Nocturne (38 page)

‘
Something
’
s happened,
’
I said softly.
‘
You won
’
t tell me what,
which is why I
’
ve never asked. But that
’
s enough to tell me it
’
s over.
’

‘
What
’
s enough?
’

‘
The fact that you won
’
t talk to me. The fact that you don
’
t trust me.
The fact that you can
’
t be bothered any more. I don
’
t want that. Not
now.
Not ever.
’

‘
It
’
ll ch
ange,
’
he said half-heartedly.
‘
I
promise.
’

I carried on with the peanut butter sandwich.
He was watching me,
still apprehensive.

‘
What about the baby?
’
he asked at last.

‘
What about it?
’

‘
You really want to keep it? Only
…
’
He touched the pocket where
he kept his cheque book. It was an obscene gesture and I ignored it.

‘
The baby
’
s due in December.
’
I said.
‘
That makes me nearly six
months pregnant. Six months is dangerous, even if I wanted an
abortion.
’
I gave him a cold smile.
‘
Don
’
t you think you
’
ve done
enough damage?
’

I watched him swallowing.

‘
So you
’
re keeping it?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
How will you cope? For money?
’

‘
Christ knows. There
’
ll be a way.
’

He looked far from convinced. He asked me where I intended to
live. I didn
’
t answer.

‘
Tell me where,
’
he repeated.
‘
I
need an address.
’

‘
Why?
’

‘
Because .. .
’
he shrugged, looking hopeless, robbed of an answer.

I
’
d nearly finished the sandwich. Afterwards, I washed up my plate
and asked him to call me a cab. When
the cab came, he helped me load
my things into the back. Only after he
’
d returned to the flat and shut
the door did I tell the cabbie the address.

‘
Tottenham Green, please.
’
I collapsed back against the seat.
‘
Napier Road.
’

Three

The next few days, to be frank, passed me by. Robbed of my routine -
my early starts, my endless phone calls, my snatched meals - I
surrendered to the waves of exhaustion that had been threatening to
engulf me for weeks. I slept late, only get
ting up to make tea and a slice
or two of toast. The moment I felt tired again, I retreated back t
o bed,
happy to close my bedroom curtains
against the world. Living with
Brendan, commuting to the office through rush hour traffic, I
’
d
forgotten how quiet Napier Road could be. With Nikki back from
South Africa, I didn
’
t even have the cat to break the silence.

Slowly, I began to surface. Some of the numbness wore off, replaced
by a deep anger. The word that preoccupied me more and more was
betrayal. I thought about the progra
mme promises we
’
d made, to each
other first of all, and then to an ever-
widening circle of people who
’
d
been silly enough to believe us. The kids
, of course, and their parents,
and the local authority contacts in Portsmouth
, and then individuals
like the woman from the probation service who
’
d been so knock
ed out
by the idea that she
’
d threatened to put Gary
up for the MBE. These
were people who knew what it was like
at the bottom of the pile, who
cared about the damage we were inflict
ing on our children and on each
other. What, I asked myself, woul
d Brad Pitt do for them? Except
thicken the soup of glitz and violence th
at television already dished up
by the bucketful?

I pursued these questions around the
flat, brooding on the way that
Brendan had throttled my boisterous litt
le infant. He
’
d done it because
something else had taken his fancy. He
’
d
done it because he couldn
’
t resist the lure of the
bi
g money. That wasn
’
t especially
wicked. It wasn
’
t even, on reflection, a surp
rise. It was just weak, and
predictable, and utterly gutless. F
or once, we
’
d happened on some
thing truly or
iginal.
We
’
d worked our socks
off trying to get the
programme into shape and we
’
d had a fighting chance of playing to a
huge audience. It would have been popular, and decent, and good fun.
Now, like so much else, it was just wrapping.

Towards the end of the week, mid-August now, Gary turned up. I
hadn
’
t bothered to phone either him or Everett, mainly because I
couldn
’
t bear to believe that they, too, had been part of the betrayal.
We sat in the kitchen. Gary looked fit and bronzed and weatherbeaten.

‘
How was Skye?
’
I asked him.

He told me the training had been abandoned after the first week.
Brendan had phoned through on the m
obile and ordered them all back south.
It had, said Gary, been a kind of blessing.

‘
A
blessing
?
’

‘
Yeah. Most of the kids couldn
’
t hack it.
’

‘
What do you mean?
’

‘
They were completely off the pace. Half of them couldn
’
t wait to
get back on the train.
’

I toyed glumly with my coffee. This didn
’
t begin to fit my script. I
wanted to hear about heartbreak, disillusion, dashed hopes. Not a
bunch of adolescents pining for McDonalds.

‘
Are you serious? You
were
glad
it was called off?
’

‘
Not me, love. Them.
’

‘
But you
’
d have seen it through, surely?
’

‘
Of course.
’

Gary was rolling a cigarette. He licked the gummed seam then
looked up.

‘
They
’
d have cracked it in the end, one way or another, but it
wouldn
’
t have been easy. Not as easy as we thought, anyway.
’

“
That was you
,
Gary
. You thought it would be easy. Me? I thought it
would be bloody impossible. Or nearly, anyway.
’

‘
Yeah, well, you were right.
’

‘
But that was the point, wasn
’
t it? Challenge? Up against the odds?
All that?
’

Gary lit the cigarette. Smoke curled up towards the wreckage of my
ceiling.

T don
’
t blame you,
’
he conceded after a while.
‘
I
’
d be pissed off,
too.
’

‘
But you
’
re not.
’
I
pointed out.
‘
You
’
re
n
ot pissed off.
’

‘
Who says?
’

‘
Brendan. He told me that you and Everett agreed the change of
plan.
’
I pushed a saucer towards him for the toppling ash.
‘
True?
’

‘
Sort of,
’
he nodded.

‘
Why?
’

Gary didn
’
t answer. Finally, he pulled an envelope from his pocket
and put it on the table. It had my name on it. I recognised Brendan
’
s
handwriting.

‘
What
’
s that?
’

‘
I get the impression it
’
s money.
’

I didn
’
t pick the envelope up. Gary had known about me and
Brendan and had obviously realised tha
t the thing was over. We talked
about it for a minute or two but I co
uld sense his embarrassment and
quickly took the conversation back
to the kids. The fact that he
’
d
fallen in with Brendan
’
s change of p
lan still hurt. I nodded at the
envelope, still lying on the table.

‘
Is that your answer?
’
I asked him.
‘
You did it for money? Said yes
for money? Quiet life? Cash in hand?
’

‘
They
’
re paying the bills,
’
he pointed out.
‘
They
’
re giving the
orders.
’

‘
But Gary, the orders are crap.
’

‘
That
’
s not my problem, love. I
’
ve worked with dickheads all my
life. The man says jump, you jump.
’

This was a side of Gary I
’
d never seen before. I was amazed, not just
by his compliance but by his honesty in admitting it. If he shrugged
once more I
’
d begin to believe he really didn
’
t care.

The envelope still lay between us. Gary was keen to change the
subject.

‘
It
’
s from Brendan,
’
he said.
‘
He asked me to bring it round because
he thought you wouldn
’
t let him in.
’