Part 8 (1/2)
”f.u.c.k knows.”
”Dirty b.i.t.c.h.”
”That's as may be. All this afternoon told me was, Helen Conway went for a walk at Hughes Point with some bloke drives a Volvo. He could be her father for all I know.” I took a deep breath, swallowed the Cappuccino in one gulp, wiped the froth from my lip. ”But even if she is carrying on, Conway still isn't kosher.”
”Like how?”
”Like he comes to me saying his wife is knocking out tricks, but kicks for touch anytime I try to get around the back of it. Gets agitated, knows more than he's saying.”
”If he knows so much why'd he come to you?”
”I don't know. Maybe Frank's not worried about his wife s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g someone else. Maybe Frank's worried about her s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g him, making off with the family jewels.”
He shook his head.
”Conway might have problems. Cash isn't one of them.”
”What do you hear?”
”You know there's E in the motors, when they come across the border?”
”Yeah. What else?”
”There's whispers about a knocking shop, on that new estate out the back of the college. Curtains are never open, there's blokes coming and going all hours of the night. Sounds to me like a student nurse flop, but you never know.”
”Anything legal?”
”Last I heard he was involved in that development that went up out at Manor Grange. Bought the land for a hundred twenty, put forty houses on it at a hundred and eighty grand a pop. There's another one planned for down at the river, opposite the new hotel. Apartments, state of the art, they look like something off a Polish industrial estate. The site cost him a hundred fifty, there's seven pre-booked at one-sixty each and they won't be ready to go for another six months.”
”So maybe it isn't real estate. Maybe he fancies the ponies, or the stocks.”
Dutchie took a long swig of orange juice, dropped the bottle in the bin.
”If he does I haven't heard. But I'll ask around.”
”Cheers.”
He moved away up the bar, the early evening trade filtering in. I dug out the paper, gave myself a migraine trying to work out the Simplex crossword. I was rolling my last smoke when someone tapped me on the shoulder, Katie, nodding at the Cappuccino.
”You drink too much coffee.” She seemed relaxed, far too cheerful, which meant she knew something I didn't.
”Sorry, I can't afford medical advice. I like your hair, by the way.”
”Thanks. I had to cancel my appointment, by the way.”
”Yeah, I like the fact that you left it alone.”
She smiled. I thought of a second-hand car with 'Wash Me' scrawled on a dusty back window.
”Ever drink anything stronger?” she asked, sitting up on the stool beside me.
”Sometimes I leave the sugar out.”
”Maybe I should introduce you to alcohol.”
”We've met. Town wasn't big enough for both of us.”
Dutchie wandered back down the bar. I introduced them, ordered a round. Katie swirled the ice around her G&T, downed the lot in one swallow.
”Tough day?”
”First anniversary.”
”Of what?”
”Learning to mind my own business.”
”Not so long ago when you were interested in my business.”
”That was just business. You're being personal.”
”And I thought we were friends.”
”You know what thought did?”
”What's that?”
”p.i.s.sed the bed and thought he was sweating.”
”I remember that now.”
We chatted for a while, talking about everything and saying nothing, and the while nuzzled up to a couple of hours and started whispering sweet nothings. She was good company, sharp with it, and she liked to talk. I liked listening, liked her frank opinions and the way her smile caused her nose to wrinkle. Liked that she took the time out to flirt without really meaning it, the way that, five or six pints later, she was still tossing her hair and laughing at my jokes. By then I had the idea that she reckoned I was a challenge, and I didn't have the heart to pretend otherwise.
”Messing aside,” I said, ”the first anniversary of what?”
She stared into her drink, stirring it with the pink swizzle stick that was Dutchie's idea of a gag.
”I was getting married.” Her fringe fell forward, hiding her eyes. She shook it back, straightened her shoulders. ”Then I wasn't getting married.”
”He broke it off?”
”Three weeks from the big day out, his brother's family home from South Africa, the works. We were going out for a year, engaged for eighteen months. Next thing he turns around and says he can't go through with it, he doesn't love me anymore. What the f.u.c.k love had to do with it in the first place. He was good in the nest, took regular showers, paid his share of the bills. That was about the height of it.”
The pub had filled up, the babble of conversation loud enough for us to talk without being overheard. It was pleasant sensation, like we were trapped in a bubble.