The White Room by Martyn Waites Page A

reservations, but she put them to the back of her mind. This was for Brian, this was for the man she loved. It was what was expected of her.
    Then there was that one night. And afterwards nothing was the same.
    The three lads had come in well after dark in high spirits, laughing and joking, alluding to what they had been doing, carrying the smell of the night on them. Whatever they found funny had been at someone else’s expense. Monica didn’t listen. It didn’t concern her.
    They had wanted music. She had turned on the wireless, but they wanted records. She had reached for her new Alma Cogan disc, ‘Banjo’s Back in Town’, but they didn’t want that.
    â€˜Vincent,’ said Brian.
    She swallowed a sigh, re-sleeved the disc. She liked the song. The melody was simple but hummable. Bright. It made her happy. She reached for Brian’s choice. Gene Vincent – ‘Be Bop A Lula’. It was all the things Alma Cogan wasn’t. Dark. Complex. It didn’t make her happy. It stirred up unpleasant feelings within her. She imagined it did the same to Brian. She imagined that was why he wanted to hear it.
    She put it on.
    â€˜Hey,’ said the oldest, Eddie, slumped in an armchair and dropping an empty beer bottle on the carpet, ‘I wanna ’nother drink. Monica, gerrus another drink.’
    Monica got up, picked up the fallen bottle, crossed to the sideboard, took out another bottle. She picked up the opener.
    â€˜Nah,’ Eddie said. ‘Whisky.’
    She put the bottle opener and bottle back, took out the bottle of whisky and a glass, took it Eddie. She stood in front of him pouring.
    â€˜I’ll tell you when.’
    The whisky reached the halfway mark.
    â€˜When.’
    She passed him the glass. He took a mouthful, swallowed, grimaced.
    â€˜Me an’ all,’ said Brian, holding up his empty glass. He was one whisky ahead of Eddie.
    Monica crossed the floor, filled up Brian’s glass. She knew the level he liked his drink to be at. He winked at her when she had finished. It was a cold gesture, impersonal. The kind a tightfisted gambler gives to a cloakroom girl in a casino. Service rewarded. She smiled back at him, hesitantly. She had become as adept at reading his moods as she had been her father’s. He was drunk. Mean drunk.
    Gene Vincent yelled more, more, more.
    Brian gestured to Brimson, the third man, then to the bottle.
    â€˜Nah,’ Brimson said, shifting in his seat. Monica could see he was already very drunk. He looked her up and down as she stood in the middle of their sitting room holding the bottle, smiled. It was a smile she had seen many times before. Not just on him. ‘I wan’ somethin’, but not that.’
    Brian stared at Brimson, his hollow eyes boring in to him. Brimson slipped from drunkenness to sudden sobriety. He swallowed hard. At first he wasn’t sure Brian had heard him, but looking at Brian’s expression he knew he had.
    A grim smile split Brian’s face, like a hard blade slicing through soft flesh.
    â€˜Cost you,’ he said.
    Brimson looked at him, tried to gauge Brian’s seriousness.
    â€˜All right,’ he said eventually. ‘You’re on.’ He dug into his pockets, brought out crumpled notes, tarnished coins. Brian plucked the notes from him.
    Brian turned to Monica, pointed.
    â€˜Go on.’
    He nodded at her. She stared back at him, unmoving, unable to speak.
    Gene Vincent sang that Lula was the one that loved him so.
    â€˜Go on.’
    Brian was becoming angry at not being obeyed. Monica didn’t want him to get angry. Moving slowly, as if her life had just tipped over into an unbelievable dream, she crossed to where Brimson was sitting in the armchair. He was already unbuttoning his trousers, slipping off his braces. She looked around the room, felt her face flush with embarrassment and humiliation.
    â€˜I love you, Monica,’ said Brian, his voice