Flesh And Blood (12 page)

She was wearing a leather jacket, artfully creased and aged, a bleached blue T-shirt and what looked like new blue jeans, red-and-white Nikes on her feet. Green eyes. Pale lipstick on her mouth, pale pink. Either she’d been spending time on the sunbed or she and Martyn had been off to where? Sardinia? The Bahamas? Tenerife?

‘She was unlucky,’ Elder said.

‘Second place.’

‘It was close.’

‘You think she could have been third?’

‘We’ll have to wait for the announcement.’

‘Yes.’

People moved around them, changing positions, waiting for the next event, the next race.

‘I didn’t know you were here,’ Elder said.

‘Of course I’m here.’

‘I didn’t see you.’

‘No.’

‘Joanne…’

‘Yes?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

She looked older, he thought, no obvious make-up masquerading the tiny lines crinkling away from the corners of her eyes: older and all the better for it. He would have reached out for her if he could.

‘You here long, Frank? Just up for this or what?’

‘A couple of days probably, two or three.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘Mapperley Top. Friend of a friend.’

‘You’ll see Katherine?’

‘I hope so.’

‘I would say come round, Frank, only…’

A shake of Elder’s head, a smile around his mouth. ‘It’s okay.’

She took a pace towards him and he stood his ground. ‘Why don’t you meet Katherine when she’s changed? I’ll wait at the car.’

‘You’re sure?’

She nodded. ‘Of course.’ And then, ‘You’re looking well, Frank. That Cornish air, it must suit you.’

‘Something like that.’

He was thinking of the first time he had seen her, a little over twenty years before. A day off and he had gone into Lincoln. Wandering aimlessly up the cobbled street towards the castle, passing time really, little more, not looking where he was going; Joanne had stepped out of a coffee shop and bumped right into him, the impact knocking her nearly off her feet. Elder’s hands had reached out and caught her, surprise and anger on her face changing quickly to a smile.

‘Goodbye, Frank,’ she said now.

Foolish to stand there and watch her walk away.

♦

Katherine’s face was set into a scowl, sports bag slung over her shoulder, her hair still damp from the shower. Elder took her into an awkward embrace, a hug from which she instinctively turned, his kiss missing her face and just catching the back of her head.

‘Well done.’

‘Don’t joke.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You saw what happened.’

‘You came second.’

‘I clocked the same time as the girl in third.’

‘You were second, a close second.’

‘I fucking lost.’

‘Katherine.’

‘What?’

Elder shook his head. The reproof had been out of his mouth before he could think.

‘I had the race,’ Katherine said, ‘and I lost it.’

Elder held his tongue; in the face of her anger, he didn’t know what else to say.

‘I got past Beverley. I was cocky. I didn’t think, I wasn’t aware. I eased off.’

‘No.’

She cocked her head, questioningly. ‘What? You were running and not me?’

‘No. I was watching. And it didn’t seem to me…’

‘I eased off.’

‘Okay, if you say so.’ He reached for her hand and she pulled away.

‘Your mum’s in the car.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘I’ll walk down with you.’

‘Suit yourself.’

They reached the edge of the car park in silence, Katherine acknowledging one or two of the other athletes with a curt nod on the way.

‘So what’s next?’ Elder asked. ‘Running, I mean.’

‘There’s an inter-counties next month. The English Schools – always assuming I’m selected.’

‘You will be, surely.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘You were well inside the qualifying time.’ Hers had been announced as 40.43.

‘You know what the record is, English Schools?’

Elder shook his head.

‘38.35. Run like I did today and I’ll get creamed. I won’t even get through the heats.’

‘Then you’ll run faster.’

‘Oh, yeah? And how’m I going to do that?’

Elder shrugged. ‘Train. Toughen up.’

There was little humour in Katherine’s laugh. ‘Dad, you’re full of shit.’

‘Thanks.’

‘My pleasure.’

Dipping his head he kissed her on the cheek and this time she let it happen. The faint, acerbic taste of sweat that hadn’t quite washed away.

‘I could meet you somewhere tomorrow. Lunch, maybe?’

‘I don’t think I can.’

She read the disappointment, clear on his face.

‘How about coffee?’ she said. ‘I could do that.’

‘All right.’

‘I’ve got to go and get this book from Waterstone’s. They’ve got a place upstairs, I could meet you there.’

