The End is Where We Begin Page 6

  Then I remember skidding to a halt.

  I couldn’t think which was closer, the Kingfisher pub or the lockhouse. Across the footbridge and down towards the road, or straight on? I set off one way, but then I changed my mind, stopped, searched the darkness trying to get my bearings, started back the way I had just come, but then abruptly changed my mind again and was off once more.

  Later, when I ran that same stretch of towpath again and timed myself, I worked out that I wasted approximately fifteen seconds on indecision, and that the Kingfisher was forty-five seconds further away than the lockhouse. So that was a neat sixty seconds of wasted time.

  It was the last time I ever ran.

  Sixty seconds. That’s all.

  But it was sixty seconds too long.

  I remember sitting on my bed, my back against the wall, my knees pulled up to my chest. My mind was racing. This couldn’t be happening to me, it just couldn’t. My brain whirred, seeking a way out of this situation. It had to be a bad dream.

  I chewed mercilessly at my thumbnail. What was I meant to do now? Was I meant to tell people? Keep it a secret? I wanted to sob. Twenty-four hours ago, I’d thought struggling with my English assignment and fretting over what to buy Libby for Christmas constituted problems. I hadn’t even known the meaning of the word.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  I looked up, alarmed to see Laura standing in my doorway. I hadn’t heard her come home. Mum and Dad were out choosing new kitchen flooring, and Laura had been gone for at least a week. These days, we never knew quite where she was or when she’d be back, but it seemed she’d chosen this late Saturday afternoon to make an unexpected reappearance.

  “Nothing’s the matter,” I mumbled miserably, “just close the door.”

  But Laura, of course, could only ever do the opposite of what I asked her and instead took a step inside my room. She’d recently died her hair jet black and taken to wearing too much eye make-up. I wasn’t sure if her pallor was part of the gothic look or just down to late nights and malnutrition.

  “Doesn’t look like nothing’s the matter,” she said, eyeing me with what I took for a modicum of concern.

  I shook my head forlornly. I wasn’t up for Laura’s insults. I felt sick to my core and strangely shivery, like I was coming down with something. All I could see was my life spinning out of control and I couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t pull it back.

  “Just go away,” I groaned.

  Laura tutted. “All right, suit yourself.”

  But watching Laura leave, I felt more scared than ever. I couldn’t do this, let alone do it without the support of my family.

  “She’s pregnant,” I blurted out.

  My sister turned and looked at me stupidly.

  I tried to think of something to add, but what else was there to say? That was it. That was all there was to it. There were no grey areas with pregnancy – you either were or your weren’t. And she was.

  God, she really was.

  My stomach twisted, and my heart began to race all over again.

  And then I added the most important point of all. Because pregnancy didn’t have to change everything, not these days. It didn’t have to turn your life upside down, unless…

  “And she’s keeping it. She’s already decided. She’s two months already.”

  I could hear the words coming out of my mouth, but it was like I was reading a script written for someone else.

  I stared at my feet, noting how the toes of my socks had become threadbare to the point of transparency. It occurred to me that I’d need to let Mum know so she could buy me some more. But soon I was going to be a… a what? A dad? A father? Those words bore no relation to me. Nor did they relate to someone whose mum still bought his socks.

  I wanted my sister to say something, do something, to make it better.

  “Fuck,” said Laura, a hint of amusement in her voice, and when I looked up at her, she was grinning. “So the golden boy has screwed up. BIG time! Wow. So you’re not so smart you can figure out how to use contraception, then?”

  And then she laughed. She actually laughed.

  “Mum and Dad are gonna kill you!”

  I shook my head in disbelief.

  “Just get out.”

  She held her hands up as if she was about to apologise, but she was still grinning as if all her dreams had come true.

  “Just get out!” I yelled, jumping up from the bed. She bolted out of the door and I slammed it hard behind her.

  I remember the guy who answered the door to the flat had red-rimmed eyes and dishevelled hair. For a moment I wondered if I had the right place.

  “Get your mate out of my flat,” he said as way of greeting, without bothering to step aside.

  I pushed my way past him. It was two in the morning and I was tired and angry from being dragged from my bed. Although not half as angry as my sister had been when I’d begged her to drive over and babysit my sleeping son for half an hour.

  “For God’s sake, just let them kick him out on the street then if that’s what they want to do,” she’d snapped. “It will teach him a lesson!”

  But I didn’t want that, and from the fact she drove over, I assumed she didn’t really want that either.

  Inside, the flat was smoky and smelled of fried food. Sections of wallpaper were missing, and the carpet was dirty. Cardboard boxes littered the hallway, spilling out identical pairs of designer trainers.

  I stuck my head inside the first two rooms – a small, messy kitchen and a chaotic-looking bedroom. A girl was sitting on the double bed, her head in her hands, illuminated only by the glow of a bedside lamp. She looked up at me, ashen and sad. I vaguely recognised her from around town. She stuck her leg out and kicked the door shut in my face.

  “Lounge!” shouted the red-eyed doorman, as if I knew where that was.

