Brass Page 13

  Millie

  We park up along the sea front. The beach is empty. The clouds have dissolved into the blackness allowing the moon to cast a thick silver scar across the water.

  We walk along the beach in silence, oblivious to the cold which causes our breath to spume like car exhausts. We remove our shoes, abandoning our feet to the lovely cold shock of the night sea which is elegiac and docile, just like the moon.

  The strong powerful rushes that overwhelmed my body for the last few hours have subsided now, leaving in its wake a smouldering happiness. Things are suddenly lucid and simple. I feel open to long meandering conversations. I want to speak, endlessly, fearlessly about life, about us, about Mum and Uni and Anne Marie and all the things that have for so long loomed so big and frightening but are now so small and penetrable. There’s so much I need to say to him right now, but somehow the silence, it says everything and more.

  The descending tide forces us back up the beach and we sit against a stray boulder and share a cigarette.

  I huddle close to him, hugging his arm and resting my head on his shoulder and I’m hit with such a staggering bolt of completeness that I almost cry.

  ‘Jamie?’

  ‘Yeah baby?’

  ‘That distance between us. I don’t know how it happened. But it’s gone now hasn’t it?’

  He doesn’t answer and my heart stills for a moment and I feel myself being sucked into the loneliness of the big black night but then he speaks and it starts up again, loud and hard.

  ‘It felt like you’d fell out of love with us?’

  ‘I think I fell out of love with myself. You and Dad. I’d die for you both.’

  His grip tightens and I point towards the big old moon which is massive and perfect, and in the distance a harbour glitters like jewels and the sea bounces its iridescent droplets of light towards us and he turns to me with molten black eyes and kisses my forehead, a gentle kiss that seeps through my skin and into my skull and explodes in its crux, a wonderful blast of energy and colour that spills down my throat and into my guts and down to my cunt and limbs till I’m just a huge ball of pleasure and then he turns my head back towards the glittery harbour and the big old moon and says,

  ‘If I could paint our friendship then that’s what it would look like.’

  The pleasure balloons and balloons, sucking the breath from my lungs and blinding me so all I can see is a brilliant light, drawing me, guiding me to something so powerful and beautiful that I never want to return to anything before it and go to anything beyond. I just want to stay in this light. Stay here forever. Never, ever going back.

  CHAPTER 5

  Millie

  Bonnie night! My favourite night of the year. Not least because of its magical location on the seasonal landscape – that brief inimitable period where autumn yields to winter, and with the promise of Christmas twinkling on the horizon. But also, for the last five years, Jamie, Billy and their pals have congregated on Sefton Park for the firework display then headed into town for The Big Mad One. The year before last was my favourite year. Jamie and Sean were still living on Parlie. They threw a Pimps and Hookers’ theme party after the bonfire and Billy and I came as hookers. His outfit was a lazy collaboration of mine and his mother’s wardrobes – white wonderbra, kilt, bedroom slippers and a Crystal Carrington style fur coat. I opted for classic Hope Street garb – Lacoste tracksuit worn two sizes too small with the legs rolled up at the knees, hair scraped back in a vicious high pony, and my face, slubbered in orange foundation. My entrance was one of the most chagrined moments of my adolescence. No one got it except Sean – the rest of them just assumed that a) I had forgotten it was a theme party and b) I had crap dress sense. My embarrassment was shot to bits, however, when moments later Billy lumbered through the door looking like the Tralala from Last Exit to Brooklyn.

  As with all Sean’s parties, there was an abundance of champagne and beak. And Billy and I gorged so much, we spent the bulk of the night marching up and down Percy Street looking for johns. There was nothing particularly momentous about that party, but with hindsight, it was one of the happiest nights of my life. We were all so close back then, such brilliant friends. Even by that Christmas, the gang had shed some of its unity and our Boxing Day lap-dancing bender for which two dozen hand written invitations had been sent out amounted to me, Jamie, Billy and Sean. Jamie was relieved. He doesn’t buy into that stag night mentality. He likes to keep things as intimate and low-key as possible. I was gutted.

