In Pieces (35 page)

Ricky had no doubt that The Crocodiles' time was about to arrive. The only thing was persuading the pub manager of this fact.

He slid a cassette out of his inside jacket pocket and leaned across the bar towards a man cleaning glasses.

The man eyed him warily.

Ricky cleared his throat and gave his best smile. Then he started the patter.

~

Unusually, the lunchtime crowd in The Feathers was fairly thin. Many of the regulars had chosen to have their lunch outside in the bright September sunshine.

Brenda's feet hurt and she wished she'd not wasted all that hard-earned cash on fashion shoes. The Edwardian clock behind the bar said two minutes past one. Another two hours till she got her break. Then she could put her feet up and have a cup of tea at home. It was only ten minutes walk to her mother's flat, in the opposite direction to the smart terraces where Si lived, but she winced at the thought of walking along the hot pavement in those stupid shoes.

She'd be back later, of course. And the evening crowd was much more fun. Moreover, there was always the possibility that Si would pop in for a pint. Or two. They'd been getting on particularly well recently. Not that she'd made any progress in fulfilling her romantic fantasy, although Brenda's crush on Si was as real as ever. But since he'd packed in his job, he'd become much more relaxed and talkative, prepared to share his thoughts with her. He didn't seem to mind that she sometimes couldn't understand what he was talking about. He seemed particularly keen on religion recently. She'd never really had much time for such hocus pocus, but Si's chatter was amusing. The odd thing was, he was always asking questions, not of her, but of himself. And he never answered them before putting another question. But never about Jimmy and her. She half-hoped he would—it might mean Si was interested in her. However, she enjoyed his company and her heartbeat became faster whenever he pushed through the doorway and greeted her with an airy wave.

A man in a grey pinstripe waited to be served. Probably a solicitor or an estate agent. There were a lot of those working near The Feathers. She forced a smile in his direction. ‘What can I get you?'

‘A tomato juice, please.'

A solicitor, she decided.

~

It was the hottest day of the year, but otherwise there seemed nothing unusual about the dog whining in the park. The mongrel started to emit a thin moan and kept it up for a few minutes. Bristling with miserable anticipation it strained at the makeshift lead.

‘Shut up, Tex,' barked a middle-aged man sitting on the bench beside the dog. Then he returned to his newspaper.

Big Ben struck one o'clock, but no one seemed to notice.

The park was full of people on their lunch breaks. Tourist couples strolled around the lake and took photos of Buckingham Palace through the trees. Daydreaming civil servants in suits munched sandwiches and perspired on benches. A group of small children down by the lakeside fed scraps of stale bread to the swans. The magnificent ivory birds craned their necks gracefully to retrieve the food as if they were doing the children a favour. Hundreds of ducks bobbed serenely on the glassy surface.

The noise caused people to stop walking. Some looked up into the sky, perhaps expecting a supersonic aircraft to cut a thin white scar through the blue. Cameras were lowered briefly. Sandwiches hung in the air mid-bite. The children feeding swans stepped back in fear as the birds reared out of the water screaming and spreading their immense, powerful wings. The ducks took to flight, wheeling in a terrifying flapping arc, beating their way to the end of the lake and back in a dense flock.

After the bang a dangerous silence, thick with uncertainty, descended on the park. Then, gradually, people forgot, started talking again, resumed their strolls and lunches, and the birds glided back to the lake. The dark swarm of pigeons which had taken to flight at the noise, curved around the trees and landed abruptly on the grass as if unified by a common mind.

Only the mongrel Tex did not relax. He kept barking as he had done since the boom shook the park. Barking fit to burst. Nothing his owner could do would calm him.

Then the sirens started and a pall of dirty smoke rose in an apocalyptic pillar, like a crude brushstroke on a virgin, azure-washed canvas.

~

Greta stopped reading the newspaper. She must have read the article half a dozen times already. She sat quietly, lost in thought for some time. How long, she didn't know. Occasionally, her unfocussed eyes rested unseeing on the letter beneath her hand.

