OVER THE ROOFS

a novel by

philip gillett

chapter one

The day starts for Arnold Shirtcliffe the same as every working day for the past five years with the bleeping of the alarm. Working days before that were similar, except that he lived nearer to London and caught a later train. Living in a detached residence on an exclusive new estate makes the longer journey worthwhile. 
He opens his eyes. The curtains glow with sunlight. Though the window is open, the room feels hot and airless. His hand reaches from beneath the sheet to still the alarm before other members of the household are disturbed. His fingers light on the button with practised accuracy, restoring tranquillity to the bedroom. At first he harbours the desperate hope that it is Saturday and that the alarm may be safely ignored, but the illusion cannot be sustained. Habit asserts itself and he clambers from bed with no more than a passing regret, stretching himself into wakefulness. 
After using the lavatory, the morning rituals of washing and shaving require minimal attention, allowing his thoughts to focus on those later stages of his daily routine where choices need to be made. Which route will he take to the station? It is a delicious decision: whether to walk past the shops or to take the shorter route through the estate and enjoy the gardens at their early morning best. A more immediate concern is which shirt to wear. It must be sufficiently different from the one which he wore yesterday to signal to people who see him each day that he has changed. It must also match his suit, which is less of a problem because all his suits are grey, or a discreetly-patterned dark blue. Then there is the matter of selecting an appropriate tie. Normally the decision is made by the time that he has finished shaving. He has a range of thirty ties from which to choose. The notion of having one for each day of the month appeals to him, though he knows that it will never happen. At Christmas and on his birthday, either his wife or one of his daughters invariably gives him a new tie for his collection. His preference is for muted colours. Sometimes, when his two daughters were young, one of them would buy him a tie which was patently unsuitable. When that happened, he forced himself to wear the gift once at the weekend to show his gratitude before consigning it to the obscurity of his tie rack. He has a dozen such ties which he can neither wear nor throw away. Fortunately, the girls know his tastes now.
He goes back to his bedroom. The house is silent: he is confident that he has not woken Margaret or the girls. His eyes steal fondly towards the photograph of Helen and Sam taken when they were small. He has got used to calling his younger daughter Sam rather than Samantha in deference to her wishes, though he is still uncomfortable with the shortened version of her name. The photograph of the girls hangs opposite his bed: the only personal memento in the room. Several times he glances at it as he dresses. This morning he selects a maroon tie with a pattern of thin silver threads. It strikes the right note of insouciance.
Breakfast requires no more thought than his toilet. With luck, Margaret's Daily Mail arrives in time for him to read it while he eats. This day he is not so fortunate, though he is not unduly disappointed. The radio keeps him in touch with what is going on. The volume is turned down so that nobody else in the house will be disturbed. While the bread is toasting and the water for his tea is heating, he pours milk around but not on two Weetabix biscuits in a dish and sits at the kitchen table to eat meditatively while looking at the back garden. Lack of rain has turned the lawn to the colour of straw: the ban on using hosepipes prevents him from doing much about it. The backdrop to the garden is provided by two mature trees, carefully preserved when the estate was built. He cannot help making a comparison with the bleak piazza outside his office window. 
The ping of the toaster disturbs his musings. The aroma of hot bread is pleasurable as he finishes his cereal. He prefers to use white bread, but Margaret will insist on buying wholemeal. When toasted, wholemeal bread does not offer the same sensual pleasure of a crisp, golden surface with a softer centre. 
