Peter May - Runaway

Jack’s voice fell away then, and he lay thinking about his own words, thoughts to which he had never before given form. And he heard himself say, ‘But then, maybe you haven’t. Done extraordinary things, I mean. Maybe you never were and never will be anything special. And no one’ll miss you when you’re gone, and when you’re breathing your last you’ll wonder what was the bloody point of any of it.’

There was a long, laden silence.

Then Ricky’s voice. ‘But you have.’

‘Eh?’

‘Done extraordinary things, Grampa. I mean, I knew you’d run away to London when you were a kid. It always just seemed boring to me. But listening to you all tonight, around the table, made me realize there was so much more to it than I ever imagined. To you. And them. And all that stuff about a murder? And the killing of that actor? And Rachel? I don’t know anything about her. And Jeff. I never even knew there were five of you in the group.’

‘Aye, son, there were five us. And Rachel...? Rachel was the biggest love and the biggest regret of my life. Then and now. I did wrong by her, Rick, and I lost her.’

There was a long silence then, and Jack began to listen for signs that his grandson had drifted off. He wasn’t expecting it when the boy spoke again, several minutes later.

‘Grampa?’

‘Yes, Rick.’

‘What happened to Jeff?’

In the days that followed Rachel’s abortion it was clear to all of us, except for Jeff, that we were falling apart. Not just as a group, but as friends. Although it was the music that had brought us all together in the first place, friendship was the glue that had seen us through the last weeks. And now we were simply coming unstuck. We hadn’t practised for more than a week. Maurie barely acknowledged my existence, and I hadn’t set eyes on Rachel since she told me through the locked door of her room that we were finished.

But the end itself was precipitated by an entirely unforeseen event.

It was one of those late-spring mornings when the air was at blood temperature, the sun rising over the park, early-morning mist floating above the chimney tops to vaporize in a painfully clear blue sky. The kind of day that lifts your spirits. But in Onslow Gardens, depression hung about Dr Robert’s house like a fog.

I didn’t know where the others were, and didn’t really care. I had descended into a torpor from which I was finding it almost impossible to raise myself. I knew that something had to be done. The status quo was no longer acceptable, but I had no idea how to change it — nor did I have the energy to make it happen even if I did. I was sitting smoking in the breakfast room, watching my cigarette smoke twist in the sunlight that streamed in from the back garden, and nursing a coffee that I had poured and then let go cold.

I turned at the sound of someone in the hall and Dr Robert leaned in the door. He was wearing low-slung jeans with a white belt, and a pale pink shirt with fastidiously rolled-up sleeves.

He smiled. ‘You got a minute, Jack?’

‘Sure.’

‘Some stuff I’d like you to see.’

He went back into the house and it was clear I was supposed to follow. I eased myself reluctantly out of my chair and went into the hall. He was already halfway up the stairs.

He called down, ‘I’ve got a date for that demo recording at the Marquee. And a photoshoot afterwards. So we’ve got to get the group a visual identity. Haircuts, clothes. I’ve had some outfits sent over from a friend in Carnaby Street. Big friend of Twiggy’s. You know, the model?’

I didn’t. But I followed him up the stairs anyway. I should have got suspicious when we went down the hall on the first floor and into his private bedroom.

I had never been in here before, and if I hadn’t known better I’d have thought it was a woman’s room. It was filled with the heavy, musky scent of eau de cologne, and through the open door of the en-suite bathroom I could see pink towels abandoned on the floor. The whole room was tastefully decorated in pale pastel blues and pinks — drapes and sheets, walls and ceiling. The carpet was a white shagpile.

A fussy, frilly throw covered a very large bed, pillows piled up at one end, and I noticed a mirror fixed to the ceiling above it. When I think back on it now, I am amazed at how naive I was in not realizing why it was there. An array of coloured shirts and trousers was laid out on top of the bed.

Dr Robert closed the door softly behind him and said, ‘Try these on, Jack. For size and for colour. I mean, I think you should all wear the same gear — same colours, but different — like your shirt should match Jeff’s trousers, Maurie’s trousers matching Luke’s shirt. You get the idea.’

I nodded and waited for him to leave so I could try something on. But he just stood watching me, with the strangest look in his eyes.

‘On you go,’ he said.

And I started to get uncomfortable. ‘Not with you watching.’

He laughed. ‘Don’t be silly. Won’t be seeing anything I haven’t seen before.’

I suppose I should just have walked out there and then. But I was embarrassed, and still uncertain about my reading of the situation. I stripped off my T-shirt and quickly pulled on one of the shirts. It was peach, with long sleeves, and ruffles down the side with the buttonholes. I hated it immediately.

‘Looks good,’ Dr Robert said. ‘Button it up.’

I did up the buttons and caught a glimpse of myself in a full-length tilting mirror. More than the shirt, or its awful peach colour, I saw how red my face was, coloured by my embarrassment.

‘Try it with the blue trousers. They’re the latest fashion. Hipsters they’re calling them, because they sit on the hips, two or three inches below the waist. Very sexy.’

I didn’t know what else to do, so I kicked off my shoes and dropped my jeans, aware all the time of his eyes on me. I avoided looking at him, and pulled on the pair of blue hipsters as fast as I could. But they were tight. So tight I could barely get them up over my thighs.

‘They don’t fit,’ I said. ‘They’re too tight.’

‘Nonsense. That’s the fashion, Jack. You need them to be tight. Show the girls what you’ve got when you’re up there onstage. Just like P. J. Proby.’ He grinned. ‘Without splitting them, of course. Here, let me give you a hand.’

He came round behind me, and grabbed the waistband to pull them half over my hips, until I was squeezed so tightly into the crotch that it was almost painful. He was very close, his aftershave nearly overpowering. His body pressed itself into the back of me, and I felt his hand come across to pull up the zip and then close around the bulge it contained.

I reacted instinctively and without thought, pulling away hard. ‘Get off!’

As I turned to face him he took a step towards me, and I swung a bunched fist at his face, connecting with the side of it, feeling his teeth through his cheek. He staggered back, half falling on to the bed, his hand at his mouth, blood on his fingers.

‘You little bastard!’

I wriggled out of the hipsters as fast as I could and pulled on my jeans, hopping on one leg, then the other, before falling backwards and dragging them all the way on as I lay on the carpet. I zipped up, grabbed my shoes and scrambled to my feet.

He was on his feet, too, by now. Breathing hard and glaring at me. He snatched a tissue from a box on the bedside cabinet and dabbed his mouth.

‘Unsophisticated little shit!’ he shouted at me. ‘This is the sixties. Time to experiment, little boy. Do things differently.’

My heart was hammering so hard I thought I might be in danger of breaking a rib or two. I ripped off the peach shirt and grabbed my T-shirt. And even through his anger and humiliation I could see him eyeing my body.