In the Dark (3 page)

Theo jabbed a finger into the bag slung over his friend's shoulder: soft leather with loads of zips and pockets; dark blue with PING emblazoned on the side and along the shaft of each of the brand-new clubs inside. Big, furry covers for the woods. ‘It's a
pitch and putt
, man. Nine holes.'

His friend was a foot shorter than he was, but solid. He shrugged. ‘Got to look good, whatever.' Which he did, same as always. Diamonds in both ears and a tracksuit to match the bag, with light blue trim and co-ordinating trainers. The plain white cap he always wore; no logo, same as everything else. ‘I don't need to wear no tick,' he'd say whenever he had the chance, ‘to tell me I look
right
.'

Ezra Dennison, sometimes known as ‘EZ', but most of the time just ‘Easy'.

Theo sauntered along next to him in jeans and a light grey zip-up jacket. He glanced over to see that the older couple were walking in the same direction on a parallel fairway. He gave a small nod, watched the man turn away quickly, pretending to look for his ball.

‘This is nice,' Easy said.

‘Yeah.'

The shorter boy threw a few waves to an imaginary crowd, messing around. ‘Easy and The O, coming up the eighteenth, like Tiger Woods and . . . some other geezer, don't matter.'

Theo couldn't think of another golfer either.

Theo Shirley, or ‘The O', or just ‘T'. One letter or another. ‘Theodore' at his mother's house, or when his friends were taking the piss.

‘So many names you all got,' his father had said once, laughing, same as he always did before he got to his punchline. ‘What's the damn point when you ain't even signing on?'

Then that look from his mother. The same one he always got when she was bursting to ask him why he didn't
need
to sign on.

Easy dug into his bag, took out a new ball and tossed it down at Theo's feet. ‘Your shot I think, old boy.' He raised a hand. ‘Hold the cameras please.'

Theo pulled out his club from the thin, ratty bag he'd been given at the hut and knocked the ball up a few feet short of the green.

Ten yards further on, in the rough, Easy found his ball. He stood over it, waggling his arse for an age, then smashed it twenty yards over the back of the green into the trees. ‘The putting thing's boring as shit anyway,' he said.

They walked towards the green. It was bright, but the ground was still heavy underfoot. The laces on Theo's trainers were brown with muddy water, and the bottom few inches of his jeans were sopping from the long grass where he'd spent most of the previous half hour.

Almost a fortnight into July and it was like the summer had got held up somewhere. Theo couldn't wait for it to kick in. He hated the cold and the wet; felt it in his bones, making it hard to stir himself sometimes.

His father had been the same.

Sitting out ten floors up on the tiny balcony, in jackets and sweaters, the old man sneaking him sips of barley wine when his mum wasn't looking.

‘We're not cut out for the cold weather, you see? For the breeze and the bitterness. Why you don't see no black men skiing.'

Theo would always laugh at shit like this.

‘We're from an island.' Well into the wine by this time. ‘Sun and sea, that's natural.'

‘Not too many black swimmers, though,' Theo said.

‘No . . .'

‘Don't make sense then.'

Nodding, thoughtful. ‘It's a question of natural buoyancy.'

His father didn't have too much more to say about that. Certainly didn't bring it up when Theo was winning all those races in the school swimming gala. Just stood on the side shouting louder than anybody else; making even more noise when the tight-arsed woman behind tried to shush him.

‘Jus' 'cos her boy swim like he's drowning,' he said.

The old man was always talking some shit until Mum told him to stop being so foolish. Even at the end, lying on the sofa, when it was the drugs making him ramble.

Easy marched across the green, began crashing about in the trees while Theo chipped up and putted out. Looking back, Theo could see people waiting on the tee behind. He was starting to walk off the green when Easy emerged, strolled over and started talking, throwing the flag from hand to hand: ‘What you doing later?'

‘Not much. See Javine, whatever. You?'

Easy threw the flag. ‘Some business in the afternoon.'

