Something Wicked (10 page)

‘. . . If you don’t want people getting drunk, then don’t put on free wine. There was champagne at the start too and you know what I’m like when I start on champagne.
Anyway, where was I?’

Andrew blinked as the hyenas at the bar continued cackling. ‘Your friend Cheryl.’

‘Right, yeah. So I was like, “Chez, don’t worry about it, babes. I’ve got that Jeremy Whatisname’s card and you can go straight to him. He outranks Geoff and you
can put a complaint in directly.” So we phoned that number and it turned out Jeremy Thingamabob doesn’t even work there any longer. He got offered some management job at BP and is off
in the Gulf, raking it in. I mean you wouldn’t have known it to look at him when he was sleeping in the toilets last Christmas, but then I guess that’s not the sort of thing you put on
a CV . . .’

Finally a waiter! Andrew held his hand up and caught the man’s eye. He was a typical Italian restaurant-type, all greased-back black hair, too-tight trousers and tufts of dark chest hair
sticking out of his white shirt. The man scuttled across, notepad at the ready.

‘Are you ready to order, Sir?’

‘Yes, I’ll have the garlic bread to start, the penne con pesce for main and a pint of Peroni.’

And earplugs, definitely earplugs.

‘And for you, Madam?’

Sara seemed slightly put-out at her story being cut off mid-flow. She glanced at the menu, then back up at the waiter, who had definitely just sneaked a peek down her cleavage.

‘What’s that thing with the shells?’

‘Mussels?’

‘Yeah, I’ll have some of that to start, then a chicken Caesar for main and a large glass of red.’

The waiter finished writing with an elaborate swish, snapped their menus closed, had another peep down Sara’s dress, and then disappeared off in the direction of the hen party.

‘After that, Chez was all down in the dumps but I said to her I’d help sort it, and I’m a woman of my word, so that’s what I did. When Geoff turned in, late as usual, I
asked if I could have a word. In his office, like, so that everyone knew what was going on. He said it’d have to be later but I said it had to be now. By then, of course, everyone was
listening in, so he couldn’t say anything out of place . . .’

Andrew peered over Sara’s shoulder towards the bar, where one of the women was leaning across, skirt riding up, knickers on show, all the while being egged on by her friends as she tried
to get a kiss from the now slightly more sheepish barman.

Classy.

He focused back on Sara, who didn’t seem to have breathed in for over a minute. If she could turn her attention to swimming as opposed to talking, she’d be Olympic standard.

‘. . . So I’m in Geoff’s office, just me and him, and he’s like, “So what’s the problem, Sara?” And I’m like, “You know what the problem is,
Geoff – it’s the way you talk to people. The girls on the floor won’t stand for it. Poor old Cheryl’s talking about official complaints because she can’t take it any
longer. People are talking about unionising.” Course, that tips him right over the edge, which is why I said it. By now, everyone’s watching through the glass, expecting fireworks . .
.’

Andrew wondered exactly what caring for a person really meant. He’d been in love once before and blown it. At the time he’d blamed it on other people, mainly his father-in-law, but
recently he’d started to see that it was his own choices that had driven him and his former wife apart. He’d definitely cared about her, of course, but could people fall in love
twice?

‘. . . He’s ranting and raving, saying joining a union invalidates our contracts and that he’ll sack the lot of us, so I’m like, “Geoff, we all know you can’t
do that. You’re the stand-in assistant manager. All I’m saying is that you need to watch the way you talk to people.” Then he’s like, “Some of that lot need a good
kick up the arse, their timekeeping’s appalling” . . .’

It was a difficult scale for Andrew to figure out. Did he even like Sara? If she walked out of the restaurant and got hit by a bus, he would certainly feel bad – awful in fact. He’d
go to the hospital with her and hope she got better. He’d spend time with her, reading and chatting, as long as she couldn’t talk back, but was that what counted as a relationship?
Caring if the other person was hit by a bus? What if she was hit by a car? He’d probably still care then. Motorbike? Definitely. Mobility scooter? Perhaps not. Equally, if she walked out of
the restaurant, didn’t get hit by a bus, but he never saw her again, he really wouldn’t mind.

