Careless Talk

by David Barry

  ‘Just making conversation.’

  Mike swallowed the last of his draught Stella and called the barman over. ‘Yes please, Mark - when you’re ready.’

  He turned towards Rice and said, ‘So you call that making conversation, do you? I call it poking your nose in where it’s not wanted.’

  Rice’s grip tightened around his glass. His eyes were deadly as he stared at Mike. ‘What’s your problem then?’

  ‘You tell me. You seem to know all about it.’

  Rice smiled coldly. ‘It ain’t my fault your skirt’s given you the heave-hoh. If you don’t wanna make conversation, sit somewhere else. Usually, when people sit at the bar, it’s ‘cos they wanna socialize.’

  Mike smirked. ‘You want to be sociable, do you? Come here for a conversation, have you? So what shall we talk about? Politics? Religion? Literature? That’s a good one. Let’s talk about literature. Or do you still move your lips when you read?’

  The barman brought Mike’s fresh pint. Oblivious of the dangerous look on Rice’s face, Mike indicated a pile of loose change on the bar.

  ‘There you go, Mark - help yourself.’

  As the barman took the coins, Mike downed almost half of his fifth pint. He wiped the drops off his upper lip and turned to face Rice again.

  ‘So what do you do for a living then?’ Rice hesitated long enough for Mike to pounce. ‘Let me guess. You look like a manual worker who’s never done an honest day’s graft in his life. I’d say you were a recidivist. And if you don’t know what it means, you can always look it up.’

  Rice’s lip curled slightly. ‘Congratulations. You guessed right. So what do you do?’

  Mike raised two fingers in front of Rice’s face. Before the ex-convict had time to react, Mike made a snipping motion and explained, ‘I’m a hairdresser.’

  Rice gave Mike another cold smile which set off sobering alarm bells in his fuddled brain.

  ‘Sorry,’ he began, slurring his words. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. Woman trouble. You know what it’s like.’

  Rice shrugged confidently. ‘OK. No problem.’

  ‘I’ve had too much to drink.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  But there was something in Rice’s manner which disturbed Mike. He glanced at his watch and downed the rest of his beer.

  ***

  Craig turned at the kitchen door and said, ‘This bloke you’ve been seeing - was he on the rebound?’

  Maggie pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘Maybe. But I don’t think it was on the rebound of Gary’s death. I think our marriage broke down years ago. I just didn’t want to admit it.’

  ‘So now you’ve given this hairdresser bloke the elbow.’

  ‘I didn’t want to.’

  ‘Is he married then?’

  Maggie nodded. ‘Yeah. And as far as I’m concerned, I don’t want to be responsible for breaking up his marriage.’

  ‘So what was the problem?’

  ‘He was getting serious. He’s already had two yellow cards. But tonight he was ... well, you heard most of the phone call. He was behaving like a lovesick schoolboy.’

  Craig laughed. ‘Most married men want an uncomplicated affair. This guy must be no ordinary idiot.’

  Maggie’s eyes became distant, moist. ‘I like Mike. He’s fun to be with. I’m going to miss him.’

  They heard a scuffling, snuffling noise from the hall. Daryl appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep and tears from his eyes.

  ‘Mum!’ he cried. ‘I had a dream about Dad. Will he come back for the holidays?’

  Craig stepped aside for his nephew, who rushed into his mother’s arms and sobbed.

  ***

  Mike had parked the car in a side street, well away from the pub. As he fumbled with his keys in the lock, he heard a rush of sound from behind and started to turn. He had been aware of someone following him along the street but had thought nothing of it.

  The fist that smashed into the side of his face was like a battering ram. His body jarred with pain as he crashed to the ground. A foot came down heavily on the side of his neck and he was choking, fighting for breath. He was dimly aware of a recently familiar voice saying, ‘I usually get paid for this. But for you I’ll make an exception.’ His right hand was wrenched upwards and then came bone-splitting pain as each finger was systematically broken. The pain was unbearable. He passed out.

