Blood Bonds: A psychological thriller (13 page)

“Like it?” she said, pointing to the motorcycle. “Max has just given me a lift here. Great stuff!”

“What about your helmet?” I said, horrified.

She waved my concern away. “I’ve got to have a motorbike like this!” she enthused.

I saw Max looking at my company vehicle – my bicycle – and swore I detected humour on his lips. He looked good on his motorcycle, his body filling out his leathers, his legs cockily astride the wide leather seat – even the way he cupped the helmet in his hands served only to make me feel small and inconsequential and dull. My hands gripped the handlebars of my rusty appendage tightly, and I looked away, back to Ruby whose bright features held only wonderment. “What are you doing here?” I said, wheeling the bicycle to the wall where I chained it to a metal hoop embedded in the brick.

“Nothing really,” she said. “We both finished college early and thought we’d go for a ride. Shame to waste the day cooped up reading textbooks. Thought we might hang around here for a while, see if we bumped into you.”

The blue touch paper of my jealousy had been lit. “You’ve been out then, on the motorbike?”

Max nodded. “Miles,” he said, and the word, to me, carried with it more than he said. “She loves it, don’t you, Rube?”

Rube!
How dare he, I thought?

“Where’d you get the money from?” I asked. “Must have cost a bit, new bike, new leathers.”

“Partly mine, mostly Bernard’s. I think he’s trying to buy me, but it won’t work. Still, can’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“We’re off somewhere this afternoon,” Ruby said with a sprightly tone.

“Where?” I asked shortly, the smouldering flame tearing down the touch paper at quite a pace now.

“We haven’t made our minds up yet,” Max interjected. “It’s amazing just how far you can get when you’ve got one of these,” he said, and I winced at his words. “By the way,” he added, “just thought I’d tell you that mother wants to see you, when you’ve got time.”

“What about?”

He slipped the helmet smoothly back onto his head and gunned the engine. The Honda burst into raucous life, the smell of exhaust fumes thick and metallic. “I’ll let her tell you,” he shouted above the din.

He waved curtly to Ruby who gave me a quick peck on the cheek, her lips sliding down my skin in her haste and leaving a wet trail. She hurriedly deserted me to cock her slim denim-clad leg over the growling machine. The sight had something of the erotic about it, which annoyed me all the more. I was further incensed by the sight of her wrapping her hands around his thick waist and the fervent pressing of her chest against his back; and furthermore I resented the wild look of excitement splashed across her mouth and eyes, because I had not been the one to put it there.

“A helmet!” I cried. “You need a helmet!”

She laughed, but the engine drowned the sound. I caught sight of Max’s eyes framed by the opened visor of his helmet. I read all manner of dreadful things into them, and I thought all manner of dreadful things about him. Ruby waved and then the Honda was off, tearing away and leaving behind a noxious cloud of exhaust fumes to linger beside me like an acrid memory. I watched till they disappeared from view, and listened intently until I no longer heard the faraway hum of the motorcycle. My flame reached the keg and I exploded, lashing out at the bicycle with my foot, the poor old thing seeming to flinch as I made contact with its rusted spokes, its bell releasing a plaintive ‘ting’ in feeble protest.

I hated Max then as I’d never hated anyone before, for everything he was and for everything I wasn’t. I looked up at the rows of windows set out in neat regimented lines on the building’s side. Some of them still had wide metal bars in place, a relic of Victorian times. Bars, as on prison windows. I frowned at my turbulent thoughts, for I could not make sense of them, and launched myself dispiritedly into the dilapidated maw of the
South Yorkshire Chronicle
building.

*  *  *  *

He looked up from the manuscript, surprised to find that dusk had pulled its leaden hue over the garden beyond the French windows, and that a damp, morose silence peculiar to this time of evening hung over everything. It had been raining and the leaves of the willow were dripping. The dark seemed to crowd upon him. On the wall opposite a weak patch of wraith-like luminosity, the weak sun filtered through the thin, swinging bars of the willow, shimmering dully, shifting form. It stroked the corner of a gilt picture frame. Gavin Miller stared at the old Victorian print. Henry Wallis’ ‘Death of Chatterton’ stared back at him like a single brooding eye. Miller envied the corpse on the couch; envied his chalky skin; envied his courage. Chatterton had taken his own life having been ‘found out’. How prophetic of his wife to have bought the print and hung it there.

