The Summer We All Ran Away (2 page)

You're a total fuck-up from start to finish
.

I don't know why I even bother any more
.

The seagulls sounded like crying children. He was crying too, no tears, just a contortion of his face and a keening sound that escaped in gulps and bursts. The sea-spray had the approximate taste of tears but with more complex afternotes,
like a good wine.

The boat sat alarmingly low in the water. Was it safe? Were there people who checked these things? The man in the wheelhouse smoked a cigarette and stared across the water. His expression reminded Davey of long-distance lorry-drivers at service stations; a professional surrounded by amateurs, inhabiting a different world.

The bump and scrape of wood against stone, ropes thrown and tied up. The same man who had helped him onto the boat now helped him off again. Davey marvelled at the unself-conscious way he touched Davey's hand and elbow. At school, physical contact was governed by unbreakable rules. Shoulders and upper arms were alright, as long as you slapped hard. Legs were for kicking. Heads were for capturing in a headlock and thumping. Penises, bizarrely, were acceptable, in certain situations. Hands and forearms were too close to holding hands, therefore a shortcut to social death. He tried to remember the last time he'd been touched gently by someone who wasn't his mother, and remembered a nurse bandaging his arm one night in casualty. “How did this happen?” she'd asked him, and when he'd stammered out something about a broken glass, she'd smiled cynically and shaken her head. He still had a jagged, silvery line to remind him.

He was exhausted, but something in him was forcing him on. He climbed a steep, narrow street – barely wide enough for a single car – and opened the whiskey bottle, now nearly empty. A woman walking her dog glanced at him in disgust. He tried to apologise, but his mouth was too dry. The double yellow lines were like those on the floor of the hospital, guiding bewildered patients around the labyrinth.

I've got to get up high
.

He was clammy with sweat and his head and his legs were agony. The sun had filled the harbour with molten gold. He could smell himself, a vile blend of vomit, sweat and alcohol;
but he could also smell the coconut of the gorse bushes.

Stumbling into the hedge, his hand slipped between the greenery and found granite. It was a dry stone wall, covered with plants. How long did that even take to happen? He'd seen dry stone walls in Yorkshire; the most they could manage was a bit of lichen, which the Geography master had told them grew by about one centimetre a century. The wall they'd crouched behind to smoke was six hundred years old. Dreamily, he dug his fingers into the wall and began to climb.

At the top was another gorse bush. He flung himself recklessly over, relying on his clothes to protect him, getting scratched as he tumbled down the other side. Then he was behind the wall, looking across a vast expanse of scrubby moorland towards a pink-walled house that stood alone on a ridge. His head cleared and he thought,
Yes! That's where I was going, that house, that light -

He was desperately thirsty. He hadn't pissed for hours, he wasn't sure if he even could, every drop of water had been leached out of him. If he died right now, he wouldn't rot, he'd desiccate, just a sack of leather with clothes on. Stopping to rest, he put his hand down on a sheep's skull. It was oddly beautiful, clean and white, the huge ridged yellow teeth fallen from the sockets. He held it for a while, then put it carefully in his rucksack.

Instead of getting closer, the house merely got bigger, disclosing a whole private landscape surrounding it. He thought of the word
grounds
, and then the word
acres
. The sun was almost out of the picture now, and his body had achieved the clever but uncomfortable trick of being both sweaty and freezing. He wondered what else was out here with him in the twilight, and made his feet move faster.

Surrounding the rosy house was a rosy wall. It was high and smooth, and even if he wasn't starving, dehydrated and drunk, he'd never climb it. Still, it almost felt like enough, to have got this far, to have made this strange, difficult journey to another place, another world, another life. Keeping his hand
against it, he began to skirt the perimeter of the grounds.

Why had it been built so high and so strong when the house was already so isolated? Periodically, the house hid behind trees, but the wall was his faithful companion, guiding him onwards and onwards. The dew began to settle, and he knelt and licked unashamedly at a clump of grass.

Then he was suddenly clinging to a tall pillar. Its identical twin was perhaps twenty feet away. Between them, a gravel driveway shot through with primroses led to a wide wooden door with a deep tiled porch before it.

Oh
, thought Davey, blinking.
Oh. Yes. That's what, that's where I was going, that's exactly where I was thinking of - my God, I made it, I actually made it -

He journeyed up the driveway on his hands and knees, barely conscious of the stones bruising his hands. His entire self was focused on the doorway, which he thought perhaps he had seen in a book, or a dream, or a photograph; it looked welcoming and familiar, planted long ago in a secret part of his heart, and waiting for all of the nineteen years of his life for him to arrive.