Theo nodded, glanced back towards the people waiting.

‘Ain't no problem, just bits and pieces. You better come along.' Easy looked for a reaction. ‘Call your girl.'

‘Bits and pieces?'

‘
Little
bits and pieces, I swear.' A grin spread slowly across his face. ‘Seriously teeny-tiny, man, I swear to God.'

Theo remembered that smile from school. It was hard to remember sometimes that Easy wasn't a kid any more. He was darker-skinned than Theo, his olds from Nigeria, but it didn't matter. Both from the same ends, the same part of Lewisham, knocking about with all sorts most of the time. There were plenty of mixed-race boys in the crew; though most were Jamaicans, like him. A few Asians too, and even a couple of white boys drifting around. He got on fine with them, as long as they weren't trying too hard.

There was a whistle from the tee behind. Easy ignored it, but Theo walked off the green and, after a few seconds, Easy followed.

‘So, you up for it later?'

‘Yeah, long as we talking teeny-tiny,' Theo said.

‘Definite. It'll be safe, T. Besides, stuff comes up, you
know
I always got everything under control.'

Theo saw that smile again, and watched his friend patting the side of the golf bag like it was a puppy. ‘What the fuck you
got
in there?'

‘Shut up.'

‘You high, or what?'

‘Here's the way I see it.' Easy laid down the bag. ‘A pitching wedge for knocking the ball on the green, yeah? Putter for putting it in the hole. And other things . . . for other things.' The smile spread even wider. ‘Know what I'm saying?'

Theo nodded.

It was hard to remember sometimes that Easy had
ever
been a kid.

Theo tensed when Easy drew back a zip and began digging around inside the bag. Tried to let the breath out slowly when his friend fished out half a dozen more balls and dropped them one at a time.

Easy yanked out a wooden club, pointed with it to a flag in the far corner of the course. ‘Let's smack a few at that.'

‘That's the wrong hole, man. That's not the next hole.'

‘So?' Easy took his stance, biting his lip with concentration. ‘I just want to whack some of these little fuckers.' He swung hard, missing the ball by an inch, sending a huge, soggy clod flying several feet.

‘Yeah. Tiger Woods,' Theo said.

Easy swung again. This time the ball went marginally further than the clump of mud and grass.

They both turned at the shout; saw an elderly man waving at them from outside the small hut near the entrance.

‘What's his problem?'

Theo listened, waved back. ‘You got to replace your divots.'

‘My what?'

Theo walked over and retrieved one of the clumps; came back to where it had been gouged out and stamped it down. ‘That's the
etiquette
, you get me?'

‘Fuck sort of a word is that?'

‘The way you do something. The proper way, yeah?'

Easy's face darkened. Never the best at being told.

‘What they call it, OK?' Theo said.

Easy spat and hitched up his tracksuit bottoms. He reached for another club and marched across to where the rest of the balls lay scattered.

‘Fuck you doing?'

Easy turned and swiped at the ball, sending it low and hard towards the old man. ‘This is the way
I
do things.'

The old man shouted again, but more in alarm than anger, jumping to one side as the ball clattered against the side of the hut behind him. Easy took aim again, was wider of the mark this time, but seemed happy enough to keep on swinging. Another ball smashed into the hut as the greenkeeper disappeared quickly back inside.

‘He's going to call somebody, man.'

‘Fuck him.'

‘Just saying.'

Easy was already trying to find more balls, swearing under his breath as he reached deep into the bag.

Theo stood and watched. Thinking that his friend was mental, but laughing like a drain all the same.

THREE

Jenny lived north of the river, in Maida Vale, and Helen drove across to meet her in a coffee shop opposite the station. It was not a cheap trip, with the congestion charge and a greedy parking meter on top of teas at nearly two pounds each, but Helen hadn't been able to stomach the tube since she was a couple of months in.

