Authors: Iain Banks
On the other hand, the
Guardian
had done some digging on Lawson Brierley and found that he
did
have convictions for assault; two, in fact, one with a racial element. Not to mention having done time for fraud and embezzlement. Some of the other papers were sounding just a little more sympathetic to me, though the
Telegraph
and the
Mail
still thought I ought to be hung up by the thumbs, and the
Mail
made a big thing about withdrawing its advertising from Capital Live!. Meanwhile I turned down a couple of TV appearances and several exclusive interviews; I think the offers topped out at eleven grand, which was mildly flattering without amounting to so much that I’d ever entertain actually succumbing.
‘I suppose it must be a bit weird having to defend somebody you know is guilty,’ I said to my lawyer.
Maggie Sefton looked at me with what looked like an, Are you serious? expression. I looked back at her and she obviously decided I was just as naïve as I appeared. ‘Ken,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Ask any defence lawyer; most of our clients are guilty.’ She gave a soundless laugh. ‘Civilians always seem to think it must be really hard defending somebody you know is guilty. It isn’t; that’s what you do practically all the time. Defending somebody you know is innocent;
that
is weird.’ She hoisted one eyebrow and opened an already fairly stuffed box file. ‘
That
can cause you sleepless nights.’
‘So, tell me straight, Maggie,’ I said. ‘Am I being really stupid here?’
She looked up sharply. ‘You want my professional or personal opinion?’
‘Both.’
‘Professionally, you’re entering a minefield. Riverdancing.’
I had to smile at that. She smiled too, then the smile went.
‘Ken, you’re risking charges of perjury and being in contempt of court. Happily - if it comes to it - your employers are able to afford a good brief, but I suspect he or she is going to spend a lot of their preparation time impressing upon you the fact that you’ll have to be very, very controlled and careful in what you say. If you go shooting your mouth off - in court or out of it - you could be in serious trouble. The judge can send you down for contempt right there and then, without any extra procedure, and perjury is, rightly, regarded by judges as being a lot more serious an offence than simple unaggravated assault.’
‘What about your personal opinion?’
Maggie smiled. ‘Personally, Ken, I’d say, Bully for you. But then what I think personally doesn’t matter a damn.’
‘And the good news?’
She looked away for a while.
‘… In your own time,’ I said.
She clapped her hands. ‘Let’s crack on, shall we?’
Fending off journalists and ordinary callers interested in the matter during the phone-ins became a game for that week. The crowd of journos shrank rapidly until by the Thursday I got to work completely unmolested. I got it into my head that Ceel would be listening that day, and that there would be a package and a phone call from her when I finished the show, but - again - nothing.
That left Friday; there had to be something from Ceel on the Friday. Otherwise it would just be too long an interval. She’d forget what I looked like. She’d fall in love with her husband again. She’d find somebody else - Jeez, suppose she already had? Oh my God; suppose she was some sort of series-serial sexual adventurer and I was just one of a dozen or so guys she met up with for sex every couple of weeks? What if she was fucking a whole male harem of guys, one a day, even two a day! One in the morning, before me! Maybe she was never out of those five star hotels, maybe she practically lived in them, serviced by a steady stream of sadly deluded lovers. Maybe …
Shit, I was going crazy. I had to see her again, I had to talk to her.
‘Hey; that’s your old girlfriend, isn’t it?’
We were in the office after the Thursday show. Kayla had grabbed our copy of the February edition of
Q
as soon as it had arrived. She was holding it up across the desk from me. Phil looked up from his computer screen.
I frowned. ‘What? Who?’
‘Jo,’ Kayla said. ‘Look.’ She passed the magazine over.
It was in the News section. A small colour photograph and a couple of paragraphs. Brad Baker of Addicta pictured post-gig in Montreux with current squeeze Jo LePage. La LePage, part of Addicta’s management team, has been spotted on stage helping to provide backing vocals for the band; definitely a better voice than Yoko Ono or Linda McCartney. Comparisons to Courtney Love not invited. Hate mail from female teenage Brad Baker fans probably in post already.
‘She’s fucking
that
bastard?’ I said. ‘She told me she hated him!’
‘That old trick,’ Kayla muttered. She was holding her hand out towards me. She clicked her fingers. ‘Back, please.’
‘And she was doing PR for Ice House,’ I said. ‘Not helping manage Addicta. Fucking useless fucking journalists. Bastards.’
