New Brighton

Chapter one

The weather is a sharp slap of wet and cold. I'm an hour late already and even from this distance I can sense that Vincent is furious. I wave frantically, but he doesn’t see me. He hates to wait. I run towards him leaving behind a sky that is lit up by an ominous indigo cloud.

I love the smell of a storm. It smells like crazy unbridled freedom calling to me, trying to sweep me up and take me away across the sea. I want to be free. My name is Robyn. Fully inked on my only just submitted university application, I am Robyn Elizabeth Lockhart which, I know, sounds like a grand old lady. I can’t wait to go to college and will be sad to leave my little sister, but I know I’ve got to live without my mother.

If I was in a movie then I wouldn’t be the star. I’d be the best friend, the slightly geeky shadow who gets murdered, or even worse, never gets laid.

I’m wearing a ring on each finger of my left hand. Mother wasn’t in when I left so couldn’t police my outfit. The silver and gold metals pop against my black nail varnish. I can feel the powerful sensation when they brush together. I clatter and prickle conducting the impending storm.

Vincent looks like James Dean standing with one foot up on the brick wall behind him. He is wearing a second-hand denim jacket with creaking seams and a sprout of frayed white cotton above the right hand pocket. One hand is shoved inside the jacket and the other holds a cigarette.

I am about to shout ‘Vincent’ in an apologetic tone, but I am startled by a moan in the alleyway on my left. I hear the sound of high-heeled shoes on scratchy cement. I trace the blended outlines of what I struggle to see through the mist; it’s a Teddy Boy and a woman. He wears a long dark trench coat with thick white-soled shoes shuffling between her high heels.

The Teddy Boy parts her fur coat. They look like two wild bears embracing. Her arms go up around his neck, and he fumbles around his own waist to undo a belt. Then he lifts her, pinning her to the damp decayed wall, her bare thighs open around him. I stop to watch mostly wondering if I have ever felt like that, or frantically done what they are doing now.

There’s a lot I can’t recall. But I intend to remember everything.

In black and white lettering the name of the night’s disco, ‘INDYGOTH’ illuminates through the mist.

“Robyn! You left me waiting!” Vincent shouts, stepping out from under the Astoria’s wide awning and running a hand through his perfect quiff. He drops his arms open to his sides acting deliberately confused. He could fly into a rage at any moment, but even so, I just want to ask him if we’ve ever done it outside in an alleyway? Because right now, racking my brain, and searching my memory, I can’t remember. It’s like it’s on the tip of my tongue.

I’m breathless from running and watching the Teddy Boy prise open that woman’s legs. I glimpsed a fraction of her creamy white inside thigh.

“Vincent, have we ever...” I begin to ask him, because I have to know, and it’s starting to freak me out that I can’t remember this specific detail. But he’s too irritated, and so I instinctively change my approach. “I was looking after Alice, so I couldn’t leave her on her own.”

It’s not a lie, technically, I’m always looking after Alice, my poor, sweet sister and the person that I love the most in the whole wide world. If I had one wish and one wish only I’d give it to her to make her better. She’s frail, and always poorly, not like me. I’m average height for build my but I’ve never met a jar I couldn’t open.

Vincent is sulking by turning his back towards me and not meeting my eye.

“I didn’t mean to make you wait.” I say. Vincent stubs his cigarette out under his boot. He rearranges himself compulsively, tucking his shirt into his trousers and centralising the metal buckle of his belt. “Have you seen the weather? [stupid comment, I know as he’d been standing out in the weather for almost an hour because of me. I quickly change tack again] The forecast is awful,” I say, leaning in to him, snaking my fingers between his, thinking about the Teddy Boy and the woman going at it just yards away. If I had more guts then I would pull Vincent into that back alley and go at it next to them my face spattered by the rain. I kiss Vincent pushing myself against him. It’s not as good as a back alley tryst but it’s enough to make him forgive me for being so late. Still saying nothing he leads me inside.

Brighton is like this; elegant Victorian facade giving way to dingy back alleys lit only by the reflection of a streetlamp in a puddle. So, naturally, the Astoria is a grand Victorian theatre turned jaded nightclub reeking of beer, vibrating with bass, and dripping with red velvet.

For a mere five pounds entry you also receive a free drink. Vincent and I spill downstairs into the main auditorium. He is far too good looking to be my boyfriend. Everyone is staring at us or rather at him I assume and his pheromone inducing eyebrows.

I don’t even know how we got together. We just are.

“I didn’t think you were going to bother to show up,” he says, reaching over to take my free drink token to buy me a drink. He has issues: abandonment issues about women, on account of his mother. It makes him tricky to manage. I honestly don’t mean to be nasty to him but it’s too tempting. It’s likely that he brings out the worst in me, and I in him.

