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    The Price of Love and Other Stories
    The Price of Love and Other Stories
    The Price of Love and Other Stories
    Ebook481 pages7 hours

    The Price of Love and Other Stories

    By Peter Robinson

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    About this ebook

    The award-winning author of the New York Times bestselling Inspector Alan Banks novels, Peter Robinson dazzles with his first collection of short fiction, The Price of Love and Other Stories. Marked by the piercing psychological insight, brilliant characterization, and riveting suspense that are the hallmarks of Robinson’s fiction, The Price of Love gives us ten remarkable tales—two of which feature Robinson’s inimitable Yorkshire police detective Alan Banks—as well as a stunning pair of new Banks novellas. The Price of Love is a bravura demonstration of the exceptional storytelling skill that has made critics, mystery lovers, and famous literary peers the world over—including Dennis Lehane and Stephen King—fervent Peter Robinson fans.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateSep 29, 2009
    ISBN9780061938092
    Author

    Peter Robinson

    One of the world’s most popular and acclaimed writers, Peter Robinson was the bestselling, award-winning author of the DCI Banks series. He also wrote two short-story collections and three stand-alone novels, which combined have sold more than ten million copies around the world. Among his many honors and prizes were the Edgar Award, the CWA (UK) Dagger in the Library Award, and the Swedish Crime Writers’ Academy Martin Beck Award.

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    Reviews for The Price of Love and Other Stories

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    • 3/5
      Enjoyable book of short stories, Banks makes a couple of appearances, and in Like A Virgin, we see him in his final case in London before moving North. Interesting too to see Robinson tackling tales on the other side of the Atlantic.
    • 5/5
      "Like a Virgin" is a novella included in a book of short stories.It relates to an case early in Bank's career when he was still in London, I find the interviews with both victims and aggressors, shorter and smoother, compared with the last books. As usual he seems to spend half of his time on the job and the other half in a pub. The story gives insight into his way of life at that time and reasons for the move north. Like a lot of books and movies, there is a broad hint of who an upcoming victim will be. Although there are a lot of bodies being tossed about, in the end, justice is served. And to top it of, the book was a good collection of stories.
    • 5/5
      Book Description
      From the New York Times bestselling author comes a riveting collection of short fiction, marked by the piercing psychological insight and brilliant characterization that are hallmarks of his acclaimed novels.

      Ever since the publication of his first mystery featuring Detective Inspector Alan Banks, Peter Robinson has been steadily building a reputation for compulsively readable and perceptive novels that probe the dark side of human nature. Plumbing the territory that his work has so successfully staked, The Price of Love and Other Stories includes two novellas and several stories featuring the Yorkshire policeman at his finest. In these stories, the disparate motives that move humans to harm one another, from love and jealousy to greed and despair, are all explored with fascinating depth.

