‘No.’
‘Want the last of this pizza?’
‘No.’
‘Want me to go?’
I didn’t answer. He left the table, and sank his hand briefly down on my shoulder.
‘Come on over to the sofa,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you a story.’
Big Man’s story. I wanted to weep. I wanted to yell, too. I wanted to yell – why? Why did you think you had to punish yourself like that? What good did it do anyone?
But it was too late for yelling. And I couldn’t cry in front of him; it would have destroyed him. So I listened, and didn’t utter a word.
Big Man’s story: Strong, handsome, twenty-two-year-old Michael Hogan, welder, and pretty young schoolteacher, Beth Walsh, meet and fall crashingly in love. They are from opposite sides of the tracks. But Michael has a steady job, so when Beth accidentally falls pregnant, it’s not a crisis – Michael can support them. They get married. Six months later, Lydia is born. Ten months later, the number of unemployed in Britain reaches unprecedented levels. Michael Hogan is now one of them.
He tries. But there is no work. Beth suggests that she goes back to work and he looks after Lydia. But he’s having none of it. That isn’t what men do. Not real men like Michael Hogan, anyway. Proud, stubborn men.
After an age on the waiting list, they get a council flat. Although it is a step up from the squalid fleapit they’ve been forced to rent up till then, Beth hates it. Hates it with every fibre of her being. They have no money. They have a baby. They fight. A lot.
Beth insists that she return to work, and this time, her husband gives in. She gets work on and off as a relief teacher. He becomes increasingly surly and withdrawn. The only person he responds to is Lydia. He loves her fiercely, and she adores him. He stops looking for any kind of job.
Michael goes to the pub. A lot. Beth stays home. There are dry spells between teaching jobs. In the next-door flat is a man named Terry Sheen. He is unemployed, a recovering junkie. But he’s been well educated and, until his habit brought him low, was a moderately successful writer. He has started writing again. He wants to know what Beth thinks of his work. They start an affair. Michael has no idea.
Also living in the estate is a petty thief named Jimmy Dale. He is a repellent man, a slimy little perv, fond of stealthy gropes and odious, suggestive comments. One day, Jimmy Dale gropes Beth Hogan in the lift. She remonstrates him severely. For God’s sake! She has her daughter with her! The child is seven years old! Beth leaves Jimmy cringing in the lift and forgets all about it. But Lydia doesn’t forget. And she tells her father.
Michael finds Jimmy at the pub. Terry Sheen is also at the pub. He hears what happened. He sees Jimmy pounded into a bloody pulp until Michael is pulled off and thrown out. Michael goes home. In his mind, retribution has been exacted. In Terry Sheen’s mind, the red mist rises. He seethes for a day, and then the next night he retrieves his mouldy golf bag from the wardrobe, and extracts a club.
Beth is away that night. Her elderly mother is very ill. She is uneasy about leaving Michael and Lydia alone, and he responds badly to her lack of trust and tells her to fuck off and go. He reads Lydia a book and falls asleep on her bed. He is woken at three a.m. by urgent knocking. He opens the door to a blood-spattered Terry Sheen. Who, sobbing with delayed shock and fear, tells him what he’s done. And why.
Michael tells Terry to go home. He orders him to get rid of his clothes, somewhere a long way away. He prises the golf club out of Terry’s fingers, and props it up in a corner of the living room. Terry leaves. Michael has made him swear never to tell a soul. Terry won’t. He is far, far too afraid.
The police arrive at eight in the morning. Michael puts up no resistance. Beth hurries back to find him in a cell, charged with murder. She runs to Terry, who hears her story and is aghast, amazed. It’s all right, he tells her. I’ll look after you …
‘She never knew?’ I finally spoke.
‘She’s a smart woman,’ he said. ‘She may have suspected. But she loved Terry. I knew that as soon as he told me about them. The signs were all there; I just refused to see. I doubt she questioned him too thoroughly.’
‘But why?’ I had to ask. ‘Why did you take the blame? Because she loved someone else?’
