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  “Sorry,” he said, putting out an arm to catch his balance on the wall. An almighty pain shot up his left leg, like an intravenous injection of molten lead.

  “I better go,” she said into her phone. “Yeah, see you tomorrow.” Then she turned to him. “Are you all right?” Something about her voice. Sean tried to bite down on the agony, as he looked at her. Thick black hair cloaked her features and the street lighting was too dim to make out very much more.

  “Yeah,” he said, dredging up the ghost of a smile. “Old war wound. Plays me up in cold weather something chronic.”

  “Right,” she said, putting her hand on his arm for the briefest of seconds. “Well, mind how you go.” She moved past him and back through the door of the pub, but not before he had registered the strange tattoo on her hand, an eye staring out between her thumb and forefinger, like the ones Greek fishermen painted on their boats to ward off the evil eye. Only bright green instead of blue.

  Another nutter down a dark alley, Sean thought, as he walked down to the quay.

  10

  This is Not a Love Song

  October 1983

  “What does that thing mean,” asked Samantha, “on Debbie’s jacket?”

  Corrine looked across the room, to where her neighbour was sitting in a huddle with Darren and Julian, the garment in question hung on the chair beside her, painted with a head and a star, the letters M and R on each side of it.

  “I don’t know,” said Corrine, annoyed that Sam was still taking such an interest in Debbie. “Some band she like, I reckon.”

  “Must be a funny kind of band,” considered Samantha.

  “I know,” said Corrine, “she get it all from Alex, the boy what live next door to her. He go to the art college and whatever he do, she have to copy.”

  Corrine blushed as the words left her tongue. She didn’t know why she was being so nasty, or why she felt so jealous. How things had changed so much in the space of what was really only a few weeks.

  After Sam’s nan had shouted at her, she never expected to be allowed into the enchanted kingdom again. But the next day at school, Sam had brushed the entire incident off, told her she’d put the old girl straight. Corrine didn’t have to worry, they could go back up the Leisure Beach again next weekend, bring Debbie along as well, if she liked. Granddad had said.

  Feelings stirred in Corrine that she had never known before. Even the crush she had been nurturing on Julian was long since forgotten.

  “What makes him so special?” Samantha asked.

  Corrine snorted. “He’s one of them weirdos,” she said. “Like them pair,” she glared at Darren and Julian, telling herself she was angry with Debbie for going off with them, convincing herself that it had been that way around. “Hanging round Swing’s the whole while. Like that make them hard.”

  Julian stared back at her, a faint smile playing on his lips.

  “Right,” said Samantha, nodding thoughtfully.

  Debbie looked up and her stomach lurched. Samantha Lamb was staring right at her, Corrine beside her, scowling. She hadn’t realised that they had come in to the art room at last, but she might have expected it. It obviously wasn’t enough for Lady Muck to walk off with her best friend; she must want something more, something that was hinted at by her attempts to mess up her posh hair, how she now wore her tie skinny with the top button undone like Debbie did. The way she kept on looking at her with those X-ray eyes, scanning every inch of her clothes, her hair, her bag …

  Samantha tried to smile at her, so she quickly looked back down at the picture she and Darren had been working on. Tried to lose herself once more in the design for a fictional record cover for her favourite band that she had been so enjoying only moments before.

  “I want to go there,” said Samantha.

  “You what?” said Corrine.

  “To Swing’s.” Still looking at Debbie, Samantha smiled.

  * * *

  “You’re the one who wants to be a beautician,” said Samantha. “Go on, put it on.”

  Saturday afternoon in Sam’s grandparents’ bathroom. Corrine still didn’t feel comfortable being there, even though the old girl was out with the rest of the blue rinses and Granddad was at work. She didn’t trust that either of them wouldn’t walk in at any moment and find out what they were up to.

  Music blared across the landing from Sam’s bedroom, one of the pile of records she had bought in Wolsey & Wolsey’s that afternoon. It sounded like a racket to Corrine, but Sam had been delighted with it – it was by that band that Debbie liked. All Corrine could think was that they would never be able to hear the front door going over that dirge.

