“This is awkward,” she said.
He knew what she meant and felt it as much as she obviously did. “It doesn’t need to be. About the other night…”
“Please.” She held up a hand. “You don’t have to explain. I understand. Believe me, I’m a minister.”
He simply nodded, appreciating that she really had figured out what he was feeling.
“Another time, another place.”
“Yes, I know,” she smiled. “You’d have jumped at the chance.”
Gardener laughed. “I wouldn’t have put it quite like that.”
Jacqueline smiled as well. “Forgive me for changing the subject, but do you mean to tell me that the elderly, well-mannered gentleman in my aunt’s kitchen is your father?”
“Sounds like him.”
“I can’t believe it. Did you know anything about it? He’s been here since I have, and they’re getting on very well together.”
“He’s been here all night.”
“Never!” Jacqueline’s eyes went wide, mouth agape with schoolgirl naiveté.
“They’re playing games with us. They’re obviously up to something.”
“Sounds like it. Especially as my aunt let me answer the door and hasn’t come through.”
Her expression softened. “It’s lovely to see you.”
“You, too. But right now, I’m curious. I’d like to know everything about their little liaison.”
“So would I.”
As they entered the kitchen, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation. Anei warmed to Gardener immediately, and the two of them fell into a leisurely conversation. Future plans were made for another, more organized meeting.
Chapter Forty-seven
Frank Myers gripped the sides of his aged armchair and heaved himself upwards, narrowly missing the TV when his arthritic knees gave way under his enormous bulk. On the screen, a naked teenage girl performed oral sex on a partially clothed Father Christmas. In the background, another teenager waited her turn. Myers groaned as he raised himself to his feet, and shuffled over to the window. His knee cracked again. He doubled over, pausing while the pain subsided.
He was aware the problem was self-inflicted – a mixture of old age and excess weight. Sixty-one years old and twenty-four stones wasn’t a good basis for a healthy life. He’d been told to lose weight more than once. Who cares? It was his life. He would do as he pleased. He wasn’t having any pompous, self-opinionated, overpaid doctor telling him what he was and wasn’t going to do.
Myers gingerly straightened up. He continued over to the window, carefully nudged the filthy net curtain to one side in case any sudden movement caused it to disintegrate. Washing and cleaning was women’s work. It didn’t matter to him whether the place was clean or not. There were better things to do in life. Outside, the snow had started to settle. Large white flakes hit the window before dissolving into tiny beads of water.
Myers stared down from his second floor flat, evaluating the wasteland. Two local hooligans strolled past, unaware they were being watched. The row of terraced houses opposite him stood hidden in the darkened recesses of the few working sodium-coloured streetlights. Most of the homes were derelict, some of them boarded up. The rest resembled the aftermath of a war: broken windows, missing roof tiles, piles of bricks, rubble piled in heaps in the small front gardens.
The scene was a gloomy reminder to Myers that his life and the neighbourhood had much in common. They were both bombed out, with no one left to care. Anyone who had any sense didn’t live here. They had long since moved, been driven out or had died. That left the remainder, the degenerates with whom he had to live.
Myers had lived here long enough to realize that if the yobs didn’t flush him out tonight, they would eventually. What a screwed-up neighbourhood Beechtown is. Pimps, whores, muggers, thieves. An endless list of low-life dregs, all competing to gain the coveted title, King of the Shit Pile.
Myers glanced at his watch, irritated. “Where the fucking hell is that Chinese?” He’d give them another five minutes, then phone and put a rocket up their arses. He’d ordered it over an hour ago. “A man could starve to death.”
Myers suddenly heard a screeching of brakes followed by the blaring of a car horn.
Peeking through the net, he saw the local joyriders at it again. Some poor bastard’ll receive an early Christmas present in the morning when he goes searching for his car. Engine revving, exhaust smoking and wheels screeching, the joyriders cleared out.
Myers turned away from the window. The disc had moved on. The teenage girls were now sitting astride the Santa, one on his waist, the other on his face. Myers snatched up the phone, dialled a number.
It was answered on the second ring. “Golden Lotus!”