Ms Holmes Read online

  Ms. Holmes

  Copyright 2017 John Noonan

  Published by John Noonan at Smashwords

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

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  Acknowledgements

  For Louise, Peter, Heather and Hannah.

  With apologies to Arthur.

  Once Upon a Time…

  It had been SH’s idea to go back to Manchester.

  Studying in Bangor meant dropping in on family and friends was very easy - our home town in England being only a 2-hour train journey away - and feeling drained by my own dissertation, I was well up for the trip.

  Our train journey was quiet. After a few cautious words of polite talk, SH had put her headphones on and sporadically napped. I took to reading and enjoying the scenery. I’m old fashioned that way.

  In the moments when SH was awake, we made plans for our arrival back at our old stomping ground. It was decided that we would do our own thing on this first day back and meet up in the evening for drinks. Arriving at Piccadilly station, she went one way and I went mine. I did offer her a blow up mattress at Mum’s as I was concerned about her staying in her flat by herself. However, she declined saying she had to ‘see someone about a horse’. I let her go, hoping that she would be okay.

  Later that evening, I was at home with Mum, watching Big Brother highlights and full of food.

  ‘It just seems daft that she wouldn’t want to stay with us,’ Mum tutted in the ad break. ‘Little Ms. Holmes. She thinks she’s so street-smart. Honestly, the amount of hair I’ve pulled out over her.’

  Although to the untrained ear, my mother’s tone was of annoyance, the truth was far from it. Mum was just as concerned about SH’s whereabouts as I. Having been there for her on many occasion during our teens, Mum had come to think of SH as a daughter.

  ‘SH just needs some time I think, Mum,’ I said. ‘As frustrating as she’s admittedly being.’

  ‘Johnny, do you remember that time she turned up at our door in the middle of the night?’ Mum sighed, ‘Little ten-year-old, no shoes on her feet. Oh, that mother of hers. Always fighting with her son…’

  The accidental mention of SH’s brother brought Mum to silence. Ford, a community police officer in the Manchester constabulary, had been killed on duty a few months previously and SH had been refusing to address the situation ever since. Her concentration at university had dissipated. The amateur dramatics she had enjoyed so fondly in the first two years of her degree had come second to her constant disappearances during the week and returning reeking of booze. It was clear to me that she was on a crash course into oblivion.

  She reached out for my hand and squeezed it. Mum was like SH in some ways and I know, even if she’d be the last to admit it, that Ford’s death had affected her. It was then that I got the call from SH.

  Answering, I was met with noise and static; the sounds of Manchester in full swing on a Saturday night. Obviously SH had butt-dialled me. Realising that she would not be able to hear my queries of where she was, I decided that perhaps waiting for her to come to us was a terrible idea, and certainly wasn’t going to afford me any rest. A few moments deliberation allowed me to realise where SH was. Catching the 86, I made my way into town and towards Diogenes; the nightclub which was rumoured, as many of the clubs of Manchester were at that time, to be under the ownership of nefarious types usually not seen outside of a Guy Ritchie movie.

  The exterior of the club throbbed to the music within. I was more accustomed to a pint and a fag down the Via Fossa, and felt fatally underdressed next to the white Rastafarians and black goths that joined me in the queue. Making my way to the front and handing over a fiver, I finally made my way in. Whatever noise I heard from outside was nothing to the cacophony that assaulted me entering the main dance room. Incessant chatter and flirting fought for attention over the ear-splitting wailing and gnashing of teeth that soundtracked the evening. It was as if the club had a rule that banned silence altogether.

  I quickly scanned the room and my eyes fell upon SH in the middle of the dancefloor, her light brown skin turned blue under the club’s lights. Under any other circumstances, the sight of her 6-foot frame staggering in a pretence of dancing amongst the mini-moshers would have been enough for a laugh. However, now of course, the picture was beyond mockery. Unlit fag in mouth, swaying in time to a song that was only in her head, SH held one fist in the air whilst carrying a bottle of beer in the other hand.

