News Where You Are

49

They joined the canal in the city centre, but within a few minutes they had left the cafés and bars behind them and were walking in the shadows of factories and warehouses along the black tow path.

‘I hope you don’t mind meeting outdoors.’

‘No, it’s fine.’

‘This is my life now, Frank. Traipsing the highways and byways of the city like a vagrant, the only way I can have a smoke. They treat us like lepers, doesn’t matter that we keep the economy afloat. People bang on and on about civil liberties in China, but I’d swop places any day. They love their fags there — can’t get enough of them. I tell you what, I could live with never standing in front of an approaching tank if it meant I could smoke when I wanted — seems like a win-win situation to me if ever there was one.’

Frank wondered if this was how it was going to be: an evening with Cyril Wilks — the man and his thoughts.

Cyril seemed to pick up on this. ‘Thanks for coming, though, Frank. I do appreciate it. I know you’re a busy man.’ He started walking in the direction of a bench on the tow path. ‘Do you mind if we sit down for a bit?’ He lit another cigarette and Frank noticed his hand shaking. ‘We look like a right pair of fairies, but never mind.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘You know this place is crawling with them, don’t you? I’ve learned a lot about the homosexuals since the smoking ban. You wander along the canals and there’s some chap asking you the time, or watching you from under the bridge. Hombres furtivos I call them. It’s a shame I’m not that way inclined as it would make the trudging around outdoors a little more rewarding. You know — kill two birds with one stone. “Got a light?” “I’ve got more than that, mate.” “Ooh …” ’

Frank interrupted him. ‘Cyril, what was it you wanted to talk about?’

Cyril exhaled a long plume of smoke. ‘I’ll come clean straight away, Frank. I owe you an apology — there is no new business venture. I’m sorry for getting your hopes up. It was a cruel trick.’

Frank tried to look disappointed. ‘Oh, I see.’

Cyril didn’t seem inclined to say any more so Frank prompted him. ‘Was there anything in particular you wanted to discuss?’

Cyril looked out at the water. ‘It’s a funny game — writing.’

As Frank had suspected, this was going to be a slow trip down memory lane. He wondered how long before Bryce Spackford hove into view. For some reason he found himself not minding, though. Sitting on the bench, watching debris float by on the surface of the canal, listening to Cyril reminisce was strangely calming.

‘Specifically writing for other people. It’s like being invisible. The only clues that you exist are in the lines that occasionally come out of other people’s mouths.’

Frank frowned. ‘What makes you do it?’

Cyril gave a short laugh. ‘Not for the money, that’s for sure. I suppose it’s just nice to watch a television programme and hear something you’ve written. Proves that you’re there. You need that sometimes. Sometimes the rest of life doesn’t feel quite real. You’ll laugh, but it’s as if until I’ve heard you say it, it doesn’t count. Sometimes I almost have to fight the urge to ring you up and tell you stuff to make it count. Imagine that on the news: “Bong: Cyril Wilks went to the library today.” ’

Frank smiled. ‘Is that what this is about? Breaking Cyril News? Washed the car today, did you?’

Cyril changed the subject. ‘You were a good mate of Phil’s, weren’t you?’

Frank was caught off guard. ‘Phil? Yes … I suppose so. I mean we didn’t live in each other’s pockets, but we always kept in touch.’

Cyril nodded. ‘Phil and I weren’t so close. We went back a long way, but it was always more of what you might call a working relationship. He was the face on the screen and I was the invisible man behind the curtain. No one knew about my role and that’s how I liked it most of the time, but sometimes it’s nice to have some recognition, to let people know about your part … or at least tell someone …’

‘You don’t need to tell me, though, Cyril. I know about the work you did for Phil and for the others, for Big Jackie —’

‘Johnnie. Big Johnnie Jason.’

‘Yes, him, and the others … and me.’

Cyril chewed his lip for a moment and then said. ‘What would you say if I told you Phil’s death wasn’t an accident?’

Frank frowned. ‘I’d ask if this was a joke.’