Her thumb ached from holding down the play button on the dictaphone she'd found in Baa's room. She'd listened to the three tapes all the way through. Baa's recordings lasted well over an hour. And the voice was so serious; she had difficulty associating it with her boyish lover.

Then the phone rang. It rang half a dozen times before she heard it. From upstairs came the sound of children fighting. She brushed a tress of auburn hair from her face and pushed back her chair from the kitchen table.

Greta was slightly surprised not to wake up. It might so easily have been a nightmare. But if so she was still caught up in her dream.

She noticed the early autumn sunshine streaming through the windows as she stood up. The phone was still ringing and, rubbing her aching eyes, she walked over to answer it. No doubt, the police would be back again soon. They'd said as much earlier, when they came to tell her that Baa was dead. Perhaps this was them? She knew it was only a matter of time. She knew all this, and although she now knew why her lover was dead, she simply couldn't begin to understand.

~

Si opened his eyes. He felt so relaxed. A fly spun around the lamp above him. Feeling slightly chilly, he tried to pull up the bedclothes. The pain was excruciating and immediately he remembered everything. Through scrunched up eyes, he fought back the tears which always followed.

‘Ah, so you've decided to wake up at last. We're honoured to have you back, to be sure we are.'

Si realised that, for once, he had managed to control his tears. Progress. Pity his body still looked like a teabag and felt like a pincushion.

‘So, do you want some breakfast? I mean it's only twelve o'clock, but you've been asleep for fifteen hours. I wish I could have the luxury… Some hope.'

‘You need to get blown up to get that honour,' Si joked feebly.

‘Yes, on second thoughts, I'll settle for my six hours a night.' Penny was wonderful. In the fortnight he'd been at Saint Mary's Hospital, she'd nursed him constantly. Dedicated beyond the call of duty, always cheerful, the young nurse had pulled him back from the edge.

‘Now seriously, fifteen hours is a great improvement. You're over the worst, the doctor says. Sleeping like that, you'll be back on your feet in no time.'

Si knew she was lying, but he didn't care. The important thing was to forget that first week of sleepless agony, when his injuries had been so severe that even breathing seemed brave, and the only rest he'd got was drug-induced.

Now things seemed to be looking up.

‘Any news on Mary?'

Penny shook her head. Mary had been injured more severely than any of them, having been the closest of them all to the epicentre of the blast. She was still in intensive care, although stable now. It had seemed at one point that she might not make it. Si had only been told this several days after the immediate danger had passed—at the time he would not have understood.

‘And Jimmy?'

‘No change. The bandages come off next week. We won't know until after that. And maybe not even then.'

Si and Jimmy had been inside the restaurant, a hundred yards from the bomb; when Andante's vast plate glass window had been blown in, they had been caught in a storm of glass shards. Si had his
back to the window and had been peppered like a pheasant. Jimmy had taken the blast face on. The surgeons feared he might have lost his sight for good.

Si sank back into the bed. It still hurt. He ached everywhere. Not for the first time he wondered,
why
? Why them, just when things were going so well for them all?

‘You rest now,' Penny advised. ‘I'll be back soon.'

Si watched her departing form as she softly closed the door. Then he closed his eyes.

~

‘You've got a visitor.' Penny looked unsure whether to let the intruder in. But as she dithered, the door flew open. A huge bunch of tropical flowers entered. Ricky followed noisily.

‘Surprise!'

Si managed a weak smile. Apart from his parents, he'd not had any visitors. The doctors advised at least another week of total rest before he had regular visiting hours.

Penny left the room discreetly.

‘Hey man, how's it going? We thought you might poop on us at one point. But now they say you're gonna be fine. Isn't that great?'

‘Hi, Ricky. Thanks for coming.' Si didn't feel strong enough for conversation.

‘No problem. Sorry I didn't make it sooner. But they wouldn't let me. God, they're strict round here. That nurse'—he cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder—‘she's a tough one. Treated me like I was the one who put you in here.' He laughed loudly but cut himself short. ‘Sorry, I guess that wasn't very funny.' Ricky looked a bit lost for what to say next.

‘Yeah, it was funny enough. Only, I can't laugh. It hurts too much.'

Ricky grinned, clearly relieved. ‘You know they found out who did it?'

