The Dead Beat (6 page)

Martha stood over her mum asleep on the sofa. Light from the television flickered over Elaine’s face. She looked drugged.

Cal came in the living room. ‘Zonked?’

Martha nodded. ‘As always.’

Elaine took a couple of sleeping pills every night. Cal and Martha could’ve been having an orgy with a herd of elephants and she wouldn’t have woken up.

Martha tried to imagine Elaine at a Pixies gig with Ian. Couldn’t. Elaine now was frumpy and dull. Maybe that was Martha’s future, watching late-night television alone and drugging herself to sleep.

She got a blanket and put it over Elaine. There was always a blanket handy, Elaine more often than not slept down here. She said she liked the noise of the television to go to sleep to. Martha thought it was maybe the double bed was the problem. Too big and too lonely. She felt a shiver as she imagined that in her future as well. Then she thought of Billy.

They’d left him outside Ian’s flat, heading in the other direction. She didn’t know what he was expecting, or what she wanted either, but whatever it was, it wasn’t happening tonight.

She and Cal jumped on the night bus, then got off a stop early so Martha could drunkenly commune with her heron. That’s how Cal put it. The boy had no sense of nature. They walked the extra distance through Figgate Park. It was unlit, and they stumbled round the pond to the boardwalk. From there you could see right over to Arthur’s Seat. The heron was usually somewhere on the island. Of course, it would be sleeping now. The best time to catch it was at sunrise when it would sit on a small outcrop of rock at the edge of the island and soak up the new light with its wings hanging out, as if solar-powered. Martha imagined the bird now. It was an elegant thing, but Cal just laughed at her obsession with it, like he did most things.

Cal had a bottle of red wine in his hand. ‘Nightcap?’

Martha looked at the clock. Ten past three. Shook her head.

‘I’m off to bed,’ she said.

Cal gave her a hug and they both headed upstairs.

She went to her room and threw herself on her bed. Exhausted. She rummaged through her bag and pulled out the notebook. Put the bedside light on and tried to focus, but still couldn’t concentrate on the words spilling all over the page. She pulled out the printouts from the office, the stuff about Billy, Ian’s obit, but she couldn’t focus on that either. She stared at the picture of her dad for a while.

She got an interview cassette out her bag and slid it into the Walkman, plugged the headphones in. There was crackle and hiss, then her dad’s voice in her head. It was an interview about a proposal to build a new school somewhere. Boring. The woman Ian was talking to was posh, complaining that the new school would ruin the area where she lived, that’s why she’d organised an appeal against the decision. Local politics.

She found herself yearning for the small snippets of Ian’s voice in between the woman’s blether. Methodical, workmanlike questions, attentive and functional.

And still alive.

She pressed Stop and removed the cassette. Raked through her bag for the other tape, today’s tape. Found it, put it in and rewound to the start.

‘Go ahead.’ Her voice.

‘Gordon Harris died this week in tragic circumstances at his home, aged forty-five.’

Her body tensed up as she listened, waiting for the gunshot. She flinched when it came. Kept listening, her shouts, then Billy’s. Then kept listening. The sound of a man half alive, the hiss and flutter and crackle of the tape.

Then something else.

A thud. Something in the background.

She was drunk. Maybe she imagined it. She pressed Rewind and Play. Listened again. Not sure. Just noise. Maybe a car door closing in the street. Or a million different things. Or nothing at all.

She rewound and listened again. She was less sure every time. How much had she had to drink tonight?

She listened again. Hiss, crackle, rumble. Now she had no idea. She’d talked herself out of it already.

She sighed, switched the Walkman off and left the room.

Knocked on Cal’s door.

‘Yup.’

He was in bed drinking wine.

‘Can I?’ she said. ‘It’s been a bad day.’

‘Sure, Munchkin.’

He held the covers open for her and she slid in, turning her back to him. He spooned her and she felt his familiar breath on the back of her neck.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

Elaine had never seen the Southern so rammed, but this was a special night. She was relieved she wasn’t working. It was crazy at the bar, punters six deep.

The place was buzzing because of the gig. Not for the Joyriders, but the other band rumoured to be playing. She looked at the crumpled ticket in her hand:

The ticket didn’t give anything away but the flyers did. ‘Very, very special American guests “Teen Spirit”’ were playing. The flyers were handed out at the door of the Nirvana show down at Calton Studios on Friday. Didn’t take a genius to work it out, which is why several hundred Nirvana fans had pitched up tonight. Apparently the band’s tour manager was the brother of someone in the Joyriders, and they had a night off between shows.

