Quintin Jardine - A Coffin For Two

‘D’you want to see what’s in it now?’ I asked.

‘Tomorrow. I’m off to bed.’

‘Okay. Me too.’ I followed her into the bedroom and began to undress, throwing my clothes on to the chair. I was stood there in my jockeys when the garlic from the sardines began to make its presence felt. I swallowed a couple of Breath Asure pills, then wandered through to the kitchen in search of the Normogastryls. I found them in the cupboard, and dissolved a couple as a pre-emptive strike against nocturnal heartburn.

They had been the last tablets in the tube. As I swallowed the alkaline remedy, I stepped on the pedal bin, to discard it. The kitchen light was directly overhead or I might not have noticed. The liner had been changed recently, and the bin was almost empty … save for several discarded cigarette ends, and a scattering of ash. I picked one out, and looked at it. Benson and Hedges.

I don’t know the guy who stormed through to the bedroom, brandishing the offending butt. Whoever he was, he wasn’t good old lovable, can’t be riled, takes everything in his stride Oz Blackstone. This was a steamed-up, hypocritical, petulant clown, who didn’t stop to think whether he was genuinely jealous or simply latching on to an excuse.

Prim was almost asleep when the shout came from the doorway. ‘What the fuck is this?’

She rubbed her eyes. ‘Eh?’

‘Who do we know that smokes Bensons?’

‘Oh shit.’ She sounded weary, but she pulled herself up in bed. The guy in the doorway didn’t have the wit to realise how desirable she looked, just at that moment.

‘Now listen carefully,’ she said, ‘because I’m not going to repeat this. Yesterday afternoon, a few of us who had been at the party on Saturday met up for lunch in the square. There was Shirley Gash, a lady called Tina, Steve Miller and his parents. Just as we were finishing our meals, it looked as if it might rain, so I invited them all up here for coffee. Steve and Tina both smoke. I expect that if you root about some more in the bin you’ll find some Marlboro stubs as well.

‘Is that clear,’ she shouted, suddenly. ‘Or do you want to count your bloody condoms?’

The alien in the doorway vanished, leaving me stood in his place, brandishing a fag-end and feeling very, very stupid. I dropped the stub into the waste-basket in the corner, stepped across to the bed and opened the drawer of the cabinet on my side.

I reached in and took out the Fetherlites, which had lain there since Prim had decided that she had been on the pill for long enough. I opened the pack and looked inside. ‘Funny,’ I said, in a normal Oz voice, if a bit fuzzy around the edges, ‘There’s six here. I thought I only had five.’

She reached inside my jockeys and grabbed me firmly by the balls. ‘Fine,’ she said, ‘but if you don’t stop all of this nonsense, they will be nothing but reminders of a distant past. Now say, “Sorry, Primavera.”’

I didn’t hesitate. ‘Sorry, Primavera.’

‘Apology accepted,’ she said, without slackening her grip. ‘Now come here.’

She had my undivided attention. There was nothing else I could do.

There was a pink thing on the floor beside the bed, shapeless, like a discarded nylon pop sock. I was lying face down, my head hanging off the mattress, so that when my eyes swam slowly back into focus, it was the first thing I saw.

In those waking moments, I felt disorientated, and unsure of where I was. It was a lonely feeling. When you’re thirty years old, and have no experience of loneliness, that can be scary.

At last I could see properly. The pink thing was a used Fetherlite, lying on the tiled floor, shrivelled and knotted beside its foil wrapper. My eyes swivelled round like a chameleon‘s, and spotted five left in the packet which lay open on the cabinet. ‘Whose idea was that?’ I mused, until I remembered that it had been mine.

‘What time is it?’ I croaked. My mouth was full of ashes, and a wee man with a couple of hammers was playing a xylophone tune inside my head. There was no answer to my question. I reached behind me and beyond. Prim’s side of the bed was empty and the quilt was turned back.

I swung myself out of bed with an effort and looked at the clock radio. Eight forty-five, it told me: not too bad. The bathroom door was closed, and from inside I could hear the sound of the shower. With instinct driving me to find something resembling a disciplined routine, I pulled on my running shorts, stepped into my trainers, and ventured out into the morning, jogging at first, then upping my pace until it could almost have been described as running.

The first mile was murder, but once I had paused to urinate like a true Continental in the bushes by the track-side, things gradually became easier. Three or four miles later, I felt like someone I recognised, even though I was sat on the ground in front of the church, my chest heaving and my body pouring out sweat that probably tasted a lot like draught Estrella Dorada. The wee man with the hammers had gone, and my mouth was moist again.

I left my steaming trainers, socks and shorts on the stairs, outside the front door, and stepped back into the apartment. The doors to the terrace were wide open, and Prim was outside, leaning over the patio table, looking undeniably tasty in her cream cotton Bermudas.

I crept up behind her and put my hands on her hips. She jumped and sniffed, without turning around. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she warned. ‘At least, not till you’ve showered.’

I stepped back from her, aware suddenly that a small puddle was forming on the tiles around me.

‘Do you feel better now?’ she asked, her back still to me.

‘A thousand times. It’s the only real hangover cure.’ I paused, and leaned over to scratch the back of her right thigh. ‘I’m sorry about last night, love.’

‘Why?’ she said, turning at last. ‘You were magnificent.’ She smiled. ‘Oh, you meant about earlier on. That’s okay. You redeemed yourself.’

I looked over her shoulder, at the table. Upon it, Gavin Scott’s print lay unrolled, weighted down by four mugs.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘It’s fantastic.’

‘You should see the original. Let me shower and dress and I’ll tell you the whole story.’

I disappeared into the apartment. I washed my face thoroughly in hot water, then lathered my stubble. Looking in the mirror, I remembered my last shave, and where I had had it. I closed my eyes and let a picture of Jan form in my mind. She smiled at me, sadly, shook her head, then faded away.

Fifteen minutes later I stepped back on to the terrace, smooth-chinned, showered and dressed, my eyes still a touch bloodshot, but otherwise presentable. Our standard breakfast of tomatoes, bread and cheese, and hot coffee, lay on the table. Scott’s print of the apocalyptic toreador was spread on the floor.

As we ate I told Primavera the story of our client’s bizarre gamble, and of our commission to try to ensure that it paid off.

‘Are we up to this, Oz?’ she asked, when I had finished.

‘Course we are. Listen, woman, you were the one who proposed this business venture. Don’t go wobbly on me now.’

She pursed her lips. ‘No. You’re right. After that last thing we pulled off, Phillips and Blackstone are up for anything.’ She thought for a minute or two. ‘Right,’ she said at last. ‘Here’s what we do. The first priority is to find this man Trevor. We’ve met him once, in Gary’s; so we begin by going back there. At the same time, we should take this print up to the Dali Museum in Figueras and let the curator there have a look at it.’

I held up a hand. ‘No way!’ Stopping Prim in full flow is not easy. You certainly don’t say, ‘Excuse me.’