Chapter 10 #2
‘Aye. That’s why she left – didn’t want a family, kids, felt like she was trapped.
’ Kate whacks the bottom of the bottle of brown sauce, a splodge landing on her plate, before passing it to me.
I add the sauce to my plate, then saw at the gammon.
‘Looks like it was me she felt trapped with.’ I fill my mouth, trying to suffocate the words that want to come rushing out.
She reaches for my hand, my fork gripped tightly.
‘She wasn’t right for you. She was always trying to change you, to make you into someone you’re not.
Do you remember the suit she bought you for your birthday?
’ I nod, looking down at the plate, at the sauce spreading out like a blot of ink.
‘She couldn’t have picked out anything less like you if she’d tried.
’ She lets go of my hand. ‘Also, Alice is way prettier, not a whiff of a puckered lip.’
‘Aye, but she’s not here, is she?’
‘But you have her address, don’t you?’ Kate forks a chip and points it at me. ‘Why don’t you just go and find her?’
‘What, just turn up on her doorstep like some psycho?’ I ask, stabbing the yolk of my egg with a chip.
‘Well, no, but you have her ring. That’s a good enough excuse. Say you didn’t want to risk sending it in the post.’
I take a mouthful of food, chewing thoughtfully.
‘Then you can see what happens, if there is this connection that you’re so convinced by, you’ll find out if it was just the heat of the moment.’
We sit quietly, just the sounds of our cutlery and the slamming of doors punctuating the end of the argument next door.
‘I’ll come with you if you want?’ she suggests, leaning forwards and spearing a piece of gammon.
‘You know, so you don’t look like a total loser.
’ She grins, brown sauce at the corner of her mouth.
I resist the strange urge to wipe it away with my thumb. I busy myself by adding salt to my chips.
‘So, what do you say?’
I put the salt back on the table, meeting her playful smile as she wipes the sauce away. ‘Up for a road trip?’
I look to the window, the sun coming out and lighting up the room.
‘Let’s give it a few weeks, eh? But… yeah. I reckon I’m up for that. I’m driving, though. You drive like a maniac.’
* * *
I dig my hands in my pockets as I make my way home, an idea nagging at me. Maybe a change of medium is what I need to crack that look in her eyes?
The street light by the wall on Victoria Street is out; one of the lads has probably had a go at it.
The wall’s a mess of posters and half-arsed graffiti.
I take a minute, weighing up the pros of using this as a canvas against the chance that the police could rock up, but as there’s a match on, I reckon their attention will be drawn to the pub down the road at this time of night.
I dig out the small tin of white emulsion and a tin of Sandtex masonry.
The street is fairly quiet – the odd scrape of bin lids, the sounds of a TV from an open window – but aside from that, it’s just me and the wide brush in my hand.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I go about putting a white base over the brick, marking out a patch of about two metres wide, using the edge of the wall as a guide.
It dries quickly, the warm night making quick work of the damp.
I bend down, tip some water out of my flask to dilute the emulsion, add a few drops of grey, and give it a stir.
I double-check the street; it’s still quiet.
I run my eyes over the surface of the wall, imagining her face, the side profile, the dip in her chin.
I’ve got half a tin of black enamel left over; that’ll do nicely, I reckon.
I pull out one of the brushes I’d used earlier, thin enough to use for an outline.
My hands work quickly, the rough texture beneath opening up something inside, making my strokes more permanent, more alive somehow.
I etch out the rise of her eyebrow, the bump at the top on the bridge of her nose, the dip of her cheekbones, the sway of her hair.
I’m lost in the movement, in my memories of her.
It takes me a while until I get the movement of her hair against her cheekbone right, blacks, greys, whites, each with a different gradient.
Working her eyelashes and the curve of her eyebrow is harder with a thick brush rather than pencil so add a shadow more than separate strokes would.
It’s tricky but it’s working. I don’t have to concentrate on the shape of her mouth, the dip in her top lip; I’ve drawn her so many times my hands know what to do.
Her eyes are last. I dig into the bag and add a good squeeze of brown.
The only piece of colour. I take my time, adding the light reflecting in her pupils.
I have no idea how long I’ve been here. The street is darker now. TVs turned off, only the screech of a pair of cats going at it.
I gather my things, cracking down on the lids, and shoulder my bag.
Alice’s eyes follow me as I walk away.