A path to the crowded bar opens in front of him and I follow in his slipstream. The bartender is a striking girl with spiky blonde hair, and she asks Vincent what he wants to drink. She has a bold, creaturesque tattoo crawling up her neck, its body hidden under her cut-off plaid shirt.

“Two pints!” Vincent shouts holding up two fingers over the noise of the weird Goth band playing. He never says ‘please’. I don’t like that about him. I feel myself finishing his sentences shouting “please”, and “thank you” at the blonde bartender.

I’ve got my drink. I’ve got my boyfriend. I turn to face the stage. The music is so loud and aggressive. I nod my head to the beat. In the shadows I spy a man in a long black coat that I have seen before. I suspect that he is probably a drug dealer. A sudden exciting urge descends on me; the possibility that Vincent and I could get high. I make eye contact. The man catches my eye, holds my gaze and raises one sinister eyebrow. But he’s not who I think he is. He’s something else entirely, worse, and much more dangerous. I quickly look away.

Best to forget it. After all, Vincent’s Mum loved drugs more than she loved him. The bartender is still staring at us, and so I slide my arm around Vincent’s neck, claiming him. I push my body against him and she moves away to serve someone else.

“Shall we get some coke?” I whisper, brushing his ear with my lips. It just slipped out! I was trying to be sexy, but he immediately pulled away, repulsed.

“No!” He says, narrowing his eyes. I’ve called it wrong again.

“I just want to have a good time, don’t you?” I say, but his entire body has stiffened to my touch. He’s trembling with rage.

“You keep me waiting in the storm for an hour, and now you want to buy drugs?” He asks. That is exactly what has happened, yes, but I’m in no mood to be submissive. He straightens his jacket, tucks the shirt into his trousers and puffs out his chest, again.

“I was joking! Forget it. Let’s start again. Let’s dance.” I shout, taking his hand to lead him to the dance floor, but he flicks me away. People are watching, preying on us, hoping that sparks will fly.

“What’s the matter with you?” He shouts.

“Me? What’s the matter with you?” I shout, and our faces are so close that I see my spittle land on his cheek. In that moment I feel wretched and unleashed. I don’t want to apologise, I want to fight. I am able to touch it - the anger that I keep down - it’s bubbling right there, all the time, just waiting to explode. It’s the only thing that I am really sure about.

“And you use your sister as the excuse?” He teases, his quiff wobbling as his head bobs up and down. Intense heat rises within me. I know that if I looked at my chest it would be bright red.

“Don’t talk about my sister.” I say. I want to add a threat but I’m frightening myself. How dare he bring her into this. I just want a fucking break for one night. I just want to be free. I want to have fun. I could easily say something about his mother, but I never would. My body reacts and I feel my legs trembling, I feel weird and giddy. I’m embarrassed now, he’s made me feel ashamed about wanting drugs when my sister has to take so much medicine from the doctor.

“You don’t realise how lucky you are with your Mother and your sister, and all you want to do is get off your face all the time. I wish I had a family like yours. I wouldn’t take them for granted,” he says. In my head the world slows down, the room spins around me like I’m drunk. From inside I watch my eyes blink. I raise my hand and strike fast with an open palm and slap Vincent across the face. (Not the hand with all the rings I might add, I’m not a total bitch).

Now he feels the sting too, like I do from his words. When, eventually he turns face to me there’s a silky lustre in his eyes that I realise are tears. A hard slap can do that. Trust me I know. But even so I might have taken things too far. It’s probably too late to say, “sorry,” but it tumbles, mumbled from my lips.

“I’m going. Have a good night on your own.” He says, and as he turns his shoulder brushes me, and I inhale a mouthful of his scent - the leathery back seat of an old car, engine grease and aftershave - and then he’s gone. I didn’t want that to happen. I get a sad, fizzy sensation that I am going to cry.

I blink back the tears, and I scan the faces of the Goths and the Indie Kids, and I feel them staring. To them I am the crying girl abandoned by her boyfriend. How sad. I turn my back on the room and stare behind the bar. The bartender bends to capture my gaze. I blink up at her.

“That went well,” she says. “I hope it wasn’t the first date.” She waits for my reaction and when she sees me smile she laughs at her own joke, and I do too.

“I think it’s more like a last date.” I reply. She has big wide kind eyes. She is leaning on the bar with her elbow and holding onto the beer pump with the other hand. She is wearing a tight checked buttoned down shirt with the arms cut off and black braces. She makes me suddenly feel better.

“Are you going to go after him?” She asks, and I get a sudden prickly rush, an intense sensation that I know her. I shake my head.

“I’ve seen you somewhere before?” I say, as a man tries to get her attention. She makes an art form out of ignoring him. She moves like a cat, she controls her eye contact evading and locking on when it suits her.

“Hang on,” she says, and serves the impatient man next to me. She places another beer on the bar for me.

“It’s on me,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say, but she’s on the move. “I don’t even know your name?” I shout after her - cheesy! I watch her moving behind the bar. She knows that I am watching her. She is dancing, pouring drinks, smiling at people, and then she comes back to me.

