Dog Roses - Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

Peter Short came to lunch the following Sunday. Bananas agreed to stand in for me at the café and Paul made a big issue of having to miss a tennis workout with a friend. We might just as well not have bothered. The meal, although a culinary success, was a disaster.
     Mum fussed and looked a picture in an apricot silk dress that I couldn’t recall having seen before. She seemed younger, more animated than I had seen her for a long time. Short turned up wearing a smart double-breasted maroon blazer and light blue chinos with razor creases. Paul and I wore tee shirts and jeans.
     To his credit, Short tried his best. He asked Paul about his studies and sporting interests. Paul responded in monosyllables. I was duly interrogated about my plans for the future. Brief speculation regarding Bryan Chester’s trial met with an openly hostile response from me and was thereafter avoided with all the care of someone treading through a minefield. I resented the man’s solicitude. Besides, I was sick of hearing about Chester. There was just no pleasing Paul or me that day. Nor did our mother’s eager attempts to move things along with a steady flow of light chatter and girlish banter with Short do much for the occasion.
     Towards the end of the meal, the front doorbell rang. Paul rushed to answer it with such indecent haste that he nearly sent his chair flying. The three of us strained to hear voices in the hall, welcoming any diversion. Paul returned with a girl. I only vaguely recognised Hayley Morton, Billy’s cousin. She greeted my mother with a smil, and Paul introduced her to Short and me. A big boned girl, she was more striking than pretty but neither fat nor unattractive. The tennis racket she carried looked as much a part of her as the whites she wore with an air of self-confidence that was at once defiant and defensive. I took an instant dislike to her and recalled where I had seen her recently, in a local newspaper photograph taken at Billy’s funeral. I disliked her even more for that. Worse, I have to confess I almost hated her. She had got to say her goodbyes to my Billy while I…I had chosen not to attend, I reminded myself ruefully.

     Hayley apologised for interrupting our meal, but showed no signs of preparing to leave. Paul’s bland expression left me in no doubt that her visit was pre-arranged. Mum did her best to make the girl feel welcome. How nice to see her again. Would she like a cup of tea while she waited for Paul? Hayley replied that she never drank tea, only coffee, and never before a match. Could she possibly have a glass of mineral water? She could not, as it happened, because Paul had finished off the last of it earlier. Would tap water be okay? Dear me, no, she couldn’t drink tap water.

     Politely refusing lemonade or fruit juice, Hayley glared reproachfully at Paul and settled down to watch us eat. “We’re supposed to be playing tennis at two, remember? You should, it was you who booked the court.”

     Paul put on a show of having forgotten that fooled no one. “Do you mind if we push off, Mum?” and had the grace to blush under our mother’s accusing gaze. Only an embarrassing outbreak of coughing from Hayley broke the awkward silence that followed.

     “Have a good game.” It was Short who gave his blessing and my mother shot him a grateful look that made my blood boil. “I play myself you know. Perhaps we should challenge them to a game sometime, eh, Patricia?” He smiled. My mother smiled back. The intimacy of this exchange was not lost on either Paul or me. My brother scowled and opened his mouth to say something impolite, but Hayley tugged at his arm and he relented. For once, I was all for him speaking his mind and felt a sharp stab of disappointment in my bowels.

     “Yes,” I sneered, “have a good game.” Paul opened his mouth and shut it again, like a goldfish I thought belligerently. He stiffened, fists clenched. Anger flared too in the girl’s eyes, but she stayed her ground and kept a restraining hand on Paul’s arm.

     “Run along and enjoy yourselves,” said Short without further eye contact with my mother. I willed her to contradict him and make Paul stay till we had finished our meal. But she said nothing, merely gave a little sigh and a resigned smile that laid into my temper like a trowel.

     Paul and Hayley left.

     The three of us persevered.

     A month later, Shaun and Lou were married at St Mark’s. The little church was packed. There were flowers everywhere and the old brasses gleamed impressively. They made a handsome couple. Shaun was resplendent in a new three-piece suit and Lou looked radiant in a white satin dress complete with veil and train. 

