The Name I Call Myself (33 page)

Suddenly Rowan, sat with her grandad, gasped. She looked around at us, eyes glittering and mouth hanging open. “Get. A
load. Of this, girls. I can take credit for the hair. But the rest? Like, wow.”

We swivelled our heads around to see.

Kim let out a long whistle. “Check him out!” She pulled a wide grin before suddenly remembering Scotty. “Not that I'd want to, of course.” She leaned in and nuzzled his neck. “You know I've only got eyes for you, babe.”

“That is one fine figure of a man,” Melody murmured to her sister.

Millie started flapping her hands in front of her face. “Whewie, Janice. If I was ten years younger…”

“Try forty years,” her son said, turning crimson.

He wasn't the only one feeling disconcerted. Dylan, who had waited to escort Hester to our table, sauntered up, breaking into a grin as he approached.

Like every woman on the planet, I think all men scrub up well in a tux.

Some men have a lot more scrubbing up to do than others. For example, those who usually wear faded T-shirts and paint-splattered jeans, forget to shave, and walk about in work boots with sawdust in their unkempt mop of hair.

It was universally accepted that Dylan was a hunk.

With his hair cropped, clean shaven, and a slick suit on?

Well – hooten tooten as Marilyn would say.

Which she did, several times, as she kicked me under the table.

Oh no. He was coming to sit next to me.
Pull yourself together, Faith! Lungs, stomach, hormones – control yourselves!

“How are you, ladies? Having a good time so far?” Dylan pulled out Hester's chair for her, then sat down. “You've done an amazing job. The place looks incredible.”

He looked round the table with a smile, then turned in my direction. “Hi, I'm –”

He stopped, his turn to stare. “
Faith?
Wow. Your hair. I didn't even realize it was you.”

I pulled a face. “Well, that was sort of the plan.”

He studied me for another minute before nodding. “How are you doing?”

“Okay. Perry's taking care of me. I'm fine.” I couldn't look at him.

“Right.”

Throughout the whole of the meal I concentrated on making conversation with Marilyn, on my other side, and the rest of the table. Dylan, too, made no attempt to speak directly to me again. And yet. All I could think about was him. His arm, only a few inches away from mine. His beautiful face, that I carefully positioned just outside my field of vision. Sometimes when he moved his hand to accompany an anecdote I caught his scent, the usual pine and leather overlaid with a hint of aftershave.

I wondered if this was still the teenage crush I had never had. One last (and first) hurrah before I committed to a lifetime of comfortable, steady, safe.

Or was it more? Was this what falling in love felt like? Had these past few months of choir, and letting go and breathing out, of gradually, like a flower bud, opening up to this new life of friendship and fun and acceptance, had it produced the unexpected – and totally unwanted – side effect of repairing my heart to the point where it could fall in love?

And if so, why had I gone and fallen for the wrong person?

And if he was the wrong person, why was being near him the only time everything seemed right?

And what on earth was I going to do about it?

April and Sam arrived moments before we were due to sing. Not yet up to a whole big night out, Sam wanted to hear the choir. He planned to stay for half an hour or so, then catch a taxi back with April.

We took our places on the stage at the front of the room. Hester checked our posture, pointing to her face to remind us to smile and giving us a discreet thumbs up before turning to address the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen. May I please express my thanks on behalf of the Grace Choir at your being here tonight. I started the choir eighteen months ago with one purpose in mind. To bring together a group of ordinary women and, by teaching them how to create something beautiful and magnificent, I would show them that they, in fact, were beautiful and magnificent.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as our lovely soloist Rowan would say – epic fail!”

She paused, scanning the room. “Not one woman who came to join our group was ordinary. I am ashamed for thinking otherwise. And they have taught me far more than I could ever teach them. I am proud –” Hester paused to clear her throat. Almost as if she held back tears!

“I am so very proud to introduce the bravest, strongest, kindest, and quite possibly strangest bunch of
extraordinary
women I have had the pleasure to know. Put your hands together for the Grace Choir!”