  She opened the packet of hair dye with nervous fingers. Sam had been more than generous today, so she’d better do like she said. After the record shop, where she had bought Corrine the new Madonna 12-inch, they had been into Chelsea Girl. Sam had got herself an entire new outfit and treated Corrine to a pair of fishnet tights and some day-glo yellow socks. Then it had been off to Woolies for the hair dye and a pair of crimpers, just like the ones Debbie had.

  “Where d’you get all the money from, Sam?” Corrine couldn’t help but ask. By her estimation, her friend had got through thirty quid, at least, without breaking a sweat.

  “Dad sent me a cheque,” came the reply. “Must be feeling guilty.”

  The hair dye was permanent, labelled Raven Black. She’d better not fuck this up.

  Corrine had just got the last of it on, making sure she had the whole lot piled carefully on top of Sam’s head, catching any last dribbles as they slid off the layer of Vaseline she had put around the hairline, when she had the sensation she was being watched.

  She turned round slowly.

  Two brown eyes stared back at her, Noodles’ head cocked to one side as he studied what she was doing.

  “Oh, my good God,” Corrine breathed a sigh of relief, “you din’t half give me a fright.”

  “Not again,” Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I told you he was a sneak. Trying to get us into trouble again are you, you dumb little mutt?” She rose to her feet.

  “No!” said Corrine, suddenly scared. “Don’t move, your hair …”

  But Noodles had already bolted.

  Sam sat back down, a weird smile playing on her lips.

  * * *

  Edna didn’t get back until gone six. She had tried to enjoy herself with Shirl and the girls, doing their usual rounds in Norwich. But when it came to the part that she normally relished, the cream tea on Elm Hill, Edna found she had lost her appetite.

  “What is it?” Shirl had asked, frowning at the barely touched scone on Edna’s plate.

  Edna had looked back with watery eyes. “It’s Sammy,” she confessed. “We had a row …”

  It had been a relief to finally say it, to hear the clucking of sympathy from the others as she dabbed at her eyes with a hanky. How she mustn’t blame herself – teenagers were always difficult and the upheaval Sammy had been through was bound to affect her. How their granddaughters often came home with unsuitable friends, but it was better to let them get it out of their system and find out for themselves. If Edna tried to ban Sammy from seeing this Corrine it would only make them stick together more. Anyway, this punk thing was a phase a lot of them went through, they’d all seen it.

  “Think of it this way,” Shirl had said. “At least she’s not having to grow up in the middle of a war like we did. The worst thing what can happen is her having a silly haircut. It’s not like a doodlebug’s going to drop on her head.”

  Reflecting on the terrors of her own teenage years had at least put Edna’s worries into some kind of perspective. But returning to a house shrouded in darkness, a thin claw of fear started to stroke her insides the moment she turned the key in the lock.

  “Hello?” she called into the hallway, turning the light on.

  There was something wrong. The house was never this silent, this still. Normally Noodles came bounding out of his basket to meet her the se
cond her feet were over the threshold.

  “Noodles?” she called. The hall started back at her, the pendulum of the grandmother clock slowly swinging on the wall the only sound.

  Edna went into the kitchen, turned on the lights and deposited her day’s purchases on the table. He wasn’t in his basket. The claw snagged deeper into Edna’s gut.

  “Noodles?” She went back into the hallway, into the lounge and the dining room, turning on all the lights, looking underneath the sofa and the chairs. It took her a while to register the alien smell in the air. Back in the hall, the source of the acrid aroma finally sunk in. “Hair dye,” she said aloud, stomping up the stairs.

  The harsh glare of the bathroom light threw into stark relief a sight that made Edna almost sink to her knees. Across the black and white lino of the floor, dribbled onto the avocado bath and toilet mats and over a pile of once-fluffy white towels, now scrunched up and thrown hastily into the bath, were broad smears of black and purple. Flecks of it sprayed over the white enamel of the sink, splashed across the mirrors, the shower handle turned the colour of a freshly minted bruise and as for the bath itself …

  “Sammy!” shrieked Edna. She tried to summon a mental picture of her granddaughter, but all she could see was Amanda’s face, her eighteen-year-old face, laughing at her.

