Then We Die (17 page)

Carlyle felt his discomfort levels rising. What the hell was he going to say to the old bugger? Then he realized that he had a peace-offering to hand and could play for time. With some relief, he pulled a couple of bottles out of the bag and waved them at his father. ‘Fancy a beer?’

‘Sure,’ his father replied, in a way that suggested he was very far from sure indeed.

Carlyle placed two bottles on the table and retreated into the kitchen to put the others in the fridge. When he returned with a bottle-opener and a couple of glasses, Alexander was looking more relaxed on the sofa. He had switched on the television, with the sound turned down low. There was a football match in progress and Carlyle too relaxed a little, there now being a good chance that they could get through this encounter without having to discuss anything important at all. If talking to his mother about her divorce was bad, then even the thought of talking to his father was excruciating. Carlyle couldn’t think of one single ‘important conversation’ he’d had with his dad, ever. Also, as far as he was concerned, there was no need to start now. Their relationship was fine as it was: if his dad had dropped a monster bollock at home, it was up to him to deal with it. He was an adult, after all. If his parents couldn’t sort it out among themselves, what the hell was Carlyle supposed to do about it?

Carlyle flipped the top off both the bottles and handed one to Alexander. ‘There you go.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Want a glass?’

The old man shook his head and took a long mouthful straight from the bottle. Carlyle then did the same. His desire for a beer had evaporated, but it was cold and crisp, and he gave a gratified sigh after the first swallow. ‘Who’s playing?’

‘United – and some foreign team.’

Carlyle couldn’t make out the strip. ‘Where are they from?’ he asked.

‘No idea – Poland or Romania, or somewhere like that. Wherever they’re from,’ Alexander sniffed, ‘they’re not very good.’

‘Yeah.’ Carlyle squinted at the small box in the top left-hand corner of the screen. Three-nil and barely thirty minutes played. ‘Cannon-fodder. United always get an easy ride.’

Alexander nodded and took another mouthful of beer. He wasn’t as keen on football as Carlyle himself, who had been a season-ticket holder at Fulham for almost thirty years, but usually he could just about keep up his end of a conversation about one of the top teams. This time, however, the old man kept his eyes firmly on the screen and said nothing. Taking the hint, Carlyle flopped into the armchair in the opposite corner and settled down to give this boring, one-sided game his full attention.

A minute before halftime, when the opposition defence stood still and allowed United’s wretched ogre of a centre forward to make it four, Carlyle gave up even the pretence of being interested. He turned to his father. ‘To what do we owe the honour of this visit?’ he enquired, trying to keep it light and cheery. Surely it was up to his father to at least bring the matter pending into the conversation.

Alexander put the now empty bottle to his lips and pretended to take a final swig. ‘Nice to see Alice so happy,’ he said, completely ignoring the question.

‘Yes,’ Carlyle replied, confused by this opening gambit.

An evil twinkle appeared in the old man’s eyes. ‘Don’t you think she’s a bit young for a boyfriend, though?’

‘Boyfriend?’ Carlyle gripped his bottle so tightly that he thought it might shatter in his hand.

The twinkle grew brighter. ‘Didn’t you know?’

‘Yes.’ Carlyle tried to recover from his mistake. ‘It’s just that . . .’

The old man was grinning widely now, and Carlyle had a sudden urge to throw the bottle at his father’s head. Instead, he breathed in deeply, waiting for the moment to pass. ‘It’s just that I think “boyfriend” is overstating it a bit.’

‘I don’t know about that, John.’ The old man placed his empty bottle on the coffee table. ‘She seems very fond of young Stuart.’

Bloody Stuart
. He’d heard the name several times over the last few months. Whenever the little bugger seemed to have fallen off the radar, up popped the same name again. Carlyle took another deep breath. The last thing he wanted was his father to see how this issue worked him up. He was committed to playing the role of the relaxed parent, whatever he might feel inside.

‘These things happen,’ he said airily. ‘It will pass in due course.’ Jumping to his feet, he slouched into the kitchen to retrieve the remaining beers. By the time he returned, he had managed to put a grin on his face that was bigger than his father’s. ‘I just hope,’ he said, sarcastically, ‘that you haven’t been offering her any tips on relationships.’

It was after eleven when Helen finally made it home. After a thirteen-hour working day she was in no mood to talk, but that didn’t stop Carlyle pouncing on her as soon as she walked through the door.

‘Who is bloody Stuart?’ he asked, by way of hello.

Pulling off her coat, Helen stood on tiptoes to give him a peck on the forehead. ‘Nice to see you, too.’ Kicking off her shoes, she sighed with relief. ‘A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you.’

‘My father was here.’

‘I know. Alice sent me a text. White tea, please. Bag in. I’m going to run a tub.’

Carlyle watched her disappear down the hall and heard the water as it began to fill the bath. Then he went off to make the tea.

Five minutes later, he sat on the lowered toilet seat, watching Helen sip her tea as she lay in the steaming bath. As Carlyle wondered about his chances of being invited to join her, Helen placed her mug carefully on the edge of the bath and gave him a stern look. ‘Not a chance,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re not getting in. There’s not enough room. I’m trying to relax here.’

‘But—’

‘How was your dad?’ His wife moved swiftly on. ‘Did you have a good talk?’

‘We talked about Alice mainly.’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘The two of them were laughing and joking on the sofa when I got in,’ Carlyle said huffily. ‘As soon as I appeared, Alice did a runner; claimed she had to do her homework. Dad said that they’d been talking about this guy Stuart. Apparently, our daughter reckons he’s her boyfriend.’

‘There’s no “apparently” about it.’ Helen made no effort to break it to him gently. ‘She’s very taken with Stuart.’

‘And does this young Romeo have a surname?’

Helen thought about that for a moment. ‘Wark . . . Stuart Wark.’ She spelled it out. ‘He goes to Central Foundation. He’s a year older than her.’

‘Great,’ Carlyle muttered. ‘Bloody great.’

Helen took another sip of tea. ‘That’s not such a big deal. If he was three or four years older, then we might have a
real
problem on our hands.’

‘He’s a boy,’ Carlyle growled, exasperated at her inability to understand the most basic realities of life.

Helen looked at him blankly.

‘A boy,’ he repeated. ‘Genetically programmed to try and fuck anything in a skirt.’

‘From what I hear,’ Helen said soothingly, ‘he is a quiet lad who works hard and is very nice to her.’

‘Because he wants something,’ persisted Carlyle fretfully.

‘You have to trust Alice to be able to look after herself. From what I hear, she keeps young Stuart on a fairly tight leash.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Carlyle asked.

‘I did what any good police officer would do,’ Helen grinned. ‘I hung about outside the school and worked my contacts.’

Carlyle nodded. ‘The mothers’ network?’

‘Yeah – and be thankful it still exists, just about. In another year or so, none of the parents will have a clue what their kids are up to, including us.’

Carlyle knew that she was right about that but, unable to bring himself to admit it, he changed tack. ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this earlier?’

‘For God’s sake, John,’ she admonished him, ‘when have you been around recently? And even when you have, it’s not like you’ve exactly been focused on us.’

Carlyle bit back a reply. He didn’t want a row – especially as he knew that she was right and he was in the wrong. ‘What else did you find out about this boy? What do his parents do?’

‘They’re both bankers, apparently.’

Not exactly a character reference
, Carlyle thought. ‘And the kid himself?’ he asked, finally getting to the nitty-gritty. ‘What are his vices? Does he do drugs?’

‘I don’t know,’ Helen said. ‘No one has said definitively not, but there’s no particular reason to suppose so.’ She placed her mug back on the side of the bath again and stood up, gesturing for Carlyle to hand her a towel, which he did. ‘Anyway, it’s nothing serious. It never is at their age. The best thing we can do is just let her get on with it.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Carlyle unhappily.

Wrapping the towel around her chest, Helen carefully stepped out of the bath. ‘Anyway, did you speak to your dad about their divorce?’

‘Yes,’ Carlyle replied. He didn’t want to admit that the pair of them had sat and watched the whole of a totally meaningless football game, during which time they had spent barely a minute discussing the issue. As far as Carlyle was concerned, that had been more than enough. He had no interest in quizzing his father about some inappropriate shag that had happened decades ago. And, judging from his mumbled and indecipherable replies, it was clear that Alexander wasn’t up for baring his soul either. ‘He basically just reiterated what my mother had said. Clearly, she’s driving the whole process, and I suspect he feels powerless to do much about it.’ He leaned back against the cistern and folded his arms, feeling pleased at the comprehensive emptiness of his answer.

Helen gave him a dissatisfied look. ‘So what are
you
going to do about it?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes,
you
.’

‘Nothing,’ Carlyle said ruefully. ‘What
can
I do about it? The whole thing is a bit strange, but they have to sort it out themselves. They’re grown-ups, after all. It’s like you said about Alice and her young boyfriend, all we can do is let them get on with it.’

‘You’re simply abrogating your responsibility.’

‘What responsibility?’ Carlyle raised his eyes to the ceiling.

Ignoring the question, she opened the bathroom door and headed for bed.

He was awake after the first couple of slaps, making the bucket of freezing water hurled in his face seem rather gratuitous.

‘Wake up!’ a voice insisted.

Shaking his head, Ryan Goya slowly opened his eyes and looked up at the faces peering down at him. Either he was seeing double or this was a twin of the monster who had smacked him into the middle of next week as he had tried to flee through the garden of number 17 Peel Street. Ryan was so disconcerted by the sight that it took him a few moments to take in the rest of his surroundings. Sitting tied to a chair, in the middle of an empty room with only one door and no windows, it was the plastic sheeting covering the floor that sent a jolt of fear through his bowels. Taking a deep breath, he now focused his attention on the third man. Tall, dapper and white, he was considerably older than the other two and clearly the boss.

‘They’re coming for me,’ Goya said defiantly.

Sol Abramyan smiled. ‘Even if they are still looking for you,’ he said, ‘which I doubt, they have no idea where you are. I could have moved thousands of miles . . . or we could be back where we started. You could still be in the middle of London, or you could be in,’ he waved an arm above his head, ‘in Grozny, for all you know.’

‘I wasn’t out for that long,’ reflected Goya, thinking out loud.

‘How do you know?’ Sol shrugged. ‘It could have been hours, or it could have been days.’

Goya tried to manufacture a sneer. ‘Everyone is tracked. No one is left behind.’

Abramyan looked at his two companions, who gave no indication of following the conversation. ‘Hold onto that thought,’ he said casually. ‘It’s all you’ve got.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Me?’ Sol looked shocked by the question. ‘
Me?
I don’t want anything – other than to be left in peace to get on with my business.’ He looked at Goya. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

‘No idea,’ Goya lied.

‘I am a friend of Israel.’

Goya rolled his tongue round inside his mouth, trying to accumulate some spit. ‘You are selling guns to the Palestinians!’

‘Come on, soldier boy!’ Sol shouted angrily. ‘Get with the programme! They buy crap, shoot the odd round at your soldiers, then you have an excuse to mash them into the ground for the millionth time. Everyone’s happy.’ He shook his head in frustration at the stupidity of the man in front of him. Stepping closer, he bent down to stare into Goya’s face. ‘Then
you
come along . . .’

‘So – what do you want?’

‘What do I want?’ Sol snorted. ‘Coming from the man who tried to kill me . . .’

‘I didn’t try to—’

‘From the man who would have shot me in my own home?’ Sol thundered. ‘From the man who tried to destroy my business?’ He went red in the face, and Goya wondered if he might not be a little insane. ‘I
should
want you dead. I
do
want you dead.’ He paused, searching for the fear that Goya was fighting to keep from his expression. ‘But,’ he said, calming down, ‘I am a businessman, above all. And a good businessman knows never to take things too personally, not even a bullet in the head.’

He is crazy
, Goya decided.

‘So,’ Sol continued, ‘if I can trade you, I will trade you. And if not, then you die.’ He signalled to his bodyguards, who trooped out of the room. As he followed them, he stopped in the doorway. Turning round, he scratched his head. ‘So, my friend, what you have to ask yourself now is “Does my life have any value?” Good luck in coming up with an answer to that one.’ Switching out the light, he left Goya alone with his thoughts.

Lying naked on a queen-size divan in the master bedroom of his Sloane Square duplex apartment, Rollo Kasabian wiped some of the Krug Rosé from his chin and let out a contented sigh. Holding the champagne flute in one hand, he lay back and scratched his more than ample belly. Somewhere below the curve of his gut, he felt his member stirring. Grunting with the effort, he leaned forward and gave it a gentle tug. He glanced over at the two young lads providing the world’s worst floor-show at the far end of the bed. Both were stripped to the waist, but neither of them were showing any enthusiasm for following Rollo’s order to ‘fuck and suck with abandon’.