It was hardly my fault that two of Marcus’s mates, thinking it was the local drugs squad, did a bunk through the back window. I told him later that they should start leading more blameless lives – or invest in a CCTV system.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, finally letting me in. I got the impression this was out of embarrassment rather than brotherly concern.
His long, gangling figure was barely covered by a T-shirt bearing a pink angel fish and the name of a dive centre in the Maldives. His hair was rumpled from sleep and his breath could have killed a cactus at fifteen paces. If anything, he looked worse than I felt, which was why, when he started lecturing me about turning up at this time of night drunk and incapable, I got a little snarky.
‘I am not drunk,’ I told him. ‘I’ve had a drink or two, I admit – but incapable I’m not.’ Unfortunately, this argument fell over at the same moment as I did, when I discovered an aluminium briefcase someone had left lying in the middle of the hallway.
‘I’ll make coffee,’ he said, looking at me in disgust. ‘You’d better not have dented that – it cost me a fortune.’ With that he turned and disappeared towards the kitchen while I picked myself up.
‘Tea!’ I called out. ‘I’ve had enough coffee to float a Japanese whaling fleet.’ Even as the words left my mouth I looked up and saw a huge poster on the wall, extolling the work of Greenpeace in their fight to stop the Japanese sticking harpoons into Moby Dick’s cousins.
Oh, balls…
The living-room was a bombsite of DVDs, clothes, magazines, books, bottles and electronic equipment. I recalled Marcus once saying that a couple of his roomies were in the retail marketing business and spent their leisure hours testing the latest gizmos to come on the market. Judging by the state of some of the gear, the testing must have included impact-resistance as well as the content.
‘So what do you want?’ He crept up on me while I was examining a wristwatch with email capability. It looked like the kind of toy I used to get with Cornflakes coupons as a boy. I took the mug of tea and thought about how to tell him the bad news.
He looked a lot like me, I realised, studying him. He was taller and thinner, and could occasionally brush up rather well. Right now, though, he looked like a train wreck. On the other hand, I had dragged him out of bed, so given a haircut, shave, shower and some personal grooming, he’d be – God, listen to me. I sound like his father. Our father.
‘Susan’s gone,’ I said, pitching right in. The direct approach is usually best – if sometimes the most painful. But Marcus was a big boy and I figured he could handle it. Shows how much I know.
He flopped down on the settee. ‘I know. She told me.’ I could see a muscle moving in the side of his jaw, but his expression was blank, like he’d just heard it might rain next week.
Oh, boy. ‘When?’
‘Earlier today.’
I wondered why Susan had called him. It’s not as if they’d ever been especially close. She’d always looked on him as an inconvenient oik who turned up occasionally looking for a handout, and he’d always seemed polite but distant. ‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing much. Just that she was leaving and she’d be in touch. She wanted to let me know, I guess, although I’m not sure why.’
‘Dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s, I expect,’ I said. ‘She’s good like that.’ It came out snarkier than I meant it.
‘You don’t seem too cut up about it,’ Marcus suggested. ‘Or guilty.’
I bit back a sharp retort. ‘What’s to get guilty about? She left me, don’t forget.’
‘Right. Like she didn’t have good reason.’ He scowled at me and muttered, ‘Sorry – low blow.’ I watched the flicker of expressions crossing his face. There was accusation and resentment, but also an underlying vulnerability. Like when he was younger and disappointment had come calling and stamped on his foot, the way it does from time to time just when you think you’ve got life all figured out.
‘You, too?’ I muttered. The tea was strong and full of tannin, laying a gritty coating over my teeth. It did nothing to improve the taste in my mouth, which was beginning to backfire on me. My kingdom for a toothbrush, I thought, before remembering I didn’t have a kingdom to trade, much less anything else.
‘What does that mean?’
I waved a hand, suddenly too weary to argue. I didn’t want to drag Marcus any deeper into the whys and wherefores, and falling out with him was the last thing I needed. Besides, there are some things you don’t air in public, even with your brother.
But he didn’t want to let it go.
‘What? You said me too.’ He jumped up from the settee, a wild glint in his eye. The picture of manly outrage was spoiled by his T-shirt lifting and exposing his nether regions, and I nodded downwards with raised eyebrows. He hastily covered himself while trying to remain dignified. ‘What did you mean?’
‘Okay.’ I put down the mug and stood up. It was better than getting an eyeful of his groin and a cricked neck. ‘If you’re sure you can handle it. She left,’ I announced, ‘not because I’ve been playing bash the beaver with anything that has a pulse; not because I beat her black and blue every Saturday night after coming home nuked from the pub; not because I treated her like a slave or suddenly announced I was gay and wanted to shack up with an interior designer named Darryl from San Francisco. She left me because – so I’m told – I committed the cardinal sin of ignoring her. In other words she was bored.’
‘Well, you did. She was.’
‘Unfortunately,’ I soldiered on, waving that aside, ‘my mistake was spending too much time working when I should have been at home. Only somehow we didn’t get round to talking about it like mature adults until it was too late – for which I plead guilty. My fault. Now, I don’t know if it’s true or not, since I haven’t had a word from her on the subject, but that’s what she’s been telling people and I suppose it’s as good a reason as any. Boredom, I mean. The only thing I can’t figure out is why she had to clear out the house. I didn’t realise she was so attached to the furniture she couldn’t bear to leave it behind.’