  “Jay,” a voice said behind me. I turned and with some relief saw Tizzo coming out of the bathroom, zipping up his flies. “Thanks for coming, mate,” he said, guiding me into the lounge. “I can’t shift him and my brother wants him out his flat pronto. I didn’t want to just chuck him out like this, but I wasn’t going to have much choice.”

  In the dim lounge, Michael was sprawled on the sofa. The table in front of him was littered with beer cans, bottles and ashtrays. A black bin liner sat on the floor nearby, showing that some kind of tidy-up operation had taken place before my arrival. I wondered what they had been so keen to throw away or get out of sight. It clearly wasn’t the mess itself they were bothered about.

  “Michael, get up,” I demanded, giving his leg a kick with slightly more force than I’d intended.

  “Mate, if that worked I wouldn’t have called you,” said Tizzo, scratching his shaved head.

  I gave Michael a shake and raised my voice. “Michael!”

  His head lolled on his shoulders, his face a deathly pale.

  “How much has he drunk or… whatever?” I asked.

  “Mate, he was already pretty out of it when he got here. You know what he’s like, I keep trying to talk sense into him, but—”

  “Yeah, right,” I mumbled, “sure you do.”

  “Just shift him!” a voice barked from out in the hallway.

  I cursed and tried to lift Michael up from the sofa, but he was a dead weight. He didn’t mutter or groan or make any sound at all. I dropped him back onto the stained, sagging cushions and put my ear to his mouth. I couldn’t hear anything.

  “Turn the light on,” I told Tizzo.

  “What light, mate?”

  “The light!” I snapped. “The main light!”

  Tizzo flicked a switch on the wall. In the harsh light of the unshaded bulb, Michael looked more grey than white. My heart started racing.

  “What’s he taken?”

  Tizzo shrugged. “I dunno.”

  “Bollocks you don’t know!”

  “Look, mate, he’s been crazy lately, you know that.”

  “Michael,” I called, ta
pping his cheek. “Michael, wake up.”

  I felt a wave of panic wash over me. I put my palm on his forehead, then his cheek. He felt cold and kind of clammy. Cold enough to be dead? I touched his neck, feeling for a pulse. That was it, right? There it was, I was sure of it. But then it was gone again. My fingers prodded, but I couldn’t find anything. Was I even doing it right, searching in the right place?

  “I think we should call an ambulance,” I said.

  “We don’t need an ambulance, mate, he just needs to sleep it off.”

  I studied Michael’s face, hesitating. I’d lost all faith in my judgement long ago. But my heart was pounding and my stomach had tied itself into a knot. Nothing about this felt right.

  “We need an ambulance.”

  “Oh, come on, mate, calm dow—”

  I pulled my phone out of my jacket and dialled nine nine nine.

  “Hey, wait a minute, I wouldn’t have called you if I thought you were gonna freak out.”

  I ignored him and tried to take a deep breath, knowing I needed to stay calm.

  “Mate, honestly,” said Tizzo, reaching out and gripping my shoulder, “you don’t need to call—”

  “I’m not your fucking mate!” I yelled, shrugging his hand away.

  I looked at Michael and wondered why I had even hesitated.

  “I need an ambulance immediately,” I told the operator, barely concealing the panic in my voice.

  Chapter 5

  Reunion

  I’m stood staring, frozen like a statue, when she glances over at me, then has to look again. It’s a classic double-take, almost comical in other circumstances. My automatic reaction is to look away, hope she hasn’t seen me, and then I have to remind myself that I’m the one who came looking for her. The reality dawns that this is it, I can’t hide from her now. I’ve made my choice and here we are.

  We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity but must only be a matter of seconds; her confused, disbelieving, trying to work out if I’m really the boy she once knew; me like a rabbit caught in the headlights. I force my feet to take a couple of tentative steps towards her. She steps forwards too, more decisively, ignoring the potential customer who’s asking a question about her painting. Even standing right in front of me, she looks unsure, searching my face for confirmation.

  “Jamie?”

  The first time I try to speak, nothing comes out and I have to quickly clear my throat. “Hi.”

  “I wasn’t sure if that was you,” she says, her fingers going to her throat, grabbing hold of the pendant on her necklace as if for safety.

  “Yeah, sorry, I’ve probably changed quite a lot,” I say, hooking my hands into my back pockets, wondering what kind of idiot apologises for changing over the years.

  “Yeah,” Libby nods, briefly scanning me up and down, “just a bit.”

  I laugh nervously. “You too.” I aim to scan her up and down in a similarly nonchalant way, but I suddenly panic about where my eyes are landing: on her chest, her hips, her legs… It all feels equally inappropriate. I quickly look back to her face, trying not to let my eyes linger on the two-inch scar that runs from the side of her left eye to the top her cheekbone. It’s faded with time, but it’s still visible, light pink and slightly shiny. I feel a stab of guilt, knowing that I caused her pain, in more ways than one. I quickly open my mouth to make a comment about how well she looks, enquire after her health, say something friendly to break the ice.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks without a smile. She sounds almost confrontational and I’m completely thrown. Stupidly, I hadn’t prepared for that question, and now I wonder what I am doing here.

