Five Stories High Read online

  I went to a couple of lectures, sitting by myself at the back, shivering and wondering what the hell was going on. At lunchtime I gave up and went back to my room. I did get some sleep then, proper sleep, and when I woke at around five o’clock I felt hungry enough to try one of the Cup-a-Soups. I felt better after that – not so much less ill as able to understand that I would be soon. I spent the rest of that day lying on my bed, watching TV and thinking about not very much. I slept much better that night, and by the afternoon of the following day I felt well enough to go on to campus for an hour or so. I went to a lecture and then afterwards I had coffee with a couple of people in my study group.

  It was strange, but being ill like that seemed to have wiped away the anxiety I’d been feeling, about not knowing anyone, about being in college full stop. The people I had coffee with weren’t my friends – not yet – but I could see how they could become my friends. In spite of the weakness and muzzy-headedness left over from the virus I felt good about things. For the first time since unpacking my bags in my room in halls I began to believe I belonged here, after all.

  I don’t remember thinking about Aunty Claire even once during this time. Once I was recovered the whole episode – Dave’s panicked phone call, my own anxiety – had something of the fever dream about it. I’d been ill, that’s all. I’d imagined depths of meaning where there were none. I called Mum at the weekend as per usual. When she asked how I was I told her I’d been sick with the flu but I was better now.

  “I thought you sounded a bit nasal,” she said. “Claire mentioned Emma’s been a bit poorly. It’s probably the same bug.”

  “Is Emma OK?” I asked. I felt a jolt of disquiet at the mention of Claire’s name, then a backwash of guilt that I’d passed on my flu to Emma, just as I’d feared.

  “Oh, she’s fine, love. Claire’s kept her off school for the week but that’s more to be fair to the other kids than anything else. No sense spreading these viruses around if you can avoid it, is there? But there’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a bug. Kids are up and down like ninepins at that age.”

  “How’s Aunty Claire?” I said.

  “Dave’s little to-do in York, you mean? Honestly, that Dave can be a daft bugger sometimes. Claire was telling us about the time he panicked because he thought he’d left Rhys behind at the Texaco garage. Forget his own head, more like. But he means well.”

  She moved on to other subjects after that, asking me about my lectures and whether I’d been eating proper meals. I didn’t tell her about the Cup-a-Soups. She didn’t mention Aunty Claire again and why would she? If everything was normal there would be no need to. I was uneasy, all the same. A shadow of that old feeling was back, the feeling that something was wrong, something awful.

  Claire, I repeated to myself inside my head. Claire. Even her name sounded strange to me, as if it was just a mindless abstract noun and no longer referred to her.

  What is this bollocks? I thought. Even two hours later I found myself trying not to think about it. Think about what? I asked myself irritably. I had no answer to that, or at least I pretended I didn’t. I had supper in halls then went up on to campus – they were showing The Manchurian Candidate in the Students’ Union. Watching the film – which I’d not seen before but I’d heard people in my study group rave about – helped to settle my mind, somehow. I guess seeing someone else’s paranoia up on the screen like that made me feel less – well, less paranoid, especially since the programmed guy turns out to be right all along.

  When I emerged from the Union two hours later I realised that my flu was completely gone.

  AS A KID I was into aliens and body-snatching and parallel dimensions and all that shit – all youngsters are, I think. Kids mostly see aliens as monsters to fight, and that’s exciting at that age. Even though it says ugly things about the society we’re raising them in, that’s not the child’s fault. As we grow older we’re taught that believing there might be life elsewhere in the universe is pretty much as juvenile as believing in God: a nice idea, but not worth even the time it would take to debunk it. I remember a friend of mine in high school, Andrew Maverley. He was a rugby nut, underage drinker and all-round girl magnet. Suddenly in the middle of sixth form he joined the Christian Union. Everyone thought he’d gone mental or something. Even those lads who’d been his best mates started calling him poofter, lilypad, stuff like that. His parents were really worried about him. Andy told me years later that they actually went up the school to see the head. The head had told them not to worry, that lots of young people go through a religious phase.

