Decay Inevitable

Vernon paused with his glass raised to his mouth. His fingers were surprisingly delicate on such a big man. Pianist’s fingers. No rings. “Get back into it? This gets better. Listen. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Sean drained his pint and looked at his watch.

“I have to get back to the lads.”

“Bollocks to the lads.”

Sean studied his feet. “Make what worth my while?”

Vernon smiled. “I’ve got a little sideline going,” he said.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: SOFTLY, SOFTLY

A CALL TO Sally unearthed no dirt about Vernon. She suggested he might be using an alias. Sean didn’t think so. Something about him convinced Sean that artifice would not stand with this man. The corollary of this, of course, was that Vernon had no convictions. He was clean as the buttons on his coat. Despite this logic, Sean had no problem at all imagining Vernon in Naomi’s bedroom, stabbing her life away with a screwdriver.

Unhappy with the tension growing in his flat, Sean escaped outside. It was late in the evening. The pubs were getting rowdy. Sullen teenagers gathered under railway bridges or outside fish and chip shops, mouths busy with cigarettes or hidden behind zipped-up collars. Realising he was hungry, Sean ducked into one of these fish bars. He ordered his supper and let the vinegary, soporific heat melt through his bones and relax him. A couple of girls with vicious make-up flirted with him while he waited, asking him hairdresser questions: “Been on holiday?”

Back at his flat, he poured a glass of beer and set about his meal. The potatoes inside him, he stretched luxuriously on the sofa and promptly fell asleep. Almost immediately, he heard the telephone ringing. Disorientated by the extreme dark and the silence, he flailed around for the receiver and burbled something approximating a greeting into the mouthpiece. He felt dizzy and sick with the need for sleep.

“Hi,” said a female voice, far too brightly for the hour, whatever hour it was.

“What time is it?”

“It’s, um, hold on a sec... it’s quarter past midnight.”

“And you are?”

“I’m pissed.”

Sean rubbed his face. “Emma, is that you?”

“Yep. Guilty. Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“Just a little. What do you want?”

“To see you.”

Sean flicked on his bedside lamp. The room leapt away from him; shadows lengthened on the walls. “Emma. It’s late. I’m up early for work in the morning.”

“I wanted to apologise.”

“What for?” The taste of yesterday’s beer was thick in the back of his throat, as was the bitterness that had filled him listening to Vernon, pretending to be impressed. Pretending to be drawn to him.

“I remember you from school, okay? I just pretended not to because... well, because of the embarrassment of it all.”

“You don’t have to explain to me, Emma.”

Panicky now. On the verge of tears. “Can I see you? I won’t take up much of your time.”

Thinking of Naomi. How he should have helped. How he could have been there for her. In time.

Sean said, “Where?”

BRIDGE FOOT WAS still busy at this hour. The nearby nightclub was a circus of lurid costumes and loud people emboldened by alcohol. Sean drew the collar of his coat more tightly around him as women in scant dresses and men in shirt sleeves wrestled over cabs or queued at a portable burger bar. It was strange to be on the street at this hour without the compulsion to sort out disputes. They sold ties at the burger bar, for hapless individuals who turned up at the club hoping to be let in but had failed to take note of the dress code. Inscrutable bouncers stood like footballers in a wall defending a free kick. They muttered into headsets that left their hands free to beat the shit out of drunken punters.

Traffic weaved around him. Under the bridge, the Mersey was sacrament-black. He watched it coursing thickly away, wondering idly how many bodies had been cast into it over the years.

“Hi.”

Emma was still a little drunk. Her face was bleached by the flares of sodium and neon, her lips slashes of grey. She was wearing a V-neck sweater and a pair of cargo pants. The tip of her nose was moist.

“Let’s go and find us a coffee,” said Sean.

They walked up Bridge Street to the town centre. People were flooding through it in various stages of inebriation. One of the big chain pizza restaurants was still open and the waitress wasn’t bothered that they didn’t want to order any food. By the time their coffees arrived, the town centre was emptying and Emma’s eyes were having trouble focusing.

Sean said, “You been at anything other than the bottle tonight?”

Emma giggled. “A little draw, that’s all.”

“Sounds like you spoilt a perfect evening to be with me.”

“Icing on the cake, Sean.” She reached out a hand to pat one of his. “You remember Gill Chancellor?”

Sean nodded. He had had an awful feeling that this meeting might deteriorate into some maudlin retrospective, but now that it was happening, he didn’t mind all that much. “She used to be good at athletics, didn’t she? High jump.”