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The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid

Page 28

by Catherine Robertson

He met my eye briefly. ‘Oh, yeah. I was devastated. But, as you do when you’re young and a bloke, you never admit you’re vulnerable. So instead, I got angry. Furious. I burned with hatred for him. What right had he to say that to me? Unlike him, I’d done well at school. I’d stayed out of trouble. I’d done right by my family. What the hell right had he to tell me how much of a man I was?’

  ‘But you got over it?’ I asked him. ‘I mean, you’re on speaking terms now, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose …’ He trailed his hand in the water again. ‘Not exactly bosom buddies. If we weren’t family …’

  I had a sudden thought. ‘Did you start going out with Vivienne to impress him?’

  He bridled. ‘You don’t think I deserve a girlfriend like her?’

  ‘No, no, no! God! You’re super studly! You could get any girl you like! I just–’ I hesitated. ‘She just doesn’t sound like you, I suppose. Like the kind of girl you’d like …’

  I was so glad it was dark. My face was burning. How could I have even thought something that humiliatingly lame, let alone uttered it?

  ‘Studly?’ He was grinning. ‘Never been called that before. At least, I’m assuming it’s a compliment?’

  ‘Mmph–’ I had my hands momentarily over my face.

  He laughed, and gave me a gentle shove in the shoulder. ‘Too late. Can’t take it back now.’

  ‘Erghh–’ I dropped my hands and shuddered. ‘How mortifying.’

  I grinned at him, but this time, he did not return it. He was shifting on the stone again, his expression tense.

  ‘Darrell, why the fuck do you go out with that wanker?’

  I couldn’t look at him. ‘It’s not – serious …’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  Instantly, I was on the defensive.

  ‘Oh? What makes you the expert?’

  ‘Because I saw your face when he turned up that day!’

  ‘I was surprised to see him!’

  ‘You were astonished to see him, and then you were fucking ecstatic,’ he said. ‘It was like watching a kid so desperate for affection and attention, they’ll take any shitty present going, just as long as it’s from Dad!’

  That stung. A tiny part of me knew that Anselo meant well – that he was concerned about me. The rest of me was hating him.

  ‘You know nothing about this!’ I yelled. ‘You know nothing! Marcus isn’t a wanker! He’s kind! He’s good to me!’

  ‘Of course he is!’ Anselo waved his arm in the air. ‘Anyone can behave well for five fucking minutes! And that’s about as long as you can expect him to stick around!’

  Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. A black haze buzzed behind my eyes, and I had to drop my head down onto my knees. My hands were damp and shaking, as I pressed them to my temples.

  ‘Shit–’ I felt Anselo’s hand on my shoulder. ‘Darrell, I’m sorry …’

  Tentatively, gently, he rubbed my back, and stroked my hair, until I gathered myself together enough to sit back up.

  ‘Here–’ He placed one arm around my shoulders and guided my head gently against his chest. ‘Jesus,’ he murmured. ‘I’m sorry.’ I felt his mouth brush my hair. ‘You OK now?’

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ I whispered, ‘but I can’t let go.’

  ‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘It’s like you’ll lose part of yourself – and you’re terrified there’s not enough of you as it is.’

  I lifted my head. ‘How come you feel like that? I thought it was only me.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe it was losing my Dad?’ He gave me an apologetic half-smile. ‘Maybe it’s just my winning personality …’

  Way off in the distance, there was a faint but distinct rumble of thunder. A breeze brushed through, bringing with it a new smell, an ozone-laden crispness.

  ‘It’s going to rain,’ Anselo remarked. ‘Thank fuck for that.’

  On impulse, I kissed his cheek. ‘You should be happier,’ I told him.

  He dropped his head sharply, and for an instant, his mouth hovered over mine. But he pulled back, and gazed at me, unsmiling.

  ‘So should you.’

  Monday morning, and I was sprinting to the café. I didn’t know why; I was soaked the minute I stepped out my front door. Unless I actually managed to warp the space-time continuum, I would arrive no less wet, no matter how fast I ran.

  Since the skies broke in the small hours of Sunday morning, it had poured so hard that when Marcus rang unexpectedly on Sunday night, the first thing he said was, ‘Christ! What’s that noise? Are you being besieged?’

  ‘It’s rain.’

