The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone Page 16

  At first it was all right. He didn’t even look up as he put everything into the bags she’d brought with her. When he came to the end he said, ‘Forty-two twenty, please.’

  She handed him fifty pounds in notes. He cast her a casual glance and instantly knew what she was. His eyes lingered far too long on her face. He was going to smirk, or say something vile. It seemed as though the entire shop had fallen silent. She shrank away.

  ‘D’you have a loyalty card?’ he asked.

  Confused, she shook her head.

  ‘Would you like one? I can set it up for you in just a few seconds.’

  She shook her head again. She couldn’t speak. Her voice was a dead giveaway, and others would hear.

  ‘Okay.’ He counted out the change. ‘Five and two . . . Seven pounds eighty.’

  She was ramming the change into her handbag, scrabbling to pick up the carrier bags. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  ‘You’re welcome, ma’am,’ said the young man. The words were uttered without irony; without cruelty. It was a simple act of politeness, and it changed everything.

  The next moment she was out, hurrying down the high street under a white-hot sun with shopping dangling from each hand. Success! She was officially a member of the consumer society—she’d even been offered a loyalty card. All she had to do now was get herself home. Someone had dropped their leftover sandwiches by the bus stop, and the ground was covered in pecking pigeons. They flew up as she rushed through them. Soon she was passing the tube station, smiling a hello to Mr Che Guevara when he waved. She searched in her handbag to find her door keys, then held them ready. They made her feel less vulnerable. One more row of houses . . . a sharp left into Thurso Lane. Ten metres, nine, eight . . . She was hurrying down the steps, her heels making quick, playful taps on the stone. Her key was in the lock. She was inside, dropping her bags on the kitchen table. Whew. Safe.

  The flat seemed blessedly cool. She slid her linen jacket off her shoulders and shook it out. It was a truly lovely thing, a classic shape in a crushed-mulberry colour. Even better, it was cut for someone with broad shoulders and fitted easily over the loose crepe dress she was wearing. Here, in her sanctuary, she could be the Lucia she imagined; the real Lucia—not the hybrid clown that Tammy’s mother despised. She hung the jacket on the back of a kitchen chair before filling the kettle, revelling in the swing of her skirt as she moved. She’d sit at the table now, with her tea, and get on with some more work.

  She refused to be depressed by the reaction of Tammy’s mother. The supermarket trip had been a milestone, and the assistant had proved that not everybody hated her on sight. Tomorrow she might even tackle the tube. Lucia wasn’t used to feeling such hope. It intoxicated her.

  She hummed as she made herself tea. The kettle was hissing loudly. She wasn’t on her guard; not at all. Out on the street she was always ready for attack, but not here. She might be lonely in her spartan cave, but at least she was safe.

  Until the kitchen door opened.

  Simon

  The woman looked all wrong. She had his father’s face. She had his father’s height, his shoulders, the crease on his brow, the aquiline nose. Yet she had a bust, and curving hips. She had waves of brown hair. Earrings. Bold, bright lipstick. She wore shoes with heels, and tights. The components of what he was seeing spun through his mind, but they could not fall into place because the whole was so very, very wrong.

  And then she spoke.

  ‘Simon,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect you.’

  Dad’s voice, coming from the mouth of that monster, set off a flare in Simon’s chest. His rage took control—dancing forward in a blast of energy, smashing his fist into the painted mouth. The face jerked backwards, and Simon felt the jar of impact with a jubilation that frightened him. He heard the creature shouting something, but he didn’t stop, he couldn’t stop. He wanted to choke it out of existence. He made a grab for the neck—Jesus, there was even a necklace.

  ‘I warned you,’ he yelled. ‘I fucking warned you!’ He squeezed his hands together, feeling their power, feeling the neck begin to give. The curly wig was coming off. It slid sideways, revealing Luke’s own dark hair. Simon saw his father’s face, with gold earrings and crimson lipstick, smudged now and mingling with blood from the blow to his mouth. He was staring at Simon; not struggling, just staring in horror. What am I doing? For a moment, Simon froze, and his foot slipped on the lino floor. At the same time Luke drove his own fist up, hard. It was undeniably a man’s fist, and that of a man who was fighting for his life. The blow caught Simon squarely in the solar plexus. He doubled up as the breath was forced out of his lungs. His vision blurred.

