that the authorities would pursue those who preyed on others. But the truth of the matter was that the authorities could set right only a tiny part of the injustice and wrong that was done to the weak. Justice, it seemed, was imperfect.
It would be wonderful to be able to bring about justice. It would be wonderful to be some sort of omniscient being who saw all, noted it down, and then set things right. But that was a wish, a wish of childhood, that we grew to understand could never be. Except sometimes, perhaps . . . Sometimes there were occasions when the bully was defeated, the proud laid low, the weak given the chance to recover that which was taken from them. Sometimes that happened. “When I was young,” he said.
“I used to read stories about people who sorted this sort of thing out. The end was always predictable, but very satisfying.”
“Sorry to have to tell you this,” said Angus. “But the comic-book heroes aren’t real. They don’t exist.”
Stuart laughed. “Oh, I’ve come to terms with that,” he said.
“But I have a friend who does exist. He’s quite good at sorting things out, I think.”
Matthew looked at him. “He could get Big Lou’s money back?
Unlikely. Eddie’s not going to reach into his pocket and disgorge it.”
“But this friend of mine has a way of getting round difficulties,” said Stuart.
“Is he a lawyer?” asked Angus.
Stuart smiled wryly. “No, he’s a businessman.”
“Who is he?” asked Matthew. If he was a businessman, then it was possible that he would know Matthew’s father.
“He’s called Lard O’Connor,” said Stuart. “And I could have a word with him if you like. He’s very helpful.”
Shortly before seven o’clock that evening, Matthew left the Cumberland Bar and returned to his flat in India Street. He had enjoyed his drink with Angus and Stuart. Angus, as ever, was amusing, and Stuart struck him as being agreeable company. It was good to have friends, he thought. He himself did not have enough friends, though, and he thought that he should make a bit more of an effort in future to cultivate friendships. But where would he find them? He could hardly make all his friends in the Cumberland Bar. Perhaps he should join a club of some sort and make friends that way: a singles’ club, for instance. He had heard that there were singles’ clubs where everybody went on holiday together. That would be interesting, perhaps, but what if one did not take to the other singles? Besides, the very word single sounded a bit desperate, as if one suffered from some sort of condition, singularity.
But for the moment, Matthew had no desire to find anybody else; not now that he had Pat living in India Street. It was a wonderful feeling, he thought, this going home to somebody.
Even if she was not in, then at least her things were there. Even Pat’s things made Matthew feel a bit better; just the thought of her things: her sandals, those pink ones he had seen her wearing; her books, including that large book on the history of art; her bookshop bag that she used to carry her files up to the university. All of these were invested with some sort of special significance in Matthew’s mind; they were Pat’s things.
He walked back along Cumberland Street, past the St Vincent Bar and its neighbouring church, and then round Circus Place to the bottom of India Street. It was a warm evening for the 286
time of year and the town was quiet. Matthew looked up at the elegant Georgian buildings, at their confident doors and windows. Some of the windows were lit and disclosed domestic scenes within: a drawing room in which a group of people could be seen standing near the window, talking; down in a basement, a kitchen with pans steaming on the cooker and the windows misting up; a cat asleep on a windowsill. These were people with ordered, secure lives – or so it seemed from the outside. And that was what Matthew wanted. He wanted somebody who would be waiting for him, or for whom he could wait. Somebody he could share things with. And wasn’t that what everybody wanted? he thought. Wasn’t it? And how cruel it was that not everybody could find this in their lives.
He reached his front door and went in. He had hoped that she would be there, and his heart gave a leap when he saw the light coming out from under her door. He went through to his room and changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Then he went into the kitchen and opened a cupboard. He had stocked up with dried pasta; that would do. And there was a good block of parmesan in the fridge and some mushrooms.
He put the pasta on to boil and started to grate the parmesan.
Then Pat came into the kitchen while Matthew’s back was turned, so that he was surprised when he saw her.
“I’m cooking pasta,” he said. “Would you like some? I’ve got plenty.”
He had hardly dared ask the question. He was afraid that she would be going out, and that he would be left by himself, but she was not.
“That’s really kind,” said Pat, perching herself on a kitchen chair.
Matthew told her of what Angus had said about Big Lou, and Pat listened, horrified.
“That horrible man,” she said, shuddering at the thought of Eddie.
“Poor Lou,” said Matthew. “But there was somebody there who said that he might be able to help her.”
Pat listened as Matthew explained about Stuart’s suggestion. It
seemed unlikely to her that anything could be done, but they could try, she supposed. Poor Lou. She rose to her feet and offered to prepare a salad. “I can’t sit here and do nothing,” she said.
“Yes, you can,” said Matthew. “Let me look after you.”