      My Review
      I enjoyed these 2 novellas and several short stories with themes of love and murder. Lots of twists and turns and unexpected endings. If you like reading the Inspector Banks series, you will enjoy this book.
    • 5/5
      I read mainly crime fiction novels but occasionally a short story anthology is brought to my attention by a fellow reader. Short stories often give the reader a different view of a writer's talents. Among my favourite writers who have also produced short stories are Ian Rankin and Ruth Rendell. I cut my teeth on the short stories of Somerset Maugham and Charles Dickens.These eleven stories first appeared in the first decade of the 21st century. Only three of them, one of them a longish novella, feature Robinson's detective Alan Banks. The author says that most of them "were written at the request of one editor or another" and at the end of the anthology he gives detail about what led to the writing of each one. He says that he thinks of the stories as challenges, a chance to explore something he hadn't explored before. He says that he finds short stories difficult to write, and that they often take him into uncharted territory.The story I liked best The Price of Love, the one that gives the anthology its name. Tommy Burford, whose police constable father was recently killed in the line of duty, has discovered something quite strange in the room of Uncle Arthur, his mother's new boyfriend.It is worth it after you finish each story to take a moment to reflect, to ask who in this story, as the subtitle says, paid with his or her life.
    • 3/5
      A collection of stories by Peter Robinson, some of which are featuring Inspector Banks. I had not heard of this author or his detective before, and although I don't usually enjoy collections of short stories, I enjoyed these well enough. Robinson is good at writing interesting characters, even if it is all a bit darker than I prefer. It is missing the dark humor I enjoy in my mysteries. Also, there was never much mystery for me as to who the bad guy was, but perhaps that isn't the point. Perhaps the point is the journey, as they say. I would recommend it as a good read, but not a book I will read twice.
    • 4/5
      I enjoyed it almost more than one of the Banks novels. Some nice twists in the end. Also the Banks shorts show him as a bit more rounded, explaining what isn't always apparent in the novels.
    • 2/5
      Something of a curate's egg. The title story and the Inspector Banks novella "Like a virgin" are decent crime stories, but the rest of the collection is pretty mediocre. Several of the stories ought to have been buried somewhere and forgotten after their initial magazine publication, especially the opening story, a Yorkshire mockingbird-killer of absolutely leaden obviousness and total absence of period atmosphere. How could any sane publisher include that in a book and put it first where potential buyers would see it...?People keep telling me that Robinson is a great crime writer, but I wouldn't go any further than "competent" on the evidence of the couple of books I've seen so far. He doesn't seem to have any particular quality to his voice or his characters that makes him special. It's just all as bland as Inspector Banks's taste in music. There's no real passion, no irony, no humour. But obviously other readers find something in him. Maybe I'm missing the point somewhere.
    • 4/5
      pretty good stories. early inspector banks drank way too much, cheated on wifey and seems really unhappy.
    • 5/5
      These are some of the best short stories I have come across. Extremely well written.
    • 4/5
      Great short stories and I loved revisiting Banks.
    • 5/5
      Peter Robinson is one of my favourite mystery authors. His Inspector Banks series now numbers 19! The Price of Love is a collection of short stories released by McClelland and Stewart. When I started to read, I planned to read one or two, put the book down and come back to it -that's the beauty of a short story collection. Unfortunately, this book was like a bag of chips for me - I couldn't read just one or two, but had to finish it off . And it was done too quickly and I wanted more!There are two Banks stories and a novella included. One is a great Christmas tale originally published in a small run of 350 as a gift to a publisher's friends. The novella fills in the Bank's jump from London to Eastvale. As always, the crimes are interesting and well plotted. But it is the character development that makes this series such an addicting read. Banks is human, fallible and it has been fascinating over the years to watch his life unfold.It was intriguing to read stories told in a different voice than Banks. Many were originally published in anthologies Robinson has participated in . There are afternotes at the end explaining the origins of each tale. They range from a WWII soldier falsely accused of murder and the investigator powerless to stop the wheels of justice. Shadows on the Water has a WWII soldiers telling childhood stories while hiding in their trenches. The ending caught me completely unawares. Robinson always includes many references to music in his writing. (Check out the playlists he has compiled for the Banks books) The Magic of Your Touch is a chilling little tale dealing with the songwriting process. One of my favourites was Walking the Dog - a wronged spouse and the revenge they take. All in all, there wasn't one I didn't enjoy!Robinson currently lives in Toronto, Canada and it's always a thrill to read of locales you've visited yourself. College Ave, Danforth and The Beaches provide some of the settings for stories.Robinson is a consummate storyteller. Fans new and old will want to add this one to their collection

    Book preview

    The Price of Love and Other Stories - Peter Robinson

    Introduction

    For someone who considers himself primarily a novelist, I seem to have written rather a lot of short stories. I have also been very fortunate in that my publishers want to publish them in collection form, which induces a retrospective frame of mind in me as I gather these tales together and prepare them for publication.

    Most of the stories in this collection were written at the request of one editor or another. I know that sounds rather mercenary, and that, in the Romantic view of art, the writer is supposed to work from pure inspiration. But I think of the stories as challenges, and sometimes a challenge can bring out the best in a person, or at least it can bring to the surface something he didn’t know he had, something he hadn’t explored before. And that is very much the case in this collection.

    I’m not going to go into details here about the content or origins of any of these stories. I’m saving that for the afternotes because I don’t want to spoil anything for those readers who, like me, want to know as little as possible about a story or novel they are about to read. I will say, though, that some of these requests for stories opened up new directions for me, took me places I would not normally have gone, and forced me to dig deep into areas where I might never have ventured left to my own devices.

    In some cases, I simply set off into the dark without even a light to guide my way, moving from one word to the next and letting the story find itself. In others, I thought and fretted about the story for months, shaped it in my mind, despaired over it, scrapped it, started again, and when I was finally driven by the demands of a deadline to put fingers to keyboard, it came out as something different, often something better than I could ever have hoped for.

    I have said before that I find short stories difficult to write, and that is still the case. The discipline is exacting and the amount of space in which I sometimes feel I have to maneuver feels quite claustrophobic. The bits I have to leave out would probably make a novel. But the satisfaction level is high. I remember when I used to write mostly poetry, I would sometimes work for weeks trying to get a poem right, especially when I began to value form and structure as much as, if not more than, Romantic self-expression or postmodernist confessional. Everyone who has ever written a poem knows that to make it work you sometimes have to sacrifice your best line or image, and working on a short story is far more akin to that process than is writing a novel, which in some ways is a constant search for more things to put in.

    So here are the stories. I hope you enjoy them. People often ask me whether they should start with the first Inspector Banks novel or with one of the later ones, and I usually answer that it doesn’t matter unless you are the kind of person who has to start at the beginning. The stories are not presented chronologically, and nor did I agonize over their order according to some secret code or system of symbolism known only to me. Please feel free to jump in wherever you wish.

