Ashleigh and Remy Brett 1982 Aged 20 #6
They charged at them, a melee, a gaggle, a tangle of angry limbs all working in unison with the intention of causing damage, of committing violence.
Two hands pushed her backwards, thumping her with such force in the chest she toppled, whacking her elbow and shoulder on to the pavement as the wind rushed from her lungs, landing hard.
It was shocking, a surprise, leaving her quite dazed by the unexpectedness of such an act.
The pain was instant and intense, not that there was any time to consider it, as almost immediately, and still while she struggled to take a breath, a boot came heading towards her and she felt the heavy blow against her ear, which set everything ringing and sent her vision a little fuzzy.
But it was the other four who had set upon Tony that drew her concern.
Panicking as finally she drew breath, she managed to shriek, as best she was able, as loud as she could, ‘Leave him alone!’
It was then that she realised her mouth was bleeding as the syrupy, iron-flavoured loss sprayed over her shirt and the bib of her dungarees.
It was hard for her to stand, to move. Thankfully the pig who had hurt her had backed off. The bad news was he immediately went to join his buddies, mere feet away, as they kicked and stomped on Tony.
Stomped.
Their boots now working like pistons, a machine whose mechanical sounds were the grunts and exhalations of fetid, hate-filled breath, as they expelled energy through their uneducated noses.
Levering herself up into a half-sitting position, she looked around, trying to find someone, anyone who might be able to help.
Her friend wasn’t moving, wasn’t fighting, and she screamed out, ‘Tony! Tony!’ before stopping to catch her breath.
‘Stop it! Get off him! Leave him alone! Please leave him alone!’
Remy felt as if she were caught in a riptide, fighting for breath. As fear and pain rendered her immobile, it was all she could do to scream until it felt as if her lungs might burst: ‘Stop it! Tony! You’ll kill him!’ she sobbed. ‘You’re going to kill him!’
They came out of nowhere.
Suddenly.
Men.
Her chest was tight in anticipation: were they going to hurt Tony more, her too?
If she had learned one thing in the last few minutes it was that she couldn’t trust anyone.
Scouring the floor, she tried to see if there was anything she could use as a weapon, something, anything with which she might be able to mount a feeble defence, but a defence nonetheless.
There was nothing. She braced her limbs as best she could, somehow figuring that if she wasn’t supple, compliant, injury might be harder, more difficult for them.
Her breath came in stuttered gasps, her mouth so dry and still she cried, calling out, shouting when able, ‘Leave him alone! Get off him, get off him!’
With one eye now closing, she could make out their shapes, young, like her and Tony, how many it would have been hard to say; six, maybe seven.
They were in jeans and shirts, short hair, a group of lads on a night out, and here they were, joining the affray.
It took a second for her to realise that they were indeed hauling punches, bent low, delivering blow after blow, but they were not hurting Tony, they were in fact lugging the thugs from her friend.
They were help.
They were helping . . .
They were helpers.
Her whole body sagged with relief.
One by one they picked off the aggressors, knocking three out cold and tossing the other two with bloody noses and split lips on top of them.
‘You’re alright, lad.’ One of the men spoke to Tony, as he lifted his head and placed a jacket under it.
Tony didn’t move, but made a whimpering noise, a low, moaning response, but it was something.
‘Help is on its way. One of our lot went to call an ambulance. Lie still, and breathe. We’ve got you. ’
It was as if she went under then, sinking beneath a wave of relief, giving in to the riptide as the remaining strength left her body, and she slumped back down on to the pavement.
He was in good hands. He was being taken care of.
Tony, her very best friend.
Ashleigh
The taxi was overly warm. Ashleigh wound down the window, enjoying the cold blast of night air on her face. There was something about being so dressed up, so sparkly, that put her in mind of Christmas and all good things.
‘I hope they like me.’ She spoke her words out into the dark as the car zipped along.
‘How can they not?’ Archie lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in a steady stream.
‘Do you really call them Elaine and Dickie?’ She turned to face him.
‘It’s their names. What else am I going to call them?’
‘Mmmn.’ She didn’t have an answer, not wanting to offer ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’, aware of how pedestrian it sounded. Trying to imagine calling her mum and dad Ruthie and Dennis – they’d laugh and tell her not to be so daft, for sure.
