Touch (10 page)

Dave has been thrown back by the snapping blade. He is tearing off his gloves to touch himself. His overalls are torn across the chest and a red gash has opened in his face. It screams at us like a crude mouth set the wrong way up, running from below one eye and across one cheekbone to his throat. Bright blood is running down, splashing onto his breast. His eyes have gone dumb, his hand is afraid to touch the wound in his face. People come running to support him: Chris, the foreman, the manager. Their faces look as if they've all been slapped hard. Dave collapses into their arms, crumbling like a rotten stake, mesmerised by the machine in front of him. Simon and Dan stare in from the sun.

I've thrown off my gloves, tearing at the overalls, stepping from their tangle of legs and sleeves. Grabbing my jacket, I run from the mill. Out past the stacks of timber, past the forklift, past the yard gates, past the Commando leaning on its side-stand and dripping oil, not stopping until I reach the canal.

 
Traffic flits along the road. All is supernaturally quiet as I jog towards home. Elaine will be there, waiting for me with a clean bath towel. Her hands will be cool against my neck. She'll kneel in mock humility to wash away sawdust where sweat has pasted it to my back. The scratches on my arms turn her on and she'll graze there with her lips. She'll count the knobbles on my spine then lose count, laughing at my squeamishness as the water cools. I picture her throat rising from her pale clavicle; feel her hands, their tenderness, their elusive touch. I wonder what a lifetime of manual labour is like, the way my parents have lived. The way their parents lived. Then all the nameless generations: the ones who left their villages to work in mills and mines and lie in paupers' graves. I know more about characters from books who never lived than my own people. Their lives, their deaths.
For ever
and ever
. Without wanting to, I think about Dave, the way a serpent of steel betrayed him, the way his eyes suddenly emptied of light.
Amen
.

The sun is low behind the factories, deepening its hues through the hazy atmosphere, glowing red in the water. Yellow poplar leaves are falling in a slight breeze. They fall onto my head and shoulders. They drift down into dark waters and float like tiny Chinese junks, like unfinished poems or stories half told, towards the heart of the city.

Stott pulled up the collar of his overcoat and stepped from the bus. The first drops of rain had just begun to fall. Stott felt them smack onto his head where his sandy hair was thinning out. He felt them drip coldly onto his neck. The bus pulled away and he stood for a moment, idling in the street. It was October and the evening light had not quite died. The yellow glow of the streetlights seemed to struggle into existence. Spots of rain were darkening the pavement and drifts of cloud gathering over the town where it stood, exposed on the hilltop. The plain of Lancashire glittered below as millions of lights were turned on in towns and villages across its breadth.

Stott set off walking downhill, into the town. His shoes were new and the left one was rubbing a little at the heel. Still, they felt crisp against the pavement. Positive. Good shoes made you feel good. Stott passed the Gothic town hall, the war memorial, the deserted marketplace where scraps of litter flickered under faint wind and dim light. It was early in the evening and there weren't many people about. He liked to get up to town early on a Friday. It was the only way to make a night of it. He walked past lit supermarkets. Past a fish-and-chip shop, its band of warm air sharp with the tang of vinegar. Hot, battered fish. That's what he'd have later.

 
After a few pints. A good few. Stott smiled, nuzzling his face against the collar of his raincoat, ignoring the pain in his heel.

Fifty yards further down the hill and he was turning into the Royal Oak, which stood on the corner of Gas Street. It was near to the bus station, perched above the town's gasometers. The Oak had a heavy mahogany swivel door with panes of frosted glass. It was a well-appointed pub that had begun to grow seedy from the brewery's neglect. The bar was u-shaped, built of the same solid mahogany as the door and with identical panes of glass set above it. A few off-duty busmen stood drinking at the counter, still wearing their uniforms. Stott stepped up to the bar. He shook the drizzle from his coat, wrinkling his nose at the faint smell of cat piss that haunted the pub. The landlord looked up from where he was pulling a pint.

‘I'll be with you in a tick, Frank.'

Stott nodded at the little man and waited, one hand resting on the polished wood. The pint that had just been pulled stood settling, its head of foam distilling from pale liquid gold. The landlord rang the till and then looked across at him, a glass already in his hand.

‘Bitter, Frank?'

Stott nodded.

‘Please.'

He watched the beer hiss into the glass with each steady stroke of the pump. The landlord was an ex-collier and pulled one of the best pints in town. He set it down on the bar towel and picked up the money that Stott had put there.

‘Is it rainin' yet? You look a bit damp, lad.'

Stott paused with the pint halfway to his mouth, catching the sharp scent of hops.

‘Aye, it's just started, bugger it!'

The landlord moved away and Stott dipped his mouth into the foam, drinking fiercely, exulting in the cool, bitter rush of beer. He took another long gulp and put the glass down with a sigh. The creamy head ran back down its sides, clinging in rings that marked each draught he'd taken.