     A reception for the happy couple along with family and friends was held at the Community Centre. My mother was there, with Peter Short. Paul and Hayley were invited but chose not to attend. I caught Nancy’s eye. She flung me a smile, and I was relieved to discern nothing more than friendliness in it as she dabbed at her eyes with a hanky. I glanced at my watch nervously. It was nearly time for the speeches and toasts. I began circulating to make sure everyone had a full glass.

     Several of Shaun’s biker mates were in evidence. I spotted Baz Pearce looking the smartest I had ever seen him. He kept loosening his tie every so often until finally succumbing and surreptitiously pocketed it. At first I didn’t recognize the girl hanging on his arm. It was Liz Daniels, Nick Crolley’s ex, now with burnt orange hair. Instinctively, I looked around for Nick and was both surprised and upset to see him with Maggie Dillon. Clearly, they were an item.  She hadn’t wasted much time transferring her allegiance, I reflected angrily. At the same time, even I could not deny she looked stunning in a simple opal dress that matched her eyes and set off her flaming hair. The word was, she was about to move into a flat Nick had been sharing with a mate just out of prison. It didn’t strike me as an altogether likely arrangement, but nothing, I reminded myself, should surprise me where these two were concerned. Crolley had, after all, tried it on before. As for Maggie, she would please herself, just she always did. 

     I doubted whether Crolley had a fraction of the influence over Maggie that a possessive leer on his face did its utmost to convey whenever he ogled her, which was all the time. He wore the usual leather jacket and jeans with a denim shirt open at the neck although, for once, jeans and shirt looked reasonably clean.

     Barely had I delivered my speech and toasted the happy couple than Shaun was on his feet and cracking jokes. He then thanked everyone for helping to make this the best day of his life before he and Lou cut the cake. Shortly afterwards, we all gathered outside to wave them off as a battered and much cherished Wolsey belonging to Shaun’s dad began the first leg of a challenging haul to Cornwall.

     I hadn’t expected to enjoy myself, but I did. The celebrations continued in full swing for several hours until people began to drift away, in couples and small groups. Nancy came over and thanked me, planting a maternal kiss on my cheek without the slightest trace of self-consciousness. She then vanished into a thinning sea of colour, waving madly at someone. I had spotted her husband, Mick, slip away earlier. What’s wrong there, I wondered? Nancy and Mick had always been rock solid. Pangs of guilt stirred briefly in my stomach, but were instantly replaced by feelings of resentment as my mother and Peter Short danced, cheek-to-cheek, into my line of vision. My mother looked happy and relaxed. How could I begrudge her that?  But I did.

     “Can I have a word Rob?” I started to find Maggie Dillon at my elbow. “It won’t take long,” she added with a wry grimace. I shrugged, put aside intuitive reservations, and followed her outside.

     “Won’t Nick object?” I remarked, only half seriously.

     “Don’t worry about Nick.” She chuckled. “He’s too busy throwing up to care about anything or anyone.”

     “I wasn’t worried,” I muttered

     “No?” She arched an eyebrow, parted her lips and poked the tip of her tongue at me. In spite of myself, I couldn’t resist a weak grin as we walked to the rear of the building. I felt awkward. The tension between us escalated although it has to be said that Maggie remained as cool and self-assured as ever while I was more than slightly drunk. Suddenly, she stopped and glanced furtively around. Having reassured herself that we were not observed, she reached into her bag and withdrew a bulky envelope. “You might as well have this,” she said. I merely stared without making any attempt to take it from her. “Go on, take it!” she cried impatiently, “It’s more yours than anyone else’s.” My fingers closed on the package. “It’s Billy’s diary, she murmured and let go.”

     I almost dropped it. “I had no idea he kept one,” I stammered, wondering why she should be giving it to me. Did she know about Billy and me? Anger vied with acute embarrassment to express itself. In the end, I said nothing.

     “I doubt if anyone did except me.” Only the faintest flickering of her lower lip gave the lie to an air of matter-of-factness.

     “How…?” I began.

     “I took it from his room when no one was looking.” She gave a short, hollow laugh. I dare say my expression registered a mixture of gratitude, surprise and disapproval. She laughed again, less restrainedly this time. “It was easy. I knew where to look, you see.”

