Summer of '76 (10 page)

The fingers press against his skin. ‘I thought you were dead,’ Martin says, his voice quiet, shaking.

‘I’m so hot,’ says Luke, waggling his head weakly, feeling the sweat inside his helmet spreading at the base of his neck. ‘Can you get this thing off me?’

Martin bends over him and releases the chin strap, cradling his head as he eases it off. He lowers himself to the ground and lies beside Luke, gazing up at the same patch of night sky.

‘I really thought you were dead,’ he says, his words turning into a swallowed sob.

And then it rains; heavy, wonderful drops of rain that soak into their T-shirts and slick back their hair.

When Luke and Martin finally arrive home in Blake Avenue, the rain-glossed street is in near darkness and they cut the engines at the top of the road, quietly wheeling their scooters along the path and into Luke’s driveway.

‘Want to crash here?’ Luke whispers, shaking the rainwater from his helmet as he stands on the front doorstep, wincing at the dull corset of pain now encircling his torso.

‘Yeah. I don’t fancy bumping into my dad this late. I said I’d be back about half-eleven.’

‘What will he say when you don’t come home at all?’ Luke asks, carefully slotting the key into the lock. He turns it slowly and eases open the door.

‘Dunno. But I’d rather face him tomorrow than tonight.’ Martin rubs the tops of his arms vigorously, smoothing over the goosepimples.

Inside, the smell of sweet and sour sauce hangs in the hallway. The house lights are all out except for the one in the bathroom, which is always left on in case Kitty wakes in the night. Luke grabs a towel from the rail and rubs it over his
damp arms and legs before handing it to Martin, who does the same, draping it over the radiator when he’s done and glancing at his bedraggled hair in the half-light of the hall mirror.

Luke leads them through to the kitchen, where he flicks on the lights and closes the door with a soft click. ‘Dad’s been out with Simon,’ he says, keeping his voice low. ‘Wonder if there’s any leftovers.’

An array of Chinese takeaway boxes covers the worktop, and Luke flips the lids off each in turn, unearthing four prawn balls, half a tub of special fried rice and an almost full bag of cold chips.

‘Bingo,’ he says. As he reaches up into the plate cupboard, a spasm of pain cuts through his ribs, causing him to drop against the sink. ‘
Man
,’ he growls into his fist.

Martin puts down his helmet and helps Luke to the kitchen table where he can ease himself on to the wooden bench. ‘Maybe we should’ve got you to the hospital?’ he says, frowning hard.

Luke shakes his head, lifting his T-shirt to look at his injuries properly. His torso is red and blotchy, turning darker around his sides as the bruising starts to come through. ‘I’ll be alright,’ he says, grimacing. ‘Just get me some of that food and I’ll feel a lot better.’

Martin pinches his bottom lip between his forefinger and thumb. ‘But if it gets worse, you’ll get it looked at?’

‘Yes! And grab one of those bottles while you’re at it. I need a drink.’ He waves his hand towards Mum’s DIY wine rack, still filled with leftover white Château Wolff.

Martin divides the cold leftovers between two plates and places them on the table, along with a couple of glass tumblers, the dusty bottle of wine and a corkscrew. He picks up the corkscrew and bottle, holding the two in place.

‘Give it here,’ Luke says when Martin hesitates. He screws down into the cork and places the bottle on the tiles between his feet. ‘Look, mate. Hold it like this,’ he says,
showing Martin how to grip the bottle with his shoes, where to place his hands. ‘And then pull. I think I’ll pass out if I try to do it.’

Martin follows Luke’s instructions and swiftly pops the cork from the neck of the bottle. He beams with pride, filling the tumblers to the top.

‘Cheers,’ says Luke, clinking glasses. ‘Now brace
yourself
–’ They both take a swig of wine and Luke slumps forward, silently thumping his fist against the tabletop.

Martin’s bony Adam’s apple visibly rises and falls as he swallows. He flexes his fingers in and out with a wince. ‘That’s strong.’

Luke’s laughing, clumsily wiping away his tears. He reaches for the bottle and tops up their glasses. ‘It’s a bit like vinegar. But I bet it’s good for pain relief.’

Martin stretches out his long legs and chews away at the cold chips, gazing into space like a grazing cow. ‘Why d’you think Len went so mental tonight?’

Luke shakes his head. ‘He’s been building up to it for years.’

