Читать книгу Blood Ties: Family is not always a place of safety - Julie Shaw, Julie Shaw - Страница 11

‘Why don’t you come down and have a drink, lass?’

Kathleen looked up from the TV as her dad came into the room. It was Saturday night and, as usual, the pub downstairs was buzzing, the raised voices, loud music and gales of drunken laughter all conspiring to drown out the sound of Z Cars.

Not that either source of noise seemed to be getting through to Darren. He’d been drinking steadily since he’d returned from work and eaten his tea, and was now fast asleep in one of the two armchairs, a row of empty beer bottles by his feet.

‘Is it busy, then?’ Kathleen asked her dad, not quite trusting his ‘have a drink’ line. ‘You don’t need me to work, do you?’ She knew what Irene was like – chances were, she’d get her down there and then trot off to join the punters while she worked – specially the male ones, who she always enjoyed flirting with. Her dad didn’t seem to mind that, but she certainly did – particularly after a full day of bar-tending and cleaning already.

Her dad obviously read her mind. ‘No, silly!’ he said, laughing. He was quite merry already, by the look of it. ‘It’s just daft, that’s all – a young lass like you stuck up here on a Saturday night. It’s not right.’ He jerked his head towards Darren, who was snoring now, his lower lip hanging open and his fringe over his eyes. ‘You don’t want to be stuck up here. Come downstairs and enjoy yourself. I’ve just nipped up to change my tie – managed to get bitter splashed all over it – but I told your mam I’d pop my head round and ask you down for a bit. She’s in a good mood, I promise,’ he added after a pause.

‘Okay,’ she told him. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’ Then she uncurled her long legs from under her and went across to turn off the telly. Darren would be out for the count for the rest of the evening now probably, and there was no point in it playing to itself. She stretched, having stiffened up, then went across to the mirror above the fireplace. She looked respectable enough, she decided. Well, almost. She’d definitely have to go and run the brush through her hair. Not that she was actually that bothered about spending time in the pub this evening. She’d have far rather gone off to the Bull as she’d planned – there might well have been a few people she knew in there tonight. But with her mate Linda down with a bug, her evening had been effectively over – to walk there and turn up alone required the kind of confidence and courage she didn’t possess, even if a girl going to a pub alone wasn’t frowned on.

But there was one thing drawing her down, and she wondered if her dad knew it. Terry might be in for a bit. You never knew, anyway. Worth running the gauntlet of the battle-axe for that.

There was no law, that was the thing. That was the thing that really rankled. That was the thing that had really stuck in her craw in the week that had passed since Irene had called her a slut, for possibly – just possibly – being attracted to Terry Harris. Who was a widower. No longer married. Whose wife had been dead over two years now. How did that make her a slut exactly? By what rule? That was the thing that really got to her. The sheer lunacy – even over and above the name-calling aspect – of Irene thinking there was something so fundamentally wrong about a single girl being interested in a similarly single man; it wasn’t like Terry’s wife had died a month back or anything. It had been two whole years. Why on earth shouldn’t she like him and him her?

If he even did, which wasn’t a given – Kathleen was too aware of her own naivety to kid herself too much – it might well just be a case of wishful thinking anyway. It probably was, much as she always felt his eyes staying on her just that little bit longer than normal. But even so – there was still the principle. That was what mattered.

She glanced back towards Darren. It was a rare Saturday night when her stepbrother wasn’t out till the small hours. It was very out of character for him to be slumped where he was on any night, in fact. There were few evenings when he didn’t go out at some point.

But then Darren had been behaving oddly ever since she’d confronted him. And not just with her – with everyone else in the family too; he’d been grumpy, uncommunicative, unwilling to engage. And had been slumped in that armchair pretty much every night this last week, downing beer, dropping off, and then waking up ratty, before stomping off again, with a grunt, to his bed.

She kept thinking she should ask him again – why a gun? Who was he scared of? Or, if he wasn’t, what was he up to? Instinct still told her he’d tried to get one because he was frightened someone was after him, but now the idea of him being involved in some sort of crime had taken root in her mind, she couldn’t seem to shake it off. Time and again she had wondered if she should say something to her father. She almost had, too – the previous night, when he’d got home from work late – but she’d got no further than ‘Look, Darren …’ before being subjected to such a mouthful that she vowed that she would keep her ‘fucking nose out’ as instructed, as the slap he’d suggested she might get if she didn’t – again, completely out of character – didn’t appeal.

No, best leave him to it. Whatever ‘it’ was. That was clearly what he wanted. And she wasn’t that naïve. If someone was after him, he’d presumably sort it out. He’d have to. And if they weren’t – if he was planning to do something criminal … well, perhaps Terry would be in and she could speak to him again. Perhaps, she decided, as she went to get her hairbrush, he could even speak to Darren instead. At the very least, he might be able to give her some advice.

