‘You cannot drink that. It’ll make everything taste horrible.’
‘I will drink it. I like it.’
‘Why not have some sparkling water instead? At least that way, you’ll be able to tell an olive from an artichoke.’
‘Why do I need to? They both end up in the same place.’
‘Oh, suit yourself …’
I flopped back in the chair, and watched Gabriel Flynn ignore the glass provided and drink straight out of the can of Fanta. I thought of Marcus and his beer. What was it with men and glassware? Did they believe drinking from a glass would cause erectile dysfunction or something?
‘Ahhh–’ he said, just to irritate me, I could tell.
‘Michael Hogan,’ I reminded him. ‘What can you tell me?’
He stifled a belch, and said, ‘Ah yes. Our Mr Hogan. A man filled to the brim with furious self-loathing.’
I blinked at him, taken aback. ‘I thought it was other people he hated?’ Like me, for instance.
‘No, no. That’s just a side effect.’
I leaned forward, thinking hard. ‘So … when you said to me, that first day in the hospital, that you wanted to keep him in the world – did you mean that he was suicidal?’
He broke a breadstick in two and assessed which was the bigger half. ‘Miss Kincaid, are you familiar now with the concept of patient confidentiality?’
I gave him a look. ‘Are you telling me you’ve accepted my invitation to buy you dinner, but in fact you have no intention of telling me anything useful?’
‘You are asking me to be delinquent in my professional duty,’ he replied. ‘I could be struck off.’
‘I could strike you, too–’ I suggested.
‘I wouldn’t recommend it,’ he replied. ‘Did you not see how effortlessly I snapped this breadstick?’
I leaned closer. He flinched slightly. ‘Are you going to tell me anything or not?’ I demanded.
Dr Flynn bit the breadstick and chewed it meditatively. ‘I suppose I could provide hypothetical scenarios. About a purely fictional man we could call, perhaps – Mr Logan?’
‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘No one will ever see through that.’
‘Well, go on then!’ he said. ‘What are you mucking about for? Fire away!’
I suppressed a sigh. ‘Is he – Mr Logan – suicidal?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Not exactly? Surely either you are suicidal or you’re not?’
Dr Flynn paused to pluck a sachet of sugar out of the container. He placed it on the table and, while he replied, proceeded to lay down others and pile them up crossways, as if constructing a very small log cabin.
‘Let’s say that, like a suicidal person, our Mr Logan wants to die. But unlike them, he does not want to commit the act himself.’
I gave a start of recollection. ‘Oh, my God. That’s what he meant–’
Dr Flynn raised enquiring eyes from the sugar logs.
‘I told him my husband was dead,’ I explained, ‘and he said he was a lucky bastard …’
I tailed off, imprint of the slap on Big Man’s face vivid in my memory, and convinced my own face was crimson with guilt.
But Dr Flynn said, ‘Your husband is dead? How? Accident? Illness? Murder?’
Tact was definitely not his strong point. I considered flaming him with a look but knew it would only be wasted.
Instead, I said, ‘His heart stopped. They couldn’t get it going again.’
‘Yes, that will do it–’ Dr Flynn sat up and pointed. ‘Pass me that coaster.’
I did. He lowered it onto the sugar logs and removed it immediately. ‘Too big.’
He rummaged in the pocket of his jacket. It really was a particularly nasty tweed, I decided – orangey brown and overly hairy, as if it had been woven from the beards of ancient Scots warriors. Under it, he had on a greyish jumper that was more hole than wool. When he lifted his arm, I could see a serried row of safety pins holding together the side seam. The Sex Pistols had worn more practical garments.
‘Ha!’ He pulled out a business card and placed it on the logs. ‘Perfect!’
The card was bright pink. It had a photo of a naked-boobed blonde and the words ‘Super Busty French Kisser. All Positions and Toys.’ There was also a phone number.
Dr Flynn followed my gaze. There was a short pause. ‘We’re just very good friends,’ he said.
The waiter arrived with two pizzas. He slid mine in front of me, and then looked pointedly at the space in front of Dr Flynn, which was occupied by what could now only be considered a small log brothel. Dr Flynn stared back. The waiter waited.
