SIX
KATE
We walk together through yet another shower, along the cobbled streets and past the pretty painted houses. The third time my case gets stuck in a rut, Brody makes an exasperated noise and takes it from me without asking. He hoists it up to his chest like it weighs nothing, and pulls his own along at his side. He really is quite the bossy-boots when it comes to luggage, it seems.
I consider objecting, and asserting that I am a strong independent woman who can carry her own baggage. But maybe part of being a strong independent woman is knowing when to accept help. Not that I’d know, really, as the only one of those words that really applies to me right now is ‘woman’. The rest is a work in progress. Besides, I’m too distracted actually to be at all offended. I’d sounded positive as I’d looked around the bookshop, but the state of it, the news about Moira… it was all quite sad, and I’m trying hard not to be sad too.
We walk into the Kestrel, and it is everything you think of when you imagine an old-fashioned inn. Whitewashed stone on the outside, cosy to the max on the inside, with rustic decor and a huge ancient-looking hearth. It’s warm and safe and most of all dry, and I’m flooded with relief to be somewhere so nice. I didmy best to be upbeat in the bookshop, but it was so neglected, so abandoned, that it was hard not to identify with it.
We find a corner booth, Brody dumps the cases, and turns to me with a questioning look on his face. I have no idea what he wants, and stare at him in confusion.
‘Well? What do you want to drink?’ he asks. I can almost hear the silent ‘you bloody half-wit’ added on at the end.
‘Oh! Umm, I’m not sure…’
His nostrils flare slightly, and I suspect I’m giving him a headache. It’s my superpower.
‘I’ll have whatever you’re having,’ I tag on.
He heads to the bar, and I peel my wet coat off. I settle gratefully down into the comfort of the velvety-soft seat, and realise I’m so tired I could fall right asleep this very second.
I rub my bleary eyes, lulled by the heat of the room and the temporary sense of sanctuary. This is the kind of place that fishermen and smugglers would have come, celebrating victory over the seas with ale and a pie. A pie… gosh, that sounds nice. I haven’t eaten since I set off this morning. Which now feels like approximately seven years ago.
Brody sits down opposite me, and places two pints of Guinness down on the table top. Uggh. Guinness is disgusting – or at least it was the one and only time I tried it. But this is what happens when you say stupid things like ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having’ to a man like Brody.
I thank him and take a tiny sip, just as my tummy lets out the world’s loudest gurgle. I close my eyes and try to ignore it, hoping he’ll do the same. Instead, he raises one eyebrow, lets out a sigh, and goes back to the bar. He returns with an armful of crisps, peanuts and a Snickers.
‘Here,’ he says, pushing the stash towards me. ‘Candy and chips. Dinner of champions. Now eat, for Christ’s sake.’
I want to say no, but the lure of the chocolate is too strong. I’m only flesh and blood. I unwrap it, and take a tiny, deeply satisfying bite. It’s so good I feel like I could re-enact the orgasm scene fromWhen Harry Met Sally. I’d love to see the look on his stern, battered face if I did.
‘Has anybody ever told you,’ I say between nibbles, ‘that you’re a very domineering person?’
‘Yeah, funnily enough, they have. Occupational hazard I guess.’
‘Why – what’s your occupation?’
It’s a simple enough question, but he looks momentarily confused, like he’s trying to puzzle it out.
‘You look how I feel when I watchUniversity Challenge.’
He frowns, and I explain: ‘It’s a quiz show where people from different universities compete to see who knows the most about particle physics and obscure operas.’
‘Are there any other kind of operas? And yeah, we have our own version, calledCollege Bowl. I used to watch it with my daughter, and she’d whup my ass every single episode. Except for one time when there was a whole round on Bruce Springsteen songs, and I showed her?—’
‘Who was the Boss?’
He laughs, for the first time since we met. It’s a good laugh, deep and full, with an undertone of growl. Like a grizzly bear guffawing at an especially good joke.
‘Exactly. And to answer your question, I was a cop, for thirty years.’
‘Good Lord, how old are you?’
I realise a second too late that maybe that wasn’t tactful, but he doesn’t seem bothered. He just shrugs, and says: ‘Fifty-one. Too old to carry on, too young to give up. I’m kinda in between gigs right now.’
He keeps his tone even, but I can sense the pain beneath the words. Being a cop isn’t like working as an office temp, I’d guess. It’s a vocation, a career that probably eats you whole and becomes part of your identity. What must it be like to give that up after three decades of commitment?
‘And you have a daughter?’ I prod as silence falls between us.