  ‘Incredible. Have you made friends lately with anyone named Noah? Because now might be the time to seek him out.’

  Then he paused. It was the kind of pause that often precedes bad news, and I felt the cold, sick clutch of dread.

  But then he said, ‘So, tell me. How was your weekend?’

  The question was exactly what any lover separated by distance would ask – the opener to a deeper connection through the exchange of comforting trivia, words of endearment and promises of affection to come. From Marcus, though, it came as such a surprise, I was unsure how to answer.

  The irony was that, for once, I had so much to tell him. I’d been to a Gypsy wedding. I’d learned a few words of Romany. I’d driven a happily drunk London property magnate back to town in a car that made me feel like the queen of the world. I’d parked it outside his house, and reluctantly handed him back the keys …

  ‘I’ll walk you home,’ he said, swaying gently on the footpath.

  ‘No need. I’m not sure you’ll make it, anyway.’

  ‘I’m not that bad,’ he grimaced. ‘Though I’d better head to the spare room. If I wake her, I’ll be in the shit. The baby kicks like a bastard at night.’ His face lit up. ‘Maybe he’ll play football and make millions and I can retire.’

  ‘Patrick?’

  I wasn’t sure if I should be telling him this. But you never knew what had been said or left unsaid up till now …

  ‘You do know you were Anselo’s hero, don’t you?’

  He blinked at me, bemused. ‘Anselo?’ Then he scowled. ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘He never had two minutes for me. Never said two words. The only time he came near me was to ask for a job. And he didn’t even want that. He wanted a ticket on the King gravy train. Thought he’d get one foot on my ladder and then climb right over me. I could see it, plain as fucking day!’

  Oh, dear …

  ‘That’s not what he told me–’

  I had a sudden qualm that I really was betraying secrets. But – well, I’d begun now. Might as well finish.

  ‘He told me he’d hero-worshipped you, right from when he was a little boy. That’s why he asked for a job. He didn’t want the money. He wanted to be just like you.’

  Patrick’s face was truculent with suspicion. ‘He never said that. Not once.’

  ‘I don’t think,’ I ventured apologetically, ‘that Anselo is terribly good at saying what he feels.’

  I could see the possibility that he had been wrong all these years begin to dawn on Patrick’s face.

  ‘Shit!’ Slowly, he nodded. ‘That would explain a fair bit … What an arsehole I’ve been.’

  Then he looked down at me. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘I’m glad you told me. And don’t worry–’ He broke into a grin. ‘I won’t tell him you did. And I’ll go softly-softly to make amends, too. Won’t do anything to threaten his male fucking pride.’

  I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you. What were the words for good luck, again? Bosht something?’

  ‘Kosko bokht,’ Patrick replied. ‘Take care on your way home, Darrell Kincaid.’

  I could have told Marcus all that. But I didn’t.

  I said, ‘My weekend? Well, the weather went from one extreme to the other …’

  ‘Then I’d better bring a brolly on Friday.’

  My heart lurched, as
it always did at the prospect of being with him. ‘You’re coming over again so soon? I’m flattered!’

  ‘Ah. Well–’

  I could hear his sudden embarrassment, and I braced myself. Somehow I knew exactly what he was about to say.

  ‘Gus is over again. She suggested we have dinner together. All three of us, of course,’ he added quickly.

  Thank God for phones. It’s such a relief to know that the person on the other end can’t see your face.

  ‘Only three?’ I managed to sound quite casual. ‘No Jules?’

  ‘Gus and Jules had a falling out. Gus refuses to speak to her.’

  Well. There it was. I had a choice, I suppose. I didn’t have to go …

  ‘Where did you have in mind? Restaurant-wise?’

  ‘Oh, some new place in the West End,’ he replied vaguely. ‘I’ll find out the details. I’ll also have to meet you there,’ he added. ‘I’ve run out of excuses to flit to and fro, so I’ve actually had to make meetings during the day. I won’t have time to pick you up. Is that all right?’

  He did sound genuinely apologetic. What else could I say, except: ‘Yes. That’s fine.’

  ‘Angel, I really do want to see you.’ Even though I’d done my best, he must have picked up something in my response. ‘I find myself thinking about you quite a lot, you know. You’re a beacon of sweetness and normality among this ridiculous grotesquery I laughingly call a career.’