‘Put it down, man!’
The waiter deposited the pizza onto the far end of the table, perilously close to the edge, and stalked off.
Dr Flynn shook his head. ‘A village somewhere has been deprived of an idiot.’
With one sweep of his arm, he demolished the sugar cabin and cleared the space in front of him.
‘You could have done that earlier,’ I pointed out.
He reached for the pizza and dragged it to him. ‘I wasn’t ready to earlier.’
I watched in mild alarm as he rolled one slice of pizza on top of the next, and then those two on top of a third, picked up the stack and shoved it in his mouth.
His eyes met mine in mid-bite. He chewed, swallowed. ‘That’s the trouble with crisps. Ten bags and a minute later you’re hungry again.’
‘You should get married,’ I said. ‘Or hire a housekeeper who cooks.’
‘I am married.’
My initial shock was followed by a disappointment so strong I had to mentally slap myself out of it. I didn’t fancy Gabriel Flynn. I wasn’t even sure I had the strength to be friends with him. So what was wrong with me? Was I now so desperate that I had to latch on to any passing person?
It occurred to me I was sitting across from a psychiatrist who could probably tell me. However, I would sooner poke out my eyes with a fork than reveal the mess in my head to anyone. So, I raised my eyebrows as if my only reaction were one of mild surprise.
‘And she lets you go outside in clothes like that?’
‘She works in military intelligence,’ he replied. ‘She is currently somewhere in the Middle East.’
Now, my reaction was one of real surprise. In fact, I goggled at him.
He was rolling up another pizza stack. ‘And in case you’ve leapt to the conclusion that I can barely tie my shoes when she’s gone, I also dress like this when she’s home. Because I like it.’
‘How often is she home?’
He spoke with a mouth full of pizza. ‘She’s been gone two months,’ he said. ‘She’ll be back in another two.’
‘Don’t you miss her?’
‘My God, yes. But in a way, the arrangement works perfectly. We both have such demanding jobs that I’m not sure we could do them if we were forced to tend to each other all the time, too.’
‘I suppose “How was your day, dear?” isn’t a question often heard in your house?’
He laughed. ‘How many snipers’ bullets did you dodge? How many of your lunatics smeared faeces all round their rooms?’ He made a face. ‘On second thoughts, that’s not entirely hilarious.’ He shrugged. ‘Oh, well. Do you want the rest of that?’
He pointed at my pizza. I’d managed to eat one slice in the time he’d taken to eat the whole of his.
‘You can have two slices if you tell me what’s wrong with our Mr Logan. What did you mean, he doesn’t want to commit the act himself?’
‘He feels he deserves to suffer. He doesn’t feel he deserves to release himself from it. Yet, he wants nothing more than to die.’
‘Does he want someone else to – er – commit it for him?’
‘I think he’d accept that as an option, as long as it were someone he did not bear a grudge against. That he would resent. But he wouldn’t mind if it were, say, a random loon with a box cutter.’
‘Ick!’
‘However, I think he’
d prefer to die from accident or illness.’
‘Like a heart attack.’
‘Yes.’ He met my eye. ‘Our Mr Logan is not the greatest fan of the miracles of modern medicine.’
‘Which is probably why he discharged himself early …’
I sat, staring into nothing, thinking about Big Man. I wasn’t so lost in thought that I failed to notice Gabriel Flynn’s hand steal over to grab another slice of my pizza, but I decided to let it slide.
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why does he feel he deserves to suffer? What did he do?’
‘That I don’t know exactly. However, as patient confidentiality doesn’t extend to information in the public domain, I can tell you that he was put in jail for murder–’
‘What?’ I was so shocked I began to stammer. ‘What do– Who did–’ I sank back in my chair. ‘Holy crap …’
Dr Flynn took the opportunity to summon the waiter to bring him another Fanta and a loaf of garlic bread. The interval also gave me the chance to gather myself enough to ask the vital question. ‘Who did he murder?’
‘No one.’
‘But you said–’
‘I said he was put in jail for it. He was acquitted twelve years later.’
‘Let me get this straight. He was jailed for a murder he didn’t commit? And it took them twelve years to work that out?’
