by Suspect
I look between the two of them. That's the problem with Scousers. You can never tell whether they're joking or being serious until they put a glass in your face.
Bert winks at the barman. "He can buy me a drink, but he can't fiddle ass around. 'E's got five minutes before he can bugger off."
Phil grins at me. His ears are laden with silver rings and dangling pendants.
The pub has tables arranged along the walls, leaving a dance floor in the center. The teenagers are still playing pool. The only girl among them looks underage and is dressed in tight jeans and a sin�glet top, revealing her bare midriff. The boys are trying to impress her but her boyfriend is easy to spot. Bulked up by weight training he looks like an abscess about to explode.
Bert is watching the bubbles rise to the head of his Guinness. Minutes pass. I feel myself getting smaller and smaller. Finally he raises the glass to his lips and his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows.
"I wanted to ask you about Lenny Morgan. I asked at the depot. They said you were friends."
He shows no emotion.
I keep going. "I know he died in a fire. I know you worked with him. I just want to find out what happened."
Bert lights a cigarette. "I can't see how it's any of your business."
"I'm a psychologist. Lenny's son is in a spot of bother. I'm trying to help him." As I hear the words I feel a pinprick of guilt. Is that what I'm trying to do? Help him.
"What's his name?"
"Bobby."
"I remember him. Lenny used to bring him down the depot dur�ing the holidays. He used to sit up back and ring the bell to signal the driver. So what's he done?"
"He beat up a woman. He's about to be sentenced."
Bert smiles sardonically. "That sort of shit happens. You ask my old lady. I've hit her once or twice but she punches harder than I do. It's all forgotten in the morning."
"This woman was badly hurt. Bobby dragged her out of a cab and kicked her unconscious in a busy street."
"Was he shagging her?"
"No. He didn't know her."
"Whose side are you on?"
"I'm assessing him."
"So you're trying to get him banged up?"
"I want to help him."
Bert snorts. Headlights from the road outside slide over the walls. "It's all gin and oranges to me, son, but I can't see what Lenny has to do with it. He's been dead fourteen years."
"Losing a father can be very traumatic. Perhaps it can help ex�plain a few things."
Bert pauses to consider this. I know he's weighing up his preju�dices against his instincts. He doesn't like my shoes. He doesn't like my clothes. He doesn't like strangers. He wants to snarl and push his face into mine, but he needs a good enough reason. Another pint of Guinness has the casting vote.
"You know what I do every morning?" Bert says.
I shake my head.
"I spend an hour lying in bed, with my back so fucked up I can't even roll over to reach my fags. I stare at the ceiling and think about what I'm going to do today. Same as every day, I'm going to get up, hobble to the bathroom, then to the kitchen and after breakfast I'm going to hobble down here and sit on this stool. Do you know why?"
I shake my head.
"Cos I've discovered the secret of revenge. Outlive the bastards. I'll dance on their graves. You take Maggie Thatcher. She destroyed the working class in this country. She closed down the mines, the docks and the factories. But she's rusting away now?just like those ships out there. She suffered a stroke not so long ago. Don't matter whether you're a destroyer or a dinghy?the salt always gets you in the end. And when she goes I'm gonna /piss/ on her grave."
He drains his glass as though washing away the bad taste in his mouth. I nod to the barman. He starts pouring another.
"Did Bobby look like his father?"
"Nah. He was a big pudding of a lad. Wore glasses. He worshiped Lenny, trailed after him like a puppy dog, running errands and fetch�ing him cups of tea. When Lenny brought him to work, he'd sit out�side of here and drink lemonade while Lenny had a few pints. Afterward they'd cycle home."
Bert is warming up. "Lenny used to be a merchant seaman. His forearms were covered in tattoos. He was a man of very few words, but if you got him talkin' he'd tell you stories about his tattoos and how he got each one of 'em. Everybody liked Lenny. People smiled when they spoke his name. He was too nice a bloke. Sometimes folks can take advantage of that..."
"What do you mean?"
