‘Philip,’ she said. ‘Is that you? Is something wrong?’
Instantly she thought that something bad had happened. It was as if she could smell it. She looked at him through greasy spectacles before quickly raising her hand and patting him on the arm. As always, her hair was aggressively permed, and she wore down-at-heel sandals that creaked as she walked. He entered and passed her. There was a smell of fried food mixed with sour tobacco coming from the kitchen.
‘No,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘I’m just here to get something.’
She closed the door after him and walked through the house. The floorboards creaked too. She sounded like an old cart rolling across the floor. She was very bowlegged. It had got worse over the years, as if her bones were softening. You could roll a barrel through those legs, he thought.
‘But you can stay for a while, can’t you?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got fresh spice cake. Sit down and I’ll make you a cup of coffee. By the way, have you seen the newspapers? They found that boy, you know the one who went missing right before Christmas. You were at that party with him. Did you see it, Philip? About the Vietnamese boy.’
‘Yes.’
She disappeared into the kitchen and called towards the living room.
‘Have the police been round to talk to you again?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They’re talking to everyone. It’s the same drill as before. They’ve interviewed all sixteen of us again.’
He sat down in an armchair and drummed his fingers on the armrest while he listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen, the clattering of cups, running water, a knife on a chopping board. Everything about her was energetic and there was force behind everything she did, a raw decisive power. Five minutes later she returned with a tray. He thought that some of her greying hair was bordering on green, like lichen in the mountains. He wanted to give her something, but he was far too wound up to be generous, so he replied mechanically to all her questions.
‘And what about Axel?’ she wanted to know.
‘Well, Axel,’ he said evasively. ‘We stick together, you know. As always.’
‘It must be strange Jon not being there,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is strange.’
‘Poor Jon Moreno.’
‘Yes, that was bad.’
‘I’ve heard some nasty rumours,’ she said.
His heart skipped a beat.
‘That you couldn’t carry his coffin. That you dropped it with a crash.’
‘Some dog ruined it all,’ he said. ‘It came at us and we lost our balance.’
‘Oh? They said it was a white poodle.’
He helped himself to a slice of spice cake. It crumbled into small pieces, which he pushed together with his fingers. She sat down across from him. Her faded dress was covered with tiny holes from cigarette sparks.
‘So what have you come to get?’ she asked, munching her cake. ‘The shed is nearly empty, you know, there’s nothing there, Philip, no clothes or old sports equipment. You and sports, ha ha. I can picture it. You in hockey clothes, Philip. Or swinging a golf club.’
Reilly slurped his coffee. He watched her furtively. She might be unkempt, but she was no fool. Her mouth lived a life of its own. All sorts of superficial nonsense poured out of her mouth, while her brain reasoned sharply and wisely. But she was not sentimental. She dealt only in reality. She had made her fair share of packed lunches for him over the years, she had put her clumsy signature on his school report, she had washed his clothes, she had cooked and cleaned and put food on the table. And she thought that this made her a mother. I don’t like you, he thought, but you would never notice because it requires a sensitivity which you don’t possess.
‘No,’ he cleared his throat. ‘This is something I’ve always wanted. And it’s not as if you need it.’
She frowned.
‘Dad’s old revolver.’
She put down her cup with a bang. He thought the saucer would shatter.
‘Revolver? What do you want that for?’
He managed a smile though it felt like a snarl.
‘I’ve always fancied that revolver,’ he said. ‘It’s my inheritance. The fact that it was in the war appeals to me.’
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her fingers were stained yellow with nicotine.
‘But, strictly speaking, you’re not legally allowed to have it, are you?’ she said. ‘Dad had a licence. You don’t. Or have you got yourself a licence?’
He tried to act casual. ‘It’s not as if I’m thinking of shooting anyone,’ he said. ‘I just want to have it lying around. In a drawer.’
She took a second piece of cake and started to chew with her mouth open. Her tongue was pale and grey.
‘Of course you can have the old revolver,’ she said. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all. You’ve never mentioned it before, and it’s been here for God knows how many years. And you’re a man of peace, so to speak. But you need to keep it in a locked cabinet. You could get fined.’
‘I will. Don’t nag.’
He took another slice of cake from the plate. There was nothing wrong with her baking. The cake tasted of cinnamon, ginger and cardamom and it was rich with butter. His fingers were greasy.
‘I’ve got myself a kitten,’ he said.
‘God Almighty. What are you going to do with it?’
She reached for the pouch of Petteroe loose tobacco lying on the coffee table and fished out a pinch.
‘A kitten?’ she said again. ‘Please tell me it’s not a female, it’ll have kittens before you know it. They’ll take over your whole flat and then you’re stuck with them. You’ll end up having to drown them in a tub because nobody wants them. They’re nothing but trouble.’
‘It’s a tom,’ he said quickly. ‘It keeps me company. But it’s an indoor cat. It follows me everywhere. It lies in my lap and on my bed.’
‘You’ll never grow up,’ she declared. ‘A kitten in your bed. You’re a grown man. Anyone would think you’d been deprived of something when you were little.’
Her lips tightened around the cigarette. Sparks scattered in her lap, but she was oblivious to them.
They sat at the coffee table for a while. She chatted away. He was happy to make the right noises, and she did not register his lack of interest. Then he thanked her for the coffee and cake, pushed back his chair and nodded towards the cabinet where his father’s old Enfield revolver was kept. Next to the weapon was a box of ammunition. He took that from the cabinet as well.
‘You’re taking the bullets too?’ she frowned. ‘What do you need them for?’
‘They’re part of it,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you pleased to be rid of them?’
‘They must be stored separately,’ she dictated. ‘The bullets. And the revolver. It’s the law.’
It seemed as though she had changed her mind and wanted to hold on to the revolver after all. A sudden suspicion had flared up in her eyes.
‘But you’ve been storing them in the same cabinet all the time,’ he protested.
She shrugged. Then she hurried out into the kitchen and started opening cupboards.
‘There’s something else,’ she called out, ‘as you’re here with your hand out anyway.’
He waited patiently. He held the revolver with awe; it was surprisingly heavy. He heard clattering and mumbling. Now where did I leave it, and then, oh yes, there it is. My, oh my, it’s good stuff this. Finally he heard a brief laugh. She reappeared. He stared at the object in her hands. A glass bottle in the shape of a Viking ship.
‘Cognac,’ she explained. ‘Dad got it for his fiftieth birthday, remember? From his mates at the foundry.’
‘Cognac?’ he said.
‘Yes, do you get it? Your ship has come in,’ she giggled. ‘I believe it’s very good cognac too, but alcohol in a ship-shaped bottle is ridiculous. Take it, please,’ she ordered him. ‘It’s Larsen. I don’t drink cognac.’
‘Neither do I,’ he said.
‘And it’s well matured now,’ she went on, as though she hadn’t heard him. ‘Remember, it needs to be served
