The Watchers on the Shore (36 page)

'Some other time, Fleur. Thanks all the same.'

'Is that a promise?'

I look at her, feeling dim surprise. 'Well... yes.' I don't know if
I mean it or not.

She comes downstairs with me. The flats open straight off the
landings, the bottom one directly off the hall. There's a wireless
playing very loud in one of the downstairs rooms, a man's voice
booming at an audience who respond with laughter and applause.

'Anyway, don't let it cut you up,' Fleur says. 'There's plenty
more pebbles on the beach.'

'Like my wife, for instance.'

It's a terrible thing to say, but what does she think all this is
about?

We stand for a moment in the hall. She's got her hand on the
knob but she doesn't open the door.

Give me a ring when you're coming up again and we'll arrange something.'

'Okay, thanks.'

She moves slightly forward and to one side, looking directly at
me. It's only a tiny movement, more a settling of her stance than
anything else; but it tells me as plain as words that she wants me to
kiss her. I take one step forward and pull her in, jamming my
mouth down on hers with a force that presses her lips hard against
her teeth.

'I always did like you better than Albert,' she says as we part. Poor old Conroy, I think. Is there no bloody justice in this world?

The rain falls steadily on me as I walk back to the station. Brown, the demon with women. Have I been carrying some charm about with me all these years that I didn't know about? I've asked myself before what it would be like to have that gorgeous body and now I know I could find out. Not tonight, perhaps, but another time, with a bit of application. And do I want it? Oh yes, I do. I remember the press of her thighs and the firmness of her breasts under the thin wool and it rages up through me as I walk along: animal longing, pure and simple. I'm almost tempted to go back, nursing some idea of purging my feeling for Donna through outrage.

I just miss a train and I'm by myself on the platform for a time. I stand near the edge and look down at the rails, the live one proud of the others. They usually wait till the tram's rushing in, don't they? Then one step forward and out. Easy, but public, and more obviously violent than say a gun. They win hands down. The mood brings on the inclination to toy with the weapon, try it in the death-dealing position. Then the simple pressure of one linger. In private, at leisure. Pick your own moment. Messy for somebody, but not for you; you're finished with all messes. You're out of it. Out of the rotten cheat that runs through the middle of everything.

On the tube train I mull over the notion of getting out in the
West End and walking about among the bright lights for a while,
perhaps having a drink. I ought to eat as well. But I'm not hungry
and it's a big, lonely town, too frightening for me.

God I hate railway stations. There was a time when they seemed
romantic places, the entrances to holidays and exciting journeys. Now all I seem to see on them is derelicts and weirdies; like one
chap standing very still watching the place names click over on one
of the indicator boards. He's stocky and muckily dressed in a long
overcoat over trousers with wide ragged bottoms that slop over his boots and touch the floor; a red ugly face and this 'awful round fiat depression in his skull that looks for all the world as if somebody's clouted him with the business end of a hammer. I stand beside him
for a moment to check what time the next train for Longford leaves.

On that train, with forty minutes in front of me and nothing to read except the postal information in my diary, I try cursing Donna, thinking about her hopping out of bed with me and in with Carter. What if I'd gone to London straight away? Would she have slept with both of us? The cheap tart, the rotten little bitch. But it's not true. I don't mean it. I love her and I'm calling her to relieve my feelings and it doesn't work.

A pint. Drain off some of the tension. I go into the first pub I find
after leaving the station, entering by the first door I come to. I sink
a quarter of the first pint in one go then put my change away, open
a new packet of fags, light one and try to take stock. I'm a nit; I
ought to be back there in town chatting Fleur up instead of moping
here on my own. I'm flattered. I didn't know I had the physical magnetism to attract a bird like Fleur. She must have plenty of
offers. She's not without choice. Perhaps it would work on other
women as well. Maybe I ought to put it to the test. Have every one
that's willing. Have 'em and heave 'em. Spit on women in my career
as a ram. To prove what?

She wouldn't have gone with Carter if I'd followed her straight
away instead of nursing my pride. She didn't hear from me,
thought I'd done with her. I could have gone to her and played for
time enough to make her see things my way, persuaded her that I needed her and it
could work
for us. I
just didn't try hard enough.

There's another room behind the partition, a bigger, posher place, and the mirror behind the bar lets me see into it. Among the flash and colour of bottles and glasses I catch a reflection of pinkish candy-floss hair. A second later a chap blocking my view moves aside and I can see that it's Wendy Bamforth. Sitting with her, in a black suit, white shirt and narrow scarlet tie, his hair slicked up with grease, is Wally Chisholm, a smirk on his face as he talks to her and she listens, her eyes fixed on him in an expression that tells him he's Rock Hudson's measure any day of the week.