‘Because I failed her. And I failed Lydia. I’d been a failure for years, as a husband, a father, and a man. I deserved all I got.’
‘Where are they now?’ I asked, after another silence.
‘Sydney.’
‘You know for sure?’
‘Beth sends me a Christmas card every year. With photos of Lydia.’
I pictured his flat. There could well be twenty-one years of Christmas cards buried somewhere in there.
I had a sudden insight. ‘Did you go back to the same flat?’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Desmond wanted compensation. For my wrongful imprisonment. I asked for the flat.’
‘Good grief.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘What?’
‘Grief,’ he said. ‘It isn’t good.’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘No, it isn’t good at all.’
Big Man – or Michael, as I now thought of him – and I kept each other company for the rest of the day, and then I made him stay the night in the spare room. He didn’t protest; I think we both knew he’d get no sleep at his flat. Too many ghosts.
Mind you, I’m not sure he slept at my place, either. He was up well before me, and when the builders arrived at seven, they were perturbed to find a hollow-eyed, unshaven giant in my kitchen, making himself yet another cup of strong, black tea.
‘Is he a relative down on his luck?’ Anselo muttered, having cornered me in the hallway. ‘Or have you started taking in the homeless?’
‘His name’s Michael,’ I told him. ‘Come on. I’ll introduce you.’
‘I should go back home now,’ said Michael.
He’d shaken the hands of Anselo and a wide-eyed Tyso, who, I observed, was now whispering urgently in his boss’s ear and casting furtive looks our way.
‘I need a shower.’ Michael rasped his hand along his chin. ‘And a shave.’
‘You need some new clothes, too,’ I pointed out. ‘Shall we go get some?’
He looked at me as if I were mad. ‘You mean – shopping?’
‘Well, we could steal them,’ I replied, ‘but I imagine you’re probably not that keen to be slung back in jail.’
His shoulders sagged, and in a tired voice, he said, ‘One step at a time, Darrell. Can you do that for me?’
I must have moved towards him, because immediately he added, ‘And for fuck’s sake don’t hug me, either. That’ll finish me off completely.’
‘How about I meet you at the café in an hour?’ I said. ‘We could–’
The expression on his face stopped me.
‘I can’t,’ he told me, apologetically. ‘Not yet.’
I felt a sudden lurch of despair but I wasn’t exactly sure why. Too much emotion, too little sleep, I supposed was the answer. Still, I couldn’t shake the sense that whatever had bound us together – even if only for yesterday and last night – was slackening. And Michael was drifting away.
I did my best to hide it, but …
‘One step at a time,’ he said gently. ‘You can understand that, can’t you?’
I managed a nod.
‘Good girl.’ He lifted his jacket from a chair. ‘You’re a good girl.’
I don’t think he could get out the door fast enough.
‘You all right?’ Anselo was at my shoulder.
‘Oh …’ I had no idea how to answer him.
‘Who is he? Looks as if he’s crawled out from an underpass.’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘You’re not in any trouble, are you?’
‘No, no …’
Anselo did not look convinced. Suddenly, I was filled with gratitude for his indignation and concern on my behalf.
‘Thanks.’ I slipped my hand ar
ound his waist and rested my cheek on his chest. It was the briefest of hugs, barely a touch, but even so, I felt Anselo flinch. As I let him go, he was pulling away just as fast.
I did him a favour by grabbing my bag and leaving the house. Neither of us said goodbye.
I didn’t head straight for the café. At this time of the morning it was always busy, and I simply couldn’t face the thought of being surrounded by bustle and chat and laughter.
But what option did I have? The only other thing I could do was to go back home, and hang around till I could ring the woman at my publisher and find out the worst.
I went to the café. I picked up a Patricia Cornwell from the newsagent, and sat and read for two hours, until the boisterously happy mothers and babies drove me away.
Even then, I didn’t go back home. I topped up my Oyster card and went into the city. I went to the National Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery. I spent time in every room, looked at every painting, every photograph. But to be honest, I’m not sure I could describe to you a single thing that I saw.