The tea is made. He spreads one slice of toast with sunflower seed spread which melts on the hot surface, but does not have time to soak in. He tears off a corner with his knife: it comes away with a satisfying crunch. As he chews, he savours the further opportunity for reflection. It is a moment when he can gaze out the window and dream of his ideal garden. Shrubs will hide the fences and break down the sense of fixed boundaries. Curving beds of tall plants help to create bowers heavy with the scents of flowers and herbs. Each area has its distinct identity. One of his long-cherished ambitions is to build a water garden with a stream tumbling over rocks into a pool bright with water lilies and teeming with fish. A few steps further and he is in a rose garden. The arched walk of climbing roses leads to a tiny summerhouse— 
The weather forecast interrupts his musings and makes him listen more carefully to the radio. The prospect of another day of record temperatures comes as no surprise. He resumes eating, applying spread to the second slice of toast. Paradoxically, the morning peace can be savoured better on a working day than at weekdays. From habit, he rises at the same hour on Saturdays and Sundays, but the feeling of being trapped in the house until the rest of the family are awake oppresses him. He takes the opportunity for a more leisurely breakfast than on weekdays, reading the newspaper as he eats, but that rarely occupies him beyond eight o'clock. Often he escapes from the sense of claustrophobia by letting himself out of the house and going for a walk. How times have changed. He looked forward to weekends when his daughters were younger. Even their squabbling was something to be treasured. At least creating a home and a family has never ceased to make him marvel.
Enough of maudlin thoughts. With the toast eaten, he brushes crumbs from his lips. There is ample time to drink the tea before abandoning his contemplation of the garden. The few items of breakfast crockery do not take long to wash. He takes satisfaction in erasing all signs of his presence from the kitchen. His little conceit is to imagine the others getting up and not being sure whether he has left for work or overslept. The bowl of washing-up water he takes outside to empty over the alpines: no water should be wasted at a time of shortage. The air has hardly cooled from the previous evening. 
There is no real need to look at the clock when he comes back into the kitchen, but he likes to reassure himself that he is keeping to time. With the back door locked again, the final stages of his routine can be completed. First, the radio is turned off; then he goes upstairs quietly to brush his teeth and comb his hair. Still no sounds come from the other bedrooms. The rattle of the flap as the newspaper is pushed through the letter box reaches him while he is in the bathroom. He cannot help feeling a pang of annoyance. If the paper boy had been five minutes earlier, there would have been time to glance at the headlines.
Arnold Shirtcliffe is ready to leave for the office. Before opening the front door he goes through a final check before the hall mirror: shoes polished, tie correctly positioned, flies fastened and no stray threads on his suit. His umbrella has remained furled in the cupboard since the heatwave started six weeks ago. There is still no risk of a storm. He lets himself out of the house, closing the door with the key to avoid slamming it. A cursory inspection of the front garden reveals no plants lost to burglars, cats or slugs. Then he is on his way, walking briskly on such a lovely morning and breathing deeply to savour the fresh morning smells which he will soon exchange for the traffic fumes of central London. A snail pauses in its travail, a silvery trail marking its progress across the pavement. Dry weather has made this hitherto common sight rare. Arnold treads around the creature in a gesture of magnanimity.
Away from the close, a few other commuters are to be seen hurrying to the station. Chalets built in the sixties line the road. Already the concrete pantiles on the roofs are green with lichens. Where owners do not trim the shrubs regularly, branches overhang the pavement, causing pedestrians to move closer to the kerb. A car passes on its way to the station. Arnold only takes his car if the weather is bad. He enjoys the opportunity to stretch his legs. He is conscious that his life is too sedentary, but he takes comfort in the fact that regular medical checkups have never revealed any problems with his health. He is lucky to work for a company which offers an excellent private medical insurance scheme.
The station is at the bottom of a hill. The steepness has precluded building, so that the road retains its open aspect. The remaining traces of the fences are a few curls of rusting wire stapled to wooden posts almost hidden by bryony and convolvulus. Beyond them, the outlines of allotments are still discernible, choked with grass, the final, crop of potatoes in flower. Here is a pleasure different from the quietness and order of the estate. Arnold likes to imagine the weeds being tamed and the allotments being brought into use again. If he had more time, he might rent one himself. He has always wanted to try his hand at growing vegetables.