  Fifty - Six

  A drunken scream pierced the air of Accident and Emergency. ‘Excuse me,’ said the young nurse. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  After she had gone, Mike looked up at Claire and Andrew and mumbled an apology.

  Claire frowned. ‘You’ve been beaten up, darling. Why should you be sorry?’

  ‘I meant....’ He stopped. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He looked down at his plastered hand and winced.

  Andrew felt awkward. He cleared his throat softly before speaking. ‘You all right, Dad?’

  ‘I’ll survive.’

  ‘What did you tell the police?’ Claire asked.

  ‘That I’d been beaten up, of course. What else could I say?’

  ‘You could have told them the truth. Nobody stole anything from you. You weren’t mugged. Someone had it in for you, didn’t they?’

  Mike suddenly realised that Claire, who already suspected him of having an affair, now thought he’d been beaten up by a jealous husband.

  ‘All right,’ he began, sighing deeply to highlight his confession. ‘I had one too many beers.’

  Andrew turned to his mother and said, ‘I told you. He picked an argument with someone in the pub.’

  Claire’s eyes narrowed as she stared at Mike. ‘Is that what happened?’

  Mike nodded sheepishly. ‘This time I picked on the wrong bloke.’

  ‘But he’s broken your fingers. Cold bloodedly. Don’t you think you should have told the police?’

  ‘The bloke was a professional villain. Been in prison. I don’t want my other hand broken.’

  Claire tutted impatiently. ‘What the hell are you going to do for a living?’

  Mike shrugged and stared miserably at his hand. ‘Guess I’ll have to take a short break.’ He looked up and laughed weakly. ‘If you’ll pardon the pun.’

  ‘Oh, very funny, Mike. We’re all laughing. What an enjoyable summer it’s going to be. Not only will you be unemployed and lose half your customers now, that’ll be any chance of a holiday out the window.’

  ***

  With just over a month to go before the wedding, and with what seemed like a million and one things to attend to, Jackie felt unsettled and nervous. Eventually she decided she would summon up the energy to bake a superb coffee and walnut cake for Sunday. Nigel would be home by then, and she had invited friends over for a barbecue, mainly to introduce them to Nigel.

  Vanessa and Nicky, who had been upstairs in Nicky’s room, watching television, suddenly appeared in the kitchen, exchanging furtive glances at each other. Right away, Jackie knew something was wrong.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  Silence. She saw their pitying looks and repeated her question with more urgency.

  Vanessa coughed and turned towards her younger sister. ‘I thought you were going to tell her.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You’re so spineless. Why does it always have to be me?’

  Jackie slammed a packet of chopped walnuts onto the work surface. ‘I suppose this is something to do with Nigel. I know you’re both determined to sabotage our marriage. Well, come on - out with it. Then I can get on with my baking.’

  Vanessa shrugged, giving her mother a well-you’ve-asked-for-it look, and said, ‘You know he said he was going up north for that seminar?’

  Jackie’s lips twitched
angrily. ‘Oh, not that again. Why do you refuse to believe him? What’s wrong with you two?’

  For once, Vanessa looked genuinely sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry, Mummy. I really am. We’ve just seen him on television. On the news. He was in a hotel in Brighton. And early this morning, the guests were evacuated. There was a bomb went off. No one was hurt. It was a controlled explosion.’

  Jackie felt a nervous tic in the corner of her eye. ‘Are you sure it was Nigel.’

  Vanessa nodded gravely. ‘Yes, they interviewed him and this woman as they came out of the hotel. He had his arm about her. I’m sorry, Mummy. I really am.’

  ***

  Mike eased himself into the chair facing the television, pointed the remote awkwardly with his left hand, and switched on the news. Claire passed behind his chair, stopping to gently kiss the bruised side of his face.

  ‘Shall I pop out to get a DVD and some cold beer?’ she offered.

  ‘I’m on the wagon.’

  Claire laughed. ‘For how long?’

  ‘I’m a changed man.’

