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Authors: John Harvey

Nick's Blues (8 page)

BOOK: Nick's Blues
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“I'm not afraid, don't keep saying I'm afraid.”

“Then why…”

With a sweep of his arm, Nick sent empty food containers, glasses, plates and cutlery crashing to the floor.

“I am not afraid!” he shouted, and hobbled, as quickly as he was able, from the room.

His dad, Nick thought later, impossible to sleep. His father too frightened to step up on stage; the same person who years before had impressed his mum with his self-assurance, his lack of fear. How had that happened? Why had he changed?

Nick tugged at the quilt and rolled onto his side.

Not me, he thought, that's not going to be me.

twelve

The next few days passed more slowly than most. By the time he'd finally dragged himself out of bed his mother had been at work for hours and generally he saw no one until either Christopher or Scott or the pair of them came round after school. Lunch he fixed for himself in the microwave, heating up some frozen this or that. When he opened his art folder everything inside seemed pointless and boring. Whenever he tried settling down to read his book, he found concentration difficult. Five pages were sometimes all he could manage before his mind started wandering off and he'd realise that the last few sentences had meant nothing at all. And if he did get taken up by the story, rattling towards California with the Joad family in their '25 Dodge, either his stitches would start itching or a flash of pain, sharp and sudden, would shoot through him and break the thread.

Sometimes, when that happened, the pain, he closed his eyes and waited until it passed; sometimes, when it was especially severe, he went back to his room and lay on the bed. Dozing, drifting in and out of sleep, he would emerge again from the darkness of the tunnel and again the half-brick would hurtle through the light.

“What you gonna do about it?” Christopher had asked.

The same question he asked himself.

Confront Rawlings? Blevitt?

Do as his mum wanted, and hand it over to the police?

Have everyone know he'd had the crap beaten out of him and done nothing about it? Just forget about it?

As if he could.

He slid his dad's tape into the stereo.

The mike so close he could hear the squeak of guitar strings as his father's fingers moved across the frets, pressing down. The moment before he sings.

How long, how long has that evening train been gone?
How long? How long? Baby, how long?

From the box Nick took a ticket, torn and creased, for the Coliseum in St. Martin's Lane, a Benefit Concert for Big Bill Broonzy, Sunday March 9th. £1. No mention of the year. Alongside that, folded once and once again, was a flier from the Hope & Anchor in Upper Street, the paper bleached white along the crease: Thurs., 11th, Jo Ann Kelly; Mon., 15th, Les Harman; Tues., 16th, Dr. Feelgood. And on a page from an old
Melody Maker
, in faint and faded print, there was an ad for the 100 Club in Oxford Street: Sunday, American Blues Legends, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, and beneath, in smaller print, Les Harman and Charlie Bell.

The whistle blows, I can't see no train,
Deep down in my heart there's an aching pain.
How long, oh how long? Baby, how long?

Nick looked again at the pictures of his father and thought about the words he sang. Were they just words, songs he'd learned and liked to perform — they were, as far as Nick knew, other people's words after all — or were they more?

Feel so disgusted, empty too,
Don't know in this world, babe, what more I can do.
How long? How long? How long?

Nick thought he knew the answer. For his father the words had been true. Disgusted with himself and empty too. He had lived with it for so long and no longer. Until the moment he had first set foot on the ironwork of the bridge and begun to climb. The road below him, busy with cars. The wind, the words, cold and sharp in his ears. Don't know in this world what more I can do. How long, Nick wondered, had he hesitated before he jumped? How long the fall?

Reaching out, Nick switched off the tape and realised someone was knocking at the front door.

***

It was Melanie, anxious and uncertain. Melanie, wearing a dress that hung shapelessly around her, some kind of cardigan around her shoulders, not quite covering her fleshy arms.

“I was wondering…” she began.

Nick looked at her and then looked at the floor.

“It's all right,” Melanie said, turning away. “I'm sorry, it doesn't matter. I shouldn't have come.”

