by Bud Craig
“Right,” she said uncertainly.
I finished my wine, beginning to doubt myself. It wasn’t as though any of this was relevant.
“Probably imagining things.”
“So, retired, eh,” said Marti later that evening.
I nodded. We had finished our meal and retired to the living room. From the iPod speakers in the corner came Billie Holiday’s huskily caressing voice.
“You don’t look old enough.”
“You know I’ve always liked you, Marti,” I grinned.
“Good,” she said, looking at me, then looking away again.
She sipped her brandy, resting her glass on the arm of a leather armchair. Drinking spirits is one of the many things I don’t see the point of. I’d only had the brandy in for a recipe. I sat in a matching armchair, close to hers. I had stuck to red wine, the only thing I drink unless I’m in a pub with really good beer. She stretched her legs in front of her and lay back with a smile of satisfaction on her face. Quietly she joined in the song for a few seconds.
“Fine and mellow,” she sang. “That’s just how I feel. Good food and drink and good company.”
Was she talking about me, I wondered, tempted to look round to see if there was anybody else in the room. She turned towards me and smiled.
“You know, this is the longest time we’ve spent in one another’s company,” she said.
“Yeah, it’s nice.”
I smiled and sat back. She lifted her glass to her lips and drank.
“When I’ve popped in to see you these past few weeks,” she said, “I was afraid I might have been making a nuisance of myself.”
“Anything but.”
“It’s just that sometimes you seemed so guarded.”
She was right, I realised, though I hadn’t thought of it like that before.
“I have been guarded, I suppose,” I went on. “My counsellor thinks I need to get back into mainstream life, you know.”
I thought of those sessions when I’d talked about my loss of self-confidence. When she had made me list the things I was most proud of.
“You’re still having the counselling then? How’s it going?”
I nodded, drinking more wine and noting the look of interest on her face.
“It’s brilliant,” I said, “It’s helped me a lot.”
“Great.”
She drank her brandy and looked at me, as if weighing me up.
“Are you ready for mainstream life?
I nodded and smiled.
“You need to let go,’ she said, reaching out and laying a sensuously comforting hand on my arm.
“Good idea.”
I watched, fascinated, as she ran her elegant fingers along my arm. I looked her in the eyes. Awkwardly, we moved our heads closer together across the arms of the chair. We kissed.
“At last,” she said, leaning forward to entwine her arms round my neck. “At bloody last.”
* * *
“A lot’s happened today,” I said at around midnight in my double bed, “but this is definitely the best bit.”
“I should think so,” she said, cuddling up closer and stroking my stomach.
We kissed.
“Who’d have thought I’d end the day in bed with a gorgeous woman.”
We kissed again and lay back in silence for a while. Then, I’m not sure how, we got talking about Marti’s musical career.
“I was in the charts once, you know,” she said.
“Really?”
“Number seven back in the eighties. An Original Way, composed by yours truly.”
“I remember it,” I said. “The band was…Side Parting. So that was you?
“Yeah.”
“Hey, I was lusting after you even then. I bet I wasn’t the only one.”
“Flatterer,” she grinned.
“I didn’t know you were famous,” I said.
“Famous for fifteen minutes,” she said disparagingly. “The follow up was a flop.”
“What was it?”
“As I never managed to write another hit, we released a cover of Just A Little Loving, you know, the old Dusty Springfield number.”
“A sexy song,” I said, as the lyrics ran through my mind. “In fact nearly as sexy as you.”
“You’re a bit of a smooth talker beneath that rugged exterior,” she said.
“One does one’s best.”
Just A Little Loving, I thought, a good song for right now. I found myself wondering what other songs would be suitable. What about the archetypal sixties song: I’m into Something Good? Was I into something good? I took a deep breath and savoured the moment. It certainly felt like it.
Afterwards we must have dozed for a bit, but suddenly we were wide awake again. I made tea and toast and brought it back to bed.
“What are you gonna do with your time,” she asked, crunching toast, “now you’re retired?”
“Well, I’d like to spend quite a bit of it with you,” I said.
“Good idea.”
She gave me a buttery kiss on the cheek.
“From now on I’m thinking of devoting my life to selfish pleasure.”
“You’ve made a good start,” she giggled.
“At one time I just wanted a better world.”
“Don’t we all?”
I sipped more tea and put the mug on the bedside table.
“I’ve been a Trade Union activist in my time,” I said, “got involved in Amnesty International, Anti-Apartheid, the Peace Movement. You name it.”
“I’ve done some of that,” she said.
“I went on so many demos, I had to pay the cobbler by direct debit.”
“Selfish pleasure sounds better.”
“Yeah, but I’m gonna have to do a bit of part-time work now and again to maintain my lavish lifestyle,” I said. “I could do part-time social work but…”
“You don’t fancy it?”
I sighed.
“You know what I really want to do?”
“What?” she asked.
“Don’t laugh but I’ve always wanted to be a Private Eye.”
“Really?”
I thought of the Humphrey Bogart character in The Maltese Falcon. What was he called? Sam Spade, that was it.
