The Tooth Fairy (32 page)

‘Unbelievable,’ said Clive.

‘What a thing to do.’

‘Senseless.’

‘That’s love,’ said Alice. ‘It gets hold of you. It makes you do things. You want to do things like that when you love someone.’

Sam knew all about that. He accepted the roach-end of the weak joint she handed him. After their first experience of smoking cannabis resin, it was surprising that they should want to sample the weed ever again. But Alice assured them it only made you sick the first time, and so they persisted. At least, they persisted whenever they could get hold of the stuff, which was so infrequent that talk of it becoming habit-forming was luxurious. Alice’s ‘ex’ did occasionally make a flying visit, depositing a gold-foil package in his wake, and Alice was sometimes able to shave a portion from her mother’s supply. Alice and Clive always rolled the joints: Terry couldn’t for obvious reasons, and anything constructed by Sam tended to disintegrate or flare alarmingly early in its career.

The effects, it has to be admitted, were much milder than everyone had anticipated and no more sensational than speed-drinking bottles of Woodpecker cider. But it was different, it was mellow. Except for Sam, that is, who seemed extremely susceptible to its best effects, who took to wandering off at odd moments and who was occasionally caught
holding conversations with unseen entities. Privately Sam started to develop the notion that the stuff could act to keep the Tooth Fairy at bay: even though she might appear to him when he was slightly stoned, she tended to leave him alone at most other times. Sam thought about how he might share this idea with Skelton.

‘So he just drove his Mini straight into a wall?’ Clive wanted to know.

‘That’s it,’ said Terry. ‘Killed outright.’

It had been well over a year since Linda had left Derek to go to London. He’d seen her only a couple of times since that day, and his prediction that she’d left him behind had been entirely accurate. He’d been seen sitting alone one night in the lounge of the Gate Hangs Well, drinking heavily. The landlady of the pub, Gladys Noon, had spotted him clutching his car keys at closing time and had tried to dissuade him from driving. But he had gone from there, climbed into his car and put an end to it.

‘That’s odd,’ Nev Southall said, when his son reported what Terry had told him. ‘I was drinking in the Gate Hangs Well that night and I saw him drive off. But he had someone with him in the car.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Positive.’

Sam suddenly felt very strange. ‘Who was it?’

‘I don’t know. I saw her snuggling up to him in the pub at the tail-end of the evening. A queer-looking girl. She seemed to be whispering in his ear all the time. Then they got up and left together.’

‘What did she look like?’

‘Small. Curly hair, jet-black. Gypsy-looking and a mouth full of shiny teeth. As I came out of the pub they roared out of the car park. Almost knocked me down. She was in the passenger seat, still talking in his ear. But he was looking dead
ahead, as if he was trying to ignore her. Then they sped off down the road.’

Sam felt a cold sweat bubble on his back. He said nothing.

‘The thing is,’ Nev said, ‘there was no mention of any passenger when they scraped him out of the wreck.’

Sam winced.

‘Did you kill Derek?’ he asked the Tooth Fairy in the dead of night. ‘Did you?’

‘What do you care about Derek?’ she answered, sneering.

‘Did you? Did you kill him? I have to know.’

‘When Linda was here, you spent, all your time wishing Derek was out of the way. You and your cronies never stopped giving him a hard time. You hated Derek. If I did or if I didn’t, what’s Derek to you? If I did it, I was doing you a favour.’

‘Did you tell him to kill himself ? Did you?’

The Tooth Fairy wouldn’t answer. She hugged her knees in the dark and curled her lip at him. Her face looked pale and sickly. There was an air of contagion about her, a whiff of carrion. Sam felt an Arctic thrill of fear for everyone around him. It pierced his bones.

‘You keep away from me,’ said Sam. ‘I want nothing more to do with you. Do you hear me? Nothing! Nothing!’

The Tooth Fairy only hugged herself harder and narrowed her eyes at him.

