‘Of course I wasn’t, Craig; for fuck’s sake, I was cringing. Look, for God’s sake, man, I am sorry. I never wanted you to get hurt. I so did not want you or Emma to get hurt. It just happened, it was one of those things.’ Oh Jesus, I thought. Listen to me. One of those things. Was that really the best I could do? ‘I just thought we could…’
‘Get away with it?’
‘If you like. Just… just have it be a no-loss thing. God, man, it wasn’t me getting one over on you or anything or any sort of macho shit, it was just, trying to be a friend to Em, to help her through what she was going through. It was all tears and, well, you know; drink had been taken, and, and so there were, like I say, a lot of… a lot of tears, and hugs, and, and-’
‘And you fucked my wife, Ken.’
I closed my eyes, turned in towards the stonework of the pub. ‘No,’ I said.
‘No?’
‘No, that’s not what happened. That just isn’t what it was all about. Two people who’d known each other and been friends, and had somebody in common that they loved, or had loved and still loved, two people like that were together and one was very lonely and vulnerable and needed a shoulder to cry on and the other was a bit lonely too, and weak the way most men are, and was so glad to be able to offer some support and flattered that the other person felt comforted being held and hugged and shushed by him, and… neither of them could stop just a sort of natural response happening when they held each other. And they both felt guilty, but they both felt… reassured, validated; no, not validated, that’s such a crap word. They both had clung to another human being and though there was another person involved, another person they both loved, in the background, it was just that; it was not about-’
‘Not about fucking my wife, Ken.’
I kept my eyes closed. ‘No. It wasn’t. That just wasn’t it. If that’s the way it feels, I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry, Craig. I did not want to hurt you, or her. I am so sorry I have.’ I paused. ‘I mean it.’
He was silent for a while. ‘The sad thing is, Ken, you probably do mean it.’
‘You are still getting back together? What I mean is, this isn’t going to-’
‘We’re still getting back together, Ken,’ Craig said. ‘It’s you who’s the problem. Not me or Em.’
‘Look, man, I-’
‘Ken, Ken; Ken…’
‘What?’
‘Could you just leave us for a bit? Just the two of us. We need time to… to settle in together. Know what I mean?’
I wanted to be sick. I opened my mouth very wide. I swallowed. ‘Sure. Yes. Of course. I… yeah, of course.’
‘We’ll maybe be… we’ll need… we’ll need time to think.’
‘Yeah. Of course you will.’ I found I’d bitten my lip. I could taste blood. ‘I, ah, I hope you’re both really happy. I hope it all works out. I really do.’
‘Yeah. Well. Ah… thanks for being honest, at least. I’m glad your court thing came out well.’
‘Yeah. Thanks. Yeah.’
‘Goodbye, Ken.’
And, oh, Christ, just the way he said that. I felt tears on my cheeks as I said, ‘Bye, Craig.’
The phone clicked off. I folded it, holstered it. I stood looking at the gutter for a while, listening to the sound of the music coming from the pub.
Eventually I pulled myself upright, wiped my nose and dabbed my cheeks, squared my shoulders and went back to the door of the Bough. I half thought of just walking away then, going home and crying into my pillow or something, but I still had a legal let-off to celebrate, and what better way to drown the pain of having hurt – and maybe lost for ever – my best pal than by getting disgustingly drunk?
Pints, whiskies, a cigar. Much pointed nattering and nonsense with Phil and Kayla and Andi, then the girls went and Phil and I were left alone for the last hour before chucking-out time. We talked about going to Clout or some other club, then settled on the Groucho. I bumped into an ad creative I knew usually carried excess gear and scored some reasonable quality coke off him, to sober myself up a little (mainly so I could get drunk all over again), but then I spilled most of it on the toilet floor just because I was so fucked on booze.
I didn’t remember getting a taxi, or saying goodbye to Phil, or leaving the Groucho; all I remembered was getting home to the Temple Belle and standing on the deck looking out at the waters and having to close one eye so as not to see double and then deciding that it was absolutely necessary that I phoned Ceel. I hadn’t seen her for far too long. I’d just escaped a court case and I might have lost one of my two best friends and I needed to talk to her, badly. I even considered, very briefly, going round to the Merrials’ house and staring up at each window in turn, hoping she was in, hoping she was there, just so that I could feel I was close to her; maybe I could even ring the bell, and… No.
I’d phone her.
I had to use both hands on the phone and keep one eye closed but I found my way to Location 96 on the menu and immediately hit OK when it said Call Number? and then heard her voice. I heard her voice! It was recorded, but it was her! I found my eyes filling with tears.
A message. I could leave a message.
Ha; dirty, why not? Maybe she’d like that.
‘Oh, lady, I want to fuck you sooo much,’ I said, slurring. ‘It’s been far too long, Ceel… and that’s not just my cock I’m talking about… Ha ha. Please get in touch. I need you. I miss you so much. I need to lick that lightning, yeah. Let’s get together again, soon. Real soon. Love you. Night. Night, Ceel. Oh, oh, it’s me; me, Ken. Ken the Naughty. Ha. Night night. Night night, Ceel. Love you. Want to fuck you. Night night. Love you. Night night.’
I got indoors and to bed somehow.
Some bit of my brain must still have been working, though, because when I woke to the light of morning it was not just to a total bastard of a hangover but to the full, awful, blood-draining, bowel-loosening, heart-constricting realisation of what I’d done.
Ten. LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION
Oh shit.
Eleven. EXTENDED PANIC FUNCTIONALITY
Oh dear holy fucking Christ almighty. Oh my fucking God. Oh fuck upon fuck upon total fuck to the power of fuck.
I hadn’t, had I? Oh dear God, let it be a dream, let it be a nightmare, let it not have happened, let me have called a different number. Let it be anybody else’s phone, anybody; my mum and dad’s, Craig’s, Ed’s, the office, anybody anybody anybody just please please please not that one, not the number that I’d overwritten where Ceel’s mobile number had been.
I fell off the bed, still fully clothed. The phone wasn’t in its little holster on my hip. I looked around. Where the hell was it? Oh my God, oh my God. Where was it? I threw back the duvet, looked under the bed, searched the tops of the bedside cabinets, the dresser, the table in front of the couch. What had I done with it? I had to find the little fucker, had to check, had to make sure that what I was terrified I had done, I hadn’t really done. Oh fucking hell, they could be on their way now, they might be parking, walking down the pontoon, treading on the gangplank, setting foot on the decking. They’d have the two seats set up, the big blond guy would be looking forward to the sound and feel of knees bending the wrong way and snapping. Then they’d castrate me, then they’d torture me to death. Or maybe they’d be quick, merciful, and just put a bullet through my head. Oh but dear God, Ceel. What would Merrial do to her? What would he do to make her talk, then once she had, what would he do to her for what she’d done with me?
Oh no, no, no, this couldn’t be happening. I stumbled through to the living-room. It had to be here. It had to be. Oh, fuck, this just could not be happening. This had to be a dream. This right now; I wasn’t really awake at all. I was having the mother-fucking great-granddaddy of all nightmares. I had to be. I hadn’t done that. I just hadn’t. I could not be that drunk; nobody could. It was not physically possible to drink so much that any human being could forget that he’d overwritten his lover’s mobile number with her home number, not when the home number was that of not just her but her husband, a major league fucking gangster notorious for having his giant bodyguard bounce up and down on the legs of people he disliked until their knees cracked or their ankles snapped or their femurs popped out of their hip sockets or whatever fucking horrible thing or ghastly combination or succession of things happened when they did this to you.