She went to get her brush – perhaps she’d add a lick of Vaseline to her lips, too – to find her and Monica’s bedroom in its usual Saturday night state of disarray – a wasteland of discarded tops, laddered stockings, open pots and spilled powder, much of which would be swept to the floor when she tottered back home again, significantly worse for wear, gusting alcohol fumes across the space between their beds.

Which was reason enough, Kathleen supposed, to go down. If she had a couple of halves herself she’d probably sleep all the better – the better not to be awake when Monica crashed in.

She ran down the stairs, the swell of noise and cigarette smoke rising to meet her, and the first thing she noticed was that she’d been right on one count – Irene was perched on a chair at a table near the bar, holding court with a gang of her favourite cronies from the estate. She was half-cut, by the looks of it, despite it still being quite early, and laughing just a little too loudly and raucously for it to be natural; she was playing to her audience. She saw Kathleen almost as soon as Kathleen had seen her and it was the expression on her face that would stay with Kathleen later – and expression of such confident, unthinking, everyday contempt, the like of which she wouldn’t be seeing again.

‘Oh, Jean, that’s priceless!’ she said, nudging her friend and turning slightly. ‘But hey up, better keep it down, girls – big lugs is here. And you know what she’s like for spreading the gossip.’

The other women laughed. Why would they not? She was a figure of fun to them. And if she’d learned one thing since becoming part of the fabric of a public house, it was that the insight of drunk people was every bit as lacking as their inability to realise how boring they always sounded was immense.

She glanced around in search of friendlier company. Mary, now recovered, seemed to be coping fine behind the bar, which was presumably why her dad wasn’t there.

‘If you’re looking for him,’ Irene called across, without any prompting, ‘he’s in the best room playing dominoes. Meant to be bloody helping, he is. Lazy old git. And her …’

Kathleen let the sentence drift away as she headed to the best room where, up till ten or so minutes ago, a band had been playing, the members of which were still busy getting their leads and amps together, and who nodded a hello to Kathleen as she entered. She knew them well. They played regularly – had done for as long as she could remember. A trio of men, nearer her dad’s age, all from the Canterbury Estate, who sang country music, folk songs, some unbearably sad to listen to; one in particular which Mike, who did most of the singing, and had known her dad back in his printing days, had always told her had been a favourite of her mother’s.

The jukebox was still blaring in the main bar – to which many had now decamped – but in contrast this room could have been somebody’s dining room, so was a choice spot for the older customers to drink and play their dominoes in peace.

Her dad seemed pleased to see her. ‘There’s half a lager here, love,’ he called as she glanced around. ‘And we’ve nearly finished this game if you want to join in the next one.’

Kathleen quite enjoyed the odd game of dominoes – it was one of those childhood things that had always bound her and her father – but it was Saturday evening and she couldn’t quite escape the feeling that a seventeen-year-old girl playing dominoes with her dad represented a tragedy just that bit too big to be borne. She pulled up a chair, though, to be friendly, and accepted the drink.

‘No ta,’ she said, smiling, ‘I’ll just have this half and watch, then I might go give Mary a hand behind the bar.’

‘I told you, love,’ her dad chided, ‘there’s no need for you to do that. Relax, love. Enjoy yourself. Mary’ll be fine.’

‘But it’s getting busy now,’ she said, glancing back across through the foyer to the tap room as a couple of new people came in. ‘Pictures probably turned out, and in a bit, she’ll be swamped with –’ She stopped, feeling her face flush. Terry Harris was standing watching her from the foyer. He was with a mate, but he’d stopped, and had obviously been waiting to catch her eye. He grinned and waved, and she immediately lowered her gaze. But at the same time …

‘You know what, Dad?’ she said. ‘Think I’ll head back to the bar after all. Can I take this?’ She raised the glass.

‘Course you can, love. I told you. But –’

‘No, it’s fine, Dad. I don’t mind. You know what Mam’s like. I’ll go and help Mary, or she’ll be hollering for you instead, won’t she?’

Kathleen picked up four empties in her free hand, and then pushed through the door, back into the foyer. Terry was still there, now watching the reels of the bandit spinning. He stopped when he saw her and reached to pull the taproom door open for her.

‘Here,’ he said, taking the empties. ‘Let me carry those for you.’

‘No, it’s fine,’ she told him. ‘Honest.’ But it was to no effect, since he already had them anyway.

‘Nice to see you down here on a weekend,’ he said, smiling back at her as she followed him to the bar itself. ‘You don’t normally work on a Saturday night, do you?’

No, but I’m glad I’m down tonight, she thought but didn’t tell him. ‘I’m not really working as such,’ she said. ‘It’s just that my mate’s ill and I’m at a loose end, and –’

His eyes widened. They were dark-lashed but pale. An unusual greeny grey. ‘Ah, so that means you could maybe have a drink with me then, doesn’t it? If you’d like to,’ he added, turning to look at her as he plonked the empty pint glasses down on the bar.

She thought she’d like that a great deal. And not just because she was keen to talk to him about Darren. But Mary was getting busy. And there’d be fat chance, if she did go and sit down with Terry, of Irene not ordering her to go and help out anyway – or at least, given it was Kathleen’s night off, and she had no business doing so, making an enormous ‘thing’ out of her sitting down with Terry.

