Double Mortice (6 page)

Michael Gibson was wakened by slanting shafts of winter sunshine streaming through the lounge window. He got up stiffly from the settee, his head thumping, his mouth parched. He’d slept all night, fully dressed, with his left leg twisted underneath him. As he hobbled down the hall he checked his watch and saw it was almost ten o’clock. He stopped outside the closed bedroom door and massaged his thigh to try to bring some circulation back to his numb leg as he listened for a moment before knocking gently. There was no response. Easing the door ajar, he confirmed the room was empty. The bed was made. When he went to the kitchen he saw an empty cereal bowl lying in the sink. He ran the tap and filled a tumbler with cold water which he downed in one long swallow, then he re-filled the glass and took it to the bedroom where he gulped down a couple of paracetamol tablets. Stripping off, he stood under the hot shower, still massaging his numb leg.

When he’d finished showering, he slipped on his towelling dressing gown and shaved as quickly as he could. His hand was trembling and he twice nicked his chin painfully, sticking small pieces of toilet paper to his face to stem the flow of blood.

It was half past ten by the time he took the lift to the underground garage. Anne’s car was gone. He got into his Mercedes and pressed the remote control to open the garage doors and as he drove up the ramp he saw that most of the previous day’s snow had melted in the morning sun. The roads were quiet as he made his way across town.

When he arrived at the office, Sheila was seated at her desk with her back to him, typing at her keyboard. ‘Good morning, Sheila.’

‘Good morning, Mr Gibson.’ She replied without turning from her screen.

‘Would you come into the office, please?’

Michael slumped onto the chair behind his desk. ‘What have I managed to miss this time?’

‘There was a staff meeting scheduled for nine o’clock. I cancelled it when you didn’t show up. There’s nothing else in the diary for this morning. You’re supposed to be playing squash with Tom Crosbie at twelve.’

‘Cancel it. It would kill me. Anyway, I didn’t bring my gear. Is Pippa… Is Miss Scott in this morning?’

‘I saw her earlier.’

‘Tell her I need to see her straight away.’ For the first time he could recall, he noticed Sheila hesitate.

‘Very good,’ she said stiffly.

A few minutes later Philippa marched in. ‘Well?’

Michael scrambled to his feet. ‘Pippa, you’ve got to give me time. It’s more complicated than I thought. Anne can cause me a great deal of trouble. I will find a solution, but I need time.’

‘For the past year, Michael, there’s been one excuse or – as you would put it – one ‘reason’ after another why you couldn’t walk out of your marriage It’s such a corny routine. I really don’t know what you expect of me, but I’m not prepared to settle for an occasional afternoon shag and a weekend in your flat once a month. So if, for whatever reason, you’re not prepared to leave Anne, I think it would be better all round if we call it a day. If and when you sort things out with Anne, perhaps we can think about getting back together. And by the way, that’s a very small ‘perhaps’.’

‘No Pippa, please! I can’t stop seeing you! But Anne’s threatening me. She knows she can have me locked up and she will if she’s crossed.’

‘This is getting cornier by the minute. What is she threatening you with?’

‘It’s to do with tax evasion. Twelve years ago, when my father and I were trying to get the business off the ground, we went through a sticky patch and we filed some highly dubious tax returns in order to keep the business afloat.’

‘Is that all? This firm employs some of the best legal brains in the country. Even if your wife does get vindictive, surely it’s not beyond our collective wit to mount an effective defence to a twelve year old charge of tax evasion?’

‘Effective defence or not – the scandal would ruin the firm. I can’t let it get to that.’

Philippa shook her head in frustration. ‘This conversation is getting us nowhere. I want a straight answer to a straight question, Michael. Are you, or are you not, going to leave Anne?’

‘I… I can’t… not right now.’

‘So you expect me to settle for being your occasional weekend screw? Is that how it works?’

‘It’s not like that at all. That’s not fair.’

‘Not fair? For Christ’s sake, look who’s talking about being fair! For the past year you’ve strung me along with promises that we’d be moving in together, and this is all it amounts to?’

‘I’ll get it sorted, Pippa… I really will.’

‘It’s too late for that, Michael. I don’t want to hear another one of you damned lies.’ Philippa’s voice was trembling with emotion. ‘I’m handing in my resignation, as of right now. I’ve already turned down several good job offers, out of loyalty to you. Loyalty that was clearly totally misplaced. God, what a miserable little shit you turned out to be. All I can say is – good riddance to you – and to your poxy job.’

The office door rattled in its frame as Philippa slammed it behind her.

