Borrowed Time

by David Mark

  ‘Look, Dad, I was going to …’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ says Franco. ‘I’ve got the gist. Let’s go inside.’

  Together, Alison taking her father’s arm, they step inside the giant double doors and into the hallway. Only one of the chandeliers has been lit and the black-and-white tiles are full of shadows and weak light.

  ‘Riley’s the councillor chap, isn’t he?’ begins Alison, more for the look of the thing than any real conviction her father will buy what she’s saying.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, a note of sarcasm entering his voice. ‘The councillor chap. Yeah.’

  Alison feels a pressure on her arm as her father steers her down the corridor. Turns left, towards the west wing, where the servants used to live, when the world allowed such things. His hand, a useless claw, its fingers fused, is firm upon her skin. He seems to have a direction in mind, and she knows better than to question it. She feels excitement. Guilt. Naughtiness. Like she did when her dad used to tell her, with complete certainty, who was worth a flutter at the dogs on a Friday night, back when she and Timmy’s dad used to like their nights out, their steak dinners, the sensation of dirty cash in their pockets and purses.

  ‘It wasn’t anything sinister, Dad,’ she says, softly, and the words are all but swallowed up by the enormity of the house, the cold of the hallway. Even now, she is wondering at the wisdom of living here, in this vast mausoleum that has seen so much suffering and stood dumb witness to a grief that could flood the coast with the weight of its tears.

  ‘Dad.’

  Jardine pauses at the foot of the stairs. It is a cold, narrow flight, uncarpeted and little used. Dark and dusty. The hallway at the top used to lead to the quarters of the senior waiting staff, but has been used for little more than storage and overspill since Jardine bought the place from the drunken toff whose family had let it fester since before the war.

  The moment stretches out, like chewing gum.

  Alison, staring at her dad.

  He, eyes closed, preparing himself, as if gathering breath and strength for the ascent, and the revelation he will make along the way. He has resisted all calls to install a stairlift or elevator and will continue to do so. He will die in the knowledge that he has never had to be carried to bed.

  ‘Dad?’

  Jardine looks at his daughter, trying to slow the heaving in his chest. His tongue flicks out, like a snake’s, and he adjusts his teeth. Considers his thoughts. Puts a foot on the bottom step, a hand on the varnished banister, and hauls himself up.

  ‘Don’t talk for a second, love. Just listen, eh pet? There’s a good girl.’

  Alison smiles, well-meaningly. She’s cold, but doesn’t want to give in to the shiver in case she knocks her father off balance. He nods and begins to speak. His words grow fainter and more pained with each stair, but he feels a lightness enter his step as he sets down a burden he has carried, and not acknowledged, for more than thirty years.

  FORTY

  11.53 p.m.

  ‘She was like a daughter to me, you know that. It’s a cliché, yeah, but I can’t think of any other way to describe it. Hasn’t been a day that I haven’t wished things were different. Good girl. Never expected. Grateful, but not feeble with it, you hear me? When you became friends I liked it. Liked what she brought out of you. And when I saw her drawings, I was blown away. You know me, love. I’m not one for that sort of stuff. I like a nice picture, same as anyone, but there was something about what she could do that made me feel like smiling. She could have gone far, love. Then it all went to pot, didn’t it? That night happened. She got hurt. I should have spoken to you about it all then. Spoken properly, I mean. But how do you? How do you tell a kid her best friend’s had those things done to her? So I kept what I could from you. While she was healing. I kept her out of your way, and then she had her nipper. That nurse, she was more surprised than anybody. Wanted to live, that kid, even though nobody thought he would. I did what people did back then. Believe me, there were those who wouldn’t have blamed me for chucking him in the river. Bad blood, Alison. You saw what he did to her. Made Irons look like Audrey Hepburn, she did. Tommy Dozzle. He’d done those things to her. Torn her apart, and now she’s left with his bastard in her arms? She couldn’t look after it, could she? And I knew somebody who could make things right. I should never have let Irons have a look at the thing. I’d never seen him soft like that before. Cooing like he was a puppy. I swear, a part of him was away in fairyland. He said he’d do the cottage up – he’d help Pamela raise him. Can you imagine? Both of them, half a face each? Poor sod. I said no, of course, but what does he do? Loses his mind. Goes after Tommy Dozzle, despite all he’d been told. He finds where the lad’s hiding, and he walks in there and fills the place with blood. You don’t want to know what he did to the lad. Leaves me right in it – my best man, locked up and looking at serious time. I had bigger things to think about than playing Happy Families. Like I say, I had contacts. A man who’d done some work for me, who I trusted – he said he knew a family that couldn’t have kids of their own. Good people. Kind people. People a long way from this life, love. He had connections – no questions would be asked. So I signed the forms. Said goodbye to it without even looking at the little bastard. And when Pamela wakes up, I’m there to tell her it’s all going to be OK now. That it’s taken care of. She looks at me like I’ve stolen her soul and tells me she wants her baby. She was a child, Alison. A child who went through things nobody could imagine. I told her the baby was gone. That it had gone to a good home, and that Dozzle was dead and Irons was going to prison, and that it was time for her to begin again. I’ve never heard weeping like it. Never seen tears like that. It was like I’d reached into her and taken the only thing she cared about. I didn’t understand it. So I tells her to stop crying. And she did. Dried her tears – but she must have already decided what she would do. Broke my heart when I found her. Only time I’ve heard Irons cry was when I told him she was dead. Dozzle did it. He’s that lad’s daddy. Irons killed him, and she killed herself when she realized Irons had given his life to a prison cell because of it.

