Silent, The Party

Two Years Earlier, Gavin
Party on the old fairground.


The guys in army clothing, Jace and his mate Steve, didn't turn up, and no one seemed to know where they were. Kids still at school milled around, knocking back vodka and cider, criticising everyone over the age of twenty-one. They didn't say much to Philippa or me at first. Just looked us up and down, as if we were teachers or something. They all spoke with accents. Mild Scouse, with Innit and Bro added.  

'Hey,' this kid in a hoodie shouted, sounding drunk. He was about fourteen, fifteen. Rusty freckles, bloodshot eyes. 'I used to live at Lyme House in the flat that burnt down ten years ago.'
He said this twice. The second time, I realised he was speaking to Philippa and me. 'My granddad's Arthur Harlesden, former Mayor of Blackpool,' he went on.  'I used to live in the flat when I was small and he used to come and visit us all the time.'

'Seriously?'  I said.    

'I'm Steve's brother. My name's Scott.'

'Oh, right, I said.  Like, what's going on?  Why is Arthur Harlesden's grandson here?  How does this tie in with Steve?  'So Terence Harlesden's your dad then?'

'Might be,' the kid said, sulkily.  'What's it to you?'

I felt Philippa kick my foot.  Quiet, she mouthed. I was pretty hammered, but not hammered enough to miss the warning in Philippa's expression.  The whole thing seemed really weird, just like earlier when Arthur Harlesden entered the dining room at the House and stared directly at Philippa who turned away.

'Steve's two years older than me,' the boy was saying. 'I've got a little brother as well.  Pete. He's nine. Jace is our Steve's best mate. He's cool. Everyone wants to hang out with him.'

The boy continued. Yawning, I switched off and took another swig of cider. I began to regret drinking so much, since just after dinner. The stuff was messing with my head. I could see patterns and faces, eyes blinking back at me. Thoughts not my own popping into my head in the same way that sounds do. Again, I saw her. The girl by the railings, the waitress from Lyme House.  Pale, tragic face. About to jump into the waves.  No, I must stop her. Don't jump!

Startled, I opened my eyes. Steve's brother Scott kept nudging me with his foot. He grinned. 'All right, mate? Are you listening to this? I was telling your girlfriend here about the girl from Lyme House who should have died but didn't.'

Girlfriend!  I expected Philippa to deny this, but she didnt. 'Lucy Harlesden,' the boy Scott went on.  'She's my third cousin, me mum reckons. Her parents moved to the flat after we left. Her dad taught violin at the school and was deputy principal. Mum reckons he paid a couple of men to burn the flat down when the rest of the school were on holiday.'

'Why would he do that?' I said.

'Dunno,' Scott said. 'Mum reckons some people are evil.'

'I think your mum should get her facts straight,' Philippa cut in. 'Lucy's father wasn't responsible for the fire. Someone...'

'Everyone knows it was the dad, Douglas Harlesden, ' Scott interrupted. 'He was a nutter who killed his wife.'

'There's no evidence he did anything actually,' Philippa said. 'And I don't think he was that bad at all. You just stop saying nasty things about Douglas Harlesden. You can't have been more than about four or five at the time - so how would you know what really happened?'

Scott's eyes flashed with anger. 'I know because we used to live there and my mum met him once or twice. She reckons he was evil. What's it to you anyway? You're stuck up and weird. I'm going to tell my brother Steve you're causing trouble.'

'Go ahead,' Philippa said.

Scott turned to me: 'Got a cigarette on you? I've run out.'

'I don't smoke.'

'Freak,' he said, and turned his back on us.