Troy had spent much of the year gazing upon the lean and hungry. Men, like himself, sapped skeletal by ill-health, the ullage of all that was vital. Edward George Gilbert Curran was a robust, rotund slob of a man and looked by far to be the unhealthiest specimen he had seen all year. Even Charlie on his self-imposed drunkard’s ride to bloated death by cirrhosis looked better than this dandruffed, walrusjowled, purple-faced, reeking wreck of humanity. Imagine, thought Troy, if Dante Gabriel Rossetti had gone to pot, not just to fat as he did, but utterly, irretrievably to pot, boozed out of brain and body – he would look something like the unfortunate Egg.
Egg was drinking the drinking man’s version of beer and a shot – beer and a triple shot. Like most habitual drunks he had a way of communicating through any amount of booze and seemed, for all his inebriation, to have an immaculate portion of his mind that remained untouched – virgin for speech, even if that speech only amounted to ‘Don’t mind if I do’, which were his first words once Driberg had introduced them.
‘He hasn’t finished what he’s got,’ Troy whispered.
‘No matter,’ said Tom. ‘He’s a pro. Bring him a large one. Show willing. Look on it as a peace offering, glass beads to the natives.’
‘You mean another triple?’
‘I mean a sextuple. Get them to fill a tumbler.’
When Troy returned from the bar with a pint for Tom, a ginger-beer shandy for himself, and a quarter pint of Scotch for Egg, the two of them were rocking with laughter at something Driberg had said.
‘Stopit, stopit,’ Egg was saying. ‘Or I’ll wet meself.’
Judging by the state of his trousers this was not an uncommon occurrence. Troy waited for the laughter to die down, waited while he knocked back his pint and triple and started on the tumblerful of Scotch.
‘Your very good health, sir,’ he said to Troy. ‘Now are you the chap was going to ask me about that bugger Wig?’
Wigg. No. He’d got it wrong. He’d talked to Rod about Wigg. He wanted to talk to this bloke about Curran.
‘That’s right,’ said Driberg, elbowing Troy out of interrupting.
‘Shit,’ said Egg.
And for the best part of a minute shit was all he said.
‘Tell me, er . . .’
‘Troy,’ said Troy.
‘Troy, tell me. D’ye have a brother?’
‘Yes,’ said Troy. ‘I do.’
‘Younger’n you?’
‘Older.’
‘Shit is he?’
‘Sometimes,’ said Troy.
‘All brothers are shits,’ Egg went on. ‘Still, could be worse I suppose. With your name you could have that shit in the Commons for a brother.’
Egg roared, spluttered and choked on his own joke. Tom smiled falsely. Troy had no idea what to do, and regretted bitterly that he’d fallen for another of Tom’s wild goose chases.
‘Ingratitude. That’s what it all comes down to. Ingratitude. All the things I’ve done for young Wig in his time . . . sheer fucking ingratitude.’
‘Who’s Wigg?’ Troy asked, thinking that perhaps he could cut through this mess, that perhaps they were not talking about the same Wigg, and not getting the elbow from Driberg.
‘Wig? Wig? He’s me little brother, the little shit. Our Wig – Wallace Irving Gordon . . . ergo Wig!’
At last. The bastard was Wallace Curran’s brother. Driberg winked at him across the topof his pint.
‘You wouldn’t by any chance know how I could get in touch with young Wig, would you?’
Egg leant in, his gut wedged against the table, his breath foul upon the tap-room air.
‘Cross me palm with silver.’
‘Simple as that, eh?’ said Troy.
‘Man’s gotta eat.’
‘You mean a man’s gotta drink,’ said Troy.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Egg before Troy could even blink.
Troy whispered to Driberg. ‘Agree a price with the fool, while I go to the bar. I don’t want to find myself haggling with him when I get back.’
Troy returned with another glass of liver rot. Egg was grinning the grin of self-satisfaction.
‘Twenty-five should see us right,’ said Tom.
Twenty-five pounds was outrageous. The last round had all but cleaned Troy out. He was down to a fiver.
‘It’ll have to be a cheque,’ he said.
Egg shook his head slowly. Driberg nodded. Egg shook. Driberg nodded and won. Egg nodded and said, ‘Made out to “Cash”, of course.’
Troy whipped out his cheque book and dashed off a cheque for twenty-five pounds before the rogue upped the ante on him.
‘Now,’ he said, holding up the cheque in one hand and the whisky in the other.
‘Albert Hall Mansions. Back of the hall. Lived there for years.’
The whisky was downed, the cheque trousered with the speed of a magician palming pigeons.
Troy remembered telling Clark he had heard the name Wallace Curran before when what he had meant was that he had seen it. His Uncle Nikolai lived in Albert Hall Mansions, between the eponymous hall and his old college, Imperial. Long, long ago, in the days of lower crime rates and more bobbies on the beat, the flats in the mansion block had had an in/out nameboard rather like a Cambridge college. Burglary had put paid to its use, but the board remained, the gold leaf lettering fading on the names, minus its little wooden shutters across the in/out part – and above the name Troitsky, N.R. Troy could now see in his mind’s eye the name Curran, W.I.G. All this time wondering and he could not pull the name from his unconscious to recognise that he had seen it a hundred times over the years.