“Christ.”
The guy stopped cutting my hair, hung his head. A moment of silence. I asked,
“Why?”
“Dunno. He was caught between a failing marriage and his lover. His health was fucked, and he couldn’t get a grip on the band’s huge success... gel?”
“What do you think?”
“I was you, I’d go for it.”
“Bring it on.”
He did.
When I was leaving, I gave him a decent tip. He said,
“Hey, thanks a lot.”
“No, thank you.”
I had phoned the security firm early in the morning. Using a false name, I said I wanted a job. Was asked,
“Any experience?”
“I was in the services.”
“Great.”
I wanted to see if any of their staff recognised me. From there, I was going to have to make it up as I went along. Worst scenario, I might even get a job.
En route, I went into Zhivago Records. The manager, Declan, was one of a rare to rarer species, a Galwegian. He said,
“How’s it going?”
“Okay.”
“Jeez, what happened to your hair.”
“It’s a No. 3.”
“It’s a bloody disgrace. What’s stuck in it?”
“That’s gel.”
“Saw you coming more like.”
“I want to buy a record, so could we cut the chit-chat?”
“Testy! What were you looking for?”
“Joy Division.”
He laughed out loud.
“You...?”
“Christ, do you want to sell me a record or not?”
“The compilation album... that’s the one.”
“OK.”
He knocked a few quid off, so I figured he’d earned the cracks. Outside, I took a deep breath, said,
“Showtime.”
“Linda put her hand on his arm. ‘You know,
you don’t have to do this.’
He turned to her, a little surprised. We want
to find out what happens next, don’t we?’
‘I forgot/ Linda said, ‘you’re using me. I’m
an idea for a movie.’
Chili said, ‘We’re using each other.’”
The security office was on Lower Abbeygate Street. I went in and a receptionist asked me to wait, saying,
“Mr Reynolds will see you in a moment.”
I’d barely sat when she called me. The minute I walked in, the man behind the desk did a double take. I glanced at his hands. The knuckles were bruised and cut. We stood staring at each other. I said,
“Surprise!”
He stood up, a big man, all of it muscle, said,
“We don’t have any vacancies.”
“Too bad. I think I could do ‘rent-a-thug’.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I held up my bandaged fingers, said,
“Like your work.”
He made to move from the desk, and I said,
“I’ll see myself out.”
The receptionist gave me a shy smile, said,
“Get the job?”
“Got the job done all right.”
Outside, I took a deep breath. So, I’d proved a link, but what did that give me? Rang Sutton and told him; he said,
“Well, we’re on our way.”
“But to where?”
“Hell, I’d say.”
“At least it will be familiar.”
Back home that evening, I was slow working through a six pack. The doorbell went. Answered to Linda, the bank clerk upstairs tenant. She went,
“Good heavens, what happened to you?”
“Just a scratch.”
“Drunk, I suppose.”
“Did you want something?”
“I’m having a party tonight, just a few friends.”
“You’re inviting me?”
“Well yes, but there are some ground rules.”
“I’ll be there.”
And I shut the door. Had just opened a fresh beer when the doorbell went again. Figuring “There goes the party,” I pulled the door open. It was Ann Henderson. I said,
“Oh.”
“You were expecting someone else.”
“No, I mean... come in.”
She had a batch of shopping bags, said,
“I thought you could use a solid meal. No! I knew you could use a solid meal. But first I need a shot of colada.”
“Pina colada?”
She gave me a look of almost contempt, said,
“It’s the highest dose of caffeine and sugar in a shot glass.”
“Wouldn’t a Scotch do the same job?”
Another look.
She found the kitchen. Not a difficult task as there are only two other rooms. I heard her gasp,
“Oh... my... God!”
“Sorry, I haven’t had much time to clean.”
“Come in. I m opening the wine.”
I did.
Already she was unpacking bags, sifting through pots, asked,
“Like spaghetti?”
“Shouldn’t I?”
“It’s dinner.”
“Love it.”
After she poured the wine, she ordered me out. I sat in the living room, finishing the beer. I didn’t really want to put wine down on top but thought, “Fuckit.” Which is the short version of the Serenity Prayer.
Half an hour later, we were seated at the table, mountains of food before us. She asked,
“Want to say grace?”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Thank you, Lord, for this food and drink.” I nodded.
I tried to eat politely. She shook her head, said,
“Jack, there is no way you can look cool and eat spaghetti. Let it dribble, eat like an Italian.”
I hate to admit it but I liked her using my name. Throwing caution to the wind, I ate like a demon. She watched me, said,
“I’d forgotten what a pleasure it is to watch a man eat.”
Even the wine wasn’t half bad. I said,
“Wanna party?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Upstairs... my neighbour... she disapproves of me, but I think she’d be surprised by you.”
“Why?”
“Well, you’re a surprising lady.”
She stood up, asked,
“Dessert?”
“No... I’m as full as a tick.”
I was wearing a grey sweatshirt that read AYLON. The w had long since washed away. I had stone-worn black cords and Du Barry moccasins. I looked like an ad. For GAP retro.
Ann was wearing a red sweatshirt. No logo. Faded blue jeans and pale Reeboks. We could have done one of those mortgage commercials. I didn’t mention this. She said,
“We’re not really dressed for a party, are we?”
“But we’re comfortable, right? They’ll think we’re an old relaxed couple.”
This made her sad. I did what you do in such cases; I said,
“Another drink?”
“Why do you drink so much, Jack?”
I could feel the evening getting away from me. I moved to my bookcase, took a volume out, flicked through, found the well thumbed passage, handed it over, said,
“Will you read this?”
She did.
It’s always the same. When you come out of it and take a look around, the sight of wounds that you have left on the people who care for you makes you wince more than those you have inflicted on yourself. Though I am devoid of regret or remorse for almost anything I have done, if there is a corner for these feelings then it lies with that awareness. It should be enough to stop you from ever going back down there, but it seldom is.
Anthony Loyd, My War Gone By, I Miss It So.
I went into the bathroom, examined my No. 3. The gel was congealing. I considered a fast shampoo but thought “Screw it.” When I came back, Ann had left the book aside, said,
“That is so sad.”