  Claire looked towards the flowers in the crystal vase. ‘I can see that. You’ve never bought me a dozen red roses. Well, not since we’ve been married, you haven’t. Why this gesture now, of all times?’

  Lowering his voice, Mike said, ‘Because of all the trouble I’ve caused you.’ He indicated his plastered hand. ‘And because I still love you.’

  ‘I love you too, darling. Break a few bones more often, will you? Now I’m going to have a glass of wine. D’you want one?’

  Mike shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t mind another coffee.’

  As Claire went towards the door, Mike gave a loud whoop as he stared at the television screen. ‘It’s him!’ he yelled excitedly. ‘Nigel whatsit.’

  Claire stopped in the doorway and peered at the television. ‘Someone you know?’

  ‘One of my clients. The chap whose fiancée phoned you up and started preaching.’

  Claire scowled at the screen. ‘Oh, him!’

  After she had left the room, Mike giggled softly. He had been the one to encourage Nigel to go ahead and have an assignation. And now the idiot was being broadcast nationwide, with his arm round another woman. Mike hoped and prayed that his fiancée had watched this evening’s news. It would serve the hypocrite right.

  Fifty - Seven

  On Saturday Nigel clambered out of bed, put his dressing gown on, and delayed telephoning Jackie. There was something niggling at the back of his mind. Like himself, he knew she rarely watched television, and liked to listen to the news on the radio. But what if she happened to switch the television on for a change? It didn’t bare thinking about.

  He made himself a bowl of porridge and a cup of tea, then showered and dressed. By then he was feeling more confident. If Jackie had seen the television news, she would surely have attempted to ring his mobile, and there were no messages on his voice mail or any texts.

  At ten o’clock he took the plunge and rang her. Her voice was calm and sweet when she answered.

  ‘Hello, Nigel. How did it go?’

  ‘Oh, it was hard work but stimulating.’

  ‘Where was it you went for this seminar? I know it was up north, but....’

  ‘Sheffield,’ he lied.

  ‘So when did you drive back from Sheffield?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘Was the M1 busy?’

  ‘I always cut across from the new M6 toll and down the M40.’

  ‘So you were definitely in Sheffield yesterday.’

  A shiver ran down his spine. Why was she pushing him on this point?

  ‘Hello, Nigel. Are you still there?’

  ‘Sorry. Yes. I was distracted. I think I heard the post coming through the letter box.’

  ‘I expect you’re tired after that long drive last night.’

  ‘Not really,’ he purred, in what he felt was a voice of assurance. ‘I feel fresh enough to come over and cuddle my bunnykins.’

  ‘So you were definitely in Sheffield all day yesterday.’

  He thought they had moved on from Sheffield. Now alarm bells were clanging inside his head.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded, her voice hard and cold.

  ‘Yes, I told you. The seminar was in Sheffield.’

  ‘So you haven’t been to Brighton recently.’

  A harsh neon message screamed inside his skull. She knows! He had already worked out a story in advance, just in case she saw the television news item. But she had deliberately set him a trap, letting him think she was blissfully unaware of the Brighton bomb incident and his television appearance.

  He felt a nauseous tremor in his stomach, then took a deep breath and launched into his explanation. ‘I’m sure I told you last week: the conference was in Brighton. The seminars were in Sheffield, but the week culminated in a Brighton conference. The venue was too small in Sheffield.’

  ‘But you said you got back from Sheffield last night.’

  ‘No, no. Thursday night I drove to Brighton.’

  ‘That’s not what you said.’

  He began stammering. ‘W-well, you ... you see, I’m still in a state of shock. It was terrible. T-terrible. There was a bomb at the Brighton hotel ... and I still haven’t got over it.’

  ‘You poor thing.’

  Jackie’s voice oozed sympathy. But it was overdone. Behind it lay shark infested waters.

  ‘Yes, it was terrible.’

  ‘It was on the television,’ she snapped. ‘And you came out of that hotel with your arms around another woman.’

