Offcomer (25 page)

Because it was early, the light seemed strange in Conroys. It filtered in at odd angles, bathed the scuffed boards golden, made the inverted bottles on the optics glitter. Claire walked through dust-constellations, setting her feet softly on the percussive floor. Nonetheless, her footsteps resounded, loud and confident, unsettling her. The place looked empty, but she knew it couldn’t be. There would be staff and customers, somewhere. Leaning over the payphone, lifting a glass of Guinness, wiping a tabletop. Someone would, inevitably, hear her coming and think she knew what she was doing there.

One hand flat on the counter, steadying, anchoring him as he crouched. That was all she could see, just the one hand. He must be counting out bottles underneath the counter. Shunting last night’s remainder to one side, lifting new bottles from a plastic crate, stacking them up on the shelf. And all the
bottles whitened, frosted with reuse. Close now, she watched the knuckles pale and the tendons roll and shift as the hand pressed down, heaving the body upright, joints creaking in relief, cheeks flushed, face to face.

“Gareth.”

He still held a bottle of Club Lemon in his hand.

“Well bugger me.” He put the bottle down on the counter. “You’re back.”

Claire tugged on her bagstrap, grimaced.

“Yeah.”

And unexpectedly, incredibly, Gareth opened his mouth, and laughed.

“Just after you left. That same night. We were back at my place. We were just having a drink. You haven’t been back to ours for a drink yet have you?”

“No—sorry—”

The sunlight teased out tobacco and spilt-beer smells from the upholstery. Gareth set out brightly coloured cups and saucers, a milk jug and a sugar bowl. He put a cafetiere down in the centre of the table. He drew out a chair and sat down.

“You must come sometime. Anyway, that night they’d been on the beer since seven, eight o’clock. By the time we got back to our house they were pissed, the three of them. Completely fucking blocked. And not in a nice way, not happy-drunk. Pissed-off pissed: you could tell something had gone wrong. Paul wasn’t saying much, he was doing his strong but silent act, and Grainne had a scowl on her like you wouldn’t believe—”

“What about Alan?”

“Man on a mission, he really was. There was no stopping him. But he wasn’t having a good time, not as far as I could see. Tell you the truth, I don’t know why he’d come out with them. I don’t think he really likes them. Him and Paul always rub each other up the wrong way.”

Gareth leaned over, pressing down on the cafetiere’s plunger. They watched the coffee well and bubble through the metal mesh.

“Anything in particular, d’you think?”

“No, I don’t think so. Not at that stage, anyway.” Gareth lifted the coffee pot, filled Claire’s cup, then his own. He grinned. “Anyway. So. We were back at our place and they were hammering into the beers. I’d just sat down, first time I’d got off my feet all night. I’d just opened my first beer, and was ready to neck it, playing catch-up, you know, and let’s face it I had a fair fucking way to go. But I hadn’t even had one mouthful when I went and opened my big gob.” He picked out two sugarlumps from the bowl, dropped them into his cup, stirred. “You see, the pub had been bunged all night. I’d been so busy I hadn’t had the chance to talk to anyone, not since I’d seen you, not privately. And it dawned on me as I was sitting there with my beer in my hand and my big fat feet up on the table, that the last I’d seen of you, you were sitting in the dark in our store cupboard with your head between your knees. And it bothered me. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it looked like a sign that something was up.”

Claire drew her lips in against her teeth, nodded. Gareth grinned more widely, shook his head.

“So I opened my mouth and put my foot straight in it. I asked did anyone know what was up with you. I’d barely got the words out of my mouth when Grainne butted in. Really
sharp, like, and asked why I was asking. Which should have been a clue, but thicko here didn’t notice. You know yourself she can be a bit harsh, and I just put it down to that. So I just fired on: I told her I’d seen you, and that you’d seemed really upset. I told her you said that you were going home, back to England.” Gareth picked up his coffee cup, paused with it halfway to his mouth.

“You could almost watch the penny drop.”

He took a mouthful, rested a finger momentarily along the line of his lips, then lifted it away, coffee-damp.

“She looked round at Paul. Slow-motion, it seemed like. She looked round and stared at him. He was sitting back, leaning right back in the sofa. He had his eyes half shut. Playing it cool, playing it hyper-cool. He couldn’t pull it off though.” Gareth smirked. “He’d taken a beamer.”

