In Search of Adam Read online

  11.00am

  The service began. A diamond tiara. The Spencer family tiara to hold her veil. Lace. Sequins. Jewels. Crinoline. Silk taffeta. The train of material went on and on and on and on and on. A twenty-five-foot train. Designed by the Emanuels. Ruffles and tuffles of material. I had a green notebook. I wrote it all down. Every detail. The commentator said that it was white English silk. Snowy silk for the new princess. Pure. Delicate. Her bouquet was beautiful. The descriptions given precise. I liked precise. I could almost smell the flowers. Gardenias. Lilies. White Freesia. White Orchids. Golden Roses. I wrote it all down. She was a princess. A real princess. Her prince was tall. He wore a uniform. It was decorated with medals. He must have been brave. He would look after her. She was safe. The gold trims on his uniform glistened in the sunshine and the medals twinkled to let me know that she was going to be safe. I looked at Lady Diana. Her sad eyes peeked through her eyelashes. She would be safe. I do. Husband and wife.

  By 12.20pm

  The Prince and Princess of Wales had left St Paul’s Cathedral.

  Every detail.

  Lady Diana was beautiful. She had sad eyes and shiny yellow hair. She was lovely. Rita had a ‘Lady Di’ hair do. Mrs Thomas (Number 13) had cut it for two pounds. She came to my mother’s house and cut it over newspaper in the lounge. Rita said that she needed her roots done too. Mrs Thomas didn’t know how to do that. She was doing a night course at the community centre in North Shields. Only been doing it for three weeks. Rita wasn’t beautiful and her hair looked silly. Black roots and bleached blonde ends. My father said she looked like a skunky toon supporter. Divvent want to share me bed with a fuckin Magpie. Rita would never be a princess and my father was not a prince charming.

  On the day of the Royal Wedding, my father took his chance to wear red and white all day. He had a wig. Saved it from the 1973 FA Cup Final. Sunderland beat Leeds 1-0. Best moment of my father’s life. I was born that year too. My mother became pregnant after the celebrations of the Semi-Final win. My father still talked about the Cup Final. The best day of me life. Bob Stokoe ran onto the field at the end of the match. The moment of the game. The underdog had won. The only thing Sunderland AFC had ever won. My father liked to talk about that special day. He caught a train from Newcastle to London Victoria. Travelled through the night. A pilgrimage. His only ever time to London. He went with a man from work. Couldn’t remember how or when he got home. The proudest moment of my father’s life. My father was so happy after the FA Cup win that he got a needle and ink and tattooed SUNDERLAND across the knuckles on his hands. No room for AFC. He paid to have a black cat tattooed on his right forearm and underneath it read Sunderland AFC forever. On his left forearm in fading blue-black scribble was Adam. He was the only Wearsider living in Disraeli Avenue. He was proud of it. Every other week he went to Roker Park. Drove through the tunnel. Went on his own. Faithful. Loyal. I listened to the results on the radio. My father would drink to drown his sorrows. I knew to stay in my room if they had lost. They often lost. To celebrate the union of Charles and Diana, my father wore his red and white wig as well as his red and white striped top and black shorts.

  At 1.20pm

  The Prince and Princess appeared on the balcony with the Royal family. Buckingham Palace balcony. Prince Charles kissed Princess Diana’s hands and then her mouth. The crowd cheered. The neighbours cheered. I watched Diana’s eyes. Closed. Tight. Her lips did not move. Joined. Princess Diana had a family now. She had smiling people around her. The Queen of England would be her new mother. She would always be safe. No one would ever hurt her and her eyes would get happier and happier.

  An idea.

  I would draw the princess. I would draw her in her beautiful wedding dress. I would draw her with her new family. Smiling. I would capture the happy moment. Then. Then I would send it to Princess Diana. I would send it with a letter. To say sorry for drawing the wrong wedding dress. On my card. The one that my teacher had sent. Thirty-seven days before the wedding. She would never wear a Union Jack wedding dress. I had been silly. I needed to make it all alright. That was why she hadn’t written back to me. That was why. She hadn’t liked the dress that I had drawn. The Philips Betamax video recorder 2020 would help me. Rewind. Pause. I rushed upstairs to find my sketch pad and pencils.

  I was in the bathroom. A quick wee. Rushing before I started my drawing.

  I smelled him.

