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“You are not prepared,” I tell him, “for my amusing sheep anecdotes.”
He slants another look at me. “Go on. Amuse me with a sheep.”
“Okay.” I think about it for a second or two. “I might have oversold the amusingness and, indeed, quantity of my sheep stories. Because I did grow up in Liverpool where sheep are a bit thin on the ground. Not a massive urban animal, the sheep. Nor are they especially native to the Mersey.”
“I’d imagine not. They’d have to learn to breathe underwater and eat kebab wrappers.”
“Oi,” I protest. “Don’t you be having a go at the Mersey. You don’t see me having a go at the Thames.”
“Feel free. It’s basically a giant open sewer.”
“Aye, but it’syouropen sewer. You should feel proud of that sewer.”
“And you’re proud of the Mersey?”
“Of course I’m proud of the Mersey.”
“Isn’t that also a giant open sewer?” Jonathan asks.
“No,” I say firmly. “It’s only that shade of brown because it’s got strong currents that whip up dirt from the bottom.”
“That’s bollocks, Sam.”
“It’s not. Best river in England is the Mersey. It could take the Avon in a fight.”
His mouth curls up contemptuously. “Any river could take the Avon. It’s a prissy southern wuss.”
“Okay, but it could take the Thames too.”
“Well, of course it could. The Thames is an old man. He’s very tough but he’s not got the stamina he used to.”
This is a side of Jonathan I’ve not seen before. Although, to be fair, I’m not sure under what circumstances you’d ordinarily get to see the “what rivers could beat what other rivers in fights” side of a person. “I’ll say this, mind, I reckon the Tyne could give it a run for its money. It’d have to cheat, but it fucking would.”
“Oh, the Tyne would glass you as soon as look at you.”
We fall silent again at this point, but it’s a much easier silence. And that brings advantages and disadvantages. Because, on the one hand, it’s less tense and that’s good. But on the other it reminds me how much I like being with him. It makes me wish he could let himself be this man more often, with more people. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still a sour bastard. It’s just sour isn’t necessarily bad. That’s why everybody likes sherbet lemons.
“Should I stick the radio on?” I ask.
“Go ahead.”
Leaning forward, I push the button, which tunes immediatelyto Heart FM. And I’m not quite prepared for the bolt of not-exactly-nostalgia that rips through me. The thing about Heart FM is that it’s the country’s most basic radio station—it’s even more basic than Radio 1—and so it’s exactly what you want when you’re driving out to Rainhill on a job and the weather’s living up to its name. I’m sort of surprised and not surprised that it’s Jonathan’s choice as well. Surprised because it’s feel-good music and, until recently, I’d have said Jonathan doesn’t enjoy feeling good. Not surprised because he probably grew up on it just like I did. Right now, Bruno Mars is singing about how I’m amazing just the way I am, which is very sweet of him.
Jonathan gives longest road-safe look he can. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. No. I mean, why not?”
“You seem to be surprisingly affected by Bruno Mars.”
“Well, y’know. He’s a talented man.”
“Sam.”
I sigh. “It just reminds me of home, y’know. In a”—sometimes having amnesia is really convenient—“foggy kind of way.”
“How is your memory?”
At least he’s not asking for details. “Honestly, I think it is getting better. Little bits are coming back. Some family stuff, some work stuff.”
