‘May we come in and look around?’
If it had been just her, no question.
The man said, ‘Jim and Jane. By the way.’
‘He’s Jim,’ the woman added. ‘I’m Jane.’
‘We’re what you might call interested parties.’
‘Interested in the concept, that is.’
‘Shipping containers,’ said Jim. ‘Residential. Brilliant.’
‘Just brilliant.’
‘And we’re very keen on exploring the potential further.’
‘Possibly as a franchised opportunity,’ said Jane.
‘By which we mean, we would shoulder the design burden. And production costs, of course.’
‘While you would retain the vision and the trademark rights.’
‘We’d not ask you to sell your dream.’
‘Who in their right mind would offer their dream for sale?’
‘But we hope you’ll be interested in leasing it,’ said Jim.
It was like being washed by gentle hands, thought Struan Loy. Like being oiled and towelled and given a happy ending. ‘Jim and Jane,’ he said. Then he said, ‘Okay, Jim and Jane. Come in. Bring your bottles.’
He couldn’t help slipping into salesman mode as he stepped aside to let them enter. ‘Nice and spacious, as you can see. Plenty of … potential.’
There was only the one light, a battery-powered lantern, but it illuminated the amenities: the armchair, and the wooden crate seeing use as both table and kitchen. The camping stove sat on top of it, along with the pan in which he’d fried his sausages; probably still hot, but here was the beauty of his current lifestyle: who cared about scorch marks?
‘Bit of a campsite, to be honest. Not actually ready for moving in, but I wanted to … test the ambience.’
Jim was looking round with interest.
Jane said, ‘What design did you have in mind? For the finished model, I mean?’
‘Well,’ said Loy. ‘Three rooms, really. A living–sleeping space, that would be most of it. And a shower, obviously, with the necessaries. And a separate kitchen.’
‘With a good big window across the living space wall,’ Jane said. ‘I like it. What are you using at the moment? For the – ah – necessaries?’
‘Just going round back,’ said Loy.
Jim was making admiring-type noises and, more importantly, unscrewing the top of the vodka bottle. It made that appealing snap as the seal broke. ‘You have glasses? Or plastics, even. We’re all friends here.’
Loy had two polystyrene beakers and a chipped mug.
‘Perfect.’
Jim poured each of them a generous measure of vodka, and they toasted Struan Loy’s enterprise.
Jane kept up the chatter while Jim refreshed their drinks. They’d heard about the scheme while exploring investment opportunities, and their ears had pricked up. Well, housing. It was important to put something back, didn’t Struan think? Struan thought. Anyway, she could see why he’d had trouble with uptake, because people were so unimaginative these days, but anyone with an ounce of vigour – hell, she wasn’t afraid of the word: anyone with spunk – could see that what Struan had come up with, his genius brainwave, was exactly what society had been waiting for. Man with a welding torch and the right attitude could have this space sorted in no time. And Struan was so right not to overcomplicate. Three rooms: bedroom, kitchen, bathroom. Or even – and she didn’t want to tread on toes here – but even, you could make it just the two. Plenty of properties, studio flats, incorporated kitchen into living space, yes? Cut down on conversion expenses. But anyway, here was the other thing, they were stackable, shipping containers. Famous for it. What you had here, basically, was a whole apartment block waiting to be assembled. Little bit of clever with the outside staircases, and you were away. Had he thought about furnished or unfurnished? She bet the former. She could see he had an eye. Have some more vodka.
He had some more vodka.
It felt good going down. And Jane’s pep talk hit the spot too, reminding Struan what it was he’d seen in Johannesburg. Not just an opportunity, but a journey; somewhere he could point himself, and keep moving. Away from the bad luck that had dogged him so long. The only trouble, far as he could see – the only wasp in the sun cream – was that things like this didn’t happen. Not to Struan Loy.
Because when things were turning to shit, they kept turning to shit faster. Second law of motion. Emphasis on motion. His recent trajectory had taken a shitward direction, and no way was that going to terminate in a couple of strangers turning up with a wellyful of dosh. No, something was going on. And if they thought Struan hadn’t copped on to that yet, they should have stuck to being the missionaries they resembled.
‘So who was it pointed you in my direction?’
He slurred on direction, he thought, but then decided he hadn’t, or at least, that you were supposed to slur on it, it had an ecksh sound. But probably the whole mental debate was itself an indication that he’d been drinking neat vodka.
Jane and Jim exchanged a look. ‘His name was Peter?’
‘… Pete Fairfax?’ said Loy.
‘Fairfax, yeah. I think that was it.’
It was good to have these questions answered, especially when the answer was: these people are full of crap. Loy didn’t know a Peter Fairfax.
Might be good to have them not in his living space any more.
‘So yeah, well, anyway,’ he said. ‘Good. Good. Definitely a lot to think about.’
‘Definitely,’ Jim agreed.
‘So much,’ Jane offered.
‘But right now, and thanks for the drink and everything, but right now I’d really better get some shut-eye.’ He mimed sleeping, very briefly, unsure why he was doing so. Everyone knew what sleeping looked like. ‘Gotta be fresh in the morning.’
‘Really? Why so?’
This was Jane again.
‘Oh, you know.’ A vague gesture. ‘Things to do.’
Jim was unscrewing the top on the second vodka bottle. There didn’t seem to be a snap this time, as if the seal had already been broken.
‘No, really. I think I’ve had enough,’ Loy said.
‘Yeah, probably,’ Jim agreed. He looked at Jane. ‘We about done?’
‘To a crisp,’ she agreed. And then, to Loy, she said some words he didn’t follow: a pattering of tongue on palate in a language from far away.
‘… What?’
‘Oh, just an observation.’
Jim was holding the bottle upside down now, pouring its contents onto Struan’s sleeping bag.
‘Hey! What the hell you doing?’
‘What? Oh, this.’ He stopped pouring. ‘Well. You can’t drink it. That’s for sure.’
‘That’s for damn sure,’ added Jane, and they both laughed.
Jim started prowling the living space, shaking the bottle on the move: liquid spattered everywhere, onto Loy’s possessions, onto the metal walls.
‘Will you stop that?’ He moved forward, intent on delivering a physical rebuke, but he was on the floor suddenly, his legs a tangle beneath him. Jane stepped away, a small smile on her face. And then Jim was shaking the bottle in his direction, so it was spattering down the front of his sweater, his holey old sweater too long in the sleeves.
‘Right. That’s it. Fuck off out of here, both of you!’
‘I think he’s right,’ said Jane.
‘Bottle’s empty anyway,’ said Jim.
‘Shall we tuck him in?’
‘Not sure he’s in the mood.’
‘Fuck off,’ Loy said. He was sober again, he was sure of it. ‘Right off. Now.’
Who they were, what they wanted, other questions: they’d still be there in the morning. But one thing he knew: these people, this Jim and this Jane, were remnants of his old life, when he’d been in the Service. This was a call to action. Tomorrow he’d be back at the Park, banging on the door. Home was where, when you went there, they had to let you in. This, they’d want to know about. And he felt a spark light up inside, familiar from years ago: the feeling of belonging, and of being useful, and having something to bring to the fight. He didn’t yet know what the fight was, but had a shrewd idea of who the enemy were. And there was a strange smell, too, which wasn’t vodka but was more energetic, not to mention acrid, not to mention dangerous.