  Stale sweat. I didn’t connect the smell. I felt a panic. Terror. I didn’t know the terror. I was unlocking the door when the smell of cigar smoke hit me. I opened the door before I realised.

  He was there.

  He was still fat. He still wore brown and his big belly was shoving me into the bathroom. How’s me special girlfriend? Fear. Fear. Fear. A fat cigar balanced in between his fingers. His shirt was the same dirty cream and he wore a red tie. His tie was crooked. The knot curved to the right. Off centre. Scruffy. He had a Union Jack bowler hat. One of Mr Johnson’s special hats. His nose. Still a purple plum and as he spoke stale smoke and tin can beer smells escaped from his narrow mouth. His lips were wet. A tiny blob of saliva had formed in the corner of his mouth. Excited. Nothing had changed. Panic. Panic. Panic. He pushed me back into the bathroom. I fell against the pea green bath. My legs buckled beneath me. I curled onto the linoleum floor. He locked the door behind him.

  Panic. Panic. Panic. Fear.

  Zip.

  Zip.

  He held his thing in his left hand. Gripped. His stumpy fingers clenched around it. Stubby. Shiny. Glistening under the fluorescent bathroom light. Pointing into my eyes. He balanced his cigar on the edge of the sink. Carefully. He moved towards me. Swift. One hand gripped my hair. Yanked my head back. Fear. Fear. He pushed it onto my lips. I closed my eyes. Tried to make it dark. Tried to make myself invisible. Couldn’t. He smelled. It smelled. Like the dead skin in between my fingers when my plaster cast was removed. Dirty. He pushed. Trying to worm into my mouth. Burrowing in.

  Dirty. Smelly. The thing dribbled. I felt drops on my lips. I wanted them off. I wanted his smell to go away. My lips did not move. Eyes tight shut. I tried to keep my lips closed, but I needed to make him stop. I went to scream. Help. Help. My lips gave way. He rammed it in. I couldn’t make a sound. My mouth was full of his thing. He pushed. He moaned. His breathing quickened. He yanked my head back and forward. My mouth stretched. My jaw locked. Ached. The corner of my mouth burned. I wanted the dribbles to be gone. Sticky rolling off my lips. I couldn’t scream, but I could move my arms and my legs. I squirmed. I tried to attack. Eyes closed. My arms flip flapped. Panic. Panic. Tried to grasp hold of him. No nails to scratch. I tried to nip. I couldn’t grab hold. I couldn’t see. My arms waved in the air. I was too weak. He was too strong.

  Suck it. Suck it.

  He moved my head back and forward. Jerking. I continued to flap my arms. He gripped. He controlled. He squirted into my mouth. Within seconds my mouth was full. My mouth was dirty. I gagged. He pulled his thing out. I threw myself over the bath. Eyes open. I was sick. Salty. Lumpy. Dirty. Tumbling down the side of the pea green bath. Zip zip. Eddie boomed with laughter. Ho ho ho.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw him collect his cigar. Carefully.

  It’s oor little secret. Nah one’d believe a strange bairn like yee. Tell anyone and I’ll kill yee. Clean that fuckin mess up.

  I watched the lumps sinking down the side of the bath. Falling falling. Eyes fixed on the pool of his dirt. I heard him unlock the door. He closed the door behind him and went outside to join the neighbours. The party was in full swing.

  I cleaned it up. I cleaned the pea green bath. Away away for a year and a day. I danced by the light of the moon.

  I went to my bedroom window. All the neighbours were outside. Celebrating in the sunshine. Celebrating the union. Partying. Commemorating. Drinking from tin cans. Dancing. Shouting. Eating. The wedding was over. The happy ever after had begun. I watched. I watched the happy ever after. My father congaed up and down the g
rey slabs with a train of drunken neighbours and he blew on a bugle. His red and white frizzy head bobbed up and down. The bugle was Mr Wallace’s (Number 22). He had played it in a war. My father liked the noise it made. Rasped like a wet fart. My father blew out the conga rhythm. The neighbours danced along their slabs. I watched it all.

