The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid

by Catherine Robertson

  His eyes swivelled sideways, but all he did was tap his cigarette on the edge of the Campari ashtray and stick it back in his mouth.

  Fine. I pulled my book out of my bag and began to read. I’d re-read every Agatha Christie I could find in the library, and I’d now migrated to more 1930s crime fiction with Margery Allingham. Her detective’s name is Albert Campion. It’s a pseudonym, as he is keen to hide his real identity – that of the scion of a seriously posh family from whom he is now estranged. His father may have been a viscount. Marvellous. I was hooked.

  My ability to lose myself completely in a book used to drive Tom insane. ‘I’ve been talking to you for the last ten bloody minutes!’ he’d yell. ‘You haven’t heard one word!’ I’d reply, ‘If I’m reading, you know you need to get my attention before you start talking. What did you say?’ He’d fold his arms and say, ‘No, I’m done now. Forget it. Piss off back to Bookland.’ And I’d shut my book and wait until he’d sulked for five minutes, and then we’d be right. Living with Tom was a breeze, now that I thought about it. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have a relationship that was all sturm und drang, slammed doors and the silent treatment. All right, I admit, I wrote a lot of that in my books – well, mainly it was the heroine having a small, defiant hissy before succumbing to the hero’s manly power. But in reality, it would be awful, wouldn’t it? But perhaps Tom was the only man on earth who was that easy-going – or who loved me enough to want to always be kind …

  Lost in the book, I don’t know how long it took me to realise that my table companion was no longer smoking and ignoring me, but collapsed forward and emitting grunts of pain.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I said.

  He shook his head so briefly, I wasn’t sure whether it was an actual ‘No’, or disbelief at such a stupid question. Panic growing, I looked up and around. The smoking section had emptied out since I started reading. I jumped up and squeezed out from behind the table, scraping my hip against the wall. I sprinted into the café and, as I looked around, realised I had not even the beginning of a plan. Both Mario and Vincente were out the back. Mr Perfect was still in conversation with the man at his table. Miss Flaky was still sitting with the chemist girls. I rushed up to them and said, ‘Quick! Where’s a doctor?’

  The girls and Miss Flaky stared up at me, wide-eyed. The man at Mr Perfect’s table rose and said, ‘I’m a doctor. What’s the matter?’

  ‘The man! Out there!’

  I grabbed him by the arm and almost shoved him towards the door. To his credit, he didn’t resist. And as soon as he saw Big Man, he snapped into full emergency assessment mode. It took him about ten seconds to work out what was wrong.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ he instructed me. ‘This man is having a heart attack.’

  I’m ashamed to say that I froze. It was the phrase ‘heart attack’ that did it. If it had been ‘stroke’ or ‘pulmonary embolism’, I would have been fine. But those two words transported me instantly back to a knock on the door and two young policemen and the endless drive to the hospital and …

  ‘I’ll call one.’

  Mr Perfect was standing at my shoulder. I turned and looked up at him. I don’t know what expression was on my face, but I saw his eyes widen a little, and as he spoke into his phone, he reached out and touched me briefly on the arm.

  He lowered his phone. ‘They’ll be here in five minutes, Alastair,’ he said to the doctor.

  ‘Good. Can we clear these tables away?’

  As if they’d been waiting for the summons, Mario and Vincente appeared. With practiced speed and precision, they folded and stacked away the few tables and chairs. The doctor sat beside Big Man, who now had his head down on the table, resting on his folded arms. He was still in obvious pain. I could see he had both fists balled up tight, and he was breathing fast and roughly.

  Once the smoking section was cleared, Mr Perfect asked, ‘Alastair, is there anything else you would like us to do?’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘Nothing. Keep the gawkers away, that’s all.’ He glanced at Big Man. ‘It’s a relatively minor one. He should be right as rain in a few days.’ His eyes travelled to the ashtray. ‘Whether he stays that way, of course, will be up to him.’

  ‘And are you all right?’ I heard.

  Mr Perfect was half-smiling, half-frowning down at me. But I had lost the power of speech. All I could do was nod.

