The aftermath of the Saturday night war, the takeaway cartons and broken beer bottles, littered the road. Puddles of vomit and urine were stirred by the weak vitamins of the winter sun to burst with an occasional bubble of British gas.
One of his two bottles of milk had been stolen by a considerate thief or the milkman had short delivered again.
Mrs Puzey waddled along in her Sunday blue suit and her Sunday hat. Her children followed; ducklings following their mother to the water: in this case, blessed holy water. She saw him and hurried past without acknowledgement. Only Laura, third in line, gave a half-smile of recognition. Laura, the black vixen of The British.
He closed his door again and threw the bolts and was at the counter when the thumping began. Through the glass, beyond the security bars, open-mouthed and puzzled at his inability to gain entry, the young man peered in. His features were flattened grotesquely against the glass.
Mr Lawrence groaned. Oh God, it hadn't been a dream. He really had invited him to stay. He threw back the bolts again and opened the door to the young man's wide grin. The young man waited until the old bell finished and then quickly moved forward as though afraid that Mr Lawrence might change his mind. His leading foot skidded in a puddle, the plastic bag he carried was projected forward and ended up in Mr Lawrence's arms and the young man, Paul, Paul Knight, ended up sitting in the wet.
“Stone the crows, Mr Lawrence,” he said as his finger hovered just below his nose. “Some dirty bastard's pissed in your doorway!” He paused, then: “There’s a fire out there. The sky’s turning black. You can smell the smoke. It might be the end of the world!”
“Hey! Like it! What's it do?” Paul reached up to a steel hook and chain that extended from a ceiling runway.
“It carries the crates from the back of the shop. At one time we carried a range of sculptures, some by Henry Moore…”
“I know. I Know. Don’t tell me! He was the geezer who had his head…You know, by the king? Religion, innit?”
“I think that might have been Thomas More who wrote Utopia.”
Paul stuck out a wagging finger. “Utopia, yeah, that's the geezer.
These old sculptures then, they were pretty old, eh?”
Mr Lawrence raised a blown eyebrow. “Yes, I suppose so.
Anyway, they weighed a ton, hence the block and tackle.”
“Nice word, that, Mr Lawrence. Tackle. I like that.”
Mr Lawrence felt the plastic bag. “Is this all you've got?”
“Left some at the squat. I'll bring it round.”
“What about clothes?”
“Still got to go shopping, see? In the squat there's no point in having anything. You have to sleep with your shoes on in there.” “My goodness, it sounds like a dreadful place.”
“Yeah, that's it.”
Mr Lawrence led the way. Paul followed, unsticking his jeans as he went.
“Like the Tate, innit?” He paused to admire one of the cast bronze ballerinas and stooped slightly to check out her underwear. He showed no sign of disappointment as he followed Mr Lawrence to the stairs. “I’m a bit surprised, with respect of course, that you are acquainted with the Tate Gallery.”
Paul threw him an off-the-shoulder look and a smile made his lips flutter. “It is a bit surprising, I suppose. But me and the Tate, mate…” “Through there is my studio."
Paul followed the line of the older man's finger to the closed door at the bottom of the stairs.
“It's out of bounds. No entry. Strictly no entry!”
“No sweat. Perfectly understood. Don't come to you with the best of references. I know that. We've got to learn to trust one another. Right?”
On the stairs Mr Lawrence paused to consider the statement and Paul stumbled against him.
“Trust, that's the main thing.” He stood on the stairs carrying his Robot City plastic bag. “Don't nick nothing from no one who does you a turn. Ain't that it?”
Mr Lawrence narrowed his eyes. Too many negatives, too many for a Sunday morning, anyway. He went onward and led the youngster through the flat.
In the sitting room Paul stood rooted, shocked.
“There’s no streamers, Mr Lawrence, and no Christmas cards!” “I didn’t get any cards this year. A couple came addressed to the shop but they weren’t personal, simply prints of old favourites and nothing to do with Christmas or the birth of Christ. One had little girls in tutus and the other was a scene of the Thames before the London Eye. It might even have been before the fire of London.”
“There’s no glittering balls and no fairy on top of your Christmas tree. Oh, Mr Lawrence, you haven’t even got a tree!”
“No, no tree and no…fairy.”
“But everyone has a tree. It isn’t Christmas without a tree.” “I like to paint trees, but not in the parlour, and certainly not coniferous trees. The dreaded fir has become a dividing line between council-house back gardens. They are not real trees. They don’t shut down in autumn like real trees. There is no decay and death, nothing to stimulate the artist.”
Paul gave him an exaggerated frown, as children do, and said, “We even had a Christmas tree in the…”
“Prison?”
“That’s it. But there were no pressies under it.” He explored further, then, “There’s no TV?”
“You’re right. No TV.”
“In for repair, is it?”
“No.”
“How can you live without a TV?”
“I manage.”
“Grief!” The thought shook Paul's head. “Still, it's a big place, I'll give you that. You could put up four people here, without bother.” Mr Lawrence put in quickly, “It's a small flat, suitable for one.” “Absolutely,” Paul agreed and offered a winning smile. “One and a lodger.”
They moved into the smaller of two bedrooms.
“This is it,” Mr Lawrence said as Paul bounced on the bed. “There's a walk-in wardrobe here where you can hide, if you like. The airing cupboard is outside your door. Blankets, pillows and sheets in there.”
“Brilliant. This is the first time I've had a room to myself in months. Not since I did a month in solitary.” He continued to bounce. “Solitary?”
“I put some bleach in the screw's coffee. He wasn't a happy screw after that.”
“Goodness me. What happened to him?”
“Well, screw became screwed. He went to see the doctor, Mr Lawrence, with a bit of a tummy upset.”
Paul noticed the older man's concern. He stopped bouncing and said, “I won't be no trouble. Honest. I'll make myself useful, you'll see. Anything you want doing… Electrics, cooking, you name it. I'm the man. I'll be out most evenings. Chess, go to the chess club, see?” Mr Lawrence backed out.
“Just one thing,” Paul continued. “I'm back late. How about a key?” “Yes. If it's late you'll need a key.”
“It is late. Wouldn't want to disturb you.”
“No noise.”
“No noise,” he agreed. “Quiet as a…lamb, innit? Baby, sleeping baby! You won't even know I'm here.”
Mr Lawrence closed the door and reached the kitchen when the sounds of Madonna's Like a Virgin rattled the dishes. The noise came from one of the two items held in the Robot City plastic carrier bag. The other item was a toothbrush.
Mr Lawrence hated Sundays.
Chapter 5
DS Sam Butler thought that Cole was a workaholic, perhaps an alcoholic too. A man full of bitter memories of a wife who'd gone off with another man. The thought was painful. He’d gone through a similar state of affairs but his wife hadn’t gone off. Instead she had presented him with a daughter. His, so she said, and he believed her or, rather, wanted to. It seemed a long time ago but it never went away, not completely, and you could never forgive, not entirely, but if you cared enough, then you could live with it. It was more of a strength than a weakness.
Butler was part of Inspector Jack Wooderson's team at Hinckley nick, transferred from Sheerham when sleepless nights had arrived with his daughter. Every minute in bed counted and Hinckley was five minutes closer to home. Lately he'd seen little of Cole and it came as a surprise when the DI asked him to call into HQ, off the record. They'd worked together in the past but they'd never been close. No one ever got close to Rick Cole.