by Chris Simms
‘He could pass for someone a lot younger than that, and you know it.’
‘I’m not so sure. He’s got a few grey hairs creeping in.’ He brushed the tips of his fingers above an ear.
‘Yes, but that body. Christ Almighty.’
He grinned, picturing Andy’s torso. ‘The body? I suppose it might take a few years off him.’
Alice whistled. ‘And the bloody rest. It’s like something from the cover of Men’s Health magazine.’ She gave him an impish glance. ‘No wedding bells as yet?’
Rick waved a hand. ‘No, thank you. Actually . . .’ He sat up and placed an elbow on the table. ‘Remember I mentioned that couple? Team mates of Sheila who plays lacrosse?’
‘The lesbian couple? Asking about sperm donors, weren’t they?’
‘I met them the other day.’
‘No! You didn’t?’ Now Alice was leaning forwards. ‘Go on, tell me.’
‘It was weird, actually,’ Rick replied with a frown. ‘They came to my flat. Kind of interviewed me.’
‘Your flat? Last time we spoke, you were only thinking about it.’
‘I know. I reckoned it couldn’t do any harm to meet up. Once I told Sheila, that was it: they were on to me straight away.’
‘So what happened? They came to your flat . . . and?’
‘Yeah, to see where I live. They’ve read books, or a guide, or something. It was all, I don’t know, a bit clinical, somehow.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Like I was under the spotlight. Loads of questions about my health, education, degree course. I even joked at one point that they could have a copy of my CV. They were delighted.’
‘That’s outrageous! They wanted your CV?’
‘Yes! I had to print one off, there and then. Straight into their file, it went.’
Alice took another sip of wine, looking thoughtful. ‘I suppose you’d want to know as much about a donor as possible.’
‘Yeah, I guess. But it started putting me off, to be honest. They were so intense. At least, the older one was. I got the impression she was the one pushing everything forward.’
‘But you haven’t agreed to anything. You haven’t, you know . . .’ With a light-hearted grimace, she waved a finger in the direction of Rick’s crotch. ‘Produced anything?’
‘No.’ Rick crossed his legs, feigning indignation. ‘I have not produced anything.’
‘How will they do it? Just out of interest.’
‘IVF. There’s a clinic off Deansgate that’s very sympathetic to lesbian couples. Isabelle – the younger one – has had a load of eggs harvested and put in storage. Now they just need to add some little wrigglers.’
Alice giggled. ‘What are the couple like, then?’
Rick hunched a shoulder. ‘Professionals. Own a house in Chorlton. Cathy’s a lawyer, Isabelle is a manager for John Lewis.’
‘Nice, were they? Apart from the interrogation.’
‘Oh, they were just on edge. I could tell they were fine. They’re both obviously intelligent and organised. You can just tell it’s something they’ve really set their hearts on.’
‘And which one will carry the baby? Doesn’t one partner sometimes become pregnant with the other’s egg?’
‘Cathy, the lawyer, is nearly forty. Isabelle’s early thirties. She plays in attack for the lacrosse team. Very athletic looking. Your sort of build, in fact.’
‘Thanks.’ Alice smoothed a hand over a slender thigh.
‘Well, it’s true. Anyway, she’ll carry the baby.’
‘Fair enough. If they’re a stable, well-balanced couple, why not?’
‘Exactly.’ Rick’s voice lacked conviction.
Alice studied him. ‘But there’s something else?’
He shifted a little. ‘Yes. At first, I said I’d prefer just to donate the sperm, then have nothing more to do with it. But I’ve been thinking about things and now I’m not so sure.’
‘Why?’
‘Well . . . you know, a baby’s going to be born. I’ll see a photo of it and I know it won’t be enough. I don’t mean full involvement. The couple wouldn’t agree to that, anyway. But the odd bit of contact as the kid grows up.’ His hand flipped over, fingers stiff with agitation. ‘Then there’s school. What if he or she gets bullied for having two mums? If I’m at least a presence – if only in the background – it might make things easier.’
Alice closed a hand over Rick’s, smoothing his fingers flat against the table. ‘You would make such a great dad.’
He looked down, embarrassed.
