‘Up a bit. North.’
‘How far north?’
‘Scotland.’
‘Scotland?’
‘Cape Wrath.’
Cape Roff. Des happened to know that Cape Wrath, a famously desolate spot, lay on the kingdom’s topmost left-hand tip. ‘How’d she take it?’
‘Oh, you know. On come the waterworks. I’ll miss me sister! All this. I said, Woman — you forty-two. You can’t fight the march of time! … She’ll love it once she’s there.’ Lionel went on expansively, ‘See, Des, there’s something new in my life. A new uh, dimension. And it’s — what? What?’
‘The money?’
‘No. The future! The future, Des. See, before, it was just day by day. The proverbial wing and a prayer. If you like. No thought of the morrow. The future? What fucking future.’ (Whoff fucking future.) ‘Nothing weighed anything. Everything just uh … So Gran — Gran, she ain’t that bad now. But what’ll she be like in a year or two? Eh? Eh?’
‘Worse.’
‘Worse. Let’s face it, Des. Her bonce is going. And when you bonce goes … I had a long talk with the bloke who runs the home. He’s a uh, specialist. Specialist in old people. And he reckons she could be coming down with that German disease.’
‘Alzheimer’s?’
‘Yeah. That German lurgy that rots you brain. And if she’s got that, then it’s all off. They start babbling, see. And we can’t have Gran babbling, can we Des. Can’t have her babbling. Might say … something she’ll regret.’
Lionel turned and strolled out on to the balcony. Des joined him. Diston, in the gritty shimmer of late July, with its slopes and tiers.
‘But Uncle Li, she won’t have anyone to talk to up there.’
‘That’s the point.’
‘You had a look at the place?’
‘Why waste me time? The prices tell they own story. She needs skilled care, Des.’ Lionel rinsed his mouth with saliva before saying, ‘It’s … pathetic.’ Puffeh ic-cuh. ‘She repeats herself. Says one thing. Says it again. You repeating youself, woman! … This home, Des, it’s like a five-star hotel — but with doctors. Okay, four-star. She’ll be as happy as a pig in shit up there. Mum. Where’s me tea?’
As Des warmed the pot Lionel’s eyes settled on the burnished metal tank. ‘As for that,’ he said wearily, ‘open now, is it?’
‘Yeah. Shut for weeks. Then it opened … Better open than shut. Once it shuts, you can’t open it.’
‘You been sitting —’
‘No I never.’
‘… Oh. Oh. So this is the way he talks to his own uncle now, is it? His own uncle. Who raised him. Take a seat there. There.’ He reached out for the yawning lid (serrated, like the upper jaw of some black-gummed deep-sea fish) and smacked it shut.
‘There,’ he said. ‘On the tank.’
8
BEFORE MAKING ITS drop over the shoulder of the next block along, the sun took a last look at 33F Avalon Tower — the balcony with its litter tray and water bowls, the sliding glass door, the kitchen and the two silent silhouettes …
Lionel stood; he tasted his tea; with an unusually graceful movement he slipped off his jacket; he reversed his chair, and sat. He placed a thick-fingered hand on his nephew’s nape. He spoke softly.
‘You tense, Des. I can feel you tension. Crouched behind that wheel. Diston traffic. That’s a killing job, that is. Even for a young man. You do that and you be dead by thirty. You shouldn’t be out there, boy. Should be studying. With you books. Jesus. You shoulder’s like rock. You neck — there’s no give in it … The dogs, Desmond. The dogs. They never had a chance. You fucked them up when they was just pups.’
Des could feel Lionel’s newly metallic breath on his cheek.
‘I go away for a while. I return. And they both lying on they backs and wagging they tails! They like poodles … I only asked you to do three things. One, two, three. One. Two. Three.’
Tabasco. Special Brew. Harsh and regular use of the training tools.
‘Uncle Li, I tried. But it’s not — it’s not in my nature.’
‘… Your nature? What about they nature? They meant to be hard. That’s why they were born.’
His fierce gaze never wavering, Lionel reached to his right and swung open the cupboard door. There for all to see: the untouched case of red-pepper sauce, the untouched six-packs of malt lager, the untouched training tools — break stick, lunge pole, the ethnic mannequins.
‘You was saying?’
‘… You don’t need them hard any more. You’re not going to be out collecting debts now, are you.’
‘Ah, but that’s to be wise after the event. You flash little cunt. And I’ll always be needing hard dogs. For why? For me security.’
‘All right. I’m very sorry, Uncle Li.’
‘All right. You sorry about that. Try being very sorry about this. You statement in court. I died a thousand deaths as those words left you lips. A thousand deaths.’
‘Which bit?’
… I have known Lionel Asbo all my life. And after my mother passed away, when I was twelve, he became more like a father than an uncle. He has always treated me with kindness, understanding, and generosity. I took my mother’s death very hard, and I think it’s fair to say that I wouldn’t have got through it without Uncle Lionel’s love and care … Everyone knows that Uncle Lionel has a dry sense of humour. And all right, his speech at the wedding reception could be regarded as contentious. But I confirm, under oath, that Lionel Asbo did not land the first blow.
Then who did land the first blow? Is that man in court today?
… ‘Which bit?’ said Lionel. ‘When you pointed you finger! When you named him.’
Des gave a silent sigh. His statement did no more than corroborate the testimony of eleven waiters, four hired musicians, three Dragos (Dejan, Oreste, and Vassallo), and two of Marlon’s own brothers (Troy and Yul).
‘What should I have said?’
‘Same as John, Paul, and George! That you never saw nothing! You was looking the other way!’
‘… Marlon grassed you up. For Gina.’
‘No he didn’t. All in me own head, that was. See, this is what girls do to you, Des. They make you mad.’
Lionel lit a fresh cigar (and proceeded to smoke it as he would a Marlboro Hundred, with long drags and emphatic inhalations). The room darkened another shade. With a wistful smile Lionel asked quietly,
‘Remember Rory Nightingale, Des? Course you do, course you do. He said something, Rory. Before they uh … He said something. Something about you … Des did … did it and all! Stressful moment for the boy, of course,’ Lionel conceded (and momentarily raised his chin). ‘They was gagging him. About to take him off. Des — Des did it and all. Now why’s that stuck in me mind? That’s what I want to know. Why’s that stuck in me mind? Look at me, Des …’
For one minute, two minutes, three, Des laid himself open to those small mobile eyes. And so, perhaps, it might have gone on, and on, for ever and ever … But at last he heard the jolts of the locks, the jink and scuffle of the dogs.
‘Up you get, boy. We got work to do.’