    PETER ROBINSON

    Toronto, January 2009

    Going Back

    An Inspector Banks Novella

    I

    Banks pulled up outside his parents’ council house and parked his Renault by the side of the road. He wondered if it would be safe left out overnight. The estate had a bad reputation, even when he grew up there in the sixties, and it had only gotten worse over recent years. Not that there was any alternative, he realized, as he made sure it was locked and the security system was working; his parents didn’t own a garage.

    He couldn’t very well remove the CD player for the weekend, but to be on the safe side, he stuffed the CDs themselves into his overnight bag. He didn’t think any young joyriders would want to steal Thelonious Monk, Cecilia Bartoli or the Grateful Dead, but you couldn’t be too careful. Besides, he had a portable disc player now, and he liked to listen to music in bed as he drifted off to sleep.

    Banks’s parents’ house stood near the western edge of the estate, close to the arterial road, across from an abandoned factory and a row of shops. Banks paused for a moment and took in the redbrick terrace houses—rows of five, each with a little garden, low wall and privet hedge. His family had moved here from the tiny, grim back-to-back when he was twelve, when the houses were new.

    It was a Friday afternoon near the end of October, and Banks was home for the weekend for his parents’ golden wedding anniversary that Sunday, only his second overnight stay since he had left home at the age of eighteen to study business at London Polytechnic. When that didn’t work out, and when the sixties lost their allure in the early seventies, he joined the police. Since then long hours, hard work, and his parents’ overt disapproval of his career choice had kept him away. Visiting home was always a bit of a trial, but they were his mother and father, Banks reminded himself; he owed them more than he could ever repay, he had certainly neglected them over the years and he knew they loved him in their way. They weren’t getting any younger, either.

    He took a deep breath, opened the gate, walked up the path and knocked at the scratched red door, a little surprised by the loud music coming from the next house. He saw his mother approach through the frosted glass pane. She opened the door, rubbed her hands together as if drying them and said, Alan, lovely to see you. Come on in, love, come in.

    Banks dropped his overnight bag in the hall and followed his mother through to the living room. It stretched from the front of the house to the back, and the back area, next to the kitchen, was permanently laid out as a dining room. The wallpaper was a wispy brown autumn-leaves pattern, the three-piece suite a matching brown velveteen and a sentimental autumn landscape hung over the electric fire.

    His father was sitting in his usual armchair, the one with the best straight-on view of the television. He didn’t get up, just grunted, Son, nice of you to come.

    Hello, Dad. How are you doing?

    Mustn’t complain. Arthur Banks had been suffering from mild angina for years, ever since he’d been made redundant from the sheet-metal factory, and it seemed to get neither better nor worse as the years went on. He took pills for the pain and didn’t even need an inhaler. Other than that, and the damage booze and fags had wreaked on his liver and lungs over the years, he had always been fit as a fiddle. Hollow chested and skinny, he still sported a head of thick dark hair with hardly a trace of gray. He wore it slicked back with lashings of Brylcreem.

    Banks’s mother, Ida, plump and nervy, fussed a little more about how thin Banks was looking, then the kitchen door opened and a stranger walked into the room.

    Kettle’s on, Mrs. B. Now, who have we got here? Let me guess.

    This is our son, Geoff. We told you he was coming. For the party, like.

    So this is the lad who’s done so well for himself, is it? The Porsche and the mews house in South Kensington?

    No, that’s the other one, Roy. He’s not coming till Sunday afternoon. He’s got important business. No, this is our eldest: Alan. I’m sure I told you about him. The one in that picture.

    The photograph she pointed to, half-hidden by a pile of women’s magazines on one of the cabinet shelves, showed Banks at age sixteen, when he captained the school rugby team for a season. There he stood in his purple and yellow strip, holding the ball, looking proud. It was the only photograph of him they had ever put on display.

    This is Geoff Salisbury, said Ida Banks. Geoff lives up the street at number fifty-five.

    Geoff moved forward, hand stretched out like a weapon. He was a small, compact man, with lively, slightly watery eyes and cropped gray hair, about Banks’s age. His smile revealed what looked to Banks like a set of perfect false teeth. His handshake was firm, and his hands were calloused and ingrained with oil or grease from manual labor.

    Pleased to meet you, Alan, he said. I’d love to stay and chat, but I can’t just now. He turned to Banks’s mother. Have you got that shopping list, Mrs. B? I’ll be off to Asda now.

    Only if you’re sure it’s no trouble.

    Nothing’s too much trouble for you. You know that. Besides, I have to go there myself.

    Banks’s mother picked up her handbag, took out her purse and gave Geoffrey a handwritten list and a twenty-pound note. Will that cover it?