Si nodded. Barry O'Reilly, a twenty-year-old member of the Provisional IRA had been killed in the blast. The police said the bomb had probably gone off prematurely, although they were trying to fathom why O'Reilly had flicked the safety switch off before reaching his target. The explosion might have been triggered by movement of the bag in which it was being carried, or O'Reilly might have bumped into something. It was unclear what the target was, although it seemed that the intention was to end the cease-fire with maximum impact. An explosion in the West End of London certainly fitted the bill. To that extent the operation seemed to have been a success, O'Reilly's death apart. The explosion had carved a huge swathe of destruction down one of the busiest shopping streets in London; five people had died, ten others were still in hospital and many others had suffered minor injuries from flying glass. Barry O' Reilly had left his mark in many places.

‘What could have made a kid like that so full of hate? Defeats me. I suppose it was justice that he was killed by his own bomb.'

Si's eyes filled up with tears. He felt very sorry for himself suddenly. Ricky must have noticed. ‘Oh, listen, man, I didn't mean to upset you. I'm really sorry. Hey, why don't I tell you about the band? We got this gig at the Goat and Boots, you know, the pub on Oxford Street where all the famous bands play on their way to the top? In fact it was the same day as the bomb. I went and talked to the manager and played him a few tracks, and he signed us up. We're playing next month. You see, they've got so much demand, they book at least a month in advance. And hey, man, it was a close run thing you know.'

‘What?'

‘Getting the gig, man. It almost didn't happen.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, talk about luck… Well, not exactly luck, that's the wrong word in the circumstances…' Ricky looked disconcerted again, his usual ebullience gone.

‘Go on.'

‘Yeah, well… Just as we shook hands on the deal and had finished sorting out the details, the bomb went off. Boom, just like that. Know what I mean?'

Si nodded.

‘Yeah, course you do. Sorry, I forgot for a minute.

‘And although we were round the corner from Regent Street, we must have been five hundred yards away from the bomb, but all the windows blew in and everything shook, like an earthquake, man. At first we thought the explosion was outside, but then we realised that it was way off.' Ricky paused. ‘Now, what was I saying? Oh yeah, it could have been a disaster… Well, it was, I know, but I mean for the band. You know what I mean?'

Si smiled reassuringly.

‘If the bomb had gone off any earlier, there'd have been too much chaos to clinch a deal. As it was, I just rang up the next day to check that the Goat and Boots would be repaired in time and that the deal stood. It did.' Ricky looked at Si. ‘Sorry, that was all a bit confused, but you know what I'm trying to say, don't you?'

Si managed a nod. ‘Every cloud?'

Ricky looked blank. Then recognition dawned. ‘Exactly, man. Exactly. I guess I'm just real pleased to see you… Alive, that is.'

Silence fell between them. The silence of hospitals and big institutions, textured with distant muffled voices and midday birdsong.

‘Well, I'll leave you these.' He placed the blooms in an empty vase, wrapping paper and all. ‘I shouldn't tire you out any longer. That dragon of a nurse told me I had only ten minutes. See you, then.'

‘Ricky, thanks for coming by.'

‘No problem, man. I'll be back soon, okay?' And with a broad grin and a cheery wave Ricky swung out of the room. How, Si mused, did Ricky manage to preserve a suntan when autumnal mists had descended on London? Impressive. But there again, perhaps it wasn't real.

~

Si started to feel strong enough to have visitors every day—mostly his parents and Ricky. Bill from
The Courier
had come once, looking very self-conscious. Si had imagined it was because of the hospital and the unease which grips most people when faced with the seriously ill. But it had turned out to be far more interesting.

‘I brought you these.' Bill shyly presented some wilted pink and white carnations wrapped in soggy paper.

‘Hey, you didn't need to…. But thanks anyway. So have a seat.' Si gestured to the functional chair beside the bed. He noticed that Bill had lost the nose stud and his had shaved his head almost down to the scalp. The fuzz of hair which survived had returned to its natural brown hue. He wore a tight white vest under a black leather biker jacket. Strangely, Si felt that the flowers seemed to complement the outfit.