Beneath the Earth (19 page)

My phone pinged and I looked at it. It was Mary-Lou.
Call me
, it said. I made my apologies, as they say, and went out on to the canals. Pigeons everywhere. A couple asked me to take their picture. ‘Away and shite,' I told them. I called Mary-Lou, who said was it right what she'd heard, that I was in Rome for a dirty weekend with the Mrs.

‘It's Venice,' I told her. ‘And I'm getting precious little of anything at the moment, I don't mind telling you.'

‘Venice then,' she replied. ‘It's well for some. I was there once with one of my fellas. Gorgeous, it was. You don't fancy a little trip to Florence while you're in Italy, do you?'

‘We've only got one day left,' I said.

‘I'll make it worth your while. And Gloria'd love an extra couple of days, I'd say.'

‘What's the job?' I asked.

It turned out to be a banker. Someone involved with the European bailout fund and the IMF. ‘No problem at all,' I told her. ‘I'll do that for you for free.' She was delighted. Said she knew there was a reason that I was her number one guy. I went back inside and there was Gloria making a show of herself with Matt Damon.

‘Come on, you,' I said, dragging her back to our seat and apologizing to the poor fella, who took it in great form all the same. Did you ever see those Bourne movies? Great fun but the lad has no idea how to handle a gun, that's all I'm saying. You'd think someone who understands them would have shown him how. It's embarrassing to watch.

‘Ah Toastie,' said Gloria, as we sat down and ordered another round. ‘You ruined my fun. Who was that on the phone anyway?'

‘Mary-Lou,' I said.

‘Oh.' She went fierce quiet then. She's never had any problem with my job all these years, sure doesn't it keep her in the style to which she's become accustomed, but she had some queer resentment over the fact that Mary-Lou had taken over from the Master-At-Arms. She thought it was weird. ‘She's all tits and fake eyelashes, that one,' she always said, and I said, ‘You wouldn't say that to her face', and she'd stuck her tongue out and told me that if I ever had a go with Mary-Lou she'd find out about it and castrate me.

‘I wouldn't go anywhere near her,' I told her. ‘Sure she wouldn't look at me twice anyway. She's well out of my league.'

‘And what the fuck does that make me?'

‘Someone who got lucky,' I said, giving her a wink.

‘So if you drop out of the course,' said Gloria, shaking her head, not looking for a fight. ‘What will you do?'

‘What do you mean what will I do? Sure I have a job, don't I?'

‘Yeah, but that doesn't take up much time. The course got you out of the house, didn't it?'

‘Oh right. And that's what you want, is it? Me out of the house. Do you have some young lad coming round when I'm not there?'

‘Chance would be a fine thing. But you know what I mean, Toastie. It gave you an outside interest.'

I nodded. I had a notion that I could just go somewhere every day and read at my leisure instead. Just enjoy the books. Set one aside if I thought it was shite and not have to get all the way to the end. Life's too short, you know?

‘I'll think about it,' I said. ‘Maybe I'll stick it out. I might try one more essay and if that goes down well with Calvin Klein, then I'll reconsider. Listen though, do you mind if I head across to Florence on Tuesday?'

‘Why would you do that?'

‘Work.'

‘Oh right. And where will I go? We're supposed to be heading home on Tuesday, aren't we?'

‘You and Charlie could stay on here for an extra couple of days. I'll come back on Wednesday afternoon and we can fly back Thursday.'

She nodded. She didn't have to be asked twice; she loves an old break. ‘You're very good to me all the same, Toastie, aren't you?' she said, snuggling up to me now because she was on her fourth drink and I knew what that meant. She'd get all affectionate and cuddly and if I could manage to persuade her back to the hotel after only one more then there was a chance that I might be given twenty minutes' attention without the need of a Toffee Crisp.

‘I do my best,' I said.

‘You do more than that. You take care of me. You take care of Charlie. You're a good man, Toastie.'

