Divorcing Jack Read Free

you have to take them at face value.'
    'What do you mean exactly?'
    The food arrived. A pork dish. Lots of noodles. I lifted my chopsticks for the first time. Smooth as silk. I dropped one. Maxwell was already tucking in. His eyes didn't leave me.
    'I mean ...' A piece of pork nearly reached my mouth, it was stretching out its arms to me and my lower lip was curling out to grasp it when it fell, bouncing from my left trouser leg. '... That there's very little pretence about them, whether you're talking football or European Parliament.' As nonchalantly as possible I reached down to retrieve the pork from my shoe.
    'Have you met many Germans?'
    'Enough.'
    'Where was that?'
    'Oh, I've been around Europe a few times. You can't help it. They own everything.'
    'You have a point there.' He set his sticks down. He was half finished and food hadn't yet crossed the border of my lips. 'You're not very comfortable, are you?' He asked sympathetically. Sweat was dripping down my brow like irrigation on a hillside paddy field. 'I should have checked this was okay for you. Not everyone can use them.'
    I put my chopsticks down. 'I'm fine' I said. 'My hands are slightly arthritic. You might have noticed.' Jesus.
     

2
    When I was thirteen I woke up in the middle of the night and found my brother pissing in my typewriter case. I decided there and then that there must be something wonderful about alcohol. As my artistic interest grew I discovered that many of my heroes had had impassioned affairs with what my old da referred to as the devil's vomit: Brendan Behan. Dylan Thomas, George Best, Pete Townshend. It had not adversely affected any of them, with the exception of the first two, whom it killed.
    It was the most natural thing in the world for me to hit the pub as soon as I finished lunch. My embarrassment with the chopsticks needed diluting.
    I headed back into the centre of town, then up the Dublin Road to Shaftesbury Square. I turned left into a dusty alleyway and entered a brown doorway at the top, Lavery's back bar. It was the kind of spit-and-sawdust pub that was becoming increasingly rare on the ground in the city; most of the rest had adopted themes. Maybe Lavery's had too but never let on: not so much mock Georgian as take-the-piss hard-man. There were a few ageing punks at the bar, a couple of students in a corner and an old drunk studying the jukebox. Willie Nutt was behind the bar. He winked over as I came in. He poured me a pint of Harp without asking.
    'Howdy, Dan, how's it going? What's the headline tonight?'
    I shrugged. 'God knows. I only work there.'
    He leant on the bar as I put my money down. 'Did you hear the forecast, Dan?'
    I'd heard the forecast, but I'd hear it again. 'Cloudy,' he said, 'with widespread terrorism.'
    He gave a big belly laugh, scooped up the money and wandered down the bar.
    I sat with my pint. Had another. Two or three others. A couple of shorts. There was a nice atmosphere. Relaxed. Towards teatime it began to crowd up. Still not many suits. Tax Inspector Patricia would be at work for an hour yet. I bought some cans at the bar and headed up the few hundred yards to the Botanic Gardens. The wind had dropped and there was a pleasant warmth in the air; the change in temperature had brought crowds of youngsters out of the bushes and they sat on the green in groups, half-shielding bottles of cider. Ah, my youth before me.
    I found a bench and began drinking. Save for ordering drinks I hadn't spoken to anyone since Maxwell, and I wasn't worrying about him. It was out of my hands now. The money would be handy, but moving house was a pain I could do without. I thought about chopsticks and how ridiculous they were. I thought about the waiters and how ignorant they had been. It was a trait that would in time make the Dragon Palace one of the most popular establishments in the city.
    I took a gulp, closed my eyes. I felt the tension oozing away. It was shaping up into a beautiful evening.
     
    I opened my