He thinks of the day when they were thirteen, when the police were called down to the rocks at Whitecliff Bay, where Len’s brother had just washed up on the shoreline, a week since he’d last been seen stumbling out of the Jolly Roger at closing time. Len had been one of the last to hear about it; Luke had talked him into cycling down to Blackgang Chine that afternoon, to see if they could sneak in to look at the new season’s attractions, and by the time they’d got back, after dark, Len’s mother was hysterical, ranting in the doorway when they arrived. Len had dropped his bike against the metal steps of the caravan and pushed his mother inside. ‘What’s up?’ Luke called after him, but Len didn’t even look back; he just slammed the door and that was that. Luke didn’t see him again for the rest of that summer, and when they returned to school in September the gulf between them had just been too great.

Martin takes a pensive sip of wine. ‘I think it was what you said about his mum sleeping with her brother.’

Luke chokes, coughing hard, spraying wine sideways as he tries to catch it behind his hand. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he says, recovering, wiping the mess from his lap. ‘Yeah. That did seem to trigger his psycho attack.’ He reaches across the table for the wine. ‘I think I touched a nerve there.’

‘So, do you think it’s true?’

‘No, you plank! I just said it to – well, I don’t know why I said it. To wind him up, I suppose. I’m just fed up with him hassling you all the time, man. Like I say, he’s a fucking idiot.’

Martin looks embarrassed and he looks down at his hands. ‘I just kind of froze. You know?’

Luke finishes off the last of the wine and stacks the empty plates by the sink. ‘Man, forget it. I know fighting freaks you out. And anyway, he wouldn’t have flipped if I hadn’t said what I said, so it’s my fault. Don’t worry about it.’

They creep out of the kitchen and into the living room, in search of cushions to make up Martin’s bed. Luke flips on the main light.

‘Piss off!’ Dad mutters from his sleeping position on the sofa, waving a fist in the air. His eyes are still closed, and he freezes momentarily before his body goes slack again and he flops back against the cushion with a small snore.

Luke pushes Martin backwards out of the room, grabbing a couple of cushions before pulling the door closed. Handing them to Martin, he squeezes his eyes shut, punching out into the hallway in an imitation of his dad, taking a feeble swipe at Martin. He laughs hard, thinking better of it as he clutches his sides again.

‘What’s up with him?’ asks Martin, looking bemused as he follows Luke down to his bedroom.

‘He’s had a skinful,’ Luke replies, indicating for Martin to pull out the sleeping bag from beneath his bed. ‘Teachers’ night out – it’s always the same. He goes out telling Mum he
won’t be too late, then rolls in shit-faced with a bag of curry, making loads of noise. Trouble is, he’s a rubbish drinker. He’ll be like a dead man for the rest of the weekend.’

‘Why does he do it, then?’

‘Peer pressure. It’s always a big session when Simon’s involved. It drives Mum mad. She kicked Simon out the other night when they turned up late after the pub. I couldn’t believe it – I heard her tell him to get back to his own wife and leave us in peace. Dad tried to step in and calm her down, but she wasn’t having any of it – I’ve never heard her talk to
anyone
like that before. She called him a cuckoo.’ He picks up one of his own pillows and passes it to Martin to add to the makeshift bed, before helping to roll the sleeping bag out over the cushions. ‘Honestly, man.
Teachers
. You’d think they’d know better, what with all that responsibility. Mum always says the trouble with Dad is that he can’t bear to miss out on anything. So he’s always the last one at the end of a party, always wanting to be at the centre of everything. And even if he’s not, he’ll try to convince you that he was right there when it all happened. Like the festival they had up at Wootton in ’69. He tried telling me he got to go backstage with Bob Dylan, that he was one of the lucky few, ’cos he only played for an hour. Turns out he was round at Nan’s house all evening, keeping an eye on things because she was a bit worried about a couple of tents that had turned up in her back garden overnight.’ They both laugh. ‘Nan says he’s one of nature’s show-offs.’

‘Like a peacock,’ says Martin, kicking off his shoes.

Luke steps out of his jeans and pulls on his pyjama bottoms. ‘
Just
like a peacock.’ He eases himself into bed, holding on to his breath to stop from crying out, exhaling slowly. ‘Him and Mum will have had a fight when he got back – that’s why he’s on the sofa.’

