you wanted in a no-trumps hand.â
J didnât know what she was talking about, but he hadnât heard her talk about his mother that much, so was interested.
âShe was drunk,â Smurf continued. âI was drunk too, but I was right. But look what happens.â
She was becoming soft and whimsical now, girlish. J had never seen her like this, and wondered.
âYears go by,â she continued, âand then sheâs gone and I lose my only daughter because you canât play the joker when ever you want in a no-trumps hand.â
It sounded like some deeply wise thing, but J didnât have a clue what it meant.
âAnd I donât get to see you for years,â she said, returning her gaze to him. âAnd that made me sad.â
She looked sad. Was she sad, or was she thinking about something else?
âBut Iâm getting to see you now,â she chirped, rousing herself. âAll the time.â
J thought he understood, but it probably didnât matter. None of Smurf âs stories ever made much sense, not because they were dumb or confused, but because there always seemed to be something missing, some elusive piece of information that would make whatever she was saying clear; but they were never clear and they were about things only Smurf properly understood. Thatâs the way she was: even when she was telling you something personal and important, you could never be sure just exactly what she meant.
And that was the real point: she was the only one who really understood anything.
âOkay, stand up; letâs have a look at you,â she said, having reached some inner resolution about something. Taking the tie off and putting it over his head, she considered him. He was a big kid, tall and lanky, and towered over her when he stood. âSweet,â she said, looking up at him. She added, âHow do I look?â
âYou look good,â J answered politely.
âCorrect,â Smurf replied, pleased, and she reached up and put her hands over his head to draw him towards her. Pulling him close, she kissed him in the way heâd seen her kiss the others. âBeautiful boy,â she said warmly.
He didnât know why she did it, but it didnât feel right. And he wished he hadnât seen the way she swung her hips as she moved off afterwards.
The funeral was as sad and anonymous as funerals are. A bleak suburban church, one of those big halls full of empty pews most of the week and filled with a few ageing stragglers on Sunday. A cross to remind us of something.
The priest said a few things. Judge not lest ye should be judged âthat sort of thing. âVengeance is mine,â saith the Lord. It could have been worse.
Catherine was sitting on the other side of the church and couldnât bring herself to look at Smurf or any of them, she was so upset. She was going to lose the house, the car, the lotâall their dreams. Proceeds of criminal activities. The cops had found the money stashed in the ceiling and knocked it off, so she didnât even have that.
And so there she was with their little girl, her man lying in a wooden box with what was left of his head held together with tape and tissue paper. Hardly anyone else was there apart from the people she hated, because anybody decent enough to feel kindly towards them was too frightened to attend.
Pope went outside for some air and then just stood stock-still, paralysed, as the mental storm that was blowing up inside him swept him away. Pope never knew where he went in moments like this, couldnât remember where they took him or even that they happened. Smurf used to say they were his absences . The sound of Craig stepping out for a smoke snapped him back to life, or whatever this is.
The two of them gazed across the road at the cop car. One of the cops was on his mobile, giving a blow-by-blow description to whoever it was that was listening on the other end. Probably a bunch of
J didnât know what she was talking about, but he hadnât heard her talk about his mother that much, so was interested.
âShe was drunk,â Smurf continued. âI was drunk too, but I was right. But look what happens.â
She was becoming soft and whimsical now, girlish. J had never seen her like this, and wondered.
âYears go by,â she continued, âand then sheâs gone and I lose my only daughter because you canât play the joker when ever you want in a no-trumps hand.â
It sounded like some deeply wise thing, but J didnât have a clue what it meant.
âAnd I donât get to see you for years,â she said, returning her gaze to him. âAnd that made me sad.â
She looked sad. Was she sad, or was she thinking about something else?
âBut Iâm getting to see you now,â she chirped, rousing herself. âAll the time.â
J thought he understood, but it probably didnât matter. None of Smurf âs stories ever made much sense, not because they were dumb or confused, but because there always seemed to be something missing, some elusive piece of information that would make whatever she was saying clear; but they were never clear and they were about things only Smurf properly understood. Thatâs the way she was: even when she was telling you something personal and important, you could never be sure just exactly what she meant.
And that was the real point: she was the only one who really understood anything.
âOkay, stand up; letâs have a look at you,â she said, having reached some inner resolution about something. Taking the tie off and putting it over his head, she considered him. He was a big kid, tall and lanky, and towered over her when he stood. âSweet,â she said, looking up at him. She added, âHow do I look?â
âYou look good,â J answered politely.
âCorrect,â Smurf replied, pleased, and she reached up and put her hands over his head to draw him towards her. Pulling him close, she kissed him in the way heâd seen her kiss the others. âBeautiful boy,â she said warmly.
He didnât know why she did it, but it didnât feel right. And he wished he hadnât seen the way she swung her hips as she moved off afterwards.
The funeral was as sad and anonymous as funerals are. A bleak suburban church, one of those big halls full of empty pews most of the week and filled with a few ageing stragglers on Sunday. A cross to remind us of something.
The priest said a few things. Judge not lest ye should be judged âthat sort of thing. âVengeance is mine,â saith the Lord. It could have been worse.
Catherine was sitting on the other side of the church and couldnât bring herself to look at Smurf or any of them, she was so upset. She was going to lose the house, the car, the lotâall their dreams. Proceeds of criminal activities. The cops had found the money stashed in the ceiling and knocked it off, so she didnât even have that.
And so there she was with their little girl, her man lying in a wooden box with what was left of his head held together with tape and tissue paper. Hardly anyone else was there apart from the people she hated, because anybody decent enough to feel kindly towards them was too frightened to attend.
Pope went outside for some air and then just stood stock-still, paralysed, as the mental storm that was blowing up inside him swept him away. Pope never knew where he went in moments like this, couldnât remember where they took him or even that they happened. Smurf used to say they were his absences . The sound of Craig stepping out for a smoke snapped him back to life, or whatever this is.
The two of them gazed across the road at the cop car. One of the cops was on his mobile, giving a blow-by-blow description to whoever it was that was listening on the other end. Probably a bunch of
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