Marcus hadn’t come back to my place on Saturday night. He rang me at two o’clock on Sunday afternoon.
‘Angel, I’m so bloody sorry.’
He sounded genuinely contrite. He also sounded as if he’d smoked a thousand fags and stayed up all night. Which I could only assume he had.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again. ‘I swear to you that I was getting ready to leave at about one, and then – I don’t know – somehow, it all went horribly wrong. I’m sorry …’
‘Where are you now?’
‘At the airport. Slumped in a chair staring at the ceiling, because if I sit up, I’m afraid my eyeballs will slide right out of my head. Christ knows how I’m going to get to the plane. I may have to blag a wheelchair–’
He gave a short laugh, and then had to hold the phone away as he descended into a coughing fit. ‘Oh my fucking Lord,’ he croaked. ‘Never again. I’m far too old.’
Then he said, ‘I’ll make it up to you. I’ll check my diary and let you know when I’m next over. I promise.’
Suddenly, I wasn’t angry any more. I clutched the phone as if, somehow, that could bring me closer to him. I wanted to see him so badly, I felt faint.
‘All right.’
There was a bustle and beeping in the background. He said, ‘God, I have to go. Wish me luck. At least there’ll be a sick bag within reach once I’m on board.’ I heard him breathe into the phone. ‘Angel, I’m sorry …’
‘Don’t miss your flight,’ I said.
Then I hung up because I did not trust myself to say anything more.
‘Fuck’s sake!’ Big Man wrenched open his door so fast, I almost pounded his chest. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
I gazed at him, panting with the exertion. As my breath came under control, it began to dawn on me that my hands were really quite sore. I checked. My knuckles were bruised and raw. One was bleeding.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Big Man again, but without the rancour. ‘Here.’
He handed me the napkin that had been wrapped around the coffee cup. I dabbed my bleeding knuckle, and winced. ‘Ouch!’
Big Man made a quick, exasperated noise, as if he knew he’d regret what he was about to do. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’
We walked slowly and in silence all the way down to the canal, where Big Man sank down onto the nearest seat in the shade.
‘If this is the start of global warming,’ he said, ‘we’re all fucked.’
‘Is it not usually this hot in May?’
‘It’s not usually this hot in midsummer. This is England not fucking Qatar!’
‘Are you all right?’ I asked. ‘You’re not going to keel over, are you?’
I saw the ghost of a smile. ‘If I do, just roll me in the canal. Round here, no one’ll notice.’
He leaned against the bench’s hard back and closed his eyes. I took the opportunity to have a good, long stare. He looked better than he had the last time I saw him in daylight. He was less heavy around the waist and chin. His colouring had improved, though he could do with a shave. His hair was still military short; I wondered if he cut it himself? Due to the heat, he’d not brought the nasty blue bomber jacket. Instead, he had on a frayed polyester shirt with a singularly hideous abstract pattern in shades of brown. His pants were cotton drill, which at least would breathe, but they looked as if they’d once belonged to someone else, at least six inches shorter.
I studied his face. He had excellent bone structure: high, Tartar-sharp cheekbones, a firm jawline and a straight, strong nose. If you ignored the excess weight and the awful clothes, you could say that Big Man was handsome. He had been very handsome at one stage, I guessed. Until circumstances – or his own will – had brought him down.
‘Didn’t your mother tell you it’s rude to stare?’
I was sure he hadn’t opened his eyes. He must have just sensed it.
‘She did,’ I said. ‘She also told me that hay was for horses not people. I never really understood that one.’
‘My mother used to say things like: “You’ll put that down right now if you know what’s good for you!” Trouble is, I didn’t know. She never explained that bit. So I got a clip round the ear-hole and was none the wiser.’
I laughed. Big Man opened his eyes a fraction, and glared at me.
‘I meant it you know,’ he said. ‘About the harridan. You tell her to keep away.’
‘Why?’
Big Man’s eyes snapped fully open in disbelief. ‘Why?’
‘Yes, why? What are you afraid of?’
