Winterton Blue (4 page)

Lewis does the thing he always used to do on the underground: takes his place in the fourth carriage along. There's no reason to it; just a superstition he has—or used to have—like not walking on the cracks in the pavement, or keeping
a hand on the rail of the escalator, or saying touch wood to ward off evil spirits. He's spent the last two nights at a hostel above the bus station, lying on the narrow bunk, listening to foreign tongues and foreign laughter, until now he feels he can be no one again. He senses the change in his blood: it's London, forming like a new scab; sore, but hardening up, covering the raw wound of Wales. The other person inside him, the one Lewis thought he'd left behind, is once more inside his skin. Today, he makes his move. He doesn't know where he's going: he doesn't think it matters.

The tube is packed full of people: workers reading or pretending to sleep, tourists with rucksacks and expectant faces. The young woman standing opposite Lewis has sleek brown hair and chocolate-coloured eyes. She wears a silver necklace with a pendant on it. He can't see what it represents; she clutches it in her fingers, zigging it along the chain when she talks to her friend, a man wearing heavy clothes and a thick woollen scarf. When the man talks, she puts the pendant in her mouth and sucks on it. Despite the fact that he senses a no-go zone all around him—that the other commuters have made a silent agreement with each other to give him more space than they think he deserves—he can't appear
that
dodgy, because over her friend's shoulder, the young woman with the lovely eyes looks directly at him and smiles. Out of old habit, Lewis gets off at Clapham. He walks the verge of the common, taking the scent of wet leaves and car fumes into his lungs. On the fourth bench along, he puts his kitbag on his lap and tips his face up to catch the pale autumn sunshine. He looks like someone basking.

Now, Manny, he says, under his breath, Let's see.

What he saw was himself, standing at Manny's front door. He wouldn't normally knock, he would slip along the passage,
through the back gate, into the yard, like he used to when he was a kid. But it wasn't a normal situation. He'd been a long time away from Cardiff; he didn't know how this visit would go down. Lewis had already considered the possibility of Carl being around, not knowing how either of them would react. But he hadn't given much thought to Carl's father. He'd found out from a neighbour that his own mother had moved a year or so ago—perhaps Manny would've upped sticks as well, or he might not even
want
to help Lewis find her: Manny might not even want to see him. Lewis was starting to think it was a waste of time.

At his second knock, the nets at the window shivered, low down, and up underneath them poked the head of a ginger cat. It glided along the sill, pressing its body flat on the glass, until Manny's face appeared above it. To Lewis, he looked very old; older than the twenty years' aging he'd expected. But Manny recognized Lewis straight off.

Come round the back, son, he said, with a wave of his arm; as if it were yesterday.

The kitchen door was open, with Manny's boots side by side on the mat. Lewis stepped round them, saw Manny framed in the hallway, his bowed legs and socked feet, wearing a faded lumberjack shirt, and the look on his face made Lewis's muscles spasm. Instead of running away, he said,

You should keep this door shut, Manny. They'll rob you blind.

Aa-hah, said Manny, with a laugh that sounded like a sob, Take me eye,

And come back for me eyebrow, finished Lewis, grinning at the familiar punchline.

Nothing worth nicking, chief, said Manny, stepping up to embrace him. He breathed the words into Lewis's neck, patting his back. Lewis could feel how shrunk he'd become. The greeting was over in a second. Manny covered the moment by turning to switch the kettle on, fiddling about in the cupboard above his head, bringing out an extra cup to
join the single one already on the counter. He didn't see how much this embrace had cost Lewis, who was biting down hard on his lip, tasting a long-ago smell: Brut 33.

Instant do you? Manny asked.

Lewis managed a smile.

I'm used to better.

Manny wiped both cups with a tea-towel and chinked them down in the silence. A short, cautious breath; maybe there was a joke to follow, or a change of subject.

Oh, I know, said Manny, It's all cappo-latto-cinquequento served in a thimble.

With
froth
on top, said Lewis.

They're everywhere now, said Manny, Them cafés. Can't move for them down the precinct. Can't even buy a cup of tea.

Lewis leaned against the cooker. He couldn't be sure of the territory; he'd wait to be asked before he sat down.

See you've got a cat, he said, Thought Sylvie didn't like them.

Yup, that's Ned, said Manny, I've shut him in front, like. Come and say hello.

He put the cups on a tray and nodded Lewis through to the living-room. Along the hall, a metal hand-rail had been fitted. Another was fixed to the wall opposite the stairs.

How
is
Sylvie? asked Lewis, running his hand along the rail, not liking the feel of it.

Manny's voice was low behind him,

She went, oh, two years ago, now. Mind, he said, as Lewis turned his head to take in this news, He'll be round your leg like a pole dancer.

Lewis fathomed the sudden change of subject, and played his part in it.

D'you get them in the precinct, as well? he asked.

Two for one on Friday nights, said Manny, as he squeezed through the door.