Nevermind
had only been out for a couple of months but the buzz around the band was everywhere. They were on the radio all day, every magazine cover, every late-night television show. Jonathan Ross’s face was priceless when they tore through ‘Territorial Pissings’ on his show then walked off in a sulk.

They’d been equally violent at Calton Studios the other night, in a different league of aggression and melody. That’s what Elaine loved most, the melody. These were pop songs dressed up as grunge. You found yourself humming them while walking down the street. That never happened with Mudhoney.

The Joyriders were just finishing their set. They’d arranged a semi-acoustic set-up in the corner of the pub, where the singer and bass player were now arguing. The bass player swigged straight from a bottle of Jack, the singer threatening to chuck him out the band. The guitarist and drummer were shaking their heads as if this happened all the time.

She finished her lager and stood up to get the round in. Waved her empty glass around the table, received nods. On her way to the bar, she picked up half a dozen more empties from tables. Force of habit. Also, it would endear her to Big Al.

She squeezed through the crowd, deposited the glasses on the bar and caught Big Al’s eye. He nodded and began pouring.

She looked round the pub. Dark, sticky, noisy. Walls covered in gig posters – L7, Mega City Four, Smashing Pumpkins, local crap like Miraclehead and Cheesegrater. An old, knackered motorbike was mounted on the back wall. Everyone in black, lots of dreadlocks, tattoos. Everyone was getting tattoos and piercings now. Unthinkable a couple of years ago. She fingered the ring through her belly button, rotated it a little to make sure it wasn’t closing up, a nervous habit.

Al was back with the pints. ‘Seven ninety.’

She handed over a tenner and got change.

‘Are they here yet?’ she said.

Al shrugged. ‘Haven’t seen ’em. If they don’t show, there’ll be a fucking riot.’

She took the pints back to the table. Years of practice, four pints between two hands. Not a drop spilt, even with these crowds.

She got back to the table and put the pints down. An Eighty for Gordon, Stellas for herself, Dave and Gordon’s new girlfriend Sam. Sam and Gordon were deep in conversation. Elaine wondered if Sam knew about her and Gordon’s recent history. Bit awkward if she did.

She turned. Someone was in her seat. He stood up, grinning.

‘Just keeping it warm for you,’ he said.

He was six feet tall and had hair like Evan Dando. Grey eyes. Cute, but a hint of darkness to them. He wore a Senseless Things long-sleeved top, one of the cartoon ones, drawn by the guy who did
Tank Girl
.

‘It’s crazy tonight, eh?’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Bet you’re glad you’re not working.’

‘Do I know you?’

‘I’ve seen you behind the bar before.’

‘Did I serve you?’

He shook his head and drank from his pint.

She drank too. ‘Didn’t think so, I always remember a pretty face.’

He smiled. ‘I’m Ian.’

‘Elaine.’

They clinked glasses.

She never took her seat back.

They spent the next hour talking, cocooned by the crowd noise. No sign of Kurt. Ian was studying journalism at Edinburgh Uni and did subbing shifts down at the
Evening Standard
, covering weekends and holidays. He was flirting plenty. She flirted back. The attention was flattering. He was a sharp guy, not one of the Southern’s regulars who talked to her as if she was a silly little girl. Creeps.

The Joyriders’ singer got up on stage. ‘I’m sorry, but it doesn’t look as if our special guests are going to make it.’

Elaine looked at the clock behind the bar. Back of midnight.

The crowd groaned and booed as the singer jumped off stage and disappeared towards the bar. The place almost emptied in five minutes. A lot of the punters were young enough to have school in the morning, Elaine guessed. A guy with a big chunky boombox left, no bootleg for him.

Ian went to the bar and she watched him go, checking out his arse. Couldn’t make out much in his oversized jeans, but he was skinny, the way she liked. It felt good to run your fingers up and down a boy’s ribcage.

A rise in punter noise made her turn. Kurt and Dave Grohl had just walked in, Kurt flicking hair out his face, Dave patting someone on the back in greeting. The guy from the Joyriders was over and talking, shaking hands. Rumour was he knew Kurt from supporting Nirvana years back in some post-punk outfit.

Everyone in the pub was looking at Kurt. Elaine wondered what it must be like, all that attention, never able to relax. He didn’t look comfortable, fidgeting with his hair and pulling a thread on his tattered jumper.

Ian came back with her pint, nodding at Kurt and Dave. ‘How about that?’

Elaine looked round the pub. Couldn’t be more than forty people in the place now.

Ian and Elaine talked about music. Turned out they’d been to a lot of the same shows and clubs in the last few months. Elaine wondered why she hadn’t noticed him before, and felt a growing sense of serendipity.