Martin balls up his T-shirt and throws it across the room, wriggling down inside the sleeping bag, which only just reaches below his armpits. He lies flat out, his long arms
resting alongside his body. ‘What do they fight about? Your mum’s so nice; I can’t imagine her arguing about anything.’

Luke thinks about it for a few moments, replaying the argument he overheard before he went out to meet Martin. Dad had come in from chatting to Mike Michaels over the garden wall, saying that Mike had suggested they pair up for John and Marie’s party at the end of the month. Mum lost her temper, and when Dad said Mike was only offering them a lift Mum called him ridiculous and naive and kicked him out of the kitchen altogether.

Luke glances across at Martin lying prone on the floor, his damp hair looking as if he’d never had his posh haircut at all. He pulls the light cord above his bed and shifts himself on his pillow, flinching at the deep ache of his ribs. ‘I’m not sure really. Something’s going on but I’m not sure what. There’s something about these parties they’ve been going to that’s got them all worked up.’

‘The McKees’ parties?’ Martin asks softly.

In the darkness, tiny bursts of white light play behind Luke’s eyelids. After a moment’s silence, he asks, ‘Did
I
tell you about the McKees’ parties, mate?’

‘No,’ Martin replies, haltingly. ‘But I’ve heard about them.’

‘Who from?’

‘The delivery driver who comes for the picture frames. He was talking about it last week when I was helping him to load up the order.’

It feels as though the air has been sucked out of the room.

‘What did he say about them?’

Martin shifts in his sleeping bag, the rustle of it clear and sharp in the darkness.

‘Mart?’

After a moment’s pause he speaks. ‘He said they’re all
at it
. That it gets quite wild.’

Luke stares at the slice of light that cuts over the top of the
closed bedroom door. The oily swill of takeaway and wine weighs heavy in his stomach and he tries to push away his growing urge to throw up.

‘Mate?’ Martin sounds worried.

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s probably all rubbish, you know. I mean, your mum wouldn’t get involved in something like that, would she? It’s bound to be just gossip.’

‘Yeah. I know,’ Luke replies and he turns over to face the other wall, wincing in pain. ‘Night, mate.’

Luke and Martin both wake with pounding heads, as the sun pours in through the front window, illuminating the tiny bubbles clinging to the sides of the half-drunk pint of water that sits on the desk. Luke summons up the strength to push himself out of bed and hobbles across the room, picking up the glass and draining it thirstily.

‘Jesus,’ he says, running his hands up over his face and sticking his tongue out in a grimace. ‘That wine of my mum’s is
filthy
.’ He eases off his stinky T-shirt and examines his bare torso; the bruises have darkened in the night, coiling around his ribs, up across his chest.

Martin props himself up on to his elbows. ‘Does it really hurt?’ he asks.

‘I think this must be what it feels like when you’ve been run over. Or kicked by a camel.’

‘What will your folks say?’

Luke scowls. ‘I’m not going to tell
them
, am I? And nor are you. Anyway, my face is fine, so they’ll be none the wiser.’

Martin stands, nudging the sleeping bag away with a bony foot and reaching under the bed for his crumpled trousers. ‘What are you gonna do about Len?’

‘I won’t have to do anything. Except show Samantha
this
when I next see her at work. I’ll probably leave it a good few days – make sure all the bruising has a chance to come
out. Let’s see if she still wants to go out with him when she’s seen his handiwork.’ He takes a good look at himself in the wardrobe mirror before pulling on a long-sleeved shirt and adjusting the collar.

In the kitchen, they find Dad making tea and toast, whistling along to the radio, a towel slung over one shoulder. Luke goes straight to the sink, filling two glasses with water and dropping a couple of soluble aspirins into each.

‘Didn’t expect to see you up so early, Dad,’ he says. ‘Thought you’d still be out for the count. You were in a right state when we got back.’

‘People in glass houses,’ Dad replies, pointedly eyeing the fizzing aspirins.

Martin takes his glass and sits at the table, swilling the little white pills around in circles until they soften and break up altogether. He’s got deep, dark rings beneath his eyes.

‘You told us to piss off,’ Luke says brightly. He scrunches up his face and punches out blindly in a mimic of his dad. ‘Uh? Uh?’ He laughs, clutching at his sides.

‘Judging by the state of you two, I can only assume
you
had more than your fair share of lemonade shandies. What did you get up to last night?’

Luke slides on to the bench opposite Martin. ‘Went to see
The Omen
.’