Jacky

Even after thirty years, her memory still consumed me. Seldom had a month gone by when I hadn’t done a quick Google search to see if she existed anywhere online, but to no avail. She was resolutely invisible, either as Jacky McCall or Jacqueline McCall. I’d even checked people she’d been friends with. Nothing. And then, without warning, the hurricane that was Jacky burst into my life, and left me driving a van with a dead body in it.

It started innocuously enough. I was walking home from my security shift, same route as I always take past the chippy, wondering whether to indulge once again or try to keep my gut from growing any larger, and there she was. Standing over the road near enough to a bus stop that she might have been waiting. She’d barely changed. Long dark straight hair, fringe, leather jacket over a white t-shirt, faded blue jeans and Doc Marten’s. She glanced over, as if she hadn’t noticed before. I lifted a hand as if to wave, but instead ran headlong through the traffic over the road.

She smiled. “Hi, Rich.”

That was it. Hi. As if nothing had happened, as if we were back thirty years. As if I’d buy a bottle of the Piesporter Michelsburg we used to drink and we’d wander off into the countryside, drink rubbish white wine and roll about in the hay. As if she hadn’t abandoned me after Duncan.

“Hi,” I replied, memories racing through my head and refusing to let me think straight. She really didn’t look any different. Life had been kind to her. Her eyes were the same pale brown they’d always been, her skin was still smooth.

“Been a while.”

“Yup.”

She glanced round, as if she didn’t know what was in the area. “Fancy a pint?”

Of course I fancied a pint. Not as much as I fancied her, of course. I closed my eyes for a second, steadying myself. Memories. Too many memories.

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

“You got time?”

“I’ve clocked off from a night shift,” I replied. “Got all afternoon.”

Afternoons, like we used to spend. I looked down at her lips. She saw me do it, and the ends of her mouth lifted slightly. I had to remember what she’d done.

We walked to the Bell and Whistle on the corner, ordered two pints of Pride, and sat down in the corner, alone in a pub, silent except for the occasional electronic noises from the fruit machine.

“How have you been?” she asked.

Bereft for thirty years since you walked out on me, I could have said.  Desperately trying to find you and then entirely unsure why, I could have said. Obsessed, I could have said.

“Fine. You?”

Not the best start to the conversation, but she opened up quicker. She’d been working in gas distribution, it turned out, and she claimed to be the person who would buy emergency gas supplies from abroad if the pressure dropped too much. I thought that was likely to be a computer by then, but I didn’t say anything. I explained about my time in the army, short and sweet though it was, and how life had brought me to being a security guard. I left out the bit about the court martial, the assault charge, a short prison spell, and a few less than honest years. She didn’t need to know about my dark times.

“You ever marrry?”

She came out with it like it was nothing, but it had hovered over the conversation up to that point.

No, I hadn’t married. I’d spent years trying to figure out what exactly had happened, back in the day when the love of my life had been having a fling with Duncan. OK, whether we were strictly ‘going out’ wasn’t agreed, but we hadn’t definitely not been going out. And then it turns out I hear from Chris that Jacky – my beautiful Jacky – had decided she fancied a bit of no-strings bit casual sex and had chosen the most psychotic idiot in our social circle. Duncan. Alcohol-fuelled narcissistic crazed loser that he was. And it had turned out, surprise surprise, that Duncan hadn’t taken very kindly to finding out he’d been sharing.

Which in turn had led to me and Duncan squaring off on the last day at Uni, which in turn had led to a police caution for both of us, on return from which I had found Jacky gone. Packed up and gone. I phoned her house up in Liverpool, but no response. Nothing. It had haunted me for years. Not just her leaving like that, but having found out that what I thought I’d had, those afternoons, those long walks, all the kissing – that had been only a part of her. The real passion had gone to Duncan, at least until he’d started getting possessive.

“No,” I replied. “You?”

“Nah.”

“A special anyone?”

“No. You?”

“Kind of,” she said, and I hadn’t understood how much I’d still felt until that response. Kind of. That was a yes. Kind of. Who says kind of? “A boyfriend, if you’re still allowed to have boyfriends at our age.”

