As if on cue, the door opened. A small, well-dressed old woman stood in the hallway, peering over the rims of her spectacles. “Hello,” she said. “You must be… Marty’s old friends?”
“Yes,” said Brendan. “We spoke on the phone earlier. I’m Brendan, and this is Simon. Thanks again for sparing us some of your time.” He smiled but it looked like he was grimacing.
The old woman grinned, showing her gleaming dentures. Her face was weathered, crosshatched with creases and wrinkles, but she had the demeanour of someone a lot younger. “Oh, when you get to my age all you have is time. It might be nice to spend some of it today with a couple of good-looking young men.” Clearly she still had a sharp mind.
Still smiling, she stepped aside, turned, and walked down the hallway.
Simon stepped over the threshold and entered the house, and Brendan followed, closing the door behind him. The house smelled of cinnamon, with a hint of fresh lemon. It was a nice smell; homely and welcoming.
The woman had turned left and they followed her into a room. The first thing Simon saw was a small bird cage on a stand. Inside the cage was a tiny green budgie. When he and Brendan entered the room, the budgie hopped from its perch and grabbed the side of the cage, where it hung by its claws next to a portion of dried cuttlefish and watched them.
“That’s Percy,” said the old woman. “He’s mute. He can’t sing, can’t talk. He can’t make a sound at all, if I’m honest. But he’s good company.” She sat down on an overstuffed sofa, stretched out her short, thin legs on the carpet. “And I’m Hilda. Marty’s Nan.” Her smile never seemed to waver. It just hung there on her wizened face, displaying those too-white dentures and hiding her thoughts.
“Thanks for seeing us,” said Simon. He sat on a chair opposite the bird cage, taking another quick look at the silent bird. The budgie was watching him, its beady, unblinking eyes never moving from his face.
“I’ve made tea… if one of you lads wouldn’t mind getting the pot from the kitchen there.” Hilda tilted her head towards the door.
“I’ll go,” said Simon. He jumped up and walked out of the room, leaving Brendan to the small talk. The bird was making him nervous. The neatness of the room, the way all the pictures and photographs formed geometrical patterns on the walls, didn’t sit right with him. It was all too ordered. Simon had never trusted people whose homes were too tidy; he needed at least a small amount of mess around him to feel comfortable.
The kitchen was spotless. He imagined Hilda using all her free time to clean the place, every day, top to bottom. His mother had done the same, keeping a tidy home to hide the darkness at the centre of her marriage. He’d never realised before, but that was why he always created a mess, why he never felt at home unless things were in slight disorder. It counteracted the way his mother had kept things too prim and proper, her mask of domesticity.
The teapot was on the bench beside the sink, the tea brewing. It was on a little tray, alongside three cups and a plate of garibaldi biscuits. He picked up the tray and went back to the living room, where it seemed as if the budgie had been staring at the empty doorway, awaiting his return.
“Here we go,” he said, setting down the tray on a small occasional table near the gas fire.
“Thank you, son,” said Hilda, sitting upright and pushing herself forward on the sofa. “How do you take it?”
“Just black,” said Simon. “One sugar, please.”
“White with two,” said Brendan, shuffling on the seat, looking less comfortable as time went by.
“So,” said Hilda, after they’d all had a mouthful of tea. “You want to know where Marty’s been living. Is that right?”
Simon waited for Brendan to answer, but the other man remained silent, staring at the wall. His lips were pressed together, as if he were holding something back. He didn’t look comfortable in his own skin.
“Erm, yes,” said Simon, taking the initiative. “We’re old friends… I don’t know if you remember us, but we all used to hang around together. The three of us, we were best mates, when we were younger.”
“I’m not daft, you know.” Hilda put down her cup and ran the palms of her hands over her thighs, straightening her dress. “You were the other two, the ones that went missing with Marty. Of course I remember. You were nice lads back then, all of you. Good lads. That was a terrible thing.” She leaned back, pressing her spine against the sofa cushions, and briefly closed her eyes. She was still baring her teeth. “Whatever happened to you boys in there, it changed you all. I know that. I’ve seen it, with Marty, and with you, Brendan.”
Brendan flinched at the sound of his name. “I’m sorry?”
“I used to see you a lot around the Grove, but I started seeing you less and less. You always seemed to work nights, and it’s always that lovely wife of yours who takes the kids to school. I haven’t seen you in years, son. Considering we live around the corner from each other, that tells its own story.”
Brendan grimaced. It was probably meant to be a smile, but it wasn’t quite there. Clearly he felt uncomfortable being the focus of the conversation, but for some reason he did nothing to deflect the old woman’s attention. He just sat there, saying nothing.
“So, can you tell us about Marty?” Simon took a bite of biscuit. “These are nice.” He smiled, crumbs on his lips.
“Like I said, I’m not daft. I suppose you know all about the things he’s been doing to make a living. Illegal boxing matches, working on pub doors, and God knows what else. Everybody knows about our Marty, and about the kind of person they think he is. Hired muscle. A bruiser.”
“We’re not here to judge him, Hilda. We just want to talk to him. It’s something about… about what happened to us back then, when we were ten.” He’d taken a risk telling her this much, but as far as he could tell, there was no other option. This wasn’t some cracked old crone, sitting rocking in her front room waiting to die. She was a sharp lady; there could be no fooling her, even if he could be bothered to try.
“Well, that’s good to hear. I know he’s done some bad things, but he’s my grandson and I love him.” She paused, picked up her cup and took a sip, and then cradled the cup in one hand, like a small animal. “He was in a bad smash-up, years ago, on his motorcycle. His girlfriend, Sally, was killed, and Marty was unconscious in hospital for twenty-four hours. I sat by his bedside, holding his hand, waiting for him to either die or wake up. Nobody seemed sure which it would be.” She licked her lips. She was wearing lip-gloss; it made them shine. “When he did wake up, the first thing he said was ‘Humpty Dumpty’. It sounds silly, I know, but he said it with such fear in his voice that I never mentioned it to him. I don’t even think he knows he said that, or that I heard it. Not even now.” Her eyes were as shiny as her lips. She was lost in the memory.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She nodded. “Aye, it ruined his dreams of boxing. That’s why he started having those other fights, the ones that happen late at night in warehouses and basements… he thinks I don’t know about them, but I do. I always knew.”
“I bet you know a lot more than anyone, Hilda.” Simon glanced at Brendan, but his friend failed to notice.
“Oh, aye. Us oldies, we see a lot. We see it all. There’s nothing much else to do expect watch, you know. Watch and remember what we’ve seen, just in case it turns out to be important.”
Brendan was scratching vigorously at his back, knotting up his jacket at the nape of his neck. His face was pale. He seemed to be somewhere else, not here in the room. It was as if he were miles away, not even aware of the exchange taking place beside him. Simon willed him to turn around, to regain his focus, but Brendan just kept scratching away at his upper back.