As speeches go it was probably the longest he’d ever heard me make. It wasn’t the sort of speech brothers usually go in for, as far as I know. In this new age we’re supposed to reason with our siblings, treat them like equals and give them their platform so they can air their opinions in a mature and equitable fashion and get in touch with their inner beings.
To my surprise it worked, because he sank back down again and stared at me. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Didn’t mean to judge. It’s a bit of shock, that’s all. I thought you two were solid.’
‘Yes, me too.’
‘Thing is… I’m not sure what you want me to do.’
I shrugged. ‘Not a lot. I need to crash on your sofa for the night, that’s all.’
He scowled, probably worried in case I was going to settle in and never leave. ‘One night?’
‘Maybe two, until I sort something out.’
I left him to mull it over and went into the kitchen and rooted around in the fridge until I found a can of beer. I tossed it to him, figuring it would probably do him more good than tea, or any of those remedies our mothers recommend in times of crisis.
‘Well, that’s a new one,’ he said finally, after sinking half the can.
I waited, expecting an outburst at what he plainly thought was a pile of bullshit to cover my many failings as a husband. ‘What is?’
‘“Bash the beaver”.’ Then he smiled in spite of himself. It reminded me that he’d always had a good sense of humour, but I hadn’t had much chance to see it lately. ‘D’you mind if I borrow it?’
‘Help yourself. It’s a free world. I’m sure I can come up with a few more if you need them.’
I woke up the following morning with a weak sun filtering through the curtains and my head throbbing like a bass drum. Around me was the same debris I’d seen the night before, which did nothing for my spirits. Waking up with a hango
ver is bad enough; waking up in a tip which looks as if it had been bulldozed didn’t help.
I swung my feet to the floor and stumbled into the kitchen, where I hunted round until I found a clean mug and brewed some tea. While the kettle hissed I stared at the piles of plates, cups, pans and takeaway packets piled up on every surface like a submission for the Turner Prize in the making. It wasn’t pretty and I steered well clear of the layer of grease on the breakfast surface, wondering how much dedicated effort it took to get a place in this state.
Actually, I knew; I’d lived in one just like it once, way back when I could plead I didn’t know any better.
I sat and sipped my tea, listening to the house tick and trying to decide on a course of action. One thing was sure – I couldn’t or shouldn’t rely on staying there too long. I may have lived like this once, when I was spotty and free of encumbrances, but too long with this disorder and I’d end up hiring a large skip and an industrial flame-thrower. Anyway, it was Marcus’s mess, not mine.
There was also the question of Susan. I had to speak to her. Whatever had happened, we had to talk. It’s what civilised people did before they threw in the towel, wasn’t it?
I heard movement from upstairs and hoped it was Marcus. He hadn’t said much last night after my lengthy outburst. ‘Are you going to get back together?’ he’d asked at one point, overlooking the degree to which Susan had left. Leaving in a huff and slamming the door is one thing; it implies the person leaving might come back at some point. When someone takes the furniture and fittings as well, it’s a pretty safe bet their trip out is strictly one-way.
‘No idea. I doubt it.’
‘That’s it? No arguments… no discussion?’
‘Marcus, it’s difficult to argue or discuss anything when my other half’s gone AWOL. I don’t even know where she is.’
‘Have you tried calling her?’
Damn. I hadn’t. So obvious. ‘Not recently.’
‘Okay. But what if she offered?’
I saw a packet of cigarettes and a lighter on the side and took one. It had been years since I’d smoked, a habit I’d dropped when I met Susan. But I suddenly had the need; Marcus’s question was the one I had been dreading having to face. What if she wanted to come back? What if she wanted us to start out all over again and let bygones be bygones?
Right then I knew what my answer would be, but I didn’t trust myself to be rational.
‘You don’t smoke,’ Marcus pointed out, suddenly looking alarmed as I lit it.
‘Watch me,’ I said, and took a puff. It didn’t draw well and I wondered if cigarettes were being packed tighter these days. Or maybe I’d lost some of my puff since my feckless youth. Then I noticed a small slit in the paper halfway down, so I clamped the tip of one finger over it and tried again. This time I got a serious mouthful of smoke. It tasted hot and foul but I wasn’t about to give up. Some things you just have to work at. Dead relationships being the exception, I told myself.
After a couple of minutes I noticed Marcus was looking a bit fuzzy around the edges. At first I figured it was because smoking after a long lay-off always has that effect, inducing dizziness and nausea, nature’s warning that you’re being a dick. Then he began to wobble and recede, and I was just wondering if tobacco had got stronger when I noticed he was grinning at me, as if I’d missed out on a secret joke.
Then the penny dropped and I stared at the cigarette in awe. It seemed to be smoking fiercely all by itself, giving off little spits like an angry cat in a cardboard box.
