John Anderson spent the rest of the afternoon perched on a bar stool in Mulligan’s, off Deansgate, downing pints of bitter and thinking about his plea, and his family. He was deeply wounded by their abandonment of him, their selfishness, yet strangely, he was not surprised.
He noticed the other drinkers, men sitting alone in darkened corners. His own loneliness had rendered them visible to him. A common bond. Lost souls with nothing better to do than drink away the daylight hours. Everything had changed. The foundations on which he thought he had built a life were turning out to be an illusion. Not just his parents, everyone. His thoughts turned to Will and Angus. He missed them so much. Remembering all the wasted weekends spent working in chambers. And now it could be too late to make amends. To be the father he should have been. He took out his phone and rang Mia. Maybe she’d allow an impromptu visit. No answer. He left a garbled voicemail.
Obsessively, his mind inevitably returned to the crash. He couldn’t have been that tired, could he? To fall asleep with a passenger he didn’t know? It didn’t make sense. Was it possible that someone else had made this happen? If so, Waqar Ahmed had to be the prime suspect. He more than anyone had something to gain from Anderson being out of the way. And as a result, he was acquitted. But how could he have been involved? Maybe Anderson was being paranoid, starting to lose his mind. All these thoughts made his head ache. And what about Hussain? Would he stoop that low? At the very least he might know something.
With a renewed alcohol-fuelled determination, he stood up, knocking the bar stool over in the process.
He staggered out to find some answers.
*
It was after five o’clock by the time Anderson had walked into Rusholme from town. His leg throbbed, but the journey had given him time to think. Wet through, he was oblivious to the rods of sideways rain illuminated in the neon signs on the shops and restaurants along the Curry Mile.
At last he reached Hussain & Co. A tiny ramshackle frontage, squeezed between an Indian takeaway and a shop selling saris. The Kashmiri Palace was directly opposite.
He could see Hussain through the window, at his desk, shuffling papers. Anderson burst in and stumbled into a filing cabinet.
‘John Anderson!’ Hussain exclaimed. ‘You’re soaking. Give me your coat.’
Anderson steadied himself, then waved a finger at his old adversary. ‘Thanks for going to the police and making a statement,’ he slurred.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘About seeing me in Starbucks.’ Anderson didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Did Waqar Ahmed set me up?’
Hussain moved towards Anderson and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I don’t know, John. I really don’t know.’
Anderson was taken aback by Hussain’s refusal to defend his old client with more fervour.
Adey came out of the back, having heard the commotion. ‘What’s going on?’
Anderson was instantly distracted. Mesmerised.
Hussain seized the opportunity to change the subject. ‘John Anderson, meet my trainee, Adey Tuur.’
‘So you’re the famous Anderson?’ He was much better looking than she had imagined, despite the angry scar that snaked down the side of his face. His eyes were sad, lost. She moved across the room towards him with a serenity that was instantly calming and ran a finger down his scar. ‘Does it hurt?’
He was lost for words. It felt wonderful. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him, displayed any tenderness. He wanted to cry, wail, until there was no pain left.
In fact, he did and said nothing, suddenly feeling a fool for turning up like that; ranting, drunk.
He turned on his heel, pushed open the door, and disappeared into the streaming rain.
Hussain puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. Neither he nor Adey said anything.