11

It was Cath's idea to eat out, which I should have taken as a warning. Whenever we ate out, we argued. But for a good long part of the meal, it was eating and suffering through her anecdotes about her silly middle-class mates, one of whom had taken to volunteering at Barnardos, but who couldn't stand the old women who essentially ran the place. I'd never met the woman, didn't give a shit if the bitchy biddies nailed her to the floor and burned her alive, so I nodded in the right places and kept my attention firmly fixed on the meal in front of me.

"Alan?"

I looked up to see a semi-pulped curl of paper in the middle of the table. It took me a moment to read the writing. The receipt from the off-licence, almost papier maché thanks to the rain, but clearly for a bottle of Jim Beam and from a place in Hulme. I looked at it, then her with the same practised and slightly confused expression.

"I found it in your jacket the other night."

I raised my eyebrows. She was going through my clothes now?

"You left it on the sofa, I was going to have it dry-cleaned so I had to go through the pockets."

"Okay."

"Do you know what it is?"

"It's a receipt."

"You want to tell me anything, Alan?"

"About what? It's a receipt for a bottle of Jim Beam. Beale likes Jim Beam. I bought him a bottle."

"I did think that it wasn't your drink."

"Then you were right, weren't you?" I looked around the restaurant. We'd done our mains but the desserts would still be a while coming yet. Cath was picky with her order. Meant they'd have to make it special for her. Nobody was paying us any attention, but I got the feeling Cath was building up to something, so I nipped it in the bud. "What's this about?"

"Beale lives in Chorlton, doesn't he?"

"That's right. Well remembered."

"So what were you doing in Hulme?"

"I was on a sit."

"You bought this when you were supposed to be at work?"

I nodded, pointed to the receipt. "You can see the time there."

"Did you and him drink it at work?"

"No. He's still got it."

"Because I didn't know you went round his house."

I looked at her through narrowed eyes. "What you digging for, Cath?"

It came out in a semi-apologetic rush: "Why'd you buy him a bottle when you two go out all the time? And if you were going to buy him a bottle, why'd you buy off the shelf? If it was a special occasion, why didn't you get him something special?"

I laughed. Seemed to be the best thing to do at the time.

"Don't laugh, Alan. Please."

"I don't know what else to do, I really don't. You sound insane."

She shook her head. The desserts arrived. I watched her eat a few mouthfuls before I started myself. The pear tart looked good, but it was tasteless. I took a sip of wine to get some feeling back in the inside of my mouth.

"Are you seeing someone else?" she asked.

"Don't be daft."

I should've just told her the truth. It was a perfect opportunity. I could've put a bullet in the head of this marriage, but I didn't. Mostly because I was tired, and the last thing I wanted to deal with now was an emotional woman. So I played innocent, but not outraged, and we carried on with the meal.

One thing I couldn't let go, though: "There used to be a time you trusted me."

She didn't answer.

"There used to be a time you didn't go through my pockets."

"I told you why I did that."

"The dry-cleaning. And if you think I believe that, Cath ..."

She fixed me with a sad stare. "I never felt I had to before, Alan."

I didn't answer her this time. I didn't think anything I had to say would sink in with her, so I kept quiet. She could play the martyr in her head as much as she wanted, but she wasn't making me feel guilty. I hadn't done anything wrong. She was the one going through my pockets and looking to spoil the most expensive meal I'd had this week. That took a special brand of selfishness.

She must have known that, because just after the coffees and petit fours were set down in front of us, she apologised.

I waved it off. "It's okay. Let's just leave it for now, though, eh?"

The coffee was bitter and hot. It was also, for the first time in a couple of days, good. It perked me up after the wine slowed me down. I must have been in a good mood because the bill looked reasonable. She didn't say much for the rest of the night. I wouldn't say she seemed preoccupied, because it wasn't like she was thinking, more just zoning out. That was fine by me, The less conversation the better. I had thinking to do, myself.

Like how to patch things up with Lucy. I knew she was playing funny buggers, and I wasn't going to be the one to back down first, but I couldn't help but wonder what she'd do otherwise. She was a good-looking girl. I wouldn't have been in this position if she wasn't. And as such, she could probably break it off with me and have her pick. Indeed, there was a significant and paranoid part of me that was convinced she'd bedded one of her flatmates at some point – in my kinkier moments, even the little feminist – but that might just have been the product of an overactive imagination belonging to a bloke who'd never had to share a house with anyone he wasn't supposedly having sex with.

I could wait her out, I was positive of that. But the question was, did I really have to do that, or would a phone call in a couple of days suffice? Fact was, I had treated her like shit this past week. She probably should have taken priority over Beale. Actually, no, there was no probably about it. I enjoyed myself more in her company then I ever had in Beale's. And was I really about to lose that company because I was too pig-headed to admit I was wrong?

If Cath hadn't been sat in front of me, I'd have called Lucy there and then. Instead, I had to hold my tongue and wait out the rest of the meal.

We left late. She got her own coat and her own door. Closest I came to touching her was a hovering hand on the small of her back as I guided her out of the restaurant. She wrinkled her nose when she got in the car, the same way she did when she got in to come over here. It was the dog smell. I'd gotten used to it, but I knew it was still pervasive. I lit a cigarette to kill it, and her look of disgust went from being directed at her general surroundings to a more specific me.

I didn't care. I smoked that one, and I smoked another one after it, and I didn't crack a window because it was cold outside. Twice she started to say something, and twice she caught herself.

Good girl. Resistance was futile.

We got home and she went straight into the shower. I poured myself a nightcap and stared at Buttons. Buttons stared right back. Would've done that all night if I hadn't gone to bed. I lay there in the dark. After a while Cath came in. She lay down next to me, but at a distance. I could feel the tension, but it didn't make any difference to me. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, it was two in the morning and my mobile was ringing The Muppet Show.

I blinked and swung my legs out of bed. My feet hit carpet, but not before one of them hit something wet. I hopped through to the living room and saw that Buttons had been up to his usual bollocks. Leaned over and snatched my jacket off the chair, removed my mobile as I hopped back through to the bathroom. Toilet roll took care of most of the shit, but I still needed a rinse.

"Hello?" I said, and switched on the taps full blast.

A voice, quiet on the other end. Someone saying something, but I couldn't make it out over the water. I turned off the taps.

I recognised the voice, but not the volume. It was Beale.

"Les? Speak up, mate."

He coughed down the phone. Then he said, so clear it was as if interference had been lifted: "I think I killed Stevie."