'Hi, Louie!'
'Hi.'
'Sorry, I'm busy with clients.'
I took a drink.
'You don't mind do you?'
'No.'
She looked uncertainly and then offered brightly: 'I tell you what, why don't you take Bianca home with you tonight?'
It was as if she were suggesting I stop off for a takeaway.
'It's on the house.'
I looked up into her face. She was smiling happily.
'How can you say that?'
Her jaw dropped and the happy grin seeped away. 'I mean, I thought. . .' She sat down and interlinked her arm with mine. 'Oh Louie, don't get like all the others.'
'All what others?'
'You'll be calling me a tart next.'
The word hit like a meat hook.
'How can you accuse me of that and in the same breath tell me to go home with Bianca?'
A look of exasperation crossed her face.
'No one's forcing you.'
I've thought about that night many times in the years since. Wondering whether, had I altered certain details of it, certain phrases or order of words, or even if I'd been in a better mood, it might have changed the course of subsequent events. It's an easy trap to fall into — the habit of parcelling up the past into a series of neat turning points; to load incidents with a power to alter the course of events which they never possessed. Not seeing that a moment which appears pivotal in the context of an evening is really only reflecting a process which has been unfolding unseen for many months. Like a heart seizure is just the sudden outward manifestation of a lifestyle. Sometimes I ask myself if I really believe that and I realise I have no choice. The alternative scenario: that my actions that night might have made a difference, is too painful to examine in view of how that evening ended. I took Bianca home.
Maybe it was simply the power of the phrase 'on the house' that did it. Words that initially filled me with contempt, but which became less offensive and more attractive with every drink. Or maybe it was just the drink. My original plan of going on to the Indian to find Siani had lost all appeal. And it didn't have any to start with. What for anyway? I already knew where Evans was: at the bottom of the harbour or somewhere similar. There could be no other explanation. It was just a matter of time before he floated to the surface. I didn't care anyway. Or maybe it was something to do with Bianca. She was a sweet girl. Not just pretty. But something else, which I only really came to understand long after she died. She was more honest than Myfanwy. She wasn't very smart, and that was probably why. But she was a lot nicer for it.
For a long time we sat in my car, parked on the Prom just across from the mosaic of Father Time. The windows were wound down and out in the blackness we could hear the ocean throbbing; roaring and shuddering and gnawing at the boulders of the sea wall. I asked her why she hung around with Pickel and she shrugged. 'It's not like you think.'
'But he's horrible, isn't he?'
'He repairs the clocks for the pensioners for nothing. You wouldn't believe how shy he is about it; they have to leave them on the back step and in the morning they're fixed — like the tooth fairy.'
She shifted in the seat, the shiny black plastic coat crackling as she moved. 'And if they get locked out, he opens their door for them. He can open any lock . . . besides, you don't know what it's like for him.'
'Do you?'
'He spent his childhood waiting for his mum to come home from the pub. I know what that's like.'
In the darkness the glare from the streetlights glistened on the pillar-box red of her lips and the whites of her eyes.
'You make things so difficult.'
'What things?'
'You know I like you?'
'No.'
'Well, I do.'
'Thanks.'
'I didn't mean it like that.'
'Nor did I.'
She looked across at me and smiled weakly. 'I know you're a nice guy.'
'Don't get carried away, I'm not that nice.'
She squeezed my hand in the darkness.
I asked, 'Why did Myfanwy tell you to come home with me?'
'She didn't. I wanted to.'
'I just don't get it.'
'Does everything always have to be something you can get?
I pondered that one for a while. Then she put her hand on my shoulder and said, 'Can we talk about something else?'
But we didn't talk; instead we drove round the block to Canticle Street and climbed the bare wooden stairs to the scrap of destiny which seemed so like a turning point but was probably nothing of the sort.
The following night I stayed home and drank half a bottle of rum and booked a table at the Indian restaurant.
'Do you have a reservation?' Two dark eyes studied me through the Judas hole in the door.
'Yes, Kreuzenfeld.'
The waiter nodded and pulled back the bolts.
'We've been expecting you.'
The door opened and I was shown past a sign saying 'Please guard your artificial limb against theft' and into a lounge packed with tables. The air was foggy with sweat, body odour, beery breath, hot curry spices, vomit and disinfectant. Most of the tables were full; a mixture of locals and nervous tourists. I sat down and the waiter held out a menu, regarding me with a mixture of anxiety and interest. I smiled at him. 'What's good tonight, then?'
He stared at me. 'Good?' he said in a flat Midlands accent.
'Yes, what does the chef recommend?'
'Are you trying to be funny?'
'No. I mean what should I have? What's good?'
It was plainly a request he'd never had to deal with before. He narrowed his eyes and looked at me, suspicion and confusion swimming in his eyes.
'You mean on the menu, like?'
'Yes.'
He laughed.
'Nothing of course, it's all shit.' And then, perhaps feeling a trace of guilt inspired by my guileless expression, he added:
'I mean look at this lot, what's the point?'
I looked round at the screaming hordes and nodded in sympathy.
'No point at all. You might as well open up a few tins of dog food and stir in some curry powder.'
'We do!'
I looked at him startled, and he burst out laughing. 'Just kidding, mate, but it's not a bad idea. They wouldn't know.'
I put the menu down on the table.
'Look, I'll tell you what I can do, mate, I'll ask the chef to do you some egg on toast or something?'
Before I could answer, a fight broke out in the corner of the room and the waiter strode off wearily and -