  Since the ecstasy odyssey to Wales, I’ve led a fairly abstemious life. I’ve cut back on the booze – a decision that was more or less made for me by the antibiotics (which have slapped all evidence of deviant pursuits from my body) – and I’ve reinvented myself as the model daughter. I’ve cooked Dad some amazingly scrummy nosh, sent him off to Uni in ironed shirts and pressed trousers, fixed a leak in the bathroom, cleaned the yard and done the shopping. And I’ve made a huge effort with Jamie – negotiating myself around his life, rather than expecting him to fit around my timetable and nuances as and when it suits me. I’ve adopted a more congenial attitude to his Missus too. Alright, we’ll never be lunch buddies, but at least I don’t clam up whenever he mentions the M word. If Jamie wants to talk about the gold digging tip rat, I’m not going to pull a face.

  My only real shortcoming is a failure to knuckle down to any meaningful work. I’ve managed to hand in all my overdue assignments but have not as yet made a start on my dissertation. I can’t even muster up a proposal. The far-flung ideas I’ve suggested to Jacko have been rejected for one reason or another. Fifteen thousand words is a fuck of a lot to write about something you don’t feel passionate about.

  By the time I settle down to some work, it’s a quarter past midday. I kick my noggin into gear with a mug of sugary builders’ tea then sit cross-legged on the living room floor with my books spread out in front of me. I open a book and try to read but my eyes are drawn towards the window. A late autumn sky hangs raw and blue. I swivel round and away from the vista and try to concentrate on concentrating, but the depth and lustre of the sky is anchored in my mind, triggering an unshakeable restlessness. I fling the book across the floor and pick up another with a more beguiling cover. I flick to a random page. The sentences are long and complex and resist absorption.

  Time passes. I lie on my back and slide a hand into my trackie bottoms. I don’t feel horny. I haven’t done for a while but a brisk wank might purge some of this restlessness from my system.

  I slump through to the kitchen, make another inky mug of tea, then relocate to Dad’s study (a room I am forbidden to enter), on the premise that a studious environment will be conducive to study.

  I pick up a pen and try to write something.

  Time passes.

  I stare at the paper. The paper stares back.

  I spin round on Dad’s leather chair, pausing at 180 degrees to admire his ravishing collection of books. The room assumes the same methodical carelessness as his University study. His desk is littered with empty cups, unpaid bills, a dirty ashtray and a slew of change strewn haphazardly over unmarked papers, yet his books have been nurtured with a paternal tenderness. I swing back round to the desk and will myself to write. Anything! An introduction, a conclusion or a few good sentences. I settle for a smiley face with a speech bubble stemming from its ear. ‘Hullo!’ it says. ‘Hello,’ I say back. I designate it a gender by sketching in a stupendous pair of tits.

  I go upstairs and sling myself across my bed. I lie there for a while, watching a lone cloud scud across the sky. Dusk sloughs off the last patches of daylight and a drowsy calm swims over me. I close my eyes and fade into slumber.

  I wake in a blind panic. My pillow is wet with saliva. The darkness is thicker and it feels like I’ve slept for hours. I prop myself up and blink my surroundings into focus. I crane my neck round to my bedside table and fumble about for my mobile. I switch it on, anxiously willing the blank screen to light up with text. 5.30. My heart
drums with relief. I get up, stretch and play back my answer-phone messages. There are three from Jamie, each a little more urgent than the last, all reminding me that we’re meeting at Sean’s at 7.00 and to bring a change of clothes for later.

  I take a new pack of ciggies from my top drawer, open the window and perch myself on the ledge. The air is clean and cold and the sky aches with stars. A scimitar moon hangs high and aloof. All over the city, the pop and crack of early fireworks puncture the night.