As his pace quickens on the downward slope, he experiences the exhilaration of being harnessed to a force beyond his control.  At such a moment he can understand why people enjoy activities like parachuting. The walk back at the end of the day the walk arouses different fantasies. Then he likes to think of himself as engaged in a battle with the forces of nature. If the wind is against him, the victory can seem hard-won.
The station was built as a halt set amongst fields. Speculative building across the gentler slope on the far side of the tracks has long since shattered the illusion of being in the country. Rows of detached and semidetached houses straddle the hillside. Arnold is pleased that his own estate has more character.
A train draws into the station, provoking a burst of activity. Besuited men hurry past the ticket barrier and clatter up the steps of the footbridge in the hope of reaching the far platform in time. Girls try to do the same, but they are impeded by their tight skirts. Arnold does not hurry. His train is not due to arrive for another six minutes and in all probability it will be late. He cannot understand how people who make the same journey every day are unable to organise themselves to get to the station in good time.
The train which prompted the activity has gone by the time he buys a copy of the Daily Telegraph from the cabin in the station forecourt and joins the trickle of commuters filing onto the platform and crossing the footbridge. His spirits ebb a little as he reaches the far platform. The journey marks the last stage of his respite from the world of work. Though he still enjoys the camaraderie of the office, things have changed. Age has altered his perspective, though he is sure that over-familiarity with the office routine and the increased pressures of work have played their parts. Where he used to take an active role in supervising junior staff, now he is content to let the hustle and bustle of office life flow around him. Sometimes on the morning journey he gazes out the train window at the countryside stretching to the horizon and he longs to alight before the tentacles of city life close around him and walk into the countryside. When that feeling comes over him, he turns his attention to the newspaper and tries to concentrate on the crossword.
Everybody who travels regularly has an appointed place on the platform. Arnold's is opposite the car park entrance. To stray into somebody else's territory is a solecism committed by casual travellers. Only when the train is short length is the convention breached. Then the overcrowding makes him long to give up his job.
Seven forty-seven by the station clock and still no sign of the train due at seven forty-six. Arnold does not worry unduly. An announcement is the harbinger of serious delays and the speakers have remained silent. He stares across the track to the busy car park, his thoughts drifting back to the flowerbed at the bottom of the garden. Margaret would like it planted with geraniums to give her something to look at from the kitchen. He prefers perennial shrubs which are large enough to hide the fence and require little attention. Wigelia was his suggestion. Roses planted close together might be better at keeping the cats out, but thorns make weeding difficult, especially where there is couch grass to contend with—
The train cuts across his view as it glides to a halt. Its coming is always presaged by a drumming transmitted along the rails, but on this occasion he was too preoccupied to notice. The train is unusual. Instead of dust-covered blue paintwork, there is gleaming aluminium, as though a new tube train has strayed onto the wrong line. The illuminated buttons by the doors glow. He presses the button by the nearest doors and they slide open. 
The interior of the coach reeks of paint and plastic. No graffiti despoil the walls; no chewing gum adheres to the floor. An experimental train, Arnold decides, selecting one of the brightly-upholstered seats. It will not stay pristine for long. He looks around to see the reactions of his fellow commuters—and discovers that he is alone. A spasm of panic like an electric shock wracks him as he faces the possibility that he might not be on a scheduled train, but he reasons it would not have stopped at a station and the doors would not have opened if it were out of service. To be on the safe side, he thinks it prudent to check the indicator on the platform. He is getting up as the warning buzzer sounds. Helplessly he watches the doors closing. No opportunity for second thoughts now. 
As the train begins moving, he settles back in his seat, experiencing a mixture of superiority and apprehension at the sight of the baffled faces of his fellows who have remained on the platform. There is a minimum of noise and vibration. If he were not looking out the window, he would hardly know that the train was accelerating.