"You take his wife. I can't remember her name. She was some Irish Catholic shopgirl, with big hips and a ripcord in her knickers. I heard tell that Lenny only screwed her the once. He was too much of a gentleman to say. She gets pregnant and tells Lenny the baby is his. Anyone else would have been suspicious, but straightaway Lenny marries her. He buys a house?using up all the money he'd saved from going to sea. We all knew what his missus was like: a real Any�time Annie. Half the depot must have ridden her. We nicknamed her 'Number Twenty-two'?our most popular route."
Bert looks at me sadly, flicking ash from his sleeve. He explains how Lenny had started at the garage as a diesel mechanic and then taken a pay cut to go on the road. Passengers loved his funny hats and his impromptu songs. When Liverpool beat Real Madrid in the final of the European Cup in 1981, he dyed his hair red and deco�rated the bus with toilet paper.
Lenny knew about his wife's indiscretions, according to Bert. She flaunted her infidelity?dressing herself in miniskirts and high heels. Dancing every night at the Empire Ballroom and the Grafton.
Without warning, Bert windmills his arm as though wanting to punch something. His face twists in pain. "He was too soft?soft in the heart, soft in the head. If it were raining soup Lenny would be stuck with a fork in his hand.
"Some women deserve a slap. She took everything ... his heart, his house, his boy ... Most men would have killed her. Most men weren't like Lenny. She sucked him dry. Drained his spirit. She spent a hundred quid a month more than he earned. He was working dou�ble shifts and doing the housework as well. I used to hear him pleading with her over the phone?'Are you staying in tonight, pet?' She just laughed at him."
"Why didn't he leave her?"
He shrugs. "Guess he had a blind spot. Maybe she threatened to take the kid. Lenny wasn't a wimp. I once seen him throw four hooli�gans off his bus because they were upsetting the other passengers. He could handle himself, Lenny. He just couldn't handle /her/."
Bert falls silent. For the first time I notice how the bar has filled up and the noise level has risen. The Friday night band is setting up in the corner. People are looking at me; trying to work out what I'm doing. There is no such thing as anonymity when you're the odd one out.
The red lights have started to sway and the wooden floorboards echo. I've been trying to keep up with Bert, drink for drink.
I ask about the accident. Bert explains that Lenny sometimes used the engineering workshop of a weekend to build his inventions. The boss turned a blind eye. The weekend buses were running, but the workshop was empty.
"How much do you know about welding?" Bert asks.
"Not much."
He pushes his beer aside and picks up two coasters. Then he ex�plains how two pieces of metal are joined together by using concen�trated heat. Normally the heat is generated in two ways. An arc welder uses a powerful arc of electricity, with low voltage and high current generating temperatures of 11;000 degrees Fahrenheit. Then you have oxy-fuel welders, where gases such as acetylene or natural gas are mixed with pure oxygen and burned to create a flame that can carve through metal.
"You don't muck around with this sort of equipment," he says. "But Lenny was one of the best welders I ever saw in me life. Fellas used to say he could weld two pieces of paper together.
"We always took a lot of precautions in the workshop. All flam�mable liquids were stored in a separate room from the cutting or welding. We kept combustibles at least thirty-five feet away. We cov�ered the drains
and kept fire extinguishers nearby.
"I don't know what Lenny was building. Some people joked it was a rocket ship to send his ex-wife into outer space. The blast knocked an eight-ton bus onto its side. The acetylene tank blew a hole through the roof. They found it a hundred yards away.
"Lenny finished up near the roller doors. The only part of his body that hadn't been burned was his chest. They figure he must have been lying down when the fireball engulfed him because that part of his shirt was only slightly singed.
"A couple of the drivers dragged him clear. I still don't know how they managed it ... what with the heat and all. I remember them saying afterward how Lenny's boots were smoking and his skin had turned to crackling. He was still conscious but he couldn't speak. He had no lips. I'm glad I didn't see it. I'd still be having nightmares." Bert puts his glass down and his chest heaves in a short sigh.
"So it was an accident?"
"That's what it looked like at first. Everyone figured a spark from the welder had ignited the acetylene tank. There might have been a hole in the hose, or some other fault. Maybe gas had accumulated in the tank he was welding."
