S.O.S.

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

First published in Great Britain in 2001 by Faber and Faber Limited

This ebook edition published in 2013 by
Quercus Editions Ltd
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW

Copyright © 2001 by Joseph Connolly

The moral right of Joseph Connolly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Ebook ISBN 978 1 78206 711 5
Print ISBN 978 1 78206 701 6

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk

S.O.S.

Joseph Connolly is the bestselling author of the novels
Poor Souls
,
This Is It
,
Stuff
,
Summer Things
,
Winter Breaks
,
It Can't Go On
,
The Works
,
Love Is Strange
,
Jack the Lad and Bloody Mary
and
England's Lane
. He has also written several works of non-fiction including admired biographies of Jerome K. Jerome and P. G. Wodehouse.

by the same author

fiction

POOR SOULS
THIS IS IT
STUFF
SUMMER THINGS
WINTER BREAKS
THE WORKS
IT CAN'T GO ON
LOVE IS STRANGE
JACK THE LAD AND BLOODY MARY
ENGLAND'S LANE

non-fiction

COLLECTING MODERN FIRST EDITIONS
P. G. WODEHOUSE
JEROME K. JEROME: A CRITICAL BIOGRAPHY
MODERN FIRST EDITIONS: THEIR VALUE TO COLLECTORS
THE PENGUIN BOOK QUIZ BOOK
CHILDREN'S MODERN FIRST EDITIONS
BESIDE THE SEASIDE
ALL SHOOK UP: A FLASH OF THE FIFTIES
CHRISTMAS
WODEHOUSE

To Jon Riley

 

I'm in my bed, then, and blinking about in the only light I'm getting – peering here and there and in and out of corners: yeah, my room all right – know that wallpaper anywhere. It's what, now, must it be? Hey? Seven? Eight, more like, most probably. Yes. And I'm trying to make the flutter of my eyelids not too, you know – disturbing for my wife. Who, when I got in, um – not really that long ago, I suppose – seems quite recent (head doesn't hurt yet – stomach still numb: you just wait, mate) … mm – wife, officially declared herself dead from the neck up – was I hearing her? Only that way could she hope to continue. How could I
do
this to her, she despairingly implored (again, oh good God – yes again, again), on this bloody morning of all bloody mornings? Well, quite easy really. A sort of flair made good by practice. I'm a past master of the fuck-up, and making you quietly hate me.

Blinking – still blinking. But not actually moving my head at all, see, because I don't want to disturb in any way whatever my wife. Nicole. Is my wife's name. I don't really think she needs any more disruption, do you? Not after everything. I'm actually trying to locate my jacket … which, oh dear Christ (here's a nauseous feeling, but it's not the sickness, yet: here is just a convulsion – my stomach is always the first to know when I've let me down) … the jacket, yes, I sort of remember I sold. At some point during. For not very much. Dear oh dear. Actually … Nicole, I now register (my cautious toe, just barely shifting) doesn't now seem to be here. I maybe recall her declaration: a strangulated expression of determination to be elsewhere right
now
, David, because
some
of us, yes? Have things to do?
Responsibilities
. Is all this stuff going to pack itself? I think not. Is
how she went. Mmm. And she's right, she's right – of
course
she's right. Always is. Can't be easy, can it? Not a bit.

Able to move about a bit more freely now, then. My watch is still on my wrist, no more scratches than usual: something. Wallet? Best not to enquire. Know soon enough. It's a bit like being a detective, this, picking over the remaining effects of someone else entirely. While trying to piece together at the scene of the crime – my crime, mine – just what sort of a person we're dealing with, here. (My crime, yes – and I seem to be the victim, too; not
exclusively
, of course – oh God no: there are many others, lots and lots.)

Just look at the state of those trousers (not the jacket: the jacket is
sold
); but Christ – just take a look at them, would you? How did they get to be so corkscrewed as that? And I'll bet you the fastenings are still tightly done; or else half ripped open. Tie's on the floor – well, you expect that. One shoe there – and the other somewhere else, we can only assume. God oh God. And on this morning of all mornings. Because I did – made a point of it: said I'd be back for dinner, you just tell me the time. Do you
mean
it, she'd gone, Nicole. Because you're always
saying
it, David, aren't you? And I never ever know what to
think
. He won't be back, asserted Rollo with confidence – and a trace, oh yes, of a smirk. Well – seventeenish now, what can you say? (Expect I was the same.)
Look
, Rollo, I'd gone (paternal authority? Don't make me laugh), I've said I'll be back, and back I'll bloody be, OK? Oh yeh? goes Rollo –
when
, exactly? Tuesday? Wednesday? Oh
leave
him, went Marianne, my little protector: God's
sake
, Rollo – you're always on and on at Dad: just
leave
him, OK? He knows we've got this trip tomorrow, doesn't he? And we're leaving early, and things. So he'll
be
here, kay? He's not
stupid
.

