Page 335 of The Hallmarked Man
‘I don’ mean personality,’ said Rokeby, who didn’t seem offended. ‘I mean, self-starters. D’you know what my old man was?’
‘Policeman,’ said Strike.
‘Yeah. Fuckin’ policeman! ’E’d’ve loved you, army and medals and shit. Shame he died before ’e knew I’d produced a proper man. We ’ated each ovver. Chucked me out on the fuckin’ street when I was fifteen. I ’ad to go an’ kip at Leo’s. You know ’oo Leo is?’
‘Your drummer,’ said Strike.
‘Yeah,’ said Rokeby. ‘So I made it out of nuffin’. Same as you.’
‘I didn’t make it out of nothing,’ Strike contradicted him. ‘Not everyone’s got a pool of money they can borrow from, to start a business.’
‘Not everyone’s got a mate called Leo ’oo stops ’em livin’ rough,’ said Rokeby. ‘Shit ’appens an’ luck ’appens. Thass life. You deal wiv the shit an’ make the most of your luck when you can get it, ’cause it don’t come round too often. The ’ole band started ’cause Leo’s mum an’ dad let me go live there, an’ now look. I got so many places to sleep, I forget I’ve got ’alf of them… you’ve ’ad enough shit out of me bein’ your farver, might’s well get somefing good out of it for a change. You know what ’olding on to fuckin’ resentment does? Gives ya fuckin’ cancer.’
Strike forced himself to ask,
‘How are you? I heard—’
‘What, me prostate?’ said Rokeby dismissively. ‘They say it’s all right. Gotta ’ave checks an’ that.’
Another, longer pause followed. Strike drank some beer.
‘Listen,’ said Rokeby. ‘That day at the studio—’
‘I don’t want to talk about that,’ said Strike, willing the fucking lawyer to call back.
‘I know I acted like a cunt. I’d been up all night fuckin’ drinkin’, an’ I’d just done a load of coke to try an’ wake up, ’cause we ’ad to record. Know why I was in a fuckin’ state? ’Cause the night before, Jimmy told us ’e ’ad fuckin’ AIDS. Dirty needles at the Chelsea, the stupid fucker. Then Leda shows up, no fuckin’ warning, dragging you—’
‘I told you, I don’t want to—’
‘I be’aved like a cunt, I’m fuckin’ admittin’ it, all right? I felt bad, after. I wasn’ proud of meself. Should I ’ave done better? ’Course I fuckin’ should. You never done nuffing you’re ashamed of?’
‘Plenty,’ said Strike. ‘I didn’t come here to discuss the past, I don’t need apologies. You were the only one who could help me with this, or I wouldn’t be here.’
‘You’ve got ’air jus’ like Eric Bloom,’ said Rokeby, eyeing it. ‘You know ’oo—?’
‘Lead singer of Blue Oyster Cult, yeah, and I got this hair from my Cornish grandfather,’ said Strike.
‘Well, ’ow was I s’posed to fuckin’ know that?’ said Rokeby. ‘Idon’t wanna disrespect ’er, but she put it around, Leda, an’ Eric was the one she ’ad the real fing for, so you can see ’ow I fort, when you was born—’
‘I can see how all of it happened,’ said Strike, through clenched teeth. ‘Forget it. It doesn’t matter.’
‘She give you the middle name “Blue”, for fuck’s sake. What was I supposed to fink? You listen to Blue Oyster Cult?’
‘When Mum was around,’ said Strike. ‘Not since.’
‘I don’t rate it. But they were fuckin’ unbeatable, live. ’Mazin’ live, I gotta give ’em that, an’ Leda loved the gigs. She used to say to me—’
‘What d’you mean, “used to say to you”?’ said Strike, drawn in against his will. ‘It was once, right?’
‘’Course it wasn’t only fucking once,’ said Rokeby impatiently. ‘Twenny times, probably. More. ’Appened every time she was around. She told you it was on’y once, did she?’
Strike didn’t answer. All Leda had ever told him about his conception was that it had happened during the ‘best fucking party’ she’d ever attended, clearly imagining that he’d see it as a matter of pride that he’d come into existence in a New York loft, while surrounded by seventies rock stars and their myriad hangers-on. Her subsequent anger at Rokeby for his refusal to admit paternity until forced into it by a DNA test meant she’d rarely mentioned his name during Strike’s childhood, except to rail against him.
‘It wasn’ on’y once, an’ it wasn’ in the middle of the fuckin’ room on no bean bag, neiver,’ said Rokeby irritably. ‘It’s like Marianne Faithfull and that fuckin’ Mars Bar. People make up bullshit and wanna believe it. It was in a side room an’ nobody was fuckin’ watchin’, ’cause I wasn’t into that and nor was she. An’ I was s’posed to be gettin’ married to fuckin’ Carla a monf later, so obviously I ’ad to say it never ’appened, din’ I? An’ that party was one night after Leda ’ad been at a Blue Oyster Cult gig, so when you come out wiv ’air like Eric’s—’
‘OK if we stop discussing who my mother might or might not have fucked?’ said Strike through clenched teeth.
‘All righ’,’ said Rokeby, with a shrug. He swigged more beer, then said, ‘Fing about your mum was, she was funny, proper funny. I always liked that. I like a woman wiv a sense of humour. Fuck knows why I married fuckin’ Carla, she’s abou’ as funny as gettin’ your foreskin caught in your zip. Where’d Leda get “Strike” from, anyway?’