At that point, as the ladies and gentlemen put their hands together, Marilyn, standing at the end of the back row, suddenly ran to the front of the stage, elbowing Hester out of the way, and launched herself off the edge.

Sailing through the air, she landed with a skid on the wooden dance floor, before sprinting across the room and into the arms of James.

James caught her, spinning her around a few times before placing her back on the ground, holding her at arm's length while he took her in.

“Excuse me,” he said, looking round at the crowd with mock horror. “I seem to have made a terrible mistake. For a moment there I thought this woman was my wife. It's been a few months since I've seen her. Please don't take offence.”

“I'll take
this
,” Marilyn said, wrapping her arms around his neck and giving him an enormous kiss that went on so long a couple of people wolf-whistled.

They broke off and stood there, foreheads pressed together. I couldn't catch what James said to his wife as she glowed with health and happiness, but his grin, his tears, his hands firmly planted on her backside said it all.

Hester coughed into the microphone. “Shall we continue?”

James stood back, to let Marilyn rejoin us on stage.

She shook her head. “It's fine. They can manage without me.”

“No,” James frowned. “You have to get up there. I want to hear you sing.”

“Trust me,” Marilyn smiled. “You don't.”

James looked at Hester for back-up.

“Trust your wife, James. She knows what she's talking about.”

So the Grace Choir sang without their top lip-syncher, and, no offence to Marilyn, we sounded our best yet. Nearly everyone stood to their feet by the end. We bowed, graciously, and took a much-needed break to catch our breath, quench our thirst, and steel ourselves for the next part of the evening – the auction.

Did we really have anything these people who had everything would want to pay good money for?

Had they loosened up enough to bid high anyway?

Aha. We had forgotten one thing.

Those good old fashioned posh-people traits of one-upmanship, competitiveness, and mob mentality.

Yes, at times the bidding became so frenzied, we indeed seemed to be on the verge of a mob.

Guided – and goaded – by Hester's forthright use of the auctioneer's gavel, the bids began to rise. Somebody paid over three hundred pounds for a hair styling session with Rowan. After seeing the before and after photos, two members of HCC paid a monstrous amount for Marilyn to give their wives a workout training session. From the looks of them, as they slapped each other on the back, red-nosed and sweaty-faced, they could have done with the training themselves.

Throw in a singing lesson from Hester, a custom-made outfit
from Rosa, a technology masterclass from Uzma, and a set of children's bobble hats, hand-knitted by Millie, and we were well on our way to reaching our target.

Eek. My turn next. Whatever the lot sold for had to cover the cost of the four-course meal I would cater, so it needed to be a decent bid or someone (me) would be out of pocket.

Hester did another grand introduction, nudging beyond embellishment, past exaggeration, and into plain fabrication a couple of times, but I guess it was all in a good cause. She finished off by mentioning my outstandingly awesome organizational skills, as demonstrated by planning the gala.

“Who'll give me one hundred pounds for a fully catered dinner party for six, to start us off?”

An HCC committee member at the back raised her hand.

“One hundred and twenty!” called out another one.

And we were off.

A couple of minutes later, someone upped the bid to two hundred and fifty pounds if I made it for eight people and threw in party favours.

“Anyone else?” Hester barked.

There was a brief silence.

“I'll give one thousand pounds if she organizes my daughter's eighteenth birthday party.” Eddie, Perry's partner, waved so we could see him.

Hester looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Faith?”

I sidled up to the microphone. “Um, will that include the cost of the party?”

Eddie shook his head. “No. Expenses are extra. The grand is for you.”

“Okay.” I nodded at Hester and stepped back, trying to appear nonchalant.

“What do you say, then? Any more? Who can top that?”

Nobody would top that. Eddie was Perry's partner. Perry had probably offered to give him the money.

“One and a half if she can sort out my parents' wedding anniversary without bloodshed,” a man on another table called out.