Kurt and Dave got on stage and picked up acoustic guitars. They didn’t announce themselves, just started playing. The first tune was a Shonen Knife cover. Then ‘Polly’. She loved ‘Polly’, so messed up.

They played seven songs, despite the crowd going mental for more. They ended with ‘Come as You Are’ and left the stage, Kurt signing a few things then sloping off to the toilets, Dave heading for the bar and getting a round in for anyone close by.

‘That’s one to tell the grandkids.’ Elaine regretted it as soon as it was out her mouth, what a stupid thing to say.

Ian laughed. ‘Yeah.’

She finished her pint to give herself something to do for a moment. She looked behind the bar. It was past closing time already, but Big Al hadn’t rung the bell, which meant a lock-in. Could be a long one.

‘Want another?’

Ian looked at his watch. ‘I better not, they’re giving me a trial run as a trainee reporter on the crime desk tomorrow.’

Elaine looked at him. She’d been giving him pretty clear signals that she was interested, and he was going home. Playing hard to get, really? She was falling for it, though, falling for him.

‘I’d like to see you again,’ she said.

‘Me too.’

‘What time do you finish at the paper tomorrow?’

‘Eight.’

‘Where’s the office?’

‘North Bridge.’

She nodded. ‘Why don’t you pop in here afterwards? I’m on from seven.’

‘Cool.’

They both had stupid grins on their faces.

‘See you tomorrow,’ he said.

She moved closer and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Yeah, see you tomorrow.’

He waved as he left the pub and she waved back, then she felt a tap on her shoulder.

It was Kurt. ‘Excuse me, have you got any Benylin?’

She stared at him. Cute, but not as cute as Ian. ‘No, sorry.’

He shrugged and scuffed away to ask the next table.

One to tell the grandkids.

Martha stood in the doorway of the kitchen looking at her mother’s back. Elaine was at the sink staring out the window. Outside was fresh and clear, sunlight slicing through the wires radiating from the telephone pole behind the shed.

Martha needed coffee and toast. She’d woken in Cal’s bed but he was gone. Cal was always gone, he would be at the gym or the pool or out for a run.

She was still in yesterday’s clothes. Mistake. She didn’t have many work clothes, so these would have to go in the wash straight away, ready for tomorrow. She slid out of the skirt and unbuttoned the blouse, walked into the kitchen and threw them in the laundry basket.

Elaine jumped when she realised Martha was there.

‘Put some clothes on, will you? This isn’t Spearmint Rhino.’

Something about standing there in her bra and pants felt defiant. Martha didn’t like her body but she didn’t want Elaine to know, wanted to show her mum what her daughter had become.

She poured some coffee. Radio 4 was on,
Woman’s Hour
. Martha hated Radio 4, especially
Woman’s Hour
. All those posh voices telling her what to think, reassuring her she was a worthy human being. Bullshit.

‘Elaine, when was the last time you listened to music?’

‘Don’t call me that, I’m your mum.’

‘Well?’

Elaine sighed. ‘I have no idea.’

‘What was it like before?’

‘Before what?’

‘Me and Cal.’

‘Blissfully quiet.’

‘Seriously.’

‘Seriously.’

Martha took a sip, scalded her lips, too hot.

‘Did you and Ian ever go to gigs?’

‘Where’s all this coming from, Martha?’

Martha scratched her arse.

‘You never talk about the past,’ she said.

‘What is there to talk about?’

‘The past.’ Martha did the voice of a spoilt teen. ‘Obviously.’

She didn’t know why she was digging away at this now.

Something in Elaine had closed down over the years. Martha knew it, Cal knew it, everyone knew it. All this stuff, the old music in Ian’s flat, everything that had happened with Gordon, meeting Billy, it suddenly made Martha want to open lines of communication again. They didn’t talk much, her and Elaine. They had never talked much that Martha could remember. It was as if Elaine had tried to become invisible, to blend into the background. She’d succeeded. Martha wanted to pull her into focus somehow.

‘You haven’t asked me about my first day in the office,’ she said.

This was poking at a scab. Elaine hadn’t wanted her to do it, didn’t want her to be in contact with Ian. Martha could understand, Elaine thought she was being replaced as the parental role model. Truth was, neither of them had been that over the years. Martha felt like she and Cal had raised themselves. Cal disagreed, as always. And anyway, Ian was dead now, so no chance of contact unless she got a ouija board out.

Elaine began sorting through the dirty clothes in the laundry basket. ‘How was your first day in the office then, dear?’

It was kind of a joke but not. That was Elaine’s way of dealing with conflict. What had happened to her, that she was unable to tackle the world head on, without sarcasm or jokes or cynicism?

