http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
My mother had a boyfriend? Paul’s outburst had hit home, and no mistake. I was gobsmacked. Wordlessly, I watched my brother making a brave attempt to get a grip on himself. For my own part, I resorted to taking deep breaths as I struggled with the implications of what I’d just heard. Indigestible at first, the notion of my mother having someone special in her life other than us became slowly less offensive. The longer I thought about it, the more I almost warmed to the idea. She was, after all, an attractive woman. Well, not bad for forty plus. It was inevitable, I supposed, that she would get lonely sometimes.
I started with surprise. It hadn’t even entered my head before that my mother might be lonely. My thoughts strayed to Billy. I found myself reflecting how empty my life had been before we discovered each other. Worse, I tried to imagine how it would be without him. Panic spread to my bowels. An old saying sprung to mind that I had always thought rather silly, but which now assumed a new, awful significance. I felt, indeed, as though someone had walked on my grave…
“It’s Peter Short, the creep!” Paul blurted and caught me off-guard with a short, sharp shock to the brain cells.
“Peter Short the librarian, her boss? I was incredulous. That my mother should have landed her boss of all people, assigned her to an altogether different category than I would have placed her in. Not that Short was a big fish, he wasn’t. This was not, however, a scenario I’d have attributed to our homely if sometimes over fussy Mum. I couldn’t resist an appreciative whistle. Paul’s glowering expression only intensified.
I shrugged, “You have to hand it to her, I suppose.”
“I was right. You don’t give a damn!” he yelled, leapt to his feet, and stormed out of the room. Wearily, I watched his disappearing back. Seconds later, I heard the door of his room, the one next to mine, slam resoundingly. Mum had gone to church or the crash would have brought her at the double, doubtless prepared to do battle (as usual) with me. At the same time, I vaguely recalled some past mention of Short’s being a lay preacher, and a wicked chuckle tickled my throat.
I went after Paul and promptly made matters worse between us by failing to knock on his door. If looks could kill, I’d have dropped dead on the spot. By this time, tears were streaming down his face. I snatched box of tissues from where it lay on a cupboard beside the bed and tossed it into his lap. “Suppose you blow your nose and pull yourself together, eh?” I muttered, not unsympathetically. Slightly mollified, he followed my advice. “Now,” I began after he had used up several tissues, “what’s with Mum and this Short character?” He merely kept sniffing. I sprawled in an armchair chair that was taking up far too much room in the opposite corner and waited. It had been our father’s favourite chair, but no one could face seeing it in its old place downstairs so it had found its way to Paul’s room, although no one could quite recall how or when exactly.
As a woman without a man, Paul proceeded to insist, our mother was vulnerable, especially as it wasn’t quite three years yet since Dad died. I shrugged and was inclined to agree while also trying hard to be fair.
“She was bound to meet someone sooner or later,” I put to him. But Paul was having none of it. He glared, wrinkled his nose in disgust and went on to relay a list of known assignations, late homecomings and various other miscellany concerning our mother and Peter Short. Among these were tables-for-two bookings he’d overheard mum discussing on the phone as well as concerts at the Town Hall and occasional tea dances at the Community Centre. I hid a smile. The way he told it was pure soap opera. Unfortunately, Paul misread my body language.
“You couldn’t care less, could you?” he accused me again with renewed vigour. By now he had recovered a vestige of self-confidence, the more so for turning the full blast of his misery on me. “I dare say it wouldn’t even bother you if she went and married the bastard!”
We both lapsed into a shocked silence. I may have been thinking I could get used to the idea of my mother having a boyfriend, but that was all. Any suggestion that she might marry again was inconceivable.
I felt physically sick.
Neither Paul nor I were into religion. Even so, the prospect of our mother being married to anyone but our father struck as both as a kind of blasphemy. I sought bleak refuge in a glossy portrait of Kylie Minogue on the wall.
“We can’t just sit back and do nothing,” I agreed. Kylie pouted approvingly, although I dare say it was a trick of the light. “We’ll have to show an interest, get involved. Better to know what’s going on than rely on guesswork. We could be making wild assumptions here.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“No, just that…”
“Do you honestly think I’d make something like this up?” he flung at me. “It’s true, I tell you. If you don’t believe me ask Hayley’s mum. She saw them together at that posh new restaurant in Bridge Street, the one that charges for a glass of bloody tap water!”
It was indicative of how distant we had become with each other that I had to rack my brains to place Hayley, let alone her mother. Oh, yes, Billy’s cousin. I seemed to recall a pretty but loud type with whom Paul had gone around a lot at one time. Ah, but hadn’t they quarrelled? Now I remembered also that he’d wasted no time replacing her with a girl called...Oh, yes, Kelly. Whatever happened to poor Kelly, I wondered and did this mean Hayley was flavour of the month again? I studied my brother, supposed he wasn’t bad looking in spite of his acne, but still couldn’t see for the life of me what girls saw in him. It had to be the athletic build and all-round sportsman factor, I decided. Even so, Paul had attracted girls like a magnet since he was a toddler. I, on the other hand, had never felt comfortable with the opposite sex, not in that way anyhow.
I had an idea. “We’ll get mum to invite him round for supper,” I declared. Paul stared at me in wide-eyed disbelief. “What better way to get things out in the open without being too…”
“Obvious? You are joking?”
“I was going to say, judgemental. Maybe they’re just…”
“Good friends? Huh!”
“At least we should hear what they’ve got to say, not jump to conclusions. This way, we can keep an eye on things and…”
“Put the boot in, yeah, right!”
“Take one step at a time,” I had to correct him yet again, “Mum won’t thank us for charging in like bulls in a china shop and telling her how to run her life. No, we’ll show her we’re cool about it. It’s worth a shot, surely?”
“But supper…?” he groaned, “Imagine sitting round the table with a librarian! What do we talk about, Harry Potter?”
“Why do you always have to be so damn negative all the time?” I snapped, “We don’t know if Mum’s serious about this Short guy or not. For all we know, he may turn out to be a nice bloke who’s…”
“Lonely? Yeah, yeah, I dare say. So who wants to be saddled with some stick-in-the-mud librarian, for crying out loud? But Mum, she’s a big softie, right? Worse, she’s vulnerable since dad died. If that isn’t a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is!”
“There’s no talking to you!” I flared and ran out of the room. I was angry, but not with Paul. I had been on such a high after Brighton. Now I felt as though I’d been ripped to pieces by the cut and thrust of everyday life. And I hated it. At that precise moment in time I hated my mother and brother only marginally less than I loved them.
Business at the café that afternoon was steady enough, but hardly brisk. I was not expecting to see Billy. He’d rarely shown his face in the café since distancing himself from his biker pals although, to my dismay, he continued to see Maggie Dillon on a regular basis. I kept telling myself they were old friends, after all, and he was entitled to see whomsoever he liked. I wasn’t jealous. No? Who am I kidding, I demanded of a patch of stained Formica on the counter? Even so, I easily convinced myself that I meant far more to Billy than she ever had. Sex aside, he and I were discovering new levels of companionship all the time.
