flash: Axon, Muriel Axon, their neighbours at home. How stupid that he shouldn’t have remembered, after all the years that the Axons had lived round the corner; next door, in fact, but because of their front gate being in Buckingham Avenue you didn’t think of them being next door. Not that he’d ever known the Axons, but you didn’t think of them as the kind of people who were a problem for Social Services. You didn’t think of Social Workers operating at all in the Lauderdale Road area, people were generally pretty self-sufficient, they kept their problems to themselves. He had a vague idea that there was something wrong with Muriel, not altogether there, but it wasn’t something you talked about. He supposed Mrs. Axon was getting on a bit, maybe she did need some kind of help. Hadn’t Florence been going on about them a few months back, saying she never saw them out and about? Not that you listened to half that Florence said. Wearily, Colin pushed the covers back and swung his legs out of bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress, rubbing his eyes. With the threat of motion, the pounding inside his skull had increased. Never mind the Axons, he thought, I’ve done my bit for them. I’ve got to sort myself out.
He went into the bathroom and cleaned his teeth. His face in the mirror was that of an elderly rake, parched and neurasthenic; as if with Frank’s Valpolicella he had drained the dregs of experience. He went downstairs. The living-room was unnaturally tidy; he realised that Sylvia had been cleaning. A sort of exorcism for her, he supposed, driving out the bad memories of Frank’s kitchen. Already the foul taste had come back into his mouth, mingled with toothpaste.
Sylvia came through from the kitchen carrying a duster and a tin of spray-polish. She was very pale, and looked suddenly much more pregnant.
“Oh, there you are. I’ll make some tea, then. I tried to get you up at ten o’clock, but you were sleeping like the dead.”
“I’m sorry. What a night!”
“You’ve nothing to be proud of, anyway.”
“I’m not proud. Do I look proud? Oh, for God’s sake, let’s not have a row.”
“I phoned Florence. I suggested she should bring them over on the bus. She didn’t seem keen. She’s waiting for you to fetch them.”
“Yes. All right.”
“The police said not to drive till late afternoon.”
“I’ll have to risk it, won’t I? How am I going to get to the car, is there a bus?”
“You can get the number ninety, and get off at the top of the hill by the Express Dairy. I think you’d better phone your solicitor, hadn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What’ll happen?”
“I’ll lose my licence.”
He felt almost tearful. Sylvia was treating him as if he were somehow disgraced, and yet he thought that he could have been in a much worse state, and that considering the circumstances he had managed extraordinarily well. Of course, he could not tell her what the circumstances were.
“What was that thing you had under your arm? Was it that file?”
“Yes.” He saw no point in denying it.
“What do you want to go and get involved for?”
“I’m not getting involved. I just want to give it back to the people it belongs to.”
“What’s Frank going to say when he finds it’s missing?”
“I don’t know what he’ll say.”
“Well, you’ve got to face him on Tuesday. Oh, I don’t know.” Sylvia said. “I’ll get that tea for us. I think you ought to have an aspirin.”
What day was it? Sunday. You got so mixed up at half-term. The streets had a Sunday quiet. He waited twenty minutes for the bus, his stomach rumbling, his knuckles turning mauve in the raw air. Not raining, thank God. Off the bus, he trudged by a dripping hedgerow, by grey litter-blown fields. At the first phonebox he stopped and dialled Isabel’s number. She answered at once.
“Colin here. I got it.”
There was a pause.
“I’m grateful, Colin.”
Isn’t she going to ask how? Clearly she’s not. All right, he thought, I won’t tell her about the party, I won’t tell her about the breathalyser, I’ll cut her out of my life. But he blurted out, “It wasn’t easy. I had to hit someone.”
“Oh, Colin.” She sounded…gratified? Embarrassed? “Did you?”
“It was Frank. My Head of Department. Isabel, are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here. But I can’t think of much to say.”
“Shall I bring it to your house?”
“Please.”
“This afternoon?”
“Well, if you can.”
“Will you be there?”
“Yes, I’ll be there. But my father will answer the door.”
