Winterton Blue (13 page)

When was the last time you went to the theatre? her mother snaps, Seeing as London has so much to offer.

Anna falls silent; she was joking, but she can see she's caused real offence.

What I mean is—

When?

Anna hangs her head.

About three years ago. I find the acoustics difficult, she says.

I knew there'd be some excuse. You don't have to lecture me about Isbin and all that rot. I was simply making a suggestion. If you're really interested, Cabbage can fill you in. He's the theatre buff. You can exchange snobberies with him.

They sit in silence, listening to the steady click of the gas fire. Anna would like to cross the space between them, sit down on the rug in front of her mother, and lay her head on her knees. The image brings her up short: the time she could do that has passed. There will be no next time. She can't remember when she last embraced her mother, or was held by her. That time must be over, too.

S'getting dark, her mother says, Nights are drawing in. Cabbage'll pull those curtains in a minute.

Anna nods at her.

I know you don't like him, she continues, her voice growing so faint, Anna has to angle her head to hear, I know you don't
approve,
but he's a decent sort. He's not your father . . .

She exhales, a sleeping sigh, almost, her words trailing after each other,

. . . But he's alright. Really.

Her mother stares at the window in a benevolent, serene way.

Do you miss dad? Anna asks, holding her own breath.

Her mother says nothing; she's still staring, so Anna has to look over her shoulder, expecting a sight at the glass—a rare bird, a sudden fall of snow. It's only dusk creeping in. With her face turned away, it's easier for Anna to speak.

Do you, mum? Do you miss him?

Anna glances back for a reaction, just in time to see her mother come round. It's as if her spirit had left her body and has suddenly flown back in. The switch from blank to animated is uncanny.

Where's Cabbage? her mother says, Why are you sitting in his chair?

I'm here, says Vernon, standing at the door with a tray of drinks, I'm always here for you, dearest, you know that.

At a place called Horsewater, Lewis decides to rest awhile. He can guess why it's so named; there's nothing more to the village than a few rendered cottages, a flint church standing on a triangle of land, and a wide, shallow cut down to the water—presumably the original drinking place for horses and cattle. He crouches on the lip of the river-bank, creeping closer to the edge until he gets used to the proximity of the water running below him. He removes his shoes and socks, takes a deep breath, and plunges his feet into the flow. It's so cold, it burns after only a few seconds. Lewis looks at the water for a long minute before taking the hand-wash out of his bag. He pumps a few blobs of it into his palm and smears it over his face. He has to bend quite low to get the foam off, soaking his clothes in his hurry to get away. When he opens his eyes again, he sees the surface of the river, the flies hanging in the sunlight, and a black swirl of weeds straggling in the current. Manny would be wondering about him, worrying, even. He pictures him, sitting alone in the living-room, smoking cigarettes, watching dramas with the sound down, waiting for the phone to ring. Or he'd be dragging the vacuum cleaner over the carpets, drying his mug with a tea-towel; keeping the place nice because Sylvie liked it that way, as if she'd just popped out to the shops and would be back any minute.

Manny had his good blazer on and a pair of brown slacks. On his feet, cream-coloured loafers with a gold chain across the bar.

You look very dapper, said Lewis, Off down the precinct, are you? Spot of lap-dancing?

Manny grinned at him,

You and me, sunshine, are going for a liquid lunch. So get your pulling clobber on and be quick about it.

The Old Airport was a ten minute walk away, cut into a bank of red brick amenities which marked the end of the old estate and the beginning of the new one. It had a peeling poster outside advertising Kris's Karaoke night, and a Cantonese restaurant above it. On the bench in front of the pub, a man was slumped, his head on his chest and a can of lager nestled between his knees.

Look at the state of that, Manny whispered, nodding over at him, That's Son of Snobson.
Told
you. Off his trolley. Calls himself
Magic
Sam these days. Says he does healing—you'd have to be pretty desperate to let that article near you. Have to be at death's door.

Manny shook his head, but Lewis had already pulled away and was walking over to the bench. Close up, he could see that what he had thought was a paisley-patterned shirt was in fact bare skin, covered with intricate tattoos. The men exchanged a few words while Manny waited, holding the door open and sighing.

He was a good kid, said Lewis, Do anything for anyone. Seems alright to me.

The interior of the Old Airport gave no clue to its name, apart from a small clip-framed photograph of a biplane wedged between the optics. It was early enough in the day for them to be served without a wait, early enough for them to be the only customers in the bar. Lewis headed for a nearby table, but Manny caught his arm. He looked anxious as he levered him through a side door.

Thought we'd get a game of pool, he said, And bury a hatchet or two while we're at it.

Inside the room, under an oblong of white light, Carl and another man were in the middle of a game. A line of coins was neatly positioned on the edge of the table. Manny reached into his trouser pocket and added two more.

Mind if we joins you, lads? he said, putting his pint down on a table next to the window.

You'll know our Carl, he said.

Carl nodded once in Lewis's direction and then continued to line up his shot.

And this here's Gary Barrett. I believe you've already met.

Gary came round the table and held out his hand to Lewis.

No hard feelings, mate, he said, when Lewis shook it.

Barrett's tan was darker than Lewis remembered, and the goatee was newly shaved off, leaving a pale reminder around the mouth. He wore an earring that Lewis felt sure he wouldn't have forgotten; a large gold hoop; and had
Ich Dien
tattooed on his forearm in blue ink. It was the first afternoon the four of them spent together, and without incident, except for the phone calls Carl took on his mobile. Manny would have to have been blind not to notice Carl's to-ing and fro-ing to the toilet, but in the end he even joked about it; after the fifth call in as many minutes, he nudged Lewis.

