Jane got up to wind the tape back. She knocked on the window to stop the kids kicking their ball against the wall. They’d hit the glass three times during the film. You can’t watch anything in peace. ‘But someone must have. That must have been drawn from real-life experience, mustn’t it? It looked just like real life.’
‘I suppose someone must have done it, some time.’
Now it looked like Nesta had gone and done it. Maybe Shirley bloody Valentine wasn’t all that real after all. It didn’t show all her family and friends — even the ones who never liked her much — searching the countryside, rummaging in the bins for her. On the film she had written a letter, she had been clever. Nesta could barely write her name. And everyone knows, film actors and actresses are posh in real life. They pretend to be stupid and common.
‘Shirley!’ Jane yelled out. ‘I mean — Nesta!’ She sighed out loud. She was so pissed off now that she didn’t care any more. From behind some nearby bushes a policeman shushed her. Oh. Right. They were doing important work, remember.
Wanker! Bending up double again, she went on looking, even though it was dark and she wasn’t sure what the object was. In a minute I’ll look for Fran, offer to take the kids home.
The policeman had sidled over. ‘Hello,’ he said.
Fuck off, she mouthed.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘Oh, you know. Nothing as yet, but we’ve got to keep going, haven’t we?’ She cursed herself for simpering. She took a good look at the policeman. She didn’t like men in uniforms. She’d gone right off bus drivers. And as for that wanker in the camouflage pants next door, playing kids’ games… Still, this one didn’t look so bad. About thirty-five, pudgy, a nice beard and friendly, squinty eyes.
‘When… um…?’
‘Yes?’
His single um prevented any further simpering; it put her straight in pole position. He was obviously being coy. Jane straightened up. God, don’t let him be a pervert dressed up as a copper.
‘I was thinking, when all this is over, would you fancy coming out for a quiet drink somewhere?’
‘With you?’ She started looking for the nearest streetlamp. ‘Oh, right. OK, as soon as we find the dismembered corpse of my best friend in the whole world, then we’ll fill in a few forms, get her carted off, and pop off for a quick half and a shag.’
She stalked off towards the footpath, the chalky streetlights. He called after her, ‘I didn’t mean it like that!’
‘It didn’t sound like it.’ She carried on. People like him just came out with stuff. It was as if they had nothing to cover up. It really narked her. They didn’t care how it came out or what effect it had. There were people like that and people who hid the things they wanted. They kept them closer to their hearts because they were scared. Only occasionally were those things, or the ghosts of those desires, brought out for people to see. It was these people who seemed to have the worst time of all. Jane knew.
She saw that Fran and Frank were standing under a streetlamp some way along the path. They had all seven children with them. All of them were crying or shouting or whingeing. Fran and Frank were arguing, sealed against the darkness in their envelope of light; they couldn’t see Jane as she approached.
Turning back to the policeman, Jane said, ‘I want your name, your serial number and your address.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’ They stood thirty yards apart, shouting to be heard above the kids’ increasing racket. ‘Write it down and pass me it before I catch up with my friends and my children.’ He became cagey and did as he was told. I only asked her out, for Christ’s sake. Children, for Christ’s sake. No, that’s cool. I can deal with someone having kids. ‘What’s this for?’ he asked worriedly, squelching down the hill to hand her the note. Jane took it with a smile, looked at it and started walking away again.
She said, ‘I’m not sure yet whether I’ll report you or fuck you. Anyhow, Bob, I’ll be in touch.’
She picked her way determinedly towards the sodium umbrella of light to rejoin Fran and Frank and Peter and Vicki and Jeff and Lyndsey and Tracey and Kerry and the baby who, Fran was finding, needed changing again.
‘Liz, don’t make me beg you.’
Cliff was trying to grab her attention from the pinpricks of light on the black ceiling. She ignored him, surveying the fake night sky over the fake Greek fishing village. They were standing on a fibreglass humpbacked bridge, a shallow pool before them.
Clustered around were tavernas bulging with custom, shoppers sucking on bottles of Newcastle Brown. The shops, disguised as peasants’ hovels, were closing down for the night: the toy-train specialist, the Egyptian jewellery specialist, and the perfumed pic-n-mix confectioners with the inflatable pink lips stuck in the window.
‘I won’t make you beg me.’
‘Good.’ He relaxed. He looks good in a Greek fishing village, she thought. Even an indoors one. Dead Mediterranean. ‘Because I won’t give you the opportunity to.’
Cliff paused a beat. Suddenly the hollow bridge seemed a long way up. He was looking down on the dusty tavernas from a great height. The family groups, the thirsty pensioners, the lads starting out on a night on the piss — everyone craned their necks, staring at his predicament.
‘What does that mean?’ He was carrying all their shopping bags. ‘Yes or no? Will you run away with me or not?’
Liz had decided on a one-syllable reply. She stopped looking at the underbright stars and gave him a brilliant smile.
Peter flew into Jane’s arms as soon as she stepped into the light. He was a sensitive child, not used to the racket that the others were making. ‘I don’t believe you!’ Fran was yelling. ‘I sent you to buy sweets for the bairns and you come back with bloody
