Runaway (37 page)

Luke shook his hand. ‘Then I’m honoured to meet you, Ricky.’ He nodded back over his shoulder. ‘My car’s parked outside. I was going to take you straight back to my place, but you look like you could do with a decent meal. And I know just the place.’

_IV

The Merchants Tavern was just off Great Eastern Street in Shoreditch, in a narrow alley of shops and pubs and restaurants beneath yellow-and-red-brick apartments that leaned overhead and seemed to close it off from the darkening sky.

The restaurant itself was in a converted workshop with skylights and exposed ducting, but it had been expensively remodelled with polished mahogany and green leather. Luke had phoned ahead to book a table.

When they were seated, Luke said, ‘The chef’s a young Scottish lad. Cut his teeth in France under one of the world’s top chefs. Opened this place a year or so ago. Fantastic food. Can’t be long before he gets himself a Michelin star or two.’

That Luke was in his element here was evident to the others, and it had the effect of making them feel distinctly uncomfortable. Where he was clearly accustomed to fine dining in expensive restaurants, Dave or Jack were more used to Chinese or Indian carry-outs, or pizzas at Dino’s. There was a time, perhaps, when Maurie might not have felt like such a fish out of water. But his days of good living had all preceded his eighteen months in Barlinnie. And life had never been the same again.

A voice raised itself from beyond the leather banquettes, in a kitchen open to the restaurant. Chefs in silhouette moved back and forth from pot to pan, and from oven to grill, in a kind of ordered and orchestrated chaos.

‘Mr Sharp!’ A tall young man in chef’s whites detached himself from the others and made his way to their table, grinning broadly. He shook Luke’s hand. ‘Great to see you again. How you doing?’ His east-coast Scottish twang was unmistakeable.

Dave said, ‘Jesus Christ, we’ve been in London half an hour and talked to nothing but Scotsmen!’

The chef’s grin widened. ‘We’re taking over the world.’

Luke said, ‘Neil, these are my friends from Glasgow. Wanted to treat them to something a wee bit special. Just a main, I think.’

Neil said, ‘I’ll do a wee special for you, then. For the table. Slow-cooked rib-eye, thyme-roasted onions and a few girolles thrown in. How’s that?’

‘Sounds good.’ Luke beamed at the others, searching for approval. But the smile faded a little in the face of their blank looks. ‘Doesn’t it?’

Jack shrugged. ‘If you recommend it, that’s good enough for me.’

Maurie said, ‘I’ll not eat, if you don’t mind. Just some water for me.’

‘Will there be wine with that?’ Dave looked hopeful.

Luke nodded. ‘We’ll order something from the list.’

‘I’ll get that sorted, then,’ Neil said.

But before he could head back to the kitchen Ricky said, ‘What’s rib-eye? It’s not . . . eyes, is it?’ There was distinct panic in his voice.

Neil smiled indulgently. ‘It’s beef.’

‘Do you not have a burger, or pizza or something?’

Jack dropped his head into one hand, muffling his voice. ‘Oh dear God!’

‘Do you not like beef?’ Neil asked him.

‘Well . . . it’s okay, I suppose. I don’t like blood running out of it, though.’

Jack thought Neil’s patience was worth a star in itself.

The chef said, ‘No blood running out of this, I promise you. If it doesn’t melt in your mouth, you can have your money back.’

‘
My
money back.’ Luke grinned. ‘My treat.’

And none of them was about to argue with him.

Luke ordered a bottle of red. And with their glasses filled and their rib-eye cooking, a strangely awkward silence descended on the table.

Luke let his eyes drift from face to face. ‘So how’s everyone been? What have you being doing for the last fifty years?’

Jack’s laugh was a little forced. ‘Not a lot.’

Luke smiled. ‘That must have kept you pretty busy, then.’

Dave blurted, ‘I done my City and Guilds in plumbing and bent pipes aroon’ my knees for most of them. Bloody wrecked them an’ all.’ He took a long draught of wine from his glass. ‘My knees, that is.’

Luke turned his gaze on Jack. ‘You were going to go to university, Jack.’

Jack nodded and looked at his hands on the table in front of him. ‘I did. But it wasn’t for me, Luke. Ended up with the Bank of Scotland.’ He flicked a glance at Ricky and saw that his grandson was assiduously avoiding his eye. He deflected attention away from further elucidation. ‘Maurie was the smart one. Got his law degree.’

Luke seemed surprised. ‘What did you practise, Maurie? Criminal law?’

‘Nooo.’ Maurie shook his head. ‘Civil. Property. Conveyancing mostly.’

There was more awkward silence then, and it was clear to Jack and Dave that he wasn’t going to mention the disbarment or his eighteen months in prison.

‘What about you?’ Jack said. ‘Nice car, nice togs.’ He cast his eyes around the tavern. ‘Fancy restaurant. You’ve obviously done well for yourself.’

Luke nodded. ‘I have. But it didn’t come easy. Or quickly. Truth is, I’d probably have ended up in a shop doorway somewhere if I hadn’t met Jan. Saved my life, she did.’

‘How?’ Dave drained his glass and pushed it towards Luke for a refill.

‘By falling in love with me.’ He laughed. ‘Though God knows why. But, you know, sometimes it takes someone else seeing the worth in you for you to find it in yourself.’ He looked around the table. ‘No one follow a musical career, then?’

There was a collective shaking of heads, and Luke smiled ruefully.

