Written in Blood (32 page)

At this remark an upsetting little thrill had rippled through Brian’s slender frame. Agreeable yet alarming. For the words seemed to him to add a definitely clandestine gloss to Edie’s request. Hoiked it out of the simple teacher/pupil category into something quite different. He had been both relieved and disappointed when she had added,‘They’d only laugh.’

Even so the fact remained that he would, presumably, be alone with her and since their brief exchange his imagination had run lubriciously riot. In vain did he argue that the aim of the visit was basically pastoral. Inventive and spicy images still seethed.

She sat, hands on her wide-apart knees, revealing those absurdly brief, terribly tight, furry knickers. What Tom called her pom-pom shorts. Alternatively, Brian zoomed in on her ears. One a transparent spiralling unblemished shell of exquisite delicacy, the other brutally hammered by bronze and iron-like shapes - studs and pins and rings and dependent, trembling corkscrews of silver wire. He pulled a comb from her hair and it tumbled, like glowing lava, over bare shoulders.

An owl hooted. He glanced again at his wrist. Half a minute past! Thirty whole, deeply precious seconds wasted. He looked for a gate, could not find one and climbed over the railings.

By the light of a brand-new carriage lamp he could see a scrubby bit of grass littered with domestic detritus. A rusty fridge, part of a sideboard, some smashed-up tea chests and a disembowelled armchair piled with old car tyres. Next to the chair was a beer barrel lying on its side.

As Brian approached the house he heard a rattling shake then, with a terrific snarling and snapping, a dog leapt out of the barrel and flew at him. Brian yelped with fear and shot up into the air like a rocket. At once the dog doubled up on the vocal pyrotechnics, tugging on its metal chain and growling with great ferocity.

‘Sabre!’ A rectangle of golden light and Edie stood in the doorway. ‘Shut that bloody row.’ She held the door wider, smiling at Brian as he approached with admirable speed. ‘He won’t hurt you.’

‘Goodness.’ Brian gave vent to a costive chuckle. ‘Dogs don’t bother me. Quite the reverse in fact.’ Boldly he made as if to reverse his steps. ‘Here boy . . .’

‘I shouldn’t pat him, all the same.’

‘Oh. Right.’

She did not make way for him to enter the house. Brian had to squeeze by, holding his breath apologetically, giddily aware of her lovely face, a mere kiss away from his own.

They were immediately in what Brian assumed must be the sitting room, though there wasn’t a lot of space to sit. One of the walls had almost vanished behind stacks of cardboard boxes labelled Sharp and Hitachi. The black-vinyl settee, disgorging foam chippings from various gashes and splits, looked as if it had been playfully gored by a bull. In the corner was the largest television set that Brian had ever seen. Vast, matt black, state-of-the-art Technic. On top of it was a wicker basket full of plastic flowers in violent shades of red and orange, and underneath, a video. A handsome ghetto blaster played pop music, very loudly. Clothes were lying about in untidy piles and a couple of dresses hung from the picture rail on wire hangers.

Edie did not even refer to the state of the place, let alone offer excuses, and Brian could not help but be impressed. His mother would apologise for the mess if one of her quilted salmon-velour scatter cushions, Velcroed into position across the back of the chesterfield, was an eighth of an inch out of true.

‘Make yourself at home then.’

‘Thank you.’ It was extremely warm. Brian unzipped his anorak, folded it carefully , laid it on the settee and sat on it. He was touched to notice one of the computer print-outs that he had handed out, heavily notated with Biro. He coughed nervously and looked around, searching for something to say. His eye fell on the boxes.

‘You . . . er . . . go in for hi-fis then, Edie?’

‘We’re collecting them. For the Multiple Scrolosis.’

‘Excellent.’ Brian was careful to keep the surprise from his voice. ‘Keep up the good work.’ Hyuf, hyuf.

‘You wanna drink?’

‘Thank you.’

She crossed over to an old, heavily carved 1950s sideboard covered with ornaments, glasses, more plastic flowers and birthday cards and opened it, producing a totally unfamiliar bottle.

‘To whom do I wish many happy returns, Edie?’

‘Me mum. Thirty-one yesterday.’

‘Good heavens.’ Younger than me. ‘Is she . . . er . . . around at this moment in time?’

‘No. It’s her weight-lifting night.’

