That was why Vince was no good, Andy decided, with the expensive long-distance seconds zooming by: he was no good because he would rather we were all inside a book. It would be easier on his nerves if he could read about us rather than having to live with us. Andy wouldn’t forgive that look of his — sheer disdain — when he came to live in Phoenix Court and found himself having to slum it. He thought we all talked about stupid things. He wanted to talk about Madame Bovary.
“Well, thanks for phoning.”
“Are you sure you mean that?” Oh, that arch tone of his! On this phone it was worse, crackling and Gallic. Knowing exactly how pissed off Andy was. “I wish I hadn’t phoned at all now. I’ve made you even crosser and depressed, haven’t I?”
“Yeah, frankly, you have. How old’s this Ralph?”
“Forty-six.”
“Vince, he’s twice your age!”
“You’ve had older blokes.”
“And it was awful.”
“Yeah, well. Ralph is wonderful.”
“You’re just playing the little whore to get a free trip.”
“Fuck you, Andy.”
“Ay — fuck you an’ all.”
A pause. “I wish I could, Andy. I wish I was there. You’ve made me want to be in Phoenix Court!”
“Yeah?”
“Nah. You should be over here. I’m in the loveliest café. I could do with a friendly face.”
“Is that all I am?”
“Andy…we can’t talk about anything seriously here and now. We should just say Bon hiver and have done.”
Andy let himself down then. He sounded almost beseeching and hated himself for it. “Will we talk later? Will you phone me again? Can we talk about it? You went before we could.”
He could hear the foreign party noise in the background. He thought, it sounds like a Film on Four! Listen to Vince! He’s in a smart art-house movie with subtitles!
“Ay, Andy. We’ll talk next year. Listen. Happy New Year.”
Andy steeled himself. “Same to you. Give my love to Ralph.” When he slammed down the phone he gave a jump as someone pressed the cold of a lager can against his neck. It was Mark.
“Trouble?”
“Vince, phoning from Paris, with some old bloke he’s fucking.” The words were out before Andy could tailor them for straight consumption. Andy was so cross he’d forgotten the usual edit. Mark didn’t bat a painted eyelid.
“Who’s Vince?”
Andy shrugged. “He was my last boyfriend.”
“Oh.” Mark looked down, making a deliberate `Oh’ shape with his mouth. Andy thought he was embarrassed. Oh, he must be mortified — this tattooed, single father of one, at having been shanghaied into spending chatty hours, whole mornings, nude in a sauna in the amber light, the air scented like ginger snaps, sharing his time and intimacy with a big fag. Mark looked up and asked, “Is he treating you badly?”
“Just a bit. He walked out on me months ago.”
“So it’s over.”
“I reckon so.”
Now it was Andy’s turn to feel embarrassed. Mark was doing the sensitive straight man act. He was doing it well and it made Andy want to cry. The few soft words Mark had said, the way he looked and seemed concerned, all of it conspired to gather Andy up. Mark was taking his relationship with Vince as seriously as he would a straight one, a straight marriage, and Andy wasn’t even used to taking himself that seriously. Was that why Vince couldn’t be with him? Because he couldn’t give them that self-importance?
“Come on,” Mark was saying. “Let’s talk somewhere quiet.”
Boney M were back on in the hallway. Big Sue and Nesta were dancing around and miming to ‘Ra Ra Rasputin’.
It’s coming on to midnight over Phoenix Court. It is the focus of the night. It is time to think about the way the year will turn. Time concentrates the main events as they go off — one, two, three — around the chimes.
Either side of the main road the two parties are peaking and tumbling out of control. The bad lads are coming out of the house, spilling into the yard, into the clean snow of the street.
Sheila and Simon’s daughter is picking stones in the snow. How she can find them in the dark and the snow is anyone’s guess. She is a lumbering figure in her anorak, on the grass verge. The bad lads have seen her. The town clock, across the estates, across the Burn, starts to chime midnight.
Craig follows on behind the others as they run from the house, towards Phoenix Court. They’re shouting and kicking at each other, as if they can’t get there fast enough. Craig’s wondering what they’re going to do. He’s just feeling slow and unhappy. Someone gives a tug of his ponytail. The road is almost obliterated with snow. The bad lads are churning everything up. They’ve got — and he starts to run when he sees this — they’ve got Sheila and Simon’s daughter on her back in the snow.
Hardly stealthily, they’ve crept up on her and pushed her down on her back. Her collected stones lie scattered all around her head. When Craig reaches the bad lads and her, there is a silence none of them can quite figure out. All of them staring down at her massive form, her hair fanned out, her anorak zipped up. Craig looks down at her — Donna, they call her Donna — and she isn’t screaming or saying anything. Donna looks too depressed to say anything.
Andy is in his bedroom and he’s telling Mark, who sits listening patiently, that Vince means nothing