Arnold Shirtcliffe is not amongst those who prefer to travel in groups. The journey gives him an opportunity to read the newspaper, to mull over matters which preoccupy him, or to sleep. On this occasion he settles down to reading the newspaper, beginning with the financial news. His preference is for catching up with England's struggles in the test match, but reading the sports news is something which he normally defers. The habit derives from childhood, when his mother encouraged him to leave the pleasurable things until last. He remembers the childhood birthday parties when she insisted that the cakes remain untouched until the sandwiches were eaten. 
What stops him from concentrating on the state of the markets is a nagging feeling that he has made a mistake by boarding the train. It annoys him that he acted precipitately, contrary to his usual habits. Words of explanation run through his mind as he rehearses how he will justify his presence to a cynical railway official. He can claim quite truthfully that boarding the train was a momentary aberration. Had he thought more carefully, he would most assuredly have asked a member of staff whether the train was for public use. The only consolation about his present predicament is that nobody will know if he sneaks a look at the sports pages first; but he does not feel inclined to cheat because the opportunity is there.
His eyelids feel heavy. Heat keeps him awake at night and his tiredness is reinforced by the heat of the coach and its stuffiness. He is wondering whether to open a window as the rhythm of the wheels lulls him towards sleep ...
A jolt wakens him. Sun streaming through the glass makes him screw up his eyes. Because of the stifling warmth, it takes a few moments before he comes to his senses. He retrieves his newspaper which has fallen on the floor. Only then does he notice the family group at the end of the coach. Their presence puzzles him, for not only do few families travel in the rush hour, but the seven forty-six normally makes no intermediate stops. He peers out the window. After making the same journey so often, he prides himself on being able to tell where he is at a glance; but the scene which confronts him on this occasion is unfamiliar. He stares, wondering whether he has spent too much time looking at his newspaper over recent months to notice how the city has changed. This fanciful notion has to be quickly discarded, for the blocks of flats belong to the sixties. A low, red-bricked factory from the thirties strikes no familiar chord. He leans back in his seat, baffled. The only plausible explanation is that the train reached its destination while he was asleep and is now in service on another line. He looks around for a map of the network, but the coach does not have one. The train cannot be in regular service yet. He is conscious of the unease which always comes to his bowels when he is a situation which he cannot control.
The family at the end of the coach fall silent as he approaches. Seeing their alarm, he smiles by way of reassurance. The cut of their clothes marks them as foreign. The older girl has blonde pigtails. She puts an arm protectively around her younger sister. Their mother is plump and homely. Her amiable face is clouded by concern. The man beside her looks tiny by comparison. He is older. A pointed beard gives him an intellectual appearance. His lightweight trousers have knifelike creases.
'Sorry to trouble you,' Arnold begins. 'I must have fallen asleep.'
Four faces look blankly at him.
'I wondered where this train goes.'
No response.
'I think I've come the wrong way.'
The woman frowns.
'Can you tell me where we're going?' Arnold perseveres. 
The woman offers up her palms as a gesture of incomprehension. 
'Where are you going? You can tell me that, can't you?' 
The whole family watch him, betraying in their eyes something which might be curiosity, fear or pity. 
'I'm sorry to trouble you,' he apologises, deciding that further questioning is fruitless. 'I'm sorry.' He is turning from the solemn faces and stumbling back to his seat. Only as he sits does it occur to him that he could have taken any seat. Such is the power of old habits. 
The question is what to do next. For once he has an excuse to pull the alarm handle, but fear of the consequences holds him back. Instead he resolves to wait until the train stops at the next station. He stares out the window with a degree of interest in his surroundings which he rarely shows. The day which started so normally seems like a distant memory. The office routine has a comforting familiarity.
