Read Online Heading Inland by Nicola Barker - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nicola Barker
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And they played together then, Joy and Christopher, the two of them, quietly, silently. Bitter, ugly, cruel little games which nobody knew about.
Even Wesley stopped remembering who they really were.
Mr Lippy
The first time Iris met Mr Lippy he was in Hunstanton, sitting on the ocean wall, watching the tide from the Wash as it lapped away at the concrete just below his feet. His right fist was wrapped up in a thick, white gauze. Iris guessed straight away that he must have sustained this injury in a fight. She should have avoided him. Naturally. If only she’d known what was good for her. Perhaps she didn’t know. Or if she did, she didn’t care.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘I don’t talk to girls,’ he responded.
‘You from the West Country?’ she asked, brutally, registering some kind of rural burr in his voice.
He said nothing.
‘How’d you hurt your hand, then?’
He ignored her.
‘Live around here?’
She sat down next to him and swung her legs. She was eighteen and liked a challenge. She wore sandals and a halter-neck top even though it was late October.
His bottom lip stuck out while she spoke to him. He pouted without thinking, like he was sulking about something, only he didn’t know what, didn’t know, even, that he was sulking.
‘What’s a good-looking man like you got to sulk about?’ she said.
‘Pardon?’ He turned and looked at her.
‘Mr Lippy!’ She laughed. She stuck her bottom lip out, mimicking him.
‘I wasn’t doing that!’
‘Wanna bet?’
‘I wasn’t!’ He switched on his brain and stared at her properly, for the first time.
From that moment onwards, Iris always called him Mr Lippy if he scowled or sulked or swore at her. His real name was Wesley but she called him Wes. She always wanted things different from the way they were.
Wesley had yearned all his life to be close to the sea. His dad had been a sailor. But he was born inland and had lived there until he’d arrived at the Wash under his own steam aged twenty-four. Now he was twenty-eight.
Sometimes he worked on the funfair in Hunstanton. Sometimes he went potato picking. He worked in the sugar beet factory until they closed it, and then, after a spate in the arcade, got a job ferrying tourists across the Wash in an open-topped, antiquated hovercraft to visit Seal Island.
Iris didn’t know that Wesley’s broken fist had been sustained, not in a fight as she’d imagined, but in an accident at work: one of the other lads had reversed the hovercraft too close to the ocean wall where Wesley was stationed at the back of the craft, ready to put out the gang-plank. The lad’s foot had slipped off the brake on to the accelerator, and Wesley’s hand had been crushed that way.
An accident. But Wesley relished the pain. He liked punishment. And anyhow, he’d received several hundred pounds in compensation, just like that. A gift from the gods. So he opened a bank account and nested it there.
Iris was living in a bed and breakfast facing the seafront. She was a bully but he thought it was because life had been hard on her. He was wrong. They made love under a single duvet. If Wesley got carried away, if he threatened to come before she was ready, then she’d squeeze his bad fist until he saw only stars. It was good, she thought, to keep him distracted. Just a little bit.
He’d known her for a month when she told him she was pregnant. She didn’t know anything about him.
‘I don’t care,’ he said, ‘what happens, really, so long as I can stay close to the sea.’
‘Why?’ She was only two weeks pregnant but already she felt different about things and she wanted Wesley to feel different too.
‘I don’t know. My dad was a sailor.’
‘Really? And your mum?’
‘She lives in Gloucester.’
‘Yeah? Think she’ll be pleased?’
Wesley shrugged. Iris waited for Wesley to ask about her mum and dad. He didn’t ask. She wanted him to.
‘Do you love me?’
‘I’m used to being on my
Even Wesley stopped remembering who they really were.
Mr Lippy
The first time Iris met Mr Lippy he was in Hunstanton, sitting on the ocean wall, watching the tide from the Wash as it lapped away at the concrete just below his feet. His right fist was wrapped up in a thick, white gauze. Iris guessed straight away that he must have sustained this injury in a fight. She should have avoided him. Naturally. If only she’d known what was good for her. Perhaps she didn’t know. Or if she did, she didn’t care.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘I don’t talk to girls,’ he responded.
‘You from the West Country?’ she asked, brutally, registering some kind of rural burr in his voice.
He said nothing.
‘How’d you hurt your hand, then?’
He ignored her.
‘Live around here?’
She sat down next to him and swung her legs. She was eighteen and liked a challenge. She wore sandals and a halter-neck top even though it was late October.
His bottom lip stuck out while she spoke to him. He pouted without thinking, like he was sulking about something, only he didn’t know what, didn’t know, even, that he was sulking.
‘What’s a good-looking man like you got to sulk about?’ she said.
‘Pardon?’ He turned and looked at her.
‘Mr Lippy!’ She laughed. She stuck her bottom lip out, mimicking him.
‘I wasn’t doing that!’
‘Wanna bet?’
‘I wasn’t!’ He switched on his brain and stared at her properly, for the first time.
From that moment onwards, Iris always called him Mr Lippy if he scowled or sulked or swore at her. His real name was Wesley but she called him Wes. She always wanted things different from the way they were.
Wesley had yearned all his life to be close to the sea. His dad had been a sailor. But he was born inland and had lived there until he’d arrived at the Wash under his own steam aged twenty-four. Now he was twenty-eight.
Sometimes he worked on the funfair in Hunstanton. Sometimes he went potato picking. He worked in the sugar beet factory until they closed it, and then, after a spate in the arcade, got a job ferrying tourists across the Wash in an open-topped, antiquated hovercraft to visit Seal Island.
Iris didn’t know that Wesley’s broken fist had been sustained, not in a fight as she’d imagined, but in an accident at work: one of the other lads had reversed the hovercraft too close to the ocean wall where Wesley was stationed at the back of the craft, ready to put out the gang-plank. The lad’s foot had slipped off the brake on to the accelerator, and Wesley’s hand had been crushed that way.
An accident. But Wesley relished the pain. He liked punishment. And anyhow, he’d received several hundred pounds in compensation, just like that. A gift from the gods. So he opened a bank account and nested it there.
Iris was living in a bed and breakfast facing the seafront. She was a bully but he thought it was because life had been hard on her. He was wrong. They made love under a single duvet. If Wesley got carried away, if he threatened to come before she was ready, then she’d squeeze his bad fist until he saw only stars. It was good, she thought, to keep him distracted. Just a little bit.
He’d known her for a month when she told him she was pregnant. She didn’t know anything about him.
‘I don’t care,’ he said, ‘what happens, really, so long as I can stay close to the sea.’
‘Why?’ She was only two weeks pregnant but already she felt different about things and she wanted Wesley to feel different too.
‘I don’t know. My dad was a sailor.’
‘Really? And your mum?’
‘She lives in Gloucester.’
‘Yeah? Think she’ll be pleased?’
Wesley shrugged. Iris waited for Wesley to ask about her mum and dad. He didn’t ask. She wanted him to.
‘Do you love me?’
‘I’m used to being on my
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