Without a word, she leaps forward, sprinting beside him. He’s grateful for her lack of confusion, and her speed. They race for the steps, hand-in-hand. The shadowy figures are running too, a cackle of laughter from one of them. Sam’s chest is tight, Cat’s breath comes fast. He can hear the men behind, thinks they’ve fallen further back. But it’s not safe to stop. Not yet.
Panting, they take the wooden steps two at a time, staggering onto the boardwalk, hands on their knees, catching some air. ‘Shit.’ He glances around. It’s deserted. ‘Where are the bloody tourists when you need them?’
‘Follow me,’ she’s saying. She heads down a narrow alley between two buildings. It’s pitch black, but her hand steadies him. On the other side, they’re next to a wide street. Cat slips in between two parked cars and crouches down, pulling him after her.
They press together, trying to control the sound of their breathing. Her jeans are wet. All his senses are on high alert, his heart banging in his ears. Everything is clearer, louder: the purr of passing vehicles, the rasp of tyres, distant voices, distant sirens. ‘We lost them,’ she says, and begins to laugh. Relief crashes through him, and he is laughing too. His belly aches with it.
Their laughter fades to hiccups. Her face is right next to his, and all he can see are her eyes, dark pupils pulling him in. He leans towards that twin darkness, and their mouths meet. They are kissing, and he’s falling through the kiss into her body, her soul, their tongues and lips saying everything he’s been feeling since they met.
They pull away, staring at each other. ‘Wow,’ he whispers.
‘I need to tell you something.’ She drops her gaze. ‘I lied,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘I’m not a make-up artist.’
His brain can’t seem to catch up. The kiss has disabled the connections somehow, made him feel drunk. ‘What?’
‘I work in a funeral parlour.’
He still can’t react. The words clatter in his mind, not making sense.
‘I’m sorry.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘I knew you’d be put off. You’re creeped out, right? It’s not exactly … I don’t know … sexy.’
‘I don’t understand what it means,’ he says slowly. ‘I don’t understand what working in a funeral parlour means.’
‘It means I spend a lot of time with dead people,’ she says. ‘Corpses. I collect them from their homes or hospital. I cremate them. I scrape the ashes out of the retort. I fix them up to look better for their relatives after the rot sets in. I get them ready for burials.’
‘Okay.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘That’s … wow … that’s …’
‘Sick?’ she suggests. ‘Weird? Disgusting?’
‘No.’ He grabs her wrist. ‘It’s necessary, isn’t it? And it’s … well … it’s brave. I don’t know if I could do it.’
She swallows. Closes her eyes. ‘Kiss me again,’ she says.
They spend a lot of time kissing after that, leaning up against parked cars, sitting in doorways. She’s a good listener, and he hasn’t spoken to anyone in a long time, so in between the kissing he finds himself telling her how he wrote song lyrics when other boys were playing rugby, how he played the guitar alone in his bedroom, teaching himself riffs.
‘But why didn’t you do music after college then, if it was what you’d always wanted?’
‘My father made me feel like I’d be letting everyone down if I didn’t follow him into the law. Generations of our family have been lawyers. Barristers. Magistrates. It’s tradition.’
‘But just because something’s a tradition doesn’t make it right,’ she says. ‘There are lots of traditions that are just plain wrong.’
‘I don’t know.’ He rubs his forehead hard. ‘Is it really that simple? I’ll be letting people down … my family … the law firm I work for …’
‘Sorry to be blunt, but …’ her voice softens, ‘your parents are dead.’ She shrugs. ‘And a law firm will find another lawyer to replace you. If you want it, you should go for it.’
He smiles, pulls her in to kiss her hair. ‘What makes you so wise?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m not wise. But I know what it’s like to be held back. I’m stuck at home with my parents because my wages pay the rent.’ She looks down, twisting her hands. ‘I wanted to go to college, to study English and American literature, but I couldn’t.’
‘There isn’t an age limit on going to college,’ he says, trying to give her the same encouragement she’s given him. ‘Maybe you don’t need to go to college anyway. Sometimes I wonder what good it did me.’
She sighs. ‘I guess. So … are you going to play me some of your own material some time?’
‘I will,’ he says. ‘Promise.’
They’re walking the long, straight line of Atlantic Avenue, arms entwined, stumbling against each other. He’s exhausted, but at the same time buzzing as if he’s taken drugs.
‘Can we go back to your place?’ He’s too tired to think of a more subtle way to put it.
‘No way.’ She sounds appalled. She shakes her head. ‘My parents. Remember?’
‘Damn.’ He bites the inside of his lip. ‘We can’t go to the hostel.’
Cat is silent. They walk on slowly. They pass a deserted bus shelter, a yellow fire hydrant, Popeye’s Louisiana Kitchen, with a homeless man sitting on the step. Looking up, Sam reads the names of hotels and casinos emblazoned at the tops of the buildings, blinking in neon, endlessly beckoning. They stop outside a convenience store, and kiss again. ‘I have an idea,’ Cat says when they break off. ‘I have keys for work. We could go there. Tomorrow night.’
‘Work? You mean …’
‘The funeral parlour. At least we can be alone. Safe.’
‘Won’t you get in trouble?’
‘Only if we’re caught.’ She squeezes his arm. ‘Don’t worry. The dead are all safely locked away. You won’t see anything gruesome.’
He starts to laugh.
‘What?’
‘I just remembered yesterday – worrying you’d be squeamish about those shrunken heads.’
She smiles. ‘I’ve never fainted at the sight of blood. But it is upsetting to see bodies when they’ve died young or violently.’ She glances away. ‘Being around death makes me hungry to make life count. Only,’ she shrugs and looks at him, ‘my days are … I don’t know … slipping through my fingers.’
‘Because you have to look after your parents? Are they ill?’
‘My dad … well, he’s kind of sick, I guess. He’s a gambler.’ She says it in a matter-of-fact voice, but he sees the pain in her eyes.
‘I’m sorry. That … that must be really rough.’
‘It’s not that he doesn’t love us,’ she says quickly. ‘He tells me and Mom all the time. He’s the generous type, you know, full of grand gestures and bear hugs. He likes to ruffle my hair and call me pet names. Once, when I was little, he made me a go-cart out of wood and an old tyre. But gambling comes first. And he lets me and Mom down every time.’ She looks at her hands as she continues. ‘Talk is cheap, right? Saying you love someone and showing you love them are two different things.’ She shrugs. ‘We move a lot. We don’t always have money to eat. Then suddenly he wins big-time and buys us extravagant gifts.’ She looks at Sam. ‘Then we’re broke again. Mom’s stuck in the past. She’s never earned a cent in her life. So it’s down to me.’