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Authors: Kerry Wilkinson
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reached into his dressing gown pocket and plucked out a crinkled
packet of cigarettes, offering it to Andrew.
‘Want one?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
He stretched across to the cooker, fiddling with the knobs on the front until the smell of something burning started to fill the kitchen. When the sizzling began, he pressed his cigarette to the
front ring, waited for it to spark, and then turned the cooker off again.
Joe’s face was even thinner than Fiona’s, the skin on his cheeks sucked in between the bones, with a succession of razor nicks sprinkling his chin alongside a spread of uneven
pepperpot stubble.
He nodded towards a single chipped mug on the draining board, which was propping up a lonesome plate. His voice had a sandpaper-chewing quality to it. ‘I’d offer you a brew but . .
.’
‘It’s okay. I wanted to talk to you about Luke.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m a private investigator. Luke’s daughter came to me, wanting me to prove it wasn’t him who shot those kids.’
Andrew hoped for a reaction but there was nothing other than a puff of smoke that disappeared towards the ceiling.
‘How’s she doing?’ Joe croaked.
‘Not well.’
Joe nodded. ‘She’s a good kid – came down to say hello to her dad a few times. Tried to get him away but Luke was Luke. Bloody stubborn.’
‘How well did you know him?’
Another puff, another shrug. Joe’s voice was getting lower the more he smoked. ‘Dunno.’
‘I heard you were his best friend on the street.’
‘I s’pose.’
‘What was he like?’
‘A’ight.’
‘Just all right?’
‘Aye.’
Andrew paused – this was like a bad date: one-word replies, nothing in common and no sex at the end. He needed a reaction.
‘Tell me about Kal Evans.’
Joe held the cigarette in his mouth, sucking deeply until he coughed slightly. The accompanying puff of smoke dribbled from his nostrils and corners of his mouth as he winced.
‘He’s a bad man.’
‘He’s also in prison – he can’t do anything to anyone now.’
‘Don’t wanna talk ‘bout him.’
‘Did Luke know him?’
Joe’s head shrunk into his dressing gown as he focused on the ashtray, splattering the remains of his cigarette into it. ‘Luke was my friend. We’d sit and talk.’
‘What about?’
‘Things. He didn’t like talking ‘bout the army so we’d go on ‘bout being kids; ‘bout our kids.’ He twirled his hand to indicate the room.
‘It’s different now I’ve got this.’
‘No alcohol?’
Joe snorted a pained laugh. ‘Right – just coffee, fags and daytime TV.’
‘Sounds like being a student.’
Joe laughed properly this time, sending a spray of saliva across the table but seemingly not noticing. His eyes screwed into tiny dots, with the too-loose skin around his sockets sagging
limply.
‘Were you ever a student?’ Andrew asked.
‘Aye, they were the days.’
‘So tell me about Luke.’
A sigh, shuffle and crotch-rub before, finally, eye contact. ‘You need a pal on the street, someone to keep an eye out for you. We’d sleep in shifts: I’d have a couple of
hours, then he would. Because of his jacket, he used to get more money and food but he’d always share.’
‘His army jacket?’
‘It’s a symbol of respect, innit? That you’ve done your bit for the country. I was just some tramp on the street – he was the ex-army guy.’
‘I need you to tell me about Kal Evans.’
Joe began rifling through his pockets again, yanking out another cigarette and reaching for the cooker.
‘Joe . . .’
‘What?’
‘Kal Evans. The police connected him to Luke Methodist because they said Luke owed drugs money. They must’ve got that from somewhere. Did you tell them that?’
‘No.’
‘So who did?’
As the smell of burning filled the kitchen again, Joe stretched his cigarette towards the cooker’s hot ring. Andrew saw everything in slow motion as the chair leg scraped across the floor,
ripping the cheap lino and
packet of cigarettes, offering it to Andrew.
‘Want one?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
He stretched across to the cooker, fiddling with the knobs on the front until the smell of something burning started to fill the kitchen. When the sizzling began, he pressed his cigarette to the
front ring, waited for it to spark, and then turned the cooker off again.
Joe’s face was even thinner than Fiona’s, the skin on his cheeks sucked in between the bones, with a succession of razor nicks sprinkling his chin alongside a spread of uneven
pepperpot stubble.
He nodded towards a single chipped mug on the draining board, which was propping up a lonesome plate. His voice had a sandpaper-chewing quality to it. ‘I’d offer you a brew but . .
.’
‘It’s okay. I wanted to talk to you about Luke.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m a private investigator. Luke’s daughter came to me, wanting me to prove it wasn’t him who shot those kids.’
Andrew hoped for a reaction but there was nothing other than a puff of smoke that disappeared towards the ceiling.
‘How’s she doing?’ Joe croaked.
‘Not well.’
Joe nodded. ‘She’s a good kid – came down to say hello to her dad a few times. Tried to get him away but Luke was Luke. Bloody stubborn.’
‘How well did you know him?’
Another puff, another shrug. Joe’s voice was getting lower the more he smoked. ‘Dunno.’
‘I heard you were his best friend on the street.’
‘I s’pose.’
‘What was he like?’
‘A’ight.’
‘Just all right?’
‘Aye.’
Andrew paused – this was like a bad date: one-word replies, nothing in common and no sex at the end. He needed a reaction.
‘Tell me about Kal Evans.’
Joe held the cigarette in his mouth, sucking deeply until he coughed slightly. The accompanying puff of smoke dribbled from his nostrils and corners of his mouth as he winced.
‘He’s a bad man.’
‘He’s also in prison – he can’t do anything to anyone now.’
‘Don’t wanna talk ‘bout him.’
‘Did Luke know him?’
Joe’s head shrunk into his dressing gown as he focused on the ashtray, splattering the remains of his cigarette into it. ‘Luke was my friend. We’d sit and talk.’
‘What about?’
‘Things. He didn’t like talking ‘bout the army so we’d go on ‘bout being kids; ‘bout our kids.’ He twirled his hand to indicate the room.
‘It’s different now I’ve got this.’
‘No alcohol?’
Joe snorted a pained laugh. ‘Right – just coffee, fags and daytime TV.’
‘Sounds like being a student.’
Joe laughed properly this time, sending a spray of saliva across the table but seemingly not noticing. His eyes screwed into tiny dots, with the too-loose skin around his sockets sagging
limply.
‘Were you ever a student?’ Andrew asked.
‘Aye, they were the days.’
‘So tell me about Luke.’
A sigh, shuffle and crotch-rub before, finally, eye contact. ‘You need a pal on the street, someone to keep an eye out for you. We’d sleep in shifts: I’d have a couple of
hours, then he would. Because of his jacket, he used to get more money and food but he’d always share.’
‘His army jacket?’
‘It’s a symbol of respect, innit? That you’ve done your bit for the country. I was just some tramp on the street – he was the ex-army guy.’
‘I need you to tell me about Kal Evans.’
Joe began rifling through his pockets again, yanking out another cigarette and reaching for the cooker.
‘Joe . . .’
‘What?’
‘Kal Evans. The police connected him to Luke Methodist because they said Luke owed drugs money. They must’ve got that from somewhere. Did you tell them that?’
‘No.’
‘So who did?’
As the smell of burning filled the kitchen again, Joe stretched his cigarette towards the cooker’s hot ring. Andrew saw everything in slow motion as the chair leg scraped across the floor,
ripping the cheap lino and
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