Lucas (7 page)

How did I get here?

What was I
doing
here?

I looked around and suddenly realised where we were. The Stand. We were parked at the side of the road, about a quarter of the way across. It was almost too much to bear. All this – this car, these people, the sound of Bill gagging herself to death – all this muck and small-time horror didn't belong here … not
here
.

I went over and stood by the railings, trying to control myself, trying to distance myself from the dirt. The tide was in, just about to turn. It was as high as it gets without flooding. The clear silver water was almost motionless, like a mirror, just a gentle lapping against the reeds and a hazy blue swirl way out in the middle of the estuary. It was beautiful. For a few seconds I forgot about everything else, it all just faded into the background as I stared into the calming silence of the water.

And then, with a guttural oath and a splash, the silence was shattered.

‘Yay! Got ‘im!'

I looked across and saw Robbie leaning over the railings hurling rocks at something on the bank, flinging them with all his strength, his face screwed up into a mask of spite.

‘What are you
doing
?' I yelled.

He ignored me and bent down to dig out more stones from the verge. ‘Hey, Ange,' he shouted. ‘Come here, see this.'

Angel got out of the car and sashayed over to the railings, arriving at the same time as me.

‘Look,' said Robbie, heaving another rock. ‘Shit! There he goes, bastard.'

I looked over, expecting to see an injured bird or something, but it wasn't a bird – it was a boy.
The
Boy, the boy in green. He was about twenty metres down river, struggling up the bank with a fishing cane in one hand and his canvas bag in the other. The hair on the back of his head was matted with blood where a stone had found its target.

‘Oh, God,' I whispered.

Angel had climbed up on the railings and was urging her brother on. ‘Get him, Rob, go on, he's getting away. Get him!'

As Robbie grinned and went to launch another rock, I grabbed his arm and pulled him off balance. He swung out and shoved me away, then fired the stone with sickening force into the Boy's back. The Boy stumbled again and half-slipped down the bank, then steadied himself and leapt across a narrow gully before melting into a tangle of tall reeds. Just as he was disappearing from view he glanced over his shoulder and looked at us. From someone in his position I would have expected a look of fear, or anger, pain, or even bewilderment, but his face showed nothing at all. Absolutely nothing. It was the emotionless
look of an animal, a look of pure instinct.

A look that had seen me.

‘Dirty gyppos,' Robbie spat, lighting a cigarette.

‘What?' I said.

‘Gyppos, travellers – hey, what's your bloody game, anyway? Whose side are you on?'

‘Yeah,' said Angel, coming up beside me. ‘Whose side are you on, baby?'

I could hardly speak. ‘Side?' I spluttered. ‘Gyppos? What's the
matter
with you? You're all mad.'

‘He another one, then, is he?' Angel smirked. ‘Christ, you put it around, girl. Students, weirdos, rich kids, gyp-pos … can't you say no to
anything?
'

‘Don't forget the dawg,' Robbie snorted.

A surge of anger welled up inside me. I saw their mocking faces, teeth, lips, burning eyes, and the air around them tainted with cruelty, and it hurt so much I wanted to scream. But I knew it was pointless. It would always be the same. There was nothing I could do to change it. So I just turned around and started walking.

‘Say hello to Big Dom,' Angel called out after me. ‘Tell him Angel sends her love … d'you hear me? Little Angel sends her
lurve
…' Her laughing voice drifted away on the breeze.

Bill was sitting on the verge with her head between her knees, still groaning. As I passed by she looked up at me through bleary eyes. ‘Cait? Wass goin' on? Wass ‘iss? Where y'goin'?'

I walked past without saying anything and headed home.

The thing that upset me most about the whole day wasn't anything to do with Bill, it wasn't her stupidity or the pub
or the idiot boys, it wasn't even the spiteful rantings of Angel and Robbie. No, what upset me most was imagining what the Boy must think of me. As I walked the long walk home, fighting back the tears, mumbling useless curses to myself, staggering every now and then from the last remaining effects of the drink, a single ugly thought kept nagging away in my mind: God, what must he think I
am
? A tarty little brat with noxious friends who vomit in public and throw rocks at strangers … a thoughtless bigot … just another teenage fool …

I know it sounds incredibly arrogant and selfish of me, but I just couldn't help it. I couldn't get the idea out of my head. I imagined the Boy sitting quietly in a little hideaway somewhere, dabbing gently at his cut head, visualising me and the others laughing and pelting him with rocks. I felt so ashamed.

