The Trawlerman, стр. 61
‘How low does this all go, Terry? Did you invite me out because you wanted to know how the case was going, as well?’
He shook his head. ‘Nope. All that was sincere, I promise.’
‘Nothing you say is reliable. You’re a con man.’
‘Are you fishing for compliments? You want me to tell you I asked you for a date because you were intelligent and good-looking?’
‘I’m just trying to figure out how exploited I was.’
‘I promise you it was not about that. If it was, it was a ghastly mistake, because here you are, breaking into my house, with all these . . . allegations.’
‘You’re not denying any of it?’
‘Nor am I admitting any of it. It was Ayman Younis who invested the money. Not me.’ He turned. ‘Look. I need a drink, even if you don’t. Are you sure?’
‘A hundred per cent.’
When he was gone, she sat still, looking over at the neatly made bed they had slept in.
He returned with whisky and sat on the end of the Egyptian cotton duvet, looking at her. ‘Well, this is awkward,’ he said and took a gulp.
‘Give the money back.’
‘You’re joking, obviously.’
‘No. Absolutely not. Do the decent thing and give the money back. You don’t need it.’
He said nothing.
‘I’m ashamed to have known you.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘Give the money back.’
‘Or else what?’
She stood. ‘I guess I should be going.’
‘I’ll change the alarm code just in case you try coming back.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t.’
She was just at the end of his bed when she stopped. ‘You took money from Bill South, too, didn’t you?’
‘No comment. Isn’t that what people say? Besides, as I said, it was Ayman Younis who took the money.’
‘Bill is a friend of mine. He’s had a shit life and it’s probably about to get a great deal worse. That was his savings. It wasn’t a lot, but it was all he had.’
‘Some people make poor investment decisions. It’s not my fault.’
‘Thirteen thousand pounds. You could afford to give the money back.’
He squinted at her. ‘You’re kidding me, aren’t you?’
‘Please.’
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘I don’t like to beg, Terry, but he deserves something, at least.’
‘I think you said you’re leaving.’
She nodded and walked to the end of the room and down the stairs. ‘Close the door on the way out,’ he said.
The hot summer rain started on the way home, soaking her through; headlights glared off the wet road. It was a twenty-minute ride home. At home she yanked off the soaked clothes, showered, then lay on her bed listening to the sound of water.
Forty-four
The next day, Alex travelled to London to see her mother. It had been too long.
Helen lived alone in Stoke Newington in a house that was far too big for her. She let herself in; sometimes her mother didn’t answer the doorbell because she was playing music too loud.
The bed in the front room was new. Her mother was in the kitchen, sitting at the kitchen table playing patience, listening to music on the radio. There was a pile of washing-up in the sink and knickers drying on the back of the chair.
‘Oh,’ she said as Alex walked in. ‘It’s you. No Zoë?’
‘There’s a bed in the front room,’ Alex said.
‘Yes,’ her mother answered. ‘Put the kettle on, love.’
‘That’s where you’re sleeping now? In the front room?’
‘I can’t be bothered going up and down the stairs,’ she said.
She walked up to her mother and gave her a kiss. Her mother tolerated the embrace. When her father was alive, the house was spotless. He had done most of the housework. Her mother was never really much concerned about that kind of thing. ‘Come on, get your coat on. I promised to take you for lunch.’
‘You look very tired,’ Helen said. ‘Are you ill?’
Alex laughed. ‘Yes. I think I am. I just broke up with a man.’
‘Good for you.’
While her mother was getting ready to go out, Alex washed up the dishes in the sink and told her about Zoë’s starfish in the fridge, which made her laugh. ‘I miss that girl,’ her mother said. On the 73 bus, Helen said, ‘Seriously, love. Are you all right? You look unwell. Zoë says you’ve been seeing a counsellor.’
‘Yes.’
Her mother made a face.
‘It’s because of work and stress. It’s been good, I think. I found myself talking about you and Dad a bit.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Helen. ‘That’s the trouble with all that stuff. It’s always our fault. They fuck you up, your mum and dad.’
‘Maybe you do.’ Her parents had both been police officers. Her mother quit when she became pregnant with Alex, but her father spent his working life in the Metropolitan Police. ‘What I’ve been thinking about is that maybe I’ve been trying too hard to live up to Dad.’
‘Maybe you have. He wore me out with it, that’s for sure.’
‘He never let it get to him,’ said Alex. ‘I wonder if we’re just weaker than your generation. He never suffered from stress.’
Her mother snorted.
‘What?’
‘What do you mean, he never let it get to him? That stuff you do. It eats away at you. It ate away at him, too.’
Alex blinked. ‘Really? He always seemed so calm and on top of everything.’
Her mother stood and took hold of one of the yellow grab rails near the door; they were almost there now. ‘You see what you want to in your parents. You always adored him. You didn’t see him some