‘Fine,’ Martha said. She thought about not mentioning it but she wanted to get a reaction, something meaningful. ‘Except a guy tried to kill himself while on the phone to me.’

Elaine straightened up, holding her back. ‘What? On the news desk?’

Martha shook her head. She realised she would be telling this story for the rest of her life. It already felt like a parable. The Legend of Martha Fluke. Remember that time when that guy shot himself on the phone? How we laughed all the way to the hospital.

‘I was covering the obituaries. The guy who was supposed to be working the shift phoned in, gave his own obituary then shot himself.’

‘Oh my God, Martha, are you OK?’

‘Shouldn’t you ask if he’s OK?’

‘You’re my daughter, not him.’

Elaine looked like she might try to hug Martha, who held up a defensive hand. ‘I’m fine. I saved his life, though, kind of.’

Elaine was standing there with Martha’s dirty blouse and skirt in her hands, rubbing the material with her fingers. Out damn spot and all that. ‘Tell me what happened.’

Martha was still in her bra and pants. It had been empowering before, now she just felt exposed. She took a glug of coffee. ‘So I was covering for someone off sick and the phone went. The guy sounded stressed. Started reading an obituary to me. He got to the end, said it was his own obit, then bang, I heard a gunshot. No answer on the phone. So this guy Billy got his address and we went round there and he’d shot himself in the face.’

‘Oh God.’

‘I know. We went with him in the ambulance. They operated but he’s in a coma.’

‘That’s awful.’

‘Turns out this guy is the regular obituary writer, the guy I was covering for, Gordon Harris.’

Elaine gripped the blouse in her hand tighter. ‘Gordon Harris?’

‘You know him?’

Elaine didn’t speak for a moment. Looked around the room as if searching for something. Loosened her grip on the blouse a little. ‘I met him a long time ago. He worked with Ian.’

‘So he knew Dad?’

‘Years ago.’

‘Anyway, his wife was all over the place.’

‘Wife?’

‘Yeah. Apparently he had a history of mental problems. Like, as if we don’t know what that’s like, eh?’

Martha was trying to make a joke about it.

‘That’s terrible,’ Elaine said. She went back to throwing dirty clothes into the machine. ‘You got anything else to go in here?’ She was trying too hard to be casual.

Martha shook her head and downed the rest of her coffee in one. Went to pour another.

‘Should you be going back into the office?’ Elaine said.

Martha had been waiting for this. Elaine didn’t want her there, had something against that place and the people. Martha had always put it down to antagonism towards Ian, but she wasn’t sure that added up any more. Ian was dead now, so what the hell?

‘I’ll be fine.’

Elaine looked at her directly. It made Martha realise her mother hadn’t held her eye the whole time she had been telling her about Gordon.

‘You don’t need this kind of thing, Martha,’ Elaine said.

‘Please don’t say “in my condition”, it makes me sound pregnant.’

‘You’re not, are you?’

Martha laughed. ‘No.’

‘Because that’s something else that could seriously affect . . .’

‘Elaine, please, I’m fine.’

‘Don’t call me that.’ She stepped forward and raised her hand to Martha’s cheek.

Martha flinched and pulled away. ‘And before you say anything, yes, I remember all the “previous episodes”, and I know I have my appointment tomorrow, and you don’t need to come because Cal said he would, OK, Mum?’

‘You called me Mum by accident, isn’t that sweet.’

‘Look, Elaine.’ That spoiled teenager voice again. ‘I’m not some fragile little nutjob that you have to tiptoe around any more.’

‘You don’t remember the worst of it.’

‘I hate that,’ Martha said, her voice raised. ‘I hate how you become the official historian for my fucking depression, like you own the facts of it. I have it, I had the breakdowns, I had the incidents, I had the fifteen different medications, the time in the loony bin. I remember, Elaine.’

‘I know you do, sweetheart, I’m just saying . . .’

‘Well don’t. I’m not that person any more. I’m a big girl and I can look after myself.’

‘I’m still your mum.’

Martha took a deep breath. Every conversation with Elaine seemed to end up the same way. ‘You have to let me live my own life.’

Elaine backed off, poured liquid in the washing-machine drawer and switched it on. The room filled with the whoosh and whir of the drum spinning, the skoosh of water and soap.

‘Says the woman parading around in her underwear, shouting and stinking of booze. Please put some clothes on, Martha.’

Martha saluted. ‘Yes, boss.’ She meant it to be sarcastic but it came out subdued. She headed out the kitchen and upstairs, thinking about tomorrow’s appointment and hoping that Cal would go with her, even though she hadn’t asked yet.