Lonie 70

Two days later, Lonie was standing in the public phone box half way up Byres Road, one that worked, and didn’t smell too much like a pished upon public convenience. He needed to phone the office. If he didn’t he wouldn’t continue to get paid three-quarters his usual work rate for another two weeks of sick pay.

Bresslen answered the phone. ‘You’ll have heard about Davy Brown?’

Lonie recognised he morbid tone and tried to match it without sounding mordant. ‘No.’ He answered simply and holding the receiver away from him took a deep breath.

‘Dead.’ Bresslen didn’t do sugar-coatings. ‘I know you and him were close.’

‘Yeh, yeh.’ Lonie tried to sound suitably caught off guard. But then he did get a feeling, a tightness in his chest, thinking of the times Davy had given him the lead into a story, lent him money for a packet of fags, the way he’d stuck up for him in front of The Fatman. ‘Whit happened?’ The melancholy sound in his voice was not a put on. That part of him that hated, was sated, and no longer wanted Davy, or anybody else dead.

‘Hang on.’ The muffled sound of Bresslen speaking to someone was audible and a harsh banging and slight whistling on Lonie’s side, as if the phone had been put down and picked up again.

‘It’s me.’

Lonie recognised The Fatman’s voice. He started his condolences anew. ‘I’m sorry about Davy.’

‘Yes, a terrible, terrible accident.’ The Fatman sounded out of breath.

‘Whit happened?’

The Fatman burped. ‘Sorry, about that,’ he apologised down the line. ‘Aye, a terrible accident. He’d been drinking. Fell asleep on his couch. Must have spilled some drink on himself. Dropped a lit fag. And poof. That was him away. He didn’t stand a chance.’

The Fatman’s wheezing breath punctuated the call, giving Lonie ample time to take it all in and frame a reply. ‘Jeez, that’s murder,’ Lonie finally said.

‘Yes, it is.’ The Fatman’s tone changed as if he’d flipped over a page. ‘When you coming back to us. We really need you here, back with us, on the newsdesk. I was saying to Bresslen that you were the very man to fill Davy’s shoes.’ He laughed. ‘It would mean a promotion and more money.’

‘Ah would, but my Doctor doesn’t think Ah’m fit enough yet.’ Lonie coughed twice. ‘When’s the funeral?’

‘The funeral?’ The Fatman spluttered. ‘Oh, Davy’s. Don’t know yet. I think there are some minor details to get sorted out.’

‘Whit about his family?’

‘Oh, you’d know about that more than me.’ The Fatman waited for him to say something, but filled in the gap when he didn’t. ‘I think he’s got a sister in Doncaster. I don’t know. When did you last speak to him?’

Lonie’s heart started beating quicker and quicker. ‘Ah’m not sure. Ah’ve been off sick for a while…’ He coughed. ‘So you know. It’s a real shame. Have you any idea where he’s getting buried?’

‘Lynn Park.’ The Fatman’s answer came quickly, as if he’d been expecting that question. ‘They’re going to cremate him.’ He laughed. ‘Not that there’ll be much of him left. You will be there won’t you?’

‘Ah wouldn’t miss it for the world. Ah’ll hope to see you all there.’ Lonie rifled through his pockets for more change, sure the pips would go, but equally sure both of them had said what they had to say.

The Fatman’s tone changed and Lonie could almost see him licking his lips. ‘You wouldn’t have heard yet of another of your bosom friends dying.’

‘Who?’ The pips began to sound. Lonie shouted down the line, ‘hold on,’ as if noise mattered. He was a twelve-year old boy again, waiting to hear about his mum, dad and sister. He held his breath, standing over the rim of his life he paced one way and the other, shuffling his feet, tearing at his pockets, only the frame of the phone box kept him from running. His head pounded as he imagined Audrey dead. He slotted in another ten pence into the box, before he was cut off.

‘Father Campbell.’ The Fatman sneered. ‘It was a real shame. Guess that pretty much kills off any hope they have of keeping that Secure Unit open.’ He waited for Lonie to say something in reply.

‘That’s a real shame.’ But relief flooded Lonie and something in his tone seemed to satisfy The Fatman. ‘Whit did he die of?’

‘Heart attack.’ The Fatman went on. ‘Practically lives in a hospital and they can’t save you. Just shows you, if your card's marked, your card's marked…That’s how we need you back. They’ve got him practically lying in state. We’ve got to put his picture on the front page tomorrow. The Cardinal says the man was a living saint and now he’s dead it wouldn’t surprise me if the Pope flew over to help bury him and then personally take him up to heaven. It’s a fucking mess. We need you back here.’ He grunted. ‘I’m appealing to your better nature, not that I think you’ve got one. I need you to cover the funeral.’ His voice rose in frustration. ‘What do you say?’

‘I’ll need to speak to my doctor first.’

Lonie heard the phone being passed to Bresslen.

‘Hi.’ Bresslen’s flat voice contrasted with the birdshot excitement of The Fatman’s appeals, but the message was the same. ‘So what can we do to get you back here?’

‘Whit you got Audrey workin’ on?’ Lonie changed the subject, but he couldn’t help an eagerness to know entering his voice. He heard a hand being clamped over the receiver, wondered if he’d said the wrong thing, and knew Bresslen was talking to The Fatman.

The Fatman came back on the line, but acted as if he and Bresslen had one voice. ‘She ain’t doing nothing. You should come back to work with her on this. You and her make such a great team…Tell you what…Why don’t you come in, say, tomorrow, about ten am…See how you feel. We’ll fill you in on the details…You take it from there…And if you need the odd day off to visit the doctor. Well, I understand. Sure, you just got to look at me to know that I ain’t in the best of health myself. What do you say?’

‘Ah’ll maybe need a sub on my wages. And Ah’ll probably need expenses.’

‘Sure. Sure. That can be arranged. We just need you back here. Take it easy.’ The Fatman hung up the phone.

Lonie stared, without seeing, at a woman wearing a red headscarf looking through the smeared glass of the phone box, waiting for him to hang up. He hung on to the receiver for what seems the longest time, before rocking it back on its cradle and pushing the door open and striding past her.