Stonemouth полностью

‘Well, I thought so at the time, so maybe. On the other hand, Jel never said so outright and it did occur to me later that maybe I was getting the signals wrong and I was just sort of big-upping myself, assuming she wanted to, you know, resume relations after our — as it turned out, incredibly public — hump in the Mearnside’s fifth-floor ladies’ toilet, trap two? You know: that thing a lot of guys do, assuming every girl secretly wants to leap into bed with them?’

Ferg appears mystified. ‘Really?’ Then he looks thoughtful.

‘Actually, yes; for most guys that would be laughable.’ He sits back, regards me. ‘You included, on a bad day.’

‘Thanks.’ I take up the little spoon, stir the sludge in the bottom of my coffee cup. I look at it for a moment or two, then let it drop, clattering, deciding to say something that I’ve wanted to say since I first clapped eyes on Ferg again. ‘Look, why did you never get in touch, Ferg? After I left the Toun, I mean? I heard nothing from you; just nothing. I mean, much as I hate to admit it, I actually missed your scabrous version of bonhomie and your hypercritical awareness of everybody else’s faults, both real and — probably most amusingly — imagined.’

Ferg glares at me. ‘Never mind that. Why did you never contact me?’

‘And we’re back to You Keep Changing Your Fucking Phone Number. Mine stayed the same.’

‘You changed your email.’

‘I started getting hate mail. I thought it wise.’

‘I have a policy: when people fuck off, it’s up to them to contact me, not the other way round. Bit like your policy of not sharing details of sexual encounters. Annoying, isn’t it? That said, I’ve always sort of half believed it’s not actually moral scruple, more early-onset geezer-hood forgetfulness.’

‘Do you, like, just not really like having friends, Ferg, is that it?’

‘How … specifically insulting an answer do you want here? There’s sort of a spread of options.’

‘Will I like any of them?’

‘Frankly, no. Though you’ll definitely hate some more than others.’

‘Doubtless.’

‘But anyway. What about Grier?’

‘What about Grier?’

‘What about the time Grier came to stay with you?’

‘Now that was just weird.’

‘Define.’

‘Well, something slightly similar, again a couple of years ago, when Grier was going to be in London and finally so was I at the same time and—’

‘This before or after Jel?’

‘Actually…Thinking about it? Maybe a year before. Probably.’ My hand starts moving to the pocket where my iPhone would be, to check my diary, but, of course …

‘Forgot to ask,’ Ferg says. ‘Did Jel ever visit again?’

‘No. And stopped enquiring.’

‘Pride hurt?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Anyway: Grier.’

‘Grier showed up with this guy: Brad. Weird, skeletal, long, bad — long greasy hair, dressed in about six layers even though it was summer, easily my age if not more, bottle of Jack in his pocket, fucking pharmacy of drugs in his other trenchcoat pocket — I mean, stuff I hadn’t even heard of — and this guy’s like some sort of about-to-be-big musician, allegedly, with a band called The Frets—’

‘Actually not a bad name for a guitar band.’ Ferg looks thoughtful. ‘Wait a minute, I think I’ve seen them …’

‘Yeah, but they weren’t a guitar band, and besides a quick Google would have revealed there were already several bands called The Frets. Anyway, so: I assume Grier and Brad are an item even though he wasn’t mentioned when Grier booked, as it were, and I show them the spare bedroom, only this is all wrong, because apparently they’re not together af ter all. More friends, I’m given to understand?’

Ferg’s eyes narrow. ‘So you do have a spare room?’

‘I did at the time. Didn’t I mention my plan to turn it into a gym?’

‘No. But never mind. What about Jewellery Girl?’

‘Not present, and neither was anybody else. I was unattached at the time.’

‘Okay. So.’ Ferg sits forward, looking interested. ‘Sleeping arrangements?’

‘Well, so I offer her the spare room and Brad the couch but he’s unable to sleep on the couch because it isn’t comfortable or—’

‘Don’t skip. What about the evening? Where did you go?’

‘Bar, local sushi, bar. All very convivial. Anyway, Brad appears in my room, announcing the couch isn’t the right shape or hasn’t been Feng Shuied properly or something, and besides ever since his mum left and his dad died — or the other way round — he can’t sleep alone and can he climb in with me?’

‘Hmm. Fresh.’

‘So I tell him to get to fuck.’

‘I should hope so,’ Ferg sounds affronted. ‘Bugger gay solidarity; if you’re going to have the temerity to reject me, you’d fucking better reject anybody else.’

‘Obviously your feelings were my first consideration, Ferg.’

‘Finally! Go on.’

‘So I start trying to get back to sleep but next thing there’s what can only be described as a ruckus from the spare room.’

‘Currently occupied by Grier’s sweet ass.’

‘Currently occupied by Grier. So the guy has tried the same thing with her?’

‘See? You cynic; maybe he was telling the truth all the time and just wanted somebody to cuddle up against, platonically?’

‘Grier, by this time, is throwing things at Brad.’