Imperfect Strangers (22 page)

CHAPTER
32

I watch
Steve, and wonder where he is meeting Sally. The city-centre heaves with revellers. Steve moves amongst them as they swoop from bar to bar, most of them already drunk beyond reason, or well on their way. A bunch of twenty women stagger towards him, their dress totally inappropriate for the cold-night air. Most of them are young, but some are much older and look quite out of place. Must be a hen party, I think.

“This’n’ll do,”
shrieks one of the middle-aged women.

Her husband, assuming she has one, is very fortunate to get rid of her for the night.

The woman grabs Steve’s arm, almost falling as she does so.

“Oooh,” she
voices, laughing hysterically as she pulls herself upright. “Me night in shinin’ arma. I wouldn’t mind playin’ badminton wi him; I’d handle his shuttlecock, alreet.”

Geordie, I realise, an accent I like when it
’s spoken softly, but which here sounds like a foghorn on steroids.

One of the other women laughs, then asks: “
Why do they call it shuttlecock?”

It sounds rehearsed, like she’s the straight-girl of a double
comedy act.

“Because
Rocket penis
was already taken,” the foghorn screeches; she then howls with phlegm rattling laughter.

“Don’t fancy yours much, mate,” a man behind me calls out, as another of the group grabs Steve’s free arm. She’s younger, not so aggressive, quite nice looking, actually. Steve looks up in my direction, no doubt looking to acknowledge the one who called out. He probably won’t recognise me, having only seen me the time he crushed
Father’s fishing-flask, but just in case, I turn and pretend to look in the dark shop window.

“Come on now, girls,” Steve says.

“Girls,” the Geordie foghorn screeches. “Nobody’s called us that in years. Eh, I like him but.”

The attractive one leans in to Steve’s ear. “It’s me mate’s hen night,” she says, coherently
, obviously not as drunk as foghorn. “Just give her a kiss and we’ll move on to the next bloke.”

“Just a kiss?” Steve says. He shakes his arm free with an abrupt snarl. “Just a kiss! Just a
fucking
kiss! Do you women actually believe there’s such a thing as
just a kiss
?” There’s anger in his voice and he glares into the eyes of the attractive, younger detainee. She blanches slightly and steps back.

“Leave this one, Dennee,” Geordie foghorn shouts, “He’s a reight nutta.”

Steve stands on the spot as they move on. A nearby bouncer shouts, “lucky escape there mate.”

Steve gives him a half-hearted smile and partial wave and starts walking. I follow at a safe distance, wishing he’d gone with
Geordie-foghorn instead of meeting Sally. I haven’t even got a plan. I’m just looking for a little dirt, I guess. He passes the bars with flashing neon that sell only wine or expensive bottled-lager, supposedly foreign but made in England under license with English water and English ingredients. He walks past bars where the speakers are so loud it’s a wonder the occupants’ ears don’t bleed; it’s the kind of volume that deposits a mosquito that buzzes against your ear drum into the night and the day beyond. He walks past the places where bodies form a barrier ten people thick before the bar, where waving a twenty above your head presumably means getting served a little quicker; in which case you’re likely to come away with the change from a tenner (work your change out first, that’s the trick). Just try and get their attention after they’ve ripped you off, when others are pushing you to the back of the throng, spilling your drink and risking a fight as it spills down the neck of the biggest, meanest bloke in the bar. He walks past the cop-van and the burger-van, the kebab shop, the pizza take-out, the curry-house, the taxi rank and the chip shop, all of them getting ready for the eleven pm chuck out. Tonight, Steve looks like he wants none of it.

The bars sound in the distance, their distorted music merging into one as he heads for the outskirts. I hold back a little further, rather than have him notice me following him. Looks like he’s not meeting
Sally after all. His relationship with Sally, which I thought was back on track, must have suddenly gone skew, skidded off track, and landed in some unfathomable ditch of confusion. I dare to hope this is true. He certainly looks annoyed, maybe depressed.

