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‘No.’
‘No.’
‘No.’
‘Fuck’s sake!’ exploded Big Man. ‘What wrong with this place?’
Miss Flaky sniffed. ‘You want a side of faecal coliform with your bacon roll, you go right ahead.’
‘Jesus,’ Big Man muttered, but he let himself be led past.
‘This place!’ He gestured to a small Italian café tucked between a magazine shop and a real estate agent. ‘Come on! Surely!’
Miss Flaky peered through the window. ‘I dunno. Don’t like the look of that refrigerator unit. The seals have a touch of mould.’
‘You’re the one who’s touched!’ said Big Man. ‘You are fucking certifiable!’
He shook his arm loose of hers. ‘I’m starving. I’m going in.’
But he got no further. The bell on the café’s front door jingled as it was opened from the inside. And out stepped Claude.
His reaction was pretty composed, considering. The three of us were lined up in a row, rather like expectant policemen. I almost expected Big Man to place a hand on Claude’s shoulder and say, ‘You’re nicked, sunshine.’ But all any of us did was gape. And all Claude did was stop and then stand very, very still.
There was a short pause. Claude’s glance darted back and forth between us. Finally, he said, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘We’re stalking you.’ Miss Flaky had recovered from her initial surprise and was now grinning. ‘How d’you like them apples?’
Claude blinked at her, bewildered. ‘But why? What do you want from me?’
‘I dunno, champ,’ Miss Flaky replied. ‘An indication you actually possess a spine would be a start.’
Claude lifted his chin. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you mean by that.’
‘Well, it looks to me like you’ve run away,’ Miss Flaky told him. ‘Which is always the first resort of the spine-removed.’
‘I have not in the least “run away”!’ Claude fumed. ‘I was — I simply felt in need of a change of scene!’
‘Right,’ said Miss Flaky. ‘Yeah.’ She glanced pointedly at the café. It was small, Italian and had a plastic awning over the front. ‘Looks pretty much identical to the last scene if you ask me, champ.’
Claude stiffened. ‘Really, this is none of your business! In fact, I feel it is a rather severe violation of my privacy!’
‘Oh, stop clenching,’ said Miss Flaky. ‘You’re tight enough as it is.’
I heard Big Man suppress a snort of laughter. Claude’s eyes slid to him and me for the first time since we’d met in the doorway. His mouth went all tight and petulant.
‘Enjoying ourselves, are we?’ he asked us.
‘Bloody am not,’ retorted Big Man. ‘Thanks to this nutbar here—’ He gestured at Miss Flaky ‘—I’m half bloody starved!’
‘Yeah, he could “kill” for a sandwich,’ grinned Miss Flaky. ‘Right, Tex?’
‘Tex?’ Claude’s expression was a mix of disbelief and resentment. ‘You’ve awarded him a nickname? You barely know the man!’
‘I call you champ to your face and Fauntleroy behind your back,’ Miss Flaky replied. ‘What more do you want?’
Their eyes met and, just for a moment, Claude flushed beet red. He glanced away immediately, but it was too late.
Slowly, Miss Flaky’s mouth turned upwards in a grin. ‘Well, well—’ she murmured. ‘What do you know?’
‘What do you know?’ demanded Big Man.
‘He fancies me,’ said Miss Flaky.
‘Terrific,’ said Big Man. ‘Can we eat now?’
Claude blushed again. ‘Really!’ he spluttered. ‘This is absolutely—’
‘That’s why you ran away,’ Miss Flaky said to him. ‘Thought it might help stuff all those inconvenient urges back into their box.’ She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Fair enough. I mean, God forbid you should peel off any of those zillion layers of repression. Who knows what horrifying normality you might unleash?’
‘It is not why I ran away!’ Claude protested. ‘If I ran away at all, which I did not!’
‘Yeah?’ Miss Flaky raised an eyebrow. ‘What set you scuttling then? Farmer McGregor and his gun?’
Claude flushed again, but this time, his gaze slid ever so briefly to mine.
‘Oh!’ I said, as I realised why.