  Eddie was below my open bedroom window. Dirty cream back to me. Under the lamppost that flamed outside of my mother’s house. He was slumped into a bright red deckchair. Cigar in one hand, tin can of beer in the other. A bucket to his right, with four tin cans bobbing. Aunty Maggie was on his left. She was in a deckchair too. Hers was a grass green colour. Not red, white or blue. They were laughing. They were chatting. They were happy. A special day. Eddie’s shoulders kept moving up and down. Chuckling. Ho ho ho. His hands lifted to his mouth. Cigar. Tin can. Cigar. Tin can. I watched.

  One tin can.

  Two tin cans.

  Three tin cans.

  Four tin cans.

  Five tin cans.

  He was trying to move off the deckchair. The streetlight flickered. Darkness was coming. I was scared of the dark. I was scared of the light. I was scared of Eddie. The light made me see things. The light gave me pictures in my head. He kept turning to my mother’s house. Looking at the doorway. Looking at the open doorway. Panic panic. He was talking to Aunty Maggie, but he was looking at my mother’s house. Panic panic. He was moving in the deckchair, trying to shuffle himself out of the dip in the fabric. Shuffle shuffle shuffle. He was going to come back into my mother’s house. Panic panic. He was trying to get up. He was struggling. Shuffle shuffle shuffle. His drumstick legs were straggling. Slumped in the deckchair. He couldn’t quite match his feet to the pavement. Humpty dumpty man. I didn’t have very long. Panic panic. I had to be quick.

  I knew where to hide. Such a nice man. A real gent and the perfect house guest. I had rearranged the boxes under the bed. Just enough.

  Just enough space. I scrambled in. Balls of dust. A tiny metal top hat. Red and yellow counters. Broken bits of plastic. Old knickers. Crumbled sweet wrappers. I pushed my way over them. Burrowed in. Flat on my tummy. I rearranged the boxes in front of me. Monopoly. Connect Four. Buckaroo. Bought by Aunty Maggie from a church sale. Too many pieces missing to play. I rearranged the boxes. Neat. Straight. Just enough of a gap for my eyes to peep through. I sneezed. Nose twitched. Dusty dusty. I squeezed the tip of my nose. I waited. My breaths were loud. Too loud. Booming. I tried to make me quiet. I couldn’t stop the panic. I couldn’t think nice thoughts. Panic panic.

  I could hear his drumstick legs stomping up the stairs. Panting. Stopping to breathe. The smell of cigar wafted into the room. He was in the doorway. He was leaning against the door frame. Waiting. Waiting. I could see his shoes. Brown. I could see the different coloured laces and the looped bows. They had stopped. Pointed into the room. Waiting. I heard my father. He shouted. Jude. Where the fuck are you? Eddie jumped. Quick. He dropped the butt of his cigar into my room. I saw it smoldering onto my carpet. I watched it. Awreet Bill. Jus usin’ the netty. Yee lost that bairn o yeez? His shoes turned away from my bedroom. I heard him talking to my father as he clumped back down the stairs. Nowt but trouble that bairn o’ yeez. Hope ye divvent mind is usin the netty. Wor Maggie said yez wouldn’t mind. His voice was funny. He spoke too quickly and it all rolled into one big word. No gaps for breath. He sounded like he was going to laugh. Ho ho ho. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t move. I mustn’t move. Eddie mustn’t find me. I had a safe place. Nobody knew where I was. I could stay under my bed. The tiny metal top hat pushed into my stomach.

  I dared not move.

  I could hear the laughter from outside. Even from under my bed. I could hear it all. Getting louder and louder. The music. The cheering. The jeering. The bugle. The neighbours were happy. The noise was too loud. Boom boom boom. The floor was jingling about. My whole body was shivering. The noise. The boom boom booming. I couldn’t hear if anyone was coming up the stairs. Too loud. Too loud. I needed to hear. I needed to be ready. Aware. Watching. Watching. Eyes locked on the doorway. I was frightened to blink. In case Eddie returned. In that flicker. In that closing of my eyes. I had to watch. Panic panic. He could appear. Without me knowing. Too loud. Too loud.

  My eyes hurt. They felt dry. As if they were going to fall out. Onto the carpet. Then roll away. I wouldn’t be able to see them. I wouldn’t be able to see. I was scared to blink. My eyes needed me to blink. My head throbbed. Concentrate. Concentrate. My room was getting darker. The cigar remained. Lying on my blue carpet. Nestled in its hole. A piece of Eddie still in my room. I had to watch for shadows. Concentrate. Concentrate.

