Read Online The Last Refuge by Craig Robertson - Free Book Online
Authors: Craig Robertson
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told me that I was a fucking idiot and I was lucky he hadn’t killed me. He said he would have gone to jail and I would have gone to hell. He was half right, I think. And he told me that I would have been dead for sure if it wasn’t for you. He said you saved my life.’
I said nothing, as I’d already known all of that. It was what I was less sure of that bothered me. And I both wanted and dreaded to hear it from him.
Barthel straightened up as if ready to make an official pronouncement and extended his arm towards me. I stretched out my own hand and he took it and shook it forcefully.
‘Thank you. Thank you for saving my life.’
‘You’re welcome. Will you be okay getting yourself home from here?’
He smiled and tapped a finger at his forehead. ‘I will.’
‘Okay then.’
The man turned away, wheeling on unsteady legs and walking a couple of paces before stopping in his tracks. He turned painfully and faced me.
‘Oh and Mr Callum . . .’
I breathed deep. ‘Yes?’
‘ I know who you are .’
Chapter 11
‘Whisky?’
His near-death experience seemed to have sobered Barthel up and he was intent, clearly, on changing the situation. The bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue he was brandishing was 80-proof of that.
We were in the main room of his house, a red-walled building topped with a green roof just off Skiparagøta. The apartment was a shrine to a lost world of rock. Framed concert and festival posters were dotted across the walls: The Who at K. B. Hallen, Copenhagen, in 1972; the Rolling Stones in Cologne in 1973; the Stones again in the Olympiahalle, Munich, in 1976; Radiohead at Glastonbury, 1997; Nirvana in New York City, 1993. A large white bookcase stood against the far wall, but it didn’t hold a single book; instead album covers were placed on it, looking out like favourite paintings: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Pearl Jam, Jimi Hendrix, Bad Company, Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Books were piled on the floor to make room for the album display. Biographies, roadies’ tales, photographic memoirs, chart listings. Anything and everything the rock junkie might need for his fix. A computer sat in one corner with more books piled beside it. In pride of place on a pristine white table sat a small but powerful looking CD player, which on closer inspection turned out to be a Krell Cipher and probably cost as much as the house.
‘Just a small one,’ I told him, having little doubt that what Barthel regarded as a standard whisky measure would fill the glass.
‘Water?’ The question was loaded with judgement and it was obvious which answer he would approve of.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Good. Water is for fishing and bathing. You know what W. C. Fields said about it, right?’
I nodded. ‘Don’t drink the stuff, fish fuck in it.’
Barthel laughed as if he’d never heard the line before. ‘That’s it. That’s it. Fish fuck in it. When people ask me what I take in whisky, I say “more whisky”. The more the merrier, right?’
I wasn’t entirely sure that was going to be true, given the amount he’d poured into the glass. The liquid gold winked at me through the crystal, promising good times and a price to be paid.
‘Did you go to all those gigs?’ I nodded towards the posters.
‘Sure. And others. Cost me a fortune, but it’s my thing. Are you into music?’
I took the glass of whisky he offered me and chinked it against his own glass. ‘Yeah. But not as much as you, I’d say.’
Barthel shrugged and moved the glass to his mouth, before hesitating when almost there. ‘A toast. To lives lost and lives saved.’
All I could do was stare back at him before filling the silence and my mouth with Johnnie Walker. I let it swirl round, bathing my tongue and tonsils in escape. Only once I’d swallowed it did I raise my glass in silent agreement to the toast.
‘So, do you go to the G! Festival at Gøta?’ I asked.
He knew I was changing the subject but he let it go. ‘Of course. I’ve been every year
I said nothing, as I’d already known all of that. It was what I was less sure of that bothered me. And I both wanted and dreaded to hear it from him.
Barthel straightened up as if ready to make an official pronouncement and extended his arm towards me. I stretched out my own hand and he took it and shook it forcefully.
‘Thank you. Thank you for saving my life.’
‘You’re welcome. Will you be okay getting yourself home from here?’
He smiled and tapped a finger at his forehead. ‘I will.’
‘Okay then.’
The man turned away, wheeling on unsteady legs and walking a couple of paces before stopping in his tracks. He turned painfully and faced me.
‘Oh and Mr Callum . . .’
I breathed deep. ‘Yes?’
‘ I know who you are .’
Chapter 11
‘Whisky?’
His near-death experience seemed to have sobered Barthel up and he was intent, clearly, on changing the situation. The bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue he was brandishing was 80-proof of that.
We were in the main room of his house, a red-walled building topped with a green roof just off Skiparagøta. The apartment was a shrine to a lost world of rock. Framed concert and festival posters were dotted across the walls: The Who at K. B. Hallen, Copenhagen, in 1972; the Rolling Stones in Cologne in 1973; the Stones again in the Olympiahalle, Munich, in 1976; Radiohead at Glastonbury, 1997; Nirvana in New York City, 1993. A large white bookcase stood against the far wall, but it didn’t hold a single book; instead album covers were placed on it, looking out like favourite paintings: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Pearl Jam, Jimi Hendrix, Bad Company, Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Books were piled on the floor to make room for the album display. Biographies, roadies’ tales, photographic memoirs, chart listings. Anything and everything the rock junkie might need for his fix. A computer sat in one corner with more books piled beside it. In pride of place on a pristine white table sat a small but powerful looking CD player, which on closer inspection turned out to be a Krell Cipher and probably cost as much as the house.
‘Just a small one,’ I told him, having little doubt that what Barthel regarded as a standard whisky measure would fill the glass.
‘Water?’ The question was loaded with judgement and it was obvious which answer he would approve of.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Good. Water is for fishing and bathing. You know what W. C. Fields said about it, right?’
I nodded. ‘Don’t drink the stuff, fish fuck in it.’
Barthel laughed as if he’d never heard the line before. ‘That’s it. That’s it. Fish fuck in it. When people ask me what I take in whisky, I say “more whisky”. The more the merrier, right?’
I wasn’t entirely sure that was going to be true, given the amount he’d poured into the glass. The liquid gold winked at me through the crystal, promising good times and a price to be paid.
‘Did you go to all those gigs?’ I nodded towards the posters.
‘Sure. And others. Cost me a fortune, but it’s my thing. Are you into music?’
I took the glass of whisky he offered me and chinked it against his own glass. ‘Yeah. But not as much as you, I’d say.’
Barthel shrugged and moved the glass to his mouth, before hesitating when almost there. ‘A toast. To lives lost and lives saved.’
All I could do was stare back at him before filling the silence and my mouth with Johnnie Walker. I let it swirl round, bathing my tongue and tonsils in escape. Only once I’d swallowed it did I raise my glass in silent agreement to the toast.
‘So, do you go to the G! Festival at Gøta?’ I asked.
He knew I was changing the subject but he let it go. ‘Of course. I’ve been every year
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