    Easily, Mrs. B. Easily. I’ll be back in a tick. Coach and Horses tonight, Arthur?

    Maybe. We’ll see how I feel, said Banks’s father. On closer examination, he did look tired and drawn, Banks thought. More so since he had last seen him in the summer. His eyes had the look of milky marbles and his skin was the color of porridge. It could be the strain of the preparing for the upcoming party—Arthur Banks, while gregarious enough in the pub, had never liked a house full of relatives—but most of the organization, Banks guessed, would have fallen to his mother. Perhaps it was simple old age catching up fast.

    Geoff Salisbury left, and Banks saw him go up to the red Fiesta with the rusted chassis, parked behind Banks’s Renault. Geoff paused and looked Banks’s car over before getting into his own and driving off.

    Who’s that? Banks asked his mother.

    I told you. Geoff Salisbury. He’s a neighbor.

    He seems at home here.

    I don’t know what we’d do without him, said Mrs. Banks. He’s just like a son to us. Anyway, son, sit yourself down. Have a cuppa.

    Banks sat and his mother poured. So Roy’s not coming till Sunday, then? he said.

    No. He rang us last night, didn’t he, Arthur? She said it as if it were some momentous event. Arthur Banks nodded. He’s got an important business meeting all day Saturday, she went on. Something to do with some Yanks flying in, and they have to be back in New York by evening…I don’t know. Anyway, he says he should be here by Sunday lunchtime.

    Good of him to bother, Banks muttered.

    His mother cast him a long-suffering glance. Banks knew she had been used to the brothers’ bickering when they both lived at home, and it was no surprise whose side she usually took. What time are you planning on starting the party? Banks asked.

    We told everyone to come about six o’clock. That’ll give us time to clear up and get things ready after lunch. By the way, I don’t suppose you’ve heard yet, but Mrs. Summerville passed away just last week. She announced it in the sort of soft and solemn tones generally reserved for those who had passed away.

    I’m sorry to hear it, said Banks. Mrs. Summerville was the mother of the first girl he had ever slept with, though he had always believed that neither the late Mrs. Summerville nor his own mother knew that. What did she die of?

    It wasn’t anything suspicious, if that’s what you’re thinking.

    Perish the thought.

    His mother studied him, frowning. Yes…well, it was a blessing really. She’d been very poorly. Died in her sleep, according to Alice Green.

    Still… said Banks, uncertain what to say. He sipped some tea. As usual, it was milky and sweet, though he had stopped taking milk and sugar twenty years ago.

    And how are the Marshalls? Banks asked. The Marshalls were the parents of Banks’s school friend Graham, who had disappeared at the age of fourteen and whose body had been discovered the previous summer. Banks had come down to help the locals work on the case and the solution hadn’t pleased anyone. It was during that time Banks had met Detective Inspector Michelle Hart, whom he had been seeing on and off ever since. Pity she wasn’t around this weekend, he thought.

    Same as ever, I suppose, said Mrs. Banks. We don’t see much of them, do we, Arthur?

    Arthur Banks shook his head.

    It’s as if they’ve shut themselves away since you were last down. Banks’s mother cast him an accusing glance, as if their becoming recluses were his fault. And maybe it was, in a way. The truth is rarely as liberating as people would have us believe; it often binds more than it frees.

    I’m sorry to hear that, he said.

    You know, his mother went on, while you’re here, you ought to go and see Mrs. Green. She keeps asking about you, you know, and she was very put out you didn’t drop by and see her in the summer. She still thinks very fondly of you, though I can’t see why, the noise you lot used to make at her house.

    Banks smiled. He remembered Mrs. Green fondly, too. She was the mother of an old school friend, Tony Green, whom Banks hadn’t seen since he left home. Tony hadn’t been one of the real in-crowd, but he had been on the rugby team with Banks, and Banks had always liked Mrs. Green. Most of the kids did. She didn’t stop them from smoking in her house, and she didn’t mind them playing the sort of music—the Beatles and the Rolling Stones mostly—that most adults hated. Once or twice, she had given Banks and Tony half a crown apiece and sent them off to the pictures out of her way. She had also been very pretty, with the kind of bosom young boys dream about, and she certainly had a mouth on her. Mrs. Green had a reputation for speaking her mind, and nobody ruffled her feathers and got away with it. Tony had gone off to Canada, Banks remembered. Also, Mr. Green had died of emphysema a year or two ago. His mother had told him over the telephone, and he had sent a sympathy card. Yes, he would pay Mrs. Green a visit.