The porch floor was inlaid with black and white tiles in a diamond pattern. He lay down with his head on his rucksack and ran his fingers over them. He didn't want to knock on the door and present whoever lived here with his stinking, drink-sodden, disgusting self, but to his weary bewilderment the door was moving, light was spilling out, and someone with cool hands was kneeling beside him and touching his face gently.

“Good Lord,” said a woman's voice from somewhere above him. He tried to focus, and saw a pale face with a generous mouth, large brown eyes and soft, mousy brown hair looking down at him. “Where did you come from? And what happened to you?” Davey tried to open his mouth to explain. “No, shush, it's okay. You're safe. Let's get you inside.”

“Who is it?” asked a girl's voice from somewhere beyond the doorway.

“No idea. Can you stand up, sweetheart?” Davey tried, but the strength was gone from his legs. “Not to worry. Priss, can you get Tom, please? I need some help.”

The shadow of someone else looming over him; a brief, interested pause, then footsteps passed by, crunched on the gravel, receded. Davey closed his eyes and abandoned himself to the bliss of that hand on his forehead, not stroking, not moving, just lightly resting there, like a kiss or a promise; like a balm or a blessing.

“What's going on?” A man's voice, anxious, ready for a fight.

“It's fine, Tom, no need to panic. We just, well, we seem to have this boy.”

“What boy? Who is
that?
”

“Let's just get him in, shall we?”

“Well, if you're sure - ”

The hand left his forehead, and then someone who smelled of fresh air and wood-shavings gathered him up in his arms, staggering a little as he stood up.

“Are you going to make Tom bring him in the
house?
” A girl's voice, Liverpudlian and incredulous.

“Why not?”

“He could be fuckin' anybody.”

“Obviously he's
somebody
. But you can't just leave people out on doorsteps, it's not fair.”

“Well, put him in the outhouse at least! He might be a psycho or a junkie or - ”

“Shush, Priss.” The voice sounded amused.

“You're too good to be true, you are.”

“Be nice,” the man's voice commanded.

“I don't need to be nice. You and Kate have got
nice
covered. I'm bein' fuckin' sensible.”

“God always takes care of drunks and little children,” said the woman. “Stop being horrible and bring up a jug of water. Can you hear me, I wonder, whoever you are? Don't worry. You're safe now.”

chapter two (then)

On the surface, the evening was everything a housewarming party should be; cool, well-lubricated, surprising, stylish, scented with flowers and pot and trees growing tall in the warm West Country night, peopled by guests who were beautiful or talented or amusing or successful or sometimes a heady combination of the four. The cars scattered in the driveway were beat-up and bohemian; the clothes were dusty black or washed-out denim or else raggedy rainbow-coloured, cheap and tawdry and beautiful. Only by listening to the murmurs of conversations in corners could the sour undercurrent of envy be detected.

On the driveway, a girl in a green cheesecloth dress climbed out of a battered VW Beetle and pushed back her long, light, unfashionably tousled hair.

His manager finally found him wearing a pair of cut-off jeans and hanging large orange lanterns high in a Japanese Cedar. Red-barked branches grew horizontally out from the base for three or four feet before shooting towards the sky like a giant candelabra. A number of the maniacs he had on his books, Alan thought, would probably set fire to it, just to see how close a resemblance they could get. He brushed bits of vegetation from the sleeve of his new pistachio suit, watching his third most lucrative client hammering in nails as if it was the only job he'd ever have, and considering how to open the conversation.

He looked hard at Jack through narrowed eyes as he leaned out at a perilous forty-degree angle. The horrific skin-and-bone look of that last, disastrous tour was gone; he looked lean, brown and healthy. Time to get him back to what he does best. Jack continued to fool with the lantern, oblivious.

“Don't you have minions to do that?” Alan asked at last.

He couldn't see Jack's face, but he saw the deliberate way he stowed the hammer in his back pocket, the slow movements as he adjusted the lantern. He'd seen that carefulness a thousand times, before every interview, every gig.

“I don't know,” Jack said at last, as casual as if they had seen each other that morning instead of fifteen months ago. “Do I?”

“If you haven't, you ought to have.” Jack pulled himself further up the tree trunk. “Jesus, Jack, if you die falling out of a tree I'll - ”

“Kill me?”

“Stop being such a wanker and get down here,” said Alan.

On the ground, the two men surveyed each other.

“So,
are
you going to kill me?” Jack said.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“What, honestly? I think it was you saying,
Jack, I'm so pissed off with you right now that if I ever lay eyes on you again I'll wind your guts out on a stick and have them on toast.”

“Did I say that? Okay, I probably did. Well, I'm still pissed off and I still might do it. But fifteen per cent off the top says I'll let you live till I've heard the new album.”

“Who told you I'd written a new album?” asked Jack.

“Little bird. Is it true?”

“Yes, but… ”

“Any good?”