     We confronted each other warily. I was the one who looked away and stared miserably at the gravel beneath our feet. “Have you read it?” I mumbled. By saying nothing, she forced me to look her in the eye.

     “I didn’t have to,” she said quietly. I felt like a dense schoolboy desperate for his teacher to spell out the obvious word for word. Maggie made a visible effort to continue. “Look, Rob…” her voice was low and urgent, “no matter what anyone else says or thinks, Billy and I were just mates.” A hard glitter in the grey-green eyes defied me to contradict her. “Not just mates,” she amended hastily, “best mates...” She paused and the tip of her tongue got busy again, “…and best mates don’t keep secrets from each other, right?”

     I had no answer. Weren’t Billy and I best mates too? I found myself loathing and admiring this self-possessed young woman all at the same time. She wasn’t beautiful, Maggie, but…Oh, but she had charisma. Not for the first time, jealousy reared its ugly head. “You think you know it all, don’t you?” I flung at her hotly.

     She barely moved a muscle. “I won’t blab, if that’s what’s worrying you,” she returned coolly.

     I hated her knowing about Billy and me, hated her so much I wanted to lash out, but I didn’t. Instead, I managed a curt nod, not trusting myself to speak. She merely quizzed me with an eyebrow, turned on her fashionable heels and walked away, hips swinging. I watched her until she was out of sight, having to concede, in spite of myself, that she had legs a good few men and probably most women would die for. I frowned. Not for a second did I believe she hadn’t read Billy’s diary. What had he written? My grasp on the package tightened. What had Billy written? I was confused, unhappy and not a little frightened. Maggie Dillon knew about Billy and me. You bet she knows. Who else knew, I wondered? I sighed. Did it really matter any more? Billy was dead and…

     Oh, God, Billy is dead.

     Later, in the privacy of my bedroom, I ripped the sellotape from the envelope and extracted the diary. It was a handsome volume, bound with red leather and fitted with a brass lock, not at all what I expected. Somehow, it didn’t fit in with what I knew about Billy. Nothing of Billy sprung to mind as I held it. I resented this. A feeling grew in me that the Billy in its pages would turn out to be a complete stranger. “I can’t do this,” I told a fly on the wall, “I can’t open it.”

     Depositing the diary on my dressing table, I stared at it for a long time, willing myself to rise above my misgivings and open the damn thing. But my hands wouldn’t move or fingers even flex themselves. Each time I looked in the mirror to remonstrate with the face staring back at me, it wasn’t my own I saw but Billy’s. Billy’s, yes, but uncharacteristically without a wry grin in place, eyes and mouth tightly shut, once silky hair a wiry mop flinging recriminations at me, shutting me out; a poor wax impression of all that was young and beautiful in the world. “You’re dead!” I yelled at him. “You’re dead and I’m alive. But that doesn’t mean we have nothing to do with each other any more. No way it doesn’t.”  My voice sounded foreign even to my own ears. We’re not strangers, we’re not. Please, please don’t be a stranger Billy, I can’t bear it!” I began to sob, dry choking sounds.

     Even now, though, I couldn’t cry.

     Kneeling, I opened the bottom drawer of my dressing table, reverently placed Billy’s diary under a pile of tee shirts, socks and underwear.  As I pushed the drawer shut with one hand. Instinctively, my free hand reached for the platinum eternity ring that hung on a chain around my neck. It was a comfort of sorts. At least, I told myself with a smile of smug satisfaction, as if I had just put one over the likes of Maggie Dillon, this Billy was no stranger; this Billy was mine alone.

     At the same time, the four walls of that room seemed to gang up on me, urging me to read Billy’s testimony to…what?  What was I so afraid of, that I hadn’t meant as much to Billy as he had to me or that Maggie Dillon meant more? There was something else, but I preferred not to go there. For hadn’t I always suspected that Billy Mack was far too much his own man for anyone else to really matter?

     A hammering at my chest focused my mind’s eye on the shadowy shape of a prisoner at a cell door frantically protesting his innocence. I rose and headed for the kitchen. Suddenly, I was gasping for a beer.