I'm gonna get me one of them mobiles, Manny said, A proper baby-magnet.

Barrett laughed so hard at this, he choked on his beer.

Babe
-magnet, Man, he said, You sounds like a paedo.

He repeated the joke to Carl on his return from the toilet.

Certainly is a hot-line, said Lewis, eyeing Carl steadily.

Carl stared back.

Business is booming, he said, and then, almost as an afterthought, added, I don't suppose you'd be interested in some spare dosh? Cash in hand, like? No strings?

Animated by this proposal, Barrett got to his feet, pointing his pool cue at Lewis.

Can you drive? he asked, and looking at Manny, Didn't you say he had a van?

Carl shifted back in his seat and stared at his shoes.

Shut up, Gaz, he said, I can drive myself.

Lewis tried to catch Manny's eye, but he avoided him, leaning back and grabbing hold of his pool cue and saying, I'll show you how it's done, Gaz, just rack 'em up.

Didn't realize I was so interesting, said Lewis, Can't have much round here to talk about, if I'm a topic.

My dad said you're a decorator, said Carl, I was thinking about this job I've got on. I could do with someone who knows how to make good, you know, decent tosh-up, like. We're doing a recce tomorrow, if you're interested.

Lewis said nothing, all the while watching Manny, but by now his face was closed. He busied himself chalking his cue, blowing on the tip, firing the white ball up and down the table until Barrett finished loading the triangle.

Look and learn, now, chaps, Manny said, bending under the light and taking aim.

Lewis dries his feet with his socks, and rummages through his kitbag, looking for a clean pair. He forces himself back again to the last time he saw Carl. He'd dropped Manny off at Splott market, and picked up Barrett and Carl from Barrett's flat on Moorland Road. He sees the journey minutely: Carl is up front, while Barrett sits on the spare wheel in the back, sticking his blunt head between the front seats like an eager dog. He can't recall what was said; he could only be certain that he wouldn't have made small-talk with Carl. The job was about money, and only money. But this would have been the first time they'd been together in a vehicle since they were kids; something would have been said.

There's a patch of dead space in his head when he tries to picture arriving at the house; he can't see the driveway and he can't see the lake. But he knows that it's a heart-shaped
lake and he knows there was mud on his boots. On his return to Manny's, he had a few drinks. He had a good few drinks. And Manny didn't ask about the decorating job, because—the idea comes sharp as a gash to Lewis—because Manny would have known that there was no job. Just a way of parting Lewis from his van. In fact, Manny had asked him nothing about anything; he
must
have known.

Emptying the coins from his pocket and counting out a handful of change, Lewis retraces his steps to the church. At the far end of the triangle, where a narrow track cuts away from the main road, is a red telephone box. Lewis has little hope of it working, but the inside smells of fresh disinfectant, and when he puts the receiver to his ear, there's a dial tone. He slots the coins in and punches in the number before he's had time to think of what he'll say. Manny answers on the second ring.

It's me, says Lewis.

Where are you, son?

Lewis stares straight ahead, at a waterlogged sheet of paper stuck behind a square of Perspex. The surface is covered with a frenzy of scratches.

I'm in a phone box, he says, smiling at himself.

Have you seen our Carl? asks Manny.

No, says Lewis, Haven't seen my van neither. Funny that.

Listen, son, Manny says, sounding breathless now, and so close, Lewis could put out a hand and touch him, Believe me, I don't know what he's up to.

He'll be doing a fun run, I expect, says Lewis, Where
exactly
over east, Manny? Where does your Sonia hang out?

This has got nothing to do with Sonia, says Manny, his voice raised, Just leave her out of it. You'll get your van back, I swear. On Sylvie's grave.

Lewis lets out a quick laugh.

I don't want the van back, Manny, I want my brother's bracelet back. Oh yeah—and I want your prodigal.

You're welcome to him, with knobs on, but I don't know nothing about a bracelet.

Lewis leans his head against the glass panel, contemplates the sky.

Where over east?

Let me meet you there, says Manny, his voice agitated, We'll sort out Carl together.

You're gonna meet me? Where? says Lewis.

There's silence, Manny's staggered breathing down the line, then the pips.

Son. Listen to me. Our Sonia's a good girl. She wouldn't—

I'll tell her when I see her, says Lewis, shouting as the pips grow louder in his ear, I'll tell her what a good girl she is. See you at the edge of the world, Man.

Lewis replaces the handset. He puts his fingers on the Perspex, tracing the names and obscenities like Braille.

Whatever the brochures are in Vernon's hands, he makes a show of hiding them as soon as Anna enters the room. Like all his gestures, it's heavily staged, drawing attention to itself. Anna decides that if he can't behave normally around her, she'll just have to ignore him. But she waits in the doorway, unsure of what to do; clearly, they've been discussing something private. Her mother is leaning over to her left, almost lying across the chair, rubbing her hip and smiling sweetly at Vernon. Her face is bright pink and shining in the firelight. Vernon makes a fuss of putting the papers down by his side, exchanging a sly look with her. On a tray placed between them is a lone
Babycham
glass, a bottle of sweated gin, and a bowl of melting ice-cubes.