‘Me? No, never. So what are you going to do?’
I pointed out towards the city. ‘Look out there, so much going on. So many people, all trying to screw each other over. Do you think it’s possible to plan anything?’
‘Hannibal thought it was.’
I looked at Hod, it was the first time I’d ever heard him even approach something approximating sense, learning.
‘Crossing the Alps?’
‘Must have missed that one.’
‘What one?’
‘When they were in the Alps — The A-Team.’
‘Christ, you’re talking about that Hannibal.’
‘Yeah. “I love it when a plan comes together!” Who did you think I was talking about?’
I shook my head at him, wanted to say ‘I pity the fool’, but went for ‘Never mind.’
I turned to go inside.
Hod followed and put his beer bottle down on the table. He left the room, came back carrying a container about the size of a shoebox.
‘Eh, Gus, I don’t suppose there’s a good time to do this, so I’ll just let you have it now.’
I looked at the box he was holding out to me. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s from the funeral… your friend’s ashes.’
My breathing slowed, then quickened. ‘Milo.’
‘I, eh, don’t know… should I say something?’
‘It’s okay.’ I reached out, shook his hand. ‘Thanks for doing that, Hod.’
He turned away again, sat.
‘Was it a good… do?’
‘We did what you said, gave him a proper send off.’
‘Was there any… family?’ It was a stupid question. I realised at once I wouldn’t be holding Milo’s ashes if his family had shown up.
Hod shook his head. ‘Just myself and Amy… a chick from social work.’
It sounded a sombre affair. Not something to circle on your calendar. But, God, the guilt. I’d been the only person this man knew at the end of his life and I hadn’t even made his funeral.
‘You all right, Gus?’
‘Yeah, oh yeah — just a bit, you know, gutted.’
‘Amy was in floods. She said she never even met the guy but, well, it was a funeral, wasn’t it?’
‘She’s got a sensitive soul.’
‘You’re right there.’
Hod had an eye on me for a reaction.
‘I know. I know. I’ll have to let her down gently.’
59
I couldn’t sleep, spent the night reading The Legend of the Holy Drinker. Its author, Joseph Roth, a chronic alcoholic who drank himself to death in Paris at the age of forty-four.
I’d always loved this book, even before I was a drinker, never a holy one. It’s about a jakey called Andreas who hits on, the worst of things for any drinker, a run of luck.
In the translator’s note at the back of my edition it reads: ‘It is clear that Roth for some time had been running out of reasons to remain alive.’
When a line like this strikes a chord, you know you’re in trouble.
I read on: ‘He advanced a sophisticated argument that while drink shortened his life in the medium term, in the short term it kept him alive — and he worked hard at testing its logic.’
Lately, I’d been crippled by hangovers. Time was, when I could wake up the next day, shake off the night before and start again. Now, only one word described the way I felt: deteriorated.
Heard John Lennon doing ‘Living on borrowed time… without a thought to tomorrow.’
Phone went.
I sat up in bed, answered before checking the caller ID.
‘Hello, Gus.’
Shocked.
‘Mam… hello.’
Her voice sounded weaker than ever, she sounded frail. ‘I know you’re very busy, son, but I had to call. I’m sorry to disturb you again.’
Her words sent my heart into spasm. ‘No, Mam, don’t apologise, I’ve been meaning to call, I have.’ It was a lie, but I’d got used to those recently.
‘I know Catherine told you about-’
‘Is he no better, Mam?’
‘Oh, Gus…’
‘Mam?’
A groan, actual pain. ‘Gus, he won’t last another day, the doctor says it’s a miracle he’s still with us. Oh, son, he’s holding on for you, he’s holding on for your visit. If you would only… Oh, Gus. Oh son…’
‘Mam, please.’
‘I know, I’ve no right to ask. I’m sorry.’
‘Mam.’
‘No. I shouldn’t have called. You have your reasons. I’m sorry, son. I’ll leave you be.’
‘Mam, I’ll come. Tell him I’ll come.’ Had I said this? Had I ever. Where was my head at?
I dressed in black cords, nearing on grey at the knees. I looked for a white shirt, had to settle for a white T- shirt. Topped the look off with a navy lambswool V-neck. I’d been reckless with the washing instructions and the jumper had tightened round the shoulders. I pulled at the neck, heard a tear.
‘Och, Christ on a crutch!’
The neckband came away in my hand. I tossed it, put on a red Pringle instead. It fitted like a dream, no substitute for quality.
I pulled on my Docs, checked myself in the mirror. ‘Bit like a schemie golfer, Gus.’
Still, would have to do. Clothes supply running low.
In the kitchen I tried to make some coffee but my hands shook out of control. I clanged the spoon in the sink and went to the fridge. Hod kept some Grolsch in reserve, the heavy bottles made fashionable by soccer casuals. Along with sharpened umbrella points, the bottles once made for a perfect concealed weapon. The Grolsch hit the spot. I shotgunned two bottles. The shakes subsided, but I felt a long way from medicated.
Hod looked out for the count as I left. I tucked the Glock in my waistband, Milo’s ashes under my arm.
I strolled along Portobello beach, hoping inspiration would strike. My head throbbed with troubles or was that just the sauce calling? Talking to my old man after all this time wouldn’t be easy. I knew I was prepared to do it for my mother. She’d borne the brunt of his torture over the years, after all that, how could I refuse her?
‘Jesus, Mam — why didn’t you get out?’ I muttered.
If only she’d taken the steps to free herself from him, she might have found a life. For her though, it just wasn’t the done thing. I never understood it; was it a generational thing? No woman would put up with it nowadays. Deborah certainly needed a lot less provocation to leave me.
‘Bollocks!’ I walked off a sand-bar, sank up to my ankles in sea water. ‘This is all I need.’
I left the beach. Too close to nature for this city boy. I had thought it might be the place to spread Milo’s ashes, but I was wrong. They must be returned to Ireland, I thought. It’s what Milo would have wanted. God, it felt painful to think about him, and how he got mixed up in all of this. I knew it would for ever be one of the deepest hurts of my sorry existence.
