Nocturne (16 page)

The Queen
’
s was cavernous, a big, high-ceilinged pub with fading
curtains and worn upholstery. It was still busy for mid-afternoon and
there was a heavy Irish contingent at the bar. They were obviously
regulars, big-faced men with baggy jeans and wet eyes. It took me a
while to sort out Frankie and I only spotted him for certain when I
caught one of the Irish guys calling his name.

He was young, much younger than Witcher.. He was wearing black
leather trousers and a black shirt and I knew at once that he was gay.
You could tell by the way the men treated him, protective, roughly
affectionate, and you could tell as well that he didn
’
t care. At the riper
remarks, none of them hostile, he
’
d turn his back, and wiggle his bum,
and then play dainty-dainty with his hands when he circled the bar to
collect the empties.

I was sitting at a table in the
far
corner when he came for my glass.
I
moved my bag to let him wipe the table. He did it with a certain
deftness, the way a woman might, and I thought at once of Witcher
’
s
kitchen, how neat it was, and how pretty.

According to the clock behind the bar, it was twenty past four.

‘
I
’
d like to buy you a drink,
’
I said.
‘
When you
’
ve finished.
’

‘
You would?
’
Frankie had a lovely smile.

I nodded at the empty chair he
’
d just tidied into the table.

‘
Yes…
’
I said, giving him a
£5
note,
‘
…
and bring another Pils for me.
’

Frankie joined me ten minutes later. In contrast to Witcher, he was a
story looking for a willing ear. By six o
’
clock, I knew where he lived,
where he came from, the clubs he liked best for dancing, and the pubs
he cruised when he was in the mood for a one-night stand. My only
problem was shutting him up.

‘
There
’
s a man called Kevi
n Witcher,
’
I managed to say at last.

‘
Kev?
’
he nodded,
ever eager.
‘
Yeah, I know Kev. Double vodkas
and coke. No ice.
’

‘
You know him well?
’

‘
What do you mean?
’

‘
Is he a friend of yours?
’

‘
Might be, why?
’

For the first time, I could feel Frankie touch the brake. There might,
after all, be limits to this candour of his. He might even want to know
my name.

I extended a hand across the table. I
’
d already decided to tell him
more or less everything and three bottles of Pils confirmed what a
wonderful decision that was. This could go on all evening, I thought.
Maybe it will.

‘
Julie,
’
I said,
‘
Julie Emerson.
’

He touched my hand, giving it a playful little squeeze. I told him
about Gilbert, about the flat, and lastly about my brief call at
Denman
’
s Hill. Nothing I said seemed to surprise Frankie in the least
and I was beginning to wonder how much I really knew about life in
Inner London, when Frankie beckoned me forward across the table.
I
’
d been talking about Gilbert
’
s bruise and the fight he
’
d evidently had
with Witcher. Frankie was very theatrical. I could feel his breath on my
ear.

‘
Kev and his candles,
’
he said.
‘
That was probably what triggered it.
’
I remembered the line of candles on Kevin Witcher
’
s Welsh dresser.

‘
How come?
’
I queried.

‘
Easy. Kev loves candles. The bigger the better, them scented sort
preferably. It
’
s a real treat, really lovely, really nice, but you
’
ve got to
want it. He likes to light them afterwards and then he plays funny
music,
you know, classical stuff. Requiems. All sorts. Brilliant, if
you
’
re in the mood.
’

I was lost. Frankie could see it in my eyes and it made him laugh,
though not unkindly.
I decided to start with the obvious.

‘
You see a lot of Kevin?
’

‘
Most weeks, yeah.
’

‘
You know he
’
s had some kind of accident?
’

‘
Of course, that
’
s why he
’
s been off work so long.
’

He started to tell me about Witcher
’
s job. It seemed he was a civil
servant in Whitehall.