Of course, I was concerned for
him
, as well. That goes without saying. A terrible sickening feeling swirled in the pit of my stomach, a hollow rage that I hadn't felt since I'd tried to stop a bunch of kids torturing a cat a couple of years ago. It was bonfire night. They'd tied a rocket to the cat's tail and the poor thing was running around screaming in pain and panic and the kids were all laughing like lunatics. I
tried
to help, but the cat ran off and disappeared into some wasteground and the kids started laughing at me. I couldn't do anything. There were too many of them. I felt so helpless … and that's how I felt now. Helpless. Sickened. I was worried about the Boy. I wanted him to be all right, I wanted him …

The truth is, I wanted him to know that I cared.

Dad's always telling me not to worry what other people think of me, or what I
think
they think of me. ‘Just be yourself,' he says. ‘If it's good enough for you, it's good
enough.' I know he's right, but sometimes it's easier said than done. With people like Angel and Robbie, I can just about manage it. I can say to myself – it doesn't matter what they think, their opinions are worthless. Let them think what they like – what do I care? I can
say
that to myself. It doesn't always work, but at least I can say it. But when it comes to people whose opinions I value – well, that's different. That's when it's hard. When someone you respect, or admire, or love, thinks badly of you, then it's
not
good enough to just be yourself. Because if you're being yourself and they still think badly of you, then either they're wrong, or you are.

The way I saw it, the Boy was bound to think badly of me, but he was wrong. Or, at least, he was mistaken. It wasn't his fault he was wrong. If anything, it was mine. But he was still wrong. That was straightforward enough. What I couldn't understand was why it seemed to matter to me. I didn't know the first thing about him. Why should I care what he thought of me? Why should I value his opinion? Did I respect him? How could I? Admire him? For what? I didn't love him … I didn't even
know
him – so why did I care what he thought of me?

I thought about it all the way home, but I still couldn't work it out. My head hurt. My mouth was dry. I was too hot to think. In the end I just gave up.

After a cold shower and a change of clothes and a couple of cups of strong black coffee, I still felt lousy. It was only early evening, about eight o'clock, but I felt as if I'd been up for days. My head was all muzzy and I felt exhausted. I didn't want to go to bed, though. I didn't really want to talk to anyone, either. And the idea of watching Saturday night television was too depressing to think about. Of
course, what I really wanted to do was go for a walk on the beach. I knew it was the only place that would get rid of all the crap in my head, but I wasn't quite sure if I was ready to face it yet. The memory of Jamie Tait was still too fresh in my mind. The trouble was, the longer I avoided the beach, the more tainted it would become, and the more tainted it became, the harder the memory would be to overcome. The beach didn't deserve that, and neither did I.

But it was hard. Especially after what had happened that afternoon. Too hard. And as I sat in the kitchen looking out of the window, I knew I wasn't going to make it that night.

I was still sitting there half asleep when Dominic came back.

‘Hey, stranger,' he said, breezing into the kitchen. ‘What are you doing sitting in the dark?'

‘Nothing,' I said, rubbing sleep from my eyes. ‘What time is it?'

‘I don't know, eleven-thirty, twelve – where's Dad?'

‘Working.'

‘Makes a change.' He went over to the fridge and helped himself to a can of beer, popped it open and joined me at the table. ‘You been out?' he asked, lighting a cigarette.

‘No, not really—'

‘I thought you were meeting Bill?'

‘We just went into town …'

He grinned. ‘Living it up?'

‘Something like that.'

