at each other. It was no good, though, the picture wouldn’t
come. Besides, he was wearing a leather jacket; the burrs would just fall off.

I’d promised I’d treat Owen to a pub lunch as a thank you, and after the efforts of the morning we’d certainly both worked up an appetite. But it being
Monday, everywhere we spotted was shut. We were coming into Chrishall before we saw somewhere that was serving food.

No. Drive on
, I vibed.

‘I’m gonna stop here, OK?’ he said, slowing up the van and flicking on the indicator.

‘Let’s see if there’s somewhere better further along.’

‘Why?’

‘I just don’t like the look of this place.’

‘Yeah, it’s a bit nobby round here, I know, but I’m starving. Come on. It only has to be a quick bite.’

‘We’re not that far from Chester,’ I argued. ‘Another fifteen minutes.’

‘Another fifteen minutes and I’ll be forced to eat my own leg. Sorry, Jen.’ He pulled into the car park, switched off the engine, reached for the handle on the van’s
door. ‘You owe me.’

He jumped out and I had no choice but to follow, even though every instinct told me to turn back. This was Joe Pascoe’s territory.

‘Can we hurry up at least?’ I grumbled. Owen strode on ahead.

The Bridge Inn was definitely gastro-end, as pubs go. Outside the half-timbered building there were box trees in pots, and the inside of the porch had been painted that giveaway-middle-class
pale green. The specials board was half in French: a cheese toastie here was ‘croque monsieur’.

‘Grab a menu and we’ll get an order straight in,’ said Owen. Swagged hops hung from the beam above his head.

There was a lot of noise coming from the other end of the bar, but we found ourselves a quieter corner. Immediately I got out my notebook so I could run over the main points. On top of the
general hunt intimidation, there were two other lines of enquiry to follow up: the rumour of illegal artificial fox earths being built on the estate, and a possible tie-in between one of the
terrier-men and a gang of badger-baiters. OK, there was nothing here that would make national news – no ‘children savaged by hounds’ – but we definitely had a story to make
waves in the local area.

Owen peered over my shoulder at my scrawl.

‘I was never going to wade in, you know. You didn’t have to worry. This is yours, your first proper campaign. I wasn’t going to mess with it. And I have to say, it’s
actually been great to see you working on something worthwhile instead of the usual mind-rot.’

‘Gee, thanks. Could you say that again only slightly more patronisingly?’

From the far side of the bar came a deep male roar, and someone shouting that they had a Cunning Plan.

‘I can’t help it, Jen. You’re better than
The Messenger.
’

‘It’s working for
The Messenger
that’s given me the platform for this story.’

‘Assuming you’re allowed to print it. Have you thought about what you’re going to do if Rosa still blocks you?’

‘She won’t do that. Not when she’s seen the detail.’

‘You said she goes to hunt balls.’

‘It wasn’t with the Glasington.’

‘Well, I bet it wouldn’t be the first time a hunt story’s got hushed up. Didn’t you say she has a
Boot the Ban
sticker on her car?’

I thought about that. A graphic of a wellington tilted as if it was in mid-kick. ‘Yeah, but you see a few of those round here. There was some guy handing them out for free in the city
centre. The pavements were littered with them for weeks after.’

A waitress came with an unasked-for dish of olives. Olives always made me think of Ned and the way he’d spear a couple on cocktail sticks to look like feet and then make them walk about
and dance. I’d snorted a nose full of Ribena the first time he performed that trick.

Owen took a long drink, put down his glass. ‘I reckon you should have a back-up plan, anyway. Hey, what’s this here?’

There was an abandoned
Messenger
lying on the table next to ours and he reached across and picked it up. He made a mild show of reading the headlines, but I knew what was coming. He
couldn’t stop himself. Soon he was spreading the newspaper out on the table, flipping the pages till he found the Cream section and scanning for my by-line.

Over his arm I read: ‘Seven Ways to Get that Golden Glow. Make bronzer your number-one friend!’ And below it: ‘Holiday Horrors – Your Must-Have Guide to a Summer First
Aid Kit.’ Pastel-coloured plasters and Evian Facial Mist, I remembered listing.

‘Is that Friday’s edition? Because you know I also did the coverage of the Flower Festival on page four.’

‘I’m saying nothing.’

You don’t need to
, I thought. A script doesn’t have to be spoken out loud for a partner to hear it.

‘I’m learning, Owen, I’m an intern. I do a range of stuff on the paper and some of it’s light, some of it’s more meaty. That’s how it should be. I’ve
told you before, they don’t let you loose on the major stories till you’ve learned how to produce decent, unfancy copy to a deadline. Anyway, in tomorrow’s edition I’ve a
double-page spread on keeping street-safe. That’s not fluff. And what’s more, I managed to sneak in a plug for the Revolution bookshop’s self-defence classes. Rosa let it go
through because it was just a tiny mention in a list, but even so, it was there. I did text Vikki to let her know it’d be in.’

‘Oh, yes, she said. She was pretty pleased. Well, she’ll tell you all about it on Saturday.’

‘Your father was a hamster and your mother smelt of elderberries!’
a man shouted from the other side of the bar.

‘Wrong way round. It was his MOTHER who was a hamster.’

‘—Hung like a hamster—’

‘Hamsters have massive balls—’

Owen folded the newspaper away. ‘Actually, there’s something I need to tell you about Saturday.’

‘The barbecue?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Sounds ominous.’

‘Not really.’

‘How do you mean, “not really”?’

‘Well.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘You haven’t to let on I told you because it’s supposed to be a secret, but Vikki and Keisha are getting engaged.’