‘
But this accident,
’
I kept saying.
‘
What happened?
’

Frankie was enjoying himself now, refusing to give me a straight
answer. He
’
d sussed where I was coming from, what it was I really
wanted to know, and he was determined to string the conversation out
until either my patience gave out or we were both blind drunk. After
six, at Frankie
’
s insistence, I
’
d switched to shorts - vodka and coke, no
ice - and now I sat back, sprawled in the chair, listening to Frankie
’
s
plans to launch himself into the world of film-making. This bit of the
conversation was my own fault. I
’
d let slip what I did for a living,
knowin
g at once it was a mistake. Fran
kie was bursting with ideas. He
had access to a word processor. All he needed
was a name, and an
address, an
d he knew, he just
knew
that he
’
d be heading for the big
time. The people he
’
d met. The stories he could tell. The strokes some
guys would pull to get inside those amazing leather loons.

At last, gone nine, I managed to pin him down. The pub was a blur
of bodies around us. The sheer volume of noise made ordinary
conversation impossible.

‘
Kevin Witcher
’
s arm,
’
I shouted.
‘
Who broke it?
’

Frankie was blowing kisses at someone behind me. I grabbed his
hand, hauling him towards me, repeating the question. Frankie
frowned, the way you do when you
’
ve forgotten a detail or two.

‘
That bloke,
’
he said.
‘
The one you mentioned.
’

‘
Gilbert?
’

‘
Yeah, him.
’

‘
Gilbert
broke his arm?
’

‘
Yeah,
’
he nodded vigorously.
‘
And the rest, too.
’

We were listening to heavy metal now. I couldn
’
t hear a thing.

‘
What rest?
’
I
yelled.

Frankie
’
s hands began to pat various parts of his body. I pulled him
closer, my ear practically in his mouth.

‘
Plus his ribs,
’
he was saying,
‘
and his kidneys. And a couple of
teeth. Kev told me about the X-rays. Real make-over. Geezer must
have known what he was about.
’

‘
Gilbert
?’
I shouted again.

‘
Yeah.
’

‘
Gilbert beat him up?
’

‘
Yeah.
’

I collapsed back in my chair. I
’
m probably slow on the uptake but
there wasn
’
t enough vodka in the world to blanket the implications of
what this boy was telling me. Gilbert, if I was to believe him, wasn
’
t
just mad but violent too. So violent, he
’
d put the previous occupant of
3
1
Napier Road in hospital.

A question occurred to me. Frankie was on his feet, swaying with
the music, his arm round a blond youth with a pony tail. I beckoned
him down. My time was nearly up.

‘
Why?
’
I
mouthed.

‘
Why what?
’

‘
Why did Gilbert do it?
’

Frankie gazed at me for a moment and I saw the faraway look in his
eye. Then he blinked.

‘
Kevin can be a dickhead,
’
he grinned.
‘
Candles aren
’
t everyone
’
s
cup of tea.
’

Candles? I woke up on Sunday morning with another blinding
headache, half convinced I was back in Bournemouth. That last year,
I
’
d lived in a bedsit about half a mile from the university. It was seedy
in the extreme but I was passionately in love with a lecturer from the
College of Art and Design and our snatched nights together blinded
me to the damp-stained wallpaper and ever-dripping taps. He was
married, of course, and it all ended in tears but there were Sunday
mornings exactly like thi
s when we
’
d awake to find the wine-stained
duvet
puddled with sunshine, and our mouths tasting of ashes, and we
’
d
prove beyond doubt that no hangover on earth could survive a head-
shattering orgasm and an hour or so of cosy oblivion afterwards.

That option, alas, was no longer on offer and by the time I
’
d found
my dressing gown and inspected my pale face in the bathroom mirror I
realised that one of the feelings I was trying to keep at bay was
loneliness. The pub that night had been full of people who knew each
other, laughed a lot, got pissed together. Why was I always too busy to
have any of that?

The ding-dong of the front door chimes came an hour or so later.
Three Nurofens and a pot of coffee had taken the edge off the
headache but the rather bleak feeling that came with it was definitely
in for the day. I opened the door to find Brendan standing in the
sunshine. He was wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. We were a
week or so into early spring, but even so he was making a very brave
fashion statement indeed.

‘
Borrowed it for the weekend. Thought you
’
d do the honours.
’

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. His Mercedes stood at the
kerbside. Lashed to a brand new roofrack was a sailboard. I began to
laugh.

‘
You want to go windsurfing? In February?
’