The train slows. The rust-streaked railings which guard the edge of the brick-built viaduct are no longer a blur. The drumming of the wheels changes tone as the train passes over a road. On the pavement, a child walks with its mother before both figures are lost from sight beneath the track. The train crawls over a canal which snakes forgotten behind closely-packed buildings. Sunlight glitters on the stretches of water which are free from slime. A solitary angler sits meditatively on the weed-encrusted towpath. On the other bank is a scrapyard. Skeletons of cars piled one upon the other threaten press against the corrugated iron fence which threatens to collapse into the water. Beyond them, in the centre of the yard and ringed by wrecked cars, the jib of a crane hangs over blocks of crushed metal. From the open doorway of the caravan which serves as an office, an Alsatian barks impotently at the train. 
Flanges squeal against the rails. By pressing his face against the glass, Arnold glimpses car bodies piled against the piers of the curving viaduct. He can see the front of the train. The signal is at double amber. He settles back in his seat, frustrated at his helplessness. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling are superfluous. They flicker as he looks at them. He turns his face to the window again. The scrapyard has given way to a playground. One house remains from the terrace which occupied the site. A grey screed covers the scar where the adjoining property was torn away, sealing like sculpture the fireplace openings to vanished bedrooms. Children whose bicycles are strewn across the asphalt at its base clamber over brightly-painted frames and swings. A black girl in a scarlet T-shirt watches the train, perhaps made curious by its unfamiliar appearance. Arnold wonders why she and the others are not at school. When he was young, he only stayed away when he was ill. That was how his daughters were brought up. He suspects that standards are different now, particularly in an area like the one outside the window. 
The playground is left behind. The low-rise maisonette blocks which take its place are like a thousand others in London: built in the sixties, four storeys high and flat-roofed. Two women on an upper walkway break off talking to look at the train. One has her hand resting on the handle of a pram. Arnold resists the childish urge to wave, surprised that the temptation is present at all after years of commuting. Already the train has passed the women by. On the walkway of the next block, a dog makes a spirited attempt to keep up with its gleaming, mechanical rival for a few yards before abandoning the chase to bark furiously in frustration or excitement. By the base of the refuse chute four floors below, a child kicks a tin across the paving. The sound does not permeate the double-glazed windows of the coach. 
Passing another signal, this time showing red. Arnold's unease grows, though he knows that his train must have tripped the signal. The railings beside the track give the illusion of being close enough to touch. 
What the architects of the flats must have intended as communal gardens have dwindled to parched lawns encroached upon for extra parking space. A ring of charred wood marks the site of a bonfire. Somebody tried to add an eviscerated mattress to the fire; padding forms a white trail across the grass. The few saplings surviving from some forgotten improvement scheme are broken and uprooted, the remaining flowerbeds choked with weeds and litter. The frame of a settee stands like a surreal throne in this kingdom of desolation. In spite of his worries, Arnold cannot help making comparisons with his own estate, where residents take pride in their surroundings. He wishes that such values could be instilled in the tenants of the flats. Regular refuse collections might help. There is no excuse for communal waste bins being left unemptied, so that rubbish spills out of chutes, to be scattered over the ground. 
The concrete panels of the tower block are painted alternately in bright red and blue, giving the appearance of a building put together from a child's toy blocks. Balconies are festooned with washing strung on lines or hung over folding frames. A duvet hangs perilously over a balcony railing, a worn rug over another. One on the first floor is stacked with furniture inadequately covered by polythene sheets. Arnold glimpses a spin dryer on its side and an upturned kitchen table on a sideboard. A wooden standard lamp minus its shade is thrust from the balcony like a flagpole. 
Passing a factory. Smoke drifts lazily from a metal chimney to hang over the zigzag roof of asbestos and glass. A jet of steam from a smaller pipe shoots through the haze. In an adjoining laboratory a girl in a white coat looks up from a rack of test tubes to watch the train. Arnold likes to think that he catches her eye in mute appeal, but she turns away giving no sign that she has noticed him. 