 
The landlord was leaning across a newspaper with two of the busmen, talking over a horse race. That was a fool's game. More money than sense, and not much of either, probably. Above the bar, rows of empty glasses burnished the shelves. The trap door to the cellar had a brass ring-pull set into it. Stott thought of the barrels of mild and bitter waiting down there in the darkness. Waiting for him. He sank the remainder of the beer in three long gulps, setting the glass back on the bar. Empty. The landlord looked across. Stott nodded, almost imperceptibly, as if secretively bidding at an auction. He handed a five-pound note over as the beer arrived. The landlord grinned, fishing change from the till.

‘You look as if you needed that! What's up, wife bin' at you?'

Stott laughed grimly, taking the head off his beer.

‘No chance!'

They didn't know that he wasn't married. He felt in his pockets for his cigarettes. They didn't know anything about him. Not the terraced street where he still lived with his parents. Not the motorbike that he took apart and rebuilt and brought to life again, riding it on Sundays across the moors where the grass bent away under the wind and lapwings flung themselves skywards. That sense of speed, singleness, release. That feeling of numbness that was part cold in every knuckle joint and part pure thoughtlessness. They knew nothing about his job in the wages office in the mill, about the two women who worked under him, about his boss, that idle fat bastard, Henderson.

Stott flicked open the cap of his petrol lighter and struck down the wheel. The flint sparked but the wick refused to burn. He tried again. Nothing. Dropping the lighter into his pocket he took the cigarette from his mouth.

‘Have you got a box o' matches, Geoff?'

The landlord took down a box of Swan Vestas from a display rack behind the bar and laid it in front of him.

‘Ta. Bloody lighter's knackered!'

He struck a match and touched it to the cigarette. It was a long time since he'd smoked. The smoke was sweet and smooth. He took another drink of the beer, letting it go down more slowly, taking his time now that the first pint was a reassuring weight in his stomach. He sucked another mouthful of smoke down into his lungs and slowly breathed it out. There was plenty of time. Plenty. A whole night of it. A lifetime.

He stayed at the bar for another twenty minutes, drinking and smoking quietly. At eight o'clock he drained his glass, putting in his tongue to lap at the last bit of foam as it slid down towards his mouth. He buttoned up his overcoat, turning quickly from the bar, saying goodbye over his shoulder.

‘See you, Geoff, thanks.'

‘Alright, Frank.'

He took up the empty glass.

‘See you later?'

Stott doubted it.

‘Mebbe.'

He was already halfway towards the door. He put out his hand to swing it round. Stepping from the warm pub into the street was like going through the air lock in a submarine or a spacecraft. The air was chilly and damp now. Darkness had almost obliterated the clouds and freakish drops of rain still blew about. Groups of skimpily clad youngsters were making their way towards the new disco pubs. Ears clamped to mobile phones or texting each other as they crossed the road, making the traffic swerve. Bollocks to that. He never carried a phone. When he was out he was a free man. As for discos, they'd taken one pub, The Cemetery, done it out and called it The Harlequin. The Harlequin for fuck's sake! At least someone had a sense of humour. It was all flashing lights and DJs and alcopops. They were welcome to that. Fucking kids.

 
The pavements were wet and yellow lights gleamed on them, forming shapes that gulped at Stott's footsteps. He made his way back up the hill into town, the new shoe still rubbing at his foot. He shuddered, huddling deeper into his coat. The beer lurched in his gut.

Stott passed the chip shop and again almost went in. He walked on. Eating now would spoil his drinking. Better save it for later when the pubs had closed and he was really hungry. He walked back towards the town hall, where it crouched above a broad flight of steps. Opposite was the war memorial where a soldier in First World War uniform stood sentinel, pointing his bayonet at the sky. Stott paused. Silly bastard soldier with his arse stuck in the air. He walked on, wincing. Just below the town hall stood the Hare and Hounds. It was a small, cosily lit pub. The sort of place that the older men brought their wives to on a Friday night. It'd be quiet now, but later on there'd be a 60s karaoke and every daft twat trying to sing. Making silly bastards of themselves.

The bar was already half full but Stott squeezed himself into a corner. He ordered a pint of bitter and watched it being pulled, foam hissing into a stainless steel tray below the pumps. This was a different brewery and a rounder, fuller beer. Better for the third pint than the first, less attack and more comfort in its maltiness.

Taking off his overcoat, Stott folded it carefully at his feet in front of the bar. Leaning into the corner, his shoulder against the wall, he watched the barmaid serve her customers. She was around thirty-five, quite tall and slim. But not thin. You couldn't call her thin. She wore a tight black dress and had bleached hair cut close to her head. Her face was heavily made up, almost a mask, but there were crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. The dress was made out of a shiny fabric that clung to her as she swung out her hips to gain leverage on the hand-pumps. Stott was running his hand over her buttocks, over her small breasts. She was liking it, pressing herself against him. It'd been a long time. He picked up his glass and drank, exploring the beer with his tongue, wiping his lips as he set the glass down. She'd be about his age. He grinned, remembering what Geoff had said about having a wife. No bloody chance! No woman was ever going to tie him down.