Some time later Linda made one of her rare visits to Redstone. The mood after Derek’s demise was subdued. No one blamed Linda, but there was some resentment from Dot and Charlie that Linda didn’t honour them more often. Nevertheless, beyond the first evening, after they’d discussed Derek in hushed tones, the old warmth and familiarity soon returned to the hearth. Linda chatted away happily about her exciting new life in London, scattering celebrity names like
confetti at a wedding. Most of the names were lost on Dot and Charlie, but they listened attentively, trying to frame a picture of Linda’s milieu.

‘Pippa says I should move to a flat in Mayfair. Pippa says I can afford it, so why not?’

‘Is that better?’ asked Charlie.

‘Mayfair, Dad,
Mayfair
, as in ‘‘Monopoly’’.’

Charlie coloured. ‘I know, I know. I’m just asking if it’s better, that’s all.’

‘Pippa says you need to live in a place where you might get spotted. Pippa says anybody who’s anybody lives in Mayfair right now.’

‘Not Redstone?’ said Terry.

‘You’re wearing a lot of make-up these days,’ Dot observed.

‘Not more, just different. Pippa said I had to change the way I did it. She said my old make-up style made me look like a barmaid in a working men’s club.’

Dot, who’d taught Linda how to use make-up, sniffed at that.

‘It seems to me,’ Charlie snorted, ‘that Pippa’s got a lot of soap and water up her arse.’ He got out of his seat and left the room.

Dot looked meaningfully at Linda.

Several weeks after Linda had returned to London, a picture of her wearing only a man’s collarless shirt appeared in a tabloid newspaper. Her breasts were partly revealed, although the open shirt front decorously covered her nipples. A tantalizing glimpse – but no more than that – was offered of the aureoles of her breasts. Charlie raged and had a day off work. Never again, he said, would he be able to look his workmates in the eyes. Sam, in the privacy of his room, clipped out the photograph and pinned it to the wall over his bed.

*

About that time a new English teacher took up a post at Thomas Aquinas. As teachers went, Ian Blythe had uncommonly long hair and a taste for unconventional, herringbone sports jackets. He stopped Clive in the corridor one day. ‘What’s that?’

‘Sir?’

‘That! Under your arm!’

‘Sonny Boy Williamson, sir.’

‘Give me a look at it! Original American pressing? I had one of these. Got warped in my student days. Any chance I could borrow this to make a tape recording?’

And so began a friendship, based on the blues, between teacher and pupil. Mr Blythe had a collection of records and tapes exceeding even Clive’s. He also ran, fronted and played at a monthly folk-and-blues club in the back room of the Cock Inn in nearby Frowsley.

‘You can come if you like, but you can’t drink,’ Blythe said firmly.

Clive dragged Sam, Alice and Terry along, and they compensated for not being allowed to drink alcohol by smoking pot
en route
to the event and by chain-smoking tobacco during it. Some nights the performers were dazzling, some nights they were stinking, and they always had to leave before the end to get the last bus back to Redstone. But it was better than hanging around the streets and infinitely preferable to the desperate remedy of attending a youth club.

Blythe himself played a respectable blues guitar; only his voice let him down. Clive came dangerously close to getting a crush on the man, so much so that his English, dragging behind his extraordinary ability in maths and the sciences, suddenly caught up. All of his teachers, including Blythe, wanted to propose him for early Oxford entrance exams, but, with his father’s support, Clive steadfastly resisted any new attempt to separate him from the common herd.

One evening, as they were coming out of the Cock Inn to
make their way to the last bus, they were set upon in the dark by six or seven Frowsley youths in a completely unprovoked attack. They had been laughing and joking as they left the pub, and it was Sam who heard someone shout, ‘Fuck off back to Redstone,’ before he felt a half-housebrick rammed into the side of his face. He went down, vaguely conscious of the ensuing scuffle. On his knees, he spat blood and a tooth to the ground. Though dizzy and unable to see clearly, he recognized a familiar face appear before him in slow motion, grinning evilly and reaching for his tooth.

‘I’ll have that,’ the Tooth Fairy whispered in his ear.

Sam was astonished. The Tooth Fairy was one of their assailants. He staggered to his feet and waded in to try to help his friends. Glass broke. Somebody’s nose squelched under his fist before people came running out of the pub to stop the fracas. In the blur of fists and toecaps he saw the Tooth Fairy flailing at Alice. The unknown attackers peeled off into the night. It was all over in under fifteen seconds.

