The Hallmarked Man полностью

‘Has she called you?’ demanded Martin.

‘No, of course not. She hasn’t got my number, unless you’ve given it to her.’

‘I said to her, “how do I know Dirk’s not his?”’

‘You didn’t! Martin, for God’s sake…’

He drained his mug and reached for the wine bottle again.

‘Do you honestly think,’ said Robin, unaware that she was paraphrasing what Strike had said to Bijou Watkins not so long ago, ‘she’d be having sex with an old boyfriend in your flat, six weeks after she’s given birth?’

‘She’s always fucking talking about him!’ said Martin furiously. ‘Fucking dickhead. Got his own business. Know what it’s called? Excalibur,’ said Martin, with so much contempt Robin had to fight not to smile.

‘What kind of business is it?’

‘Skip hire.’

In spite of her best efforts, Robin burst out laughing. It was a release and a relief; she had difficulty stopping.

‘He’s coining it in,’ said Martin bitterly, over Robin’s gasps of laughter. ‘Skips all over Yorkshire, he’s cornered the fucking market. Fucking Excalibur – and he puts the sword on everything, the side of the skips and on his fucking employees’ overalls. Surprised he didn’t make Carmen tattoo it on her arse.’

Robin fought her laughter back down and said,

‘I’m sorry – sorry, but you can’t say it’s not funny. “Excalibur Skip Hire”.’

A reluctant grin flickered on Martin’s face, but he said,

‘He’s a fucking twat. Him and Carmen used to play Dungeons & Dragons together and all that fucking shit. I’ve been round his house, with Carmen, he was having a party – showing her what she could’ve had, if they hadn’t split up. Fucking widescreen telly and a home gym. He’s put the fucking logo on all his stuff at home! On fucking cushions – he hires out skips for a living and he thinks he’s – who owned Excalibur?’

‘King Arthur,’ said Robin, still fighting a desire to laugh.

‘Him, yeah,’ said Martin, and he downed his second mug of wine. ‘Flexing his fucking biceps at her. Swords on his T-shirts and his fucking weights. Fucking arsehole.’

‘He sounds an idiot,’ said Robin.

‘He is,’ said Martin, who seemed to find some consolation in this comment. ‘Yeah.’

But Robin understood why, whatever the man’s personal absurdities, he’d aggravate her brother’s latent insecurities. Martin had neither savings nor property, and had never stuck with jobs, or indeed anything that required sustained hard work.

‘Mart,’ said Robin gently, ‘are you sure you’re not imagining this?’

‘Why did she chuck me out?’ demanded Martin, with characteristic lack of logic.

‘Maybe because you kicked your son’s present out of the window and accused her of shagging a skip hire-outer who thinks he’s King Arthur,’ suggested Robin, which surprised a reluctant snort out of her brother.

It was odd to sit here with Martin and realise that he’d chosen to come to her, rather than any other member of the family. Possibly he’d simply flown to the furthest spare bed he thought he could get, but Robin couldn’t escape the not particularly flattering suspicion that he saw her as more of a kindred spirit than he’d ever done before, pursuing a strange, intermittently dangerous career of which their mother disapproved, with a failed marriage behind her, and her house-buying on hold, unlike happily married father-of-two Stephen, and Jonathan the graduate, with his conventional new job in brand management. But then Robin remembered a very drunk Martin taking a swing at her ex-husband, on their wedding day, and she laughed again.

‘Just remembering you nearly thumping Matthew.’

‘Ah,’ said Martin, and he grinned properly this time. ‘He’s a real fucking tosser.’

‘He is,’ Robin agreed. ‘Not as big a tosser as the bloke you’re worried about, though. Listen… I think you should call Carmen and apologise.’

‘I’m not fucking—’

‘I really don’t think she’s done anything wrong, Martin.’

Robin knew her brother too well to press him; he was incurably contrarian and would do the right thing in his own time, or not at all. She got up from the sofa.

‘I’ll make us something to eat.’

She’d just opened her fridge to scan the paltry contents when, struck by a sudden thought, she returned to the sitting room.

‘Mart, did you just say that Excalibur man put the logo on his weights?’

‘Yeah, he puts it on fucking everything,’ said Martin.

‘You can put custom designs on weights?’

‘If you’re the kind of prick who likes that sort of thing. Why?’

‘No reason,’ said Robin. She returned to the kitchen.

113

And so it was fated that, one day, after patiently picking round a great piece of rock till it was loosened from its ages-old bed, he felt it tremble under his hand, and leaning his weight against it, it disappeared into space beyond.

John Oxenham

A Maid of the Silver Sea