by GJ Minett
Owen shrugged.
‘Six-six? Six-seven?’ Callum continued, tilting his head in Abi’s direction as if inviting her to guess along with him. ‘You at Fitness First?’
Again Owen said nothing, merely shook his head.
‘You must be working out somewhere. You can’t tell me you got those guns from lugging a lawnmower around.’
‘G-got some weights at home.’ He wasn’t one for eye contact at the best of times and smiling had never been part of his make-up but at least he’d seemed fairly composed until then, with just the two of them there.
‘Well, you look good on it, doesn’t he?’ said Callum. ‘You two been catching up on the good old days?’
‘We were just about to,’ she said, wincing inwardly. She wasn’t sure Owen would recall any of his schooldays with a warm glow of nostalgia. ‘We’ve been talking about the garden mostly.’
‘Well, good luck there, that’s all I can say. I’ll leave all that to the two of you,’ said Callum, casting a doubtful eye around him. ‘Kind of got away from us a bit, didn’t it, babe? Don’t think these hands were meant for manual labour. Tell you what though – do half as good a job here as you did at the Kowalskis’ and you won’t get any complaints from me. The difference you made there – couldn’t believe it when they said it was you.’
Abi shifted uncomfortably in her seat, reaching for her cup as a cover for removing his hand from her shoulder. She wondered whether Callum realised he was talking more loudly than usual and slowing down his delivery. He couldn’t have sounded more patronising if he tried.
‘You need a shower,’ she said, plucking at his sweat-stained sports shirt. ‘Did you win?’
‘Do bears shit on the Pope? Three–one; let him have the first to make it interesting. Mind you, it was Alfie. Speaking of which, I’ll need your car tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ she asked, looking up and shielding her eyes from the early-evening sunshine.
‘I got him to drop me off here and he’s taken mine with him. He’s sorting out the brakes tomorrow so that it’s ready for Bournemouth on Monday.’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You can’t have mine, I need it. Book Club, remember?’
‘Ah, Jesus . . . you’re kidding, right?’ He linked both hands behind his head, squeezing the elbows forward.
‘No. It’s on the calendar.’
‘You know I never look at that. You might have told me.’
‘I did. Several times.’
‘Well, can’t you get a lift or something?’
‘I don’t need to. I’ve got a car. Can’t you?’
‘I’m having dinner at Woodies with the MD of Heseltine’s and two of his associates,’ he said, his facial contortions making it quite clear just how ridiculous a suggestion this was. ‘You know how important it is. You seriously think I’m going to ask him if he can come out here and pick me up?’
‘So take a taxi,’ she suggested. ‘I think we can probably afford it.’
‘Why can’t I just drop you off at your book chat thing? Where is it?’
‘It doesn’t matter where the book chat thing is. I need my car, OK? Why give yours to Alfie when you know you’re going to need it?’
‘Because a), I need to get the brakes done before I drive to Bournemouth on Monday and b), I didn’t think for one minute you’d be so possessive about yours – which I seem to remember buying for you.’
And there they were – it always came back to this. It was a favourite tactic of his. He was the big success story; she was merely clinging on to his coat-tails as he flew through life. He was generous to a fault, happy to provide her with anything she asked for, as long as it was on his terms. The slightest bump in the road was all it took to bring out the child in him.
‘Look, we’re meeting in West Dean,’ she said, trying to broker some sort of compromise. ‘How about I drop you off in Chichester on my way through? Is quarter to eight any good?’
‘No, it’s not – I’m meeting them at seven. Forget it – I’ll get a taxi.’ It was his ball and he was taking it home with him.
He paused as a thought occurred to him.
‘Unless . . .’ He turned to face Owen, who had been pretty much forgotten for the past minute or so. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be able to drop me off around then?’ he asked. ‘You going anywhere near Chi centre?’
‘I d-don’t know – I s-suppose so.’
‘There you go then – problem solved.’