He wanted to ask where Tom was, but feared seeming too obvious. He knew where her father was. Doing ten years for armed robbery in Albany.

‘Put the wood in the hole, Bri.’

At a loss he stared around then noticed a door standing open in the far corner, leading to some stairs. He closed it and leaned against the panels, raising his eyebrows whimsically. Then it struck him that this stance might look a bit threatening, so he moved back into the centre where he was given his drink.

‘Bottoms up, then,’ said Edie as he stood awkwardly clutching the smeary tumbler.

‘What is it?’

‘Thunderbirds Mixed Wine.’ She grinned. ‘It’s fruity. Apples and lemons and that.’

‘Aren’t you having any?’

‘Got to keep me head clear, haven’t I?’

‘Of course. Sorry.’

‘You’ll be leading me in wicked ways, Brian.’

More to smother this wondrous notion at birth than because he was thirsty Brian took a large gulp of the liquid, which exploded between his ears.

‘All right?’

‘Absolutely.’ He clutched the back of a chair. ‘Thunderbirds are go.’

‘You what?’

Of course she would be too young for the first TV series and too old to bother with the repeats. What a stupid thing to say. She’d think he was an absolute cretin.

Eyes closed, Edie was swaying now to the music, the arch of her back as strong, slender and supple as a steel spring, balancing gracefully on spiky, high-heeled shoes of patent leather that seemed slightly too big for her. Brian wondered if they belonged to her mother and the thought impelled feelings of excited tenderness. He boldly joined in, shifting clumsily from one foot to the other and clicking his fingers - off the beat, his ear for music being even worse than his ear for dialogue.

‘You wannanother drink?’ She had stopped dancing.

‘Better not. Thank you.’

‘Sit down then.’

Brian looked about him. The single armchair held video and audio tapes, freebie newspapers, some tights and a plate streaked with tomato sauce and dried egg yolk. He gravitated back to the settee.

This also held a certain amount of debris. Edie threw it all over the back. This move involved both kneeling and reaching and the narrow band of Lycra posing as a skirt was so tautly stretched that Brian could clearly see the cleft between her buttocks. He broke out into a warm glow, which he put down to the excessive heat from a three-bar electric fire.

‘So, young Edie.’ Keep it light and jocular. ‘How can I help?’ She bounced down beside him.

Well, fair enough. There was nothing in that. In fact, looking at it from a purely practical viewpoint, it was the only sensible place to choose. Not a lot of point in her sitting miles away in that cumbersome old armchair. If this was going to be a counselling session - and all the signs indicated that it was - then proximity was of the essence. He only hoped he would be able to hear what she was saying over the music. The driving, chopping beat was splintering his skull. He would have liked to ask that it be turned down, or even off, but was afraid she would think him square and middle-aged.

Edie settled, tucking her legs beneath her. Her shiny black tights had a single run, starting at the left knee and disappearing inside her leopard-spotted bandeau of a skirt. Somehow Brian dragged his eyes from the ladder and ordered his frenzied imagination to stop picturing its final resting place. Then he asked once more what he could do to allay her anxieties.

He spoke softly, knowing she would not be able to hear him, and, to his relief, the ploy worked. Edie got up and switched off the ghetto blaster at the plug. The fiery blooms on the television set also ceased their dazzle, wilting immediately into a tired bunch of dusty grey plastic.

‘Thing is Brian,’ she sat down again, surely fractionally closer than before? ‘I’m never going to be able to stand up in front of all them people.’

‘Of course you are. Once you step on-stage all those nerves will vanish. Believe me, I know.’

‘Then there’s my accent. I reckon she should talk better. More like a receptionist.’

‘Your accent’s perfect for the part.’

Even as he spoke it struck Brian that the remark might have been better phrased, for the character in question was a sluttish, foul-mouthed drug-addicted scrubber, on the dole and on the make when she wasn’t on the game. A type in fact not a million miles removed from Denzil’s deceased auntie, who made medical history, according to her nephew, by producing a death rattle in the vagina.

‘Actually,’ the fingers of her right hand, resting lightly on the edge of her skirt, curled inwards. Disappeared. ‘I find her whole personality difficult. She’s the sort that really gets on my tits. Know what I mean?’

‘Errkk . . .’ Brian, mesmerised by the shifting movements beneath her skirt (was she stroking? scratching?), croaked, ‘Let’s hot-seat this one Edie, OK? Now - no pause for thought - one, two, three - why?’

