Doctor Who_ The King of Terror - Keith Topping [32]
‘God, no. That happens all the time, especially to us. No. I mean actually lost a friendship? Watched it crumble?’ This was a minor continuation of some of the conversation from the previous evening. Barrington had an idea what was coming next.
‘Can’t say I have,’ he said. ‘Not a solid, long-lasting one. There were a few kids I used to go to school with that I lost touch with but that’s not the same thing.’
‘It’s happened to me. Twice. One after another within about six months. I’m not talking about ships that pass in the night here. I mean people I’d known for a decade. Guys I’d been in effing life and death situations with. I always say that the true test of friendship is if you’d take a bullet for someone. Well, I’d have taken a bullet for either of these two. I had for one of them.’
‘What happened?’
‘One stiffed me over money, another one got the hump over a woman.’
‘Ah,’ noted Barrington wisely. ‘I figured there might be a bird in there somewhere. Cherchez la femme, you know? That’s what makes the world go round isn’t it?’
Paynter didn’t reply, but he wore a wounded little boy, ‘someone’s got it in for me’ expression. Barrington laughed. ‘Whenever they’re feeling insecure, if they can’t let it out they’ll pick on you,’ he said.
‘It’s not quite that simple,’ replied Paynter. ‘I know the kind of reputation I have around the barracks, Mark, there’s no need to sugar-coat it. And I know how canteen culture can make all that nonsense seem worse than it is. What can I say? I’m a complicated fellah.’
‘Course you are, skipper,’ agreed Barrington.
‘The point is,’ said Paynter after a long silence, ‘I know I’m not easy to be around.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ asked Barrington. ‘That that’s not true?’
‘Why would I want you to say that?’
62
Barrington sighed deeply. It was going to be another one of those discus-sions. ‘That’s how this type of conversation normally goes, isn’t it?’ he began.
‘Somebody bares their soul and says something self-deprecating. The person they’re talking to now has the choice of agreeing with them, which could lead to anger and betrayal. Or they can tell them they’re not whatever it is they think they are, thus lying to save a friendship. A prawn cocktail offensive, or being economical with the truth. Can you clue me up on which you’d prefer, because I don’t want to say the wrong thing?’
Paynter seemed to spend an age considering this. ‘Betrayal,’ he noted. ‘Interesting word.’
‘Yes, so is “bullshit”. They’re quite close to each other in the dictionary.’
‘Touché,’ said Paynter.
Barrington was having none of it. ‘You’ll be getting to the “looking wistfully out of windows and banging on about how they used to build ships on that river“ stage shortly, I expect,’ he urged.
‘Listen, mate,’ Paynter said. ‘Working-class sentiment is just an indulgence of working-class people who’ve cracked it through football or rock and roll.
It’s not my style.’
‘Whatever,’ muttered Barrington. Then he began to laugh, quietly to himself.
Paynter was immediately on the defensive. ‘Share the joke?’ he snapped.
‘Actually,’ said Barrington, ‘I was just thinking about Wolfgang.’
Paynter was bemused at the way the conversation had drifted away from a serious discussion into something so trivial. Then he also began to laugh.
‘Whatever happened to old Wolfgang?’ he asked.
‘Got his promotion to major and went back to Germany, I think,’ replied Barrington. ‘I’m still not entirely sure how he managed to get through the promotion board with that awkward speech impediment of his . . . ’
Paynter sniggered in agreement. ‘Not being able to pronounce your Rs is a bit of a drawback for a commanding officer,’ he noted. His amusement was shared by his partner. ‘Remember that fiasco down at Waterloo Station? That
“Death of Yesterday” malarkey?’
‘Can I ever forget it?’ Barrington asked. ‘It’s not often you get an order to
“Westwain the Waston wawwior wobot”!’
Their uncontrollable laughter continued for several minutes, punctuated by occasional gasps for breath, until finally Paynter pulled himself