The Sad Man Read Free Page B

of chips and a giant pickled onion. Cliché. The single cop who eats take-away every night in front of the TV. At home he goes to the kitchen and pulls out a wok, drizzles in some sesame oil and fish sauce and throws in onions, mushrooms, chillies and some strips of chicken. A few minutes on a high heat, then he throws the chips in with some soy sauce, lemongrass and ginger. At the last moment he stirs in fresh coriander. The pickled onion is the salad.
    His dining table is red and white squared Formica – it was his nan’s. It has two hinged leaves that can be raised to make a table for four, six at a squeeze. Otherwise it seats two and the leaves bang against your knees. There is a gouge in it where his dad stuck a carving knife in one day. His dad had been holding Tom’s head down on the table at the time, the knife stabbed the Formica close to his nose. His dad was drunk. Incredibly contrite the next morning, of course. Tom loves the table. He pours himself a glass of fizzy water (pauper’s champagne) and eats his fine-dining take-away. He uses chopsticks, practising for the big holiday he plans to take in China. Someday. Across from him is a second placemat and pair of chopsticks. Stupid.
    ‘I’d rather have a fork,’ Dani-in-his-head tells him.
    It was something he had done years before: laid her a place at the table, generally on holidays – Christmas and her birthday, always St Valentine’s Day and on the anniversary of her death. This year it hadbeen ten years: 7 February 1989. That was the day her body had been found. On the tenth anniversary he had taken a day’s leave and done a tour – a ghost walk – of all the spots that had been special to them. He walked through Greenwich Park and up to the Observatory. He found their tree and traced their initials in the wood for the thousandth time, sixteen years since they carved them. He walked over to the old school – he almost went in but stopped himself. He watched through the gates, saw the playground – all so different. Then he went to her house. The Lancing’s family home. He knocked on the door and Jim, her father, opened it. He looked older, especially around the eyes. Tears will do that to you. But when he saw Tom he smiled that old smile and it felt like … home.
    Together the two of them went to the garden of remembrance and sat with her. Dani’s two men. Jim took yellow roses, like every year, and Tom read from Keats. Then they went for a curry and Jim told Tom about being alone – totally alone since his wife Patty had left him. More damage from Dani’s murder. It had just taken longer for the wound in his marriage to bleed away the last traces of love and hope. He had lost both of his women. Dani and Patty. There, much to the embarrassment of the Indian waiters, both men wept. Neither admitted to the other that they spoke to Dani every day. That night Tom laid his nan’s Formica table for two, the first time he had done it in three or four years. It made him feel close to her again, so he has done it every night since. Maybe when the new millennium rolls on he will change. Put away the things of the past and move on. Perhaps. He takes a book, the cover says: Private. Do not read. He opens it on the table next to him as he eats. He reads:
    Monday 14 June 1982
    I flew. 800M champion and school record. They are going to check and see if it is a county record too. It was amazing, I left everyone for dead. After there was a party in Islington. I knew Dad was going to the race and was going to give me a lift home, but I couldn’t go – not after the buzz of winning. It was cool, he understands. I don’t think he’ll tell Mum, at least not for a week and then it’ll be all just a memory. The party was good – the muscle boys and jocks couldn’t do enough for me. I know what they want – and they might get a little something – but I’m not stupid. There was something strange though. Tom Bevans turned up – all pale and thin with