Bring it Back Home (3 page)

Chapter Six

In the early afternoon Cakes entered the outskirts of Bristol. He pulled off the motorway onto a large estate, parked by a row of shops and then called a number on his mobile phone. He had a quick conversation with the person on the other end who asked him where he was and then gave him some sketchy directions which Cakes scribbled down on the back of a crumpled envelope. Then he bought fish and chips and ate them in his van, then he bought a
Daily Sport
at the newsagent's and got back in his van and drove back onto the motorway. He followed the signs for the nearest Travelodge and found it just as the streetlights were flickering on, dusk arriving early there. A few minutes later and he was sitting on the bed in a hired room, sipping tea, telly on. He turned to the back pages of the
Sport
and scanned the list of 'Escorts' there. One caught his eye: BUSTY BRISTOL AREA H/H VISITS, and a phone number which he called on his mobile. A female voice answered, husky with cigarettes:

'Hello?'

'I'd like to see you tonight,' Cakes said. 'In about an hour. Can you do that?'

'Where are you, lover?'

Cakes told her. Then asked: 'How much do you charge?'

'Depends on what you want, doesn't it? But we can talk about that when I get there. In about an hour.'

'Okay.'

'I need your room number, darlin'.'

Cakes told her. 'There's a side entrance,' he said. 'So you don't have to go through reception.'

'I know the place. See you in about an hour.'

'Great.'

He snapped his telephone shut and finished his tea. He then took a shower, scrubbing himself from head to toe, brushing his teeth, shaving his face and shampooing the stubble on his head, hissing with pain as he rubbed the blue lump on his skull. He cursed Lewis, and then cursed himself for not packing a smart set of clothes as he put back on the outfit he'd set off in that morning: t-shirt, denim jacket, sweatpants, baseball cap, all of which smelled slightly sweaty, so he gave them, as well as his armpits, a blast of Lynx. Then he went downstairs to the bar where he sat and drank a few pints of lager on his own, watching the people come and go, come and go. He wondered what they were doing there, in that Travelodge on the outskirts of Bristol. Were they on a mission like him? Were they just visiting the city, to shop or sight-see? Or were they due to catch flights from the nearby airport? They were all a mystery to him.

On the way back to his room Cakes saw a sign saying 'CRECHE', with an arrow pointing down a corridor. He followed that arrow and found himself in a small room containing a silent riot of beanbags and spongeballs, soft sticklebricks and other children-entertaining things, but no children. He noticed a stack of board games in one corner and went and shuffled through them, choosing the Connect 4. Back in his room he set the game up on the floor, between the bed and the window. He made another pot of tea. Turned the telly on and sat down to wait.

Three soft knocks on the door. Cakes opened it with what he hoped was a welcoming smile. The ad hadn't lied; 'busty' was an accurate description. She was big all over.

'This is the right room, lover, yes? You called me earlier?'

'Oh yes,' Cakes said. 'That I did. Come in. Want some tea?'

He stepped aside and she tottered in on extremely high heels. Put her handbag on the bed, took her scarf off and put that next to the handbag. Cakes could feel the night air coming off her, see the goosebumps raised on the bare skin of her arms and legs, uncovered as they were by the tiny denim skirt she hardly wore.

They looked at each other. She was a large woman with a heavily made-up face. Lots of black hair – probably extensions, thought Cakes – piled up on the top of her head. Lots of jewellery. Big dark eyes in circles of vivid green eye shadow, and pink lipstick applied seemingly an inch thick. Cakes wanted to ask her to remove some of the make-up but he would've felt rude doing so, so he just asked her again if she wanted some tea.

'It's already made,' he said. 'It's in the pot.'

'Okay then.'

He poured two cups and she sat on the bed and removed her shoes, sighing with relief. She massaged her toes and her soles, the dinges in her skin where the shoe-straps had cut in. She noticed the Connect 4 screen on the floor.

'What's this?'

'What?'

'This, here.'

She pointed to the game with a bare big toe, the nail painted crimson. Cakes handed her the tea.

'Well, I thought we could have a game or two,' he said. 'Just pass the time, y'know?'

‘Ah, I see.' She blew on and sipped her tea. 'You're, erm, lonely, right? Travelling or something and you just want some company, is that it?'

'That's about it, yes.' He sat down crosslegged on the floor facing her, the Connect 4 between them. 'Is that okay? D'you mind?'