  “Sammy!” she staggered onto the landing, throwing open the miscreant’s door, finding nothing but a pile of discarded clothes and magazines, the low hum of a record player that had been left on.

  As she bent down to turn it off, she heard a plaintive whimper.

  “Noodles?” The red fog dispersed as the sound pierced Edna’s heart.

  He came crawling towards her from where he had been cowering under the bed, crawling on his belly.

  “Oh, my God,” Edna whispered, taking him into her arms. “Oh, my baby …” her eyes widening in shock.

  Noodles, shorn of his beautiful blond locks, the fur hacked away, only a skinny, shivering, shaking rat where a luxuriant dog had once been. Just one tiny tuft of fur left between his ears, a splodge of black dye around it. One of his eyes turned purple.

  Edna rocked him in her arms as the tears poured down her face.

  * * *

  Market Row was all that was left of the narrow passageways that once encircled Ernemouth market square like strands of a cobweb, houses built so close that their half-timbered upper stories almost touched. Debbie’s grandma had often told her about when she was courting her granddad, they used to sit on the windowsills of their opposing houses and hold hands across the street. Grandma’s Row had been levelled by the Lüftwaffe forty years ago, as they dropped surplus bombs on the last town on the radar before roaring back over the North Sea to Germany. But Debbie thought of it now, as Darren slipped his fingers between hers and she smiled up at him.

  They’d had a good day today. Been up Norwich, bought a load of records in Backs and seen a really cool pair of Robot boots in the shop at the bottom of Elm Hill that Debbie was determined to save up for. Had chips on the Haymarket and half a cider in The Murderers before they caught the train home.

  Back at Darren’s, his parents were out so they could play their new records as loud as they wanted while Darren heated frozen pizzas for their tea. A song about lullabies from heaven rolling through Debbie’s mind now, like a big wheel spinning in the night sky.

  They hadn’t intended to stop by Swing’s that evening. Darren was just going to walk her home, maybe come in for a coffee and listen to records some more. But as they approached the big, white building along the back of Palmers’ car park, the orange glow of the windows seemed to exert a siren-like pull on both of them. Darren fished into his pocket. “Hmmm,” he said, extracting some silver. “I’ve got about a quid left here. D’you want to go in just for one?”

  Debbie knew she had only coppers left in her own purse, but the call was strong in her too. Besides, if they spent an hour in Swing’s, she could still get home at a reasonable enough hour and it would prolong the time they had together.

  “Yeah,” she said, “why not? If Al’s about, he might get us another.”

  “Great.” Darren beamed and lent down to peck her cheek.

  The front door of Swing’s opened to the sound of Bob & Marcia’s “Young, Gifted and Black”, a favourite of the landlady, Jane. The place was packed. The first person Debbie recognised was Bully, leaning at the bar, his Mohican coloured black down one side and pink down the other. He had on ripped jeans and baseball boots, a Clash T-shirt under a black shirt with zips down the side of it. Rows of silver rings down his earlobes and one in his hooked nose, giving off a fearsome front that was far removed from his real personality. Bully was laughing with Jane as he grappled his fingers around three pints.

  “Debs!” He put them back down when he saw her, clocking her Backs bag. “Been up Norwich, have ya? All right, mate?” he nodded at Darren, not knowing his name.

  “Yeah, we have,” said Debbie. “This is Darren.”

  Darren swelled with pride as Ernemouth’s hardest punk offered his hand and bought them both a drink. Looking over Bully’s shoulder he could see Alex and Kris at the far corner table, with Kris’s girlfriend Lynn, Shaun and Bugs and a couple of others.

  “Come on then,” Bully gathered his round and led the way.

