at the pub. No jaw-clenching restraint there.
And thank God for… but it’s hard to say his name, even in his head, even after all this time. The person who’d saved him, put something inside him that he would always have, something of beauty that lay apart from the shittiness of the world. The person who’d done too much, gone too far and ruined everything.
Mr Stanley?
I had a bad night. It happens to me sometimes.
He’d had flashbacks before, but this was different. This wasn’t moments, this was the whole scene on playback, his own childhood made viscerally real again by stepping back into Catherine’s.
The top sheet of the single bed becomes the brush of velvet on his bare forearms. He’s back there, fifteen years old, concealed behind the curtains of the practice room where his music teacher, Mr Fleming, lets him stay after school. He can’t have a piano at home so this is the next best thing. Mr Fleming teaches him in his lunch hour and he practises here after school. But he’s just heard footsteps and instinct has told him to hide. Through a frayed hole in the fabric he sees Mr Johnson and Mr Crane enter the room.
“No one in here today. Thought I might find that fifth year, what’s his name? Stevens… Stanley, Michael Stanley. Fleming seems to let him practise piano after school. All a bit non-regulation.”
“Oh yes, the boy he’s mentoring. I must say he’s blossoming with it.”
“Yes, apparently he has real talent.”
“Not the boy – I mean old Fleming! You must have noticed. He used to walk around all hunched up…” Mr Crane stoops and pulls a face and both teachers snigger. Michael finds he has a handful of velvet tight in his fist. “Kids giving him a hard time, I think. But now he’s swaggering around with a twinkle in his eye, if you know what I mean. Given him a reason to keep going, poor bugger.”
What sort of bad night?
Michael threw back the covers, wincing at the boom of the teachers’ laughter in his head, torched all over again with that strange feeling of shame. Despite the assault of floral fabric softener he could still catch a whiff of the musty damp of the practice room where he’d waited the next day for his lunch hour lesson, staring at cobwebs he’d never noticed before, the yellow-toothed grin of the keyboard. The door opening and Mr Fleming’s eyes lighting up at the sight of Michael. The grotesque image of a dog bounding over to its master.
Michael sat up. He switched on the bedside light, but he knew it was too late. The scene played out in front of his eyes like a film.
Sorry, I got distracted. I couldn’t sleep, that’s all.
You look a little pale, Mr Stanley. Is there anything else of note from that weekend?
Only… no. Nothing of note.
Scene 9
So you drove home, Miss Jarret?
Yes.
It’s hard not to tremble and look down as she says it. She knew from the beginning she shouldn’t be in charge of that car. But when she saw Michael’s face at the breakfast table what could she do? He hardly looked like he should be behind a wheel either. His eyes were bloodshot behind his glasses. Said he’d had a bad night. She insisted on driving.
At first it was a relief to be leaving the labyrinth of identical tree-lined suburban roads. Leaving her mother, her hen-pecked father, that house of disappointments where the music had been snuffed out. The car was straining towards London, mirroring her energy. She started to relax as they hit the motorway and she got the hang of power steering. Michael was already asleep, or at least his eyes were closed, frowning under a thatch of wayward hair. She was glad they didn’t have to talk. A squeeze of tenderness made her smile. He was always there when she needed him. He was a good-looking guy, intelligent, musical but somehow she’d never felt like that about him.
A pulse started inside her as she pictured Seth, green eyes teasing. He had exploded into her life like a firework, a Catherine wheel, turning
And thank God for… but it’s hard to say his name, even in his head, even after all this time. The person who’d saved him, put something inside him that he would always have, something of beauty that lay apart from the shittiness of the world. The person who’d done too much, gone too far and ruined everything.
Mr Stanley?
I had a bad night. It happens to me sometimes.
He’d had flashbacks before, but this was different. This wasn’t moments, this was the whole scene on playback, his own childhood made viscerally real again by stepping back into Catherine’s.
The top sheet of the single bed becomes the brush of velvet on his bare forearms. He’s back there, fifteen years old, concealed behind the curtains of the practice room where his music teacher, Mr Fleming, lets him stay after school. He can’t have a piano at home so this is the next best thing. Mr Fleming teaches him in his lunch hour and he practises here after school. But he’s just heard footsteps and instinct has told him to hide. Through a frayed hole in the fabric he sees Mr Johnson and Mr Crane enter the room.
“No one in here today. Thought I might find that fifth year, what’s his name? Stevens… Stanley, Michael Stanley. Fleming seems to let him practise piano after school. All a bit non-regulation.”
“Oh yes, the boy he’s mentoring. I must say he’s blossoming with it.”
“Yes, apparently he has real talent.”
“Not the boy – I mean old Fleming! You must have noticed. He used to walk around all hunched up…” Mr Crane stoops and pulls a face and both teachers snigger. Michael finds he has a handful of velvet tight in his fist. “Kids giving him a hard time, I think. But now he’s swaggering around with a twinkle in his eye, if you know what I mean. Given him a reason to keep going, poor bugger.”
What sort of bad night?
Michael threw back the covers, wincing at the boom of the teachers’ laughter in his head, torched all over again with that strange feeling of shame. Despite the assault of floral fabric softener he could still catch a whiff of the musty damp of the practice room where he’d waited the next day for his lunch hour lesson, staring at cobwebs he’d never noticed before, the yellow-toothed grin of the keyboard. The door opening and Mr Fleming’s eyes lighting up at the sight of Michael. The grotesque image of a dog bounding over to its master.
Michael sat up. He switched on the bedside light, but he knew it was too late. The scene played out in front of his eyes like a film.
Sorry, I got distracted. I couldn’t sleep, that’s all.
You look a little pale, Mr Stanley. Is there anything else of note from that weekend?
Only… no. Nothing of note.
Scene 9
So you drove home, Miss Jarret?
Yes.
It’s hard not to tremble and look down as she says it. She knew from the beginning she shouldn’t be in charge of that car. But when she saw Michael’s face at the breakfast table what could she do? He hardly looked like he should be behind a wheel either. His eyes were bloodshot behind his glasses. Said he’d had a bad night. She insisted on driving.
At first it was a relief to be leaving the labyrinth of identical tree-lined suburban roads. Leaving her mother, her hen-pecked father, that house of disappointments where the music had been snuffed out. The car was straining towards London, mirroring her energy. She started to relax as they hit the motorway and she got the hang of power steering. Michael was already asleep, or at least his eyes were closed, frowning under a thatch of wayward hair. She was glad they didn’t have to talk. A squeeze of tenderness made her smile. He was always there when she needed him. He was a good-looking guy, intelligent, musical but somehow she’d never felt like that about him.
A pulse started inside her as she pictured Seth, green eyes teasing. He had exploded into her life like a firework, a Catherine wheel, turning
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