Keith Ridgway - Hawthorn & Child

— Mary?

Mishazzo laughed.

— She is a virgin?

He turned into Seven Sisters Road. The sun came through the passenger window and warmed his face. He did not want anything to go wrong.

— She has a job?

— Yes.

— What does she do?

— She’s a receptionist.

Mishazzo nodded.

— Where is she a receptionist?

— At an estate agent’s.

— Where?

— Oh. Down in the City.

— Down in the City. She likes that?

— Yes, I think so.

— You think so?

— She likes it. She likes working there. She likes the people. She likes being in the City.

— Commercial?

He looked in the mirror at Mishazzo’s third of a face. He could tell nothing from it.

— What do you mean?

— Commercial property? Residential property?

— Residential.

Mishazzo’s voice was impatient. Maybe it was the traffic. There wasn’t much of it but it was veering all over the road.

He felt his face light up. His skin was hot on the left.

— Do you want me to stay on Seven Sisters?

— Why wouldn’t you stay on Seven Sisters?

Mishazzo’s eyes were on his left. Everything was burning up. He wanted to crash the car. For a second he thought about it. He could swerve suddenly, glance off the van on his inside, spin around, be hit by the approaching bus. He could skid off the road into railings. He could hurt himself if he did it hard enough. He could end up in a bed with people bringing him grapes and cards, watching TV all day, with her by his side.

He shifted in his seat so that the eyes were smaller. He drove with his shoulder pressed up against the door as if trying to open it.

He called Hawthorn. It went straight to his voicemail and he hung up.

He walked through the park. He tried Hawthorn again. Twice.

He sat at a bench and looked at some boys playing football. He called again and left a message.

— Call me please. As soon as you can.

She was at work. He could see the café from the bench. He stayed put. There were the boys playing football. There were some people walking. There were no parked cars.

She was surprised to see him.

— What’s wrong?

— Nothing is wrong. I finished early. Thought I’d come over.

She took his arm and they walked along the canal for a while. She kept asking him what was wrong. He kept laughing and saying Nothing. Nothing .

Hawthorn called him back just as they got home.

— What is it?

— Nothing.

— Nothing?

— What time tomorrow?

— The usual. What’s wrong?

He looked at his fingers and watched her close the curtains against the low sun. He felt that something awful was happening but he didn’t know what, and he stared at her back in shadow and suspected that the feeling itself was the awful thing, and then she said something and he lost his train of thought and Hawthorn had hung up.

He waited early by the car, smoking, looking at the street. He wasn’t thinking about anything. He didn’t notice Price until he heard him. Price standing in the door of the café a couple of doors down from the office. They sat in there a lot of the time — Price and some of the others that he’d driven around. They sat there fiddling with their phones, reading the papers, annoying the waitress, doing whatever it was they did, coming and going.

— You avoiding me?

— What?

Price motioned to him. He glanced at the office, threw down his cigarette, walked over.

— I never see you these days. You don’t socialise. You don’t come see me.

— Well, I’m working. It’s been busy.

— Lots of busy. Hither and thither and yon. It’s as good as The Knowledge.

He nodded. Price was smiling. All friendly, hands in pockets, rocking a little back and forth.

— How’s the car? It need anything?

— It’s fine.

— How’s the missus?

He tensed, and his stomach did something, and he tried to look blank but he was sure he didn’t.

— Who?

— Mary Mary, all contrary. The boss was telling me. You should come out at the weekend. To my place. Sunday afternoon. I have some of the lads over sometimes. Girlfriends, wives, kids. That sort of thing.

Price was wearing jeans. A blue jumper. He was smiling. He had his hands stuck halfway into his pockets.

— Don’t look so fucking shocked, kid. It’s a good thing. Wholesome. Family-friendly. Barbecue and drinks. Got a big plunge-pool thing for the kids. Watch out for Vinnie’s missus after she’s had a couple. You’ll love it.

— Whereabouts?

— Near Braintree. Easy. You can take the car if you want I suppose. But probably better to hitch a lift with Pawel. Teetotal. He doesn’t live far from your place. Five minutes. Give or take.

— I said I’d see my father this weekend.

Price frowned.

— Don’t bring your father, no offence.

— I mightn’t be able to make it though.

Price rocked back and forth. Glanced to his left.

— You should come. You know, put on some friendly. It’d be smart. Let me know tomorrow.

Price nodded to his left.

— Your date is here.

Mishazzo was standing outside the office door looking at them, a little smile on his face, his umbrella clutched under his arm and his hands peeling the cellophane off a packet of cigarettes.

They drove all the way to Luton, not talking, listening to Ernest Carvallio’s Music Of The Barrios, the smile on Mishazzo’s face as constant as the road.

— Is there a procedure? For … if I get in trouble. What happens? What do you do?

Hawthorn rubbed his eyes. He smelled of a long day.

— You’re a long way off anything like that.

— He knows where I live.

— Of course he knows where you live. What made you think he wouldn’t know where you live? You probably told him where you live. When you went there first.

— No.

— Your father then.

He said nothing. He sipped his coffee. He bounced his fucking knee and he looked out the fucking window.

— So you won’t help us?

— You don’t need help. You’re panicking. You’re being stupid. They are not suspicious. They like you. They’re being friendly.

He tried to tell her to tie him tighter. To hit him harder. To yank his head back by the hair. He wanted her to spit in his face, in his mouth. He wanted her to hit him. But he was no good at talking. He tried to make her guess things by the way he reacted. She seemed to get it. But not enough. She was too careful, too considerate. She checked too much. He thought about writing it in the book. Like instructions. But the book was not for that.

Price called him on the Friday.

— Don’t need you today after all.

— No?

— I’ll pay you half.

— OK.

— You coming on Sunday?

— Sure.

— Good boy. I’ll get Pawel to pick you up about midday. What’s the girlfriend’s name again?

He looked at the curtain. The day was making it bulge. She had gone to work. He pressed his thumb against a bruise on his ribs.

— Mary.

— Right. Mary. Informal. Bring a bottle.

And he hung up. Without asking for the address. Not even which number flat. Nothing.

— You’re not going to help us.

Hawthorn sighed again.

— What do you want me to do?

— Money. At least some money.

— For what?

— To get away.

Hawthorn laughed.

— Where are you going to go?

— Morocco.

— Morocco. What are you talking about?

— Or Spain. Morocco or Spain.

Hawthorn crossed his arms. He looked like he was going to cry, but his body was angry and his voice was cold and he was laughing at him. They sat in Hawthorn’s kitchen, at Hawthorn’s table. He felt like he had never been there before.