The Redbreast(38)

stood up and was staggering towards the door at

this moment. The old man remembered him; he had

been there the last time too. And today he had kept

his eyes on them the whole time. The door opened.

He waited. There was a break in the traffic and he

could hear that the man had come to a halt behind

him. Then it came.

‘Well now, is that him?’

The voice had that very special rasping quality

which only many years of heavy alcohol abuse,

smoking and insufficient sleep can produce.

‘Do I know you?’ the old man asked without

turning.

‘I reckon so, yes.’

The old man twisted his head round, studied him

for a brief moment and turned away again.

‘Can’t say that I recognise you.’

‘Jesus! You don’t recognise an old war

comrade?’

‘Which war?’

‘We fought for the same cause, you and I did.’

‘If you say so. What do you want?’

‘Eh?’ the drunk asked, with one hand behind his

ear. ‘I asked what you wanted,’ the old man

repeated, louder this time. ‘Ah, there’s wanting

and wanting. Nothing unusual about having a chat

with old acquaintances, is there? Especially

acquaintances you haven’t seen for a long time.

And especially people you thought were dead.’

The old man turned round.

‘Do I look dead?’

The man in the red Icelandic sweater stared at

him with eyes so bright blue they looked like

turquoise marbles. It would be impossible to guess

his age. Forty or eighty. But the old man knew

exactly how old the drunk was. If he concentrated,

he might even be able to remember his birthday.

During the war they had been very particular about

celebrating birthdays.

The drunk came a step closer. ‘No, you don’t

look dead. Sick, yes, but not dead.’

He stretched out an enormous, grimy hand and the

old man recognised the sweet stench of sweat,

urine and vomit.

‘What’s up? Don’t you want to shake an old

comrade’s hand?’ His voice sounded like a death

rattle.

The old man pressed the outstretched hand

fleetingly with his own gloved hand.

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Now we’ve shaken hands. If

there’s nothing else you were wondering about, I’ll

be on my way.’

‘Ah, wondering, yes.’ The drunk rocked to and

fro as he tried to focus on the old man. ‘I was

wondering what a man like you was doing in a

hole like this. It’s not so strange wondering about

that, is it? He’s just got lost, I thought, the last time I saw you here. But you sat talking to that nasty

piece of work who goes round beating people up

with baseball bats. And you were sitting there

today too . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I was thinking I would have to ask one of the

journalists who occasionally come here, you know.

If they know what a respectable man like you is

doing in such company. They know everything, you

know. And what they don’t know, they find out.

For example, how it can be that a man everyone

thought died during the war is alive again. They get

their information quick as fuck. Like that.’

He made a vain attempt at flicking his fingers.

‘And then it’s in the papers, you know.’

The old man sighed. ‘Is there perhaps something I

can help you with?’

‘Do I look like I need anything?’ The drunk

spread his arms and flashed a toothless grin.

‘I see,’ said the old man, taking stock around him.

‘Let’s walk a little. I don’t like spectators.’

‘Eh?’

‘I don’t like spectators.’

‘No, what do we want with them?’

The old man laid a hand lightly on the drunk’s

shoulder.

‘Let’s go in here.’

‘ Show me the way to go, comrade,’ the drunk

hummed hoarsely with a laugh.

They went through the archway next to Herbert’s

Pizza, where a row of large, grey, plastic wheelie

bins overflowing with rubbish blocked the view

from the street.

‘You haven’t already mentioned to anyone you’ve

seen me, have you?’

‘Are you mad? I thought I was seeing things at

first. A ghost in broad daylight. At Herbert’s!’ He

burst into a peal of laughter, but it quickly

developed into a wet, gurgling cough. He bent

forward and supported himself on the wall until the

cough subsided. Then he stood up and dried the

slime from the corners of his mouth. ‘No,

fortunately, otherwise they would have locked me

up.’

‘What do you think would be a fitting price for

your silence?’

‘Ah, a fitting price, hm, yes. I saw the ape take a