‘Ahem.’ Kayla clicked her fingers again.
‘Have it,’ I said, shoving it into her hand.
‘You’re blushing!’ Kayla said.
‘Who’s blushing?’ Andi said, coming through the door with a tray of coffee and cakes.
‘Ken is; look,’ said Kayla. ‘His old girlfriend’s shagging Brad Baker.’
‘What? The Addicta guy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Lucky cow!’
‘Yeah. It’s in
Q
; see?’
‘Oh, yeah.’ Andi tutted, looking at the magazine as she put the tray down. She glanced at me. ‘That’s a shame.’
I looked at Phil. ‘Am I really blushing?’ I felt that I could have been. I certainly felt embarrassed. To still be so affected just because Jo was pictured with somebody else; pathetic.
Phil looked at me carefully. ‘Ta,’ he said absently as Andi handed him his cup and a doughnut. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses and he nodded. ‘Maybe a little.’
‘I think that’s sweet,’ Andi said, looking at me with a rueful, sympathetic smile. In return I managed a mouth-twitch that might, from a distance with the light behind it, have been interpretable as a smile by somebody partially sighted.
‘Reminds me,’ Phil said, clattering at his keyboard. ‘Bit of gossip on the office e-mail.’ He clattered some more. ‘Yeah,’ he said, nodding at the screen. ‘Mouth Corp might be buying Ice House.’
‘Ice Mouth!’ Kayla said.
‘Mouth House,’ Andi suggested.
‘Oh, fuck,’ I said, eloquently.
The Friday show ended. No package. I felt utterly depressed. I was walking along the corridor to the office when my newly switched-on phone vibrated. Yes! I pulled the Motorola from its holster.
Shit; my lawyer, again.
‘Maggie,’ I said, sighing.
‘Good news.’
I perked instantly; lawyers don’t go bandying about phrases like that without very good reason. ‘What? Lawson’s been found in a child abuse ring?’
‘Better. He’s dropped the charges.’
‘You’re kidding!’ I stopped in the corridor.
‘No. He had some backers who were going to bankroll him in any resulting civil action and I think they decided if they saw it through they’d just give you a platform and let you make the point you’re so obviously trying to make. So, they’ve pulled the plug. Mr Brierley has come to the same conclusion.’
That was rich; Lawson and his right-wing pals concerned about giving
me
a platform. ‘So, is that it?’
‘There’s the matter of costs. We could go after them.’
‘Right, well, you’d better talk to the money or the legal people here about that, but what about any sort of court case? I mean, is that it … for that?’
‘As I say, a civil action appears to have been ruled out, and, given that the police didn’t choose to suggest a prosecution themselves, yes. I think it’s highly unlikely they’ll change their minds now. Looks like you’re in the clear.’
‘Ya fucking beauty!’ I said loudly. ‘So we’ve won!’
‘Well, you could put it that way, but technically we never fought, did we? Let’s say they’ve withdrawn from the field and left it to your good self.’
‘Brilliant. Maggie; thanks for everything you’ve done. I appreciate it. I really do. That’s incredible.’
‘Yes, well, the bill will be in the post, but for what it’s worth, congratulations. It was nice to meet you, Ken.’
‘Likewise, Mags. Superb job. Thanks again.’
‘Okay. Enjoy the champagne.’
‘Damn right! Hey; we’re off soon, here. Do you want to come round for a drink?’
‘Thank you, but I’m very busy. Some other time, maybe. Okay?’
‘Yeah, okay. Thanks again. Cheers now. Bye.’
‘Bye, Ken.’
I walked the last few steps and threw the office door open on a surprised-looking Phil, Kayla and Andi.
I threw my arms wide. ‘Ta-fucking-
RA
!’
‘Craig! Brilliant! I’ve been trying to get you!’
‘Ken.’
I was standing outside the Bough, looking down the street. Behind me, the pub’s CD box was playing Outkast’s ‘Ms. Jackson’. It was moderately loud in there; we’d persuaded Landlady Clara to turn the volume up to levels commensurate with serious celebration. It was about half six and the sky was as dark as it ever gets in London; the dark of a cloudless night after a clear day. An unseasonal smell of drains wafted in from some grating, briefly faecal before the light breeze flushed it away.