‘Me neither. Designed and printed T-shirts and sold them off a market stall. Jan was teaching, and we rented a place in North London. She got pregnant and we had a wee boy, and we needed some more income. Someone told us about work for babies, you know, doing TV ads and that sort of thing. Wee James was cute as hell, and we got work for him quite easily through an agency. We didn’t realize it at first, but the money had to be put into a trust for him. Not that we grudged it, but having been through the process it got us to thinking, why not set up a wee agency of our own, get some more kids on our books? Take a percentage. There was obviously work around. So that’s what we did, starting from a back room in the flat.’

He shook his head and took a sip of his wine.

‘I would never have guessed that life would take me in that direction. But one thing led to another. We expanded to take adults on to our books. By the time we retired, we had the biggest modelling and acting agency in the UK. The two boys run the business now, and that’s our pension.’ He looked at the others. ‘You guys got kids?’

‘Just the one daughter,’ Jack said. ‘And my grandson, of course.’ He paused. ‘Wife died a year or two ago.’

A little of the sparkle went out of Luke’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Jack.’

Dave said, ‘My wife left me. And I’ve got one brute of a son. Good riddance to them both.’

Luke seemed embarrassed, unsure of what to say, and let his eyes stray towards Maurie. But Maurie was preoccupied, his eyes and mind elsewhere.

Jack said, ‘Maurie never married.’

The same awkwardness returned to the table, but it was broken almost immediately by the arrival of their food. Ricky poked suspiciously at his meat in its rich, dark gravy, before very reluctantly pushing a little past unreceptive lips. Only for his face to lighten with surprise, eyes opening wide. And he took another, bigger mouthful.

‘Wow!’ he said. ‘This is amazing.’

And Jack allowed himself a small, private smile.

Dave tipped the last of the wine into his glass and said, ‘Maybe we’d better get another bottle. I’ll pay for it.’

But Luke just smiled and signalled the wine waiter. ‘Like I said, it’s my shout.’

Wine and food released inhibitions accumulated over five decades, and the four old men were soon talking about that day fifty years before when Jack was expelled from school and they all decided to run away together.

They laughed about the robbery in the Lake District, and Jeff crawling about in the cemetery in the dark, looking for the van keys. They recalled the thrill of their escape with Rachel from the Quarry Hill Flats, pursued in the pitch black through tunnels and drains beneath the city.

Dave said, ‘I’ll never forget being chased by yon car in the dark and almost running head-on intae the cops. Jees! Jeff was like a madman behind the wheel!’

Ricky ate and listened in wide-eyed silence as his grandfather and his one-time band mates reminisced. Sometimes laughing, sometimes shaking heads in disbelief at long-forgotten moments. Even Maurie joined in.

But by the time their plates were cleaned and the second bottle of wine was empty, they had exhausted the source of their conversation. Memories could only fuel so much talk. The greater part of their individual lives had barely, if ever, touched. And beyond that handful of very intense years shared in their teens they had little else in common.

There was only really one thing left to address. But as if they all knew that these fond moments of precious reunion would be lost for ever once they did, none of them wanted to be the first to raise it.

By way of avoidance, Luke said, ‘So what were you doing stuck at a motorway services on the M1?’

Ricky’s theatrical sigh made Jack laugh, and he gave Luke a potted version of their entire, eventful trip down from Glasgow.

Luke listened in astonishment. When Jack had finished, and Luke stopped laughing, he said, ‘You guys are just as crazy as you were back then.’

‘So what’s it like, Luke?’ Jack said. ‘Living in London.’

It’s what they had set out to do all those years before, but only Luke had stayed.

Luke scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘It’s funny. Since we first arrived here in sixty-five, everything’s changed, but nothing has, if you know what I mean. Not really. London exists in that same old bubble. It’s still another country. A virtual city state, these days, fuelled by financial services and ignorant of anything that’s happening anywhere else in the country. If you live and work here, why would you care what happens elsewhere? Until the bloody Scots threatened to vote for independence and take the oil revenues away! Road signs point to
The North
. And the north is for holidays, or shooting or fishing. No one wants to know about unemployment, or food banks or pensioners in poverty. No one here wants to lift that stone to see what lies beneath.’ He shook his head. ‘But the truth is, London’s been good to me, and I could no more go back to Scotland now than fly in the air. This is my home.’

Which brought a thoughtful silence to the table, and Jack wondered fleetingly how it might have been if he, too, had stayed.

But the moment couldn’t be put off any longer.

Luke leaned on the table and examined their faces carefully. ‘Why are you here?’

With difficulty, Maurie fished his dog-eared newspaper cutting from the
Herald
out of an inside pocket and pushed it across the table to Luke. Luke read in silence, and they watched as his mouth fell slowly open.

‘How did I miss this?’ he said. But he didn’t expect an answer. He read on, then he looked up. ‘Who’d have believed that Flet was still alive all these years?’ When finally he’d finished reading, he looked puzzled. ‘This is what brought you back to London?’

No one else seemed willing to explain, so Jack said, ‘Maurie claims that it wasn’t Flet who killed that fella, after all. But he won’t say who did. Just that he knows who killed Flet.’

Jack could see a thousand questions forming themselves behind Luke’s eyes.

In the end, all Luke said was, ‘In that case, why wouldn’t you just go to the police?’

All heads turned towards Maurie.

The old lead singer of The Shuffle sighed, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. ‘It’s too late for that now. Fifty years too late.’ He drew air into his lungs, as if summoning courage. ‘Before we left Glasgow I made a rendezvous to meet up with an old friend of ours tomorrow night.’

‘Who?’ Jack said