Peter Robinson - Sleeping in the Ground

‘She had what it takes,’ Banks agreed.

‘Frank Sinatra said he’d once kissed her as she ought to be kissed,’ Ray mused. ‘I’ve often wondered what that was like.’

Banks flopped down in his armchair. ‘Perhaps a mixture of bourbon, gardenias and cigarette smoke.’ He tasted the Laphroaig, and it burned nicely as it went down. Billie Holiday was singing ‘Solitude’ now in her husky, booze-soaked late-career voice, the one Banks loved best, the one that expressed clearly in every broken note how much she had lived and loved and suffered, but also how she had come through, survived. He inhaled the peat and iodine fumes from his whisky and revelled in the music.

‘Tough day?’ Ray asked.

‘Yes, it was tough.’

‘Want to talk about it?’

It was strange having someone else in the house. Banks knew Ray reasonably well from previous visits, but he wouldn’t say they were especially close friends. And he wasn’t one for talking things through. Oddly enough, though, he felt like talking to someone tonight. ‘And I was at a funeral on Saturday,’ he said, ‘just before... well... before the shit hit the fan up here.’

‘That must have been hard. Someone close?’

‘No. Not for years. That’s the thing. I can’t seem to stop thinking about her, even with all this chaos going on up here. We went out together for a while when we were kids back in Peterborough. You know, just a bit of necking on the back row, reaching for a blouse button and getting your hand slapped. That sort of thing. Then we met up again quite by chance a few years later, when I was at London Poly and she was at the university. It was the early seventies, and we were both away from home for the first time, footloose and fancy-free.’

‘Exciting times. And it developed into something serious?’

‘It did. Yes. But for Christ’s sake, that was over forty years ago, and I haven’t seen her since. My children are older now than Emily was when I knew her. It just all came rushing back at the funeral.’

‘Doesn’t make it any easier, though, does it, the passage of time?’

‘You were pretty young when your wife died, weren’t you? Annie’s mother. That must have been hard.’

Ray slugged back some whisky. ‘Hard? I was thirty-seven, and Annie would have been about seven. I don’t know how we made it through those first few years, to be honest. The colony, I suppose. People took care of each other. Without the others... I don’t know. I do know Annie’s never got over losing her mother.’

‘You never thought of remarrying?’

‘Me? No. Oh, maybe once or twice.’ Ray grinned. ‘Fleetingly. I’m not saying there haven’t been other women, but I’ve never been able to give myself to any of them the way I had with Judy. I’ve always held something back. The part of me I probably shouldn’t have held back if I wanted any sort of meaningful relationship. The part that won’t let you get close to anyone ever again because you know you’re going to lose them, and you know how bad it feels. Because they’re going to die.’ He waved his glass. ‘Maybe that’s why I’ve been a bit distant from Annie over the years, too. Not because I associate her with Judy’s death, or blame her, or any of that psychological claptrap, but because I don’t know if I could take that sort of blow again. When she got shot... well, you remember what it was like. Lovers leave you, and it hurts, of course, but you can get them back, sometimes, if you try, if you want to, if you know how. But death’s the final thing. At least, I think it is. I don’t know about you, maybe you’re religious, but I don’t believe there’s anything after death. I reckon you should think about your first serious girlfriend. It’s a major emotional turning point in your life. Remember her. There’s not a day goes by when I don’t think about Judy, no matter how many years have passed. But if you can take a bit of advice from an old fool like me, save your best efforts for the living, because one day they’ll be dead, too, and you’ll end up feeling guilty for neglecting them while they were alive. That’s the paradox. Damned if you do and double-damned if you don’t.’

‘It never stopped you from loving Annie, though, did it, all this fear of one day losing her?’

Ray grunted. ‘No. I suppose not. But she’s my daughter. It’s different.’ He knocked back his whisky and laughed. ‘Listen to me. Sorry, mate. What a fucking old bore I must sound talking about lessons learned. And me a guest in your home. Must be the whisky talking. Much more of this and you’ll be kicking me out on my arse before I’ve even spent a night under your roof.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Banks. ‘I’m glad of the company, to be honest.’

‘Thanks. I appreciate that. I was worried about being a burden. Fancy a quick spliff?’

Banks smiled. ‘No, thanks. Better not.’

‘Maybe I’ll go outside later. You won’t arrest me, will you?’

Banks laughed and drank some more Laphroaig. He could get used to the peaty taste again very easily, he decided, despite Dr Glendenning’s words of derision. ‘Is there any particular reason you want to move up to Yorkshire?’ he asked.

Ray shuffled in his seat. ‘Something about the light up here,’ he said. ‘Hell, if Hockney could do it, I don’t see why I can’t.’

‘Tired of the light in Cornwall?’

‘It’s not that. I’ve spent most of my life there. I love the place. Always will. But it’s getting to be a young person’s world now, the colony. I feel like an intruder, an old fogey. And it’s what we’ve been talking about. Mortality. Like I said, I feel I’ve neglected Annie. I may have had my reasons, but they don’t count for much now. It’s something I’ve been thinking about since that time we almost lost her. She’s my only child, after all. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever created, or helped to create. All that’s left of Judy and me. Oh, fuck, I’m getting morbid and sentimental now.’

‘Is there something wrong? Are you OK? I know you told Annie you are, but—’

‘Physically? No, there’s nothing wrong. No cancer or anything, just the same ticking clock we all have. I’m fit as a fiddle. Well, as fit as can be expected for a man my age who’s led the sort of life I’ve lived.’ He tapped his temple. ‘It’s in here, Alan. I mean, let’s be honest. I turned seventy a few years ago. How many more good years can I expect? Ten? Five? I may be feeling my age, but I’m going to have a bloody good time for as long as I’ve got left. And I want my daughter to be part of that. There. Is that so strange a reason?’

‘Not at all,’ said Banks, thinking of his own grown-up children, Brian and Tracy, and how far he felt from them at times. They had their own lives to live, he told himself; they didn’t want to be bothered with him and his problems.

‘Let’s have some loud rock ’n’ roll,’ Ray said, walking over to the stereo and changing discs. ‘I picked this one out earlier.’ And he put on Jimi Hendrix’s Rainbow Bridge then went for the bottle. The level was getting dangerously low. He was moving unsteadily. ‘Should we...?’

They were well into their next glass and ‘Hear My Train A Comin’’ when Banks thought he heard his mobile play its blues riff. He left the room, pressed the talk button and put it to his ear. ‘Banks speaking.’

It was Annie. ‘I hate to drag you away from your old fogey’s sleepover with Ray,’ she said. ‘I should imagine you’re having a nice semi-drunken reminisce right now. I hope you can hear me over all that racket. What is it, best shags or best albums? And I hope you haven’t lit up that spliff yet. We’ve got developments. Major developments, we think. A strong lead. In fact, it’s strong enough that we might even have the bastard before the night is over. Interested?’