    II

    So Banks sipped tea with his mother and father, catching up on the local gossip. The usual stuff: another school friend had emigrated to Australia, an old neighbor who had moved into a home a year ago had died, and the Venables lad from number sixty-six had been sent to Borstal for mugging a pensioner. Banks didn’t bother telling his mother that it wasn’t called Borstal anymore but detention center or youth custody center. They weren’t much interested in what he’d been doing, outside of the divorce from Sandra. They were more interested in Brian and Tracy, and they expressed regret that neither could come to the party on Sunday: Brian’s band was playing an important series of gigs in Germany, and Tracy had the flu. Not entirely convinced this wasn’t some excuse, Banks had dropped by and offered to drive her from her university residence in Leeds, but when he saw her, he took pity on her and said he’d look in again on his way back. Fortunately, she had friends there who would feed her chicken noodle soup and Lemsip in the meantime.

    Have you seen who’s moved in next door? Mrs. Banks asked.

    No, said Banks. But I heard them.

    Not that side. The other. A Paki family, that’s who. I must say, though, she went on, they seem really nice. Very quiet, they are, even the kids, aren’t they, Arthur? And polite. Always say good morning and ask how you’re doing. Talk just like us, they do. Makes a change from that lot on the other side.

    Who are they? Banks asked.

    She shook her head. I don’t even know their name. They moved in about two weeks ago. They’re not very friendly neighbors. Don’t know how many of them live there, either. Shifty-looking lot. Comings and goings all hours of the day and night. Noise. And the place is a pigsty.

    It sounded like a drug house. Banks made a mental note to keep his eyes open. If he noticed anything suspicious, he’d get on to the local police.

    Banks’s father picked up the remote control and turned the television on at half-past five, as Banks remembered he did every weekday. Is that the time? said Ida Banks. I’d better get the tea on. Pork chops, peas and chips all right?

    Fine, said Banks, his stomach sinking. As if there was a choice.

    And a nice bit of steamed pudding and custard for sweet.

    I’ll help. Banks followed her into the kitchen.

    True to his word, Geoff Salisbury came back from Asda with a bag of groceries. He dumped it on the kitchen table and handed Ida Banks two pound coins in change, then they went through to the living room. Banks, peeling potatoes at the time, started to unload the groceries. As he did so, he came across the printed receipt stuck by condensation to the side of a bottle of chilled apple juice.

    The print was a little blurred, but even so he could see that the total came to £16.08, which left a discrepancy of £1.92, between that and the two pounds Geoff had handed his mother. Holding the receipt, Banks went through into the living room.

    I think you’ve got the change wrong, he said, holding out the receipt for Geoff to see.

    Banks mother frowned. Alan! Must you? Then she turned to Geoff. I’m so sorry. Our Alan’s in the police and he can’t seem to let us forget it, she said, with a dismissive sniff.

    One of the boys in blue, eh?

    CID, actually, said Banks.

    Ah. All that Sherlock Holmes stuff.

    Something like that.

    Let’s see, then. Geoff took a pair of bifocals from his shirt pocket and squinted at the list. Bloody hell, you’re right, he admitted, blushing. He showed the receipt to Ida Banks. It’s a fair cop. See there, Mrs. B? It looks like an eight to me but it’s really a six. That’s what comes of being too vain to wear my glasses in the supermarket.

    Ida Banks laughed and slapped him on the arm playfully. Oh, get away with you, Geoff. Anyone could make a mistake like that.

    Geoff counted out the rest of the change into her hand. He glanced sideways at Banks, still slightly red with embarrassment. I can see I’ll have to watch myself now there’s a copper around, he joked.

    Yes, said Banks, not laughing. I think you better had.

    III

    "There was no need for that, Alan, Banks’s mother said after Geoff Salisbury had left. Embarrassing us all."

    I wasn’t embarrassed, Banks said. Besides, he tried to cheat you.

    Don’t be silly. It’s like he said. He couldn’t see the figures properly.

    Does he do this often?

    Do what?

    Go shopping for you.

    Yes. We can’t get around like we used to, you know, what with your dad’s angina and my legs and feet.

    Legs and feet?

    My varicose veins and bunions. Getting old is no treat, Alan, I can tell you that much. You’ll find out, yourself, one day. Anyway, he’s been good to us, has Geoff, and now you’ve gone and upset him.

    I don’t think he’s upset at all.

    Only here five minutes, and there’s trouble already.

    Mum, I really don’t think I upset him. Maybe he’ll just be more careful in the future.

    "And maybe we’ll have to find someone else who’ll do our shopping for us and give the place a good dust and a vacuum every now and then. Fat chance of that."

    I’m sure he’ll be fine.

    Well, I just hope you’ll apologize to him next time you see him.

    Apologize?

    Yes. You as good as called the man a thief.

    Fine, said Banks, raising his hands in surrender. I’ll apologize.

    His mother gave another disapproving little sniff. I’d better see to those pork chops. Then she strode off into the kitchen and shut the door behind her.

