Mo was walking back towards them, her face still glowing with some misplaced sense of ownership of the building.
Frank smiled at her but directed his words at Andrea. ‘I’ve no idea who he was, and this,’ he said, indicating the building, ‘never brought me any closer to knowing.’
47
Phil
March 2009
He does his second lap of the park. Sweat drips down his back. Adrenalin pumps through him. His eyes flick from side to side; he twitches at every movement in the bushes. His mind is a ticker-tape machine: Now. Or now. Or now … It runs on and on.
He tries not to think of Michelle. He tries not to think of the warmth of her body in bed last night, of her smile this morning as he left the house, but he thinks about them anyway. He’d got it wrong recently – revealed his desperation, gripping her too tightly, scaring her with his intensity. Last night he had the excuse of their anniversary. He kept it simple and honest. He told her she was everything to him and she smiled and relaxed for the first time in weeks. Later at home, she looked at him in a way that made him believe that he was still the man he had been – for a while at least.
He looks at his watch for the hundredth time. Now. Or now … Or when exactly? Where is Mikey? A dog emerges from the bushes and Phil yelps in surprise. He tries to breathe. He’s in control. Everything is under control.
He didn’t linger this morning when he kissed her goodbye, allowing only a brief glance at her eyes. He just smiled, stroked her hair and shouted a breezy, ‘Take care.’
Mikey’s solid, Phil knows that, even after all these years. Something about him has never changed – some quality of self-containment that Phil has always envied. Mikey knew Phil. He knew his weaknesses and still he’d do anything for him. Any minute now. Mikey wouldn’t let him down.
48
Frank had a biscuit with his cup of tea. It was just a plain digestive: there was nothing more interesting on offer.
His mother watched him closely from her high-backed chair. ‘Is that nice?’ She was looking at the biscuit.
‘Yes. It’s quite nice.’
‘Oh, I wish I could eat biscuits.’
‘What’s stopping you?’
‘They’re far too sweet for me.’
‘So you don’t like them.’
‘No,’ she said sadly, ‘never have.’
Frank sipped his tea and decided that the triggers for his mother’s melancholia were infinite. The mere act of watching someone else eat a biscuit was capable of sinking her further into the gloom.
He noticed for the first time that the room had been re-ordered. A pile of books that had sat on the shelf for as long as he could remember had moved. The collection of coats that hung on the back of the door had shrunk down.
She noticed him looking around. ‘Oh, I’ve been having a bit of a sort through. Weeding out the rubbish, you know.’
Frank frowned. ‘You’ve hardly got anything in here anyway – I can’t imagine you had much rubbish.’
‘The clutter mounts up and then sits there collecting dust, adding to the general sense of disrepair and decay.’
Frank looked around at the sunny, pastel-shaded room. His mother could never just say she wanted to tidy up. It was always the ‘d’ words with her: doom and death and decay, like an adolescent locked forever in a gothic phase.
‘Andrea can’t stand clutter. The house move has given her the perfect excuse to purge. I’m scared when I get home each night to see what else will have gone. I think I’ll be next.’
His mother peered at him. ‘You were always a hoarder, Frank. Never threw anything away.’
‘I threw rubbish away, just not things I wanted to keep. Not mementos.’
‘Yes, and everything was a memento for you. Everything reminded you of something. Nothing was allowed to be forgotten. I can’t imagine anything worse.’
Frank shrugged. No matter what her motivation, he was actually pleasantly surprised by his mother’s activity. It was the first time she had shown any interest at all in her surroundings for years. He noticed some fresh flowers in a vase on the window sill.
‘Those are nice,’ he said.
‘Oh those. Yes.’ She showed no sign of volunteering where they’d come from. ‘So, how are the preparations for moving going?’
‘Oh – okay, you know. Mo’s very excited. She’s developed some complicated colour-coded method of packing, but she won’t let us interfere – says she has it all under control.’
