up. It’s Roberta.’
‘That makes sense. It’s the LaVita bit I’m curious about. Are you Italian?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’d surely know, wouldn’t you?’
‘Not necessarily.’
Vince gave a resigned shrug. ‘LaVita it is, then.’
They walked in silence for a few moments, then she announced, ‘It’s Drinkwater. Roberta Drinkwater.’
Vince stopped in his tracks and put a hand archly to his ear. ‘Drink … what ?’
‘You heard.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, Miss Drinkwater , you’ve got some nerve taking the mickey out of my name.’
She laughed. ‘I know. Tread-well and Drink-water , they do have a certain ring to them. That’s why I’m having second thoughts about marrying you, Mr Treadwell. It would be out of the frying pan into the fire.’
Vince didn’t take the hint of flirtation too seriously, as she was stoned.
‘And anyway, I’m looking for something more exotic. Like a Rockefeller or a Getty.’
That remark he did take seriously. He was about to tell her she was keeping the wrong company to run into those boys, but stuck with the affinity in their names instead, ‘Treadwell and Drinkwater, they’re not names, they’re instructions. Could be worse, though. Could be Roberta Guinnessisgoodforyou.’
She laughed. ‘Or Vincent Anappleadaykeepsthedoctoraway.’
‘So what made you settle on LaVita?’
‘Have you seen La Dolce Vita ? It’s my favourite film.’
He had. Fellini’s Eternal City rendered godless, with Anita Ekberg dancing in the Trevi Fountain. It made sense: the look, the gown, the shoes in hand. All now done as a cheeky seaside parody.
‘Also I was in a hurry to get away from Drinkwater. Anyway, what’s in a name? I can always change it again.’
‘Life could get very confusing,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t know who you are.’
‘Do you know who you are?’
‘I like to think so.’
‘But you changed your name, too. You went from Vincent to Detective.’
‘It’s a job title, not a name.’
‘And are you always the detective?’ she asked as she sidled up to him, hooking her arm in his. He didn’t answer.
They walked down from the lawns on to the promenade. The tide was out, revealing the wet sand. On a beach full of hard stones the sand looked exotic, and almost erotic, like soft forbidden flesh only glimpsed under the cover of night. And as he gazed out at its moonlit iridescence, his memory rolled back to the long summers of his youth, when the tide was right out, and he could almost feel again the wet sand squeezing between his toes.
About twenty yards ahead stood a man leaning on the railings, looking out to sea. He looked like a tramp, with layers of shabby clothes, and a length of string keeping his trousers up. Yellow hair clumped like straw; a beard covering his face as freely as moss. In scabby hands he held up a copy of the Evening Argus , and he was reading the obituaries out loud. His voice sounded haunted and sad, as if he’d known every dead person intimately.
Vince felt Bobbie draw closer. ‘He’s here every night,’ she whispered . ‘Always the same routine.’
They were about to make a detour round him when his head turned sharply in their direction. The tramp had looked so caught up in his eulogy that they didn’t even think he’d notice them. Bobbie wanted to keep walking, but Vince stopped, because he recognized the man. Even though the face was one of those that had become unrecognizable, weatherbeaten features blunted like the stones washed over on the beach. But he still had two distinctive features. One side of his nose was bulbous, with a red-veined whisky river running through it, the other side was withered and fleshless, so it seemed hardly there. But what really marked him out was what was written there. Scrawled on his forehead in blue biro were the words: I AM DEAD .
Bobbie said softly, ‘Why would anyone do that to himself?’ Vince knew the answer, because he’d witnessed it first-hand. But
‘That makes sense. It’s the LaVita bit I’m curious about. Are you Italian?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’d surely know, wouldn’t you?’
‘Not necessarily.’
Vince gave a resigned shrug. ‘LaVita it is, then.’
They walked in silence for a few moments, then she announced, ‘It’s Drinkwater. Roberta Drinkwater.’
Vince stopped in his tracks and put a hand archly to his ear. ‘Drink … what ?’
‘You heard.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, Miss Drinkwater , you’ve got some nerve taking the mickey out of my name.’
She laughed. ‘I know. Tread-well and Drink-water , they do have a certain ring to them. That’s why I’m having second thoughts about marrying you, Mr Treadwell. It would be out of the frying pan into the fire.’
Vince didn’t take the hint of flirtation too seriously, as she was stoned.
‘And anyway, I’m looking for something more exotic. Like a Rockefeller or a Getty.’
That remark he did take seriously. He was about to tell her she was keeping the wrong company to run into those boys, but stuck with the affinity in their names instead, ‘Treadwell and Drinkwater, they’re not names, they’re instructions. Could be worse, though. Could be Roberta Guinnessisgoodforyou.’
She laughed. ‘Or Vincent Anappleadaykeepsthedoctoraway.’
‘So what made you settle on LaVita?’
‘Have you seen La Dolce Vita ? It’s my favourite film.’
He had. Fellini’s Eternal City rendered godless, with Anita Ekberg dancing in the Trevi Fountain. It made sense: the look, the gown, the shoes in hand. All now done as a cheeky seaside parody.
‘Also I was in a hurry to get away from Drinkwater. Anyway, what’s in a name? I can always change it again.’
‘Life could get very confusing,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t know who you are.’
‘Do you know who you are?’
‘I like to think so.’
‘But you changed your name, too. You went from Vincent to Detective.’
‘It’s a job title, not a name.’
‘And are you always the detective?’ she asked as she sidled up to him, hooking her arm in his. He didn’t answer.
They walked down from the lawns on to the promenade. The tide was out, revealing the wet sand. On a beach full of hard stones the sand looked exotic, and almost erotic, like soft forbidden flesh only glimpsed under the cover of night. And as he gazed out at its moonlit iridescence, his memory rolled back to the long summers of his youth, when the tide was right out, and he could almost feel again the wet sand squeezing between his toes.
About twenty yards ahead stood a man leaning on the railings, looking out to sea. He looked like a tramp, with layers of shabby clothes, and a length of string keeping his trousers up. Yellow hair clumped like straw; a beard covering his face as freely as moss. In scabby hands he held up a copy of the Evening Argus , and he was reading the obituaries out loud. His voice sounded haunted and sad, as if he’d known every dead person intimately.
Vince felt Bobbie draw closer. ‘He’s here every night,’ she whispered . ‘Always the same routine.’
They were about to make a detour round him when his head turned sharply in their direction. The tramp had looked so caught up in his eulogy that they didn’t even think he’d notice them. Bobbie wanted to keep walking, but Vince stopped, because he recognized the man. Even though the face was one of those that had become unrecognizable, weatherbeaten features blunted like the stones washed over on the beach. But he still had two distinctive features. One side of his nose was bulbous, with a red-veined whisky river running through it, the other side was withered and fleshless, so it seemed hardly there. But what really marked him out was what was written there. Scrawled on his forehead in blue biro were the words: I AM DEAD .
Bobbie said softly, ‘Why would anyone do that to himself?’ Vince knew the answer, because he’d witnessed it first-hand. But
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