I leaned over and took a sniff of the coffee as the pot blackened beneath me. It smelt incredible.
Cofffffffeeeee!
We could do this. I scooped out my phone, the notion hit me that it’d be nice to listen to a few minutes of jazz while the coffee brewed and Mike finished his shower. It had been too long. I opened up You Tube. I needed something upbeat, but classic, something that grooved.
Ahhh!
I queued up Moanin’ by Art Blakey, turning the volume to full and setting it upright on the counter. As the swing of the opening riff came in, I started a little bop around the kitchen. I felt silly, but it felt good.
This wasn’t all over yet, but I knew it could be soon.…
“Do you wanna do it?”
“No, you work away Mike, I’ll film it. Here, just a sec.”
We were standing out in Mike’s tiny terrace yard. He was showered and in new clothes, his messy hair half soaked. In front of us was the bonfire we had set, a memory stick sticking out the top like a sad looking flag. The Northern Irish – we love a bonnie! We had avoided the little tuft of grass he had and set it all on the concrete to the side. Everything had been well doused in lighter fuel.
“Okay, ready,” I said.
The scorching sound of the match catching, cut through night silence. Mike held up one of the pictures of a couple caught in the act and put the match to it – holding it out for the camera. Then he turned around and casually let it drop. It landed with a whoosh as the pile instantly went up. We both instinctively took a step back, giving the footage a little wobble. I filmed for another minute, then switched it off, checking it had recorded okay. Mike and I continued to watch the flames lick round the shrivelling bundles of paper. The photograph curled up and blackened into nothingness. The memory-stick on top caught fire with a blue flame, before falling off into the flames below. I reflected on what might recently have become of my mortal remains.
Mike grinned, then nodded, “He’s not gonna be fuckin’ pleased about this. Give me a wee look, would you?”
I held up the phone and played it from the start.
“No, he’s not is he?”
***
We returned to the kitchen and I poured more coffee. Mike reached into the cupboard and pulled out some biscuits.
This was some bizarre domestic bliss.
“Do you want an Empire biscuit?”
“A what?” I asked with a smirk.
“One of these,” he said and showed me an iced pack of biscuits with cherries on top.
“German biscuits.” I corrected and took one.
“Well it says fuckin’ ‘Empire biscuits’ on the packet. It’s some weird thing where they have two names.”
“I never heard them called that; it must be some anti-German thing.”
“Maybe so” he said smiling. He reached one out and pulled off the cherry and gobbled it down first.
“Actually,” he said in between crumbly bites, “I think it was something like that – it was changed during the war or something.”
“Firstly – don’t speak with your mouth full – it’s rank. Secondly, if we get through this okay Mike, I’ll buy you as many biscuits as you want tomorrow. You can call them whatever you like.”
47
Soon enough and we were out on the dark and desolate roads. It was too late to be coming home from anywhere and too early to be going out. We didn’t speak for the first few minutes. Mike held the wheel loosely, chewing on some gum and I looked out the window, fidgeting.
“You’ve got the…em… gun okay?”
He nodded, “Yeah, it’s in the back with the tools,” he said, gesturing to the sports bag on the back seat.
“Okay,” I said.
He sideways glanced at me. I’m sure nervousness was hanging out of me.
“Do you wanna roll us both a cigarette? I’ve baccy there,” he asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
“I guess we shouldn’t be having any more joints for now,” he said with a wink.
“You’re not actually too stoned, sure you’re not?” I asked, searching his face.
“No, no I’m fine. Listen Vick, it’ll all work out. We’re not gonna do anything drastic. But we’re gonna fix this.”
I nodded, unsure.
Lifting out the skins and tobacco, I tried to balance a paper on my knee, struggling with the movements of the car and semi-darkness. Once there was a sprinkle of tobacco balanced on the paper, I tried to fish out a filter from the box.
“Shite!” I said, as it all fell onto the floor.
“Whoops, don’t worry.”
“I’ll try again.”
“If at first you don’t succeed…”
I balanced it again and sure enough, I got one rolled.
“Here you go,” I said and poked it into his mouth, before lighting it.
“Cheers Vick,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, clenching the cig with his teeth, “We’re a good team you and me.”
“Yeah, we are, aren’t we?”
I finally got my own rolly made, lit it and sucked on it for all that it was worth. My nerves were shot as we came nearer to Richard’s house. I was very anxious now, we were getting there too quickly. Was this all a bad idea? Would things all look different tomorrow? Like when something seems such a great idea in the middle of a party. Then you wake on a beach, freezing, with sand… everywhere. True story.
“I’ll park up a street away,” said Mike, before throwing his finished smoke out the window. I looked down and realised I had been nervously