‘. . . So I said, “
Their
timekeeping’s appalling – what time did you get in today?” He looked like he was going to pop, all bulging eyes and pumping veins.
He just shouted, “What did you say?!” I stayed calm and was like, “You know what I said – and you know it’s true” . . .’

She’d be one of those people he might bump into in twenty years’ time. They’d stop on the street, staring at each other, vaguely trying to remember each other’s name,
before going for a coffee, catching up on each other’s lives, and then not seeing one another for another twenty years.

‘. . . He just shouted, “My personal life is none of your concern!” He was so loud the windows were rattling, like an earthquake. I just stood my ground and said,
“That’s exactly what the girls say, Geoff. Sometimes things come up. They don’t mean for things to happen but that’s what it’s like when you’ve got kids.”
Poor Cheryl’s lad’s got that mental thing, what’s it called?’

She snapped her fingers annoyingly at Andrew.

‘Alzheimer’s. No, that’s the old people thing, isn’t it? No matter, anyway, he’s got that mental thing, so I said to him, “You’ve got to understand what
it’s like for some people” . . .’

Andrew eyed the shape of Sara’s face, the high cheekbones, plump lips and straight white teeth. He skimmed across the curve of her dress, knowing that he definitely didn’t have the
same feelings for her as he’d had for his ex-wife. He was certainly attracted to her, when she stopped sodding talking, but it wasn’t enough. Hoping someone avoided being hit by a bus
wasn’t enough to spend significant amounts of time with them.

The waiter interrupted Andrew’s thoughts as he returned. By the time he’d finished going through the drink-sipping routine with Sara, along with another peep down her top, Andrew had
already downed a third of his beer. As soon as the waiter disappeared again, Sara picked up where she’d left off.

‘After that, Geoff was all right but that’s what I said to Chez. Sometimes you’ve got to talk about these things. Anyway, as soon as I got out of there my phone went and
it’s only my mother on the phone, isn’t it? I’m like, “Mum, it’s half ten in the morning, I’m at work” but she’s had a falling out with Dad again and
he’s stormed off to go fishing, so I’m trying to calm her down—’

‘I don’t think I can do this any longer.’

Sara paused mid-sentence, flicking her shoulder so that her lacquered hair dropped behind it. ‘The beer? If you want some wine, we can call him back. The red’s good.’

‘I mean us. I’m sorry, it’s not you, I just don’t think things are working out.’

Sara stared at him, eyes widening until the red veins started to show. She took a sip of the wine and then placed the glass back on the table very delicately.

‘You’re dumping me?’

‘Well, no . . . not like that, I just think—’

‘
You’re
dumping
me
?’

‘Well—’

‘Seriously?’

‘I’d prefer it if—’

‘You’re lucky I’m still with you. All my friends say they don’t know what I’m doing but I defend you. I say, “No, he’s not just a stuck-up dickface with
a nice apartment”.’

Dickface?

‘I say, “Honestly, he’s really thoughtful and always remembers the important things, like my birthday and so on”.’

‘I’m not trying to—’

‘And even though you always complain about meeting my friends and you don’t like coming to the places I like; even though you didn’t come to Leanne’s wedding because you
were “working”’ – more bloody bunny ears – ‘even though you hired that young piece of skirt to perv over—’

‘That’s not why I hired her.’

‘You keep telling yourself that. Of all the people you could have hired, it just happens to be some pretty young girl with pointy tits and—’

‘Please don’t talk about her like that.’

Andrew wondered whether it was his own calm tone or the fact that he’d defended Jenny that finally tipped Sara over the edge. Likely a bit of both. She stood, leaning over the table,
Wonderbra-enhanced cleavage swinging freely as she wafted a talon-like nail in Andrew’s direction, her voice so loud that the hen party had fallen silent. Andrew risked a quick peep around
Sara’s breasts to see the women staring in his direction on the edges of their stools, ready for the night’s entertainment.

‘Oh, I get it. It’s about
her
, isn’t it?’

‘Jenny?’

‘Keira.’

Andrew sighed. Of course it was. Who else was it going to be about?

Sara was in full flow. ‘You do know you broke up with her eight years ago? Eight sodding years?!’

‘I know.’