‘What? No. Wow! That’s terrific! I had no idea.’

‘Yeah, so when they announce it, you need to do a shocked face.’

‘OK. And the reason you’ve told me in advance and so ruined my chance to be genuinely surprised is . . . ?’

‘The wedding’s booked for next April and they want you to be an usher. I thought you’d like a heads-up on that.’

‘An
usher
?’

This was a bolt from the blue. Not the marriage bit – those two were practically married already – but that they wanted me involved. Me. In some sort of responsible role.

‘Don’t stress,’ Owen went on. ‘It’s not like being a bridesmaid or a best man. You won’t have to be frocked-up. I gather you just wear a buttonhole and show
people to their seats and hand out service sheets, that kind of thing.’

Our dinner arrived and I took a moment to sort out my cutlery and think the news through.

‘God, does this mean I have to organise a hen do?’

‘Nah. Keisha’s sister’s doing all that. They might want you at a rehearsal the week before.’

‘But why me?’

‘Because they like you. They really do. Vikki especially. She was the one who gave me the worst ear-bashing when we split up.’

‘Was she? You didn’t tell me that. What did she say?’

‘Basically what an idiot I was.’

‘Joe! Joe!’
a male voice was calling from somewhere on the far side of the pub. The name fell on my ears like an ugly, clanging bell. I whipped my head round to look, but
the speaker was out of sight, round a corner. Oh, God, no, I thought, please don’t let it be him. Not him. Please. How stupid had I been to risk coming here? Idiot-woman. I should have argued
more, insisted we drove on past this danger zone. Joe Pascoe worked from home; it was highly likely he’d pop out for a bite at his local come lunch-time, wasn’t it? Bloody hell, we
might as well have set up a picnic table in his front garden.
‘Joe! Hoy! Marky wants a packet of peanuts as well.’

And yet, and yet, there were other Joes in the world. Why should it be him? There was no need to panic. It might be something and nothing. I’d watch the corner now and most likely a
different man altogether would walk out.

The next moment he was there, standing at the bar. He had his back to me so I could only see his crew cut, his broad, confident shoulders under his red plaid shirt, his snug-fitting jeans. That
was enough, though. My heart began to pound.

‘Yeah,’ Owen was saying. ‘Viks is your biggest fan. And my biggest critic. She said there was very little chance you’d forgive me but that if I got a second chance then I
had to grab it. And I’m so glad you came back. So glad.’

I watched, transfixed, as Joe leant on the bar top, bantered with the landlord and collected his drinks. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the detail of the transaction.

‘And Keisha too. She rates you. Even Saleem told me I was a knob for finishing with you. Doesn’t mince his words, our Saleem.’

The next moment, Joe had disappeared from view again. I could hear him, though, and his idiot mates.
‘I’m a laydee. I’m a LAYdee.’

For a minute or two I tried to carry on with my meal, but my mouth had dried up and my throat gone tight with hatred. Next to me, Owen tucked into his pie as if he hadn’t eaten for days.
Mostly he doesn’t care much about food, his mind being on higher things, but when he gets ravenous he just wolfs whatev-er’s around. I could see he was totally focussed on the plate in
front of him. In fact he was so absorbed, he didn’t notice at first when I stood up.

If destiny was going to torment me by dropping Joe into my path like this, then there must be a reason for it. This encounter was meant to be. I had an opportunity. It was up to me to act.

‘Oh, you OK, Jen?’

‘Need the loo.’

I set off after Joe. I didn’t exactly know what I was going to do when I got there, I just knew I had to confront him. Inspiration would come.

As soon as I came round the corner I saw them. Four thirty-something men, flushed and happy with themselves, sitting at a large round table. The table top was strewn with balled-up serviettes
and empty beer bottles and food that had spilled from their plates. I shrank back for a moment, out of sight, and listened in to their conversation.

‘Do you remember when you nicked that charity bag off a woman’s doorstep and brought the clothes into school?’ one was saying.

‘Aw, yeah. That was ace. And we all had a go at trying stuff on.’

‘You had to stick your hand in blind and then whatever you pulled out, you had to wear.’

‘Pair of pants, I ended up with, but I couldn’t get into them.’

‘Story of your life.’

‘Didn’t you have a bra, Maz?’

‘That was deliberate. He was searching for one.’

‘Suited him.’

‘He’s got the moobs for it.’

‘And after, we threw the rest into the tree. I got the highest. I got a belt right up in the top branches.’

‘Joe got a tie higher up than that. No one could reach it. It was still there when I left in Year Eleven.’

‘Go, Joe!’

A roar of laughter.

Revulsion, as physical as nausea, overcame me. This was it. Time to act. Payback for my sister with her doodled page of hearts and moons; for Ned and his innocent loyalty; for my parents’
grief in the years they watched their daughter shrink and pine. How dare Joe Pascoe sit there sniggering with his mates? Someone needed to show him for the git he was.

I took a deep breath, stiffened my shoulders and marched round the corner. They weren’t even looking at me. I went right up to the table so I was practically touching it and, in one
seamless movement, picked up Joe’s nearly full pint and poured it over his head.

The effect was electric. All talk stopped at once as they stared, goggle-eyed. Joe himself I’d expected to splutter and flap about under the onslaught, to shout and protest, but instead he
sat there, blinking in a comedy way as the fluid trickled over him and darkened his shirt. His cool reaction made him master of the moment, and I hated him even more. Only when the beer was
finished did his hands come up to wipe his eyes and brow.