  I tried to stay focused on the doorway. Waiting for shadows. Fearing those shadows. But. But as the time began to tick tock by. My eyes kept dropping. Dropping and locking on the butt of his cigar. In my room. On my carpet. It lay on my carpet. I watched it. It was mine. It was going to be mine forever. I needed it. I needed to keep it. I could smell it. I could remember. I must remember. I must never forget. I wanted to crawl out. I needed to grasp the cigar butt. Then I could crawl back under. But. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I had to watch the shadows.

  I needed to wee. I needed to wee. Quick quick. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t go into the bathroom. It wasn’t safe. Eddie would know. Eddie would be watching. Waiting. It wouldn’t be safe. I clenched the tops of my thighs together. I could not leave my safe place.

  Concentrate.

  Concentrate.

  I could not wee.

  Concentrate. Concentrate.

  I could not wee. Concentrate. Concentrate.

  I could not wee.

  I felt the warmth.

  I felt the warmth of my wee.

  Covering my stomach.

  Covering my red t-shirt.

  Seeping through my grey school skirt.

  I stayed under my bed until my father and Rita came in. I waited until the music stopped and the neighbours screamed their goodnights and locked their doors. I waited. Still. Under my bed. Waiting.

  Safe.

  I waited till it was safe. I waited until the lock lock locking of my mother’s front door. Then. I moved the boxes and I crawled out from under the bed. Stiff. Aching. I went to the cigar. I picked it up. Evidence. I sat on my bed. Gripping Eddie. Waiting for them. Waiting for my father to ask where I had been. Waiting to tell my father about Eddie. I could show him. I could show him the cigar.

  They didn’t come into my bedroom.

  Rita giggled. My father giggled too. Rita tripped up the stairs. It was funny. My father thought that it was funny. Rita was squeaky. They had had a good day. Best day ever. Rita and my father did not come into my room. I sat on my bed. Rooted to my bed. Waiting. Stiff. Wet red t-shirt. Wet grey school skirt. Smelly. Shaking. Back to the wooden headrest. Knees tight to my chest. Arms wrapped around my shins. Head resting on my knees. My knickers were wet. I could smell my wee. It made me feel sick. Dirty dirty sick. The tops of my thighs were wet. Red. Sticky. I had wet my knickers. I had had to wee. Over and over. I couldn’t help it. Too scared to climb from under my bed. Too scared to go into the bathroom. Eddie liked my bathroom. Too scared that he would be waiting for me. My father and Rita didn’t come into my room. They went into my mother’s room. They groaned and moaned and giggled and banged. I sat. Rooted to my bed. Shaking. Scared. Wet knickers. Under my bed. Not far from that metal top hat. My wee seeped into the carpet.

  I stayed awake. All night. I had to. I didn’t know what to do. There was nothing that I could do. No one to help. No one to make things better. Cold. Cold. Cold. Dirty. Smelly. No one. My eyes fixed on my basket. Teddies. Dolls. My mother’s secrets buried. Buried. I needed her to come back. I needed her to come back for me. For her special things. I had rescued them. I was waiting. Always waiting. I stayed awake. Concentrating. Wishing. Hoping. Willing her to return.

  The happy ever after.

  He is with
in my mouth.

  My tongue touches him.

  Caresses him.

  Welcomes him into his new home.

  My tongue communicates with him.

  Teaches him my language.

  Gives him my words.

  I can taste him.

  He shares my food.

  He eats off my tongue.

  I cannot speak.

  I cannot eat.

  He is invading.

  He is capturing.

  He is controlling.

  His flag pole sticks into my tongue.

  Exhibit number three—Eddie’s cigar.

  Friday July 31 1981. The smell of his cigar covered my hair and face. It lived in my skin. It filled my pillow. Two days after the Royal Wedding. The happy ever after had begun. I sat up in bed. Swung my legs over the edge.

  Dangled.

  Bare.

  My pink nightie clung.

  Creased.

  Twisted.

  All wrong. Tucked into my knickers. Scratchy. Tight. I hurt. My jaw ached. My hair touched my face. My hair whipped my face. Pain. Constant pain. A dull pain. A dead pain. On my tummy. Just to the right of my tummy button. I touched a small round bruise. The top hat bruise. I sat. Legs dangled. Not yet reaching the floor. Cold. Exposed. I thought about Eddie. I thought about Eddie under my pillow.