17
I didn’t leave Nimrod Street until almost ten p.m., by which time I’d drowned that little nugget of cold, hard sobriety in a few more beers and a lot more talk. But the talk was getting harder and harder to sustain, and the question of where I was going to spend the night was getting more and more pressing.
Mum had offered me a bed, which I’d declined with thanks. The impassable ground again: the conversation leading us into the middle of a minefield and leaving us there without a map or a metal detector. She’d asked me about Matt. When had I last seen him and how was he doing? I’d passed the question off with some made-up bit of news about his teaching work, because the truth was that I never asked Matt about his life. I never had asked him, I realised now, since the day when he’d walked out of mine.
I walked back up to County Road and grabbed a cab up to Breeze Lane. I could have walked it, but I wanted to get to the Breeze — my Mum and Dad’s old local, ruled over with a rod of rusty iron by the aforementioned Harold Keighley — before the towel went up.
The pub hadn’t changed. They’d rebuilt the entire neighbourhood around it, but the Breeze remained its own sad-ass self, like the filament of platinum in that bullshit metaphor of T. S. Eliot’s. You dip it into a mixture of oxygen and sulphur dioxide and blam, you’ve got sulphuric acid — but the platinum stays the same, unaffected by the reactions it catalyses. The metaphor sort of falls apart at that point, though, because the Breeze was never the catalyst for anything apart from a thousand drunken fights about who was looking cross-eyed at our Karen and whose grandad had stolen whose great-uncle’s ration book back in the austerity years.
It’s a Tetley pub, probably built around 1920, and since the size of the plot gave the architect no room in which to exercise his imagination it’s just a big blockhouse coated in rough-cast and painted white. The sign is a little classier, because it’s topped with an iron silhouette, painted in bright red, of the liver bird — the mythical short-necked cormorant invented for the purpose by the desperate gofers of the school of heraldry back in the eighteenth century. That was when the city — flush with its winnings from the slave trade — slipped the heralds a backhander and asked them to run up a quick coat of arms.
Call me a sentimentalist, but I’ve always felt a sort of kinship with that bird. It belongs to no genus, but everyone confidently declares it to be a stork, a pelican, or whatever else they need it to be to fit the theory in hand. Whereas actually it’s a sleight of hand, a brazen forgery passed off on man and nature. As a symbol for my home town, it’s not bad: everybody thinks they know what Scousers are like, but the closer you look at us, the less neatly the individual details seem to add up.
Inside, the Breeze continued to give that same impression of inelegant confinement. The main room is long and narrow, with the bar running the whole length of it: there’s just enough room between the bar and the wall for one row of people standing up and one row sitting down. When my parents were regulars here, social propriety dictated that the standing drinkers were men: tonight there was a fair mix, but I noticed that there was a heavy age bias, with most of the faces — both at the bar and along the wall — belonging to my mum and dad’s generation. The Breeze clearly wasn’t managing to sell itself as a happening place for the younger social drinker: no widescreen TV, no games machines, no jukebox even. There was a one-armed bandit sitting in an unfrequented corner, which probably made less income in a month than the bar staff earned from tips, but that was the only concession to the modern era.
I didn’t recognise more than half a dozen people, and none of them seemed to recognise me. Life is the best disguise of all, and I’d been through a lot of it since the last time I’d bought a round in this place.
But Harold Keighley hadn’t changed a bit. Standing dead centre at the bar, he was pulling a pint of Stingo from a chipped black hand pump with a golden liver bird perched on its apex, expertly tipping the glass to a shallower angle as it filled so that the head would be an even half-inch or so. He’d always been a big man — Hungry Harold, Harold the Barrel — and now he’d filled out to even more heroic proportions: his size, and his fearsome flatulence, were legendary, as was his refusal to treat drinking yourself into oblivion as anything other than a strict business proposition. His face, which I couldn’t remember in any other condition than flushed hectic red, was heavy-jowled and pugnacious, topped with a full head of hair the colour of the snow you’re not supposed to eat. Mind you, it would probably have been pure white if Harold hadn’t been a forty-a-day man: even now, in defiance of the recent ban, he had a fag hanging from the corner of his mouth — inspiring other, similar beacon fires around the room.
He finished pulling the pint, set it down, took the money, gave change. I waited patiently while he dealt with two other customers who were at the bar before me. A younger guy with a nose-stud who was also serving asked me if he could get me anything, but I sent him on his way with a curt shake of the head. Harold had seen me by this time and I waited patiently while he worked his way around to me.
‘Matty Castor,’ he said, wagging his pudgy finger at me. ‘I thought you were a priest now.’
‘He is,’ I confirmed. ‘I’m not. I’m the other one. Felix.’
‘The little bugger who used to steal the beer mats.’
‘The same. I’m done with them now if you want them back.’
He pursed his lips as though he was actually considering the offer, then made an obscene gesture. ‘What can I get you?’ he asked.
‘Pint of Guinness,’ I said, not being a big fan of Tetley beers. While he poured it I took another look around the room. Still just that thin leavening of people I vaguely knew, none of them likely to lead me onwards in the direction I needed to go in, even if they decided to talk to me.
So I went for the big man instead.
‘Richie Yeats still drink in here, Harold?’ I asked.
The Guinness was on an electric pump, so Harold didn’t need to give it much attention as it sluggishly climbed the glass. He looked at me shrewdly. ‘Well, now,’ he said, with a humourless smile. ‘If I had a fiver for every time I got that question . . .’
‘Yeah?’ I was interested. ‘Who else is looking for him, then?’
‘Who isn’t, these days?’ Harold countered. ‘That’ll be two sixty.’
‘And whatever you’re having.’
‘I’m having rectal surgery. Stick it in the lifeboat.’
He took my money and gave me my change: true to his word, he’d just taken the cost of my pint, refusing the offered drink. Since I mentioned Richie, the temperature had cooled. I fed my change into the RNLI money box, a coin at a time. Harold waited, staring me out.
‘What about Anita?’ I asked, changing tack. ‘Ever see her around?’
To my surprise, Harold’s dour face suddenly cracked open in an involuntary smile that had real warmth in it. ‘Not in too many years,’ he said. ‘Light of my life, she was. Even as a kid. She should have gone on the telly or something. A girl like that, her face is her fortune, innit? Her fortune or her falling down, as our Nan used to say.’
That reflection seemed to sour his mood again. He shook his head, his lower lip jutting out like a shelf weighed down with all the world’s woes. Down at the other end of the bar some other guy’s hand was waving with an empty glass in it. Harold noticed it and turned, starting to head in that direction: I put my own hand out to detain him.
‘Could I leave a message for Richie?’ I asked.
He stared at me hard, frowning so that his eyes almost disappeared as the topography of his corpulent face shifted seismically. ‘Could you what?’ he echoed.
‘I just want to talk to him,’ I said. ‘About Anita. She’s missing and I’m trying to find her. He knows we used to be friends. If he wants to meet up he can leave a message here. Or he can just call me.’ I fished a pen out of some recess of my greatcoat and wrote my mobile number on a beer mat, then held it up for Harold to take. He hesitated for a moment, then nodded brusquely at the counter top, indicating that I should put the beer mat back where I’d found it.