  “I’m sure he’ll grow out of it,” the head said. “Andrew is a highly intelligent young man.”

  As if having intelligence made you more likely to reject the unknown.

  Andy’s a physics teacher at a posh school in Norfolk now but he still believes in God. Go figure.

  I DIDN’T GO home again until the Christmas vacation. I was enjoying my course for one thing. I was even beginning to have something resembling a social life. There was also Veronica – Ronny – who I liked one hell of a lot and who I hoped might start seeing me in a more serious light if I stuck around. I certainly didn’t want to risk anyone else getting in on the act. During that crucial first term at college, one weekend away from the centre of things can seem like an aeon.

  “Don’t be an arse, Willy,” Ronny said, when I started quizzing her about whether her old boyfriend from home might turn up to hassle her over the Christmas break. She’d left it at that, and I knew I had to leave it at that, too, or else the conversation might veer into places I didn’t want it to go and I’d have no one to blame but myself. I was still in agony, though. Ronny lived near Ludlow, so I knew there was no chance of getting to see her over the holiday. I told her I’d write to her instead.

  “Every day,” I promised.

  “Steady on,” she said. She laughed though, which seemed like a good sign.

  I’d never had a girlfriend before, not a serious one. My feelings for Ronny scared me, but I thought bugger it. I wanted that scared feeling, because I wanted her. Those days between the end of term and actual Christmas were more emotional for me than I’d expected. I kept waiting for Ronny to ring, and then when she did, finally, on the evening of December 21st, I felt anxious again, more or less as soon as I’d put down the phone. Everything seemed loaded with significance, and the Christmas decorations and the shops bursting with people and the Salvation Army band down by the war memorial all seemed to be a part of that. I’d arranged to go out on Christmas Eve at least, with some lads from my old sixth form who were all home on vacation too. We went down the Oak and got completely blasted. We were still there long after last orders and clamouring for a lock-in but the pub manager was having none of it.

  “Get your backsides out of here before I have to phone your mothers,” she said. “Don’t you have Christmases to go to?”

  We did, of course, all of us. We shambled out of the saloon into the cold darkness of the pub car park, Jez Littell and Tony Stoney still singing their deviant version of ‘I Wish it could be Christmas Every Day’. We were just leaving the parking lot when I fell over. I still can’t remember a thing about how it happened. One minute I was cackling at Tony Stoney not to be a fucklord, the next I was on the ground. The first thing I became aware of was the tarmac, which was freezing and damp, skiddy under my cheek like the surface of an ice rink. The next thing was the silence. My mates were all there but they weren’t laughing any more. Even Tony Stoney had shut up with his Wizzard shit.

  “Fuck, mate,” said Mart Riley. “Are you all right down there?”

  “Of course I’m all right,” I said. “If you could just see yourselves.”

  My voice sounded faint, even to me, and Bob Latimer, who was really my best friend from home aside from Andy Maverley, who wasn’t there, swore later that I hadn’t actually spoken at all. Not so that anyone could hear, anyway. I tried to get up then, but my legs wouldn’t move. I didn’t feel fright
ened, just puzzled. I couldn’t work out what was going on and so I carried on lying there on the cold ground, wondering what was going to happen next. I wondered about it with a kind of distant curiosity, the way I might have wondered about a character in a film I wasn’t that interested in but couldn’t be bothered to stop watching.

  “I think he’s losing consciousness,” said Jez Littell. He seemed to have sobered up, which was lucky – lucky for him, anyway, because his Dad had threatened to give him a hiding if he came home drunk. “Aren’t you meant to stop them doing that?”

  Mart bent down and shook my by the shoulder. “Mate,” he said. “Come on, Willy, stop pissing about.”

  “Don’t be a dork, Riley,” said Bob. “I’m going to call for an ambulance.”

  “Fuck, no,” I said, and my voice must have been stronger this time because Bob’s face suddenly swung into my field of vision, huge like the moon, his John Lennon glasses catching the lamplight like silver coins.

