‘Mr Gabriel will be paid in full,’ Roger said.
I thought Farrelly might add something either verbally or physically. Roger’s blanched face suggested the same thought had crossed his mind. Instead he began walking towards the gate that led to the front of the house. I took one final look at the tableau at the bottom of the garden and wished I hadn’t. Tabitha had recovered and was ministering to her brother with her daughter in close attendance.
Something in the grass had attracted Godfrey’s attention. He licked it in an exploratory fashion before sinking his teeth into it. He chewed a couple of times and then, with a slight inclination of his head, swallowed. Of course, it could have been one of the cupcakes Hester had thrown away, but I had a feeling it wasn’t.
Judging by Shane’s howl of anguish, so did he.
FORTY
During the drive back to Brewer Street, I asked Farrelly if a hospital visit might not be a good idea. He told me to shut the fuck up, which I did until we were outside the flat. He turned the ignition off and took an envelope from his inside pocket.
‘That’s the fine to get my motor out of the pound.’
‘What?’
‘You left it in Camden after you nicked it. Money better be in my account by the end of the week.’
‘It will be,’ I promised. ‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened at the Parrs’. What will you do for work now?’
‘Gotta little gym in Bethnal Green. Might open up another.’
‘Seriously? You’ve got your own business?’
‘You think I’m too fucking stupid to run a gym?’
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Just surprised you had the time.’
‘Don’t take much to set something up, if you put your mind to it.’
A brief silence, during which I pondered the fact that Farrelly was on the brink of owning a fitness chain, whereas I was on the brink of having my electricity cut off.
‘What you gonna do?’ he asked.
‘Move to Manchester.’
‘Straight up?’ I nodded. ‘Fucking northerners are a pain in the arse but it’s got to be better than getting pissed off your nut all day.’
‘That’s exactly what my life coach said.’
Farrelly scowled. ‘You know, I seriously considered doing you after what happened in the lock-up.’
‘I couldn’t just stand by and watch you kill Rocco.’
‘Fucking muppet.’
‘I know, but he’s kept quiet since Frank died.’
‘I meant you, not him. The only reason Rocco’s kept his gob shut is because I paid him a visit.’ Virtually everyone had made a few quid out of their memories of Frank Parr. I’d been wondering why Rocco hadn’t seized his chance. ‘And you fronted up when that twat Shane threw a scare into you,’ Farrelly continued. ‘Which means you know how to do the right thing.’
‘Stop it,’ I said. ‘You’re making me blush.’
Farrelly gave me a poisonous glance. ‘Point I’m making,’ he said, ‘is that you don’t have to be a cock all your life.’
It might not be a motto you could print across a T-shirt, but it was as close as Farrelly got to an aphorism. I wondered if other words of wisdom would follow.
‘Now, get out of the motor,’ he said. ‘And pay my bastard bill.’
The flat had a slightly alien feel. Probably because Malcolm had sent over a cleaner and made sure the fridge and cupboards were well stocked. The place hadn’t been so tidy since . . . well, the day I moved in, probably. I made a cup of tea and began to munch my way through a pack of Jaffa Cakes. I had been warned that I might become exhausted without warning. Sure enough, an extraordinary lethargy descended. It was all I could do to get into the bedroom and stretch out on the bed.
Three hours later, my buzzing phone woke me up. Stephie’s name was flashing across the screen. I thought about letting it go to voicemail and changed my mind.
‘Hi, Stephie.’
‘He speaks at last!’
‘Sorry about that. You know what it’s like in hospital with all that equipment around. No one’s mad about you using your phone.’
Stephie chose not to comment on my weak excuse for not returning her calls. ‘I’m guessing you’re out now,’ she said instead.
‘This morning.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Knackered. I need to get some rest.’
‘It’s that quiet you can hear yourself think here.’ Stephie paused for me to respond. ‘You going to Frank’s funeral?’ she asked when I didn’t.
‘Probably not.’
‘Nothing to stop you catching a train to Manchester, then.’
An emergency vehicle drove past. I waited a couple of seconds for the sound of its siren to fade. ‘Thing is, Stephie, I’ve got to go to Outpatients a couple more times. Soon as I get the all-clear, I’m buying a ticket.’
‘They do have hospitals in Manchester, Kenny.’ Sharpness had crept into Stephie’s voice. ‘It’s not a third-world city,’ she added.
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘But I think it’s best that I stick with the guy in charge of my case, don’t you?’
Now it was Stephie’s turn to take her time answering.
‘You’re not coming,’ she said after five seconds of dead air. ‘And what’s more, I don’t think you ever were.’
‘Look, all I need is a few days to . . .’
‘Goodbye, Kenny,’ Stephie said. ‘Take care of yourself.’
And then she cut the call.
I left the flat and walked wherever the mood took me for a couple of hours. Gradually I drifted eastwards past St Paul’s and then to the Millennium Bridge. A German couple in their twenties attached a padlock to one of the railings. The council’s policy was to shear the lovers’ locks free every couple of days. Perhaps the couple didn’t know or perhaps they didn’t care. The girl asked me to take a picture and I obliged.
Would the pair be looking back fondly on the photograph in forty years with grandchildren scampering around the house? Or would it be deleted next week following a contretemps in a Düsseldorf disco? Just then they were happy to be on a London bridge while some geezer attempted to get them and the Shard in the same frame. The girl checked the camera screen and gave me a thumbs up. She and her boyfriend headed for Tate Modern while I retraced my steps towards the cathedral.
I delayed my return home with a visit to the Lamb and Flag. It had been one of Jack Rigatelli’s favourite pubs. Despite his own rackety lifestyle, Jack had given excellent advice to his friends. I found myself peering into the shadowy corners of the lounge bar, half expecting to see him bent over a copy of the Racing Times.
There’s no logic to grief because there’s no logic to living. The only thing you can do is get on with it. I ordered a second pint of lager and did precisely that. By four o’clock the pub had become jammed with tourists and shoppers. Misery may love company but it draws the line at queuing for the Gents.