She slid off the bed so that she too was sitting on the floor, facing Cakes. 'Not at all, lover. It's your money. And this is one of my favourite games.'

‘Good.'

And so they played. She won the first game, and the second, which were played in silent concentration. As Cakes was re-setting the board for a third game she asked him where he was going, what he was doing in Bristol.

Cakes shrugged. 'I'm on my way to Wales.'

'Holiday, is it?'

'No. I'm looking for someone.'

'Oh. I won't ask what for, then.'

'Best not.'

'Will he, erm, be happy to see you, this person?'

'You're asking a lot of questions.'

'I'm sorry. Just curious.'

Cakes smiled. 'Well, it's a good question – which I won't answer. But I bet he'll be
surprised
to see me. I don't doubt he'll be surprised. He thinks I don't know where he is. But, y'see, I
do.'

Cakes laughed then, a small, soft chuckle to himself, almost under his breath. 'Oh yes. I
know.'

The woman looked at him. She listened to him chuckling to himself and watched him set the game up, watched his fingers, the vigour of his movements. She was looking for aggression. Was he a danger to her, this odd man who only wanted to play Connect 4 and drink tea? Was she in a bad situation, here, with him? No, she didn't think she was. She'd been in this business for several years and she'd learnt how to tell within two minutes of meeting someone whether they were a threat to her or not. It could be seen in their eyes, in their movements, in their laughter – too quick to laugh or too slow to laugh, both were danger signs. But this man, here…he seemed okay. She felt safe. Her prostitute's sixth sense was telling her so. There was a certain hardness in him, she didn't doubt that, and she pitied whoever it was he was hunting, but she could sense no menace towards herself in this man. He just wanted to play Connect 4. And drink tea.

So they played on, game after game. She was very good at it and whenever she won, as Cakes's counters would clatter to the floor, she'd clap the soles of her feet together in an innocent, girlish way. Cakes liked her doing that so he started losing on purpose. She was good company and he didn't want her to go.

Round about midnight he got tired. It had been a long day, and driving long distances always exhausted him. The adrenalin rush of putting the brick through the pub window had long since left him drained and weary. He told the woman he wanted to go to bed and asked her how much he owed her. She closed her eyes and moved her lips as she made a calculation in her head and then she gave Cakes a figure.

'Okay,' he said. 'Just let me get my wallet.'

He stood. She remained seated, on the floor. He stood still for a moment, thinking.

'What's up, my lover?' she said, looking up at him.

He looked down at her. 'How much for a blowjob?'

She gave him a price. Cakes unbuttoned his fly. She laughed to herself and thought:
Too good to be true. It always is.

Chapter Seven

When Lewis was a little boy, about ten years old, the Old Man – who wasn't so old then, of course – taught him a hard lesson. He stood Lewis upright in the centre of the garage office; he stood behind him and told the boy to fall backwards.
Just relax and let yourself go,
he said.
Just let yourself fall backwards. I'll catch you. Trust me, boy.

And so little Lewis did exactly that; he imagined he was a tree in the forest and toppled backwards, knowing that the Old Man would catch him and lower him gently to the floor or softly steer him back upright with his strong and reliable hands.

Except the Old Man didn't catch him. He just stood aside and watched as Lewis thumped against the floor, the air being jolted out of his chest with a yelp. And as little-boy-Lewis lay there sobbing, winded and shocked, trying to get his breath back with whooping gulps of air, the Old Man leaned over him with his eyes hard and his mouth unsmiling in the beard which was then just beginning to grow white and wild and he said:

'That's your lesson, son. Never trust anybody. Remember this day for the rest of your life. Trust no-one.'

It had been a cruel lesson, and Lewis remembered it clearly as he walked down into the village from the churchyard on the hill. He remembered the shock, the humiliation, and the huge disappointment. Had it been an important lesson? Had it been valuable for life? Lewis wasn't sure. All he knew was that, sometimes, he
hadn't
been betrayed by those he loved most – his brothers, say, or Manon – but that
he
had betrayed
them
. Or he'd betrayed Manon, anyway. Betrayed her terribly. So, really, Lewis reflected as he went into the garage and stowed the rucksack safely in the locker again, the lesson should've been: never trust yourself. If an opportunity arises for you to act like a coward and betray your own heart, you'll take it. Never trust yourself.