Paul Gibson was sweating profusely as he struggled to lift a large amplifier onto the tailgate of his van. When a car pulled up behind him and tooted, he recognised the Volvo’s horn. ‘Hi, Mum!’ he called out without turning round.

‘That looks very heavy,’ Anne said as she was getting out of her car. ‘Can’t you get somebody to help you with it?’

Paul leaned against the amplifier with his shoulder and pushed until it came to rest against the side of the van. ‘I lumbered Gordon with ironing the shirts instead. I’d rather load the van any day,’ he said with a grin. ‘You’re welcome to come up, but I’m afraid I won’t have time to offer you a coffee. We’re doing a gig in Edinburgh tonight and we should’ve set off fifteen minutes ago.’

‘I’ll just come up for a minute and say hello to Gordon. I wasn’t planning to stay. I was passing on my way home from the bridge club and I thought I’d drop by to see how you were doing. You’re looking pale. Have you lost weight?’

‘Give me a break. Not so long ago you were nagging me to ease off on the booze.’

‘Are you eating properly?’

‘Mum!’ Paul closed the rear doors of the van and locked them.

‘How’s the flat working out?’ Anne asked as they walked towards the red-sandstone, tenement building.

‘It’s fine. A bit cramped, but at least the rent’s reasonable.’

‘And the band?’

‘I don’t think The Proclaimers are quaking in their boots yet, but
we’re doing all right. We’ve got a booking in Edinburgh tonight, one next Tuesday in Dundee and one the following week in Perth. If tonight’s gig goes well there’s a possibility that it could become a regular booking for the summer.’

‘I’m pleased for you.’

‘Dad booting me out of the office was the best thing that could have happened. Gordon and I have been able to rehearse every day for the past couple of weeks and it’s starting to pay off,’ he said as they started climbing the stone staircase. ‘And I don’t have to wear suits and ties any more. The only thing I miss is the money.’

As they approached the top of the staircase, Anne pressed an envelope into his hand.

‘I wasn’t hinting. You don’t need to do this.’

‘I know I don’t
need
to do it. I want to do it. I’m sure you’ll find a use for it.’ She closed his fist around the envelope.

‘You’re great,’ he said, giving her a hug.

‘Gordon!’ Paul called out as he opened the door. ‘My mother’s here.’

‘Hi, Mrs Gibson.’ The voice came floating out from the bedroom. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

When Gordon emerged he was carrying two black silk shirts on hangers. ‘I’m glad Paul warned me you were here, otherwise you might’ve heard some unparliamentary language. I hate ironing at the best of times – and with these,’ he said, holding up the hangers, ‘I’m terrified I’ll put the iron straight through them.’

Gordon Parker was a bright, energetic character, slimly built with shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail. He and Paul had been in the same class since primary school and for as long as either of them could remember they’d planned to form a group together, finally realising their ambition a few months previously when they’d teamed up with Tommy and Dave, friends of Gordon from university, to form the ‘Citizens Band’.

‘Any news of a day job?’ Anne asked.

Gordon laughed raucously as he shook his head. ‘Nothing much doing, Mrs Gibson. There’s not a lot of demand for failed electronic engineers these days.’

‘It really is a shame,’ Anne said in a mildly reproachful tone. ‘You could’ve passed your finals without any problem if you’d spent a bit more time studying and a bit less in snooker halls and discos.’

‘I believe my mother might have mentioned that,’ Gordon said, winking at Paul. ‘But all’s well that ends well. When we’re playing in front of a packed house at Hampden Park you’ll be delighted I didn’t waste my talent designing an even faster microchip.’

‘You’re incorrigible. How’s Maureen, by the way?’

‘Oh, she’s fine. Still wasting her time nursing, I’m afraid. We can’t all be touched with genius.’

‘Send her my regards. She’s a really nice girl. Much too nice for you.’

‘So her mother keeps telling me.’

‘I hate to interrupt the banter,’ Paul interjected, ‘but we’re running very late. We really should be hitting the road.’

‘Of course, I didn’t mean to hold you back,’ Anne said. ‘Get on your way – and don’t drive too fast. By the way, that van looks none too safe to me.’

‘It passed its M.O.T with flying colours, so will you please stop worrying.’

‘I’ll be with you in a minute, Paul,’ Gordon said. ‘I just need a quick pee.’

Paul waited until Gordon disappeared into the bathroom. ‘I didn’t want to say anything in front of Gordon, but are things any better between you and Dad?’

‘We’ve hardly exchanged a civil word since he broached the subject of leaving me. I refuse to even discuss it with him. He’s been sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms for the past couple of weeks and, as far as I’m concerned, he can stay there.’

‘I don’t know why you put up with all the hassle. You’d be a lot better off without him.’