A few nights earlier, Billy and I had gone to The Black Swan. Shaun Devlin was there with “Loopy” Lou Simmons. (Everyone called her that, presumably because she gave the appearance of being slightly retarded. It was cruel, but such is human nature. No one understood what on earth Shaun saw in her.) Billy and I would have sneaked away. but Shaun spotted us, came loping over with a huge grin on his face and insisted we join them. As things turned out, it was a good evening. Shaun was a fun character to be with, especially after a few pints. Lou surprised me. She was a quiet sort, but when she did choose to make a contribution it was with a dry humour that had us all in stitches.
Billy opened up to me that evening. I realized how much of him had remained closed to me, how little I really knew. He plainly enjoyed playing stooge to Shaun’s drollery, and I discovered that he also had a rare talent for mimicry. Neither Shaun nor Lou displayed the slightest curiosity at my being with Billy. Shaun and I were, of course, old friends. Lou, I hardly knew, but felt as if I had known her for years after just one evening in her company. Later, as the four of us parted, there were hugs all round and much vowing to do it again sometime. As things turned out, though, we never did.
“Are you going to serve me, young Rob, or do I have to serve myself?” The gravel voice of old Marge, the town’s bag lady, voice broke into my thoughts and hauled my consciousness back to a dreary Sunday afternoon. She had wandered in as she did every Sunday, rain or shine, clutching a shopping trolley piled high with bulging black bin bags; on top of these, sprawled Clancy, her devoted, ever-watchful dachshund. At the counter, she went through the customary ritual of searching the huge pockets of an old greatcoat. As usual, I gave her a large mug of tea on the house and a saucer of water for Clancy. Beaming broadly, she proceeded to heap the blessings of all the saints on my head in a singsong Derry brogue before shuffling away to a corner table.
For the first time, I took a step back and attempted to rationalize my feelings for Billy. What exactly did this heat in the blood mean whenever I saw him? Moreover, given that it was the same for him, what happens next? Do I tell the world I’m gay, confide in Mum and Paul?
Shivers ran down my spine, and I felt physically sick. So what did it really mean to me, to us, Billy and me, this ‘coming out’ business at which I’d shaken my hips on my eighteenth birthday and loved every passionate second of it? Was I in love with Billy Mack? Guiltily, I suspected not.
I needed to talk to someone, but to whom? My mother would be devastated, and I couldn’t imagine Paul being supportive. The only person likely to understand was Ben Hallas, and we hadn’t exchanged so much as a cursory nod in the street for weeks. I experienced a sharp stab of conscience at the way I had treated Ben, but it quickly passed. My thoughts turned to Nora Mack. What would Billy’s mum say if she knew about Billy and me, or the surly Ed? What of Billy’s mates, too? And where did Maggie Dillon fit into the picture? How can Billy say he loves me yet go on seeing her?
These questions and more continued to streak through mind and body like a succession of electric shocks all day. It was a relief to have the occasional rush; a gang of noisy kids clamouring for milk shakes; three old ladies taking forever to decide on toasted teacakes or buttered scones with their pot of Earl Grey; two youths vying for the favours of a bubbly blonde in tight shorts who was plainly feeding the situation with relish and couldn’t keep her eyes off a third youth bandying suggestive looks with her over a cappuccino at another table.
The girl was Liz Daniels, who had fallen foul of Nick Crolley’s boisterous advances only days before. Had she finally split up with Crolley, I wondered? Good luck to her if she had. There was a general consensus locally that the Crolleys were a bad lot. So how had Ed Mack become involved with them, I wondered? “Like attracts like, I guess…” I muttered aloud. I glanced at Liz again, couldn’t help but notice ample breasts heaving under a skin tight tee shirt, scarlet lips pouting provocatively. I chuckled as one of my mother’s favourite remarks sprung to mind. “Mark my words, Rob,” she’d say, “it will all end in tears.” True enough, I mused idly. Even so, I had no sense of foreboding or the slightest premonition of what lay only hours ahead.
The third youth approached the jukebox and lingered over his selection. Liz joined him. Casually, she told the others, Get lost!” A token flow of verbal abuse all round followed, and then the two other youths left. Minutes later, the third youth also left, Liz tugging on his arm as if reluctant to leave. If that were true, he paid no attention.
Gay. The word wouldn’t go away. It bounced around in my head, treating my brain like a squash court. Pouf. Queer. Shirt lifter. Perv. These were ugly, dirty expressions I’d picked up in the school playground and on the streets. They left a nasty taste in the mouth.
I got angry. There was nothing ugly or dirty about the way Billy and I felt about each other. As for sex, it had to be the ultimate intimacy, surely? What better way for two people in love to express their feelings than by sharing their bodies? Oh, the sheer freedom of it! Two people on an adventure, resolved to find, shoot back the locks and fling open… What exactly, Pandora’s Box? Why should it matter to anyone that we were two men?
As the day wore on, I began to feel better about myself and marginally less anxious. I resolved not to discuss my feelings with Billy. Self-consciously, I reflected that Billy and I discussed very little. We had never sat down and talked in any depth about what it meant to be gay, let alone the multiple implications of our own relationship.
Gay. I played with it again on my tongue. Not a bad word, that.
So what‘s going on between Billy and Maggie Dillon, I asked myself for the umpteenth time? It even intruded on our lovemaking. Once, I’d asked Billy directly if he ever imagined I was Maggie when we had sex. He’d tossed back his blond mane and roared with laughter. I felt inches high. He saw that he had hurt me, and tried to make amends. “Haven’t you noticed you’re a different shape, Rob?” He couldn’t keep a straight face, but there was kindness and love in his eyes. He kissed me and held me close for a long time. “Maggie’s a good sort, Rob,” he murmured in my ear while tickling the lobe with his tongue, “We’ve been good mates for a long time. If I want to be with Maggie, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you. Forget Maggie. There’s no competition, believe me. I want to be with you like I never thought I’d want to be with anyone in my whole life.” He’d rolled me on my back and kissed me again, his gaze more intense than I had ever seen it. I’d longed to say those words that kept eluding me, I love you. But the moment passed, overtaken by his habitual grin while Maggie’s presence slipped away during the hectic possessiveness of our lovemaking. Gone, but never quite forgotten.
So it was we’d wrestle with our sexuality, Billy Mack and I, seeking to confirm it with a sense of shared identity.
Oh, how that Sunday dragged on! My reverie was interrupted by the arrival of a customer I did not recognize although I had a sneaking feeling I should. He was chubby and dressed entirely in black; black, expensive-looking suit; black shoes, polished to an impeccable shine. Even his hair was a greasy black, combed forward to a silly fringe that did nothing for him at all. In complete contrast, he had a ruddy complexion and piercing blue eyes.
