Rupert Thomson - Death of a Murderer

Phil watched him across the rim of his paper cup.

“I never knew my father,” Billy went on. “He left before I was born.”

Shaking his head, Phil looked down at the table.

“He was a musician,” Billy said, “you know?”

“That’s no excuse.”

Billy was tempted to ask Phil why his wife had walked out on him, and whether he was happier since she had gone — at four-fifteen in the morning, in these extraordinary circumstances, he might have got away with it — but in the end he thought Phil probably had enough on his mind without him adding to it.

“When all this is over,” Billy said, “you should come round. I know Sue would like to see you.”

Phil nodded, fine wrinkles multiplying at the edges of his eyes. “I’d like that.”

Shortly afterwards, he was called to the control room in reception, leaving Billy in the snack bar by himself. Billy drained his coffee, wincing at the bitterness, then he threw the cup in the bin and started back to the mortuary.

Billy was Glenn Tyler’s second child. Charlie was the first, born five years earlier, in 1951. According to their mother, Glenn had been away at the time, touring America, and didn’t set eyes on Charlie until he was eight months old, his sole contribution being the name — Charlie for Charlie Parker, of course. With Billy, it was different. Glenn had no record to cut, no live dates booked. There was no reason not to be there, which must have put the fear of God into him. He left two months before the birth, and this time he didn’t even bother to suggest a name. Maureen had her new baby boy christened “William Douglas,” after her maternal grandfather, whom she adored.

Glenn came back to Weston once, when Billy was seven. Billy had no memory of anything his father said or did that day, or even of what he looked like. It had been sunny, and his father had parked across the street, the powder-blue Cortina standing out against the curved white wall of the pub. He wore boots with pointed toes and pieces of elastic in the sides. A car, a pair of shoes — and that was it. His father who had returned, but without any warning, and just for the afternoon. “He only ever thinks of himself,” Maureen said afterwards, on more than one occasion. “Does as he pleases. Always has.”

Gathering his reports together, Billy slid them back into the folder. He didn’t think he would be doing any more paperwork before he went home. He held his Thermos over his cup and shook it. Three drops — not even enough to cover the bottom. He swallowed it anyway, then put the flask and cup into his bag, along with the folder. Back in his chair, he leaned forwards, elbows on his knees, and stared down into the drain. He had only seen his father one other time, but that was ten years later, and his father never even knew.

Some weeks short of his eighteenth birthday, Billy saw a fly-poster on a wall in Liverpool, advertising live jazz at the Iron Door on Seal Street. the glenn tyler sextet, it said in bold black capitals. Then, in smaller letters, one night only! He stood quite still and waited for his heart to slow down. The wind, briny and cold, pulled at his coat, his hair. Glenn Tyler…That had to be his father, didn’t it? Surely there couldn’t be two Glenn Tylers who played jazz. Not yet knowing what he was going to do, he wrote the details down on a scrap of paper, which he folded and pushed to the bottom of his trouser pocket. He didn’t say a word about it to his mother. As for Charlie, he was in London, at medical school, and wouldn’t be home till Christmas.

When the night arrived, Billy told his mother he was having a drink with an old schoolfriend who had heard about a job. It was only a month or two since he had returned from his holiday in Europe with Raymond, and he was still living at home. He hadn’t yet decided what course his life should take. He knew he needed to earn money, though. His mother had to work hard to make ends meet — she was employed as a pharmacist, in Boots — and he wanted to be able to give her something for his keep.

The band appeared on stage at nine o’clock. There were five men, all middle-aged, all white, but Billy couldn’t see anyone who looked like his father, and his stomach felt hot, as if he might be about to vomit. The music had already been going on for several minutes when a man holding a saxophone emerged from the wings. Of course, Billy thought. Sextet. The man didn’t so much as glance at the people who had come to see him; he simply lifted a hand in their direction. He was wearing a suit made of shiny silver material, with a black shirt underneath, and his dark hair was slicked back. Billy recognised him from a photo his grandma had shown him once, and also because if he narrowed his eyes he seemed to be looking at a taller, rangier version of Charlie. He felt sick again, but in a different way.

Standing against the wall, Billy fixed his gaze on the man in the silver suit. He didn’t listen to the music, though he was aware of it as the hectic backdrop to his thoughts, which were halting and stilted. He noticed how the man launched into solos with his eyes closed, as if frightened of whatever was in front of him, and then, when the solo finished and he took the instrument from his mouth, his eyes opened again, and even though he was being applauded, the expression on his face was glowering, almost hostile, as if people couldn’t possibly appreciate what he’d just played — or perhaps his resentment was aimed at the music itself, at his attempt to master it and his inevitable failure. Billy tried to see himself in the man — a feature, a gesture — but there was nothing obvious. At the same time, he knew he was looking at his father. He felt it somewhere deep down, a sharp tug in his guts.

At the end of the first set, the musicians put aside their instruments and occupied two tables near the stage. Cigarettes were handed round. A bottle of Johnny Walker appeared, and drinks were poured. There were two women sitting with his father. One wore a red cardigan that was cut low at the front, and her arm rested carelessly on his left shoulder. Even from across the room Billy could see her breasts lift when she breathed in. The other woman was dressed entirely in black.

Swallowing hard, he walked over to their table. He didn’t say anything at first. He couldn’t. His mouth felt numb, clumsy. The woman in black glanced up at him, but her face didn’t change. She had arching eyebrows and dark wavy hair, and her teeth were as small and fragile as rice crispies. He cleared his throat.

“Mr. Tyler?”

The name had never sounded so foreign to him — sour somehow, and thin, like lemon juice — and yet, in his everyday life, he used it all the time.

His father’s face came up slowly, lazily, and he was slanting his eyes against the smoke from his own cigarette.

“What can I do for you, kid?”

“Nothing,” Billy said. “I enjoyed the music, that’s all.”

“Thanks.”

Billy held his hand out over the table. His father laid his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, in a smooth groove, and they shook hands.

Father and son, Billy thought. Flesh and blood.

As he was turning away, he imagined he saw a glimmer of recognition in the look Glenn Tyler gave him. Up to that moment, Tyler had been playing the big man, casual, amused, not paying too much attention, but now his eyes seemed to tighten. No, it wasn’t recognition exactly. More like uncertainty or wariness. Or even, maybe, curiosity.

“Hey, kid,” his father said.

Was it the handshake that had affected him? Had he felt a vibration, a charge — a kind of resonance? Or was it Billy’s face? Something visual he couldn’t quite put his finger on. An echo of Maureen, the woman he had married and then abandoned…