I'm so surprised I nearly drop my glass. I step back out of their
view and lean on the partition, thinking now about something that's suddenly as plain as the nose on your face.

I wait half an hour for them to move, drinking another two pints
and keeping an eye on them as best I can without letting them spot
me. When they both stand up together I empty my glass and follow
them out, giving them a start before stepping out of the doorway
and walking after them. They take their time, strolling along with
their arms round each other in a touching picture of young love,
and I have to keep stopping and looking in shop windows, hoping neither of them will turn round and see me in the light. Once they
leave the main road, though, it's tricky in another way: there's
less chance of them recognizing me now but more of them realizing
they're being followed; especially as they don't step up the pace at all.

But I manage to trail .them without arousing their suspicions
and they lead me into a council estate on the edge of the town.
They stop for a moment at a gate then open it and go through.
I'm thinking that if he's got his feet under the table I'll be in for a
long wait. But no, they walk into the shadows along the side of the
house. I can hear them talking in low voices as I pass by, and make
out the shape of them as they snuggle together for a good night
snogging session.

I cross the road and walk back on the other side. I'm about
ten yards past the house going back the way we came when Wally
comes up the path and I hear the gate-latch click. I let him draw level with me than start to cross over, calling to him:

'Chisholm. Hey, Chisholm.'

He checks for a moment, looking round.

'Who is it?'

'I want to talk to you, Chisholm.'

He begins to run. He goes fast but he hasn't got much of a start
and though I'm not as sound in wind and limb as I once was I don't
have any bother keeping close behind him. Instead of making for the lighted main streets where I can't get him he turns off down a side road. At the far end there's a group of half-built houses with piles of bricks and timber and rubble round them. He makes into
these and for a minute I think I've lost him. Then I hear the clatter
of his feet on a plank as he crosses a trench and a second later he
falls full length over a wheelbarrow. I follow the sounds, stepping
as carefully as lean among all the hazards there in the dark, and
come on him as he's picking himself up, swearing.

'Now then.'

'What's wrong?' he says. 'What do you want?'

'Don't tell me you don't know, Wally boy.'

He looks at me, pretending to recognize me for the first time.

'I didn't know it was you.'

Who did you think it was?'

'There's some blokes. They've got it in for me. There was some
trouble in a pub one night.'

'What have you been doing to 'em? Sending letters to their wives?'

'I don't know what you mean.'

I manoeuvre him so he's got his back to the wall of a contractor's
shed and I'm blocking his way out. He looks at me all innocent.

'I don't know what you mean, honest.'

'You're a nasty malicious little tick, Chisholm. You want
stamping on. Just because I once showed you up in front of your old feller you have to get your revenge. Well he was the one to
blame. Why don't you send letters about him to your mam?'

Look, I don't know what you're on about and I'm not standin' here talking all night. I've got to get home.'

'You'll go when I'm ready to let you go, lad. I'm interested in
the way your warped little mind works. Wendy Bamforth knows
already.'

'What's she been saying about me?'

She's your girl friend isn't she? What would she say? You wrote some anonymous letters to my missis and Wendy's so bloody overseen in you she typed 'em up and got my address out of the office file.'

You're barmy, mate.'

'Am I, then? Would you like me to take it to Franklyn? He'll soon have the truth out of her.'

He sneers. 'You wouldn't dare do that. You wouldn't dare.'

'Oh? How's that, then?'

He's given himself away and he covers as quick as he can.

'If she's been saying things like that she's - '

'She's what? Suppose I tell you I worked it all out for myself?'

He's losing his front. He can't carry it off.

'You daren't tell Franklyn. You'd have to tell him you'd - '

He stops again.

'Tell him what, Wally? What wouldn't I like him to know?'

'You know.'

What, Wally?' I get hold of his lapels and pull him close. 'You tell me.'

'About that bird at the theatre.'

'Why, you vicious little get!'

I slap him twice across the face, once with the front of my hand
and once with the back, on the return stroke. It rouses him. He
swings at me. He's no waster, Wally, and there's some weight
behind his fist. But when I dodge that same weight carries him
forward off balance so that I can land him
one that slams him back
against the side of the hut.

'I'll bloody teach you to interfere with me.'

There's all the rows and worry about the letters plus the loss of
Donna packed into the next one. It buries itself in his guts, pun
ching the wind out of him in a grunting gasp and sending him down.
He groans and one arm comes up to cover his face.

'Leave me alone.'

He must be expecting the boot going in, which is probably what
he'd do to me in his position. But I've finished.

'Just remember, mate, I'm watching you from now on, and if you step out o' line just once I'll really get you.'