Good news, the sounds of the rainforest have stopped. Bad news, they have been replaced by the sound of whale song.
‘If you lie face down on the beds, Anton and Ricardo will be with you presently. Namaste to you both.’
‘Namaste,’ says Pauline.
‘Thank you,’ grunts Ron, as he plants his face through the hole in the massage table and grimly hopes for the best.
‘You all right there, lover?’ asks Pauline, as Susie leaves them alone.
‘Yeah,’ says Ron. ‘I liked the watermelon juice.’
‘Anything you need?’
‘Nah, nothing,’ says Ron. ‘Except, are we supposed to talk to them? The massagers?’
‘Can if you want,’ says Pauline. ‘I usually just fall asleep. Land of nod, dream of horses.’
‘OK,’ says Ron. One thing he knows he won’t be doing is falling asleep. Absolute vigilance will be the key here.
‘Or just let your thoughts wander,’ says Pauline.
Let his thoughts wander? Wander where? Ron’s thoughts don’t do wandering. Whenever Ron is forced into actually doing some thinking, it’s for a good reason. For example, what were the Tories up to today? Where did West Ham need to strengthen during the January transfer window? Why had they stopped doing omelettes at the restaurant? He loves omelettes. Was there an egg shortage he hadn’t heard about, or was somebody taking a liberty? Important stuff. And when his mind wasn’t thinking about important things, it was doing nothing. Recharging, for the next issue which needed his attention. Wandering was never on the agenda.
He looks over at Pauline, her eyes already shut. ‘You ever heard of a Carron Whitehead? Or a Robert Brown?’
‘Just relax, Ronnie,’ she says, eyes still closed.
He senses Anton and Ricardo glide into the room. He is thankful that the towel is around his waist. God knows what his backside looks like these days. A moon landscape. He hopes these lads are well paid. Do they have a union? He waits for a greeting, but it doesn’t come, just the feel of two warm, oiled hands on his shoulders. OK, it seems the forty-five minutes are starting right now. The hands draw long, deep strokes down his back. Ron reminds himself that, at some point, the agony will end.
Ricardo, or Anton, gets to work on Ron’s neck and shoulders. Ron cannot avoid the fact that this is actually happening. Outside there will be cars and shops and dogs barking and mums shouting at kids. But in here, just the terrible whale sounds. Maybe he should think about the Bethany Waites case? Perhaps that could use up some time? He hears Pauline sigh in deep satisfaction. That, at least, makes him happy.
A hand is now drawing its way down his spine. Ricardo or Anton seem to be going about their business, and not, Ron will admit, without skill. Fair play. Perhaps they’ve seen worse than Ron in their time? The whales continue to sing, and, actually, when you get used to it, it’s not so bad. He read once that whales were lonely.
He’ll have a little think about Jack Mason, maybe. He likes him. Jack was always up to something, buying things, selling things, setting light to things. Now here he is, years later, legitimate business, lovely big house, lorries going here, there and everywhere. Still up to something? Of course, of course. How does he know Bethany is dead?
Two hands start to pummel Ron’s thigh now. He’ll go and see Jack again, that’s what he’ll do, take the KGB fella, talk about old times, buying and selling, all of them youngsters. Big house he has, Lenny. No, that’s the brother, fell through a warehouse roof and died. Years ago. When you think about it, have West Ham ever had a better captain than Mark Noble? When you really think about it? Billy Bonds, yeah, Bobby Moore, course, but Noble’s in with a shout. He’ll ask Jack, Jack’ll know.
Ron’s swimming with the whales now, keeping them company, we all get lonely, son, everything’s gonna be all right, floating on the warm currents. Pulled by the tides like Bethany Waites. Poor Bethany. Who killed her, all those years ago? Jack Mason knows all right. Jack Mason. Ron knew his brother … what was his name?