‘Yeah. Only the best.’
She sits next to me. We open and pour the wine and say our ‘cheers’, and she sips hers with a wrinkled nose and says, ‘It’s not bad.’ I try mine; it just tastes like wine, so I agree with her.
We chat for a while about this and that. She doesn’t offer further information about Geoff – and I don’t ask for any – so I assume she hasn’t heard from him. I’m just happy to talk to someone about anything other than Geoff or Joe. She asks me about my new job and I tell her that I like it so far, and almost add, ‘It’s better than working with Barry,’ but think better of bringing up that subject. ‘It’s varied,’ I say. ‘We’ve got all kinds of jobs to do, and it’s a nice spot.’
‘Sounds like you’re happy with it.’
‘I am, actually. Yeah. I am.’
She drinks her wine quickly – faster than me – and pours herself a new glass, gives me a top-up. It starts to go to my head. I remember that I haven’t eaten. ‘Careful, you’ll get me plastered.’
‘That’s funny, coming from you.’
‘I’m not that bad.’
‘You could have fooled me.’
I look at my glass and tip it so the wine laps up the side, then slips back. Its surface glimmers in the light. Laura brings her face closer to mine and says, in mock-mothering tones, ‘Awww, I’m sorry. Did I hurt your feelings?’
I feel her breath on my ear. I pull away a little and open my mouth, but I don’t have any words to say, so I face her for a dizzy moment, trapped between silence and speech. We are still, and then I don’t know who moves first, but our lips are together. I put my hand on her face. Her tongue flickers against mine.
‘Jesus!’ I pull away.
‘Wait.’
‘No. You’re his wife. I’ve got to go.’
31
Geoff reclines on a lounger and sips his third beer of the morning. He isn’t used to the heat and humidity yet; the air coats him like baby oil. They told him this was the cool season in Thailand. On the other side of the pool, a woman takes off her bikini top and Geoff watches her through his sunglasses. He likes the look of her, but is suddenly aware of the size of his own belly. In England, he would never have thought of it, but out here it feels ridiculous. Four days in and he hasn’t met anyone else who even approaches his size.
Still, for four days he has barely moved. The heat slows him down, but the truth of it is that this place overwhelms him. During the taxi ride from the airport, the sheer weirdness of everything gave him a headache, while the traffic almost gave him a heart attack. Welcome to Paradise. It made him wish he’d gone for Spain after all, but Spain just didn’t seem far enough away. He hasn’t left the hotel compound since he arrived. It’s comfortable here.
The topless woman rubs on sunblock. Her hands circle her thighs until the streaks disappear and her skin glistens. Geoff watches as she works her way up her body, and when she seems to linger over her tits for slightly longer than necessary, Geoff isn’t sure if he is imagining things. He gently squeezes his dick through the pocket of his Hawaiian-patterned beach shorts. This is no good, he thinks. What I need is a whore.
That’s something Geoff has never done before, although he knows Barry has. He had suspected Jim too, because Jim definitely never gets laid any other way. Or at least that’s what Geoff thought until he found out about…No. Geoff shakes the image out of his head. The point is that Geoff always thought it was too dirty – something he would never be desperate enough to do – but now that money is no object, it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. Besides, with what that bitch has put him through, he feels entitled to it.
He motions for another beer and, while he waits, peels the label on the bottle already in his hand. He saw them on the street on the way over here. Just glimpsing them through the window of the taxi, he knew instantly what they were even though he has never used one or ever been to this country before. In fact, they were the most familiar thing he saw during the whole drive. Apart from the beggars. They seemed pretty familiar too.
‘Sir, beer.’
The kid with the tray. Geoff feels sorry for him, working in this heat in a jacket and tie. ‘Thanks. If I’m Sir Beer, you must be Squire…’ Geoff trails off as he realizes that he doesn’t have a punch line and that the kid doesn’t understand a word anyway. ‘Never mind.’ The kid just stares at him blankly and holds out a chit to sign. Geoff waves it away. ‘Later. I’m not going anywhere, am I?’