  Hope is extraordinary, isn’t it? One little gleam is all it takes.

  I heard chatter in the background behind him. A group of people. A woman’s laugh.

  ‘I’d better go,’ he said. ‘I’m about to be in demand. I’ll text you about Friday.’ His voice was fainter, as if he’d turned his head from the phone.

  ‘Marcus–’

  ‘Yes?’

  I had no idea what to say to him. Hastily, I made something up.

  ‘Have you talked to Claude lately?’

  ‘Claude?’ He sounded puzzled and mildly irritated. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Oh, no reason. I was just–’ I paused. ‘No reason. Take care. See you Friday.’

  ‘Bye, Angel.’ His voice was warm, affectionate. ‘You take care of yourself, too.’

  As I dashed, dripping, into the café, Miss Flaky bobbed up immediately and beckoned me over. I suspected she wanted to talk about the still-absent Claude. The thought filled me with a vague dread but I wasn’t sure whether said dread was related to Claude or to the prospect of being grilled by Miss Flaky. What I was sure about was that I was in truly desperate need of coffee. So I nodded and pointed at the counter, to indicate I’d come over once I’d ordered.

  The café was quite full for this time of day – people keen for a bit of warmth and dryness, I guessed. So when one more person came through the door, I didn’t take much notice.

  Mario said, ‘Two fifty, grazie, signora.’ I reached out with my money – and almost expired when a voice said, ‘I’ll get that.’

  He was standing a little behind me, hands stuffed rather defiantly in the pockets of his awful blue bomber jacket. He pulled out a fiver and handed it to Mario.

  ‘Signor!’ Mario spread his hands so wide he appeared to be trying to touch both walls of the café at once. ‘Bentornato! It is too long since we see you here! You are well?’

  Big Man, I could tell, was finding this outpouring of Italian sentiment excruciating. But he rallied well.

  ‘Yeah, I’m good,’ he mumbled. ‘Uh – double espresso.’

  ‘Bene! Bene! I bring it to you right away!’

  Big Man and I were left staring at each other. His expression said, clear as crystal, that if I uttered so much as a word, he’d be out the door, never to return. So I kept my mouth shut.

  Which, of course, meant he was forced to speak first.

  ‘Where are you sitting?’

  My face must have shrieked guilty alarm, because he glanced quickly over his shoulder at the tables. He turned back, wide eyed.

  ‘You’re fucking kidding. Please tell me you’re winding me up.’

  ‘Hey, Michael!’ Miss Flaky was waving her hand, and smirking evilly like a predator whose quarry has just made a wrong turn onto exposed ground. ‘Over here!’

  ‘Come on,’ I said to him. ‘I think you two might actually get along.’

  ‘She threatened to kick me in the nuts!’ he hissed.

  ‘Exactly.’

  I beckoned. And with a stream of muttered imprecations, he followed.

  ‘You’re not going within a mile of my fucking flat,’ he said the instant he sat down.

  ‘Yeah, you keep telling yourself that,’ said Miss Flaky.

  Big Man’s face was a picture. ‘What are you grinning at?’ he demanded of me, indignant. ‘Right. That’s it–’ He pushed back his chair.

  ‘Sit back down, Tex,’ Miss Flaky ordered in a bored voice. ‘You’re not going anywhere and you know it.’

  ‘Tex?’

  She gave him a sideways look. ‘Quick on the draw,’ she said. ‘Shoot first. Aim later. If at all–’

  ‘Espresso for signor and signora!’ Mario’s intervention was timely. ‘Anything else you want, you ask!’

  ‘A bayonet?’ Big Man muttered. But he pulled his chair back to the table.

  ‘So–’ Miss Flaky turned her attention to me. ‘Lord Fauntleroy. Where do we think he’s got to? Flown the coop for good, or just temporarily indisposed?’

  She saw the look on my face. ‘Whoa. You’re worried? Why? What’s up?’

  I sighed. ‘I don’t know. Nothing. Probably–’

  ‘Who’re you talking about?’ Big Man frowned. ‘That posh bloke you were with the other night? Mr Well Hung?’

  Miss Flaky’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Lord Fauntleroy’s got a big johnson?’

  ‘No!’ I was red as a beet. ‘I don’t know! Jeepers!’