“Is Bananas about?” He had a quiet, dreary voice. Two plump hands spread stubby fingers on the counter. A gap-tooth smile did nothing to ease my growing irritation. Above an incongruously hawkish nose, shrewd eyes appraised me as a fox might a chicken run.
“No,” I said shortly, “Who’s asking?”
“Rider’s the name, Clive Rider. And you’ll be Rob, his right hand man so I’m told.” It was not a question. I nodded, hackles rearing and kicking at his smarmy manner. “So, Rob, where will I find him?”
“You could try his house or...” I glanced at my watch, “…the hospital.”
“Hospital…?” A look of genuine concern darted across the smooth, round face. My hackles relaxed a little. A twitch of the fat lips, a nervous drumming on the counter with podgy fingers and I thawed sufficiently to relate the tragedy of Ma B’s illness. “That’s a crying shame,” he commented after a long, thoughtful silence. Even so, I didn’t get the impression he meant much by it. “I can’t stand hospitals myself. I’ll not disturb him. No, it can wait.” He reached inside his jacket, retrieved his wallet and extracted a business card. “Tell him I called and I’ll be in touch soon. Oh, and tell him I’m sorry…” he added but, again, not with any real feeling. I was reminded of our grandfather clock at home. It hadn’t chimed the quarter or half hours since Dad had taken it upon himself to tinker with its delicate mechanism because it sounded ‘tired’. The hour chimes had now lost all their ponderous resonance, and were now reduced to a brief, cracked monotone.
At that moment, a flustered Doreen arrived full of apologies for being late, which she was not. I glanced at the printed card in my hand and read Clive Rider’s name, curiously hypnotized by it to the extent that I didn’t even notice him leave. Something about the little man disturbed me. But I had a café to run and no time for such fanciful misgivings.
Looking up, I gave Doreen my full attention, absently tucking Clive Rider’s card into the pocket of my apron.
Doreen was breathless and not at all her usual cheery self. She was close to tears. When I suggested that I manage on my own and she might like to go home, they broke into a flood. Nonplussed, I issued a stunned but delighted Marge instructions to watch the counter and call me if needed. She may have been the town’s bag lady but I’d have trusted her with my life. Clancy barked as if to show his appreciation too as I led a sobbing, incoherent Doreen into the staff room; so-called, that is, although it was nothing more than a converted broom cupboard.
It was only as we entered and I sat her down on the only chair that I noticed Doreen was carrying a small suitcase. What on earth’s the matter?” I demanded, sympathetically I hoped, but with some urgency. I had never left the counter before, and my faith in Marge’s ability to hold the fort was strictly limited.
I could get little sense out of Doreen. Between sobs, she mumbled something about Harry and the kids being better of without her, and I recalled Sarah’s gossipy comments about Doreen having an admirer with growing alarm. Had she left Harry? My first thought was for the café. I needed Doreen. “You should go home,” I said firmly, “and talk things through with Harry.” She turned as bleak a gaze on me as I had ever seen and burst into a renewed fit of weeping. At this point, Marge came through with a cup of tea. Doreen accepted it with such gratitude that I felt positively aggrieved. Clearly, even old Marge had a more intuitive grasp of what the situation called for than I could muster.
“Who’s watching the counter?” I snapped at Marge as the significance of her presence suddenly hit me.
“Now, don’t you worry about a thing. If anyone tries to help themselves to so much as a speck of dust, my Clancy will go for ’em. You can rely on that, young Rob, God’s truth you can.”
In my mind’s eye, I pictured Bananas dropping by and finding his beloved café in the hands of an elderly dachshund. Appalled, I left them to it and retreated to rejoin familiarity and Clancy.
Just as I returned to the counter, Billy’s former confederates arrived, noisily.
Nick Crolley, an expressionless Maggie Dillon on his arm, ordered coffee and cheese ‘n’ pickle ‘doorstep’ sandwiches, adding instructions loud enough for everyone to hear that I get my finger out and bring them over to his table. Making a mental note to leave his order until last, I scribbled it on my pad. Shaun then greeted me with warmth, and Lou smiled pleasantly. Someone yelled an order from the jukebox and the rest gathered round the counter, each shouting over the other while I struggled to make sense of it all and got stuck in.
It was not until all of them, Nick Crolley included, were eating, drinking and chatting at their various tables that Doreen and Marge emerged. Clancy gave an excited yelp upon seeing his mistress, but would not desert the various bags she had deposited in the dog’s care. Doreen gave her unlikely comforter a mug of tea and the obligatory saucer; she seemed composed, almost her old self. I heaved s sigh of relief. She flung me a tight but reassuring smile, and the reddened eyes managed a muted twinkle in response to my enquiring glance.
Less than ten minutes later, the subject of Sarah’s title-tattle arrived. I had since discovered that his name was Bryan Chester, but that was all I knew about the man. He made a bee line for that end of the counter farthest from the door and Doreen rushed to serve him; not that, as far as I could tell, he had any intention of ordering anything. They had their heads close together for a good quarter of an hour, she rabbiting earnestly in staccato whispers, and he gesticulating exasperatedly from time to time without( or so it seemed to me) having much to say. He was a lot younger than Doreen. I heaved another sigh if less relieved than curious, and kept busy.
I was carving more ham when I felt rather than heard the general din become ominously muted and looked up to see Billy approaching the counter. He was dressed in full leather gear and grinning from ear to ear. To my dismay, I saw that he was carrying a crash helmet under his arm. The grin stretching even wider, he tossed me a knowing wink to which I could not bring myself to respond. I was furious. He had said nothing to me about getting another bike, damn him. Now he would revert to being leader of the pack. Yes, and what about me?
Billy gave his usual order in confident, ringing tones. He looked more than slightly miffed, however, when I acknowledged it with a curt nod and simply got on with the task in hand. Only Shaun hailed him across the room. Then, as if given the all-clear, all heads swung towards the window. The sight of a garishly customised and obviously second-hand but by no means second rate 1000cc machine quickly raised whistles of appreciation, envy and delight. A few people went outside to take a closer look. Most, though, wasted little time in switching their attention to the corner table Maggie shared with Nick Crolley.
As if on cue, Maggie rose, sauntered up to the counter and perched on a stool beside Billy without saying a word. “Hey, make it two coffees!” Billy yelled, and I winced involuntarily, hurt to the quick because he hadn’t called me by name. I blamed Maggie Dillon (who else?) and my loathing for her brought a lump to my throat.
Nick Crolley wasted no time vaulting across the room. “You’re with me,” he growled at Maggie.
Maggie merely shrugged. “Maybe I was, sort of. Now I’m with Billy. Isn’t that right, Billy?” She laid a hand on his arm. Both Crolley and I saw red. Silently, I gave thanks to the God I wasn’t even sure I believed in that no one was paying me any attention.
