Simon could remember. The retail outlets renting the premises had changed, of course, but these were minor adaptations to the demands of the economy rather than any kind of improvement in consumer choice. The people round here did not want quality goods; they wanted cheap and cheerful products that would do for the time being. These days, the shops were tenanted by a DVD rental outlet, a pizza and kebab takeaway service, Grove Grub (which was the only constant factor in the Arcade, having been there since Simon was a boy), a flower shop, a betting shop, a butchers-and-grocers, a small hardware store, a hairdressers with a solarium place in the flat above, and a grimy newsagent with faded advertisements for chocolate bars and comics in the chicken-wire- covered windows.
More local kids in sports apparel hung around on the steps outside, mums stood smoking and chatting over prams, shady-looking men ducked in and out of the betting shop doorway, clutching or dropping onto the pavement creased slips of paper.
Simon entered the cafe, looking for an empty table. There were still a couple of hours to kill until lunchtime, so the place was not what he would describe as busy. Just a few old geezers drinking tea, a couple of grey-haired women eating a late fried breakfast, and a solemn-looking young man reading a red-top newspaper in the corner.
Simon sat at a table by the window. The plastic seat moved across the tiled floor with difficulty. The table was covered with a paper tablecloth depicting birds in flight. The salt and pepper shakers were glass, but they were old and chipped and the salt had hardened to a crust in the bottom of its receptacle. An enamel sugar bowl sat at the centre of the table, next to a plastic rose in a narrow vase. There was something black in the sugar. Simon thought it might be a dead fly, but he hoped it was just a piece of fluff or even cigarette ash.
“Getcha?”
He glanced up. Standing at his side was a young girl with her hair tied back into a ponytail that was so tight it made her face shine. She held a stubby betting shop pen in one hand and a tiny notebook in the other. She too was wearing tracksuit bottoms, but she had on a stained white apron over the top of her grey sweatshirt to identify her as a member of staff.
“Hi. Could I have a black coffee, no sugar? And, erm, how about a couple of poached eggs? On brown toast? No butter.”
She frowned, nodded, and snapped her chewing gum between her teeth. “Yeah, we can do that for you.” She scribbled on her pad. “That all?”
Simon smiled, but it fell short of reaching her. “Thanks.”
She nodded again, as if agreeing with something, and then headed back to the counter at the back of the cafe, where she proceeded to repeat his order at great volume through an opening to the back of the premises, where the kitchen staff was hiding.
Simon sat and watched the people walking by on the other side of the plate glass window: single mothers, absent fathers, pensioners holding hands, young couples shambling behind prams, the occasional overweight man or woman piloting a motorised shopping cart. It was a typical weekday in an urban shopping precinct, filled with those too old, too infirm, too lazy, too uneducated, or simply too defeated by their circumstances to hold down a day job.
Dirty sunlight glanced off the grey concrete paving stones, the sky looked wide and bright, yet curiously lacking in dimension, like a matte painting in an old film. Simon felt anxiety tightening across his chest, like a straightjacket binding him into the past. He thought again of his old friends, and the short journey they’d made from Beacon Green to the Needle. Still, after all this time, he struggled to remember why they had really gone to the tower block that night. They were following someone, he was certain of that; but he had no idea who that person might have been, or even if it had been a person at all. Maybe it was an animal: a stray dog, or a badger leaving its sett on the Green. But no, he had a definite image of them trailing a figure — following from a distance, like spies.
He also knew that it had been his idea. He had convinced the other two to take part in the plan, to leave the den they’d made and pursue whoever it was had been abroad that night. The memories were so close, yet still they remained out of reach. He was like a shipwrecked man swimming towards a shore that never seemed to get any closer, no matter how far and how hard he swam.
“Here’s your coffee.”
Simon turned around and smiled at the waitress. She didn’t smile back. Her hand was still on the handle of the coffee cup, and she snatched it away as if she were afraid he might touch her.
“Thanks,” he said.
She took a step back, away from the table, but did not move away. Curling up one side of her mouth, she folded her arms across her small breasts. “Can I ask you a question?”
Simon picked up his cup, took a mouthful of coffee and put it back down again. The coffee was bitter, but at least it was hot. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
Simon shook his head. “I’m sorry… what do you mean?”
She glanced down at her feet and then back up again, looking at his face but not quite at his eyes. He realised that she had not made direct eye contact with him since he’d sat down. “You’re one of them three lads — the ones who went missing all those years ago.”
“How do you know about that, then? You must be — what, all of eighteen? You weren’t even born when it happened.”
She sighed, shrugged her narrow shoulders. “My mam used to know Marty Rivers. She went to school with you, a couple of years above. She talks about it when she’s drunk. She even kept the newspaper: the report about how the three of you went into the Needle and didn’t come out again for a whole weekend. She says that something bad happened to you in there. She used to tell us — me and my brother — to keep us away from that place.” She tilted her head in the direction of the tower block, just in case he was under any illusion as to where she meant.
“Yes, my name’s Simon. I was one of the boys. I’m surprised anyone even remembers us… what’s your mum’s name?”
“Sheila Dyson.”
The name rang a bell. He had an image of a mousey older girl with hair that looked as if it was never washed, a pale complexion, and heavy shoes. “Yes, I think I remember her. Didn’t she go out with Marty for a while, before you were born?”
“Dunno,” said the girl, losing interest now that his big secret was out. “Maybe. She screwed around back then.”
Simon laughed softly. “That’s very candid of you.”
The girl shrugged again. “She’s a slut, my mam. And a drunk. Always was.”
“Fair enough.” He took another mouthful of coffee.
“There’s something I’ve always wanted to know… I never dared ask either of the other two whenever I saw them around. They’re too scary.”
“And I’m not? Scary, I mean?”
She grinned. “Leave it out. You’re about as threatening as a plastic doll, mate.”
“Okay. I’ll try not to be offended by that. What is it you always wanted to ask?”
She licked her lips and flicked hair away from her face with her hand. She was pretty, in a weary kind of way, like a lot of the girls around here. Her features were arranged nicely, but she lacked the spark that transformed mere pleasantness into beauty. She’d missed being conventionally attractive by a hair’s breadth that seemed more like a mile.
“Well? Now’s your chance. Ask me. I might even answer.” He smiled.
The girl chewed on her bottom lip, and then finally said the words. “What happened to the three of you, in there?”
Simon leaned back in his chair and rubbed his cheek with the fingers of one hand. “That’s exactly what I’ve always wanted to know, too.”
“Suit yourself, mate,” she said, walking away.
“Wait a minute,” he said, as an afterthought. “Have you seen Marty Rivers lately? I’ve been looking for him.”