And I don't know why but something in the way she said that sent a shiver down my spine. Was I a good man? I didn't know. I'd never thought about myself in those terms before. In
moral
terms, I mean. This was the type of thing that Trevor had been getting at, I suppose. Using my brain, my analytical senses. Thinking for myself instead of cutting and pasting off the Internet. Not that they'd find anything there to say whether or not Toastie was a good or a bad man. I keep myself well off the radar in that sense. No social media or anything. Much like himself. The Bourne lad.

‘Do you think so?' I asked.

‘Of course I do. I wouldn't say it if I didn't.'

I pulled her close to me and kissed her on the top of her head. Her shampoo smelled of peaches, which was a bit unfortunate as I can't fuckin' stand peaches, the big slimy gooey things. Still and all. I looked out the window of Harry's Bar and felt a sense of well-being at the notion of Florence. I'd never been there, after all. And it was full of museums. Maybe I could wrangle an extra day out of Gloria if I told her it was grand later, that we didn't need to have the sex and we could just have a cuddle instead. She'd be so happy about that that she'd probably agree to anything. I could take a look at the paintings and the art galleries, wander in to have a squizz at Michelangelo's
David
. See the big langer on him in person instead of just in pictures.

I've always had an interest in painting, even if I can scarcely draw a straight line myself. And maybe if the literature course doesn't work out and Trevor gets on me tits too much I can switch over to art history. Roll on Florence, I thought. A new start. I might even bring Mary-Lou back a snow-globe from there. She'd love that, I'd say. She'd give me all the cultural destinations from then on.

fn1
. Just like this.

fn2
.
Middlemarch: A Study of Provincial Life
, by George Eliot. Originally published in serial form between 1871 and 1872.

You have your first drink since your son's murder in a small bar on Amstel's curve, where the street separates from the canal and snakes its way in towards Rokin. It's the second year of the Light Festival and from where you're sitting, you can see families crossing the Blauwbrug, pausing to look at the illuminations that have sprung up on either side, the small hands of the children mittened against the cold.

On the morning of Billy's funeral, you went out to the studio room you'd built in your back garden, to the glass-fronted fridge filled with beer and wine, and reached for a bottle before changing your mind and putting it back. Although you needed something to take the edge off, you didn't want to become a cliché of a man, the type you see in a movie whose son dies, he turns to drink and before long he's an alcoholic, his wife has left him and his entire life has turned to shit. You didn't want oblivion anyway. You wanted to feel your pain. And so you haven't drunk alcohol for nine months. Until now. Until Amsterdam.

Most of the people in the bar are in their early to mid twenties, a good ten years younger than you. They're beautiful, well dressed, conscious of how they sit, speak and what they order. Their voices create a low buzz, soft-shoe-shuffling over the jazz music, and it's comforting to reacquaint yourself with a language you learned during your student days. Back then, with three years' study at UvA, you picked up Dutch quickly; your skill with languages has been helpful in your work.

A girl sitting in a corner, one half of a mismatched couple, throws you a look and you hold her gaze for a few moments. She lights a cigarette and keeps staring at you while blowing smoke into her boyfriend's face. You shake your head and turn away. She reminds you of a girl you met in a hotel bar in Geneva a few weeks ago, the sixth girl you've fucked since March. You only started cheating on your wife after Billy's murder. Before that, you had been faithful for eight years. The girl's name was Kate, or Katy. Something like that. The memory of your most recent infidelity causes you no guilt. You wonder sometimes whether you have a conscience at all. You're aware that there are people you would like to kill and you're certain that you would feel no remorse afterwards.

That first beer, a Jupiler, tastes a little sour in your mouth, so when you order another, you point towards a different tap. This one is sweeter, lighter on the tongue, and you feel a sense of calm when the alcohol starts to hit your bloodstream. You check your watch. Your wife is late – she's always late – but you can't call her, as you don't carry a phone any more. You remember when you were a student how much you enjoyed sitting in bars like this in the late afternoon with a book and a beer, watching the people coming in and out as you waited for your friends to arrive. It doesn't seem like any time ago at all. And yet if you were to stand up now and try to ingratiate yourself with any of the young people here, they would stare at you and question your motives. You're only thirty-four but you feel old enough to be their grandfather.

