What else was up here? Rock posters of dubious historical interest, a framed Picasso print and a few photographs in clip frames: Sarah, Nazia, his parents, Joe on the pitch at Meadow Lane. Last of all, an ancient sheet music case in cracked brown leather, filled with letters and postcards. Nick dipped into the letters, most of them from the 1980s. Nazia’s strained yet poetic syntax, Sarah’s cramped handwriting, every page full of events and ideas. There were postcards from each of his parents. His mother, in a letter written just before her death, talked about how much she missed his father. He put the letter down quickly, before he welled up, then closed the case. It held too many missing people.
‘Joe?’ a voice came from below.
‘No, Nick. You shouldn’t be climbing that.’
Caroline clambered up the narrow ladder to the attic. ‘I’m not an invalid. We thought you were out. How long have you been up here?’
Nick looked at his watch. It was gone ten. ‘Hours.’
‘Joe went out to drive for a while. I saved you some dinner.’
‘That’s good of you, thanks.’
‘I fell asleep after dinner and thought you must be Joe, come back.’
‘It’s okay for me to be up here, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is. Sifting through memories?’
‘Something like that,’ Nick replied, wondering if she knew what was in the music case in front of him. Had Caroline been through these intimate things? Maybe she had a right to, since they were in her house.
‘You know, I am kind of hungry,’ he said.
‘Come down and I’ll put the lasagne in the microwave,’ she told him. ‘I could do with some company. There might even be a glass of Valpolicella left in the bottle.’
6
In TV shows, when the criminal gets out of prison, he walks into a pub or bar where everybody knows him. There are cheers, pats on the back, followed by wild, boozy celebrations. He’s bought drinks all evening, and goes home with a woman who’s been keeping her bed warm just for him. Maybe it did happen that way for some ex-cons, the ones who belonged to gangs or extended criminal families. Nick had always worked alone. He spent his first few nights of freedom drinking with his brother, schlepping into the garden for a spliff every so often. Tonight, midweek, Caroline was away visiting family and Joe was working until ten. Nick had nowhere to go before then.
In the old days, Nick divided his drinking time between the Limelight, which was the bar attached to Nottingham Playhouse, the Peacock, opposite Radio Nottingham, and Walton’s Hotel at the top of the Park. The crowd at the Limelight had changed and he could no longer afford Walton’s. That left the Peacock, with its mix of political activists and mature students fresh from their evening classes at the Workers’ Educational Association. Nick got there early.
When Nick was sent down, you could still order a drink in the lounge at the Peacock by pressing a button on the wall. He tried it now, but the bell behind the bar didn’t ring. Chris Woods and Des Amos were at the far end of the lounge. He’d been to parties at their house and was always bumping into them at demonstrations. Both glanced round when he came in but neither made a move to greet him. Nick headed towards them, then bottled it and went through to the public bar. This always used to be populated by students from Trent Poly, or Trent University, as it had become just after he was sent down.
In the near corner was Trev Wilcox, a Politics lecturer who Nick had worked with on an anti-cuts campaign in the mid-eighties. Two tables away from him was Pete Tolland, a former stalwart of Notts for nuclear disarmament, and a Labour party branch chairman the last time that Nick had seen him. Nick bought a pint and gravitated towards Trev, whose flat hair was a little shorter than before, burst blood vessels starting to sully his nose. He was with a couple of thirtyish women.
‘Hi, Trev, what’s happening?’
Nick clocked the sideways glance that preceded Trev’s cheery, ‘Nick, good to see you!’ and was followed by a short pause, after which Trev should have introduced him to his friends.
Instead, he said: ‘Actually, we’re in the middle of . . . so if you’d excuse . . .’
‘Sure,’ Nick said. ‘Good to see you.’
He moved on quickly, pretending to be oblivious to the muttering that followed this dismissal. He’d have to get used to being cut. But he’d thought Trev was a mate. Pete, at least, was sitting alone, wearing new, narrow glasses, otherwise unchanged, thin as a whippet and hair jet black. Nick smiled at him as he walked over. Pete stared right through him, then looked down into his drink.
Nick froze. He’d been blanked by several people, slight acquaintances, mostly, since coming out of prison, but this wasn’t an I’m-pretending-I-didn’t-see-you blanking or an I’ve-forgotten-who-you-are Alzheimer’s impression. This was an I-wouldn’t-be-seen-dead-talking-to-you, in your face insult. Pete had been to Nick’s house, smoked his dope, played pool with him after meetings. Now Pete was being joined by a shrewish woman with a stud in her nose, clearly his new partner. Nick’s imagination lip-read their conversation.
Who was that?
An ex-con I used to know before he went bent, probably trying to scrounge a pint.
In a corner, chatting up a short-haired woman half his age, was Tony Bax, who Nick used to play football with on Saturday afternoons. Tony was a city councillor, last Nick knew. He’d fought Nottingham West back in 1987. No chance of becoming the MP. Nick had worked his arse off for him anyway. Tony couldn’t blank him, would give him the bear hug that would validate Nick’s existence to the rest of the pub. But Tony was having an intense conversation. Nick hesitated. Five years was five years. Time dissolved everything. Nick’s pride couldn’t risk his being blanked again. He left the pub, knowing he wouldn’t go back.
Nick had promised to join Joe before last orders. Maybe they’d go clubbing, Joe said. Nick didn’t feel like dancing, trying to pull. But family was family, so he looked for Joe in the crowded Golden Fleece. His brother was with a couple of mates, one pint in front of him, another waiting. Joe saw Nick arrive and spoke gently to the guys he was with, who left at once. They would be football hangers-on. Plenty of people remembered Joe with affection from when he was a talented midfielder for County.
‘Here, get this down you,’ Joe said.
The small white tablet could have been an aspirin.
‘What is it?’
‘A dove.’
Nick borrowed Joe’s pint to wash the pill down.
‘I thought we’d go to Rock City, for old time’s sake.’
‘Why not?’ Nick said.
Rock City was a big venue. Nick had been to more gigs there than he could count. The first time was when he was a student. New Order’s second ever gig. They came on at eleven and played for just forty mesmerising minutes. Then there was R.E.M., with fewer than a hundred people in the audience. The Smiths, early on. Elvis Costello and the Attractions, with The Pogues supporting. Maybe fifty shows since. It would probably be full of students. Nick would feel his age. But at least he wouldn’t meet anyone he knew.
As they walked down the hill, Joe got out a spliff.
‘Better have this now, before the E kicks in.’
Nick watched him light it. ‘Isn’t that a bit . . .’
‘Don’t worry. Everyone’s dead relaxed about it these days. All the cops care about are violent drunks, you know?’
He handed the joint to Nick just as they were passing the Peacock.
‘Nick?’ It was Tony Bax, coming out of the pub. Up close, Tony had aged. There was grey in his beard. A paunch showed through his jacket.