Elder shrugged. ‘Anywhere.’

‘Eleven thirty, then. Okay?’

And with a swing of her bag she was away, Elder hesitating, but only until Joanne, getting out of the Range Rover to greet her, had folded her arms around her, Katherine dropping her bag by her side.
It’s Mum,
Katherine had said.
You should have loved her more.

I should have loved you both more, Elder thought as he moved away. Loved something else less – the job, myself. Maybe I loved you both as much as I could. A melancholy thought, but not necessarily untrue.

Donald was immediately awake, not knowing what had woken him or why. No sound. Nothing other than the occasional acceleration of a car on the slope of road outside, the creak of a board as the house settled and shifted in its own time. Outlines in the room were clearer now: bulky, angular furniture, the covered shape of Jeavons in the opposite bed. Goose-pimples along Donald’s arms and he wondered why. In prison, the first years especially, he had woken often sheathed in sweat, a nightmare of body parts and objects glistening with semen, blood and shit. Metal and glass. Jagged. Smooth. Screams and laughter. McKeirnan’s laughter. The therapy had helped, that and the medication, allowed him to offload, come to terms. Sleep. But not now.

He reached out and checked his watch: two seventeen.

Pulled the covers high over his shoulder and turned back to face the wall; the already familiar resistance of the mattress beneath his hips and arm.

‘Shane.’

The voice so soft it could have come from somewhere inside his own head, his own brain.

‘Shane.’

Still soft. Insinuating.

‘Shane.’

Holding his breath, Donald swung back around. It was someone else, not Jeavons in the bed.

‘Who…?’

Where was Royal? Why wasn’t he here?

‘Wakey-wakey, Shaney. Rise and shine.’

A torch flicked on, held below the chin, lighting up the face, and Donald recognised him then, one of a bunch of four or five who hung together, clustered in corners, spat out remarks, made jokes, dared others to stare them out, answer back. Clayton? Carter? Claymore? Cleave? That was it, he thought. Cleave.

‘No guardian angel, Shane, looking after you. Not tonight. Downstairs with mates of mine, watchin’ videos. Porno.’ Cleave laughed. ‘Better’n layin’ here listenin’ to you whimper in your sleep. Mind you, surprises me, Shane, after what you done, you can sleep at all.’

Cleave’s voice not soft now, hardening.

‘No conscience, Shane? No fucking conscience? That what it is?’

In one quick and supple movement, Cleave was out of the bed and on his feet, T-shirt, briefs, Stanley knife in his hand, the blade extended.

‘There’s people looking for you, Shane, you know that? The father of that girl you killed. He wants to find you. Do you harm.’

With one sweep, Cleave sliced through the sheet Donald was holding, opening it from near top to bottom, stem to stern.

‘Like that,’ Cleave said, ‘the sound of your guts spilling out.’ And laughed. ‘Your tripes.’

Moving fast, he brought the blade upwards until it was under Donald’s nose, the intersection with his upper lip, the first dribble of blood seeping down into his mouth, the smallest of cuts.

‘Next time,’ Cleave said and laughed again. A quiet laugh. Mocking. ‘Next time, unless…’

He backed away and from underneath Jeavons’s pillow pulled a newspaper, folded flat. ‘Here.’ Shaking it open, he held up the torch so that Donald could read. ‘My brother sent me that. He comes from down there, see, knew about you, what you were inside for, what you’d done. And he’s been down the pub when her old man’s been hollerin’ on about what he’ll pay to know where you are. Padmore, yeah? Five grand, he reckons. More. And why d’you think, eh, Shane? Think he wants to shake your hand?’ Another laugh, a touch more pressure on the blade. ‘No, Shaney, he wants to kill you, that’s what. Hurt you first. Hurt you bad. What you done to his little girl.’

Cleave stepped away. Not far.

‘One phone call, that’s all. All it’d take. Five grand. And why shouldn’t I? Eh? One call. All that money, that cash. And me a model citizen. Seein’ you get what you deserve.’

‘Don’t.’ Donald’s voice was faint and unsure.

‘What? What’s that?’

‘Don’t. Please don’t.’

Cleave sniggered. ‘Please. I like that. Please. But what you gonna do for me, eh? What’m I gonna get for not turnin’ you in? Eh, what, Shane, what?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What? Speak up?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I tell you what,’ Cleave said, kneeling now beside the bed, his face close to Donald’s own. ‘You can get me money, that’s what you can do.’