    IV

    The Coach and Horses, about a hundred yards away, on the main road, was one of those pubs that had hardly changed at all in the past forty years or so. True, they’d got in a jukebox and a few video machines, and the brewery had forked out for a minor facelift sometime in the eighties, hoping to pull in a younger, freer-spending crowd. But it didn’t take. The people who drank at the Coach and Horses had, for the most part, been drinking there most of their lives. And their fathers had supped there before them.

    Though there were few young people to be seen, it still managed to be a warm and lively pub, Banks noticed as he walked in with his father just after eight o’clock that night, the steamed pudding and custard still weighing heavy in his stomach. His father had managed the walk without too much puffing and wheezing, which he put down to having stopped smoking two years ago. Banks, who had only stopped that summer, still felt frequent and powerful urges.

    Arthur! Arthur! Come on, lad, come on over.

    It was Geoff Salisbury. He was sitting at a table with an elderly couple Banks didn’t recognize and two other men in their sixties he remembered from his previous visit. They cleared a little space when Banks and his father walked over to join them.

    My shout, said Geoff. Name your poison.

    No, said Banks, still standing. I’m the visitor. Let me buy the first round.

    That got no argument, so Banks wandered off to the bar. He hardly had to fight his way through the crowds of impatient drinkers. The bartender, the same one Banks remembered when he had last been in the Coach that summer, nodded a curt greeting and proceeded to pull the pints. When Banks carried the tray back to the table, his father was already talking football with one of his old pals, Harry Finnegan. Harry looked up and said hello to Banks, asked him how he was doing.

    Fine, said Banks. You’re looking well yourself.

    Fair to middling. Sorry to hear about you and that young lass of yours splitting up.

    Sandra. No secrets here. He wondered if they also knew about Sean and the imminent baby. Well, said Banks, these things happen. More to his generation than theirs, he realized. Theirs tended to stick at marriage, even when all the love had gone out of it. He didn’t know if that was better or worse than changing wives every decade. Probably best not to get married at all, he suspected.

    But his mother and father still loved each other, or so he believed. Fifty years together meant they probably didn’t have much new to say to each another anymore, and the passion may have disappeared from their relationship years ago, but they were comfortable together. Besides, passion is transitory and infinitely transferable anyway, Banks believed. What his parents had was stronger, deeper, more permanent; it was what he would never get to experience with Sandra: growing old together. He was used to the loss by now, but every now and then he still felt a pang of regret for what might have been, and a lump came to his throat.

    Harry introduced Banks to the couple at the table, Dick and Mavis Conroy. The other man, Jock McFall, said hello and shook hands.

    I hear you’re a Leeds United supporter these days, Alan, said Harry, a twinkle in his eye.

    Banks nodded. "For my sins. Not that I get the chance to go to Elland Road very often. Match of the Day is usually the closest I get."

    Elland Road, his father said. You’d not be able to bloody afford it on what a copper earns, son. They all laughed.

    Banks laughed with them. Too true.

    As the conversations went on in that vein, people started to pair off: Dick and Mavis talking to Jock McFall about the latest supermarket price wars; Harry and Arthur Banks discussing Peterborough United’s miserable performance that season. Banks edged his chair closer to Geoff Salisbury’s.

    Sorry about that business with the change, said Geoff. My eyesight’s not what it used to be. Honest mistake.

    Banks nodded. Honest mistake. No offense, he said, though he still wasn’t convinced. It was the closest he was willing to get to an apology, so it would just have to do. There was certainly no point in antagonizing Geoff and upsetting his mother even more. After all, he was only down for the weekend; these people had to live close to one another day in, day out. And if Banks couldn’t be around to help his parents with their shopping and housecleaning, then it was a good thing Geoffrey Salisbury was.

    How long have you lived on the estate, Geoff? Banks asked.

    Six months now.

    Where did you live before?

    Oh, here and there. Bit of a wanderer, really.

    What made you settle down?

    Geoff laughed and shrugged. My age, I suppose. I don’t know. Wandering lost its appeal.

    Well, there’s something to be said for knowing you’ve always got a roof over your head.

    There is that. Geoff took a stick of chewing gum from his pocket. When he had unwrapped it and put it in his mouth, he folded the silver paper time and time again until it was just a tiny square, which he set down in the ashtray. He noticed Banks watching him and laughed. Habit, he said. Stopped smoking five years ago and got addicted to this bloody stuff. Wish I’d stuck with cigarettes sometimes.

    You’re probably better off as you are, Banks said. What line of work are you in?

    Odd jobs, mostly.

    What? Fixing things? Carpentry?

    Cars, mostly. Tinkering with engines. I used to be a mechanic.

    Not anymore?

    Got made redundant from the last garage I worked at, and I just couldn’t seem to get taken on anywhere else. My age, I suppose. Again. They can get young kids still wet behind the ears and pay them bugger all to do the same job.

    I suppose so, Banks said. So you work for yourself now?

    Odd jobs. I don’t need much, just enough to keep the wolf from the door.