I watched him as he drank from the can. I hadn't really seen him since he'd got back, I hadn't had a chance to see
what he looked like. Now, in the semi-dark of the midnight kitchen, I could see that he resembled someone who used to be my brother. The same quietly handsome face, the same delicate mouth and wood-brown eyes, the same mischievous energy … only now it was all pinched and dull, the skin toneless and flat as if sealed beneath a sheet of clingfilm.

He drank some more beer and tapped ash into the ashtray. ‘Do you know what this reminds me of?'

‘What?'

‘That scene in
The Catcher in the Rye
, the one where Holden creeps back into his parents' house to see his kid sister – what's her name?'

‘Phoebe.'

‘Yeah, right, Phoebe. He creeps home and wakes her up in the middle of the night—'

‘She's just a little kid.'

‘I know.'

‘She's only about eight or something.'

‘Yeah, I
know
—'

‘I'm fifteen, Dominic.'

‘I know how old you are. I didn't mean you were
like
what's-her-name—'

‘Phoebe.'

‘Phoebe, right. I didn't mean you were like her, I just meant …'

‘What?'

‘Nothing, it doesn't matter. Forget it.'

‘I was only saying—'

‘Yeah, I know.' His voice hardened. ‘You're not a little kid and I'm nothing like Holden Caulfield and this isn't New York, it's Hale bloody Island.' He drained his beer and fetched another. From the way he slammed the fridge
door and moodily lit another cigarette, I thought he'd gone all sulky on me, but when he sat back down at the table he had a big fat grin on his face. ‘So,' he said, drumming his fingers on the table. ‘This crocodile goes into a pub—'

‘Look, Dominic, I'm not really in the mood—'

‘No, listen. This crocodile goes into a pub. He goes up to the bar and orders a beer. The bartender pours his drink, then looks at him and says, “Hey, what's with the long face?”'

I forced a smile. ‘Very good.'

He sipped from his can and looked at me. ‘So?'

‘What?'

‘What's with the long face?'

I shrugged. ‘I'm just a bit tired.'

‘Come on, Cait, I'm only trying to help. What is it? Boyfriend trouble? Is Simon still playing hard to get?'

‘Give it a rest.'

He grinned. ‘I could have a quiet word with him, if you like. Next time he comes round—'

‘It's all just a stupid game to you, isn't it?'

‘What?' he said innocently.

‘You
know
what. I mean it, Dom, I'm not in the mood. I've had it up to here with all this Simon crap. Just leave it, all right?'

He was quiet for a minute or two. Supping his beer, looking out of the window, tugging idly at his unshaven chin. There was something bothering him. I could tell by the way he was jiggling his foot up and down. It's a family trait. We all jiggle our feet up and down when we're bothered. I got the feeling there was something he wanted to talk about, but he didn't know how to begin. That was his trouble. He couldn't just come out and say what he wanted to say, he always had to poke and niggle at things until
eventually the truth was forced out.

‘It's Dad, isn't it?' he said after a while. ‘He's giving you a hard time.'

I sighed. ‘No, of course he's not—'

‘What's the matter with him, anyway? He gave me a right bollocking about last night.'

‘There's nothing the
matter
with him. He's fine—'

‘It's probably this new book he's working on, got him all razzed up—'

‘He's not
razzed up
about anything, Dominic. He was just annoyed with you for waking us up and acting like an idiot—'

‘Christ!'
he said. ‘You're worse than
him
. I don't
believe
this place. It's like living with a couple of bloody nuns—'

‘Stop
swearing
all the time, will you? It sounds horrible.'

‘Oh, for God's
sake
,' he snapped, getting up and stomping over to the window, flicking ash all over the floor. As he stood there tipping beer down his throat and smoking angrily, I couldn't help thinking how ridiculous he looked, like a spoilt little boy. Just like all the rest of them …

That was it, really. That was the heart of it. He'd become just like all the rest of them.

‘Look, Dom,' I said. ‘It wasn't just the noise that Dad was upset about—'

‘No?' He turned from the window. ‘What was it then? Don't tell me
Daddy
was annoyed because his precious son got a teeny bit drunk? Because I'm not having that, not from him. Shit! Talk about the pot calling the kettle black … he's been half-drunk ever since Mum died.'