Freedom made Stott bold. He rapped his glass down on the bar.

‘Pint o' bitter please, darlin'!'

The barmaid gave him a sharp look from under the blonde fringe of hair that grew from grey roots. Her eyes were dark, like shiny pieces of coal.

‘Won't be a minute, love.'

Her voice was hard behind the glossy smile. Christ, they could turn it on when they wanted to! Stott leaned closer as she took his glass.

‘Will y'ave one yersel'?'

Her reply was brisk, evasive.

‘No thanks, I don't drink when I'm workin'.'

Stott blinked, then slowly smiled.

‘What about afterwards?'

She spiked him with a glance.

‘You must be joking!'

‘Suit yersel', then.'

‘I allus do!'

Stott swayed slightly as he took the glass. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He'd been turned down for his daring. Given the knock-back. The bloody KB. Some of the other customers had noticed; they looked at him curiously. Sod them all!

 
Stott allowed the beer to settle, watching bubbles cascade upwards, the amber liquid coalesce below. This would be a slow pint, a lingering one whilst he watched the woman as she moved silkily behind the bar. Drink was the thief of… what? 
Discretion
. Was that what they said? Sure enough, she snapped her head up as she poured a bottle of stout.

‘D'yer want a photo or summat?'

He must have been staring at her. Some men at the bar laughed. Stott tried to move his tongue; it was suddenly too heavy.

‘Eh? Oh aye... a'dunno...'

He flushed. Some men in suits at the bar turned to look at him. Fucking stuck-up cow. The barmaid was muttering to one of the men nearest her.

‘Dirty old sod, he's probably married with three kids!'

Stott finished his beer in rapid gulps, forcing it down on top of the other pints. He picked his coat up by the collar, knocking his head on the bar rail, fleeing the pub, stumbling down the steps into the street.

 
Outside, flurries of rain began to strike against his hot face. He was walking along a street that led down by the side of the town hall to the swimming baths. The town hall facade was all stone, but the wall he steadied himself against was red brick. It was all show, all bullshit. The bricks were rough under his hand.
The bitch, the bloody little bitch!
She'd really shown him up. Him, a dirty old whatever it was. And those bastards standing there in their suits. Laughing. Stott was trembling and his eyes stung. The wall was cold against his cheek. He walked on under the street lamps, seeing his reflection and shadow touch and part on the wet pavement. They were following him across town. Like hit men. He stopped to light a cigarette. Fuck the fucking rain. Smoke burned at his lungs. After a few draws he hurled the butt into the gutter. It went out with a hiss and began to blot up the water, a dark stain spreading across white paper. Stott lurched off down the street until he reached the side door of the Bath Hotel. It was a better pub. Livelier. He'd finished off a lot of Friday nights here. A lot.

The pub was crowded but Stott managed to get himself into a corner of the bar in the little back parlour. A coal fire burned in the Victorian grate. Cosy. This time he found a stool and stowed his coat carefully between its legs. The last pint weighed heavily on his stomach. He ordered a half of mild to give it time to settle. It was a dark beer with a smooth, creamy head. Not as satisfying as the bitter, a little too sweet, but it lay nicely on top of what he'd already drunk.

When he'd been at the bar long enough to own the stool he rose and went to the toilets. They were a lean-to affair, outside at the back of the pub. Two other men stood there, younger than him and got up in dark tracksuits. They were already far gone, reeling gently and rhythmically as they faced the trough. Stott stood next to them. One of them turned to his mate.

‘Would yer mind pissin' a bit lower lad? Yer sprayin' me.'

His friend giggled, swaying back a little to alter his angle of attack. He spoke as if he'd just had his teeth pulled.

‘Oops! Sorry lad, sorry! Daft twat. Can't bloody see straight!'

He turned to Stott.

‘S'right in't it, mate? Too fuckin' dark in 'ere.'

Stott grinned as he pissed into the debris of dog ends and spent matches.

‘Aye, that's right, lad. Bloody dark. I'll say!'

The man flicked his spare hand towards the naked yellow bulb, tugging at his trousers with the other. He muttered to himself in a thick, clotted voice.

‘Dark? Dark? Iss pitch fuckin' black, never min' dark!'

Stott watched him fumble his way back into the pub. They were just lads. Lads out on the piss. As they should be.

 
Edging his feet away from the trough, he concentrated solemnly. No good splashing his new shoes. He was still smiling as he re-entered the bar. What had that first one said? It had tickled him. He said it in his head in an old lady's voice. God, it was comical! Pissing all over the shop. But they were alright. They were just lads on the ale. He suppressed a wild giggle as he sat back down to his drink.