  They were virtually on top of them before Debbie realised who it was sitting with Alex. First, she noticed Corrine, sitting slightly apart with her arms folded, looking at the floor, not joining in. Only it took her a moment to recognise her. She’d gone and dyed her hair a strange burgundy colour, steamed all the perm out with a pair of crimpers and made a half-hearted attempt at backcombing it, so that half of it stood up at the back of her head and the rest flopped down over her eyes.

  “Reenie?” Debbie enquired. Corrine looked up, startled. For a second they stared at each other, both experiencing a rush of guilt that came from neither expecting nor wanting the other to be there.

  “Debs,” Corrine spoke in a whisper, a spark of fear dancing in her eyes.

  Debbie frowned. “What …” she began. Then she followed Corrine’s gaze across the table.

  There was a girl sitting next to Alex, his left arm casually draped around her shoulder. A girl with crimped black hair falling over her face, wearing the exact outfit that Debbie had bought the last time she and Corrine had been in Chelsea Girl – a black mohair jumper and a red tartan miniskirt, thick black tights and a pair of buckled winklepicker shoes. They were locked in conversation, their bodies leant into each other.

  “Who …?” Debbie felt Darren nudge her in the ribs.

  “I don’t believe it,” he whispered.

  The girl’s head slowly turned and she brushed her fringe out of her eyes so that Debbie could clearly see the arched eyebrow, the crooked smile, the eyes that danced with triumph in their unfamiliar new setting.

  “Neither do I,” Debbie put her drink down on the table before it slid out of her hand.

  “Oh, hello, Debs,” said Samantha.

  Part Two

  SOME GIRLS WANDER BY MISTAKE

  11

  Stations of the Crass

  March 2003

  May Day 2000: ducking through the blue line that circled the stone lions in Trafalgar Square with a camera in his hand. Trying to focus on a single face through the smoke and screaming, the writhing mass of bodies, the clash of horseshoes on concrete and the tattoo of truncheons on riot shields. Zooming in on something bright white in the thick of the crowd, a plastic mask with a twirly moustache above the deep slash of a grin. A face that changed before his eyes into that of a teenage girl, with her head shaved and her face all covered in soot. Pleading with him through her eyes as the shapes changed around her, became a hand holding a bottle with a rag stuffed down the neck, the flame from a Zippo igniting it in a tremendous whoosh… and suddenly he was standing in the middle of cornfields that stretched as far as the eye could see. The flat fields under a blue sky and the crops burning out of contr
ol, thick black smoke pluming out of them, a wall of flame roaring towards him. A figure rising up out of the smoke, taking on human form …

  Sean awoke sweating, the dream still vivid in his head and ringing in his ears as his eyes opened on brightly patterned curtains in an unfamiliar room.

  * * *

  Francesca let the dogs out of the back door, watched them streak ahead up the garden to the gate. In the last minutes before dawn, the world looked as if it had been painted deep blue. The air was still and cold, the only sound the distant rumble of a lorry going across Brydon Bridge, the structure she still thought of as ‘new’ nearly two decades since she’d watched it go up.

  But as last night had proved to her, the past is only ever a breath away.

  The dogs jumped around her as she opened the gate with gloved hands, whining to be loose in the marshes, their favourite place. Francesca’s too. This ritual she had made for herself, greeting the dawn from up on the old marsh wall each day, had helped to keep her sane these past three years.

  Francesca had never dreamt she would ever come back to Ernemouth. But by the time the vacancy on the Mercury had made up her mind for her, her mother had only six months left – and she could never have left her dad to face the enormity of that alone. Instead, she did as her mum would have, put her back into the task ahead, shutting off her own petty wants and needs in the process. Never giving into them since.

  Until last night.

  The dogs stopped on the top of the bank and wheeled around to wait for her, lean black bodies silhouetted against the first pale fingers of pink in the sky. Every morning when she reached this place, Francesca saw the landscape anew. To the east, the sun rising above the town, waking the stones, painting the bricks from grey to red and then spreading its colours into the west, where the convergence of three rivers filled the horizon with water as far as the eye could see. Every day it was different, as the seasons slowly turned, connecting her to this earth, these low wetlands she had so despised as a child, now a place of succour and solace.