Ashleigh and Remy Brett 1982 Aged 20 #5
It was as these words flew from his mouth and spiralled out of the sash window, with wings of hope and promise beating fast, carrying them into the night sky where they would land among the stars, that the emotion she had been trying to contain burst from her.
Tears ran down her face and her mouth twisted.
‘I love you too, Archie, I really, really do!’ This, the first time she had said it out loud and a moment she knew she wouldn’t forget, not ever.
‘Don’t cry, Ashleigh Brett. Please don’t cry.’ He leaned forward and rested his forehead on hers, and there they sat for a while, revelling in the closeness of this new and thrilling world into which they had stepped.
It was wonderful, magic, the fairy tale!
And as he held her close, running his fingers over the knobbles of her spine as she fell into him, she felt her nerves melt away.
Anything and everything was possible because Archibald Oxton Fitch loved her.
He loved her! She was under his skin and inside his bones and that was, she knew, a place she could happily stay forever.
Remy
Remy linked arms with Tony as he walked around all the doors, locking and checking his mum’s car.
‘Where first, Anchor?’ They fell into step. She quite liked the Anchor and really liked the look of a boy who worked behind the bar there sometimes, not that she’d be sharing this with Tony, knowing his capacity for meddling.
‘Why not. And remember, if anyone asks, we’re not a couple!’
‘And as I said, my love, I really don’t think that’s why we are both single.’ She nudged him with her elbow. ‘Would you like to meet someone?’
It was a topic they didn’t usually dwell on, knowing it was hard enough for her to find a love interest living in a small city, and it was a darned sight harder for Tony, who had only been open about his sexuality in the last couple of years.
‘It’s taken me a while to figure it all out,’ he’d explained.
‘It’s nobody’s business but yours.’ She’d held him tightly before they’d jumped up to dance.
‘Would I like to meet someone? Hmm.’ He stroked his chin in an exaggerated fashion. ‘No, I want to remain single for my entire life, die a virgin and end up living in a leaky cottage full of cats.’ He tutted.
‘You know what I mean!’ She pulled his arm towards her. ‘I guess I’m asking if you’re ready to meet someone, because it’s different isn’t it, at our age?’
‘God, what are we, fifty? We are young with our whole lives ahead of us!’ He threw his head back and called out to the starry sky above.
They got this way when they were dressed up and heading out, excited at all the possibilities of what the night might hold.
She felt a bubble of pure happiness rise in her stomach.
‘Yes, but as Ruthie is fond of telling us, we shall blink and be forty, then sixty . . .’
‘Well, aren’t you a little bowl of sunshine this evening!’ He pursed his lips.
‘I don’t want to put us on a downer, but it is different though, isn’t it? It’s much more than snogging at discos. We’re at that point in our lives when it can get very serious, very quickly.’
Not entirely averse to the idea, she was curious about her next chapter, about sex, love and all that came with it. Maybe university was the portal to take her to that world. Again she pulled Tony’s arm into her, knowing these moments were even more precious because they might be on a timer.
‘Well, someone’s been reading Cosmo! And, actually, right now, I’d settle for snogging at discos.’
‘I can see I’m not going to be getting any sense out of you tonight.’ She gave up.
‘I kind of feel that serious conversations are for Monday through Friday, but in the words of Elton, Saturday night’s the night for dancing!’
‘I don’t think they’re the words.’
‘Let’s make out they are!’ He laughed, and they sped up, giggling, keen to get to the pub.
‘Oi!’
The shout was loud, determined, spoken with an intent that suggested it was a forerunner to more words. If she had to guess, it had been hollered with particular consideration given to the volume, as the single word ricocheted around them and landed uncomfortably in their ears.
Remy wondered who was shouting and who they might be shouting at.
Tony too stopped walking and they both looked back over their shoulders, quickly understanding that it was one of a group of lads who was yelling; clearly they travelled as a pack.
Fear sloshed in her stomach, as she counted one, two, three, four, five of them.
Their very presence intimidating, as they stood resplendent in their oxblood Doc Martens laced high on their shins, tight jeans rolled and cuffed at the top of the boots, white T-shirts tucked into their waistbands with braces under green puffy bomber jackets.