Nick shook his head. “No, it's okay. Go on, what were you going to say?”

“I was wondering how you were, you know, feeling? How you were getting on?”

Nick shrugged. “Okay. Not so bad, I suppose.” He couldn't quite bring himself to look her in the face.

Melanie stood there, wanting to say something more but unsure what.

“Look,” Nick said. “The other day, when Chris and Scott were here, I'm sorry…”

“Oh, no. It's okay.”

“I never really said thank you properly.”

“There's no need.”

“The flowers…”

“It was nothing.”

“No, no. They were really nice. It was a nice thing to do.”

For a moment, Melanie's face relaxed into a smile.

“D'you want to come in or something?” Nick said.

“No, it's all right. I've got to…” She faltered, trying to think of something.

“Got to what?”

“Nothing.”

“So come in.”

As she walked hesitantly past him and into the kitchen, Nick wondered what on earth he was doing.

Melanie stopped by the kitchen table and glanced around.

“It's just like ours. Except for, you know, the stuff.”

“Yeah.”

“I suppose they all are.”

Nick nodded.

“Your mum at work?” Melanie said.

“Yeah.”

“Mine, too.”

“You're not at school?” Nick said.

Melanie shook her head. “How long will you be off?” she asked.

“I dunno. Maybe next week. I've got to go back to the hospital first.”

“Have the stitches out.”

“Yes.”

“How many did you have?”

Nick touched them with his fingertips. “Fifteen.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Do they hurt?”

“Not really, no. Itch sometimes.”

“I had stitches once. I was always pulling at them, 'cause of that, you know. Itching. I pulled some out before it was time. Didn't mean to. Blood everywhere. My mum, she went spare.”

As much for something to do as anything, Nick went to the side and picked up the kettle. “Fancy a cup of tea?”

“No, it's all right.”

“Coffee, then?”

“No, I…”

“There might be a Coke still in the fridge.”

“I shouldn't.”

“Water? We do a very nice line in water.”

There was a vestige of a smile around Melanie's eyes. “Tea, then. As long as you're making it, tea'd be fine.”

Nick filled the kettle and set it to boil.

“When I was waiting outside,” Melanie said. “After I'd knocked the first time, I thought I heard someone singing.”

“Just an old tape,” Nick said, and then, because she continued to look at him. “It was my dad.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Not really?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn't know your dad was a singer.”

“No, well, nor did I. I mean, I did, but not really. I'm just finding out.”

“Your dad's… your dad's dead, right?”

“Yes.”

“I wish mine was.”

The kettle started to boil.

Nick stared at her for several moments before speaking. “You're not serious. I mean you're joking, right?”

Her look was unwavering, her eyes grey-green. “Dead serious.”

Nick released a breath. “How come?”

“The kettle's boiling,” Melanie said.

“How come you feel that way? About your dad?”

“The kettle,” Melanie said. She got up and moved towards it, banging her hip against the table corner on the way. “Where's the tea?” she asked, a tremble in her voice.

Nick pointed to where the tea bags were on the shelf.

“What shall I make it in?” Melanie said.

Nick lifted down two mugs. Tears were running across the contours of Melanie's face. He dropped in the tea bags and she poured the water with a less than steady hand.

“He doesn't hit you, does he?” Nick asked. “Or anything?”

He didn't want to go too far into what ‘anything' might be.

“No,” Melanie said. “He used to. Hit me, I mean. Now he won't… he won't even touch me. He just… he's just on at me all the time, calling me names. Fat bitch. Fat cow. Fat useless cunt.”

“I'm sorry,” Nick said and touched her arm.

Melanie sobbed and turned aside, her body starting to shake.

Nick swallowed hard, got the milk from the fridge and finished making the tea.

“Sugar?” he said.

She nodded and mumbled something he took to be “Two.”

“Here,” he said a few moments later, holding the mug out towards her.

Melanie slowly turned and as she did so, she suddenly winced and doubled over as if she'd been kicked.

