Untouchable Things Read online

  Thank you, Mr Stanley. To clarify, Mr Gardner made unwelcome and entirely unreciprocated sexual advances to you that night?

  Correct.

  Michael slept in a web of ghoulish dreams where he was kissing Mr Fleming’s corpse as it hung above his parents’ kitchen table. His teacher’s dry lips were crumbling like digestive biscuits and Michael couldn’t help swallowing bits. He woke gagging and spitting and stumbled to the bathroom, stuck his head under the tap. When he raised his head his eyes stared like the corpse of the dream and he unconsciously bit his lips. He saw the bath in the mirror and started running the taps, climbing in and letting the water rise around him until it was deep enough to submerge his head. He stayed there for an hour. When he got out he was cold and had to pad through to the bedroom to find a clean towel. The clock on the chest of drawers said 6.13am.

  There was no point going back to sleep, so he sat in bed with a coffee listening to nameless objects providing rattling percussion to the rumble of the Tube. An almost forgotten sound joined them: rain pattering steadily against the window. The weather charm of the past few weeks had finally broken. He let his thoughts drift with the rain, splash across memory, until they alighted on Ursula, black and glowing and radiant. He wondered how she was doing in her West London girls’ school. He wasn’t sure if she had really wanted the job or had been driven away by the awkward silences and accidental eye contact in the staffroom. It was a relief when she left.

  They had dated for nearly a year, Michael’s first relationship, though she never knew that. He saw in her, at least at first, the heat and colour and intensity of his year in Tanzania. The vast mandarin sky. Caked mud in his hands, hands that were soiled and real for the first time in his life. Spontaneous eruptions of music that made him wish he could shed his English skin and writhe to the rhythms as Adin did. But Ursula was a South London girl with no interest in Africa. When he asked about her roots she grinned and said she had a hair appointment on Thursday. She was evasive about slavery, had no problem living amongst the colonial oppressors of her ancestors. She was beautiful and her taut black body drove him to premature ejaculation again and again. Over the year, shame turned to anger until eventually he blamed her though could not say why. She cried when she ended it.

  Maybe he’d go back to Africa one day. He was still in touch with Adin, whose latest letter lay tea-stained by his bedside. Adin taught too now, in the school they had built together that magical summer. He kept telling Michael to come over and see the fruits of their labour, hear the little ones sing “Twinkle, Twinkle” and the big ones talk of being engineers or doctors, even the girls. Michael had never gone. He told himself it was the money, but sitting here now, with the rain tapping at his subconscious, he knew there was more to it. Maybe he just wanted to keep that summer perfect, intact and tucked away.

  Or maybe revisiting that time would throw too much relief onto what he was doing now: trying to change the world with one tinny piano and a few descant recorders. He was the anomaly in the staffroom, the one who didn’t join in with the gags, the racism, the constant complaints about the kids and the area, the stream of applications to selective schools. And if friendships were thin on the ground, his romantic life was a desert.

  There had been no one since Ursula. No one Michael had even been interested in. Sometimes he thought he was asexual. Sometimes he thought that would be easier. And now a memory made him flinch and clench his fists. He wasn’t gay – he would have known. It wasn’t that he had a problem with it; gay or straight, that wasn’t the point. It was Seth. He was poison. But the harder Michael tried to run from him, the more he was yanked back like a tethered animal.

  You must have been angry with Mr Gardner.

  Yes. For a while.

  You made up?

  He sent a note.

  Smooth, charming, apologetic. Hoping it wouldn’t spoil anything between them.

  And he never did it again.

  Scene 4

  John Lennon was doing his usual end-of-year cameos, popping up like Banquo’s ghost to deliver his vaguely ominous Christmas greeting. Rebecca hummed along with the radio, pleased to be able to give him a straight answer this time. She’d done plenty. She thought back over the year: Hamlet, meeting Seth and the group, even doing her workshops for Michael’s school, which she’d enjoyed more than she’d expected. They’d gone so well that they invited her back for a second week and managed to find some money in the budget to pay her with. There was a buzz in doing something ‘useful’ for a change, a different sense of achievement.