‘So how are you still hung up on her? It’s been eight years! Be an adult and grow up.’

Sara hoiked her bag up from the floor, turning towards the exit and then spinning back as if she’d forgotten something. In a flash, she had the wine glass in her hand, lunging forward and
tipping the contents over Andrew’s head. The liquid sloshed through his hair, dripping over his nose and running across his eyes. He gasped in surprise, trying not to blink in any of the
vinegary concoction. Even the wine was shite in this place.

‘You’re not dumping me, because I’m dumping you,’ Sara said, almost calmly. ‘Have a nice life.’

With an elaborate swish and a rousing cheer from the hen party, she strutted her way towards the exit, dignity as intact as it was going to get. Andrew used the napkin to mop as much of the wine
away from his face as he could just as the waiter emerged from the kitchen, bounding towards the table with two plates in his hand.

‘I’ve got mussels and garlic bread . . .’

Andrew drove up and down the road in his rented car, trying to find a parking space where the charge wasn’t more than the car’s daily hire rate. Sodding central
Manchester and those NCP bandits. He eventually found a spot on the edge of a housing estate out towards Longsight and then walked back along Oxford Road until he was surrounded by university
buildings and student types. Being before ten in the morning, there weren’t many out; he guessed this area didn’t warm up until they got out of bed some time around two-ish. Well, that
was what it had been like when he was at university anyway. Since he’d met Keira here, the area had changed dramatically: out with the dingy students’ union and tiny bolt-hole pubs, in
with the wine bars, ‘student services’ buildings, music venues, fancy aquatics centre and all sorts of other smart glass-fronted buildings that only ‘under-funded’
universities could afford.

The side streets and cut-throughs were still the same as in his day, so Andrew weaved his way along the paved areas until he found the all-new red-brick set of private halls two streets over
from the main road. In the summer, the stretch of lawn at the front would be covered with young people kicking balls around, drinking their way through crates of whatever was on special down the
offy and, occasionally, revising. In the gloomy beginnings of a November morning, it was a giant mud pit, almost filthy enough to host a music festival.

A sign at the front listed the buildings next to rows of numbers, with arrows pointing off in all directions. Andrew checked the note on his phone about where Scott lived and then tried to
figure out exactly what that meant in practical terms. It was a good job the people living here were studying for a degree, given that you’d need something that advanced to decipher what the
sign was trying to say.

Eventually, Andrew gave up, asking a passing lad with an oversized backpack if he knew the location of the flat. He even got a sensible reply.

Two minutes later, he was making his way along a darkened corridor, using the light on his phone to check the numbers on the various doors before finally finding Scott’s. He had to knock
twice before a yawning teenager opened the door, towel around his waist, pasty white chest on display.

As Andrew was invited in, it dawned on him that, to the casual observer, a man in his mid-thirties being invited into a student’s apartment by a half-naked young man might seem a little
off
. Still, it wouldn’t be the worst thing that had happened to him in the previous twenty-four hours, given his disastrous break-up.

Scott led him into a cluttered living room, full of football posters, scattered lads’ mags, pizza boxes and various computer games. He muttered something about being right back and then
disappeared through a door.

The smell of tobacco clung to the furniture, despite the open window allowing cool air to chill the room. On the windowsill, a saucer was overflowing with cigarette ends, flecks of ash peppering
the carpet underneath. An air-freshener was sticking out of the electrical socket, with a small transparent bulb of yellow liquid being squirted into the air, doing a half-arsed job of masking the
fags.

In the corner was a jumbled stack of textbooks, mingled with newspapers, more magazines and the odd novel. Andrew checked for anything spell-related but there was nothing similar to what
he’d found in Nicholas’s room.

A few minutes later, Scott emerged back into the room, rubbing his wet brown hair with a towel. Luckily, he was now wearing jeans, with a T-shirt and hoody. His accent was as local as it came.
‘Sorry about that, pal, lost track of the time.’

He flopped onto the sofa, squishing himself into the corner, before digging a remote control out from underneath him and putting it on a table that had more coffee rings than clean wood.

‘So you’re a private investigator?’

Andrew sat opposite him. ‘Right.’

‘And you’re looking into what happened to Nicholas?’