Werent always easy to know what Mike was talking about and half the time it didnt seem worth making the effort to ask. Werent always that easy to know who he was talking to anyway. Look round half the time and hes on the phone. Ask him to speak up and he goes Whats that pal eh sorry I wasnt talking to you. And when he was it didnt always make sense and it was best to just go Yes Mike I know what youre saying. All this stuff about the police, the government, surveillance agencies and that. All this stuff about watching your back and looking out for who might be listening. Harmless stuff most of it but it made him pretty uptight to be around. Like when he talked about those blokes being after him, the ones he said theyd seen down the centre. They hadnt seen no blokes down the centre, not that Danny knew about. Always talking about someone being after giving him a beating but from what Danny knew they never had. Danny had taken a few since hed moved up here, and plenty before that where hed been staying before and then of course when he was a
Mike always going on about it but it never seemed to happen to him. Always saying something like Danny you know whatll happen if they try it la, you know what theyll get for their troubles it dont matter how many there are theyll get their just rewards maybe not right then but later I will make sure of it I will track them down and find them one at a time and they wont be so brave then you know what Im saying not with an iron bar across their kneecaps an that not with a slab of paving stone dropped on their heads they wont be laughing an that then you know what Im
Why did it take you so long to contact the police?
I was worried I might look dodgy or something.
Why would you think that?
Just, because I was the last one there. And my record.
Do you want to tell us about your record?
Youve got it, you can look it up for yourself.
What do you think happened to Robert?
Fuck should I know, I werent there.
And what do you think has happened to your friends?
I dont fucking know.
Where do you think theyve
Waste of time thinking about all these questions anyway, waste of time worrying whether the police were going to suspect him of anything. Like they were going to give a shit either way. Like Robert was even going to get in the papers for
Got up by the roundabout and phoned the number and it werent a voice he recognised, mostly they were faces youd seen about or people youd been introduced to but not this one. Girl who answered wanted to know where hed got the number before anything else, so he told her about the kid and where hed seen the kid and that he knew Ben from
Lights on in the pub but hardly no one there. Bloke in a rugby shirt behind the bar rubbing his face and looking up at the ceiling. TV on in the corner and Christmas decorations still dangling off the walls. Door swung open a minute but someone must have changed their mind because no one came out. Intercity train rattling along by the sidings, the empty carriages lit up like shop windows, the squares of light skimming over the rubbish and weeds and treestumps at the side of the tracks. The old man in the wheelchair pushing himself up the hill, the stuffing spilling out of his coat and his feet dragging along the ground as he inched his way forward one grunt at a time, each small turn of the wheel marked by a grimace across his
Huh. Hah. Huh. Keeps going but it takes him
She said All right then what you want and he said Ten dark. She said Thats all? You having a laugh? He said Thats all, and he heard her talking to someone else again, checking on something while the cramping in his stomach had him bent over and gasping, desperate to shit and his hands shaking and
The girl said Its difficult right now see
Einstein running circles outside and scratching at the glass
And she said Right well wait there well see what we can do itll be half an hour or something and he shoved the door open and puked into the long dead grass
And we see him there for the last time, bent double on the wasteground behind the phonebox, stumbling around in circles, desperate, waiting. We watch him through the darkened glass, getting smaller as we circle the roundabout by the Millers Arms and turn into the grounds of the teaching hospital, slowing between the landscaped embankments and security huts, round the outskirts of the site towards the mortuary buildings. Maybe in another place or another time we would be carrying his body ourselves, there would be music and prayer, there would be crowds, and carriages, and cameras. But theres none of that now. We drive round the back of an industrial-looking building and down a long dark ramp, and some metal shutters are rattled open, and the photographer records each movement as the bagged weight of Roberts body is slid on to a large trolley with a squeaking wheel by men who had hoped not to be at work today, who would rather be at home with their families, who are even now thinking about phoning and telling their wives theyll be home soon in the hope that something will be put in the oven for their tea, and as the policeman rolls the shutters closed behind us we think of Danny out there now, still walking in circles, still waiting, his dog beside him and his bag getting heavy and the sky getting darker all the time
three
They lay him away behind a shining steel door in a room as cold as stone.
We gather together in the room, sitting, standing, leaning against the wall, and we wait. For the morning. For someone to come back. For something to happen.
Waiting is one thing were good at, as it happens.
Weve had a lot of practice.
Weve got the time.
Weve got all the time in the world.
The room is windowless and dark, tiled from ceiling to floor, with a row of heavy steel doors at one end. Each door has three tags clipped to it, with names, dates and reference numbers. The doors feel cold and hard and smooth. Two rows of fluorescent lights hang from the high ceiling on long cables and chains. A large clock sits on the end wall. The quarry-tiled floor slopes down towards a narrow gutter, and the gutter flows into a grated drain. Everything is dark. Everything is spotlessly clean.
And those days he was waiting there like that. For someone to come and find him. For someone to come and help. Just lying there, looking up at the ceiling and waiting. Or was it, what, sitting in his chair. Did it not even take that long. Lying there waiting for help and then all the waiting come to an end and his tears all wiped away or something more or less like that.
three
They lay him away behind a shining steel door in a room as cold as stone.
We gather together in the room, sitting, standing, leaning against the wall, and we wait. For the morning. For someone to come back. For something to happen.
Waiting is one thing were good at, as it happens.
Weve had a lot of practice.
Weve got the time.
Weve got all the time in the world.
The room is windowless and dark, tiled from ceiling to floor, with a row of heavy steel doors at one end. Each door has three tags clipped to it, with names, dates and reference numbers. The doors feel cold and hard and smooth. Two rows of fluorescent lights hang from the high ceiling on long cables and chains. A large clock sits on the end wall. The quarry-tiled floor slopes down towards a narrow gutter, and the gutter flows into a grated drain. Everything is dark. Everything is spotlessly clean.
And those days he was waiting there like that. For someone to come and find him. For someone to come and help. Just lying there, looking up at the ceiling and waiting. Or was it, what, sitting in his chair. Did it not even take that long. Lying there waiting for help and then all the waiting come to an end and his tears all wiped away or something more or less like that.
Which is something else we know about. Lying on the ground and looking up and waiting for someone to come along and help. In some kind of trouble. A turned ankle or a cracked skull or a diabetic epileptic fit or just too drunk to stand up again without some kind of a helping hand.
Which is when youre most invisible of all. Get a good look at peoples shoes while theyre stepping around you. Like theyll leave you there for days. Like theyll leave you there as long as it takes.
And how many times had he been lying on his floor like that. Over the years. Waiting. The way he waited when Yvonne and Laura first left. Must have waited weeks and months before he really gave up. If he ever did. Waking up each morning going What was that. The sound of the softly closing door. Remembering they were gone and thinking about what he could do to make them come back.
Werent nothing he could do to make them come back and he knew it.
He knew it but he couldnt help waiting. What else could he do.
Lying in bed in the mornings, and getting up to watch television, and sitting there waiting for his wife and daughter to come home. Even tidying the flat once or twice, throwing out all the things hed smashed up, washing the few dishes that were left, opening the windows to clear out the smell of drink so he could sit there in a state of what, like some respectability, while he waited to welcome his wife and daughter home.
Must have known they were never coming home. But he wanted them to. Jesus. Werent all that much to ask. He wanted the phone to ring one morning, and to pick it up and hear Yvonne asking if they could talk, if they could meet and talk and like work something out. He wanted her to pass the phone to Laura, and to hear Laura say she missed him and she wanted to come home, and to be able to say You are coming home my sweetheart, youre coming home very soon.
He told Steve that one time. Steve didnt say much. What could he.
And here we are. Sitting here waiting and all of this coming to mind.
Yvonnes tense, whispering voice on the phone.
Saying stuff like I have to put me and Laura first for a change. Saying I love you but I cant be with you no more I just cant.
And then her mothers voice on the phone, talking briskly, telling him he couldnt speak to Yvonne and telling him not to call them any more.
The sound of the unanswered phone.
The sound of the television while he sat and watched it and waited for the phone to ring. The sound of one morning when he couldnt bear waiting any more and he threw the phone against the wall, picking it up and throwing it and picking it up and throwing it until wires and circuit boards and silenced voices spilt from its broken body and were trodden into the floor.