But wait where? In here? Too conspicuous, too unappealing. Outside? Too cold, too open, too many armchair critics high above him in the now dark sky.
Which left him where precisely? Yes, this probably was an impasse. He walked from the block, his eyes on the windows above' him, and was about to make off in the direction of the skateboarders when a scream split the air from the other side of Pedro Tower. He walked quickly towards the source of the sound and was in time to see the butt-end of a burning argument. The woman no more than a girl really, seventeen, eighteen hit the bedenimed man with a good right-hand; sending him spinning. Then she stalked off as he, holding one side of his face, tried to hurl obscenities at her while at the same time feeling in his mouth for damaged teeth.
They did not interest Rebus particularly. He was looking past them to a low-built, dimly — illuminated building, a prefabricated construction surrounded by grass and dirt. A weathered board, lit by a single bulb, proclaimed it The Fighting Cock; A pub? Here? That was no place for a policeman, no place for a Scots policeman. But what if? No, it couldn't be so simple. Sammy and Kenny couldn't be in. there wouldn't be, in there.' His daughter deserved better. Deserved the best
But then she reckoned Kenny Watkiss was the best. And maybe he was. Rebus stopped dead. Just what the hell was he doing? Okay, so he didn't like Kenny. And when he had seen Kenny cheering in the Old Bailey, he had put two and two together and come to the conclusion that Kenny was in deep with Tommy Watkiss. But now it turned out the two were related in some way and that would explain the cheer, wouldn't it?
The psychology books told him that coppers read the worst into every situation. It was true. He didn't like the fact that Kenny Watkiss was dating his daughter. If Kenny had been heir apparent to the throne, Rebus would still have been suspicious. She was his daughter. He'd hardly seen her since she had entered her teens. In his mind she was still a child, a thing to be cosseted, loved, and protected. But she was a big girl now, with ambition, drive, good, looks and a grown-up, body. She was grown-up, there was no escaping it, and it scared him. Scared him because she was Sammy, his Sammy. Scared him because he hadn't been there all these years to warn her, to tell her how to cope, what to do.
Scared because he was getting old.
There, it was out. He was growing old; He had a sixteen year old daughter and she was old enough to leave school and get a job, to have sex, to get married. Not old enough to go into pubs, but that wouldn't stop her. Not old enough for street-wise eighteen-year-olds like Kenny Watkiss. But grown-up all the same, grown-up-without him, and now he too was old.
And by God he felt it.
He plunged his left hand: deep into his pocket, his right hand: still wrapped around the handle of the carrier- bag, and turned from the pub. There was a bus stop near where the taxi had dropped him. He'd go where the bus would take him. The skateboarders were coming along the path in front of him; One of them seemed very- proficient, weaving without losing balance. As the boy approached, he suddenly flipped the board up so that it spun in the air, in front of him. Both hands neatly grabbed the board by its running tail and swung the board itself in a backward arc. Too late, Rebus saw the manoeuvre for what it was. He tried to duck but the heavy wooden board hit the side of his head with a sharp crack.
He- staggered, dropped to his knees: They were on him immediately, seven or eight of them, hands gouging into his pockets.
'Fuckin’ split my board, man. Lookatit. Fuckin’ six inch split.'
A training shoe caught Rebus on the chin and sent him flying. He was concentrating on not losing consciousness, so much so that he forgot to fight or to scream or to defend himself. Then a loud voice:
'Oi! What the fuck d'you think you're up to?'
And they ran, rolling their-boards-until they had gained enough speed, the hard wheels crackling on the tarmac as they fled. Like a posse in an old western, Rebus thought with a smile. Like a posse.
'You all right, mate? Come on, let's get you up.'
The man helped Rebus to his feet. When his eyes regained their powers of focus, he saw, blood on the man's lip, smeared across his, chin. The man noticed him looking.
