Читать книгу Three Steps Behind You - Amy Bird - Страница 17

Chapter 5

Ignorant of my epiphany in last night’s darkness, the guys at the car rental are on true back-slapping form. Not my back – that never gets slapped. You’d think after ten years here I might be allowed into their fraternity. But then, they have not been here the full ten years. Just me. I wonder what they put in handover notes to their successors? Abuse Dan, he’s a weirdo. Mock Dan, it’ll kill some time. But don’t get changed in front of him.

This morning, it starts with my suit. That’s not my fault: Luke wears a suit to work in book four, so I need to see what that’s like, how restrictive it is, whether the tie stops me breathing. Luke’s suit would of course be grey silk, perfectly cut, like the suit Adam wore on his [first] wedding day. Unfortunately, my only suit – my funeral suit – is black and too small. Plus running in it probably hasn’t helped. It sticks to me in odd places.

Steve wolf-whistles when I walk into the reception area. He puts his head into the back room.

‘Guys,’ he shouts, ‘you gotta see this. Danny boy’s all dressed up!’

I ignore them and check the time. Good – 8.45. Another fifteen minutes until we open. I take my notebook and red pen from my rucksack. I sit on the high-stool beneath the counter, then stand up, wincing. My legs are covered in little scabs and bruises where the pin penetrated: a small round of blood encircled in a wider sphere of grey. Sitting down is to be avoided.

I start writing Luke’s working day in the City and then become conscious that I am being observed. I try to ignore the feeling but it is too intense, so I turn.

Steve, Chris and Prakesh are standing looking at me, grinning.

‘Oh, he’s writing in his diary now!’ says Chris.

‘It’s not a diary, it’s a novel,’ I say. They should know by now. I tell them often enough.

‘Are you writing down who you fancy, Danny boy?’ asks Steve. ‘In your diary?’

There’s enough of that in books two and three, I feel like telling them. But that would only lead to more questions.

‘Ooh, let it be me, let it be me,’ cries Prakesh, his hands clasped beneath his beard.

I continue writing.

Luke surveyed the other men on the trading floor, their sweaty ape-like faces. Their time had come – the trading bell tolled for all men. He rolled up the sleeves of his Thomas Pink shirt, cufflinks popping. Without warning, his fist connects with one of their jaws. The crack sounds like …

What does a crack sound like? I must find out. I take off my jacket and drape it over the counter.

‘Oh, a strip show! Excellent!’ says Steve.

I roll up the sleeves of my shirt, buttons popping.

‘Da, da, da-da-da,’ sings Steve. ‘You’ll have to be quick, mate, we open in five.’

I take one of my arms right back until my fist is level with my shoulder. I propel my fist forward and hit – nothing.

‘What, you practising your front crawl, mate? Need some armbands,’ laughs Steve, amused by his own wit.

A bell rings.

‘Customer!’ shouts Steve. ‘Right, Danny boy, sort yourself out, get into the back room, stick a polo shirt on and come back when you’re decent.’

I glance over my shoulder, hoping for Adam. No. He used to come here a lot more, before The Accident. Not so much, after that. Then, it was just the police.

So without Adam, I go into the back room and change.

Transformed, I return.

The crack sounds like …

I smile politely at the customer Steve is dealing with. Steve is doing the paperwork. Jimmy Price used to do it for us. He was the ace at paperwork. Always used to help Adam, too. But then he left, suddenly. Dropped in once, afterwards, driving a Maserati. Said he’d won the lottery, told us a whole long story about when he’d won, how much, and what the numbers were. Like we needed to know all the details.

The crack sounds like …

I practise squeezing my fist under the counter. Steve escorts the customer out into the car park and shows him the car. Steve has handed over the keys and is coming back.

The crack sounds like …

I advance towards him. He looks up briefly and stares at me blankly, the look of a co-worker who doesn’t care.

Ready, this time, I take my clenched fist and I swing.

Oh, I see.

The crack sounds like the breaking of a lobster’s claws.