And he isn’t going anywhere. He just isn’t ready to go outside yet, not alone anyway. What he’ll do is go and talk to the man at the desk, the one who smiled a lot and promised to make his stay pleasurable. He’ll go and see the smarmy little fucker and he’ll use his new magic words. ‘Be discreet.’ That’s what the accountants promised to be, and they bloody well were. Geoff winced at their fee, but they were worth it: they fixed everything. It turns out that ‘be discreet’ is powerful voodoo once you’ve got the cash to back it up.
On the other side of the pool, the topless woman has been joined by a topless friend. Now they’re putting sunblock on each other. Geoff smiles, stretches, and settles back to enjoy the view. Tomorrow, someone is coming to talk to him about getting a place to live.
32
For the next week, Joe spends almost every other night sleeping on my couch. He turns up in the evening – or just waits on my doorstep until I get back from work – bedraggled, hungry, unable to cope. I take him in, let him share whatever I’m eating, get down the spare blanket, and in the morning take him home. Then he’s all right for one night, but the next day, he’s always back. He knows that she’s dead, but he also thinks she still talks to him. I don’t understand how he can believe those two things at the same time, but he does.
I’m worried he’s losing his marbles; he only had a couple of ordinaries to begin with.
The day of his mother’s funeral arrives. We take our seats and the humanist minister at the lectern burbles on and I can’t follow what he says, because it just doesn’t matter. He didn’t talk to us about what to say. There are only four mourners in the chapel: me, Mr Green, Joe, and, alone on the other side of the aisle, Mrs Joe’s brother. He sits straight-backed in his double-breasted suit, eyes fixed on some point on the wall. If he’s listening to the sermon, he gives no sign. There’s no movement, no expression. He looks more like an old soldier than a man who made a living running a removals firm.
There are no hymns or prayers. She didn’t go in for that stuff. Why would she? And so we simply have a moment’s silence before the curtains open and the casket is swallowed. As we walk out, the only sound is of our footsteps on the hard floor of the aisle. The minister offers his hand at the door. I ignore him.
Outside, Mrs Joe’s brother gets into his car and drives off. Since he went to the house that night last week, he has made everything a mere formality, perhaps out of shock or maybe just the sense that the best he could do was be rid of a bad job as quickly as possible. Amazingly – after four decades or more – Joe recognized his uncle on the doorstep and promptly flipped out. Somehow, he chased him to the next-door neighbours’ house. It was then I got the call. Thank God I was in. I arrived to find Mrs Joe’s brother hiding in the young couple’s living room while their kid screamed blue murder. Joe was in the lane, yelling his mother’s view of various family disputes that surely aren’t important to her now. Joe never did learn the lessons of what really matters and when, so I had to pin him to the wall and let him kick my shins, while his uncle scuttled to the car and screeched away. Later, I found his wing mirror lying in a puddle, and a great scratch down my driver’s-side door.
‘Do you think we’ll see him again?’ I ask Mr Green, as the black Jaguar sweeps past us.
‘I’d say that was fairly unlikely, son.’
‘Can we trust him with the solicitors and that?’
‘We’ll have to, won’t we? It’s officially none of our business.’ He fumbles with the car door handle; I go over and help him. �
��Take me to the pub,’ he says.
‘Are you sure? What about him?’ I nod over at Joe, who just stands with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, staring at his feet.
‘Bring him with us.’ Then he throws his walking stick onto the back seat and slowly climbs in after it.
I close the door for him and call over to Joe, ‘C’mon, mate. It’s time to go.’
‘No one came,’ he says.
‘Don’t worry about that. You were there – that’s all that matters. Come to the pub with us.’
‘I’m barred.’
‘That was ten years and two landlords ago. They won’t remember. Anyway, it wasn’t your fault. Get in.’
‘Is he going?’
‘Your uncle? No.’
‘He’s a nasty piece of work, that one.’
‘He’s gone. Forget about him.’