‘Bang on.’
‘Who did do it?’
‘No idea. My understanding is that new evidence came to light, which proved beyond doubt that he was innocent. But I’m not sure that involved finding the real culprit.’
‘How do you know all this?’ I demanded. ‘Did he tell you?’
‘Ha!’ Dr Flynn shook his head. ‘I’ve had patients in a coma who were more eager to chat. No, I Googled him–’
The waiter plonked down the Fanta and garlic bread with a scowl and a clatter, only to be completely disconcerted when Dr Flynn beamed and said, ‘My good man, you are a prince among waiters. Thank you kindly.’
The waiter, who was all of nineteen, obviously couldn’t decide whether he was being made fun of or not. He settled for a tentative smile and then scurried away.
‘Five minutes ago, you thought he was an idiot,’ I reminded him.
Dr Flynn’s gaze was all wide-eyed innocence. ‘Did I?’
‘Yes. Anyway – you Googled. Are you sure the information you found was reliable?’
‘Why don’t you look it up and decide for yourself?’
I tapped the tabletop with my fingers, while Dr Flynn shovelled down garlic bread at a pace that would surely take its revenge on him later. I still had a slice of pizza remaining. When the last piece of bread was gone, I silently slipped it across. He folded it up and ate it in two bites.
‘How can I help him?’ I asked quietly.
Dr Flynn gave me a look. ‘Why do you want to? You hardly know him.’
That sounded familiar. ‘I realise that,’ I said. ‘And he doesn’t want my help, either. In fact, he’s threatened me with bodily harm if I go within fifty feet.’
‘You’ve already bearded him in his lair?’ he asked, with genuine surprise.
‘I have. And it’s– Oh, God. I can’t even begin to describe it–’
‘I can imagine. No, truly I can. His surroundings, his actions – all the equivalent of a hair shirt. A daily penance. A living death when death itself proves cruelly elusive.’ He paused. ‘I’m talking about Mr Logan, of course.’
For a moment, I thought I was going to cry. ‘But that’s it? That’s why? I can’t let him live like that! I have to do something!’
Dr Flynn chuckled. ‘You’re a better woman than I am, Gunga Din.’
I reached over and I grabbed his wrist. ‘Help me! Where should I start?’
He stared hard at me for a minute, and then blew out a reluctant breath. ‘Why don’t you try to find out more about what happened to him? That may give you a better angle on your approach.’
‘How?’
‘You’re a writer, aren’t you? You must do research?’
I didn’t feel that skimming through Vanity Fair and Condé Nast Traveller counted as research. But, to be honest, the thought of spending time doing something other than fretting about Marcus was enormously appealing. And I could feel occupied and productive, something I had not felt for a long time.
‘Can I call you again if I need to?’ I asked him.
‘Is there any point in me saying no?’
‘Not really.’
‘Hmph.’ He thumped back in his chair. Immediately, he sat up again, and craned his head around the room.
‘What in God’s name,’ he bellowed, ‘does one have to do to get dessert in this joint?’
Three possible reasons why Big Man was found guilty when he was really innocent:
The jury hated him. I could just picture Big Man on the stand. Not only would he look as if he’d be better known as ‘Crusher’ or ‘Knuckles McGee’, he’d exude hostility and loathing for everyone in the courtroom, including, I imagined, his own defence lawyer. He’d say as little as possible – quite probably nothing at all. The judge would get so impatient that he or she would start fantasising about bringing back hanging. The jury would rationalise that even if he hadn’t committed this murder, it was only a matter of time. Big Man wouldn’t have stood a chance.
He was protecting someone. Don’t know who. Don’t know why. The man who was murdered had apparently sexually assaulted Big Man’s wife. I found it hard to accept that Big Man had once had a wife, that he’d once had someone to love him. Where was she now? Did she dump him because he was found guilty? Did they have any children? Where were they now? How old would they be? Were they the ones Big Man needed to protect? Or did his wife do it?