“My fiancé says he'll give two if she can plan my wedding without sending him bankrupt,” a young woman in the corner joined in.

We were off again.

Hester had her gavel poised, on the second “going”, about to say “gone”, when a raspy voice called out, “Ten thousand.”

Everybody sucked in a deep breath. I knew this because when I saw who spoke, staring at me while raising his hand in a salute, I couldn't find an ounce of oxygen left for me.

Without even bothering to ask what it was for, Hester slammed her gavel onto the wooden block. “Sold to the man at the back for ten thousand pounds!”

The crowd broke out into uproar.

I couldn't hear any of it. I felt as though I wore a space helmet.

Hester had sold me for ten thousand pounds to the man who murdered my mother, ruined my life, and nearly destroyed my brother.

My brother.
I clutched my chest, willing it to start working again, frantically searching the crowd with my eyes as the applause went on.

Where was Sam?

I left the stage as quickly as I could without appearing conspicuous. Hester began calling everyone's attention back for the final bid, and I took another moment to scan for Sam. Or Kane, who had vanished in the excitement.

Slipping along the outside of the room, I reached Perry's table.

“Perry. Have you seen Sam or April?”

He swivelled slightly in his seat to look at me. My heart sank at his drooping eyelids and sloppy smile. “No. I'm talking to Eddie and Jones about your legendary cooking skills.”

“Right, well –”

“Say hello, Faith,” he said, the words spilling out on a wave of alcohol fumes.

“Pardon?”

“Say hello to Eddie and Jones.”

I gave them a tight smile. “Hi. Thanks for coming. But Perry, I really need to talk to you about Sam.”

He groaned, shaking his head. “I'm talking to Eddie and Jones at the moment. Sam's better now. April's looking after him.” He paused, slowing his speech down as though worn out. “Let it go, Faith, for one blessed night, can't you?”

“Please. I need to speak to you for two minutes.” I put my hand on his arm, trying to suppress my panic.

“No!” He shook it off, clumsily. “Just for once let him take care of himself. He's back five minutes and straight away retaken the
number one spot in Faith's affections. What about me? What about my needs and affections? I'm not interested in talking about your nutjob brother tonight.”

Eddie gripped Perry's arm. “Steady on, man.” He looked at me in apology. “Ignore him. He's a horrible drunk. He'll feel wretched in the morning.”

I nodded, unable to speak, and left them, the sounds of the auction buzzing in the background as I hurried round to my own table near the far end of the hall. My eyes still hunting, pointlessly, in every direction.

Dylan stepped out from an alcove as I moved past, taking hold of my arm.

“That was him.” His smooth skin had turned white.

“I can't find Sam.” My voice sounded hoarse.

“He left, about ten minutes ago.”

“By himself?”

“I don't know.”

I turned to the two tables taken up by choir members, but couldn't see April. The final bid had been sold, and the guests rose to their feet, applauding Hester as she thanked everybody for their generosity.

Dylan loosened his grip on my arm, sliding his hand down to squeeze my hand, briefly, before letting go. He led us through the crowd as he searched for April, pausing every now and then to ask somebody if they'd seen her, or the man who made the big bid.

By the time we reached the door, Marilyn had hustled round to join us.

“What's happening?” she asked. “Is it Sam?”

“Possibly,” Dylan said, ushering us into the ballroom foyer. “Have you seen April?”

Marilyn looked at me. “When I nipped to the loo after your moment of glory she was talking with the guy who made the bid out here.”

Sensing my legs crumple, Dylan braced me with his arm. “Did you see what happened next? Where either of them went?”

Marilyn's eyes were like saucers. She put one trembling hand up to her face. “They left out the front door. I thought she must know him. Who is he? What's happened? Is April messing about with that old bloke? They looked pretty grim, to be honest.”

Gasping, I clutched at Dylan as if I was drowning. “Call the police.”

He'd already dialled the first two nines by the time I hit the floor.