Inside the room, everything was much as Lewis remembered it. A pair of easy chairs facing each other, with a low table between them; a high, built-in bookshelf full of ornaments and photographs in cardboard frames; and a tiled fireplace the colour of caramel. Only the television was different: a massive oblong in brushed metal, taking up the whole corner of the room. A sheet of blue smoke hung in the air. Manny invited Lewis to take the opposite chair, which he did, noticing the flecks of cat hair clinging to the cushion. As soon as he sat down, Ned jumped up, clawing a circle into his thighs. Lewis picked the cat from his lap and put it down on the floor. Next to the chair, propped against the hearth, was a wooden walking stick. Below it, a wedge of women's magazines. Two years since Sylvie died. Manny was talking again, so Lewis had to concentrate to take in what he was saying. The old man was hunting around amongst the things on the shelves, slipping his hand behind the photographs. In a twin oval frame, two children stared at him; the girl was about six or seven, but the boy was older. He was wearing a school uniform and an insolent expression. Manny drew out a small bottle and offered it first to Lewis. He didn't recognize the label, but he twisted the cap and smelled whisky.

As it's a special occasion, said Manny.

I am honoured, laughed Lewis.

Not you, sunshine, said Manny, without missing a beat, It's our Ned's birthday!

Lewis knew the uniformed child in the picture, and he knew the uniform: a navy blue blazer with a crest on the pocket of a golden eagle, two-headed. The heads faced in different directions, and the first time he saw the crest, trying on the blazer in the corner of the Co-op while his mother slipped the coupons over the counter, he thought it was a cartoon figure, caught in mid-frame—Foghorn Leghorn on the look-out for Miss Prissy. The tie was shot through with
silver and navy diagonal stripes, which, after a few days, the new boys fashioned into tight knots, to be like the older boys. His school shoes were a worry for his mother. She kept saying he hadn't grown into his feet, but for him, the problem was wearing them at all. The men's ones looked hideous, old-fashioned; the sort of thing a teacher might wear. His brother Wayne never had that problem, being small and wiry. No one thought of them as twins. Lewis's mother ironed their school shirts on Sunday nights, and clean ones appeared on the back of the chair next to their bunk-beds on Wednesday mornings. Sometimes Lewis remembered to put his on and sometimes he forgot.

You'll recall our two, said Manny, sensing Lewis's interest in the photographs. He fetched the frame down from the cabinet and stood behind Lewis's chair. He took a moment while Lewis scrutinized the two children.

You wouldn't recognize Sonia now, he said, Here, I've got a recent one somewhere.

He turned back to the shelves and brought down a Christmas card. Inside, there was a photograph of a woman on a beach. She was standing with her arms outstretched and her head thrown back, her dark hair in jagged spikes, like a sea urchin, or as if she'd just dipped her head in the ocean. You could tell she was laughing, even though only her neck and chin were clearly visible. Her shadow cast a sharp angle on the sand. At her back was a cloud of black light hanging over the sea, and a roil of churning waves, almost as inky as the sky. Lit up by a flare of late sun, a line of distant white pinpricks stood on the horizon.

She's pretty, I reckon, said Lewis, holding the photograph between finger and thumb.

She's a stunner. Gets it from Sylvie, said Manny, And her temper and all. She's living away, now, working on some ecology project. Wind-farms in the North Sea, that sort of thing. Gets her brains from her mam too.

It's a good shot, said Lewis, Did you take it?

Manny made a comedy face.

Me? Very likely. Carl took it. He's up there most of the time, back here the odd weekend. Thick as proverbials, them two.

Nice beach, any road, said Lewis, for something to say.

It's over east, said Manny, and with an arid laugh, As far from here as you can get. The edge of the world, she calls it.

Manny took the photograph and stared at it a while longer before putting it back on the shelf.

You don't see much of him, then? asked Lewis, feeling the bite of whisky in his throat.

Ah. You won't have forgotten our Carl. More than I care to, if I'm honest.

Lewis shifted in his chair, feeling the silence.

Still not getting on?

Let's just say we agree to disagree. But, you know—Manny's lips on the rim of his cup made the words almost inaudible—It's not been easy. For any of us.

Lewis kept his voice even.

He's not around, then?

Oh, he pops in now and then, when he wants something. When he's not off doing his own thing.

Lewis sensed Manny's reluctance to continue, but was curious to find out what kind of life Carl was living these days.

What sort of thing?

What does he call it, now? said Manny, playing for time, Oh yeah, you'll like this. He calls it his fun run.

Lewis was unable to keep the irony out of his voice.

Like, a fun run for charity?

And I'll give you three guesses who's the charity, said Manny.

Lewis looked up at the older man. He wore a grim fix on his face, deepening the crescent lines, like brackets, around his mouth.

I take it we're not talking strictly legal, then, Lewis said, pressing on.

Manny didn't answer him. He took another swig from his mug, looked as if he were about to spit it out, and swallowed hard.

He brings back fags and booze. Says everyone's doing it. But as far as what he takes
over,
I goes blind and deaf, me. That's all I knows.

As Manny talked, Lewis stayed eye to eye with the photograph of Carl, wiping off a skin of surface dust to better see the boy. He stared hard at the image, as if he might read something there. It didn't surprise him in the least to learn about Carl's methods of making a living; and he could hardly take the moral high ground himself.

Lewis had known Carl's tagline before he knew the owner. It was everywhere you looked: on the electricity substation at the end of the road, a brutal carving cut into the thick green paint; penned twice on the street sign on the corner, inked on the low white wall opposite their new house.
SHARKEY
was everywhere, in blue Biro, black felt pen, penknife, and later—but only for a short while—spray paint. He didn't immediately associate the name with Carl Finn, the boy at the other end of the street whose dad had the taxis. At the time of reading the name, it gave Lewis no other feeling than one of irritation.