‘You would,’ she insisted. ‘Just the fact you’re already concerned about things like that. And you’re a natural with Holly.’
‘One thing would be really funny if I had more involvement – Jon’s reaction if I turned up here with a little baby and then told him it was mine. Could you imagine his reaction?’
Alice laughed. ‘That would floor him more effectively than any rugby tackle. We’d have to bring him round with some brandy.’
‘It would be something to see,’ Rick agreed.
‘What does Andy think about all this?’
There was a hint of regret in Rick’s smile. ‘He’s not bothered. As long as I’m happy.’
‘He’s never mentioned kids, then?’
‘Andy?’ Rick looked shocked. ‘God, no. He’s not the slightest bit interested.’ His voice lightened. ‘It might get in the way of his sessions at the gym.’
‘So, what’s the score with this couple? About the dad’s part.’
‘They envisage him playing a minor role. But they seemed fine when I said I’d prefer no involvement.’
‘Maybe you’d better let them know you’re thinking along their lines now.’
‘There’s more.’
Alice raised her eyebrows, inviting him to continue.
‘I’m not the only one they’re talking to.’
‘Sorry?’
‘As they were leaving, they just dropped it in. There’s some other guy who said he’d be prepared to help out.’
‘Bloody hell, this gets more complicated by the minute.’
‘I know. But you know what’s strange? It really got my hackles up. Me, hardly your typical alpha male, really – and I mean really – wants to beat this bloke. I’ve never met him, seen him, spoken to him, but I so want to beat him.’ A mock sternness entered his voice. ‘My sperm will fertilise that egg. Not his. Mine!’
Alice burst out laughing. ‘Fucking hell, Rick. You’re going all Tarzan on me.’
He slid his hand out from under hers and beat his fists lightly against his chest. Alice cocked her head to the side. ‘Rick? That’s really not you.’
He lowered his hands. ‘Couldn’t agree more. But I tell you, it’s really got to me. I mean, what if the other guy is some perfect physical specimen? With a doctorate from Cambridge? He probably runs marathons before breakfast, makes cordon bleu meals with one hand while trading stocks and shares over the internet with the other. He probably makes George Clooney look ugly.’ He paused for breath. ‘Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind shagging him.’
‘Me, too,’ Alice agreed. ‘So what’s the score, now?’
‘They said they’d be in contact within forty-eight hours.’ He glanced at his jacket. ‘I can’t stop checking my bloody phone for texts. It’s ridiculous.’
The microwave pinged and Alice got to her feet. ‘They’d be mad not to pick you. You’ll get the call, I know it. Now, shall we eat?’
Seventeen
‘Time, please! Come on, gents, sling your bloody hooks.’
Jon looked around, exhaling smoke as he did so. Glasses littered the table and the ashtray was sprouting a forest of butts. Shit, he thought, feeling the tightness in his chest. I’m not used to hammering it like this.
‘Haven’t you two got a home to go to?’ Curtis began stacking their empties into a tower.
Jon pictured his car parked outside. A crappy few hours of sleep and then what? He couldn�
��t prove to Mallin that any drugs being sold in The Spread Eagle were coming from Flynn.
The other man sank the last of his pint. ‘Fancy carrying on? I’ve got plenty of stuff at mine.’
Jon sat up. The night wasn’t over yet. ‘Yeah? How far is it?’
‘Two minutes. On the bike.’
‘You’ve got a motorbike?’ Jon glanced towards the window.
‘Sounds like a plan to me.’
Flynn led the way out of the back door and they crossed a yard cramped with empty tables and plastic chairs. A security light came on, revealing a motorbike propped on its stand in the lane behind the building. Jon noticed the chunky diamondshaped tread on the tyres. ‘Off-roader?’
‘Kawasaki KDX 250.’
‘What about the Old Bill?’
Flynn laughed. ‘Round here? They’ll be sitting in their beds by now, sipping cocoa.’ He removed a black helmet hanging from the handlebars, a skull and cross-bones curling across the shiny dome. ‘Want this?’
‘No, you have it.’
Flynn raised his eyebrows. ‘Sure? I might be a shit driver.’
Jon landed a token punch on Flynn’s arm. ‘You’re not going to fucking-well crash.’
