In Pieces (19 page)

‘Stupid bitch. That was the end of my stash,' moaned the roller as he scrabbled around on the floor trying to retrieve the little brown lumps.

‘Oh nooooo,' wailed red trousers, mourning the premature end to his evening. ‘Oh noooooo.'

At the door Lou turned and gazed back into the dark cavern to see if Si had decided to follow her.

~

‘Crap, Si, what do you mean nothing happened?' Jimmy was annoyed by Si's reluctance to reveal where he'd got to at the end of the party.

‘I don't see what the big deal is. After all, have you told me where you were when I came looking for you? Hey, have you?'

‘No, but that's not the point. Anyway, if you want to know, I was outside snogging that girl, you know, the pretty young blonde one in the blue dress.'

‘Jimmy, you dick… She must have been jail bait.'

‘Calm down, calm down… Nothing happened. It was just a bit of fun.'

‘That's what they all say. Your Honour, nothing happened. Just a bit of slap and tickle… They'd put you away, Jimmy.
The Sun
would love it. SOCCER STAR IN UNDER-AGE SEX SCANDAL… I can see it now, complete with fuzzy photographs and no-details-spared captions explaining what each photo represented.'

‘Listen, I'm telling you I didn't bone her. Right?'

‘Just looking out for your interests, that's all.'

‘Well, if I need that I'll ask you, okay? Anyway, you're trying to change the subject, you slimy bugger. What happened, then? Who was she?'

‘How do you know it was a
she
?'

‘Well, I'd assumed you were straight at least… Or have you got a big confession to make?'

‘No, you prat, what I meant was, how do you know I went off with someone at all? I might just have gone home. To sleep. Not so unusual at two in the morning, is it?'

For the umpteenth time that morning Si experienced the strange mixture of relief and inexplicable guilt. He'd woken up feeling like death, the noise of the party still crashing around his skull. The cushions he'd formed up into a makeshift mattress had failed to soften the floor's impact on his body—he ached all over. Si pulled on his scattered clothes. One sock simply refused to be found, so he abandoned it. Before leaving the flat, he glanced into the bedroom. Gazing at Lou's naked back, he was overwhelmed by gratitude to the handful of sober brain cells which had helped his better self conquer the strong animal urge to sleep with the stranger. His guardian angel must have been watching over him, he decided. The unaccustomed thought made him smile.

He let himself out of the flat. It took a moment to find his bearings—this was a part of London Si hardly knew. He hailed a cab. It was seven fifteen, and the streets were still reasonably quiet.

Back at the flat, he immediately checked the ansaphone. Thank God; no message from Mary. What he feared most was that she'd find out he'd not been home. If he was lucky he might just get away with it. He noted with some surprise the extent of the loyalty he felt to his girlfriend. He must be growing up, he told himself wryly.

Despite having refused Lou's mortal challenge and exchanging nothing more life-endangering than one false kiss which had immediately filled him with disgust, he felt physically dirty, so he took a bath.

The hangover was getting worse, and Si decided to go round the corner to the greasy spoon for a full breakfast: a cracked mug of sugared tea accompanied by a plate of sausages, two rashers of bacon, mushrooms, two eggs sliding over golden triangles of fried bread and, to cap the feast, baked beans on the side. That cheered him for a while. But all day at work he kept breaking off from what he was doing as he recalled the events of the previous night.

‘Don't bugger around with me, Si. I know you didn't just go home. I know you…' Jimmy's laddish banter ended Si's daydream abruptly.

Do you, do you know me, wondered Si? How could Jimmy know him? As The Who had put it:
How can you say you know me / When I don't even know myself
… Perhaps Jimmy knew him better than most. But he was judging Si by his own low moral standards, and Si recognised the acute gulf that lay between them. Growing up together could create strong bonds and loyalty. But friendship didn't mean understanding. They were two very different people doing very different things. So how could Jimmy claim to know him?

‘Ah, come on, Si, if you're not going to tell me, who are you going to tell? Eh?'

‘Yeah, all right, I'll tell you everything. Not that there's much to tell. But go get me a pint first, okay?'