  As an only child, I would never understand the loss of a sibling. And yet, to this very day I will always think of my life long friend’s tragic pantomime of fun that night as a perfect encapsulation of the myriad emotions that were squatting in her mind.

  At that moment, a large skinhead began to make advances towards her. He sidled up, thrusting his hips into her back side. When her total indifference failed to ward him off, it was the bottle she failed to bring down on his head that tipped him over the edge. He began to jostle and push SH. Due to what my husband would now call my ‘idiotic white knight streak’, I pushed my way through the crowd to offer assistance.

  ‘—king bitch,’ I heard him cry.

  ‘Do you want some?’ SH responded as I wrapped my arms around her waist. ‘I know baritsu mate. I’ll Keanu Reeves your arse.’

  ‘She’s had a bit to drink,’ I offered as way of explanation.

  ‘She’s pilling off her tits.’

  ‘Tits!’ SH laughed. ‘Hear that, John! Can’t even come up with a suitable comeback that doesn’t boil me down to my base assets. Typical bloody apes!’

  SH tried to break free of my grip and launch herself at the man. Before I lost my grip, I too felt a pair of arms around me as SH and I were lifted off the dancefloor by a bouncer and out of the club.

  Several moments later, we were sat on the curb outside the Diogenes, sharing a cigarette. SH’s head bobbed up and down as if agreeing with a point I was yet to make.

  ‘That helpful was it?’ I asked, exhaling deeply.

  ‘Your Mum’s roast dinner okay?’ she slurred.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your Mum’s roast dinner. There’s a splash of gravy on your left shirt cuff. As you constantly tell me, you can’t cook to save your life. And seeing as we’re back in Manchester, literally the only other person who would be cooking for you is your mother. Now equally you could have been out for a meal with any – belch – any number of the lovely boys on your Nokia. However, Mummy knows best doesn’t she?’

  ‘Don’t play your tricks now,’ I blushed. ‘Just tell me what the hell was going on in there.’

  The response: ‘I have to go somewhere, yeah?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I dunno.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘Just got to get away for a bit.’

  ‘Look your brother is—‘

  ‘Just listen to me,’ she sighed. ‘I’m off. My mind is rebelling at all this stagnation, yeah?’

  Dumbfounded by her attitude, I found myself stationary as SH lifted herself of the curb and began to clomp away in her heavy boots.

  ‘Where… Where are you going?’ I managed to stutter. ‘What about uni?’

  ‘Bollocks to it,’ she shouted over her shoulder. ‘There’s a big bloody world out there, John. See you in a couple of months.’

  Three Years Later

  ‘Wat-son! Wat-son!’ roared my friends as the ‘free
-range’ pint was put before me. The custom of the ‘free range’ pint was started in my first year at university when upon my hallmate’s 19th birthday, the remaining rooms – or those who were willing to do so – threw some pounds in to put towards several different shots; enough to fill a pint glass. Of course, you didn’t just ask a barman to fill the glass. It required a surreptitious act of buying numerous shots. And certain rules needed to be heeded. No aftershocks, or jagerbombs, or anything else that was the equivalent of battery acid.

  No, we fooled our late teen selves into believing that we were classier by requesting shots from the top shelf. If jagerbombs were the caged hens of alcohol, then surely the Famous Grouse or Smirnoff was the pinnacle, the free range option. Birthday boy then got to either sip the pint for the rest of the night or down it in one.

  The free range pint was terrible idea then and it was a terrible idea now as I, at the end of my Masters and having avoided it all my life, had one placed in front of me. Sat surrounded by my rugby chums, and shrinking English Lit classmates, I raised the glass like a trophy.

  ‘Are you ready, boys!?’ I cried.

  My friends cheered and were promptly silenced by the bar staff. Smiling, I brought the glass to my lips to the soundtrack of my rugger buggers whispering, ‘Get it down, you Zulu warrior! Get it down, you Zulu chief!’

