Another Elvis Love Child by Janette Jenkins

Author:Janette Jenkins
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781409059127
Publisher: Random House

You must never look at the sun directly, either with the naked eye or through binoculars or a telescope. Observing the sun is potentially very dangerous and can result in irreparable eye damage or blindness. Children are particularly at risk.

SHE LET ME OPEN THE CURTAINS.

‘Just a crack,’ she said. ‘I don’t want full-blown daylight.’

I was careful. I pulled slowly, just a few centimetres. The sun blazed. We could feel it, warming through the glass. It made us blink, squint, and we both turned our heads away, amazed.

‘Look at it,’ said Mum. ‘Is it summer already?’

The bedroom looked strange in the daylight. Squeezed and washed out. We were used to lamps with thick shades and tiny low-watt bulbs.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Look at us. We could be sunbathing. We could be out in the back, dripping with Ambre Solaire.’

I tried a smile and went and sat with her. She moved an arm across, and her eyes swivelled softly in a pool of bloody red. She coughed and had to hold herself.

‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘I’d be better off with low tar, but they haven’t any taste.’

I lit her another cigarette. It had felt strange at first. I’d never liked them much. I wasn’t one of the gang who bought fags with their dinner money. But now I didn’t mind. I could hand them to her, strike up a match. I was even willing to drag on it a bit if she was desperate.

‘It’s not your fault,’ she’d been saying, over and over again. ‘Don’t blame yourself. It’s him. He’s changed somehow. I don’t know. He’s worse. He keeps seeing himself Up There.’ And she’d moved her hand as if she was showing me the stage at the London Palladium. ‘You know what he’s like,’ she said.

The sun felt strong as we huddled under blankets. They were creased now, and greying. You could see where we’d spilt tea, blood, fizzed-up soluble aspirin.

‘We wouldn’t do for visitors.’ She was rubbing at the crusts that had built up round her eyes. ‘Imagine. And I’d feel so ashamed,’ she said. ‘Just look at us.’

DAD? WELL, OF COURSE HE’D BEEN OPTIMISTIC. HE KNEW those clubs opened late. Didn’t they have special licences? Tables with lamps on them. Wine. And then there were the parties afterwards. Small select gatherings in the dressing room. Drinks. Hangers-on. Celebrities. They went on for hours. He’d been looking forward to that side of things.

But really, even for an optimist, there was only so long you could wait.

It was after three o’clock when he’d slammed his fist into the armchair.

‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ The floor had rattled. There was blood everywhere. His hand had gone right through the springs.

For hours he’d been sniffing, pacing, staring at the telephone. Then every so often he’d looked long and hard through the window, as if that Jag might suddenly reappear, full of champagne, contracts and bikini-clad girls that just couldn’t wait until morning.

We couldn’t go to bed. We sat there, sharing his pain. We didn’t talk.

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