Beside the factory, in the shadow of the viaduct, is one of the few terraces which have survived bombing and redevelopment: four storeys high, the stock bricks blackened from the days of steam trains, broken waste pipes clinging to back walls. The slate roofs are patched with mastic and roofing felt; around the rows of leaning chimney pots are tangles of broken television aerials. One house is derelict, the window openings empty like eye sockets in a skull. Wooden struts are visible inside, spanning the gap where floors have collapsed. Through the dormer window of an adjoining house, the picture changes on a television screen. 
The gap widens between the track and the railings at the edge of the viaduct. The viaduct gives way to an embankment, with a tangle of grass and bushes sloping down to a road busy with lorries. Beyond the road, trees screen the bank of a reservoir. Arnold's spirits rise. He tries to glimpse his destination, but he only succeeds in banging his forehead on the glass.
Passing a roofless platelayers' hut, the brick walls weathered to the colour of the ballast, the skeleton of the door hanging open. When a platform appears outside the window, Arnold gets up from his seat. The family watch him with curious eyes, as though he is an animal in a zoo. As the train stops, he presses the illuminated button by the doors. To his relief, they slide open.
Nobody else alights. He walks back along the recently-built platform, past the line of empty, waiting coaches. Their motors hum. The aluminium bodies creak in the heat. Though there is no sign of a guard, Arnold feels sure that his progress is being followed by the driver, or by somebody monitoring the closed circuit camera at the end of the platform. Beside a shelter of glass and red-painted metal, wooden steps lead down to the road. The wood is rough, the corners wispy with newness, the smell of preservative all-pervasive. Not an unpleasant smell in his opinion. It reminds him of his gardening. 
The ticket collector at the bottom of the steps is West Indian. Greying hair. Jacket hanging inside the tiny cabin. Pop music from a tinny radio. He puts aside his newspaper. Arnold remembers that his own paper is in the coach. 
'I'm afraid I haven't got a ticket for this line,' he explains, holding out his season ticket and clutching his wallet in his other hand. 'I was on my way into Liverpool Street, but I must have fallen asleep. I suppose it's happened before, especially in this sort of weather. The first I knew, the train was pulling in here.' He is conscious of talking too much, but he cannot stop himself. He sees the beginnings of a smile on the other man's face. 'I realise there's an excess fare to pay—the penalty for being stupid. How much does it come to altogether?' 
The ticket collector waves dismissively. 'Don't worry.' 
'Don't you want anything?' 
'No.' 
'Are you sure?' 
'As long as you've got a ticket. You've been to Liverpool Street.'
'I thought that must have happened. Thanks for your understanding.' Arnold hesitates. 'I suppose I can get a train back to Liverpool Street from here?' 
'Go by bus, man.' 
'You think?' 
The ticket collector nods. 'That's what I'd do.' 
'Isn't the train quicker?' 
The man chuckles. 'Not off peak. Not many trains stop here.' 
'So where do I get a bus from?' Arnold is still holding his season ticket as though it is a talisman against uncertainty. 
The ticket collector looks surprised by so obvious a question. He leans over the barrier and points along the road beside the viaduct. 'That's your best way. You walk as far as the junction, okay? Then turn right till you come to the Princess Louise.' 
Arnold nods, trying to commit the directions to memory. The road looks unpromising. Beyond the station, the only pavement is on the far side and that has been closed for pipe-laying. Soil is piled against the railings guarding the reservoir. 
'Cross the road and you'll see the bus stop by the furniture store,' the ticket collector continues, his hand describing the journey. 'It's a big, big store.' 
'And that's easier than getting the train?' 
The ticket collector looks amused. 'You wait for a train and you'll be here a long, long time.' 
'I'll take your advice.' 
'Just look for the Princess Louise, man. You can't miss it.' 
'Thanks very much.' Arnold is turning away, putting his season ticket and wallet back in his pocket.
'Then cross the road to the big store,' the ticket collector reiterates. 
'Thanks for all your help.' 
