“Why you ignoring me, mate?” leather jacket man piped up.
Andrew acted oblivious and counted out his money for the round.
“Helllooooooo,” the man said, reaching over and waving a hand in front of Andrew’s face.
Andrew pretended to be surprised. “Sorry, I’m not really with it today,” he said, wishing he didn’t sound quite so much like a flustered substitute teacher.
“No excuse to totally ignore me like that,” the man said, poking him in the shoulder. “Basic fucking human politeness, that.”
Now Andrew was desperate for the barman to return. He looked at the mirror. The others still seemed to be in deep discussion.
“So what you reckon?” the man said, indicating the screen.
“Oh, I don’t really know,” Andrew said.
“Have a guess, mate. Bit of fun.” The man poked him in the shoulder again, harder this time.
Andrew backed away as subtly as he could. “A draw?” he said.
“Pah. Bollocks. You West Ham in disguise? Oi, everyone, this one’s West Ham!”
“I’m not, I’m nobody,” Andrew said, his voice going falsetto. Luckily, no one paid them any attention, and to Andrew’s relief the barman finally reappeared and finished pouring drinks.
When he arrived back at the table it was to what felt like an awkward silence, and he realized he’d forgotten one vital point. “I forgot to say, I’m not asking you to do this for free. We can work out, you know, a payment, whether that’s cash or you taking your pick of my kit. I managed to damage my O4 Robinson recently, but there are my other locomotives, and scenery, so just let me kn—”
“Don’t be silly,” Alex interrupted. “Of course you don’t need to pay us. We’re just trying to work out logistics.”
“Oh. Good,” Andrew said. “I mean, great, that you’re on board and everything.”
“Yep, definitely,” Alex said. “We’re friends, after all,” she added, in a voice that made it sound like she was settling the issue. She widened her eyes at Rupert.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” he said, “and you’re welcome to have your soiree at mine. My partner’s actually away with work next week, so the timing’s decent. Though I’m a lousy cook, I’m afraid.”
Jim linked his fingers together and extended his arms, cracking his knuckles. “You can leave the cooking to Jimbo,” he said.
“So. There we go. Sorted,” Alex said.
They talked a little more about the whens and wheres, but after a while conversation turned back to trains. For the second time that afternoon, Andrew had to concentrate on hiding the goofy grin that kept trying to wriggle onto his mouth.
—
The football was finished—it was a draw in the end—and most of the fans had already filed out, shaking their heads and grumbling. Leather jacket man had other ideas, however, and Andrew groaned inwardly as he watched him meander over and pull up a chair at the table next to them.
“Model trains, eh,” he said, eyeing Jim’s shirt before resting his feet on the back of Andrew’s chair. “Fuck me, do people still actually bother with that crap?”
Alex raised her eyebrows at Andrew. “Do you know him?” she mouthed. Andrew shook his head.
“Sorry, mate,” Alex said, “we’re a bit busy. Mind giving us some space?”
The man made a big show of looking Alex up and down. “Well, well, well, if I was ten years younger . . .”
“I’d still utterly ignore you,” Alex said. “Now go away, there’s a good boy.”
The man’s leer turned into a scowl. He kicked the back of Andrew’s chair. “You wanna tell that bitch to shut her mouth.”
“All right, that’s enough,” Andrew said, getting to his feet. “I’d like you to leave us alone now.” His voice was shaking.
“Yeah, and what happens if I don’t?” the man said, standing and drawing himself up to his full height. This was the cue for Rupert, Jim and Alex to stand up, too.
“Jesus, look at this lot,” the man said. “A wimpy prick, a slag, a tubby ticket inspector and a shit Sherlock Holmes.”
“Well that’s not very nice, now, is it?” Rupert said, sounding remarkably calm. Andrew would have questioned whether such a sarcastic tone was the right approach, but then he noticed what Rupert had already. Namely, that unbeknownst to leather jacket man, the barman was walking toward him, rolling his head around his shoulders as if he were about to run the hundred meters. He waited for the man to take one more step toward Andrew before he advanced swiftly, grabbed him by his collar, hauled him toward the exit and shoved him through the door, aiming a kick at his backside for good measure. As he made his way back to the bar he even rubbed imaginary dirt off his hands, something Andrew had only ever seen in cartoons.
Andrew, Jim, Alex and Rupert all just stood there for a moment, nobody seeming to know what to say. It was Jim who broke the silence. “Tubby ticket inspector? I’ll take that, I reckon.”
— CHAPTER 32 —
Peggy was worried about Andrew’s coming straight back into work. You should take some time off, get your head together, she texted him. Remember how grim this job can be. You’re not an ice cream taster. But Andrew was struggling with being at home. It was just him and his own thoughts, and he hated his own thoughts; they were largely bastards. Since Peggy had come to his flat he was also beginning to realize quite how ridiculous the state of the place was. He spent the evening after the subforum meet-up cleaning everywhere until he was sweaty and exhausted.
As he left the building the following morning he caught a tantalizing glimpse of perfume woman’s door closing behind her. He was so surprised to actually see evidence that she existed he very nearly called out.
—
The evening of the dinner party coincided with Andrew and Peggy’s first property inspection for two weeks (Malcolm Fletcher, sixty-three, massive heart attack on a lumpy futon), and for once it only took them a few minutes before they had a breakthrough.
“Got something,” Peggy called from the bedroom. Andrew found her sitting cross-legged on the floor of a walk-in wardrobe, surrounded by pairs of pristinely polished shoes, nearly identical suit jackets hanging above her, like she was a child playing hide and seek. She proffered Andrew a posh-looking address book. He flicked through but there was nothing written on any of the pages from A to Z.
“Last page,” Peggy said, reaching up for Andrew to pull her to her feet. Andrew flicked to the “Notes” section at the back of the address book.
“Ah,” he said. Mum & Dad and Kitty were written at the top of the page in small, spidery handwriting, with corresponding phone numbers next to them. He took out his mobile and called Mum & Dad, but it was a young-sounding woman who answered who’d never heard of anyone called Malcolm and had no record of the previous occupants. Andrew had more luck with Kitty.
“Oh goodness, that’s . . . he’s my brother . . . poor Malcolm. God. What a horrible shock. I’m afraid we’d rather fallen out of touch.” Andrew mouthed along with the last six words for Peggy’s benefit.
—
“So how are things?” Andrew said as they left the flat, deciding to keep the question vague enough that Peggy could respond however she wanted.
“Well, Steve came to collect the last of his stuff yesterday, which was a relief. He told me he hadn’t had a drink in ten days, although he did smell like a distillery, so unless he got very unfortunate and someone spilled an awful lot of vodka on him, I think he was probably lying.”
“I’m sorry,” Andrew said.
“Don’t be. I should have done this a long time ago. Sometimes you just need that extra little push. A reason to help you make the decision.”
Andrew could sense Peggy had turned her head to look at him, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to meet her eye. He knew what she was getting at—and he didn’t want to concede that she was right.