‘What happened, Martin?’
He rolled his head from side to side. ‘Bastard.’
‘Your father?’
‘Bastard.’
‘What did he do?’
He covered his face with his hands. ‘He…he messed about with me, didn’t he.’ He spoke the words quietly, softly.
‘What do you mean?’ Stupid question. I knew what he meant, I just didn’t want to believe it. Hoped I’d got it wrong.
‘He buggered me, didn’t he, the fucking bastard.’ His shoulders shook. I didn’t want to hear this.
‘Oh. Martin, I’m so sorry.’ My mind ran riot with questions I wouldn’t ask. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I gotta go.’ He lifted his head, wiped his face with his hands.
‘You better wash your face,’ I said. I turned, ran water into the plain white basin. Then I stood to one side while he splashed his face.
‘Did your mother know?’ My question came out abruptly. I felt clumsy, insensitive. But I needed to know. I pictured Mrs Hobbs; lace-trimmed hanky, sad brown eyes. Surely not?
‘Yeah,’ he said bitterly. He grabbed a paper towel and dabbed at his face. ‘I told her. I were about ten. Fat lot of good that did.’
‘She didn’t do anything about it?’
‘She said if I ever made up such disgusting lies again, she’d have me put away. Said I was sick in the head. Christ.’ He shook his head at the memory.
‘Shit,’ he said, ‘he’ll be looking for me. What’m I gonna tell him?’
‘You mean your friend with the Aston Martin?’
‘How d’you know?’
‘JB told me.’
‘I’ll kill him,’ he said. I felt sick.
‘Martin, JB’s dead. He died of an overdose, on…’
‘What? But he didn’t use…’ He laughed shortly. ‘That’s great, that is.’ He nodded as though he’d recognised some deep irony. ‘Great.’ Then again, ‘I gotta go.’
He swung out of the door with me behind him. The gaunt man stood at the junction of thoroughfares, his back to us.
‘Fuckin’ ‘ell,’ Martin looked wildly around. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ.’
The man turned. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ He spoke quietly, with great venom. Had a clipped Scottish accent.
‘I got a bit dizzy,’ I said. ‘Your friend helped me to the Ladies. I’m much better now – think I panicked a bit.’ I turned to Martin and thanked him.
The gaunt man grunted and marched off with Martin at his heels. Only then did I notice the smell of sweat from my armpits. My headache rose to a sickening peak and I returned to the Ladies and threw up.
On my way out, I glanced over at Martin’s group. Nothing untoward. Outside, a light drizzle fell. The sort of gauzy rain that can run for days in Manchester. I got into the Mini.
