Out Late with Friends and Regrets (45 page)

But she kept three evenings a week for bookwork and relaxation, with a little bit of study to warm up her learning muscles, and on these evenings she would periodically turn the lights out, and scan the street for loiterers.

“Just being prudent, rather than paranoid,” she told Ellie, when they met up; “I’ve got new locks on everything, and it’s becoming tiresome rather than terrifying now, but obviously I’d love to have it over with.”

“It’s getting bloody cold out at night,” said Ellie.
 
“Perhaps he won’t be bothering too much now – too uncomfortable.”

“Ah, the end of the stalking season for this year, you mean,” said Fin.

“Yeah, unless he’s a masochist as well, and actually likes freezing his bollocks off!” said Ellie.

Today Fin had been sorting invoices and VAT records for the accounts, and by eight o’clock was ready for a break.
 
She decided to walk around the block, maybe go for a quick drink at one of the Triangle’s many bars, but instead she turned down a street that led eventually to the river.
 
It was less busy than the Triangle’s commercial centre, but the warm lights of a pub with swan-necked lights shining on its fascia attracted her.
 
It sported a large poster in the window, advertising live music ‘4 Nites a Week’, and as she read it the fluent ripple of a guitar seeped out into the street.
 
Then a voice, all soaring sweetness with a little heartbreak catch in it, singing “I Can’t Make You Love Me”, escaping from inside as the door opened.
 
Not her kind of music, perhaps, but beautiful.
 
She went in.
 
It would be quite relaxing for half an hour.

The retro Edwardian hostelry look of the place had been carefully contrived: thick curtains, brass-style fittings and marble-topped tables.
 
The brewery had not, of course, taken things as far as eliminating the usual neon brand names and the clinking, chingling gaming machines.
 
But the subliminal message appeared to be that here was a comfortable bar with old-fashioned values.

She ordered, and sat at the bar where she could see the singer in one corner, on a dais just big enough for a stool and a microphone stand.
 
A chalked blackboard behind the tiny stage announced ‘2NITE – Marie Smith’.
 
Marie was pale, with long brown hair in a plait, and wore a denim top and a long skirt.
 
She was not quite pretty, but as she ran her fingers over the strings and lived in the music, her face shone.
 
Fin, captivated by the quality of the haunting voice, closed her eyes as she sipped her drink, letting the music flow through her.
 
Yet the singer was largely ignored by the other patrons, who barely acknowledged the end of each number. Fin began to clap pointedly after each song, and was amused to note that the apathetic audience began to take more notice, and join in.
 
At the end of the set, Marie offered CDs for sale, and a minimal queue formed.
 
As Fin handed over her money Marie said, “Thanks for the cheerleading!” She had a delightful smile.

“I just can’t bear to see people ignoring someone who’s baring their soul to entertain them.
 
For a start, it’s such bad manners.”

“It’s like that in here most weeks, unfortunately.
 
I do better in the student pubs.”

Fin steeled herself.

“Would you- can I get you a drink?”

“Yes, please.
 
An ice-cold cider would slip down a treat before the second half.
 
What’s your name?”

“I’m Fin.
 
Shall we-”

Yes, there’s one over there.”

They sat down at one of the ersatz marble tables.

“Not a good venue for you, then,” said Fin.

“Not from any point of view,” replied Marie.
 
“See that guy with the scarf round his head and the suit jacket?
 
He keeps trying to follow me home.”

“Scary.
 
He’s a creepy looking bastard,” said Fin.

The strain on Marie’s face was clearly visible, even under the odd, electric flicker of the imitation gas mantles, and Fin’s heart went out to her.
 
The man watched them unblinkingly.

God Almighty, was the city infested with stalkers?
 
Or could this be the figure in the hood who had been infecting her own life?
 
He seemed smaller than her memory of the hooded figure, but it had been a brief glimpse, and you never knew.

“He’s always there.
 
The landlady’s spoken to him, but she’s too busy to follow it up.
 
He slips out when I leave.
 
I either have to jump on the nearest bus to take me out of range, or else take a taxi.”

“If this place is such a no-no for you financially, why not give it up?”

Can’t afford to.
 
And it’s very handy for my flat.”

“Told the police?”

“And tell them what? He hasn’t actually done anything.”

Quite.
 

“That doesn’t stop you worrying.”

“I’d just hate him to find out where I live.”

“Too right,” said Fin, with feeling.
 
“Tell you what, d’you think it would put him off if I walked part of the way with you when you finish?”

“Yes, would you? It might work, and I’d feel a lot safer.”

“And I absolutely guarantee that I am
not
a stalker.”

“I wouldn’t be anxious about
you
,” she smiled, and returned to the little stage for the second half.