‘Oh—?’ Miss Flaky glanced between Claude and me, intrigued.
My expression in response was pleading. And, fairly obviously, ridden with guilt, because Miss Flaky twigged right away.
‘You tried it on with Darrell here?’ she grinned at Claude. ‘How far’d you get?’
By this stage, the poor man was mortified down to a molecular level. I felt I had to rescue him.
‘It was just a kiss,’ I said, and added hastily, ‘A very small one.’
Miss Flaky threw Claude a look. ‘Yeah, that figures.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘What gives, champ? You may as well tell me now, because you know I’ll only hound you till you do.’
I saw a number of expressions flit across Claude’s face, but the one that finally settled was resignation.
‘There have always been beautiful women in my life,’ he said. ‘They rather come with the territory. The trouble is, I have not been attracted to any of them. Not one. Ever. And before you ask,’ he added, ‘I am equally unattracted to men.’
He shot me a quick glance. ‘When I met you, Darrell, I liked you tremendously. You are so sweet and so very pretty. But I simply could not find you desirable. Seeing you and Marcus connect so easily, so naturally — that was the last straw. I couldn’t deceive myself any longer; I knew there must be something wrong with me. That’s why I kissed you. I wanted to find out once and for all. And because I have found out, that’s why I — ran away.’
‘But you find me desirable?’ Miss Flaky said to him.
Claude eyes slid frantically from side to side, but there was no escape. ‘Well, er, since you insist, yes, I do.’
‘Which must mean,’ Miss Flaky continued slowly, ‘that you don’t find me beautiful.’
‘Oops,’ I heard Big Man mutter beside me.
‘Well, no,’ Claude replied, unthinking. Then his eyes widened in horror. ‘No! I don’t mean no! I mean— Oh Lord . . .’ He ran his hand over his face, on which there was a distinct sheen of sweat.
Miss Flaky studied him narrowly. Big Man put a hand on my arm, as if readying us both to run for cover.
But then she lifted her fist and punched the air. ‘Yes!’
‘Look, I really must go—’ Claude seemed not to have heard her. He was green with distress, and already moving away. ‘I’ll— We’ll— Perhaps later—’
And he strode off briskly down the street, as fast as dignity would allow him.
‘Well, would you look at that,’ Miss Flaky said after a few moments. ‘He’s forgotten something.’
Both Big Man and I glanced around, frowning. ‘What?’
‘Me,’ she said.
And we watched her speed like a mini blonde Exocet up the road, her gingham tablecloth dress flapping about her feet as she inexorably closed the distance between herself and the tall, straight figure further on.
Big Man and I walked in silence until we reached the high street. On the corner where we needed to turn, there was a kebab shop. A smell of old oil, boiled meat and onion sweat wafted outward. It was delicious.
‘I still haven’t fucking eaten,’ Big Man muttered. ‘God damn the pair of those nutters to hell.’
‘I don’t know if I want to eat or not,’ I said. ‘I’m so hungry I’ve stopped feeling hungry.’
‘No excuse.’ He eyed the kebab shop. ‘But not here.’ He hooked his thumb up the street. ‘We could find somewhere nicer?’
I was touched. I doubted Big Man had been to a restaurant in over twenty-five years and the prospect was probably causing every atom of him to shriek with awkward embarrassment. Yet he still offered.
‘Or we could get pizza and go back to my place?’ I suggested.
His shoulders sagged with relief. ‘Brilliant,’ he said. ‘Do they still make that one with pineapple on it?’
When we got home, there was a message on my phone.
‘Hello, Darrell.’ The voice was American. ‘This is Ellen Price at—’ She named my publisher, and I instantly felt like throwing up. Oh God. Here it comes . . .
‘Could you give me a call whenever you’re free? There are a few things I need to go over with you.’ She rattled off her number. I wrote it down with numb fingers. And gazed at it, unseeing, until Big Man came over to me.
‘You all right? You look like someone died.’ Suddenly appalled, he said, ‘Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean—’
My brain ground slowly back into gear. ‘Are you referring to Tom?’ I asked him. ‘You remembered!’