A boy comes over and asks whether the empty chair at your table is taken. He says it in Dutch and you answer in English.

‘Do you want to sit there or do you want to take it away?'

He blinks. ‘I want to take it away,' he tells you, scratching his head and smiling pleasantly. ‘To sit over there with my friends.'

‘I'm waiting for my wife,' you reply, shaking your head. ‘Leave it alone.'

He nods and his expression shifts a little. You haven't been rude but he seems quite sensitive. You've hurt him in some way. He's a little overweight. You watch as he rejoins his table of friends and they acknowledge him briefly but because he's standing they don't involve him in their conversation. He leans in to hear what's being said but then seems to slip away from them gradually. When he takes his phone from his pocket and starts to scan through his messages, pretending to be busy, you look away and close your eyes, telling yourself to breathe. Not to lose control again.

A bell above the door sounds and you open your eyes to see Sarah walking in, dressed for the Arctic in her coat, scarf and gloves. It's December, it's cold, but she's gone over the top. She looks around and when she sees you she doesn't smile, and you get the impression that she had hoped she might have some time to herself before you arrived.

‘You're drinking,' she says when she sits down, pointing at your beer.

‘I am.'

‘OK, that's fine.'

You smile and glance out the window, where the universe is populated entirely by people with no hold over you. A woman and her little boy are standing on the street, waiting to cross the road. She's holding his hand but after a moment she lets go and kneels down to tie her shoelace. You watch the boy, who looks like he might step out on to the road. You watch him closely. He doesn't move; he stays where he's supposed to stay. His mother stands up and takes his hand again. After a moment, they cross safely.

‘Well are you going to get me something to drink?' asks Sarah.

‘Sure. What do you want?'

‘I don't know. Anything. You choose.'

‘Just pick something,' you say.

‘A glass of red wine.'

You nod but don't stand up. Your eye catches sight of her hand on the table. The veins stand out a little because of the cold. A part of you wants her to tease you by pressing it against your cheek and making you jump.

‘Where were you?' you ask.

‘Utrecht.'

You look at her in surprise. She had said that she was going to spend the day relaxing in the hotel. ‘Utrecht? You're kidding me.'

‘No. It's only half an hour away by train. I felt like seeing it.'

‘What the hell is in Utrecht?' you ask.

‘It's quite a pretty town, actually. I went for a walk. Saw the cathedral. Had some lunch. A boy asked me would I like to have a drink with him.'

‘A boy?'

‘Yes, a young barge-sailor. He couldn't have been more than nineteen.'

You nod. ‘And did you?'

‘Yes. He was charming. Now are you going to get me that glass of wine or do I have to go myself?'

You stand up and make your way to the bar, ordering her drink and another beer for yourself. There are photographs on the wall behind the barman. He looks like a movie star and in some of the photographs you can see him pictured with actual movie stars who've spent time there. As he reaches up for a glass, his T-shirt lifts slightly and you notice a deep scar running across his abdomen. His skin is brown and covered in dark hairs but the strip of white where the knife sliced him divides his stomach in two. You pay for the drinks and sit down.

‘I don't feel like staying out tonight,' says Sarah. ‘Do you mind if we just go back to the hotel and get an early night?'

‘I don't mind in the slightest,' you tell her.

When you think about Billy, these are the things you remember:

Sarah became pregnant only seven months into your relationship and there was some question over whether or not you were the father. The two of you had not yet moved into any sort of exclusive relationship and there was another boy, a trainee solicitor, who'd been sleeping with her too. She told you both the same night, at the same time, in the corner booth of a burger restaurant, where she explained that she couldn't be sure which one of you was responsible. You were twenty-five years old at the time and felt it would be beneath your dignity to be outraged by any of this and so you discussed it calmly and agreed that Sarah would wait until after the child was born to undergo the necessary DNA tests. In the meantime, she discontinued the relationship with the trainee solicitor and said that she would like to continue to see you, regardless of the outcome of the tests. You liked her a lot; you were falling in love with her. You told her yes, of course yes, and even if the baby wasn't yours it wouldn't make any difference to you.