Blood Relatives (25 page)

The bus wor late, and I had to wait an age at the stop. I
would
tell her, I said to mesen, but not yet. She’d enough on her plate, what wi’ all this latest Mavis and Don business. As if anyone could think someone of Don’s bulk wor t’ Ripper. Having sex wi’ Don must be like having a beer barrel roll onto you wi’ t’ tap jutting out.

As we walked up our road Mother wor saying that the cops had interviewed Mavis an’ all, wanting to know if she wor covering up for Don. They’d nosed about t’ house and inspected his clothes. They wanted to know about his habits, his sexual behaviour.

‘They even asked her,’ Mother said, ‘if Don had any sexual deviances.’ She uttered the words ‘sexual deviances’ like she’d bitten into summat spicy and foreign. ‘Then,’ she went on, ‘they asked if Don had any hammers or screwdrivers, and of course he has, cos that’s what men have. So they took some of his hammers away. Can you believe they even took some of his clothes for forensic examination?’

‘Friggin’ ’ell,’ I said, trying to sound both shocked and mildly impressed. I’d never really understood what that meant, ‘forensic examination’. Did they run a magnifying glass over his keks looking for stains? No man, it had been said over and over by t’ cops, in t’ papers, on t’ telly, could top that many women unless someone wor shielding him. By ‘someone’ they meant a woman – a wife, girlfriend, daughter or mother.

I said, ‘But any idiot could see that Don don’t fit the description. And won’t his job sheet show he wor at t’other end of t’ country when some of t’ women wor done over? By tomorrow they’ll have just thrown him back in t’ water.’

‘There’s more,’ Mother said.

‘More?’

‘His car’s been clocked kerb crawling around Lumb Lane.’

‘Oh. No wonder they pulled him in.’

‘The worst of it,’ Mother said, ‘is Mavis finding out he goes wi’ prozzies. She could stand owt but that. She said it made her feel worthless and unclean. That wor t’ word she used, “unclean”.’

We passed a neighbour’s house just as the bay-window curtains wor being drawn a tad too forcefully.

‘So what you’re saying is that it’s OK for Don to knock Mavis about, it’s OK for him to threaten to kill her, or to ogle strippers in t’ pub, but it’s not OK for him to go wi’ a prozzie from time to time?’

I wor sounding like I wor defending prozzies, or even Don. Mother had no notion about Vanessa or Lourdes or t’ rest of them. It didn’t seem like owt that a woman should know.

‘It wor t’ final straw,’ she said quietly, adding as we reached the front door, ‘Mavis is wanting a divorce.’

By mid-April it felt like t’ cold snap would never end. I wor flabbered to learn that Mavis had kicked Don out on his ear. Mother said that Mavis worn’t for t’ life of her going to give up a house that had cost her bruises and black eyes to get into such decorative order.

Sis wor another problem. From peeking in t’ diary to see what she wor writing about me, I found out that she’d finished wi’ Marcus, so when she blubbered it out over dinner I had to pretend that I wor dead shocked. He’d shoved her up against t’ rehearsal-room wall and threatened to hit her, although she didn’t let on about that bit. That bit I’d read in t’ diary. All she said wor, ‘Marcus is history.’ A week or so later sis wor back together wi’ him.

On my next day off work, Mother roped me in as muscle to help Mavis rearrange furniture and cart boxes of Don’s stuff out into t’ garage.

The house had been stripped bare of Don. There wor dust circles on t’ shelves where his footie and fishing stuff had once been. There wor pinholes and picture-frame shapes on t’ empty walls. The hallway wor lined wi’ boxes of clothes and shoes and other stuff.

We padded gingerly along t’ plastic runner in t’ hallway and into t’ lounge. I stood on t’ darker bits of t’ swirly carpet in case there wor mud on my boots. The plastic coverings were still on t’ cream leather sofa and armchairs. The air whiffed of lemon-scent aerosol and the faintest trace of cold ash from t’ fancy ciggie-butt stands next to t’ armchairs.

The kitchen units looked like they’d been varnished yesterday. The cooker top gleamed, and the rotisserie above it wor spotless. Nowt looked as if it had just been put down casually, nowt had been allowed to pile up in t’ corners, nowt pinned to a cork noticeboard or sellotaped to a cupboard door. Not a friggin’ fridge magnet in sight. God knows how they’d celebrated Christmas. They must have sat there, all wrapped up in clingfilm and furs, picking at cocktail sausages.

I could tell that Mavis had been blubbing a bit, even though she wor brazening it out when we showed. She didn’t want to talk much, ’cept to tell us what we should take. I wor to cart the packed boxes into t’ garage. While I wor portering I tried to keep to t’ plastic pathways that led through t’ house. I didn’t want my boots imprinting the shag pile.

