'Ted?' said Michael. 'Are you all right?'
Ted looked as though someone had just punched him hard in the stomach. He shook his head. He'd flushed a deep red.
'Ted?'
'I…Michael?…Ye're not…I mean…'
'I thought everybody knew!' said Michael. 'That was the reason I left back in '69.'
'But…I thought it was because of the Troubles,' said Ted.
'Well, there was that too, of course.'
'I…But…'
'You could have come with me, Ted. You could have made a new life for yerself.'
'I…You're not…'
'I think he maybe needs a drink,' said Michael to Israel.
'Right,' said Israel, pushing one of his three as yet undrunk Guinnesses towards Ted. 'He could have one my-'
'Actually, I think a wee drop of the craythur,' said Michael. 'That'd see you right, Ted, wouldn't it? A wee drop of the craythur?'
'I…' said Ted, who was struggling.
'Let's have a wee look here.'
Michael got up and hobbled over to the bar.
'Ted!' whispered Israel.
'What?'
'Snap out of it. Don't be so rude.'
'Ach. I…'
'Get a grip, Ted.'
'I just can't…He's a…'
'It's fine. He's still your cousin.'
'Yes, but a…'
'There are no buts.'
'I wouldn't have come if I'd have known he was…'
'Sshh!'
Michael came back over to the table with a bottle of clear liquid gripped under his armpit, and three glasses.
'Fella from Dagenham gets it over from Cork, so he does.'
'What is that?' asked Israel.
'Poteen,' said Michael.
'Isn't that illegal?' said Israel.
'Ha!' said Michael, uncorking the bottle, and offering the bottle to Ted and Israel to smell. 'Where'd ye get him, Ted, eh?'
'I…' said Ted.
'Smell all right?' said Michael.
'Aye,' said Ted.
'It is illegal, isn't it?' said Israel.
Michael called over to the man in the suit and hat drinking by himself.
'He says the poteen, Hugh, is it illegal?'
'As far as I know.'
'Hughie says it's definitely illegal.'
'He's your poteen expert then, is he?' said Israel jokingly.
'Aye,' said Michael. 'You could say that. He's…Hold on, what's your official title, Hugh?'
'DCI.'
'The police?' said Israel.
'There you are now,' said Michael. 'You're not going to take us in for the poteen are ye, Hugh?'
'What day of the week is it?' said Hugh.
'It's a Wednesday,' said Michael.
'You're all right, then, Michael. I'll turn a blind eye. But mind you've it drunk by tomorrow.'
'There we are now,' said Michael. 'So, a wee drop of the craythur?'
'No, I don't think so,' said Israel. 'Not for me, thanks.'
'Ye big drink a water. Come on now and have a wee try.'
Michael poured three generous measures of colourless liquid into the glasses.
'Cheers!' he said to Ted.
Ted remained silent and motionless until Israel jogged his arm.
'Ted, cheers!'
'Cheers,' said Ted mournfully, looking down at the table.
Since living in Tumdrum, Israel's taste buds had become accustomed to strong alcoholic beverages. He knocked it back.
'Good, isn't she?' said Michael.
'Not bad,' said Israel, gasping. It tasted like fermented beaver piss. 'You know the policeman there,' he said to Michael. 'Do you think he might be able to pull a few strings and find out who's stolen our van?'
'Hugh?' said Michael, calling over. 'Could you do me a wee favour?'
'Any time,' said Hugh.
'Tracing a stolen van?'
'No problem at all,' said Hugh.
'Thank you, darling,' said Michael. 'There,' he said to Israel and Ted. 'That's you all sorted now, Ted, isn't it?'
'Ach, Michael,' said Ted.
'That went well,' said Israel, when they left.
'We'll never hear any more of it,' said Ted. 'A bunch of homo…' He struggled to say the word.
They got the call the next morning.
11
The address they'd been given was just by Wandsworth Bridge. They drove there in Israel's mother's new car; she'd traded up since Israel had gone to Tumdrum, to a shiny black Mini with a cream leather interior, the middle-aged woman's Harley-Davidson: the perfect post-menopause vehicle.
'Now we're just like The Italian Job,' enthused Israel, behind the wheel.
Ted, in the passenger seat, looked at him pitilessly.
Muhammad, in Ted's lap, remained silent.
It was a small industrial estate surrounded by high fences and barbed-wire decorated with several generations of windblown rubbish, and crisscrossed by a warren of potholed roads lined with dilapidated warehouse units and fenced-in areas in which Alsatian dogs barked and loud music played, and firms specialised in the manufacture of PVC products.
Israel and Ted drove around for fifteen minutes up and down the pavement-less streets, white vans everywhere going about their honest-to-God business, and not a soul around, and eventually, down past Worldwide Refrigeration Services and KGB Engineering-what was that?-and edging right up to the side of the Thames itself, there it was: Britton's Second Hand Van Sales, Lease and Hire.
'Ted?' said Israel. 'We're here.'
Ted had been entirely silent on the journey.
'Ted?'
'What?' said Ted.
'I said we're here.'
When they'd arrived back at Israel's mother's the night before, after their long afternoon in the Prince Albert, Ted had excused himself and spent the evening alone in the spare room.
'Is he all right?' Israel's mother kept asking Israel. 'Do you think he's okay? Is it something I said?'
'He's fine,' said Israel. 'It's just been a shock, I think, with the van, you know, and seeing his cousin after all these years.'
'Oy!' said Israel's mother. 'People change. You remember your aunt Sarah? She was a brunette growing up in Finchley; now, twenty-five years later, she's a blonde in South Africa.'
'Right,' said Israel.
'And she's had a boob job.'
'Yeah, but-'
'And a nose job.'
'It's not quite the same, Mum. It's-'
Her mobile rang.
'I've got to take this call,' said his mother. 'It could be a lead.'
Israel's mother was taking the hunt for the van seriously. She'd always been ambitious and organised, but her ambition and organisation had been focused largely on making packed lunches and arranging school concerts for the PTA. Now that she was faced with a bona fide challenge, she'd turned into Hillary Clinton. It had given her a new lease of life.
Israel's mobile hadn't rung.
He still hadn't heard from Gloria.
She was busy. Maybe she was away. Business.
Yes. That was it. She was definitely away.
'You can talk to me about it, if you want,' said Israel.
Ted remained silent.
'Or not. "Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must remain silent."'
'All right, Buddha,' said Ted.
'Actually, that's Wittgenstein.'
'Who?'
'Wittgenstein, Ludwig, famous Austrian philosopher.'
'Aye,' said Ted, 'we had one of them, but the wheels fell off.'
'Are you all right, though, seriously?' said Israel, as he parked the car.
'What?' said Ted, stroking the dog.
'Well, it's just, you've not said anything all morning,' said Israel. 'I was just wondering, you know, if you're all right?'
'Am I all right?' said Ted irritably. 'Am I all right?'
'It's a straightforward question,' said Israel.
Ted shook his head, either in rage or despair, it was difficult to tell which. Muhammad barked in sympathy.
'There's nothing wrong with me,' said Ted, with implication.
'Are you thinking about your cousin?' said Israel.
Ted huffed.
'I know it was a shock, but…You can't know everything about people, Ted, not even your own family. Everybody has to lead their life the way they see fit. And it's just…something we all have to face, one day or another. Sometimes you just have to embrace difference and change and try to move forward.'