Think Yourself Lucky (15 page)

She might have if a bus hadn't swung around the corner to cruise uphill to the stop. David followed her to the nearest empty seat on the single-decker, in the front section where the seats crouched low—the stalls, he thought a writer might have called them, with the circle elevated behind. As the bus left the stop he felt as if his nervousness was tugging his lips apart. "What happened before, before you found him?"

"You know, David."

He was afraid he did, but how could she realise? Had she read the Newless blog? He didn't know if that would come as a relief or aggravate his panic. "How do I?" he demanded.

"David, what's the matter with you? You took my calls."

"Not the lock." He nearly laughed but was nervous of how it might sound. "Before that," he said and managed to add "Say last night."

"Why are you thinking of that?"

"Because, because I thought the police might have asked about it."

"A few things did happen." As the bus reached the next stop she said "Arguments with customers, for one thing."

Stephanie fell silent while passengers crowded onto the bus. "Who?" David had to prompt her. "Who was arguing?"

"Mick with some of them."

By now the aisle was packed, and a fleshy man made bulkier by a quilted coat grabbed the metal pole in front of David. "Pull your knee in, mate."

Pressing his knees together made David feel they were helping him force out a question. "What was the argument about?"

"He took a dislike to a couple." Not much louder than the muffled rumble of the wheels Stephanie said "They weren't men enough for his taste."

"That was all there was to it," David yearned to believe.

"I wish it had been. No, I wouldn't have wanted that either." Almost too quietly for him to catch Stephanie said "One of them had a gluten problem and we must have served him a taste. Bartek swears he didn't mean to let it anywhere near. I know it wasn't me." With less hope than ever David said "Was that all?"

"Mick blamed both of us. Well, the kitchen's my responsibility."

"Then he should have paid you what you're worth." This didn't save David from having to add "I meant was that all with the customers."

"It wasn't quite."

The bus sped past a queue it had no room for, and the man in the aisle lurched against David. "Watch the elbow, pal."

David hauled the arm across his body and clasped Stephanie's hand with that one too. "What else?"

"Some of the other diners didn't like the way he spoke to those and told him so, and then he started lecturing somebody about his table manners."

David was almost as reluctant to continue as to be alone with his thoughts. "You said the arguments were one thing."

"Did I?" Stephanie was silent while the bus swung uphill out of town, and then she said "It really doesn't matter any more, but he was drinking after we locked up and he tried to get too friendly. Don't worry, he didn't take much fending off."

"Did you tell the police?"

"What reason would I have? I don't think I would have told them even if he'd been alive."

"I meant in case they could possibly have thought you—"

The bus came to an abrupt halt—a passenger had belatedly rung the bell—and the man in the aisle bumped into David's shoulder. "Can't you shove up, lad?"

"Where would you like him to go?" Stephanie retorted. "He's given you more room than you deserve. He can't project himself somewhere else."

"You've got a fierce one there, lad," the man said, not entirely in admiration. "Watch out she doesn't turn on you as well. Trust me, I know what it's like."

"Maybe you don't know enough." David hardly knew what he was saying. "Maybe you need to be taught."

The man transferred his unfavourable gaze to him. "Want to get off?"

"I think you should."

The man's lips writhed as if he was about to spit. "Good job for you my stop's next."

"I'm sure it's a good job for someone."

The man kept staring at him but steadied himself with the pole so as not to touch David as the bus slowed for the stop. Once he'd sidled clumsily along the aisle and dropped his bulk off the bus Stephanie murmured "Well, that was unexpected. I'm not saying you were wrong."

"You wouldn't have thought I'd face up to him, you mean."

"Of course I would, David. Maybe just not quite like that."

"I was only following your lead." This wasn't what he needed to say, and before he could falter he said "Would you have wanted—"

"I certainly wouldn't have liked you to have a fight with him."

"Then you wouldn't have liked—" David was faltering after all "You wouldn't have wanted what happened last night," he said, but even this wasn't enough. With an effort he added "To Mick."

