Capital

for word and not think you’re going to mind. But don’t change the subject. What’s up?’
    ‘Sit down,’ said Mary. Then she opened the suitcase.
    ‘Christ on a bike,’ said Alan.
    ‘Half a million,’ said Mary. ‘My dad. Case in a secret compartment. The Pole found it.’
    ‘But—’ said Alan. Then he stopped. It was funny for Mary to see him at such a complete loss for words.
    ‘I know,’ she said. ‘They’re old tenners. Worthless. He hoarded it for so long it turned into waste paper.’
    ‘Not quite,’ said Alan, beginning to recover. He went over to the table where they kept the spirits and poured himself a gigantic Scotch, half of which he drank at a swallow. ‘Christ. You gave me a hell of a turn. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that much cash in one go. Anyway, you’re half right. You can’t just take them somewhere and spend them. That tenner was withdrawn in the early nineties and it’s not legal tender any more. But the Bank of England still has to honour it.’
    ‘So we take it to the Bank of England. I can really imagine that, can’t you?’ Mary would wear a little hat and maybe a fur coat and would plonk the bag down on the counter and then pop it open to see their expressions change.
    Alan drank the rest of his Scotch and poured a refill.
    ‘What happens is, you can’t use it yourself, but once the Bank’s issued it it’s still valid, always and for ever. The trouble is, a lot of the time, if there’s a fair bit of money, they want to know where it’s come from. So they ask lots of questions, income tax, inheritance tax, all that, and if you can’t show that it’s all legit, they investigate you, and the next thing you know they’re claiming tax plus fines. The fines can be up to a hundred per cent of the full amount. And then there’s lawyers’ and accountants’ fees to pay, and most of the time you end up with hardly any of the money left.’
    ‘So it is waste paper after all, more or less,’ said Mary.
    ‘Give or take maybe a hundred grand.’ Alan finished his second whisky and started to pour himself another. Then he thought better of it and came across to Mary and gave her one of his super-powerful, rib-cracking hugs.
    ‘You all right?’ he said.
    ‘I’m glad my mother never knew,’ said Mary. ‘She’d have killed him.’

100
     
     
    At number 27 Pepys Road, Patrick and Freddy Kamo were both loafing around, killing time, waiting for Mickey Lipton-Miller to call or to visit to report on what was supposed to be the conclusive meeting with the insurance company. This was meant to be It – the final offer. The settlement. The meeting had begun late the previous afternoon and Mickey had said that he would either call before nine in the evening or first thing the next day. Father and son had woken up early, waiting to hear from the agent, and now didn’t quite know what to do with themselves. Freddy had a go at Halo 2 , but it didn’t take, and now he had put a CD of Fela Kuti on and was sitting at the table jiggling his legs, not really listening to the music. Patrick had been out to the newsagent and bought a newspaper, but found he couldn’t read it. The combination of fatigue, worry, and the English language made the letters dance on the page, failing to resolve into words whose meaning he could understand. He could ring home – Adede and the girls would certainly be up already – but that would be such an unsettled, anxious-seeming thing to do that it would make Freddy even more uncomfortable. So there was nothing to do except trust Mickey to be in touch as soon as he could.
    It had been two months of misery for both of them – though the misery was of different sorts. For Freddy it was primarily physical. He had had the second, major operation on his knee. It went well, according to the surgeon – the senior and most pessimistic of the three specialists – but convalescence was still drawn-out and painful and boring. Freddy’s exercise regime was much duller and much more repetitive than training for football had ever been. He did not feel in full control of his body, and hated that. The whole process was a physical sinking-in of the reality he was facing: his injury might never get better, he might never be the same again, his life in football was almost certainly over. The thing he lived to do, he wasn’t going to be able to do any more. Freddy was not prone to depression, but even he sometimes felt that what had happened to him