     It was about this time that events took place that would, directly or indirectly, help shape the rest of my life. The first of these was another visit to the café by Clive Rider. He was dressed all in black but for a white silk tie. This, and a pair of dark glasses, gave him a comical aspect; he might have been playing Mr Big in a B-rated gangster movie. At the same time, a sixth sense warned me that Rider was not a man to be taken lightly. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stiffen. Recalling his previous visit, I experienced a second’s remorse for forgetting to tell Bananas. It also occurred to me, more than a little uncomfortably, that I had no idea what had become of the business card he had left with me on that occasion. So I just smiled and greeted him warmly by name, “Hello again Mr Rider.”

Rider’s podgy hands spread themselves on my counter like dollops of dough being rolled flat. “Why, hello again young Rob and I’ll have a coffee, please, black and strong.” A rasping voice belied his appearance altogether and was surprisingly authoritative. “So, how are things? Business is booming, I see,” glancing approvingly around at the packed tables.

     Although customers gave their initial orders at the counter, Sarah had her work cut out noting down requests for extra teas, coffees or whatever while she bustled about gathering up used crockery and wiping tables all at the same time. I watched Rider run an appreciative eye from the heels of her black stockings to her buttocks as she leaned across a table to retrieve an empty mug, exposing a contrasting pink of thigh and a hint of white panties. A lascivious leer on his face made my flesh creep.  I was inwardly seething as he reached for his wallet and deducted a crisp tenner from a wad of notes. “No change,” he murmured without apology and continued to observe Sarah.

     “No problem,” I said lightly. Although I had already decided that I disliked the man intensely, business was business and Rider was a customer after all. As I counted out his change into a sweaty palm, I could feel his beady eyes sizing me up. My hackles rose but I was careful to keep my expression neutral.

Rider tucked a fiver into his wallet, a handsome Moroccan leather affair, and pocketed the loose change. Turning away to serve a couple who had just come in, I could feel his eyes riveted on my every move. What the devil is he up to? I kept asking myself.

     “Would I be right in supposing Bananas hasn’t told you much about me?” he said at last as if reading my mind.

     “No Mr Rider,” I tried to sound nonchalant, “That is, yes, you would be right in supposing just that”. Bananas hadn’t so much as mentioned his name.”

     “Oh? Not even after you told him about my last visit?”  I felt my cheeks burn. “Clive’s the name by the way,” he added after a pregnant pause and beamed, genially enough, although a flash of gold tooth did nothing to dispel either my unease or embarrassment. I smiled politely. “Bananas is selling up,” he went on, “but you’ll know all about that, of course…”

     He droned on but I was still reeling from the shock of his announcement to pay much attention. My remaining composure began to dissemble to such an extent that it was almost a relief to exchange banter with Marge.

     The bag lady was already bundling herself and Clancy into the café, leaving a shopping trolley piled high with bulging bin bags in full view on the pavement; she knew better than to bring it inside when we were busy. Although I obliged with a mug of tea on the house and a saucer for the dachshund, I did so more tight-lipped than usual. Nor did this have anything to do with Clive Rider or his shock news. I was reliving the evening Billy died, unable to stop myself wondering if Bryan Chester would have panicked but for the little dog’s barking when it did. I kept telling myself that I was being unreasonable and irrational to blame the animal for Billy’s death.

     I glanced at my reflection in the window. The look it flung back at me was more than sufficient to confirm I was feeling neither reasonable nor rational.

     Clancy fixed me with a reproachful stare, but without as much as a low yelp. If the dog sensed any hostility on my part, Marge would have picked it up. But if she did, she gave no sign.  On the contrary, the gap-tooth smile embraced me more warmly then ever, adding to my chagrin. In a kind of daze, I watched dog and owner shuffle to their usual table in the corner, its present occupants hurriedly moving elsewhere with much muttering and accusing looks in my direction. I became aware once more of Clive Rider’s voice pounding at my temple.

     “He won’t sell yet of course,” the placid voice persisted in my ear, “But he will, when things are more…Well, settled.” By this, I took him to mean when Ma B died, and instantly felt gutted. It was common knowledge that she had terminal cancer but hearing someone’s imminent demise referred to in such terms unsettled and appalled me. I wanted to tell Clive Rider that Bananas would never sell, especially to the likes of a creep like him. A sixth sense, however, advised caution.  Instead, I forced an ambivalent shrug, and set to buttering slices of bread.

