Chapter 6

      When Ben saw Alan Crawford in the doorway, gilt buttons on his overcoat glinting like ceremonial medals, his heart sank. Abruptly, he let go of the notebook and took a step away from Jennifer.

      Outside the rain continued to fall, harder now, framing his father with a curtain of silver grey, like the scales on the underside of the mackerel Ben and Ricky used to catch off Bangor pier. He wasn’t a big man, only five eleven in his socks, yet his presence filled the room like the overpowering smell of forced spring hyacinths. And when he spoke it was as if he used up all the air, leaving none for Ben.

      ‘Bloody awful night out there,’ he boomed, running a hand over his bald head, glazed with rain. He glanced at Jennifer and flashed his showman’s white denture smile, his cheeks pulled tight on either side like the string of a bow. As a boy on the family’s dirt-poor hill farm near Cullybackey, he’d had only a rag and chimney soot with which to brush his teeth. This early neglect resulted in the loss of his teeth to gum disease at the age of forty-one, exactly twenty years ago. Determined his young sons wouldn’t suffer the same fate, he’d stood over them with a stopwatch every night while they brushed for the requisite two minutes.

      But the smile, in spite of its dazzling brilliance, did not reach Alan’s grey eyes. They flicked over Jennifer like a duster, sizing her up as if she were an enemy. Ben felt his hackles rise. What the hell was he doing here? ‘Well, who’s this then?’ he asked, striding over to Ben. The scent of the expensive aftershave he ordered specially from London wafted before him, an arresting combination of citrusy vanilla and balsamic vinegar. He came to a halt, rolled back on the heels of his handmade English leather shoes and stared pointedly at Jennifer.

      Ben made the introductions. Alan, hands clasped behind his back, said with a slightly menacing air, ‘Jennifer Murray Interior Design. A one-woman band, then?’

      Jennifer looked uncertainly at Ben and then back to his father. Ben cringed with embarrassment. ‘Not exactly. I don’t have any permanent employees but I have forged very close relationships with local craftspeople who work for me on a contract basis. Curtain-makers, decorators and so on,’ she said without hesitation, unnerved, but not cowed it seemed, by Alan’s intimidating presence.

      ‘And have you done a restaurant before?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said firmly, without breaking eye contact. ‘Several. I can show you my portfolio.’ Ben loved her self-confidence. He wished some of it would rub off on him.

      Alan looked at her doubtfully. ‘And you understand –’ he paused and looked around, ‘what we – what Ben wants? Because it is his project, after all.’

      ‘Perfectly. And I believe I can deliver.’

      ‘Hmm,’ said Alan rudely and, shifting his gaze slowly to Ben, he effectively dismissed her. ‘Let’s have a look at these plans then,’ he said, unbuttoning the coat to reveal a black silk shirt pulled tight across his barrel chest.

      ‘It sounds as if you two need to talk,’ said Jennifer helpfully. ‘Shall I come back and take these measurements another time?’

      ‘No,’ said Ben.

      ‘Yes,’ said Alan at exactly the same time and locked eyes with his son.

      Ben, startled to find boldness in his heart, repeated what he’d said. Alan’s face remained immobile but his pupils contracted, betraying his anger. Softening his tone, Ben looked at Jennifer. ‘Please. The sooner you get the measuring done the sooner you can get on with the job. Isn’t that right?’

      Jennifer smiled tightly without looking at Alan, went over to a window and noisily unfurled a retractable metal tape-measure. And to his father, Ben said quietly, ‘Jennifer’s doing us a favour picking up the pieces after Calico, Dad.’

      He scowled grumpily. ‘Well, the proof’ll be in the pudding, won’t it?’

      The tape-measure retracted with a loud snap and both men looked over at Jennifer. Ignoring them, she took a pencil out of her mouth and scribbled furiously on the clipboard in her left hand. She was insulted and rightly so. Giving offence was one of Alan’s many talents.

      Ben took a deep breath and tried to make the peace. ‘So, Dad, what brings you here?’

      Alan rubbed his hands together, the way people do when they’re itching to get started on something. ‘I happened to be passing,’ he said and Ben smiled at the lie. Alan had been in Portrush and Portstewart earlier that day and Ballyfergus wasn’t on the way home – not unless you took the scenic Antrim coast road and more or less doubled the length of your journey time. ‘I wanted to hear what you thought of the place. And see how the plans were shaping up.’

      So much for Alan letting go of the reins. Without waiting for an invitation he strode over to the wallpaper table and rested his knuckles on the flat surface, like a sprinter at the starting blocks. ‘So,’ he said, narrowing his eyes to focus more clearly – he was too proudly virile to don glasses in the presence of a stranger – ‘do you agree this place is a dump?’

      Ben frowned. Alan had bought the place – snapped it up, he’d said – without consulting Ben. ‘It is now but it won’t be by the time we’re finished with it. Haven’t you always said –’

      Without taking his eyes off the plans, Alan cut him short mid-sentence. ‘I’ve learned you something then.’ This peculiar verb misuse, widespread across the province, marked Alan out as an uneducated man. And, whilst he knew this, and was certainly clever enough to eliminate this verbal idiosyncrasy from his speech if he chose to, he never did.

      Ben, angry, folded his arms across his chest. Why was nothing ever straightforward with his father? The question had been another one of his stupid tests.

      ‘Location,’ went on Alan, raising his eyes now, and one instructive finger, ‘is the most important thing, absolutely, always. Everything else can be changed. You have to look beyond the muck and filth and see what others can’t.’ Ben, who had heard it all before, made a swirling pattern in the dust with the toe of his old trainers. Jennifer, he noticed, glancing up, had disappeared into one of the loos.

      ‘Tell me,’ went on Alan, walking over to a window and squinting up at the sky like he was on the lookout for an aeroplane. ‘What do you see when you look out this window?’

      ‘An ugly car park?’ replied Ben, stubbornly looking the other way, refusing to play the game.

      Alan roared with humourless laughter. ‘Depends how you look at it. That’s what you see,’ he said, and paused to let Ben