Personally speaking, right at that moment, I was a little afraid of Big Man. He sat bolt upright, with a face like thunder, one giant fist clenching and unclenching by his side.
‘If I say I don’t want her near, then I don’t want her near! Get it?’
Then I was just pissed off. How dare he try to bully me?
‘What are you going to do?’ I retorted. ‘Thump me one?’
His eyes widened, and he gazed down at his clenched fist, as if he’d never seen it before in his life.
‘No, I’d– I’d never–’
I watched, astonished, as he stopped and stammered. He’d been completely thrown. With a stilted, jerky movement, he balled both his hands and buried them in his lap, and sat hunched over, staring out at the canal.
After a moment, I placed a tentative hand on his shoulder.
‘I didn’t really think you would.’
He flicked his shoulder to dislodge my hand. ‘What would you know?’
‘I think I know when someone means me harm,’ I replied gently.
He grunted. ‘You mean I’m full of piss and wind instead.’
But his fists were no longer balled in his lap.
I was taking a huge risk. But if I didn’t do it now, I never would. ‘I know what happened to you. Dr Flynn told me.’
Slowly, his head turned. ‘And what could Dr Flynn tell you about me?’
‘That you did time in jail. But that you were innocent.’
The pause as he looked at me was possibly the most uncomfortable I’d ever experienced. He didn’t scowl, or glower, or even narrow his eyes. He just looked, without blinking, for far too long.
‘Is that what you’re here for?’
I was confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I had letters, you know. From women on the outside.’
‘Oh God! No!’ I felt my face burn. ‘No, I’m not like that. I just want to–’
‘Look after me?’ His voice was ominously calm. ‘Make sure I’m OK?’
And it came to me, clear as day, that I was never going to get anywhere with this man. I had no hope. None at all.
‘All right,’ I huffed. ‘I’ll stop. I won’t come any more. You win.’
I got to my feet. ‘The coffee’s on me. Don’t bother paying me back.’
And I walked off and left him.
I came back home to an argument. As I opened the front door, I heard Tyso yelling in the courtyard. ‘You bloody promised. How can you do that to her?’
‘I did not promise.’ Anselo wasn’t yelling, but he wasn’t exactly calm, either. ‘She took it for granted, like she and you and the whole bloody lot of them always do.’
‘She went off and cried all last night.’
‘She cries when she breaks a nail, for Christ’s sake!’
‘You wanker!’
Tyso must have taken a swing, because Anselo said, ‘Don’t do it–’ There was a strain to his voice that suggested he had a firm hold on Tyso’s arm.
‘Wanker …’ Tyso’s voice jerked, as if he were on the verge of tears.
‘Tyse, give it a rest.’
Anselo sounded weary. I pictured Tyso sunk down on the floor, Anselo standing over him, the reluctant conqueror.
‘You promised her,’ I only just heard Tyso mumble.
‘I didn’t. I never said I’d be there. She assumed. You all did.’
‘It’s family.’
/> ‘Yeah, it always is.’
There was a pause. Anselo said, ‘Come on–’ I pictured him holding out his hand to the boy on the ground.
‘Fuck off!’ I heard Tyso snap.
And then he came running towards me down the hall. He didn’t see me till the last minute, and startled, pulled up short. His face was tight, boiled red with anger and humiliation. With one embarrassed, resentful glance at me, he yanked open the door and ran out.
I shut the door myself, and turned to see Anselo at the end of the hall.
‘Sorry,’ he said, when I reached the kitchen.
‘Has he gone for good?’
‘Not if his father has anything to do with it.’
I held the kettle under the tap. Seemed like a good time to make tea, despite the fact the house was like a sauna. ‘What was it about? Can I ask, or is it none of my business?’
‘His sister’s getting married. She expected me to come. And bring Vee.’
‘Vee?’
‘Vivienne. My girlfriend.’
Vivienne. The blonde goddess. I suppose it was too much to hope that she’d be called Tracey-Anne or Enid.