"What do you mean 'at first'?"
"When they peeled off Lenny's shirt they found something writ�ten on his chest. They say every letter was inch-perfect?but I don't believe that?not when he was writing upside down and left to right. He used a welding torch to burn the word 'SORRY' into his skin. Like I said, he was a man of very few words."
**9**
I don't remember leaving the Tramway. Eight pints and then I lost count. The cold air hit me and I found myself on my hands and knees leaving the contents of my stomach over the broken rubble and cin�ders of a vacant block.
It seems to be a makeshift car park for the pub. The country-and-western band is still playing. They're doing a cover of a Willie Nel�son song about mothers not letting their children grow up to be cowboys.
As I try to stand something pushes me from behind and I fall into an oily puddle. The four teenagers from the bar are standing over me.
"Ya got any money?" asks the girl.
"Piss off!"
A kick is aimed at my head but misses. Another connects with my abdomen. My bowels slacken and I want to vomit again. I suck in air and try to think.
"Jesus, Baz, you said nobody gets hurt!" says the girl.
"Shut the fuck up! Don't use names."
"Fuck you!"
"Leave it out, you two," argues the one called Ozzie, who is left-handed and drinks rum and cola.
"Don't you start, dickhead." Baz stares him down.
Someone takes my wallet out of my jacket.
"Not the cards, just the cash," says Baz. He's older?in his early twenties?and has a swastika tattooed on his neck. He lifts me eas�ily and pushes his face close to mine. I smell beer, peanuts and ciga�rette smoke.
"Hey, listen, toss-bag! You're not welcome here."
Shoved backward, I land against a wire fence topped with razor wire. Baz is toe to toe with me. He's three inches shorter and solid like a barrel. A knife blade gleams in his hand.
"I want my wallet back. If you give it back to me I won't press charges," I say.
He laughs at me and mimics my voice. /Do I really sound that frightened?/
"You followed me from the pub. I saw you in there playing pool. You lost the last game on the black."
The girl pushes her glasses up her nose. Her fingernails are bitten to the quick. "What's he mean, Baz?"
"Shut up! Don't fucking use my name." He starts to hit her, but she shoots him a fierce glance. The silence lingers. I don't feel drunk anymore.
I focus on the girl. "You should have trusted your instincts, Denny."
She looks at me, wide-eyed. "How do you know my name?"
"You're Denny and you're underage?thirteen maybe fourteen. This is Baz, your boyfriend, and these two are Ozzie and Carl..."
"Shut the fuck up!"
Baz shoves me hard against the fence. He can sense he's losing the initiative.
"Is this what you want, Denny? What's your mum going to say when the police come looking for you? She thinks you're staying at a girlfriend's house, doesn't she? She doesn't like you hanging out with Baz. She thinks he's a loser, a no-hoper."
"Make him stop, Baz." Denny covers her mouth.
"Shut the fuck up!"
No one says anything. They're watching me. I take a step forward and whisper to Baz. "Use your white cells, Baz. I just want my wal�let."
Denny interrupts, on the verge of tears, "Just give him his fuck�ing wallet. I want to go home."
Ozzie turns to Carl. "C'mon."
Baz doesn't know what to do. He could carve me up like a wisp of smoke, but now he's on his own. The others are already disap�pearing, loose-limbed and hooting with laughter.
He pushes me hard against the fence, pressing the knife to my neck and his face next to mine. His teeth close around my earlobe. White heat. Pain. Ripping his head to one side, he spits hard into a puddle and shoves me away.
"There's a little souvenir from Bobby!"
He wipes blood from his mouth and tosses my wallet at my feet. Then he swaggers away and kicks at the door of a parked car. I'm sit�ting in water, braced against the fence. In the distance I see naviga�tion lights blinking from the top of industrial cranes on the far side of the Mersey.
Slowly, pulling myself upright, I try to stand. My right leg buck�les and I fall to my knees. Blood leaks in a warm trail down my neck.