*  *  *

Steve turns into an old fashioned looking pub called the Royal Oak. I’ve watched him in here before. There are three rooms: a taproom and a snug at the front, their windows frosted and etched with the name of an old brand of a beer that’s no longer brewed. The taproom has bare boards and small round tables long ago devoid of varnish. Both floor and tables are sticky with decades of spilled ale. The lounge differs from the taproom only by the fact that there’s a carpet and the chairs are upholstered in velvet, the nap of which is shiny black with years of grime. It’s old, it’s well worn, but it’s welcoming and comfortable. The backroom into which Steve disappears looks to be a relatively new addition. A pool table has been shoehorned in, no doubt in the hope of attracting a younger, more affluent, customer base. On Saturdays, at least, this move has been ineffective, proven by the fact that Steve is the only one in there. I can see into the room from the snug and watch as he sits at a table before a glass of conker-coloured ale. The rattle of dominoes in the taproom fills the air as he takes a mobile phone from his jacket pocket. He takes a sip of the beer, wipes the froth from his lip, and then quick-dials a number.

He mouths a swear word and looks at the phone, shaking his head. Engaged, I guess. He doesn’t bother to leave a message. Taking a long draught of his pint, he presses a button and holds the phone to his ear.

“Pete, it’s Steve. You doin’ anythin’ mate?”

Something said on the other end raises a smile on Steve’s
face, despite his sombre mood.

“You wouldn’t have done
,” he says. “I’ve had me phone off. What, for?”

Steve listens, looking a little puzzled.

“Go on.” Steve drinks half of his pint as he listens. “Can’t you just tell me now? Come on, spill. What is it, this weird thing? Okay. I’ll wait until you get here... Royal Oak.”

Steve hangs up and slips the phone into his pocket before finishing the pint. Looking puzzled, he approaches the hatch in the back room. He taps on the ledge and I turn away, just in case. Pete might recognise me, despite the disguise, so I’ll have to be careful.

*  *  *

Steve has almost finished his fourth pint when Pete finally shows. I’m only two
-thirds of the way down my first half and the landlord looks at me as if he’s desperate to wash and clean the glass. I empty it with a shudder and ask for another. Steve is half cut but accepts another drink when Pete offers to buy one. Pete orders three pints, swallows the first pint in one go, before taking the remaining two to Steve’s table. He sits down and slips his hand into the breast pocket inside his jacket.

“You’re not go
ing to believe this,” Pete says, looking at Steve, who looks back, glassy eyed, taking a slow mouthful of the pint.

Steve spits the mouthful, spraying the far wall and the ba
ize of the pool table, when Pete shows him what look to be photographs. My insides slip like a scoop of ice-cream thrown against a hot kettle. I deleted them. I’m certain I did.

“Told you, you needed to see ’em.” Pete grins, broadly,
and then takes a long swig of his pint. When Steve looks up at him, questioningly frowning, Pete says, “Weirdest thing is I found ’em on my computer at work. They were in the trash-can, but it hadn’t been emptied. Power went off last night and must have interrupted it. Otherwise I’d never have found ’em.”

“What you done these for, though?”

“I didn’t do ’em. You too pissed to listen? I found ’em. Have to admit, I did wonder at first. You know, whether I’d done ’em years ago as a joke or something, and then forgot, like I’d been in some kind of mind-melt or something.” Pete wiggles his fingers in the air and rocks his head from side to side, as if it symbolises the suggested mind-melt. “But I didn’t. These were created yesterday. And that’s weird thing number two, I was at work all day yesterday.”

That’s not right. I didn’t do them yesterday.

Steve looks closely at the photographs. “It looks real,” he says looking up at Pete, then back to the image. “Like, you can’t even tell.”

“Yeh, they’re good.
You
can
tell though. If you know what to look for you can easily tell they’re fake.”

There’s a silence then, a heavy thinking type of silence, through which domino
es rattle and old men chunter. They’re going to show the pictures to Sally, I think, knowing there’s nothing I can do to stop them.