‘The way she keeps pretending she don’t fancy Mick when it’s dead obvious she’s dying for it. Me - I’d come right up front and tell him.’

‘Ah - but that’s the fun of acting.’ He got the words out, though his voice had knots in. ‘Living the life, just for a while, of someone quite unlike yourself. You see, Edie, that’s the whole point of art. To sublimate brute facts.’

‘You’re really deep, Brian.’

Brian, about as deep as clingfilm but not nearly so useful, gave a falsely deprecating shrug.

‘But,’ continued Edie, ‘when you’ve finished sublimating, aren’t you just back where you started?’

Faced with this shattering perception Brian found himself lost for words. Edie looked at him hopefully for a moment then, with an air of disappointment, turned sadly away.

Shame that he had failed her jostled in Brian’s mind with a ravenous hunger as he studied that exquisite profile. Tiny parrots swung from golden perches in her ears. Wooden, brilliantly painted birds. Above one of them a question mark composed of punctures where all the studs and screws and pins had been. Observing this he became aware of a disturbing longing. A need to fondle, bite and kiss the grubby lobe. He put his hands together, trapping them firmly beneath his denimed knees.

‘Your wife know you’re round here, Brian?’

‘No.’ He arranged his features into a deep puzzlement, making it clear just how incomprehensible he found such a question. ‘She wasn’t in when I left. But I’m often out on school business. I don’t always give chapter and verse.’

‘Must be lovely to be married. Have your own little house and family.’

‘Don’t you believe it.’ Brian produced an arch but slightly anaemic hyuf, hyuf. ‘A man can die of domesticity.’

‘You’re not dead.’

‘I am inside.’

He regretted the words instantly. It was one thing for him and Edie to be equal when rehearsing. Be a hundred per cent open, there for each other and so forth. Quite another for him to reveal intimate and, worse, deeply unflattering aspects of his private life. It never occurred to Brian that displaying a deeply discontented and envious state of mind would endear him far more quickly to his group than the patronising jollity he familiarly employed.

‘Ohh Bri . . .’ Edie sighed and rested her hand, laden with rings, sympathetically on his knee. ‘I’m ever so sorry.’

Brian flinched. His mouth was dry as sand. He stared down, almost cross-eyed with tension, at the badly chipped cyclamen nails.

‘All that was strictly
entre nous
, Edie.’

‘You what?’

‘I wouldn’t want you to tell anyone.’

‘What sort of person do you think I am?’ As quickly as she had leaned towards him she jerked away, her young face cold and hard. ‘You got a funny idea about friendship, you have.’

‘Oh - forgive me. I didn’t mean - Edie? Don’t go . . .’ But she was already walking away. He watched her swaying across the sculptured whorls of purple carpet, watched the high, deliciously rounded leopardy buttocks jostling sweetly, cheek by cheek, against each other and thought that any minute he might well pass out. Now she was at the sideboard uncorking the Thunderbirds.

‘Wannanother?’

‘Yes! Yes, please. Thank you, Edie.’ He didn’t, but if it brought her back to his side perhaps he could . . . Could what?

‘Then we can do my lines, if you like.’

She seemed to be pouring one for herself as well this time, looking across at him and smiling as sociably as if their sharp little exchange had never happened. This rapid and seemingly irrational change of mood, which was common to them all, was one of the things that Brian found hardest to understand. He himself was much given to sulking and withheld forgiveness relentlessly.

‘I gotta get them DLP,’ said Edie. ‘That right?’

‘Spot on.’

‘Remember what Denzil said it stood for?’

‘No.’ A lie, for even now, in fantasy, her lips and tongue nuzzled inside his jeans.

She put another tape in the ghetto blaster, this time disconnecting the florist’s lament. The music was slow, sweet and quiet.

‘Like it?’

‘Very much.’

‘So . . .’ She gave him his drink, sat next to him and said, ‘Link up, then.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Like friends do.’

She slipped her arm through his then lifted her glass to her mouth, which movement drew their faces close. Her breath smelt of cigarette smoke and salt and vinegar crisps and an underlying pungency that reminded him of the science lab and that he recognised later as pear drops. Locked together thus, struggling and laughing, they drank. In his excitement and nervousness Brian spilled most of his.