  For at least a minute, there was no sound in the flat but the two of them coughing and gasping for air. Luke seemed to recover first. He dragged himself over to the sink, poured a glass of water and drank half of it straight down.

  ‘You all right?’ he wheezed. His lip was dripping blood, and there was blotchy redness around his neck.

  Simon felt bile in his own throat. He’d damn near killed his own father. He’d wanted to kill him. ‘I’m leaving,’ he muttered.

  ‘No! Don’t go.’

  ‘You’re finished.’ Simon waved his hand at the creature in the dress. ‘Look at yourself!’

  ‘Don’t go. Don’t go. I’m sorry you saw . . . I’ll get changed.’ Luke limped across to the door. ‘I’ll only be a minute. Look, it’s all right. Just . . . please don’t go.’

  Simon slumped against the wall. He desperately wanted his father back. He wanted him to return in two minutes transformed into his old self, in a sober sweater and polished lace-up shoes. He would be calm, cultured Luke Livingstone. Simon longed to see that man again. He loved and admired that man.

  A cupboard door creaked from somewhere in the flat. Simon thought of the colourful clothes scattered joyously, obscenely, across the floor. Christ, Dad must have been trying them on! He’d been outside, walking the streets in a dress. What the hell was he doing right now, in that room full of women’s things? Wiping off the lipstick, presumably. Unclipping the earrings before brushing out his wig. There was no calm, cultured Luke Livingstone. There was no father. There never had been. The whole loving-father thing was a lie.

  When the door smashed shut behind him, it seemed to shake the sky.

  Luke

  I pulled on lace-up shoes, fumbling in my hurry. My throat and mouth ached and my heart was still thumping in panic, but that didn’t matter now. I had to be quick. There was so much that I wanted to say to Simon. This was my one chance. Perhaps now, in the aftermath of violence, we would listen to one another. If not—if I failed—I was sure he’d never visit me again. I needed to look as male as possible, as fast as possible.

  I was reaching for a shirt when I heard the street door slam. I froze, turning my head towards the window. Footsteps ran along the pavement outside. They were blows: fast and heavy and final. I groaned in disappointment, sinking onto the bed. My lip was throbbing. My mind was throbbing.

  Cocked that one up, chuckled The Thought. Can’t go back, can’t go forward. Might as well throw in the towel. Do your family a favour. Do yourself a favour. You’re a zero.

  Simon, six years old, was standing on a chair so as to reach the bench. We’d taken our men’s working tea out to the carpentry shed with us, and were making a model biplane. It was almost finished. Simon’s task was to glue the struts. He approached this as he did everything, even at that age: with anxious solemnity. The evening sun slanted through the cobwebs in the windows, turning dust motes into a swirling cloud of fireflies. Kate was newborn, colicky and screaming; poor Simon had melted down after the fiftieth visitor asked if he was proud to have such a beautiful baby sister. I’d done the same—privately—because I longed to nurse her. He and I had come out here for some baby-free time together.

  When he finished his gluing, I tidied it up a bit for him. He was weary by now. As I worked, I felt his head resting against my arm. I could smell
his apple shampoo. Gradually, his whole body sagged against me.

  ‘It’s coming along very well,’ I said, tousling the apple-clean hair.

  ‘Mm. Yes.’ He eyed our creation, yawning. ‘It’s a terrifical plane.’

  ‘D’you want to go inside now? I’ll read to you. Nearly bedtime.’

  ‘Nah.’ A little shake of the head. ‘Let’s stay here. I love woodworking with you, Dad.’

  ‘Just you and me, eh? The desperate duo.’

  ‘One day you and me and Mummy will make a great big plane, and go flying all around the world, and see lions and tigers.’

  ‘Let’s do that,’ I said.

  ‘But we won’t let them eat us, will we?’

