Thames Gateway 01; Wide Open Page 7

  Connie wanted to get to grips with Nathan. She needed a handle. There was something so tender about him, something gentle, and yet he behaved so abrasively. Eventually she said, “I don’t know what Ronny did. I only have his letters.”

  Nathan cleared his throat. “I have no interest in any letters. I have no interest in Ronny. Or in this.”

  Connie sighed, then said softly, “He must have done something so terrible…”

  Nathan scratched his neck. Connie noticed a heat rash near his collar.

  “Water under the bridge,” he said.

  After an interval Connie said brightly, “I’m an optician, incidentally.”

  Nathan stopped scratching. “What was that?”

  “I said I’m an optician.”

  Nathan smiled thinly. “How does that relate to anything?”

  She was a crazy angel. A crazy angel-optician.

  Connie laughed. “You don’t know anything about me. Why the fuck should you want to help a complete stranger?”

  Nathan stared at her intently. He hadn’t expected her to swear. She’d surprised him.

  “But you think I might consider helping an optician?”

  In a flash he was flirting. It was out of character.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps. It’s been hell for me, too,” she said, apropos of nothing, not smiling any more, but suddenly tragic. Nathan was taken aback. Tragedy, at this juncture, was the last thing he’d expected. His spine straightened. She was slick.

  And because she was slick she saw how her change in tone had affected him. Nathan withdrew again, into himself. She felt a deep frustration. She didn’t want to manipulate. She simply wanted to come clean. “The way I see it, Nathan,” she said curtly, “we’re in pretty much the same position. You don’t want to encounter your brother again and I have no particular desire to see him. I simply have an obligation to fulfil.”

  Nathan nodded, but his voice was tight. “You said in your letter that your father had died.”

  Connie winced. She was still raw.

  “Five months ago.”

  “And he had some kind of a relationship with my brother?”

  “He was involved in a committee, a government committee that was drawing up a report on prison reform. He was a barrister, originally. He did all this charitable stuff after he retired. Anyhow, he met a wide selection of prisoners during the enquiry and he must have met your brother at some point, because they became acquainted. They became friends.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  Nathan was talking to himself. Connie didn’t understand. “Why did he do what?”

  “Why did he befriend Ronny? Ronny doesn’t understand…” Nathan corrected himself. “I mean he didn’t understand. About friendship. I still get hate letters. From total strangers. I’ve not seen him for almost ten years. I’ve moved house twice. But still they find me.”

  “That’s scary.”

  “Yes it is.”

  Connie had stopped glowing. When she’d come in she’d been glowing. But not now. She looked tired. Washed out.

  “The point is,” she said, “my father saw fit to leave Ronny a bequest in his will. Money, basically. A nice amount.”

  “A nice amount.” Nathan parroted, aimlessly.

  Connie’s eyes tightened. “Do you want to know how he died?”

  She was suddenly vengeful, like she needed to prove something. Her tragedic legitimacy, her righteousness. Nathan said nothing.

  “He was waiting on the platform at Gravesend station for my mother. She’d been to Cheltenham races for the day with her lover. He was standing too close to the edge. Someone opened their carriage door before the train had slowed down. It hit him like a hammer. It killed him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “We were very close.”

  Connie rubbed her hands together, like her fingers were cold or her knuckles stiff.

  “But not close enough…” she faltered. “I wasn’t close enough to know anything about Ronny. Nor did my mother for that matter. And it actually felt kind of creepy. Especially when we found out that he was in prison, and then, shortly after, that he’d absconded. It felt sort of…”

  Her eyes scanned the carpet near her feet, as though she might see the word she sought enmeshed in its fibres. Instead she saw only an empty wineglass, an ashtray, a tea stain and, poking out from under the sofa, a slip of paper. She focused on this as she completed her sentence. “It felt almost threatening.”

