ABE STRETCHED OUT on the swivel chair in his living room, with the portable electric fan whirring beside him. He tried to tune out the road and focus on the sounds that were coming through the landing window at the back of the house; neighbours’ televisions, children screaming and, eventually, the rush of a watering can being filled from the tap. A blackbird began to whistle, as if in response to the sprinkling of water on leaves, then a police siren started up and that was the end of the birdsong. The plant waterer was Kirsty. No one else in the terrace went in for suburban behaviour. The first thing she did on returning home was to open the back door and step outside. Abe had got into the habit of wandering down to talk to her on the evenings he was at home. At the sound of the watering he got up from the chair and looked around for his cigarettes. He picked up his keys and went down the stairs. The fan carried on running.
Luka was leaning against a post of the broken fence smoking a roll-up, holding it cautiously, as if it might fall apart. The sun had almost gone from the garden. There was a corner that was still lit up and glowing pink, but Luka was in the shade. He had no shirt on and the waistband of his jeans hung low on his belly, showing the sharp tops of his hip bones. Against the drone of the traffic, Abe could hear the outside tap running. Kirsty emerged from the side of the house, staggering, with a plastic can slopping with water, which she aimed towards a clump of grey-green leaves. She was wearing a T-shirt threaded with ribbon and a tiny, fragile-looking skirt. She ignored Abe standing in the doorway. The drops formed miniature pools in the creases of the leaves, then dripped on to the dry soil beneath the plants. As the can became lighter, she waved it around more freely, cascading an arc of water over random pots and wetting Luka’s feet. Luka shuffled. When the can was empty Kirsty went back into the alleyway. The tap was turned on again and this time Abe heard the force of the pent-up pressure as the water was released. He stepped forward and picked up a football that had landed on the paving and chucked it back over the fence, then he slid down on to the doorstep and put his face up to the sky. Unappetising smells of other people’s dinners drifted out of nearby windows.
‘Isn’t the garden wet enough?’ Abe asked when Kirsty reappeared with another brimming can of water.
‘No, it isn’t. What do you want?’ she said.
‘A cold beer would be good.’ Abe stretched out his legs, making himself comfortable.
‘Beer’s all gone,’ Kirsty said. She rained water down on her plants until the area of concrete between the house and the patchy grass was turning black and giving off a miasma like wet swimming kit. You could smell the chlorine in the London supply in hot weather.
‘Luka needs to get down to the off licence. Keep you stocked up,’ Abe said. He drew his left foot towards him and examined it, showing its grubby underside. He started to pick out pieces of stone and wet grass that had got stuck between his toes.
‘Why not you?’ Kirsty said. She pushed past Abe on the back step and went into the kitchen.
So far Luka hadn’t looked in Abe’s direction. Even talking about him failed to produce a response. Abe listened to the clatter of pans being put away, cupboard doors opening and shutting. Then, at last, a CD slotted into the machine, the volume turned up, the fridge door opened, the sound of a bottle placed on the table.
‘Do you need a hand, Kirstabel?’
‘No,’ she said.
Abe got up all the same and stood in the doorway. ‘I was only asking.’
Kirsty was unpacking the food she had bought from the supermarket and piling it up next to the wine bottle.
‘How are my fish?’ Abe went over to stick his finger in the water.
‘Rallying,’ she said.
Abe walked over to the cupboard and took out three glasses.
‘What are you doing, Abe?’
‘Getting some glasses out.’ He held one in one hand and two in the other.
Kirsty turned round and made a face at him. It was exclusively his and had simplified over the years. There had once been some variations and experimentations. Now, like an artist at the height of her powers, she had pared the ‘face’ down to one or two telling lines.
‘What’s that for?’ he said.
‘Please, Abe, just go away.’
‘Go away?’
Kirsty was taking a tray of chicken pieces out of the bag. She made various decent chicken dishes. Her telephone rang. She picked it up, tucked it to her ear with one hand and carried on unpacking with the other. After listening for a few seconds she said, ‘No, sorry . . . Sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about. I think you’ve got the wrong number.’ She put the phone down.
‘Who was that?’ Abe said.
‘Someone called Vivienne.’
‘Did she want Neil?’
‘No. She said she wanted Richard Epworth.’
‘Richard Epworth,’ Abe repeated. The name seemed familiar. He looked hopefully at the shopping as it emerged, anticipating the wish list of ingredients. So far, no lime or coriander. But there were other promising things. He remembered who Richard was. ‘Ah,’ he said, before he could stop himself.
Kirsty was on to him straight away. ‘That means something to you, does it, Abe?’ She stared at him. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’
‘Don’t worry. Forget about it.’
‘So who is Richard Epworth?’ Kirsty asked, separating the names for emphasis. She stopped, poised with a packet of pitta bread in her hand. ‘Abe?’
He looked exaggeratedly blank.
Kirsty’s memory clocked in. ‘Is he the man you went home with in the taxi?’
‘Any particular one you have in mind?’
‘Abe. How did this woman, Vivienne, get hold of my number?’
Abe shrugged his shoulders.
‘Who is she?’ Kirsty persisted.
‘A wife, perhaps.’ Abe laughed. ‘Or a sister.’
Suddenly Kirsty went into reverse. She stuffed the packet of pitta bread and the tray of chicken back into the bag, then the carton of milk, the cucumber and the tub of plain yoghurt. She crammed them all into the bag and tied it in a tight knot at the top.
‘You’ll need scissors for that now,’ Abe said.
Kirsty went to the fridge, opened the door and forced the bag inside. ‘Go away, Abe. Please. Just go.’
Abe stood looking at Kirsty, puzzled. Then, as her mood seemed fixed, he left the room and went upstairs.
In the upper part of the house the air had cooled a little. Abe leant out of the open window to smoke. He looked out at the rooftops opposite and listened to the passing traffic. Vivienne, he thought. He had forgotten that name. She had been skiing and must have been back for months. He remembered a photo of the daughters – the masks and Hallowe’en hats – but he had no picture of their mother. If any had been on display he couldn’t recall one. Richard’s wife had rung up Kirsty. How bizarre was that! He gave a single shout of laughter before taking another drag on his cigarette. Of course, since it was Kirsty’s number he had given Richard, that wasn’t totally remarkable, but the mini-conversation between the two women still struck him as incongruous. If he hadn’t been with Kirsty when Vivienne called, he might never have known about it. He felt, for a moment, disconcerted at the thought of the odd conjunctions and coincidences that happened without his being there. Perhaps that was the essence of a coincidence, that someone in the know was there to take notice. A bus stopped in front of the house. Abe scanned the top deck. Nearly all the seats were occupied. Several people stared back at him. He half expected another example of synchronism but he didn’t recognise any of the gawping faces. It was only when the road was clear again that it crossed his mind that something must have happened in the Epworth household to cause Richard’s wife to ring the number. Without coming up with any specific scenarios, he wondered for the first time if there had been repercussions from his January trip.