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Authors: Chris Collett
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the door shut with his foot, she was dragging off his jacket and pulling open his shirt.
âJust not too much noise,â she hissed into his ear. âI donât want to have to answer any awkward questions in the morning.â
In the event, noise was the last thing they had to worry about. Things were going fine until Mariner reached for the condom. In that instant of a pause he suddenly, for no reason, saw Annaâs face looking straight at him, and immediately the key part of his anatomy changed its mind. For several moments he tried frantically to remedy the situation, but after a while it became obvious that it wasnât going to work, and the mood, if there was one, had gone. The room went horribly quiet. âSorry,â he said, breathlessly. He was about to add âthis has never happened beforeâ but that wouldnât have been strictly accurate. It was just that it hadnât happened in a while. And what would she care about that anyway?
âItâs all right,â she sighed, making it sound anything but. âYou donât have to explain. It happens, I know.â
To old codgers like you. â
Too much booze I expect.â
Being patronized didnât make it any better. âIs there anything I can â¦?â
âNo, itâs fine.â Somehow she wriggled out from beneath him. They hadnât turned on the light and now, frozen with shame, Mariner lay on the bed listening while she pulled her clothes back on, and without another word, let herself out of the room. Then he muttered one single, bitter expletive.
For the rest of the night, Mariner slept fitfully in the bed that was too soft and giving, reliving his humiliation. The rich food lay heavy in his stomach and his dreams were vivid and bizarre. At one point he watched while Anna, sitting up in her coffin, led the congregation in a chorus of âAlways look on the bright side of lifeâ
as a rampant gunman (who rather bizarrely assumed the physical appearance of a desk sergeant at Granville Lane police station) approached her, grinning maniacally, a twelve-bore shotgun poised.
NINE
Day Three
M cGinley had spent a restless night on a bed swaddled by cold and very possibly damp linen, with the all too familiar nagging pain in his side. Even fully clothed and with all the blankets he could find piled on top of him heâd shivered throughout the night, and for the first time he allowed himself the thought that the game might be up already and that he would fail to complete. Ironic that after all the effort heâd put into creating an elaborate decoy, his plans might be thwarted, not by the police, but by his own physical shortcomings. As he came round he found the place smelled weirdly of his dad â old cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave â and McGinley was disturbed by the strength of the recollections that came on him with force; each stage of his life worse than before, until events had finally spiralled out of control.
Taking his medication, the milk he washed it down with was out of his dadâs old Everton mug. If the old man had lived longer perhaps eventually McGinley would have been old enough to go to matches with him and get to know him. As it was he had very few memories of his dad, and over the years they had been distorted by time and interpretation. William McGinley hadnât been much of a family man. Even when theyâd come here on holiday heâd spent most of his time fishing alone on the beach or down at the pub, coming back late at night and roaring drunk and sometimes abusive. He hadnât deserved to die the way he had, but there was a certain irony that his twin passions of football and booze had been what combined to finish him off. He followed Everton everywhere, although Ma always reckoned the football was only an excuse for the drink. It was after a scuffle in a pub, following an away match against Aston Villa and whilst resisting arrest, that
âJust not too much noise,â she hissed into his ear. âI donât want to have to answer any awkward questions in the morning.â
In the event, noise was the last thing they had to worry about. Things were going fine until Mariner reached for the condom. In that instant of a pause he suddenly, for no reason, saw Annaâs face looking straight at him, and immediately the key part of his anatomy changed its mind. For several moments he tried frantically to remedy the situation, but after a while it became obvious that it wasnât going to work, and the mood, if there was one, had gone. The room went horribly quiet. âSorry,â he said, breathlessly. He was about to add âthis has never happened beforeâ but that wouldnât have been strictly accurate. It was just that it hadnât happened in a while. And what would she care about that anyway?
âItâs all right,â she sighed, making it sound anything but. âYou donât have to explain. It happens, I know.â
To old codgers like you. â
Too much booze I expect.â
Being patronized didnât make it any better. âIs there anything I can â¦?â
âNo, itâs fine.â Somehow she wriggled out from beneath him. They hadnât turned on the light and now, frozen with shame, Mariner lay on the bed listening while she pulled her clothes back on, and without another word, let herself out of the room. Then he muttered one single, bitter expletive.
For the rest of the night, Mariner slept fitfully in the bed that was too soft and giving, reliving his humiliation. The rich food lay heavy in his stomach and his dreams were vivid and bizarre. At one point he watched while Anna, sitting up in her coffin, led the congregation in a chorus of âAlways look on the bright side of lifeâ
as a rampant gunman (who rather bizarrely assumed the physical appearance of a desk sergeant at Granville Lane police station) approached her, grinning maniacally, a twelve-bore shotgun poised.
NINE
Day Three
M cGinley had spent a restless night on a bed swaddled by cold and very possibly damp linen, with the all too familiar nagging pain in his side. Even fully clothed and with all the blankets he could find piled on top of him heâd shivered throughout the night, and for the first time he allowed himself the thought that the game might be up already and that he would fail to complete. Ironic that after all the effort heâd put into creating an elaborate decoy, his plans might be thwarted, not by the police, but by his own physical shortcomings. As he came round he found the place smelled weirdly of his dad â old cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave â and McGinley was disturbed by the strength of the recollections that came on him with force; each stage of his life worse than before, until events had finally spiralled out of control.
Taking his medication, the milk he washed it down with was out of his dadâs old Everton mug. If the old man had lived longer perhaps eventually McGinley would have been old enough to go to matches with him and get to know him. As it was he had very few memories of his dad, and over the years they had been distorted by time and interpretation. William McGinley hadnât been much of a family man. Even when theyâd come here on holiday heâd spent most of his time fishing alone on the beach or down at the pub, coming back late at night and roaring drunk and sometimes abusive. He hadnât deserved to die the way he had, but there was a certain irony that his twin passions of football and booze had been what combined to finish him off. He followed Everton everywhere, although Ma always reckoned the football was only an excuse for the drink. It was after a scuffle in a pub, following an away match against Aston Villa and whilst resisting arrest, that
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