for twenty years. And what do I do? I charge into your house and demand answers to questions I barely even understand. I was out of order. I’m sorry.”
Brendan shrugged again. He looked uneasy. “No harm done. Want another?” He drained his glass and stood, moving towards the bar without waiting for an answer.
Simon watched him as he ordered two more pints of bitter, sharing a quiet joke — no doubt at Simon’s expense — with the barmaid. They seemed familiar; he wondered if she was an ex-girlfriend, or part of a crowd Brendan had hung around with after Simon had left the estate. He realised that he knew little of his friend’s life history. He’d known him as a child, and less so as a teenager, but was now meeting him for the first time as an adult.
“Thanks,” he said as Brendan sat back down and slid a glass across the table. “So. How have you been?”
Brendan laughed. “Jesus… you’re really asking me that?”
“Why not? We barely even know each other anymore. The last time I saw you we both had bum fluff on our chins.” Simon raised his glass in a small salute.
“I thought you’d kept tabs on me? You seem to know enough about where I work.”
Simon shook his head. “No… I’ve not kept tabs, not exactly. My Aunty Annie still lives in Near Grove. Whenever I call her, she mentions you — tells me what she’s heard. She knows we used to be close.” It was only partly a lie.
“Christ,” said Brendan. “Good old Aunty Annie. I remember her — she always used to give us those old- fashioned sour sweets.” He grinned. “I fucking hated them, but was always too polite to tell her.”
Simon laughed softly. “Me, too, mate. They were bloody horrible.”
They sat for a while in a silence that was almost companionable, or would have seemed so to a casual observer. They sipped their drinks slowly now, the initial nerves having dissipated. Someone put a song on the jukebox, an old number Simon didn’t recognise; a woman singing the blues. Her voice was strained, almost painful to hear. It was beautiful.
“How’s Jane?” He glanced at Brendan, wondering if he’d pushed too far.
Brendan’s eyes flashed, but then he relaxed again. “Took you long enough to ask.”
“Well,” said Simon. “It’s none of my business really, is it?”
Brendan licked his lips and blinked rapidly. “She’s fine.
“No, that wasn’t my next question.” Simon leaned back in his chair. “But I’m glad. I’m really glad that you’re still together. It makes sense; the two of you, it’s logical. Know what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Brendan. “It does make sense. It makes a lot of sense. We were always close…”
Whatever was left unsaid, Simon felt it prudent not too push too hard to find out. Had the two of them slept together when he and Jane had been an item? They were only fifteen, barely old enough to know their own hearts, never mind anyone else’s. That made sense, too: them sleeping together behind his back. He hoped that it
Simon nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. You have kids, now, don’t you?”
“Aye,” said Brendan. “Twins: Harry and Isobel. They’re ten years old… the same age we were when, well, you know. When that shit happened to the three of us.”
There was another short pause, when neither of them spoke, but this one was strained. Something sat between them now, something that had not been there before. It licked its lips and waited; it had all the time in the world.
“Are you still in touch with Marty?” Simon leaned forward; his back was aching. The bar seat was old and the cushion was too soft.
“No,” said Brendan, shaking his head. “We lost touch years ago, when he went off the rails. Did you know about that?”
Simon nodded. “I know a little. Didn’t he start boxing, and then some kind of injury cut his career short? Then he went… dodgy?”
“
Simon got up and bought two more beers, then returned to the table.
“Marty Rivers,” said Brendan. “What a fucking psycho he turned out to be.”
Simon said nothing. He just let the other man speak.
“He used to train for hours: up at dawn for early runs, then in the gym every night for sparring sessions. He was intense; serious about his sport. Then he crashed his motorbike and his girlfriend was killed in the accident. He was a mess. His injuries never healed, not properly, and his career was over before it even began. A lot of people said that he might have been a great, that he would have gone places. But we’ll never know.”
Simon blew air though his lips. “Jesus, I didn’t know he was ever that good. I remember he was always fit, and hard as nails, but I didn’t realise he took the boxing that seriously. I thought it was just something he did because of his dad — you know, the cult of the hard man, and all that.”
“No,” said Brendan. “He was serious. He loved to box. When it all went tits-up, he had nothing else to fall back on. He wasn’t academic; he wasn’t driven, like you. He didn’t have anyone special in his life, not after the bike accident. So he started working the doors on the roughest pubs in Newcastle. I heard a lot of rumours about illegal boxing contests in social club basements, maybe even bare knuckle bouts. Somebody told me Marty took on and beat the King of the Gypsies about ten years ago, but people tend to talk a lot of shit around here. You never know what to believe.” He stood up quickly, then reached out and steadied himself by gripping the table. “I need a piss. I’ll get a couple more pints on my way back.” He belched and then headed off towards the gents at the other side of the room.
Simon was starting to feel drunk. He wasn’t used to drinking this much during the day, just the occasional half-bottle of wine over a lunch meeting, or a cocktail with clients. The strong beer was making him dizzy; his vision was blurred.
Before Simon had time to properly register his absence, Brendan returned with more drinks. “Get that down your neck,” he said, slamming down the glasses. “Our old mate Marty got involved with drugs, and he did a few jobs for a local gangster named Monty Bright. I’m not sure how much he was involved with that scumbag’s affairs, but when Bright’s gym burned down, with him in it, most people around here waved goodbye to bad rubbish.”
Simon tried to focus on the words. “Yeah… I heard about that. Someone sent me the news item, a page from the paper. I don’t know why, but whoever it is who sends me this stuff seems to think I’m still interested in what goes on in the Grove.”
“Maybe it’s Marty,” said Brendan. “It might be his way of keeping in touch, of trying to cling to the memory of the Three Amigos.”
Simon raised his head. “Hey, that’s a good point. I never thought of that. All this time, I just assumed it was you. We were best friends.”
Brendan put down his glass, gripping it tightly. “We were all best friends — the three of us. The fucking Three Amigos, remember? Best friends, until whatever happened that weekend tore us apart.”
Simon wasn’t sure how he felt about one of them speaking the thought aloud. It was true, of course it was, but he had not felt confident enough to vocalise what he thought. But clearly Brendan thought that way, too — and maybe Marty did, and that was why he’d been sending all that stuff, trying to keep the Amigos together, even in this small way.
“I need you to help me contact Marty,” he said, leaning across the table. “Don’t ask me how I know this, but I think it’s important that the three of us at least get into a room together and talk about the past. Even if it’s just for our own mental wellbeing, we need to sit down around a table and try to work through what happened back then.”
Brendan clenched his teeth. His face was thin, the colour fading from his cheeks. “This isn’t some Hollywood blockbuster, mate. We can’t re-form our little gang and slay the monster before running off into the sunset. That’s not how it works in the real world. The Three Amigos don’t exist anymore. I’m a broken-down, drink-dependent security guard, you’re a phoney little rich-boy with a chip on his shoulder, and Marty is a fucking maniac who’d probably break your neck if he ever saw you again…”