‘Yeah, well,’ he said. ’My response to that little revelation earned me a slap in the face. Hard to forget that.’
I blushed. ‘I’m sorry.’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t be. I deserved it.’
I grinned. ‘Is this you apologising to me?’
He scowled down at his shoes. ‘Yeah, well I’ve been doing a bit of that lately.’
I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
He hesitated and then in a rush said, ‘Desmond came to see me.’
‘Did he now?’ Suddenly, I felt a tad happier.
‘His wife died a few years back.’
‘Yes. We talked about it.’
‘I know.’
He met my eye. His expression was his usual defensive bordering on hostile. But I did detect a tiny note of entreaty. Don’t ask me, it said. Let me tell you in my own good time . . .
‘I’ve got beer in the fridge,’ I said. After Marcus’ surprise visit, I had decided to stock up.
‘I haven’t had a beer in years,’ Big Man said.
‘Health reasons?’ I asked with a straight face. ‘Given up the booze like you’ve given up smoking? You have given it up, haven’t you?’
He gave me a look. ‘Got to look after yourself,’ he replied. ‘After all, I’m not getting any younger.’
Halfway through my second slice of pizza, I started to flag. I dropped it onto the plate and leaned back in my chair.
‘What’s up?’ Big Man asked. ‘You still upset about earlier?’
‘Oh . . .’ I stared up at the ceiling and sighed. ‘Not just that. A bunch of stuff.’
‘The message on your phone?’
Seems Big Man was also Observant Man. I supposed if he hadn’t been born that way, he would have had to become so in prison. I thought about Patrick’s story. Patrick was only in jail for six months. I could not even begin to imagine how someone would survive twelve years.
‘How did you get through it?’ I asked Big Man. ‘Prison, I mean. When you knew you shouldn’t be there?’
‘Who said I shouldn’t have been there?’
His voice was quiet, calm, but there was a warning in his eyes that told me not to push it. I couldn’t help thinking about it, though. Our time was so short, so precious. It seemed inexcusable to waste even a minute.
Oh, damn it. I needed to talk to him. I needed to hear his voice, hear him laugh. I needed the tonic of his self-confidence and his capacity for joy.
‘Who are you calling? That American bird?’ Big Man asked me.
I held up a finger as the call was connected.
‘Allo?’
It was a woman’s voice. No, not even a woman. A girl.
‘Is Marcus there?’ I managed to keep my voice steady.
‘Marcus—?’ In any other circumstances, her accent would have been delightful. ‘Non. No, he eez not ’ere. Who eez thees?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said dully. ‘Thank you.’ And I hung up.
Big Man was watching me, but I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eye.
My phone ringing made me jump—
‘Darrell.’ Marcus sounded slightly out of breath. ‘You called me.’
‘Yes—’ I girded myself. ‘Your secretary answered.’
He actually laughed!
‘No, that’s Berenice. My little French writer.’ I could tell from the smile in his voice that she was still there with him. Wherever they were. ‘Who has a terrible habit of answering my phone. She thinks it’s amusing, curse her. Next time I go to the bathroom, I will take the damn thing with me.’
My mind was churning furiously. He simply would not be this relaxed if there was anything going on between them.
‘What did you want, angel? Are you all right?’
And he wouldn’t call me angel in front of her, either.
Or maybe he would. Marcus did whatever pleased him most at the time . . .
I needed to get off the phone. Now.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I lied. ‘I just wanted to let you know that I, um, finished my latest book.’
‘Ha! Excellent!’ He sounded genuinely amused. ‘Were you planning to read it out to me?’
I lied some more. ‘I was. But — some other time?’
‘It would certainly add a further element of excitement to Friday night,’ he said. ‘You’re brilliant, angel. I look forward to it with eager anticipation.’
I hung up. And threw the phone across the room. It clattered against the bookshelf. The Dance quartet toppled over like fat, dusty dominoes.
‘Want to get it off your chest?’ Big Man asked, eventually.