I stumble to the main road but there is no traffic. Glancing over my shoulder, I worry about them coming back. Half a mile down the road I find a minicab office with metal grille over the door and win�dows. The inside is saturated with cigarette smoke and the smell of takeout food.
"What happened to you?" asks a fat man behind the grille.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. The bottom part of my ear is missing and my shirt collar is soaked with blood.
"I got mugged."
"Who by?"
"Kids."
I open my wallet. The cash is still there ... all of it.
The fat man rolls his eyes, no longer concerned about me. I'm just a drunk who got into a fight. He radios for a car and makes me wait outside on the footpath. I glance nervously up and down the street, looking for Baz.
A souvenir! Bobby has some charming friends. Why didn't they take the money? What was the point? Unless they were trying to warn me off. Liverpool is a big enough place to get lost and small enough to get noticed, particularly if you start asking questions.
Slumped on the backseat of an old Mazda 626, I close my eyes and let my heart slow. Sweat has cooled between my shoulder blades, making my neck feel stiff.
The minicab drops me at University Hospital where I wait for an hour to get six stitches in my ear. As the intern wipes the blood from my face with a towel, he asks if the police have been informed. I lie and say yes. I don't want Ruiz knowing where I am.
Afterward, with a dose of acetaminophen to dull the pain, I walk through the city until I reach Pier Head. The last ferry is arriving from Birkenhead. The engine makes the air throb. Lights leak toward me in a colorful slick of reds and yellows. I stare at the water and keep imagining that I can see dark shapes. Bodies. I look again and they vanish. Why do I always look for bodies?
As a child I sometimes went boating on the Thames with my sis�ters. One day I found a sack containing five dead kittens. Patricia kept telling me to put the sack down. She was screaming at me. Re�becca wanted to see inside. She, like me, had never seen anything dead except for bugs and lizards.
I emptied the sack and the kittens tumbled onto the grass. Their wet fur stood on end. I was attracted and repelled at the same time. They had soft fur and warm blood. They weren't so different from me.
Later, as a teenager, I imagined that I would be dead by thirty. It was in the midst of the Cold War when the world teetered on the edge of an abyss, at the mercy of whichever madman in the Whi
te House or the Kremlin had one of those, "I-wonder-what-this-button-does?" moments.
Since then my internal doomsday clock has swung wildly back and forth much like the official version. Marrying Julianne made me hugely optimistic and having Charlie added to this. I even looked forward to graceful old age when we'd trade our backpacks for suit�cases on wheels, playing with grandchildren, boring them with nos�talgic stories, taking up eccentric hobbies...
The future will be different now. Instead of a dazzling road to discovery, I see a twitching, stammering, dribbling spectacle in a wheelchair. "Do we really have to go and see Dad today?" Charlie will ask. "He won't know the difference if we don't show up."
A gust of wind sets my teeth chattering and I push away from the railing. I walk from the wharf, no longer worried about getting lost. At the same time I feel vulnerable. Exposed.
At the Albion Hotel the receptionist is knitting, moving her lips as she counts the stitches. Canned laughter emanates from some�where beneath her feet. She doesn't acknowledge me until she fin�ishes a row. Then she hands me a note. It has the name and telephone number of a teacher who taught Bobby at St. Mary's school. The morning will be soon enough.
The stairs feel steeper than before. I'm tired and drunk. I just want to sink down and sleep.
I wake up suddenly, breathing hard. My hand slides across the sheets looking for Julianne. She normally wakes when I cry out in my sleep. She puts her hand on my chest and whispers that everything is all right.
Taking deep breaths, I wait for my heartbeat to slow and then slip out of bed, tiptoeing across to the window. The street is empty except for a newspaper van making a delivery. I touch my ear gin�gerly and feel the roughness of the stitches. There is blood on my pillow.
The door opens. There is no knock. No warning footsteps. I'm positive that I locked it. A hand appears, red-nailed, long-fingered. Then a face coloured with lipstick and blusher. She is pale-skinned and thin, with short-cropped blond hair.
"Shhhhhhhh!"
A person giggles behind her.
"For fuck's sake, will you be quiet."
She's reaching for the light switch. I'm standing silhouetted against the window.