‘Are you sure, Owen?’ she asked, annoyed that Callum should presume to ask. Getting a taxi wouldn’t have presented any problem at all. She wasn’t sure what point he thought he was scoring here.
‘Said so, didn’t he?’ said Callum, picking up his racquet and striding back across the lawn. ‘Cheers, mate – give me ten minutes to shower and get changed and I’ll be back in no time. Tell you what, make it fifteen. You two can do some catching up while you’re waiting, right? And help yourself to some of those biscuits. You’ve probably lost a pound or two while you’ve been sitting there, ha, ha.’
She watched as Owen picked up his spoon and slowly stirred his tea before taking a biscuit from the plate.
As instructed.
HANNAH
The text came through as she stepped out of the bath:
Change of plan. No car. Have to take yours. Pick me up 7.15 outside Woodies in Chi
Hmm, she thought. No kisses.
She wrapped the towel around herself and let the water out before texting back:
Front or back? Xxx
The reply was almost instant.
Car park at back? Explain l8er
She wrapped a second towel around her hair and secured it as she padded her way through to the bedroom.
Everything OK? Xxx
A slightly longer delay this time, then:
Wots with all the questions ffs? Said I’ll explain l8er
Ouch! She flipped the phone shut. Terrific. Not exactly the start to the evening she’d been hoping for. Whatever’s upset him, she thought, please don’t let it be Abi. Anything to do with work and she might just get away with it. He’d grumble all the way there, get it out of his system and then they could enjoy the dinner party. If it was Abi though, it wouldn’t be just the journey. He’d spend the whole evening complaining about her and it would spill over into the sex afterwards, staining everything. Her time alone with Callum was limited enough as it was – taking Abi to bed with them didn’t feature high on her list of preferred options.
She dried herself quickly and searched frantically for several minutes for her hair straighteners. It wasn’t until she thought to check Izzy’s room that she spotted them resting on the dressing table and decided, not for the first time, that she was going to have to speak with her about this. Renting a room was one thing – it didn’t mean you could act as if you owned the place, helping yourself to other people’s things without even asking. Soon as she gets back, she promised herself . . . not for the first time.
She checked her watch. If she was going to pick Callum up rather than the other way round, that left her a bit pushed for time and if the tone of his texts was anything to go by, keeping him waiting for any length of time wasn’t an option. Just as well she’d already decided what she was going to wear. She’d spent half the afternoon trying on different outfits and changing her mind every few seconds, taking advantage of the fact that Izzy was visiting her family. She’d have been merciless – haven’t you got anything better to do with your weekend than worry about what he thinks? Then again, Izzy had never liked Callum. She didn’t approve, not that it was any of her business. Sometimes you’d think Victoria was still on the throne to listen to her. She was never openly critical – too fond of her room to risk losing it – but she certainly knew how to slip in the sly look here, the snide remark there and a constant downturn of the mouth whenever his name was mentioned.
Yes. It was definitely time she had a word.
She checked herself in the mirror, changed her mind about th
e bag and tried two others out instead. One more look in the mirror, a quick fluff of the hair at the back and she decided she would do. Knock him dead, girl. Still got it. Then she looked at her watch again and realised it was nearly seven already.
Damn!
That wasn’t going to improve his mood one bit.
OWEN
Thoughts rattling around inside his head as Bosham becomes Fishbourne.
Should’ve said no. Should’ve told him to . . . to get lost. You want a favour? From me? Who did he think he was, asking for a lift like that?
What did he do instead?
I s-suppose so.
As if they were still fourteen years old and the minutes till the end of break were crawling past like a snail through treacle.
I s-suppose so.
Luckily there’s not much in the way of conversation now they’re in the truck. Obviously feels he can drop the act now Abi’s not around. Just sitting there, stinking the cab out with his stupid hair gel and checking his phone every ten seconds for messages. No need for any more pretence about the good old days because there’s just the two of them. And they both know.