  Still leaning on me, he picked up the plane and flew it across an imaginary sky. His hand looked small and soft as he gripped the fuselage. Warmth surged from my head to my chest. I must keep my boy safe from the world and its horrors. I vowed to protect him forever.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We definitely won’t let them eat us.’

  The last brilliance of the day. Dust motes danced in my basement bedroom, as they once had in the shed. Stupid vow, I thought as I lay curled on the lonely bed, in the lonely flat. Just another promise I couldn’t keep. My lip was torn, my neck bruised by those same enchanting little hands. What a bloody awful mess I’d made.

  Something nudged my outstretched arm. It was the crepe dress; Lucia’s dress, that felt so weightless and flowing when she wore it. I draped it over myself so that it hung down on either side of me, as though Lucia were embracing me. It gave me comfort. And if I wept, that’s my business.

  Twenty-three

  Simon

  Three pints down. Linseed oil and timber resin. Just him and Dad, weaving magic in their dragon’s lair. Making that toy plane stood out as one of Simon’s earliest, happiest memories. Dad’s arm was just the right height for leaning your head on.

  Did you have lipstick in your pocket, Dad? Were you wearing lace knickers?

  As the years passed they made go-karts, picnic tables, a music box, and, only last spring, a gate for Simon’s house in London. As they worked, they talked. Simon used to treasure those times with his father.

  After his fourth pint, Carmela phoned, more irritated than worried. ‘Are you coming home?’

  ‘Half an hour.’

  ‘You said that two hours ago. Where are you? I know it’s a pub.’

  ‘By the tube station. Look.’ His tongue wasn’t working properly. ‘I’m sorry, I got talking to some people. I’ll be home soon.’

  ‘What really happened in the flat?’

  ‘As I told you: Dad came home. He was cross-dressed. I left.’

  A long, suspicious silence. ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  Five pints down, and his thought process had begun to splinter. He was far too tired for heavy drinking. Images spun and merged and contorted. It was like living in a kaleidoscope. Aching knuckles. A human face. Blood. He wasn’t used to punching anyone, let alone his own father. He winced at the memory of impact. Crack. He felt overwhelmed by . . . no, no. He bloody well didn’t feel guilty. That wasn’t Dad back there. That was more like a demonic possession. Tights. Jesus. Wig, dress, heels.

  I could have killed him. What if his larynx is damaged? Shit, he’s by himself.

  Once the thought had occurred to him, he had to check. He knew how dangerous strangulation could be. He called Luke’s number and while it rang he got to his feet, pulling the keys to the flat from his pocket. He might have collapsed. I’ll have to go back.

  Then Luke answered; his voice was friendly and quiet as always.

  ‘Hello, Simon? . . . Simon?’

  Not mortally injured, then. Simon switched off his phone.

  Someone was talking to him. The woman from behind the bar, collecting glasses from tables. She was bird-thin.

  ‘All right there?’ she asked again.

  ‘Fine.’ Simon tried to look fine, wiping his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. He hadn’t noticed the tears. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Hayfever?’

  ‘Yep. It’s that time of year.’

  She cast him a shrewd glance. She must have seen plenty of men like him, weeping into their beer. ‘Nice to have the sunshine,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t grumble.’

  Dad getting out of bed at three in the morning to collect Simon from an eighteenth-birthday party; rubbing his shoulder as he threw up in a bush beside the road. Not to worry, son, don’t be embarrassed, it happens to the best of us.

  ‘People don’t like me,’ Simon had gasped, between retches.

  ‘I like you.’

  ‘I’m an outsider. They all dance and yell and talk shit. I sat in a corner all night.’

  Dad handed him a bottle of water. ‘You didn’t join in?’

  ‘What’s the point? There is no point. It’s all just . . . shit. Isn’t it? Life.’

  Instead of going home and back to bed, Dad had driven to a service station on the motorway and bought them breakfast. They sat at a formica table as the short summer night merged into daybreak. It was all a bit of a blur, but Simon remembered rambling on and on about the senselessness of life, of love, of God. Dad didn’t talk shit. He listened patiently to his smashed and maudlin son, complete with existential crisis.

  Another pint went down, but the alcohol really wasn’t helping.

