She could see the flaring of excitement in Jane’s eyes and how subtly it was extinguished.
‘Yeah, OK,’ Jane said.
Jane decided she didn’t want to do the clubs in Hereford tonight. Too expensive, even if Eirion was still living off the loot from his eighteenth birthday, and too loud to talk. And, naturally, she wanted to be home not-too-late and up early, nice and fresh, for the siege of The Weir House.
Belladonna. Oh boy… Couldn’t believe Mum was involving her to this extent. This was a major rites-of-passage situation. Not to mention a seminal event in Christian–pagan relations.
Between them, they would really nail this mad bitch to the wall.
So, in the end, she and Eirion ended up doing the old snog-walk through the white lights of Left Bank Village, down to the Wye, which some of the sad planning anoraks at Hereford Council were determined to see as like the Seine, only narrower and with just the one café.
She told Eirion about Operation Belladonna – how she was holding her breath in case Mum changed her mind. After which, it seemed legit to discuss the domestic-violence outrage.
‘The trouble is, Mum and Lol, they’re both so totally naive.’ Jane watched the white lights in the water, like a submerged birthday cake. ‘Plus the rock-bottom self-esteem problem. They won’t fight.’
‘Which means you have to fight on their behalf?’ Eirion said. ‘I’m sorry, Jane, but we’ve been through this before, and it doesn’t mean that. When you think of all the trouble you’ve caused in the past by acting first and thinking… well, not thinking at all.’
‘Ah, that old Welsh caution… as you cowards like to call it.’
‘It’s how we survived centuries of English imperialism.’
‘Nah.’ She searched his broad face, what she could see of it. ‘You’re too sophisticated to believe that crap.’
‘However,’ Eirion said, ‘from my humble Welsh perspective, I do tend to think that Lol is becoming less easy to damage. You only have to listen to the new music. The very fact that the music is now dealing with some of the bad things that people have done to him… like he’s absorbing it in a creative way.’
‘However, you’re a pretentious git sometimes, Irene.’
‘I’m right, though. I think he’ll absorb this, too.’
‘He’s emotionally vulnerable,’ Jane said stubbornly.
‘Well, so am I.’ Eirion going all pathetic. ‘And I have to carry the Welsh chip on my shoulder. And do you have sympathy for me?’ He slid his stubby Celtic fingers down her waist to the top of her thigh. ‘Lighten up, Jane. Your mother’s right, you’ll only make it worse. That’s why she’s taking you to Ludlow.’
‘Well, I prefer to think she needs an occult consultant with a pagan perspective.’
‘And you’re fascinated.’
‘Not by Belladonna. She was always crap. Now she’s crap and passé.’
‘She’s surely part of your mum’s essential history. Doesn’t that interest you at all?’
‘Goth frocks and fuck-me shoes? I don’t think so.’
‘I bet your mum looked—’
‘Don’t go there, Irene.’ Jane brandished a menacing finger. ‘Just… don’t.’
Eirion grinned.
‘Besides,’ Jane said, ‘if I’m generously putting my years of intensive pagan studies at the disposal of the bloody Church of England, even though it doesn’t deserve it… Where are we going?’
‘Isn’t there a nice, quiet bench somewhere along here where we can watch the play of light upon the river?’
‘And feel the play of hands inside the bra?’
Eirion moaned softly. Then this shout came from somewhere, like a stone skimming over the water.
‘Lewis!’
‘Oh no.’ Eirion stopped. ‘Who’s this?’
Two guys were strolling crookedly along the bank from the direction of the bridge.
Jane sighed. This was always a problem. On a Friday night, most of Eirion’s sad, rich mates from the Cathedral School seemed to hit Hereford in force. So much for the quiet bench.
They slunk over. One was about Eirion’s size, the other taller, kind of droopy and languid-looking, hair flopping over his eyes. They stood there gawping at Jane, total inane tossers clutching long cans of lager.
‘Hey, hey,’ the tall one said. ‘This must be the vicar’s daughter.’
‘She was only a vicar’s daughter…’ The other one struck this ridiculous pose, then swayed and stumbled. He steadied himself. ‘Der… she was only a vicar’s daughter, but she… Shit, I can’t think of one, what’s the matter with me tonight?’
‘You’re pissed,’ Eirion said. ‘Bugger off.’
‘I can’t be pissed, Lewis, it’s not ten o’clock yet.’
‘Well, go and get on with it,’ Eirion said. ‘You’ve only a couple of hours before it’s time to start vomiting in the gutter.’
Neither of them moved.
‘So,’ the shorter one said, ‘you two just sloping off for a shag?’
‘Don’t let us stop you,’ the tall, languid one said. ‘We’ve not had a good laugh all night, have we, Darwin?’
Darwin? Was that his first name? Jane looked at them and mouthed the word at Eirion.
‘Well, come on,’ Darwin said. ‘There’s a bush over there. Kit off, girlie, chop, chop.’
A fine rain was in the air, like the mist from an aerosol.
‘Oh dear.’ Jane looked at the two guys. ‘How embarrassing, Eirion. You didn’t tell me this was a gay meeting-place…’
‘Jane.’ Eirion gripped her wrist. ‘Don’t start.’
‘Little bitch,’ the tall one said, kind of surprised. He leaned forward, lager slurping out of his can, and one of the floodlights from somewhere splashed on his face, and Jane blinked.
Darwin spread his arms. ‘Hang on… hang on… it’s coming.’
‘That was quick,’ Eirion said, ‘and I never even saw you slide your hand in your pocket. Come on, Jane, let’s…’
‘She was only a vicar’s daughter,’ Darwin said. ‘She was only a vicar’s daughter, but he pulled out his dick and said… pulpit!’
They were both still laughing, while Eirion was dragging Jane away, along the bank and back up into the crowds and the lights of Left Bank Village, straight through and out into Bridge Street.
‘Never,’ he said, panting, ‘get into a scene like that so close to a river.’
Jane looked behind. Nobody following them. They started to walk up the hill towards King Street which led to the Cathedral. Eirion was saying something; Jane didn’t hear over the putter of a kerb-crawling taxi and the sound of her own thoughts. It couldn’t be.
It was, though.
‘Irene…’ Tugging on his hand to stop him.
‘What?’
‘The taller guy. How come you know him?’
‘Because I go to school with him, Jane.’
‘He’s like… one of the students?’
‘Well, he’s not the bloody Head, is he?’
‘Irene, that’s… I mean.’ Jane backed into the doorway of a darkened shop. ‘Oh God…’
He moved in next to her. ‘You all right?’
‘What’s his actual name?’
‘The streak of piss? J.D. Fyneham. He’s in my media-studies group.’
‘Media studies, huh?’ Jane said.
‘It’s a fairly new thing. There’s only a few of us serious about it, the rest are just skiving off.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Fyneham? Obsessive. Also, reckons he knows it all on account of his dad was a journalist, and he’s had tips from all his dad’s mates. Refuses to write for the school magazine, because it’s so unprofessional.’
‘Um… how long’s he been writing for Q magazine?’
‘In his dreams.’
‘No, Irene, listen… he’s the guy who interviewed Lol.’