They sat at a table next to the window, watched people beetle past under umbrellas. Jenny waved at a couple of women as they came in; chatted briefly about the upcoming holidays. She had two boys at a school near by, and this was a place where she often met other mothers either side of the school runs.

It had only been a couple of hours since breakfast, but Helen put away the best part of two almond croissants before she'd finished her first cup of tea. Jenny pointed at her sister's belly. ‘You
sure
there's only one in there?'

‘I think there were two, but he's eaten the other one.'

Always ‘he', even though Helen did not know the sex of her baby. They'd been asked if they would like to be told at the twelve-week scan, but Helen had said she wanted to be surprised. She'd realised immediately it was a stupid thing to say; had turned to look at Paul, staring stony-faced at the monitor, and squeezed his hand.

There was only one thing he wanted to know, and no scan was going to tell him.

‘It suits you,' Jenny said. ‘I thought you were getting a bit thin before. Honestly.'

‘Right.'

Jenny usually had something positive to say, but lately it wasn't making Helen feel a hell of a lot better. There was a thin line between looking on the bright side and talking bollocks. Jenny had said that hormonal mood swings made you more interesting and kept men on their toes. She'd told Helen how rare it was to be throwing up all the way through, like it was something that should make her feel special.

Recently, though, she hadn't been quite so positive when it came to Paul.

‘How's it going?' The serious face, like doctors slapped on sometimes, and newsreaders.

Helen sipped at her tea. ‘He's finding it hard.'

‘Poor baby.'

‘Jen . . .'

‘It's pathetic.'

‘How would
Tim
handle it?'

Jenny's husband. A building contractor with a passion for fishing and car maintenance. Nice enough, if you liked that sort of thing.

‘What's that got to do with anything?'

‘I'm just saying.' Helen felt a little ashamed at her thinking. Tim
was
nice; and even if Helen herself didn't like that sort of thing, Jenny certainly did, which should have been good enough. ‘I don't think you can possibly understand how Paul's feeling,' she said. ‘That's all.
I
sure as hell don't, so . . .'

Jenny raised her eyebrows. She asked a waitress for more drinks, then turned back to Helen with a smile that said: Fine. Whatever you want. But
you
know, and
I
know . . .

Helen thought: You're younger than me. Please stop trying to be Mum.

They moved briefly on to other stuff - Jenny's kids, some work she was having done on the house - but it seemed impossible to talk to anyone for more than a few minutes without coming back to babies. Breast pads and pelvic floors. It was like being a womb on legs.

‘I meant to say . . . I spoke to a friend who says she knows some good mother-and-baby groups in your area.'

‘OK, thanks.'

‘It's good to get out and meet other mums.'

‘
Younger
mums.'

‘Don't be daft.'

Helen had thought about this a lot, and it made her uneasy. All the other pregnant women she'd met at antenatal classes and check-ups had seemed so much younger. ‘There's women my age who are grandmothers by now, for God's sake.'

Jenny sniffed. ‘Women with no lives, you mean. Two generations of pram-faced basket cases.'

‘I'm thirty-five,' Helen said, knowing how ridiculous she sounded, saying it as though it were a terminal disease.

‘So? I wish I'd had my two a bit later. A
lot
later.'

‘No, you don't.'

Jenny beamed. Even though there'd been no career to put on hold, Helen's sister had embraced motherhood with frightening ease. The piss-easy pregnancies, the figure she'd got back without even trying, the stresses that were just problems to be solved. A fantastic role model, albeit a depressing one.

‘You'll be
fine
,' Jenny said.

‘Yeah.'

If there are two of you
. The unspoken thought that filled the pause brought them back to Paul . . .

‘You know you're welcome to come and stay for a while afterwards?'

. . . To his absence.

‘I know, thanks.'

‘Be lovely to have a baby round the place.' Jenny grinned, leaned across the table. ‘Don't know what Tim'll say when I start getting broody, mind you. I say that, but you should have seen him last year with his brother's baby. Wouldn't put the thing down.'