LADY MO: Why not ask him outright if he’s shagging the teen porn queen?
DARRELL: Because the answer is almost certainly ‘yes’.
LADY MO: There is logic in that approach. Twisted in-denial logic of the ‘no news is good news’ kind, but still. Speaking of which – have you manned up and called your publisher?
DARRELL: Publisher and I have had contact, yes.
LADY MO: Detect weaselness in that answer! Messages left on answerphones do not count as contact!
DARRELL: Can we change the subject?
LADY MO: To what? Would you prefer to discuss the odds of your non-boyfriend hooking up with the nubile pubescent shag-ee?
DARRELL: …
LADY MO: Sigh. I suppose your latest romance-writing attempt is also off the table?
DARRELL: I’m stuck. Storyline is not forming properly. The ending is remaining blurry and indistinct.
LADY MO: Ending = happy ever after, surely? Same as always?
DARRELL: Has lost its lustre. Is no longer the end point to dash to with winged heels. Feet are dragging.
LADY MO: No great shock that, though, wouldn’t you say?
DARRELL: Why wouldn’t you?
LADY MO: Well – rose-tinted view of romance is not really possible when one is attached to an absent rake?
DARRELL: Has it occurred to you that you are an insensitive cow?
LADY MO: Cannot read tone of voice on screen – was that said lightly and with affection or with white knuckles and lemony lips?
DARRELL: Has it occurred to you not to rub it in?
LADY MO: Rub what? Knuckles?
DARRELL: The fact that my life sucks and yours is effing perfect!
LADY MO: Cannot help how the cards have fallen.
DARRELL: Can help patronising smugness though!
LADY MO: Has it occurred to you that we don’t really have much in common anymore?
DARRELL: It has, yes! I cannot contribute to discussion on potty training, apple porridge preparation or pregnant sex positions. I’d sooner pluck out eyeballs than watch Dr Phil! And I wonder if Chad is really that perfect or you just see what you want to see!
LADY MO: Have a nice life, Darrell. I certainly will. Lady Mo signing off …
‘You got a job or something?’
Tyso handed me a cup of tea. His boss was nowhere to be seen. I took the tea, even though I did not want it; I was grateful that he’d thought to make me one.
‘A job?’
‘You’ve been out the whole time we’ve been here this week. Thought you might be going to work.’
I had been out all day – that was true. But no one was paying me a wage. I’d been to the British Museum and the V&A. I’d been to the Tate Modern, and the Tower. I’d even trooped around HMS Belfast. I’d sat on a lot of benches and stared at a lot of nothing …
‘No job,’ I told Tyso. ‘I’ve been out doing – research. For my writing.’
And now I intended to change the subject. ‘Where’s your boss?’ I asked.
‘Psyching himself up, probably.’
‘Psyching for what?’
‘Tonight.’
Really, I could get information faster and more lucidly by draining my cup and reading the tea leaves.
‘And what’s happening tonight?’
Tyso glanced over his shoulder into the courtyard, just to make sure Anselo hadn’t beamed himself in during the last thirty seconds.
‘I dunno, exactly,’ he said. ‘But I’ve overheard phone calls, haven’t I? Between him and that cow.’
‘The girlfriend cow? Or a whole new cow?’
‘No, just her.’ Tyso’s face darkened. ‘He said he had something important to say to her. Can only be one thing, can’t it?’
Personally, I felt that all depended on your definition of important. For example, ‘I forgive you’ from a friend might seem like the only thing worth hearing right now. Much, much more important, in fact, than ‘I love you’ from even the most desirable man …
But we weren’t talking about me. ‘One thing?’
Tyso looked at me as if I were retarded. ‘He’s going to pop the question.’
You know, that made a lot of sense. And it was probably me who’d been the spur. At the wedding. I’d questioned why he hadn’t brought her, which I think made him question his commitment. So now he’d come to a decision.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ I told Tyso, ‘you won’t have to work with her. I don’t think she’s the steel-capped boot type.’