He looks over his shoulder to the crematorium, looks back at me. ‘I don’t want to leave her.’
‘She’s not here, mate. She’s not here. Come with us.’
For the first time today, he starts to cry, but he gets in the car and we drive away.
—
At the pub, I buy the drinks: a pint for Mr Green and a shandy for Joe, whose mother never let him get drunk. It’s about six o’clock – Mrs Joe’s was the last funeral of the day and the drive back took half an hour – so the pub is still sparsely populated, but people are drifting in. The three of us drink, Joe quietly, Mr Green and me earnestly, and mull over our individual regrets. In here, Joe looks like a rabbit who finds himself in the fox’s den. I could reach out and put my hand on his shoulder or something, but I don’t. After a little while, he gets up and goes to the toilet.
Mr Green leans over to me. ‘Lydia came to see me the other day.’
‘Who?’
‘The panto lady.’
‘Oh, her.’
‘Aye. She says that Joe worries some of the others. Wondered if we’d mind keeping him away from rehearsals in future.’
‘He’d be heartbroken. I hope you told her to go and do one.’
‘I was slightly more diplomatic than that.’ He sucks his teeth.
‘So he’s not kicked out?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Good.’
‘She asked me about you too. It seems somebody has been whispering to her about your chequered past.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Well, I told her you’re “fully rehabilitated” and “an upstanding member of the community”. She liked that. I think she’s a Guardian reader. Listen…’ He pauses, taps the tabletop. ‘I called Social Services.’
‘About Joe?’
‘Of course about Joe.’
‘Right.’ Joe is scared of the authorities, and I’m not sure I like the sound of this. ‘So?’
‘So nothing. They listened sympathetically, issued forth some platitudes. You know what a platitude is, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mr Green, I know what a platitude is.’
‘Good. Well, I just wanted you to know that I’ve set the wheels in motion, or I’m trying to at least.’
‘Right.’
‘Don’t worry – they’re not going to drag him away by the hair. They’re not that efficient, for a start. I was a teacher, so I’ve dealt with these people before. It’ll be hard enough to get them to do anything, let alone something drastic. They’re overworked and under-resourced.’
‘Well, as long as you know what you’re doing.’
‘Unfortunately, in this regard I do.’
I pick up a beer mat and turn it over in my hands because they’re itching for something to do. I suppose I should be glad; if Joe gets help, maybe he’ll stop coming to my house at all hours. Then again, that assumes the ‘help’ is any help.
‘Relax,’ he says to me. ‘I’ll handle them. You just keep doing what you’re doing.’
‘That’s what I’m scared of.’
‘That and everything else, I should imagine.’
‘Aye. That and everything else.’
Joe gets back from the bog and slumps once more into his chair. He keeps looking around himself as if he expects attack from any angle. Under the table, I nudge his shin with my toe. ‘Chill out, mate. Nobody’s going to bother you. You’re with me.’
‘It’s not civilized in here,’ he pronounces.
‘Joe, that’s the point. If it were civilized in here, no bugger would come.’
‘It’s full of ruffians,’ he says, and sips at his shandy.
Mr Green reaches into his inside pocket and withdraws his wallet. He inspects its contents, then pokes a tenner into my hand. ‘I think you and I need a large whisky each.’
‘I think you might be right.’
I know he’s just had a stroke, but that’s his business, and if he wants to drink himself to death, I’ll be right behind him. I’m watching the barmaid push a glass to the optic when the muscles in my shoulders and neck suddenly stiffen. A familiar voice comes through the door behind me. If this were a western, I’d lower my hand to my hip and prepare to spin on my heel the moment the talking stops. Instead, I quietly ask for a bag of cheese and onion crisps and some dry-roasted nuts.
Back at our table, I push the snacks towards Joe and sip at my whisky. Barry sits with his back to us, so I don’t think he has seen me yet. His companion is at the bar and he looks familiar, but I’m not sure: a big guy with a hint of belly hanging over the top of his jeans. I’ve seen him around. He looks like a ruffian.