    And you help out Mum and Dad?

    Grand folk, Arthur and Ida, Geoff said. Been like a mother and father to me, they have.

    If there was any irony intended in the remark, Geoff didn’t seem aware of it. How long have you known them? Banks asked.

    Since not long after you’d left this summer. They told me about that business with the missing lad. Terrible. Anyway, they always said hello right from the start, you know, like, when they saw me in the street. Invited me in for a cup of tea. That sort of thing. And with them not being…well, you know what I mean, not as able to get around as well as they used to do, I started doing little favors. Just little things, washing, cleaning, shopping and the like, helping them out with their finances. I like to help people.

    Finances?

    Paying bills on time, that sort of thing. They do get a bit forgetful sometimes, just between you and me. And taking the rent down to the council office. It’s an awful bother for them.

    I’m sure they appreciate it, Geoff.

    I think they do. He nodded. Another?

    Banks looked at his empty glass. Yes, he said. Go on, then. One more. He looked over at his father. All right, Dad?

    Arthur Banks nodded and went back to his conversation with Harry Finnegan. The pub had filled up in the last half hour or so, and Banks thought he recognized some of the faces. One or two people looked at him as if they knew him, then decided perhaps they didn’t, or didn’t want to. Banks watched Geoff Salisbury at the bar. He seemed to know everyone; he was shaking more hands and patting more backs than a politician on election day. Popular fellow.

    Geoff came back with the drinks and excused himself to talk to someone else. Banks chatted with Dick and Mavis for a while—they wanted to know if he’d helped catch the Yorkshire Ripper—then, after his second drink, his father said he was tired and would like to go home. You can stay if you like, he said to Banks.

    No, I’ll walk back with you. I’m feeling a bit tired myself.

    Suit yourself.

    They said their good-byes and walked out into the cool autumn night. It was mild for the time of year, Banks thought: light jacket weather rather than overcoats, but the leaves were changing color, winter was in the air and the weather forecast said they had a shower or two in store. Neither Banks nor his father had anything to say on the way home, but then Arthur Banks needed all his breath for walking.

    V

    Banks’s bedroom, he had been amazed to discover that summer, was almost exactly as it had been when he first left home. Only the wallpaper, curtains and bedding had been changed. The bed itself was also the same one he had had since he was about twelve.

    As he squeezed himself between the tightly tucked sheets in his narrow bed, he remembered how he used to hold the old transistor radio to his ear under the sheets, listening to Radio Luxembourg amid the whistles and crackles. First, Jimmy Saville playing the latest top-ten hit from member number 11321, Elvis Presley. Then, a few years later, came the pirate stations, with even more static and interference: John Peel playing the Mothers of Invention, the Jefferson Airplane and Country Joe and the Fish, names from another world, music so startling and raw it transcended even the poor radio reception.

    Banks’s eyes were too tired and scratchy from the smoky pub to read his Graham Greene, so he put on the Cecilia Bartoli CD of Gluck arias and listened as he drifted toward sleep.

    As he lay there, he couldn’t help but think about Geoff Salisbury. Something about the man put Banks on his guard. It wasn’t just the wrong change—that could have been an honest mistake—but the manner in which he seemed to have insinuated himself into the lives of Banks’s parents, the ease with which he breezed in and out of the house. Banks wouldn’t be surprised if Geoff had a key. He switched off the CD and turned on his side, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling, telling himself he was being too mistrusting, and that he probably only felt this way because he felt guilty he wasn’t taking care of his aging parents himself. He knew he ought to be glad that someone was doing the job; he only wished that someone wasn’t Geoff Salisbury.

    VI

    Banks awoke with a start the following morning and experienced a moment’s absolute panic and terror when he had no idea who or where he was. It was as if he had woken from a coma after many years, all memory gone and the world around him totally changed, or as if he had been abducted and had woken up in an alien spaceship.

    But it only lasted a second or two, thank God, and after that he managed to orient himself and his heartbeat slowed to normal. He was in his old bedroom, of course, the room he had slept in between the ages of twelve and eighteen. It was at the back of the house and looked over backyards, an alleyway and a stretch of waste ground to the north, where he and his friends used to play. When Banks looked out of his window, he noticed that the builders had moved in since his last visit and laid the foundations for yet more houses. As if Peterborough needed to grow any more. Since the midsixties, when the developers decided to make it a catchment area for London’s overcrowded suburbs, it had done nothing but grow, swamping outlying villages with housing estates and business parks. The planners and promoters said it blended old and new in unique and interesting ways. Even so, Banks thought, King Paeda, who founded the city, would turn in his grave.

