Kate.
Of course, Kate. The drink had done the trick for a while, and I'd forgotten everything. I'd spotted her in the market yesterday afternoon. At first I hadn't been completely sure that it was her. There was nothing to connect her to this place, no reason why she should turn up here. She belonged three years and thousands of miles away. Maybe my mind was playing tricks. But even with all that time and distance the half glance I had caught of her was enough. The way she tilted her head, moved her body, there had been no doubt. The final, concrete flash of recognition had brought an almost physical pain, as past events crowded in, shrieking for attention. All so immediate it was overwhelming.
I stood, giddily, watching. It was then that I noticed the man beside her. She had turned to him and laughed, one hand flicking an insect off his shoulder. He had frowned at her, at the contact, and as he glanced up he caught my eye as I stared at them. I had dived away, pushed deep into the crowd. There had been no shout, no cry of recognition. I didn't know him either, but I could guess who he was.
I forced my eyes to focus in the present and down at the book. Struggling to shut out the image. But the words were no competition for the slight, blonde figure and the memories it brought. The one, single thing that I'd ever truly loved. And she had turned up here.
I could remember every detail about the night we had met. It'd been the autumn of 1986 and I had been dragged up to Oxford to go to a party by an acquaintance from the bank. I hadn't been too keen on the idea, but I'd been persuaded. Kate had been there, a vision of disillusioned, radical chic in torn jeans and oversized woolen jumper. But she could have worn a coal sack and looked good as far as I was concerned. We had argued intensely for hours, mostly about Thatcher's vision of the Britain we were going to live in, and then had crazy, passionate sex till the sun came up.
I'd been hooked from then on. She was a first year politics student and made Lenin look like Genghis Khan. The daughter of a wealthy businessman she had the financial stability to be able to afford such radical principles. Or so I used to like to tell her - the true working class were busting their butts for a middle class income, if not the social mores, and couldn't afford the luxury of principles. I had the advantage of my own background and could infuriate her in seconds - by asking how the hell she could know what the working class was about when the only one she'd ever met was me.
And that's how it had been. Discussions that became arguments that became rows. Conducted with a passion and intelligence that surprised us both. I suppose that's part of what the attraction was, we brought out the best and the worst in each other. There were times when we were so in tune, I'd been thinking maybe we could go and see that new movie tonight and she'd already have bought the tickets and booked a table as a surprise. Then there'd be those slow, sexy, Sunday mornings in bed, a walk in the park all bundled up against the cold, and coming home to a big roast dinner just as it started to get dark. We'd light the fire and settle down with the papers. And then she'd see some article, and get all outraged about the latest privatisation sell-off, and of course I'd know the guys dealing with the issue or have the prospectus and that would fire us off. We wouldn't talk for a week. Or two. Three was the record, I think.
Considering how good the reconciliation was it still struck me as amazing that we managed three weeks. Stubborn? Pig-headed would be closer. And those principles of hers? Contrasted with the oh, so comfortable background, they always used to wind me up. But of course, in the end such people can only prove themselves by taking the final step and disavowing their inheritance. And the very passion that had so attracted me to her took her away. As the 'eighties' got cranked up to its full clichéd frenzy even Gordon Gecko might have had a few principled shudders if he'd seen what I was up to. We had argued more, but with real venom. Finally she had dropped out of Oxford a few weeks before her finals, throwing away what her tutors regarded as a near-certain first class honours degree, told her father where he could shove her allowance and climbed on a plane to Australia. Which ticket, of course, he'd paid for.
It'd been perfect until then, hot-shot city boy with the BMW, gold card and fabulous looking girl on his arm. And not just fabulous looking either; smart, passionate, caring... But I could go on listing adjectives indefinitely and still not pin down what it was about her. She just had it, and I had never recovered. She left me to travel, and ended up with another guy. I shuddered a little, a cold shiver in the sweaty humidity at the thought of that final phone call. Scott, that was his name. A professional racing sailor. And that was him yesterday. I was sure of it. He would have been with her as long as I had, longer, just over three years. And they were still together.