“Ha
ng on, Sally said something... I’ve seen... You bastard!” Steve’s stool scrapes as he rises to his feet and lunges at Pete who quickly dodges to the side.

“Steady on mate,” Pete says, jumping to his feet, knocking the stool over with a clatter and grabbing Steve’s arm. “I told ya, I
ent done ’em.”

“O
iy!” The landlord, a pit-bull of a man, glares at them through the hatch. “Settle down or get out.”

“S’all right,” Pete says. “Misunderstanding’s all. Be right now.”

“Just see it is, then,” the landlord says, a hard note of warning in his voice. He stares them down a moment before slipping back behind the bar. He looks at my new half, still untouched, and begins polishing some glasses. The rattle of dominoes fills the air a moment, temporarily the only noise in the place, as Pete and Steve take their seats.

“Weren’t me who did ’em,” Pete finally says in a hushed but forceful tone. “Why would I show ’em you otherwise
?”

“Idiots,” the landlord says to me. I nod in response while bending my ear to the hatch. Last thing I want to do is get engaged in conversation.

“In case Sally did,” Steve snarls. “Come on all matey-like and deny all knowledge.”

“What do you mean, in
case Sally did?”

Steve obviously thinks Pete did them for me, maybe that’s my get out then: deny all knowledge if it comes to it.

Steve holds Pete’s eyes a moment. “Have you shown these pictures to Sally?”

“No, mate. I wouldn’t.”

“Well I think she’s seen ’em somehow. And, I think she thinks they’re real. Christ, I almost think they’re real, and I know I’ve never even seen this girl, never mind slept with her. No wonder she was pissed off with me.”

Something has happened then, and it’s got something to do with the photographs I fabricated. But Steve’s reaction to them is rather strange.

“They are good,” Pete says, looking closely at one of the pictures. “But like I said, if you know what to look for you can tell they’re fake.” Pete points to the image. “The join’s perfect. Whoever’s done it has a lot of patience. It’s almost been done pixel by pixel, piece by piece, you know, like fitting a microscopic jigsaw-puzzle. But look here, the shadow’s not quite at the right angle. And, the flesh tones of the male body don’t quite match the face. Besides, you’ve got more of a gut than this guy.”

“Piss off.” Steve shakes his head as he looks at the print in Pete’s hand. He picks up his pint and necks the remaining third. “Want another?”

Pete hands him the glass he’s just emptied. I turn away slightly and watch the old men playing dominoes in the other room.

“There
’s only one explanation I can think of,” Pete offers when Steve returns to the table. “Somebody must’ve done these on my computer at night. And that means the security guard would know something about it; he would know who was in the building late at night. We could ask him.”

“Hey, Sally’s been seeing him. Just friends, she says. You don’t think he might have done these?”

“No way, it’s not something you can learn over night. Not to this standard. He might be in on it, but I don’t know.”

“Come on,” Steve commands, “let
’s go to the office then, see this security bloke. What’s his name?”

“Don’t remember. He doesn’t work at weekends, anyway.”

“Well, come and see Sally with me then. Tell her where these pictures came from. Tell her they’re not real.”

“
No problem, mate,” Pete says, gathering the pictures and placing them in his top pocket. “Alright if I finish my pint first?”

“Give ’em here.” Steve
takes the pictures from Pete, counts them and puts them in his own pocket.

“Sit down a minute Steve, I’m not necking it.”

I may as well go home, I realise. Steve’s going to go to Sally’s house and get Pete to explain the whole thing. I don’t know how the images stayed on the computer, but it seems like my prayers won’t be answered. They think I might have something to do with it so catching me here won’t look good. I leave the untouched half on the bar and take off while the landlord’s back is turned.