Somewhere deep into the house he heard the sound of his wife preparing a meal. A sense of regret swamped him, and he thought of her and all the times they’d had together, and how fragile everything was.

He stabbed at a light switch and the spectre on the wall vanished. Sitting back in his chair he set the weighty manuscript on his lap and turned back the pages to find his place. With a deep intake of breath he set about reading again.

I had no sooner stepped through the door than she leapt at me, giving me a tremendous bear hug…

*  *  *  *

I had no sooner stepped through the door than she leapt at me, giving me a tremendous bear hug. She kissed me firmly on the cheek, her perfume wrapping around me like a comforting blanket, protection against the odours of frying that hung greasily in the air. “Guess what, Collie,” Connie Stone said excitedly, grabbing me by the hand and leading me into the kitchen area where Bernard was standing, grinning his familiar large white grin from under his unruly locks. He raised a mug of tea to his stretched lips, paused in his grinning to sip lightly then recommenced grinning as soon as the mug was removed.

“I don’t know, Connie. I can’t guess. What is it?” I said.

Connie Stone winked at Bernard, who reciprocated with an exaggerated dropping of the eyelid, grin unwavering.

“I’m so happy, Collie!” she declared, going through the ritual of kissing and hugging all over again. She skipped over to Bernard, linked her arm through his, and both of them stared at me expectantly. “You’ll never guess!”

I shrugged, but smiled all the same, their good humour infectious. “Put me out of my misery,” I said with a tone laced with interest that wasn’t really there. As it happened I couldn’t care less what so enraptured Connie and her partner, because I was still digging myself out of the trough of depression Max and Ruby had left me in.

“We’re going to get married!” she burst like a firework going off, all brightly coloured sparks and noise. Bernard nodded encouragingly, obviously enjoying Connie’s fervour. “What do you think to that then?” she said in quick gasps.

“I think it’s good,” I replied, my approval leading to another - dare I say more fervent? – kiss upon the mouth. I tasted sweet greasy lipstick and looked over at Bernard, faintly embarrassed, but the tiny incident hadn’t dented his grin in the least bit so I smiled broadly in return. “I’m pleased for you both,” I added.

She clapped her hands together. “I’m
so
happy, Collie!” she said. “I never ever thought I’d be so happy again, but Bernard has changed all that. It’ll be a register office wedding, mind you. But it’ll be just as grand for all that. We’ve booked the town hall already for the reception, and we’ll have a bar put on, and sausage rolls, and those little round pastry things with prawns and things in them.” Her slender hands worked energetically in the air, miming the various shapes. Her passion when she became fired was like a huge trawler net; it hauled you in bit by bit and there was no escape. “Bernard’s brother owns this lovely white BMW, and we’ll have cute little ribbons on the windscreen wipers, and white lace on the parcel shelf. It’s going to be just perfect. No, in fact it’ll be better than perfect!” She went and squeezed Bernard around the waist, causing him to slop tea over the rim of his cup, which dribbled onto his trouser leg. He didn’t seem to mind. “And of course I want you to be there. And your lovely mum and dad.”

“Try and stop me, Connie,” I said, a little cheered by this display of unfettered warmth. In spite of my foul mood I was genuinely happy for Connie. I was aware that somewhere in her past there was hurt, and she’d finally managed to escape it, to start afresh. I could read the relief and sheer joy of it in her wide, childlike eyes.

“But I need a favour, too.”

I looked at her warily. “Favour?”

“Well, you being a reporter and all that. I’d be ever so grateful if you’d take our photo for the paper and write a sweet little something about us. It doesn’t have to be a
very
big article, but I do so hate those tiny things.” She indicated the small size between finger and thumb. “It makes it look as if the day isn’t important, doesn’t it? And it will be important, it being jubilee year and all. Did you know my middle name’s Elizabeth? I’ll bet you didn’t. There, the Queen and I have something in common. I know it’s not much, just a name, but it’s there all the same.” Her lips clamped shut, and both she and Bernard looked expectantly at me.

