by David Mark
In the living room, Adam tells Selena to take a seat and she slips politely into the armchair by the window. She starts looking at the books on the shelves. Histories of Britain. Biographies of the Royal Family. Cookbooks and true crime stories. Cowboys, by the bucket-load. She imagines Adam’s dad reading these to him when he was a boy, and smiles at the image.
‘What’s this I hear about a full-time job, then?’ asks Mr Santinello, sitting back down. ‘You tired of being your own boss?’
‘An offer I couldn’t refuse,’ he says, then laughs, too loud, at his own words.
‘What’s he say?’ asks Billy, looking up and nudging Santinello.
‘The new job, Bill,’ he says. ‘You were saying before. Landed on his feet again.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Adam,’ he says. ‘Your boy.’
‘My Adam? Don’t be daft, Mal.’
‘Oh, right, my mistake …’
Billy suddenly looks up and flashes a smile. ‘Don’t think I’m that far gone yet,’ he says, and starts laughing. The others join him, relieved and surprised.
‘Still got your sense of humour,’ says Adam, pleased with his dad.
‘And I’ve still got my hair,’ he adds, nodding at Adam’s shaved head. ‘You one of them bovver boys now, are you?’
‘I just like it,’ he says, suddenly feeling seventeen and having to explain to his dad why he wanted a motorbike. ‘You never liked the long hair.’
‘No, that were a bit nancy, but there’s a happy medium. It’s always been the same, Mal,’ he says. ‘Always extremes. Panic or calm. Angry or happy. Taking over the world one day, not a farthing to his name the next. And girlfriends? Can’t just say hello and goodbye, this one. He’s fallen in love more times than I’ve changed my socks.’
‘Not often, then,’ says Mr Santinello, and the pair laugh. They have the look of two experienced workmen picking on the site apprentice. They seem ready to send him to the storeroom for a ‘long stand’ or some striped paint.
Selena laughs along, and her giggle sees all three turn their heads in her direction.
‘Which one’s that?’ asks Billy.
‘This is Zara’s daughter, Dad,’ he says. ‘My step-daughter, I suppose.’
Selena smiles, uncomfortable in the spotlight, as Billy gives her the once-over. ‘Nice,’ he says. ‘Bit big around the middle, but she’s going to be pretty. Nice knockers, eh Mal?’
For a second, Selena wonders if she’s heard correctly. The look on Adam’s face tells her she has. She doesn’t know if she should laugh or storm out. She knows the rules are different for old people. That people of a certain generation can be given allowances for saying certain things.
‘Don’t,’ he says, his mood darkening. ‘Don’t you dare.’
The two old men on the sofa laugh and nudge each other. They seem happy. Good old boys. Cracking jokes and winding people up. Were it not for the wrinkles and the old bones, they could be stood on a building site, wolf-whistling at the schoolgirls and office workers below.
‘I think we’d best be on the road,’ mutters Adam. ‘I’ve had a long day, Zara will be wondering where I am …’
Pat looks crestfallen as she returns to the living room with a tray of mince pies. ‘No, Adam, please stay for a little while. You might not get another chance with your dad.’
‘Another time,’ he says, shuffling backwards. ‘When I’ve got Tilly.’
He glances at Selena. She’s sat where he left her. Her knees are drawn up. Her arms around herself.
‘Adam,’ says Santinello. ‘Don’t be sour, lad …’
‘We’ve got to go,’ says Adam flatly, and Selena stands, quickly.
‘Busy bee,’ says Santinello.
Adam looks at his father. ‘Bye Dad,’ he says, softly.
Billy grunts. Opens his eyes. Looks at them both. ‘Pretty lass,’ he says. ‘Bit chunky, but nice tits,’ and then he’s laughing again.
Adam takes Selena’s hand in his, and they walk to the front door. The cold grabs them as they step into the darkness.
He looks at her, face lit by streetlamps. Her nose is running slightly. He feels a paternal rush of blood; an instinct to hold a handkerchief to her face and say ‘blow’. Instead, he says, ‘See why I haven’t brought you before?’
Selena smiles at him as they get into the car. ‘They’re a naughty pair when they get together, aren’t they?’
‘Always have been,’ says Adam, fumbling with the gearstick, swearing, and finding reverse. ‘They didn’t upset you, did they?’
‘No,’ lies Selena. ‘They’re just old boys, aren’t they? They were a bit rude, though.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Asking me how old I was. Whether I wore those thongs they saw on Top of the Pops. If I was old enough to shave my legs. Whether I called you Dad and if you were bathing me before bed.’ She pauses, realizing that she feels more upset than she had first been willing to admit.
‘Selena?’
She closes her eyes. ‘They were egging each other on.’
FORTY-THREE
Lower Drayton Lane, Portsmouth
9.13 p.m.
‘I think it’s bedtime, Tilly.’
‘No. Shurrup.’
‘Tilly, you’ve had a lovely day. Father Christmas has been very kind. You need to sleep …’
‘No. Shurrup. Watch Po.’
‘Sweetheart, Po isn’t on.’
‘No. Po.’
‘Tilly, it’s bedtime.’
