Johnny Be Good Page 25

  Johnny is asleep next to me. He’s rolled up his leather jacket into a ball and wedged it against the window as a pillow. His tattooed arms are bare so I’ve turned the heating right up.

  We arrive just after three o’clock, while it’s still light. I’ve stopped at a petrol station along the way to stock up on enough essentials and ready meals to last us a week, but I’ll need to go to a local supermarket to stock up after that. My cooking will pale in comparison to Rosa’s, no doubt about it, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  We collect the keys from the owners of the cottage, who live in a village ten miles away. Johnny stays in the car so he won’t be noticed, but they invite us in for a cup of tea and some Christmas pudding. It breaks my heart to say no.

  The cottage is much smaller than I remembered, a grey-stone, two-storey building, surrounded by a dry stone wall and situated at the bottom of a large, grass-covered hill. There’s a stream running through the garden and a little bridge crossing it. The garden is leafless and muddy, but I remember it in summer when it was full of flowers.

  There’s no central heating, but the cottage does have gas heaters in most rooms, and in the living room downstairs there’s an open fireplace. Upstairs are two small bedrooms and a bathroom. I give Johnny the back room, facing the hill. I take the one facing the road at the other side. I say road, but it’s actually more of a track. We really are in the middle of nowhere here.

  I put my bags in my room and go back downstairs to unpack the groceries. Johnny appears twenty minutes later.

  ‘Do you want to build a fire and I’ll make us a cup of tea?’ I ask him.

  ‘Sure.’

  He goes through to the living room and I switch the kettle on.

  ‘Actually, Nutmeg…’ He comes through a moment later. ‘I think I might pop out.’

  I laugh. ‘No way.’

  ‘I just feel like a drive, that’s all.’

  I ignore him.

  ‘Nutmeg, come on.’

  ‘No, Johnny, you come on,’ I say angrily. ‘You’re not going out to get booze. Live with it.’

  ‘Where are the car keys?’

  ‘You’re not having them, Johnny.’

  ‘Where are the fucking car keys?’

  ‘I’ve hidden them,’ I shoot back.

  ‘Give them to me.’

  ‘You can keep asking me as much as you like, but you’re not getting them.’

  Now he’s angry. ‘Give me the car keys or you’re fired.’

  ‘No!’ I raise my voice.

  He glares at me and starts rooting through the kitchen drawers.

  ‘You won’t find them,’ I tell him, calmly.

  I follow him through to the living room where he starts opening cupboards and searching under ornaments.

  ‘Seriously, Nutmeg.’ He turns to me. ‘I need them. Please. Where are they?’

  ‘Johnny, NO.’

  He picks up one of the ornaments on the mantelpiece, a little white dog with floppy ears. ‘Give them to me or I’m dropping this.’

  I frown. ‘Johnny, don’t do that.’

  ‘I’ll drop it…’

  ‘You’re not having them.’

  ‘Fine,’ he says, and lets go of the dog. I flinch as it breaks into a dozen pieces on the stone floor.

  He picks up another ornament, a young girl in a red skirt.

  ‘Break them all. See if I care. You’ve got enough money, you can replace them.’ I hope he doesn’t call my bluff.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ He bangs the ornament back down on the mantelpiece, leaving it intact. ‘Nutmeg, I will fire you if you don’t give me those car keys.’

  ‘Let me make it easier for you: I quit.’

  We glare at each other for a full ten seconds, both of us resolute. Finally he picks up his jacket from the sofa and puts it on. ‘Fine. I’ll walk to the nearest village.’

  ‘It will take you hours,’ I point out. ‘You’ll get lost and will probably freeze to death.’

  ‘If that’s what it takes…’ He shrugs, expecting me to give in.

  But I won’t. ‘Fine,’ I shrug. ‘You’re getting a bit old and past it anyway. About time you moved over and let someone else have a taste of the limelight. You can live on through your music,’ I add, theatrically.

  He glowers at me, then storms out through the front door, slamming it shut behind him.

