Питер Мэй - I'll Keep You Safe

I tried to be reasonable. ‘Lee, come on. That order used up all our resources. Buying the yarn. Paying the weavers. Paying the mill.’

He turned on me. His face ugly now. ‘And you’re getting your reward for it now, bitch, aren’t you?’ I don’t know what he was thinking, but his hand came up to my neck, closing around it as if he intended to choke me. In fact there was no pressure in his fingers. They were caressing more than choking. But it was enough to send Ruairidh off the deep end. He lunged at Lee, pushing him back against the bar. Drink and glasses went flying. But for a man so clearly under the influence of alcohol and drugs, Lee’s reactions were swift and unexpected. A fist flew into Ruairidh’s face and sent him crashing backwards over a table. I could hear my own voice screaming above others raised in anger and protest.

Ruairidh was on his feet quickly, blood pouring from his nose, and he hurled himself at Lee. Both men staggered backwards until they fell together to the floor, Ruairidh on top, each trying to punch the other, but too close to land blows of any account.

Cornell tried to pull Ruairidh off and his hat went flying. The Evelyn Waugh boys shrank back into the crowd of drinkers which had gathered quickly around the fight.

I was screaming over and over, ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it!’ It was like a playground scrap between two twelve-year-olds. As Lee got to his knees Ruairidh landed a blow full in his gut and vomit exploded from Lee’s mouth all over the floor.

Then loud male voices cut above the uproar. Two large uniformed policemen dragged the brawlers apart and hauled them both to their feet. A huge, shaven-headed barman slammed a baseball bat on to the counter top and bellowed, ‘You’re barred!’

Everything had happened so quickly, blown up from nowhere to flat-out warfare, that there had been no time for thinking. For considered, rational responses.

Now, after hours to dwell on events in a featureless interview room in Shoreditch police station, Ruairidh was still seething, but silent. At first I had wept, but the time for tears was long past. All I felt now was anger and regret.

It turned out that the police station in Shepherdess Walk was just a stone’s throw from the pub where we had been drinking, which is why police had arrived on the scene so quickly. We had been separated from Lee and the rest, and statements taken. After which we had been left to stew for what seemed an interminable length of time.

The light outside was starting to fade in the late afternoon when a shirtsleeved sergeant opened the door and nodded his head towards the exterior. ‘Okay, you two, hop it.’

I rose uncertainly. ‘You mean we can go?’

‘Yes, go. As in depart. Leave.’

‘But... what’s happening? Are we being charged?’

‘Nope.’ The big sergeant looked less than happy about it. ‘Mr Blunt has already made reparations to the landlord of the pub. No one’s pressing any charges. Though I’d like to throw you all in a cell somewhere for wasting our bloody time.’ He jerked his head again over his shoulder. ‘Go on, go!’ Money, it appeared, could fix almost anything.

Outside we walked down the steps straight into a crowd of reporters and photographers. Flashes popped in the gloom of the dying day. There was no sign of Lee or his friends. Only a clamour of voices punctuated by the flashing of the cameras.

‘What happened, mate?’

‘Who hit who?’

‘Where’s Blunt?’

‘What started the fight?’

I wanted just to go, to push past them without a word and find a taxi at the road end. But Ruairidh was still eaten up by his anger, face bruised and bloody. He was determined to have his say. ‘We’re just a young company from the Scottish islands,’ he said. ‘Ranish Tweed. Trying to make a living. We very nearly bankrupted ourselves supplying Lee Blunt with the cloth he wanted for his Clearances runway show. And now he won’t pay us for it. The man who’s going to be the next head designer at Givenchy!’

I drew breath involuntarily. This hadn’t even been announced yet. Pens scribbled in the dying light. But Ruairidh wasn’t finished.

‘A bloody millionaire. So tanked up on coke and vodka that when we ask him for our money, he attacks us. His hands round my wife’s throat.’

One of the reporters said, ‘When you say coke you mean cocaine?’

‘Yes. And God knows what else.’ Ruairidh snorted. ‘The bastard’s happy enough to pay for the damage done to the pub, but he still won’t pay us.’

The tabloids were full of it the next day. Front-page headlines. About the fight in the pub, Ruairidh’s rant outside the police station. One photograph of his bloodied face was captioned, Lee Blunt’s own version of the Highland Clearances . Even the broadsheets carried the story, and the consequences of it all followed swiftly. Givenchy, the day after, announced a young Italian designer as their new in-house head of design. No mention was made of Lee. And it was clear that the couture giant wanted nothing to do with the violent, drug-crazed British designer , as one lurid headline had labelled him.

It was the end of a short, sweet relationship, and Lee Blunt’s path and ours never crossed again.

Until now.

Niamh was looking at herself in the mirror, barely able to recognize the pale waif who stared back at her with bloodshot, shadowed eyes, when the knock came at the door. Her hair was still wet from the shower, and hanging in corkscrews around her face. It was not a face she wanted to present to the world, but the damage was done, and it would be a long time in repair.

She had no idea what to expect when she opened the door, heart hammering in a kind of dread anticipation. Lee stood there in the gloom of the hallway, and she was still surprised by how tall he was. He had put on weight. There was grey now in his hair, which to his credit he was not trying to hide. The suggestion of a goatee which had played around his jaw when they first met had developed into a full-grown beard, perhaps to disguise a burgeoning double chin. He was, for Lee, very conservatively dressed. A three-piece suit, white shirt, dark tie. Perhaps he had felt it more appropriate given the circumstances.

He stepped into the room without invitation and wrapped his arms around her. ‘Oh, my darling Niamh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.’ And to her embarrassment, unexpected tears bubbled up like water in a hot spring, and he held her even more tightly as she sobbed in his embrace.

He took her hand then and led her to the bed, where they sat together on the edge of it, side by side. She wiped away the tears with the flat of her hand. It was all so ironic somehow that Lee should be the first to offer his condolences.

He said, ‘I read all about it in the papers when I flew in this morning. I saw a piece on the TV news last night about the explosion in the square, but I had no idea then that it was Ruairidh.’ He squeezed her hand and put his other arm around her. ‘I just had to come over. You know how I always felt about you, Niamh. You and me, we had something very special.’

They sat in silence for some moments. Niamh had no idea what to say.

‘I... I just wanted to say how sorry I am for what happened back in the day,’ Lee finally blurted. ‘We were so young. And stupid.’ He shook his head. ‘I should have made it up to you a long time ago.’ He paused. ‘As it turned out, Ruairidh did me a favour. If I’d got that job with Givenchy it would have been like strapping myself into a straitjacket. As it was, I put all my energies into my own company, which I probably wouldn’t have done. And the Blunt brand wouldn’t have been what it is today. In a way, I’ve got Ruairidh to thank for all that.’ She was staring into her lap, but aware of his head turning towards her. ‘What happened?’