  ‘Irons took the cottage when he came home. I haven’t been in there since. You’ve done good. Timmy’s a good lad, underneath it all. Irons is home, where he should be. We’re fucking winning, love. Then it all comes back. I get a phone call from somebody who I haven’t thought about in years and he tells me he’s had a call from some lad saying he knows what happened that night. I’m feeling a bit fitter today, Alison. Did some ringing around. Got Timmy on the mobile and, God bless him, didn’t he have a story to tell me. Some private detective making a nuisance of himself, brown bread and bloated in Dead Man’s Vale. Said he’d shown them I was still up and about and capable – silly bastard. They’re all pieces of a picture, pet, and I filled in the gaps. I reckon laddo’s back. That little bastard, the seed of that rapist, is dribbling in your ear and trying to get something out of you. Or maybe me. Well, I tell you something, sweetheart, I hold my hands up. I’ve done things wrong, and misjudged big decisions. I’ve maybe even let you down. So I’m going to put it right. I’m talking to you like an adult. I’ll answer your questions. I’ll let you see inside Pamela’s heart. We’ll remember her. Toast her memory. And then we’ll let the wound heal, and forget her. Like we should have done a long time ago. There’s just one thing I’m rigid on, pet, and that’s this boy. This chap on the phone to Riley. He’s gone, pet. He’s out of your life. He’s salt in your wounds and he’s nothing to do with us. His daddy was Dozzle. Dozzle’s dead. You don’t see him again. You say goodbye, and it’s over. I can’t solve this the way I normally would, because there might be something in him that’s Pamela. He can’t be cut out of our lives. So you’ll just have to tell him he’s not welcome here. You think Riley did that to Pamela? You should have asked me, pet. Or Irons. He was otherwise engaged that night, sweetheart. He was in the woods with one of the girls that the lads brought to the party for entertainment. I know this, because
he beat her half to death. He came out of the woods like a madman, naked, covered in blood, gibbering some nonsense about a devil, a creature with a tattooed chest and eyes of glass, and for a second, I thought it might have been him. But he showed me what he had done, and I made the problem go away. That’s what I do. No matter the circumstances, I make problems go away. Riley’s a dirty, ratty, little pervert, but he’s not your friend’s dad. Your friend’s dad is in the ground. Now wipe your eyes, love. It’s a lot to take in, I know. We should have spoken about it a long time ago. I should have been there to hold you. I am now, pet. I am now.’

  Jardine stops at the door and releases the pressure on Alison’s arm. His breath is dust and ground glass, caught on the faintest of breezes.

  Although they are not touching, he can feel his daughter shaking. The shivers of her sobs are like blows against his skin. But he can take blows. And not fall down.

  With his good hand, Francis Jardine turns the handle of the bedroom. Flicks on the light. He almost loses his balance as Alison grabs him in an embrace that takes the wind from his lungs, and squeezes a tear from his old, dry eyes.

  He almost tells her that he loves her, but can’t quite be that man.

  Some things are best left unsaid.

  FORTY-ONE

  The Basil Pot, Bridge Street, Portsmouth

  11.09 p.m.

  Irons is parked in a side street, engine on but lights off. He is returning to himself. Stepping back into his tattered skin. Feeling the strength in his hard bones, the capability in the biceps and pectorals. The sensation of ragged flesh from neck to scalp. He has watched these last minutes as a spirit, floating above the mortal remains, elevated and apart.

  He will miss Zara.

