Yeah, that was it.
It had been me and my Dad, having some chips in the middle of the day. He was in his suit, must have come out from work. I was a student at Queens – wearing casual jeans and a top I think – oh yeah – it must have been when he came to see a concert I was in. It was a happy memory. Yes my Dad was often distant, he didn’t exactly say he loved me all the time, but he was there for me when it counted.
He would have been there for me now. Or would he have just been ashamed?
I could feel a welling up and I shoved a chip in my mouth and bit down hard. I thought back again – I had taken some modules in Ethnomusicology. I had found the whole course a bit of a gift, especially the practical part. Three tutorials a week were for group practice. Our group studied ‘Brazilian Popular Music’ and we just really jammed for three hours a week. I played a little acoustic guitar, but mostly I tried to master the Brazilian polyrhythms on a little steel drum. It was great craic. More often than not we’d all go for a few spliffs afterwards – our tutor included.
“Sorry to bother you.”
The sudden touch on my shoulder, along with the thick Yorkshire accent, jolted me brusquely into the present. I swivelled around as my heart hammered in my chest. I genuinely thought I might have a heart attack. It took me a few seconds to remember I ought to smile. I found myself smiling inanely at a middle aged, plumpish woman with sharp blue eyes standing over me. The man I presumed was her husband swayed awkwardly beside her; tall, her age, but meeker. My mouth was too dry to speak, I swallowed and gave them a questioning look.
“Yes, sorry dear,” she said nodding, “I thought it was you,” her eyes dropped, “I saw you here the other night – with those two fellas.”
I allowed myself a moment and willed the smile to stamp back onto my face.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” I asked, stalling for time.
“No, no – just, well…” she faltered. I swallowed hard and hoped she didn’t notice, “I just wanted to say I was sorry dear,” she said finally, pleased she had made it through the sentence.
“Oh,” I said wincing. I could see that she was just some busy-body, I sensed she was no threat, but nevertheless, I felt panicked.
“Terrible thing to have happened to that man,” she said, unrelenting. Her husband continued to look awkward and smiled feebly, while patting her arm purposefully.
“I…er, didn’t know them that well. I mean, I didn’t know Ivan well,” I explained, feeling myself reddening, as if the eyes of the room were on me, “I don’t know Richard well either, they’re just acquaintances.”
She nodded as I talked, with a half-smile, but her beady eyes had narrowed. I was painfully conscious of how rattled I was and this made me panic further, scolding myself.
Thank fuck this wasn’t the Police I was talking to.
“Yes, terrible,” she said, but remained where she was.
“Awful business,” chimed her husband, patting her arm more insistently.
There were an awkward few seconds and then I placed my cutlery together and stood up.
“I must get going,” I said and forced a final smile.
“But you haven’t finished your drink deary,” she complained.
“I’m all inclusive,” I replied and scurried away.
I rushed back through the outside of the restaurant towards my apartment, head down. I needed to hide away.
“Hello Miss Vicky,” came a voice.
My name?
I looked up to see Maria the maid unloading a trolley across the way, but I walked on past her. I couldn’t get any words out of my mouth. I don’t think I even managed to raise a half smile.
I slammed my door shut, and bolted it.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
A rolly was made within the minute and there was one beer left in the fridge. It’d do, they’d all be topped up again later. Probably by Maria. Fuck – she probably thought I’d blanked her – but I just couldn’t respond.
To my surprise, it had only taken a small number of drinks to help me off to sleep. A few smokes had gone along well too, to calm the nerves. I must have been out cold by eight thirty. It was pure exhaustion – both mental and physical. I guess you can’t stay on a high alert kind of state all of the time. I suppose at some point, no matter what’s going on, your body just insists that it gets sleep. It was another restless night, full of faceless, heavy dreams that I forgot for the most part.
In the morning I had a partial hangover, with a distant rumbling at the back of my head. My chest also felt heavy, with a slight wheeze. I needed to knock this chain smoking on the head. I had a shower and slapped up, while trying not to let my mind do too much ‘proper thinking.’ I was just noticing my stomach was empty and starting to wonder if I was up to going down for breakfast, when my door was lightly rapped. I pushed my hair out of my eyes and tied it back, then glanced in the mirror, wiping a finger under my left eye to remove a smudge of mascara. I exhaled and strolled across to the door, feeling my pulse quicken.
“Richard? Come in.”
I was surprised to see him. Then my surprise tuned to panic at potentially being seen together and I hurried him inside. He was dressed in a short sleeved black polo shirt and green cords.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded, in a non-committal way.
“You?”
“I’ve been better,” I admitted.
Over his shoulder was a red holdall bag.
“Going somewhere?” I joked, hoping to break the ice.
“No,