I needn’t have worried. All eyes were on those three.
“That’s right,” Billy agreed, adopting a deceptively amiable expression in the face of Crolley’s fury.
A tense silence was suddenly shattered by the arrival of Harry Styles. I heard Doreen cry out. I glanced in her direction and saw the boyfriend brace himself. In that same instant, Styles spotted them. Doreen’s husband stood stock still in the doorway, fixing the hapless pair with an expression of purple rage. By comparison, the look on Nick Crolley’s face might have been due to mild indigestion.
Doreen joined her pale-faced companion on the other side of the counter.
Clancy growled.
Styles moved with unexpected speed. Coolly, wordlessly, he confronted the younger man before rounding on poor Doreen. “You’re coming home with me!” He grabbed her by the wrist.
“No, Harry, no, let me go!” she sobbed and tried to pull free without success.
“Leave her alone!” said Billy.
“Mind your own damn business!” yelled Styles without giving Billy so much as a glance. Still gripping Doreen’s wrist, he spat in his rival’s face. The younger man continued, nevertheless, to keep a possessive hold on her free arm.
“I don’t want any trouble,” I said. Abandoning the ham doorstep I was making for Shaun, and only vaguely aware that I still held a carving knife in one hand, I moved briskly to the other side of the counter.
“Wash your dirty linen somewhere else, not in my café.” I tried to inject some authority into my voice, but even to me it sounded hollow and ineffectual.
Someone snickered. Others broke into a slow handclap.
Giving no hint of his intention, Styles gave such a jerk on Doreen’s wrist that it not only wrenched her away from the younger man but also sent her flying across the room. She hit a table. Its occupants jumped up, yelling abuse. Doreen went sprawling on the floor, the table crashing after her. Among cries of protest and concern, over and above the sound of breaking crockery, Harry Styles ignored his wife and launched himself at his rival with a vicious head butt.
Bryan Chester could have given Styles a good ten years. But he was no match for an outraged husband. At one point, he seemed to lie utterly passive while Harry Styles proceeded to kick the living daylights out of him.
Shouting at me to help him, Billy attempted to drag Styles away from the bloody mass of human flesh on the floor. Shaun waded in and it took all three of us to hold the man down. Doreen had staggered to her feet by now. Rushing to kneel at Chester’s side, she kept sobbing his name and kept a tight hold on his arm even as he tried to stand. He pushed her aside with an impatient gesture that spoke volumes. After several attempts, he finally made it to his feet, swaying in all directions. Clothes torn and his face covered in blood, he grunted something unintelligible at Doreen before picking his way to the counter and leaning his whole weight against it for support. Sometimes, though, we don’t need words; a gesture says it all. No one, least of all Doreen, was left in any doubt as to what he meant. This relationship was going nowhere.
Without any warning, Doreen leapt at her husband and began screaming abuse at him while clawing at his face. Shaun relaxed his hold on the man, as we all did, and tried in vain to ward off the full force of Doreen’s savagery with his free arm. Styles saw his chance to break free and took it. A large hand seized one of Doreen’s wrists, another yanked at her hair. At the same time, he kneed her in the stomach. For a second time, she lay sprawling on the floor. Barely pausing to take a breath, Styles went for Chester again. Chester’s back was turned, but he must have sensed the other’s intention and swung round.
I swore aloud. In Bryan Chester’s hand was the carving knife I must have carelessly laid down on the counter at some stage during the worsening fracas. To this day, I have no memory of doing it. Yet, neither will I ever forget.
Harry Styles, nostrils flaring, stopped short, his sweaty face a chalky white.
Chester waved the knife at his enemy, who took a few shaky steps backwards. “Stay away from me Styles!” he screamed, “Take the silly cow and welcome, but leave me alone!”
“I’ve had enough of this!” I shouted ineffectually, “Give me the knife. Don’t worry about Harry. We’ll make sure he doesn’t hit you again. Just give me the knife and let me patch you up before you bleed to death. Call an ambulance, someone.” I moved forward and held my hand out for the knife. Nor was I trying to act the hero. Doreen, the café, the knife…All were my responsibility. It seemed the right thing to do. Chester’s hand shook. His body seemed to slacken. The knife came towards me. For a split second, I thought he was going to hand it over.
Suddenly, Clancy started barking. Everyone’s attention fractionally diverted, Harry Styles lunged at Chester who struck out blindly with the knife. I felt blood running down my cheek and heard Billy yell my name, “Rob!”
There would be numerous versions as to what happened next, who said what, did what, and in what order; all minor details, coming together on a surrealist canvas to hang permanently in a secluded cavity of my mind labelled, ‘For private viewing only.’
I recall being pushed and falling to the floor. As I fell, I was aware of being crowded, and also of a blurred flurry of movement. Someone screamed. Out of the corner of one eye, I saw Billy lurch past me. Chester lunged forward. Billy appeared to trip. The scream petered out…
An awful silence descended like a fog. As it began to clear, a lurid tableau emerged, its central characters dimming into view. Chester, his expression frozen in a horrible grimace; Shaun, looking dazed, his mouth wide open; Harry Styles, his face ashen; Doreen, Maggie Dillon at her shoulder. All were staring down at a crumpled heap on the floor.
I looked. By now the fog had lifted. Only a clammy sensation remained, making my flesh crawl.
Billy lay on the floor, horribly still. The tableau began to disintegrate before my eyes. Although there was no doubt in my mind that he was dead, all that mattered during that terrible instant of comprehension was that the carving knife protruding from his chest was the same one I had been using only minutes before.
An uncanny silence was shattered by the wail of fast approaching sirens. Of us all, only Lou Simmons had shown sufficient presence of mind to call the police on her mobile phone. It was the act of a caring person, but it earned her a good few enemies that day.
Maggie was kneeling over Billy now, feeling inside the bloodstained shirt for a heartbeat. Shaun was crying. Lou came and stood beside him, hands resting lightly on his shoulders, but her eyes as if hypnotized by the sight of that inert figure on the floor.
Billy’s face, usually so animated and full of life, already resembled a wax imitation.
Everyone had gathered around the body. I glanced up at Doreen. She clung to Harry Styles as if for dear life, her face buried in his jumper. Blue, it was, with a pattern of yellow diamond shapes. It would haunt me forever, that jumper. My gaze swivelled, without any prompting, to where Billy’s killer stood wild-eyed. Beneath the puffy flesh, streaked as it was with bruising and bloodstains, Chester’s boyish face was grey. I caught and held his eye for the barest fraction of a second. Unbidden, unwanted, a surge of pity infiltrated the bile in my throat.
I swallowed, gagging. My nerve endings began to tingle. Slowly, surely, the tragedy I had just witnessed began to penetrate my stricken senses, and with it an awful perception of my own part in it.
The sirens stopped.
