Utterly Monkey. Nick Laird

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ how they swapped names. Ian. Geordie. They played whist and matched pints for the next two hours as the ferry ploughed through the water to Scotland. Just before they got in Geordie went out on deck to clear his head. Outside he shivered and watched the wake turn lacy and fold back into the sea. He felt off. His mouth was dry and the ache in his head suggested that afternoon drinking hadn’t been such a great idea. He turned slightly, to take the wind out of his eyes, and Ian was standing beside him, smiling secretly out to sea. Geordie nodded briskly at him and went in to the toilet.

      When he came back to the table Ian had dealt the pack out and was in the middle of a round of pelmanism. Seeing Ian concentrating on the cards, crouched forward, intent, just as he had been doing earlier, made Geordie feel suddenly well-disposed towards him.

      ‘You not play patience? It’s a better game.’

      Ian turned over the Jack of Hearts.

      ‘No skill in that. This’, he tapped the back of a card, ‘exercises the memory.’

      Staring hard at the grid of cards, he turned over a matching Jack, clubs, then placed them both into a discard pile at the side. Geordie said it first.

      Listen mate, I’ll be in London for a while later on this week as well, and I don’t know so many folks down there. If you give me your number maybe we could meet up for a jar or two?’

      ‘Tell you what, you give me yours and I’ll ring you if I’m free.’

      ‘Aye, do. That’d be a laugh. We’ll go out and get slaughtered.’

      The solicitor Danny Williams was looking in his babyblue refrigerator. His pinstripe grey suit jacket sagged over the narrow shoulders of a kitchen chair. He had discarded his tie and shoes. The room was dim and the only light came from this massive fridge. It was like a UFO opening its door in his kitchen. ‘Take me to my dinner,’ Danny said out loud in the empty flat, without humour, as he stood snared in the pale luminous strip. An empty jar of mayonnaise sat by itself in the middle of the top shelf, like a judge on his bench. Danny found it difficult to look in his fridge when he was alone. It witnessed his failures. He would often wander round his airy flat, peckish, open it, see nothing he fancied (or could eat without risk of illness) and walk away again. Danny was skinny. The fridge clicked off its light and Danny resolved to make toast, a Saturday visit to Safeway. The doorbell went. He walked down the hall, unslid the chain, and opened his life.

      Geordie Wilson was standing on the step. His small frame was silhouetted against the London evening sky. He looked charred, a little cinder of a man. His navy tracksuit hood cowled round a narrow and freckled face and his bagged eyes looked very blue and watery in the light from the hall. He had several days’ beard growth. He could have been Death’s apprentice. Geordie Fucking Wilson. In the slowed-down moment, Danny registered a furious argument being conducted further down the street between a man and woman out of sight. It was in Russian or maybe Polish.

      ‘Someone’s for it, eh?’ the figure on the doorstep said, snapping his elbow into the air. Danny felt his head lift suddenly. He shuddered, and realized just as quickly again that Geordie, this burnt-looking thing, was not going to draw a gun and shoot him.

      ‘Easy up big man,’ said Geordie, reaching a hand out for his shoulder and smirking. ‘It’s me. Geordie. How are you? What about you? Surprised?’

      ‘Hello,’ Danny said slowly, blinking in exaggerated shock, ‘Geordie Wilson. I knew it was you. What the hell brings you here?’

      They would go to the King’s Head, but first Geordie came in and dumped his bag on the sheeny wooden floor of the hall, and they edged round each other, like novice ice-skaters, as Danny moved towards the kitchen to get the jacket of his suit. He slipped it on, felt its impropriety, like armour at dinner, and slipped it off again. He was wearing his grey suit trousers and a white shirt, which, though open-necked, still displayed cuff links as tokens of a serious man. He pulled a navy zip-up fleece off a hook, and then decided to wear his scuffed Levi’s jacket over it. He looked like a social merman: pinstriped lower, denimed upper. Geordie stooped and removed his fags and lighter from the rucksack. It was only when they’d left the house that Geordie asked where the pub was. It was an incontrovertible fact that this was where they were heading. Some friends you take to cafes and cinemas, some to concerts, others to matches or shopping, but some, the ones you grew up alongside, meaning the ones you learnt to drink with, you always always always take to the pub.

      As they walked, Geordie was forced to half-skip to keep up with Danny, whose eyes, still varnished with surprise, were trained on the pavement. Gum studded the cement like the beginnings of rain. It was too warm for a jacket and he could feel sweat beginning to prickle along his spine. His face was tight with goodwill, his stomach with nerves and he wasn’t certain that what was happening was happening. Geordie Fucking Wilson. He needed a drink.

      The King’s Head was a nasty little place but close, with a chubby cream cat that had the run of it to such an unreasonable extent that customers would be standing, possibly shivering, possibly pregnant, whilst it stretched and yawned and dreamt on a seat in front of the fireplace. It had the look of a theatre bar. All busy carpet, threadbare velvet and smeary mirrors, and signed sepia photographs of stars, faded with smoke and sunlight to the same dulled obscurity as their subjects. Its landlord was the obese and charmless Gerard, who sported a lame goatee in a lame attempt to define a lame jaw. Years back, when Danny had been looking for an evening job during law school, he tried all the local pubs for bar work. Gerard had immediately said Sorry mate, hardly enough for meself here really. Danny had persuaded his then-girlfriend to call in and ask. Tamara, a delicate woman whose distinctive nose exacerbated her accent and deportment into something approaching minor nobility, had put her head round the door and Gerard had offered her work immediately. They then couldn’t decide if Gerard was sexist or anti-Irish or just anti-Danny. Still, it was the closest pub and proximity – to lazy men in the city – is worth an acre of stripped floorboards, battered leather sofas, and four elastic student barmaids, which was what the second nearest, Pravda or Molotov or something, offered.

      Geordie wandered to the far end to get a table and Danny stood at the bar. Geordie Wilson. How weird is that? He looked very well, really, considering, Danny thought, watching Geordie tap his lighter on the table at the far end of the bar. Chirpy. They hadn’t seen each other for a long time, not since 15 August 1995, the summer Danny came back from his first year of uni, though neither remembered the incident. Danny was driving his father’s grey Volvo estate up the widest main street in Ireland, Ballyglass’s High Street. Ballyglass is really only this street. Other thoroughfares run off it at right angles before petering out into lanes and housing estates and fields. Geordie was crossing the lights by Union Street and Danny was waiting at them, holding the car on the clutch. Geordie saluted him and Danny, reclining, lifted a finger off the wheel and nodded a greeting. Both passed on feeling a little gladdened, a little embarrassed. Old friends know too much.

      While Gerard stood and sullenly stared at the two jars of Guinness, waiting for them to settle, Danny watched Geordie fidgeting. He never could sit still. When they were at school, Mr O’Neill the maths teacher had told Geordie that he had no brakes. Danny, remembering that, pictured it literally: Geordie driving through Ballyglass in a car on which the cables have gone. Up Fairhill and Oldtown he could keep pace with the traffic. His car would look like the others, accelerate like the others, and he would sing along tunelessly to the songs on Townland Radio just like the other drivers. But downhill, to James Street, to the Ballymore Road, the car wouldn’t slow. He might try to warn you, flash his lights, beep his horn but he’d still collide and send things flying: other drivers, rickety cyclists, grocery shoppers, idiot dogs. Geordie Wilson, a bad bastard who lacks the ability to stop, and he’s come to see me. Danny delved for his loose change and counted it out while he waited for Gerard to steer his bright blue paunch, like the front of СКАЧАТЬ