“We are birds of a feather, Bogdan,” she says, thinking she must call Austin. He’ll know what to do with all this.
She looks down toward the lights of the village. Mostly off now, but Ibrahim’s light is shining bright. He’ll be working away. Good man.
She looks back at Bogdan, shoveling earth into the grave, covered in dirt and sweating in the moonlight. Sliding a broken coffin lid back over one body while carefully avoiding disturbing another body. She thinks this is absolutely the sort of son she would like to have had.
66.
They are bang at it all the time,” says Ron. “Always have been. Whatever it is, the Catholic Church will have a piece of it.”
“Even so,” says Ibrahim.
Ibrahim and Ron are discussing who might have murdered Ian Ventham. They are working their way through the list of thirty names, weighing up the possibilities. It is just the boys this evening. Joyce has Joanna staying, and Elizabeth was nowhere to be found. Which at this time of the evening was suspicious, but they have chosen to carry on regardless.
Ron is insisting on marking everyone on a scale of one to ten, and the more whisky he drinks, the higher his scores are climbing. Maureen from Larkin had just scored a seven, largely because she had once pushed in front of Ron at dinner, which “spoke a thousand words.”
“Father Mackie’s our first ten, Ibbsy; write it down. Top of the list. He’ll have something buried up in one of the graves. Guaranteed, nailed on. Gold, or a body, or porn. All three, knowing that lot. He’s worried they’ll dig it up.”
“Seems unlikely, Ron,” says Ibrahim.
“Well, you know what Sherlock Holmes said, old son. If you don’t know who did it, then... something or other.”
“Indeed, wise words,” says Ibrahim. “And Father Mackie wouldn’t just have dug it up himself, Ron? At some point? To save himself the worry?”
“Lost his spade, I dunno. Mark my words, though,” says Ron, those very words beginning to slur gently and warmly. Late nights, whisky, something to solve, this was the life. “It’s a ten from me.”
“This is notStrictly Come Poisoning, Ron.” Ibrahim strongly disagrees with Ron’s marking system, but writes “10” next to Father Mackie’s name.As it happens, Ibrahim also strongly disagrees with theStrictly Come Dancingscoring system, believing it gives too much weight to the public vote compared with the judges’ scores. He once wrote a letter to this effect to the BBC and received a friendly but noncommittal reply. He looks at the next name on the list.
“Bernard Cottle, Ron. What do we think there?”
“Another of the big guns for me.” The ice in Ron’s whisky chimes as he gestures with his glass. “See how he was that morning?”
“He has become increasingly agitated, I agree.”
“And we know he sits up there a lot, on that bench, like he’s marking his territory,” says Ron. “Used to sit there with his wife, didn’t he? So that’s where he gets his peace, innit? You can’t take that away from a man, especially our age. Too much change don’t sit right.”
Ibrahim nods. “Too much change, yes. There comes a time when progress is only for other people.”
For Ibrahim one of the beauties of Coopers Chase was that it was so alive. So full of ridiculous committees and ridiculous politics, so full of arguments, of fun, and of gossip. All the new arrivals, each one subtly shifting the dynamic. All the farewells too, reminding you that this was a place that could never stay the same. It was a community, and in Ibrahim’s opinion that was how human beings were designed to live. At Coopers Chase, anytime you wanted to be alone, you would simply close your front door, and anytime you wanted to be with people, you would open it up again. If there was a better recipe for happiness than that, then Ibrahim was yet to hear it. But Bernard had lost his wife, and showed no signs of finding a way through his grief. And so he needed to sit on Fairhaven Pier, or on a bench on a hill, and nobody ever needed to ask why.
“Where is your place, Ron?” asks Ibrahim. “Where do you find your peace?”
Ron purses his lips and chuckles. “If you’d asked me a question like that a couple of years ago I’d have laughed and left, wouldn’t I?”
“You would,” agrees Ibrahim. “I have successfully changed you.”
“I think,” starts Ron, face alert, eyes alive. “I think...” Ibrahim sees Ron’s face relax as he decides to just let the truth come out, rather than think. “Honestly? I’m flicking through it all in my head, all the things you’re supposed to say. But listen. It might be here in this chair, with my mate, drinking his whisky, dark outside, with something to talk about.”
Ibrahim knots his hands together and lets Ron talk.
“Just think of everyone who isn’t here, Ibbsy. Every bugger who didn’t make it. And here we are, a boy from Egypt and a boy from Kent, and we made it through it all, and then someone in Scotland made us this whisky. That’s something, isn’t it? This is the place, isn’t it, old son? This is the place.”
Ibrahim nods and agrees. His place of peace is actually the wall of files directly behind him, but he doesn’t want to spoil the moment. Ron has stopped speaking, and Ibrahim can see he has gone somewhere very deep inside himself, lost to memories. Ibrahim knows to keep quiet, to let Ron go where he needs to go, think what he needs to think. Something Ibrahim has seen so many times over the years, with people in that very armchair. It is his favorite thing about his job. Seeing someone go deep inside themselves to access things they never knew were there. Ron tilts his head up; he is ready to talk again. Ibrahim leans forward, just a touch. Where has Ron just been?
“Do you think Bernard is banging Joyce, Ibbsy?” says Ron.
Ibrahim leans back, just a touch. “I haven’t really thought about it, Ron.”
“’Course you have; I know you have. Psychiatrist. I bet he is, lucky sod. All that cake and what have you. Could you still, you know, if you had to?” he asks.
