Cathy, and she’d be there. Victoria. I doubt she was much more than fourteen then.’ He sighed and kicked at the ground with his shoe. ‘She could’ve put a ring through my nose and had me crawling after her, all fours around the room.’ Slowly, he drew air down into his lungs. ‘You’re right, it’s nice out here. Quiet.’
The two men shook hands.
‘Thanks,’ Trevor said. ‘I mean it. Thanks a lot.’
Kiley didn’t see Victoria Clarke until the following year, the French Open. He and Kate had travelled Eurostar to Paris for the weekend, stayed in their favourite hotel near the Jardin du Luxembourg. Kate had a French author to interview, a visit to the Musee d’Art Moderne planned; Kiley thought lunch at the brasserie across from Gare du Nord, then a little tennis.
Costain, buoyant after marshalling Victoria’s advertising contract safely through, had struck a favourable deal with Cathy and Trevor: five per cent of Victoria’s gross income to be paid into a trust fund for Alicia, an annual payment of ten thousand pounds towards her everyday needs, this sum to be reviewed; as long as Trevor remained unemployed, the shortfall on the mortgage would be picked up. In exchange, a secrecy agreement was sworn and signed, valid until Alicia reached eighteen.
On court at Roland Garros, rain threatened, the sky a leaden grey. After taking the first set six-two, Victoria was struggling against a hefty left-hander from Belarus. Concentration gone, suddenly she was double-faulting on her serve, over-hitting her two-fisted backhand, muttering to herself along the baseline. Five all and then the set had gone, unravelled, Victoria slump-shouldered and staring at the ground. The first four games of the final set went with serve and Kiley could feel the muscles across his shoulders knot as he willed Victoria to break clear of whatever was clouding her mind, shake free. It wasn’t until she was four-three down that it happened, a skidding return of serve whipped low across the net and some instinct causing her to follow it in, her volley unplayable, an inch inside the line. After that, a baseline smash that tore her opponent’s racket from her hand, a topspin lob judged to perfection; finally, two aces, the first swinging away unplayably, the second hard down the centre line, and she was running to the net, racket raised to acknowledge the applause, a quick smile and touch of hands. On her way back to her chair, she glanced up to where Kiley was sitting in the stands, but if she saw him she gave no sign.
When he arrived back at the hotel, Kate was already there, damp from the shower, leaning back against the pillows with a book. The shutters out on to the balcony were partway open.
‘So?’ Kate said as Kiley shrugged off his coat. ‘How was it?’
‘A struggle.’
‘Poor lamb.’
‘No call to be bitchy.’
Kate poked out her tongue.
Stretched out on the bed beside her, Kiley bent his head. ‘Are you reading that in French?’
‘Why else d’you think I’m moving my lips?’
The skin inside her arm was taut and sweet.
TRUTH
Before Jack Kiley had moved, courtesy of Kate, to the comparatively rarefied splendours of Highbury Fields, home had been a second-floor flat in the dodgy hinterland between the Archway and the arse end of Tufnell Park. Upper Holloway, according to the London A-Z. A bristle of indistinguishable streets that clung to the rabid backbone of the Holloway Road: four lanes of traffic which achieved pollution levels three
times above those recommended as safe by the EC.
Undaunted, Kiley would, from time to time, stroll some half a mile along the pavements of this great highway, past the innumerable Greek Cypriot and Kurdish convenience stores and the fading splendour of the five-screen Odeon, to drink at the Royal Arms. And why not? One of the few pubs not to have been tricked out with shamrocks and fake antiquities, it boasted reasonable beers, comfortable chairs and more than adequate sight lines should Kiley fancy watching the Monday night match on wide-screen TV.
It was here that young Nicky Cavanagh, nineteen and learning a trade at U-Fit Instant Exhausts and Tyres, got into an argument with one of the Nealy brothers, one of five. What the argument was about, its starting point and raison d’etre, was still in dispute. Some comment passed about last Sunday’s game at Highbury, a jostled arm, a look that passed between Cavanagh and the girl, under-dressed and underaged, by Nealy’s side. Less uncertain were the details of what followed. After a certain amount of mouthing off, a shove here and a push there, the pair of them, Nealy and Cavanagh, stood facing one another with raised fists, an empty bottle of Miller Lite reversed in Cavanagh’s spare hand. Nealy, cursing, turned on his heels and left the bar, hauling his companion with him. Less than thirty minutes later, he returned. Three of the brothers were with him, the fourth enjoying time in Feltham Young Offenders Institution at the government’s expense. His place was taken by a bevy of friends and hangers-on, another four or five. Pick handles, baseball bats. They trapped Cavanagh by the far wall and dragged him out on to the street. By the time the first police sirens could be heard, Cavanagh, bloodied and beaten, lay curled into a broken ball beside the kerb.
Now, some months later, Nicky Cavanagh was in a wheelchair, his only drinking done at home or in the sketch of park which edged the main road near Kiley’s old flat, and Kiley himself had found another pub. Despite statements taken from several witnesses at the time, none of Cavanagh’s attackers had so far been charged.
The Lord Nelson was a corner pub, for Kiley a longer walk though none the worse for that; refurbishment had brought in stripped pine tables and Thai cuisine, wide-screen satellite TV, but left the cellar pretty much intact — John Smith’s and Marston’s Pedigree. The occasional Saturday night karaoke he tolerated, quiz nights he avoided like the plague: which non-league footballer, coming on in extra time, scored a hat-trick in the quarter finals of the FA Cup? Embarrassing when they misremembered his name — Keeley, Kelsey, Riley — worse when he was recognised and some good-hearted fellow, full of booze and bonhomie, insisted on introducing him to the room.
But he had been more than a soccer player and there were those who knew that as well.
‘Jack Kiley, isn’t it? You were in the Met.’
The face Kiley found himself looking into was fleshy, dark-eyed, receding hair cut fashionably short, a small scar pale across his cheek. ‘Dave Marshall.’
Kiley nodded and shook the proffered hand; rough fingers, calloused palms.
‘Mind?’ Marshall gestured towards an empty chair.
‘Help yourself.’
Marshall set down his glass, angled out the chair and sat. Late thirties, Kiley thought, a few years younger than himself. Marshall wearing a waist-length leather jacket, unzipped, check shirt and jeans.
‘I was in the job myself,’ Marshall said. ‘South, mostly. Tooting, Balham. Too many rules and regs. Shifts. Better now I’m me own boss. Damp-proofing, plastering. Bit of heavy rain and you’re quids in. But you know all about that, working for yourself, I mean. Not that it ever really appealed, not to me, like. Going private.’ He shook his head. ‘Missing persons, mispers, lot of those, I reckon. Them an’ wives frightened their old man’s goin’ over the side.’
Kiley shifted his weight, waiting for Marshall to get to it.
‘Here,’ Marshall said, taking a folded sheet from his inside pocket and smoothing it out. ‘Take a look at this.’
It was a poster, A3 size, composed by someone on a dodgy home computer and run off at Prontaprint or somewhere similar. The photograph of Marshall was just recognisable, the print jammed too close together but the message clear enough.
DAVID MARSHALL
Six months ago David Marshall walked out on his family, leaving a gorgeous little baby girl behind. Since then he has refused to pay a penny towards the upkeep of his child. If you’re approached by this man to do building work of any kind, look the other way. Don’t put money into his pockets so he can spend it on whores and ignore his
