Achilles adopted a tragic expression and leaned forward, as if he was nervous of being overheard.
‘This isn’t something I tell a lot of people,’ he said. ‘Because it could be dangerous, you know? But I trust you, Jeremy. The thing is, there was a drugs cartel operating on our estate and they were supplying to children. To children! And that’s just not right, is it? So he ratted them out. And then one of their … let’s say, associates … got their revenge planting drugs on him, and he got ten years.’
‘What kind of drugs?’ asked Jeremy.
Achilles thought about it. ‘I want to say … heroin?’ he said.
‘Are you asking me or telling me?’
‘Telling you. Then Dad got killed when he was inside. Some guys who worked for the, you know, for the drug lord, the kingpin, they cut his throat with a toothbrush.’
‘How do you cut someone’s throat with a toothbrush?’ asked Jeremy.
‘You take the bristles out, then you melt the plastic and stick a blade in. Then—’
He made a swooshing and slicing motion through the air, his hair falling into his eyes as he did so.
‘How awful for you,’ said Jeremy, sitting back a little. ‘And how old were you when this happened?’
‘Like, eight,’ said Achilles.
‘They kept him alive for four years and then killed him?’
‘Yes. Weird, I know, but that’s the way it happened.’
Jeremy nodded. ‘What prison was he in?’
Achilles looked around the bar while he racked his brain for the names of prisons.
‘Holloway,’ he said.
‘But Holloway was a women’s prison,’ said Jeremy, frowning. ‘He couldn’t possibly have been there.’
‘Sorry, you’re right,’ said Achilles, shaking his head. ‘Not Holloway. I meant Belmarsh.’
‘I thought Belmarsh was used for terror suspects? It’s Category-A, as far as I know.’
Achilles stared at him, wishing he had a toothbrush with him right at that moment.
‘Wormwood Scrubs,’ he said definitively. ‘That’s where he was.’
‘Ah.’
‘I don’t like to think about it, to be honest.’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Anyway, as I say, the tortoise went back a few generations in my family. They can live up to about 150 years, you know.’
‘Really? I had an aunt who lived to 104.’
‘Not quite the same, though, Jeremy, is it?’ said Achilles. ‘Thirty-six years’ difference there.’
‘Forty-six,’ said Jeremy.
‘Either way, the tortoise died. That’s my point. So if I seem a bit down, you’ll know why.’
‘You must be very upset.’
‘I am, yeah.’
‘What was his name?’
‘The tortoise or my dad?’
‘The tortoise.’
Achilles opened his mouth to say the name of Ustym Karmaliuk, but he really didn’t have the energy to get into a lengthy conversation about that so he decided to make things a bit simpler.
‘Tommy,’ he said.
‘Tommy?’
‘Yes, Tommy. Tommy the Tortoise.’
‘And how did he die, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘He overdosed on After Eights. They’re not good for tortoises. You don’t have one, do you?’
‘An After Eight?’
‘No, a tortoise.’
‘Oh. No. I have a cockapoo, but I never give her chocolate. Or mints. Although her breath can be terrible. So perhaps I should.’
‘Jeremy, haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?’ asked Achilles, raising his voice now. ‘Don’t give that cockapoo none of that crap. Or you’ll end up suffering like I’m suffering. It’s not right, man! It’s not right!’
Jeremy reached across and tapped his hand against Achilles’ on the table. The boy looked at it and smiled inside. He’d known all along that the moment would come sooner or later. ‘I can see how distraught you are,’ said Jeremy. ‘I wonder, is there anything I can do to help?’
You’re going to suggest some stress relief, aren’t you? thought Achilles. Back at yours. With my pants around my ankles.
Achilles shook his head. ‘I couldn’t ask you to,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t be fair. You’ve been so good to me already.’
‘But I’d like to. I would.’
‘Is there anything you’d like to suggest?’
Jeremy blinked and thought about it. ‘Nothing springs to mind,’ he said. ‘But if you can think of something, then—’
‘No,’ said Achilles. ‘No, I couldn’t do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Ask you for five thousand pounds.’
Jeremy sat back in his seat now and raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Did you say five thousand pounds?’
‘Yes, that’s what it will cost.’
‘What what will cost?’
Achilles sighed and wiped a non-existent tear from his eye. ‘See, the thing is,’ he said, ‘my family is originally from New Zealand.’
‘All right.’
‘That’s where my grandfather emigrated from. He died in the war.’
‘Which war?’
‘The First.’
‘Could he have even been born then?’
‘No, you’re right. The Second. He died in the Second World War, at the Battle of …’ He racked his brain again to remember a name from one of his history classes. ‘Ypres,’ he said. ‘Did I pronounce that right?’
‘You pronounced it right, yes,’ said Jeremy. ‘But it couldn’t have been Ypres, because that was in the First World War.’
‘It must have been the Marne, then.’
‘Also the First World War.’
‘Verdun?’
‘Ditto.’
‘Waterloo?’
Jeremy frowned. ‘That was during the Napoleonic era.’
‘Agincourt?’
‘No, that was Henry V. Sometime around 1415, if memory serves.’
Achilles sat back in his seat, losing the will to live.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘You really know your battles, don’t you?’
‘I am a bit of a military history buff,’ admitted Jeremy.
‘So tell me some of the major battles of the Second World War. Maybe one will ring a bell.’
‘Well,’ said Jeremy, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘I mean, where to start? There was the Battle of Normandy, of course, and the—’
‘Normandy,’ said Achilles, slapping a hand down on the table. ‘That was the one. He died there. In the Battle of Normandy.’
‘Right,’ said Jeremy, looking a bit confused. ‘I got it right first time. How odd.’
‘You know your stuff, no question. Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah. So, my grandfather, he died at Normandy and then his body was sent back to New Zealand to be buried in … can you guess the city?’
Jeremy glanced up at the ceiling for a moment as if he might find the answer up there. ‘Auckland?’ he suggested.