Edinburgh, and Mike had asked Henry over for dinner. Henry had accepted uneasily. He still didn’t feel much like being sociable; and besides, he wondered what horrors of northern British cuisine he was going to be subjected to.
But he couldn’t see any way out of it, with grace. Mike seemed pathetically grateful to Henry for giving him the chance to work on the Moon rock. Maybe this would let the kid get that out of his system.
They drove south for a mile or so, and arrived at a small estate of identikit houses. Mike pulled up in front of one house, maybe 1960s vintage: a nondescript box, a small garden to front and back, like, Henry sensed, millions of similar suburban homes all over Britain. A little farther away there were rows of tower blocks, the result of some misconceived housing policy of the recent past. Not a great place to live.
But it was redeemed by one hell of a view of Arthur’s Seat, to the east.
This was actually his father’s house, Mike said; his mother died a few years before.
“So who’s cooking?”
“Dad. With a little help from me.”
“Oh, shit.”
Mike laughed, and locked the car.
A plastic soccer ball hit Henry in the nose.
A kid came running around the side of the house: a boy maybe ten years old, all stringy muscle and energy, his elbows and ankles sticking out of his clothes. “Oh, bugger,” he said.
Mike said, “Jack!”
“Mister, I’m sorry.”
Henry had to stand there and wait while the blow’s effects worked their way along his nervous system, and when it reached his pain center the agony was disproportionately huge.
Holding his nose, he waved his free hand. “Forget about it.”
The kid retrieved his ball and ran off out of sight.
“Who the hell was that?”
“Jack. My nephew. Come on, I think you deserve a beer.”
“Damn right.”
They walked into the house. Mike called ahead, and an older man came out of the back, wearing a plastic apron with a picture of a French maid’s torso on it. The apron had to stretch over the guy’s beer belly. He stuck out his hand. “Ted Dundas. Mike’s father.” His accent was different to Mike’s, stronger almost to the point of incomprehensibility, with half the consonants missing and every vowel distorted. He was, Mike had told him, an ex-cop.
“Thanks for inviting me.”
Ted waved a hand. “Help yourself to a beer.” He went back to the kitchen.
Mike followed, and returned with two pewter tankards, unopened cans of beer inside them. It was the cold light ale the Brits called lager.
They wandered through the house. It was minimally furnished, a big color TV in the living room, a sliding glass door that gave onto a brick patio, walls painted in pastelwhites, a lot of brickwork throughout the house.
Henry wondered what to say. “Tasteful.”
Mike laughed. “You don’t fool me. But thanks for trying.”
They went out through the open patio doors to the small garden. It was east-facing, Henry saw, so it was in the shadow of the house in the evenings; but it had a good view of Arthur’s Seat. Henry took a couple of breaths. The evening air was fresh and cold.
They were close to the western face of the Seat here; the Salisbury Crags loomed a half-mile or so to the east, their rust-brown faces glowing with color in the low sun.
“Oh. It’s you. ” A familiar woman’s voice.
Henry turned.
It was the sister, Jane, who he had met in that disastrous encounter in her shop. She was wearing a long floral-patterned dress, open at the neck, some kind of wooden clogs, and a hair band. She was standing there holding a glass of wine, the low sun on her face. She wasn’t wearing the peridot necklace, Henry realized with vague, unreasonable disappointment.
Mike stepped forward, grinning. “Jane, meet Henry Meacher. My colleague at—”
“You bastard,” she said to Mike. “You knew. ” She turned on Henry. “So did you, in the damn shop. Big joke, guys.”
Henry spread his hands. “Believe me, I wasn’t
But he couldn’t see any way out of it, with grace. Mike seemed pathetically grateful to Henry for giving him the chance to work on the Moon rock. Maybe this would let the kid get that out of his system.
They drove south for a mile or so, and arrived at a small estate of identikit houses. Mike pulled up in front of one house, maybe 1960s vintage: a nondescript box, a small garden to front and back, like, Henry sensed, millions of similar suburban homes all over Britain. A little farther away there were rows of tower blocks, the result of some misconceived housing policy of the recent past. Not a great place to live.
But it was redeemed by one hell of a view of Arthur’s Seat, to the east.
This was actually his father’s house, Mike said; his mother died a few years before.
“So who’s cooking?”
“Dad. With a little help from me.”
“Oh, shit.”
Mike laughed, and locked the car.
A plastic soccer ball hit Henry in the nose.
A kid came running around the side of the house: a boy maybe ten years old, all stringy muscle and energy, his elbows and ankles sticking out of his clothes. “Oh, bugger,” he said.
Mike said, “Jack!”
“Mister, I’m sorry.”
Henry had to stand there and wait while the blow’s effects worked their way along his nervous system, and when it reached his pain center the agony was disproportionately huge.
Holding his nose, he waved his free hand. “Forget about it.”
The kid retrieved his ball and ran off out of sight.
“Who the hell was that?”
“Jack. My nephew. Come on, I think you deserve a beer.”
“Damn right.”
They walked into the house. Mike called ahead, and an older man came out of the back, wearing a plastic apron with a picture of a French maid’s torso on it. The apron had to stretch over the guy’s beer belly. He stuck out his hand. “Ted Dundas. Mike’s father.” His accent was different to Mike’s, stronger almost to the point of incomprehensibility, with half the consonants missing and every vowel distorted. He was, Mike had told him, an ex-cop.
“Thanks for inviting me.”
Ted waved a hand. “Help yourself to a beer.” He went back to the kitchen.
Mike followed, and returned with two pewter tankards, unopened cans of beer inside them. It was the cold light ale the Brits called lager.
They wandered through the house. It was minimally furnished, a big color TV in the living room, a sliding glass door that gave onto a brick patio, walls painted in pastelwhites, a lot of brickwork throughout the house.
Henry wondered what to say. “Tasteful.”
Mike laughed. “You don’t fool me. But thanks for trying.”
They went out through the open patio doors to the small garden. It was east-facing, Henry saw, so it was in the shadow of the house in the evenings; but it had a good view of Arthur’s Seat. Henry took a couple of breaths. The evening air was fresh and cold.
They were close to the western face of the Seat here; the Salisbury Crags loomed a half-mile or so to the east, their rust-brown faces glowing with color in the low sun.
“Oh. It’s you. ” A familiar woman’s voice.
Henry turned.
It was the sister, Jane, who he had met in that disastrous encounter in her shop. She was wearing a long floral-patterned dress, open at the neck, some kind of wooden clogs, and a hair band. She was standing there holding a glass of wine, the low sun on her face. She wasn’t wearing the peridot necklace, Henry realized with vague, unreasonable disappointment.
Mike stepped forward, grinning. “Jane, meet Henry Meacher. My colleague at—”
“You bastard,” she said to Mike. “You knew. ” She turned on Henry. “So did you, in the damn shop. Big joke, guys.”
Henry spread his hands. “Believe me, I wasn’t
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