Jonathan Lee - High Dive

Marina tilted her head and said, ‘I am lending his decision my support.’ Then she left without a further word.

Freya went outside. She’d delayed the inevitable for too long.

‘Hey, Sooz.’

Susie nodded.

‘Has the protest — has it been good?’

‘Well,’ Susie said, ‘it’s ongoing, obviously, so.’ She was wearing a baggy red jumper and feeding bubble gum into her mouth. She looked determined as she chewed, a muscle flickering in her jaw, and there was a hint of practised disappointment in her eyes. A few other protesters stood nearby, each armed with a banner. No one Freya recognised from the day outside Amadeo’s cafe. Moon-faces on narrow necks, some of the necks wrapped in scarves, a cold October wind coming in from the sea.

‘It’s tough to make people care,’ Susie said. ‘Not you, I’m not having a go. Just people who expressed an interest, you know? Everyone expresses an interest in making their voice heard, and then, in the end, they’re too busy watching TV, or doing their nails, or having massive sex or whatever.’

‘Bouncing ping-pong balls into their beer,’ Freya said.

‘Yeah, I watched some of that.’

‘You did?’

‘If you press your face up against the glass you can see most of the inside. Sebastian got his bag confiscated by one of the security guys.’

‘Oh.’

Susie shivered. ‘Yeah. He was waiting by the cook’s entrance just before ten, like we planned with you —’ she blinked — ‘but apparently this security guy came out and took his bag and said …’

‘Yeah?’

‘“Bugger off.”’

Unlikely as it seemed, Susie was smiling.

‘So …’

‘So apparently he wants to be a lawyer,’ Susie said. ‘Sebastian, I mean. His dad wants him to work for his firm, this place in London called Hangers, so he can’t risk doing any more stuff for a while, in case he gets a criminal record, he said.’ She took a pack of Hubba from her pocket. ‘Want some?’

They chewed and looked at their shoes. Seven policemen with skin of varying ruddiness were standing by the hotel entrance, drinking steaming coffee, one from the cap of a shiny flask and the others from cardboard cups.

‘I’ve been trying to hang out,’ Susie said. ‘I’ve been trying to see you. Just to ask how your dad is, or whatever. I heard and stuff.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Didn’t you get my messages? The ones saying let’s just hang out?’

‘I’ve been really busy. Distracted.’

‘Your dad,’ Susie said.

‘That and other stuff, yeah.’

‘Is he OK?’

‘He’s fine, I reckon. Thanks for asking.’

It was cola-flavoured Hubba. She’d never had a cola-flavoured Hubba before. She hadn’t known it was a flavour they did.

Being together in the dark. It reminded her of sleepovers, camping. The way your eyes scanned around in the dim, waiting for some creepy shadow to be cast, ears attuned to outdoor sounds, some real and some imagined. Looking at Susie now she felt something. Not a rush of love, but a definite trickle. The start maybe of a reasonable flow. Nothing but bubbles emerged from their lips. It was all in sync and quiet. With a couple of side glances they decided which policeman was the best-looking of the group. With a smile they located the worst. Freya wanted to say I’m sorry I’ve ignored your messages, and I’m sorry I told the security guard about Sebastian, but hoped it was enough to think it, feel it.

She drew Susie in for a hug, a bony body pressed against hers. Funny how good a simple hug could be. Susie’s hair smelt of herbal stuff.

‘My dad found out he’s not going to be the next general manager.’

‘What? Oh.’

‘Yeah.’

Susie’s eyes were shining. ‘He wanted that, didn’t he?’

‘Really bad, yeah.’

‘Brutal,’ she said.

‘Yeah.’

‘My mum says it’s a week of bad news. Did you hear about Wendy?’

‘Hairdresser Wendy?’

‘Yeah. She’s really ill.’

Freya laughed. ‘Always.’

‘No, seriously. They scanned her head and found this growth. She’s going to need a load of treatment. An operation.’

‘Wendy Hoyt?’

‘Yeah. A tumour. Apparently she’s been having headaches for ages. They didn’t spot it. My mum knows her husband.’

‘That’s terrible. That’s really … it’s awful.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

Could it really be true? Wendy?

For a few minutes they talked about how awful it was and then, with frowns and headshakes, conceded that they’d run out of ways to talk about it. They’d buy flowers tomorrow, take them to the salon, ask the staff if there was anything they could do.

‘Are you still seeing that guy, Frey-Hey? I heard that you might be seeing a guy. Stephanie’s cousin, the spotty one … he lifeguards at the pool.’

‘I’m … yeah, not seeing him any more.’

‘Bothered?’ Susie said.

‘Nah.’

‘He was a bit gross, I expect, was he?’

She chewed. ‘No, he wasn’t gross. He was Surfer John.’

‘Nooooooo.’

‘Yeeeeeeess.’

‘What were his nipples like?’

‘His nipples ?’

Susie shrugged. ‘I always imagined they’d be cool. You didn’t sleep with him, did you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Good.’

Susie raised her banner. The banner bore the slogan ‘Only Machines Should Be Made of Iron’. It was a very low-cost banner. The handle part seemed to have been constructed from several dozen ice-lolly sticks wound together, possibly the Mini Milk ones. It was such a hopeless effort that you couldn’t help but feel a bit proud of Susie, the makeshift commitment she showed.

‘It’s a play on a lyric from one of the Red Wedge bands.’

‘Clever,’ Freya said.

‘Yeah. There were more of us last night, a lot more. Mainly Irish Freedom Movement guys. We were up there, the coast. Protesting at this meeting by these right-wing people called, like, the Monday Club. They threw coins at us. I kissed this guy, actually. He was married, which was cool. All this stuff is quite good for meeting guys. Not a Monday Club member, obviously. A fellow protester. But he was the guy who was in charge of letting off our stink bomb, and he dropped it and it went off early, when we were still in the hall. Whole room hummed of rotten eggs.’

‘Turn-off.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And his poor wife.’

‘Huh?’

‘So you’re not going to throw a stink bomb in there, while Thatcher’s in bed? You’re not going to get someone else to do Sebastian’s job?’

‘Nah,’ Susie said. ‘I told them I had a friend who worked at the hotel, and that it would be horrible for the people working there, so.’

‘Did you?’

‘Well, that’s what I hinted at, yeah. They take my views on stuff pretty seriously.’

Raised voices, a laugh. Two of the policemen were arguing about how long it would take to walk from here to Upper Beeding. One of them had a proper beer belly, his shirt buttons undergoing some major strain, and he was saying it would take at least two and a half hours. The slimmer one seemed to be saying only two. Possibly they were both right: a belly like that could easily cost you thirty minutes. It felt at times like people in Brighton, and maybe in the UK as a whole, were only interested in distances — how far one place was from another, and how long it might take to close the gap given selected variables. Weather. Quality of roads. The narrowness of lanes and the quota of slow-moving tractors. She listened to the sea, the lovely lucid wash of it, coming in, going out, coming in, going out.

Susie said, ‘Is your dad still no closer to getting dirty with Marina?’

‘Actually —’