  For the first time during the interview Nathan felt pity for the girl. He imagined that before this trouble her life had been smooth and shiny as new Tupperware. It was no wonder she was shaken. He cleared his throat. “If I were you I’d forget about the money. Ronny was never particularly materialistic.”

  Connie remained unmollified. “Unfortunately it’s a legal matter, not a private one. A large portion of the money Dad bequeathed was tied up in my practice, which has left me in a slightly tricky position…”

  Nathan could see how this might be the case. “As a kid Ronny always broke things,” he said, appearing to marvel in the memory of it. “I mean, he never grew attached to anything. He had no interest in money.”

  “He broke things?” Connie’s voice was an echo, she wasn’t listening, she was trying to figure out what the slip of paper said. She saw an R and an O, an N and an N.

  For some reason Nathan felt a touch of anxiety. “Not aggressively. It was never an aggressive act. Nothing like that.”

  “Actually, I’d really like you to see something.”

  Connie put her hand into a leather satchel she’d been carrying and withdrew a bundle of letters. She removed a ribbon that tied them together. She offered them to Nathan.

  “What are they?” He stared at them fearfully, as if they might spit or bite or combust. As though they stank.

  “Ronny’s letters.”

  “I already said that I have no interest in Ronny’s letters.”

  Yet for an instant Connie appeared not to understand him and leaned forward further, proffering the letters until, as seemed inevitable, they slipped from her grasp and cascaded down on to the carpet, forming a small paper puddle at her feet. She swore and knelt down to gather them up again.

  Nathan felt a curious sensation of déjà vu. He didn’t move. He remained seated. He wanted nothing to do with these papers. They contained more secrets, more facts, and he’d had enough of secrets and facts in the past. A gutful. Connie picked up the letters and then surreptitiously included among their number the tantalizing slip of paper. She glanced over at him as she did so. Nathan seemed in another world. He was unfocused. He didn’t appear to notice. She stuffed the letters back into her bag and then smiled, the very image of angel-innocence.

  “That wasn’t Ronny’s hand,” Nathan offered, eventually.

  “Pardon?” Her smile froze.

  “I said that wasn’t Ronny’s writing on those letters.”

  “Oh,” she exhaled her relief, “I know.”

  “But you said they were his.”

  “I meant that they were written to him.”

  “By your father?”

  “No. I don’t really understand how it was that Dad ended up with them. The letters were actually from Ronny’s friend, Monica.”

  Connie scanned Nathan’s face when she used Monica’s name for any sign of recognition. She detected none. His face was soft and sweet, whiskery and gingery. She put her hand into the pocket of the jacket she wore. She drew out a business card. It said: CONSTANCE SUMACH, OPTICIAN. Underneath was an address in Gravesend.

  “Here.”

  She stood up and offered Nathan the card, but he didn’t reach out his hand to take it so she laid it down on the nearest flat surface; a cardboard box which was propped like an apprentice side-table next to the sofa. Then she took hold of her bag.

  Nathan stood up too. He wasn’t a tall man but by comparison Connie seemed tiny. A porcelain figure. A little Dresden shepherdess. And yet she was bold,
he realized. He respected that quality. He accompanied her, without speaking, downstairs and out of his flat.

  “Are you working?” she asked, just before taking her leave of him, “only I called round during the day last week and you were out.”

  Nathan nodded. “I work for the London Underground.”

  “Really?” She seemed interested.

  “I’m in Lost Property.”

  Connie grinned. “That seems fitting.”

  Nathan had idly noticed that Connie was glowing again. She was brightly painted. She glimmered.

  “Fitting?” he said. “How?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose it’s slightly…uh…”

  She knew what she wanted to say but she held it in. She backed off. She waved, suddenly jaunty. Nathan watched her as she walked down the road, searched for her keys, drew them from her bag and opened the door to a Renault Clio. Metallic blue. She’d been parked on a single yellow line and yet she’d not picked up a ticket.

