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Instead they had stayed here, in their grey-brick, tiled house ten minutes away from Old Trafford, the sacred ground on which Manchester United played. Bernie wasn’t simply a fan; he was a fanatic. To him the team were gods and Old Trafford was Mount Olympus. He was there whenever they played at home, and would travel round the country to cheer them on when they played elsewhere.
Irene opened the door to him. She had grown old – what was she now, fifty-five? A few years older than him. She had never been very slim, even as a girl, but now she had really put on weight; her peroxide hair was as unreal and gold as a fairground ride, her skin heavily powdered, her mouth as red and ripe as a strawberry.
They stared at each other and he wondered how he looked to her. Had he aged as much?
‘Hello, Terry, she said in her husky, whisky-thickened voice. Glancing past him at his car, she added, ‘Like the Jag. So it’s not money that’s your problem?’
Without answering he leaned forward to kiss her cheek and she enfolded him in both arms, gave him a hug that almost squeezed the breath out of him, kissing his mouth at the same time.
‘Bernie’s waiting for you in the conservatory,’ she said, letting go of him, and led the way, her wide hips rolling as she moved. ‘How’s the boy?’ she asked over her shoulder. ‘We read in the papers about him getting engaged to that rich bird. Did Sandra go to the party?’
‘No.’ Sandra had always got on well with Irene. They were two of a kind, in some ways, although Irene was more of a home-maker, devoted to her four children and her husband.
‘That’s a shame – she doted on that boy of yours. Does he visit her?’
‘No.’
That got him a shrewd look. ‘Won’t you let him?’
‘I’d never stop the boy seeing his mother, but Sandra’s too busy having fun to be bothered. When she’s over here she drops in to see him, but she rarely asks him over to Spain.’
Irene sighed. ‘That’s too bad.’
They were walking through a long sitting room which took up most of the ground floor of the house, full of what Terry thought of as brothel furniture: chairs with gilded legs, onyx occasional tables, gold velvet floor-length curtains with gold fringes, ornaments on every surface, a huge television.
It was a grey evening, cloudy and threatening rain, but ahead of them he saw a brightness which resolved itself into a glass conservatory designed in Victorian fashion. It was ablaze with electric lights.
‘Here he is!’ Irene said to the man sitting in a comfortable armchair, facing them.
That was when Terry had a shock. Bernie had been in his forties when they last met. Not a big man but very muscular, powerful, although he was already bald.
Now he seemed to have shrunk, withered. Under his expensive suit his body was frail.
‘Hello, Terry,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Excuse me not getting up. Did Irene tell you what happened to me? A bit of turf war a few years back; one of the black gangs trying to muscle in on our territory. I got shot in the back. I was in hospital for months. And I still can’t walk.’
‘That’s too bad, Bernie. I’m very sorry to hear that.’ Terry shook the hand held out, noticing how thin and limp it was. The life force seemed to have gone out of the man.
‘Sit down, have a drink,’ Bernie said.
Irene poured him a whisky, then said, ‘Excuse me, I have a lot to do, I’ll be dishing up in half an hour.’
‘Hotpot,’ Bernie told him contentedly.
‘Yes, she said, I can’t wait to taste it again, Irene always made the best hotpot. How are your kids?’
‘They’re fine, Irene will tell you over dinner. She says you’ve got a problem you hoped I could deal with – tell me about that.’
‘Are you still in the business?’ Terry said doubtfully.
‘Me and my boy Andy – remember him? The youngest one. The others make their money strictly legit. Matt’s a lawyer, and a good one. Jim’s a builder, makes a fortune, building estates all over the north west. Now, tell me about your problem.’
‘Sean, my boy, is in trouble.’
‘We were reading about him in the gossip columns only last week. Isn’t he marrying some rich banker’s daughter? Lucky boy.’
‘Yes, but he . . . well, he’s always after other women.’
‘Can’t keep his flies zipped? Takes after his mother, not you, then. Sandra was always chasing men.’