Claire smiled uncertainly.

“Beamer?”

“He’d gone bright red: he was blushing.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck is right. They sat there for what seemed like ages, saying nothing. Her staring at him, him looking at nothing, with this strange little half-smile on his face. Alan’s eyes were swivelling round like Eagle-Eye Action Man’s, looking at the both of them. You’d think there was someone flicking a lever on the back of his head. Like I said, that went on for ages. Then—” Gareth spluttered, “all of a sudden, Paul jumped up, and ran out.”

“He didn’t—”

“He most certainly did.”

Claire brought her hand to her mouth. She shouldn’t smile.

“Grainne and Alan were just left there, sitting there.
Grainne staring out after Paul, Alan’s eyes still flicking like mad from her to the empty place where Paul had been. Then, ever so calm, too calm really, Grainne got up, and went out. I don’t know if she went looking for him or what. Maybe she just went home.”

“And Alan?”

“Alan?”

“Was he alright? Was he upset?”

Gareth snorted.

“You wouldn’t believe how long it took him to work it out. Though I can’t say I helped much. Didn’t think it was fair to give him any more clues. I really didn’t think it was any of his business.
He
did, though. Thought it was his own personal tragedy. Should’ve seen him, fucking Hamlet and Othello all rolled into one. Oh my prophetic soul, et cetera. Seemed to think the pair of you had been planning it since word go, that yous’d got together just to piss him off. He drank all the drink in the house, even finished my bottle of Laphroiag. I was gutted, I can tell you; I’d’ve liked a wee whiskey after all that excitement.” Gareth glanced over at the bar, then back at Claire, smiled. “How’s about we have one now?”

“Have you seen him since, though—is he okay?”

“Don’t you worry about Alan. Alan’ll take care of himself. In fact, that’s pretty much all he’s good for. You’d think with all that thinking he does he’d be all sensitive, you know, considerate, but I’m telling you, in the end it all comes back down to him. What Alan wants, what Alan thinks, what’s best for Alan. He doesn’t really give a shit about anyone else. I’d put it down to too much German philosophy at an impressionable age, if I didn’t know that Alan’s always been a selfish wee cunt. We could never understand why you went out with him.”

Claire hesitated, caught. She turned her cup round on its saucer. They had been thinking about her, talking.

“I think I made him go out with me,” she said.

“Poor soul.”

“He’s not all bad.”

“No. Of course not. At least he sorted you somewhere to stay that time.”

“Sorry?”

“Sorting out that room for you. At Grainne’s. Typical really. Why let someone do something their own way when you can make them do it yours. Even when he’s being nice Alan still somehow manages to be a dick.”

She brought the cup to her lips, sipped. The coffee was warm, soft in her mouth, and the taste reminded her faintly of acorns.

“I didn’t know.”

“Grainne never said?”

“No.”

“Typical. Typical her and typical Alan.”

“I thought you lot were all good friends.”

“Aye well I don’t know. Sometimes I think old friends are a bit like tattoos. When you’re a kid and you know no better they seem like a great idea, and then you’re stuck with them for the rest of your life. Can’t get rid of them, not without surgery.”

Claire fitted her cup carefully into the centre of the saucer.

“Do you know what happened afterwards?”

“With Paul and Grainne? Shit must have hit the fan. But I don’t know exactly. Grainne’s not been in, and you know what Paul’s like.”

“No,” Claire said. “Not really.”

“No. I know what you mean.” Gareth lifted the cafetiere. “More coffee?”

Claire watched him fill her cup, watched the soft fine hairs on his wrist catch the light, turn golden.

“Paul—” she said, but couldn’t finish the sentence.

“What about him?” Gareth filled his own cup. He held a lump of sugar by one corner, watched as the coffee soaked up through it. He dropped it in, picked up another cube.

“What he did.”

“Yes—”

“Running away. That’s what I did.”

Gareth considered this a moment; they both watched the sugarlump as it browned.

“Yeah. Well. No one laughed at you.”

“But it was as much my fault—”

“Maybe. But Paul knew what he was at, Paul always knows what he’s at; it was good to see him lose it, just the once. And anyway, you were in bits. You were having a really hard time. Anyone could see that. It was obvious.”