He chuckled in agreement. ‘You take the seat and hang on to my sides. I’ll stand; it’s not far.’
Jon climbed on, feet resting on the ground as Flynn kicked the engine into life. The machine moved forward and Jon raised his legs. There was nothing to rest his feet on, and as the flexor muscles in his hips began to ache, he remembered the same sensation from his childhood. Dave, straining to propel his Grifter forward, Jon sitting on the seat behind, yelling, ‘Yee-har!’ at the back of his brother’s head.
Flynn whipped them round a succession of sharp bends, each abrupt burst of acceleration making the trial bike’s engine bark. Jon was glad of the rush of air; it cooled the flush of alcohol in his blood, allowing him to think.
Whatever you find out tonight, he told himself, you will keep in control. And if it turned out this man killed Dave, you will not put your hands around his neck and crush the miserable fucking life out of him.
By now they were at the edge of town and the few houses at the side of the road were spaced well apart. Beyond, the blackness of the countryside sat heavy and silent. Flynn turned sharply to the right, gunned the engine up a short, steep driveway and came to a halt before a seventies-style bungalow.
The porch light was on and Jon climbed stiffly off the bike.
‘That was beginning to wreck my legs.’
Flynn laughed over his shoulder as he rocked the bike back onto its stand. Making a show of massaging his thighs, Jon then bent his knees. Using the light from the porch, he examined the rear tyre of Flynn’s bike. There, imprinted on the inner edge of the rubber were the words, Bridgestone. He tried to make out the four or so letters and numbers next to it. A ‘T’ and possibly an ‘O’.
‘You coming?’ Flynn called over, shouldering his way into the porch.
Straightening up, Jon looked at Flynn’s home. Antlers were mounted on the wall next to the front door. Once inside, Flynn’s bungalow was as messy as Jon expected. Old copies of tabloid papers and men’s magazines were strewn about on a faded settee and two armchairs. A coffee table with a few empty cans and a half-full ashtray. Cheap framed prints dotted the walls. Muhammad Ali looking down on an opponent lying at his feet, one of his shoulders jerking upwards, mouth wide open in a victorious shout. Marilyn Monroe, wearing a puffy ball gown, leaning forward with a languid look in her eyes. Robert De Niro, straps of a shoulder holster digging into his bare flesh as he held a magnum . towards a mirror. Jon’s eyes returned to Marilyn’s cleavage for a moment. These were the types of posters students picked up in Athena over ten years ago.
‘Take a pew.’ Flynn gestured at the sofa. ‘Vodka?’
‘Nice one.’ Jon piled up a few copies of FHM, Loaded and the Sun and placed them on the table before sitting down.
As soon as Flynn headed for the kitchen, Jon’s eyes systematically began searching the room. A desk and set of drawers in one corner. Next to it a flimsy-looking cabinet of videos and DVDs. Rocky. Predator. First Blood. Claude Van Damme, Steven Seagal, even Chuck Norris films. The worst macho shit Jon could imagine.
He looked up at the lampshade. Jagged plastic panels of beige arranged around four candle-shaped light bulbs. Two weren’t working. He guessed that, apart from the pictures on the walls, nothing had changed in here since Flynn inherited the place from his parents.
Somehow it didn’t look like the pad of an organised pusher. No flashy sound system or widescreen TV. None of the usual touches to announce the owner had serious money. It was just too . . . Jon searched for the right word. Sad, he concluded. Flynn was a criminal all right. But strictly small scale, nothing more.
‘Right.’ Flynn walked back in and placed a bottle of Smirnoff, a bottle of lemonade and two glasses on the low table. He took the armchair opposite, hunching forward to pour the drinks.
‘Splash of lemonade?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
They clinked glasses and Flynn took a long sip, then breathed out. ‘Fucking hits the mark, that.’
Jon swallowed, suppressing the sour taste by not breathing out until the liquid was well down his throat. God, he thought, I can’t stand vodka. ‘Beautiful.’
‘So.’ Flynn sat back, knees apart and glass cradled on his crotch. ‘How are you sorting things out in Sheffield? Things must have been arranged already.’
Jon made a show of weighing the other man up. ‘My boss takes care of all that stuff. He’s the one with the connections.’