Ah. Got to face her, shortly. She won't
say
anything, or anything, won't quite look at me. But later, she might – a quick half-smile, eyes just tilted as her lips flatten out (yes
OK, Daddy, I
do
still love you, sure – but
honestly
…). Dear little Marianne. My own little girl.

Over there, over the chair, there's a very neat gathering of clothes. My clothes for today. Nicole will have done that, quite early last evening. She will have tipped my dinner into the bin – scraping away at the plate to be rid of all the last and tainted residue (if only life, it maybe crossed her mind, could be so simple) and then, quite without knowing why – well, in truth, in no doubt at all:
someone's
got to, haven't they?
Someone
must – she will have laid out the pre-agreed outfit for this bleeding glorified boat trip. Blazer, but of course. Linen shirt, looks like. Trousers I wear for Lord's. Ought to be so grateful. Really should be.

Got to get up. The bustle in the house is growing louder, the shifts of anticipation you can nearly feel. It's not now officially early any more, is the message I'm vaguely getting (don't ask me what time it is exactly, I simply couldn't tell you: watch has stopped, maybe broken: anyway not going – not at all giving me the information). For a while now, Nicole will have gone Oh – just let him sleep it off: everything's more or less done anyway. And Rollo will have honked out Oh – so he did actually make it home, then, did he, eventually? And Marianne, well … I doubt, actually, that she will have been around to witness this latest put-down of her put-upon father because any sort of outing for Marianne was ushered in by what seemed like hours – sometimes was – in one of the bathrooms, and so this Trip of a Lifetime (that's how it was billed: ‘Trip of a Lifetime'. Christ. So when do we die, then? During or after?). Jesus. I really don't want to go, you know. Really not at all keen on it – wasn't, from the off. Anyway … now what was I …? Oh yeh – Marianne: she will have been doing whatever it was girls did in bathrooms for bloody ages, now, and so left to themselves, well – Nicole and Rollo will have had a field day: she resigned and capable, and he just going for the kill.

So. Best stir myself on the whole, I think. Car's booked
for eleven, that much I do know – and eleven has this way of inching up and confronting you. I think, you know, that last night was largely Willis's fault –

‘David. Christ's sake. Get bloody up. Now. It's
today
we're leaving.
Today
.'

Jesus. Wasn't ready for that little whirlwind. She just burst in, Nicole, swiped a could-be cardigan, launched that little lot over in my direction, and now she's gone again (slammed the door). All dressed and scented, though – took that much in. And she's got a point: if we're going we're going, right? So
move
yourself, bastard.

But you see, if Willis hadn't
insisted
… I mean look: couple of pints after work, this sort of summer weather, where's the harm in that? But then bloody Willis had gone Hey, Dave – why don't we pop down to Terry's for just the one, what say? And I said no
way
, Willis old son – and you know why. Once we get down to Terry's … And you never did, ever, have to finish that sentence because everyone knew, everyone who went there, just how the ending would be. Oh come
on
, Dave mate – just a quick sharpener, and then out. And OK yes, I knew what he meant – I mean, two or so pints are all very well for knocking the corners off the thing, but then you're left in a sort of nowhere land, really, and home doesn't seem quite right. So. Famous Grouse was the nature of the sharpener – shot down flocks of them (droves, herds, however they come). Oh dear God – I'm beginning to get just a hint of the truth that I'll soon feel bad. Why do they call them that, actually? Sharpeners. When all they do is make you blunt.

So after quite a lot of that, I went round to see Trish. And did bloody Willis raise one finger to try and stop me? Like a good mate should? Did he say: Hey, Dave – steady, OK? We've had a few, right, and you're meant to be going on this bloody ship thing in the morning (Christ look at it –
is
the morning), so don't you think you ought to get Terry to call up a taxi and get yourself home? Did he say that? Well
actually, thinking about it, he very well could've …
somebody
did, anyway … hard to quite recall. All the faces, voices – they blend, don't they, after a while. You end up with little save the odour of a muffed bit of lust, and maybe just the curl of a lip in anger – but quite where these pieces belong … well, anyone's guess, really: who can say? And the thing is, more than ever I shouldn't have gone round to Trish's. Quite apart from the real need to get home and all the rest of the gubbins staring me stark in the face, I'd
seen
Trish, hadn't I, just the night before – that was the night we'd arranged to say our, oh God, heartfelt au revoirs before I set off on this blighted cruise, or whatever they call it (oh yeh – not cruise, no: Trip of a Lifetime. Christ).

‘I still don't see,' Trish had pouted – took her to that restaurant in Greek Street, funny name: likes it there – ‘why you actually have to
go
. I mean you said you didn't
want
to, so why – ?'