‘No.’
‘Want the last of this pizza?’
‘No.’
‘Want me to go?’
I didn’t answer. He left the table, and sank his hand briefly down on my shoulder.
‘Come on over to the sofa,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you a story.’
Big Man’s story. I wanted to weep. I wanted to yell, too. Why? Why did you think you had to punish yourself like that? What good did it do anyone?
But it was too late for yelling. And I couldn’t cry in front of him; it would have destroyed him. So I listened, and didn’t utter a word.
Big Man’s story: Strong, handsome, twenty-two year-old Michael Hogan, welder, and pretty young schoolteacher, Beth Walsh, meet and fall crashingly in love. They are from opposite sides of the tracks. But Michael has a steady job, so when Beth accidentally falls pregnant, it’s not a crisis — Michael can support them. They get married. Six months later, Lydia is born. Ten months later, the number of unemployed in Britain reaches unprecedented levels. Michael Hogan is now one of them.
He tries. But there is no work. Beth suggests that she goes back to work and he looks after Lydia. But he’s having none of it. That isn’t what men do. Not real men like Michael Hogan, anyway. Proud, stubborn men.
After an age on the waiting list, they get a council flat. Although it is a step up from the squalid fleapit they’ve been forced to rent up till then, Beth hates it. Hates it with every fibre of her being. They have no money. They have a baby. They fight. A lot.
Beth insists that she returns to work, and this time, her husband gives in. She gets work on and off as a relief teacher. He becomes increasingly surly and withdrawn. The only person he responds to is Lydia. He loves her fiercely and she adores him. He stops looking for any kind of job.
Michael goes to the pub. A lot. Beth stays home. There are dry spells between teaching jobs. In the next-door flat is a man named Terry Sheen. He is unemployed, a recovering junkie. But he’s been well educated and, until his habit brought him low, was a moderately successful writer. He has started writing again. He wants to know what Beth thinks of his work. They start an affair. Michael has no idea.
Also living in the estate is a petty thief named Jimmy Dale. He is a repellent man, a slimy little perv, fond of stealthy gropes and odious, suggestive comments. One day, Jimmy Dale gropes Beth Hogan in the lift. She remonstrates him severely. For God’s sake! She has her daughter with her! The child is seven years old! Beth leaves Jimmy cringing in the lift and forgets all about it. But Lydia doesn’t forget. And she tells her father.
Michael finds Jimmy at the pub. Terry Sheen is also at the pub. He hears what happened. He sees Jimmy pounded into a bloody pulp until Michael is pulled off and thrown out. Michael goes home. In his mind, retribution has been exacted. In Terry Sheen’s mind, the red mist rises. He seethes for a day, and then the next night, he retrieves his mouldy golf bag from the wardrobe and extracts a club.
Beth is away that night. Her elderly mother is very ill. She is uneasy about leaving Michael and Lydia alone, and he responds badly to her lack of trust and tells her to fuck off and go. He reads Lydia a book and falls asleep on her bed. He is woken at three a.m. by urgent knocking. He opens the door to a blood-spattered Terry Sheen. Who, sobbing with delayed shock and fear, tells him what he’s done. And why.
Michael tells Terry to go home. He orders him to get rid of his clothes, somewhere a long way away. He prises the golf club out of Terry’s fingers, and props it up in a corner of the living room. Terry leaves. Michael has made him swear never to tell a soul. Terry won’t. He is far, far too afraid.
The police arrive at eight in the morning. Michael puts up no resistance. Beth hurries back to find him in a cell, charged with murder. She runs to Terry, who hears her story and is aghast, amazed. It’s all right, he tells her. I’ll look after you . . .
‘She never knew?’ I finally spoke.
‘She’s a smart woman,’ he said. ‘She may have suspected. But she loved Terry. I knew that as soon as he told me about them. The signs were all there; I just refused to see. I doubt she questioned him too thoroughly.’
‘But why?’ I had to ask. ‘Why did you take the blame? Because she loved someone else?’
