“Thanks.”
“This was excellent drink we had last night. I can’t remember it but it must have been good if you wake up without a hangover. Only bad vodka gives you a …” I tuned him out and lit a Marlboro. I don’t care what Dr Havercamp or anybody says: a Marlboro and a good black coffee fights the demons like nothing else.
“I made toast, would you like some?” Yavarov asked.
“How did you get the toaster to work? That thing baffles me.”
“It was easy.”
There was a knock at the front door. I swallowed the coffee and took another pull of the ciggie.
Another knock.
“There is someone at your door.”
“I know.”
A third knock.
“Do you want me to answer it?”
“I’ll do it.”
I walked down the hall and opened the front door.
“Hello, Hector,” I said.
“Hello, Sean.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Elizabeth needs her books.”
“What books?”
“For her studies.”
“Why didn’t she come and get them?”
“She asked me to do it.”
Beth’s father and I glared at one another. If he’d stood up straight he would have been half a foot taller than me, about six five or so, but he was in his mid sixties now and his whole body was crooked. His hair was grey and he was wearing thick George Smiley glasses. He looked, in fact, like a stretched Alec Guinness, but without Guinness’s gravitas or heft. He wasn’t a frail man – he kept himself fit through golfing and sailing – but there was something insubstantial about him. Some void at the heart of him that reminded me of all these upper-middle-class Prods who grew up in the mid-century good times of Northern Ireland, when working-class Prods and every Catholic knew their place.
“What’s going on, Hector?”
“Will you let me in to get her stuff?”
“What’s going on? I thought she was only staying there for a couple of days?”
His grey eyes narrowed. “What did you do to her?” he growled.
“What are you talking about?”
“If you laid a finger on her, so help me, I don’t care if you are a policeman, you’re a fucking dead man.”
I was taken aback for two reasons: it was a good few months since I’d had a death threat, but more impressively, I’d never heard Hector swear before. And swearing in defence of one’s daughter was a good thing.
“Are you going to let me in or not? I need to get some things for the baby, too.”
“Help yourself,” I said standing aside. “The baby’s room is next to ours upstairs, Beth’s office with her books is in the spare bedroom at the back.”
Hector tramped upstairs.
“Is anything wrong?” Yavarov asked.
“Just a sec,” I said and held up a finger while I dialled Larne.
Someone picked up on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Beth is that you?”
“Yes.”
“What the hell’s going on now? I thought we just had a fucking tiff?” was my less than diplomatic opening.
“Sean, I just sent my dad to get some of my things, you’re not rowing with him, are you?”
“I thought you said you were coming back today.”
“I never said that.”
“We just had a row. It was no big deal. And you were right. It’s a great house. It’s a lovely gesture. I said I was sorry.”
“Sean, please, don’t argue with my father. He’s not a young man.”
“I’m not arguing with him. He’s upstairs getting things for Emma and your books! Why?”
She sighed. “I told you. I think we need a little time apart to think things over.”
“You never said anything of the sort. What things? Things were going OK. I’d smoothed it all over with my natural charm and I already said sorry about the house.”
“Sean, please, can I call you in a couple of days?”
“No. Let me drive down there with your father—”
“No! Please, Sean, I know that you’re a reasonable man. Just give me a couple of days to get my bearings. I’ll give you a call. I had a talk with Mum and Dad last night and it got me thinking—”
“Your bloody father, wasn’t it?”
“No, well … look, I just want a few days. What’s wrong with that?”
“I miss Emma. And I know she misses me.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“I’ll call you.”
“When?”
“What day is today?”
“Saturday.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.” A long pause while Yavarov pottered about in the kitchen, the cat meowed and Hector made a hell of a racket upstairs.
“OK, Beth. Call me tomorrow. I’m not working. I’ll be home.”
“Fine.”
“Kiss Emma for me.”
“I will.”
“I love you.”
“… bye, Sean,” she said and then in a whisper she added, “love you” and quickly hung up. I put the phone in the crook.
It wasn’t a very original thought but I articulated it anyway: women – who could understand them?
She loved me. That was only the second or third time she’d actually said that.
I walked into the kitchen, confused, emotional.
Yavarov refilled my coffee cup.
“May I ask what’s happening, or would that be rude?”
“Girlfriend’s father is upstairs getting some of her stuff.”
“She left you?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”