Cyril shook his head. His cigarette had gone out. Frank mustered all the patience he could as he watched Cyril pat every pocket several times over looking for his lighter before finding it on the bench next to him where he’d left it. After taking another drag he finally spoke. ‘I told you before, didn’t I, that I bumped into Phil before he died? Well, it was actually the night before it happened. I was down in London chasing a bit of work and went into a hotel bar near Oxford Circus for a snifter and there he was. He was a fair bit worse for wear — you know — greeted me like some long lost loved one, insisted I join him, bought me a double. We started off talking about the old days, but he kept veering off into frankly very depressing territory: ageing, decay, humiliation, doom and general gloom. It was bloody miserable, to be honest. I thought, Note to self — avoid social drinks with Phil in future.’ Cyril gave a forced laugh.

Frank thought of what Michelle had told him; he thought of his own last conversation with Phil, but said nothing.

Cyril continued. ‘Then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, he told me he’d decided death was the only option.’

‘Why was he telling you all this?’

‘Bad timing, Frank. Story of my life. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Of all the times I could have bumped into Phil it had to be that night, when he was half cut and desperate to confide in someone. When I first saw him, all I’d wanted to do was sell him my gag about Prince Philip and the Polish maid but I could see that wasn’t going to be appropriate in the circumstances.’

‘So what are you saying? He was suicidal? He was just drunk, Cyril.’

‘Yes and no. Yes he was drunk and no he wasn’t suicidal …’ Cyril hesitated. ‘Or at least that’s not quite the right word.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He was past suicide. He’d tried it already and couldn’t do it. That was why he’d come up with his plan.’

‘What plan?’

‘He’d pay someone else to kill him.’

Frank stared at Cyril. He started to have a very bad feeling. He wanted to believe Cyril was mad, to nod benignly, humour him and then escape home to something solid and sane like an Ocean Pie, but he couldn’t. He hesitated before asking. ‘Pay who?’

‘Some old boy from his National Service days.’

Frank closed his eyes. Somehow he had sensed it. ‘Michael Church.’

Cyril turned to look at him. ‘Bloody hell, Frank. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.’

‘Just carry on.’

‘Yeah — Michael, that was his name. They’d met up again after years out of touch. Apparently Michael had lost his wife to cancer not long before. He told Phil about how she’d suffered at the end, how awful it had been to watch. Phil listened to it all sympathetically and then asked Michael to kill him.’

Frank put his head in his hands. ‘Jesus, Phil.’

‘This Michael — well apparently he was good with guns — had been some crackshot in their army days. Phil had some lunatic idea of Michael walking up to him in the street, shooting him with an old National Service revolver and walking away. You know — Jill Dando style. It’d be just another unsolved mystery, Michael would never be connected with it, Phil would get what he wanted and Michelle would never know the truth. That was his main concern — that Michelle should never know.’

‘And he paid Michael twenty grand to do this?’

Cyril looked at Frank again. ‘You have heard this.’

‘No. I’m just putting it together. Carry on.’

‘Michael said he didn’t want the money. Phil said he could donate it to charity — to the hospice where his wife had died. He posted it to him so Michael couldn’t refuse. Phil told him to think about how his wife had suffered at the end of her life. He asked him could he stand back and watch Phil suffer in the same way? Never mind that there was sod-all wrong with Phil — but … he was a persuasive man and Michael was his old mucker. In the end he agreed.’

Frank stared out at the oily surface of the water. He tried to suppress both the terrible shocked laughter that he felt lurking in his chest and the tears that burned at the back of his eyes. He thought he should feel anger towards Phil for his stupidity, his selfishness, but he didn’t feel it yet. For now he just felt sorrow. Despite his shock he could somehow believe it all of Phil. He could quite easily imagine his terror of the slow decline. He could imagine too his persuasion of Michael, his tenacity with an argument, the history they shared. He thought about what Irene had said about Michael. About his strength and Phil’s weakness. He thought how little Michael had to live for after Elsie died. He kept seeing Michael’s eyes. He was the loyal, steady friend who would do anything for Phil.