‘I haven’t…’

‘What?’

‘I haven’t got any money.’

‘You can get it, though. Got a sister, ain’t you? See, I know. Nothin’ goes on in this place I don’t know. You can get money from her.’

‘No.’

‘Sure you can. Beg for it, borrow it, steal it if you have to. I don’t care. Just so long as it’s there. Long as you do what I ask, what I tell you.’ The blade moved from Donald’s nose to rest against the eyelid, just above the eye. ‘My slave, Shane, that’s what you’re going to be. Get me money, clean my shoes, fetch my tea. I’ve always wanted one of those, a slave, a – what do they call them? That film I saw ’bout public schools. A fag, that what it is?’ He laughed. ‘You’ll be a fag, all right. I give the word, you’re going to get down on your knees and suck my cock, lick my arse, do anything I want. Right, Shane? Right? Otherwise, I’m going to make this call. Let Lucy Padmore’s dad know exactly where you are. And you don’t want that, do you, Shane? Do you, eh? Shaney, eh?’

‘No,’ Donald said quietly. ‘No, I don’t.’ And closed his eyes.

♦

When Elder arrived on the upper floor of the bookshop, Sunday morning, Katherine was already sitting there, knees up, in a chair against the window, reading a magazine. A tall
latte
and
pain au chocolat
on the small table close by.

Elder ordered filter coffee and a muffin and joined her. More than half of the other seats were already taken. On a low seat, a woman sat with a book and an orange juice, unselfconsciously feeding a baby at her breast. At one of the other tables, a bespectacled man pecked away at the keyboard of his laptop. A middle-aged couple riffled through the sections of the Sunday paper, passing them to and fro, pausing to read from items which caught their fancy.

‘Is this a regular haunt?’ Elder asked.

Katherine shrugged. ‘Not really. It’s just somewhere to go.’

‘And you need that?’

‘Of course. Yes. Sometimes.’

‘Are things difficult then, at home?’

‘No.’

‘But if…’

‘Don’t push it, dad, okay?’

Okay. He broke off a piece of muffin and it crumbled in his hand. The coffee was fresh, maybe not quite as strong as he’d hoped.

‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ Katherine said, ‘after the race. I was in a foul mood.’

‘It’s all right.’

‘Yeah, well, I shouldn’t’ve jumped down your throat like that.’

‘You were upset. Angry.’

‘I shouldn’t have been angry with you.’

Elder ate a piece more muffin, offered some to Katherine, who shook her head. ‘Are you really doing something at lunch-time?’

‘Really.’

‘When we’ve finished this, can we go for a walk at least? Just, you know, around. It’s a while since I’ve been here, you know. Things change.’

‘Okay.’

Outside, they walked along Bridlesmith Gate, passing close by Cut and Dried, one of Martyn Miles’s hairdressing salons, the one which Joanne, as far as he knew, still managed. Neither of them referred to it or glanced in its direction. Low Pavement, Castle Gate and the subway carrying them beneath the steady traffic along Maid Marian Way. To the Castle then, a quick walk around the grounds, a turn around the bandstand, chatting sporadically but easily, nothing important, not really, this and that. He bought Katherine an ice-cream and for a moment she was a child again. Dad, can I have a treat? When can I have a treat?

Leaving the Castle, they went up a string of narrow streets and round on to Upper Parliament Street, past what had still been a large Co-op department store when Elder had last come this way. Five minutes later and they were dropping down towards the Old Market Square, the usual coven of heavy drinkers stretched out on one of the raised patches of grass.

‘Will I see you again?’ Elder asked. ‘This trip, I mean?’

‘That’s up to you.’

‘I’ll phone.’

‘Call me on my mobile.’

‘Same number as before?’

‘Same number.’

‘Okay.’

He kissed her on the cheek and she kissed him back, a squeeze of his arm and she was away. Elder crossed the square and began walking up King Street to where there he knew there was a Pizza Express. The Odeon in the city centre had closed down, as had the ABC, but there was a new multiplex apparently where the
Evening Post
building had been. He wanted to chase up some of Susan Blacklock’s old drama group but that would have to wait till after the weekend. He’d pass the time watching a film instead.