CHAPTER FOUR
My mother had a boyfriend? Paul’s outburst had hit home, and no mistake. I was gobsmacked. Wordlessly, I watched my brother making a brave attempt to get a grip on himself. For my own part, I resorted to taking deep breaths as I struggled with the implications of what I’d just heard. Indigestible at first, the notion of my mother having someone special in her life other than us became slowly less offensive. The longer I thought about it, the more I almost warmed to the idea. She was, after all, an attractive woman. Well, not bad for forty plus. It was inevitable, I supposed, that she would get lonely sometimes.
I started with surprise. It hadn’t even entered my head before that my mother might be lonely. My thoughts strayed to Billy. I found myself reflecting how empty my life had been before we discovered each other. Worse, I tried to imagine how it would be without him. Panic spread to my bowels. An old saying sprung to mind that I had always thought rather silly, but which now assumed a new, awful significance. I felt, indeed, as though someone had walked on my grave…
“It’s Peter Short, the creep!” Paul blurted and caught me off-guard with a short, sharp shock to the brain cells.
“Peter Short the librarian, her boss? I was incredulous. That my mother should have landed her boss of all people, assigned her to an altogether different category than I would have placed her in. Not that Short was a big fish, he wasn’t. This was not, however, a scenario I’d have attributed to our homely if sometimes over fussy Mum. I couldn’t resist an appreciative whistle. Paul’s glowering expression only intensified.
I shrugged, “You have to hand it to her, I suppose.”
“I was right. You don’t give a damn!” he yelled, leapt to his feet, and stormed out of the room. Wearily, I watched his disappearing back. Seconds later, I heard the door of his room, the one next to mine, slam resoundingly. Mum had gone to church or the crash would have brought her at the double, doubtless prepared to do battle (as usual) with me. At the same time, I vaguely recalled some past mention of Short’s being a lay preacher, and a wicked chuckle tickled my throat.
I went after Paul and promptly made matters worse between us by failing to knock on his door. If looks could kill, I’d have dropped dead on the spot. By this time, tears were streaming down his face. I snatched box of tissues from where it lay on a cupboard beside the bed and tossed it into his lap. “Suppose you blow your nose and pull yourself together, eh?” I muttered, not unsympathetically. Slightly mollified, he followed my advice. “Now,” I began after he had used up several tissues, “what’s with Mum and this Short character?” He merely kept sniffing. I sprawled in an armchair chair that was taking up far too much room in the opposite corner and waited. It had been our father’s favourite chair, but no one could face seeing it in its old place downstairs so it had found its way to Paul’s room, although no one could quite recall how or when exactly.
As a woman without a man, Paul proceeded to insist, our mother was vulnerable, especially as it wasn’t quite three years yet since Dad died. I shrugged and was inclined to agree while also trying hard to be fair.
“She was bound to meet someone sooner or later,” I put to him. But Paul was having none of it. He glared, wrinkled his nose in disgust and went on to relay a list of known assignations, late homecomings and various other miscellany concerning our mother and Peter Short. Among these were tables-for-two bookings he’d overheard mum discussing on the phone as well as concerts at the Town Hall and occasional tea dances at the Community Centre. I hid a smile. The way he told it was pure soap opera. Unfortunately, Paul misread my body language.
“You couldn’t care less, could you?” he accused me again with renewed vigour. By now he had recovered a vestige of self-confidence, the more so for turning the full blast of his misery on me. “I dare say it wouldn’t even bother you if she went and married the bastard!”
We both lapsed into a shocked silence. I may have been thinking I could get used to the idea of my mother having a boyfriend, but that was all. Any suggestion that she might marry again was inconceivable.
I felt physically sick.
Neither Paul nor I were into religion. Even so, the prospect of our mother being married to anyone but our father struck as both as a kind of blasphemy. I sought bleak refuge in a glossy portrait of Kylie Minogue on the wall.
“We can’t just sit back and do nothing,” I agreed. Kylie pouted approvingly, although I dare say it was a trick of the light. “We’ll have to show an interest, get involved. Better to know what’s going on than rely on guesswork. We could be making wild assumptions here.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“No, just that…”
“Do you honestly think I’d make something like this up?” he flung at me. “It’s true, I tell you. If you don’t believe me ask Hayley’s mum. She saw them together at that posh new restaurant in Bridge Street, the one that charges for a glass of bloody tap water!”
It was indicative of how distant we had become with each other that I had to rack my brains to place Hayley, let alone her mother. Oh, yes, Billy’s cousin. I seemed to recall a pretty but loud type with whom Paul had gone around a lot at one time. Ah, but hadn’t they quarrelled? Now I remembered also that he’d wasted no time replacing her with a girl called...Oh, yes, Kelly. Whatever happened to poor Kelly, I wondered and did this mean Hayley was flavour of the month again? I studied my brother, supposed he wasn’t bad looking in spite of his acne, but still couldn’t see for the life of me what girls saw in him. It had to be the athletic build and all-round sportsman factor, I decided. Even so, Paul had attracted girls like a magnet since he was a toddler. I, on the other hand, had never felt comfortable with the opposite sex, not in that way anyhow.
I had an idea. “We’ll get mum to invite him round for supper,” I declared. Paul stared at me in wide-eyed disbelief. “What better way to get things out in the open without being too…”
“Obvious? You are joking?”
“I was going to say, judgemental. Maybe they’re just…”
“Good friends? Huh!”
“At least we should hear what they’ve got to say, not jump to conclusions. This way, we can keep an eye on things and…”
“Put the boot in, yeah, right!”
“Take one step at a time,” I had to correct him yet again, “Mum won’t thank us for charging in like bulls in a china shop and telling her how to run her life. No, we’ll show her we’re cool about it. It’s worth a shot, surely?”
“But supper…?” he groaned, “Imagine sitting round the table with a librarian! What do we talk about, Harry Potter?”
“Why do you always have to be so damn negative all the time?” I snapped, “We don’t know if Mum’s serious about this Short guy or not. For all we know, he may turn out to be a nice bloke who’s…”
“Lonely? Yeah, yeah, I dare say. So who wants to be saddled with some stick-in-the-mud librarian, for crying out loud? But Mum, she’s a big softie, right? Worse, she’s vulnerable since dad died. If that isn’t a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is!”
“There’s no talking to you!” I flared and ran out of the room. I was angry, but not with Paul. I had been on such a high after Brighton. Now I felt as though I’d been ripped to pieces by the cut and thrust of everyday life. And I hated it. At that precise moment in time I hated my mother and brother only marginally less than I loved them.
Business at the café that afternoon was steady enough, but hardly brisk. I was not expecting to see Billy. He’d rarely shown his face in the café since distancing himself from his biker pals although, to my dismay, he continued to see Maggie Dillon on a regular basis. I kept telling myself they were old friends, after all, and he was entitled to see whomsoever he liked. I wasn’t jealous. No? Who am I kidding, I demanded of a patch of stained Formica on the counter? Even so, I easily convinced myself that I meant far more to Billy than she ever had. Sex aside, he and I were discovering new levels of companionship all the time.
