The night started well enough. It was rammed in the Old Ship – a fair few guests already over for the holidays, gearing up for Christmas, and workers enjoying their last Friday before the big party-season rush. Everyone smiling and singing, even Thor from the shop – some of the youngsters call him Pizza Face, because of his bad skin, and when they do Tommy has a go at them, saying that’s not nice, and Christie sees the way the other kids look at her son then. Too sensitive, too intense, her oldest boy. Tommy worries about everything: global warming, the death of the sea. And Christie has nothing to tell him to quell his fears.
Christie and Sam were having a night off from all that, enjoying the atmosphere. Mary-Jane and John were sitting opposite them at the same table because there was nowhere else for them to sit. They were hugging each other as usual, but their displays of affection didn’t sting at all right then because Sam 133sat alongside Christie, his arm heavy across her shoulders, and they sang ‘Wonderwall’ together, getting some of the words in the verses wrong and laughing and not caring. She bloody loved Sam when he was like this.
Old Betty sat squashed alongside them, nursing her half a Guinness and a glass of sweet sherry. She does well on busy pub nights, does Betty, rarely having to buy her own drinks.
Christie had already had quite a bit to drink, because the kids were supposed to be at a sleepover with Emma’s lot, but then Tommy had called announcing he wanted to come back (a fall out with Emma’s eldest over who was better, Ronaldo or Messi), which meant Christie would have to go and collect him as soon as the singers finished up. No chance of Sam seeing to his son, of course, but still, they were having a great time and an early night wouldn’t go amiss as she had to help sort the kids’ early Christmas party at the community centre tomorrow morning. Big Bob was due to make an appearance as Santa in the afternoon with presents for all, and then it’d be the Christmas Makers Market with lots of homemade goodies on sale to tempt the tourists.
But then, in the middle of ‘Stand By Me’ Hannah started a row with the son from Falcon – high-season timeshare owners although he’s been here loads recently, what was his name? – and Sam had got up, actually climbed over her to go to bloody Hannah’s aid. As if she needed rescuing, as if she was ever a damsel in distress. Hannah was doing most of the shouting, although Christie couldn’t hear the words because the music and singing were so loud.
Christie felt her body go hot. She was instantly furious with Sam after his history with that little mare. The emotional 134intelligence of a bloody whelk, her husband. Stupid, stupid man. No thought to how tongues would wag about him acting the knight in shining armour for the barmaid everyone knew he’d had a thing with last year. Not just a one-night thing either according to Emma, who broke her bloody neck to inform her of what was going on behind her back. As if she hadn’t guessed! But Christie had said nothing, let it slide. Sometimes he made mistakes, but her Sam was a good man, a good father. Usually.
She gripped her pint so hard her knuckles went white as she watched her husband take hold of Hannah’s hand, his arm around her waist, trying to lead her away from the tall youth – Kit, that was it, Beatrice Wallace’s son.
That was bad enough, but Christie only had herself to blame for the next part. She can’t remember having the thought, but when Sam made his way back to his seat, as soon as he came into range, she reared back and flung the remains of her cider in his face.
She went cold. The shock of what she’d done sobered her slightly and she quickly gathered her things as he stormed his way out through the pavilion exit.
‘Now that was bleddy stupid,’ Old Betty shouted above the music. ‘You’ll not get off scot-free for a trick like that, my girl, you mark my words.’
As she scrambled her way out after him, Mary-Jane and John looked appalled and clung to each other like limpets.
Hannah made it even worse, rushing up to her, saying, ‘Leave him for a bit, yeah. You know how he gets when he’s had a skinful.’ Her breath was sour. As if she knew more about Sam than Christie did – he was her bloody husband! 135
‘Stay away from me and stay away from him!’ shouted Christie. ‘I’ll bloody kill you if you don’t stop sniffing round him. Hear me?’ and she pushed Hannah hard and fought her way out of the pub to the ironic opening chords of ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’.
And then—
Christie is now on her kitchen floor, sitting awkwardly, slumped against the oven. Confused. Trying to work out how she got down here.
Sam stands over her, gesticulating with a bottle of Corona, spitting with anger. ‘I will fucking kill you, hear me? Another stunt like that? I. Will. Fucking. Kill. You!’
But she can’t compute the words because from upstairs, comes the wail like a smoke alarm, ‘Mummy-Mummy-Mummy!’
She tries to get up but falls again. She tries a second time – she has to get to Tommy and the baby. No, the baby is still at Emma’s, the twins and the baby are at Emma’s … And, clumsy with alcohol or … she lurches up and forwards to the table, misses, bringing the tablecloth down with her, smashing two plates, the small vase of holly and silver ornaments she’d arranged in a moment of seasonal optimism, and the half-pot of homemade strawberry jam she’d put out ready for the morning.
Another wail from above.
She feels sick as she stumbles away from Sam, who has a livid red handprint across his cheek, and she clambers up the stairs, the swirly pattern on the carpet making her feel worse, his threats following her.
And as she sits on her son’s bed and hugs him and tells him 136not to worry – Mummy and Daddy are just messing about, it’s all okay – she bites back her shame and rage and guilt.
And if Sam shouts up the stairs, ‘I will kill you!’ one more time, making Tommy flinch and cower into her, she will run downstairs and grab the heavy dolphin-shaped doorstop and she’ll smash his bloody skull in.