John Harvey - Off Minor

He walked around to the far side of the bar; one more half, then time to make a move. A girl, laughing, swung her arm back into him as he passed and laughed some more, dance of permed blond hair as she swiveled her face towards him, eyes, quick and greedy, summing him up, dismissing him out of hand. Raymond waited to be served, half-watching the girl, blue dress with straps, finer than his own little finger, running tight along the pale skin of her back. Watched as for a moment her eyes closed, singing along with the music, some soul shit from last year’s charts. Always the same crappy lyrics, always touch me, baby , always all night long. Raymond stepped clear of the bar with his glass. The girl was perched on a stool now, his age, younger, Raymond remembered watching the singer, his video on TV, one of those bloated coons in ruffled shirts and bow ties, dress suits. He thought it was the same one, what was the difference? Women wriggling out of white knickers, throwing them up on to the stage so he could wipe the sweat from his face, Raymond staring at the girl now, feeling sick.

“Here! What d’you reckon you’re looking at?”

He put down his unfinished drink and left.

“Charles, you should not leave now. It is still early.” A smile, small but imploring. “We could dance.”

The last time Resnick and Marian had danced at the Club, his ex-wife had interrupted them on their way back off the floor. Elaine’s voice recognizable instantly, but not her face; not her hair, always so carefully tended, set and brushed and teased out with a comb, now stiff and dry and chopped with neither rhyme nor reason; not the blotched skin nor the stained clothes; not her face. Her accusing voice.

All the letters I sent you, the ones you never answered. All the times I rang up in pain and you hung up without a word.

If he had not left then, he would have struck her, the only wrong thing he had never done.

Resnick didn’t think that he would dance. He said goodbye to Marian and touched his mouth to her powdered cheek. Back home the cats would be eager to greet him, jumping on to the stone wall for the warmth of his hand, running between his legs as he neared the front door. Of course, he’d fed them before he left, but now he had come back, hadn’t he, and surely there would be a shaking of Meow Mix, shavings of cheese if, as often, as usual, he made himself a sandwich, milk for them, warmed gently in the pan, if he were feeling soft at heart.

Dark beans of Nicaraguan coffee shone rich and smooth inside his hand. It was still minutes short of ten o’clock. Elaine had stepped out of the darkness and back into his life, back into his house and he had not wanted her, only as a vehicle for his anger, his storehouse of pain, yet after she had told him about the abortion of her remarriage and all that had come after, he had wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms about her and seek absolution for them both. He had not done even that. She had gone away again, not telling him where she was going, refusing, and Resnick had seen, had heard, nothing of her since.

Resnick carried his coffee into the living room, poured himself a healthy Scotch, set mug and glass on the floor on either side of the high-backed armchair. He had not switched on the overhead light and the red dot of the stereo burned bright. Without really knowing why, he began to play Thelonius Monk. Piano, sometimes vibes, with bass and drums. Hands that attacked tunes from corners, oblique and disarranged. “Well, You Needn’t,” “Off Minor,” “Evidence,” “Ask Me Now.” “Sounds as if he’s playing with his elbows,” Elaine had once disparagingly remarked. Well, fair enough, sometimes he did.

Raymond had tried for a last drink at the Nelson, but one of the bouncers had taken against him and refused to let him in: the result was he ended up in the same pub where he’d encountered his attacker, just the week before. Brave enough this far into the night to half-hope him there again. But no. Raymond stood squashed up against the furthest end of the bar, the ledge behind him overcrowded with empty glasses and hard against his back. Only when he was able to maneuver himself a little to the left did he notice the girl. Not dolled up, tarty, like the one in the Malt House, her hair brown and straight and cut to frame her face, the face itself just this side of plain.

She was sitting at a crowded table, chair angled away as if to make it clear she was on her own. Legs crossed, her black skirt rode above her knees, white top hanging outside, silky and loose, the kind that would be good to touch. In the half-pint glass beside her elbow, the drink was oddly red; lager, Raymond guessed, and blackcurrant. When she realized that Raymond was staring at her she did not look away.

“Sara, then?”

“Yes, Sara.”

“Without an H?”

“Without.”

“My cousin, she’s Sarah. Only she’s got an H.”

“Oh.”

Raymond couldn’t believe his luck. Waiting for her to finish her lager and black, he’d edged his way across the bar, caught up with her before she reached the door.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

They had stood several moments before the phone boxes, across from Yates Wine Lodge, from Next. Others jostled round them, heading out for the clubs, Zhivago’s, Madison. Engine running, a police-dog van idled at the curb. Raymond knew she was waiting for him to say something, not knowing what.

“If you like, we could …”

“Yes?”

“Get a pizza?”

“No.”

“Something else then. Chips.”

“No, you’re all right. Not hungry.”

“Oh.”

Her face brightened. “Why don’t we just walk? You know, for a bit.”

They went up Market Street, midway down Queen Street before doubling back up King: on Clumber Street they joined the crowd in McDonald’s, stood in a line twelve or fourteen deep, six lanes working, Raymond couldn’t believe the money they must be taking: finally he came away with a quarter pounder and fries, Coke and apple pie. Sara’s was a chocolate milk shake. Benches all taken, they leaned up against the wall that led down to Littlewoods’s side entrance, Raymond chewing on his burger, watching Sara prise the lid from the container, tip the shake right into her mouth, too thick to suck up with the straw.

When he told her he worked at a butcher’s, wholesale, she did no more than shrug. But walking on towards Long Row later, she said: “At work, what d’you, d’you, you know, the meat and that, d’you have to chop it up?”

“Into joints, you mean?”

“I s’pose.”

“Carcasses?”

“Yes.”

Raymond shook his head. “That’s skilled work I mean, I might. Like to. It’s a lot more money. But, no. Mostly I’m just humping stuff around, loading, packing, jobs like that.”

Sara worked in a sweet shop down near the Broad Marsh. One of those bright, open-plan places painted out in pink and green, the kind where you’re encouraged to go round and make your own selection, have the assistant weigh it at the end. That was when quite a few people got funny, Sara told him, seeing their paper bag resting on the scale, about to cost them seventy-five pence, a pound. Then they would ask her to tip some out, get it down to something more reasonable, and she would have to explain, being patient, keeping the smile on her face and her voice level the way the manageress had told her to, how difficult it was when they’d chosen from as many as ten different kinds to take them back, put them into their respective containers. Are they sure they wouldn’t like to go ahead and pay for them, just this once? She was sure they wouldn’t regret it, all the sweets were really lovely, she sneaked one or two all the time.