When things got really bad, Phil moved out and took me with him. He’d got a room in a squat three streets from home and I still went to school. Phil forged Mum’s signature when they sent letters home about trips and nits. The lies were easy, anyway. We were used to keeping Mum’s secrets. My teacher hadn’t known about the drugs or that Phil and I didn’t get enough to eat. So they didn’t find out we were in a squat, sleeping on a mattress against the door to our room because it had no lock. I can hardly bear to think about how dangerous it was. I was about the same age as Cal is now. How did I survive? Well, I had Phil.
He’d finished with school and was picking up work by then—running errands and collecting rent for a local landlord. He came home upset sometimes when he’d had a hard day but he used to have a drink “to stand himself up.” He was my hero. He made sure I was clean and tidy for school—brushed my hair and put it in plaits. And the boy in the next room let us boil water on his little stove for washing.
We lost touch when I was taken into care. I didn’t even have time to say good-bye. I did look for him when I was old enough but he’d disappeared—into a bottle, people said. It was sixteen years before I saw him again and he’d been completely wasted. I’d been watching for him outside the crematorium—hoping so hard he’d turn up. It was the only reason I’d gone, really. And then I’d almost missed him when he walked past. He’d had to hold up his trousers with one hand, like they were someone else’s, and he was scratching at his face. That face.
“Hello, Phil,” I said, and he closed his eyes and reached to stroke my hair like he used to when I couldn’t sleep.
And I threw my arms round him. I loved him so much. Missed him so much. But I could feel the bones of his spine and his ribs as I clung to him. I helped him sit down inside and tried to talk to him about getting help but he said he wasn’t worth saving. He was crying and I thought it was for Mum but he started saying that he’d done terrible things. He kept saying he was sorry and then the music started for the service.
Tony was there too. All my ghosts gathered together again. I didn’t recognize him straight off either—he was all bent and thin. It was only when he spoke that I’d realized who he was.
“Come with us,” he whined after a recording of “All Things Bright and Beautiful” lurched to a halt and a bloke in a dark suit started ushering us to the exit. “We’re going to the pub to drink your mum’s health.”
“Her health? You killed her, you prick,” I’d said. And watched as he led Phil away to the nearest boozer.
I cried all the way home. Then tried to put Mum, Phil, and those days away again. I had Cal to think about. And our future.
I don’t cry while Claire tells her tale. Apparently, Phil had been in recovery. “He’d been making a big effort to put his life straight,” she says. “He’d been doing so well with the twelve steps but he relapsed. He was found dead in a park on Tuesday morning. There’ll have to be an inquest, but I don’t know how long that will take. I’ll let you know when the funeral is organized. Look, Phil left a few things in his room and I’ll post them to you today. I hope that’s okay.”
I give her the address and pretend to be upset because that’s what Claire seems to expect. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says. But I just feel numb.
Fourteen
FRIDAY, AUGUST 16, 2019
Eight days earlier
Elise
Stop the Festival” was currently meeting outside the pub. Elise had noticed that the landlord conducted much of his business on the pavement outside the Neptune while he smoked. He never finished a cigarette, though. Like an old con, he pinched the tip off and stuffed it in his pocket for later. She wondered how often he set himself on fire.
Dave Harman was a solid-looking bloke with a matching wife. Elise had caught only glimpses of her. “She’s called Doll,” Ronnie had informed her, “although I’m not sure what sort of doll she’s named after. Not Barbie, anyway.”
Dave had been landlord for years and the Neptune was where the locals went. It was all brown wood and crisp packets. Not Elise’s kind of place.
“The Lobster Shack is more upmarket if you like that kind of thing,” Ronnie had said. “It’s for people with more money than sense.”
Elise had known who she’d meant. Weekenders.
“Mr. Big Bollocks and his stupid festival will bring the place to a standstill,” Dave bawled.