She tilted her head playfully, as if by that I was supposed to know something important. Maybe that it wasn’t all that serious. Maybe that it was time to buy another pint. Maybe that I was being hunted. I couldn’t tell.

She got up and bought a second round, and we settled into a few idle tales of holidays. Mine with the lads to Dublin and Prague, hers to South America and India. Finally, I plucked up the courage to ask what had been burning in my head since seeing her.

“What happened?”

“When?”

I stared. She wasn’t stupid. She was the one who got a first while I scraped a third. She knew. I waited.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” She grinned nervously. “It all got too much. You and Duncan, and I felt like a pawn in some game, an object to be fought over. I needed to get away.”

“You disappeared completely.”

“Sorry. I went travelling for a bit, and by then it… Well, it felt done with.”

“Done with? I loved you, Jacky. I still do.”

I hadn’t meant to say it. But it sounded true, even as it slipped out. I desired her more than anything. I felt the room, the pub, the world could disappear as long as Jacky remained. I was back there, standing in front of Duncan, ready to do what it took.

Jacky smiled sweetly. “If I could go back,” she began, but I’d never know what, because right then she leaned forward and kissed me.

And I was back. Everything flooded back. I was eighteen again, terrified of women, seeing her arriving for that first day of the rock society, the tassles on her leather jacket swaying along with her hair as she strode in, looking like a confidence-fuelled goddess. I had adored her from that moment. Every time she appeared the room lit up with her presence. She was unstoppable. She became society president, of course, because everyone else felt the same. She danced with them, flirted with them, even kissed them, not noticing me until by chance my accommodation fell through at the beginning of the third year and it turned out she had a spare little side-room in her rented house. I begged, and we began spending time together. Not much, at first, but a little, and I was patient. The other guys came and went, but I got to know her, spent more time, until late that year, after what had been a lifetime of pursuit, we finally ended up in the back of a pub together, kissing.

Life had been perfect. It had been settled. Jacky and Rich. Rich and Jacky. End of story.

Except my times with her were only when we were alone. Not when anyone else was around. To make it special, she’d said, at first. Then because it would make everything else complicated. Then I don’t know why. Because it would have stopped her performance at rock society discos where she wore the short skirts and fishnets, and twirled on the dance floor and drew moths to a flame.

I’d been a fool before, and I was a fool again. But a willing fool who felt like that twenty-year old kissing for the first time. The world collapsed around us as we sat there, the afternoon drifting by with pints, kissing, talking, and all the while ignoring what I really wanted to understand.

Because already I was scared of losing her again.

Every moment was precious, and I knew she ‘kind of’ had a boyfriend. Of course I hated him. Of course I knew he wasn’t right for her.

I avoided the topic. And when the barman rang last orders she handed me a phone number and asked if I wanted to do anything Saturday.

If I’d died right then, my life would have been complete.

Instead I said yes, copied the number into my phone, dialled it – to prove that her phone rang, but saying it was to make sure I didn’t lose it – and went home, skipping up to the door of my flat. I called her on Wednesday, and we made a date for Saturday afternoon, meeting up by the station. I said I’d bring a picnic. Including wine. All I could think about was her kissing me, lying in a field, holding her.

I’ve never had such long work shifts as Thursday and Friday, and haven’t failed to sleep in forever, so I was dog-tired on Saturday when I arrived, fifteen minutes early, cold white wine in my bag along with some dips and breadsticks.

She was half an hour late.

Despite the warm weather she wore a shirt over her t-shirt. I’d never seen her wearing a shirt before, but the decades change people, so I said nothing, until we’d had half the wine, most of the breadsticks, and I pushed the shirt gently off her shoulders. Her upper arms were covered with bruises.

“What the hell?”

She pulled her arms up, the shirt falling back onto her shoulders, covering her skin. “Let’s not spoil it,” she said, and leant towards me.

“Whoa, Jacky. How did you get those?”

“Look, can we not spoil the day? I’ve been looking forward to this. Please,” she said, and leaned forward again. This time I didn’t push her away. We kissed, then slid sideways to the ground, and the afternoon was heaven.

The bruises played on my mind over the next week, along with terror that Jacky’s phone wouldn’t answer next time I rang. The hours were torture, counting down to when I’d decided I could acceptably ring.

