Lonie 72

The Fatman looked up from his desk as Lonie entered his office. ‘I’m glad you’re back with us.’ He snorted, as if he’d said something funny and turned to Bresslen. ‘Didn’t I tell you he wouldn’t let us down?’

Bresslen had his chair pulled sideways, their legs almost touching underneath The Fatman’s desk. His lips barely moved as he mumbled. ‘No. I think you said he fucking well always lets us down.’

The Fatman laughed like a benevolent Buddha. ‘Well, the important thing is he’s here now, ready to get back to work.’

Lonie forced a makeshift cough out, making his throat feel raw, so that he began to cough for real. ‘We’ll see how it goes.’

‘Sure.’ The Fatman played it cool. ‘Your health’s the main thing.’

Lonie pulled a seat up across from them. ‘I’ll probably need a sub.’ He paused to see how they were taking it, but it was easier reading War and Peace than The Fatman and Bresslen was just Bresslen.

‘Sure.’ The Fatman turned to Bresslen and gave him the kind of look that suggested he should already have thought of that. ‘Bresslen will take you down to the cage and get it all sorted out.’

Bresslen shrugged and put his hand on The Fatman’s desk to help himself up.

‘Well,whit about expenses.’ It had been going that well that Lonie thought he would chance it.

The Fatman put his hand on his knee so he could lean across. ‘You’re just in the door and you want expenses? You’ve got your bit of stuff driving you all over the place. And all I need is for you to write something nice about Father Campbell. Not too smaltzy, but nice. But not too nice. It’s a newspaper we’re running and it’s not The Catholic Herald. Get out there and get a cross section of opinions and get it written up and back on my desk pronto.’

‘Does that mean Ah don’t get expenses?’

‘Gerrout,’ The Fatman thundered and banged his desk making the papers on it jump, but he was smiling when he said it.

Bresslen took Lonie down to the cage. He made him sign a chit, before he left him standing alone. But Lonie had money jangling in his pocket and he didn’t plan to be alone for long. The Father Campbell piece, he thought, would be easy enough to knock off. Just all the usual bunkum about him being brought about poor, but respectable, straddling the religious divide, and a bit about God calling him home. A quick drink would wet his mouth and make thinking about it so much easier. But Audrey was waiting for him. Her Protestant work ethic made such an outcome unlikely.

***
Davie Brown’s funeral at Lynn Park Crematorium had quite a small turnout -- about twenty people, Audrey counted. She drove from the office with Lonie. Mr MacDonald, Bresslen, Mr Woods and most of the other mourners, standing waiting for the hearse in the biting wind, were from the Glasownian. Davie’s sister and an elderly woman with birdlike limbs and jerky movement seemed to be his only family. His sister a stout woman with a body like a wooden packing case and hair that had lost its ginger lustre, travelled in the back of the chauffer driven car with the elderly lady. They parked behind the hearse in front of one of the back to back rooms for private services. There were few women mourners.

The Reverend Parridge said a few words, but when it was time to stand up and sing the final hymn, there was a shuffling of feet as people sneaked out of the back row. The coffin disappeared behind the shut curtains like a post-marked letter. There was a stamping of feet and a general feeling of briskness, of business finished. Audrey felt like crying for that alone. She dabbed at her eyes experimentally with a hankie. Lonie pushed along the row of wooden chairs following the others out. Audrey hesitated, wanting to say something, to feel something, but she hurried along behind him.

At the double- doors to the nave she shook hands with Davy's sister. ‘Thank you for coming. Thank you for coming. Thank you for coming,’ she repeated in a continual loop until the meeting hall was deserted.

The aunt’s hands were cold, but there was warmness in her touch and brightness in her eyes. ‘Who are you dear?’ she asked Audrey, not letting go of her hand.

‘I’m Audrey.’ Her hand fell to her side.

‘And how did you know our Davy.’

‘Oh, I worked with him.’ She looked over to where Lonie was smoking amongst a cluster of men and signalling to her he’d get her at the car.

The old lady patted her on the hand. ‘I don’t think he mentioned you. He didn’t have that many lady friends.’ She fell into a reverie. ‘He was a great musician you know, on the piano, but he could play almost anything. Such a great waste. And such a terrible way to die.’ Her lip gave way and she began to cry with little shaking movements, rocking back and forth.

Audrey put her arm awkwardly around her waist. She was wearing a long black coat with a fur collar and as the old woman cuddled in her face seemed to get lost, sobbing like a child, in a blizzard of false fur.

‘It’s alright Meta.’ Davy’s sister disentangled her by pulling her away from Audrey’s coat.

‘It’s alright, I’ll get her now.’ Davy’s sister addressed Audrey as if Meta was a piece of furniture that needed moving. ‘You’re quite welcome to come to the reception.’ Her voice gained an airy tone. ‘It’s steak pie.’

Audrey smiled at her. ‘Where is it?’

Davy’s sister shut her eyes for a second, as if thinking. ‘I can’t remember. Oh, just follow the car.’

‘Thanks. But I’ll probably need to go back to work.’

Davy’s sister nodded as if that had to be expected. But the old woman, standing beside her, had something to say.

‘Your work will always be there. But people don’t take the time now to remember. Always hurry-scurrying as if there’s no tomorrow. When you come here there is no tomorrow. Think on young lady.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Audrey took the old woman’s hands. ‘I’ll need to speak to my partner.’ Her lips pressed together at her gaffe. She’d meant work partner, but the way it came out she wasn’t so sure. ‘I’ll see what he thinks.’

The old woman nodded and Audrey slipped away.

Lonie was sitting in her car with the door open to let fag smoke out. He was taking it for granted. He was taking her for granted and she didn’t like it. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Nothing.’ He stood up with a guilty look on his face and flicked a dout in among the tombstones. ‘Get in.’ There was a note of urgency in his voice as he looked over his shoulder.

Audrey turned. The Fatman was talking to a police officer in full uniform. She shivered; some part of her knew that he was talking to Chief Inspector Bisset. Her gut was also telling her that the heavy-set man standing next to him, with the mutton-chop sideburns, was Muldoon, the Lord Provost.

‘Let’s get goin’’ Lonie flung himself into her Hillman and slammed the door shut.

Audrey got in the driver’s side. The Fatman and his cronies turned towards them and looked through the windscreen as if they were animals in a zoo. Lonie held his hand up and waved. But Audrey’s legs were still shaking. The gears crunched as she changed gears, even when they were out in the open road and driving along Drakemire drive.