Part 2 (2/2)
Although the journey home began with much lively banter and comparing of notes, I was all too aware as the train neared our town that our temporary friends.h.i.+p was coming to an end and that we were simply in a different year at school once more. Like a fool, in the station car park, as Alan walked away to his parents' car, I gushed, ”Let me know when you're going to some more gigs!” To which he responded curtly, ”Yeah, we'll see what happens, all right.”
As I trudged home I felt the evening quickly evaporate, and started to come to terms with the fact that my day-to-day life would remain, for the moment, unaltered. School trips could not be synthesised in this way very often, if ever again, really. But I had hope. I suppose I saw Alan as perhaps the key holder of that hope but, wisely for an immature fifteen-year-old, I calculated that simply striding up to him in the dinner hall and saying brightly, ”h.e.l.lo! So who are you seeing this week, and can I come?” was precisely the wrong thing to do. The solution would be to somehow have something that he wanted from me me. My current set of possessions, attributes and circ.u.mstances presented nothing of the kind, of course, but I was sure that if I thought hard enough I would come up with something. But that's enough for now-I'm late for the pub.
SUGGESTED LISTENING: Jesus Jones, Liquidizer Liquidizer (Food, 1989) (Food, 1989) You can tell us to f.u.c.k off if you like Alan is already halfway through his first pint and tenner on the fruit machine by the time I appear. He's always been punctual. I find it quite annoying. I used to b.i.t.c.h to others that it was because he had nothing else to do. Now I realise he's just efficient. Which is probably why he is the owner of a successful business and is loaded, and why I am not.
”h.e.l.lo, mate,” I begin.
”Hi.”
Can't talk to him now, he's three nudges away from victory. I get a drink instead.
”s.h.i.+t,” he observes, petulantly slapping the side of the machine as I return. We sit down, Alan switches off his phone. ”All right then, what's this amazing piece of news?”
I take a deep breath.
”Lance Webster is living in a house at the end of my road.”
”Oh, f.u.c.king h.e.l.l.”
This is not the reaction I hoped for. But I remain hopeful.
”Is that a good 'f.u.c.king h.e.l.l'?”
”No, it isn't. Are you serious? Is that really what you have to tell me?”
”Yes!”
”Oh, for G.o.d's sake, Clive. I thought you were gonna tell me you're getting back together with-”
”And you really think that that would be good news?” would be good news?”
”Well, I'd think so.”
”Well, it wouldn't be,” I a.s.sure him. ”Can we get back to my original subject?”
He exhales theatrically. ”Lance Webster.”
”I saw him yesterday picking some stuff up from the dry cleaner's. Then I followed him home.”
”You sad b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”
”He lives at number 3 on my road. Possibly 3A.”
”How d'you know he actually lives there?”
”He must do. Unless he's started a dry-cleaning delivery service.”
Alan smirks. ”It might really have come to that.”
”I'm going to interview him.”
”How?”
”Not sure yet.”
”I didn't think he did that anymore.”
”That's 'cos people have approached him the wrong way,” I proclaim. ”I'm going to do it differently. Informally. He might not even know he's being interviewed.”
”So what, you're going to chat him up in a bar or something?”
”Maybe. Something like that.”
”Why do you want to interview him?”
I take a large gulp of beer.
”Because I think it's time for the definitive story.”
”Of the Magpies?”
”Yeah, partly. But the whole scene as well. And I want to find out what really happened to him that night.”
Alan snorts. ”No one knows what happened to him that night. I doubt even he he knows what happened to him that night.” knows what happened to him that night.”
”Well, I'm going to find out.”
”Right.” He shrugs and looks around the pub. At first I think he is impressed by my resolve, then I realise he's probably heard me make these grand statements of intent before. ”Well, good luck,” he offers.
”You could be a bit more enthusiastic. If I'd told you this ten years ago you'd be camping outside his house.”
”Let's not have that argument again, Clive.”
He's referring to a frightful drunken row we had a year or so ago when I accused him of becoming a total sell-out to consumerist society, with all attendant charges concerning lost youth, forgotten dreams, rampant global capitalism, blah blah. Not entirely unfounded, but not a conversation I particularly want to have again either.
”There must be a flicker of interest in there somewhere,” I insist.
Alan sighs. ”The guy's dead, man. I mean, the Lance Webster I used to know, we used to know. He's old news. He's the past. And ... well, if I really think about it, I'm probably still a bit p.i.s.sed off with him.”
”All the more reason to try and speak to him.”
Alan makes that weird noise he always makes when he's a bit sceptical, sort of a cross between a scoff and a belch.
”I'm not really sure how far you'll get.”
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