Maureen smiled. ‘She’ll be happier in the city I think. She’s too lively to be stuck out in the middle of nowhere.’
‘I think we’ll all be happier. We weren’t really cut out for country life. Well, I wasn’t anyway.’
‘No, not enough clutter in the countryside for you. Not enough mementos of your past.’ She hesitated and then added. ‘I’ve been thinking about your move.’
Frank was surprised to hear this. He had the idea that he and his family didn’t figure much in his mother’s thoughts. She always seemed very vague on the details of their lives. She never knew how old Mo was and still thought Andrea had the job she’d briefly held fifteen years ago. He waited for her to continue, but she said nothing.
‘What were you thinking?’
‘Well, it’s just that it makes this place even more inconvenient for you, doesn’t it?’
It had never occurred to Frank that his mother might worry about such a thing. She spent so much of her time telling him to forget all about her that it was odd to think she might ever fear he actually would.
‘Oh no, honestly, it’s nothing – an extra thirty miles or so. We’ll still come and see you just as much as we do now.’
She looked at her hands. ‘No, I mean I wasn’t worried about that, you know I’d never worry about that. Quite the opposite really. I just think it’s too far, especially for Mo. I really don’t think you should come so often. I mean you’re here once or twice every week, and it just worries me that you’re here that often. You must have better things to do with your time.’
Frank couldn’t quite work out his mother’s tone. She seemed to be taking the usual martyr tack, but there was something different there.
She spoke more quietly now. ‘I mean with you moving away it doesn’t really matter where I am, does it? I’ve no reason to be in this particular location. If I didn’t have to worry about you visiting so often, I could live anywhere I wanted.’
Frank was confused, and didn’t know what his mother wanted him to say. ‘Worry about us visiting? I didn’t realize we caused you worry. That was never the intention.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that exactly. I just mean that I worry that you take too much responsibility for me. I don’t want to be a burden.’
‘And I always tell you that you’re not.’
‘Well, maybe I could be less. This could be an opportunity.’
Frank looked at her. ‘Mom, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
Maureen took a deep breath. ‘Well, the fact is I’ve been thinking that I might like to move too.’
‘Move? What? Back into a flat of your own? Is that a good idea?’
‘No,’ she said impatiently, ‘not a flat of my own. I’ve got no interest in having to cook and clean and worry about all the bills. I mean another residential home.’
Frank was concerned. ‘Is there something happening here? Is there a problem with a member of staff?’
‘No, of course not. I just thought a change of scenery.’
Frank puffed out his cheeks. ‘Well, I think they’re all much of a muchness. I mean we can go back and look at some of the ones we looked at before here, maybe some new ones have opened up since.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of round here. That’s my point. A change of scenery.’
‘Well, where were you thinking?’
‘The south coast …’ She paused. ‘Or the east coast, maybe even the west. Not the north, I couldn’t stand the cold. I think the south migh
t be easiest for you to get to.’
Frank looked at her. ‘The coast?’
‘Yes, Frank, the coast. It’s not so very strange. I’ve always wanted to live by the sea.’
Frank shook his head. ‘Why do people keep saying that? You never told me before.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I did. You probably just weren’t listening.’
‘But it would be an incredible upheaval.’
‘What upheaval? I have two bags, at most. I could do it in a jiffy.’
‘But you’d be totally on your own; you wouldn’t know anyone there.’
Maureen was quiet for a moment before saying, ‘Well, what if I did know someone there? Would you worry less then?’
‘Who would you know, Mom? You’ve lost touch with all your friends.’
‘Well … maybe someone from here is considering a move as well.’
‘Someone from …’ Frank began, but then realized that he knew the answer. ‘Walter?’
His mother looked away. ‘Well, yes, as it happens. It seems Walter is thinking of relocating to the coast as well.’
Frank looked at her for several moments. ‘You and Walter have decided to move to the coast together. Why can’t you just say that?’