  He does not indulge in regret, but wishes he had got to know Adam a little. Perhaps answered some of his questions. Told him about his mum. Pamela. The girl who saw the beauty underneath, but couldn’t spot her own.

  Irons wonders if he will see the boy again. He would like to know if there are traces of Pamela in him. Would like to explore him. Look inside.

  He lets out a sigh as the phone in his pocket gives a faint trill. He recognizes the number. Answers to a scared, breathless PC Jon Goodwin.

  ‘They’ve got a print off the wire he was wrapped in. Larry Paris. It’s a partial but they’re running it. It’s not Adam Nunn, they ran that first of all. Not Kukuc either. Have I helped? I hope I’ve fucking helped. Are you there? Hello?’

  Irons looks at his watch.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  The Basil Pot ignites in an orange fireball. The windows blow out and fly as a billion knives to rattle and smash against the metal shutters of the shops and bars across the street.

  In the darkness, lit only by the sodium yellow of the streetlamps, the tongues of flame appear as a crimson and purple blanket, lifting, rolling, curling through the ruined frontage of the building that was once Zara’s dream.

  Irons pulls away from the kerb without looking back.

  He would like to say goodbye to Zara, but regret is an expensive luxury, and Irons lives within a budget.

  He does not feel anything when he considers returning home. He misses the pictures. The urn. The sense of being close to her. But he carries her with him, under his skin and behind his eyes, and knows she will not begrudge him these few days away, watching over her son.

  On the street, lit by the flame, a snowstorm of paper falls to the wet tarmac, edges crisping, words fading. Unpaid bills and a poor handful of receipts.

  Zara’s dream, up in smoke.

  Debts, cremated.

  Dust to dust.

  PART THREE

  FORTY-TWO

  Dysart Avenue, Drayton, Portsmouth

  December 25th, 7.28 p.m.

  Pat is hanging up Mr Santinello’s coat when she hears the car. She turns and squints through the frosted glass of the front door. She ignores the spyhole. Billy once made her watch a film where somebody got shot in the eye while peeping out to identify a caller, and she has never felt comfortable using it since. She recognizes the sound of the engine as Adam’s new sporty little number, and she feels a little dancing sensation in her full tummy as she starts to unlock the door, the wind snatching the party hat from her permed grey curls as she steps into the cold.

  Her smile fades as a young, dark-haired girl gets out the passenger seat. Adam climbs out the driver’s door a moment later. He’s wearing a new suit. Looks thinner. She puts it down to the new haircut, which she doesn’t approve of. Told him he looked like a skinhead when he arrived a few days ago to bring presents for her and Billy. He’d told her the hairstyle was in fashion. That he’d needed a change. Looked at her, curiously, then grabbed her round the middle, rubbing the soft fuzz on his skull against her cheek and making her laugh. She’d told him off but enjoyed the rush of colour to her face. The flash of fire in his eyes. The momentary bubble of life that tore through the house. She’d smelled whisky on his breath, but hoped the sudden outburst of fun had come from a deeper place than the bottom of a glass.

  ‘Mum, Selena. Selena, Mum.’

  The pleasantries are conducted on the doorstep. Selena offering a hand, and Pat taking it, then pulling her in for a hug. Selena saying, ‘Nice to meet you,’ and Pat telling her she’s a pretty girl and asking whether she got all she wanted for Christmas and telling her not to let Adam boss her around. She plays the role of an indulgent grandmother. Slips into it like a pair of slippers. Pat wishes she had a chocolate bar in the pocket of the pink tabard she wears over her best blue trousers and cream jumper. She thinks a good grandmother should never be without a treat.

  They pause at the door to the living room, as Pat and Adam exchange a look. In here? How is he? Going to make a show of himself? She’s only young.

  ‘He’s having a good day,’ says Pat, brightly. ‘Polished off a good dinner, he did. Mr Santinello, sorry, Malcolm, he always brings him out of himself.’

  ‘He’s here, is he?’

  ‘Oh yes. Had his lunch at the golf club but came round mid-afternoon. We watched the Queen’s speech together. Had a bit of a natter. We didn’t think your dad was going to still be awake by the time you got here, but he’s on fine form.’

  They open the door and step into the living room. Survey the colour and light in a room the size of a small kitchen.

  The Christmas tree is shop-bought, ready-decorated, and stands on a coffee table by the French windows, which act as mirrors against the darkness. A handful of cards adorn the mantelpiece and some tassels of tinsel have been draped above family photographs and Lake District watercolours.