  ‘You might be more comfortable if–’

  I felt his hand close over mine which, as I only then became aware, was holding onto the door jamb in a white-knuckle death grip. Gently, he loosened my fingers. His hand was warm and his skin more calloused than I’d expected from a man who always appeared so impeccably groomed. He held my hand for a moment, and then released it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and then because my brain was mush, added, ‘I didn’t think you had a phone.’

  The non sequitur didn’t seem to faze him, I suspect because he was too well bred. All he did was give me a small smile.

  ‘I try not to,’ he said. ‘I keep it buried in my pocket, for my broker mainly, and for the odd occasion such as this, when it might become necessary.’

  ‘Thank you for calling the ambulance. I–’ I stopped, hot with embarrassment at how I’d gone to pieces.

  ‘No need to explain.’ He smiled. ‘If there’d been blood involved, you would now be stepping around my prone body.’

  ‘I don’t wish to interrupt your chat,’ came a voice from behind us, ‘but does anyone give a damn about how much pain this man is in?’

  It was Miss Flaky, and her tone was as much of a surprise as her accent. She was American (which I suppose wasn’t that much a surprise given her reading material). And despite her fluffy blonde appearance, she came across as forthright and sharp. Bossy, even. Goes to show you never can tell.

  Mr Perfect turned and said, mildly, ‘Naturally. But I feel that my lack of formal medical training ill equips me to contribute in any more meaningful way.’

  He called to the doctor. ‘Alastair? Concern has been raised about the need for analgesic relief. Is there anything to be done?’

  The doctor raised his head, but at the same time came the wail of a siren. It turned out to be the fire engine, arriving what I would consider far too late to save anyone, had the next-door building been indeed on fire. But immediately behind it was the ambulance. Its own siren noise terminated mid-yelp as it braked hard and disgorged a crew of three. There was a minor kerfuffle as the fire crew and the ambulance crew worked out where they each should be, but soon a purposeful-looking trio was jogging towards us.

  The doctor stood. ‘Right. All of you. Inside and keep out of the way.’

  We obeyed. Mr Perfect, Miss Flaky and I stood in the doorway of the café proper, with the chemist girls behind us and Mario and Vincente behind them, muttering low words in Italian that I assumed were prayers, but which could have been curses. I mean, who knew how much trade they were losing with this disruption?

  The ambulance crew was amazingly quick and efficient. In minutes, they had Big Man on a gurney and were wheeling him outside, the doctor close behind. I’m not sure any of us did it consciously, but as one we all moved outside to see what was happening. Big Man was in the ambulance now, being hooked up to all manner of bleeping equipment. The doctor remained on the footpath, issuing instructions and asking questions. It was clear he did not intend to go with Big Man, but did want to ensure all care was taken.

  Once the doors were shut and the ambulance on its way, he turned and saw us gawping. He walked up and said, ‘Does anyone know that man? Does he have any family here?’

  ‘He’s not a patient of yours?’ asked Mr Perfect.

  ‘No. Not on our books.’ The doctor made a wry face. ‘I suspect not on anyone’s, by the look of him.’

  One of the chemist girls piped up. ‘His name’s Hogan.’

  ‘Hogan–’ said the doctor.

  ‘Mr Hogan,’ she added helpfully.

&nbs
p; ‘Yes, well, I’d assumed he wasn’t Admiral of the Fleet Hogan. Any idea of his Christian name?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘He gets his fags from the shop next door. I was in there buying my Heat magazine and I heard them call him Mr Hogan.’

  The doctor sighed. ‘Better than nothing, I suppose. Anyone know where he lives?’

  ‘There, I think.’ Mario pointed across to the council estate. ‘At least, I have seen him come out from gate.’

  ‘Right. Well, the hospital may find identification on him. In any case, he should be well enough to tell them himself tomorrow.’

  He spoke directly to Mr Perfect. ‘Friday?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  And the doctor started to walk away.

  Miss Flaky said sharply ‘Is that it? Is that all you’re doing for him?’

  The doctor paused. ‘What else do you propose I do?’

  ‘Surely somebody should be with him? How can you leave him to face such a traumatic situation on his own?’

