Acid Song by Bernard Beckett Page A

him … ill was the right word, were the injuries on the face of a man who would never hitback. And the secret Richard carried, that he knew he was too weak to share.
    Across the table two young men were discussing the election. Even this close it was no easy matter distinguishing one from the other: the hair cut short and carefully worked up with gel, black and shining; dark confident eyes; stabbing fingers; smiles never more than a frame away from a snarl. Too young surely for the suits they wore, or the expensive watches upon their wrists. Richard could feel the line separating youth from age rising like a tide behind him. Soon it would peak and he and his generation would be discarded one by one on the shore, that the whole game could start again. Everything set back to zero.
    ‘Yes, but I’m saying,’ said Young Rich Man One, thumping the table, oblivious apparently to Richard’s scrutiny, ‘that she’s up herself isn’t she? Who wouldn’t be, after this long in government? I’m not saying it isn’t understandable. I’m not even saying she hasn’t done a good job, over all. History will be all right to her. But people like a fair go. They like to see people get their turn don’t they? And they don’t like people being up themselves. They want to teach her a lesson.’
    ‘But that’s a stupid reason not to vote for her,’ the other countered, immediately becoming Richard’s favourite.
    ‘People are stupid.’
    ‘Are you stupid?’
    ‘Not like that, no.’
    ‘So why aren’t you voting for her?’
    ‘Who said I’m not voting for her?’
    ‘Are you?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Can’t stand the bitch.’
    ‘Democracy,’ Richard muttered, surprised by how loudly he said it. Whisky. Both men looked at him.
    ‘What was that?’ asked the bitch-hater, when nothing more was offered.
    ‘Sorry,’ Richard mumbled. ‘I didn’t mean to say that quite so loudly.’
    ‘Yeah, but what did you mean though?’
    The inquisitor leaned forward, primed for a confrontation. Lawyers.
    ‘I meant, I suppose, that this is what we fight for. The inalienable right of every adult citizen to teach the bitch a lesson.’
    They thought about this for a moment, clearly trying to gauge whether this old, poorly dressed man was taking the piss.
    ‘What do you do?’ asked the less odious of the two.
    ‘I’m at the university.’
    He thought about this response for a moment, before nodding.
    ‘Figures.’
    Elizabeth was standing at the doorway, a moth belting itself to confusion on the veranda light above her head. Worry had settled into its familiar pattern on her face. Richard had married a worrier, although nobody else would know it. It was one of their little secrets. Often relief got in the way of the anger she was entitled to. He hoped this was such an occasion.
    ‘Waiting for your present?’ Richard joked. The light drizzle made his skin prickle. Elizabeth didn’t look at her watch. Nor did she step forward to embrace him.
    ‘Richard, we’ve been robbed.’
    Richard was caught short by the moment. A beat of puzzlement before the obvious, necessary, question.
    ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘Of course I’m all right. I wasn’t here.’
    ‘Well when … where were you?’
    ‘I went round to see Judy. When you rang to say you’d be late, I went round to see Judy.’
    ‘Lucky you did.’
    And now the hug. They disengaged, standing at the doorway like awkward almost-strangers at the end of a first date.
    ‘How’s that lucky?’
    ‘Well, if you’d been here …’
    ‘If I’d been here, they wouldn’t have broken in,’ she told him.
    ‘You don’t know that.’
    ‘Where’s the car?’
    ‘I caught the boat.’
    ‘You’ve been drinking.’
    ‘William was beaten by some protesters today. He’s all right.’
    ‘When did this happen?’
    ‘Lunch time I think.’
    ‘Why didn’t you …’
    ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
    The creases returned to her still-beautiful face.
    ‘Well, where is