Clive quickly drums the tips of his fingers against the desk with an almost military flourish, and then he sits up straight and stares at his subordinate.
‘Can I ask you something, Keith? I’m not trying to be offensive or anything.’
‘Ask whatever you want to ask, Clive. You’re in charge, aren’t you?’
Clive sighs. ‘Look, I don’t want any unpleasantness between us. Believe me that’s the last thing that I want.’ He pauses. ‘I suppose I just wanted to know if it was serious. On your part, that is. I’m not interested in what she was thinking, I’m just trying to work out what was going on in your mind. Because, if it wasn’t serious, have you ever thought about using prostitutes? I mean, that’s what they’re there for. Quick, simple, easy, nobody gets hurt, and who gives a fuck, right?’
‘Is that what you do, Clive? Fuck prostitutes, and you think that makes you better than me? Cheating on your wife with hookers, that makes you smarter than me?’
‘Calm down, Keith. I’ve never been with a prostitute in my life, I was just trying to understand something, but I’m sorry if I offended you. Look, you made a mistake, Keith. I don’t want to come over all heavy, but you made a mistake. These are other people’s kids that you’re treating like this.’
‘Other people’s kids? She’s a fucking twenty-six-year-old woman. She’s not some schoolgirl virgin. Can you not get that straight? She’s not innocent, and don’t you dare talk to me about other people’s kids like I’m some fucking sex offender.’ He pushes back the chair and stands up. ‘Clive, don’t fucking patronise me.’
‘Please, Keith. Keep your voice down.’
‘Fuck you, Clive. “Somebody else’s kids”? Have you lost the plot? You really have bought into all of this “healing” crap, haven’t you?’
When he reaches the door to Clive’s office he turns, but he stops himself as he hears the words of resignation rising to his lips. No, he isn’t going to give him the satisfaction. Clive Wilson emerges from behind his desk and walks towards him with an arm extended awkwardly in his direction.
‘I’m sorry, Keith but you need more cooling-off time, and I’m going to recommend counselling. It’s important for you, I think. And it will also show that you’re serious about addressing these issues.’
‘Fuck you, Clive.’
‘I know you’re angry, and maybe I would be too. But work with me on this. Please.’
He leaves the office and realises that he needs to calm down. Another minute and he would have smacked the smug bastard. He decides to take a walk by the river, and because it is nearly lunchtime he has the option of dropping in at one of the pubs on the embankment for a drink and something to eat. He walks purposefully through the busy pedestrian traffic on the High Street, having made up his mind to stop first at a cash machine and then buy a newspaper, but before he gets to his bank it strikes him that wandering alone by the river sounds too depressing. He dashes across the street and passes into the indoor shopping centre. Shit, maybe he should have shaken Clive Wilson’s hand before storming out, for he has now left the fool with the impression that he is simply an angry man. By flying off the handle and failing to keep control, he has allowed Clive Wilson to talk his rubbish about a cooling-off period, and needing to see the bigger picture. He is going to have to email him a note of apology, but he will stop short of suggesting another meeting in his office, or a reconciliatory drink, for that would be to give up too much ground. A simple note of apology will have to suffice and he will leave it up to Clive Wilson to make the next move.
In the sports shop he is faced with a difficult decision. The young tracksuited assistant has spread three Barcelona shirts on the counter top with the back of the shirts, complete with names and numbers, facing up.
‘So you don’t know who your son’s favourite player is?’
The boy speaks as though he feels sorry for his foolish customer.
‘I don’t really know that much about Spanish football,’ he mutters in his defence. ‘Do they show it on television?’
‘Like every Sunday. And there’s a round-up of La Liga on a Monday night.’
He is puzzled, but he doesn’t want to ask anything further of the spotty youth. However, tracksuit boy quickly identifies the source of his confusion.
‘La Liga. The Spanish League. Like the Premiership.’
He nods quickly and then turns his attention back to the shirts. He recognises the short, aggressive, name of a player he thinks is Brazilian and decides that with a combination of Brazil and Barcelona he can’t go far wrong.
‘You know the other thing that we can do is to put your son’s name on the shirt with his own number. So long as there are not too many letters in his name, that is. He does play, doesn’t he?’
The boy is beginning to sound like a minor government official. He looks at the assistant, and hands him the middle one of the three shirts.
‘I think this one will do the job.’
‘Okay then, no name.’ The somewhat disappointed boy takes the shirt and begins to fold it up.
‘If your son doesn’t like it then you can always bring it back with a receipt, so long as he hasn’t worn it.’
‘You mean to play in?’
‘No, I mean worn it at all. We can’t accept returns on soiled goods.’
‘You mean if he tries it on it’s soiled?’
‘Not my rules, if you know what I mean. I only work here.’
He watches as the assistant slips the shirt into a plastic bag, and then drops the plastic bag into a large paper sack with handles. The boy takes his credit card and quickly swipes it and then hands the card back.
‘Sign here, please.’
He picks up a fake pen that is tethered to the counter top and scrawls his name on to a plastic screen.
‘I’m sure if he just pulls it on over a T-shirt to see if it’s the right size then he won’t be soiling anything.’ The assistant drops the receipt into the bag and hands it to him. ‘All a bit stupid if you ask me, but then again nobody ever does ask me.’
He quickly makes his way out of the warm shopping centre, and back on to the frigid High Street. It is the middle of the day, and people are rushing around in their lunch hour trying to pick up a few groceries, or paying bills, or hurrying to the post office before returning to their offices. And then it strikes him again: he does not have an office to go back to. In effect, he has no role, and beyond the occasional fits and spurts of attention that he pays to his book, there really is no cogent purpose to his day or his life. Clive has temporarily cut him loose from his moorings and he is drifting. He sees a bus coming and wonders if he should ride the four stops back to Wilton Road. But then again, what’s the hurry? As he walks past the queue at the bus stop, he catches a glimpse of himself in the window of Mr Crusty and is relieved to note that he still recognises the man who is reflected in the glass. But he will have to be careful. Shopping for football shirts in the middle of the day. It makes no sense whatsoever.
Danuta is standing by the door with her rucksack at her feet. She must have rung the doorbell, discovered that he was not in, and decided to simply wait. He calls her name, and as she turns to face him he notices the smile of relief that momentarily brightens her face. He walks towards her and gently places his hand on her arm, for he is sure that she is about to burst into tears.
‘Are you okay?’