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  MOUNTAINS OF THE MOON

  MOUNTAINS OF THE MOON

  I. J. KAY

  VIKING

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  First American edition

  Published in 2012 by Viking Penguin,

  a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © I. J. Kay, 2012

  All rights reserved

  Publisher’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Kay, I. J.

  Mountains of the moon / I.J. Kay.

  p. cm.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-58372-2

  1. Women ex-convicts—England—Fiction. 2. Self-realization in women—Fiction.

  3. Bristol (England)—Fiction. 4. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

  PR6111.A935M68 2012

  813’.6—dc23

  2011043899

  Printed in the United States of America

  Set in Sabon Std

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  In memory of Lynn Robertson

  who lost her life on Ben Nevis, January 2001

  People with nowhere to go

  do go, they go somewhere

  and somewhere else after that.

  They go somewhere else in the physical;

  somewhere else in the mind.

  PROGRAM

  OVERTURE AND BEGINNERS

  ACT ONE

  ACT TWO

  ACT THREE

  FINALE AND REPRISE

  CAST

  THE VELVIT GENTLEMAN: Anton Konstantin

  MUM / SHUT-UP: Joan King

  THE JOKER: Heath Crow

  DADDY / THE FUCK: Bryce King

  PIP: Philip Kendal-King

  THE OAK TREE: Peter Eden

  GRANDAD: Bill Burns

  NANNY: Rose Burns

  BABY GRADY: Graham King

  WELSH SLAPPER: Gwen Llewelyn

  THE SANDWICH MAN: Richard Draper

  ROBERTSON: Lynn Robertson

  NEIGHBOR: Norman Baldwin

  THE JACKAL: Jimmy Smithers

  ELLIE: Eleanor Smithers

  ETON BOY: Quentin Sumner

  IRENE: Irene Sumner

  DANNY FISH: Will Withywood

  THE ANGEL MICHAEL: Michael ?

  AUNTIE FI: Fiandre Krammer

  OLD GEORGE: George Hewel

  POTTERY MANAGER: Tim Evans

  TONY GLOUCESTER ROAD: Tony Williamson

  SHEBA: Lucky

  ALL OTHER PARTS ARE PLAYED BY INNOCENT BYSTANDERS.

  Overture and Beginners

  Three keys: one for the main entrance; one for the letter box on the wall outside and one for my brown front door, which comes complete with fist holes and crowbar dents around the lock. You wouldn’t think it, looking from outside. The building is an old vicarage, tall and imposing in a horseshoe shape with a gravel car park at the front. Sideways onto the street, it overlooks a park. Well, a railed bit of grass with mature trees; it belonged to the vicarage once. There’s a bench and a slide and probably a bird if you wait long enough. It’s used mostly by dog owners and heroin addicts, who don’t mind the dog shit or the discarded needles. I’ve never understood the bond between people and drugs, people and dogs, always wanted a real friend myself.

  The intercom bell is violently loud, shattering. I skid into the hall and snatch up the receiver. Hopefully it’s Tim from the pottery; he said he’d drop off some stuff.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Special delivery,” Tim says. “Sleeping bag, camping stove, sewing machine.”

  It is good of him. I volunteer at the pottery three times a week; it gives me something useful to do.

  “Come up, Tim,” I say.

  I press the button to release the main door and run down the stairs to meet him coming up. The vicarage belongs to a housing association now; they have converted it, badly, into one-bedroom apartments. Perfect for people going back into the community.

  “I see what you mean,” Tim shouts.

  He sees nothing; he freezes in my hall, stalling for time while his eyes adjust to the gloom. Migraine-patterned music is pumping through the floor.

  “I’ve got built-in surround sound,” I shout.

  It’s a hot and sunny July teatime but the apartment is like a cave; low ceilings compound the effect in booming echo and chill. The bathroom doesn’t have daylight, just a vent to outside that comes on with the light, assuming your giro came, assuming you can afford electricity. In the bedroom there’s a lumpy futon mattress that I hauled from a skip down the road and carried up two flights on my head. The lounge is vast and rectangular. It’s got filthy walls of gutless green covered with holes and coffee stains. On the dominant wall, spray paint splutters “Cunt.” Mustard paintwork screams at the gray tile floor and black doors scream back. It is the ugliest place I’ve ever seen. Tim surveys it with his hands on his hips.

  “It’s got potential,” he shouts. “You could paint it all white to brighten it up.”

  But white paint in poor light always looks gray, I know that. The windows are small, tall and arched in vicarage stone, blackened with mildew and condensation. The tree outside is blocking most of the natural light.

  “The tree is beautiful,” I say.

  Broad-leaved lime. The vivid soft leaves press against the glass; backlit, they seem surreal like stained glass. The housing association has given me a thirty-pound decorating voucher; I’ve spent half of it on filler and bleach.

  “It’s a good size, Tim,” I say.

