Love My Enemy (16 page)

Tasha hurtled through Hazel Grove, her dress streaming
like a cloak behind her. She could barely see where she
was going because her eyes were filled with the awful
bloodiness of Zee's face.

'Awch!' She tripped on her high heels, and sprawled
full length on the pavement. The long dress ripped and
her carefully pinned hair came tumbling down.

Home
, she thought, picking herself up and rushing on,
I must ring an ambulance . . . the police . . . must tell
them. 'Mum! Mum!'

She crashed in, shoeless, on the dinner party. For a split
second everyone stared at her in astonishment, then her
mother leapt up so quickly that her chair flew over
backwards.

'What's happened, darling? Are you all right?' Her
voice caught. 'Miguel, it's that boy!'

Miguel sprang to his feet, wild as a bull.

'No!' gasped Tasha. 'It's not that! Quickly – get Zee an
ambulance!' Her hands flew to her mouth. Waves of emotion
rocked over her, and she found that she could not
speak at all. Her mother folded her into a hug and held her
tightly.

'Someone's attacked Zee, Mum. Her face . . . she's
going to be
disfigured
.'

'Oh no! God!' The colour drained from Magda's
cheeks. 'How. . . why. . . ?'

Miguel dialled 999 and spoke rapidly to the services.
'They say ambulance and police are already coming –
we are safe.'

One of the guests got up. 'We'll go if there's nothing
we can do? You don't need us in your way.' They left
quickly, muttering horrified goodbyes and Miguel
ushered them out to their cars.

'I have to go back,' cried Tasha. 'Oh, Mum! I think
this might all have been my fault!'

'You're going nowhere – you're too shocked.'

'But Zee . . . '

'Zee will be getting all the help she needs. Listen,
there's the ambulance already.'

'Her face, Mum, her face! What are we going to do?'

'I-I'm not sure . . . '

But Miguel had returned and he squeezed Tasha's
shoulder gently. 'When you are calm, we will go and
help Sue.'

'Sue?'

'Yes. Always we must help the people left behind.'

Gary ran like a fugitive down the hill. Hazel Grove had
exploded into action as if it were twelve noon instead of
midnight. People were pulling jackets on over pyjamas
and shouting to each other as they hurried along.

'Zara Proctor? Dear God, no!'

'Not Con O'Keefe, surely?'

'A punishment beating, in our street?'

'Knives? I hope they get the thugs!'

Someone Gary could not even see stumbled along
behind blankets and a pillow. Old Mr Cummings stood
in his doorway, the hall light illuminating banked lupins
in his garden.

'What have you been up to?' he shouted excitedly as
Gary passed the gate and he raised a shaky fist.

'That's my sister!' cried Gary. 'It was nothing to do
with me.'

'Neither was thon graffiti I suppose,' huffed Mrs
MacGuinness, hurrying past. 'Or that black eye Conor
had last week.'

'Think what you want!' he shouted after her. She had
him tried and judged already; they all did.

Disappear, Conor had said, stay disappeared
.

Gary's brain was pounding. The twins, he remembered,
were still alone. They'd be terrified by now. He
ran for home but his mother's red Citroën nosed round
the bottom corner when he was still fifty yards away.

Instinctively he ducked into the wood. The flashing
blue lights of the ambulance swept past him. What on
earth would he say to his mother? How could he face
her? Neighbours followed close behind her as the car
swung into the drive. Then, through the darkness, came
a wail he had only heard once before.

The night his dad was murdered.

Blood had splattered up the wall that night, up to the
very top, right up above the cornice to the white ceiling
with its swirly pattern. Bullets had shattered the glass on
a picture of Friesian cattle that hung there. The painting
had skewed sideways but not fallen off completely.
Gary, shoeless, had realised slowly that his feet were
wet and when he looked down his white socks were red
between the toes. Blood was soaking up from the carpet.
He was standing in his father's blood. At that moment
Gary realised that his dad was dead. But his mum didn't
realise. She didn't seem to understand at all and he
hadn't known how to make her. She pulled his father
close and kissed him, whispered to him, shouted at him
to wake up. Her voice had gone on and on until, in the
end, she had wailed. Just like this.