'My bird,' he said, his breath rich with alcohol. 'She fuckin’ clocked me, didn't she? Got me a good one, too. Couple of loose teeth. Still, they was rotten anyway, probably saved me a fortune at the dentist's.' He laughed. 'Come on, let's get you into the Cock. A couple of brandies'll see you right.'
'Took my money,' Rebus said He was clutching the carrier-bag to him like a shield.
'Never mind that,' said his Samaritan.
They were kind to him.. They sat him down at a table, and every now and again a drink: would appear, and someone would say. ’That one's from Bill’, or 'That one's from Tessa’, or 'That one's from Jackie', or 'That one's from …'
They were kind to him. They collected a fiver so he could get a taxi back to his hotel. He explained that he was a tourist, down here for a bit of sightseeing. He'd managed to get lost, had jumped off a bus and ended up here. And they, kind souls, believed him.
They didn't bother phoning the police.
'Those bastards,' they spat. 'Waste of time. Wouldn't turn up till tomorrow morning and then they'd do nothing. It's the cops round here that are behind half the crimes, believe me.'
And he did. He did believe them. And another drink arrived, another brandy in a small schooner. 'All the best, eh?'
And they were playing cards and dominoes, a lively crowd, a regular crowd. The TV blared; a musical quiz show and the jukebox sang and the one-armed bandit bleeped and buzzed and spat out an occasional win. He thanked God Sammy and Kenny weren't here. How would it have looked to them? He dreaded to think.
At one point he excused himself and went to the toilet. There was a jagged triangle of mirror nailed to one wall.; The side of his head, jaw- and ear, were red and would probably bruise. The jaw would ache for some time. Where the shoe had connected, there was already a red and purple welt. Nothing more. Nothing worse. No knives or razor blades'. No massed, assault. It had been a clean, professional hit. The way that kid had flipped the board, caught it and swung it. Professional. An absolute pro. If Rebus ever caught him, he would congratulate him on one of the sweetest moves he had ever seen.
Then he'd kick the little bastard's teeth so far down his throat they'd bite his small intestine.
He reached down the front of his trousers and drew out his wallet. The warning from Laine and the knowledge that he was on uncharted ground, had been enough to persuade Rebus that he should hide his wallet. Not to save him from muggers, no. So that no one would find his ID. It was bad enough being a stranger in this place, but being a copper…. So he had hidden the wallet, ID and all, down the front of his underpants, tucked into the elasticated waistband. He slipped it back there now. After, all, he was not yet clear of Churchill Estate. The night might turn out to be a long one.
He. pulled open the door and- headed back to his table.
The brandy was working. His head was numb, his limbs pleasantly flexible.
'You all right there, Jock?'
He hates that name, absolutely loathes it, but he smiles nevertheless. 'I'm all right. Oh yes, I'm quite all right.' 'Great. By the way, this one's from Harry at the bar.'
After she has posted the letter, she feels a lot better. She does some work, but soon begins to twitch inside. It's like feeding a habit now. But it's also an art form. Art? Fuck art. So unbecoming in a man. So art unbecoming fuck in a man. So fuck a man in unbecoming art. They used to quarrel, squabble, argue all the time. No, that's not true. She remembers it that way but it wasn't that way. For a while it was, but then they just stopped communicating altogether. Her mother. Her father. Mother, strong, domineering, determined to be a great painters a great watercolourist. Every day busy at an easel, ignoring her child who needed her, who would creep into the studio and sit quietly in a corner, crouched, trying.not to be noticed. If noticed, she would be sent out of the room fiercely, red hot tears streaming down her face.
'I never wanted you!' her mother would screech. 'You were an accident! Why can't you be a proper little girl?'
Run, run, run: Out of the studio and down the stairs, through the morning room, and out of the doors. Father, quiet, innocuous, cultured, civilised. father. Reading the newspapers in the back garden, one trousered leg crossed over the other as he reclined in his deckchair.
'And how's my little sweet this morning?'