  And…

  I sipped it.

  A jovial booing chorus erupted, followed by another, and final, warning from the bar man.

  ‘Oh leave them alone!’ cried a man near us. ‘They’re just having a laugh.’

  I glanced over to see a middle-aged bald man in glasses being shushed by what I assume was his partner. He looked like he was set for another spray at the barman, but his companion won the hour. He sighed, did a cheeky smile and held up his glass to us. Whilst I did the same, I had no intention of drinking the pint, let alone downing it.

  I’m not a doctor, but I know liver failure in a glass when I see it. Only one person in my years at university had ever downed the pint. She was my closest friend and she downed that drink simply to find out what would happen. She would tell me the stomach pump afterwards had been an enlightening experience. I had not seen SH for so long, and I missed her terribly. Reasoning that I would be rid of the contents by pouring it into a pot plant later when no one was looking, I continued to sip my drink whilst the rest of the table settled down.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I felt the presence of someone watching me. An utter cliché in terms of narrative, but true nonetheless and I turned in the direction of my watcher. Nearly spilling my pint – which perhaps would have been a good idea in light of how it tasted – I clamped eyes upon my potential stalker.

  Upon her.

  SH after all these years.

  Three years had not dulled how arresting she looked. Her bright eyes sparkled under a fringe dyed shocking red. She smiled and it lit up my world as it had done all those years ago. Pointing to the exit, she walked towards the door before giving me a final thumbs up. I made my excuses to the group and followed her out onto Canal Street.

  Outside, the freshness of the Manchester breeze made me regret leaving without my coat. I looked up and down the road to see saw her perched upon the wall overlooking the canal which ran parallel to the street. Noticing me, she smiled once more and my heart lifted again as I made my way over.

  ‘It’s pretty much how I left it then?’ she said, gesturing to the crowd. ‘Loud and frequented by hen parties and tourists.’

  ‘You could never just enjoy yourself here could you?’ I poked. ‘You had to be the more enlightened one of our group.’

  ‘Well, it’s hard to get excited by BOGOF pints and competitions to see who can do the best Macarena. I blame that TV programme. ‘Being gay has never been so cool.’ Did you read that? As if somehow…’

  ‘Where have you been, SH?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Around.’

  ‘Try again.’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ she queried, genuinely not seeming to understand. ‘I went away. I came back.’

  ‘You didn’t call. You didn’t write. You didn’t even bother to email,’ I said, realising that my elation at seeing SH had been misappropriated. Talking to her on the street brought me back to that time three years ago when she walked out of my life without so much as, well, anything!

  ‘Honestly, mate, it doesn’t matter. Call it a moment’s lapse of soul searching.’

  ‘You had everything going for you.’

  ‘Is this going as well as you hoped?’ She smiled, ‘Is it going to look good in your next story?’

  ‘… I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

  SH pulled out a copy of the university magazine; it was the publication I wrote for on occasion for some extra income whilst I worked on my Masters. Seeking inspiration to fill up the column inches, I had dipped into my diary entries to recount – and bastardise – some of mine and SH’s drunken adventures together. Merely fluff. Something for shits and giggles. And yet, they had proven to be quite popular, and I got some extra beer tokens when I sent more. Win, win.

  ‘Been some familiar stories in the last few issues,’ She said. ‘That thing about the dog. The incident with the gingers. And there’s even one about your first dalliance into heteronormative behaviour, isn’t there? What was it called again? It’s right here.’

  ‘The Woman,’ I blushed. ‘It was called The Woman. SH…’

  She stuffed the magazines back into her knapsack and pulled out a squashed packet of Marlboro Lights. She placed two in her mouth, lit them both and offered me one. I took the cigarette and tried to gauge not the mood of my recently absent friend, but my own. Talking to me as if she had never left had robbed me of my moment which, yes, I had rolled over and over in my mind. Letting it bounce around like a marble in a jar. I was angry and yet, I admit, I had never been so happy to see someone in my whole life.