CHAPTER
33

Kerry doesn’t seem to be quite as tipsy as I am. We’ve downed one and a half bottles of wine each, perhaps not equally split, and the room is listing like a cross channel ferry on a
November crossing. Whenever I get this pissed I get nostalgic for the eighties. Therein is the reason why Wham has managed to find its way onto the CD player and
wake me
up before you go go
is now playing at a volume loud enough to drown the hammering on the wall from next door. Nosey cow.

“I’m not planning on going solo,” I screech, slightly out of time with the track but more tunefully than Kerry who in the Eighties preferred the Human League
: a home-town band who, as a young woman, she took much more seriously than they took themselves.

“I’m gonna hit that high,” we squawk in unison, raising our glasses and laughing hysterically.

The track ends and the saxophonist’s sultry intro to
careless whisper
floods the room. We flop on the sofa, breathing heavily from the exertion of our exuberant singing.

“Oh, I love this one,” Kerry says as we fail to sing in time with the music. “I feel so un-sure.” Kerry’s voice is soft and yet masculine in strength as she accompanies George. “As I take your hand and lead you to the dance-floor.”

“I’m never gonna dance again,” I duet, slurring the words as Kerry throws an arm around my neck, and pulls me close imitating a slow dance.

“Time can never mend,” Kerry sings, her nostrils flaring with heavily drawn breaths, her eyes locked on mine, “the careless whispers of a good friend.”

I close my eyes and sway to the tune, as sax fills the air with sensual melody.

“Tonight the music seems so loud,” Kerry sings. “I wish we could es-cape this crowd.” A tremor fluctuates her voice as she sings. I’m dreamily swaying to the music, feeling like I’m in the youth-club disco, my eyes softly closed with dreamy-sleep, half-wake
fulness.

I feel the warm soft touch of lips on mine, barely touching, but as I respond, the kiss becomes more forceful, lips open, pre
ssing against teeth, wet tongue probing.

Careless whisper draws to a close and a tingle shoots from a squeeze of my breast, a thumb and index finger gently squeezing the nipple. Warm skin and gentle fingers on my knee slink slowly along the soft flesh of my inner-thigh. The blaring trumpets of
freedom
blast into the room like ice water on hot coals. I hear them as a soldier would hear a roll-call and jump to attention as the fop-haired youth of my dream-state is replaced by Kerry. Shocked guilt-ridden looks in her eyes meet the accusatory flare in mine.

“Kerry! No. What’re you doing?” I jump to my feet, banging my shin on the coffee table. Aaarchggr! I yell
, both at Kerry, and at the impact, and at the tumult of contradiction boiling in my mind.

“But you wanted it. You responded.”

George sings “Everyday I hear a different story, people saying that you’re no good for me.”

Too right
, I agree.
You’re no good for me
. My thoughts immediately swing to Keith, the one person who everyone keeps saying is no good for me, but who is probably the only one who is. He may not be perfect, but who is?

“I’m pissed, Kerry. I was dreaming of Steve. Keith. A lad from when I was seventeen. All three. I don’t know. But not
of you. Definitely
not
of you. You... you... flamin’ dyke. Aaarchggr! I can’t believe you did that.” I stick out my tongue and wipe the length of it along the back of my hand.

“It was just a kiss, Sal.”

“Just a kiss! Where have I heard that before? You’re disgusting. That was disgusting.”

Kerry’s expression wavers from looking guilty, to
looking defiant, to shameful, but settles on defiant, her most common expression and perhaps the easiest on which to settle in a crisis. “You seemed to be enjoying it at the time.”

“In my mind
…” I yell, tapping my head as I lean forward, “I was snogging a guy. That’s why I was enjoying it.”

“You said Keith.”

“I meant Steve.”

“Yeh, well, you’ve finished with him, remember?” Kerry shouts herself now, her shame
moving aside and giving way to anger.

“Oh, yes, tha
nks to you and them, them photos. Where’d you get ’em anyway?”

“Letterbox. I told you already. Soft cow.”

“Bitch.” I’m so exasperated that I’m panting through angry intakes of breath as I glare at Kerry, a stream of conflicting thoughts running through my mind. “I bet you were glad to find them photos.”