I set down the kettle and flicked it on. ‘And you have other plans?’
He leaned against the kitchen bench and folded his arms. ‘Vee’s got some dinner party we have to go to.’
Telling way of phrasing it. But probably best to keep that thought to myself.
‘And I never said I’d go.’ Anselo was finally allowing himself to sound aggrieved. ‘Fuck’s sake! My family drives me fucking nuts sometimes. There’ll be at least a million bloody people there. Why the hell does she need me?’
‘Because you’re her cousin?’
He threw up a hand. ‘The million people are all cousins. We’re all fucking related.’
‘Well – because she likes you?’
‘Jesus. Don’t you start!’
‘She’ll only have one wedding.’
He gave me a look. ‘You met her?’
I handed him a cup of tea. ‘I think you should go.’
He blew out a long breath. ‘Yeah, I know.’
LADY MO: Why silence re latest writing effort?? By now I’d expect to be regaled with outlandish plots and hilarious names no real man possesses!
DARRELL: Have had hitch. My editor done gone.
LADY MO: Is editor the one with the hilarious name no real woman possesses?
DARRELL: Same. She’s gone to another firm. Left me in lurch.
LADY MO: Surely your megacorp grubby book publisher has more than one editor?
DARRELL: Not one assigned to me yet. My book is in limbo. May never emerge.
LADY MO: This you know, or this you only fear?
DARRELL: Are you psychic? How do you know I am too scared to find out what’s going on?
LADY MO: Dr Phil. He knows everything. Call them, you fool!!!!
DARRELL: Sigh. Will do, as otherwise I won’t hear the end of it from you.
LADY MO: Do you have plots in mind, anyway? Who is the model for the stinky rich sexual athlete this time? Pierce or Clive? Or – hint, hint – sexy new ducal boyfriend???
DARRELL: Not really my boyfriend.
LADY MO: Then how come all that shagging?
DARRELL: It’s complicated.
LADY MO: Darrell. Sweetie. That’s not good. You are not the sort to cope with shag-around shenanigans. You need commitment.
DARRELL: Maybe. But doubt I’ll get it. Not sure I want it, anyway. I hate his lesbian sister.
LADY MO: Because lesbian?
DARRELL: No! Because utter bitch!
LADY MO: Let me guess. Sexy thinks his sister is the duck’s nuts? Believes sun shines out of bottom? Is blind to her utter bitchness?
DARRELL: How do you KNOW?? No, don’t tell me …
LADY MO: He knows everything.
DARRELL: I did start a new book. A real book. Confess shamingly that I have not got far.
LADY MO: Maybe you need a new model for rich sexy hero? Why not go blond for once. Oo! How about using Chad?!!
DARRELL: No!!! Ick!!!
LADY MO: You saying Chad is ick?! Chad is perfect and you know it!
DARRELL: Chad is not ick! Is ick to use best friend’s husband as model! Model must be someone you can fantasise about freely!
LADY MO: I see. You are right. We could not stay best friends if you did that. Would have to hunt you down and cut off your fingers with the play-dough knife. Anyone else? Gypsy builder? Builders can be super studly. I would add that they are also another romance cliché. Has he offered to mitre your joints?
DARRELL: Builders never turn up in romance novels. You’re thinking of porn movies.
LADY MO: I have never seen a porn movie in my life! But that is no reason why such scenarios should not pop up in my mind. So is he studly, or beer-bellied with hairy butt crack? Latter not conducive to porn-style fantasy, let me tell you.
DARRELL: He is quite studly. But is also surly, though confess has lately improved. Not blond though.
LADY MO: What about Mr Perfect? You don’t need to go out with him to fantasise about him. As you well know.
DARRELL: Mr Perfect behaving slightly strangely.
LADY MO: Strange like a man who has women caged in his cellar torture chamber?
DARRELL: No!!! What on earth are you watching when Dr Phil’s not on??
LADY MO: Best not to ask. How is he strange then?
DARRELL: Unhappy, I think, but I don’t know why. Bit worried to tell the truth.