  As I’m sitting there, Mum’s voice swirls into my conscience. It’s the time of year. She’s always there in my mind, but things seem so much sorer in autumn. This is the time I associate most with her, with family life. She’d pick me up from school and we’d walk home through Seffie park with the wind and the leaves flickering down from the weathered black trees and a big rusty sun blazing on the edge of the world and when we got home we’d light a fire and set the table and Mum would conjure a big, bubbling casserole. Dad would smile through the door, bringing in the dusk and everything was safe and happy and forever. I wallow in the thought for a while then fling it far, far away. I light a cigarette. I love smoking at this time of the year. Sometimes, it’s just a matter of habit, but on nights like this, I want to savour every bite of every pull. There’s something about the winter’s air that makes them sharper and fuller but they die quicker too, and leave you yearning for more. I toss the stub into Mrs Mason’s garden. My lungs are still hungry for the dirty deep buzz and I contemplate lighting another, but the phone rings aggressively downstairs. That’ll be Jamie, panicking. I race downstairs, skidding slightly on the last two steps but managing to grab the banister in time to save myself from a serious injury.

  ‘Thank you for calling Millie’s Massage Parlour,’ I purr. ‘Please select one of the following options. Press one to remove my bra. Press two to remove my knickers. Press three to caress my nipples…’

  ‘Press four to speak to my daughter?’

  ‘DAD!’

  Jamie’s familiar laugh cackles down the line.

  ‘Aaaah! Had you for a second there eh, kidder!’

  ‘That’s sick that is, Jamie Keeley! That’s just – what sort of a man even thinks like that!’

  He sounds sheepish.

  ‘Arrr, ay! Don’t be like that, Mill – not tonight! Just like, I seen your aul’ fella this morning, passed him on Prinnie. That’s how the idea come to us.’

  ‘I see. Well now you put it like that, I can appreciate all the delicate prior planning that must’ve gone into it…’

  He quits while he still can.

  I’m half way back up the stairs and the ’phone goes again. It’s Dad. My tummy just caves. I know exactly what he’s ringing about.

  ‘What are your plans for tonight poppet?’

  ‘Why?’ I ask, trying to muffle my despondency.

  ‘I thought we could go down to the Docks. Just you and your old fella?’

  ‘Could do,’ I say, ‘But didn’t they have their display at the weekend?’

  ‘Nope. Checked in the Echo. It’s tonight. How about we do that and then I’ll treat you to a spoilt supper at L’Alouette.’

  ‘Ah that’s just lovely.’ I say.

  ‘So I’ll pick you up around sevenish?’

  ‘Yeah, seven’s fine.’

  ‘Then why do I suddenly feel like I’m trying to sell you on the idea? Have you made other arrangements?’

  ‘No, don’t be silly.’

  ‘What’s with the hard-done-to tone of voice then?’

  ‘Time of the month.’

  ‘Hmmm. Not convinced but I’m not going to deny that I’m made up to be going out with my little girl tonight. We’ll have fun. We always do. I’ll see you at seven. Wrap up. It’s freezing.’

  I sink down to the floor and sit there in the darkness, listening to the tick tock of the clock from the lounge and the crack and snap of the radiators as the boiler begrudingly rises from slumber. A damp draft staggers listlessly through the hall finding every recess and creaky hollow. I sit there a while longer, long enough to feel the blackness soften and swell with the rising heat and long enough to hear the clock ding six times and then I vault up and pick up the receiver. I punch in his number but kill the call just before the ringing tone kicks in. I do this three more times but then on the fourth, take a deep swig of air and let it ring out.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘What time did you say you were picking me up?’

  ‘Seven, but it’s looking more like half past now.’

  ‘Ok.’

  ‘That all?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘See you later then.’

  ‘No, wait,’ I splutter. ‘Da-ad?’

  ‘Ye-es?’

  ‘You know tonight.’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘Would you be disappointed if I gave it a miss?’

  ‘Ahhh. Now we’re getting somewhere. I kind of guessed you’d made arrangements with your pals. I was just being selfish.’

  ‘No it’s not that,’ I say, suddenly mowed down by guilt, ‘It’s just that I’ve been a bit of a slattern where my works concerned and I’ve got a bit behind with one of my essays, so I was…’

  ‘Say no more. If I don’t see you later this evening, come meet me for lunch tomorrow yeah?’

  ‘I will, but Dad you’re wheezing you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You smoke too much.’

  ‘You drink too much.’

  ‘Love you!’

  ‘Absolutely, adore you!’

