eyes. I was on the ground. I looked at my watch. A quarter to ten. It was getting dark.
A voice at my side said: 'Are you all right?'
I looked up. A girl. Maybe twenty. Her hair was long, crimped at the front, dyed black. She'd a long angular face, pretty in a starved kind of way. Her eyes were close together, but not so close as to suggest Catholicism, and they were as electric blue as eyes can be at dusk. I said: 'I'm fine. I'm a gravel inspector for the Department of Stones. Undercover.' Snappy, precise, slurred.
She smiled. A nice thin smile. 'Do gravel inspectors always sleep on park benches for two hours, allow wee lads to steal their drink and then make sudden dives onto the ground?'
I sat up, wiped loose stones from my knees. 'Always.' She giggled and turned to leave. 'You been watching me?'
She stopped. 'I was across the way having a drink.'
'It's not safe here by yourself.'
'I was with friends. They're away on.' The top of a bottle of cider peeked out of a deep leather handbag that hung from her shoulder.
'You wouldn't care to join me?'
'What, down there?'
'Nah, for a drink. Down the road. No strings attached.' My tongue felt fuzzy, my brain fuzzier.
'Do you not think you've had enough?'
'No such thing. Sure I've had a wee sleep. I've drunk myself sober.'
'I shouldn't really ...'
But it was a shouldn't with a hint of should. If I'd been a girl I'd have said no, but she looked me up and down and must have seen something vaguely appealing. God knows, it wasn't my physique - she later described me as the Adonis of Auschwitz. But she nodded and stretched out her hand to help me up. 'Just for one, and that only 'cause I'm interested in stones.'
I said: 'Do you always pick up strange men in parks?'
'Nah, I usually do it in public toilets. You get a better class in there.'
She was nice. Chirpy with youth. Only a wee slip of a thing. I said: 'Are you a student?'
'Aye, but not up there.' She nodded back towards Queen's University, which bordered the gardens. The little smile jumped back onto her pale lips. 'I'm up at Jordanstown. I study geology.'
'A fortunate choice of words then. It must be fate.'
We went back down to Lavery's. She chatted animatedly on the way, nothing of any real substance, or perhaps there was and I was far too gone to notice it. There was a slight slur in her voice; it didn't make much difference to my drunken ears.
The back bar was packed and the drinkers had spilled out into the alleyway which was brightly lit now by a large, bare bulb high up on the side of the wall. It took me fifteen minutes to negotiate my way to the bar and get served. By the time I got back she was chatting to a couple of spiky-haired youths. I stood behind her with two pints in my hands, feeling old. She turned to me, took her pint and then recommenced her conversation with the punks. I took it as a hint and started to move on. She came skipping after me.
'Hey, hold on. I'm sorry, I hadn't seen them for ages.'
'No problem,' I said.
'Don't be like that.'
I shrugged. And I thought to myself, Christ, I've known her five minutes and I'm jealous. 'How can I fall out with you if I don't even know your name?'
'Well, there's a point.' She seemed about to hold her hand out, but suddenly did a basketball pivot, reaching up to kiss me on the cheek, spilling part of her beer on my coat as she did so. 'I'm sorry,' she said, and I wasn't sure whether she was apologizing for turning her back on me, spilling her drink or having immediate second thoughts about the kiss. 'I'm Margaret. Margaret McBride.'
I leant down and kissed her back. No, not her back, her cheek. It was cool and white and smelt of mandarin oranges. And I'm Dan Starkey.'
'Oh, I know who you are. I've seen you in the paper.'
'Ah.'
'And I've seen you with your wife.'
'Ah.'
'It was at a party. You were drunk under a table. You had to be carried to a taxi.'
'I've never been carried to a taxi in my life.'
'Well, you certainly had help.'
'Maybe
A voice at my side said: 'Are you all right?'
I looked up. A girl. Maybe twenty. Her hair was long, crimped at the front, dyed black. She'd a long angular face, pretty in a starved kind of way. Her eyes were close together, but not so close as to suggest Catholicism, and they were as electric blue as eyes can be at dusk. I said: 'I'm fine. I'm a gravel inspector for the Department of Stones. Undercover.' Snappy, precise, slurred.
She smiled. A nice thin smile. 'Do gravel inspectors always sleep on park benches for two hours, allow wee lads to steal their drink and then make sudden dives onto the ground?'
I sat up, wiped loose stones from my knees. 'Always.' She giggled and turned to leave. 'You been watching me?'
She stopped. 'I was across the way having a drink.'
'It's not safe here by yourself.'
'I was with friends. They're away on.' The top of a bottle of cider peeked out of a deep leather handbag that hung from her shoulder.
'You wouldn't care to join me?'
'What, down there?'
'Nah, for a drink. Down the road. No strings attached.' My tongue felt fuzzy, my brain fuzzier.
'Do you not think you've had enough?'
'No such thing. Sure I've had a wee sleep. I've drunk myself sober.'
'I shouldn't really ...'
But it was a shouldn't with a hint of should. If I'd been a girl I'd have said no, but she looked me up and down and must have seen something vaguely appealing. God knows, it wasn't my physique - she later described me as the Adonis of Auschwitz. But she nodded and stretched out her hand to help me up. 'Just for one, and that only 'cause I'm interested in stones.'
I said: 'Do you always pick up strange men in parks?'
'Nah, I usually do it in public toilets. You get a better class in there.'
She was nice. Chirpy with youth. Only a wee slip of a thing. I said: 'Are you a student?'
'Aye, but not up there.' She nodded back towards Queen's University, which bordered the gardens. The little smile jumped back onto her pale lips. 'I'm up at Jordanstown. I study geology.'
'A fortunate choice of words then. It must be fate.'
We went back down to Lavery's. She chatted animatedly on the way, nothing of any real substance, or perhaps there was and I was far too gone to notice it. There was a slight slur in her voice; it didn't make much difference to my drunken ears.
The back bar was packed and the drinkers had spilled out into the alleyway which was brightly lit now by a large, bare bulb high up on the side of the wall. It took me fifteen minutes to negotiate my way to the bar and get served. By the time I got back she was chatting to a couple of spiky-haired youths. I stood behind her with two pints in my hands, feeling old. She turned to me, took her pint and then recommenced her conversation with the punks. I took it as a hint and started to move on. She came skipping after me.
'Hey, hold on. I'm sorry, I hadn't seen them for ages.'
'No problem,' I said.
'Don't be like that.'
I shrugged. And I thought to myself, Christ, I've known her five minutes and I'm jealous. 'How can I fall out with you if I don't even know your name?'
'Well, there's a point.' She seemed about to hold her hand out, but suddenly did a basketball pivot, reaching up to kiss me on the cheek, spilling part of her beer on my coat as she did so. 'I'm sorry,' she said, and I wasn't sure whether she was apologizing for turning her back on me, spilling her drink or having immediate second thoughts about the kiss. 'I'm Margaret. Margaret McBride.'
I leant down and kissed her back. No, not her back, her cheek. It was cool and white and smelt of mandarin oranges. And I'm Dan Starkey.'
'Oh, I know who you are. I've seen you in the paper.'
'Ah.'
'And I've seen you with your wife.'
'Ah.'
'It was at a party. You were drunk under a table. You had to be carried to a taxi.'
'I've never been carried to a taxi in my life.'
'Well, you certainly had help.'
'Maybe
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