  He flicks the light switch in the lounge but there’s no electric.

  “It’s one of those key meter things; my giro didn’t come.”

  “I can lend you a fiver,” he says.

  But I’d rather not owe if I don’t have to.

  “Does it stink in here?” I say.

  I know it does, of something specific; I can’t put my finger on what it is. The kitchen consists of two gray base units and spaces waiting for a cooker and a fridge. There’s a walk-in larder.

  “You’ve made a good start,” Tim says.

  The kitchen floor was a job for bleach and newspapers and wallpaper scrapers. There’s no electric for the kettle but Tim has brought a camping stove. No tea or coffee or milk or sugar; my giro didn’t come.

  “Nice cup of hot water?” I say.

  He has to go; dual furrows in his brow, his beautiful schizophrenic wife and pregnant schoolgirl daughter are waiting in the car. I thank him for the loan of the stove, and sleeping bag and sewing machine. And the anorak, which he won’t take back.

  When Tim has gone I realize I could slide down the wall and sit on my heels sobbing but I don’t, I’m too tired for that. I salvage an old tea bag from the bin, then sit on my bucket in the lounge and boil water on the camping stove that Tim has left behind. The boom of bass from Techno downstairs is making the pan vibrate. I swing between gratefulness and disappointment. I’ve been a long time getting here, when I think about it.

  Releasing me, the judge, slumped under the weight of his own wisdom, suggests I go to a bail hostel in Reading where I can stay temporarily.

  “Please, milord,” I want to say, “anywhere but Reading.” But I don’t say anything and a travel warrant is issued. I walk from the court to the railway station. The day is bright and bitterly cold—I don’t have my coat. I go into the cafe on the platform to wait. The man behind the counter is happy in his work. When it goes quiet he comes over.

  “Can I get you anything?” he says. “You’ve been here a while.”

  “I’m waiting for the train to Reading.”

  “You’ve missed a few, there’s nothing now for an hour.”

  “Dragging my heels,” I say.

  “Can I get you something?”

  “To be honest,” I say, “I’ve just got out of prison.”

/>   He’s surprised.

  “I’ve got a pound note but I gather they went out of circulation.” I show him. “I’ve got a one-way ticket to Reading.”

  I’ve got a plastic bag with Irene’s letters in it and a closed-up piercing in my left ear. The man goes away to the counter, comes back with a mug of coffee, ham rolls and chocolate bars.

  “I know how it is,” he says.

  “Thanks ever so much,” I say.

  He pulls out a chair and sits down.

  “Where are you from?” he says. “You sound a bit London, south, Home Counties.”

  I shrug; I’ve no idea where the Home Counties are. I probably sound a bit Holloway Prison, a little bit Ladbroke Grove, a little bit Suffolk, Yorkshire Moor, West Midlands, Dorset, Sussex, Kent. A little bit of everywhere and nowhere you can name. He puts a pinch of tobacco on the table in front of me.

  “I’m Bernie,” he says. “What did they get you for, then?”

  Through the plate glass I see people in winter coats and scarves and hats, collecting on the station platform.

  “Colorful, int it?” I say.

  At the bail hostel in Reading there’s a single room for me, but the other thirty inmates are half my age, waiting to go to prison, and I’m just coming out. They don’t know what to make of me, there’s something not right about me being there. I’m an undercover policewoman, that’s what they deduce. I walk in and silence the communal room. One warm spring day I find Heath in the lobby, visiting a bailed mate. It has been eleven years. His red and green leather jacket has faded to pink and gray with age, but the number 9 on the back is still bold and black. He hasn’t aged a day, still has a beautiful face in profile, like a medieval saint.

  “Hello, Heath,” I say.

  We always saw eye to eye. The four scars drawn on my cheekbone make me unforgettable. He smiles. Laughs out loud.

  “You look good, Kim,” he says. “Fuck, do you look good!”

  He means my prison-gym physique.

  “Punchbags and medicine balls,” I say.

  “Still hacking your hair with a knife.” He laughs, invites me to spar in the open space of the lobby.

  But I don’t. He puts his arm around my neck, hard-sells me bygones and a lot of water under bridges.

  I get a job in the bowels of a warehouse, mixing mountains of potpourri with a shovel. Every day I choke on a different fragrant chemical. My wellington boots fill to the rim with ingredients from around the world. The boss is pleased about having someone he can trust. I do deliveries to London in the van, serve customers in the warehouse and go to the bank with the cash. I work fourteen hours a day for the same money I’d get on the dole, and he makes sure he gets his money’s worth.

  “What do you want from me, blood?” I say.