Gary vomited. He left the woods and found himself
confronted by Conor's father.

'You hanging around my house now? What is it? Is
beating up my son not enough for you? Got us lined up
for a petrol bomb too, have you?' He pushed him hard.

'I've done nothing!' said Gary stumbling backward.
But even he didn't believe that. Whatever he said to Mr
O'Keefe, or Mrs MacGuinness or Mr Cummings, or to
any of them, he
had
given Des the nod.

Mr O'Keefe wagged his finger in Gary's face. 'The
police know all about you – aye they do! I've already
told them you've been terrorising our Conor.'

'It wasn't like that!'

'Save it for court, scum! I hope they throw away the
key.'

Gary went straight to the Gordons'. He slipped round
the back and rapped on the heavy door. There was no
answer.

'Get down here,' he shouted. 'Show your face, Des!'

He kept knocking, rattling the handle and shouting.
When Des eventually answered he sounded so close that
Gary knew he was standing just behind the door.

'Quit yelling!' Des muttered. 'Someone'll hear you.
Get out of here before the police come.'

'Des – they've done Zee in – they've slashed her face
– she's half dead!' Des said nothing. 'I can't go home,
Des, and the place is crawling. Open up and let me in.'

'Go away!' Des shouted.

Questions began to click in Gary's head. He gave the
door a kick. 'What do you mean, go away? Open up!'

Why was Des not surprised that Zee was hurt? Why
would he not let him in? Why was Des so scared?

'You
knew
,' breathed Gary in disbelief. 'You
knew
it
was Zee tonight, didn't you?'

'I was at the window just now,' blurted Des, 'I heard
the noise, heard them all talking.'

'Liar!'

From inside came the sound of furniture being
dragged across the room. Des was building a barricade
and that was as much proof as Gary needed. 'You knew
Zee was going with Conor. . . and you were jealous! You
set Zee up!'

'She was going with a Fenian, the wee whore! She
needed a slap.'

'She could
die
, Des.'

'That's not my fault – it's Ben's. He's a mad bastard.'

Gary went for the door again, kicking it wildly in
frustration, leaving dents in the wood. Then, when the
first flash of temper subsided, he called out a warning.
'You won't get away with this, Des Gordon – I'll tell
everything.'

'Yeah? It's your word against mine, Gary – I'll deny
it all. And who's been in trouble lately? Not me!'

Gary set about kicking down the door, aiming blows
at the lock, methodically, over and over again.
Eventually it had to give.

Behind him, a voice said quietly, 'Stop doing that
right now, Gary.'

It was Mrs Gordon and Gary had no idea how long
she'd been there.

'Don't let him in, Ma!' yelled Des, his voice panicky.
'Don't open the door.'

'Des and I need to sort things out,' panted Gary.

'Don't let him in, Ma!'

'The police are looking for you, Gary Proctor,' she said.

'It's not me they want! It's
your
son!'

Des was still babbling on the other side of the door.
'Pity you screwed up your alibi, Gary, 'cos mine's
perfect! I've been keeping me old girl company all
night, isn't that right, Ma?'

Gary stared at Mrs Gordon and as she stared back he saw
her mask slip. For one moment she was not the formidable
Mrs G everyone knew. There was someone else there,
another version, like a Russian doll, smaller and more
vulnerable. In that moment Gary knew that she understood.

'I'll do you a favour,' he said softly. 'I'll make sure
Des never bothers either of us again.'

'Don't listen to him, Ma! He's a lyin' toe-rag! Don't
you believe a word!'

Mrs Gordon understood him perfectly. Her hand slid
almost involuntarily into her coat pocket and Gary heard
her keys jingle. He held her eyes for just a second
longer, then she shuddered and looked away. The old
drawbridge slammed down across her face again.

'You'd better go,' she whispered. 'You're trespassing.'