But you never knew. In a bit she might be teetering on her usual brink – either too pissed to care, immersed in stirring the cauldron with her cronies, or too pissed to stand, in which case she’d disappear off to bed.

‘That would be nice,’ Kathleen said, and hoped he could tell that she meant it. ‘But I really should give Mary a hand first. Just for a bit … I’m coming, Mary,’ she called across.

But it seemed Mary didn’t want or need her help. Or perhaps there was something more. She certainly glanced behind Kathleen, towards Terry, as she approached.

‘Thanks, love,’ she said, her tea-towel-covered hand moving rhythmically around the inside of a pint glass. ‘But I’m fine at the moment, honest. Why don’t you pull yourself a drink and then go have a sit down with Terry. I can always shout you if I need you, can’t I?’

‘Good idea,’ Terry said. ‘You’re hardly ever out from behind that bar, Kathy. Come on. Come sit with me a bit. Rest your feet.’

‘You make me sound like a little old lady,’ she said indignantly, as she pulled herself a half and topped it up with lime cordial. ‘I can rest my feet when I’m dead, thanks.’

‘Alright. So we’ll stand up, then.’

‘Now you’re just taking the mick.’

‘No, seriously. I spend that much time on my backside … Still, now we’re here.’ He gestured to an empty table he’d found, on the far side of the pool table, miles from Irene. ‘Unless you want to challenge me …’

‘I could too.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘Seriously, I’m good.’

‘Seriously, I’ll bet you are,’ he said again, smiling at her over the rim of his glass. ‘So we’ll have to make that a date, won’t we? Anyway, pour tu, mademoiselle,’ he said, pulling one of the chairs out and gesturing to it theatrically, while she tried her best to relax and to not keep thinking date, he said date …

And she did relax. Almost immediately, too, even though she knew Irene was sneering across at her. Even though she knew they’d be gossiping about her. Let them, she thought. Let them say what they want. She didn’t care. Pour tu, he’d said. French. The familiar form of it. She remembered that from her French lessons in school. Terry and her Uncle Ronnie went to France quite a lot, she knew, driving all the way down south and taking their enormous lorries onto the ferries. It sounded so glamorous, even though Terry had more than once told her it wasn’t. That she’d have to take a look inside one of his lorry cabs some time. That it was probably about as glamorous as keeping pigs.

He was chatting about it now, about a recent trip to Paris – him and Ronnie; some anecdote about a missing wallet, or was it pallet, or something, at any rate – and she was perfectly content just to listen. To listen and, in fairness, to drift a little, too. What she wouldn’t give, she thought, to wake up every morning and not know where in the country – or even the world – you were going to end up. In a lorry cab. With him.

‘It sounds magical,’ she told him. ‘Paris! How could Paris not be magical?’

‘As wondered by a girl who has clearly never had the good fortune of spending three hours going the wrong way round the Périphérique!’

Périphérique. Even the word sounded magical.

He stopped speaking then, and rolled his empty glass between his palms. ‘I’m rabbiting on a bit, aren’t I?’ he said, looking suddenly sheepish, disarming her. ‘Nine to the dozen. Sorry. I’ve a tendency to do that when I … well.’ He coughed. ‘How about another half?’

‘No, it’s fine,’ she said. ‘It’s fine. And, no. This’ll do me for a bit. But you go and get yourself one. And I’ll put some music on, shall I?’ she added, the silence between them suddenly so loud. Though hopefully not as obvious as the blush she could feel already inching up her chest to her neck.

‘Good idea,’ he said, and headed off, then seemed to check himself and turned around again. He was wearing a loose shirt, a checked one, with the sleeves folded back. Terry never looked like he cared much what he wore – Irene had once commented on it, in her usual negative fashion – but far from thinking him a ‘scarecrow’, which was obviously how she saw him, Kathleen found it attractive. She liked the way he didn’t care. That he didn’t spend time dandifying himself all the time. She loved how her dad was always so smart, but he was older. Terry dressed young. He was young. Perfectly young enough for her. Their eyes met. Had he noticed the way she’d been looking at him? ‘Here,’ he said, fishing in his jeans pocket for change. ‘For the music.’

He placed it in her hand and as he did so, she felt it. Just the touch was enough. Just that almost imperceptible tremor that told her he was nervous too. Which told her something even better. That perhaps her thinking hadn’t been quite so wishful after all.

It was the thought in her mind as she went to the jukebox. The thought in her mind as she scrolled through the choices. The thought in her mind as she chose ‘Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere’ by The Who, which seemed so perfect. The thought still in her mind as she scanned the bar for Terry – and quickly found him – and at the point when the air in the bar seemed to be rent in two. Not by an explosion of laughter from Irene’s table. But an explosion of sound that was unlike any other. A sharp crack. A boom. Then a thump against the ceiling.

The sound of a gun going off upstairs.