  “I… err… I was wondering if I could talk to you.” I suddenly feel exposed, self-conscious, as if the people around us are listening, just waiting for me to cock up.

  “Talk to me? What… you came here to see me?”

  “I…well… I saw your website and—”

  “You saw my website? What, were you googling me or something?”

  I definitely don’t remember Libby being this blunt. And this is definitely not the way our conversations ever went in my head.

  “No. Not googling…I mean, yes, but just to try and find out where you were living or—”

  “Where I’m living?” She looks mildly horrified, like I’ve been stalking her.

  “Actually,” I say, trying to get a grip on things, “do you want to… Are you free to go get a coffee or something?”

  She holds up her cup. I notice her hand is shaking slightly.

  “Or not get a coffee then. Just, maybe talk—”

  “I’m sort of busy,” she says, glancing at the paintings.

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “What is it you want? Why are you here?” she asks. Her cheeks, her neck, the base of her throat are getting flushed, just like they used to when she was upset. She pushes her hair behind her ear a little too aggressively so that it misses the hook, falls straight down around her face again, and with that one gesture, so familiar, so unchanged, the years seems to fall away. I stare at her face, the way her brow is furrowed, the set of her pursed lips. She’s wearing her angry face.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come, I just… I’ve been doing some reflecting on my life lately and I’m just trying to tie some things up. I feel like things weren’t left well between us and—”

  “What, are you dying or something?”

  “No,” I laugh nervously, scanning her face for any sign that she would even care if I were dying.

  “So, what? You’re going through an early midlife crisis?”

  “No. Well, yeah, maybe. I just know that I didn’t handle things back then the way I should have and I suppose I wish things had gone differently, and I thought that perhaps, I mean I know it’s been a long time, but I wanted to just see you to… I don’t know…”

  I’m well aware that I am screwing this up and that I should have prepared a lot better, but I didn’t expect our conversation to go anything like this. I’m thrown. This was such a bad idea.

  The guy in the beanie hat gets up from his stool, takes the few steps towards us, touches Libby lightly on the arm.

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she says dismissively, “he’s just an old…just someone I used to know.”

  I know I have no right to feel the jolt of pain this causes in me.

  The guy slinks back to his seat, but not before throwing me a warning glance. Wondering again if he’s the husband, I check Libby’s hand for a wedding band, but I’m surprised to find there’s nothing there. I’d always imagined her with a husband and a couple of kids by now. I hoped, for her sake, she’d have that.

  “Look, I shouldn’t have come,” I say apologetically.

  “I have no idea why you did,” she practically snaps, but then immediately looks remorseful. She stares at her coffee cup as if she’d forgotten it was there, quickly shifts it to the other hand and glances at her palm, which is bright pink from the heat.

  I take a step back. “Look, I think I’ve upset you coming here and that’s the last thing I wanted—”

  “I have no idea what you wanted. I don’t know why you’ve come. Because, what, you wanted to smooth things over or something?”

  “Yes, I guess so,” I nod, as if she’s understanding me now. Smoothing things over sounds the right kind of idea, making things neat, doing away with the horrible jagged edges that result from something being broken.

  “Okay,” she says, swiftly hooking her hair round her ear again, “well, consider things smoothed then. I mean, it was all a long, long time ago, so… I mean, really, I honestly can’t believe you came all this way to find me.” She’s talking fast, looking agitated. I think I’ve shocked her by showing up like this. Well, of course I’ve shocked her. What was I thinking? “You know I have an email address on my website, you could have just used that.”

  “Yeah, I know, I didn’t like the idea of just suddenl
y contacting you—”

  “So you thought it would be better to just turn up in person?”

  “Yeah, it seemed the better option, but clearly—”

  “Libby!” calls the man in the beanie, gesturing to the sky.

  “Look, I’m not sure what all this is about, but I’ve got to go,” she says, moving towards her paintings.

  I hadn’t even noticed it starting to rain. The other artists are hastily taking down their pictures or covering them over with plastic sheets. Libby goes to unhook one of her paintings from a railing, fumbling with her coffee cup.

  “Let me help you,” I say, going after her.

  “No, it’s fine—”

  “No seriously, I kept you talking and now—”

  “I was about to pack up anyway. I don’t know why I bother doing these things.”

  “Well at least let me help you get them out of the rain,” I say, searching for the painting’s fastening.

  “Seriously, it’s fine!” she snaps, hot coffee suddenly erupting from underneath the lid, spilling down her forearm as she searches for somewhere to put the cup in among the sudden chaos of tarpaulins and frames.

  I quickly take the drink from her.

  “Damn!” She wipes her arm across her T-shirt. “Just have it,” she says, waving the coffee – and me – away. She begins packing up with an angry, frantic energy.

  “Yeah, sure, I’m sorry, I’ll just go,” I say, taking a couple of steps backwards. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. I just thought… I don’t know what I thought actually, but anyway, I’m sorry—”

  I turn to leave, coffee dribbling down the side of the cup onto my wrist.

  What have I done? Never in a million years did I imagine it would go that badly. What the hell was I thinking when I decided…