     “I imagine,” Rider persisted, “that you’ll soon be looking for another job?” I refused to look up.

Butter swam before my eyes like sunspots. “Are you offering?” I asked.

     “Are you interested?” he parried.

     I looked up then. He had removed the dark glasses. Involuntarily, I started. I had expected a shrewd, calculating, gaze but his expression was friendly.  I wasn’t inclined to reciprocate however and merely shrugged again. “I might be,” I conceded grudgingly, “if the gaffer does decide to sell.”

     “Oh, he’ll sell, make no mistake about that. By then of course, I may not be in a position to offer you a job.”  He appeared about to say more but only ran his tongue along the lower lip, dribbling slightly as he did so and having to wipe his mouth with a large handkerchief.

      “What kind of job?” I asked, to cover my amusement rather than out of any real interest.

A trifle self-consciously, he pocketed the handkerchief and pouted before continuing, “I intend to convert this place and the cheapjack stores on either side into a wine-bar-cum-disco. A nightclub, if you like, by any other name, although not one that will appear on any planning application.” He winked and paused for effect before adding, in a patronizing manner that turned my stomach, “I’ll need a good manager.”

I dropped the knife with a clatter and looked around for moral support.  Sarah was squatting beside a pushchair, fussing over an angel-faced tot with a mass of black curls. It struck me that she was precariously balanced. One hand was gripping a tray of dirty crockery, the other she held out to the child who seemed fascinated by her index finger. “I don’t know the first thing about wine, bar work or discos,” I muttered ungraciously.

“I’ll send you on a course,” Rider was quick to point out. “Naturally, it needs to be sooner rather than later or you won’t be trained up in time.” The beady eyes issued a direct challenge.

“I couldn’t just walk out on Bananas!” I protested, hoping I appeared suitably indignant. Clive Rider’s mocking grin told me otherwise.  I had only succeeded in sounding pompous. “His wife is dying,” I reminded him. Then, because I was intrigued and flattered, I asked “So why me?”

It was Rider’s turn to shrug, “Why not?  By all accounts you’re competent, honest and, better still, you’re local.  Besides…” he leaned forward, twinkle in each eye that plainly took the measure of my mixed feelings, “…a touch of notoriety never did a new business venture any harm.”

Not for the first time (or the last) I wanted to hit him. Instead, I watched sullenly as he took another business card from his breast pocket and laid it on the counter. “I’ve just made you a damn good offer. Think it over. Believe me. Bananas will sell so you might as well get used to the idea. Call me any time. But don’t wait too long before you do. I’m not a man who likes to be kept waiting. I’ve got plans, Rob, big plans, and I’d like you with me. You’ll be earning three times what you get now. Mind you, you’ll earn it. But managers are two-a-penny and I don’t wait around long for anyone. Savvy?”

I hesitated, not trusting myself to speak. Then a customer began complaining about there not being enough milk in his tea. Distractedly, I thrust a carton at him and let him add his own.  When I looked again, there was no sign of  Rider, and Sarah was at my side making small talk.  I nodded and shook my head according to the rise and fall of her voice, adding the occasional noncommittal comment whenever it seemed appropriate. In this way, I managed to get through the rest of the day, strictly on autopilot. So what’s new? I asked myself bitterly.

That evening, I locked up early. Marge was my only customer and she went quietly. Instead of going straight home, I took a stroll in the park nearby and proceeded to mull over Clive Rider’s proposition. It hadn’t been difficult to get used to the idea that Bananas intended to sell when the time was right. I had suspected as much for some time. Rider’s proposal on the other hand, coming as it did out of the blue, was something else.  He would certainly need planning permission. Even so, if first impressions were anything to go by, I was in no doubt that would be child’s play for someone like Rider. The town’s elected councillors would make their usual show of arguing and debating the project then give it their blessing.

As I approached the rose garden, I vaguely noticed a shadowy figure sprawled on a bench.

Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine anything resembling a nightclub taking off in Rawston. It was a sprawling suburb, yes, and there was nothing much in the way of nightlife except the local cinema, the occasional pop concert at the football stadium, weekly discos at the Community Centre that could be expected to end by 11.00 pm, a Bowling Alley and a game of pool or darts at this pub or that…but a nightclub?

This was my home town. I had lived here all my life. These were ordinary, down to earth people; fish-and-chips-out-of-a-newspaper folks, just like me. At the same time, the more I considered them, the less Clive Rider’s intentions struck me as preposterous and even began to grow on me. Perhaps, after all, a nightclub was just what our dreary town needed.  Even so, could I manage one? Did I want to manage one?  Yet I couldn’t deny that Rider’s offer conjured up a far more attractive prospect than running a back street café; a café, I reminded myself with a lump in my throat,  destined shortly to be obliterated from the face of the earth.

The fly in the ointment remained Clive Rider himself. Something about the man had rubbed me up the wrong way and would undoubtedly continue to do so. The more I felt tempted by his offer, the more resentful I became that it was Clive Rider who had made it. That said, I could not deny stirrings of excitement in my bloodstream.

I sat on a bench and inhaled the scent of roses. My dad had loved roses.

Absently, I glanced at a bench almost opposite. In spite of my mind’s state of organized chaos, it could not fail to register the shadowy figure a second time. It took a while before recognition set in. “Ed, is that you?”  For an answer, Billy’s brother raised his right arm and gave a mock salute.

A pair of sweethearts came along, paused to kiss and moved on, oblivious of Ed Mack or me. Their footsteps had barely fallen silent when Ed got unsteadily to his feet. A bottle in one hand, he lurched across the path towards me. It was small distance enough, but he still managed to blunder sideways into a rose bush then warily circled a huge rhododendron and almost lost his footing on a patch of grass before slithering the last few steps to tumble in a heap beside me. Somehow, he had managed to keep hold of the bottle and now took a long swig from it.

“Hello Rob,” he mumbled and I winced as the full stench of whiskey on his breath hit me.

“Hello Ed,” I replied and would have walked away but something held me back.  This was, after all, Billy’s brother. Billy, whom I had loved; Billy, whose body I had worshipped; Billy, for whose arms around me and mouth on mine I liked to think I’d have given my life.

“So, how are things?” he drawled and laid a hand on my arm to steady himself.

“Okay,” I lied, “and you? Found a job yet?”

“What do you think?” he muttered and took another swig from the bottle. His grip on my arm tightened. I tried to pull away. He gave me a queer look. I froze. His expression was one of pure hatred.

“Hey, let go of my arm.” I managed to keep my voice steady in spite of a rising panic.

“Sorry,” he grunted then to my surprise and relief relinquished his hold, “I was just trying to be friendly. Don’t you want to be friendly?” his voice was slurred but I thought I detected a menacing note and began to panic again, “I thought you’d want to be friends, what with me being Billy’s brother ‘n’ all…”

“You’re drunk,” was all I said.

Ed let rip with a short burst of laughter followed by a fit of coughing that lasted several minutes. He put the bottle to his mouth, discovered it was empty and threw it away in disgust. “You’re drunk,” he mimicked. “Full marks for ob-ser-vat-ion. I bet you get full marks for most things, yeah, a bright lad like you. No duckhead, you, eh? I’ll say not.”  He was sneering now, the dark eyes smouldering. “No duckhead,” he repeated. “No queer ducks, I reckon.” Without warning, he punched me in the face and sent me sprawling on the gravel path.

Almost immediately, Ed lent down and, in spite of his condition, hauled me back on to the bench, his sweaty face close to mine, expression murderous. “You fucking queer! My brother would still be alive if it wasn’t for you, you fucking queer!” He pushed me away and I almost slid from the bench again but he grabbed my tee shirt and managed to right myself. “Fucking queer!” he yelled again and I thought the whole town must surely hear it, “Fucking queer!” He went for me again, but this time I was ready for him, dodged his fist and scrambled to my feet.

