‘Oh, and I, er, got your letter… but I had a bit of an accident with it. Was it important? Sorry about that too. If it’s important you could maybe get your lawyer to send it again. Oh, and, I’ll be at Hod’s place in Portobello, all his details should still be in the address book. Bye, Debs, and sorry again.’
I didn’t feel good lying to her about the letter, but what was I to do? I told myself it was only a white lie.
‘Christ, you’ve told worse than that, Gus.’
Would the call cut any ice with her? I doubted it.
50
I laid my phone on the bar. Inside a second it started to ring.
Picked up, said, ‘Debs?’
‘Eh, no, it’s not Deborah, son.’
Was my mother, I’d never had a call from her on my mobi before, I felt a bit shocked. ‘What is it, Mam?’
I heard her snivelling on the other end of the line.
‘Mam, what is it?’
The snivelling gave way to full-on tears, then I heard the phone taken from her.
‘Hello, hello,’ I said.
‘Hi, Gus, Mam’s gone to sit down in the kitchen.’ It was my sister, Catherine.
‘What’s up? Why’s she calling?’
A pause, then: ‘It’s… Dad.’
I felt my lungs empty with a loud sigh, ‘Oh yeah? What’s it this time? Broke his hand on her again has he?’
‘Gus… he’s not well.’
‘Yeah, I heard.’
‘He’s sick, Gus.’
‘Oh, I know that. Should have heard him roaring at her when I was there a while ago… really, really sick he is.’
Cathy’s tone changed. ‘No, Angus he’s… dying.’
I searched for sympathy, found none in me.
‘Did you hear me?’
‘I heard.’
‘Well?’
‘Well what? I don’t perform miracles, you know.’
I heard her snap her teeth together. ‘The doctor says he won’t see out the night. Mam — your mother, remember her? — thought you’d want to see him.’
‘One last time, eh?’
‘Yes, before he goes.’
She made it sound like he was getting ready for a holiday. Like he’d be back, sunburned and gagging for a proper pint and chips with broon sauce. I couldn’t take her seriously. I’d blocked him out of my life for so long that the news he was finally dying made no impact on me.
‘Oh, but goes where?’ I said.
A long pause filled the line, I thought she’d hung up, but she’d only given me time to think about what I’d said. Families can do this, they know the buttons to push.
I said, ‘Who else is there with you?’
‘Everyone — the whole family. Look, I know you might not like the idea but it would mean a lot to Mam.’
‘Is that why you’re there?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Why should I, Cath?’
‘You know she wants you here, it would give her peace of mind.’
‘Peace of mind? She should be singing from the rooftops. Christ, she’ll be free of the bastard.’
Cathy let out a gasp. I’d been venting, but it was too soon for a remark like that.
She stormed me: ‘You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to do.’
Clunk.
51
I’d stayed in the pub longer than I should have. The place filled up, got into party mode. Stretch limos dropped off loads of hen-night scrubbers. The choicest Scousers and Cockneys — munters that had seen more action than Chuck Norris.
They yelled at the barman: ‘What about a Slow Screw? Can you do that?’
He lapped it up. Had them all buying pints of Strawberry Blonde.
Some of these old pterodactyls were clearly on a mission to play away from home. To a one, they were old slags. Tarts in microminis and white stiletto shag-me-shoes, fishnets that hardly disguised the network of Stilton- like veins. And plunging decollete necklines that offered eyefuls of wrinkly DD cleavage.
The worst of it though was they all had tans. Sunbed tans. Tans that tighten and brighten younger skins but on older ones, merely darken the tractor tracks that have been driven all over their faces through the years.
‘What about a Creamy Punani? Can you give me one of them?’
The Irish had arrived. Joined by a mob of Geordies. Green leprechaun hats jostled for attention with giant inflatable bottles of Newcastle Brown.
It was time to leave.
I got up, made for the door. The bar staff changed CDs, put on Steely Dan’s Reeling in the Years.
I listened to the first line as I walked. The rest of the crowd joined in, shouting more than singing.
‘Your everlastin’ summer you can’t see it fading fast.’
I thought, ‘Was I the only one in the place getting the message?’
Outside I fired up a B amp;H. Not a bad smoke. I wondered if I could stick to these. ‘Christ, can I stick to anything?’
I only had a few hundred yards to go to the Shandwick. The wind cut like bad memories as I plugged my mouth with the cigarette and crossed the road.
On the way up the steps a bloke in a top hat, grey overcoat, put out a hand.
‘Yeah? You got a problem?’ I said.
No words. Just the index finger of a black leather glove pointed at the tab.
I took it out, crushed it underfoot.
‘I could have given you an ashtray,’ he said.
‘I could have given you a slap.’
Inside I turned down my collar. An open fire blazed hot as a blast furnace. Keeping this temperature must have been pushing up the cost of coal. I swerved past the main desk and headed for the stairs to Nadja’s room.
Sure, the bar called. When did it not? But I’d put this off for long enough. I kept a hand on the Glock as I climbed.
I wanted to make an entrance, thought about blowing the lock off the door. But it was only a fantasy. Likewise, I knew there’d be no Puerto Rican maid in the hall, a set of keys conveniently secreted about her person.
‘Calm, Gus, calm,’ I told myself. ‘Remember why you’re here.’
It was time to get with the programme.
