might be over, but Corrine’s mum still didn’t expect her to come home empty-handed of a night. Corrine thought of that fiver, so easily given to Sam, so easily spent by her. Grimaced at her own stupidity, thinking she could win that much on the one-armed-bandits.
She leaned back on the machine, slowly counting out whatlittle she had left. Gradually noticed the man looking at her. A lead weight came down on her stomach, her heart.
* * *
Corrine came out from under Trafalgar Pier and went straight across the Front to the public toilets on the other side of Marine Parade. In a piss-stinking cubicle covered in graffiti, she leant over the bowl and was sick, fairy cakes and ice cream curdling with a more recent addition to the contents of her stomach. Kept spitting in the bowl, trying to get the taste out of her mouth. But before she went back to the sinks and the drinking fountain, she made sure the green note was still in her pocket.
Outside, she leant against the wall for a moment, lighting up a JPS. Noticed a man hurrying out of the Gents, his head down, hands inside the pockets of his Macintosh. A few moments later, another figure appeared at the doorway and stopped there, leaning against the doorframe, one ankle crossed over the other. Smoke wreathed his head like the tendrils of a sea mist. He raised the cigarette to his lips, the light briefly illuminating a pair of green eyes behind a thick, black thatch of hair.
“Reenie,” he said, his voice soft, his accent not quite the Ernemouth norm. “And how’s the night treating you?”
“Bollocks,” said Corrine and spat on the pavement. “As usual.”
“Hmmm.” His eyes ran her up and down slowly as he took another drag on his cigarette. “Well, I could say the same myself. You got enough now, or you hanging round?”
Corrine shrugged. “Reckon I have,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Don’t feel like goin’ home much, though.”
“Come to mine, if you want,” he offered. “It’s safe. And I can show you something that makes all this a bit more …” his eyes flicked up and down the seafront, “ … bearable. Something I’ve been learning.”
“I don’t know,” Corrine frowned. She’d heard talk like this before. Normally from the stoned mouths of the druggie losers her mother entertained.
The boy laughed. “God, Reenie. You should know you’re safe with me by now.”
“I don’t mean that,” Corrine felt herself blush. “I in’t doin’ no drugs is what I mean.”
“Not drugs,” he said, shaking his head. “Magick …”
9
Nocturnal Me
March 2003
Sean stood on the front steps of The Ship Hotel. The music had changed in his absence, blaring loud enough to spill out onto the street, along with a babble of voices. The bar was full of people, competing to be heard over Michael Jackson’s histrionic appeal on behalf of planet Earth.
He and Francesca had lingered another half an hour over the balloon glasses of twelve-star Metaxa, coffee and Cyprus Delight that Keri had provided gratis with another one of his film-star smiles. As he had promised, the upstairs remained empty until nine, and they had been able to talk further about the case. Francesca seemed to know the background. Suggested that some remnants of the scene that produced Corrine’s gang still lingered around the place that had nurtured successive generations of Ernemouth weirdos and was undergoing something of a renaissance these days: Captain Swing’s pub. That if he wanted to find anyone with a long enough memory who might be persuaded into giving him some local insight, then that would be where to look.
She had left him with a brown envelope stuffed with cuttings as she got into her cab outside the restaurant. He mighthave seen them already, but this was the most interesting stuff the
Mercury
had printed. How she had ascertained that, she didn’t say.
Sean felt for the room key in his jacket pocket, pushed the front door open. Two women standing
She leaned back on the machine, slowly counting out whatlittle she had left. Gradually noticed the man looking at her. A lead weight came down on her stomach, her heart.
* * *
Corrine came out from under Trafalgar Pier and went straight across the Front to the public toilets on the other side of Marine Parade. In a piss-stinking cubicle covered in graffiti, she leant over the bowl and was sick, fairy cakes and ice cream curdling with a more recent addition to the contents of her stomach. Kept spitting in the bowl, trying to get the taste out of her mouth. But before she went back to the sinks and the drinking fountain, she made sure the green note was still in her pocket.
Outside, she leant against the wall for a moment, lighting up a JPS. Noticed a man hurrying out of the Gents, his head down, hands inside the pockets of his Macintosh. A few moments later, another figure appeared at the doorway and stopped there, leaning against the doorframe, one ankle crossed over the other. Smoke wreathed his head like the tendrils of a sea mist. He raised the cigarette to his lips, the light briefly illuminating a pair of green eyes behind a thick, black thatch of hair.
“Reenie,” he said, his voice soft, his accent not quite the Ernemouth norm. “And how’s the night treating you?”
“Bollocks,” said Corrine and spat on the pavement. “As usual.”
“Hmmm.” His eyes ran her up and down slowly as he took another drag on his cigarette. “Well, I could say the same myself. You got enough now, or you hanging round?”
Corrine shrugged. “Reckon I have,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Don’t feel like goin’ home much, though.”
“Come to mine, if you want,” he offered. “It’s safe. And I can show you something that makes all this a bit more …” his eyes flicked up and down the seafront, “ … bearable. Something I’ve been learning.”
“I don’t know,” Corrine frowned. She’d heard talk like this before. Normally from the stoned mouths of the druggie losers her mother entertained.
The boy laughed. “God, Reenie. You should know you’re safe with me by now.”
“I don’t mean that,” Corrine felt herself blush. “I in’t doin’ no drugs is what I mean.”
“Not drugs,” he said, shaking his head. “Magick …”
9
Nocturnal Me
March 2003
Sean stood on the front steps of The Ship Hotel. The music had changed in his absence, blaring loud enough to spill out onto the street, along with a babble of voices. The bar was full of people, competing to be heard over Michael Jackson’s histrionic appeal on behalf of planet Earth.
He and Francesca had lingered another half an hour over the balloon glasses of twelve-star Metaxa, coffee and Cyprus Delight that Keri had provided gratis with another one of his film-star smiles. As he had promised, the upstairs remained empty until nine, and they had been able to talk further about the case. Francesca seemed to know the background. Suggested that some remnants of the scene that produced Corrine’s gang still lingered around the place that had nurtured successive generations of Ernemouth weirdos and was undergoing something of a renaissance these days: Captain Swing’s pub. That if he wanted to find anyone with a long enough memory who might be persuaded into giving him some local insight, then that would be where to look.
She had left him with a brown envelope stuffed with cuttings as she got into her cab outside the restaurant. He mighthave seen them already, but this was the most interesting stuff the
Mercury
had printed. How she had ascertained that, she didn’t say.
Sean felt for the room key in his jacket pocket, pushed the front door open. Two women standing
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