Jimmy grinned victoriously and scampered off to the bar. Another midweek night in the pub, thought Si. Nineties life… Great, wasn't it?

~

Si was bored at work; he tried to ring Mary. No reply. So he rang Jimmy.

A female voice answered. She declined to give her name, but told him Jimmy was out. ‘Playing football,' she said, ‘training.'

Who was this girl? He supposed it might be the blonde Jimmy had got off with the other night. But surely she hadn't moved up to Manchester after a one-night stand. No, Jimmy was obviously playing the field.

Then Bill came back with the coffee and a bright idea for a story. ‘I've got a mate who works in an art gallery and she says she saw Will Carling and the Princess of Wales at an opening last week.
Apparently they were getting on really well.' He raised an eyebrow and waited for his editor's reaction.

Si sipped his coffee slowly before reacting. ‘Bill, that's old news. It was all over
The Sun
months ago. Nice try, but we're meant to come up with scoops. And anyway royal stuff is too hot for the Diary… You know that. Dougy would take it straight to the news boys, or to that toad Andrew Smaltings-Rogerson.'

Si was no fan of
The Courier
's balding royal correspondent. Since his arrival at the paper, the hack had made it perfectly clear that he had no intention of fraternising with an upstart nobody such as Si.

‘I know that,' said Bill patiently.

‘Really? So what's the story, then?' Si felt despondent. Bill's thinking had never struck him as particularly original.

‘Well, my friend told me that Will Carling was interested in buying a picture…' He paused for effect.

‘Yeah?'

‘A portrait of Diana's mother… Now what about that?'

‘Still too hot for us. Tell the newsboys. They may be interested but I doubt it. This is probably one of those stories we should just sit on. At least for the time being.'

Bill looked crestfallen.

‘Nice effort, though. Keep it up, eh, Bill?'

Bill cheered up a bit.

‘By the way, did he buy the picture?'

~

‘So, how's work this morning?' drawled Ricky.

‘Well, it's not really morning any more, is it?'

One thirty in fact, and Si was hard at it putting the final touches to his lead story for the day. A celebrity adultery-and-shopping book launch had produced a gobbet of gossip the previous evening. The usual tripe really, but it made good copy. Some bimbette snogging someone else's husband. In fact the authoress' husband—hence the story.

‘Yeah, I guess you're right. Hey man, I mean I only just woke up, that's why I thought it was the morning like.'

‘Right.' Since their first meeting at Richard's party, Ricky had attached himself to Si. He rang him at least once a day about nothing mostly and they met a couple of times a week after Si finished work. Ricky had grown on Si and since Jimmy had gone north, Si welcomed the American as a substitute. But he was slightly bemused by Ricky, who seemed to do nothing in London and have no
plans. Questions produced the same non-committal ‘I'm a surfer looking for a wave…' line, which didn't help much. Clearly Ricky wasn't short of money. Si couldn't help feeling envious of his ability to exist for each new day.

On the whole, Si looked forward to his lazy conversations with Ricky, but appreciated the fact that he would not be disturbed in the mornings when he had to get the day's work sorted out and assign stories to Bill and the other Diary staff. The mornings were quiet because Ricky never got up before midday.

‘So what's your scoop today?'

‘What?'

‘Your scoop? You know, your job, man?'

‘Oh, right. Well there's this writer who's just about to lose her husband…'

‘Doesn't sound that interesting to me.'

‘No, but listen, will you. She wrote this book about glamorous people bonking each other's wives and husbands and they launched it last night.'

‘Were you there?'

‘Yeah, for a while.'

‘So?'

‘So the blurb on the cover describes Jane Furness, the author that is, as a happily married mother of two children. And,
quelle surprise
, Mr Furness was making out with some girl at the party. They thought they were out of sight but…'

‘But you saw them?'

‘No, not exactly. But someone I know did.' Si felt dirty. This kind of story often made him feel like that. But Dougy considered such gossip to be bread and butter for the Diary. If he couldn't pin down what Dougy wanted on Jack Derrida, or whatever he was called, then Si had to keep his boss happy with this kind of fodder.