I had skirted around and moved in closer to them from the other direction, but still keeping my distance. They were easy to follow, moving slowly through the throng of stalls and people. I tagged along, gazing blankly at a hundred sarongs and a thousand postcards. I bumped gently into ten thousand people and uttered a million 'sorrys'. But my thoughts and my eyes never strayed from her. I couldn't figure it out. Why was she here, crashing back into my life when I was least able to deal with it? No job, not much money and precious little purpose. It wasn't exactly the kind of situation that gave you confidence was it? I must have followed them for hours, unable to decide what to do, unable to approach her, but equally unable to tear myself away. I should have got out, there and then, I could feel the old feelings growing even as I watched her. She was dangerous for me. I didn't know if I was strong enough to deal with her now. But I couldn't stop watching her, alone and, with him. Thinking, thinking it should be me.
They'd ended up on the courtesy bus to the Emperor's Hotel. I had drifted into the nearest bar and a substantial amount of Mekong and coke.
A puff of wind stirred the pages of the book. I let them blow across, closing my eyes and trying to forget.
‘Martin.’
The voice came through sharply, and I started awake.
‘Damn.’ the pain shooting through my neck made it clear I had not fallen asleep in an orderly fashion. It was stiff and sore where it had been propped up against the tree trunk. I rubbed it gingerly as I looked around for the source of the voice. The book still lay on my lap, the untouched glass was all but hidden in a buzz of insect life and beyond it the sun was plummeting towards the horizon in a red ball. Highlighted against it was a dark but recognizable figure. The last person I wanted to see: my saviour from the night before. I started to pick myself up from the sand, trying to think of something to say.
‘I brought you this.’ he said, proffering a drink.
I looked at it a little hesitantly, then back at him, ‘Thanks.’ I said, taking it slowly.
‘I'm Janac.’ he replied, stretching out a hand.
‘Martin.’ I said. He nodded. Of course, he already knew. I shook his hand. He looked one of those types who goes for the immediate psychological advantage by breaking your fingers, but I was pleased to find the grasp almost gentle. Of course I thought, he already has the advantage, he saved my butt from a beating.
‘Thanks, for last night.’ I said.
He shrugged, ‘You already did that.’
I rubbed my forehead, ‘Did I?’ I nodded, as though remembering. ‘So you found me.’ I added, non-committally.
‘Uhuh, pretty little thing that took you home last night told me where you were.’
I nodded.
‘You don't mind.’ It wasn't a question, I didn't have a choice. But the tone said he could care less anyway.
‘No, no, of course not.’ I went through the motions. After all, I'd be in some hospital right now if it wasn't for him. I took a sip of the drink and tried to relax a little.
‘You want to take a seat?’ I asked, indicating the bar.
‘Sure. That'd be nice.’ I led the way over and we sat down, one either side of a small glass-topped wooden table. I gently put my drink down and massaged my temples.
‘So how are you today?’ he asked.
I
glanced at him, ‘Better than I was earlier.’ I said.
‘Yeah, you didn't seem too good last night. I was quite happy when that young girl turned up, I had no idea what to do with you.’
‘She works here, she's a good kid.’
Janac grunted and shifted in his chair. I watched the cool, grey eyes sweep the bar and then the beach. I could remember those eyes well enough. And the purposeful stillness. He was here for a reason. I waited, silently, to find out what it was.
Finally he said, ‘My car's parked out the back. You up for some dinner?’
Again it didn't seem so much a question as an order. I twirled my finger through the ice in the glass. Watching the cubes tumble over each other. I didn't want to do this. But he'd saved me from a beating and I owed him one. I couldn't say no. I took another sip of my drink.
‘I really feel pretty damn rough...’ I started. I let the silence roll for a couple of seconds, then I leaned forward, and picked up one of the loose coins someone had left as change on the table. ‘Tell you what, heads I go with you, tails I stay here, take three aspirin and crash out. Agreed?’
It was the first time I'd seen him smile properly. It almost reached his eyes. I'd hit the right note. He nodded, ‘Ok.’
I flipped the coin and missed the catch. It bounced and span on the glass table top. It seemed to take an eternity to settle.
‘Heads.’ said Janac, starting out of his chair, ‘Let's go.’
*****
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The Wrecking Crew (Janac's Games) Page 26