‘Zzz… this got thomething in it?’ I asked. My tongue was tangled round my teeth and I felt a giggle beginning to well up from somewhere down by my navel. I sighed and felt my body sag in my chair like a de-stringed puppet, my head way too heavy for my neck. Oh, boy. What a time to tune in, switch on and… whatever the rest of it was.
Marcus leaned over and took the joint from between my fingers before I dropped it on the carpet, and mashed it in an ashtray. I shook my head and waited while the dizziness began to recede and his face settled back into something I remembered. It wasn’t perfect – a bit like seeing him underwater – but it would do until I got to the surface and back on the beach. Or wherever.
‘Is that your first one?’ he asked. He was looking at me with a sly grin and I realised this was the first time in years we’d been so relaxed with each other, even if it had taken a joint to get there.
‘Of course not,’ I said, feeling ridiculously defensive but unable to understand why. ‘You think your generation invented having a good time? Let me tell you, I’ve been around the block a few times. They think it was back in the Sixties when it was all love and free drugs – I mean, free love and… but some of us have done our share since then, believe me.’ I was talking rubbish, I knew that. Among the temptations over the years, anything stronger than aspirin had always seemed to me to be something best avoided because deep down inside I wasn’t sure I could resist the lure. Alcohol, fair enough. But weed, pills and powder were a fast track to hell.
‘Yeah, right.’ He didn’t believe me but I let it lie. At least my head was beginning to clear, which was a relief.
‘How about you?’
He shook his head. ‘Tried it once – never bothered since.’ He laughed suddenly, unconcerned, as I shook my head to restore some order to my skewed vision. ‘Wait ’til I tell Susan. Oh… sorry. Bad idea.’
We looked at each other until I broke the silence. ‘I need to call Susan,’ I said, before remembering that Dunckley’s man had taken back my company mobile.
He handed one over from a side table. ‘Help yourself.’
I dialled. Unobtainable. Great start: she’d changed her number.
I felt ridiculous having to ask him, but there was no way round it. ‘Do you know how I can get in touch with her?’
He scribbled a phone number on a scrap of paper, then headed for the door. ‘She said not to give it to you, but I’m not getting caught in the middle. Sort it out yourselves.’ He hesitated, and I was sure he was going to resurrect the question about whether I would take Susan back if she asked. But he shook his head. ‘I’m going back to bed. I’ve got a meeting with some investors in the morning.’
Now, in the cold light of day (natural), the aftermath of drink (intentional) and hash (accidental), taking the step towards calling Susan didn’t seem quite so simple. To be honest, I think I was scared of the reaction. I fished out the slip of paper, but the number didn’t give me any clues as to where she might be. No doubt wherever she was, if Hugo’s Juliette had been right, Dunckley wouldn’t be very far away, God rot his socks.
I took a turn around the debris-strewn room, trying to decide what to do. It was an odd state to be in. I was accustomed to dealing with temperamental types who looked ready to take off your arm at the shoulder if you squinted at them a bit wrong, since being a troubleshooter placed indecision at a very low pitch on one’s set of skills. But handing over iffy packages in back streets and faceless hotels was no match for this kind of problem.
The first thing was to wash and get some clean clothes. I might have been in the kaka with my job and relationship, but I was buggered if I was going to go round smelling like it. After that I’d do what I’d so often resorted to when everything else had failed.
I’d play it by ear and stay on the move.
EIGHT
At least the house was still standing.
I edged past the decrepit old bus which had brought the rest of Dot and Dash’s shifting commune, and was now an eye-catching garden feature in my flower bed. Its original Corporation red had been thickly overlaid with a variety of other hand-painted colours and dotted with flowers and symbols extolling peace and earthly love – although whether that meant love on the earth or of it, wasn’t quite clear. The windows were hung with curtains and beady things, and inside the seats had been ripped out and replaced with fitted furniture and hanging lamps. I pounded on the front door of the house.
Someone had naile
d some plywood across the damaged section and cleared up the bits of broken wood and glass. Through a small hole in the glass I could see the brick had gone from the hallway. A dog began barking inside and someone shouted for me to wait. Next thing a bedroom window opened above me and Dot’s orange mop of hair appeared.
‘Oh, hi.’ She grinned in recognition. ‘Hang on – I’ll come down.’
I waited while her footsteps pounded down the stairs. It sounded loud. Then I remembered Susan had taken the carpets.
‘Mr Foreman. I say.’ It was Mrs Tree, leaning over the fence and waving at me, the poor demented soul. She was looking strained, probably with all the letters she’d fired off at the local council for allowing undesirables to come into the street.
Just then Dot unlocked the door and I dived inside. I really couldn’t take any more of my neighbour’s carry-on.
‘Sorry,’ I explained. ‘Nearly got caught by the local witch-finder.’
‘She had a go at Dash earlier. Said we had no right to be here, we should all go out and get jobs. Oh, and we were unwholesome. I’ve never been called unwholesome before.’
I wasn’t surprised; she may have been dressed like a disaster zone but she looked clean and scrubbed.
‘I need a shower and some fresh clothes,’ I told her, heading for the stairs. That’s if there are any of my clothes left, I thought, recalling Dash’s caustic comments.
Smart Moves Page 5
