Easy Meat

Thirteen

It was still early on Sunday morning. Kevin and Debbie Naylor lay beneath the duvet, Kevin on his back, Debbie curled over on her side; softly, from the adjacent bedroom, the sounds of their daughter holding a long and complicated conversation with one or other of her stuffed animals.

“Kevin?”

“Hmm?”

“What you thinking?”

“Nothing.”

But just by reaching out a hand and touching him, Debbie could tell that he was lying.

“Kevin?”

“What?”

Debbie laughed and slid one leg across his, the laugh stifling against his chest.

“Deb.”

“Mmm?”

“She might come in at any minute.”

“Not if we close the door.” She moved her head again and her mouth found his nipple.

“Ow!”

“Sshh.”

“Is it, you know, all right?”

“Of course it’s all right.”

Some months ago Debbie had had a miscarriage; she didn’t want to wait too long before giving their only child a little sister or brother.

“Kevin?”

But Kevin was smiling as he rolled off his back towards her, the whole thing easy between them now, easier than it had ever been. Just for a second she tensed when he touched her but then quickly relaxed. His mouth at her neck, her breast, and then her hand around him, guiding him in.

Deftly, Lynn Kellogg fashioned for her mother the story of her Saturday night date; at seven on the dot, her young man, an accountant with a local firm of solicitors, had picked her up at the housing association flat where she lived. They had gone to see the new Alan Bennett play at the Playhouse. Well, not new actually, an old one revived, but with that actor her mum had always liked in The Likely Lads. No, not him. The other one. Yes, very good. Funny. And then they’d gone for something to eat at Mama Mia. Yes, tagli-atelle. Italian, that’s right. Very tasty. And, yes, of course she’d be seeing him again. No, she didn’t know exactly when.

She could almost hear her mother, sitting in the kitchen of their Norfolk poultry farm, making calculations, crossing fingers, counting chickens, hatching dreams.

What Lynn had actually done the previous night was read two chapters of a Tom Clancy, walk around the corner for a takeaway chicken korma from the Maharani, pop open a can of Carlsberg, and watch Andy Garcia and Meg Ryan drinking their way through When a Man Loves a Woman on a rented video.

All those things her mother wanted for her-marriage, babies-Lynn thought she was happy to forgo them all, if that meant she didn’t have to go through all of the crap that seemed necessary to get within even spitting distance of them.

“How’s Dad?” she asked, breaking across her mother’s words.

“Oh, Lynnie, he’s fine. Right as rain. Out there with his blessed birds since the Lord knows when. He’ll be in soon for his bit of breakfast, you see.”

Almost two years ago, Lynn’s father had been diagnosed as having colorectal cancer, cancer of the bowel. He had had an operation, treatment, regained weight, resumed work, almost as if nothing more could happen. It was like sitting on a time bomb, Lynn thought, waiting for the news, imagining what was slowly growing inside him.

“Lynnie, your dad’s fine. Honest.”

Her mother who believed in dreams.

For Norma Snape the best Sundays were not present but past. She could remember when she was still with Patrick, waking late in that bed in Huddersfleld, sunlight patching across the room and Patrick sitting propped on pillows beside her, building his first joint of the day. Then lying there, getting more and more stoned until finally the munchies overcame them and they raided the refrigerator for leftover pizza and chocolate chip ice-cream. Al Green on the record player all the while: “Let’s Stay Together,” “Here I Am (Come and Take Me),” “Call me (Come Back Home).”

Or later, Sundays with Peter, his hands fluttering at her back like wings, barely touching, never still. Sheena, nine months old, fast asleep close alongside her, thumb in her mouth, hair fair across her eyes. The rise and fall of the child’s tiny chest no more than the delicate pressure of Peter’s fingers at the base of her spine. The tension within her as she bit into the soft underside of her lip, waiting for his hands to move lower.