As soon as I knew police cars with lights flashing and sirens wailing were speeding to Sam's flat, I dragged myself up and stumbled outside, where the gusting downpour hit me like a slap.

Dylan came right behind me.

“Where's your truck?”

“In the other car park. But Faith, I've had three beers. I can't drive. Especially in this weather.”

I whipped around, grabbed the lapels of his jacket. “How long is it going to take the police to get to Houghton? You could get me there in six minutes. Less, if you break the speed limit.”

He shook his head, his eyes pleading with me. “No, Faith. What about Perry?”

“Perry's been drinking a lot more than you. I don't have time to explain to anyone else. Please, Dylan. I am begging you. Everyone else's come in taxis. Put your moral principles to one side for six minutes. Drive me to Sam's.”

He closed his eyes for a second, before shaking his head briefly. Then, pulling away, reached into his pocket. I breathed a whoosh of relief.

“No. I'm sorry.”

What?

“Here.” He threw something at me. Automatically I reached up my hand and caught it. His keys.

“You drive.”

“Do you want me to tell Perry what's happening?” Marilyn had managed to gather something of the situation from hearing Dylan's 999 call.

I paused for a tiny moment. Flashed back to the ballroom. “Right now, I really don't care.”

I ran to the truck. Clambered in. Dylan grabbed the magnetic learner plates out of the glove compartment and stuck them in the windows.

“Take it slowly now. If you reverse back in a straight line you can turn around by the trees.”

I looked at him, overwhelmed with panic. “I can't. I can't do this.”

He smiled. “Yeah you can. Remember that turning by Little Farm? It's just like that. You could do it with your eyes closed.”

I shook my head, my hands shaking so hard I could barely grip the steering wheel.

Dylan kept on talking, his voice calm and steady. “You can do this, Faith. You can do this for Sam. Take a deep breath, blow out the fear or whatever it is Hester taught you. Breathe in.”

I let out a trembly breath, sucked in some courage, some strength, whatever the heck it was I needed to get this truck to my brother.

“Okay?” Dylan pulled on his seatbelt.

“Okay.” I let out a weak laugh. “Do you mind if I sing? It kind of helps.”

“As long as you don't mind if I pray. That definitely helps.”

So, slowly at first, oh so carefully, I backed the truck out and swung it around. Picking up speed as we headed down the drive, I decided to ditch the singing and joined Dylan in praying instead.

When you think your brother's life is at stake, a two-mile drive through a rainstorm is nothing, however inexperienced a driver you are. What you do when you reach him is another thing altogether. When I came to a juddering stop outside Sam's flat, there were no police cars outside. The lights were on in the windows above our heads.

Dylan and I exchanged glances. I knew he wanted me to stay in the truck, or at the very least to stay behind him. He knew better than to tell me that. I did feel a moment's reassurance that there
were worse people I could be sprinting up the shabby staircase with than a Northern ex-gang member with God on his side.

As we rounded the top of the stairwell we could hear it. Thuds, scuffles, a deep rasping voice dripping with menace. My brother's garbled cry. I burst in through the open door. Sam flailed against one wall, Kane's vengeful hands around his throat.

Screaming, I leaped towards him. Strong arms pushed me aside. Dylan threw me onto the sofa as he moved in front of me. He called out. Kane tightened his grip. Sam's face turned a hideous purple. His eyes bulged as his legs kicked and bucked against the wall. It must have been seconds – less than a second – before Dylan picked up a plant pot – a recent addition from April's garden centre job – and smashed it into the back of Kane's head. Kane dropped like a marionette with snapped strings. Sam slid to the floor behind him. I scrambled off the sofa and fell to his side.

That was how the police found us, a few minutes later.

Sam, choking and sobbing, cradled in my arms. Dylan with April, trying to assess the damage to her unconscious body, sprawled out by the fireplace.