The man watched them leave.
 
They walked fairly briskly to the first corner, glancing back at The Waggoners’ Arms.
 
Sure enough, that was him, in the suit jacket and bandana, peering after them from the door of the public bar.

“How far is it?” asked Fin.

“Not far at all, only round the next corner in fact,” replied Marie, “but there’s no way I’m going direct if he’s right behind us.”

Fin put a hand on her arm.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, “let’s put an end to this, once and for all.”

The words came out before she could consider them, and the better part of valour was no longer an option.

They stopped just out of sight round the next turning, listening as the man’s footsteps approached.
 
Fin felt Marie’s fluttering breath on her cheek.
 
She looked to the other side of the street, not at all busy now, but still with a few people visible.
 
Would they help, if it came to it?

The hasty, uneven shuffle of the pursuer’s footsteps grew louder, coming to an abrupt halt as the man came face to face with his quarry under the street lamp.

He was short and unshaven, and the checked jacket had all the style hallmarks of being a relic of his youth.
 
His jeans were rolled up at the bottom to clear a pair of battered cowboy boots.

Fin’s voice threatened to stick in her throat.

 
“Are you following us?” she demanded, tension making the question come out louder than intended.

“Yes,” he replied, nodding.

“Why?”

The man pointed at Marie.

“She’s my wife,” he said, “We’re married.”

“
Jesus
,” muttered Marie.

The man looked perplexed.
 
          

“She’s my wife,” he said again, showing ill-assorted dark teeth in a smile, and nodding for emphasis.

Fin was suddenly back on a Glasgow bus with Granny, pointing at the nodding old man with the whiskers and the stained shirt, who kept trying to talk to the passengers around him in a flow of words that didn’t seem to mean anything.
 
She had asked why the man was dribbling, a shocking thing for a grown-up to do, and Granny had shushed her with, “Ach, he’s no right, the soul.”

Fin took a step forward, and the man leaned back.

“Listen,” she said.
 
The man, no longer smiling, kept nodding.
  
“Are you listening to me? This lady is
not
your wife.
 
If you follow her again, she’ll tell the police and you’ll be arrested.
 
Do you understand?”

Where is she? Where
is
my wife, then?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know.
 
But you mustn’t follow this lady again, OK?”

The man sighed.
 
“Going back to the fucking pub,” he mumbled.

“Yes, go back to the pub.
 
Goodbye.”

Fin went to the corner to watch his pigeon-toed trudge back to the door of the bar.

“My God, you were brilliant!” said Marie.
 
“I couldn’t have done that.”

Fin was shaking despite her best efforts.

“He’s obviously living in a different world from the rest of us.
 
But it looks as if you can take the direct route tonight.”

Marie smiled.

 
“You’ve definitely earned yourself a coffee,” she said.

As Fin followed Marie up the dimly-lit staircase, she visualised the sort of home a pub musician might have.
 
Judging by the poor state of Marie’s suede slouch boots, on a level with her eyes as they climbed, and the pale patches of mildew on the tongue-and-groove walls – no environment for a singer, Fin thought – it would be basic, and probably quite bohemian.
 
She touched the CD cover in her pocket.
 
Ten tracks, ten pounds.
 
Marie had sold, what, four or so at the gig?
 
Not much of a living, once costs came out.

It was gratifying to see some of her predictions borne out, as they entered the oddly-shaped room overlooking the street.
 
Marie lit the gas fire, and a couple of candles.
 
There were two table lamps which Fin was tempted to turn on, but that would have been presumptuous.
 
The firelight was sufficient, however, to show that much use had been made of ethnic throws to cover the shabby furnishings; and what looked like an Indian cotton bedspread hung over the curtain pole.
 
There were two armchairs by the fire, and a threadbare footstool.

“This is cosy!” she said, as Marie flopped down in one of the chairs, having rested her guitar against the wall in one corner and dropped the satchel of CDs somewhere in the middle of the floor.
 
Fin made a mental note not to trip over it.

Marie’s eyelids had drooped, and Fin was wondering whether to sit down in the other when she realised that it was occupied, and that eyes were glowing up at her.
 
She was undecided whether to sit on the footstool instead, or to say something to Marie; but the latter, suddenly alert and smiling, said, “Oh, sorry, Fin, meet Comfy, my one and only true friend.
 
Just push him off, he won’t mind.”

“Comfy’s a good name for a cat.”

“It started off as Comfrey, you know, the herb, but everybody called him Comfy, so it kind of stuck.”

“You look done in, Marie, can I make you a cup of tea or something?”

“Oh, yes
please
. I’m not used to being waited on. Great hostess, aren’t I?”