“Ha-ha,” he replied, as though it had been a perfectly serious question. “We laugh a lot.”
“Well,” I said, “they say that laughter is the best therapy.”
No response to this.
“How long have you two been together?”
“Just a couple of weeks. I think dad might like to meet her.”
“Dad?”
“She says she’s up for it. I thought we could all go.”
I wasn’t expecting this. “All?”
“Me and Keisha and you and Tanya.”
His voice had the usual edgy quality it always took on whenever he had to speak at length on the phone. He disliked not being able to see the person he was talking to. He also tended to make inappropriate comments and suggestions. It wouldn’t occur to him to consider that Father might find a visit from four people rather overwhelming, especially since two of them would be strangers.
“I’m not sure that would be appropriate, Rees. He’s always better with one person at a time.”
“When did you last see him?”
I tried to think. “Well, it was a while ago. A few months. Six, maybe.”
“I haven’t seen him in nearly a year. We’re overdue, bro.”
“I’m not ready for it at present.”
“Might b just the tonic you need. Remind you that there’s always others worse off.”
I stifled my surprise. It was rare for Rees to make a non-subjective observation.
He went quiet again. His telephone silences always made you feel you were in danger of losing him, that he was already shunting off down a mental siding where the conversational track would abruptly end.
“Funnily enough,” I said, “he phoned last night. Left a message.”
After a moment: “How did he sound?”
“The usual. Vague and confused. I didn’t actually speak to him. Does he know about my accident?”
There was a silence suggestive of the idea that he was thinking about it.
“Would he remember if anyone told him?”
“Probably not.”
“Perhaps Tanya’s been in touch. Did you ask her?”
“No. Are you sure everything’s all right, Rees?”
“Ticketyboo, bro. Ticketybro, boo.”
He sounded a little manic. “You taking your medication?”
“’Course. Keisha makes sure of that. She’s a stickler.”
“Can I speak to her?”
“She’s in the kitchen, cooking dinner. Bean curry. Some like it hot.”
It was an L-shaped bedsit, the kitchen tucked in one corner. I couldn’t hear any sounds of cooking in the background.
“How old is she?” I asked.
“Five five.”
“Fifty-five?”
He sniggered. “Squared. We’ll come and see you soon so you can get to know one another.”
“Really?”
“Honest. Listen, got to go. Think about what I said, eh?”
It was dark, the square practically deserted. Owain drained the last of his pint and belched, tasting the curried pastie he’d eaten earlier. The pub was popular because street vendors called in, offering leftovers at bargain prices.
There were two other empty glasses in front of him. The crowd in the pub had thinned a little but the bar was still busy. He could hear darts thudding into a board above the hubbub. The TV was now showing an old black-and-white Hollywood movie. Men and women in dinner jackets and gowns moving around an elegant apartment with a skyscraper horizon visible beyond the window. Even more people had crowded into the alcove to watch it.
Fog was starting to fill the square. With the wagons and stalls gone Owain had had an unimpeded view of all approach points to the alleyway until now. But there was still no sign of Rhys. His brother hadn’t returned—at least not via this route. Soon the fog would prevent him from knowing even if he did. He saw to his surprise that it was after six o’clock. He couldn’t wait any longer.
Getting down off the stool, he almost fell forward. As he traversed the bar he heard peevish voices and realised that he had walked across the line of sight of the darts players. He found the door, lurched outside.
The cold lunged at him. He took a few steps and threw up into the snow. Rummaging in his jacket he found a handkerchief and swabbed his face. His thoughts were tumbling over one another. Giddy myself, I couldn’t get a grip on them.
The snow was inches deep. He made his way down the alley to the fire escape. With extreme deliberateness he mounted the stairs, gripping the handrail, setting his feet down firmly on each snow-coated step. He looked neither up nor down but straight ahead, concentrating utterly on not losing his footing.
The fire door was still open a crack. He stepped through, crossed to his brother’s door. Turned the handle with as much stealth as he could muster.
Rhys hadn’t returned. The room was exactly as he had left it hours ago.
There was no sign of any briefcase or documentation. He checked the bedside dresser: the drawers were empty. In the wardrobe hung shirts, jackets and trousers, all freshly pressed, three or so of each. Underwear and sweaters still inside his suitcase at the bottom of it. Enough clothes for a few days’ stay but no more. Nothing except for loose change in any of the pockets. No wallet or ID card. No evidence that he’d shared the suite with anyone else.
Owain briefly contemplated scribbling a message but rejected the idea. If Rhys had actually fled from him there was no point in giving hints of why he had come. Of course he could pretend that it had just been a social call. But would Rhys believe it? Unlikely. Better to leave him guessing.
He also considered and rejected the idea of leaving via the foyer, and perhaps giving a message to the old woman at the desk. A stupid idea. She would want to know what he had been doing in the interim. Possibly she had phoned up to let Rhys know he was coming, giving him time to flee. It was odd that no one had come upstairs to check what was going on. Maybe she was too arthritic for the climb. Perhaps there wasn’t anyone else to hand. More likely she knew better than to meddle in anything involving the military.
He exited again, going down the fire escape with even more caution than he had ascended. By the time he reached the bottom he needed to pee. The alleyway was deserted, the walls framing it blind brick. He relieved himself under the stairway.
The fog was thick. He had just finished when he glimpsed a movement in the square. A figure in a bulky coat, moving stealthily around.
Owain crept forward. The murky light spilling out from the pub showed the figure crouching, picking up something from the impacted snow, edging closer to the alleyway. Pausing and looking around, as though to check that no one was looking. Head swathed in a fur cap.
Owain waited until it turned its back on him. He raced out, clamping one hand across the face, the other grabbing an arm and twisting.
There was a brief struggle, buttons popping on the coat, a mound of flesh under his hand, the cap dislodged, dark hair spilling out. He saw the grimy face of a girl.
He pushed her into the alleyway and up against the wall. She was perhaps seventeen or eighteen. Owain had a sense of having known from the outset that it wasn’t Rhys but being compelled to take action in order to be certain. He was spoiling for a fight.
I willed him to restrain himself, and he did pause for a moment. The girl went motionless under his grip. Her hair was ragged-edged, her fur coat worn and fetid. Underneath it she wore layers of blouses and shirts, all of which had parted effortlessly under the thrust of his hands. No bra, her left breast squashed under his palm. He slid it up towards her shoulder. A pretty face. Lean-bodied but soft in all the right places.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded to know, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Her fearful eyes flickered. She held herself absolutely still except for the rise and fall of her chest.