For an interminable second, my legs refused to budge. Suddenly, without any conscious instruction from my brain, they leapt into action and pelted down the path, round a corner and along another stretch of gravel. In the process, I almost knocked down an elderly couple who kept dithering before hastily moving aside to let me pass. I didn’t slow down for them. I was past caring. I made a dash for the main gates.  Beyond them, nameless streets, faceless people and the blaring horns of traffic to which I was oblivious.

Somewhere, beyond a sickening stench of summer roses, there had to be a place to hide, surely?

I lost all track of time, and only vaguely heard a shrill female voice calling, “Last orders!” as I ran into a pub whose name I did not take in on a street I hadn’t recognized. Breathlessly, I ordered a pint of bitter, but didn’t get around to drinking much of it. I sat in a corner, only vaguely aware of two men playing pool and a third glancing at me every now and then from a bar stool, at his feet an aristocratic Afghan hound. We established companionable eye contact, that hound and I, as I slumped over my glass wondering how the devil Ed Mack knew about Billy and me. You fucking queer. I could still hear him yelling in my head. My brother would still be alive if it wasn’t for you, you fucking queer!

I groaned. The Afghan’s ears pricked up. I took a swig from the glass and turned up my nose. The bitter was flat.

Queer. Queer. Queer. Furtively, I glanced around. I was convinced everyone was staring at me. No one was of course, only the dog.  Had Ed guessed? No, he knew. But Billy wouldn’t have told him, I was sure of it. So, how then?  Suddenly, the answer hit me like a sledgehammer. “It has to be Billy’s diary!” I told the dog. It promptly got lazily to all fours and stretched them before wandering across to me and licking the back of my hand. Mission accomplished, it returned to its owner and lay down again at precisely the same spot beside the stool. 

Yes, Billy’s diary had to be the answer. My heart missed a beat. Suppose my mother found it? Oh, my God, no. I groaned and retched.

A woman I scarcely noticed came round, telling everyone it was time to leave or she’d have our balls for earrings.

I left with a small crowd of people who were but I barely glimpsed shadows out of the corner of each eye. By chance, or a twist of fate, I eventually found myself near the high-rise block of flats where Ben Hallas lived. On impulse, I entered and took the lift to the fourteenth floor. He was my best friend, after all, even though we had fallen out. If I couldn’t talk to Ben, whom could I talk to?  Ben would listen. He was a good listener. Ben would understand about Billy and me. (Well, wouldn’t he?) So I debated with myself as the lift, smelling of urine and weed, continued to rise, taking me to the potential sanctuary I sought.

Will Ed blab? I kept asking myself. I began to panic again. No one else must know. I couldn’t bear it. Not yet, anyway. Maybe one day, but...

No, I wasn’t ready, not even for Ben. Even so, it would be good to see him again if only to patch things up and start again. It never occurred to me in those days that second chances were not always forthcoming.

Someone I hadn’t even seen enter the lift now got out on the ninth floor. The lift proceeded with its relentless ascent.

In the event, Ben was out. His mother answered the door wearing a pink slip with one shoulder strap askew. A male voice roared, slurring, from within, “Hey, Lil! Come back ’ere, you stupid cow!” Lily Hallas smiled wanly. In the poor light I thought she looked quite attractive. Until, that is, I peered closer and saw a profile glued together with make-up.

“It’s really important I see him”, I kept insisting even as she was shutting the door in my face, “Tell him he can call me any time. He’s got my mobile number. Or he can drop by at my house or the café any time. You won’t forget, will you?” I heard myself pleading with Ben’s mother for some time after my mind had only vaguely registered the impassive click of a door closing.

My eyes began to sting with unshed tears. Damn Billy’s brother, and so help me, damn Billy too. I sobbed, but yet again no tears came, just ugly, rasping noises. Only crude splashes of graffiti on the walls heard me, and offered neither comfort nor solution.

As it turned out, Lily Hallas did forget, just as Paul forgot to mention that Ben called twice at the house looking for me. Nor was I to know that Ben had lost his mobile phone, and it would be a while before he could afford to replace it. By some perverse quirk of fate, Sarah forgot to give me a note Ben left for me at the café. It had been during a quiet period and she’d slipped it between the pages of a paperback novel, only for it to fall out on the bus journey home.