Their heads were shaved, and they gave off a collective energy that sent a white-hot rod of fear through her very core.
She had never been in a situation like this, never experienced this horrible sense of foreboding.
Yes, there had been one or two calls of ‘Poofter!’ shouted by cowards from moving vehicles, but they’d ignored it.
Tony said it was par for the course where he was a rarity and was always adamant he wasn’t going to let some dickhead homophobes spoil a night out.
The second thing that became clear was that they were shouting at her and Tony.
‘We’re just going to the pub!’ she replied in a sing-song voice that she hoped might let them know they were friendly, in case it was a matter of mistaken identity, smiling broadly to indicate they were not persons of interest, no one to be bothered with.
Just two friends going to the Anchor for a pint, although she wished they weren’t.
She wished in that moment with a growing sense of fear that she had taken her mum’s advice and that they were on the sofa, in her house, with a nice cup of tea.
‘Who’s your friend?’ One of them, possibly the one who had yelled out, with eyes that were chips of flint, gestured with his cigarette towards Tony. She felt him tremble next to her.
‘My friend?’ She played for time, wondering where to run, looking behind the gang of five to see if there was anyone else around. There wasn’t. The shops to the right of them were closed and there was no one else in the car park. Trapped.
‘Yeah, your friend, what’s her name?’
Tony spoke then, holding up his free hand, the other still linking him to Remy.
‘Look, we don’t want any trouble.’
The men shared nasal bursts of laughter, and the spokesman dropped his cigarette on to the floor and trod it under the sole of his DM.
‘Is that right, Shirley? And who says it’s you who gets to decide whether you’re in trouble or not?’ They took a step closer.
Remy felt her mouth run dry and her legs turned to jelly.
‘You wearing red lipstick?’ a different man asked, and the other four snickered. She could see the hatred in their faces. Hatred for her and Tony, strangers. It was as petrifying as it was unfathomable.
‘Run, run, now, Remy!’ Tony’s voice was a quiet warble of fear spoken from the side of his mouth.
‘No!’ She was resolute, believing they would not hurt a girl and that she was therefore his best form of defence.
‘What are you anyway?’ the mouthpiece asked, and his mates laughed again; one hawked and spat.
She knew Tony was aware of the loaded question, but he didn’t falter and answered in a steady voice. It was an act of bravery that she knew was the mark of the man.
‘I’m a photographer.’
‘Oooh! I’m a photographer!’ The one who had asked about the lipstick mimicked Tony’s voice, exaggerating the feminine lilt, walking with his hand on his hip and making out to toss long hair over his shoulder.
What happened next was quite unexpected. Tony shrugged free of her arm and took a step towards them.
‘Ah, it all makes sense now.’ Tony stood with his back straight, chin jutting, his voice bearing only the slight betrayal of fear as his words, sounding a little sticky to her knowing ear, came from a nervous mouth.
‘The lipstick you were interested in, and which, by the way, I think would really suit you, is not red, it’s actually Heather Shimmer.
And may I say you’ve got that walk off pat.
I can see I’ve found a kindred spirit. Fancy a quick one?
’ He jerked his head towards the alleyway between Dolcis and Rumbelows.
There was a second, maybe two, of stillness, as if they were in a play and were all a little unsure of the stage direction given, or whose line it was.
Of one thing she was sure: it was about to get very serious, very quickly.
It was then Remy remembered the words of the Elton John hit.
It was fighting that Saturday night was alright for, fighting, although at that moment in time she would have given anything in the whole wide world for it to have been dancing.
She froze.
Holding in her breath, her words, her terror, as in the next second the world began to turn in slow motion and all hell broke loose.
The five thugs seemed to surge, in a manner which, upon reflection, would suggest it was well choreographed.
Their mouths she would remember, shrunk to angry arseholes, as their eyes blazed.
It was almost instinctive, the way she lifted her arms to shield her face from the impact, as if they were still in the Austin Allegro about to hit the tree her mum had warned them about, the one that could come at you from nowhere on a sharp bend.