  Michael was worried that some of the kids would play up but she saw those lads on the back row looking at her legs and knew she’d be fine. Men were all the same. And the kids had really enjoyed themselves, once they’d stopped worrying about looking cool in front of their mates. Some of them gaped at her in awe after she delivered the Lady Macbeth soliloquy, throwing her voice as if she were in a theatre. It gave her a power, the same power she exploited night after night, but it felt good to be putting something back at the same time. Even if just one of those kids had their horizon widened as a result it would have been worth it.

  Not a bad twelve months all in all. She settled back on the sofa with a coffee, pulling her knees under her and retying her faded, green dressing gown. Threadbare and coffee-stained as it was, she couldn’t bring herself to throw it away. Partly her inherently slobbish nature, partly… well, she hadn’t been that close to her grandma but it was a present from her, the last present, and her mum was pleased she still wore it. They almost never agreed on the subject of clothes. Rebecca put it down to her mother being older than other people’s mothers. She’d had Rebecca in her forties after years of trying. There had been two of them, twins, but her sister had died at birth. It made her feel funny to think she was half of a whole and would never know her other half. She used to complain when she was little about everyone having brothers and sisters apart from her and her parents would look pained. They only told her the truth when she was thirteen.

  She must have known something at the time. There’s a shadowy memory of a big man in a grey room talking to her about wetting the bed, which she did until she was seven. She suspects she had some sort of counselling but she’s never asked. When she hit adulthood she saw it suddenly from her parents’ perspective, losing one of their children after a traumatic birth. Once, after a few drinks on her birthday, her mum said sorry to her about her early childhood. But all Rebecca remembered was love and attention, being the apple of their eye. She knew she was lucky in many ways. The only problem was that her parents were getting old. Maybe she was hanging onto the dressing gown to avoid facing the fact that things were changing.

  But it did have a hood. On days like this, when the heating was still cranking up and a thieving draught rattled the single-glazed window panes it was comforting to put the hood up and hunch around like an old woman. Especially without Shaz around to take the piss.

  She contemplated the night ahead, the mysterious Christmas group. The only clue she’d had from Seth, after much cajoling, was that, for one night only, the group would be the Friday Follies, as in the French word for cabaret. He seemed pretty pleased with his pun. Anna and José had been unable or unwilling to shed any light on it when she’d met them on Wednesday. Michael was grumpy about the whole thing but said he was going. It was odd that he was so openly hostile towards Seth but still turned up to everything. Maybe it was to see Catherine.

  The sharp trill of the phone made her jump. She grabbed it to stop the noise.

  “Becky?”

  “Hi, Jason.” A sigh inside her. “What’s up?” She grabbed at the remote control and turned the radio down.

  “Just wanted to check you hadn’t changed your mind about coming tonight.”

  This time her sigh was audible. “You know I’m busy. I’ll come as soon as I can in the morning.”

  “Okay. Look, I’d better go. See you tomorrow then.”

  He hung up to mask his hurt.
She knew him, knew that he had a right to be hurt. She knew him better than she’d probably ever know Seth. And in the knowing was a security she couldn’t give up. She was being unfair, hedging her bets, and he was letting her.

  No. This wasn’t a day for guilt. She thought about the dress she’d wear later, black and lacy and oh so short. An answering bolt of excitement. She got to her feet, caught sight of herself in the lounge mirror in her green hood and cackled.

  Scene 5

  So we move to 6th December 1996 for your Christmas group. Could you talk me through the sequence of events?

  Well… I mean, obviously I’ll try, but, well, I did get a bit drunk later and I’m not sure I’ll remember everything. You should talk to the others as well.

  I assure you we are asking all members of the group for their own accounts of the evening.

