had a few more drinks.
‘She’s lovely,’ he said, ‘she’s a peach. You hear that? She’s a peach.’
‘Round and hairy?’ I asked.
‘None of yours,’ he said, ‘as it happens. None of your business. She’s wonderful. I don’t know what she’s doing with me.’
‘Perhaps she got one of her rings caught in one of yours. What are you going to do? Is there room between the tattoos to fit her name in? Or is it just going to be her initials?’
Jack went several shades darker. ‘That’s you, isn’t it? Always having a go. You’ve never got this far. Know why? Because you’d rather be out there taking the piss. Have you ever been in love?’
‘Yes,’ I said, truthfully. I was forever falling in love. It was easy; like falling off a bike. I was in love right then. I was going steady with a girl, as it happened.
I’ll tell you about her later.
‘Well then,’ he said, ‘well then. This is real. Lisa is different. This is different.’
‘They’re all different. You said that Jo Branigan and Andrea Horton were different. You thought both of them were different at the same time, for a week. Then you decided they were actually the same.’
‘Lisa is different differently.’
He looked at me helplessly, drunk and infatuated.
‘It’s the same,’ I said, not knowing why I was pushing him. It was instinctive. It was easier than falling off a bike.
‘This is different,’ he insisted.
‘Oh yes, you work in a printers so naturally you know more about anything than I do, I’m just the one who went to university.’
‘What do you know about? Books. You wouldn’t know the real world if it smacked you in the face.’
‘If I smacked you in the face you’d know about it.’
I wasn’t sure how the conversation had turned nasty. Beer, probably.
‘How about if you murdered me?’ asked Jack, leaning into the conversation. ‘You’re the history man. You know why? Because you don’t want to remember your own history. You want to go back before that. You want other people’s memories. I remember everything.’ He rolled back his sleeve; swirls and spirals ran up his arm, between swellings and scabs. ‘Look at this,’ he said, ‘I’m receptive. You with me? I’m receptive.’
‘Receptive to hepatitis B, septicaemia, traffic reports …’
That calmed him down. ‘Have it your way then,’ he said. ‘How’s the niece?’
‘Haven’t seen her since I went to university.’
‘Typical student. How old is she now then? Three, four?’
‘Four.’
‘You know she’s never met her Uncle Jack?’
I did know that. I liked it that way.
‘I’ll tell you what, I’m not doing anything Saturday. We’ll pop round and see her. And your brother, we don’t see him much now.’
‘We fell out. Family things.’
‘Oh yes. Right. So I’ll pick you up about eleven then, and we’ll go and see what they’re up to these days.’
Wonderful, I thought. That’d be a smashing day out.
II
The next day I waited for my hangover to leave and Jack to arrive. My money was on Jack getting there first. Eddie Finch had turned up eventually, and he was better at drinking than I was. Reporters are like that because they don’t have to get up and go to work in the mornings. Although I knew I couldn’t out-drink him, it had seemed important to keep up. It was my competitive edge.
I fed the hangover coffee and Nurofen until it calmed down. Jack turned up late, driving his van. He’d had it for years, since we were seventeen. It had been his first car. It looked like it might have been his grandfather’s first car. The last time I’d seen it, it had been blue. He’d sprayed it white.
‘A white van gives you the freedom of the road,’ he explained on the way to my brother’s house. ‘People see a white van, they know it’s going to go all over the shop. White vans have their own rules. Cut people up, park on lawns, run over dogs and children. It’s accepted … What the fuck is she doing?’
‘The speed limit?’
‘Not in this baby, baby,’ he said in what he thought was an American accent.
‘Hasn’t your sister got a baby?’
‘Little boy,’ Jack admitted. ‘Called it Liam.’
‘Nice,’ I said.
‘No it fucking isn’t. Hold on, I can skirt round this lot.’
After a short and frightening trip, he pulled up on the pavement outside my brother’s house. My brother is older than me, and married, and has a child. For those and other reasons he thinks he’s more grown up than I am. He may be right. I never fancied growing up. There didn’t seem to be an alternative, though, unless you killed yourself young.
The last time I’d seen my brother we’d argued. It’s what brothers are for. When we were young we used to quarrel over anything – what colour the curtains were, how high the sky was, anything at all. Ten minutes later it’d be forgotten. We always got over them.
Jack rang the doorbell. I looked at the front garden. Tidy, with children’s toys. A plastic tractor, a deflated ball, a duck on a stick. A wooden one. The door opened and Tony, my brother, stood looking at us, confused.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Visiting,’ said Jack. ‘Thought I hadn’t seen you for a while. Nor your Caroline. She in, then? And I’ve never even met the sprog. What is she now, two?’
‘Going on five,’ said Tony, giving me a grim look. Perhaps he hadn’t got over our last argument after all. Caroline appeared behind him, carrying a tea towel and a small child endowed with her mother’s blonde hair and her father’s brown eyes.
‘Whassit?’ asked the child, giving us a look. She didn’t seem shy. She looked at Jack.
‘Whassit in his face? Why’s pins in it?’ She reached out a small hand. Jack leaned closer.
‘All right there kiddo,’ he said. ‘I’m your uncle Jack, and this is your uncle Sam, but we won’t worry about him.’
‘Jack!’ cried the child.
‘Sam,’ said her mother, with considerably less enthusiasm. ‘Been a while. Didn’t get your letters. Suppose the post office must have lost them.’
‘Too busy with keeping out of the way,’ said Tony. His expression was easing. ‘Come in then, the house prices’ll drop if you stay outside. Is that your van?’
‘Mine,’ admitted Jack.
‘Good. It’ll piss them right off. They’re all scutters down the road.’
He led us to a small, comfortable lounge. There were fewer chairs than people. To make room Jack sat on the floor, wincing on the way down. At once the little girl toddled over to him and poked at him with a podgy finger.
‘Look!’ she said, tugging at one of his facial rings.
‘Is she okay doing that?’ asked Caroline.
‘Sure,’ said Jack, ‘she could do it for England. Here hold on, trouble, let’s pop one