Beneath The Skin Episode 19

Case closed. It took 10 minutes but Walt managed to persuade Mouse to l e av e her chores and be spontaneous. Then William had to be coaxed into his trainers and zipped into his coat. He wasn’t finished his drawing, he said. And he hated coffee, and why couldn’t they just leave him at home?

“Because you’re eight and I’d be arrested.” Mouse pulled up his hood and the boy instantly flipped it down again. Walt sighed. He should have gone out alone, found a soft seat in a dim bar, peoplewatching with a wee nip in his hand.

Now Mouse was promising carrot cake and lemonade and William was hopping from one foot to the other.

“I have to pee first,” he said.

“Go on then, and be quick. I need to change.” Mouse plucked at the cardigan. “Maybe lose the slippers.”

“I’ll lose the cardigan. Two minutes.” Mouse disappeared, leaving Walt in the kitchen.

The shut-in feeling was threatening to engulf him so he went outside, sat on the top step and lit a fag. The morning was cold with a hint of rain on the breeze.

This was why he didn’t date women with kids: the endless peeing and putting on of shoes and all the rest. He could have been sitting in a pub by now.

He got to his feet as soon as they emerged, wincing at the pain in his hips. Sitting on cold stone wasn’t a good idea, given the battered condition of his body.

William’s hair had been slicked down with water and he looked fed up and whiney, and Mouse had to check her bag for keys and zip up her parka before they could set off.

Walt walked quickly, trying not to limp, and the others had to run to catch up. He knew his mood was making Mouse nervous, but there was a perverse pleasure in seeing her flushed and breathless. It made her look alive.

“So where are we going?” He looked down at her, drawing heavily on his cigarette. She hated him smoking around the kid. She looked about to say something but he got in first.

“Everyone’s allowed one vice, right?” Her sudden smile caught him off balance. “True.” He grinned back.

“So what’s yours then?”

“Oh, I’m still looking for mine.” The way she said it, the way she caught his eye and looked away quickly, made his heart twist.

Whoa. Was she flirting with him? He frowned. No, he must have imagined it.

“We’re going to Tea ‘n’ Flea,” William announced with an edge of triumph. This time Walt paused and stared at him. “Tea and what?”

“It’s a café and flea market,” Mouse explained. Walt picked up the pace again. “Kid’s a bit of a squirrel, isn’t he?”

“He’s a nightmare. Most boys buy sweets. He spends his pocket money on stamps and coins and rubbish!”

Walt felt in his pocket for the silver button and rubbed his thumb over the design.

The shop was painted bright blue. He supposed he’d passed it before, that night he’d gone out with a drink in him and ended up at the park gates, staring at the trees until the safe, clichéd smell of pizza nudged him away like the nose of a family dog. The shop had been closed that night, like all the other shops.

Now there were trestle tables outside, defying the weather, stacked with old books and comics. Every time the door opened a bell rang.

Inside were actually two shops, sharing a damp lobby. Through a glass door to the left lay a labyrinth of dusty bookcases, packing crates and cardboard boxes stuffed with collectibles, curios and junk.

To the right was the café, long and narrow, very popular with the blue-rinse brigade.

A refrigerated cabinet of quiche and salad took up most of one end, and along the length of the side wall was a giant chalkboard advertising the specials in meticulous handwriting: mackerel and walnut salad; boiled egg and rocket panini; pastrami picnic loaf, whatever the hell that was.

The place smelled of peppers and basil, overlaid with coffee. Sharp hisses of steam from the espresso machine competed with the soothing tones of Radio 4.

William chose a table by the window and they squeezed themselves in, Walt feeling like a giant on the spindly chair, the bistro table sagging under his elbows.

The old ladies competed with each other, a torrent of voices with occasional crystal clear bubbles rising to the surface: “Did you see that rain?” . . . “It’s not cold though, for April.” . . . “That’s Scotland for you – four seasons in one day!”

Send them out to the desert; see how they like the weather there.

Mouse caught his eye.

“What do you think?”

He looked about him, at the organic veg rack and the herb prints on the wall. It was a pine-nuts-and-sundried-tomatoes sort of place.

“It’s okay. Reeks of vegetarianism.” “You don’t like vegetarians?” “Don’t trust anyone who doesn’t kebabs.”

“Walt!” She didn’t know how to take him and it made him smile.

There was so much warmth about her: her hair and her cosy jumpers, the way the tip of her nose went rosy in the cold, the glint in her eye when she was amused. She looked good when she thawed out.

The waitress came over, a student type with cropped brown hair and an Australian accent. Walt liked waitresses, shop assistants, nurses.

With a bit of banter and his crooked grin, he could hold their attention for as long as it took to remember the man he used to be.

But this girl didn’t even look at him. The kid had her explaining all the soft drinks to him like he was ordering wine at Claridge’s. “What’s cream soda like?”

“It’s sort of creamy. Sweet. Hint vanilla.”

“What about ginger beer?”

“You might not like that, honey. Ginger can be a bit sour.”

“Maybe I should . . .”

“Jesus, give him an Irn-Bru,” Walt said, rocking back in his chair. “And coffee for us. And cake.”

The waitress and Mouse glared at him as if he’d just bitten the head off a hamster. He shrugged. “We’ ll be here all day otherwise.”

More tomorrow. like

Beneath The Skin, by Sandra Ireland, is published by Polygon, £8.99. Her latest book, Sight Unseen, is out now. of

The way she said the words, the way she caught his eye and looked away quickly, made his heart twist