  She was very lucky. Not just a pretty face, either, Nathan told himself. She had the sharp eyes of an optician. She had a magpie’s eyes. Nathan smiled sourly to himself, because, although it was of very little consequence, so did he.

  And that was ironic.

  ∨ Wide Open ∧

  Eleven

  Lily couldn’t resist.

  “WOTCHA!”

  Ronny looked up. He stared at her. She was pumpkin-faced. She was an essential, a delectable product of this godforsaken place. She’d just skidded to a halt on her bike and had sprayed a fine mist of grit all over him. She’d hit the corner of his shell display. He wasn’t angry.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, smirking.

  “I’m laying out these shells.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am.”

  “What kind of an answer is that?”

  Ronny rocked back on to his heels.

  “You’re the girl who jumped into the sea,” he said, smiling. This gentle spar took Lily by surprise.

  “How’d you know?”

  “I guessed.”

  “How’d you guess?”

  Ronny smiled some more.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “Because you have a dirty neck.”

  “What?” Lily was offended. She felt her neck with her hand. Ronny watched this cheerfully and seemed not to notice the offence he’d given. He said, “I spoke to the fat man who smells of fish. He said you jumped into the sea. He didn’t know why. Jim said you were dirty. He was right.”

  Lily was all the more affronted. She glowered. She’d momentarily lost her pip. Ronny scratched his beard. “I thought maybe you were cleaning off.”

  “Cleaning off? You bastard! Who the fuck are you?”

  “Ronny.”

  Lily didn’t listen. Dirty. How dare he! She touched her neck again.

  “It’s a fucking tan,” she said angrily, “I tan dirty.”

  Ronny shrugged.

  “You don’t believe me?!”

  Lily was raging. Tears brimmed on her lower lids like two iridescent souffles. She took several deep breaths. Ronny eventually apprehended her distress, but not quickly enough, she felt.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong? A total fucking stranger tells me I’m dirty and then asks me what’s wrong?”

  Ronny yanked at his beard. “Did I say you were dirty? If I remember rightly it was Jim who said you were dirty and then the fish man, Luke, who agreed with him. I don’t think I said you were dirty. But if I did then it was rude of me and I’m sorry.”

  “Jim who? I don’t know any Jim.”

  “Wow!” Ronny smiled.

  “Wow what?”

  “It’s just…” Ronny shook his head, “I’m surprised that you think being dirty is such a bad thing. I mean it’s no bad thing. There are certainly worse things.”

  Lily slit her eyes. “My parents breed pigs,” she said, “I know all about dirt.”

  “I’ve heard that pigs are very clean animals,” Ronny said, all sincere contrariness.

  “Well, I wouldn’t know about you,” Lily spat, “but I don’t call making a habit out of eating your own shit clean.”

  “Some people drink their own urine,” Ronny contributed, unfazed, “because they think it’s good for the skin.”

  “Sod off,” Lily bawled, and attempted to ride away in a razzle of sand and gravel. Her wheel lost its grip though, and she didn’t move quite as quickly as she’d anticipated.

  “Nice bike,” Ronny said. “I like it. Very smart.”

  She heard his compliments as she struggled in the sand.

  They struck like darts. She was completely bullseyed. He was the most interesting man she’d ever met. And ridiculously handsome. Oh fuck fuck fuck how she hated him.

  ♦

  Luke had Jim cornered.

  “I need a fag,” he said, “just one. Just a little puff.”

  “Why?”

  Jim resented him even asking. He didn’t care. Even so, he had a loose obligation. “Has it ever happened to you?” Luke patted at his wide stomach while he spoke because it kept on aching. Was it wind? Was it excitement?

  “Has what ever happened to me?”

  “That real kick in the guts kind of feeling? That love thing?”

  Jim shook his head. “Never.”

  “It’s really never happened to you? Wham-bam in the belly?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Luke was obviously disappointed. “Why not?”