When she turned to gaze at him he had to meet her troubled eyes. "David, how can you possibly ask?"

"I don't mean what actually happened. Maybe something not so bad." He was well in retreat now and, worse, forgetting how it must have been for her. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he protested. "I'm reminding you. You had to see what did."

"I had to identify him."

"Steph, forgive me. I didn't realise." David felt still guiltier for asking "Was it bad?"

"I hope I never have to do anything like it again."

"He wasn't too disfigured, though." This sounded like underestimation, and David hastened to explain "For you to identify, I mean."

"Disfigured."

She was gazing at him because he'd betrayed he knew more than he ought to. He did his best to sound both convinced and convincing as he said "Didn't you say something like that? I'm sure you did."

"I don't know what you think you heard, David. You're talking about his face."

"I'm sorry." He saw that his apologies had begun to weary her, and said "Yes."

"You needn't worry about that. It wasn't."

Once he realised his mouth was open he had to find it some speech. "Wasn't..."

"Disfigured. He looked as if he couldn't believe what was happening, but nothing else was wrong with it."

David was beyond grasping how this made him feel. "So what do they think happened," he tried asking, "the police?"

"That he got so drunk he did it all to himself. They don't seem to think he meant to."

David was ashamed of interrogating her, but he had to know. "Did what?"

"He smashed a bottle of olive oil. I think he could have done that in a rage. I shouldn't say that really, should I? It's not as if we're ever going to find out." Remorse silenced her, and David was oft the edge of prompting her when she said "He slipped on it, and he must have slipped trying to get up, because you could see he'd fallen twice. And he'd knocked over a knife block, and he was so drunk he tried to use one to help him up. Only that slipped on the work surface, you could just see the mark, and it went in him."

David had no idea how to respond. Too much that he'd begun to accept, however reluctantly and nervously, seemed not to be the case after all. When she said "Don't let's miss our stop," he had an impression of starting awake. The pavement underfoot felt less present than his thoughts, and he had to concentrate on waiting for traffic lights to let him usher Stephanie across the dual carriageway, unless she was ushering him. As they reached the far side it occurred to him to ask "What's going to happen to the restaurant?"

"Mick's wife is on her way home and she'll decide. Shall we have a little walk in the park?"

At least Stephanie hadn't lost her job, then. David wished he could use that as an excuse to feel relieved, but relief was keeping its distance while he was unable to grasp how the Newless rant related to the events at Mick's. If only there was someone he could question—and then he realised what he had to do. "Let's walk," he said, though besides a postponement this was a way of hiding his thoughts, and recaptured Stephanie's hand to lead her into the park.

As he crossed the road David willed Mrs Robbins not to be involved with rubbish for once. She wasn't in her front room, which resembled a sample of a show house. Three straight-backed armchairs wore lace caps that put him in mind of maids, and an intensely polished table crouched between the chairs, displaying a magazine about the week ahead on television. The flat screen of the television looked as scrubbed as a blank slate, and the oval mirror above the hearthless mantel gleamed so much that it seduced David's watchful reflection to a silhouette. When he rang the doorbell it responded with all the quarters of Big Ben but fell short of the hour. It was running through a repetition when the door inched wide to reveal Mrs Robbins clutching a precarious stack of crumpled paperbacks against her flattened breasts. "Mr Botham," she said, more a statement than a question. "Do you read books?"

"I've read a few things in my time."

"You won't have read these."

If this was any kind of query it was masquerading as an assertion, and disapproval was involved as well. David had to lean towards her squashed bosom in order to make out the titles on the wrinkled spines.
Call the Revenger, The Revenger Again, Vengeance for the Revenger, The Revenger Never Forgets
... "They aren't really my style," he said.

"Then there's just one place for them."