  “You should get looked at, Will,” he said. “You’re bleeding. You might have concussion.”

  I was struggling to sit up by this time, and after one or two failed attempts I actually did. “I haven’t got concussion,” I said. “I just need a minute, that’s all. I bet it’s mostly the vodka.”

  Cars were driving past us, not stopping. The swish-swish-swish of their tyres on the damp tarmac was soothing, almost hypnotising. It’s cold enough for snow, I thought. I wondered if it was snowing in Ludlow, where Ronny was. The thought of Ronny lifted me up.

  “My mum’ll have a mare if I end up in casualty,” I said. I wiped at my face. My forehead felt wet. With rain, I thought, but when I looked at my fingertips I saw they were dark with blood.

  “Have this,” someone said, Tony Stoney I think, and handed me a handkerchief.

  “It better not have your snot on it,” I said. I dabbed at my skin. It hurt, but not too much. Don’t they say that about head wounds? I folded the handkerchief in four then pressed it down where I thought the cut was, as hard as I could. After a moment or two I took it away.

  “Has it stopped bleeding yet?” I asked of no one in particular.

  Bob peered at me doubtfully. “I think it has,” he said in the end. “I still think we should call an ambulance.”

  “No need,” I said. “I reckon I can get up now. Hold on a tick.” I rested one hand on his shoulder and heaved myself upright. The world seemed to tilt sideways, and for a minute I thought I was going to vomit, right there on the sodden tarmac of the Oak’s litter-strewn car park. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, I thought, and sniggered.

  “What’s up?” Bob said.

  “Nothing.” I was breathing heavily from the effort of standing, but the simple act of drawing fresh air into my lungs seemed to be having an effect. I really was feeling better. I could almost believe what I’d said about it being the vodka. After a couple of seconds I tried a step forward, and then another. My legs felt a bit jelly-like, but that was all. By the time we reached the corner of Saint Street I was feeling almost normal.

  Bob and Mart insisted on walking me home, even though it was miles out of their way.

  “You sure you’re all right?” Bob said when we arrived outside my house. He still looked worried. The following week he told me about an article he’d read in the newspaper, about some bloke who fell off a ladder and then died in his sleep.

  “Just knackered,” I said. “Get yourself home before your folks send out a search party.”

  “I guess it’s fuck off, then,” said Mart.

  “Happy fucking Christmas.” We half-hugged, the way blokes do, and then I went inside. It was gone midnight by then – Christmas day. The light was on in the hall but otherwise the ground floor lay in darkness. I crept upstairs, feeling lucky that Mum and Dad had both gone to bed. I could see a light on under their door but by the time I came out of the bathroom it had gone off.

  I had a piss, then examined my face in the bathroom mirror. There was a wrinkled-looking abrasion on one side of my forehead, surrounded by what I knew was going to be a monster bruise. Still, on the bright side the bleeding had stopped, and by the time I went back to college, the bruise would be gone, too.

  Ronny would never have to know I’d been a drunken prat. When Mum asked me about the cut the next morning, I told her I’d accidentally bashed my head against an open window in the gents. She made a fuss, as I knew she would, but she seemed to believe me.

  CHRISTMAS DAY AT home was always the same. Mum did breakfast just for the three of us – pancakes, because that was always what I wanted when I was younger and the tradition stuck – and we exchanged breakfast presents. Claire and Dave and the twins usually turned up at around eleven. We’d have a buck’s fizz and open more presents and then have lunch. After lunch we’d all get stuck into the washing up, complain because Dave still insisted on making us drop everything for the Queen’s speech at three, and then watch a film. The film had to be something Rhys and Emma would enjoy, too, which caused some arguments but never anything major. At around five o’clock, Mum would bring out the Christmas cake.

  The cake was Mum’s party piece and no one was allowed to see it before the day. It was amazing that year, one of her best – a tumbling stack of miniature Christmas presents, with the cake at the bottom iced to look like a parcel tied with a ribbon. The miniature presents were made from marzipan, and fudge, and nougat, and each was coated in a different colour of icing, or edible paper, or gold leaf. It must have taken Mum days to make them.

