‘How long ago did you talk to Kenny?’ I asked him, feeling in no mood for small talk.
‘You mean before your brother killed him?’ Steve shot back, his voice sinking to the lower limit of audibility.
‘I just mean how long ago, Steve. Give me straight answers and you’ll get me out of your life a lot faster.’
‘Months ago. A year, almost. We don’t talk.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Why do you think?’ Steve’s tone was sharp.
‘Because you’re trying to become a lawyer, and everyone else in your family is a petty crook with a rap sheet as long as a nun’s nightie?’
‘There you go.’
‘But you knew who Kenny was shacking up with, right? Up until a couple of years back? The big love of his life, until she left him for a builder’s merchant with a moped?’
‘Anita Yeats.’ Steve spat out the name as though it was something poisonous that he’d almost swallowed.
‘Exactly. How did that happen, Steve? How did the star-crossed lovers meet up again so far from home?’
‘How the fuck should I know, Castor? And why the fuck should I care? Kenny always had a thing about her. I wouldn’t have put it past him to go looking for her. Or pay someone else to. He couldn’t be made to see sense on that subject. Anita Yeats was a frigging bike, and he talked about her like she was the Blessed Virgin.’
‘Couldn’t be made to see sense?’ I echoed. ‘Did you try? Was that something you talked about a lot?’
Steve rolled his eyes, shrugged in exasperation. ‘We didn’t talk about
‘But you had strong opinions about Anita, obviously,’ I observed. ‘You didn’t think your brother should be taking up with her.’
Steve shook his head. ‘Not just Kenny,’ he said. ‘Anyone. Fucking psycho-bitch from Hell! You know what she did to him with that bit of steel. And anyway she wasn’t worth picking up off the street. She was a scissor-reflex slut, like all the women in her family. Getting herself knocked up before she was twenty, then carting the kid around with her from pillar to post while she was looking for another shag!’
Steve’s face twisted with distaste. I raised my voice as I answered, loud enough for the earwigging receptionist to hear me very clearly from across the room. ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone, Steve. Sexual morality’s a funny thing, when you think about it. One man’s meat, kind of thing.’
Steve cringed, hunching his shoulders. ‘Keep your frigging voice down,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘Then keep it respectful,’ I counter-suggested, ‘In case you’ve forgotten, the psycho-bitch from Hell episode was when Anita saved my life from your much more scarily psycho brother. So remove the beam from your own eye first, eh, Steve?’ Another thought struck me, so I pushed on, dropping my voice again. The receptionist wasn’t even trying to pretend not to eavesdrop now, so I threw her a friendly wave over Steve’s head. He started and turned, the hunted expression coming back onto his face. ‘Who was Blainey?’ I asked. ‘The guy she named her kid after, I mean. Did you ever meet him?’
Steve opened his mouth to speak, and judging from his expression it was going to be another mouthful of bile. But our eyes met and he hesitated, then changed gear. ‘I saw him a couple of times,’ he said. ‘He was . . . nobody. Really, nobody. A gobshite from Childwall Valley who was stupid enough to let her bring another man’s kid into his house.’
‘Nobody?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Then why do you remember him after sixteen years?’
Steve was silent for a moment. In case he was trying to come up with a lie, I pressed him again. ‘Why do you remember him?’
Steve exhaled: a world-weary sigh of resignation.
‘Kenny sent me and Ronnie over there to have a look at him,’ he said.
‘What? Why did he do that?’
‘I have no fucking idea. Because he never saw sense where Anita was concerned.’
I turned this fact over in my mind. ‘Just to look, or–’
‘No. We warned him off. Told him that if he didn’t drop Anita, someone with a flick knife and no sense of humour was going to drop him.’
‘And did that work?’
‘Yeah. She was on her travels again in short order. We did it a couple of times after that, too. In the end she packed her bags and fucked off south. Which was always what she was going to do, but you couldn’t tell Kenny that. He thought that if he terrorised enough of her boyfriends, in the end she’d come running back to him because he’d be the only viable option. Dozy fuck.’
Steve looked away towards the windows, where the Mersey flowed by in its sluggish brown majesty. ‘Well, it took him sixteen years,’ he said bleakly. ‘But he got there in the end, didn’t he? Got the both of them. Anita and her fucked-up kid, too. Fantastic, eh? A real Hollywood happy ending. Except that Anita still couldn’t stand him, really. And her brat thought cutting pieces out of himself was the best game in the fucking world.’
‘Pot, meet kettle,’ I said.
Steve stared at me, half mystified and half annoyed. ‘What?’
‘Kenny was a self-harmer, too.’
The annoyance won out. ‘No, he bloody wasn’t. Kenny cut lots of people in his time, but he never cut himself.’
‘I saw his body, Steve,’ I pointed out.
‘So what?’ Steve demanded, unimpressed. ‘I’m telling you, Kenny never cut himself. It used to drive him apeshit when the kid did it. He gave him a proper fucking hiding whenever he caught him at it. The last thing he’d do was . . . you’re full of shit, Castor!’
His indignation at this slur on Kenny’s memory was overriding even his sense of self-preservation. The receptionist was now talking on the phone to someone, casting urgent glances in our direction. I could see that this conversation was going to have to be curtailed.
‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter. If Kenny found Mark so creepy, why did he let him stay on after Anita bailed?’
‘No idea,’ Steve said. ‘But I can tell you it wasn’t for love. What he had going with Anita was fucked up seven ways from Sunday, and we’ve all suffered for it. But the kid he just despised.’
That blew one theory that had been growing slowly at the back of my mind: that Mark had been Kenny’s kid, belatedly acknowledged. It would have made sense in that case for Anita to have come back to Kenny, even if she’d taken her time doing it. But it seemed like that kite wouldn’t fly.
I was about to ask Steve to explain the little crack about suffering, but at that moment two building security guards in ever-serviceable black uniforms lumbered into view behind him, separating to approach me from opposite directions. It seemed like I’d worn out my welcome.
I stood, raising my hands in a shrug of acquiescence. Far be it from me to make any trouble. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure, Steve,’ I said. ‘Using the word in the sense of “worth the bus fare into town”. Good luck with the law.’
‘You can drop dead. You and your bastard brother,’ Steve riposted. The word ‘brother’ almost stuck in his throat, it came out with such a freight of bristling hatred.
‘I’ll tell him you said hi,’ I promised.
The men in black saw me to the door, but with no laying-on of hands, and I walked out into bright sunshine. But after their ninety-three million mile sprint, the dazzling rays faltered in the final straight and didn’t seem to reach me. I was like some guy in a bloody Leonard Cohen song.
My mobile buzzed as I walked down towards the Pier Head. I took it out and put it to my ear.
‘Hello?’
‘Castor.’ The voice was instantly recognisable: Dick-Breath sounded like his balls still hadn’t dropped.
