Martin Edwards - I Remember You

‘Ah, Harry,’ said Finbar with a sigh, ‘you really think everyone is as straight as you. But women aren’t like that. They like their truth in soft focus. It’s the romantic glow they go for, not the hard details.’

‘You underestimate Melissa. I’m sure she’s a realist.’

‘Oh, sweet Jases, you really believe that, don’t you? Harry, you could hardly be more wrong. Mel’s a lovely girl, I care for her deeply, but compared to her Walter Mitty had his feet on the ground. She’s had treatment, don’t you know, for the troubles she’s been through?’

‘Treatment?’

‘Wipe off your worried frown, it’s bad for business, specially in the midst of all these well-heeled folk, they’re potential clients. Yeah, the poor girl — suffers with her nerves, let’s say. She had a spell in hospital and she’s been on drugs and stuff. Now do you understand why she takes a fancy to me? You always reckoned a woman must need her head examined to swallow my chat — well, for once you were right.’ He gave a bleak smile. ‘Folley ditched her soon enough. I didn’t steal her from him, he was more than ready and willing to step aside. You could say I’m a sort of social service. Y’know, I think there’s something about the neurotic types that appeals to me. Maybe it’s because they’re so anxious to be good in the sack.’

Harry grimaced. Finbar’s candour was repellent, though he was sublimely unaware of the fact. He genuinely believed himself to be misunderstood, a kind of sensual do-gooder who didn’t get the appreciation he deserved.

‘So you see, mate, there’s naught to be gained by telling the lady what she doesn’t want to hear. Too much honesty is bad for the soul. Come on, why don’t you come over and say hello?’

He walked off towards the Radio Liverpool stand. Harry hesitated for a moment, then chased after him.

‘Listen, you bugger, I need to talk to you about the bomb. I’ve heard about Eileen…’

Finbar kept going but a shadow passed across his face. ‘For Heaven’s sake, this isn’t the time or the place,’ he said under his breath. ‘I told you I don’t want to talk about Eileen. Leave it alone, can’t you?’

They could both see Melissa now. She had turned up at the stand and was on the edge of the group of people standing around it, talking idly to Tracey Liggett and the engineer.

Raising his voice as he approached, Finbar called out, ‘Melissa, look who we’ve got here! Our very own legal eagle! A professional bird of prey, come to pay us a visit!’

Melissa moved towards them. ‘You bastard, Finbar,’ she said in a soft but distinct murmur. ‘You fucking bastard.’

Two businessmen close by heard what she said. One of them, to judge by his breath and bloodshot eyes, had spent all evening at the bar, and he whistled derisively at Finbar. ‘Upset the little lady have you, pal?’ he whooped. ‘Oh, dearie me!’

Heads began to turn. Harry looked round in despair for the exit.

Finbar ignored the drunk. ‘Don’t listen to tittle-tattle, darling,’ he said to Melissa. ‘Let’s have a talk about things, just you and — ’

‘Talk!’ she hissed. ‘You do nothing but! Except when you’re carrying on with that bloody red-haired prostitute…’

‘Who are you calling a prostitute?’

Sophie’s voice came loud and clear. The drunk seemed to appreciate her intervention; he uttered a long, ‘Oooooooh!’ before stumbling over his own feet and having to clutch at his embarrassed companion for support.

Suddenly, Harry became aware of someone elbowing past him.

‘Stop it! Both of you! Or you’re both finished!’

Nick Folley’s face was crimson with fury. Harry could tell he was about to let his temper rip.

‘Oh shit!’ said Sophie.

Melissa spat at her, but Folley prevented retaliation by grabbing hold of Sophie’s arm and thrusting her to one side.

‘That’s enough, Melissa. You’re fired. Instant dismissal for gross misconduct, do you hear me? Now sod off home. Your P45 and the money we owe you will come through the post.’

The words hit her with more force than a slap in the face. She blanched and clutched at Folley’s sleeve.

‘Nick! You can’t mean that! You know how much I need…’

Folley pushed her arm away. ‘You should have thought about that before making a scene.’

‘Now wait a minute,’ said Finbar. He sounded moderate: the voice of reason, keeping a cool head when all around were losing theirs. But as the words passed his lips, Harry glanced at Folley and realised his client’s timing could not have been worse.

Folley spoke quietly, so quietly that the drunken businessman had to lean forward to hear. But there was no mistaking his venom. ‘This is all down to you, Rogan. All down to your having your balls where your fucking brains should be. Do you understand what I want to do to you? This!’

He lunged forward, put his hands round Finbar’s throat and began to squeeze.

Harry and the drunk’s companion caught Folley’s arms and tried to drag him off the Irishman. It wasn’t easy. Rage gave Folley the brute power of a back-street brawler and he gripped Finbar’s neck as if his own life depended on it.

The sudden onslaught had knocked Finbar backwards, but within seconds he was clawing at Folley, trying desperately to breathe. As the drunk cheered the combatants with incoherent delight, the strength of numbers began to tell and Harry forced Folley to release his hold. Losing his balance, Folley toppled on to the floor, where he lay panting as if on the brink of a coronary.

Finbar stood up gingerly and rubbed his neck. The flesh bore livid red marks where Folley had tried to throttle him, but he seemed more shocked by the ferocity of the attack than by the pain.

‘I was only trying to conciliate,’ he croaked.

Dusting himself down, Harry realised his exasperation was tinged with grim amusement. Despite all recent evidence, Finbar seemed unable to accept that anyone could wish to do him harm. There was something oddly irresistible about someone so thick-skinned. For Harry, Finbar was becoming a bad habit.

‘Come on,’ he said, nodding thanks to the drunk’s companion. ‘Let’s go before you destroy what’s left of Liverpool’s business community.’

He led his hobbling client away. Halfway down the aisle, he glanced over his shoulder to see Nick Folley following their progress, crouched on his haunches, breathing heavily and looking as if he had murder on his mind. Behind Folley stood Sophie Wilkins. She put a tentative hand on her lover’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off. Melissa was nowhere to be seen; during the rumpus she had disappeared.

Near the exit a pretty girl stopped them. ‘Excuse me, do you realise the importance of corporate hospitality? Taking the people who give you business to Wimbledon or Lord’s?’

Before Finbar could recover sufficiently to embark on a chat-up line, Harry intervened. ‘Wouldn’t suit my firm, love. Except if you’re offering an Away Day to Wormword Scrubs so my clients can visit their loved ones.’

Once out in the cold night air, Finbar rubbed his nose pensively. ‘Listen — any chance you could do me a favour? Your place is only round the corner. Could I spend the night on your couch? Melissa may have gone back to the flat and I don’t think she’s in the mood yet to kiss and make up.’

Harry’s heart sank but he reminded himself that Finbar had seen his business burnt down and his car blown up within the space of a couple of days. He couldn’t say no.

‘Just for one night?’

‘That’s all I need. Thanks, Harry, you’re very good to me. Not just a lawyer, but a pal. I know I shouldn’t have asked.’

Part of Harry wished Finbar hadn’t. But he made up his mind to exact a price for his hospitality. He was determined to satisfy his own urgent need to know. Never would he have a better chance than tonight to discover his client’s guilty secrets.