“And Grainne—”

“This kind of thing never happens for no reason. Paul can’t have cared enough about her or he wouldn’t have done it, and she’s better knowing that sooner than later. Which is not to say she won’t be hurt, but, if they were married—if there were kids—” Gareth paused, dropped the sugarlump and picked up his spoon. “That’s a different story. So as it goes, it’s better that she finds that out now, not later. When it would be a real problem.” He lifted his cup. “She might not thank me for saying so, but she will get over it.”

“She’s changed the locks.”

“Has she? Wonder was that meant for you or for Paul?”

“Or the both of us.”

Gareth winced. “Och, you’re not thinking—”

“No,” said Claire. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Good,” Gareth said. “Steer well clear there. Paul’s alright, you know, for having a drink with, but I wouldn’t trust him.” Gareth pushed back his chair. “Come on through to the office,” he said. “We’re shut over the Twelfth, but we’ll see what hours we can give you up till then.”

Claire straightened, looked up at him. “I didn’t get the sack?”

“Because you copped off with a customer? Don’t be daft. I’d have no staff left. I’d have to sack myself.”

“But—”

“Unless you don’t want to—”

“No, no, I do, really. I need the money. It’s just won’t it be awkward, with Paul coming in.”

“He’s hardly been here. And you can brazen it out, can’t you? Tough little cookie like you?”

Claire watched Gareth stand up, begin gathering the coffee things onto a tray. There were creases in his shirt, a thin scab on his upper lip where he had cut himself shaving. She felt a sudden, almost overwhelming warmth for him. He thought she was a tough little cookie. There must be something she could say.

“C’mon then,” he said.

She scraped back her chair and stood up, followed him. He set the tray on the counter and they walked down the length of the room. Out of step, their footfalls syncopated through the empty building. Gareth pushed through the double doors and Claire followed, letting them fall shut behind her. She fell into step beside him, watching their feet.

“Why’s the town so quiet?” she asked.

“Coming up on the Twelfth,” he said. “It’s always like that.”

“Course,” Claire said, with no real sense of what this meant. They stopped at the office door. Gareth rifled through his keys.

“If she changed the locks,” he said, “you’ll be needing somewhere to stay.”

A glass-and-brick church on the corner. On its gable wall, a clock, ten to three, and, in bold white script,
Time is short
. The car slowed. Gareth shifted down a gear.

“Paisley’s place—go check out the windows sometime. Himself at the stations of the cross, almost.”

They turned the corner. A broad street, front lawns, three-storey shabby-grand redbrick semis. Gareth stopped the car.

“This is us.”

He got out, slammed the door behind him. Claire shuffled her bag out of the seat well, fumbled for the doorhandle. Outside, on the pavement, Gareth pulled the door open for her and held it as she struggled out. He shut it neatly behind her.

“This is yours?” Claire asked.

“This is mine,” Gareth said. He turned to go up the path, tossed his keys up in the air, caught them. “Well, I share it with Dermie, and the building society owns most of it. But it’s home.”

The hallway was dim and cool. Claire stood blinking. A hall table with a telephone. A silky wooden floor. Darkly carpeted stairs, soft light from the landing window silvering each tread. Gareth pushed open a panelled white door.

“Front room,” he said, then stepped aside to let her peer
in. The curtains were drawn: she got an impression of quiet uncluttered space. “Dining room.” She turned back into the hall, towards Gareth. “And there’s a loo under the stairs. Come on up.”

He set off up the stairs, two treads at a time. Claire followed.

“Bathroom—” She glanced in, and he was off again, up a brief flight towards the front of the house. “That one’s my room—I’m using this one as an office at the moment but I can clear it out no bother if you’d like it. Or further up—”

He turned and set off again, thumping up the narrowing staircase. He paused on the half-landing. A skylight looked out into clear blue.

“You okay? You’ll soon get used to it.”

Breathless, she followed him to the top.

“The back room’s probably quieter, but the front one’s bigger.”

He pushed the door open and they stepped inside. The room was empty. Bare boards, white walls, the whole room full of diffuse, moving light. The window looked out into the green stirring branches of a tree. Claire breathed.

“Thought you might like it. We’ll bring you up a bed later on. Or a mattress. That’d be less hassle on the stairs. You’d be okay with just a mattress, wouldn’t you?”