Читать книгу Perfect Death - Helen Fields - Страница 17

Cordelia’s son, Randall Muir, set down his pride-and-joy guitar before picking up the pint of cider he’d been nursing for the last hour. He had to go easy on the alcohol if he was serious about getting up to jam with the rest of the musicians in the bar. Tonight, for the first time, he would have the confidence to go through with it. Last time he’d failed to play when nerves had got the better of him. He’d drunk far more than intended then had to perform an Olympic-style sprint to the men’s toilets to lose the contents of his stomach, before staggering home with a mouth tasting like rotting apples. His mother had pretended not to notice, presenting sympathetic eyes and changing the conversation away from what he’d been up to.

The great Cordelia Muir would not judge. She wouldn’t tell him off. Even asking where he went in the evenings was a habit she’d foregone in order to avoid another steaming row. Since his father had died, his mother had tried stepping into the breach with clumsy good intent, embarrassing Randall beyond anything he felt a teenage boy should have to endure. She attended football games when every other mother knew to stay away, shouting and clapping encouragement throughout. She phoned the parents of girls at school he admitted liking and invited their families for Sunday lunch. Cordelia had even tried talking to him about porn, only to end up lecturing him about respecting women. She’d even insisted on providing packets of condoms when he went away for a weekend with his classmates, forgetting them initially, then shoving them through a car window so everyone had seen. Cordelia Muir was all things to all people. Randall just wished she would get it through her intellectually gifted brain that she would never be his father.

His older sister had cried dutifully at their father’s funeral, all the time thanking God, Randall thought, that their precious mother hadn’t been the one taken. What Randall knew was that life would never be as good as it had been when his father was alive. There had been boys only camping trips. There had been nights staying up late watching movies his mother would never have approved of, with a few beers sneaked in for good measure even though Randall had been well underage. There had been jokes about sex instead of talk of honour and compatibility. There had been jokes, full stop. His father knew that when he was upset, he needed to be punched on the arm and made to laugh, not to sit down and express his feelings. His father had put Randall first, before all those children in Africa with whom his mother concerned herself so absolutely. Crystal, the clean water charity his mother ran, was more her baby than Randall ever had been.

Since his father had died, Randall’s guitar had become his life. His father had taught him the basic chords when he was just eight, sitting Randall on his lap and covering his son’s fingers with his own. A year later he’d given Randall a guitar for his birthday. From that moment on it had been his most treasured possession. Now Randall dreamed of joining a band, touring, hearing his first record on the radio. But the bands at his school wrote navel-gazing dirges of love and longing. They sang in mournful voices with arranged harmonies – not the sort of music that got Randall out of bed in the morning to practise chords until his fingertips bled. He wanted to explode with sound, to have it thrum through him like a raging beast. The Fret was the first place he’d found where he could stand up, plug in his amp, and jam with whoever was there.

The bar was the type of place the girls at his school would hate, with enough tattoos on show to qualify the venue as a base for a motorbike gang. Randall loved it. He didn’t have a tattoo, and never would if his mother had anything to do with it, but his new friend at The Fret had suggested a henna tattoo strategically positioned so his mother wouldn’t see it. Tonight he was ready to show it off. He’d left home sweltering in a sensible parka jacket, a V-neck sweater, and an Oxford shirt. Round the corner from the club he’d stripped off, pulling a denim jacket over a black t-shirt then shoving his good clothes into his rucksack. Guitar over his shoulder, he’d swaggered into The Fret ready to play and was rewarded for the first time with a brief nod of recognition from the doorman. Randall felt a foot taller just walking through the door.

He identified a free table at the back, furthest from the stage, set down his rucksack and guitar then made for the bar. The girl serving didn’t seem to remember him, but then Randall had never seen her smile at anyone. Her severely contracted pupils told a story of opiate abuse that Randall longed to ask her about. He wanted to know what it was like. Not from an educational pamphlet or a teacher, with their particular bias and spin, but from an actual user. Why should he be lectured on the dangers of drugs by someone who had never used them? The bar girl had a scar that ran from shoulder to her elbow, tracing a line down the back of her arm that kept Randall awake at night writing fantasies in his head.

‘What do you want?’ the barmaid asked.

‘Um, sorry, what?’ Randall said, feeling his face burning and grateful for the lack of natural light.

‘I said, what do you want? Biff, turn that fuckin’ amp down would you, my friggin’ ear drums are already bleeding!’ she yelled.

‘Vodka,’ Randall said. ‘Double, neat.’ No one had ever asked him for ID in The Fret. As long as you could pay, you were assumed to be of age. The girl slammed a full but heavily finger-marked glass down in front of him. Randall pushed his money across the bar and tried a smile, but she had already turned away. It must be tough on her, he thought, doing such a physically demanding job. The club didn’t close until 3am and she would be on her feet all that time. One day, he decided, he would stay until the very end and offer to walk her home. She should have someone to look after her.

