The Closed Circle Read Free Page A

that’s the story so far. And now picture me, if you will, looking through
the History section of Waterstone’s on High Street. Only been back here a day and
a half and already I can’t think of anything better to do. I’m right next to the part
of the shop that is set aside for the ubiquitous coffee-drinkers. Out of the corner of
my eye I can see a girl who’s facing me—
very
pretty, in a paper-thin sort of way—
and opposite her, with his back to me, is a grey-haired guy who I assume at first
must be her dad. I guess the girl must be about nineteen or twenty, and there’s a
touch of the Goth in the way she dresses: she has lovely hair, black hair, thick and
long and straight, half way down her back. Apart from that I don’t take much
notice of these two to start with, but when I move over to look at the books on one
of the display tables, I notice her reaching down to get something out of her bag,
and I notice the way her black T-shirt rides up to expose her midriff, and I notice
the way that
he
notices this, quickly, surreptitiously, and all of a sudden I recognize him: it’s Benjamin. Wearing a suit—which looks odd, to me, but of course it’s
a working day for him, and he must just have slipped out of the office for a
while—and looking, in that instant, altogether . . . What’s the word? I know
there is a word this time, a perfect word for the way men look when they’re in that
situation . . .
    Ah . . . I remember. “Besotted.” That’s the word, for how Benjamin looks.
    And then he notices me; and time seems to slow down—the way it always
does, in the moment you recognize someone you weren’t expecting to see, and
haven’t seen for a long time, and something shifts inside you both, some sort of
realignment of your expectations of that day . . . And then I’m walking over to the
table, and Benjamin is standing up, and
holding out his hand,
of all things,
holding his hand out
so I can shake it. Which of course I don’t do. I kiss him on
the cheek instead. And he looks confused and embarrassed, and straight away he
introduces me to his friend; who is also standing up, by now; and whose name, it
transpires, is Malvina.
    So, what
is
the situation, there? What’s going on? After five minutes’ broken
conversation—not a word of which I can remember—I’m none the wiser. But in
what is already establishing itself as a pattern, in the last couple of days, I do have
something in my hand that I didn’t have before. A flyer. A flyer for
another
event
taking place on Monday December 13th. It turns out that Benjamin’s band is
playing that night.
    â€œI thought you split up ages ago,” I say.
    â€œWe’ve reformed,” he explains. “This pub’s celebrating an anniversary.
Twenty years of live music. We used to have a residency there, and they’ve asked us
to come back and play, for one night only.”
    I look at the flyer again, and smile. I remember the name of Benjamin’s band,
now—“Saps at Sea.” Named after a Laurel and Hardy film, he once told me. It
would be fun to see them again, in a way, although I never cared for his music
much. But I’m speaking the honest truth when I say: “I’ll come if I’m still in
town. But I may have left Birmingham by then.”
    â€œPlease do,” Benjamin’s saying. “Please do come.”
    Then we say the usual awkward stuff about it being nice to see you, and so
on, and next minute I’m out of there, with never a backward glance. Well,
OK, then—one backward glance. Just enough to see Benjamin leaning towards
Malvina—who he introduced to me as his “friend,” which was all the explanation
I got—and showing her the flyer and telling her something about it. Their foreheads are practically touching over the table. And all I can think of as I hurry
away is: Benjamin, Benjamin,