Keith Ridgway - Hawthorn & Child

— So who is it?

— Who is what?

— The bloke.

— What bloke?

Child put his feet up on the chair opposite him and slumped. He sucked his coffee and made a face.

— There’s a way you go.

— What way?

— You get all thinky. Extra stupid. You go from being a bad detective to being a stupid one.

— Cheers.

— I’d call it love in someone else. But I know you. You’re incapable of love.

— Yeah.

— You are capable only of worry and violence.

— He’s a referee.

Child turned briefly and looked at him.

— A referee. A football referee?

— A football referee. Premiership.

— Fuck off.

— No. Seriously. Does internationals.

— Fuck off.

— Not internationals. What do I mean? Club internationals.

— European?

— European, yeah. Italy, Spain, Germany. He was in … I can’t tell you, can I? ’Cos you’ll look it up and out him for five hundred quid to the fucking Sun or something.

— You can tell me anything.

— He’s a seriously strange man. Not strange. Fucked up. Maybe fucked up. Maybe just strange.

— What matches has he done? Name some clubs.

— He’s done them all. He’s, you know, one of the top ones. One of the top referees in Europe. He does the big games.

— You have no idea.

— He was in Frankfurt last week. Next week he’s in Italy. This weekend he’s not doing a premiership match, he’s doing some other thing.

— It’s a cup weekend. Frankfurt?

— Some youth thing, that was. He said. Germany and Spain or something. That was an international, but a youth one.

— He told you this? What age is he?

— He has photos of players on his walls. Photos of him shaking hands with captains. You know, Van Persie … Vidic, John Terry. All those guys. He’s …

— He can get you tickets, then.

— What?

— Tickets for games.

Hawthorn rolled his shoulder and hummed.

— When do I get to meet him?

Hawthorn shook his head.

— Is he out?

— No. Very not out.

— How did you meet him?

— Online. He believes in ghosts.

— He believes in ghosts.

— He says he sees them all the time. You know. In his home. On the pitch. In his car. In airplanes …

— On the pitch?

— On the pitch.

— During games? On the pitch during games?

— Yeah.

— He sees ghosts?

— Yeah.

Child laughed.

— I want a cigarette.

Child said nothing. Coughed a bit, artificially. Indicated left. Turned left.

— Me too, he said.

They drove for a while, the radio crackling. Hawthorn poked text into his phone.

— Why is that?

— Cigarettes?

— Yeah.

— It’s an afterwards thing. A taste-smell thing. Back of the throat. Roof of the mouth. Mints don’t get to it.

He turned on to the Holloway Road. Traffic was stopped. He pulled in behind a bus advertising tanning lotion straight at them, the ad the size of their windscreen. Hawthorn tried not to read it. Looked at his phone.

— No note.

— No note.

— The way she did it speaks volumes.

— To who? The firemen? Us?

Hawthorn thought maybe the smell had crept into the car on their clothes. In their hair.

— When was the last time you had a cigarette?

Child hummed.

— A straight-up fag? I don’t know. Years. Six fucking years or something. You?

— Three or four.

Hawthorn looked at the pavement. A woman was standing outside a shop, smoking. Looking at him.

— I really want one.

— Get some.

— What?

— Hop out. Get a pack.

He laughed.

— Of what?

— Cigarettes, you fucking numpty.

— What brand?

— I don’t fucking know.

Hawthorn opened the door. He was still wearing his seat belt. The bus moved on.

— Shit. Hang on.

Child pulled up on the kerb. The cars behind started blowing horns. Hawthorn undid his seat belt. Opened the door properly.

— Not Silk Cut. Don’t get Silk Cut. I hate Silk Cut.

— They don’t even make Silk Cut any more.

— They don’t?

— Not in years, man.

He had no idea if this was true. He slammed the door and the horns beeped at him. He glanced back to see Child stick the light on the roof and turn it on, silently. The horns stopped, the nearest first and then backwards in a wave.

They still made Silk Cut. He felt like a schoolboy. He bought a packet of ten Benson & Hedges. He couldn’t believe how much they cost.

They pulled in beside the Emirates and Hawthorn peeled the cellophane off and flipped the lid and slid the foil away from the filters packed tight, and Child watched him and they looked at each other and smiled and looked at their cigarettes.

— This is great.

— You got matches?

— No.

Child frowned and Hawthorn pulled a lighter from his pocket and Child smiled again. Bic. Black.

— You diamond.

— Open the windows.

Hawthorn pulled a couple, three, of the cigarettes proud of the pack and offered them to Child. He pulled one out fully, sniffed it like it was a cigar, and put it to his lips. Hawthorn took one for himself, and tapped the filter end a couple of times against the packet. Child laughed.

— You so classy.

Hawthorn threw the packet on the dashboard. He put the cigarette in his mouth. He held the lighter in both hands. He scraped his thumb on the wheel, once, twice, and sparks flew and died in front of him, and on the third a nipple of flame pulsed and grew and steadied, and he bowed the tip of his cigarette to the fire and sucked, gently, as precisely as he could, for a moment only, and he released his thumb and pulled his head back and let his mouth empty and a billow of smoke filled the air in front of him and he was smoking.

Child laughed again and took the lighter and lit his own.

They sat there saying nothing for a minute.

— So.

— So.

— Rivers, eh?

— Yeah.

— Ex, do you think?

— Nah. Hardly. You think so?

Hawthorn took another drag. Slightly too much. Child was experimenting with his hold. He looked awkward when he transferred it from one hand to the other.

— I don’t know. We’ll find out. No doubt.

— It’s gotta rankle. Either way.

— It’s gotta what?

— Rankle.

— Rankle?

— Seeing someone you know. Who’s done that to themselves.

— It rankles ?

— Yeah. Rankles. What’s wrong with you?

— I don’t think rankle is the word you’re looking for.

— Well what is the word then?

A centimetre of ash fell on Hawthorn’s thigh. He brushed at it, it left a mark.

— Horror. Horrifies. It would horrify me. Grief, shock, all that.

— Yeah, but anger too.

— Some anger. Why anger?

— It’s quite a statement.

Child looked at him.

— Oh. Hey. I get it. You think she knew Rivers would be on scene.

Hawthorn shrugged. He felt a little dizzy.

— Well. She knows it’s his patch I presume. Maybe she knows that he wasn’t working yesterday but was today. Maybe she knows he’ll hear about it, come running. I mean. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe it hasn’t. Occurred to her. But …

Child laughed.

— Oh, you pulling a whitey.

— A what?

— You’ve gone white as a ghost, man. You’ve got a sheen on you. Clammy. Getting a touch of the queasies, yeah?

— Shut up.

— Do not throw up in my car.

— I’m not going to fucking throw up. And it’s not your car.

— First time I smoked, I was about twelve or something, I got into it for a while, and my buddy Malcolm got into it too but he would throw up. Every time. He would take a couple of drags and he’d hurl. Every time. For months. Never got used to it. He looked like fucking death. His mother thought he had anorexia.