My cup was still full of tea, and there was a skin forming on the top. I reached past Tyso and poured it down the sink.
‘Was it crap?’ Tyso asked me. ‘I make it too strong sometimes. Sorry.’
He was so sweet. A truly nice boy. One day he’d make some lucky girl a wonderful husband.
‘I have to go.’ I put on a bright smile. ‘I’ll be back after you’ve gone, so enjoy the weekend.’
‘OK.’
Tyso was frowning. I did not intend to wait and see if he were about to ask me if I were all right.
Outside, I was relieved to see that Anselo’s van was parked down the street in the opposite direction to the way I was headed. I would congratulate him. I really would. But later. Not today …
Marcus had texted me to tell me the name of the new place in the West End. It was already super-fashionable, a place to be seen. Gus had scored a booking through some contact she had in the art world. I knew that I should have looked for something to wear during the week, but I hadn’t. By the time Friday came, all I had in my wardrobe was my red halter-neck. It wasn’t as fresh as it should be; I hadn’t got round to taking it to the dry-cleaners. But I had no choice.
I took a taxi and when I arrived, I was horrified. There was a queue of people, waiting for tables to become free, or waiting to be permitted entrance – I didn’t know which. I made the driver go past and drop me further down the street; I had no wish to announce my arrival to all those people. I stood outside a closed-up antique dealer’s shop and tried to work out what I should do.
I had purposefully arrived fifteen minutes late, but that did not mean Marcus would already be there. I did not know whether to wait outside for him, or whether to jump the queue and persuade the doorman I was legit. But Marcus had not said whose name the booking was under, and after seeing the people in the queue I’d lost all confidence. They were so beautiful. So skinny. So cool. Their clothes were the height of smart fashion. My red dress was out of date and ridiculous. My hair was all wrong. I was too big, too unfashionable, too anonymous …
And then I saw them. They were getting out of a cab right outside, laughing at some shared joke. They had not seen me.
I ducked back, into the shadowy doorway of the antique shop. Gus took Marcus’ arm and they walked straight inside, without even a passing glance at the waiting queue. Their poise and beauty shrieked privilege. They were so alike, twinned in elitist cool.
I knew then that I would never make it into that restaurant. I also knew that I had just seen Marcus for the very last time. And the loss struck me so hard that I could not breathe.
‘Darrell?’
I didn’t recognise him right away. He was in a suit that made him look like a million dollars. He’d have no trouble fitting in to the queue.
He touched me lightly on the arm. ‘You all right?’
I became aware there was someone with him. Anselo stepped a little to one side and said, ‘Darrell, this is Vivienne.’
Tyso was right. Vivienne looked just like Grace Kelly, with a touch of Ingrid Bergman around the mouth. She was wearing a black dress that was immensely stylish and very short. Her legs were amazing. I thought what a beautiful couple they made. I only hoped Anselo hadn’t bought her a ring he couldn’t afford.
‘Are you not well?’ Vivienne asked me. Her face was kind, concerned. She was a nice person. ‘You’re very pale.’
I was finding it hard to speak. ‘Just – migraine …’
‘Oh God, they can be appalling,’ she said. ‘We should get a cab to take you home. Anselo – can you–’
Anselo stood out into the street and hailed the next cab. He helped me in and said, ‘Will you be OK?’
I nodded. I could not look him in the eye.
The cab driver wanted to get going. Anselo held the door open a bit longer, frowning at me. But all he said was, ‘Take care.’ And then he shut the door, and the cab grumbled off.
I don’t remember paying the driver, although I must have. I don’t remember opening my front door. I do remember not having the strength to go upstairs. I made it as far as the sofa and, still in my red dress, curled up tight. It wasn’t cold inside, but I wrapped my arms around myself and shook for ages, until I fell into something black that passed for sleep.
I could hear singing. A man’s voice. Baritone. Pleasant.
The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid Page 30