Dead Man’s Footsteps

49

‘What’s wrong with liking Guinness?’ Glenn Branson asked.

‘Did I say there was anything wrong?’

Roy Grace set Glenn’s pint and his own large Glenfiddich on the rocks down on the table, along with two packets of bacon-flavoured crisps, then sat facing his friend. Monday night at 8 o’clock and the Black Lion was almost empty. Even so they had chosen to sit in the far corner, far enough from the bar not to be overheard by anyone. The piped music also helped to mask their voices and give them privacy.

‘It’s the way you look at me every time I order Guinness,’ Branson said. ‘Like it’s the wrong kind of drink or something.’

Your wife is turning you from a confident man into a paranoid one, Grace thought but didn’t say. Instead he quoted, ‘To the man who is afraid, everything rustles.’

Branson frowned. ‘Who said that?’

‘Sophocles.’

‘What movie was that in?’

Grace shook his head, grinning. ‘God, you’re an ignoramus sometimes! Don’t you know anything that isn’t in a movie?’

‘Thanks, Einstein. You really know where to hit a man when he’s down.’

Grace raised his glass. ‘Cheer up.’

Branson raised his, with no enthusiasm, and clinked it against Grace’s.

They both took a sip, then Grace said, ‘Sophocles was a philosopher.’

‘Dead?’

‘He died in 406 BC.’

‘Before I was born, old-timer. I suppose you went to his funeral?’

‘Very witty.’

‘I remember, when I stayed with you, all those philosophy books you had lying around.’

Grace took another pull of his whisky and smiled at him. ‘You have a problem with someone trying to educate themselves?’

‘Trying to keep up with their bird, you mean?’

Grace blushed. Branson was quite right, of course. Cleo was doing an Open University course in philosophy and he was trying hard in his free time to get his head around the subject.

‘Hit a nerve, did I?’ Branson gave him a wan smile.

Grace said nothing.

‘Rhinestone Cowboy’ was playing. They both listened to it for a while. Grace mouthed the words and swayed his head to the music.

‘Jesus, man! Don’t tell me you like Glen Campbell?’

‘I do, actually, yes.’

‘The more I get to know you, the more sad I realize you are!’

‘He’s a real musician. Better than that rap crap you like.’

Branson tapped his chest. ‘That’s my music, man. That’s my people speaking to me.’

‘Does Ari like it?’

Branson suddenly looked deflated. He peered into his beer. ‘She used to. Dunno what she likes any more.’

Grace took another sip. The whisky felt good, giving him a warm buzz. ‘So tell me? You wanted to talk about her?’ He tore open his packet of crisps and dug his fingers in, pulled out several crisps in one go and crammed them into his mouth. He crunched as he spoke. ‘You look like shit, you know that. You’ve looked terrible for the last two months, since you went back to her. I thought everything was better, that you bought her the horse and she was fine. No?’ He ate another fistful of crisps hungrily.

Branson drank some more of his Guinness.

The pub had a pristine smell of carpet cleaner and polish. Grace missed the smell of cigarettes, the fug of cigar and pipe smoke. For him, pubs didn’t have any atmosphere any more now the smoking ban had come into force. And he could have done with a cigarette right now.

Cleo hadn’t invited him over later because she had a paper to write for her course. He was going to have to grab something to eat, either here or from the freezer at home.

Cookery had never been his strong point and he was getting dependent on her, he realized. These last couple of months she had cooked for him most nights, healthy food mostly, steamed or stir-fried fish and vegetables. She was appalled at the junk-food diet most police officers existed on much of the time.

‘Rhinestone Cowboy’ finished and they sat in silence for a while.

Glenn broke it. ‘You know we haven’t had sex, right?’

‘Not since you went back to her?’

‘Nope.’

‘Not once?’

‘Not once. It’s like she’s trying to punish me.’

‘For what?’

Branson drained his pint, blinked at the empty glass and stood up. ‘N’other?’

‘Just a single,’ he said, mindful that he had to drive.

‘Usual? Glenfiddich on the rocks. Tiniest bit of water?’

‘So your memory hasn’t gone?’

‘Fuck off, old-timer!’

Grace thought hard for a few moments, his mind back on his work. Chewing over the 6.30 briefing meeting they’d just had. Joanna Wilson. Ronnie Wilson. He knew Ronnie from a long time back. One of Brighton’s rogues. So Ronnie had died in 9/11. Events like that were so random. Had Ronnie killed his wife? His team were on the case. Tomorrow they would start checking into the man’s background, and his wife’s.

Branson returned and sat back down.

‘What do you mean, Glenn, that Ari’s trying to punish you?’

‘When Ari and me met, we shagged all day. You know? We’d wake up and shag. Go out somewhere, get an ice cream maybe, and we’d fool around. Shag again in the evening. Kind of like it wasn’t the real world.’ He drank some more of his beer, almost half the glass, straight down. ‘OK, I know you can’t maintain that for ever.’

‘It was the real world,’ Roy said. ‘But the real world doesn’t stay the same. My mother used to say that life is like a series of chapters in a book. Different things happen at different times. Life changes constantly. You know one of the secrets of a happy marriage?’

‘What?’

‘Don’t be a police officer.’

‘Funny. Ironic, isn’t it, that’s what she wanted me to be.’ He shook his head. ‘What I don’t get is why she’s angry all the time. At me. You know what she said this morning?’

‘Tell me?’

‘She said that I deliberately keep her awake, right? Like, when I get up in the night to go to the toilet, you know, have a piss, that I deliberately aim into the water so it makes a splashing sound. She said that if I really loved her, I would pee on the side of the bowl.’

Grace tipped the contents of the new glass into his existing one. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘I’m serious, man. There’s nothing I can do right. She’s, like, told me she needs her space, and screw my career as a policeman. She’s gonna go out in the evenings, she’s not prepared to be tied to the kids, and it’s my responsibility. If I have to work lates, then I have to find babysitters.’

Grace sipped his drink and wondered if perhaps Ari was having an affair. But he didn’t want to upset his friend further by suggesting it.

‘You can’t live like this,’ he said.

Branson picked up his packet of crisps and turned it over and over in his hands. ‘I love my kids,’ he said. ‘I can’t go through some divorce shit and, like, see them for a few hours once a month.’

‘How long has it been like this?’

‘Ever since she got this bug in her head about self-improvement. Mondays she does evening classes in English literature, Thursdays she does architecture. And all kinds of other shit in between. I don’t know her any more – I can’t reach her.’

They sat in silence for a while before Branson mustered a cheerful smile and said, ‘Anyhow my shit to deal with, right?’

‘No,’ Roy replied, even though he knew that if Ari threw Glenn out again, he’d be lumbered once more with the lodger from hell. He’d had Glenn to stay a couple of months ago and the house would have been tidier if he’d had an elephant high on magic mushrooms come to stay. ‘I sort of feel we are in this together.’

For the first time that evening, Glenn smiled. Then he finally ripped open his packet of crisps, peering inside with a faint look of disappointment, as if he had been expecting it to be filled with something else.

‘So, what’s happening with Cassian Pewe – sorry, Detective Superintendent Cassian Pewe?’

Grace shrugged.

‘Is he eating your lunch?’

Grace smiled. ‘I think that was his game plan. But we’ve put him back in his box.’