“Yeah, you know, like in the old black and white films. I’d get myself a Fedora and a trench coat.”
“I can just see it. You could do it, you know.”
“What?”
“Set yourself up as a Private Investigator.”
“I’m too old to retrain.”
“No, it’s completely unregulated. Anybody can do it.”
“Can they?”
“Social workers certainly could. You must have done plenty of investigations in your time.”
“True.”
“I could get you work easily enough.”
“Yeah, I suppose you could.”
She lay back as a grin crept over her face. She took my hand.
“We’d have to see more of one another, of course,” she said, “but we’ve worked well together so far.”
“We certainly have.”
I squeezed her hand.
“Have you got any contacts in the police?” she asked.
“Not really, though my mate Steve is a retired Superintendent.”
“That’ll have to do then. Now, we need to decide what you’re gonna call yourself. Initials are good. GK Investigations, how about that?”
“GRK Investigations,” I said.
“Even better. What’s the R for?”
“Risman.”
“Risman? I like it. Is that a family name or what?”
“My Dad named me after Gus Risman. He was a Salford Rugby League legend.”
“Right. So, GRK Investigations. It’s got that JFK ring, you know, President Kennedy.”
“As long as nobody tries to assassinate me.”
* * *
Coming into consciousness the next morning I looked at the alarm clock and did a
double take. Half ten, the latest I’d slept for years. I didn’t remember going to sleep – I’d wanted to stay awake forever – but I must have done.
I got up and sang in the shower. The bathroom showed signs of being used already this morning. Ten minutes later I put on jeans and a shirt and, fancying some music, ambled into the living room and took the iPod and speakers into the kitchen. I opened the blinds and, disbelieving, looked out on the sun shining in a clear, blue sky. Things were looking up. Turning round, I saw on the table a hand-written message on a page torn from a notebook:
Gus,
I had to leave at eight. I didn’t like to wake you – you were sleeping like a baby. Something must have tired you! I’m back Monday. Call me on the mobile number on the card and maybe we can meet up when I get back. Hope to see you soon.
Love
Marti xxx
PS Don’t forget GRK Investigations
Looking down at the table, I noticed a business card near where the note had been. I picked it up and read the name at the top: Pym and Sigson, Solicitors. Another thing had happened to me. I thought about Marti’s PS and pictured myself as a private investigator. I could do it – never mind ‘could’, I would do. I’d do it today. My ambitions were interrupted by my mobile.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Oh, hello, Rachel. All right?”
“Fine. How did last night go?”
“Last night?”
“You know, you and Marti?”
Surely she didn’t want a blow by blow account.
“Well…”
“Did she stay long after I’d gone?”
“Er, she left quite late actually,” I said, hoping my embarrassment wouldn’t show over the phone.
“She’s nice, isn’t she?”
“Lovely.”
“She likes you, you know.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, just things she’s said.”
An inkling of what might have been going on without my knowledge filtered through my brain.
“I see.”
Rachel carried on with her cross-examination.
“Did you go out at all or…”
“No, we stayed in. I cooked a meal.”
“Does that mean…”
“Yes, it means we were hungry.”
“Dad, don’t be obtuse,” she demanded. “You know what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you gonna see Marti again. See as in ‘seeing someone’, going out with them.”
“Yes,” I said, deciding to put her out of her misery.
“Result!” she yelled. “About bloody time.”
I shook my head. If I’d asked Rachel about her love life she’d have gone mad.
“It was obvious you two liked one another,” she said. “Why do you think Marti has been coming to see you so often these last few weeks?”
She told me in a variety of ways what a dickhead I had been. That, in a strange sort of way, put me in an even better mood. Going over to the iPod I tried to think of a suitable song. Of course, I said to myself, the Happy Play List. First track: Good Day Sunshine.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Coming out of my apartment building six days later, I turned left, looking at my watch. The warm weather had continued into the second week of my retirement. It was the morning of Bill Copelaw’s funeral, eleven days after his death. I needed to catch the next tram if I were to have time to call on my dad beforehand. Hurrying past the old Docks Office, sweating in my suit, I got to the tramlines just in time to hail the tram to Weaste. I could visit my mam’s grave while I was at the cemetery. There was no point in asking my dad to join me.
The sleek, turquoise doors slid smoothly open as the tram pulled in. It brought to mind images of the trolley buses that had trundled along years ago, metal poles sparking against the overhead wires. They were already being phased out when I was a kid sitting upstairs on the front seat and pretending to drive the bus. These modern trams, though, were cool and continental, a symbol of a 21st century city on the move, I’d heard someone say. I climbed on board. Using the orange handrails to help me along, I found a seat at the back.
As the tram moved away, I thought about Marti. I thought of her a lot. It took my mind off Bill’s death, which still haunted me from time to time. My brain kept telling me there was an inconsistency at the murder scene. I would mull it over now and again without working out what it was.