After the last marriage-break up trumpeted by the Diary, Dougy phoned especially to say well done. ‘More of the same please. That's what we want, Si. Some sex to add spice. Counterpoint, really. Know what I mean?'

Si had grunted affirmatively, although again he wasn't really certain of Dougy's meaning. But it was still early days for him at
The Courier
and, if Dougy liked marriage break-up stories, Si knew he should produce them, even if he felt uncomfortable doing it.

‘Great story, Si,' Ricky's voice oozed sarcasm. ‘Catch this, man, I'm off to get some brunch and then I'll meet you tonight. Seven thirty at Larry's Bar.'

‘Well, tonight's a bit tricky…'

‘Why, what's up? You got plans? A chick?'

‘No, no chick.' It felt foolish using Ricky's Californian sun-soaked expressions. It was raining outside, for God's sake.

‘What, then? A better offer?' Ricky sounded a bit uptight all of a sudden. Strange, unlike his cool hipster image. ‘Hey, no problem, man, like we can hang out later, okay.'

‘No, listen, Ricky. My mate Jimmy's playing soccer tonight and I want to watch him. It's on the box…'

‘The box?'

‘TV. So why don't you drop by and we can watch it together? You might learn something about English culture.'

‘Hell, I know all about English culture. Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh and all that stuff. I got enough culture Stateside.'

‘No, you plonker. Real English culture. State of the art stuff. What drives this country. Not your stereotypes, but football—that's far more real. It's the religion of the masses.'

‘Oh.' Ricky seemed non-plussed. A rare event. ‘Like opium, you mean? In that case, okay, I'll give it a go. What time, then? And where?'

‘Come by my place at seven thirty and we'll go down The Feathers in time for kick off at eight. Okay?

‘Sure. I'll catch you then.'

‘Later,' mimicked Si.

‘Later, man,' replied Ricky without the slightest hint of irony.

~

‘Could've been killed… Blown to pieces.'

Si was telling Ricky about his afternoon and the bomb scare in Central London.

‘You sure were lucky. What I don't get is, why do these guys keep planting bombs anyway? I thought there was a cease-fire.'

‘There is. Only they keep sounding false alarms to keep everyone on their toes.'

‘So there wasn't an explosion in the end?'

‘No, not even a bomb. Just a scare. But it disrupted the whole of London all the same.'

‘Right. But what do they want? That's the bit I don't get. I mean, there's already an Ireland, isn't there? That's an independent country?'

‘I think they want the bit in the north too. You know, Northern Ireland. That's still part of the UK.'

‘So what's the problem, man? It makes perfect sense to me. Why not let them have it? Then the bombing will stop permanently.'

‘I'm not sure it's that simple.'

‘I figured it wouldn't be. Things never are in Europe.' Ricky grinned and sucked down the rest of his beer. Well, he called it beer but, as far as Si was concerned, it was lager.

‘Surely Ireland should be all one country, united, you know. Keeping a bit separate is like so colonial. You Brits should give it back.'

‘But it's the Northern Irish, who don't want to go back.'

‘Why not? Don't they want to govern themselves?'

‘Well, they do already. They have MPs in Parliament, and they consider themselves British as much as the rest of us on the mainland. And I suppose they are.'

‘I find this so confusing, man. So who are the IRA trying to persuade by bombing London?'

‘I don't think it's a matter of persuasion. More like coercion or intimidation. They want to persuade the Government to pull British troops out of Northern Ireland.'

‘Sounds fair enough to me.'

‘Yeah, but the thing is a lot of people in Northern Ireland don't want the army to go. And the government thinks that if they pull out the army then the paramilitary organisations will fight back against the IRA and there'll be a bloodbath.'

‘Oh. That wouldn't be good.'

‘No,' agreed Si. ‘It wouldn't.'

‘Complicated, really.'

‘Yeah, too much history.'

‘Too much history,' nodded Ricky. ‘That's you British all over. Too much history. Stops you even taking a shit without getting lost in your history.'

Si changed the subject. They were in The Feathers and the match was about to start. ‘God, I'm ready for another pint.'