Selfish People. Lucy English

quite believed that.

      ‘A whole box of chocolates! Boys, you’ll be sick.’

      Rachel could do without this. Leah got their coats. On the doorstep she hugged Rachel, who seemed to be fading away. Upstairs Bee and Hugh were arguing.

      At the top of the street she caught up with the boys. ‘You are very, very naughty, you ate all her chocolates.’ But going round my head is, Ian is dead, Declan and Bailey, and Rachel knows them. She wiped the boys’ faces with a spat-on handkerchief. They grimaced and wriggled.

      ‘Oliver didn’t have a torch,’ said Tom.

      ‘Does it matter?’ She wished they weren’t with her.

      ‘Is it lunch soon?’ said Ben.

      ‘How can you be hungry? How can you?’ They were on the Wells Road being knocked about by the wind.

      ‘Are we going home?’

      ‘No we’re not. We’re going to see Bailey.’

      Bailey and Declan lived in Steep Street. It was aptly named. The end of it fell off the edge of Totterdown into a flight of steps. The wind blew up it like a gale.

      ‘Can we run?’

      ‘Yes, run. Go on, run.’ And she ran too. It seemed she would jump off the end of the street and fly right across Bristol, the wind underneath her. They skidded to a halt in front of the door. The boys knocked loudly, all giggly from running, and she was light-headed too. Bailey opened the door. The first thing she noticed were his odd clothes. A pink and black spotty shirt and baggy turquoise trousers. Then his face, pale and unshaven and evidently not pleased to see them. But Leah was too excited to stop now.

      ‘It’s remarkable. I know Ian. I know Rachel. I’ve just been round there. I didn’t know he had died. I didn’t know he was Declan’s friend. I had this dream I had to see her, so I did and we’ve just been running. Isn’t it windy, can we come in?’

      ‘Well, if yer must.’ He had a sarf London accent.

      Bailey’s and Declan’s house was tiny. Even smaller than Leah’s. The front room was all blue. The walls, the sofa and the curtains. There were art books, large plants and an even larger television. A Cézanne print hung over the fireplace. It was pretty tasteful really. On a low table were three ashtrays stuffed full of fag-ends. The children immediately started fiddling with everything. Bailey spread himself on the sofa. He was six foot four. When he sat on a sofa he took up all of it.

      ‘How are you then?’

      He didn’t answer. He lit a cigarette. Leah sat on the other sofa.

      ‘Are there any toys?’ asked Ben, half at Leah and half at Bailey.

      ‘Nope,’ said Bailey.

      ‘Why?’ said Tom, knocking something off the mantelpiece. Luckily it didn’t break.

      Bailey blew out smoke noisily.

      ‘Can they watch the telly?’ said Leah, desperately.

      He handed Ben the remote control, which was a bad move since they now started flicking through the channels and arguing. Leah felt her insides gurgle. Ian’s dead. Rachel’s in grey. The wind’s racing up Steep Street and Bailey’s big bare foot is dangling over the arm of the sofa.

      ‘Where’s Declan?’

      ‘Asleep.’ Another whoosh of smoke.

      ‘Boys. Declan’s still asleep. You must be quiet!’

      ‘Who’s Declan?’ said Ben.

      ‘He lives here. He’s Ian’s friend.’

      ‘Who’s Ian?’ said Tom.

      ‘He’s dead,’ said Ben. Fortunately they found some American football and started watching this. Leah watched too.

      ‘Is Declan all right?’

      ‘No.’ Bailey stubbed out his fag.

      ‘Poor Declan. Rachel looked terrible. I hadn’t seen her for months.’

      Bailey yawned and stretched himself. Leah was embarrassed. He hadn’t even offered to make a cup of tea, which was odd, he drank gallons of the stuff. He lit up again. She half watched the telly and half watched Bailey.

      Bailey was not handsome. His face was too long and his ears too big. But he was impressive. For a start he had dark red hair, not ginger, but chestnut red, shoulder length and wavy. He was vain about his hair and was always patting or flicking it. When he played basketball he tied it up with scarves and headbands. The first time Leah met him he said, ‘Yer hair’s almost as thick as mine,’ which she understood later was a compliment. Secondly, Bailey wore odd clothes. Plaid trousers, red shirts, a lime green tracksuit and fluorescent pink cycling shorts. What with his scarves, dangling earrings and all-revealing shorts, the old biddies at the Project stared at him. So did everybody else.

      ‘Take one,’ he said, pointing to his fags on the low table. Leah did; the smoke made her more dizzy.

      ‘How’s your training going?’

      ‘Mega naff.’

      ‘Have you not been well?’

      ‘No, I’ve been pissed.’

      They sat in silence, their smoke mingling in the tiny sitting room, the children mesmerised by the wrestling Americans.

      I should go. I’m an intruder. But I can’t quite believe this, because muddled up with Ian and Rachel and dying and things changing is last Friday …

       CHAPTER TWO

      She was walking home from a particularly boring Project meeting when she saw Bailey. She recognised him immediately: he had a peculiar stiff way of walking as if he were trying to conserve energy.

      ‘Bailey!’ she called. She expected him to wave back and keep walking, but he didn’t, he crossed the road.

      ‘Yo! Wotcha!’

      ‘Friday night, Bailey, you on the town?’

      ‘Sure am.’ He was wearing his best plain trousers and a bright orange anorak. He let her admire him for some moments. ‘What you been up to then?’

      ‘Oh God, meetings, meetings, they’re so tedious!’

      Bailey laughed. ‘You’re always at meetings.’

      ‘I know. Somebody’s got to make decisions.’ She turned to go.

      ‘Come for a drink,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’m off to the Cambridge.’

      She was surprised. She saw him frequently but only in a work context. Yet now he looked so friendly and ridiculous and harmless. ‘Yes, why not.’

      The Cambridge was on the other side of the park on the main road. It was seedy. Inside, he looked sharply around and went straight to the bar. Leah sat in a corner. The interior was as tacky as the exterior. Smoke-stained wallpaper and plastic-upholstered chairs. A few young men were playing snooker. Apart from the barmaid Leah was the only woman. Everybody stared at Bailey. He wasn’t bothered. He lit a cigarette, inhaled and stretched himself as if he had just landed in paradise. He took a great gulp of his drink. It was Guinness, thick and black, and he wiped the froth off his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Take one.’ He tapped his cigarette packet. She did and sipped her drink, which was white wine.

      ‘They’re here!’ Bailey jumped up as through the door came two men, one dark haired and tall, the other small and fair.

      ‘Bailey!’ ‘Yo, Declan! Mike!’ ‘How’s you?’ ‘Pint of Guinness? You buy the next one.’ Bailey and the dark-haired man went to the bar. Bailey’s laugh