‘Anywhere here is great, thanks.’ Archie tapped the back of the front seat.
The taxi stopped and he paid the cabbie.
Conscious of their lateness, the two now tripped along the cobbled street and made their way to the wine bar with a view out over the river.
The steamed-up windows were edged with fairy lights, and as he opened the door, the roar of greeting was almost deafening.
He was popular and loved, this boy of hers.
She followed him, his hand behind his back, holding hers, leading her in from the cold.
Doing her best to smother her nerves with thoughts of how she had looked in the full-length mirror, she concentrated on that, and the fact that he loved her!
‘There he is! How good of you to show up!’ A man’s voice – Dickie, she presumed – boomed at the sight of them. He stood among Archie’s friends, at ease, as if he’d known them all forever.
‘Dickie! You old fart!’ Archie laughed loudly at his father, who sported a soft jersey tied over his shoulders, the arms draped over his navy-and-white checked shirt.
He looked like he’d just stepped off a yacht, his worn Sebagos doing nothing to temper this.
The man came forward and enveloped the boy in a brief, crushing hug, before shoving a glass of bubbles into his hand.
Guy rushed over and stared at her. ‘Wowsers! You scrub up well, Brett!’
‘Thanks. You too.’
It was true, they wore evening dress well, these boys who were accustomed to bespoke suits, well-cut shirts, and good shoes.
‘Gigi!’ Archie slapped his mate on the arm, before pulling her towards his parents, who stood back to back, a few feet between them. Dickie stared at them; his mother, however, was engaged in conversation. Ashleigh took the opportunity to study her.
Elaine Fitch was thin, so thin, with a grace and elegance that came with such a build, hair swept up in a loose chignon to show off her delicate neck; willowy arms languid inside the sleeves of her ivory silk blouse, the hem of which was tucked into a velvet tight-fitting skirt that stopped on her knee.
Black tights showed off her endless legs and on her feet were the most darling pair of soft black pumps with the telltale double C Chanel logo on the front.
When Ashleigh saw her mother after any time away, Ruthie almost bubbled over with excitement.
Irritatingly running her hand over Ashleigh’s face, touching her hair, holding her close, staring into her face, and kissing her as she spoke.
It was therefore with interest that she stared at Elaine, who with a glass of champagne in her hand, smiled once in her son’s general direction, and let her eyes sweep over Ashleigh’s frock, but didn’t break from the chat she was having with Bruno, a boy who was on Archie’s course and who had gone to Stowe.
Archie leaned in and whispered to his father.
‘Oh, fuck right off!’ Dickie shouted from under his bushy moustache. ‘She is not your girlfriend. She is way too pretty for you, you mangey reprobate!’
It was then she tuned in, and realised Archie’s dad had sworn in jest and that they were talking about her.
And no one was shocked, and no one gasped, as if your dad saying the F word loudly in public to your friends was the most ordinary thing in the world.
She couldn’t imagine how her parents would react if they heard this.
‘Let me look at her!’ His dad put on gold-rimmed spectacles that had been secreted inside the front pocket of his shirt.
She noticed then he wore the same signet ring as Archie.
‘My God!’ Dickie smiled approvingly, revealing teeth that would only benefit from a trip to a dentist. ‘She is exquisite! If I were you, I’d get her bed, fed, and wed quick as you can! ’
Ashleigh laughed then, because everyone was laughing, and it felt rude not to.
It was conflicting, to be so considered and commented upon, as if she were a broodmare or a new hound.
It was insulting, yet it sounded a lot like approval, and for that she was ridiculously thankful.
Besides, Archie had already told her that his father had no harm in him, and she believed him.
‘For God’s sake, Pa!’ Archie shook his head despairingly and winked at her, confirming it was all in jest. A pantomime, no more.
In that moment she was glad Remy was not with her, knowing she wouldn’t have laughed, and guessing that by the time her sister would have finished speaking out, Dickie wouldn’t be laughing either, and that might just ruin everything.
Ashleigh watched Elaine Fitch, as she finally, having listened intently to Bruno drone on about his parents’ ski chalet in Les Deux Alpes, gently dismissed him by placing her hand on his forearm and gracefully stepping to one side.