  “Uh…” Jim had been preparing a flask of tea and an egg sandwich for Ronny. Luke eyed it covetously. Jim was holding a kitchen knife. He wanted to cut the sandwich in two but Luke clearly demanded his whole attention. “I don’t respond to other people in that immediate way,” he said softly, “not on the whole.”

  “Like a real smack in the balls,” Luke said, relishing it. Jim shrugged and cleared his throat, bemused and slightly embarrassed.

  Luke had wandered over to Jim’s, not just to beg a cigarette, but also for a spate of mannish confirmation, for some friendly reassurance. Jim’s reticence was making him feel oafish. Too butch. Too ballsy.

  “I’m very pleased for you, anyway,” Jim said eventually, blushing slightly. Agonized.

  “I mean there was the physical attraction,” Luke said, withdrawing a little, “but it was the intellectual thing mainly. She just looked at that picture and then she said, ‘Why is she wearing her sandals in that way?’ It was so strange.”

  Jim nodded. He’d already heard this part. He didn’t understand what it was that he was supposed to contribute, if anything. Luke was actually becoming something of an encumbrance. Jim did not want to be his friend. He didn’t make friends. If he’d ever troubled to have a life gameplan then friendship would never have been a part of it.

  Luke was waiting, though, his face puckered with anticipation.

  “Well yes, it does seem strange,” Jim managed finally, fumbling, stumbling, feeling around in the dark.

  “Because no one had ever said that before,” Luke continued, warming up again, “but when I initially conceived the image for that photo and when I actually took it I was thinking shoes. I don’t know why. I was thinking sandals. And then I got Beverly – my ex-wife, she’s the model – to unfasten the sandals. And so whenever I see that picture I think sandals, but whenever anyone else sees the picture they think breasts. High breasts.”

  Jim nodded.

  “You thought that too?”

  “Yes.”

  “But Sara thought sandals. It was…kinetic. Is that a word?”

  Jim touched his chin which was soft as chamois leather. “I think so. Perhaps you both have a similar way of looking at things.”

  “That’s precisely what I thought.” Luke was beaming. “You’ve hit the nail on the head there.”

  Jim was pleased he’d hit something but now he wished Luke would go. Luke sensed as much. “I shouldn’t have intruded. It’s just that I was
so…”

  “Understandably.”

  “Yes. Excited. And you’re right. I don’t need a puff. This is all natural energy. It’s positive energy. It’s just that…” he frowned, “as a photographer, how you see the world is the most fundamental thing. And you yearn for other people to see things in the same way you do.”

  Jim was nodding dumbly at this when Lily burst in, unannounced, a random firecracker. “OK,” she said, panting, her hair, hands, everything all atangle, “so who’s Jim?”

  “She never knocks,” Luke said, turning to Jim, his face suddenly creasing with displeasure, “and I only came to this godforsaken hole in the first place to escape that kind of thing.”

  Jim said nothing. He didn’t want Lily in his home. He didn’t want any kind of interaction with her. Even his acquaintance with Luke had been stretching it, though Luke’s car had proven invaluable.

  “The fact of the matter is this,” Lily announced, genuinely undaunted by her lack of a response, “you are a fat dick who stinks of fish,” she pointed at Luke. “And you,” she pointed at Jim, “you are a skinny baldie runt of a man. And I don’t care if you’ve got some kind of fatal disease. I don’t care. Fuck off!”

  She stormed out.

  “Would you believe it?”

  Luke shook his head in amazement. Jim was still holding his breadknife.

  “No.”

  He turned and cut into the sandwich. The yolk had gone cold, and the blade was much sharper than he’d anticipated.

  ∨ Wide Open ∧

  Twelve

  Remember Big Ron?

  He didn’t want to remember, he didn’t want to.

  Remember Big Ron?

  Who came home from his long trip away when Nathan was only eight years old.

  Remember?

  Hell wasn’t black after all. It was an endless, hollow, grey colour and it felt slippery. Nathan could find no fingerholds. Even though his hands were still small. He was eight years old and there was nothing to cling on to.