‘Well, isn’t this the arsehole of London?’ Finn came in, flicking the rain off his coat, like Kilburn rain came out of the sewers instead of the bottled Evian stuff they got in Chiswick. It was Thursday. He’d come over because I’d told him I was ready to talk. ‘I’d forgotten how crap it was. I mean, the sheer turdiness of it is awesome.’
He pulled off his coat, dropped it over the chair. He wore a suit, but hints of the subversive Finn lingered – ironic 1970s sideys almost to his jawline, a shiny kipper tie fixed with a Playboy pin. A Zenner symbol stud in his ear and his vague out-of-season suntan. He bent to check his reflection in the hall mirror, swiping at the raindrops scattered in his hair. Then he paused and looked sideways at me.
‘You don’t look as bad as I expected.’ He patted my arm. He wasn’t going to say it, but he was worried about me. He’s my cousin. Some things don’t need to be said. ‘I mean, you look crap ’n’ all, but not as crap as I expected.’
‘You don’t have to stay long,’ I said, checking my watch with great deliberation. ‘I’ll kick you out at eleven.’
‘Yup.’ He held up his hand. ‘Good to see you too.’
We went into the living room. Angeline was standing near the kitchen door pulling on her gardening coat and fastening the scarf round her head. When she saw Finn she came forward, smiling, one hand extended in greeting, the other pushing the stray curls off her forehead. She moved smoothly, coming across so regal, so weirdly at ease, her brown eyes focused and serious, that I was a shabby coach tourist next to her, in my fading shirt and chinos.
‘Finn, this is Angeline.’
‘Angeline. Hey!’ Finn said, holding up his hand to salute her. He took her in, her hair, curly and dark, her small nose, kind of moulded-looking, like it was made of china. There was even a bit of lipstick on her mouth. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Wicked, Angeline,’ he said. ‘Wicked to meet you.’
‘Angeline was just going into the garden,’ I said. ‘Weren’t you?’
She held up her gardening gloves. ‘I’m afraid I’m an addict.’ She went into the kitchen calmly and out of the back door. When she’d gone, there was a pause. Then he turned and stared at me, a look of amazement on his face.
‘What?’
‘What?’ he mouthed. ‘You never said a word about her. She’s totally fit.’ He went into the kitchen and drew back the curtain. He stood on tiptoe, his nose against the glass so he could see her moving round the garden. ‘What’s wrong with her? She got a limp or something?’ He turned to look at me. ‘Is she hurt?’
I stood silently, looking at him without expression.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What you looking at me like that for? The girl’s got a limp, I’m asking you about it. Don’t get PC on me here.’
‘Come upstairs. I’ve got something to show you.’
‘What?’ He dropped the curtain and followed me bad-temperedly to the staircase. ‘You going to seduce me?’
In the study I switched on the light and fired up the laptop. ‘I’ve got the proposal. A proposal and the first ten chapters.’
‘So you’ve seen the light. You’re really ready to go?’
I hesitated. I drummed my fingers on the desk. Didn’t meet his eyes.
There was a pause, then Finn seemed to read my mind. He shook his head and sighed. ‘Dude, the man is dead. Dead and gone. If he wasn’t we’d have heard.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I know.’ I paused. I kept trying to imagine Dove’s body – somewhere up in the Highlands. ‘If we do it, how long’ve we got before publication?’
‘Depends on which house takes it. If they’re really pushing…three, four months?’
‘Three months?’
He sighed. ‘Oakes, pardon my rudeness, but you get me over here because you say you’re ready.’
‘I am. I am ready. I’ve thought about it. You’re both right. You and—’ I nodded towards the window. ‘You and Angeline. You’re right.’
‘She pulling your strings for you? What’s she got to do with anything?’
I was silent for a moment, holding his eyes steadily. Then I swivelled the chair round to face the computer, clicked on the media-player icon and found the tourist video. ‘Ever seen this? Did I ever show you this?’
‘Sure.’ He leaned forward and watched Angeline’s hazy figure crossing the beach. ‘It’s weird as all fuck. Knobhead kids. Have you spoken to him yet? Like I said?’
‘It’s not a kid.’
He turned his eyes to me. ‘What?’
‘Not a kid.’
‘Oakesy,’ he said, smiling cautiously, ‘you told me it was a kid.’
‘I lied.’
‘Then who was it?’
I looked back at him, then turned my eyes slowly to the video.
‘What?’ he said. The video played again, Angeline walked across the beach. The colours from the screen moved over Finn’s puzzled face. He frowned, opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at me and I could see the beginnings of something dawning. Slowly, almost woodenly, he put his hands on the desk and peered closer at the video, watched it for a moment or two, then turned and let his eyes drift out of the window to the garden.
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No fucking way…’ He was suddenly pale under his tan. ‘You’re kidding me.’ Slowly, moving like in a dream, he went to the window and stared into the garden for a long time. Angeline was out there, tapping a plank into place beneath the gate, edging it under the cross-bar to keep the gate firmly closed. Then he turned and looked at the computer screen, licking his lips, a look of half revulsion, half excitement in his eyes. ‘What the fuck is it?’ There was a line of sweat on his forehead. ‘What the fuck has she got down there?’
‘A parasitic limb.’
‘A para-what?’
‘A limb. Part of a twin that never formed right. You’d call it a Siamese twin. It’s not weird, Finn. Whatever your face is saying, it really isn’t that unusual.’
‘Not unusual?’
‘No.’ I clicked the video off. ‘It’s not. There are kids born like this every year.’
His eyes got even wider, filtering all the information. Then the clouds parted for him – and he got it. ‘Shit, shit, I mean shit I’ve just come in!’ He sat down abruptly on the sofa, staring at me in awe, his hands on his temples, like he was trying to keep his brains from falling out of his skull. ‘Holy fucking Christ. You’re dicking her, aren’t you? That’s what this is. You’re dicking her.’
‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘Yes, I am.’