The Pink and the Grey (12 page)

All bollockings were officially administered in private, in the fire exit stairwell off to one side of the office. Everyone knew full well, though, that every whisper echoed and amplified up and down and was about as private as a celebrity sex tape — and that was the point, of course. It was the newspaper equivalent of executing a recaptured Steve McQueen-alike at a prisoner-of-war camp: against all the rules but, well,
how else will these savages learn?

I donned my flame-proof suit and gave Manish an any-last-requests wink, and then followed Simon through the fire exit to the naughty steps. But he surprised me by not stopping: he headed straight down, two flights, and out past the beautiful arrangement of discarded cigarette butts into the car park. I screwed my eyes up against the damp sunshine and smelled wet dirt, but frankly it could’ve come from me or Simon or anywhere. Was I being fired? Driven to a building site to make friends with a cement mixer? Taken for a swim in the river inside a bag with some labrador puppies? Or a good old-fashioned beating?

I waited for him to say something.

“Fag?” he asked, and grinned, pulling a pack from his back pocket. He always said that. He knew I didn’t smoke.

“Out and proud,” I replied as always, with a clenched fist in salute, as he lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “What’s this about, Simon? Before you start: anywhere but the face. I have a beautiful nose. You can break my arm if you like. Just the one, mind. I’d get a lot of sympathy from the boys for that. I could get them to sign the cast, you know, leave their mark.”

“Yesterday,” he said, scuffing along a couple of pebbles and blowing smoke after them. “All that talk about the— the past.” I picked up a hint of Old Spice from him.

“What about it?” I tried to keep it light, relaxed. No sense in raising hackles, and neither was I about to go the full hedgehog. I kept my eyes on his fists.

“I admire your historical… interest.” Admiration? This was a brand new flavour of trouble. “But don’t forget the perspective,
mate
, will you?”

I waited in vain for him to give me some of that all-important perspective, while I tried to remember whether he’d ever called me
mate
before. It was a deliberate
mate
, though. It wasn’t an
alright mate
mate, or a
you’ve had enough mate
mate. It was more a
you looking at my bird, mate?
mate, a “mate” suffocated by camouflaged quote marks.

“Sure,” I said finally, straining every muscle not to say
mate
. “I was just being sociable, is all. You know, like the humans do.”

He toe-poked a pebble skipping under some random’s Volvo and gave me a dead smile. “I know you were, son, I know you were. Remember the five Ws: who, what, when, where, why.”

“I try.” I tapped my head. “They’re right up there with the seven dwarves and Elizabeth Taylor’s husbands.”

“Glad to hear it. Right, ginge, clear off.” Muffled, fag between the lips.

“Not even a clip round the ear?”

He waved me away. That was all a threat, to be sure, but simultaneously not a threat. I went back through the fire escape door feeling like I’d just come out of confession with a dodgy priest with a combover and he’d told me to say three Hail Marys and sit on his lap.

Manish was buzzing when I got back. “What happened?” he whispered as I sat down at my desk beside him. “I was waiting for the screams.”

“Just a minor kneecapping. Used to happen all the time back in Dublin growing up. I got through about forty-nine different knees in my time. When you’re an experienced journalist like I am you learn to take the pain.”

“Yeah, sod off Weasley.”

“Twiglet.”

“Seriously, though.”

“Oh, it was all a bit of friendly banter. Mostly him saying keep your nose out and me going
don’t cut me!
”

“Keep your nose out of what?”

I thought he was about to get out his notebook and start taking shorthand. “Nothing to concern your pretty face.”

“That’s sexual harassment, that is.”

“Take it to the papers.”

That lunchtime I scooted into town, officially on an emergency mission to find a last-minute card for a non-existent aunt about to topple off the perch back home. In truth, to visit a source. As usual at this time of day, he was at his pitch outside the supermarket opposite Sidney Sussex College and had probably sold half a dozen of his “very last copy” of that week’s
Big Issue
.

“Conor, mate!” he said, arms outstretched, as I approached. This was a
could do with a tenner, mate
mate. We shook hands tribally, two chiefs meeting on a savannah with dust and grit and Sainsbury’s bags spiralling around us. His dog, a bull terrier with a dirty white coat, sat serenely upright behind like a wise elder of the tribe tied to a bike rack.

“Hey Charlie.”

Charlie was my age, my height, but looked old and broken. He had lank, unwashed hair in tangled dreads, greying from black, or at least it looked black. A scuffed anorak hung limply around his shoulders but doubled his bulk. He didn’t talk about his past, or his present. His apparent cheerfulness always subdued me.

“What can I do you for, mate?” he asked.

“I’m looking for some gossip, Charlie. New and exclusive gossip.”

“A scoop, eh? After a bit more moolah?” He leaned in and I smelled old newspapers.

“Something like that.” I instantly felt bad. “Need to get into my boss’s good books.”

“I got nothing for you, sorry mate.” To some passers-by: “
Big Issue
, sir? Madam?”

“Shit. Are you sure?”

“It’s been really quiet. Not sold one in two hours, have I?”

I took that as a hint and dug into my pockets. “I’ll take a copy off your hands, Charlie. Least I can do.” I handed over the cash and with a flourish he presented me with that week’s edition.

“You’re a gentleman, Conor,” he said. “Listen, probably nothing, but I just remembered. You know Quiff? You must know Quiff.”

It was a new name for me. “Quiff?”

He fished out another one of his last copies of
Big Issue
and failed to attract the fanny packs of a gaggle of Americans.

“Yeah. You not know him?” he said. “Dunno his first name. Sometimes comes and spreads a little love around, know what I mean? Full of stories. Said something’s going on at one of the colleges.”

It didn’t sound that promising — something was always going on at one of the colleges. Usually in Latin and with a procession. But it was all I had, and time was ticking, and I didn’t want to give Geoff or Simon any more reason to dislike me.

“Worth a punt I guess. Where can I find this Quiff guy?”

“Where he always is, which is why you should know him. Humbug. Stupid big hat.”

My face must have lit up.

“Ah, now you know who I mean.”

I thanked him and gave him another couple of quid — always keep your sources well hydrated — then hurried off to Bar Humbug, less than a minute’s walk away. I’d never spoken to this hat guy before, except perhaps the odd
excuse me
or a strangulated mumble in the piss queue. He’d always seemed part of the furniture, almost a sideshow along with the juggling cocktail boys and the occasional drag act. I presumed he was
family
— but I never saw him leave with anyone. I never saw him leave at all, or arrive, come to that. Eddie had said his first name yesterday — Cornelius — and now I had his surname too. Gave me the upper hand. Useful.

Humbug was a confusing, unfamiliar place of sunshine and mothers and young kids bouncing off the walls. The nighttime Bumhug had become the daytime Mumhug, or maybe Mumdrug thanks to the supply of caffeine and chocolate. The coffee machine growled and coughed on a loop, and one of Eddie’s tight-shirted little twinky helpers was in great demand for a de-stressing Manhattan or Cosmo — or anything, as long as it had chocolate sprinkles. It still had the soul of Bumhug, just with a lipstick sheen.

And at the far end of the bar, in his usual position watching over the world, sat the man with the furry hat I now knew to be Cornelius Quiff, cuddling some booze. Early fifties, I guessed. Thin, struggling beard turning to silver. Every day a little heavier. Enveloped in a fog of some manly fragrance I recognised but couldn’t put a name to.

I sidled up to the bar not far from Quiff, hoisted myself onto a stool, and went full-twinkle.

“I guess I’d better get a coffee,” I said to the barman. “First time for everything. Normal coffee, normal cup, normal milk, please. I’m a simple Irish boy with simple tastes, and I don’t think I’ve ever come here and felt older.”

The barman laughed. He knew me from the evening crowd. “Is different, yes?”

He was eastern European. Latvian, perhaps. Face like an angel after a few too many five-in-the-morning finishes. Not perhaps the land of DILF and money he was expecting.

Off to the left a small fat boy pushed a smaller fatter boy into a chair, and the tears and the wailing began. “Obviously not that different,” I said, thumb aimed at the kids. “Switch on the waterworks and fall into the arms of the woman with the big breasts. No different at all.”

I turned to Quiff and nodded a greeting. It felt mildly sacrilegious, saying a proper hello for the first time to someone you’ve recognised but skirted around for a year. Like the mind-whirling clumsiness and rictus grin when you finally meet someone after months of chatting online: you know that your relationship changes at that point, changes irrevocably. You just don’t know how.

“It’s Mr Quiff, isn’t it? Cornelius Quiff?”

He seemed shocked at the need to speak, and coughed. “It is, yes, that’s right.” Yorkshire? Lancashire? All those northern English accents sounded alike to me. This was soft, light, camp. “Have we met?”

The barman slid over my cup of coffee.

I said: “Can I get you a drink, Cornelius?” Stick to the first name: keep ’em friendly.

He nodded gratefully and the barman didn’t bother asking: double vodka, lemonade, lots of ice. Liver a gift from the gods, I guessed. And wallet.

“I’m Conor. Conor Geraghty. You’ve probably seen me here more than a few times. What with the ginger and all that. It tends to draw the eye. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. That’s a decent hat you’ve got there. What kind of a hat is it?” I took a sip of coffee. Black, strong, buzzy. I could see why the mums all came here.

Quiff’s hands moved to his hat and adjusted the fit slightly. “It’s a karakul. Afghan origin, this one. Keeps the heat in when the clocks go back.”

“You’ve been to Afghanistan?”

“No love. Camden market. About five years ago?” He swapped out his empty glass for the fresh one I’d bought. “It’s much more convenient than Kabul. On the tube, you know.”

I laughed. “Well, it suits you. Very distinctive. You’ve got to stand out, haven’t you? I’m the ginger, you’re the furry hat. Could be worse, let’s face it. Now listen, I have a confession: I’m not talking to you entirely by accident.”

“Oh?” He sat back, upright. “You’ve sought me out? You’re not the tax man, are you dear? It’s all accounted for.”

“I’m not the tax man. I’m the newspaper man. A journalist, for the
Bugle
. Should have a hat of my own, a fedora with a Press card in the band, but the boss is too cheap.”

“It’s not about the operation, I hope. I’m bored of talking about that flaming operation.”

“It’s not about any operation. We’re not interested in operations unless something goes wrong. Did it go wrong?”

He shook his head.

“No, right, good. Listen. A mutual acquaintance gave me your name. He said you might have some useful gossip for me.”

He giggled like a schoolgirl. “I always have gossip, young man. Not gossip you’re likely to print though. It might get me into trouble.”

I didn’t want to prompt him, to lead him on. It was better that he volunteered it. “Not about this place,” I said. “God knows, it has enough of a reputation as it is. I’m looking for something properly newsworthy. Something that could get me a front-page story.”

“Don’t want much, do you, for your double vodka? I’m not sure I have anything you could use.”

“Come on now, this is Cambridge. Nothing happens here. A dog barking after ten o’clock gets on page two.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you sure? I could set you up for another if you’d like.” I was gambling that Seb would pay my expenses without a second thought. “And there’s plenty more where that came from. You might not get the decent stuff every time, mind. Times is hard, even in this town.”
Take the bait, take the bait
.

“I’m sure I could manage another, if you’re offering,” he said.

I signalled to the barman, who’d been watching, and he fetched another glass. My eyes remained on Quiff, and my mouth stayed zipped. It was simply a question of who broke the silence first. I was happily tripping on caffeine. For once, I was determined it wouldn’t be me.

“Well, there might be something,” he said finally.

Buy a man a drink and you have a friend for the evening — but buy him two and he’ll stay the night. I think that’s how the saying goes. Not that I had designs on Cornelius Quiff, but I’d happily have given him a smacker on the lips right there and then.

He explained, softly and confidentially, how he’d
happened to learn
— by which I’m sure he meant
overheard
— of a problem in the money department at St Paul’s College along the road. The place was running on empty. Cashflow negative, despite apparently sitting on a gold mine of top quality gossip themselves, and with some idea of a competition to raise money.

That sounded like a story Seb and I could make use of. It would mean talking with the poshos at St Paul’s, but from what Quiff told me it was pretty clear who the source was: that guy Spencer, who was some arsewiper-in-chief up there. He was always in Humbug, falling-down drunk, and Quiff was always sitting-down listening. Made total sense.

So I’d need to get in touch with Spencer. As long as he didn’t throw himself at me again it’d be fine.