  ‘You mean the bloke who comes here?’ Big Man persisted. ‘The one in the suit? Looks like he has a carrot shoved permanently up his jacksie?’

  I waggled my head in helpless acknowledgement.

  ‘How come you’re worried about him?’ Miss Flaky demanded.

  I felt like I’d betrayed enough secrets lately. Anselo had greeted me this morning with a curt nod, as if to say he’d prefer me to forget we’d ever talked. Big Man’s unexpected presence had vividly brought back my conversation with Desmond Richards. I was being prodded all over by sharp fingers of guilt and shame. I simply could not tell them what Claude had done.

  ‘Just a hunch,’ I said feebly.

  Miss Flaky’s mouth tightened. ‘I think you’re right. There’s definitely a screw rattling round somewhere in there.’

  She picked up her teacup and then put it straight back down. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go pay him a visit.’

  I boggled at her, and then shook my head. ‘I don’t know where he lives. Do you?’

  ‘Nope. Do you?’ she asked Michael.

  ‘Course I fucking don’t!’

  ‘Don’t ask, don’t get.’ She turned to face the counter. ‘Hey, Mario! You know where Claude the suit guy lives?’

  ‘Si. I deliver to his house two, three weeks ago.’

  ‘What kind of house has he got?’ Miss Flaky asked.

  Mario gave an expressive Italian shrug. ‘Is big. And very – how you say? Ordinato. Tidy.’

  ‘He’s gotta be OCD,’ she muttered. Then to Mario, ‘OK, gimme the address.’

  And to Michael, ‘You’re coming too, Tex.’

  He gave her a fierce, incredulous sneer. ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘Because I say so. You wanna argue with me?’

  Big Man was around six three and by my guess well over fourteen stone. Miss Flaky was no more than a size eight. He could have snapped her like a twig. But, to my amazement, all he did was mutter sullenly, ‘It’s pouring.’

  ‘No, it’s stopped,’ said Miss Flaky, peering out the café window. ‘How lucky is that?’

  Claude’s house was indeed bi
g: a double-fronted end of a terrace, worth by my estimate several million quid. Miss Flaky knocked, and knocked again more loudly. But there was no response. A wrought-iron fence and a small but densely planted garden lay between us and the front window. We peered in but the curtains were drawn. Round the back was a high, impenetrable brick wall.

  ‘Can you lift me over there?’ Miss Flaky asked Big Man.

  ‘No, I bloody can’t!’

  Lips pursed tight in annoyance, Miss Flaky stepped back and surveyed the street.

  ‘Know any criminals?’ she asked me.

  I went beet red again. And despite my best efforts, my eyes shifted to Big Man.

  Who looked outraged. ‘I was in jail for murder!’ he protested. ‘Not fucking house-breaking!’

  ‘No shit?’ Miss Flaky was staring at him with new appreciation. ‘Who’d you bump off?’

  ‘No one!’

  ‘No shit? Well, there you go–’

  She narrowed her eyes at the wall, as if she could bring it down through sheer force of will.

  ‘You got any pals who could help us out?’

  ‘No!’

  She shrugged. ‘Don’t ask, don’t get.’

  I thought Big Man was going to have a stroke. And then I was struck myself, with a sudden and not entirely comfortable thought.

  ‘Um–’ I began, ‘I might know someone …’

  I got out my phone, and scrolled through to ‘P’.

  ‘You have got to be fucking joking,’ Patrick said.

  ‘You don’t actually have to do the deed,’ I told him, clutching my phone a little tighter out of guilt. ‘Just tell us how – and we’ll do it.’

  ‘Oh my Lord …’ Patrick sounded like he was rubbing a hand over his face. ‘All right, I’ll come. But I’m not promising a thing!’

  Miss Flaky filled the waiting time by staring at Big Man so intently and for so long that I feared he’d pick her up and stuff her head first into Claude’s bushes.

  ‘So–’ she said eventually, ‘they got the wrong guy, huh?’

  I didn’t think Big Man would answer. But, to my surprise, he said, and calmly: ‘Guess that depends on how you look at it.’

  Miss Flaky’s eyebrow shot up again. But just then a big silver Mercedes growled around the corner and scorched to an impatient halt down the street.

 

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