Martin Edwards: I Remember You

Across the street, the door which led to the tattoo parlour finally disintegrated in an explosion worthy of an Exocet. Awestruck, Harry and Finbar gazed at the wreckage. Above them, men in breathing masks were directing water jets from the top of the ladder down on to the blaze, while at ground level two more firefighters armed with axes moved towards the entrance. Safe behind the cordon, winos cheered as if on the terraces at Anfield. Oblivious to his audience, the fire chief pointed towards the building. The policemen stared obediently at something, then Gilfillan gestured for Harry and Finbar to approach. The two of them edged closer.

‘What’s up?’ asked Finbar. ‘Any closer and I’ll get scorch marks on Lady Godiva.’

‘Smell that!’ shouted Gilfillan, pointing towards the doorway.

No mistaking the stink of petrol from close range. Harry exchanged a look with the policeman.

‘And see the inside of the passageway?’

The fumes made their eyes water, but squinting through the hole Harry saw charred walls immediately beyond the space where the door had been.

Finbar pushed a hand through his unruly dark hair. He was a stocky man, barely as tall as Harry but broader in the shoulder and a few years older; yet his wonderment was that of a wide-eyed schoolboy.

‘Are you telling me this wasn’t an accident?’

The policeman shrugged. ‘The seat of fire seems to have been the other side of your front door — the burning is worse there than further up the stairs. Add that to the smell and there’s only one diagnosis.’

‘Arson?’ asked Harry. For all the heat, he felt a sudden chill.

‘Suspected malicious ignition,’ Gilfillan’s colleague corrected him primly, before turning to Finbar. ‘Is there anyone who might have a grudge against you?’

Finbar looked nonplussed. After a pause for thought, he allowed a guilty grin to lift the corners of his mouth. It was a moment of self-knowledge.

‘Only everyone I’ve ever met.’

Two hours later Harry was standing on the doorstep of a club listed in the phone book as the Dangerous Liaison, but known to everyone in Liverpool as the Danger. Finbar had persuaded him to come here against his better judgement. Sometimes he felt as if he spent his entire life going against his better judgement.

‘It’s on your way home,’ Finbar had insisted while hailing a taxi.

‘Not unless the cabbie’s got less sense of direction than a roulette ball.’

‘C’mon! I owe you a drink from earlier this evening.’

‘Forget it.’ Knowing it was a mistake to ask, but unable to resist, Harry added, ‘Anyway, why do you want to call at a dive like the Danger?’

‘Listen, it’s just on the off-chance. I happened to mention to the girl I saw this morning that I’d be at the Danger tonight. It’s the first place that sprang to mind. She’s hooked herself up with another feller now, so ten to one she won’t be able to make it anyway. But let’s give it a try, eh?’

Harry had known Finbar for only a few months, but he’d soon learned that his client never took ‘no’ for an answer. After five years of separation from his wife and persistent demands for a divorce, Finbar was at last about to get his own way. Sinead Rogan, a strong Catholic, had withheld her consent for as long as the law allowed. Now she had no choice, she had evidently resolved to take him for every penny he had. Harry could understand her bitterness. For Finbar, adultery was a hobby — a habit, almost — rather than a vice or guilty secret. He had no more conscience than a one-armed bandit. Yet Harry could not help liking the man. He was a good companion; more than an acquaintance, if not quite a firm friend.

‘Have you no shame?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.

Finbar chuckled. Earlier, he’d admitted to Gilfillan that his studio was handsomely insured, almost daring the policeman to make of that what he would. He had more reason to celebrate, it seemed, than to mourn.

Harry climbed with resignation into the back seat of the cab. ‘And what about Melissa? You’ve only been going out with her a matter of weeks.’

‘What the eyes don’t see.’

Finbar leaned forward to tell the driver his destination, then glanced back over his shoulder and gave a devilish wink. Harry found it easy at that moment to imagine his client with cloven hooves and forked tail.

‘Tell you something, Harry — I could murder a pint.’

‘One of these days you’ll end up murdered yourself.’

‘If so, I wouldn’t back your mate Gilfillan to track the culprit down. Jases, I feel like I’ve been through the third degree. And I’m the blessed victim!’

The police questioning had continued long after the fire was finally doused. Harry could read Gilfillan’s mind. Finbar had probably tattooed half the inmates in Walton Jail in his time; it did not take too much prejudice to guess that a man who decorated villains’ flesh might have made ugly enemies over the years. Yet Finbar had been adamant; no one had threatened him or sworn revenge. He couldn’t think who might have wanted to burn down his studio. The fire, he maintained, must have been started by youngsters careless of the identity of the people whose property they sought to destroy.

Harry could see Gilfillan didn’t believe what he was being told. But Finbar’s complex love life had no doubt schooled him in the art of telling careful lies. If he had guessed who was responsible for the arson, he was keeping it to himself and no amount of nagging would make him say more than he wished. Harry wondered if a drop more alcohol might loosen his client’s tongue. In any case, he always found Finbar’s company exhilarating. With him around, there was always the chance that something extraordinary would happen; perhaps that was the secret of his charm. So when the taxi arrived at the Danger, Harry found himself clambering out as well.

The club occupied the cellar of a redundant mariners’ hostel on the waterfront. The place looked as though it had been punished by the Luftwaffe in the Blitz and not repaired since. On the door was a giant whom Finbar introduced as Mad Max and whose handshake almost fractured Harry’s arm.

‘Had a lady asking after me tonight?’

‘No lady would ever ask after you, Finbar,’ grunted the giant.

‘Max’s brother owns this dive,’ Finbar said, waving Harry down a narrow wooden staircase. ‘They have to use him as a bouncer because he wouldn’t fit anywhere inside.’

Harry could believe it. The Danger earned its name, if only because it transgressed every health and safety rule in the statute book. At the bottom of the stairs he and his client plunged into a mass of bodies wedged together between wooden uprights which propped up the low ceiling with an unnerving lack of conviction. Shadowy outlines of damp marks could be seen through the distemper someone had splashed haphazardly on the walls. There seemed to be more smoke than in Williamson Lane at the height of the blaze and the tuneless thud that was supposedly music made Harry’s ears feel as though they were about to burst.

Whilst Finbar disappeared in search of drinks, Harry fought through the crush. A jostling girl spilt vodka and lime over his arm and legs and swore with a fluency that would have made a docker gape. In the disco, teenagers in tawdry clothes writhed as if afflicted by disease, their lips moving to form the words of meaningless lyrics, their bleary eyes staring unfocused. In one corner, a leather-clad lad had his hand up the skirt of a high-heeled brunette with a schoolgirl’s figure and a harridan’s smile. In another, a fat boy was being sick on matting strewn over the concrete floor.

Finbar returned and thrust a pint pot into his hand. Harry downed the beer in record time and gestured towards the exit. He had to shout to make himself heard.