‘Oh, Frank, I can’t see that it matters how I say it.’
He couldn’t for the minute even focus on how unlikely the situation was. The idea that his mother had made some positive plans for the future, had embarked upon some kind of a relationship, had shown any interest at all in life, was too big to take in. His immediate response was taken up by his frustration with her.
‘Because … I don’t know, it just doesn’t seem honest. If you and Walter are … friends, well, that’s fine, I’m happy, but why can’t you just say it? Do you think I’m going to disapprove?’
Maureen didn’t answer. She walked over to the window and looked out at the garden. It was a long time before she spoke.
‘I was very proud of your father, you know, when we were first married. I’d talk about him to anyone who’d listen. Talk about him as if he were a possession. “My husband” – well, it suggests ownership, doesn’t it? I didn’t realize then that we don’t own anything, least of all our own good fortune. You’re left feeling very foolish when it slips away.
‘I didn’t make that mistake with you. I never boasted about your achievements. I didn’t want someone up there hearing me and thinking they’d take me down a peg or two. I came to think that it was better to protect yourself by expecting the worst – that way you can build up quite a shell.
‘Like everything else I’ve ever done, I’ve no idea if that was the right or wrong thing to do, but I’m afraid it’s not a very easy habit to break.’ She turned to look at Frank. ‘But I know I’m tired of this place. I don’t want to stay in this room any longer. I need some air. I need to breathe.’
49
They joined the canal in the city centre, but within a few minutes they had left the cafés and bars behind them and were walking in the shadows of factories and warehouses along the black tow path.
‘I hope you don’t mind meeting outdoors.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘This is my life now, Frank. Traipsing the highways and byways of the city like a vagrant, the only way I can have a smoke. They treat us like lepers, doesn’t matter that we keep the economy afloat. People bang on and on about civil liberties in China, but I’d swop places any day. They love their fags there – can’t get enough of them. I tell you what, I could live with never standing in front of an approaching tank if it meant I could smoke when I wanted – seems like a win-win situation to me if ever there was one.’
Frank wondered if this was how it was going to be: an evening with Cyril Wilks – the man and his thoughts.
Cyril seemed to pick up on this. ‘Thanks for coming, though, Frank. I do appreciate it. I know you’re a busy man.’ He started walking in the direction of a bench on the tow path. ‘Do you mind if we sit down for a bit?’ He lit another cigarette and Frank noticed his hand shaking. ‘We look like a right pair of fairies, but never mind.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘You know this place is crawling with them, don’t you? I’ve learned a lot about the homosexuals since the smoking ban. You wander along the canals and there’s some chap asking you the time, or watching you from under the bridge. Hombres furtivos I call them. It’s a shame I’m not that way inclined as it would make the trudging around outdoors a little more rewarding. You know – kill two birds with one stone. “Got a light?” “I’ve got more than that, mate.” “Ooh …” ’
Frank interrupted him. ‘Cyril, what was it you wanted to talk about?’
Cyril exhaled a long plume of smoke. ‘I’ll come clean straight away, Frank. I owe you an apology – there is no new business venture. I’m sorry for getting your hopes up. It was a cruel trick.’
Frank tried to look disappointed. ‘Oh, I see.’
Cyril didn’t seem inclined to say any more so Frank prompted him. ‘Was there anything in particular you wanted to discuss?’
Cyril looked out at the water. ‘It’s a funny game – writing.’
As Frank had suspected, this was going to be a slow trip down memory lane. He wondered how long before Bryce Spackford hove into view. For some reason he found himself not minding, though. Sitting on the bench, watching debris float by on the surface of the canal, listening to Cyril reminisce was strangely calming.
‘Specifically writing for other people. It’s like being invisible. The only clues that you exist are in the lines that occasionally come out of other people’s mouths.’
Frank frowned. ‘What makes you do it?’
