‘Roland Logan’s,’ Dad replies. ‘Guy who lives in number 20. Or should I say, lived at number 20 until he got lifted. Three am police raid. No idea what for, but from the state of that car, it can’t have been good.’
‘Shall I put the kettle on,’ I ask, getting up. ‘You might want a cuppa with your Christmas present.’
‘You got me a Christmas present?’ he asks. ‘I wasn’t expecting that. What is it?’
I take the parcel out of my bag and hand it to him. ‘Nothing much,’ I reply. ‘Just a token.’
He unwraps a box of handmade shortbread from the local bakery. It was a staple in our house, growing up.
‘I haven’t had this in years,’ he says, beaming. ‘Gertrude at the baker’s used to keep a box back for me as it always sold out so quickly.’
That’s not all she kept back for you, I think to myself, feeling glad that I don’t actually verbalise that really shit sex pun. One of my dad’s many short-lived affairs was with Gertrude for two weeks until my mum found out and threatened to have the entire village boycott the store. I’m not sure whether it was that or the dog shit through the letterbox, which caused Gertrude to leave Castleford three weeks later. The baker who owns it now is a man named Miguel and I’m at least sixty-eight per cent certain that my dad hasn’t tried it on with him.
The kitchen looks like a bomb has gone off. Empty takeaway boxes are strewn everywhere, the small table is completely covered in coffee rings and food stains and there arefood-encrusted dishes in various states of disgusting, all stacked high in the sink. As I struggle to find some clean cups, I realise that while my dad is making progress, he clearly has a long way to go.
I can only find two mugs but there’s a six-pack of Coke in the fridge and a bottle of what looks like apple juice but I’m not taking any chances.
‘Ed, do you want tea or a Coke?’ I yell. ‘It’s not diet, though.’
Two seconds later he appears at the kitchen door. ‘Actually, I thought I’d give you some time alone with your dad.’
‘Oh,’ I reply, slightly confused. We always visit together. ‘So– what? You’ll just come back and collect me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Right, OK,’ I reply. ‘What are you going to do while I’m here?’
He sticks one hand in his pocket and rubs his neck. ‘Well, actually, I said I’d meet Carly for a drink. Her sister lives not too far from here. Be nice to have a proper catch-up.’
‘Carly? When did you arrange that?’
Stay calm Kate, I tell myself.It’s just a drink.
‘She sent me a message this morning. Just a couple of hours; give me a text when you’re ready to go.’
Before I can say anything, he’s saying bye to my dad and the front door slams shut. I look out of the window and watch him get in the car.
Ed
My satnav directs me to a quiet cul-de-sac about fifteen minutes from Kate’s dad’s house, although it’s like they’re on two different planets. There are no burnt-out cars, no graffiti and no smashed-in windows. It’s all well-maintained gardens, double glazing and Welcome door mats, so pristine you’d be frightened to wipe your feet on them.
I park up outside number 12 and just as I’m about to get out my phone rings.
‘How are ya big man? All going well up in peaky land?’
It’s Graham. God, I’m happy to hear his voice, but I control my need to tell him that in case he thinks he’s dialled the wrong number and hangs up. As much as we like each other, we’re never overtly affectionate, unlike Kate and Lauren who practically explode with delight when they see each other, even if the last time was just five minutes ago. Besides, it’s Christmas and I don’t intend to vomit my troubles all over him when he’s only calling to see if I got a PS5.
‘Not bad, mate,’ I reply. ‘Just dropped Kate at her dad’s house, so I’m making myself scarce for a couple of hours. Did you have a nice Christmas?’
‘It was all right,’ he says. ‘Feeling a bit rough today, mind you. Me and Iona ended up at some party in Malahide– it was awfuland hilarious at the same time. Blokes with no socks on and a sea of fake tan as far as the eye could see. I swear everyone was the colour of a roasted peanut. Well, except me, but I work hard repelling any kind of sunlight.’
‘Iona trying to set you up again?’ I ask. I’ve only met his sister once, and from what I can gather she’s very fun but rather overprotective of her younger (by three minutes) twin brother.
‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘It’ll be me mam’s doing. She’s got this bee in her bonnet about telling folk I’m divorced, so she’s set the twin on me. She’ll be calling Father Connolly to have a word with me any day now if my sister fails in her mission, which she obviously will if last night is anything to go by. My sister knows a variety of arseholes and I feel like I’ve failed her somehow.’
Graham Brannigan, my good friend since university and a former history teacher, divorced his wife two years ago, and decided to pursue a career as a stand-up comedian, probably at the lowest point in his life. Turns out the deadpan, Irish, self-deprecating humour his wife hated so much was a huge hit around the comedy clubs of London. We worked together for three years, and although I haven’t seen Graham in a couple of months, I did watch him recently onWould I Lie to You?with Bob Mortimer and I haven’t laughed so much in ages.
‘When are you back in London?’ I ask. ‘We really need to get a drink soon.’