  Their arrival is greeted with a good-natured cheer from the two old men, who sit side by side on the sofa. They look like adverts for different lifestyles. Billy is almost yellow, his cheeks sunken, eyes almost black. He’s a frail, delicate thing, in pyjama trousers and a golfing jumper, still with the tag hanging out at the neck. Santinello, by contrast, looks as though he’s just stepped from the pages of a catalogue of fashions for the over-sixties.

  ‘Don’t mind these two,’ says Pat, fussily, enjoying the sound of laughter and naughtiness in her small, cold home. ‘They’ve been talking about the good old days and drinking some of Malcolm’s lovely wine. Anyway, what can I get you both?’

  The two men see Selena standing behind Adam and both start to get out of their seat. It’s the instinctive politeness of old men in the presence of a young lady, and it looks like it might kill Billy. He gets halfway up, nods, then slumps again, satisfied his duty is done. Santinello is out of the chair with the speed and grace of a young man. He’s all smiles.

  ‘And who’s this pretty young thing?’ he asks, twinkling a little. Up close, there’s wine in his smile. It looks sinister against his slicked, dark clothes, as though he’s a vampire dressed for a town council meeting.

  Selena extends her hand and says her name. He takes it, bends down, and kisses the back of her wrist. Looks up, and smiles
. ‘A pleasure,’ he says. ‘You must be Adam’s latest girlfriend,’ he teases.

  Selena looks to Adam for help, not sure what to say, but he’s staring at the half-empty carafe of red wine on the floor by the vacant seat and not paying attention. Pat steps in. ‘He’s a devil, this one,’ she says. ‘Always been a one for the ladies, he has. Could charm the birds from the trees.’

  Santinello bows to Pat. ‘Guilty as charged,’ he says. ‘Not a patch on Billy, though,’ he adds. ‘Honestly Adam, if it wasn’t for your mother, he’d have been in an early grave from exhaustion. Although running from the ladies was almost as tiring as giving in to them, eh Bill?’

  Their eyes all turn to the man in the chair. He’s staring at the surface of the drink in his hand, his toothless gums worrying at his bottom lip. It makes a sound like tearing sandpaper. The motion seems to take on its own momentum and soon his whole jaw starts oscillating, until it looks like he’s moving a toffee around his mouth. He looks as though he should be on a park bench, mumbling to himself. And this is one of his better days.

  ‘Anyway,’ says Santinello, to break the sudden silence. ‘Merry Christmas, and all that. I saw the pearls you got your mum, Adam. Very nice. The wine’s keeping me busy at the moment. Turned out really nice, for a first attempt. You’ll have some, won’t you, Adam? And your young lady, here.’

  Adam gives a smile and puts his hands in his pockets.

  ‘I’ll get some glasses, then,’ says Pat, and there’s a spring in her step as she leaves the room. It’s starting to feel like a proper family day. She’s been dreading it, of course. Hadn’t expected Billy to still be alive. Had only bought a turkey crown from the butchers and a few veg from the late-shop. But Billy had woken with a brightness she hadn’t seen in months. Woke before her, and made a pot of tea. Brought it into her bedroom on a tray. He’d given her quite a start when she woke and found him standing there, a tea-towel over his arm and saying ‘mademoiselle’. For a moment she was as confused as he had been. Wondering what was real and what was imagined, what was memory and what she could trust. He’d asked her how Christmas had sneaked up on him. What they’d got the lad. Whether she liked her present, opened the night before, as was their way. She worked out quickly that he’d been talking about the pendant she had received from him some twenty years before. Dutifully, now as then, she told him she loved it. That she’d maybe wear it this evening. He went in and out of his senses, after that. Sometimes he was a young man, full of self-confidence, telling her the life they were going to have together. A moment later, middle-aged and angry, desk-bound, house-bound, impotent and burned. Then an old man, taking pleasure in making things for the neighbourhood kids, revelling in his image as a sweet old boy with a taste for mischief and pockets full of sweets. They had a pleasant day. Talked of a son who was so many different ages, but never less than the centre of their worlds. The boy they’d longed for but couldn’t have, and who was given to them in a bundle of blankets, because Mally Santinello had contacts in the city, and her husband’s record for some silly misdemeanours in his youth meant they couldn’t adopt through the proper channels, much as they’d tried to explain it away to the busybodies in the suits. A misunderstanding. A girl who didn’t take no for an answer and made up nasty, spiteful things to get him back. He would never have hurt anybody, not really. Not her Billy. Oh no. Not like the way she claimed. He was a gentleman. Mally understood that. He brought them Adam. It cost them their savings and they had to downsize the house, but he’d been worth it. He was their Adam. Their son. Pat and Billy’s boy, all the way through.