  I sweep up the china and then sit on the sofa pretending to read a copy of Horse & Hound magazine from 1999, but as the minutes tick by, I become more and more anxious. When the front door opens again, it’s all I can do to act unfazed.

  ‘Shall I build us a fire, then?’ Johnny asks, standing in front of me.

  ‘That would be nice.’ I snap my magazine shut and stand up. ‘How about I make us a cup of tea?’

  To my amazement, Johnny doesn’t lose his nerve again, but the same almost can’t be said for me. There have been several times when I’ve wanted to call Christian–and even Bill. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, watching Johnny experience aches and shakes, cold sweats and even delirium. I ran through to his room the other night because he was screaming, and the look of terror on his face was enough to turn my blood cold. He thought there were spiders climbing all over his body. I eventually managed to calm him down, but afterwards I went back to my room and sobbed my heart out. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

  We’ve run out of supplies, so I drive to the next village to get some while Johnny is asleep, and return to find him still in bed. I’ve bought just about every type of magazine I could find in the newsagent, including some music titles for Johnny. The news of his disappearance hasn’t made the weekly magazine press yet–their offices would have closed for Christmas–but I have a quick flick through the NME to see if I can see anything in there by Christian. I can’t.

  I wonder how he’s getting on. I wonder what he must think, us running off like this. I bet he’s surprised. I bet he’s pissed off, actually. This would have been brilliant fodder for his book and now I’ve gone and buggered that right up.

  Johnny emerges, sleepily navigating the steep staircase wearing a black T-shirt and black leather trousers. It’s funny seeing him here like this. I just grabbed what I could find, clothes-wise, but I probably should have sought out some more casual attire for him to wear.

  ‘Good morning,’ I chirp. ‘Can I get you anything? Scrambled eggs, maybe?’

  ‘Have you been down the shop?’ he asks, eyes lighting up.

  ‘Yes, just nipped out.’

  ‘Did you get me some fags?’

  ‘Yes, Johnny.’ I sigh, wandering through to the kitchen.

  ‘Give ’em, give ’em, give ’em…’ He waggles his fingers out at me.

  ‘You haven’t run out, yet, have you?’ I ask, opening a drawer and retrieving a packet.

  ‘Almost.’

  He takes the packet and some matches from me, and lights up, his hands shaking. Then he opens the window above the sink and hangs his cigarette hand out of it. Bringing his fag in for a moment, he takes a drag and leans across the counter to blow smoke out of the window. He’s letting all the cold air in, but I appreciate the sentiment of him not smoking inside.

  ‘Why don’t we go for a walk?’ I suggest, desperate to get out of the house.

  ‘Bit bloody cold, isn’t it?’ He shivers.

  ‘It will do you good.’

  He throws his cigarette butt out of the window and closes it again.

  ‘I got you some magazines,’ I tell him.

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘Oh, a whole stack.’

  He follows me through to the living room and riffles through them. ‘Cool, thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ I smile. ‘Now, can we go for a walk?’

  He tears his eyes away from an article about the hit singles of the year and looks up at me. ‘Are you bored?’

  ‘Might be,’ I answer, folding my arms.

  ‘Come on, then.’ He casuall
y drops the magazines on the sofa. ‘I’ll just get my shoes.’

  I found a couple of old coats in the cupboard under the stairs the other day and I pull them out now and hand one to Johnny when he returns.

  ‘Fuck off, you’re not getting me in that.’

  ‘You won’t be warm enough in your leather jacket,’ I warn him, still holding his coat out. ‘Put this on over the top.’

  ‘Nutmeg, that is a proper flashers’ trench coat. I’m not wearing it.’

  ‘Well, I’m putting mine on.’ It’s a giant, puffa ski-jacket in pink and aqua green with fluro yellow piping.

  ‘Jesus, yours is even worse,’ he says.

  I ignore him and throw his coat on the table, squeezing myself into my puffy sleeves. Then I turn to him and comically gush, ‘Mmm, it’s really warm!’

  He chuckles. ‘You look like a right idiot.’ Then he says, ‘Fuck it,’ and puts his own coat on.