‘Daddy. Daddy watch Po …’
‘It’s not called Po, you halfwit, it’s Teletu …’
‘Haffwitt. Mummy say me Haffwitt.’
‘Oh shit, Tilly, no …’
‘Shitt. Shitshitshit. Haffwit shit.’
Grace closes her eyes, wondering if there is an award she can apply for, convinced she’s at least a contender for the title of Worst Mother Ever.
She’s had a few drinks. Endured a carb-heavy, methane-rich Christmas lunch at the posh hotel. Brought home a tinfoil parcel full of leftover pigs-in-blankets and the bulk of the second bottle of wine that Mum, Dad and one of her aunties had ordered from the bottom of the menu. They turned down her offer to come to her for lunch and she’d been grateful for that kindness. She’s spent the last hour sipping Bailey’s, eating cold sausages, and dipping After Eights in her Tia Maria.
‘Daddy?’
‘No, babe, you saw him this morning, remember? You were at Daddy’s last night. You opened your presents there this morning. You met your Auntie Zara. Didn’t like her much did you, I can tell.’
‘Zara nice. Lena. Nordon.’
‘Well, you’ll hate her in time, I’m sure.’
‘Daddy now.’
‘No, he’ll be at home. With them.’
‘Shurrup.’
Grace sighs. Picks up her phone and hopes there’ll be something to explain why he’s been so quiet. She knows something happened while she was seeing King Rat, and that things aren’t right between him and Alison. Knows, too, that Zara’s restaurant has gone up in flames and that he’s suddenly got cash in his pocket. He got her a hamper full of her favourite things: brownies, muffins, sugared almonds, all pretty and luxurious in a wicker basket that looked like it should have been hanging off Little Red Riding Hood’s arm. But he’s been evasive whenever she asks him. Speaks to her in platitudes and unfinished sentences. Whatever it was he needed her for, he doesn’t seem to need her any more.
‘See. Daddy!’
There is a gentle knocking on the double-glazed panelling, and Tilly runs from the living room, leaps up and pulls the handle down. She’s big enough to do that now, thinks Grace. Better start locking it. She’ll be off. Running down the street in her Dora slippers, looking for Daddy.
Adam bends down and scoops his giggling daughter into the air as he steps inside. Blows a raspberry on her tummy. Wriggles his hand up her T-shirt and tickles her under the chin. She screams with laughter and kicks her feet. Adam pretends
to put her down, then scoops her up again.
‘Where’s my kiss?’ he asks her.
Tilly puckers her lips and presses them against Adam’s.
Grace pours herself off the sofa. He saw her in worse states at university, but she’s self-conscious about her mum-tum and wants to check she hasn’t got a finger of Kit-Kat down her cleavage.
‘Adam? I didn’t think we’d be seeing you …’
He enters the living room, looking like a cracked reflection of the man she used to know. The sadness in his eyes is ocean-deep.
‘Needed a kiss from my girl,’ he says, quietly. ‘That’s Tilly, by the way. Not you.’
‘Ha! I taste of turkey and Tia Maria.’
‘I’d best take your word for that,’ he smiles.
They stay silent for a spell. He presses his head to Tilly’s. He suddenly looks very tired.
‘New Year soon,’ he says, quietly. ‘New start.’
‘Yeah. Same resolutions as last time for me.’
‘I made mine early. Tried to keep them. Tried to stay away.’
Grace smiles, kindly. ‘I’ve done what you asked. Haven’t pried. Didn’t call King Rat after we got back. Didn’t reach out. Certainly didn’t go looking for headlines about incidents that happened in Battersea while you were with her …’
‘The restaurant,’ says Adam, not really listening. ‘I did well out of that. Made a deal.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m trying, Gracie. But something in me just keeps dragging my thoughts back to them. I don’t believe them about Dozzle. And I don’t know if what I saw in London excited me or disgusted me. I feel so fucking lost.’
‘Daddy haffwit.’
They smile at that. Adam holds his daughter tighter. ‘I want you to know how grateful I am to you. You’ve never judged me. The seed of that man, it’s in me, so it’s in our daughter. And you’ve never looked at me any differently.’
‘It never occurred to me to,’ says Grace, tears pricking her eyes. She wishes she had the right words. Can’t do much more than offer him an After Eight and a place to dip it.
‘I’m going there,’ he says, to Grace. ‘I should go home. Should curl up with people who care about me. Or stay here. Or take a walk to the cave and brood for a bit. But I’m going there.’
‘To see Alison?’
‘To see him.’
Grace hesitates. ‘Irons?’
‘He knows more than he’s told. He came here. Looked into my life as if he was trying to come to a decision about whether I was worth saving.’
‘He gave you money,’ says Grace. ‘I’m only guessing, but those are nice shoes …’
‘I don’t know if I deserve it. Zara does. I don’t know whether he came to the conclusion that I’m somebody he was right to let live.’
Grace stares at him, holding their daughter, love and sadness flooding out of him. She wants to hold him, but fears she will crumble if she moves.
‘If I told you not to go? If I begged you not to risk it? Told you think of Tilly – of me …’
‘I’d do what you asked.’
