Winterton Blue (30 page)

He shouldn't have pulled that stunt. But he was sick to the bones, of Carl, but of himself especially, for agreeing to be in Carl's company. They'd gone to recce the house in his van, Carl up front, unable to stop bragging to Barrett:
his
van when he got it would be twice the size; this old heap of metal was only to be expected, seeing as it belonged to Lewis; and he was only letting him in on the job in the first place because Manny had begged him.

Lewis could bear all of this, silently watching the road, not paying attention to Carl, who was rummaging around in the footwell, pinging what sounded like small stones at Barrett, who was telling him to fuck off you child, for fuck's sake. He was concentrating, trying to ignore the throbbing pain behind his eye. But then Carl did something Lewis couldn't bear: he started rewriting history.

Just like old times, mate, innit? Carl grinned, licking his lips, We used to go cruising, Gaz. Me and him and his brother. What was he called, again, your brother?

Shut up, said Lewis, his eyes on the road.

Carl turned round to Barrett, who had composed his face into a frown.

Wayne, he was called, answered Barrett, I've heard about it from your mam.

He rested his hand on Lewis's shoulder,

Bad business, that.

That's right, said Carl, But Wayne, now he wasn't a very good passenger, was he?

I said, shut up, said Lewis.

So we got this car, right, Gaz, and we're steaming, and Wayne, Wayne, he goes apeshit, goes la-la on us, and next thing you know, he tips us in the river.

It was you, said Lewis, looking for the first time at Carl.

Me? Me? C'mon, butt, that's not how it was!

As if to distance himself, Barrett leaned back into the interior of the van and let out a sigh.

Give it a rest, Carl.

Carl wasn't listening.

It was your spaz of a brother doing his dancing, he said, turning round to Barrett to demonstrate, flailing his arms in the air, And suddenly, Gaz, I'm not kidding, the whole world goes mental!

Like this, you mean? shouted Lewis, flicking off the headlights and accelerating into the trees. Through the darkness, scything through a gap in the bushes and further into the black, he thought to murder the three of them. The realization filled him with bliss: here we are again. Time has been unravelled. Only now I'm driving. And this time, we'll stay down.

Lewis pressed the pedal to the floor and jolted the van over a steep bank of earth. Directly below, a wide, shining heart-shape appeared in his vision. The second before they dropped into the black, Lewis saw that the heart was no vision; the heart was a lake. It was a reflex—not a thought or a wish—that made his foot hit the brake. It was the same reflex, twenty years earlier, which made him turn and batter the window behind his head, made him push himself up from the darkness, not caring that Wayne was still underwater, not caring about anything except getting air in his lungs and seeing the daylight break above his head.

It took them an hour to free the van from the sinking mud; by which time, Carl had recovered enough colour in his face to laugh about it.

Jokes a joke, mate, but that's going a bit far, he said, Thought we were on for another log flume.

The following morning, Lewis remembered nothing of the night before; not the recce of the house, nor the wild drive through the trees, nor Carl on the journey back, sitting where Barrett had sat, silently smoking one cigarette after another. Lewis had tried to check his kitbag the next day, as he always did, as he had to do. But his hangover was mighty, and Manny was talking at him, nagging Lewis about the mud on his boots and how he shouldn't get it on the carpet. At the time, Lewis didn't consider why his boots would be so muddy: it was as if he couldn't even see them, as if Manny had been talking to someone else entirely. Try as hard as he might, Lewis couldn't put himself in the memory at all.

But now here he is with Anna, and the empty space which had been moving around inside his head, and which he had begun to think of as a fog, is clearing. It wasn't the recce he needed to blank out, it was the memory it brought to the surface. It was remembering the crash; remembering how he had left his brother, remembering the relief at rising through the cold water, the ecstasy of breathing air, and seeing daylight and trees and people after the chill black suck of the river. Remembering how he had left his brother, and not caring, because he was alive, he was breathing air. Lewis wills the whiteness to expand again and cover this memory. He would prefer any void to this; he would like bury the moment for good. The idea that everything will be unearthed terrifies him.

Anna's head is bent to her chest; she is very still. Lewis stretches over and rests his hand on her hair.

Marta was right, she says, her voice very small, You're too dangerous to love.