  I start to laugh, which is a nice feeling after a week of melancholy.

  He points at me. ‘You shut it.’

  He seems so much better now, and the realisation that I was right to bring him here fills me with joy.

  We trek out of the house and cross over the bridge. The water is flowing much faster now in winter. I remember my dad and I making little boats out of paper and racing them down the stream. I tell Johnny about it.

  ‘Do you get along well with your parents?’ he asks.

  ‘Most of the time, yes.’ I smile sideways at him. ‘They’re not too happy about me running away with you, though.’

  ‘Aren’t they? Whoops.’

  We’re walking along the stream, in the direction of the fast-flowing water. There are a couple of ducks struggling to paddle against the current.

  ‘Should have brought some bread,’ I comment.

  ‘I bet you had lots of pets when you were growing up, didn’t you?’ he asks, amused.

  ‘I had a few,’ I admit. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Goldfish.’ He glances at me. ‘I wanted a dog, so much.’

  ‘Weren’t you allowed one?’

  He pauses for a moment before answering. ‘We were going to get one. But then Mum got sick.’

  I keep quiet, hoping he’ll open up to me more, but he doesn’t.

  ‘You could have one now?’ I suggest.

  ‘Away too much. Too cruel.’

  ‘Wouldn’t do a Paris Hilton, then? Hire someone else to look after a menagerie of animals?’

  ‘Bollocks to that. I’ll get a dog when I retire. A proper dog. None of that Footsie shit.’

  I laugh. ‘You’ll be waiting a while, then.’

  ‘You said I was getting old and past it, the other day…’

  ‘I was joking!’

  ‘That was a horrible thing to say.’ He looks hurt.

  ‘I didn’t mean it!’

  ‘Made me feel really awful,’ he adds.

  ‘Okay, now you’re milking it,’ I say. ‘Anyway, you told me I was fired.’

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘you quit.’

  I laugh. ‘Alright, then.’

  ‘You haven’t really quit, though, have you?’

  ‘No, Mr Jefferson. I’ll probably still be working for you when I’m thirty. If you live that long,’ I add.

  ‘Oi!’ He shoves me and I almost stumble into the stream.

  ‘You bastard!’ I squeal and push him back.

  We continue walking for a moment and he lulls me into a false sense of security before nudging me again.

  ‘Johnny!’

  He wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me in for an affectionate squeeze.

  ‘Who would save me ten thousand dollars on my car insurance if you left, hey?’

  He lets me go and I look at him in surprise. I told him that on the way to Big Sur, but I didn’t really think he took it in, much less that he would remember it.

  ‘Shall we head back? It’s getting dark,’ he says.

  He builds another fire while I decide to try my hand at making some dinner for us. I pour some olive oil into a frying pan and start to chop onions into chunks, adding them into the pan as I go.

  ‘What are we having?’ Johnny comes into the kitchen as I add another chunk of onion to the now-smoking oil.

  ‘Tomato and onion pasta,’ I tell him.

  He peers into the pan, the contents of which seem to be burning.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I exclaim in dismay.

  ‘You’ve got the heat on too high,’ he says, taking the pan off the stove and discarding the charred veg. He wipes the pan out with kitchen towel and puts it back on the stove with fresh olive oil.

  ‘I didn’t know you could cook.’ I’m actually being sarcastic. I grab another onion from the fridge and start to chop it.

  ‘Don’t have to do it very often, but you are making a right balls-up of that. Budge over,’ he says, extricating the knife from my fingers and pushing me out of the way.

  ‘Oi!’ I shout.

  He starts to slice the onion, super-finely.

  Now I’m impressed. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’ The slivers of onion are so fine I can practically see through them.

  ‘Mum taught me.’ He pauses. His hands are shaking.

  ‘What, when you were…’

  ‘Twelve. A year before she died,’ he confirms, glancing at me. ‘Wanted to teach me how to fend for myself before I went to live with my no-good dad.’ He keeps his tone light. ‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘You go through to the living room and I’ll finish up here.’

  ‘This is very domesticated, Johnny Jefferson.’ I look up at him, amused.