“Tiffany,” she says. Tiffany. I roll it around in my mind. Her name smells like sweets, and specifically with her accent, (which, incidentally, is American!), like sugar candy.

“I’m Robyn Lockhart,” I say, like I’m five years old and just learnt my own name.

“Lockhart, eh? Strong, gutsy,” she says. “Have you got a lot of heart?”

Woah! What am I meant to say to that? I’m relieved that she moves away to serve someone else, giving me time to excitedly mull over the perfect retort. And no I’m not gutsy, I have very little heart and apart from my ability to open jars I am not strong.

I can see her tattoo now that she is up close. It’s a map. It curves around her body, waiting to be read. I wonder where it leads. What shall I say to her next?

“I love your tattoo?” I say, knowing it is weak and that she must hear that all the time from pervy men lined up on this bar, so I add, “where does it begin?”

“People usually ask where it ends,” she says.

“Well, I’m an optimist.” I say, and she laughs.

“I’ve got an excellent memory,” she says, “I would never forget meeting you.”

I’m so embarrassed, I feel heat in my chest and cheeks. The corners of my lips are turning up into a smile. I look away, I look down, and I open my handbag to rummage through it as a diversion.

My bag is more of a canvas military satchel than a woman’s handbag. It contains black eyeliner, mascara and red lipstick. I carry a small dark purple bottle of perfume with a crystal skull head. I’ve got a purse with £30 and my id and my mother’s business card. The corners are full of dust and what feel like pencil sharpenings (and whose origins are a total mystery). I carry a notebook where I write down where I’ve been, what it smelled like and what I ate. There’s also a ridiculous sprung metal hand exerciser with a worn rubber grip that mother insists on making us use (five hundred a day!) I give it a familiar squeeze, and then another out of habit.

The row with Vincent still burns. I should retreat home to nurse my broken heart, and I promise myself that I will, just as soon as I have spoken a little more to Tiffany. I drop my shoulders, and face the band. I nod to the beat of the music and try to act cool, but my eyes keep coming back to her. For me it’s like the bar is now the stage and she is the show.

I stand there, drinking, continuing our conversation through stolen glances and smiles. I want to know everything about her. The bar begins to empty and so I lean over to speak to her, but as I do there is a loud bang, followed by silence and sudden submergence into pitch-black darkness.

My hand searches in the dark to find something solid to anchor me. It finds warm sticky comfort on the wood of the bar. Someone clicks a lighter and I’m drawn to a speck of an orange flame. Another person shouts: “What the hell was that?”

A girl screams and the dim emergency lighting flickers faintly into life. I can smell harsh electrical burning. There is a plume of smoke over near the stage.

I feel his grip before I see his face. His fingers curled around my arm, his body too close. His breath on my neck is hot and decayed. I wretch from a fast, intense rush of adrenaline. It's the man in the long black coat. The man in the shadows that I thought was a drug dealer. The one who had raised an eyebrow at me. I feel his firm touch, his meaty hand around my elbow. He smells gamey, like freshly killed birds still warm in their feathers.

“Robyn,” he whispers, “I’ll take you home.”

My hand finds its way protectively to my neck, and my ear. He talks as if he knows me. I’ve got to get away from him. The lights brightly flicker. I twist out of his grip and he holds up his hands and stands back. Though I want to, I can tell he’s not the kind of man to slap. His mouth is small, and rodent like, a little tongue moistens his pink lips amidst his stubbly beard.

“Come on,” he says, “you know me.” I’m shaking because I don’t know him and even though I might have seen him before, I don’t know who he is.

Tiffany is talking to the manager on the stage. She is shouting instructions because the microphones have stopped working. “There has been a power surge,” she says. She keeps shouting “don’t panic,” in a way that is making everyone panic.

“It’s Montpelier Road, isn’t it?” he whispers. “If there’s no one at home, I could keep you company?” I get a sudden physical drop in my stomach. I’m frozen to the spot. I’ve had a lot to drink but I’m suddenly stone cold sober.

The crowd seems to splinter into two groups, one half heading for the emergency exit and the other retreating back up the stairs towards the main entrance. Tiffany sprints across the dancefloor towards me. She sees the man, and I shake free of his grip and step away.

She looks from him to me, and me to him.

“It’s the power. There’s a black out,” she says, taking my hand. She pulls me away, and I go willingly. I’m terrified, but her fingers are electric. I let my thumb stroke her wrist, as if by accident. I fix my gaze on her and her alone. “My boss is going to let me go early.”

“Yes.” I say, without hesitation and without being asked. “I’m coming with you.”

We leave together and I look back to watch the masses file out in thick rubber soled boots and pink frilly skirts. The tattooed and the pierced. The man in the long black coat is nowhere to be seen. He has disappeared back into the shadows.