Feeling about in the glove compartment, she draws out Vernon's flask, unscrewing the top with shaking fingers. It's
neat whisky, and she gulps it quickly, her eyes watering at the sting and at the confession she's just made. She daren't look at Lewis now, but when she's had enough, she passes the flask to him. He takes one sip, then another, longer pull on the neck, and passes it back. He's not sure he heard her properly; he's not sure of anything except that he loves her back, and dangerous or not, he ought to tell her.

Who were those people on the beach? she asks, finally turning her gaze on him. The engine coughs into life as Lewis turns the key; they crawl now along the deserted road.

They were part of the problem, he says, I don't really want to discuss it.

She keeps her eyes fixed on his profile, persistent.

And you still have this problem?

Lewis laughs, but it's a bitter sound.

Take your pick, he says, I have problems cubed.

Give me one, she says, holding out her palm in front of him.

He drops his speed as he approaches the town centre. He knows his time with her is nearly up.

I have these migraines—I don't know what they are. Absences. Just don't ask, okay?

Anna glares out through the windscreen.

I think I'm owed an explanation, she says. She's about to add, If we've got a future together, but he's too quick for her, his voice rising up like a slap.

No, you're not, he says, I didn't ask you to get involved, right? So back off. No one asked you to butt in.

You'd have drowned that man, she says.

Just when she thinks he isn't going to speak again, he takes a deep breath.

Yes. I would have drowned him.

Then I can't help you, she says.

He slows up in front of the guest-house. All the lights are on, and Vernon, like a worried father, is at the window, holding the net curtains above his head.

I know you can't, he says, pulling into the kerb.

Anna's mother stands in the doorway of the Nelson Suite in her old dressing-gown, a towelling turban wrapped round her head. She smells of bath salts and safety and Anna cries out when she sees her. As the mother holds her daughter, stroking her damp hair, pulling her closer, she stares at Lewis. She takes in his wet clothes and the greyness of his face as she feels her daughter shivering through the blanket. A rage, fine and sharp, courses through her.

Marta, she calls, Go and run a bath for Anna, and get her a hot drink. And you—she fixes on Lewis—You come with me.

Anna peels off her clothes and abandons them in a heap on the floor. They are stiff and streaked with salt marks. Her skin feels sore all over; the creases of her elbows, the back of her knees; she has bruises on her feet and scores of tiny scratches on her hands. In the mirror, her skin's mottled pink and blue with the cold. She rummages on the floor of the wardrobe for her towelling robe, and hears Marta calling her from the bathroom down the hall. She waits, staring at the dark wood at the back of the wardrobe, willing Marta to call again. When she does, Anna shakes her head in wonder.

I've never trusted him, says Vernon, standing in the window and looking out at his car, From the moment I set eyes on him, what did I say to you, Rita?

He turns to face the room. Lewis is leaning against the edge of the table, arms folded, staring into the flames of the gas fire. Anna's mother is sitting in her chair, her eyes fixed on Lewis.

Yes, Cabbage, thank you for that. But as Mr Caine—Mr
Lewis
—has just been telling us, it does no good to drag up the past. In fact, it only does harm.

Lewis nods. He's about to say something more when she cuts him short.

You'll forgive me for speaking plain, Mr Lewis, but we won't be able to offer you accommodation tonight. I'm sure you understand me.

I'd like to see Anna before I go, he says.

Anna's mother gets up from her chair and moves to the side-board. There are several bottles of spirits on a tray, and two bottles of raki, one wrapped in tissue paper and the other freshly opened. She pours herself a careful measure before she replies.

What's the first thing I notice, Cabbage, about a man?

Not quite knowing where this is leading, Vernon takes a guess.

Um. His eyes?

She passes Vernon a glass full to the brim, and holds out a smaller measure to Lewis. Just as he's about to take it from her, she catches his wrist.

His hands, Cabbage, I always notice a man's hands. And I noticed yours when you arrived, Mr Lewis. Yours are very strong, aren't they, and such long fingers. Artistic.

As she speaks, Lewis stares at her own fingers on his wrist, the skin tanned dark as leather.

But those knuckles, she says, Smashed up when you got here, and now look—smashed again. Not even time to heal properly.

She lets go of him and offers him the glass of raki.

I'd say, Mr Lewis, that you've got a lot of things to sort out in your
own
life before you even think of sharing it with someone. Especially if that someone is my girl.

I've said I'm sorry to have troubled you, Lewis says, I've tried to explain. But I need to see her. I have to say something.

That's all very well, says Anna's mother, But I don't think she needs to hear it. Have I made myself plain?