  ‘Do you think so, Meg Stiles?’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew my last name,’ I comment.

  ‘Of course I know your last name, Nutmeg! Jesus, what sort of a boss do you think I am?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, feeling embarrassed.

  ‘Go on,’ he says, pointing towards the living room with the knife.

  I obey, going through and sitting down on the rug in front of the fire. I lean my back up against the sofa. Johnny comes through fifteen minutes later. I start to get up.

  ‘Shall we sit down there?’ he suggests.

  ‘Sure.’ I settle back down.

  ‘I am a crap boss, actually.’ He hands me my plate of food. ‘I didn’t even get you a Christmas present.’

  ‘You didn’t have to get me a Christmas present,’ I tell him. ‘I didn’t get you one.’

  ‘Yeah, but you don’t have to. I’m your boss. I should have got you one.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I’ll make it up to you,’ he promises.

  ‘Just don’t fall off the wagon again, that’s all the present I need.’

  He grins at me. ‘You’re so cute, Nutmeg.’

  I twirl some spaghetti around my fork and try not to drop any sauce on myself as I balance my plate on my lap.

  ‘This is really nice,’ I tell him. ‘Your mum taught you well.’

  He smiles and stares into the fire.

  ‘What did Christian mean when he called you Johnny Sneeden?’ I ask cautiously.

  It’s a while before he answers. ‘My mum’s surname was Sneeden. I changed my name to Jefferson when I went to live with my dad. That was his surname,’ he explains. ‘They never got married. Mum didn’t even put Dad’s name on my birth certificate.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say, awkwardly. ‘Well, Jefferson does sound cooler…’

  ‘Mmm,’ he agrees, still staring into the flames.

  ‘You feel guilty about it.’ It’s not a question. ‘I’m sure she’d understand.’

  He pushes his spaghetti around on his plate for a moment. ‘I’m not sure that she would.’

  ‘What was she like?’ I ask, tentatively.

  ‘I don’t really know. She was just my mum to me. I know that she loved me. I know it would hurt her to see me like this. She always told me not to end up like my dad.’

  ‘What was he like?’

 
‘Drink, drugs, women…’ He glances at me.

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘Exactly,’ he says, putting his half-empty plate down beside him.

  ‘Why do you sleep with so many women?’ It’s out of my mouth before I can decide whether or not it’s a good idea to ask.

  ‘Why not?’ He shrugs.

  I look away from him. ‘I just don’t know how you can do that.’

  ‘It’s just sex, Nutmeg.’ He glances at me.

  ‘But how can you detach yourself?’ I furrow my brow, not understanding.

  ‘Why? Can’t you?’ he asks, before casting his eyes to the heavens and adding, ‘Silly question.’

  ‘No, actually,’ I tell him anyway. ‘I like sex to mean something.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘You think I’m naive.’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘You may as well have,’ I say.

  ‘Actually, I think you’re sweet.’ He continues, ‘I think you look at life through rose-tinted glasses.’

  ‘I’m not as innocent as I seem.’ I’m now a tad annoyed.

  ‘Okay…’ he says, crossing his legs in front of him and staring at the fire. He clearly doesn’t agree.

  ‘I’m not!’ I insist. ‘Anyway, this is not about me. I want to understand you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I avert my gaze. ‘I just do. So how many women have you slept with?’

  He chuckles. ‘Come on. I’m not answering that.’

  ‘Why not? Can’t you remember?’ I challenge him.

  ‘Actually, no,’ he says, flippantly. ‘But even if I could, I wouldn’t tell you.’

  ‘Well, can you tell me how many women you’ve had meaningful sex with?’

  ‘That’s easy. None.’

  I look at him in disbelief. He meets my gaze quite calmly, before explaining. ‘You can’t have meaningful sex if you’ve never been in love, can you?’ He picks up the glass of water by his side and takes a sip, putting it back down with a look of distaste on his face. ‘God, I miss whisky.’

  I ignore his comment. My jaw is still on the floor. ‘You’ve never been in love?’

  ‘No.’