  “I can’t bear to eat that, Sarah, it’s too beautiful,” Claire said.

  “Nonsense,” Mum said, although she was chuffed by what Claire had said, you could see by her face. She leaned over and popped one of the prettiest parcels – a mauve one, with a silver edible rose on top – directly into Claire’s mouth, a gesture of affection that was perfectly normal between Mum and Claire, that was just the way they were, but that made my insides clench in horror and my skin turn cold. Because Aunty Claire was no longer herself, she was something else.

  What terrified me most of all was that no one seemed to notice, or was prepared to admit it.

  I’D BEEN UPSTAIRS taking a piss when Dave and Claire arrived. I’d woken up with a headache but – as before – suspected that was mainly down to the vodka. A big bruise had come up on my forehead, but the cut looked much better, properly scabbed over and not too bad at all, really. Apart from the headache I felt fine, and once I’d stuffed myself with bacon and pancakes even the headache was mostly gone. I was much more preoccupied with thoughts of Ronny, wondering if I should risk giving her a call to wish her a happy Christmas. I was dying to speak to her, just to hear her voice. On the other hand I knew she’d be busy with family and I didn’t want to risk coming across all needy. Perhaps it would be better to wait until the evening. Or would that make it look as if I’d forgotten her? I was thinking in circles – and pissing – when the doorbell rang. The next thing I heard was Rhys and Emma spilling into the house, Dave saying no, just go inside, I’ll bring the presents, Aunty Claire laughing at something and then Mum saying shut the door or you’ll let all the heat out. I felt excited and world-weary at the same moment, wondering for the first time ever if I might be getting too old for Christmas, yet unable to bear the thought of things ever changing.

  Things already had changed though, hadn’t they? That’s what happens when you go to college.

  I zipped my fly and ran downstairs. Everyone appeared to be crammed into the kitchen. A cork popped – Mum opening the champagne. I went through to the living room, which I was expecting to find empty, so the sight of Aunty Claire there made me jump a mile. She had her back to me, crouching down, arranging presents under the Christmas tree. She was wearing a fluffy angora pullover and a long tartan skirt. Her hair, which she normally wore down or pulled back in a ponytail, was piled up in a bun on top of her head. Its copper colour looked brighter, clearer, and I guessed she’d had it highlighted specially.

 
Normally I would have called out to her as soon as I saw her – Hi Aunty Claire – stepped forward to give her a hug. I didn’t though. I just stood there. Something about the angle of her body disturbed me, her stillness – I don’t know where it came from – that she knew full well I was there and was only pretending not to have heard me.

  “Hi Aunty Claire,” I said in the end. I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Willy,” Claire said. She straightened up and turned around. “Let’s have a look at you, college boy. How are you, darling?”

  Aunty Claire had called me darling since I was a baby. She took a step towards me, then another. I had just enough time to realise what I’d sensed all along: that the person in front of me that looked like Claire was not Claire, that it was possible she wasn’t even a person, but something else, something I had no name for, only a sucking feeling of emptiness in my stomach, the kind you get when you look down from a high building and suddenly realise there’s no parapet to stop you from falling.

  Then her arms were around me, her body so close against mine I could feel her heart beating, the soft tickle of her angora sweater against my nose. She has no smell, I thought, or not the right smell. I could just about catch a whiff of the perfume she used – Guerllin’s Samsara. I knew, because I’d seen the bottle on her dressing table. The scent still wasn’t right, though. Perfume smells different on everyone, because it’s not just the perfume you smell, it’s the chemical reaction between the perfume and the skin salts of the person wearing it. What I smelled on Claire was just the aroma of Samsara, the same as it would smell coming straight from the bottle. No undertones of skin or sweat or body odour, nothing.

  A maggot, I thought. My heart fluttered. I had no idea why the words had come into my head, what they meant even, other than that they were the title of the novel by John Fowles I’d been reading for college on the train journey home.