I was cutting twelve millimetre steel rods with the power hacksaw when the nose of a red Porsche appeared in my line of sight through the open smithy door. I cut the power, took off the helmet and went outside.
A big man, in his forties, overweight, bald, little ponytail, dark beard shadow, corduroy bomber jacket with leather collar, was getting out of the car. Another man was in the passenger seat. ‘Afternoon,’ he said. ‘Mac Faraday?’
I said yes. He came over and put out a big hand. I shook it. Soft hand, gold chain around his wrist.
‘Andrew Stephens,’ he said. ‘Sorry to butt in. Passing by. Can we talk for a minute?’
It took a second for the name to register. ‘It’s warmer inside,’ I said.
We went into the smithy. He looked around like someone seeing for the first time a place where people worked with their hands.
‘So what do you make here?’ he said.
‘Anything. Gates, fences, fighter aircraft.’
Stephens laughed, a girlish giggling laugh showing perfect teeth, capped. His head was pear-shaped. ‘That’s funny,’ he said. He went over to the bench, took out a white handkerchief, wiped the bench, sat down, thighs wide apart.
‘Saw Irene Barbie this morning,’ he said. ‘She told me you were interested in Ian’s death, whether it was suicide.’
I nodded.
Stephens pulled at his ponytail. ‘Great friend of mine, Ian,’ he said. ‘Can’t believe he’s gone.’
I didn’t say anything.
He took a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket, waved it at me inquiringly, lit one with a slim gold lighter, blew smoke out of his nose. He was wearing a Rolex wristwatch. ‘I’d like to think he didn’t commit suicide,’ he said. ‘Irene said you asked about pethidine. What made you ask that?’
‘Heard it somewhere,’ I said.
Stephens took a drag, sighed smoke. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘Poor bastard. Irene didn’t know. Ian suffered from depression, came on him in his twenties. We all tried to help, all his friends. Wasn’t anything you could do. Nothing. Out of anyone’s control. Pethidine’s the only reason he didn’t kill himself years ago.’
He took out the handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘I gather a friend of yours was found dead recently too,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. You don’t know what it’s like until you lose someone like that. Rather bloody not know.’
‘Yes.’
He stood up. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I was coming this way, thought I’d stop and say, you find out anything that makes you think Ian didn’t kill himself, I’d be grateful if you’d tell me. We all would. I know Tony Crewe-y’know Tony Crewe, the Attorney General? Close friend of Ian’s, of mine. Tony would appreciate hearing anything like that.’
‘I’ll do that,’ I said. ‘But I think he killed himself.’
‘Yes. That’s what’s most likely. Wonderful bloke, lovely. Well. That’s life.’
We went outside. The other man was out of the Porsche now, leaning against it, smoking a small cheroot. He was big, thick-necked, face like a ten-year-old on steroids.
‘While I’m here,’ Stephens said, ‘I’m thinking of getting someone to look after the maintenance on my properties. Big job, mainly supervision. Well paid. Think something like that would suit you?’
‘Not really,’ I said.
He nodded, put out his hand. ‘Anything makes you think Ian’s death’s other than the way it looks, you let me know. I mean first. Before you tell anyone else. That way, we make sure everything’s properly investigated. Quickly, too, I can guarantee that. Tony Crewe will see to that. Okay? And I’ll make sure you’re not out of pocket for any expenses. My duty to the family.’
‘You’ll be the first to know,’ I said.
‘Good man.’ He took out a wallet, gave me a card, tapped me on the arm.
They got into the car and drove off. I heard the engine note turn to a howl as they took the first hill.
I started at full forward, a position in the Brockley side where the ball was seen so rarely that a full forward had once gone home at the end of the third quarter and no-one noticed until the team was in the pub.
This Saturday was different. We were playing Bentham. I arrived about thirty seconds before the start, missing Mick Doolan’s tactical briefing and inspirational rev-up. He got his motivational material from studying a six-pack of videos called
Not today. Either a new video found or Mick had fed the men elephant juice. Billy Garrett was, without effort, leaping free of the earth’s grip. Players who routinely handballed into the ground or to the other side were sending the ball to within metres of team-mates. Even Flannery seemed fresh from a Swiss rejuvenation clinic, backing into packs and coming out with the ball. From all over the field, players were kicking the ball in my direction. It was unnerving but I took four marks, kicked two goals and a behind. At quarter-time, we were four goals up.
As we trooped off, I saw Allie on the bonnet of her truck, leaning back against the windscreen, legs crossed at the ankle. She was wearing a red quilted jacket and a scarf, and you could see the colour in her cheeks from thirty metres. There was a man lounging next to her, floppy dark hair, sallow, young. She gave me the thumbs up, hand cocked forward. Three things went through my mind. One, she’d come to watch me play without being asked. Two, she’d come with another man. Three, don’t be a stupid prick.
In the second quarter, Bentham put a man called String Woodly at fullback. He consisted almost entirely of thin rubbery arms that he wound around you like pipe cleaners while pretending to be interested in taking a mark. No-one had ever seen him take a mark, but very few opposing players had got one while wrapped in String. Carrying him around was exhausting. Billy complained to the umpire. This didn’t work. I resorted to falling over in his embrace, trying to land on him with an elbow in some painful spot. This didn’t work either. I kept landing on my elbow with String on top of me. Finally, I had Flannery sent over and we had a chat.
The next time the ball came our way, coming down through the mist, Flannery got close behind the two of us, pulled out the back of String’s shorts. Using the waistband elastic as a step, he ran up String’s back and plucked the ball from the sky. String let me go, falling over forward, clutching at his shorts, now around his knees.
‘That’s not in the bloody game,’ he said, offended, as Flannery landed on his right shoulder.
‘Stick around, beanpole,’ Flannery said, getting ready to kick. ‘Show you lots not in the game.’ He took two paces and kicked the ball through the middle. He looked around at me, astounded by his feat. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Haven’t kicked a goal since school.’
‘That long,’ I said. ‘Since you were twelve.’
String wasn’t the same after his experience, and Flannery and I saw off a few other Bentham spoilers before the day was over. We ran out ten-goal winners. No-one could remember Brockley winning by ten goals. We went back to the Oak in a state of high excitement, singing one another’s praises. Nothing disturbed our joy until only the hard core remained.
‘Was a time,’ said Trevor Creedy, ‘when Brockley won by bloody ten goals every second week.’ He was a small man with close-set eyes, now murky, the kind of supporter who finds victory deeply unsatisfying. ‘That was,’ he said, ‘before they starting pickin girls. And makin blokes coach never kicked a footy.’
‘Trev,’ Mick said, ‘been meanin to ask ya. How’d ya like to share the coach’s job? I mean, with a view to takin it over?’
Creedy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ha,’ he said. ‘Tryin to bloody buy off ya critics. Won’t bloody work with me.’
He left, now a happier man.
‘Lovely fella,’ said Flannery. ‘Fixed his car for him, took it for a spin, see how it goes. When I give him the bill, he takes off fifty cents for petrol. Don’t expect me to pay for your joyridin, he says.’
Mick’s mobile trilled. He had a brief conversation, then he said, ‘Vinnie, me own Gestapo’s on the way. Let’s have a lightnin round for the survivors.’
The dog joined me as I stepped out of the door, suddenly aware that no area of my body was without its own dull pain. A full moon gave a pale and cold daylight when the clouds parted. Both limping a bit, the dog and I walked down the road and down the lane.