It was an ugly incident. Alice emerged with a split lip and a bloody mouth. They made their way to the bus shelter still looking over their shoulders. Only Terry was confident they wouldn’t be attacked again. His good fist and his shirt front were covered in blood, and it wasn’t his own. They all felt that they had at least dealt out a return. Sam knew he’d broken someone’s nose and Alice felt she’d given as good as she’d got. Clive had probably taken more punishment than any of them, but he remembered scraping his boot so hard down someone’s shin that he’d felt the skin rip.

Then the bus driver, frightened by their bloodied condition, refused to allow them on the bus. They had to walk off their adrenalin on the road back to Redstone.

‘I’m sure it was a girl,’ Alice said for the fourth time. ‘I’m sure it was girl who punched me in the mouth.’

Sam knew exactly who it was.
I need to talk to Skelton, he thought. It’s spilling over again. It’s getting out of hand.

The upshot was that the landlord of the Cock Inn banned them from going to his pub ever again, as if they’d been the cause of the brawl. Blythe defended his pupils staunchly – so staunchly that the landlord told him to take his folk-and-blues club elsewhere. Eric Rogers, picking up on the problem, mentioned to Clive an unused back room at the Gate Hangs Well and promised to have a word with the landlady. So Blythe came over to Redstone one evening, charmed the widowed Gladys Noon, and the Frowsley Folk Club became the Redstone Folk Club. Blythe landed a coup on the opening night. Some legendary Black American blues musicians had started to come to England after the Yardbirds had done an unheard-of thing in bringing over Sonny Boy Williamson. Bottleneck guitarist Zoot Salem was billed to appear on opening night. Clive and Alice took money on the door; Terry and Sam were recruited to collect glasses and help with equipment.

The legendary Zoot turned up in a hired Ford Capri, with no assistance, one guitar and a small PA system, which Sam deferentially carried into the pub. Zoot, still on the road at eighty years old, was a thin, wiry man with a leathery face. Sad, heavy pouches hung under his eyes, and he had a disconcerting habit of frequently putting his hand to his mouth as if to pluck some tiny but irritating object from his tongue. A good-sized audience turned up, and the old man’s bottleneck guitar playing was masterly. Clive, in particular, was mesmerized.

Sam was enraptured too, but towards the end of the set something happened which made him feel faint. Introducing his next song, Zoot Salem seemed to fasten on Sam with particular intensity. Perhaps Sam imagined it, but Zoot appeared to stare right at him when he said, in a deep and barely coherent Southern drawl, ‘This hyeh song I wrote long time ’go. This hyeh song call ‘‘The Toof Fereh’’.’ Zoot launched into a foot-tapping twelve-bar routine, growling
into the microphone, making the strings of his guitar shiver and squeal in protest.

For Sam the sound receded for a moment, and he felt badly disoriented. Surely he’d misheard? But, no, Zoot had a refrain between each verse in which he chop-muted a chord, stopped playing, closed his mouth around the microphone and rasped, ‘Yo! Yo just a toof fereh, yo!’

The audience got the idea, joining in the refrain every time it came around. But to Sam it seemed like Zoot was speaking to him, even mocking him. It appeared too that the audience were in on the joke, picking up the line with gusto every time it occurred. He felt hot. He needed air. He had to go outside.

Sam sat down on one of the unseasonal benches, blinking up at the evening sky. It was a clear, cloudless night. A silver scythe of new moon was bright in the sky. Mars twinkled, orange-yellow, close to the constellation of Leo. He felt better. The song could not have been about him, he decided, since they had continued to sing it long after he’d left the room. He remained outside for a while, breathing steely night air, hearing rapturous applause as Zoot closed his set. Alice came out while Zoot played an encore.

‘Here you are.’ She sat down beside him, laying a hand on his arm.

‘Here I am.’

‘What’s wrong?’

Sam tapped the side of his head. ‘It’s this. It’s no good.’

‘Yes. It’s a problem. That head of yours.’