  The doctor blew out a breath. He glanced at his watch. ‘I had a fully booked surgery this morning. What with one thing and another, I am now well over an hour behind. Even so, I will see them all because they are my patients. Mr Hogan, should that be his name, is not my patient. As such, my obligation to him is limited. He will be in good hands at St Regus’. If you’re so concerned, feel free to pay him a visit yourself.’ He nodded at the rest of us. ‘Thank you all for staying out of the way. Good day to you.’

  He strode off without a backward glance.

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ said Miss Flaky, ‘but I think that’s pretty raw.’

  Mr Perfect’s smile was courtesy itself. ‘As Alastair suggested, you’d be welcome to visit the man. Would you like me to take you? I have a car nearby.’

  For a second, her eyes shot daggers at him. But her reply was cool. ‘Thank you, but that won’t be possible. I have a full schedule of appointments for the week.’

  ‘What a pity.’

  I hid a grin. Miss Flaky’s mouth did a brief twitching dance of displeasure. She nodded to Mr Perfect and to me, and then walked away at a dignified pace, blonde head held high.

  I looked around. Mario and Vincente had hastened back to the café. The fire engine had rumbled off, so the chemist girls were drifting reluctantly back to work. I was alone with Mr Perfect.

  He extended his hand. ‘I’m Claude.’

  Of course he was. Suddenly, I felt embarrassed about my name. But I could hardly avoid telling him. I shook his hand, and tried not to blush.

  ‘I’m Darrell.’

  Not even a faint quiver of surprise. He really was well bred.

  ‘The reader,’ he smiled.

  He’d noticed! This time, I couldn’t help blushing. And I couldn’t think of one sensible thing to say. So I just grinned and stood there, like a red-faced loon.

  ‘Well–’ he said, in the ensuing pause. ‘I must say goodbye. I’d like to say that I, too–’ His voice acquired a hint of an American twang: ‘–have a full schedule of appointments for the week. But sadly, I have only the one, and if I don’t leave now, I will have lost my chance for even that.’

  ‘I have to go, too,’ I lied. ‘It was nice to meet you.’

  Inwardly, I cringed. I was sure it wasn’t done in Mr Perfect’s circles to say things like that. I’d read my Nancy and Jilly. ‘Nice to meet you’ belonged to the lower middle class and the aspiring proles.

  But he said, ‘Yes. Indeed.’ And, to my surprise, added, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  I waited to see which way he went before I headed off myself. Nothing more embarrassing than saying goodbye and finding you’re both walking the same way.

  I was passing the entrance to the council estate when I pulled up short. My encounter with Mr Perfect – now to be known as Mr Claude Perfect – had lifted me onto a small pink-tinged cloud of pleasure. But at the gate to the estate I stopped, and started to think about Big Man. My rosy cloud disappeared behind a pall of gloom.

  Miss Flaky, despite her obnoxious way of delivering it, had a point. Big Man, in pain and probably scared witless, was potentially about to face some major medical intervention on his own. I thought about the question of family and suddenly became convinced that he had none. If he had a wife and kids, wouldn’t he have asked the doctor to phone them? And what wife would let him wear that godawful jacket for so long?

  I thought about how I’d frozen when the doctor asked me to call the ambulance. Big Man probably wouldn’t have seen that, but then again …

  I thought about the day Tom died, and how I had not been there. I couldn’t have done anything to help him – that’s what they’d all told me. Was that true? I’d never know …

  I stood there, outside the gate – a big iron one that was rusted permanently open – and came to a decision. I was only a minute’s walk from my front door, but I turned around and walked all the way back to the café. And I asked Mario and Vincente to tell me the best way to get to St Regus’ hospital.

  ‘He told us he had no family.’

  ‘No immediate family. I’m his cousin.’

  The receptionist nurse person, a tall, rather glamorous black woman, gave me a long look. ‘You’re from Australia.’

  ‘New Zealand. I’m from the distant New Zealand arm of the family.’

  ‘And how did you know he was here?’

  ‘The neighbours told me. I was supposed to visit him today.’

  The woman gave me an even longer look. ‘Well, you can’t visit him now.’

  My heart lurched. ‘God! Why not? Has he–’

  At my obviously genuine distress, the woman finally softened. ‘No, no, don’t you be worrying. He’s in surgery, that’s all. He won’t be fit for anything for at least two days. You come back the day after tomorrow. Leave your contact details here. I’ll make a note that you’re coming.’