Carrying the glass back to his table, Randall checked that no one was watching as he withdrew a Coke from his rucksack and topped up the drink. Vodka made him gag if he drank it neat but this way he could tolerate it. There was no way he was going to order anything as pathetic as a vodka and Coke from the bar, though. That wasn’t what real men drank. His father had favoured port after dinner, single malt whilst watching television, and cider on sunny afternoons when they’d stopped at a bar during a walk. His family had done a lot of hiking, and whilst Randall could have done without the endless lectures from his mother about birds or geographical formations, his father had made it fun with tales of youthful exploits. Randall remembered their last hike as if it were yesterday. If they could eat only one dessert for the remainder of their lives, what would it be, their father had asked each of them. They had argued for an hour, maybe more. His father had settled on lemon meringue pie, three puddings in one, he had argued. Light crispy pastry, hot lemon curd, and melt in the mouth meringue. Randall had made the case for plum crumble, and his father had agreed it as a close second. A week later his father had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Two years later they’d held a funeral that had marked the start of the end of Randall’s life. He hadn’t been able to eat lemon meringue pie since.

Randall spotted Christian – he of the henna tattoo suggestion – a couple of tables away, deep in conversation. He downed a large mouthful of vodka and Coke, hoping Chris would notice him without him having to do anything dorky like wave. He filled in time tuning his guitar and trying hard not to check if Chris was still there. His patience was rewarded a few minutes later.

‘Hey, dude, you’re here again. Good to see you,’ Christian said, offering knuckles as a greeting. ‘And you got the henna tat done. That’s looking good, Rand.’ Randall grinned and forced himself not to slip the t-shirt off his shoulder to show the hennaed Celtic knot off more fully. ‘Absolutely the right way to go. I bet a lot of the guys in here wish henna had been around when they were getting their ink. Some of the designs they’re wearing went out with the ark, you know?’

‘Yeah.’ Randall laughed. ‘Hey, how was your week?’ he asked. ‘I mean, did you do anything cool or anything?’ He was sounding too keen and it sucked to have to work this hard to fit in, but Christian threw a companionable arm around his shoulders and slid back against the sticky faux-leather sofa.

‘It was kind of tough, actually. A girl I know lost her sister, hypothermia. Horrible seeing someone in pain like that. Made me appreciate how lucky I am to wake up each day and do the things I love, you know?’

‘Totally,’ Randall said, kicking himself for not being able to respond with something more insightful. The coolest guy he’d ever met had just shared with him, and he’d come back with a line from a spoof teen movie. He really was a dickweed, just like the other boys at school said. ‘I lost my dad,’ he splurted. ‘A couple of years ago. At first I didn’t know how to deal with it, but now I want to express myself, you know? I don’t want to hide how I’m feeling any more.’

‘Hey, that’s rough. I had no idea. Good for you for following your dream, yeah? You going to play tonight?’ Christian asked.

‘If there are any songs I know well enough,’ Randall said. ‘What are you doing while the university is on recess?’

‘Catching up on the reading. So many books, never enough time. I’ve got a bit of casual work to keep the rent paid over the winter. You’re in luck – I just got paid. Want a drink?’ Christian asked.

‘Hey, no, let me. I’ve got plenty of …’ Randall said.

‘No way, it’s my turn to buy you one,’ Christian said. ‘Vodka, right? Unless you want an excuse to talk to Nikki?’

Randall stared at the girl filling glasses, deciding it was easier to dream from a distance. She was so far out of his league it was painful.

‘No, you’re good,’ he told Christian. ‘Vodka would be great. Thanks, man.’

Christian sauntered towards the bar in a way Randall had tried and failed to replicate. It may be only one foot in front of the other but some men made it look like the world was there only to provide a backdrop for them. Randall picked up his guitar and strummed a few notes. Tonight’s starting band was just warming up, so it was a good time to make sure his strings were tuned. It was Christian who had first persuaded him to get up and jam. Randall had been sat at his usual out-of-the-way table, and Christian had wandered over asking if he could sit down. They’d begun talking and Randall had found he could speak to Christian without feeling like a fraud. That was two months ago. Since then Christian had been at The Fret every Thursday night, and Randall wasn’t too proud to admit that he looked forward to those precious minutes of chatting before the music got too loud for it. Christian had a way of putting things that made sense – wasn’t it more embarrassing to sit there with a guitar than to just get up and have a go, wanting a tattoo was natural but try henna first in case you wanted to change the design, keeping the details of your private life from your family wasn’t disloyal if it meant you maintained your sense of who you were – and Randall was finally experiencing that precious event: his first adult friendship. Christian, he thought, was exactly the kind of person he wanted to grow up to be.