Gary walked quickly. Along the Kensington Road, into
Shandon Park, then across the golf course and onto
playing fields. Surely panda cars wouldn't follow him
across the neatly cut turf. He skirted his old school, one
he had attended in another life, it seemed, when he had
worn a uniform and sung hymns in assembly.

He made for the Bloomfield Walkway, then weaved
expertly through the backstreets of East Belfast. Ruby's
territory. For two years he had felt more at home with
her family than with his own, but now even Ruby had
given up on him. He carried on across the Newtownards
Road, the Albert Bridge and Woodstock Links, walking,
walking, head down, hands in pockets, past drunks and
couples and party-goers.

One o'clock on Sunday morning and Belfast still
buzzed. Laughter and teasing spilt from every doorway
and crowds thronged the streets determined to enjoy
themselves. The politicians kept saying the war was
over, but no one really believed them. They knew that
the beatings and knee-cappings dished out by paramilitaries
could explode into full blown war again any
time the hard men chose.

A pub with a late licence emptied onto the pavement
around him. People hailed taxis, or made for late food
stops. The girls had bright hair and careful make-up. Zee
a few hours ago, he thought. She had been preening
herself in the bathroom mirror tonight. How would she
ever look in a mirror again? A chip of ice seemed to turn
in his stomach. Hopelessly, for the fiftieth time, he
searched his pockets for money.

'Spare us something?' he blurted. Gary had never
begged in his life but here he was walking backwards in
front of a couple with his hand outstretched. 'Twenty
pence for the phone, please?'

'Missed your lift?' scoffed the bloke. 'Try walking.'

'I need to phone the hospital – my sister's ill.'

'Pull the other one.'

But the woman opened her purse.

It took Gary ages to find an empty phone box and get
the number from directory enquiries, then, after all that
effort, the hospital told him nothing.

'Comfortable,' the voice at the other end said.

'Comfortable?' he repeated.
Comfortable
? How could
Zee be comfortable with her face in shreds? Rage took
hold of him, his shoulders shook with it, he felt like
ripping out the phone cord. But he didn't, he sank down
to the floor with his head in his hands. Only when a girl
banged on the door, did he start walking again, watching
folk, wondering what to do.

About half past two the crowds thinned and a breeze
got up. He walked the railings of the Botanic Gardens
until he reached the big ornate gates, then he hauled
himself over and made for an old sports pavilion. At
least it would shelter him from the wind and the canopy
would keep off any drizzle.

He curled up in a corner and stared into the darkness.
The city was still not quiet. There was still the odd shout
now and then, laughter, an accelerating car. Gary had
never felt so alone.

His mother would be with Zee now, at least that was
a comforting thought. The pair of them together in the
warmth, the ward darkened and hushed. Zee's face
cleaned and stitched.
Stitched
. Sweet Jesus, how many
stitches?

Who was looking after the twins? Were their
temperatures down? God forgive him for running out on
them all but what else could he do with the police after
him and Conor warning him off . . .

The wind prowled like a burglar in the bushes,
tumbling shadows across the grass, scooping up papers
and twigs, and rattling a loose plank in the pavilion wall.
It was too spooky to let him sleep, or so he thought until
he was jerked awake by Zee's scream and her mauled
face swaying like a slashed puppet in his hands.

Gary stumbled up, stiff with cold. The scream he had
dreamed had been a real scream he realised; he could
still taste it in his throat. He stared suspiciously at the
trees and bushes, imagining shapes and movements that
were not there. This park could be full of weirdos and
druggies who would do him in before they realised that
all he possessed were his clothes.

He couldn't stop shivering. The dream had spooked
him even more than the park. In his dream Zee's eyes
had been blind caves, blood had guttered down her face.
He couldn't stop seeing that face even though he was
wide awake. Blind caves instead of the contempt he was
used to in her eyes.

When their dad died Zee had seemed so shallow; she
had barely seemed to care. She had been the first one to
cross the doorstep afterwards; she had gone out to buy
milk, he remembered. She was the first to eat a meal, to
watch a whole film on television, to whistle. Zee had
done all the Firsts while he had shrunk down inside
himself, hating everyone.

