bastard. He knew Rhona was warning him to lay off, warning him with her piercing eyes, but Rebus kept his attention on Kenny.
‘Must be a lot of prospects for a lad like you.’
Kenny cheered up immediately. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I might even set up my own fleet. All you need’s –’ He fell silent as he belatedly noticed that use of ‘lad’, as though he were dressed in shorts and school-cap. But it was too late to go back and correct it, way too late. He had to push on, but now it all sounded like pipe-dreams and playground fantasies. This rozzer might be from Jockland, but he was every bit as oily as an East End old-timer. He’d have to watch his step. And what was happening now? This Jock, this rough-looking tosser in the ill-fitting gear, the completely uncoordinated gear, this ‘man at C&A’ type, was reminiscing about a grocery shop from his youth. For a time, Rebus had been the grocer’s ‘message boy’. (He explained that in Scotland ‘messages’ meant ‘groceries’.) He’d run about on a heavy-framed black bicycle, with a metal rectangle in front of the handlebars. The box of groceries would be held in this rectangle and off he would pedal to do his deliveries.
‘I thought I was rich,’ Rebus said, obviously coming to a punch line. ‘But when I wanted more money, there wasn’t any to be had. I had to wait till I was old enough to get a proper job, but I loved running around on that bike, doing errands and delivering messages to the old folk. Sometimes they’d even give me a tip, a piece of fruit or a jar of jam.’
There was silence in the room. A police siren sped past outside. Rebus sat back and folded his arms, a sentimental smile spread across his face. And then it dawned on Kenny: Rebus was comparing the two of them! His eyes widened. Everyone knew it. Rhona knew it. Sam knew it. For tuppence, he’d get up and stick the nut on the copper, Sam’s dad or not. But he held back and the moment passed. Rhona got up to make more tea, and the big bastard got up and said he had to be going.
It had all happened so fast. Kenny was still trying to unravel Rebus’s story and Rebus could see it. The poor half-educated runt was trying to work out just how far Rebus had put him down. Rebus could answer that: as far as was necessary. Rhona hated him for it, of course, and Samantha looked embarrassed. Well to hell with them. He’d done his duty, he’d paid his respects. He wouldn’t bother them any more. Let them live in their cramped flat, visited by this … gentleman, this mock adult. Rebus had more important things to do. Books to read. Notes to make. And another busy day ahead. It was ten o’clock. He could be back at his hotel by eleven. An early night, that’s what was needed. Eight hours’ sleep in the last two days. No wonder he was ratty, looking for a fight.
He began to feel a little bit ashamed. Kenny was too easy a target. He’d crushed a tiny fly beneath a tower-block of resentment. Resentment, John, or plain jealousy? That was not a question for a tired man. Not a question for a man like John Rebus. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he might start getting some answers. He was determined to pay for his keep now that he had been brought to London. Tomorrow, the task began in earnest.
He shook Kenny’s hand again and gave him a man-to-man half-wink before leaving the flat. Rhona offered to see him to the door. They went into the hall, leaving Samantha and Kenny in the living-room, behind a closed door.
‘It’s okay,’ Rebus said quickly. ‘I’ll see myself out.’ He started downstairs, aware that to linger was to invite an argument with Rhona. What was the point? ‘Better go keep an eye on Lothario,’ he called, unable to resist the parting shot.
Outside, he remembered that Rhona liked her lovers young, too. Perhaps she … but no, that thought was unworthy of him. ‘Sorry, God,’ he said, turning with a steady stride back towards the Underground.
* * *
Something is going
‘Must be a lot of prospects for a lad like you.’
Kenny cheered up immediately. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I might even set up my own fleet. All you need’s –’ He fell silent as he belatedly noticed that use of ‘lad’, as though he were dressed in shorts and school-cap. But it was too late to go back and correct it, way too late. He had to push on, but now it all sounded like pipe-dreams and playground fantasies. This rozzer might be from Jockland, but he was every bit as oily as an East End old-timer. He’d have to watch his step. And what was happening now? This Jock, this rough-looking tosser in the ill-fitting gear, the completely uncoordinated gear, this ‘man at C&A’ type, was reminiscing about a grocery shop from his youth. For a time, Rebus had been the grocer’s ‘message boy’. (He explained that in Scotland ‘messages’ meant ‘groceries’.) He’d run about on a heavy-framed black bicycle, with a metal rectangle in front of the handlebars. The box of groceries would be held in this rectangle and off he would pedal to do his deliveries.
‘I thought I was rich,’ Rebus said, obviously coming to a punch line. ‘But when I wanted more money, there wasn’t any to be had. I had to wait till I was old enough to get a proper job, but I loved running around on that bike, doing errands and delivering messages to the old folk. Sometimes they’d even give me a tip, a piece of fruit or a jar of jam.’
There was silence in the room. A police siren sped past outside. Rebus sat back and folded his arms, a sentimental smile spread across his face. And then it dawned on Kenny: Rebus was comparing the two of them! His eyes widened. Everyone knew it. Rhona knew it. Sam knew it. For tuppence, he’d get up and stick the nut on the copper, Sam’s dad or not. But he held back and the moment passed. Rhona got up to make more tea, and the big bastard got up and said he had to be going.
It had all happened so fast. Kenny was still trying to unravel Rebus’s story and Rebus could see it. The poor half-educated runt was trying to work out just how far Rebus had put him down. Rebus could answer that: as far as was necessary. Rhona hated him for it, of course, and Samantha looked embarrassed. Well to hell with them. He’d done his duty, he’d paid his respects. He wouldn’t bother them any more. Let them live in their cramped flat, visited by this … gentleman, this mock adult. Rebus had more important things to do. Books to read. Notes to make. And another busy day ahead. It was ten o’clock. He could be back at his hotel by eleven. An early night, that’s what was needed. Eight hours’ sleep in the last two days. No wonder he was ratty, looking for a fight.
He began to feel a little bit ashamed. Kenny was too easy a target. He’d crushed a tiny fly beneath a tower-block of resentment. Resentment, John, or plain jealousy? That was not a question for a tired man. Not a question for a man like John Rebus. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he might start getting some answers. He was determined to pay for his keep now that he had been brought to London. Tomorrow, the task began in earnest.
He shook Kenny’s hand again and gave him a man-to-man half-wink before leaving the flat. Rhona offered to see him to the door. They went into the hall, leaving Samantha and Kenny in the living-room, behind a closed door.
‘It’s okay,’ Rebus said quickly. ‘I’ll see myself out.’ He started downstairs, aware that to linger was to invite an argument with Rhona. What was the point? ‘Better go keep an eye on Lothario,’ he called, unable to resist the parting shot.
Outside, he remembered that Rhona liked her lovers young, too. Perhaps she … but no, that thought was unworthy of him. ‘Sorry, God,’ he said, turning with a steady stride back towards the Underground.
* * *
Something is going
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