A few nights earlier, Billy and I had gone to The Black Swan. Shaun Devlin was there with “Loopy” Lou Simmons. (Everyone called her that, presumably because she gave the appearance of being slightly retarded. It was cruel, but such is human nature. No one understood what on earth Shaun saw in her.) Billy and I would have sneaked away. but Shaun spotted us, came loping over with a huge grin on his face and insisted we join them. As things turned out, it was a good evening. Shaun was a fun character to be with, especially after a few pints. Lou surprised me. She was a quiet sort, but when she did choose to make a contribution it was with a dry humour that had us all in stitches.
Billy opened up to me that evening. I realized how much of him had remained closed to me, how little I really knew. He plainly enjoyed playing stooge to Shaun’s drollery, and I discovered that he also had a rare talent for mimicry. Neither Shaun nor Lou displayed the slightest curiosity at my being with Billy. Shaun and I were, of course, old friends. Lou, I hardly knew, but felt as if I had known her for years after just one evening in her company. Later, as the four of us parted, there were hugs all round and much vowing to do it again sometime. As things turned out, though, we never did.
“Are you going to serve me, young Rob, or do I have to serve myself?” The gravel voice of old Marge, the town’s bag lady, voice broke into my thoughts and hauled my consciousness back to a dreary Sunday afternoon. She had wandered in as she did every Sunday, rain or shine, clutching a shopping trolley piled high with bulging black bin bags; on top of these, sprawled Clancy, her devoted, ever-watchful dachshund. At the counter, she went through the customary ritual of searching the huge pockets of an old greatcoat. As usual, I gave her a large mug of tea on the house and a saucer of water for Clancy. Beaming broadly, she proceeded to heap the blessings of all the saints on my head in a singsong Derry brogue before shuffling away to a corner table.
For the first time, I took a step back and attempted to rationalize my feelings for Billy. What exactly did this heat in the blood mean whenever I saw him? Moreover, given that it was the same for him, what happens next? Do I tell the world I’m gay, confide in Mum and Paul?
Shivers ran down my spine, and I felt physically sick. So what did it really mean to me, to us, Billy and me, this ‘coming out’ business at which I’d shaken my hips on my eighteenth birthday and loved every passionate second of it? Was I in love with Billy Mack? Guiltily, I suspected not.
I needed to talk to someone, but to whom? My mother would be devastated, and I couldn’t imagine Paul being supportive. The only person likely to understand was Ben Hallas, and we hadn’t exchanged so much as a cursory nod in the street for weeks. I experienced a sharp stab of conscience at the way I had treated Ben, but it quickly passed. My thoughts turned to Nora Mack. What would Billy’s mum say if she knew about Billy and me, or the surly Ed? What of Billy’s mates, too? And where did Maggie Dillon fit into the picture? How can Billy say he loves me yet go on seeing her?
These questions and more continued to streak through mind and body like a succession of electric shocks all day. It was a relief to have the occasional rush; a gang of noisy kids clamouring for milk shakes; three old ladies taking forever to decide on toasted teacakes or buttered scones with their pot of Earl Grey; two youths vying for the favours of a bubbly blonde in tight shorts who was plainly feeding the situation with relish and couldn’t keep her eyes off a third youth bandying suggestive looks with her over a cappuccino at another table.
The girl was Liz Daniels, who had fallen foul of Nick Crolley’s boisterous advances only days before. Had she finally split up with Crolley, I wondered? Good luck to her if she had. There was a general consensus locally that the Crolleys were a bad lot. So how had Ed Mack become involved with them, I wondered? “Like attracts like, I guess…” I muttered aloud. I glanced at Liz again, couldn’t help but notice ample breasts heaving under a skin tight tee shirt, scarlet lips pouting provocatively. I chuckled as one of my mother’s favourite remarks sprung to mind. “Mark my words, Rob,” she’d say, “it will all end in tears.” True enough, I mused idly. Even so, I had no sense of foreboding or the slightest premonition of what lay only hours ahead.
The third youth approached the jukebox and lingered over his selection. Liz joined him. Casually, she told the others, Get lost!” A token flow of verbal abuse all round followed, and then the two other youths left. Minutes later, the third youth also left, Liz tugging on his arm as if reluctant to leave. If that were true, he paid no attention.
Gay. The word wouldn’t go away. It bounced around in my head, treating my brain like a squash court. Pouf. Queer. Shirt lifter. Perv. These were ugly, dirty expressions I’d picked up in the school playground and on the streets. They left a nasty taste in the mouth.
I got angry. There was nothing ugly or dirty about the way Billy and I felt about each other. As for sex, it had to be the ultimate intimacy, surely? What better way for two people in love to express their feelings than by sharing their bodies? Oh, the sheer freedom of it! Two people on an adventure, resolved to find, shoot back the locks and fling open… What exactly, Pandora’s Box? Why should it matter to anyone that we were two men?
As the day wore on, I began to feel better about myself and marginally less anxious. I resolved not to discuss my feelings with Billy. Self-consciously, I reflected that Billy and I discussed very little. We had never sat down and talked in any depth about what it meant to be gay, let alone the multiple implications of our own relationship.
Gay. I played with it again on my tongue. Not a bad word, that.
So what‘s going on between Billy and Maggie Dillon, I asked myself for the umpteenth time? It even intruded on our lovemaking. Once, I’d asked Billy directly if he ever imagined I was Maggie when we had sex. He’d tossed back his blond mane and roared with laughter. I felt inches high. He saw that he had hurt me, and tried to make amends. “Haven’t you noticed you’re a different shape, Rob?” He couldn’t keep a straight face, but there was kindness and love in his eyes. He kissed me and held me close for a long time. “Maggie’s a good sort, Rob,” he murmured in my ear while tickling the lobe with his tongue, “We’ve been good mates for a long time. If I want to be with Maggie, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you. Forget Maggie. There’s no competition, believe me. I want to be with you like I never thought I’d want to be with anyone in my whole life.” He’d rolled me on my back and kissed me again, his gaze more intense than I had ever seen it. I’d longed to say those words that kept eluding me, I love you. But the moment passed, overtaken by his habitual grin while Maggie’s presence slipped away during the hectic possessiveness of our lovemaking. Gone, but never quite forgotten.
So it was we’d wrestle with our sexuality, Billy Mack and I, seeking to confirm it with a sense of shared identity.
Oh, how that Sunday dragged on! My reverie was interrupted by the arrival of a customer I did not recognize although I had a sneaking feeling I should. He was chubby and dressed entirely in black; black, expensive-looking suit; black shoes, polished to an impeccable shine. Even his hair was a greasy black, combed forward to a silly fringe that did nothing for him at all. In complete contrast, he had a ruddy complexion and piercing blue eyes.