Cyril gave a short laugh. ‘Not for the money, that’s for sure. I suppose it’s just nice to watch a television programme and hear something you’ve written. Proves that you’re there. You need that sometimes. Sometimes the rest of life doesn’t feel quite real. You’ll laugh, but it’s as if until I’ve heard you say it, it doesn’t count. Sometimes I almost have to fight the urge to ring you up and tell you stuff to make it count. Imagine that on the news: “Bong: Cyril Wilks went to the library today.” ’
Frank smiled. ‘Is that what this is about? Breaking Cyril News? Washed the car today, did you?’
Cyril changed the subject. ‘You were a good mate of Phil’s, weren’t you?’
Frank was caught off guard. ‘Phil? Yes … I suppose so. I mean we didn’t live in each other’s pockets, but we always kept in touch.’
Cyril nodded. ‘Phil and I weren’t so close. We went back a long way, but it was always more of what you might call a working relationship. He was the face on the screen and I was the invisible man behind the curtain. No one knew about my role and that’s how I liked it most of the time, but sometimes it’s nice to have some recognition, to let people know about your part … or at least tell someone …’
‘You don’t need to tell me, though, Cyril. I know about the work you did for Phil and for the others, for Big Jackie –’
‘Johnnie. Big Johnnie Jason.’
‘Yes, him, and the others … and me.’
Cyril chewed his lip for a moment and then said. ‘What would you say if I told you Phil’s death wasn’t an accident?’
Frank frowned. ‘I’d ask if this was a joke.’
Cyril shook his head. His cigarette had gone out. Frank mustered all the patience he could as he watched Cyril pat every pocket several times over looking for his lighter before finding it on the bench next to him where he’d left it. After taking another drag he finally spoke. ‘I told you before, didn’t I, that I bumped into Phil before he died? Well, it was actually the night before it happened. I was down in London chasing a bit of work and went into a hotel bar near Oxford Circus for a snifter and there he was. He was a fair bit worse for wear – you know – greeted me like some long lost loved one, insisted I join him, bought me a double. We started off talking about the old days, but he kept veering off into frankly very depressing territory: ageing, decay, humiliation,
doom and general gloom. It was bloody miserable, to be honest. I thought, Note to self – avoid social drinks with Phil in future.’ Cyril gave a forced laugh.
Frank thought of what Michelle had told him; he thought of his own last conversation with Phil, but said nothing.
Cyril continued. ‘Then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, he told me he’d decided death was the only option.’
‘Why was he telling you all this?’
‘Bad timing, Frank. Story of my life. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Of all the times I could have bumped into Phil it had to be that night, when he was half cut and desperate to confide in someone. When I first saw him, all I’d wanted to do was sell him my gag about Prince Philip and the Polish maid but I could see that wasn’t going to be appropriate in the circumstances.’
‘So what are you saying? He was suicidal? He was just drunk, Cyril.’
‘Yes and no. Yes he was drunk and no he wasn’t suicidal …’ Cyril hesitated. ‘Or at least that’s not quite the right word.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was past suicide. He’d tried it already and couldn’t do it. That was why he’d come up with his plan.’
‘What plan?’
‘He’d pay someone else to kill him.’
Frank stared at Cyril. He started to have a very bad feeling. He wanted to believe Cyril was mad, to nod benignly, humour him and then escape home to something solid and sane like an Ocean Pie, but he couldn’t. He hesitated before asking. ‘Pay who?’
‘Some old boy from his National Service days.’
Frank closed his eyes. Somehow he had sensed it. ‘Michael Church.’
Cyril turned to look at him. ‘Bloody hell, Frank. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.’
‘Just carry on.’
‘Yeah – Michael, that was his name. They’d met up again after years out of touch. Apparently Michael had lost his wife to cancer not long before. He told Phil about how she’d suffered at the end, how awful it had been to watch. Phil listened to it all sympathetically and then asked Michael to kill him.’
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