Once in the cemetery I walked along a straight path, flanked by trees on either side, fields of gravestones spread out ahead. A whole history, I thought, was etched on those stones. I adjusted my tie and looked straight ahead. My shoes crunched on the gravel path. I was dimly aware of bird song somewhere in the background. When I got to my mam’s grave, I stood up straight and prepared myself as if for an ordeal.
“I suppose you know I found a dead body,” I said, looking at my mother’s headstone as though expecting it to speak. “That brought back a few unhappy memories, as you can imagine.”
I closed my eyes and in an instant I was travelling back in time, to a Mid-summer Friday. Coming home from my last ‘A’ level paper – English Literature: Shakespeare. Looking forward to a drunken celebration. Making my way into the kitchen. Calling her name. Thinking of the plan for the evening: I would go out for fish and chips as soon as my dad got home. Then a bath, get ready and out to meet Steve in the Park Hotel at seven. I remembered saying something like ‘thank God that’s over’ before I saw the figure slumped against the gas cooker.
For maybe ten seconds I had observed myself watching the scene. In that time I registered the twisted expression on her face, the grease on her pinny from the floor, her grey hair in disarray. I felt for a pulse on my wrist so I would find the correct spot on hers. I must have thought she was dead even then. Then the panic overtook me and the numbing realization that, yes, she was dead.
“This time it was different though,” I said. “Well, you were my mother, weren’t you? A bit more important than your boss.”
I waited a few seconds before continuing.
“There was something strange about it. Something different about what I saw compared with the time I’d seen Bill earlier. What do you reckon it was?”
If she knew the answer she kept quiet about it.
“You never answer at all, do you, Mam. Ever. I didn’t believe in ghosts and all that malarkey. Nor in life after death. You won’t approve.”
Pausing for thought, I read the inscriptions on the stone:
PAULINE KEANE AGED 22 MONTHS
HER MOTHER MAUREEN KEANE AGED 53 YEARS
Pauline, the sister I never knew. I thought of my dad’s response to the Kylie Anderson disappearance. He knew what it was like to lose a daughter, to know he would never see her again. Parallels to my own family’s experience were all around me.
“Life’s a bugger, Mam. Still, you don’t need to worry about any of this, do you?”
Looking at my watch, I realised I’d better be going.
* * *
Later as I watched Bill’s coffin being lowered into the grave, I looked at the mourners gathered around. I recognized Jean and a few people from work.
The burial over, I walked over to the car park to see if I could cadge a lift to Bill’s house from somebody. I saw Don Bird standing by his car, talking to a woman, who had her back to me. He glanced towards me as I approached.
“Hi, Gus,” he said in a good impression of a man with social skills. “Have you met the new director?”
The woman by his side turned towards me.
“Gus,” she cried, throwing her arms around me.
“Pam,” I said, returning the hug.
Don stepped back a pace. He looked as though he didn’t know whether to shit or be sick as my dad would say.
“Sorry, Don,” she said as she unravelled herself. “Gus and I go back a long way.”
Don nodded and smiled weakly. If I were any judge, there was one question he was asking him
self. Why couldn’t I be old friends with the Director of Children’s Services?
“We were students together,” said Pam.
She still spoke with a slight West Country accent.
“A long time ago,” I added.
Now Don would be telling himself that such a relationship would be wasted on me; whereas he would know how to make good use of it.
“I didn’t recognize you for a minute,” I said to Pam a little later as she drove me to Bill’s house.
I looked at her hair, which was now shoulder length and blonde. She had also been on one of her crash diets since I’d last seen her a year ago.
“Oh, God, I haven’t aged that much, have I?”
“No, but you change your appearance with such bewildering frequency I’m surprised you recognize yourself at times.”
She grinned at me and stuck her tongue out. Suddenly she was the young woman I had met a couple of decades ago.
“Left here,” I said, as we passed the house I had lived in until a few months ago.
She parked her Audi outside Bill’s house. When we got out a man who must have been Bill’s brother greeted us. He seemed to have taken on the role of host and ushered us into the garden. He pointed to a long table draped with a white cloth at the far end. We were to help ourselves to drinks. Food wouldn’t be long. Having poured myself a glass of red I dropped a tenner in the collecting box on the table. I didn’t look too closely at the cause I was supporting but it was a local children’s charity.
Joining Pam in a shady corner, I took in my surroundings. I was struck by the incongruity of the scene. The dark, sombre clothes and the solemnity of the occasion clashed with the bright sunlight, the blue sky and the spring flowers. The tables and chairs were laid out as though for a party. Yet somebody had died.
“I asked Don to take over Bill’s job temporarily, you know,” said Pam.
Did I really want an update on developments at Ordsall Tower, I wondered as Pam began to give me just that.
“He’s complaining about staff shortages and increased work load,” she said. “As if I could do anything about it.”
We were interrupted by the arrival of a woman with dark, curly hair, tending to plumpness. She introduced herself as Cal, Bill’s daughter.
“Dad would have loved being here today,” she said in a decidedly un-Mancunian accent after handshakes and expressions of condolence, “showing off his garden.”