‘I know it’s probably unrealistic,’ Anne said with a sigh, ‘but part of me is still hoping he’ll come to his senses and we’ll be able to patch things up.’

‘You wouldn’t take him back, surely?’

‘There were good times, Paul. There were some very good times.’

‘You should divorce him and be done with it,’ Paul snapped. ‘Anyway, you can’t stop him divorcing you, even if you refuse to cooperate.’

‘Somehow, I don’t think he’ll go down that route,’ Anne said with a wry smile.

‘Why not?’

‘I’ll tell you about it later. We don’t have time to go into it right now.’

Paul hesitated. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about, Mum. Something very important.’

‘What is it?’

‘Not now. Can I come to see you tomorrow?’

‘Who’s being mysterious now?’ Anne said. ‘Come round for a coffee tomorrow afternoon. Make it between three and four o’clock when your father is sure to be at work.’

It was four o’clock in the morning when Paul Gibson and Gordon Parker pulled up outside Paul’s flat. Flicking off the van’s lights, Paul cut the engine.

‘We’ve had the stony silence routine all the way back from Edinburgh,’ Gordon said. ‘Can we let it drop now?’

‘Why the hell did you do it?’ Paul fumed. ‘I thought we had an agreement? Nothing before a gig.’

‘For Christ’s sake! It was no big deal. Just a couple of tabs.’

‘It was more than enough to fuck up our chances of ever getting another booking there. Your voice was flat, your timing was off and you forgot the words at least three times. What’s the point in us busting a gut rehearsing if you’re going to get stoned and ruin everything?’

Gordon pulled a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit up, inhaling deeply. ‘I’ve already said I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I was uptight. I needed something to relax me before we went on stage.’

Paul’s temper calmed as quickly as it had flared up. ‘What were you uptight about?’

‘If you really want to know, I’m all screwed up about Maureen. We’re nuts about each other and we want to move in together, but unless the band takes off in a big way I’m never going to be able to afford to do that. And to add to everything, I’ve had it right up to here with Maureen’s mother. I was round at their place last week and I got the full treatment from the crabbit old bitch. I’ve never met anyone like her. She puts my own mother in the shade – and that takes a bit of doing. The cantankerous old cow can churn out clichés to a band playing. Gordon mimicked a high-pitched squeak: ‘When are you going to get a proper job?’ ‘When are you and Maureen going to get married?’ ‘When are going to have the deposit saved up for a flat?’ Jesus Christ! Fat chance I’ve got of ever saving up a deposit. If she knew I still owed you a thousand quid towards the van she’d go ballistic.’

‘Talking of which –’

‘Oh, fuck! I know I promised you a couple of hundred this month. I will pay you back, Paul – as soon as I can.’

‘I’m not exactly flush, you know,’ Paul snapped. ‘I need the money.’

‘I’m sorry. I just –’

‘That’s okay,’ Paul interjected. ‘It really is okay.’ His voice softened. ‘I didn’t mean to go on about it.’ He punched Gordon gently on the shoulder. ‘No point in you going home at this time of night. Why don’t you come up and crash out on the settee?’

Gordon sucked hard on his cigarette. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘Come on, you daft bampot.’ Paul pulled his leather jacket from behind the driver’s seat and jumped down. The clouds were high in
the sky and a ground frost was forming. He slipped on his jacket and zipped it up.

‘What about the gear?’ Gordon asked as he clambered down. ‘Shouldn’t we take it upstairs?’

‘I can’t be arsed. We’ll take our chances and leave it in the van overnight. Just make sure the doors are locked.’

‘Suits me. I’m buggered.’ They trudged side by side up to the fourth floor landing. As they went into the apartment, Gordon put his arm around Paul’s shoulder. ‘Would I be dicing with death if I suggested a smoke before we turn in?’

Paul smiled. ‘You know the rules. After the gig, anything goes. What’ve you got?’

‘I picked up some hash in Edinburgh.’

‘Roll us a couple of joints while I organise the music.’

Paul browsed through the playlists on his laptop while Gordon was working on the joints.

Gordon chuckled when he heard the opening strains of ‘Suzanne’. ‘Why do you always put on Leonard Cohen when you’re going to have a smoke?’ he asked, lighting both joints and handing one across.

Paul closed his eyes and lay back in the armchair. He took a long, slow drag, sucking in the smoke and holding it in his lungs for as long as he could before releasing it slowly through his teeth. ‘I really don’t know. I think maybe it’s because when I close my eyes and listen to his voice, I realise you might not be the worst singer in the world.’

Paul ducked as a cushion came flying across the room.