  Of course. Sorry. It would be interesting to know, you know, what the different perspectives are. What we remember of that evening… or not…

  * * * * *

  Bloody hell, the woman was gorgeous. Even more so than usual tonight. Jake struggled to keep his eyes on her face but gave up almost immediately, the old “Look at you!” line legitimising a full head-to-toe appraisal. Patterned black stockings. High heels. Lacy black dress finishing mid thigh. It didn’t get much better than that. Slipping a hand on her back he leaned into her, the way women liked. He caught Seth’s eye and they both pursed their mouths expressively over her head. Christmas had come early this year.

  * * * * *

  One look at Jake’s face told her how good she looked. When he put his arm round her, she leaned in, the way men liked, looking up at him as she laughed and chattered. Then she spotted Anna across the room hesitating just a fraction before coming over and greeting her. The second confirmation she was looking good. The push-up bra was helping her silhouette no end. She pretended not to notice Seth and Jake exchange a look. It was hardly something to be offended about. She dropped her cardigan at the door.

  * * * * *

  Rebecca caused a stir, of course, dressed to kill and didn’t she know it. Even as a gay man José couldn’t help appreciating the lacy undulations. He showered her with compliments and took care not to notice the way Seth was looking at her. Jake passed her a glass of champagne.

  “For the gorgeous Ophelia. Or should I say, oh feel ya!” General groans. Rebecca didn’t seem to mind as Jake squeezed her waist.

  “You’ve been rehearsing that one.”

  “Maybe.” Jake winked and looked around. “Who’s for more champers? We’re on Bolly for our jolly. Rather an upmarket jolly, of course, in our exclusive W2 surroundings.”

  Seth offered his cigarette box around. “I think edgy is the word you’re looking for. If I wanted exclusive I’d be living in stuffy old South Ken like Charlie boy.” He raised his eyebrows at the sniggers of dissent. “What? It’s true. I’m much happier amongst the riff-raff of Notting Hill.”

  Anna roared with laughter as Michael shook his head. “Was there ever someone more cushioned from reality?”

  “Au contraire, my dear Anna, I seek to embrace as much reality as life will allow me. You should know that.”

  Was Anna blushing? She recovered herself quickly. “It’s just a different reality from those of us who have to work for a living.”

  Seth blew smoke upwards. “You’re like a stuck record, darling. Like every working woman.”

  “Time, you two.” José stepped in, before Anna’s inevitable explosion. “Let’s remember it’s Christmas.”

  * * * * *

  Rebecca could hear singing. Surely it was singing? The stereo was off. Seth watched her, smiling, as the room stilled. This must be the start of things. The singing was getting closer and she recognised the tune from school carol concerts and heard the words as they arrived at Seth’s open door, “Here we come a-wassailing.” Catherine, Michael and Charles entered the room, dressed in black surplices and singing in beautiful harmonies. She hadn’t even realised they’d gone. Charles was carrying a large pot with some sort of liquid in. She backed towards the window to let them pass, wanting to giggle. At the fireplace they halted, looked at each other, then broke into another song about wassailing. She didn’t know this one – it sounded like a folk song, darker, otherwordly. Jake leaned over and whispered something that sounded like “Steal I Spam” in her ear; she frowned slightly but he was already walking out of the room. They all clapped and whistled as Seth called out, “Now for the wassail!” and Jake returned with pint glasses into which he ladled the liquid from Charles’ bowl, dark and murky with mysterious chunks floating on its surface. Rebecca sniffed cloves and hops and other flavours she couldn’t immediately place.

  “Is this mould?” Anna was looking down at her glass, unconvinced.

  Seth winked. “Toast, actually. As in, let’s make a toast.” He raised his glass and the others followed.

  “To a night of surprises.” They drank, tentatively. It was some sort of mulled cider, dense and heavily spiced, and the topping did seem to be toast. Rebecca’s gullet glowed after two mouthfuls.

  “What is wassailing anyway?” asked Anna, who had overcome her initial reservations and was already making impressive progress on her grog.

  Charles, still in a surplice, answered. “Isn’t it just the old word for carol singing?” Everyone looked at Seth.

  “Yes, but the wassail also referred to this splendid drink which the wassailers would bring in as they sang. Seemed like a good way to begin the festivities.”