Jack shrugged. “I like it.”

“Of course you do, you wanker, you wrote it. Is it marketable?”

“How on earth would I know?”

“For God's sweet sake, why do I
do
this to myself - what's it called?”

“Landmark.”

Alan considered this. “Okay. Arrogant, but okay. Like,
this is it, world, Jack Laker's back.”

“No, not really.”

“Who else has heard it? Apart from your girlfriend, I mean.”

“I haven't got a girlfriend,” said Jack, bewildered.

“Yes, you have. That Evie bird who's stopping here at your expense, you met her in – you know – been here about three months now. Remember?”

“Oh! She's not my girlfriend.”

“You absolute cold-hearted bastard,” said Alan in amusement. “You can't sleep with a bird, play her all the songs from your new album, let her move into your house and throw a party on your behalf and then act all fucking baffled when she assumes you're an item.” Jack opened his mouth to protest. “Forget it, I don't care, it's your life. Want me to try and round up the kids?”

“Are they still available?”

“Chance to work with a living legend? Trust me.”

Jack grimaced.

“If you do that face in interviews I'll kill you. Send me a tape so I know what I'm letting myself in for. I'll start the jungle-drums rumbling. Will studio in six weeks do you?”

“You haven't even heard it yet.”

“Does it look like I care? They'll buy it just out of curiosity. You can finish decorating this place. Maybe even put in a swimming pool.”

“I don't want a - ”

“Everyone wants a swimming pool. We'll tour the shit out of it, bank another dollop of money, go into the eighties with some cash behind us. And after that well, who knows? Maybe this'll be the last one, maybe not. But I've got faith. Deal?” There was a painful silence. Alan waited expectantly. “This
is the moment when you say
Alan, you're a fucking wonder and I'm a lucky bastard, how often would you like your shoes polished and how many dates do you reckon you can sell?”

“Sorry,” said Jack. “No.”

Evie showed people around and offered drinks, smile glued bravely on, chin held high, wearing her status as Jack Laker's girl like bright armour that deflected the mystified stares of the guests.

“Make yourselves at home,” she said, elaborately casual. “Beer in the red fridge, white wine in the white fridge, red wine on the table. Food in the kitchen.”

“And Evie the Nobody from Basingstoke in Jack Laker's bed,” murmured a girl in a red jersey dress. She looked Evie up and down, taking in the long brown hair, the clear skin, the fresh, wholesome face. “What the hell does he see in her?”

Her companion laid his mouth against her ear. “I heard,” he whispered, “they met professionally.”

“She's in the industry?”

“Nope. The
other
kind of professional.”

The girl's eyes widened. “You mean she's a prostitute?”

The boy snorted with laughter. “For God's sake! She's a
nurse
, you fool.”

“A nurse?” She considered this for a minute. “Actually, that's almost worse.”

“Musician's madness. Can't keep their hands off even when they're a few hours from death. I heard he did a groupie a night while he was out on the road.” The boy glanced around. “Where is he, anyway?”

“No idea.” She sighed. “And the house isn't even finished, half of it's still derelict. I only came here to get a look at him. He must know that's why we're all here.”

The girl in green cheesecloth glared at the front door. She felt a deep distaste for this party, and for the man who'd sent her here (a
chance to make useful contacts
, he'd insisted, his eyes
sliding sideways when she demanded,
Who? Why do I have to go to a party to meet them?
and the unsatisfactory answer
Just people, okay? Up-and-coming people. Like you)
. The porch was like a room in itself. If she lived in this house, she would put a bench here so she could sit and stare down the driveway, and enjoy the sight of nobody coming to disturb her.

Try and meet Jack Laker
, her agent had told her.
He's been off the scene for a while but he could still do you some good if he wanted to
. The memory made her grimace.

At last, she knocked on the half-open door. Nobody answered, but coils of cigarette smoke wrapped welcoming tendrils around her.

“Right then,” she said, and stepped over the threshold.

“What did you just say to me?” Alan demanded. “Did you just tell me no?”

“I said
sorry
first.”

“I think we both know what the important word was in that sentence.”

“I'm not doing another tour, Alan. The album'll have to sell itself.”

Alan looked at him in disbelief. “I can't be hearing this. I can't actually be hearing those words, in that order, coming out of your mouth. This just does not happen, Jack. Are you even listening to me?”

“Of
course
I'm bloody well - ” He took a deep breath. “ - Sorry. Yes, I'm listening. It just doesn't change the answer.”

“You know this is what some people dream of, right?” Alan was trying hard to hold onto his temper. “You know right now there's kids years younger than you lying awake and praying for five minutes of my time? Just five minutes! And I'm here in your garden offering you the moon on a stick and you're bloody hesitating.”