"You could donate them to one of the charity shops," David said, though he didn't understand why he was anxious to prevent her from behaving as she so often did. "I could take them in the car if you like,"

"There's already too much of this sort of stuff in the world. It's a pity whoever wrote them didn't keep them to himself." She dumped the books on a stair in the hall and rubbed her hands clean. "I'm clearing out the boy's room," she said. "It's long past time somebody did."

"He'll be your son."

"That's right, he'll always be, and you don't stop being a parent either. You're responsible for what you create whether you like it or not." David couldn't tell if this was a complaint or a declaration of principle, unless it was both. "Anyway," Mrs Robbins said, "that's our business and nobody else's. What is it, Mr Botham?"

From her tone he might have imagined she was requiring him to parrot the comment about her business. "I wondered if you'd found out about Mr Dent," David said.

"He's still in hospital."

"Did you happen to hear where? You said you'd let me know."

"I was waiting for you to come over, Mr Botham. That's what neighbours do occasionally, you might know. I assumed you'd lost interest."

He mustn't waste time arguing. "So where is he?"

"You'll be paying him a visit, will you?" She waited for confirmation before she said "He's at Arrowe Park."

"I'll go right now," David said and then thought to ask "Do we know his first name?"

"I've no idea what you know, Mr Botham. I think you might if you're so concerned about him."

"I don't know who else I could ask."

"Then you should make yourself more of a member of the community. Nobody knows much about you at all."

"That's because there isn't much to know." As he wished there were less David said "So you'll know his name."

"As a matter of fact we aren't on those terms, Mr Botham. There's a sight too much familiarity these days."

David felt as if she was determined to portray someone she hadn't been just a few moments ago—as if the personalities hadn't even been introduced to each other. "Do you know if he has many visitors?" he said.

"I'm sure you'll be allowed if you say you're a friend." Before David could determine how scornful this was meant to be—surely she had no reason to suspect he was the opposite, or why he needed to be alone with Dent—Mrs Robbins said "Please wish him a speedy recovery."

As David returned to his house he heard a series of dull thuds at his back—the fall of books onto bags of garbage—and the slam of the plastic lid, "Living up to your name again," he muttered and had to remind himself that she wasn't doing so at all.

His mobile showed him that the intensive care unit at the hospital was open for visitors in half an hour. Mrs Robbins watched him from her window as he swung the car onto the road. How guilty should he feel? At least Stephanie seemed to have recovered from the shock of finding Mick, and now she was at the restaurant with Mick's widow. He hoped the day would resolve that situation and his own as well.

In five minutes he was on the motorway. He'd scarcely joined it when he was brought almost to a halt by a lumbering mass of traffic. The matrix signs were warning of a queue ahead and set to thirty miles an hour. When at last he rounded a long curve and saw the way ahead, there seemed to be no reason for the queue except for the signs themselves. As he regained speed he encountered a car still crawling along the middle lane, however many drivers urged its venerable occupant to move over. David pulled out to overtake, only to find a Jaguar racing up behind him at not much if any less than a hundred miles an hour. He had to swerve in front of the elderly hindrance, who rewarded him with a blinding glare of headlights and a prolonged squawk of the horn. As he returned to the inner lane he saw a car swell up in the mirror, overtaking on the inside and treating him to another dazzle of lights and a blare of the horn. "Idiot. Idiot. Idiot," he heard himself repeating like some kind of charm well after he'd left the motorway for the road to the hospital.

The post at the entrance to the car park teased him with a glimpse of a paper tongue before putting out the ticket once again for him to snatch. Seconds later the post raised its grudging metal arm to let him through. At least half a dozen cars were cruising between the ranks of vehicles in search of a space. More than ten minutes later David saw a car emerging from a space behind him. He was indicating to reverse into it when a battered Datsun veered in. "That's the way to do it, son," he heard the driver declare.

David thought he was being mocked until the man let out his son, a small but equally thickset boy aiming to match his father's baldness. The driver stalked over to David, jerking his head up and twitching his eyes narrow. "What you waiting for? Got a problem?"

"None you'd want to know about," David couldn't resist saying. "You're quite a role model."