The mug shook in his hand and tea slopped to the floor.

“Here,” he said. “Here, sit down.” But Melanie was shaking her head. “The bathroom,” she said. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

Nick nodded. “You know where it is. Same as in your place, right?”

While she was gone he stood staring out of the window at the tops of cars moving fast between the lean branches of the trees. Buds slow to appear. His mouth felt strangely dry, any discomfort of his own forgotten.

After a while, he heard the toilet flush, the bathroom door open and close.

“I'm sorry,” Melanie said.

“Don't be silly,” Nick said.

Melanie gave him a smile and reached for her tea.

“That'll be cold,” Nick said.

“Doesn't matter.”

“I don't know if there's any biscuits,” Nick said.

Melanie sat on one of the stools. “Tell me about your dad,” she said. “If you want to, that is.”

Before Nick could respond there was a knock at the door.

“I don't believe it,” he said. “Oxford Circus round here all of a sudden.”

When he opened the door there was Ellen, snug black top, black jeans, her hair teased out.

“Oh,” Nick said.

Behind him, Ellen could see through the small hall and into the kitchen, Melanie sitting there, mug of tea cradled in both hands.

“Sorry,” Ellen said. “I didn't want to disturb anything.”

“What? No, no. It's nothing. Come in.”

Ellen looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I don't think so, Nick, do you?” And before he could stop her, she had closed the door. When he pulled it back open it was only to hear her feet, fast on the stairs.

“Shit!” he said, not quite to himself. “Bloody shit!” And turned back to where Melanie was now standing, face doughy and pale. Distraught.

“I'll go,” she said.

Nick nodded and looked away.

thirteen

The pub was almost empty when Nick walked in. A couple of blokes sitting at a table to the far right, nursing their pints. Someone in a suit close by the window, newspaper folded open in front of him, occasionally looking out. Stripped wooden tables and a bare wood floor. A shamrock over the bar.

He waited, patient, as the barman shelved a case of Becks with unwonted care.

When the man straightened and turned, he looked at the stitches neat along Nick's forehead but made no remark.

“There used to be some kind of acoustic club upstairs,” Nick said. “Folk and blues. I don't think it happens any more.”

“You're right there.”

“Whoever used to run it, you've no idea how I might get hold of them?”

The barman leaned closer. “A singer, then, is that what you are? Not country and western, I dare say?” Throwing his head back, he sang the opening lines of ‘Blue Moon of Kentucky' in a strangled tone. “Bill Monroe, now, there's your man.”

“Have you any idea,” Nick said, “who it was, ran the club? How I might get in touch?”

“Dave Brunner,” the barman said, aiming his voice at the two men in the corner, “have either of you seen him around at all?”

“Didn't he used to use the Grenadier?” one said.

“I believe you're right,” said the other.

“The Grenadier,” Nick said. “Where's that?”

“Gaisford Street,” said the first man. “Last time I looked.”

“Dave Brunner,” Nick said to the barman. “That's his name?”

“The same.”

“Thanks,” Nick said and turned towards the door.


Blue Moon of Kentucky, keep on shining
,” warbled the barman. “
Shine on the one who's gone and said goodbye
.”

***

Kentish Town Road was the usual mixture of slow-moving traffic and impatient pedestrians, beggars sitting hopefully alongside cash machines, young women pushing buggies and prams. Nick had taken a couple of painkillers earlier but still walked slowly, short of breath, not wanting to jar his ribs any more than was necessary. He was crossing the junction with Holmes Road when he heard someone call his name.

“Nick? Nick Harman, isn't it?”

She was standing back from the pavement edge, neatly dressed, hair in place, leather briefcase in her hand.

“Detective Inspector Ferris, remember?”

Of course he remembered. He wanted to brush past, carry on walking, but didn't quite feel able.

“No school?”

Nick shook his head.

She was looking at the stitches etched across his forehead.

“You come off your bike, something like that?”

BOOK: Nick's Blues
12.3Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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