  No more pints. The landlady said he’d had enough and it was time he went home. Simon found himself out on the street, though he was struggling to remember which street it was. Heat radiated from the bitumen. The ground didn’t seem as flat as usual. He kept tripping.

  He was nineteen, in a rain-soaked car park, hiding in the shadows. She’d be here soon. He held a broken bottle in his hand, and hatred in his heart.

  Lucia

  It was after one o’clock in the morning, but a robin sang from the branches of a sycamore tree in Thurso Lane. A woman let herself out of a basement flat and began to walk towards the post box on the corner. She was neither young nor pretty, but she’d made the most of what she had. Six white envelopes lay in one hand.

  A cat called to her from the top of a wall. She stopped to tickle his ears, and he immediately purred. He knew her very well, and arched his back and rubbed his cheek into the palm of her hand. He’d met her every day on her way home from work. She wore different clothes then, but to him she hadn’t changed. She was the same person.

  She reached the post box but she didn’t post her letters. Instead she walked around and around it, whispering to herself, Go on, go on.

  It wasn’t a long letter but it had taken hours to write. She’d typed, deleted, typed—deleted the lot and started again—a glass of whisky at her elbow, the crepe dress folded on her lap. At about eleven, Simon had phoned, only to hang up without a word. All the same, she felt encouraged. Better than nothing.

  Midnight had long passed when she printed out six copies of her letter and carefully added a handwritten message at the top of each one. They were ready. They must be posted now, tonight, because already she felt her resolve slipping away. One envelope was going all the way to Melbourne. She allowed herself a vicious smile as she imagined her eldest sister reading the letter. This was going to ruin Gail’s day.

  A car came cruising down the high street. Its chassis had been lowered to within inches of the road. All the windows were open so that the thumping of its stereo could deafen passers-by. The woman shrank into a shadow, but it was no good. They’d seen her—worse, they’d seen her trying to hide. The driver leaned on his horn while his passengers exploded into catcalls.

  ‘Oi! You got a dick? Tranny! Tra-nee!’

  They seemed about to climb out of the windows. Under the shifting city lights, their faces appeared to be daubed with ghostly warpaint. She watched the car roar away. It screeched left at the next corner—handbrake turn—but its music still pulsated in the breathless heat. Then suddenly it slewed back into the high street. They were c
oming for her.

  Throwing her letters into the dark mouth of the post box, she darted down Thurso Lane. She took off her shoes, her breath ragged now, and held them as she sprinted. The pavement bruised her soles. The friendly cat shot away to hide. The night was torn by the howls of those men who hated her so, calling for her as though they were looking for a lost dog. Tran-nee! Where are you, Tranny?

  She tripped and fell down the area steps. The impact knocked the breath out of her but she forced herself to her feet, fumbling with her keys. Wrong one, wrong one, bloody hell, where is it? The security light was a beacon, marking her out to a hostile world. Her tights had ripped; her leg smarted where she’d grazed it.

  At last, she had the door open. Thank God. As she fell inside, the robin stopped singing and flew away.

  Twenty-four

  Kate

  She wasn’t a morning person. Never had been, never would be. The fact that recently she’d been at her old school desk by seven o’clock every morning was testament to just how keen she was to make some progress. She’d spent hours sweating over this writeup, cursing herself for not nailing it when she first got home. She never pulled her finger out until she was staring a deadline in the face. Last-minute-dot-com. Well, she was paying for it now.

  Mind you, it was tough to concentrate on the long-buried bichrome pottery of a civilisation that died out three thousand years ago when your own family was smashing pottery right here, right now, in your own kitchen. She had the precious shard of red and yellow on the desk in front of her. It was her talisman.

  Simon had got her all stirred up again on Saturday. He’d arrived at Smith’s Barn in a state, raving about how he’d seen Dad cross-dressed at the flat the day before. Luckily, Mum was out for lunch with Stella. Kate had never seen her brother in such a mess. He didn’t touch the coffee she made him. Instead, he poured himself a couple of very stiff gins and knocked them back. She warned him he’d be over the limit. He said he’d be fine—but he wasn’t fine. He was marching around, all over the kitchen, talking and talking.