Fallout by Sadie Jones Read Free Book Online Page B

and sipped his pint.
    ‘I mean, it’s not all that easy to get away.’ There was silence. ‘I’ve got the programmes,’ Luke said, unable to stop himself.
    Leigh’s eyes, again, flicked up at Luke and away. Paul said, ‘You what?’
    ‘I’ve got the programmes. From the last two seasons at the Playhouse.’
    ‘Serious?’
    ‘Yeah. And I’ve got the reviews. I save them. I sent off for the programmes. The plays too, if I can.’
    ‘You never,’ Paul said softly, but without mockery.
    ‘I do. They’re bringing back Volpone ,’ said Luke. He cleared his throat. ‘I heard.’
    Paul smiled slightly. ‘It’s Volpone ,’ he corrected him, ‘like pony.’
    ‘Is it? Thanks. I’ve only ever seen it written.’
    ‘Excuse me.’ Leigh got up, suddenly, and went off towards the Ladies.
    ‘I don’t think our Mr Furst is probably coming,’ said Paul. ‘Or else he’s been and gone. There’s a phone over there; I’ll try his number.’ He began to search his pockets for change.
    ‘ Thebes, city of death ,’ said Luke and Paul, startled, looked up.
    ‘ One long cortège ,’ said Luke, warming to his performance, and the shrivelled man at the piano ceased his one-finger playing to turn and watch him with rheumy eyes ‘. . . and the suffering rises. Wails for mercy rise , and the wild hymn for the Healer blazes out, clashing with our sobs .’
    Paul stared.
    ‘Seston!’ said Luke, more loudly. ‘ City of death! One long cortège. And the suffering rises. Wails for mercy rise, clashing with our sobs. ’ He stopped. He could have gone on – he could have done it in Greek – but he checked himself with an effort that made him blink.
    There was a silence. Luke tapped his foot. Oedipus running across his mind, biting his tongue to stay quiet.
    ‘Someone said Pink Floyd played a gig in Seston,’ said Paul; ‘it can’t be that bad.’
    ‘It was at the club where I work. I was there.’
    Paul’s face broke into a huge grin. The solidity of his face, prematurely manly, relaxed into boyishness. ‘Seriously?’ he said. ‘You were there?’
    ‘Last March. They probably fired their manager after, for booking them there. Syd Barrett probably left because of Seston.’
    ‘Bloody hell!’ said Paul. ‘And all that moaning . Thebes my arse. Hang on a minute.’ He got up.
    He went to the telephone, pulling coins from his pockets. Leigh came out of the toilet and stood next to Paul as he dialled.
    Luke looked at the two of them. I know you , he thought, you’re my friends .
    Paul listened for a while as Leigh stood, her hands in her pockets, reading a bill posted next to the phone on the wall; something about a circus, a broad fan of red and orange, and then he put the receiver down and shook his head.
    ‘No answer,’ he said, and they came back to the table.
    Paul downed the rest of his pint. ‘We thought we might get something to eat, if there is anything. Want to come?’
    Luke nodded and got up fast. ‘There’s chips up the road,’ he said, ‘or we could go to Parker’s.’
    ‘Parker’s?’
    ‘Parker’s Pies,’ said Luke, as if they should have known, and they left the pub together.
     
    Earlier that evening, before the three of them met for the first time, Leigh Radley and Paul Driscoll in her Mini had chased the rain clouds towards Seston.
    Paul busied himself with the map, wondering how to please this quiet and apparently assured young woman as she sped heedlessly past the factories and chimneys and into the dank and blackening landscape, making no effort to please him, as far as he could see, except the fact of her presence.
    Paul owned a three-year-old Ford Anglia that up until then had not let him down. Leigh was doing the props on a student production that he had just seen and they met in the Union bar afterwards. He had Joe Furst’s typed manuscript in his pocket and gave it to her for a second opinion, and to pay her the compliment of asking.
    She left it two days before she rang