I thought I should conversationalise wi’ Mavis to cheer her up a bit, so I asked her what she wor going to do wi’ Don’s fishing tackle. I wor thinking it might be worth a few bob.

Then this couple pitched up, ‘answering t’ ad in t’ paper’, and nosed about, picking over things, holding them and setting them back down again, prodding and poking about and murmuring to themsens. He had a mottled, bulbous nose and she had a letterbox smile. Eventually they drove off wi’ t’ fishing tackle and some other boxes in t’ back of their Volvo estate.

Mavis quietly tucked a tenner into her pocket. I asked her where Don wor kipping now.

‘In hell.’

I picked up a cardboard box. It wor heavy and full of mags. Likely as not fishing mags or footie programmes. Eric had said the only reason men go fishing is to get away from their wives. I said that’s the reason only straight men went fishing, and that gay men didn’t need hobbies, to which Eric said, ‘Antiques.’ That made me laugh out loud. I promised him I’d never collect antiques. He promised never to go fishing.

I hadn’t taken two steps when t’ bottom of t’ box gave way and all t’ mags splurged out across t’ lounge carpet. I stood there, mouth open, looking down on t’ bouncy breasts of a brunette who wor smiling winningly up at me. October’s edition of
Fiesta
.

Mavis let out a howl and fled the room. I dropped to my knees and scooped up all t’ magazines I could wi’ both arms, trying to stuff them back into t’ busted box.

Mother appeared sharpish from t’ kitchen, not wantng to miss the palaver. I wor still on my knees, surrounded by porn mags. Mother giggled.

‘Sorry, I wor just …’ I wor blushing redder than a tom.

Mother said, ‘Don’t you go sneaking any of them into our house.’

‘I worn’t planning on it.’

‘Not that I’ve ever found any. You must keep them well hidden. Better than Mitch did, at least.’

I ignored this. Mavis came scuttling back wi’ a black bin liner. I collected up all of Don’s mags and dumped them in t’ dustbin.

The rubbish late-spring weather wor putting Craner in a crabby mood. Sales wor flatlining. That, and Craner learning that Garthy had secretly upped all t’ prices on his round and wor pocketing the extra dosh. Then Garthy wor taken ill – appendicitis – so his appendix and the truth came out on t’ same day.

Now that the FK Club had moved from Chapeltown into t’ city centre I’d fallen out of going so often. Ultravox, Fad Gadget, B-52’s, Human League, Psychedelic Furs, Cabaret Voltaire, The Normal, wor t’ new bands of t’ new decade, playing new electronic sounds. The Warehouse Club in Somers Street wor now t’ place to see and be seen. It had plate windows, so from out in t’ street you could watch those already inside dancing, see t’ strobe lights swirling and hear t’ cut-glass sound system.

One night the Radclyffe Hall brigade (except for Terry) made a trip out to t’ Warehouse. We queued down Somers Street, underdressed, shivering, waiting to be chosen for entry. It worn’t a case of first-come-first-served; the security goons patrolled the queue, picking folk out. ‘You!’ ‘You two!’

We shuffled forward, waiting. Fizzy wor sporting a scraggy old fur coat over red PVC keks. The coat wor buttonless and looked like a million moths had gorged on it. Since he was both skinny and short, the coat hung down to his calves. I could never work Fizzy out. He never said much, never gave away owt about himsen except to say, ‘Oh, you know …’ when plainly you didn’t.

Camp David had on a friggin’ 1920s flapper dress under a greatcoat, espadrilles, Joan Collins shades and a purple scarf around his head. I wore my usual black leather jeans and boots, but wi’ a white muslin shirt wi’ floppy sleeves that I’d filched from Camp David’s wardrobe.

The security man, thick-set, Kojak slaphead, paused in front of us, then tapped each of us in turn on t’ shoulder, as if we wor being picked out for execution. We strode in wi’ our heads aloft, while t’ rest of t’ queue shuffled and gawped.

We knew that the club wanted us gays to spice things up a bit. The straight punters wor trying to act too cool to care, but you could see them gawping at us while they danced stiffly, hopping from one foot to t’other like they wor trying to avoid stepping on a hedgehog.

Just before midnight a band got up on t’ stage to some futuristic fanfare playback, then spent the next ten minutes tapping the mic heads and adjusting the mix levels. The music wor all plinks and plonks on synthesisers. They had their hair quiffed up and wor all wearing heavy eyeliner. Somehow they still managed to look straight.