I shrugged, scratched the back of my neck and swallowed. “I’m not really – well, I
am
a reporter, of sorts, but, you see, I don’t really…” I wanted to tell them I was the lowest of the low. I had no say in the content of the
Chronicle
. In truth I had no say in anything. But their eyes implored me to deliver something encouraging. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise much,” I said, for which I received the biggest, wettest kiss of gratitude that I’d ever had the pleasure to receive.

We all fell into silence when we heard the sound of a motorcycle outside and the back door opening. Max lumbered into the kitchen and barely acknowledged our presence. The atmosphere froze, and all the good humour was sucked out leaving behind a vacuum of antipathy and distrust. I thought this was confined to me, till I glanced at Connie and Bernard’s stony expressions, their tight lips mirroring mine; they no longer appeared to be the same contented creatures of a few moments ago. No one had to tell me there was something wrong, though Max’s face never gave an indication that anything was amiss. He strode to the kitchen table and sat down. The silence grew painfully awkward.

It was broken by Ruby’s entrance, her hair mussed up by the wind, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. When she saw me she gave me the warmest smile and took my hand, kissing me on the cheek. I wanted to pull away, my jealousy burning savagely in my chest, but her warm body close to mine damped down the flames against my wishes and I relented, squeezing her hand.

“Hello, Ruby,” Connie said with her familiar sing-song ring. “How far did you get?”

“All the way…” said Max, rolling his tongue around his mouth as he glanced at me. My eyes narrowed. “…and back again,” he added.

“We’ve been all over,” Ruby enthused. “You really must get a motorbike one day, Philip,” she said.

I agreed half-heartedly. “Connie and Bernard are getting married,” I said.

“You are? Excellent! Am I invited?” Ruby asked.

Before Connie could answer, Max flew away from the table and slammed the back door behind him. We heard the motorcycle start up and the engine revving wildly before the Honda tore away. I had never seen Bernard’s face so cold. He was ordinarily such a cheerful man, nothing seemed to faze him; but right then a change deep inside him had twisted his features to one of … I guess I couldn’t be sure what it was, because it would be unjust to call it loathing, knowing Bernard to be incapable of such a base emotion. But it wasn’t far away. I could only wonder at what had gone on previously between them all. I had the inkling then that things didn’t bode well, and yet I hid my dark thoughts from the couple; like them, I did not want to believe that their buoyant planning for the future was all in vain. To break the chill, Connie offered the universal cure-all.

“Shall we have a nice cup of tea?” she said energetically.

*  *  *  *

There is nothing guaranteed to bring out the best in bad taste than a working class marriage.

I can say this because I am working class. Where I lived, occasions of any note came far and few between. There were marriages, there were funerals, there were christenings, and there were boozy nights at the pubs or working men’s clubs. I had often seen droves of people heading for the latter, looking incongruous in the mean brick-lined streets, displaying their gaudy finery like prize turkeys. Friday nights in particular were the occasion to see troops of men and women decked out in jackets and trousers, in shirts and ties, in dresses and skirts, and hair permed, rollered, sprayed or greased for the night; they marched in line down the street to the nearest local, accompanied by the strong smell of Brut aftershave and Max Factor perfume that encased them in an invisible wall of almost nauseous pong.

As with people everywhere it is a show of feathers. But it seemed to me that Overthorpe just didn’t know
which
feathers to put together, so it dressed itself in every bright feather available, just to be sure. And Connie’s wedding was no exception. Bodies that had spent ninety percent of life dressed in drab and baggy were now forced by convention to ‘look smart’.  As I looked around me I caught sight of the usual figures, looking decidedly uneasy in their glad-rags; the usual array of light-grey suits with mauve shirts and blue ties; trousers that finished too far above the ankle revealing white socks; unfashionable shoes that had been dragged out of a cupboard for perhaps no more than their second occasion; hats that had been bought specifically for the day, immense and boldly coloured with lots of lace and silk-effect flowers to give the impression of expense. And above all hung the sickening pall of perfume and cigarette smoke, desperation fuelling a few last sucks on a tab before commitment to a smokeless town hall and the wedding reception, yet more perfume sprayed around female chests and necks to mask the smell of Woodbines.