LADY MO: Is he giving away possessions? Ringing up distant relatives and saying goodbye? That’s what suiciders do. Before, obviously. Not after.
DARRELL: That is a horrible, horrible thought. May not forgive you.
LADY MO: Why not ask him? If he’s unhappy, he may be dying to tell. Do not mean dying like suicide of course.
DARRELL: Man is bordering on paranoically private. But – yes. That’s a good idea. Hope he is at café tomorrow, as he wasn’t there this morning.
LADY MO: Not saying a word. Especially not one starting with ‘s’.
DARRELL: Thank you very bloody much! I won’t sleep a wink tonight!
LADY MO: Oh, pull on your big girl panties! Call non-boyfriend. Have phone sex. You’ll drop off right away.
I had never phoned Marcus. I was desperate not to seem needy. Even though, of course, that’s what I desperately was.
But when I went to bed, I couldn’t sleep. It was too hot, and my mind was too full of gremlin thoughts. They bickered and whispered and insinuated, until I was tempted to yell out loud.
I sat up and switched on the light. Twelve-fifteen. Which made it eleven-fifteen in Paris.
‘Marcus Reynolds,’ said his voice. ‘Leave a message. Laissez un message.’
I had no idea what that last bit meant.
I didn’t leave a message, but I did hope he’d see my number. I listened to my phone failing to ring until past three, when I finally sank into a fitful, clammy sleep.
Claude wasn’t at the café again. But Miss Flaky was.
‘Jesus fuck.’ She slumped into a chair at my table. ‘What happened to mists and mellow fruitiness?’
‘I think Keats was talking about autumn,’ I told her.
‘No shit.’
‘And it’s fruitfulness, by the way.’
‘I like my version better,’ she replied. ‘Keats can go screw himself.’
I looked at her properly and did a double take. She was wearing a sleeveless sundress! Admittedly, it was down to her ankles and buttoned high at the neck, and in a red and white gingham pattern that made her look as if she should be on a table in an Italian restaurant. But it was most definitely an improvement.
I also noticed that Miss Flaky did not shave her armpits, nor – I caught a glimpse of calf as she sat down – her legs. White blonde hair sprouted out all over. I wondered what obsessively neat Claude would make of that? If he turned up, of course.
‘And why is it’, Miss Fla
ky continued ‘that the English have radiators even in the john, but seem to have never heard of air conditioning? My apartment is like a Turkish prison. I could crawl into the oven and sweat less!’
‘I think the English consider it somehow un-British to be comfortable.’
‘Speaking of which–’ Miss Flaky craned her head towards the entrance. ‘Where’s Lord Fauntleroy?’
I felt a brief clutch of unease. ‘I don’t know.’
But Miss Flaky seemed unconcerned. ‘Most likely can’t come out,’ she sniffed. ‘They haven’t made a suit light enough for this heat.’ She turned back to me. ‘So. Did you tell him?’
It took a second to work out whom she meant. ‘I did,’ I nodded. ‘He said if you came anywhere near, he’d shoot you.’
‘Ha! Right. That’s gonna happen. He’s full of shit. Just like his fucking apartment. But not for long–’ Her mouth tightened determinedly. ‘Oh, no. Not for long.’
‘Do you think…’ I ventured, ‘that it might be better to let him be?’
Miss Flaky regarded me as if I were a stain on a mattress.
‘What kind of lame idea is that?’
‘I think Big Man has the right to choose how he lives.’
Then I realised what I’d said. And cringed.
‘Big Man?’ Miss Flaky’s grin was wide and genuinely amused. She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Good name. What do you call me?’
‘Nothing!’ But my voice squeaked treacherously.
‘Right.’
But her knowing grin was quickly overtaken by a scowl. ‘The man needs serious help,’ she announced. ‘He’s just too damn proud to take it. So I intend to give it to him, pride or no pride.’
I felt a pang of envy that she could be so – undeterred. Perhaps I had given up too easily?
The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid Page 24