  ‘Your Mum, Mary,’ SH smiled. ‘How is she? She still religiously watching Big Brother. No, she isn’t she? I can see in your face. What she do? Move onto Strictly Come Dancing.’

  ‘She’s dead,’ I said. ‘She’s dead.’

  The silence between us drowned out the raucous sounds of Canal Street, washing away the revellers and leaving the two of us alone in our moments. Her, slack jawed. Myself, eyes shrink-wrapped in tears.

  ‘I, um, I didn’t know,’ She finally uttered.

  ‘Of course you bloody didn’t,’ I blurted, the anger finally and justifiably rising to the surface. ‘You disappear for three fucking years, refuse to return my calls and letters and then turn up here, like butter wouldn’t melt. And instead of an explanation, you try to make out as if somehow this is normal fucking behaviour. It’s my birthday, SH! Did you at least remember that?’

  SH had begun an intense inspection of her Doc Martins, tightening her coat around her. I took her silence to be another indication of her lack of acceptance of normal social cues. A bouncer outside the bar was eyeing up the situation; perhaps wondering if he would, should, let me back in. I sighed, flicking what was left of my cigarette in the canal.

  ‘It’s my birthday. Which just so happens to be the day Mum died. So, I was already in a bit of an ambivalent mood before you showed up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are a bunch of friends in there who may never be as close as you and I were, but at least they’re not choosing to kick through the ashes of my past to make some grand bloody entrance!’

  I turned to the bar and, with as much dignity as I could muster, made my way back towards the door.

  ‘John!’ I heard SH shout behind me. ‘JOHN WATSON!’

  I took a deep breath. I weighed up my options again and decided that one last spray of vitriol was what she needed. I turned around and found SH presenting me with a cupcake. An unlit candle sticking out of it like a pathetic monument to her self-pity.

  ‘I knew it was your birthday, mate. I wasn’t going to forget that was I?’ She sniffed, still refusing to look me in th
e eyes and gesturing to the candle. ‘Couldn’t get the bastard thing to light. I have another one in my bag. Red velvet, your Mum’s favourite, yeah? Can’t stand the things honestly. I had a plan we could swipe a bottle of vodka and see the old bird. But, yeah…’

  I walked slowly up to SH, took the cupcake from her hand, and removed the candle. Placing that in my pocket, I lifted SH’s chin with my free hand and kissed her on the forehead. Then, with my other hand, I pushed the cupcake on her nose, leaving a great glob of red icing there. Finally, I took a huge bite out of the cake, managing to get frosting on my own face. At first unsure how to respond, SH broke out into a smile. I smiled back and grabbed her hand.

  ‘Are you going to come in and buy me a drink or stand there looking like a clown?’ I laughed.

  SH, still holding my hand, ran forward towards the entrance to the bar, singing merrily, ‘I’m here! You’re queer! I’m buying you a beer!’

  For the rest of the night, SH refused to discuss it further where she had been, citing that she had been an Ibiza rep for a short period, and would like to put the whole affair behind her. Not wanting to rock the boat, and hearing in my head Mum telling me off, I relented to just being happy that my good friend was back in my life.

  So much so, I made the fatal decision to finish off that ‘free-range’ pint.

  Back in the Saddle

  The next morning, I awoke in Mum’s home, which I had inherited after her passing, unable to fully recall the events of the evening. However, the creased and red eyed face that greeted me in the mirror was a helpful road map leading to the conclusion that there had been vodka. Lots of vodka.

  Remembering that SH had come home with me that night, I made my way downstairs to see how she had pulled up. A pillow on top of a folded blanket next to the couch in the living room showed evidence of her having tidied up, but otherwise there was no trace of her. For what felt like the 20th time in 24 hours, I found my anger vying for my attention. SH had made a break for it, clearly deciding she had fulfilled her duties and returned to her hole, wherever that was.