Cakes –he'd also betrayed Cakes. Not the same as betraying Manon of course but, well…Cakes had trusted him. How foolish of the man.

Lewis's expression was sad as he left the garage and went over the road to the Miner's Arms. It was half-full of people having an after-work drink or two and Robat and Marc, still in their oil-stained blue overalls, were at the fruit machine. Lewis bought them a pint each and then took his own drink into the corner, where the Old Man was sitting over a large Scotch and reading the local paper.

'Ah, Lewis. Sit down, son.'

Lewis sat. The Old Man neatly folded the paper and placed it on the seat beside him.

'You look unsettled, Lewis. What's wrong?'

Lewis told himabout his meeting with Manon, about making a kind of peace with her, about his proposal of marriage, but he left out the detail of possibly fleeing to New York with her. The Old Man listened intently to Lewis's words, sipping at his whisky, shaking his head in disapproval when Lewis rolled a cigarette. When Lewis had finished speaking the Old Man drank the last of his Scotch and put his elbows on the table. He leaned over it towards Lewis and said:

'So this bothers you, does it? What you asked Manon to do, you're having second thoughts about it now, are you?'

Lewis shook his head. 'Not at all. What's bothering me is that she'll say no.'

'When're you next meeting her?'

'Tomorrow. Back room, here, half past two.'

The Old Man stared at Lewis. He dug his fingers into his candy-floss beard and scratched at the chin that was hidden somewhere in there. Then he said:

'The barman here, you know him?'

Lewis nodded. 'Course I do, yes. He's worked here for ages.'

'And d'you see the young man at the pool table over there? With the white shirt on?'

Lewis turned to look and nodded again.

'Well, he's the barman's son. Only neither of them know that. The barman met a woman twenty years ago, bang, she gets pregnant, buggers off without telling him. Has the baby, a boy, puts it up for adoption. The foster family live in this village, so the baby comes back to where he was conceived. The woman – the mother, like – knows this, but thinks it best to say nothing about it. So there they are, father and son, except neither knows the other. They speak to each other every night, aye, but it's only to ask for another drink or a bag of bloody peanuts. What d'you make of that?'

Lewis shook his head. The Old Man went on:

'And d'you see the fat feller at the end of the bar, with the bag of pork scratchings? Well, he doesn't know it, but he's got a half-sister in Bristol. Nothing unusual there, no, except she's on the game like and every month or so that man goes to Bristol to see her. To have sex with her. He's been doing it for years – paying his own half-sister to have sex with him.'

'Jesus Christ.' Lewis shook his head. 'How d'you know all this?'

'I know the mother. The man's father was a docker in Cardiff, the daughter's dad is a welder from Merthyr. But they share the same mother. Who I know. She'll never tell them that they're related 'cos it would destroy them. Imagine that: you find out that you've been paying to have sex with your half-sister. For years. That news would just about kill you, wouldn't it?'

Lewis nodded. 'Why tell me all this, tho'? What's the point?'

'What, these stories? No point really, except to show you that everything's connected. In ways you'd never dream of. There are enough secrets in this village alone to make a library full of books, boy. We're all mysteries to each other but we're all linked to each other, too. Everything's connected. D'you know what I mean?'

Lewis gave no answer. Just sipped his lager.

'Ah, you'll find out for yourself, soon enough,' the Old Man said. 'But everything's connected. Remember that, son. In ways you'd never dream of. The links are everywhere. You've just got to learn to look for them.'

The Old Man's words were coming out a little slurred and Lewis realized that he was a bit drunk. Probably been in the pub all afternoon, drinking whisky, that's why he was talking gibberish. Just rambling, that's all the Old Man was doing. Not making much sense. Interesting stories, but did they mean anything to Lewis? Was there a point in telling them? Christ, the whole world was a soap opera.

Robat and Marc came over with a tray of drinks and soon Lewis had forgotten the Old Man's tales; had forgotten the link between the barman and the pool-player, would've been surprised to find out that the fat man's half-sister was a prostitute in Bristol. All Lewis could think was: Manon. Tomorrow. Two-thirty p.m. It became like the rhythm of a train in his head: Manon, tomorrow, two-thirty p.m. Manon, tomorrow, two-thirty p.m. A runaway train, an out-of-control train. A train he couldn't stop, even if he wanted to.