This Is How Part 11

'Whoops,' I say, like a child.

I smile weakly, don't bare my teeth.

'You seem worried about something,' she says.

'Do I? I'm not.'

'Good.'

She steps closer, the cushion still hiding her chest.

'Where're you going tonight? Have you got a date?'

'Yeah. I met her on the bus.'

'When?'

'On Thursday. On the way here. After I got off the train.'

'Is that the real reason you were late?' she laughs.

'No. I missed my train.'

'That was quick work,' she says.

'She's a teacher.'

'Ian's girlfriend is a teacher.'

'It's not the same one,' I say.

She looks at me as though she thinks I'm an idiot.

'Well,' I say, 'of course.'

She smiles.

'I better go,' I say.

I go, but stand out in the hallway a few minutes, turn back to the sitting room.

'Who was staying here before?' I ask.

'Before you? In your room?'

'Yeah.'

'A young man from Belfast,' she says. 'He left a few weeks ago.'

'How long was he here?'

'A short time. A few weeks.'

'Why did he leave?'

'I can't give you his personal information.'

'Right.'

I go on looking at her.

'Right,' I say again. She'll not say any more.

I go up to my room and I want to get into bed and nap a while before dinner, so I'll be rested for tonight. If all goes to plan, I'll have a late night at the pub with Georgia.

But the phone rings downstairs, a blasting ring so loud it can be heard all through the house.

Bridget shouts up the stairs. 'Patrick, it's for you. It's your mum.'

Welkin's sure to have heard, and Flindall too.

I take my time going down.

The phone receiver's hanging and I want to rip it from the socket but instead I pick it up and put it gently back in the cradle and then I loosen the connection. I can't talk to my mum now, not when I'm standing in this hallway when they're all here and probably listening.

Welkin's in the sitting room. He calls out to me.

'Par-trick!'

I go in.

He's on the settee and leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees.

'Why don't you come in and close the door,' he says.

I close the door and stand with my back to it.

'Was that your mum?'

'Yeah. But we got cut off.'

'We shouldn't have made fun of her last night.'

'I hadn't noticed.'

'Listen,' he says. 'I think we haven't got off to the best of starts.'

'I wouldn't say that.'

He stands and offers his hand.

'Well,' he says, 'I think it's time you knew that I'm glad you're here.'

His hand is cold and strong and mine is damp, but I press firmly and make sure not to be the first to let go. I hate to shake another man's hand, but it's got to be done.

'We don't want you to feel unwelcome,' he says. 'It's only that Flindall and I have become as thick as thieves.'

'Not to worry,' I say.

'Don't feel as though you're the third man,' he says.

'I don't.'

I know a fair bit about being the third man and I can't stand it. When we were kids and we went on a rollercoaster, Geoff and Daniel sat together up front and I sat a few rows back with some other kid.

As soon as the three of us started going down the pub, it was the two of them who said where to sit, what music to listen to, and what to do after closing. My jokes were as good as theirs and they always laughed with me, but they were the ones saying what we did and how we did it.

The same again with my father and my brother and my father made it worse by saying things like, 'Patrick, what do you want to do?'

'That's that all sorted, then,' says Welkin.

'No problem,' I say. 'But I've got to go now.'

'All right.'

'Will you tell Bridget I'm not stopping for tea?'

'All right,' he says. 'Bye then, Patrick.'

I don't say more, don't say goodbye, won't use his name the way he's gone and used mine. The thing is, I can't speak, not now. I've got to swallow the lump out of my throat and my mouth's clogged up and all because he's decided to make this advance to friendship, or whatever the h.e.l.l it is, and he's patronised me and it riles me and it also makes me feel good and it's hard to say, but I suppose I want his friendship more than I don't, and what he's said has got me in the neck.

I go out and walk along the promenade. The storm's ended and the sun's shining bright and warm. When I reach the pier, I take off my jacket and hang it over my shoulder.

I go into town the longer way, by the water's edge, and I get to thinking that I don't have the stomach for Welkin's games, that we've nothing in common and nothing much to say to each other, but I know I want things clear and straight for a change and I suppose I want his friendship but I don't want the hot and cold threat of it all and I haven't the mind for being ignored, even when it's somebody I might just as easily send to h.e.l.l.

I go to the pub behind the station for a quick pint. I'll soon go to the cafe.

I sit in a snug and an old man with the swollen nose of a drunk sits down opposite me.

'I'm saving that seat for my girlfriend,' I say.

'Where is she, then?' he wants to know.

'She's a nurse,' I say. 'There must have been an emergency at the hospital.'

I get away from him, play some pool, win five pounds after straight wins, but lose it all when I double up and go in-off the black.

I go to the bar to get another pint and the same old man comes to get his next pint, then turns round to face me.

'Yer shirt b.u.t.tons are done up crooked,' he says, as though to tell me I'm in a worse state than he is.

Even with all the beer he's had, his breath stinks of sour milk and I'd like to punch the crooked teeth out of his mouth. I take a good look at his dirty face and clench my fist and just thinking about punching him I can feel the crack of his teeth under my knuckles and when I run my tongue across my teeth I get a taste of blood off my gums.

'Mind your own business,' I say.

I'm not in the right mood now to go to the cafe. I won't see Georgia tonight. I'll see her tomorrow in the fresh, clear day.

I take my time getting home and stop to collect pebbles on the beach. When I've got two pockets full, I go out to the pier and sit with my legs over the side and throw the pebbles one by one into the sea.

I walk slowly back to Vauxhall Street.

8.

It's eight on Monday morning and I'm a half-hour early for my first day at work. There's a middle-aged man standing out front, smoking a cigarette. When he sees me come through the gate, he turns and goes inside. I stall outside a few minutes, then follow him in.

He's sitting behind his desk in his small office, doesn't look at me when I walk in, and he doesn't stand.

'h.e.l.lo,' I say.

There's no window in here and it's near dark as night.

'Oh,' he says, checking his watch, 'good morning.'

It's as though he's surprised, might have forgotten I was coming.

'Good morning,' I say.

He looks at me, but not for long, then down at his desk, flicks through the pages of a big RAC appointment book.

'I'm Greg Hayes,' he says. 'You must be Patrick Oxtoby.' I stay in front of his desk.

'That's right,' I say.

'Dean had nothing but good to say about your work.'

'Thanks,' I say.

Dean's my old boss and he's also one of Hayes' brothers-in-law.

When I told Dean I was leaving, he said he'd miss having me around, and he offered to help me find a new job. He didn't ask me why I was leaving town, just said he hoped it all worked out. He told me to stay in touch.