Martin Edwards: I Remember You

‘Ah, come on, love. I’m willing to throw in a few more quid. Can’t we sort this out like reasonable human beings?’

She shrieked with laughter: a wild, uncontrolled noise, as out of place in the court building’s calm as the sound of someone kicking a tin can down a church aisle. A security guard at the other end of the corridor cast a sharp glance in their direction.

‘The offer we’re willing to make is fair,’ said Harry. ‘I have Mr Rogan’s authority to increase it by another ten per cent. Talk it over with your solicitor.’

Kim Lawrence opened her mouth, but before any words could come out, Sinead laughed again, the same discordant shriek.

‘You will have to excuse me, Mr — Devlin, is it?’ she said at last. ‘Money may be what makes you tick, but not me. It’s pound of flesh time, so far as I am concerned.’

‘For Heaven’s sake,’ said Finbar. ‘I don’t pretend I’m an angel, but…’

‘Shut up,’ she said, spitting out the words. ‘You’ve had plenty to say in the past. Now it’s your turn to listen.’ She paused for effect, then hissed: ‘You see, you bastard, I know what happened to that wretched girl Eileen.’

Finbar’s cheeks reddened. Harry had thought him incapable of blushing, but with a few words, Finbar’s customary self-confidence had dissolved into uncharacteristic embarrassment. He shifted from one foot to another and cleared his throat.

‘Sinead, for Heaven’s sake! You don’t know anything about Eileen.’

She wagged her finger at him, well aware she had struck a nerve.

‘You couldn’t be more wrong. I’ve heard the whole story.’

Finbar half-closed his eyes. ‘Listen, I’m the only one who knows it.’

‘You think you know it all, where women are concerned; but the truth is, you’re the most despicably ignorant man I ever met.’ She spat on the floor and turned away. Kim Lawrence gave the security guard a worried look, but he now had his hands full with a wailing infant, probably the subject of an access dispute.

Finbar shrugged and spoke with a soft sadness. ‘Ah, but there’s no reasoning with you. Come on, Harry, let the law take its course.’

So they went in before Judge Cody and in cross-examination, Kim Lawrence made her contempt for Finbar clear. Every time he prevaricated about his means, she slapped him down. ‘Answer the question, please, Mr Rogan!’

‘But it’s like this, you see…’

‘Yes or no, please, Mr Rogan.’

On another day her tactics would have worked to perfection, but today they succeeded only in infuriating Buffalo Bill, who was banking on an early dart home. Finally, he threw his pen onto the desk.

‘Miss Lawrence!’

He paused deliberately, allowing the advocate a moment to fume in silence. He knew she called herself Ms, not Miss, but he had never held with that sort of nonsense.

‘Miss Lawrence,’ he repeated with careful emphasis. ‘You have already been told that Mr Rogan’s premises were burnt down last night: a traumatic experience by any standards. You are now indulging, if I may say so, in character assassination for the sake of it. And I will not have that in my court, do you hear? I will not have it!’

In the face of which even the most resilient advocate had to admit defeat. No one was surprised when Cody awarded Sinead a pittance that fell well short of what Finbar had said he was willing to pay. Harry bustled his client out of the courtroom before their luck could change.

The temperature outside had dropped and they walked along Brunswick Street through thickening mist. Finbar seemed miles away. His shoulders were hunched, his dark eyes were glazed; he didn’t even notice when they passed two pretty girls whose giggling suggested they were in the mood for a little street banter.

Harry felt overwhelmed by the desire to follow up what Sinead had said. He remembered that on the way back from the Danger, Finbar had spoken of a girl called Eileen before stopping himself. Who was she and why had mention of her name induced such a guilty response?

Curiosity in a lawyer, Harry knew, can be costly. There are so many things it is better not to know. But riddles tantalised him; even to leave a crossword puzzle unfinished filled him with frustration. He always hungered to learn a little more, to help make sense of life’s innumerable mysteries.

‘So who was Eileen?’

Finbar halted in mid-stride. He considered Harry with care, as if wondering how much to give away.

‘For once in my life, I’d rather not utter a word. All I’ll say is this: at lunch I said women will be the death of me. But it was different with that poor kid Eileen. I was the death of her.’

‘What d’you call a Scouser in a five-bedroomed detached house?’ asked the boy on the makeshift stage in the Russian Convoy’s cavernous public bar. ‘A burglar. What d’you call a Scouser wearing a collar and tie? The accused.’

He was a scraggy teenager wearing a dinner suit two sizes too big for him. Most of his jokes had been old long before he was born, but he told them fast out of the corner of his mouth and just about deserved the spurt of applause which greeted the end of his act.

Which was more than could be said for most of the evening’s entertainers, reflected Harry. Flanked by Finbar and Melissa Keating, he’d spent the last hour and a half watching a procession of hopefuls for whom opportunity was never likely to knock. A ventriloquist with an inflatable doll; a woman who mimicked bird noises; a juggling traffic warden and a Rastafarian banjo player; together with more comedians than were members of Liverpool City Council.

He finished his pint. At least the beer was good. The Russian Convoy was a relic of days gone by, in the quality of its interior design as well as its ale. The decor was heavy, with much emphasis on red plush and gilt. The ornate plasterwork on the ceiling was supposed to be a fine example of its kind; something for customers to admire as they slid to the floor at the end of an evening. And listening to some of these acts would have driven a Rechabite to drink.

A skinny girl who rejoiced in the name of Rosie Rollings began to murder ‘Memory’ in a thick Scouse accent. Rosie for remembrance , thought Harry, closing his eyes, remembering another Rosemary. The gorgeous Mrs Graham-Brown. The brief encounter in reception earlier that day had stayed in his mind; merely to recall it roused him, made him shiver with the need to see her again.

He was a fool, he realised, to let his imagination roam. After all, he had scarcely spoken to her; moreover, she was unattainable, a married woman, about to leave Liverpool for Spain. But she reminded him of Liz, and whenever Liz had tempted, he had been sure to succumb.

Meanwhile Finbar was scarcely setting an example of restraint. In his white suit and velvet bow tie, he looked too natty for a waterfront pub less than an hour before chucking-out time: a wolf in Moss Bros clothing. Earlier in the day he had refused point blank to say any more about the mysterious Eileen, and now he was misbehaving yet again. All night the Irish eyes had been smiling at the curvy redhead producing the local radio broadcast of the event. The girl hadn’t failed to notice. Every now and then she favoured him with a glance, once even a brief mock bow of acknowledgement. Harry’s mind slid back to his visit to the Danger. Finbar might have met the redhead when making his own guest appearance on the breakfast radio show. Could she be the girl he had hoped to meet at the nightclub?

If Melissa was aware that Finbar’s attention was wandering, she gave no hint of it. He had left a hand in hers, as if to reserve his interest while his mind was otherwise engaged. Out of the corner of one eye, Harry saw Melissa give the strong hairy fingers a squeeze. To his surprise, he found the gesture irksome. How did Finbar do it? How could someone to whom infidelity was no more important than a sneeze captivate women with such ease? It was impossible for an ordinary man not to feel a stab of jealousy.