Surprisingly, bearing in mind that there were none of Connie’s relations present, there was quite a number of people milling around, with cars drawing up almost non-stop, disgorging their brightly coloured loads. It was mainly Bernard’s relatives and workmates that made up the numbers, as far as I could tell; but there was a fair share of Connie’s friends, for what she lacked in relatives she amply made up for in pals. They were a badge to her popularity. Mostly women from the factory where she worked they chatted animatedly and excitedly with her, at times their voices ringing out like a gaggle of schoolgirls immersed in the sharing of a lewd joke. It was satisfying to think how far she’d come since first moving to Overthorpe with not a friend in the world save her son Max. And now, on this special day, she was the centre of a spinning vortex of ardent attention; and not, I add, without just cause. To top it all, I thought she looked stunning; amidst this desert of garish sameness she rose like an exquisite angel in her very trim two-piece suit in light-blue, with gold jewellery in evidence around her neck, on her wrist, but very understated for Connie. Gone was the flamboyance I’d come to expect and replaced instead by this gorgeous pillar of pure elegance and beauty. No wonder Bernard was grinning. I was ever so proud when she stepped over to me, took me by both hands and stared into my eyes.

“Isn’t it just wonderful, Collie?”

“It is.”

“I was going to cry at the register office.”

“So was I.”

She laughed heartily, her head flicking backwards with the force of it. She bent closer to my ear. “Bernard looks ever so handsome, don’t you think?”

I agreed, but I still wondered what it was that made him so special above others. I guess at that age I was still hung up on the physical, and Bernard and Connie made something of an odd couple in this department. He was standing like a huge black rock on the steps of the town hall, his mass of hair combed and lacquered into the queerest shape, shoes too new and shiny, his off-the-peg suit ill-fitting, the sleeves threatening to engulf his fingers. He was greeting guests, shaking hands, nodding. But his gauche, stilted movements, the way he tried to readjust his collar and kipper tie, or shrug his shoulders back into his jacket, all betrayed his discomfort. Dark hair, dark complexion, dark tie, dark suit – it was only his white teeth that broke his rather funereal aspect. In spite of all this it was obvious he was as thrilled as Connie, though I did think that his jaw was going to ache terribly with all that grinning.

“Where’s Max?” I blurted out, because he hadn’t turned up at the register office. I saw Connie’s face drop and I wished I hadn’t mentioned it. Everybody had noticed his absence, of course, but protocol demands sealed lips on these occasions. I’m afraid I’d spoken without first thinking, perhaps because inside it bothered me a great deal.

“Why don’t you go look at the cake that Bernard’s Auntie made for us?” she burst, circumventing my question and grabbing me by the shoulders, spinning me on my heels to face the large double doors of the town hall. “We’ve got birds on it as well as flowers. I know there are some people that insist birds are unlucky, but that’s all piffle. I like birds, and so I’ve got birds.” She propelled me into the doorway and abandoned me to join with another guest.

I paused in the sunshine, searching amongst the heads for a sign of Ruby. Call it insecurity but I became anxious that she wasn’t there with me, something nagging absurdly at the back of my mind that she was engaged that very moment in intimate conversation with another young man, and what’s more finding it decidedly more agreeable than being with me. What’s worse, the more I dwelt on the notion the more likely it seemed, till I just had to launch myself into the throng to find her. By the time I did – and she was quite innocently talking with my mum and dad – I had worked myself up into a lather, hot under the collar and wet under the armpits, all of which I was set to blame on her.

“You OK?” she asked, aware of my agitation.

“Yes,” I snapped, but then thought better of it. How on earth could I be angry with her for something that had never happened? I was baffled by my feelings, and put it down to the emotion of the day. Whatever, as far as I could tell it didn’t bother her, for she took me by the arm and all but dragged me inside the town hall to find a seat.

Ruby loved occasions. She was a party animal, as they say, a real people person, who derived a great deal from just socialising. She had an immense energy for it. It was for this very reason that I loved her, and, rather ironically, the very reason I began to distrust her. Her ability to converse with undeniable ease, her genuine affability, the fact that people generally liked her (strangely those kind of attributes that drew me to Connie), worked insidiously on me on two different levels.