He had his head down and his shoulders were hunched as if he had the cares of the world pressing down on him. His sandy hair had greyed over the years and there was a grey pallor to his skin as if all the colour had been drained out of him.
Shepherd tossed his paper on to the passenger seat and climbed out of the car. McIntyre didn’t look up as Shepherd crossed the road, a sure sign that the man had lost his edge.
‘Jock?’
McIntyre carried on walking as if he hadn’t heard.
Shepherd jogged the last few steps. ‘Hey, Jock!’
McIntyre looked up, his brow furrowed into a deep frown. ‘Yeah, what?’ His eyes were red and watery and there were broken veins peppered across his nose and cheeks. He blinked as if he was having trouble focusing, and then his face cracked into a lopsided grin. ‘Bloody hell, Spider Shepherd.’
‘One and the same,’ said Shepherd.
‘What the hell are you doing in this neck of the woods?’ He shook his head in amazement.
‘Just dropped by to see how you were doing,’ said Shepherd.
‘All the better for seeing you, my old mucker,’ said McIntyre. He grabbed Shepherd and gave him a fierce bear hug, then patted him on the back with both hands. Shepherd could smell stale sweat and booze and it was obvious that under the heavy coat McIntyre was carrying a lot more weight than the last time they’d met. McIntyre put his hands on Shepherd’s shoulders and studied his face with eyes that were bloodshot from too little sleep or too much alcohol or most likely a combination of the two. ‘Bloody hell, you’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he said. ‘How long’s it been?’
‘Last time I saw you was November 2002, when I was leaving Afghanistan,’ said Shepherd.
‘Aye, but I didn’t know that you’d be leaving the Regiment,’ said McIntyre. ‘That bloody wife of yours finally got her way, didn’t she? Nagged and nagged until you left. How the hell is Sue? She was a fit one, all right. You did well bagging her. We always thought she was too good for you.’
Shepherd forced a smile. ‘She died, Jock. Back in 2004. Car accident.’
McIntyre’s face fell. ‘God, I’m sorry.’ He gripped Shepherd’s shoulders tightly. ‘Me and my big bloody mouth.’
‘You weren’t to know, Jock.’
‘And your boy? I’m scared to ask.’
‘Liam’s fine. Away at boarding school at the moment.’
‘Boarding school? Hell, you win the lottery, did you?’ He gestured over the BMW. ‘And a bloody Beamer? Life must be good, huh?’
‘Boarding school isn’t that expensive and the car’s from the office pool,’ said Shepherd. ‘What about you, Jock? How’s life?’
‘Life’s shit,’ said McIntyre. ‘But it’s better than the alternative. Anyway, let’s not stand out in the street like this. Come in – I don’t have Jamesons but I’ve got some Johnnie Walker.’
Shepherd nodded. What he had to say to McIntyre was better done in private than sitting in a pub or coffee shop. McIntyre slapped him on the back. ‘Hell, it’s good to see you, Spider. Ten years goes by in a flash, doesn’t it. Seems like only yesterday we were in Afghanistan.’ He shoved his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out two Yale keys on a keyring with a small black and white plastic football on it. ‘Do you see much of the old guys?’
‘Some,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let’s get that drink and I’ll tell you.’
McIntyre slotted the key into the lock and took Shepherd through into the hallway. The walls were dirty and scuffed and the carpet had worn through in places. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling. ‘Top floor, I’m afraid, but it keeps me fit,’ said McIntyre.
He headed up to the first floor. The door there looked as if it had been kicked in at some point and it had been reinforced with strips of metal. There were two locks, one at eye level and one at knee level. ‘I met your neighbour,’ said Shepherd, nodding at the door.
‘The Kenyan bird?’ said McIntyre. ‘She’s a sweetie, isn’t she? Cooks amazing curries. I can smell them upstairs. Her kids are always crying, though. Does my head in sometimes.’
There was no carpet at all on the final flight of stairs, which had been painted purple but that had worn away to bare wood in places. There was another bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Shepherd followed McIntyre up the stairs, where he used the second key to open a white-painted door. ‘Home sweet home,’ he said, tossing his backpack on to the floor by a pile of unopened mail and circulars.
It was just about the most depressing room that Shepherd had ever been in. It was the attic of the house and the only light came from the single gable window. There were several damp patches in the corners, the plaster wet and speckled with black mould. There was a single bed pushed against the wall opposite the door. There was no headboard, just a pillow and a grubby duvet. Under one of the eaves there was a built-in kitchen unit with a microwave and a single hotplate, and there was a battered kettle on top of a small fridge that rattled and hummed as if nearing the end of its useful life. A plastic accordion door led to a poky bathroom. Shepherd caught a glimpse of a stained toilet and a tiny plastic shower cubicle. His nose wrinkled at the foul smell coming from the toilet.
‘Aye, there’ve been problems with the drains,’ said McIntyre. ‘I think the Kenyan bird has been trying to flush her Pampers. Still, this is only temporary, I’m going to be moving to a new place soon.’ He went over to a wall cupboard and took out a half-full bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label and two glasses. ‘I don’t have soda water,’ he said apologetically. ‘But there’s tap water.’
‘Neat is fine,’ said Shepherd, looking around for somewhere to sit. There was a single wooden chair next to a small table under the window but there were three crusty saucepans stacked on it and the table was littered with KFC and pizza boxes. There was a scuffed leather armchair with stuffing bursting from the sides but it was covered in dirty clothing, including several pairs of soiled underwear.
‘I know it’s a mess, it’s the maid’s day off,’ said McIntyre, handing a glass to Shepherd. ‘Good to see you, Spider.’ The two men clinked glasses. McIntyre waved at the bed. ‘Sit yourself down there,’ he said. As Shepherd perched on the end of the bed, McIntyre shoved the dirty saucepans off the wooden chair and they clattered on to the stained carpet, which had possibly once been beige or yellow but now was the colour of a smoker’s fingers and there was barely a square foot that wasn’t peppered with cigarette burns. The ceiling had once been white but years of smoking tenants had turned it the same shade as the carpet. It was presumably from the previous tenant because there were no signs of McIntyre being a smoker.
McIntyre took a gulp of whisky and then poured more into his glass. He raised it in salute. ‘You know, you’re the first visitor I’ve had in here,’ he said, sitting on the wooden chair.
‘How long have you lived here?’ asked Shepherd.
McIntyre screwed up his face as if he’d been given a difficult mathematical problem to solve. ‘Six months,’ he said eventually. ‘Seven, maybe. It’s just somewhere to sleep.’
‘What happened to your marriage, Jock? You and Emma seemed a great couple. Two kids – they’re in their twenties now, right?’
‘Haven’t seen the kids for four years,’ said McIntyre. He smiled tightly. ‘Had a bit of a falling-out with Emma. Can’t go near her at the moment.’
‘Can’t go near her? What do you mean?’