While t’ band wor on, Fizzy skedaddled off somewhere. He reappeared much later, looking all smug wi’ himsen. He had a man in tow. They wor coming toward Camp David and me. We wor in t’ middle of t’ dancefloor, shimmying to some Grace Jones number and checking out who wor eyeballing us. The man wor just a dark block outlined by a purple strobe, but when he stepped out of it I nearly fell to t’ floor. It wor a good-looking bloke wi’ loose, dark curly hair and neat-looking specs. He grinned at me knowingly. It wor my friggin’ old schoolmate, Warren.

I pushed the pillow back and sat up in bed wi’ my arms behind my head. My head thudded, I wor thirsty and my throat wor dry as sand. Warren wor leaning on his elbow. He leant across, picked up his specs from t’ bedside table and hooked them back on.

I said, ‘You know that time years back when you pitched up at Gay Lib? I thought I’d scared you off.’

‘You sure gave me a fright. You said you were meeting a girl. I kept thinking, “Here, of all places.”’

‘I said that cos I thought you’d just dropped in by chance. I wor bricking it.’

Warren shook his head. ‘I would have come back, only not long after I started at Manchester Uni and then I joined Gay Soc.’

‘Gay Soc?’

‘The University Gay Society.’

‘Oh, right. I always hated you at school cos you wor a bright bugger. Way cleverer than me. Never had you down for being gay though.’

‘I knew by the time I was twelve. Realising I was turned on by other boys terrified me. But you just know, don’t you? So I kept my head down and studied. Going to university was my escape route.’

‘For me it wor t’ opposite. I thought, “Brilliant, I’m different. Special.” I thought, “Yeah – this is all right, really.” Cos it meant I wouldn’t be tied down by all that girlfriend, relationship, family crap, and I wor free to do what I wanted. I knew enough to keep shtumm about it though. I couldn’t see the point of school, cos all they did wor bang on about getting a job and marriage and supporting your offspring. The same old bicycle wheel going round and round. Remember that book we had to read in t’ third year?
The Chrysalids
? Where these kids wor different, cos they had telepathic powers, and they knew they had to keep it to themsens? For me, that’s what being gay is – summat special that you have to hide from most folk. I don’t want the whole world knowing about me, if I’m honest.’

‘Like the Masons?’

‘If you say so. I can’t say I’ve ever met the Masons.’

On t’other side of me, Fizzy slept on, flat on his back wi’ his mouth wide open.

‘So what you going to do? After uni?’

‘I want to be an optometrist.’

‘Sounds posh.’

‘You?’

‘Me? Dunno. I won’t be working delivering pop, I can tell you that for nowt. I’ve got plans to be someone one day.’

Fizzy snorted in his kip like a choking piglet. We both started laughing. My laugh wor a dribble, and then Warren egged it on wi’ his own little laugh, and then it wor like we wor trading laughs ’til we wor nearly crying.

‘Oh God,’ Warren said, wiping his eye behind his specs wi’ his finger, ‘I think the residue of last night’s spliff is still in the system. Where did he get that from?’

‘Fizzy? Dunno. I don’t ask. I know he deals a bit. All he said to me was that it wor Moroccan black.’

‘Whatever it was,’ said Warren, throwing the covers back, ‘it was strong stuff. I think I need a black coffee and a fag. I’m booked on the National Express back to Manchester this afternoon.’

I wor putting out the household rubbish when a shadow fell across me. I looked up. Even though he’d lost half a hog of weight, even though his clothes hung from him and his greying hair hung lankly about his lugs, there wor no mistaking him. I kept my hand on t’ dustbin lid.

‘Don?’ I said guardedly.

‘Hello Rick.’ He spoke rapidly, in a hoarse whisper, like time wor pressing. ‘How’ve you been?’

‘Well enough. What brings you round here?’

He gestured like he wor mulling over t’ answer. ‘Have you heard from Mavis? I mean, how’s she keeping?’

My left hand stayed firmly on t’ dustbin lid.

‘Bearing up, I hear.’

Don nodded. ‘Not like Mavis to buckle under.’

I looked about t’ street, trying to work out where he’d come from. ‘So where are you kipping?’

‘In t’ back of that van.’ He nodded toward a decrepit, dark-blue Leyland van parked on t’ opposite side of t’ street. ‘I’ve got me a mattress, a camping stove, radio – could be worse. Got it parked up a lane toward t’ tip. I wor on a mate’s sofa ’til his missus got fed up wi’ me.’

He closed in on me. He whiffed like a blocked drain. If he wor wanting to kip on our sofa, or even park up outside our house, it worn’t going to happen.

‘You know what I miss, Rick? Liver and onions. Can you believe that? I have cravings for braised liver and onions.’