Fishbourne roundabout, joining the A27 – traffic coming at him from all directions. He makes a couple of attempts to dive into the flow – no luck. Then a gap, only for a black Honda Civic to change its mind at the last moment despite having signalled left. Quick slam on the brakes as he realises what’s happening and Callum flies forward, using both hands to stop himself from hitting his head on the windscreen. Hadn’t fastened his seat belt . . . of course. The Callums of this world don’t need seat belts. Nothing touches them.
‘Please don’t swear,’ he says as Callum screams through the passenger window at the driver of the Honda, who’s already taken the Portsmouth turn-off.
Spots a gap. Pulls into the traffic, ignoring the look of disbelief coming from his left.
‘You know,’ Callum says eventually. ‘I’d forgotten how you used to do that. Always asking people not to swear. What’s that all about?’
‘I d-don’t like it.’
‘So you don’t swear, right?’
‘No.’
‘Never?’
‘N-never.’
‘So . . . you’re opening a cupboard door and it smacks you in the face. You don’t swear then? You don’t yell shit or something?’
‘No.’
He thinks about this for a moment. Shakes his head.
‘Bullshit. Everybody swears. The Pope, Kate Middleton . . . The Dalai Fucking Lama. They all do it. It’s human nature. Instinct.’
‘I d-don’t like it.’
‘Yeah well . . . there are lots of things I don’t like, but I don’t go around nagging people about it. Suck it up, you want my advice. Make things a bit easier for yourself.’
Stockbridge roundabout – keep straight on. Better to go left at the Bognor Road one, past the Peugeot dealer, over the bridge. Avoid the level crossing that way. Gates are always shut round about this time. So many trains.
Not much longer now. He can do this.
‘Hey, can you still list all the wotsit . . . prime numbers?’
He doesn’t see what business it is of Callum’s but finds himself nodding anyway.
‘What about that code thing? You know, where you used to take someone’s name or a long word or something and work out the total? You still do that?’
‘Seventy-one,’ he says, and waits.
‘You gonna give me a clue?’
‘The black Honda Civic back there.’
‘What . . . the one that carved us up at the roundabout?’ Looks over his shoulder as if he expects it to still be there.
‘GN09 DLY. Total’s seventy-one.’
Callum frowns, then throws his head back and laughs.
‘Jesus, you’re something else, you really are. Some guy almost totals us, you slam on the brakes and come close to sending me through the windscreen and you’ve still got time to take the number plate and do all the calculations?’
‘Prime number.’
‘I don’t get it, I really don’t,’ he says, flicking at a fly which has come in through the open window. Probably the hair gel. ‘I mean, anyone else would be like, What the fuck, life flashing before their eyes, brain turned to mush and you’re sitting there cool as anything, going a = 1, b = 2 . . . how do you do it?’
‘I don’t d-do anything. It just comes to me like . . . like a p-picture.’
‘Wow,’ he says, as they turn into The Hornet and take the right filter for St Pancras. ‘Rain Man.’
Owen pulls up outside Woodies. Callum gets out, makes a point of wiping imaginary dirt off his trousers.
‘Thanks for the lift, big man,’ he says. Checks his hair quickly in the wing mirror. Two bangs on the roof of the pickup. Cheese-eating grin. Then he disappears inside.
Peace.
Two minutes later, just going back over the bridge, Owen hears a buzzing sound, then tinny rock music coming from somewhere. He pulls over, reaches across the passenger seat and his fingers locate something down between the seat and the door. Lifts it up and looks at the display but the call ends almost immediately. The name Alfie lit up for just a brief moment.
Must have slipped out of Callum’s pocket or maybe fallen to the floor when they had to brake so suddenly. He wonders what to do now, whether he should take it back to the restaurant and interrupt his business dinner. If he had a die, he could try a probability test. Three or six means safe. Two or five danger. Knows what Willie would do. Willie would stand on the bridge and wait for the next train, then drop the phone onto the roof and watch it sail off into the distance. Or stamp on it and throw it under the wheels of a passing lorry to make sure. Think you’re such a big shot now, Mr Callum Green?