Kane, motionless, a pool of blood as black as his heart creeping across the carpet. After all these years, all the phone calls, the middle of the night emergency visits, the job losses, the shopping, the cleaning, and the dropping everything to be there for Sam: after all this, I hadn't been there when he really needed me. I hadn't saved my brother.

My debt remained unpaid.

After a few hours and numerous tests, the doctors discharged Sam from hospital. Bruised, hoarse, battered, there was no physical damage time wouldn't heal. A nurse brought me to his bay to help gather his things together – a ripped shirt, a box of painkillers, the loose change from his pockets. I took his hand, leading him out towards the exit, but he stopped a few paces down the corridor.

“April?”

“She's been taken for a scan. They'll keep her in tonight, at least.”

“I want to see her.” He turned back towards the direction we had come.

“We can't see her now. The doctors are doing tests. We can come back first thing in the morning and see her then.”

He looked at me, and my insides withered at the dead light in his eyes. “I can't leave her.”

“You're no good to her hanging around here, Sam. The best thing you can do for April is go home, clean up, get some sleep, and visit her in the morning when she's woken up.”

“I won't leave her alone.”

Letting out a long sigh, I began tugging him in the direction of the waiting room.

“Look, Dylan's down the hall. He can stay with April until we get back. And they're trying to contact her mum, so she'll be here soon, too.”

“She hates her mum. And she barely knows Dylan. He won't protect her from Kane. He doesn't get it.”

“Doesn't get what? Kane is in another hospital under police guard. We don't need protecting from Kane any more.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head. It sent chills through my bones.

We reached the waiting room, where Dylan sat in one corner, nursing a cup of brown sludge.

After another five minutes' weary discussion, revealing the wreckage of Sam's emotional state, we agreed a compromise. Dylan would take Sam back to his house. I would stay with April overnight, protecting her from both her mum and Kane.

Sam made me swear to watch April, to take care of her. He muttered something about how April would be better off without him, that he was the problem. I remembered those words from the day he had packed my bag for London. However, too exhausted to understand what they meant, now I hugged my brother and told him goodnight.

Why did I decide to trust someone else with my brother's welfare at his weakest, most vulnerable moment?

I may keep asking myself that question until the day I die.

The cavalry arrived at nine the next day. I un-crunched my aching muscles, tried to wipe the sleep from my eyes, and accepted the freshly ground coffee, steaming doughnut, and warm embrace from Mags, Melody, and Rowan with gratitude that brought fresh tears to my eyes.

I had forbidden Marilyn from coming to the hospital, vowing to ditch her as my matron of honour if she left her husband's side the day after his return.

I filled them in on the latest news, i.e. nothing. No one had managed to get hold of April's mum, which may have been for the best. April remained in a stable but critical condition, accompanied by long words and medical jargon my brain had no capacity to comprehend at that moment.

“Come on, darling,” Melody clucked. “I'm taking you home.”

“Can you drop me off at Dylan's instead? Sam's there.”

“Of course. No problem.”

Only there was a problem. Sam was not there.

After banging on the door for longer than my nerves could stand, a rumpled, dishevelled Dylan let us in.

“Sorry. I must have dozed off. We sat up most of the night, but Sam went to bed around five.”

“You dozed off?” My heart started hammering. “You weren't watching him?”

“Only for an hour or so. He was sleeping. I checked on him first.”

I pushed past him, through into the tiny living room. Whirling out again, I confronted Dylan in the kitchen.

“Where is he?”

“Upstairs, in the spare room. Calm down, Faith. It's okay.”

“No.” My voice was loud, angry. “It is not okay.”

I raced up the stairs, banging all four doors open until I located what had to be the spare room.

My howl rattled the window frames. Dylan found me on my knees in the doorway. He said nothing, but I heard him searching the house, opening the front door, and no doubt doing the same in the garden, the car park, the side alleyway.

I remained on the floor, bent double as the numbness set in, creeping over my body like a cloud across the sun.

It was too late. Searching was pointless. Dylan had fallen asleep, and now my brother, my family, my heart, had gone.