Cyril was staring ahead at the canal. ‘It wasn’t so easy, though. Michael let Phil down three times. Dates and times would be arranged. Michael would show up, but he couldn’t pull the trigger. Phil was going out of his mind, making Michelle’s life hell, but still he couldn’t give up on it; he thought the alternative was worse.

‘That day I saw him was the eve of the fourth attempt. Phil was going to go for a run along the country lanes near his home and Michael had said he would do it.’

Frank had a sudden image of Michael’s sloping handwriting. ‘I won’t be there next week.’ Michael coming to his senses in the note that Phil never received.

‘Phil seemed jubilant and terrified at the prospect. He kept saying, “Ten thirty on the dot — all over, Cyril. All over.” It was too much for me, Frank. I hadn’t wanted to know any of this stuff and there I was being told by Phil that he was going to be killed the next day. I lost my patience. I told him to pull himself together, think of all the luck he had. I told him to stop drinking, go home to his wife and I left him in the bar.

‘I tried to forget about it on the way home, think of something else, work on some gags, but Phil’s nonsense kept popping into my head. I had to have a few when I got home just to get to sleep. The next morning I was up at the crack of dawn with a hell of a hangover and still all I could bloody think about was Phil. The bugger had somehow made me responsible. I couldn’t just stand back and let him go ahead with it. I knew I’d have to do something.

‘I tried to call him, but all I got was his voicemail. I thought, Well, there you go, I tried. But that kept the brain happy for all of two minutes and then it started up again: You should go down there, talk to him face to face. In the end I gave in and got in the car.

‘Traffic of course all the way down there. By the time I found his house it was ten fifteen and there was no answer. I had fifteen minutes. I headed off, driving around the country lanes, not having a clue where I was going. Those lanes are like a maze, endless hedgerows on either side — bloody claustrophobic. The headache was pounding. I was glad I had the bottle of Johnnie Walker on the seat beside me — hell of a lot more effective than paracetamol.

‘As I drove round in circles, I rehearsed what I was going to say to him. Maybe he was getting old, losing his edge, getting a bit soft in the head — but that happens to all of us, doesn’t it? I mean everyone else puts up with it. Apart from that, what did he have to complain about? A successful career? A devoted audience? A beautiful wife? I wanted to tell him that there were worse ways to live. Far worse. Imagine if he didn’t have any of that. Imagine if no one ever begged him to do another series. No one doubled his fee to keep him with the network. What if no one returned his calls and no one remembered his name? I’d ask him to imagine a life in which no one was won over by his charm. Women didn’t catch his eye and men didn’t offer to buy him a pint. Ever. A life spent working on his own in the same room that he slept in. A life of invisibility.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Perhaps then he’d have a point.’

He lit another cigarette and had smoked most of it before he spoke again. ‘So, anyway, I’m haring round another bend and I see him up ahead of me in the distance. Bright red tracksuit — can’t miss him. I put my foot down, racing to get to him, but it’s after eleven. This Michael character has let him down again.

‘It’s only then that I really feel for him, that I understand his pain. Poor Phil, I think. Poor, poor bastard. Another bloody morning to face. God, I know how that feels. Pale light bleeding under the curtains. Weeping into your pillow. Sometimes a few Johnnie Walkers sort you out, but sometimes they don’t. Sometimes the day starts bad and ends bad. Do you know what I mean? Sometimes it’s impossible to see when the bad days are going to end. I’m getting closer to him. I see him more clearly now. I can see the whole story in his silhouette. He’s shattered, broken. Let down again. Do you know that feeling, Frank? Trapped in fucking pain? Have you ever felt like a fly smashing into a window over and over again? Desperate to get out, hurling yourself at the glass. All you want is a way out. I take a last swig from the bottle and put my foot down on the accelerator. The engine roars, my head spins and the car flies forward. I close my eyes and I’m soaring through the air. I sense a lifting inside me; I can taste freedom; I’m hurtling towards the light. But then comes the thud that brings me back down. That same bloody thud as I smash into the same bloody window again.’

Cyril and Frank sat silently side by side for some time. Cyril was crying.

‘When I open my eyes, I’m back on that country lane. Blue sky above, tarmac below and no sign of Phil.’