‘I got off!’ I yelled into the mobile. ‘There isn’t going to be a court case! Lawson Fucking Brierley caved in! Isn’t that fucking
brilliant
?’
‘Yeah. I’m very happy for you.’
His voice chilled me. ‘Craig? What’s wrong?’ I asked, moving further out of the pub’s doorway, further into the street, away from the noise and cheery, beery smell of the pub.
‘Well,’ Craig said. ‘There’s some good news and some bad news, Ken.’
‘What? What is it? Is Nikki okay?’
‘Nikki’s fine. This is not about Nikki.’
That at least, was some sort of relief. ‘Well, what, then?’
‘The good news is that Emma and I are getting back together.’
‘You are?’ I stopped and thought. ‘Well, that is fucking superb! Well done! That’s great. I am so pleased for you. I am really so happy for the two of you. Honestly.’
‘Yeah,’ Craig said, and I could hear him take a deep breath.
‘The bad news is that when we decided we were going to get back together we thought we ought to have a sort of clearing of the decks about other relationships.’
Oh-oh, I thought. ‘Uh-huh,’ I said.
‘I had one or two … episodes to report.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, feeling suddenly cold. ‘Good for you; glad to hear it.’ I leaned back against the stonework by the side of one of the pub’s windows.
‘Emma had one or two little dalliances to put on the table too. And one - just a one-night thing - she didn’t want to tell me about. We were supposed to tell each other everything, but she still didn’t want to name names, or name the name. In fact, she never did tell me directly. But after a bit … well, eventually I just realised who it had to be, Ken.’
There was a long pause. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’
Oh fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck oh fuck.
‘… You still there, Ken?’
‘I’m still here, man.’
‘So it was you, wasn’t it?’
‘Craig, I—’
‘It was you.’
‘Look, man, I—’
‘It was you.’
‘… Yes, it was me.’
Another long pause. I cleared my throat, shifted my position against the wall, smiled briefly, thinly at a guy walking past who glanced at me and seemed to recognise me.
‘Well, come on, Ken,’ Craig said softly. ‘How do you think that makes me feel?’
I took a deep breath and released it. ‘I love both you guys. I love Nikki, too.’ I had to clear my throat again. ‘It was just something that happened, Craig, not something we planned or, or meant in advance or anything. It was one of those comforting things, just got a bit, ah, just went on a bit beyond, well, you know … ?’
‘No, I don’t know, Ken,’ Craig said. ‘The only time I was in a remotely similar situation, like a mug I agreed with Jo that it wasn’t worth jeopardising our relationships with you for a quick shag. I have to say I kind of regret that now. You must have been laughing your head off, inside, when I told you that, mustn’t you?’
‘Of course I wasn’t, Craig; for fuck’s sake, I was cringing. Look, for God’s sake, man, I am sorry. I never wanted you to get hurt. I so did not want you or Emma to get hurt. It just happened, it was one of those things.’ Oh Jesus, I thought. Listen to me. One of those things. Was that really the best I could do? ‘I just thought we could …’
‘Get away with it?’
‘If you like. Just … just have it be a no-loss thing. God, man, it wasn’t me getting one over on you or anything or any sort of macho shit, it was just, trying to be a friend to Em, to help her through what she was going through. It was all tears and, well, you know; drink had been taken, and, and so there were, like I say, a lot of … a lot of tears, and hugs, and, and—’
‘And you fucked my wife, Ken.’
I closed my eyes, turned in towards the stonework of the pub. ‘No,’ I said.
‘No?’
‘No, that’s not what happened. That just isn’t what it was all about. Two people who’d known each other and been friends, and had somebody in common that they loved, or had loved and still loved, two people like that were together and one was very lonely and vulnerable and needed a shoulder to cry on and the other was a bit lonely too, and weak the way most men are, and was so glad to be able to offer some support and flattered that the other person felt comforted being held and hugged and shushed by him, and … neither of them could stop just a sort of natural response happening when they held each other. And they both felt guilty, but they both felt … reassured, validated; no, not validated, that’s such a crap word. They both had clung to another human being and though there was another person involved, another person they both loved, in the background, it was just that; it was not about—’
‘Not about fucking my wife, Ken.’
I kept my eyes closed. ‘No. It wasn’t. That just wasn’t it. If that’s the way it feels, I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry, Craig. I did not want to hurt you, or her. I am so sorry I have.’ I paused. ‘I mean it.’