He felt as if he were guilty. If he felt he deserved punishment now, then perhaps he’d always felt that way? Big Man had been twenty-nine when he was arrested. He’d been sentenced to life, but his defence lawyer had campaigned from that day onwards to have his appeal heard. It took twelve years, and I don’t know how much of that might have been due to Big Man’s reluctance to fight for his innocence. I don’t know what the evidence was that got him off; all the article I found on Google said was that it proved Michael Hogan was elsewhere when the crime was committed …
I suppose, having looked up some of the famous appeals that took decades, twelve years wasn’t that long. But to have such a large chunk of his life taken from him …
Big Man was acquitted and released nine years ago. He was now fifty. And I wasn’t sure he was any better off out of jail than in.
LADY MO: Cannot forgive you! You promised you would email immediately, not a century and a half later!
DARRELL: Sorry, sorry. Distracted by life taking weird turnings.
LADY MO: Care not a jot for your turnings! Only one thing matters! Sex! Did you get any?
DARRELL: Yes.
LADY MO: Woefully inadequate reply! Details, woman! Starting with – which one? Elder or younger?
DARRELL: Younger.
LADY MO: Ha! And?
DARRELL: And what?
LADY MO: DETAILS!!!!
DARRELL: Please no. Embarrassed.
LADY MO: Why are you embarrassed? Did he yell ‘One for Her Majesty!’ at the moment of climax? Make you spank him? Yodel ‘Yoicks, tallyho!’ as he leapt onto bed?
DARRELL: No!
LADY MO: Well, what? Cannot be embarrassed! You write about engorged members for a living, for Pete’s sake!
DARRELL: No, no. Cannot say ‘engorged’. Restricted to ‘silken male strength’ or suchlike.
LADY MO: Right. Listen up, buckaroo. I love my life but it currently centres on pee, poo, water retention, sore boobs, apple porridge and a map that is the property of Dora the Explorer. Chad and I have not done it since this last conception, and I am starting to look at Dr Phil with more than just academic interest. I have this one chance to shag vicariously through you. Do you comprende? (Learning Spanish from Dora.)
DAR
RELL: OK. Sigh. Ducal younger is very well built all over, if you know what I mean. Bliss-making in the sack, too. Did everything to me. At least twice.
LADY MO: Even–
DARRELL: Oh, yes. Sex happened in morning because weirdness happened the night before.
LADY MO: Sneak off to brush teeth first?
DARRELL: No need. He is a man who cares not a jot about fuzzy breath. Am I done?
LADY MO: To be frank, have been more erotically stimulated by Dr Phil. Last question – was this a one-off? Or is more rumpy on the horizon?
DARRELL: No idea.
LADY MO: Really? Hm. That’s not so good. Even big knob and nob status cannot compensate for you feeling like poop.
DARRELL: He’s invited me to a garden party.
LADY MO: At Bucky Palais? Yeepers! Get out your hat!
DARRELL: No, at his mother’s house. Or mansion. Or castle. I know nothing about her except that she has a landing strip.
LADY MO: Ducal younger’s mother has a Brazilian???
DARRELL: No! Proper strip! For planes! Sheesh. Can I change the subject now? How is little Rose-to-be?
LADY MO: Rose? Where did that come from?
DARRELL: My landlady likes them in the house. Now I’m too scared not to have some in case she pops round. I’ve got pink ones at the moment. They’re very pretty.
LADY MO: Hmm. Rose. Rosie Lawrence. I like it! Which is all that counts as Chad has no say.
DARRELL: How’s Chad? How’s Harry?
LADY MO: Delicious! And being pregnant again like a breeding cow is making me once more flavour of month with Chad’s mother.
DARRELL: Thought Chad’s mother was scary beyond all reason?
LADY MO: Like horror movie. But strangely, she is a model grandmamma. Does sweet, old-fashioned stuff with Harry, like blueberry picking and canning. Which actually means putting them in preserving jars, not cans. Ridiculous Americanisms. Do you know how many new words I had to learn when I had Harry? Diaper, pacifier, stroller – simply not right. Chad is very patient. Knows what I mean when I yell at him to put pushchair in the boot of the car. Also copes well when I refuse to ask for cream in my coff ee. It is milk, goddamnit! Milk!
The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid Page 17