  ‘She was distraught. Frightened. I found her in the reception area in a state of shock. I had to do something to comfort her and get her outside. After all, any moment that bomb could have gone off.’

  ‘How brave of you, Nigel. So now you won’t mind if I telephone the hotel in Brighton and find out just what conferences were booked in for yesterday.’

  ‘What? Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘Because - frankly - I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling ... I’ve told you....’

  But the line had gone dead. He tried ringing back, but got the engaged tone. How could he have been so stupid? And why, why, why had he agreed to that brief interview with the television reporter? It was his ego. A big, fat, stupid ego. And now his relationship was in tatters because of it.

  ***

  Hot oil sizzled and spat as Ted tipped potatoes into a roasting tray. Marjorie sat at the table, trying to fold paper napkins in the fancy way she had seen in their Florida hotel.

  ‘I hope you’ve done enough potatoes,’ she said. ‘You know what an appetite Alec’s got.’

  Ted tittered. ‘Not to mention Freda.’

  ‘Now, now.’

  Marjorie got up from the table, went to her handbag which was lying on the dresser, and took out an envelope. Ted put the roasting tray back in the oven. When he turned round, Marjorie thrust the envelope at him.

  ‘What’s this? It’s not my birthday for another fortnight.’

  ‘I wanted you to have this now. I couldn’t wait any longer. It’s an early present.’

  Puzzled, Ted tore open the envelop and pulled out a Congratulations card, a picture of a champagne bottle fizzing with silver and gold. He opened the card. Inside, Marjorie had written:

  “To Ted, love to a father to be.”

  Ted looked into Marjorie’s eyes, uncomprehendingly at first. She smiled.

  ‘I’m over three months pregnant. I thought I’d save it as a birthday surprise, but ... well, you might try and look happy about it.’

  Fifty - Eight

  Mike sat at the kitchen table reading the Sunday Times without taking it in. His mind was filled with images of Maggie and him
making love in some remote spot on Ashdown Forest. Andrew stood by the fridge, drinking beer from the can. Claire pushed him to one side.

  ‘Oh, darling!’ she complained. ‘Why don’t you help instead of getting in the way?’

  ‘What d’you want me to do?’

  ‘Lay the table.’

  ‘OK,’ he said with a sigh, and began taking cutlery out of the drawer.

  Claire opened the fridge, took out a carton of whipping cream, then glanced at the wall clock. ‘It’s nearly half one. They should have been back by now.’

  Andrew shook his head and smiled incredulously. ‘Who’d have thought my sister would get a dose of religion. Her boyfriend must be a smooth talker.’

  ‘That’s not the only reason Chloe’s....’ Claire stopped herself in time. She didn’t want to mention her daughter’s abortion. Or even think about it.

  ‘Mike,’ she said hastily, ‘I’m going upstairs to put my face on. Can you put the vegetables on for me?’

  Mike stared at his uninjured hand and flexed his fingers. ‘I think I can just about manage it. But shouldn’t we wait for Chloe and Mark? Just in case his car’s broken down. It looks a bit clapped out, if you ask me.’

  ‘No one’s asking you.’

  They heard a key in the latch. ‘Here they are now,’ said Andrew.

  Chloe, wearing a beatific smile, came into the kitchen, holding her boyfriend’s hand. He had blonde hair, was slight, fractionally shorter than Chloe, and had conventional good looks, and reminded Claire of a young Robert Redford.

  ‘Hello, Mark. You two look very pleased with yourselves. Was it a good service?’

  Mark beamed at her. ‘It’s happened! Chloe was touched. The spirit came upon her.’

  Mike looked as if he wanted to throw up, and Andrew stared open-mouthed at Mark.

  Chloe giggled feverishly. ‘It was amazing. I fell down. It was as if ... as if I was drunk with happiness. And everyone was singing and chanting.’ She looked at Andrew. ‘You ought to try it sometime.’

  Embarrassed, Andrew looked down. ‘Yeah. Cool.’

  Chloe giggled again. ‘I’m starving now. When’s dinner ready?’