‘Is that why you came?’
He smiles. ‘You know me better than anybody.’
‘I won’t ask that of you.’
He nods. Kisses Tilly on the head. ‘Love you.’
‘Daddy shittt.’
The laugh, as he puts her down and turns away, is not enough to distract her from the tears that fall down his face.
She doesn’t let her own tears fall until she hears the car start up and drive away.
She decides to let Tilly stay up as long as she wants.
Holds her tight, on the sofa, and weeps silently into the back of her neck.
FORTY-FOUR
Songbrook Manor
11.10 p.m.
The girl looks like a hot-water-bottle cover: an empty skin awaiting fluff or air. She lolls in Timmy’s lap, arms about his neck, head on his shoulder – both slowly sinking into the cushions of the big Chesterfield sofa.
Her eyes may be out of focus, floating in booze, but Irons can still feel them upon him as he loiters, uncomfortable, in the bay window, a full can of lager in his hand. He wants to go and hide behind the Christmas tree. The flickering of the lights is giving him a headache. His lungs are burning. He can feel his cancerous cells eating his good ones. It is all he can do not to cough out his cigarette like an arrow from a catapult. He glances in the girl’s direction and then away again, grateful for the privacy afforded him by the sunglasses.
They have retreated to the warm, high-ceilinged billiards room and have each found a comfortable spot to drape themselves as they work their way through the traditional tipples: port, bitter, Tia Maria. Irons is grateful for the low light. The deep, burgundy curtains are pulled shut. Even so, he can feel her staring. Can still feel himself being scrutinized, held up to a lamp for examination; autopsied by this skinny slip of a thing who reeks of a perfume that’s worth more than she is.
Irons looks at his feet. Tries to find patterns in the thick carpet. At the squares of illumination on the baubles that hang from the plastic branches. He doesn’t want to look at the girl, in case their eyes meet, and she looks away, revolted and giggling, as if she’s just popped a treat into the slobbery lips of a carthorse.
Timmy seems to sense Irons’s discomfort, and pulls his girl’s face to his; tongue snaking out of his mouth and plopping between her open lips like an indecisive lugworm emerging from damp sand. She returns the gesture and the big living room, with the glowing fire and the Norwegian spruce and the bare chandeliers and racehorse prints, is suddenly full of the sound of slurping teenage mouths.
He’s hot, in his big coat, his hat, scarf and jeans, but he’s not taking any of it off. Doesn’t want to stop. Doesn’t want to be here. Or any-fucking-where. More than a month since he pressed a doorstop of cash into the boy’s hand, and the scars are deeper than ever. Pamela, more distant. The sores on his face starting to weep like frightened children. He feels like he’s breaking apart. Dying. And he finds that he cares.
Irons hears footsteps and Alison re-enters the room. She’s holding an armful of presents, wrapped in blue paper covered in what looks like snowmen, but could be badly drawn Christmas puddings.
‘All the best,’ she grins, and reaches up to place a peck on his cheek.
Irons braces himself for it, telling himself not to pull away. They have gone through this little ritual every year since his release. Alison, planting a kiss on his scarred features, handing him a gift and saying thank you for all he has done, is doing, will continue to do, for her, for Timmy, for Dad. He, smiling, trying to think of things to say, feeling his skin prickle and his socks fill with sweat, giving it just long enough to be polite, trying to find the words to say thank you. Always desperate to leave. He appreciates the kiss, the gifts, the gesture, the affection, but he doesn’t know how to gift-wrap his own gratitude and his isn’t a face built for beaming smiles, so he just mutters and tells her that if she wants anything herself, she just has to ask.
‘I got some people in to do the tree. Would have loved to have done it myself but who has the time? And Timmy’s too old to be draping tinsel.’
He endures the burn of memory. He sees them as they were. Himself and Mr Jardine, young and strong and fearless, laughing with the lads as they struggled into Santa costumes and held Pamela and Alison on their shoulders so they could put their pretty baubles at the top of the tree; the smell of sap and sawdust mingling with cigar smoke, wood smoke; whisky and Brylcreem. He can see her, arm stretched out like a sculpture of a ballerina; a porcelain angel in her hand. Sees her smiling. Sees the way the fire dances on the dark lenses of her smiling eyes.
‘Looks grand.’
‘You okay?’ she asks, quizzically. ‘You don’t look well.’
Timmy gives a nasty snicker of laughter. ‘Ha! When does he fucking ever?’
‘Don’t you dare,’ hisses Alison, glaring at him. ‘Not today.’
; Irons puts his can of lager down on the dresser by the window. He creases his lips into what he hopes is a nice expression, and starts gently unwrapping the gifts. A fountain pen. New Zippo lighter. A fleece scarf.
‘It’s the same one they use on the Arctic expeditions,’ says Alison, pleased with herself.
Last, a book on birds native to the local coastline. There’s always a gift like this. Something educational and instructive. A hobby guide. He wonders if Alison truly imagines him and her father, sitting on a hillside, sharing a flask of tea and a pair of binoculars, staring out at the flocks of guillemots and razorbills and talking about the footie.