“But I'm not hesitating,” said Jack, almost to himself.

“So,” said Diane, sliding onto the sofa beside Evie.

“So,” said Evie. They looked at each other and laughed softly.

“I can't believe it! You and Jack Laker.”

“I know, I know! I have to keep reminding myself it's true!”

“And this house! I know it's not finished, but you can see the potential, it's beautiful.”

“Bit of a step-up from the Cloisters.” Evie's hand caressed the butter-soft white leather.

“It's not just about the house, though, is it?” said Diane. “I mean you do love him, don't you?” Evie's gaze was liquid and luminous. “Okay, sorry. It's just, you know.”

“Not an easy life?” suggested Evie.

“The stories you hear, the stuff in the papers - ”

“I've already seen him at his worst,” said Evie, serene. “What's he going to do that's more terrible than that? Look, you don't need to worry,” she went on, seeing Diane's expression. “It won't be easy, but so what? I love him and I'm happy. What else matters?”

“You look happy,” Diane admitted. “God, you even look like you belong. I feel like a complete freak! Literally everyone else here is famous. Everyone! I can see them looking at me and trying to work out who I am. How did you know who to invite?”

“Oh, I asked his manager. He said it was a good idea. Well, actually first of all he said he didn't care if Jack was rotting away in a ditch. But I told him there was a new album, and
then
he said it was a good idea.”

“That's hobnobbing,” said Diane. “My best friend is hobnobbing with music industry moguls. Crazy.” She picked up Evie's left hand and played idly with her ring finger. “Any chance of - ”

Evie laughed. “It's still early days.”

“I bet he's a handful to live with.”

“No, actually he's great. Anyway, he's working a lot of the time.”

Diane stroked the heavy brown silk of Evie's hair. “And is he as wild in bed as they say? Have you done it in every room in the house yet?”

“Not quite yet,” she said briskly. “Fancy another drink?”

“Anyway,” said Mike, spilling his beer as he put it down. “Oh, shit - ” He blinked at the pool spreading across the terracotta.

“Isn't beer supposed to be good for terracotta?” Sheila snatched the roach from Sid, took a hit, passed it to Mike. “Go on, I want to hear this.”

“Just a minute.” Mike inhaled greedily. “God, that's so great. Whose is it?”

“Jane's,” said Sid. “Tell us your story.”

“It's not really a story,” he said. “More like an observation.”

“Alright then,” said Sid patiently, “tell us your observation.”

“Do you tell an observation? I think you make observations. Don't you make observations?”

“Speak!” Jane kicked Mike's ankle.

“Ow! Alright, I'm speaking.” He passed the roach to Sheila. “So, it was at the gig in Camden, on that tour he did.”

“Which tour?”

“The
tour.”

“You're saying it like he only toured once. He did loads before the
Violet Hour
tour, he wasn't just famous the way he was when he - ”

“Do you not think the very fact you instantly know what I mean when I say
the
tour tells you it was, in fact, The Tour? Do you want to hear this story or not?”

“You said it was an observation,” said Sheila.

“I might actually die of boredom before we get to the end of this,” Sid announced.

“I thought I'd go backstage,” said Mike, very loudly. “See if he'd got five minutes to speak to a mate. And my God, it was like - ” he shook his head in disbelief.

“Like what?”

“Like nothing you ever saw,” he said. “Not enough
security, too many fans, they obviously weren't prepared. All these girls – you never saw so many girls! – in these teeny little outfits, queueing up like they were trying to get into a nightclub, only it was Jack's dressing room and they were all obviously just after a screw.”

“Awful,” said Sid.

“Yes I
know
, but there's a limit. And then, there's all the other ones – the ones from before – kids with notebooks and pencils, looking like they'd just arrived from fucking Mars or something. Talk about worlds colliding.”

“So basically what you're saying is, it was a room full of people who all worshipped Jack?” Jane tried to laugh.

“But that's the thing,” said Mike. “I was just stood there, staring at this, this riot, and watching that toad of a manager, what's his name? Alan, that's it, going along the line of girls and really obviously picking one out for the honour of getting into the dressing room.”

“For fuck's sake.” Sheila threw the roach down onto the tiles. “What an utter cunt.”

“Managers are always cunts.”

“Not Alan, Jack! All that crap about
It's not going to change me
, and within a year he's turned from a slightly
recherché
musician into a mad superstar who won't speak to anyone and has girls sent to his dressing room.”

“So I was watching all this happen,” said Mike, “and then I felt someone push past me. And I looked round, and it was Jack. So I said
Hi, mate, how are you
, and he just looked at me – he looked like he'd died three weeks ago and no-one had bothered to bury him – and shook his head, and walked out. Next thing I know, he's on the front pages, being carried out of some hotel on a stretcher.”