Page 22 of These Tears

‘Guard?’ I call.

When the uniform opens the door, I’m still standing there with the book clutched to my chest. My engagement ring presses cold against the cover. I can’t seem to loosen my grip on either one.

Finally, I slide the book over the table towards him.

As I leave, I can still feel his eyes on me.

The humiliating part is not that he called me out on it. It’s that before the door has even shut behind me, I’m already wondering when I can come back and let him do it again.

4

It’s been a while since I sent the email to the journalist who wrote the article about the Cranes, and he’s finally responded. I’m meeting the bloke today, though yesterday’s encounter with Elias has left me badly off-balance.

The pub in south London is exactly the kind of place I’d expected – though I hoped to be wrong. A squat, weary building on the outskirts of the city, with crusted paint around the windows and a wooden sign that groans on its hinges every time the wind slaps it. A place set to look like it serves grudges by the gallon.

Inside, every beer spilled since the seventies seems to have left a ghost behind. They all rise to meet me the second I step through the door, tangled with the scent of damp wool and fryer grease.

I definitely do not belong here, and it’s clear from the way the man behind the bar sizes me up like I’m a solicitor come to audit their till.

The outdated pop song playing low does little to soften the ambience.

Before MacLeish gets here, I order a black coffee – mostly for my hands to have something to hold – but the barman scoffs and tells me the machine’s been ‘temperamental since May’. He leaves out the year. But that’s enough for me.

So, after settling with sparkling water that tastes as though the barman used it to wash his socks, I wait at a crooked round table near the window.

MacLeish turns up late, looking like someone who takes Captain Morgan for breakfast and Richmonds for dinner. Bloodshot eyes. Creased shirt. Old sweat, arriving half a second before he slumps into the seat opposite me. I can’t tell whether his hair is naturally ash-coloured or just hasn’t seen shampoo in days.

‘I dinnae really remember the details, if I’m honest,’ he says with a faint tug of a Scottish accent after hearing my brief introduction to this mistake of a meeting. He barely glances up as the waiter delivers his rum. The server’s expression shifts from distaste to curiosity as his eyes flick between MacLeish and me, but he says nothing and moves on.

‘That’s quite surprising,’ I say, keeping my tone light but pointed. ‘It’s not every day you get the chance to write about patricide in Great Britain.’

He snorts into his drink. ‘No, but there’s worse shite than that I get tae chase.’

He tries, awkwardly, to sound refined – like a man who believes he works for The Guardian, rather than whatever back-alley online publication still tolerates him.

Letting the silence sit there on purpose, slouched and smug, he takes his time with the rum.

My grip firms around my glass.

The bastard is waiting for me to blink first.

I debate whether my stomach can take another minute of this without losing the dim sum I had for lunch.

I push again. ‘I’m trying to understand what was left out – the family history, not just the arrest line.’

‘What paper did ye say ye were from again?’ He squints, blinking as though he’s only just registered me. Then he sloshes his glass and smacks his lips like a dementia patient who’s forgotten his meds.

‘I’m not,’ I say smoothly. ‘I’m a writer. I’m working on a thriller.’ Not even a hitch in my voice.

I hate that.

‘Ohhhh,’ he drawls, posture loosening, gaze shifting from scrutiny to ease. That single syllable melts away his guardedness like cheap wax. ‘Well, then ye might want tae speak wi’ the brother.’

I school my expression. Under the table, my fingers curl against my palm. ‘I thought you didn’t remember the case.’

His eyes sharpen. ‘I said I didnae remember the details.’ His thumb rubs against his forefinger where it rests on the table. ‘It’s hard bein’ a journalist nowadays – with blogs and social media and all the rest of it. Folk’ll believe anything.’

The latter comes out slower, more meaningful.