  Rebecca remembered what Jake had said to her and turned to him. “Why were you whispering about stealing Spam? Don’t tell me that’s the secret ingredient.”

  Jake frowned before booming with laughter, creating more amusement as he repeated her comment loudly to the rest of the group.

  “Steeleye Span, not stealing Spam,” he expanded eventually, wiping his eyes. “As in the folk band.”

  “Strange 1970s bunch, period instruments, funny accents, hardcore fan base,” said Seth, more gently. “And funny name too.”

  José touched her arm. “Don’t worry, Rebecca, I haven’t got a clue what they’re on about either.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please.” Seth was brandishing sheets of white paper. Weren’t they going to eat yet? The table was fully set and sumptuous in purple linen, and although tantalising cooking smells surrounded her, there was no sign of actual food. She should have snacked before leaving the house.

  “Continuing the wassailing theme, we will shortly enjoy a mummers’ Christmas pageant to keep us mindful of the important things at this time of year.”

  “Mummers? I presume this is some more weird English shit?” Anna pinched an olive from a bowl Rebecca hadn’t noticed.

  “People shouldn’t be allowed to live on islands. Except the Irish, of course,” José added quickly, dodging a blow from Anna.

  “Mummers, my dear ignorami, were a group of players, or actors, who would travel around from house to house at Christmas performing plays to entertain the household, usually about the trials of King George.”

  “As in the dragon?”

  “Exactly.”

  José shook his head. “God, you British and your dragons. So we’re going to watch a play about some king fighting dragons?”

  “In a nutshell, yes. Mumming pageants were used at significant times of the year to draw out the populace’s fears, give them some sort of voice and then dispel them. Keep the dark side under control and everyone on the moral straight and narrow. A sort of group therapy.”

  Charles raised his eyebrows. “I must say with all these knights and dragons it sounds more Monty Python to me.”

  “You’re on the right lines, Charlie boy. I thought we could initiate our dear brethren José and Anna into the shadowy world of English panto.”

  Rebecca chuckled. “A word to strike fear into the heart of any actor. Mine starts in – shit, ten days.” She had joined An
na at the olive bowl.

  “Treat this as a warm-up, darling.”

  José leaned over to Anna. “What’s panto?”

  Anna winked. “Meester Fawlty, I know nothing. Where have you been for the last four years, Josie?” He shrugged. “God – where do I start? We do have them in Ireland, you know, Seth. Fairy tales, stupid catch phrases, men in drag.” She paused. “Actually, come to think of it, José, you’d love it.”

  Everyone laughed. Then Jake gasped and pointed at José. “Watch out – he’s behind you!”

  José whipped his head round to more guffaws. “What the…?”

  Anna was spit-laughing a mouthful of grog and only half caught it in her glass.

  Jake put an arm round José’s shoulders. “One of the catch phrases, mate. He’s behind you!”

  Charles coughed. “Oh, no he isn’t!”

  “Oh yes he is!”

  José’s eyes widened at the group chorus. “That’s it, you’re all complete nutters. Let’s get this panto mummy shit over with then we can get down to proper Christmas activities like eating. Where are the actors?”

  Seth took a cloth from the sideboard and wiped away the grog spatters at Anna’s feet. He replaced the cloth as Anna giggled an apology. “Well, here of course. I’m looking at them.”

  “No. No way.”

  Seth folded his arms. “Way. You’ve been invited to my house and now you need to earn your supper. I have parts, costumes, props. Here, take one each.” He started handing out copies of the play.

  “You want us to act out this play?”

  “I can’t even read this, let alone act it.”

  Seth shrugged. “Blame Anna if you must. This is entirely for her benefit.”

  “Mine?”

  “Well, what does panto mean, in a nutshell?”

  A grin broke over Anna’s face. “Dressing up!”

  Seth winked and turned to the others. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve got a part too.”

  Rebecca scanned the list of characters. “What as?”

  “Father Christmas, of course. He always introduced the pageant.”