‘Because I failed her. And I failed Lydia. I’d been a failure for years, as a husband, a father and a man. I deserved all I got.’
‘Where are they now?’ I asked, after another silence.
‘Australia. Sydney.’
‘You know for sure?’
‘Beth sends me a Christmas card every year. With photos of Lydia.’
I pictured his flat. There could well be twenty-one years of Christmas cards buried somewhere in there.
I had a sudden insight. ‘Did you go back to the same flat?’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Desmond wanted compensation. For my wrongful imprisonment. I asked for the flat—’
‘Good grief . . .’
‘It isn’t.’
‘What?’
‘Grief,’ he said. ‘It isn’t good.’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘No, it isn’t good at all.’
Big Man — Michael, as I now thought of him — and I kept each other company for the rest of the day, and then I made him stay the night in the spare room. He didn’t protest; I think we both knew he’d get no sleep at his flat. Too many ghosts.
Mind you, I’m not sure he slept at my place, either. He was up well before me, and when the builders arrived at seven, they were perturbed to find a gaunt-eyed, unshaven giant in my kitchen, making himself yet another cup of strong, black tea.
‘Is he a relative down on his luck?’ Anselo muttered, having cornered me in the hallway. ‘Or have you started taking in the homeless?’
‘His name’s Michael,’ I told him. ‘Come on. I’ll introduce you.’
‘I should go back home now,’ said Michael.
He’d shaken the hands of Anselo and a wide-eyed Tyso, who, I observed, was now whispering urgently in his boss’s ear and casting furtive looks our way.
‘I need a shower.’ Michael rasped his hand along his chin. ‘And a shave.’
‘You need some new clothes, too,’ I pointed out. ‘Shall we go get some?’
He looked at me as if I was mad. ‘You mean — shopping?’
‘Well, we could steal them,’ I replied, ‘but I imagine you’re probably not that keen to be slung back in jail.’
His shoulders sagged, and in a tired voice, he said, ‘One step at a time, Darrell. Can you do that for me?’
I must have moved towards him, because immediately he added, ‘And for fuck’s sake don’t hug me, either. That’ll finish me off completely.’
‘How about I meet you at the café in an hour?’ I said. ‘We could—’
The expression on his face stopped me.
‘I can’t,’ he told me, apologetically. ‘Not yet.’
I felt a sudden lurch of despair but I wasn’t exactly sure why. Too much emotion, too little sleep, I supposed. Still, I couldn’t shake the sense that whatever had bound us together, even if only for yesterday and last night, was slackening. Michael was drifting away. I did my best to hide it, but—
‘One step at a time,’ he said gently. ‘You can understand that, can’t you?’
I managed a nod.
‘Good girl.’ He lifted his jacket from a chair. ‘You’re a good girl.’
I don’t think he could get out the door fast enough.
‘You all right?’ Anselo was at my shoulder.
I had no idea how to answer him.
‘Who is he?’ Anselo scowled. ‘Looks like he’s crawled out from an underpass.’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘You’re not in any trouble, are you?’
‘No, no . . .’
Anselo did not look convinced. Suddenly, I was filled with gratitude for his indignation and concern on my behalf.
‘Thanks—’ I slipped my hand around his waist and rested my cheek on his chest. It was the briefest of hugs, barely a touch, but even so, I felt Anselo flinch. As I let him go, he was pulling away just as fast.
I did him a favour by grabbing my bag and leaving the house. Neither of us said goodbye.
I didn’t head straight for the café. At this time of the morning, it was always busy and I simply couldn’t face the thought of being surrounded by bustle and chat and laughter.
But what option did I have? The only other thing I could do was to go back home and hang around til I could ring the woman at my publisher and find out the worst.
I went to the café. I picked up a Patricia Cornwell from the newsagent and sat and read for two hours, until the boisterously happy mothers and babies drove me away.
Even then, I didn’t go back home. I topped up my Oyster card and went into the city. I went to the National Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery. I spent time in every room, looked at every painting, every photograph. But to be honest, I’m not sure I could describe to you a single thing that I saw.