    On a Saturday morning, the building site was deserted; concrete mixers sat idle and quiet, and the thick sheets of polythene covering pallets of bricks or boards flapped in the wind. It was another grand autumn morning: sunshine, bright blue sky and a cool wind to make everything look and feel fresh. Banks checked his watch. It was after nine o’clock, and he was surprised he had slept so long and so deeply; he couldn’t remember having any dreams at all. He listened for sounds of life from downstairs and thought he could hear talking on the radio and dishes rattling in the sink. They were up.

    Desperate for tea or coffee, Banks dressed quickly and made his way downstairs. In the living room, his father looked up from his paper and grunted, Morning, son.

    Morning, Dad, Banks replied, glancing out of the window to make sure his car was still there. It was. His father’s newspaper rustled back into position, and the local radio station, according to the DJ, was about to play a request for Memories Are Made of This by Val Doonican, for Mrs. Patricia Gaitskell, of 43 Wisteria Drive, Stamford. Jesus, thought Banks, he could have been caught in a time warp while he slept, back to the B-side of 1967. Perhaps that was why he had felt so disoriented the minute he awoke?

    He walked through to the kitchen where his mother, washing the breakfast dishes, gave him a cursory glance and said, Well, you’ve decided to get up at last, have you? It was exactly what she used to say when he was a teenager and liked to lie in bed most of the morning. The only thing that saved him from seriously doubting his sanity was the little television on the kitchen table showing a breakfast program. That hadn’t been there all those years ago, nor had breakfast television.

    Banks made some comment about having had a long drive and put on the kettle. Want a cup of tea? he asked his mother.

    No, thanks. We had ours ages ago.

    Well, you could have another.

    She gave him a withering look, and he busied himself looking for the tea bags, telling himself that his parents really weren’t being especially nasty to him. They had their routine; it just took a little getting used to.

    They’re where they’ve always been, his mother told him.

    That didn’t help much, as he couldn’t remember where they’d always been. A terra-cotta jar in the cupboard with TEA engraved on the front looked promising, but it turned out to be empty. Beside it, however, Banks found a jar of instant coffee. Might as well, he thought. As long as you convince yourself it’s a different drink, not really coffee at all, then it doesn’t taste too bad. The kettle boiled and Banks made himself a cup of instant coffee. Specks of undissolved powder floated on the surface no matter how much he stirred it.

    Don’t you want any breakfast? his mother asked, drying her hands on her pinafore. We got some Sugar Puffs in for you specially. You always used to like Sugar Puffs.

    When I was about twelve, thought Banks. I’ll give it a miss this morning, he said. Maybe tomorrow.

    He wandered into the living room again, his mother not far behind. Val Doonican had given way to the Searchers singing Someday We’re Gonna Love Again. An improvement, Banks thought. Funny how the Searchers were exactly the kind of pop rubbish his parents dismissed thirty-five years ago, but now they were as acceptable as Val Doonican.

    Banks needed a newspaper to complete his morning ritual. His father was still buried deep in the Daily Mail, which, being a Labour man, he only read so he could find things to complain about. The Mail wasn’t Banks’s kind of paper anyway. No real meat on its bones. Especially on the weekend. He needed something with a bit more writing and fewer pictures, like the Independent or the Guardian.

    I’m off to the newsagent’s for a paper, he announced. Anything I can get for you?

    You’ll be lucky if they’ve got any left at this time, his mother said. His father just grunted.

    Banks took their responses as a no and set off. In the house next door, the upstairs windows were all open and music thudded out. It definitely wasn’t Val Doonican or the Searchers; more like Nine Inch Nails or Metallica. Banks studied the house. There were no curtains on the windows, and the front door was wide open. As he was looking, a scruffy couple walked out on to the overgrown path. They looked like Fred and Rosemary West on acid. The man’s eyes, in particular, reminded Banks of the opening of Vertigo.

    Morning, said Banks. Lovely day, isn’t it?

    They looked at him as if he were from Mars—or as if they were on it—so he shrugged and walked down to the newsagent’s across the main road. The short strip of shops there, set back from the road by a stretch of tarmac, had gone through dozens of changes over the years. When he first moved to the estate, Banks remembered, there had been a fish and chip shop, a ladies’ hairdresser, a butcher’s, a greengrocer’s and a launderette; now there was a video rental shop, a takeaway pizza and tandoori place called Caesar’s Taj Mahal, a mini-mart and a unisex hair salon. The only constants were the fish and chip shop, which now sold takeaway Chinese food, too, Banks noticed; and Walker’s, the newsagent’s.

    Banks waited to cross the busy road. On the other side, lower down from the shops, stood the remains of the old ball-bearing factory. The gates were chained and padlocked shut and it was surrounded by high wire mesh fencing with barbed wire on top, the windows beyond covered by rusty grilles. Despite these security precautions, most of them were broken anyway, and the front of the blackened brick building was covered in colorful graffiti.

    Banks remembered when the place was in production, lorries coming and going, factory whistle blowing and crowds of workers waiting at the bus stop.

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