“Yeah,” said Simon. “Yes, that’s exactly how it feels. It feels like–”
Marty butted in before he could finish: “It feels like we left each other yesterday, as children, and then met up again today as adults. It feels like no fucking time has passed at all.”
The quiet fell once again around their shoulders, covering their heads, their mouths. They all stared at each other, eyes flicking from face to face, seeing beyond the masks of age. For all intents and purposes, the men sitting around the table were once again little boys. They were young again. But this time they were not afraid.
“You know,” continued Marty, “I’ve always lived my life on the edge of glory. Never quite got there, just prowled around on the wrong side of the ropes, trying to fight my way in. Now I finally realise that’ll never happen. I’m not going to make it. But maybe with you guys I can still make a difference, even if it’s just to us. To the rest of our lives.”
The barmaid’s singing built to a small crescendo. The song was a sad one, and she knew the words by heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“WE HAVE TO go back,” said Simon, breaking the spell. “The three of us, all together… We have to go back in there and kick-start the whole thing, make it happen again. But this time we need to fight it, and beat it. This time, we stop it dead in its tracks.”
The other two Amigos said nothing, but the mutual consent was evident in their faces, the posture of their bodies, the way they each sat forward in their chairs, as if eager to meet something head-on.
“We have to go there now, before we change our minds. We can’t wait, not any longer.”
He could see in their eyes that they agreed, despite remaining silent. Their features were old, worn, and tired, but those eyes — they were young boys, peering out from behind the broken-down faces of men.
CHAPTER THIRTY
JANE WAS WORRIED. Brendan had called her half an hour ago and filled her in on the latest news.
They’d met up with Marty and they were going inside the Needle; all three of them, together again, to see what memories they could stir up. Jane was put in mind of three boys poking a wasp’s nest with sticks, and the wasps going crazy, their stingers dripping with poison. It was a stupid image, really — a ridiculous comparison — but nonetheless, she felt that her husband and his old friends were about to disturb things that might just be best left to rest in peace.
She moved around the house like a Prozac phantom, her mind in a haze, her eyes roaming across every surface, her gaze unable to settle in one place. She felt simultaneously energised and exhausted. It was a strange sensation, like running through treacle.
Harry was fine. The boy was sleeping soundly, oblivious to the concern he’d caused.
But she couldn’t stop checking on him; she’d been up there three times in the past hour and was, even now, turning to climb the stairs again. She grabbed the handrail and began to ascend, her mind floating ahead of her. He’s okay, she thought, not knowing if she meant Brendan or their son. We’re all okay.
At the top of the stairs she turned and walked along the landing. The bathroom door was open. She could see the mirror through the gap; it was greyed-out, steamy with condensation. Had she taken a bath earlier? She must have done, but could not remember anything about it. Perhaps she’d bathed the twins — or maybe just Isobel, while Harry rested.
“Jesus,” she whispered. “I’m losing the plot.”
Written in the condensation was a nonsense word: Loculus. What was that, the name of a cartoon character or a TV show? Maybe Harry had been up and about…
Jane stopped outside the twins’ room and waited. She didn’t know what it was she was waiting for, but the pause felt right. It seemed like the thing to do. She pressed the palms of both of her hands against the door, and then leaned in close, pushing the side of her face against the wood. She listened, but could hear nothing. Of course she couldn’t. Harry was asleep. Isobel was at school, and then later she was going to a hastily arranged sleepover at a friend’s house on Far Grove Way.
The twins used to share a room when they were very young. She’d tried to separate them when they got older, and it had caused an uproar, with stamping feet and infant tantrums. She’d relented, but eventually they’d have to be separated again, and she knew that it would cause more trouble. They hated being apart, even when they were asleep. All the things you hear about twins had proved to be true.
Not for the first time she wondered about the origin of the twins; how Brendan had almost been a twin, so the genetic makeup was there, in his DNA, that someone on his side of the family could produce a multiple birth. But wasn’t it meant to skip a generation? She supposed it had, in a way, because Brendan’s twin had died in utero, not even given the chance to form into a proper foetus. It had been just the size of a thumbnail, probably even smaller. No eyes, no nose, no features of any kind. A floating being, without even a soul…
But Jane didn’t believe in the soul. She was an atheist. The lure of religion had not drawn her to its flame, not in the way that it had her mother. Jane’s mum had seen God as a way out of an abusive marriage; Jane had seen God as a convenient crutch for the weak to lean on. Where had God been when her father had beaten her, trying so hard not to touch her in the same way that he’d touched her sister? Where was the Holy Ghost when she’d lain awake at night, listening to his footsteps as he roamed the house, drinking and muttering and talking himself out of raping his own daughter? Some might say that it was God who had kept him away from her, but Jane preferred to think that it was the threat of going back to prison; he’d served three years for sexual assault when he was in his early twenties, and the experience had scarred him enough that he could not ever face another visit.
She pushed open the bedroom door and stepped inside. The curtains were closed, but dim light penetrated the cheap material. The room looked as if it were filled with dust; the air shuddered as she moved through the space. Harry was a motionless mound in his red plastic Lightning McQueen bed with the Ben 10 quilt pulled over his head. His toys were dotted around his side of the room, on shelves and cupboard tops, and scattered across the floor. Isobel’s side was much tidier; she had inherited her mother’s eye for neatness and formality.
Harry didn’t seem to be moving at all. She was worried that he’d stopped breathing. She knew that she was being silly, that the doctors had given him a clean bill of health, but still… when you were a parent, it paid to be just a little bit paranoid.
Slowly she crossed the room and stood at the side of the bed. She reached down and pulled back the quilt, revealing the sweaty top of Harry’s head. His hair was soaking. She tugged the quilt down past the back of his knees (he was sleeping on his belly, as always). Still Harry did not move.
“Hey, kidda. You okay?”
He did not even stir.
Jane’s heart felt as if it were gradually climbing her chest, inch by inch, making its way towards her throat. She swallowed; her throat ached. She heard a strange humming sound, but it was only inside her head.
“Harry?” Her voice was croaky.
She reached down and nudged his shoulder, just a little, barely hard enough to move his little body. Then she did it again — harder this time, applying more pressure, easily enough to wake him.