you. I should have left you back in Newcastle resting up.’
Amar had turned up at Donovan’s place when he was leaving, insisted on accompanying him. Donovan, knowing what state his one-time colleague was in, had relented, taken him along.
‘I’m fine, Joe. Honest.’ Amar swallowed hard as if not wanting to show Donovan how much pain he was in.
‘No, you’re not.’
A flash of something – anger, pain, Donovan didn’t know what – registered on Amar’s face. ‘I have to do something. I can’t just sit there—’ The words froze in his mouth. He said nothing more.
Donovan looked at his lap, played with the strap of the binoculars. An awkward silence descended.
‘Peta phoned,’ said Amar. ‘Got some work for me back in Newcastle. Freelance stuff. Surveillance.’ He gave a short, hard laugh. ‘Better be on the ground floor. Not too good at stairs yet.’
Four months. The same amount of time since Amar had lain bleeding his life out on to a pavement, a bullet lodged within him. Four months since a twelve-hour operation to save his life by removing his spleen, part of his lung and two ribs was deemed a success. Four months since he had been able to walk unaided and without pain.
It had stopped him going out, making casual pick-ups in gay bars and curtailed a cocaine habit that was spiralling out of control. Donovan thought he should be grateful for that.
Amar kept looking at Donovan. ‘You should talk to her, you know,’ he said. ‘You haven’t spoken for months. Come and see her.’
‘So that’s why you wanted to come.’ Donovan shook his head. ‘Did Peta put you up to it? Jamal? I thought he made himself scarce when you turned up.’
‘You should call her. She’s upset. She wants to help. We all do. Put the argument behind you. Talk to her.’
Silence fell like cold, hard snow.
Donovan’s head was buzzing like a beehive on overtime. He wanted to just get out of the car, walk up to the door, hammer on it until it was opened, then rush inside and grab his son. Have the emotional reunion he longed for. Sweep David away to safety. To home.
Donovan blinked. The door hadn’t opened. He hadn’tgone up to it. The emotional tidal wave was still inside him. ‘We’re going.’
‘Back to Newcastle?’
‘London. Bit of business to take care of in the morning. We’ll stay over then I’ll drive you back to Newcastle, right?’
Amar looked puzzled. ‘OK.’
‘Well, what am I going to do? Sit here for ever and stare at that door? Will the fucker to open and David to run out?’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. Find another way. Because this one isn’t working.’
He turned the engine on, drove away.
Donovan’s soul silently screaming all the way to London.
4
Jamal wasn’t bored. Not exactly.
Joe Donovan often said that only boring people got bored, and Jamal, not wanting to think of himself remotely in that way, had come to accept that as true. So he wasn’t bored. No. Just wished he had some way of making his Wednesday night pass quicker.
He’d flicked on the TV, found only films he’d seen before, soaps he wasn’t interested in, documentaries about things he couldn’t care less about. Not even any gyrating honeys or bashment babes on MTV Base.
He’d played all the games he wanted to. His thumbs were worn out.
He’d started reading one of Donovan’s books,
Requiem for a Dream
by Hubert Selby Jnr. He had learned that requiem meant a funeral song for the dead and, reading it, that made sense. It was one dark book, dark and depressing. About kids living rough, getting high, doing what they had to do to get by. Real life the requiem for their dreams.
Jamal knew all about that one.
It was gripping and involving and full of heart and love, the writer obviously reporting back from having lived it, but Jamal could read it only in small doses. He was also fearful of the ending, in case anything bad happened. He didn’t want it to trigger any unpleasant
Amar had turned up at Donovan’s place when he was leaving, insisted on accompanying him. Donovan, knowing what state his one-time colleague was in, had relented, taken him along.
‘I’m fine, Joe. Honest.’ Amar swallowed hard as if not wanting to show Donovan how much pain he was in.
‘No, you’re not.’
A flash of something – anger, pain, Donovan didn’t know what – registered on Amar’s face. ‘I have to do something. I can’t just sit there—’ The words froze in his mouth. He said nothing more.
Donovan looked at his lap, played with the strap of the binoculars. An awkward silence descended.
‘Peta phoned,’ said Amar. ‘Got some work for me back in Newcastle. Freelance stuff. Surveillance.’ He gave a short, hard laugh. ‘Better be on the ground floor. Not too good at stairs yet.’
Four months. The same amount of time since Amar had lain bleeding his life out on to a pavement, a bullet lodged within him. Four months since a twelve-hour operation to save his life by removing his spleen, part of his lung and two ribs was deemed a success. Four months since he had been able to walk unaided and without pain.
It had stopped him going out, making casual pick-ups in gay bars and curtailed a cocaine habit that was spiralling out of control. Donovan thought he should be grateful for that.
Amar kept looking at Donovan. ‘You should talk to her, you know,’ he said. ‘You haven’t spoken for months. Come and see her.’
‘So that’s why you wanted to come.’ Donovan shook his head. ‘Did Peta put you up to it? Jamal? I thought he made himself scarce when you turned up.’
‘You should call her. She’s upset. She wants to help. We all do. Put the argument behind you. Talk to her.’
Silence fell like cold, hard snow.
Donovan’s head was buzzing like a beehive on overtime. He wanted to just get out of the car, walk up to the door, hammer on it until it was opened, then rush inside and grab his son. Have the emotional reunion he longed for. Sweep David away to safety. To home.
Donovan blinked. The door hadn’t opened. He hadn’tgone up to it. The emotional tidal wave was still inside him. ‘We’re going.’
‘Back to Newcastle?’
‘London. Bit of business to take care of in the morning. We’ll stay over then I’ll drive you back to Newcastle, right?’
Amar looked puzzled. ‘OK.’
‘Well, what am I going to do? Sit here for ever and stare at that door? Will the fucker to open and David to run out?’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. Find another way. Because this one isn’t working.’
He turned the engine on, drove away.
Donovan’s soul silently screaming all the way to London.
4
Jamal wasn’t bored. Not exactly.
Joe Donovan often said that only boring people got bored, and Jamal, not wanting to think of himself remotely in that way, had come to accept that as true. So he wasn’t bored. No. Just wished he had some way of making his Wednesday night pass quicker.
He’d flicked on the TV, found only films he’d seen before, soaps he wasn’t interested in, documentaries about things he couldn’t care less about. Not even any gyrating honeys or bashment babes on MTV Base.
He’d played all the games he wanted to. His thumbs were worn out.
He’d started reading one of Donovan’s books,
Requiem for a Dream
by Hubert Selby Jnr. He had learned that requiem meant a funeral song for the dead and, reading it, that made sense. It was one dark book, dark and depressing. About kids living rough, getting high, doing what they had to do to get by. Real life the requiem for their dreams.
Jamal knew all about that one.
It was gripping and involving and full of heart and love, the writer obviously reporting back from having lived it, but Jamal could read it only in small doses. He was also fearful of the ending, in case anything bad happened. He didn’t want it to trigger any unpleasant
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