She picked up immediately. Her voice sounded different, higher-pitched. “Hi, Rich.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” she said, but her voice betrayed her. It fluttered, not the usual calm confident voice that played out in my memories.

“What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“At home,” she said. “Look, don’t worry.”

“Where’s home?”

She told me, but told me not to come. “It’ll be fine. Look, can I call you back? This evening’s not good for me.”

I went over. Of course I went over. I drove over in my van, and I walked up to that door and banged on it.

She appeared behind the glass. She had a swollen black eye and a red mark down the side of her face. She opened the door a crack. “I told you not to come,” she whispered.

I pushed the door aside. “Where is he?” I said, loudly enough to announce my presence.

Jacky stepped to one side and let me past.

“Where are you?” I shouted.

There was a man slumped in a chair having a beer when I got into the living room. Younger than me, maybe forty or so. Looked fitter too. Short hair, didn’t look what I’d hoped was Jacky’s type. I.e. he didn’t look like me.

“What are you doing here? Oh, Jacks, who’s this?” Gruff voice. I didn’t like him. Obviously I didn’t like him. Who would call her Jacks?

Jacky scooted past to stand part way between us. “This is Rich. An old friend.”

“Oh, right, old friend. Well, what’s he doing here?”

“Have you been hitting Jacky?” It sounded so lame saying it. Either accuse him straight off, or deck him. Not ask. Lame.  Weak.

“What are you talking about? Idiot. She fell over.”

“What about the bruises on her arms?”

“What bruises?”

“Look, Rich, please! Leave it alone.”

“What is this idiot talking about?” shouted the boyfriend, getting up. Jacky remained in between. He pushed her out of the way. She tripped and slipped sideways, hitting the side of a chair.

Jacky rolled sideways, holding her arm. “Please, Kev. Don’t!”

Kev stepped towards me. I steadied myself. I knew enough to defend myself, but didn’t hugely fancy my chances. I’d be best letting him make the first move.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jacky scramble to her feet and run to the kitchen.

It was a blur after that. He sprang at me, I punched him in the stomach. He was winded, but not enough, and grabbed my neck. The breath went out of me, but I kept hitting him, broke the hold, and squared off once again. We traded ineffectual attempts at blows before I ran into the chair and looked down for a second. It was all Kev needed. He came forward and got me in a headlock, choking me. I twisted and struggled, but couldn’t get out. I felt my breath draining away.

And then he groaned and let go.

I turned and stood back up, seeing his face displaying shock.

He slumped down, the knife slipping out of his back as he fell, Jacky’s blood-soaked hand still holding it.

She looked terrified. She dropped the knife, dropped to her knees, and began crying. I’d never seen her like that, but I’d never seen her stab someone before either.

“Oh god. What have I done?”

“You’ve killed him.”

“Oh god. Oh god. Please. What can we do?”

“I’ll call an ambulance.”

“No! Please. Somehow. Can you? I don’t know. Make this? Oh no, please. I can’t. They’ll send me to prison.”

“It was self-defence. I can explain.”

She glared up at me and rasped at me. “I went and got the knife, Rich. They’ll say murder.”

“Look,” I said, and leaned down to put my hands on her trembling shoulders. “Let me think for a second.”

The plan didn’t take even that long. I knew people. I’d been involved in stuff. I knew where you could hide a body.

“I can make it go away,” I said. Her eyes in that moment were the most full of unconditional love of anyone I’ve ever seen. Brown eyes, staring up at me from a quivering face, blood splattered down her front. “I’ll get a bag.”

Which is how I came to be in the van, driving with a dead body in the back, how I came to ditch him in my friends’ usual spot – a grave helpfully dug three feet deeper than required, one body inserted in it, and earth placed on top – because who excavates a grave below the coffin? – and how I then came to be driving back to the house on Templar’s Fields.

It was as I turned the corner I felt it.

A pain in my guts. Worse than Kev punching me. Worse than anything I’d ever experienced.

I stopped my van, knowing in advance, understanding, hating the fact that I already knew, but unable to stop myself from going up that path to be certain.

The door was locked. I picked it.

I walked into the living room. The furniture had been pushed back to the walls, and there wasn’t a mark on the carpet. I shouted.

I got no response.

I didn’t expect any.