  The boss laughs; he thinks I’m joking but I’m not. I lie about where I live and where I’ve been. When the wage packet comes I send a fiver to Bernie in the station cafe with a note saying thanks. I pay rent for the room in the hostel and the use of the kitchen. It isn’t great but it’s somewhere to try and sleep. There’s reporting in and out; a night curfew of ten o’clock; there’s someone who shits in the showers and someone who’s got a gun because the police come wearing bulletproof vests and break down my bedroom door by mistake. A member of staff gives me a list of organizations that help with resettlement and housing. I phone them up. They can help me if I’ve got children; if I’m fleeing from domestic violence; if I’m a refugee or from a minority group; they can help me if I’ve got issues with alcohol or drug abuse. I don’t fit the criteria. I never have. The last one on the list balks when I mention prison.

  “Our organization only helps and supports young women who have problems with their mental health.”

  “OK, sorry to bother you,” I say and hang up.

  Upstairs my room has been broken into and trashed. The wages I’ve been saving have gone from my hiding place. I phone the mental health people back. It’s a different woman that answers my call. I lie about my age. She asks me if I have suicidal thoughts; I say yes, about four times a week. They give me somewhere to live, a room in a halfway house. It’s in Bristol, a city I like, the city where my love lives.

  I hitch to Bristol down the M4. The house is comfortable, clean and safe. Except that, on account of the other women in the house (who have problems with their mental health) it’s only halfway all right. One mad old woman knocks on my door constantly, threatens to kill herself if I don’t come out. I don’t come out. Another girl phones the police all night, every night, to complain about raging parties next door but the elderly couple living there go to bed at eight o’clock, there isn’t a sound. I am the love object of another, she gropes my breasts and between my legs at every passing chance. I ask her nicely to stop but she doesn’t. I have to get assertive and shove her off but then she does it more, for sport, to wind me up. I could kill her but I don’t. One day I find Heath in the kitchen and all of the halfway women laughing.

  “How did you know I was here?” I ask him.

  “The bail hostel told me,” he says. “I had a look in their filing cabinet. I had a Bristol drop so I thought I’d come and say howdy-do, as you do.”

  Heath lives in Manchester now with a woman called Sharon and her kids. He can’t wait for me to meet her. I don’t ask about Gwen, he doesn’t ask about Pete. We go in the street to look at his Scania parked up the road. The Rolls-Royce of lorries.

  “I’m driving it myself,” he says. “But this time next year I’ve got two on the road and the following year I’ve got four. And where am I?”

  “At the dojo?”

  “Fishing,” he says.

  Every hair on my neck stands up. I look at Heath; remember the story of the crossbow and the gun, the two killer boys in the woods. Witch’s house makes me shiver. Bygones.

  I have to serve extra time in that house, eighteen months, reducing my suicidal thoughts to once a week, then once a month, until finally the organization decides that I’m able to take care of myself and they fix it with the housing association for me to have this apartment.

  I sound ungrateful, I’m not; a housing association apartment is, after all, a guaranteed home for life.

  It’s chucking-out time at the pub opposite; I hear a fight unfolding and a woman screaming. Through a gap in the trees I see the ambulance come and the landlord with a bucket, swilling blood off his doorstep. There’s a payphone below my window, it’s used as an office by a man with a taxi: he sits by it with his engine running and waits for work to phone him. When he’s gone it rings. The phone rings and rings until he returns, and off he goes again. A street lamp across the road filters in through the trees. I light a candle and tackle another job application. Warehouse pickers and packers. Today’s date? I don’t know. July 1996. Title: Louise Alder. 9/19/65. Education and qualifications.

  “None,” I say, but write O levels in English, Home Economics and Biology. I give myself Cs. The school I went to, the work history and all the dates—I make them up. The entire form is a work of fiction, even my name.

  The apartment above me has a stream of visitors throughout the night: internal doors crash and bang; there’s thumping up and down the stairs, they ring my bell by mistake. Men knock asking for Veronique.

  “You want number 24.” I point across the landing.

  Her name is Sally really. I met her on the stairs: she told me to be careful passing the park, there’d been a rape, a nasty one, she said. Everyone seems to get where they’re going via me; lucky for them I’m awake. I pace around the apartment, knock my forehead on this wall and that, walk diagonally from corner to corner, alternate hips on door frames. It might have been a trick of the light but I thought I saw something run across the kitchen doorway. Every time I hear a car door slam I go and look out of the window; I’m waiting for Peter to come. I’ve left a note with a friend of a friend, of a friend of his, to say I’ve moved and where to, this time.

  One time Jimmy Jackal Smithers seen me do it, said he’d give me his cats’ eyes to do it gain but I never, I can’t do stuff with people looking; sides, it int proper to make marbles out of cats’ eyes, not when you could eat them. Mum says I got lucky legs, lucky they don’t snap and stab me to death, that’s how come I int cuddly. When Auntie Fi comes she always turns me around in the kitchen, wets her finger, tests to see what color I is underneath the dirt. She can’t get over the color I go in summer, Six Weeks in the Bahamas Brown, makes my eyes and teefs go white.