Leaving Home

                         LEAVING HOME

How much can a man take before he breaks apart from the inside? He was looking out of the train window to try to calm himself- he’d just read that line in a newspaper’s book review. The three concrete Camden slabs each with its own primary colour roof- one red, one blue, one yellow- were passing by. They were a famous sight, the first out of Euston, council blocks, though since Maggie some would be owner-occupied and many more let out. So much for reducing the housing benefit bill.

Somehow it comforted him to dwell on macro messes that took his mind off his own very personal problems. He looked at the young woman opposite him. He had grown to like her, her face both kind and pretty, her self-assurance, her seeming competence. And somehow familiar not just from now but back in time, somewhere along the line. He almost smiled at the appropriateness of the expression.

Now the train was passing South Hampstead station. These were places that meant something to him, places he might never see again. Ever. That one-word inner sentence helped reinforce the immensity of the situation. He’d grown up in Chalk Farm near the Canal, spent teenage years in Dingwall’s listening to heroes like Bo Diddley and Dr John. Now Chester beckoned.

“It’ll work out fine” she said with a reassuring smile.

That was also a line from an old song he reckoned- oh yes, Ike and Tina. She said things and people believed her. She and her crew had done well by him; he had to acknowledge that. The pub on the outskirts of Chester. They sorted it all out with the brewery, with the council, with the police. Well they would do that one wouldn’t they. There was accommodation above, there were staff, everything apart from the old governor who’d retired.

But still…..

“Old mates. You miss them.”

“I know”, she cooed “There’ll be new ones. New ladies in your life. Pub governors have them on a plate.”

She smiled at him. What she’d said sounded almost mannish, blokish cynicism. He guessed the job had made her like that.

“Don’t remind me,” he answered

His wife had been one of his customers. She wasn’t a bad girl, not really, but she had a big family and divided loyalties. They were villains, of that there was no doubt. One night there’d been a hold-up. Masked men with nothing really to identify them. His wife had been reassuring. Too much so. He’d been mystified at first but then the truth had become more and more evident. Don’t worry, she’d said, it’s not your place, and the brewery can claim on the insurance. But that didn’t seem right to him.

Somehow the police got close to the truth but not quite close enough. Yes the wife’s lot were villains, but they were way across London and pub hold-ups weren’t their style. They just drank there sometimes, gulping down the profits.

He looked across at DS Hennessy, or Becca as she’d got him to call her. That feeling again that he’d known her before. Perhaps not; perhaps she’d just grown on him too quickly, making it seem she’d always been around. Fancying your witness protection officer. How absurd.

The police had started to lean on both him and his wife. They seemed sure by then it was an inside job. Perhaps he could live with the brewery’s insurance premium going sky-high but going to chokey was another thing altogether. His wife said they could plead duress. He wasn't so sure, and he wasn't family.  

It was hard to think straight through it all. The raid itself had been unnecessarily frightening. Some young scumbag shooting up the ceiling. Even his wife didn’t know who he was.

“I’m not sure I want another pub”.

“Come on. It’s the best way for you to start off again.”

“That raid. It was awful.”

“I know.”

“You weren’t there….”

He stopped. He looked at her for longer now. They got really busy at the pub sometimes- weekends, big football matches. They came to need more staff. They used an agency. He thought back, more carefully this time. There’d be one there for a while. He’d liked her.

“You were there weren’t you. You called yourself Jackie.”

She nodded, a small smile that didn’t entirely fill her face. The trolley was passing. She waved it away.

“No”, he said, “Please, I need a coffee”.

“A coffee”, she said to the white coat with the trolley.

“Milk, sugar?”

“Just sugar. Lots of it”.

His heart was racing. Coffee was a silly choice but he needed something. The train was pulling into Tamworth station.

“I was born here you know”, she said.

He didn’t believe her for one minute. It was the sort of thing she said to normalise situations. To put people at their ease. To change the subject. But it wasn’t going to work this time.

“Get back to that night. I had nightmares about that young fellow. How do you cope with something like that.”

“He was my DC”.

“He was WHAT?”

“We were investigating your wife’s brothers. I was there to see what went through the pub. Derek was working on the gang.”

“Jesus”. He looked out of the window again, trying to distance himself. Nice green fields. A village with a church on a hill. A country lane wending its way there. Nice. Peaceful. Not like all this.

“I don’t believe it,” he said.

“Why not? We do that all the time”.

“No it’s not that. It’s what my wife told me. They only did our pub to test out that young fella. And they were impressed.”

“We are pretty good at what we do.”

“Isn’t shooting holes in a ceiling going a bit far?”

“Yes, although they were blanks. But I had him on the carpet for that”.

She looked at him almost teasingly.

“Metaphorically of course”

Her manner could well have turned him on if he hadn’t been so strung out with it all.

“There was to be a disciplinary hearing but he scarpered. Couldn’t find him. That’s why we needed you.”

He sighed at the capriciousness of it all.

“This train will shortly be arriving at Crewe. If departing from the train make sure you take all your belongings with you”.

“I’ll just go and have a leak. They don’t like you doing it when the train’s at a station”

Once upon a time at least.

He got up from his seat. Becca took no obvious notice. The train slowed down as it approached Crewe. It stopped. Casually she looked out of the window. She saw an agitated man looking in all directions. Then he was obscured by a train, a train bound for London. She jumped up and quickly reached for some luggage on the rack. But her train was now on the move.

“Oh for fuck’s sake”.

Maybe it was meant to be said under her breath. But quite a few people turned round to look.