He’s not Willie. He starts the engine again, turns into a side road and heads back towards the restaurant. If he hurries, he might get there before the important guests arrive.
He has to drive past Woodies because there’s nowhere he can leave the truck in St Pancras. Next left, then left again takes him into a packed car park at the rear of the restaurant. Finds a space and gets out, slipping the mobile into his pocket. He’s weaving his way in and out of the rows of parked cars when he sees him. Callum’s not inside with his business clients. He’s walking over to a yellow Mazda sports car and stepping over the door rather than opening it. Then he’s leaning across and kissing a woman who looks a bit older than him and who may be attractive enough in an obvious sort of way but who definitely, most definitely is not Abi.
She adjusts the mirror so that she can check how she looks, then puts the car in gear and drives round the far side of the car park, heading for the exit. And there’s a pause, just a moment or so while he wonders exactly what he’s supposed to do now, before he runs back to the pickup, starts the engine and sets off after them, keeping just enough distance between them to remain undetected.
And he’s not sure what he’s doing exactly but he’s pretty sure he’s not returning any mobile.
PHIL
By eight o’clock, near as damn it, the last few stragglers had left the gym and Baz was standing at the door, waggling the keys to let him know he was ready to lock up. Phil looked around, picked up a couple of towels that had been left lying on the floor, then walked over to join him, taking a swing at the speedball as he passed it. Old habits.
As he drove Baz home, they swapped notes on Jimmy Fernandes, the young lightweight Phil had been working with all evening.
‘He’s not ready for the Areas,’ he told Baz. ‘Way too soon. He falls apart the moment you pressurise him. The height and reach advantages he’s got, all he needs to do is keep it long but there’s no snap to his jab, you know? Just paws at opponents which means shorter guys are always going to get inside and he hasn’t got a clue what to do when that happens.’
‘I think it’s the Prosser kid from Crawley he’s fighting.’
‘No chance. He’ll walk right
through him.’
Baz nodded. He wasn’t about to dispute any of it.
‘Pisses you off, right?’
‘Don’t like to see natural advantages go to waste like that,’ he said, directing the air stream onto the windscreen which was starting to fog up. ‘Tell him as often as you like, it goes in one ear and straight out the other.’
‘You ever wonder what you might’ve done if you’d had his height and reach?’ Baz asked.
He nodded. All the time. Went without saying.
Baz asked if he wanted to come in for a drink, maybe something to eat – Marcie would always rustle something up. He thanked him for the offer and took a rain check. ‘Things to do,’ he told him, as he did most weeks. Baz never asked what these things might be. Probably didn’t need to.
The moment he’d dropped him off he pulled over and rang through to the China Garden. When the girl told him the order would probably be half an hour or so, he decided he might as well stroll along the seafront for a while. It was a warm evening and even though the light was fading so much more quickly now with August drawing to a close, he figured that would be better than waiting at the takeaway, reading yesterday’s paper or watching some game show on the TV tucked away in the corner.
He worked his way through the back streets and into Victoria Drive, then crossed the Aldwick Road and headed down to Marine Drive West. Just past the Waverley, he pulled into the first parking slot on the left and locked the car before stepping through the bushes and onto the start of the promenade.
He wondered whether there would ever come a time when he’d be able to walk here and not think of Sally. It was hard to imagine somehow. Right where he was standing, for instance, was where they used to bring Callum in his pram – God, twenty-six years ago. It was only a ten-minute walk from the flat they’d been renting in West Street in those days and when no amount of cajoling and rocking would induce the baby to sleep they used to wrap him up and push him from here to Felpham and back. As often as not, it took up to an hour before the motion of the pram worked its magic – Callum was a stubborn little beggar, even as a baby – but they were in no hurry. They had the whole evening ahead of them. Their whole lives.