But perhaps he had been wrong and she had cared just
as much in her own way. Maybe she had simply made
more effort? Behind her no-nonsense, let's-get-on-with-it
style, maybe she had been hurting just as much as him.
Because tonight, when she clung to him, he had heard
something in her voice. When she screamed at him not
to leave her he had heard her fear raked up, as raw and
permanent as his own. The same feelings, the same fear.
People didn't get over things, thought Gary, they just
gathered them up, like moss.

A town clock struck five and a lorry revved along the
embankment, then came the rattle of a milk float. In the
grey pre-light of dawn he heard voices and, peering
around the pavilion, he saw two policemen walking
towards him.

Gary took off. He ran as fast as his stiff limbs would
let him and realised too late that he should have bluffed
it out, they were probably just coppers on the beat.
When they shouted he panicked and tried to run faster.
He glanced behind him and saw one of them speaking
into a radio. It seemed a long long way to the railings
and he was panting by the time he got there. He threw
himself clumsily at the fence, clambered up and slipped
and slithered over the spiky top.

Lights swerved down the street and he just knew it
was a patrol car. He dropped to the pavement, rolled
over and sprang up again, ready to run.

A policeman leapt out of the car before it had stopped.
'What are you up to?' he called.

'Nothing!'

'Is that so?' He grasped Gary firmly by the arm.
'Then you can explain why you were running away.'

At roughly the same time, Tasha was waking up in an
armchair in Gary's living room. She stretched stiffly,
and her mother, who had been sitting quietly by the fire,
smiled at her.

'Okay, love?'

'Mmm. How are Josh and Gemma?'

'Asleep. Thank goodness you were here, I'm not sure
they'd have settled for Miguel and me.'

'Has Sue rung from the hospital?'

'No, not for ages.'

Miguel came into the room with a tray of milky
drinks but Tasha was too worried to drink hers. She
tried, not very successfully, to shield her face behind one
hand. If only she could stop feeling guilty.

'Tasha,' said her mum quietly. 'Do you want to talk?'

It took a long time for Tasha to answer and when she
did she said, 'I've wanted to talk for ages.'

'Why didn't you, darling?'

She nodded towards Miguel and said, rather apologetically,
'Because of him.' Miguel got up to leave, she
noticed, but her mother pulled him back. 'Do you
remember the day the two of you turned up at my school
unexpectedly, and took me out to tea?'

'Yes, of course I remember.'

'You said you were getting married.'

'We came to ask you to the wedding.'

'Then you went off and did it.'

'At a little registry office in West Ealing.' Her mother
was staring hard at her. 'What are you trying to say, Tasha?'

There was a long silence, then Tasha took her courage
in both hands. 'You should have asked me if it was okay
before you married him.'

'No, I don't agree.'

'You're
my
mum.'

'Which is why I knew how you'd react. I knew you'd
be furious. But Miguel's a lovely man, and I knew that,
in time, you'd come to see that too.'

'You
knew
an awful lot!' Tasha said fiercely and stared
straight ahead into the fire. She wanted to say her piece
but if she looked at her mum she would get upset. 'You
got it wrong, Mum. It was as if you had
replaced
me.'

'No – never!'

'That's how it felt!'

Her mother put an arm around her. 'Oh, Tasha! Kids
are forever.'

'Dream on, Mum!'

'What?' She sounded absolutely flabbergasted.

'Dad doesn't think kids are forever, does he? He's
more a "kids are for when it's convenient" sort of man.'

Her mother gasped. 'You thought I was doing the
same thing . . . how stupid of me! I am sorry. Listen, are
you listening to me?'

Tasha nodded.

'I love you more than I love anyone else in the world.
I always have done and I always will.'

Tasha glanced at Miguel to see how he was taking this
piece of news but Miguel was smiling at her.

'I quite likes you too . . . ' he said, '. . . sometimes.'