‘That right?’
Jon lit a cigarette, holding it in his hand as he bent his head forward to scratch behind an ear. ‘He runs a good chunk of Newcastle.’
Flynn looked pleased at the admission. ‘So, he’s branching out, then? Looking for a slice of Sheffield?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. His – what do you call it? The brother of his wife.’
‘Brother-in-law?’
‘Yeah, brother-in-law.’ Jon deliberately widened his eyes, then looked down at his glass. ‘Fuck, the vodka’s already getting to me.’
Flynn laughed, pouring another glug into both glasses.
‘Brother-in-law, then?’
‘Yup. He’s from Sheffield – that’s the connection. It’s just a favour to him.’
Flynn helped himself to one of Jon’s cigarettes. ‘What’s his name?’
The casual way he asked it set off an alarm bell in Jon’s head. How much does Flynn know about the scene in Sheffield? Probably more than me. ‘What is this? Twenty questions?’
‘Nah, just interested, that’s all.’
Jon shrugged. ‘Mick. Don’t ask me his surname, though.’ Flynn took a drag, eyes staying on Jon as he did so.
Jon looked at the CD player in the corner. ‘Let’s have some music.’ He stood up, making sure he appeared to lose his balance slightly as he stepped over. The untidy stack of cases was made up of rave stuff, techno, trance. All of them best-of compilations. ‘You got a nightclub in Haverdale?’
‘One. Kelly’s.’
‘Any good?’
‘Well, it shuts at four.’
Jon searched lower, looking for anything that he’d be able to stand for more than one track. ‘I’m getting old. Just listening to this club stuff makes me feel out of breath.’ He settled on Leftfield’s Leftism. That would be a blast from the past. He put it on and listened as the space noises and chirpy notes slowly built. From behind him he heard Flynn announce, ‘Tune!’
Notes from something like an electronic flute floated in just ahead of the guy’s voice. He remembered nights with Alice, well before they’d even considered kids, swaying and bouncing in a packed club. The drum kicked in and he felt a surge inside.
‘Is that what you do, then? Work in Kelly’s?’
Flynn hunched a shoulder. ‘I go there some nights.’
‘Working on the doors?�
��
Smiling he reached down to the floor at the side of the armchair and produced a kitchen tray that was littered with torn packets of Rizlas. ‘Any work I do there is for myself. Smoke?’
Jon was looking at the paraphernalia. Christ, the last time I had any of that stuff was probably in the club where this track was playing. A joint, passed round on the corner balcony where he’d been dancing. ‘Great.’ He took his seat, watching Flynn arrange cigarette papers in a delicate mosaic. ‘So, it gets pretty busy in the place?’
‘Can do. Not that I’m allowed in there any more.’
‘Oh?’
‘Disagreement with the management.’ He examined the knuckles of his right hand by way of an explanation.
Pretending to place his drink on the floor out of Flynn’s sight, Jon quickly tipped most of it out on the carpet. ‘Another shot?’
‘Go for it.’
He poured the lemonade first, then added a dribble of vodka to his glass. Flynn got three times the amount. ‘Cheers.’
The other man glanced up from the tray, took the drink Jon was holding out, knocked half of it back and continued crumbling the contents of a cigarette into the overlapping papers.
Jon’s mind raced. He knew that, once the joint was handed over, his ability to manipulate the conversation would be quickly lost. Flynn produced a plastic pouch stuffed with green clumps and began to add little bits to the line of tobacco. Grass, thought Jon. But how strong? He nodded at the joint as Flynn rolled it up and licked the gummed edge. ‘That’s what you meant by working in Kelly’s?’
Flynn gave another smile. ‘How about this club in Sheffield?’ He lit up and took a long drag. ‘You’re all covered on that front?’
The pungent aroma hit Jon just as the song began to build speed again. Treble notes lifted it to a wavering level before the bass drum began to thump. Jon remembered being in the club, the ability to talk draining away as the cannabis had taken hold. It was now, or never. ‘Not necessarily.’
Their eyes met and Flynn sat back. ‘Not necessarily?’
Jon tipped his head to the side. ‘My boss is talking to someone locally, but he’s a businessman. Why don’t you make me an offer?’