He swaggers back to Barry with a pint in each hand, sits down, starts to drink. It’s not far from here to there – maybe eight or nine paces. They’re laughing at something. I could cover that distance quickly; Barry wouldn’t see me coming, and his mate wouldn’t have time to work out what was happening. I could punch Barry in the back of the head and break my glass in the other guy’s face before he was even on his feet, but that’s not going to happen.
My knee judders up and down.
‘Are you all right?’ Mr Green is talking to me.
‘What? Yeah. I’m fine. It’s just…nothing.’ I pick up the whisky and wish I’d got a pint instead; I need something wet.
‘You looked like you were miles away.’
‘No such luck.’
‘Do you know those men?’
I look round. Barry turns in his chair, smiles, and tips his glass towards me. I do nothing. He gets up and saunters over.
‘All right, mate?’
I say nothing.
‘Sorry I didn’t stop the other night. I was in a rush.’
What you mean, I think, is that you didn’t have back-up. I look past Barry, to the big guy; he’s watching, arms folded.
‘I hear you’re back in work. With that lad from Mac’s lot. What’s his name? Lee.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Ways and means.’
‘Shut up, Barry. You’re all piss-steam.’
‘Am I now?’ He looks at Joe. ‘I see you’re still doing your bit for charity.’
‘Baz, we’ve just been to a funeral. If you want to talk to me, you know where I live. Now get lost.’
‘Nasty bruise, that.’
‘Thanks for your concern.’
‘You’re welcome. I’ll see you later.’
He goes and sits with his mate again.
Mr Green looks at me. ‘What was all that about?’
‘Nothing for you two to worry over.’
Joe has gone very still and small.
‘Are you all right, mate?’ I ask him.
‘I don’t like him,’ he says quietly.
‘I know you don’t. I’m not that keen on him either. C’mon, drink up and we’ll go and have some dinner.’
33
It rained heavily at work today. I get home soaked through, cold, and clarted up with mud. I peel off on the doormat and scurry naked upstairs and straight into the shower. I stand under the hot water for a long time. I can afford to relax because I know that Joe won�
��t turn up this evening; he has another rehearsal at the village hall. He doesn’t need to go to every one – he’s just the back end of the horse, after all – but he does. God knows how he occupies himself; sits and watches, I think. If it makes him feel there is still a world he’s part of, though, then I won’t let anyone stop him doing it.
Anyway, he’s not here now. I put him out of my mind. The water flows over me, and I think of Laura. I tried hard to forget that kiss, but I dreamed of her last night. I feel guilty about it, but the days have turned to weeks and still no word from Geoff, so who’s the traitor now? Wasn’t this always there, anyway, ever since she first came here? Perhaps this was waiting to happen. Perhaps it’s actually right. And yet I still can’t understand why she would want to. Why she would want me, of all people.
Here I am, though, wanting her too. It’s as if all the action, all the moving, all the change of the last few weeks has hauled my body and mind up to speed and suddenly my sex drive is back.
—
On the way over to Laura’s, questions and doubts grow in the cold and the dark. I stop and find it difficult to take another step. My legs are very heavy. I rake my knuckles over my chin. At the very least, I need to know. I force myself to walk again.
‘You’ve been quiet,’ she says, on opening the door.
‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t…I’ve been…’
‘Yeah. I know.’
I watch a cat emerge from the shadows of a small, neat lawn, trot over the road, and disappear into the shadows of the small, neat lawn opposite. I look back at Laura. I feel my jaw working, as if I need to chew the words to make them soft enough to come out. ‘Look, did you…? When you…? Oh fuck.’
‘What?’
I feel like I’m taking a desperate, running jump at a large, deep hole. ‘When you kissed me, did you mean it?’
‘When I kissed you?’
‘When we kissed each other, did you mean it?’
‘Oh God. Yes, maybe.’
‘But…how could you?’
‘Oh, don’t come with that. He’s not coming back, is he? And you came over here with a bottle of wine. Don’t tell me that—’
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