  I shower, slip into my favourite Diesel jeans, throw on one of Dad’s jumpers, brush my hair, put on Dad’s LFC bobble hat, moisturise my face, add a lick of make up and douse myself in one of the many Unisex perfumes we share. I select my glad rags for later – a black strapless dress, some MiuMiu kitten heels and a fake fur jacket I slotted from Oxfam. I bung them in an M&S freezer bag and set off with a spring in my step. I pull my hat down over my ears and throw my hands in my pockets. Everything is just tickety boo.

  * * *

  All around Mossley Hill the streets are dotted with small bonfires, some fresh and furious, others smouldering with a lazy amber flush. It’s too early to go to Sean’s, so I divert to the bonfire at the back of The Allerton Arms. It’s a strange little barrio this, a tiny council estate full of North and South enders, regarded by the wealth that girdles it as the burst appendix of L18. You’re forever hearing urban myths from freshers in the nearby halls of residence about little urchins sat round injecting heroin, ferocious girl gangs and a Rag and Bone man that sells Bang and Olufsen TVs. The reality is a placid if run-down estate comprised mainly of single mothers and old fellas.

  The bonfire is roaring wildly, flames whooshing up, clinging onto air currents and dancing dangerously with surrounding trees. Fireworks hiss and spit aloft. Catherine wheels spin and spew forth lurid sprays and rockets tear the night vault with their blazing egress. Just as you can judge a neighbourhood by its canine residents, you can also judge one by its bonfire. There are prams, tyres, an ironing board, magazines, clothes and everything imaginable, stuffed into the bonfire, emanating from the shell of a burnt-out Ford Capri. The air is baked with the toxic bite of burning plastic. Everyone is drinking and laughing and dancing to chart music booming from a couple of speakers placed within dangerous proximity of the roaring fireball. Three young scals check me with lascivious eyes. I flash them a smile and they shuffle nervously, grinning among themselves.

  All at once hundreds of fireworks riot across the night sky and the revellers recoil in a gasp of awed applause. I sidle up to a shell-suited family, wanting to be part of it all.

  Suddenly, I feel a flick against my ear and my hat’s gone. I spin round to see a tight knot of diminutive tracksuits weaving through the crowd. They vault in and out of sight for a moment before disappearing from view. The shell suits exchange amused glances. I skulk off, deflated and in need of a large shot of something.

 
I tailgate an old man into the main reception of Sean’s block of flats then take a lift to the top floor. There are three doors and I cannot for the life of me remember which is Sean’s. I take a lucky guess. Sean answers the door, bare chested and rubbing a towel through his hair. He seems a little startled.

  ‘How did you get up?’

  ‘Sorry! I should have buzzed. I sneaked in with one of your neighbours. Am I too early?’

  ‘No, don’t talk soft, come in, come in. I was just hoping to give the flat the quick once over ’fore your Royal Highness arrived.’

  I follow him into the living room, my eyes pinned to his broad athletic back. His flat is large, airy and aspires to minimalist cool.

  ‘What’s changed?’ I ask, flumping down onto the sofa, ‘Looks completely different in here.’

  He shrugs his shoulders, eyes raking over me for a second. He flings the towel to the floor then disappears into the kitchen. He returns with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

  ‘You’ve had Carol Smilie in here.’

  He pours me a glass and hands it over. Cristal. Wouldn’t be bringing that out for the lads. The bubbles spill onto my fingers which are still stained with ink from this afternoon. I twist them away from his view.

  ‘I wish. That is one beautiful Judy that is, la. Beautiful.’

  Boo-ri-full, is how he says it. He sits way back into the sofa, crosses his legs faux-casually and eyes me now with ferocious intensity.

  ‘What’s changed about you, anyway?’

  I feel my throat tighten. Sean’s a prick but he’s a good-looking bastard – and he’s fucking intimidating, too. I’m willing Jamie and co. to ring on that buzzer now! I make self-deprecating gashes to indicate eyeliner, lipstick, make-up and attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

  ‘Carole Smilie, eh? Yeah, suppose I’m having that. A few nips and tucks here and there, she’ll still be worth a wank. Wouldn’t fancy going down on her though, eh? Not at her age.’

  Sean’s not quite so comfortable, now. I can see it – it’s a real effort for him to stay languid.