Authors: Graham Hurley
‘
When?
’
‘
When I first told you? That night we went to the Caprice, and then
the club afterwards?
’
Fairweather shot me a sideways look.
He
’
d obviously spent less time
preparing for this conversation than I had.
‘
You gave me a name,
’
he said carefully.
‘
Maybe I didn
’
t recognise
it.
’
‘
You
’
re telling me Gilbert Phillips isn
’
t Gilbert Phillips?
’
‘
I
’
m saying nothing of the sort. I
’
m merely speculating.
’
It was a political answer and try as I might I couldn
’
t budge him an
inch further. The implication was pretty clear - that Phillips wasn
’
t
Gilbert
’
s family name at all - but Fairweather hadn
’
t come here for
anything as helpful as a candid chat. On the contrary, as he kept
pointing out, he was only the messenger boy, the bearer - he hoped -
of good news.
‘
They want to make you an offer,
’
he said.
‘
And frankly you
’
d be
daft not to say yes.
’
I had Billie in my lap. We were surrounded by ducks now and I
wished I
’
d brought some bread.
‘
What is it?
’
I asked.
‘
They
’
d like you to move out.
’
I
’
d already told him about last time, with Mark, but he shook his
head.
‘
They
’
d buy it,
’
he said.
‘
Take it off your hands.
’
‘
They would?
’
‘
Yes. Dec
ent price, too. I managed to ge
t them up to
£65
,000.
’
I glanced sideways at him. He was looking pleased with himself.
‘
But what about Gilbert?
’
I asked.
‘
Bugger Gilbert. It
’
s you you should be thinking about. You and
little Willie here.
’
For the first time he tried to touch the baby. She watched his big fat
finger waving in front of her face.
‘
Gilbert
needs help,
’
I said.
‘
That
’
s what
I thought this was all about. I
thought they were going to
get him treatment of some kind.
I don
’
t
know, drugs, counselling, whatever it is he needs.
’
‘
You really think that would help?
’
‘
Of course I do. He
’
s in a real mess s
ometimes. You can see it coming
on, once you get to know him.
’
Fairweather had a packet of fruit gum
s. He tossed one towards
the nearest
duck. The duck ignored it.
‘
Clewson was right,
’
he frowned.
‘
He said you were naive, very
nice but very naive. Gilbert
’
s not your problem, it
’
s theirs, the
family
’
s.
’
‘
But they
’
ve done nothing, absolutely
nothing, not even that brother
of his,
Tom
.
They
’
ve cut him adrift
, they won
’
t even invite him
down. They just leave him there, stewing in his own juices. What kind
of family
’
s that? To just abandon him?
’
Fairweather looked unimpressed.
‘
Happens all the time,
’
he said.
‘
Families splitting up, fathers,
mothers
…
’
He nodded at Billie.
‘
Christ, girl, you should know.
’
I objected to that. Very strongly indeed. Billie, as far as I knew, was
normal. She
’
d grow up strong, protecte
d, ready to make her way in the
world. Gilbert, on the o
ther hand, was completely at sea, hopelessly
vulnerable to the next passing squall.
His attempts to make a name for
himself - like the LP he
’
d paid the earth
for - had come to nothing, and
he
’
d ended up with half a house in
N17
and a telescope to keep him
company on cloudless nights.
My outburst stung Fairweather into defending himself.
‘
I
’
m told he
’
s happy enough.
’
‘
Who says?
’
‘
His father, for one.
’
‘
His
father
?’
I
stared at him.
‘
But his father
’
s dead.
’
‘
Really?
’
‘
Yes, Tom told me, his brother. You don
’
t believe me?
’
Fairweather gave himself a moment or two to compose his
thoughts. Then he put a gloved hand on mine.
‘
It
’
s a good offer,
’
he said.
‘
I
’
d take it. I
’
d find another place, move
out, forget all about Gilbert. Clewson
told me about what happened to
your kitchen ceiling. If that doesn
’
t make your mind up, God knows
what will.
’
I looked down at Billie, wondering whether to bother with my little
speech about causes and effects, about
the pattern I
’
d detected behind
Gilbert
’
s wilder excesses, about w
hat it was that tipped him into
madness. Fairweather, like Clewson, didn
’
t want to know. They
thought my concern and my sympathy were quaint, and wholly
wonderful, but their sole responsibility was to get me out of Napier
Road. Gilbert could look after himself. Always had. Always would.
Fairweather was still watching me, still waiting for an answer.
‘
In the nicest possible way,
’
he said,
‘
they
’
re giving you a deadline.
’
‘
Oh?
’
‘
Yes.
’
He stood up, looking at his watch.
‘
They want a decision
within forty-eight hours. I make that Wednesday.
’
As good as his word, Fairweather phoned me at home
two
days later.
All three of us had taken the bus over to Whipp
’
s Cross and walked
around the ponds across from the hospital. Gilbert, unlike me, had
thought to bring nuts for the squirrels and Billie had been entranced.
N
ow, still in his duffle coat, Gilbert
was out in the kitchen making us tea.
I took Fairweather
’
s call in the front room, tip-toeing to the door
and closing it.
‘
Well?
’
he said.
He wanted an answer. I did my best to postpone the decision. Two
days
’
thinking had led me to certain conclusions.
‘
He
’
s an MP,
’
I suggested.
‘
Like you.
’
‘
Who?
’
‘
Gilbert
’
s father.
’
‘
How do you make that out?
’
I told him I
’
d been asking around, using the contacts I
’
d made on
Members
Only
.
It wasn
’
t true but I thought it was a reasonable guess.
Politicians, like any caste, tend to mix amongst themselves.
‘
He
’
s quite well known,
’
I went on.
‘
And I expect he wants to keep
the skeletons in the cupboard.
’
‘
What skeletons?
’
‘
Gilbert, for a start.
’
Fairweather
’
s voice was beginning to harden. The bonhomie had
gone. He was getting irritated.
‘
Who he is doesn
’
t matter,
’
he said.
‘
All he
’
s after is a bloody
decision. Do you want the sixty-five grand or not?
’
I heard Gilbert
’
s footsteps falter outside the door. I visualised him
trying to juggle plates and a tray of tea. I got up to open the door.
‘
I
’
ll phone you later,
’
I said to Fairweather.
‘
I
’
m still thinking about
it.
’
I didn
’
t phone, not that night and not next day either. Partly because I
objected to being backed into a corner, and partly because I simply
hadn
’
t made up my mind. Of course a move had its attractions. Of
course the money would come in handy. But there were other factors,
too, and I judged them
equally
important. For one thing, we were
happy in Napier Road, all three of us, and for another I felt very sorry
for Gilbert. Moving out would be a gross betrayal. He had very serious
problems, no question about it, but just now I
’
d never seen him
happier.
At the end of the week, after non-stop
rain for two days, the weather
cheered up again. After lunch, I slip
ped Billie into the papoose and
settled her in the pram. When there w
as no answer at Gilbert
’
s door,
we left without him, walking the mile or so to the park off
Lordship
Lane.
It happened to be half term and the place was full of kids. I parked
the pram outside the cafe, as usual, and
went in to get a sticky bun and
a can of Diet Coke. I always left Billie
where I could see her, but this
particular afternoon the heat of all the bodies inside the cafe had
misted the windows. To be honest, as well, I probably spent a second
or two longer than usual in the queue for the cash till.
I paid for the bun and the drink, then picked my way out between
the bodies. I remember the air being cold on my face as I pushed out
through the door. I
’
d left the pram a couple of paces to the left. It was
empty.