“Is Bananas about?” He had a quiet, dreary voice. Two plump hands spread stubby fingers on the counter. A gap-tooth smile did nothing to ease my growing irritation. Above an incongruously hawkish nose, shrewd eyes appraised me as a fox might a chicken run.
“No,” I said shortly, “Who’s asking?”
“Rider’s the name, Clive Rider. And you’ll be Rob, his right hand man so I’m told.” It was not a question. I nodded, hackles rearing and kicking at his smarmy manner. “So, Rob, where will I find him?”
“You could try his house or...” I glanced at my watch, “…the hospital.”
“Hospital…?” A look of genuine concern darted across the smooth, round face. My hackles relaxed a little. A twitch of the fat lips, a nervous drumming on the counter with podgy fingers and I thawed sufficiently to relate the tragedy of Ma B’s illness. “That’s a crying shame,” he commented after a long, thoughtful silence. Even so, I didn’t get the impression he meant much by it. “I can’t stand hospitals myself. I’ll not disturb him. No, it can wait.” He reached inside his jacket, retrieved his wallet and extracted a business card. “Tell him I called and I’ll be in touch soon. Oh, and tell him I’m sorry…” he added but, again, not with any real feeling. I was reminded of our grandfather clock at home. It hadn’t chimed the quarter or half hours since Dad had taken it upon himself to tinker with its delicate mechanism because it sounded ‘tired’. The hour chimes had now lost all their ponderous resonance, and were now reduced to a brief, cracked monotone.
At that moment, a flustered Doreen arrived full of apologies for being late, which she was not. I glanced at the printed card in my hand and read Clive Rider’s name, curiously hypnotized by it to the extent that I didn’t even notice him leave. Something about the little man disturbed me. But I had a café to run and no time for such fanciful misgivings.
Looking up, I gave Doreen my full attention, absently tucking Clive Rider’s card into the pocket of my apron.
Doreen was breathless and not at all her usual cheery self. She was close to tears. When I suggested that I manage on my own and she might like to go home, they broke into a flood. Nonplussed, I issued a stunned but delighted Marge instructions to watch the counter and call me if needed. She may have been the town’s bag lady but I’d have trusted her with my life. Clancy barked as if to show his appreciation too as I led a sobbing, incoherent Doreen into the staff room; so-called, that is, although it was nothing more than a converted broom cupboard.
It was only as we entered and I sat her down on the only chair that I noticed Doreen was carrying a small suitcase. What on earth’s the matter?” I demanded, sympathetically I hoped, but with some urgency. I had never left the counter before, and my faith in Marge’s ability to hold the fort was strictly limited.
I could get little sense out of Doreen. Between sobs, she mumbled something about Harry and the kids being better of without her, and I recalled Sarah’s gossipy comments about Doreen having an admirer with growing alarm. Had she left Harry? My first thought was for the café. I needed Doreen. “You should go home,” I said firmly, “and talk things through with Harry.” She turned as bleak a gaze on me as I had ever seen and burst into a renewed fit of weeping. At this point, Marge came through with a cup of tea. Doreen accepted it with such gratitude that I felt positively aggrieved. Clearly, even old Marge had a more intuitive grasp of what the situation called for than I could muster.
“Who’s watching the counter?” I snapped at Marge as the significance of her presence suddenly hit me.
“Now, don’t you worry about a thing. If anyone tries to help themselves to so much as a speck of dust, my Clancy will go for ’em. You can rely on that, young Rob, God’s truth you can.”
In my mind’s eye, I pictured Bananas dropping by and finding his beloved café in the hands of an elderly dachshund. Appalled, I left them to it and retreated to rejoin familiarity and Clancy.
Just as I returned to the counter, Billy’s former confederates arrived, noisily.
Nick Crolley, an expressionless Maggie Dillon on his arm, ordered coffee and cheese ‘n’ pickle ‘doorstep’ sandwiches, adding instructions loud enough for everyone to hear that I get my finger out and bring them over to his table. Making a mental note to leave his order until last, I scribbled it on my pad. Shaun then greeted me with warmth, and Lou smiled pleasantly. Someone yelled an order from the jukebox and the rest gathered round the counter, each shouting over the other while I struggled to make sense of it all and got stuck in.
It was not until all of them, Nick Crolley included, were eating, drinking and chatting at their various tables that Doreen and Marge emerged. Clancy gave an excited yelp upon seeing his mistress, but would not desert the various bags she had deposited in the dog’s care. Doreen gave her unlikely comforter a mug of tea and the obligatory saucer; she seemed composed, almost her old self. I heaved s sigh of relief. She flung me a tight but reassuring smile, and the reddened eyes managed a muted twinkle in response to my enquiring glance.
Less than ten minutes later, the subject of Sarah’s title-tattle arrived. I had since discovered that his name was Bryan Chester, but that was all I knew about the man. He made a bee line for that end of the counter farthest from the door and Doreen rushed to serve him; not that, as far as I could tell, he had any intention of ordering anything. They had their heads close together for a good quarter of an hour, she rabbiting earnestly in staccato whispers, and he gesticulating exasperatedly from time to time without( or so it seemed to me) having much to say. He was a lot younger than Doreen. I heaved another sigh if less relieved than curious, and kept busy.
I was carving more ham when I felt rather than heard the general din become ominously muted and looked up to see Billy approaching the counter. He was dressed in full leather gear and grinning from ear to ear. To my dismay, I saw that he was carrying a crash helmet under his arm. The grin stretching even wider, he tossed me a knowing wink to which I could not bring myself to respond. I was furious. He had said nothing to me about getting another bike, damn him. Now he would revert to being leader of the pack. Yes, and what about me?
Billy gave his usual order in confident, ringing tones. He looked more than slightly miffed, however, when I acknowledged it with a curt nod and simply got on with the task in hand. Only Shaun hailed him across the room. Then, as if given the all-clear, all heads swung towards the window. The sight of a garishly customised and obviously second-hand but by no means second rate 1000cc machine quickly raised whistles of appreciation, envy and delight. A few people went outside to take a closer look. Most, though, wasted little time in switching their attention to the corner table Maggie shared with Nick Crolley.
As if on cue, Maggie rose, sauntered up to the counter and perched on a stool beside Billy without saying a word. “Hey, make it two coffees!” Billy yelled, and I winced involuntarily, hurt to the quick because he hadn’t called me by name. I blamed Maggie Dillon (who else?) and my loathing for her brought a lump to my throat.
Nick Crolley wasted no time vaulting across the room. “You’re with me,” he growled at Maggie.
Maggie merely shrugged. “Maybe I was, sort of. Now I’m with Billy. Isn’t that right, Billy?” She laid a hand on his arm. Both Crolley and I saw red. Silently, I gave thanks to the God I wasn’t even sure I believed in that no one was paying me any attention.
