‘You don’t want that,’ Johnny’s dad said. ‘You want a proper job.’ They kicked it back and forth between them. His dad’s final shot at goaclass="underline" ‘What will Janice say?’
Janice didn’t say anything; Rebus kept putting off telling her. And then one day she learned from her mum, who’d been talking to Johnny’s dad, learned Johnny was thinking of leaving.
‘It’s not like I’m going for good,’ he argued. ‘I’ll have plenty of home visits.’
She folded her arms, the way her mother did when she had right on her side. ‘And am I supposed to just wait for you?’
‘Please yourself,’ Johnny said, kicking a stone.
‘That’s the plan,’ she said, walking off.
Later, they made it up. He went to her house, went up to her bedroom with her: it was the only place they could talk. Her mum brought up juice and biscuits; gave them ten minutes then came up again to check they didn’t need anything. Johnny said he was sorry.
‘Does that mean you’ve changed your mind?’ Janice asked.
He shrugged. He wasn’t sure. Who did he want to let down: Janice or Mitch?
By the night of the dance, he’d made his mind up. Mitch could go alone. Johnny would stay behind, get a job of some kind and marry Janice. It wouldn’t be a bad life. Plenty before him had done the same thing. He would tell Janice, tell her at the dance. And Mitch too, of course.
But first they had a drink. Mitch had got some bottles and an opener. They sneaked into the churchyard next to the school, drank a couple each, lay there in the grass, the headstones rising all around them. And it felt good, felt comfortable. Johnny swallowed back his confession. It could wait; he couldn’t spoil this moment. It was like their whole lives had been sorted out, and everything was going to be fine. Mitch talked about the countries they’d visit, the things they’d see and do.
‘And they’ll all be gutted, just you wait.’ Meaning everyone who stayed in Bowhill, all their friends who were going off to college or down the pit or into the dockyard. ‘We’ll see the whole fucking world, Johnny. And all they’ll ever see is this place.’ And Mitch stretched his arms out until his fingertips brushed the rough surfaces of two headstones. ‘All they’ll ever have to look forward to is this...’
They were untouchable as they marched into the playground. A teacher and the deputy head were on the door, collecting tickets.
‘I smell beer,’ the deputy head said, catching them off guard. Then he winked. ‘You might have saved one for me.’
Johnny and Mitch were laughing, all grown-up now, as they walked into the assembly hall. There was music playing, people up dancing. Soft drinks and sandwiches on trellis tables in the dining hall. Chairs around the perimeter of the assembly hall; huddles of conversation, eyes darting everywhere. It felt — just for a moment — as if everyone was looking at the new arrivals... looking at them, envying them. Mitch slapped Johnny’s arm, headed towards his girlfriend Myra. Johnny knew he’d tell him at the end of the dance.
He looked for Janice, couldn’t see her. He had to tell her... had to find the words. Then someone told him there was whisky in the toilets, and he decided to stop there first. Two cubicles, side by side. Three boys in each, passing the bottle back and forth over the partition. Keeping silent so they wouldn’t be caught. The stuff tasted like fire. Its fumes came rolling down Johnny’s nostrils. He felt drunk; elated; unstoppable.
Back in the hall, it was ladies’ choice. A girl called Mary McCutcheon asked him up. They danced well together. But the reel made Johnny light-headed. He had to sit down. He hadn’t noticed some recent arrivals — three boys from his year; boys who had over time become Mitch’s implacable enemies. The leader of the three, Alan Protheroe, had gone one-on-one with Mitch. Mitch had pulverised him, eventually. Johnny didn’t see them eyeing up Mitch. Didn’t think that the last dance of schooldays might be a time for settling scores, for ending things as well as beginning them.
Because now Janice was in the hall. Seated next to him. And they were kissing, even when Miss Dysart stood in front of them clearing her throat in warning. When Janice drew away eventually, Johnny stood up, pulling her to her feet.
‘I’ve something to tell you,’ he said. ‘But not here. Come on.’
And had led her outside, round the back of the old building to where the bike-sheds — now largely unused — still stood. Smokers’ Corner, they called it. But it was a place for lovers too, for quick snogs at lunchtime. Johnny sat Janice down on a bench.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me how lovely I look?’
He drank her in. She did look lovely. Light from the school windows made her skin seem to glow. Her eyes were dark invitations, her dress rustled with layers waiting to be unpeeled. He kissed her again. She tried to break away, asked him what it was he wanted to tell her. But now he knew that could wait. He was light-headed and full of dreams and desire. He touched her neck where it was bare at the shoulders. He ran his hand down her back, slipping it beneath the material. Her mum had made the dress; he knew it had taken hours. When he pressed harder, he felt the stitching in the zip give way. Janice gave a gasp and pushed him away.
‘Johnny...’ Craning her neck to try to assess the damage. ‘You silly bugger, see what you’ve done.’
His hands on her legs, sliding the dress up past the knee. ‘Janice.’
She was standing now. He stood, too, pressing in on her for another kiss. She turned her face away. He seemed all limbs, sliding up her legs, slithering around her neck and down her back... She knew he tasted of beer and whisky. Knew she didn’t like it. When she felt his hand trying to prise her legs apart, she pushed him away again, and he stumbled. Regaining balance, he wasn’t so much smiling as leering as he moved in on her again.
And she swung back her hand, made a fist of it, and hit him a solid blow, almost dislocating her wrist in the process. She rubbed her knuckles, mouthing silent words of pain. He was flat out on the ground; knocked cold. She sat down again on the bench and waited for him to get up. Then heard what sounded like a commotion, and felt she’d much rather investigate than stay out here...
It was a fight. Slaughter might have been nearer the mark. The gang of three had somehow got Mitch on his own. They were at the edge of the playing-field, The Craigs silhouetted behind them. The sky was dark blue, bruise-coloured. Maybe Mitch had felt that tonight of all nights, he could take all three. Maybe they’d offered him a rematch, promising one-on-one. But it was three against one, and Mitch was on his hands and knees as the kicks rained in on his face and ribs. Janice was running forward, but a small, wiry figure beat her to it, legs and arms working like a windmill, head smashing into an unprotected nose, teeth bared with determination. She was amazed to identify the figure as Barney Mee, everyone’s joker. What he lacked in elegance and precision, he more than made up for in sheer bloody-mindedness. He was like a machine. It only lasted a minute, maybe less, and at the end he was exhausted, but three figures were slouching off into the encroaching darkness as Barney slumped to the ground and lay on his back, staring up at the moon and the stars.
Mitch had pulled himself into a sitting position, one hand on his chest, the other covering an eye. Both hands were smeared with his own blood. His lip was split, and his nose was dripping red. When he spat, half a tooth was attached to the string of thick saliva. Janice stood above Barney Mee. He didn’t seem so small, lying stretched out like that. He seemed... compact, but heroic. He opened his eyes and saw her, gave her one of his toothy grins.
‘Lie down here,’ he told her. ‘There’s something you should see.’
‘What?’