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Brenner’s legendary bladder. On a night out drinking, once he’d broken the seal, he pissed like a hose that wouldn’t turn off.
Phil played dad in the front. “Bloody hell, mate. Can’t you wait until we get home?”
Brenner shook his head and, ever the sophisticated charmer, squeezed his crotch. “Nah, mate, not at the rate she bloody drives. I’m desperate. Look, over there. Just pull in for a sec.”
Grumbling, Alison obliged. The unlit stretch of double carriageway didn’t have much traffic this late at night. She came to a gentle halt in a narrow lay-by, the back end of the car jutting into the road, demonstrating parking skills on a par with her driving. A shabby row of shops lined the far side of the street, most of them in darkness. A brightly lit chippy on the end, however, looked to be doing a roaring trade.
“I’ll have a piss, then I’ll get us some chips.” Brenner fumbled his way through the rugs and toys for the door handle. I was reminded of the cute red Polo Alex shared with his sister. Why the fuck did women do that to their cars?
“Quick, what do you want me to get you, boys?”
It was a no-brainer for me, I was surprised he needed to ask. “Chips and gravy.”
Brenner nodded and jiggled the car door handle with increasing urgency. “Jesus, why is there so much fluffy pink crap in this car?”
“Scampi for me,” added Phil. “No vinegar. Shit, don’t get out that side, mate, there’s a—"
A sickening thump interrupted him. Then, like a terror-filled scream from a black and white horror movie, a harsh squealing of brakes skewered the stillness of the night, followed by a low, crunching juddery sound.
And then silence.
I never got my chips and gravy. I never found out what Phil was going to warn Brenner about, either. Maybe to watch out for the errant blue velvet rabbit balanced on the edge of the backseat as Brenner finally yanked open the door. Or perhaps to explain that the stiff handle needed a more forceful shove to push it wider. So much so, that Brenner fell through it, cursing, then stumbling as he landed in the road.
The white van hurtling around the corner, at a speed Alison would never threaten, didn’t come with any kind of warning. Phil never saw, it as he was faced forwards, retrieving a tenner from his wallet. God knew Brenner couldn’t afford to treat us all to a late-night chippy tea.
Some sounds stayed with you forever. The ice-cold opening guitar riff of Nirvana’s ‘Come As You Are’, for example. The mournful siren call of ‘The Last Post’ when played properly. The suppressed childish sniggers of your oldest and dearest friend when some poor kid made a hash of it.
Another sound, that no amount of rum or coke or kind words and back rubs would ever erase, was the dullthudof a precious, stupid, thick skull belonging to someone you cherished colliding with the unforgiving metal grill of a speeding Ford Transit. Nor the wailing that followed, Alison’s hideous, endless fucking wailing. Although those desperate shrieks might not have come from her at all; it was possible that God-awful noise was my soul splintering into millions of tiny, lost pieces.
Clichéd, but the next few hours were a bit of a slow-motion blur. The ambulance crew and police wouldn’t confirm Brenner was dead, but lumps of his brain splattered across the tarmac of the A449, like an exploded tin of dogmeat, kind of gave the game away.
I remembered Phil puking in Alison’s car, spraying sour, half-digested beer all over his shirt and trousers and the front dash. From the sudden, watery churning in my lower belly, I had a dreadful feeling I might shit myself, but at the last minute my body chose to follow Phil’s example and spew out the Diamond White in a marginally less humiliating fashion from the top end instead.
A little later, we were wrapped up in tin foil, like a pair of baked potatoes, and someone shoved me and Phil into the back of an ambulance. Through the window, flashing blue lights strobed against the black sky, joined by a rogue orange streetlamp, the whole effect an ugly parody of the nightclub where Brenner had danced like a loon only an hour earlier, his brains still intact.
Phil’s dad arrived, wearing a green anorak thrown over a pair of stripey pyjamas. A middle-aged couple—Alison’s parents, I imagined—turned up at about the same time and bundled her into a brown Rover. With a walkie-talkie glued to one hand and a clipboard in the other, a grim-looking policewoman asked me if I had anyone I wanted to call. I didn’t, so after being asked the same questions over and over again, by serious adults with kind voices, who insisted on patting me on the fucking arm, I went home with Phil.
Phil’s house had turned into Piccadilly Circus. Another copper sat with us on the sofa, going over the same bloody questions. Lights shone from every room—as if the middle of the day had sprung an appearance in the middle of the night. Phil’s mum went over to Brenner’s while Phil’s dad made us some toast and marmite. Stinking of sick, Phil took a shower.
At six in the morning, I asked if I could use the phone. They had one of those fancy cordless ones, so I took it into the hallway and sat on the bottom of the stairs.
It rang and rang for bloody ages, no surprise really, given the hour. Eventually, a grumpy girl answered, sounding stoned and pissed off.
“Somebody had better have died, mate.”
“I need to speak to Alex,” I choked out. “Alex Valentine. Room 35, second floor.”
“For fuck’s sake. Do you know what fucking time it is?”
A clatter, and I envisaged the phone receiver banging against the wall of the corridor as it dangled from the cord. Ten minutes passed, maybe longer. I stared at the crusts I’d abandoned on my plate, seeing toast, smelling dog meat.
“He’s not in his room.”
Rupert’s lazy drawl. He had the room across from Alex; the other person’s hammering must have dragged him out of bed. He sounded equally pissed off—cool posh voices were excellent at conveying bad humour.
“It’s his friend, Matt. I need to speak to him.”
“Can’t it wait? It’s the fucking middle of the night,Matthew.”