She spluttered with laughter, she couldn't help it; she
had been so horrible to Miguel. Her mum pulled all
three of them into a hug and for some reason it felt
almost okay. It occurred to Tasha that however much she
had felt alone during the last six months, she had never
actually been alone. Her mum had been here all the
time, waiting for her to come back.

Miguel cleared his throat. 'Now, this terrible thing
tonight – you said earlier is your fault. Why do you
think so?'

'Do you remember the day of the party, Miguel, when
Gary was jealous of Conor? He's still jealous. I think it
was Gary who set things up tonight – he was trying to
hurt Conor. He thought it was
me
going out with Conor,
not Zee. You see, I told him so the night of the garden
party just to keep him off my back.'

'Pah! This does not make it your fault. It is the fault
of evil men. It is the same always – they make you
blame yourself.'

Tasha was not sure what he was talking about,
something from his past, perhaps, but it made her feel a
little better.

'Why don't you ring the hospital?' her mum suggested.
'See if there's any more news?'

Tasha nodded. Perhaps it was time she pulled herself
together.

It was dark when Zee woke up. She knew, without
looking around, that she was in hospital, knew it without
taking in the grey single room, or the oxygen mask
poised above her bed. She knew it because she
remembered every awful detail. In disaster movies,
people wake up blissfully unaware, then their memories
leach slowly back. Real life was different, Zee already
knew that because she had learned it when her dad died.
Each morning, she had woken up hurting, the truth
turning like a jagged splinter inside her. Awake or
asleep, in real life there was no escape from horror.

Beside her, in a chair, her mother snored gently. Zee
was relieved because just for a few minutes she wanted
to be on her own. She moved her head slowly and it
wasn't too painful after all. It just felt strange, her face
tight and swollen, like an oven-ready chicken, too
tightly trussed. Not like her real face at all.

She raised one hand and touched her cheek. It felt odd
somehow, waxy. She touched a wound and let her finger
follow a winding row of stitches that ran almost from
chin to nose. A panicky whimper rose up inside her but
she didn't let it out. She took a deep breath and kept
going. Up a bit, she found another row of stitches. Then
another. Her fingers began to shake. They trembled
across four rows of stitches with poking-out jagged
ends. Zee raised her other hand, open palmed, and her
other cheek felt just as bad. Something like a volcano
began to erupt inside her and from the inside out, her
body began to shake. Shock hit her like a bus.

'It's okay!' Instantly awake, her mother flung her
arms around her. 'You're safe now, d'you hear? Safe.'

Tears flooded Zee's cheeks, only they didn't flood
downward, not like they were meant to. Diverted by
dykes of stitches they trickled off her cheeks, around her
ears, down her neck and under the starched hospital
gown she was wearing. Her very own tears frightened
her terribly. They ran on for ages, getting into all sorts of
places they wouldn't usually, wetter, wilder, more out of
control than tears had ever been.

'What's wrong, what's wrong?' she gasped, and her
mum, not understanding, began to talk about the night
before.

'It was awful,' Zee interrupted. 'You can't imagine . . .
I was so terrified.'

'I know, I've been imagining it all night . . . '

'He was horrible, Mum,
horrible
.'

'Oh, love.'

'I'll be scarred for life.'

'Not . . . necessarily. The doctor says it's too early to
tell. And . . . there's always plastic surgery.'

Another huge sob escaped Zee. It could take years for
surgeons to reconstruct a face. She'd seen programmes
about it. What about the meantime? Little kids in
shopping malls would stare at her. The girls at school
would try hard not to stare. They'd talk to her with their
perfect faces, they'd be extra nice . . . she couldn't bear
it.

And the boys . . . no boy would ever come near her
again. As for Con . . . another sob broke loose. Why had
she ever got involved with Conor?

'Whatever happens,' said her mum grittily, 'I'm here
for you. Always, forever. You do know that, don't you?'

More sobs rumbled through Zee's body. How many
scarred foreign correspondents had she seen on telly?
Her career was in tatters before it started.

'We'll get through this, Zee. We've coped in the past
and we'll cope now. We're all behind you. Conor will be
in to see you as soon as he wakes up.'