Ben Cheetham - The Society of Dirty Hearts

Julian gave him a quick sidelong glance. “Why do you say that?”

“I went to university once, too, you know. Seeing you takes me right back to those days. A bit of advice, I know you think you’re invincible, but no one is. You’ve got to learn to pace yourself.”

Eleanor came down the stairs a little hesitantly. Something in Julian’s chest squeezed at the sight of her. He hadn’t seen her for five months. Just five short months, but she was changed. Her hair was shorter, darker, more styled. She was slimmer, too, more angular, less cute. Yet, as she drew nearer, and he saw the expression in her eyes, her smile, he realised with relief that the change was only surface. Like his mum, like everything real and good, she was unchanged through change. “Hi, Jules,” she said.

“Hi,” he said back.

“C’mon,” said Mike. “You two can catch up once I’m done.”

Julian followed him into a study, its shelves overloaded with books and newspapers. Mike seated himself at a desk. “So tell me all about it,” he said, pen and notepad at the ready.

Julian told him. He described how Joanne Butcher’s corpse looked, how it smelt. Mike’s eyebrows drew together. He swallowed hard. “Jesus.”

“Will you put that in your paper?”

“People don’t need to read that. And I’d appreciate it if you don’t go repeating it to Eleanor, either.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. Any word on how Joanne Butcher died?”

“No. It’ll be a few days before the coroner’s report comes in.”

“I heard some…things about her.”

“You mean, like she was prostituting herself.”

“So it’s true.”

“I can’t say for certain, but I think so.”

Julian puffed his cheeks, shaking his head. “What would make someone do that?”

“Heroin.”

“Seriously, you think she was an addict.”

“I don’t know. Again, I’m just making an informed guess. You probably don’t realise this, Julian, but there are buildings in this town where every room’s littered with used needles and scorched foil.”

“I’m finding out a lot about this town I didn’t know.”

A knock came at the door. “Are you two nearly finished?” enquired Eleanor.

“Be out in a minute, honey,” said Mike. Stubbing out his cigarette with just a touch more force than was necessary, he added to Julian, “Go on. She’s waiting for you.”

Julian was glad to leave the study. Mike Hill understood why he’d split up with Eleanor. In his opinion, it was the best thing that could’ve happened. Julian knew this because Eleanor had repeated it to him when he’d phoned one time in a drunken haze of guilt to apologise for the way he’d treated her. He also knew, or rather sensed, that Mike Hill wouldn’t be anywhere near as understanding if Julian hurt his daughter a second time.

When Julian saw Eleanor, he felt that squeezing again. “Do you want to go for a walk?” he asked.

“Sure.”

They walked slowly along the street, standing close, but not touching. Julian resisted an urge to reach for Eleanor’s hand. It was a warm day. She wore a vest top. Her arms were pale and smooth, unblemished. He suddenly found himself thinking about Mia Bradshaw — about the cuts on her arm. He shoved the image away to a darker place in his mind. “Dad told me what happened,” Eleanor said. “That poor girl.”

Julian made no reply. He didn’t want to talk about that with Eleanor. He wanted to keep her as far away from it as possible. “It makes me feel like crying to think of her dying there like that,” she went on.

Maybe she didn’t die there, thought Julian. “So how’s college?” he asked.

A hint of a frown drew Eleanor’s her eyebrows together. “You know, Jules, sometimes you really remind me of my dad.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s not necessarily a compliment.”

They walked on in silence for a while — they’d always been comfortable in each other’s silence. Julian had never met another girl he felt that way with. “How long have you been back?” asked Eleanor.

“A couple of days.”

“Oh.”

That ‘Oh’ was full of meaning. It meant, so how come you didn’t let me know you were in town? “I would’ve phoned but I’ve been so busy with…” Julian was going to say studying, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie, not to her.

“With what?”

Julian shrugged and said limply, “You know, this and that.”

“Oh,” Eleanor said again. “I see.”

“If you like, we could do something tonight. Catch a movie, go for a drink, whatever.”

Eleanor smiled. It was a simple, open smile, the only one she had in her facial vocabulary. “That’d be good.”

She made to turn into a narrow lane that branched off from the street. Julian hesitated to follow her. The lane led beyond the edge of town to a meadow where there was an old hay-barn. As boyfriend and girlfriend, they used to go there often to talk and make love. In its quiet, grass-smelling gloom they’d gone from early eager fumblings to slow, tender explorations of each other. Julian resisted a groin-tingling tug. He couldn’t allow himself to go back there, not unless he was certain that’s what he wanted. And he wasn’t.

“I’ve got to go,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

In spite of himself, as Julian looked at Eleanor’s eyes, her lips, her neck, the tug intensified. Not wanting to take the chance that he might give into it, he nodded and said, “I’ll pick you up around seven.” Then he hurried away, leaving her standing staring after him. As he drove past her, she raised one flawless arm to wave. “You, boy, are a fucking idiot,” he muttered to himself, waving back.

His phone rang. It was Kyle. “Fancy meeting up tonight, bro?” he asked.

“Can’t. I’m going out with Eleanor.”

“What? Like on a date, or some shit like that?”

“No, not a date. Just two friends getting together.”

Kyle sniggered. “Yeah, right.”

“Yes, right, exactly,” Julian snapped.

“No need to get shitty. I was just kidding. Seriously, though, bro, you know she’s still hung up on you. Why is beyond me, but she is. Every time I see her she’s like, have you spoken to Jules? How’s he doing? And I’m like, fuck Jules, I’m free and single and here. But she doesn’t even notice me, bro. Not like that. So go easy on her, ’cos she’s one of the good ones.”

“I know.” There was the hint of a sigh in Julian’s voice. “Later, yeah.”

When Julian got home, he went straight through to his bedroom. He didn’t want to see his mum, have to skirt around her questions. He logged onto his computer. An email alert flashed in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. He clicked on it. ‘Morsus confirmed you as a friend on Facebook’ read the message. He eagerly followed the link to her profile. Underneath her photo it said ‘Surely there has to be a reason for all this pain. A purpose…’ And on her wall she’d written ‘R.I. P Jo. I love you’. Under her hobbies, she’d listed ‘drinking, cutting, suicide’. He looked at her photos. There were photos of her alone, pouting, sneering, brandishing her cuts like badges of honour. There were photos of her and Joanne Butcher kissing each other fully on the mouth. And there were photos of them with boys their own age and men in their twenties, drinking, smoking, simulating sex. One in particular caught his attention. She was sat with her arm around a boy kissing him on the cheek. He had no top on and his body looked stripped, like a junkie boxer’s. His hair was shaved to the skull. On his chest he had a tattoo of a wolf baring its teeth. He had to be Mia’s brother, Jake — he had the same face as her, only thinner, more sunken. There was the same sullen pain in his eyes, too.