  Eek. I wasn’t sure I wanted my lie to be committed to paper. But then it hadn’t been a very big lie. Most of it, in fact, had been almost true.

  And deep down, what worried me more was whether I’d have enough courage to come back. What would I say to him, after all? What would he say to me?

  I decided I’d wait and see how I felt on the morning of the day in question. I told myself that no one but me would know if I wimped out. But I didn’t find that terribly reassuring.

  When I returned to the house, it was quiet. No landlady. No builder. I assumed he’d be back tomorrow, but for now I could enjoy the peace and privacy and lack of surliness.

  I fired up my email and found three new messages in my inbox: one from Michelle with the subject line ‘NEWS!!!’, one from Simon (subject line ‘How’s Blighty?’), and one from H McManus (no subject line at all).

  As is my wont, I opened the least worrying one first. Simon wanted to know how I was, whether I’d been to Greenwich yet, and whether he could crash for a night or two if he managed to con his bosses into letting him go to some international wave science conference on the Faroe Islands in a few months’ time. He did not mention my parents, for which I silently thanked him. I said I was fine, that Greenwich was about middle on my as yet un-begun list of sights to see, and that if he didn’t mind using a Portaloo he was welcome to stay. I hit send, and opened up Michelle’s email.

  The email began with only two words, all in capital letters, followed by fifty thousand exclamation marks, then a few more words. She was pregnant again. It was a girl. And for a moment, I didn’t know if I were happy for her. But after I’d given myself a firm mental slapping, I decided I was. I didn’t want Michelle’s life. What I did want was a bit of her luck. Tom had come easily to me, just as Michelle’s good fortune had come easily to her. It just didn’t seem fair that her luck was continuing, whereas mine – well, I’d been working hard lately to try to push that kind of thought aside. There was no rational reason, I’d been telling myself sternly, why I couldn’t be lucky again. I mean, what had I done to be singled out by the gods of misfortu
ne? Didn’t I deserve a good life as much as anyone?

  I was happy for Michelle. I sent her an email to tell her so. I made sure to include fifty thousand and one exclamation marks.

  Then I took a deep breath and opened Hippolyte’s email. I read it through, and then I read it through again. I checked that it was addressed to me, and found it was addressed not only to me but also to a whole lot of other people. I recognised some names as those of other romance writers.

  The email said she had resigned to take a senior position at a top New York publishing firm. She said we’d be reallocated to one or other of her colleagues, who’d be in touch some time in the next few weeks. There might be some hold up with any books currently being reviewed, and she apologised for any inconvenience. Then she said it had been real, and wished us all the best.

  Oh shit.

  Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

  Exclamation mark.

  The following morning, there was no knock at all. He just walked right in. He and another bloke.

  I was in the kitchen, making tea and toast. I could see why Clare wanted to renovate. The kitchen was tiny; two people standing at opposite benches would be less back to back than bottom pressed to bottom. If you opened a cupboard door, no one could get in or out of the room.

  Adjoining the kitchen was a small courtyard. Clare’s plan was to knock the kitchen and courtyard into one, roof the whole lot and put in large skylights. The new, big kitchen would be open to the dining room. Right now, the old, tiny kitchen was down the end of the hallway that ran parallel to the stairs. When you came in the front door, you looked straight down to it. The two builders had just closed the front door. They couldn’t miss me.

  Technically, I was dressed, if you count a t-shirt and a pair of boyleg underpants as an outfit. The t-shirt was an old one of Tom’s. It had a cartoon lightning bolt on it and the words ‘Captain Awesome’. The underpants were my own. I’d always been practical in my choice of knickers. Comfort first. Looks second. I was beginning to doubt the wisdom of this, especially as this pair started off pale blue but had long since faded to dishwater grey. They had also lost quite a lot of their elasticity, and were hence a tad baggy around the edges. I suspected I looked a little like Steptoe, which wasn’t, let’s be frank, the look I was aiming for. Then again, I was glad of the coverage. My bum wasn’t exactly bikini-ready, if you know what I mean, even in the dim light of morning.