Norma stirred and reached for the mug of tea she had fetched earlier and which had long since grown cold. Faint from downstairs she could hear the sound of the television, though she’d swear that she’d heard Shane go out the best part of an hour since. She fidgeted the sheet around her and reached for a magazine. She could hear Sheena now, running herself a bath. But not her Nicky, he wasn’t there for certain. Shut up in that place, poor little bastard, shut up in that bastard home. This afternoon she’d get herself up nice, go out and see him, take him some chocolate, cigarettes, something special, something for a treat. No matter what he’d done, when it came down to it he was her son; there was no getting away from that, no getting away from it at all. She’d just stay there ten minutes longer, get up for good then, mash some fresh tea. She lit a cigarette and flicked towards the problem page-anyone else’s but her own, they were a cinch.

She was still lying there, half an hour later, when the doorbell rang.

When it became clear that, whoever it was, they weren’t going to go away, Norma pulled on her dressing gown and shuffled to the upstairs window, overlooking the street.

“What the hell …?”

She saw Resnick looking up at her and what she saw in his eyes drove into her stomach like a fist.

Downstairs, she could see him silhouetted through the mottled glass panels at the top of the door. Impatient with the bolts, her fingers finally fumbled back the door.

“Norma …”

It was still there in his eyes and in the way he stood.

“It’s Nicky, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Something’s happened to Nicky.”

“I’m afraid so, yes.”

Norma’s hands were at her sides, clenched; for a moment she closed her eyes.

“Norma. I think we’d best talk inside.”

“Tell me.”

“Norma …”

She caught hold of him, the lapel of his coat. “Fucking tell me!”

Resnick’s breath snagged in his throat. “He was found earlier this morning. Norma, he …”

“He’s dead.”

Resnick’s voice was quiet, each word screaming in her head. “Yes. Yes, Norma, I’m afraid he’s dead.”

She flung back her arm and her hand smashed through the glass of the door. What came from her mouth was more of a hiss than a scream. Resnick caught her and held her close, her breath against his face. Blood ran from her palm and wrist, down past her finger ends onto the floor.

“Norma, come on. Come on now, let’s get inside.” He led her, half-dragging her, along the short hall. Sheena was standing, white-faced, a towel wrapped round her, at the foot of the stairs.

“Help me get your mum into the front room.”

Sheena didn’t move.

Over and over again, Norma was saying Nicky’s name. Resnick maneuvered her onto the settee and raised her arm so that her hand was level with her head. Cartoon dinosaurs were doing battle on the TV.

Resnick looked round at Sheena, silent in the doorway. “Get a clean towel, tea towel, anything as long as it’s clean. All right? Now.”

There were slivers of glass visible in the fleshy part of Norma’s hand, below the thumb. “What … happened?” she gasped. “Nicky, what happened?”

“Let’s get this mess sorted first …”

“No! No. Tell me, I want to know.”

Careful, Resnick eased the longest of the glass shards away; he was holding Norma’s arm upright with his hand. Sheena came back carrying a hand towel. She had pulled on a T-shirt and jeans. “It’s all I could find.”

“That’s fine. Now phone for an ambulance …”

“No.” Norma was sobbing, shaking her head.

“An ambulance, this wants seeing to properly. And get the kettle on, let’s have some tea, all right? Sweet tea.”

Gingerly, Resnick fingered out another piece of glass and set it carefully with the first, on the floor by the settee.

“Mr. Resnick, please …”

He held her other hand as well. “He was found in one of the bathrooms with a towel around his neck. He was hanging. It looks as if he took his own life.”

She pulled away from him so hard that he was unable to hold her; punched and slapped against him as the cries tore from her throat and didn’t stop until he had caught her wrists and pinned them back and by then the front of his shirt and the side of his face were smeared with blood.

“It’s okay, Norma,” Resnick said. “It’s okay, it’s going to be all right.”

But Norma could only remember Nicky’s face as she chased him away, holding her ten pounds aloft and laughing. You let me get my hands on you, you little tripeshanks, and I’ll wring your miserable neck.