I needn’t have worried. All eyes were on those three.
“That’s right,” Billy agreed, adopting a deceptively amiable expression in the face of Crolley’s fury.
A tense silence was suddenly shattered by the arrival of Harry Styles. I heard Doreen cry out. I glanced in her direction and saw the boyfriend brace himself. In that same instant, Styles spotted them. Doreen’s husband stood stock still in the doorway, fixing the hapless pair with an expression of purple rage. By comparison, the look on Nick Crolley’s face might have been due to mild indigestion.
Doreen joined her pale-faced companion on the other side of the counter.
Clancy growled.
Styles moved with unexpected speed. Coolly, wordlessly, he confronted the younger man before rounding on poor Doreen. “You’re coming home with me!” He grabbed her by the wrist.
“No, Harry, no, let me go!” she sobbed and tried to pull free without success.
“Leave her alone!” said Billy.
“Mind your own damn business!” yelled Styles without giving Billy so much as a glance. Still gripping Doreen’s wrist, he spat in his rival’s face. The younger man continued, nevertheless, to keep a possessive hold on her free arm.
“I don’t want any trouble,” I said. Abandoning the ham doorstep I was making for Shaun, and only vaguely aware that I still held a carving knife in one hand, I moved briskly to the other side of the counter.
“Wash your dirty linen somewhere else, not in my café.” I tried to inject some authority into my voice, but even to me it sounded hollow and ineffectual.
Someone snickered. Others broke into a slow handclap.
Giving no hint of his intention, Styles gave such a jerk on Doreen’s wrist that it not only wrenched her away from the younger man but also sent her flying across the room. She hit a table. Its occupants jumped up, yelling abuse. Doreen went sprawling on the floor, the table crashing after her. Among cries of protest and concern, over and above the sound of breaking crockery, Harry Styles ignored his wife and launched himself at his rival with a vicious head butt.
Bryan Chester could have given Styles a good ten years. But he was no match for an outraged husband. At one point, he seemed to lie utterly passive while Harry Styles proceeded to kick the living daylights out of him.
Shouting at me to help him, Billy attempted to drag Styles away from the bloody mass of human flesh on the floor. Shaun waded in and it took all three of us to hold the man down. Doreen had staggered to her feet by now. Rushing to kneel at Chester’s side, she kept sobbing his name and kept a tight hold on his arm even as he tried to stand. He pushed her aside with an impatient gesture that spoke volumes. After several attempts, he finally made it to his feet, swaying in all directions. Clothes torn and his face covered in blood, he grunted something unintelligible at Doreen before picking his way to the counter and leaning his whole weight against it for support. Sometimes, though, we don’t need words; a gesture says it all. No one, least of all Doreen, was left in any doubt as to what he meant. This relationship was going nowhere.
Without any warning, Doreen leapt at her husband and began screaming abuse at him while clawing at his face. Shaun relaxed his hold on the man, as we all did, and tried in vain to ward off the full force of Doreen’s savagery with his free arm. Styles saw his chance to break free and took it. A large hand seized one of Doreen’s wrists, another yanked at her hair. At the same time, he kneed her in the stomach. For a second time, she lay sprawling on the floor. Barely pausing to take a breath, Styles went for Chester again. Chester’s back was turned, but he must have sensed the other’s intention and swung round.
I swore aloud. In Bryan Chester’s hand was the carving knife I must have carelessly laid down on the counter at some stage during the worsening fracas. To this day, I have no memory of doing it. Yet, neither will I ever forget.
Harry Styles, nostrils flaring, stopped short, his sweaty face a chalky white.
Chester waved the knife at his enemy, who took a few shaky steps backwards. “Stay away from me Styles!” he screamed, “Take the silly cow and welcome, but leave me alone!”
“I’ve had enough of this!” I shouted ineffectually, “Give me the knife. Don’t worry about Harry. We’ll make sure he doesn’t hit you again. Just give me the knife and let me patch you up before you bleed to death. Call an ambulance, someone.” I moved forward and held my hand out for the knife. Nor was I trying to act the hero. Doreen, the café, the knife…All were my responsibility. It seemed the right thing to do. Chester’s hand shook. His body seemed to slacken. The knife came towards me. For a split second, I thought he was going to hand it over.
Suddenly, Clancy started barking. Everyone’s attention fractionally diverted, Harry Styles lunged at Chester who struck out blindly with the knife. I felt blood running down my cheek and heard Billy yell my name, “Rob!”
There would be numerous versions as to what happened next, who said what, did what, and in what order; all minor details, coming together on a surrealist canvas to hang permanently in a secluded cavity of my mind labelled, ‘For private viewing only.’
I recall being pushed and falling to the floor. As I fell, I was aware of being crowded, and also of a blurred flurry of movement. Someone screamed. Out of the corner of one eye, I saw Billy lurch past me. Chester lunged forward. Billy appeared to trip. The scream petered out…
An awful silence descended like a fog. As it began to clear, a lurid tableau emerged, its central characters dimming into view. Chester, his expression frozen in a horrible grimace; Shaun, looking dazed, his mouth wide open; Harry Styles, his face ashen; Doreen, Maggie Dillon at her shoulder. All were staring down at a crumpled heap on the floor.
I looked. By now the fog had lifted. Only a clammy sensation remained, making my flesh crawl.
Billy lay on the floor, horribly still. The tableau began to disintegrate before my eyes. Although there was no doubt in my mind that he was dead, all that mattered during that terrible instant of comprehension was that the carving knife protruding from his chest was the same one I had been using only minutes before.
An uncanny silence was shattered by the wail of fast approaching sirens. Of us all, only Lou Simmons had shown sufficient presence of mind to call the police on her mobile phone. It was the act of a caring person, but it earned her a good few enemies that day.
Maggie was kneeling over Billy now, feeling inside the bloodstained shirt for a heartbeat. Shaun was crying. Lou came and stood beside him, hands resting lightly on his shoulders, but her eyes as if hypnotized by the sight of that inert figure on the floor.
Billy’s face, usually so animated and full of life, already resembled a wax imitation.
Everyone had gathered around the body. I glanced up at Doreen. She clung to Harry Styles as if for dear life, her face buried in his jumper. Blue, it was, with a pattern of yellow diamond shapes. It would haunt me forever, that jumper. My gaze swivelled, without any prompting, to where Billy’s killer stood wild-eyed. Beneath the puffy flesh, streaked as it was with bruising and bloodstains, Chester’s boyish face was grey. I caught and held his eye for the barest fraction of a second. Unbidden, unwanted, a surge of pity infiltrated the bile in my throat.
I swallowed, gagging. My nerve endings began to tingle. Slowly, surely, the tragedy I had just witnessed began to penetrate my stricken senses, and with it an awful perception of my own part in it.
The sirens stopped.