“Of course I was. Proves he’s a lyin
g shit.”

“Thought you’d move in while soft-Sally’s all vulnerable and needy.”

“It wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan this. It just happened.”

“Course it did. Upset Sally. Get her drunk. Get in her knickers.”

“No. I… It wasn’t like that.”

“Aaarchggr! You’re no better than the men you’re always dragging down, Kerry. You’re exactly the same. Help grease the wheels of Steve’s departure, get rid of Keith, and then slide on in
to fill the vacancy yourself. Is that how you planned it?”

“Think what you like, but I’d never treat you like that piece of shit.”

“Never. Never treat me like…? You just have.”

I storm from the room
, purposefully pounding the stairs and the bedroom floor above. I slam doors and crash through drawers. I eventually storm down the stairs dressed in jeans, with a coat under my arm. I hold out a bottle of perfume and allow a moment of questioning silence to fill the void between Kerry and me.

“See this? Keith bought it. He’s the only one who knows me. He took notice of it, realised I liked it, and went to the shops smelling every bottle until he found out what it was, and then he bought me some as a gift.
Do you think that was because, like everyone else, he wanted something from me? No, it wasn’t! He bought it to thank me for being a good friend. But you wouldn’t know what one of them is, would you?”

Kerry purses her lips, casts her eyes to the ceiling. “Whatever.”

“Yes, whatever. I’ve been a stupid, blind, silly-cow. Listening to everyone else’s opinion. Acting on it. He’s the only one I can trust. I’m going to Keith’s.”

Kerry’s eyes fall on me with wide-
eyed-alarm. “Don’t do that Sally. You’re drunk. Think about it in the morning. Sleep on it.”

“Don’t even... Sleep on it? See
, you’re exactly like Steve, telling me what to do.”

“I’m not telling y–”

“Yes! Yes you are. You’re just more subtle about it.”

“Thought you didn’t know where he lived?”

“I didn’t, but I asked Arthur a couple of days back. According to Arthur, Keith didn’t want to tell me because he’s ashamed of his home. He wanted to make it more presentable before inviting me. That’s the kind of person he is, sensitive. And he’s always putting others before himself.”

“Sally, I don’t think–
”

“Exactly, you don’t, do you
? Don’t be here when I get back.”

I slam the front door behind me and stand on the path a moment, feeling as if I just closed the door to a maze. I feel like I’m trapped in a world I never intended to enter in the first place
: a crazy, topsy-turvy, upside down world where events seem to constantly overtake and control my actions. The cold of night nips the bare skin of my arms and sobers me somewhat. I consider going back into my home, crawling into my bed and trying to sleep it all off. Maybe Kerry is right; maybe I should sleep on it. The compromising pictures of Steve enter my mind, and I remember sitting on my bed ripping up that very first photograph, the one of the woman in the bridesmaid outfit, the photograph that initially brought about this most definite of splits. The memory stirs the wine in my gut, and with it a hiccup of sickness causes me to vomit onto the pristine quartz-gravel by the side of the path. A splash of light cuts through the curtain as Kerry looks out, a sympathetic look on her face.
False sympathy
, I think.
Faux
, I tell myself, looking back in silence. I throw my coat around my shoulders and stride down the path with purposeful intent.

At the park gate, almost sucked of resolve by its dark shroud, I pause and again wonder if I’m being hasty. I turn and begin to walk back. A slash of light falls from a window, from a curtain drawn open. My window. Again I pause. A rock and a hard place I say to myself. Though I have trouble thinking of Keith as a rock, and for Kerry I substitute hard-place with hard-face. Caught between a cock and a hard-face, Steve would have probably said. A glimmer of a smile spreads my lips. Keith’s not a cock, Steve. Maybe he’s no rock in the hard sense, but maybe he’s a rock in a storm. A safe place to shelter. So, if you truly believe that, Sally Bradwell, why are you hesitating?