It is a busy road. Arnold has not ventured far beyond the embankment before he wishes that he had ignored the ticket collector's advice and waited for the train. Garages and workshops occupy the arches of the viaduct, their doors opening onto shabby forecourts of granite setts slippery with oil. In skirting the parked cars, Arnold is forced to walk uncomfortably close to the dumper trucks and articulated tankers which thunder over the potholes, filling the air with fumes and billowing dust. His throat is dry. His eyes smart. To his relief, the pipe-laying ends after two hundred yards and the pavement on the other side of the road is restored. He walks on more slowly, glancing back until he sees a break in the traffic which will give him an opportunity to cross. 
The reservoir angles sharply away from the road, screened by a row of poplars. Facing him is a small, white-painted factory, the ground floor windows protected by grilles. Fluorescent tubes in heavy metal shades are visible through the dusty glass.  Arnold finds it hard to imagine an office in which the fittings remain unchanged for decades. Certainly it is not a place where he would care to work, with no shops nearby, heavy lorries grinding past incessantly and the unpleasant walk to and from the station each day. To his annoyance, he realises that he failed to note the name of the station: relief at escaping from the train drove everything else from his thoughts. It crosses his mind to go back, but the thought of battling against the traffic again and enduring the smell of cellulose paint from the workshops makes him abandon the idea. 
He glances at his watch: nine-thirty already. A sense of duty dictates that he telephones the office as soon as possible to explain what has happened, but he has yet to come upon a telephone box. Unusually, he cannot recall seeing one outside the station. He can imagine what his colleagues are saying: good old Arnold has taken the day off to tend his garden. The knowledge that they will misinterpret his motives further unsettles him. By now, the incoming post will have been distributed. The thought that he has missed his morning coffee makes him conscious of his thirst. He will have to go into a cafe when he finds one, even if that makes him a few minutes later in letting to work. 
The junction with its array of traffic lights and traffic islands cannot be missed. Five roads meet there. Barriers shepherd nonexistent pedestrians towards the light-controlled crossings. Arnold turns right and walks for a quarter of a mile without coming upon either the Princess Louise or the furniture store. His shirt sticks to his body. He worries that his jacket will become saturated with sweat under the arms. This is why he normally avoids walking too far during hot weather. To avoid further soiling, he transfers his loose change and valuables such as pens and his season ticket to his trouser pockets and takes off his jacket. He has not walked in the street in his shirt-sleeves for a long time. He certainly feels cooler and more relaxed. The occasion almost seems like a holiday.

chapter two

The final weeks of his schooldays still haunt him. There was an exhilarating sense of freedom which he has never recaptured. Within the course of a few days, not only was the pressure of working for examinations lifted, but he was freed from the school regime which had dominated so much of his life. With examination results not due for another two months and the problems of finding a job still comfortably in the future, the whole world seemed open. Everybody in his year felt the same. One boy was trekking to India, another was going to work on a kibbutz, while a third hoped to make a record with his group. Even cautious pupils like himself were swept along by a desire to cock a snook at authority. There were no lessons; final year students were no longer expected to remain on school grounds during school hours. One afternoon when he was tired of browsing in the school library, he tagged along with a group of his classmates on their way to the town centre. Davison and Randall are the only ones whose names have stayed in his memory. Davison had transferred from another school two years earlier. He was a handsome boy with dark, wavy hair and an easy, assured manner. Arnold secretly admired him, emulating him to the extent of trying to copy his hairstyle. The other boy, Randall, was bigger than the others in his year. He was the class bully. Arnold had suffered at his hands, though old antagonisms were forgotten in those final, heady days. 
It was Randall who suggested going to the cafe. Arnold had never gone anywhere which was out of bounds for pupils in uniform. He felt both excited and apprehensive at the prospect. The cafe was regarded by the headmaster as a place frequented by undesirables, which only enhanced its attraction to pupils. It was in a down-at-heel side street which Arnold would never have visited it on his own. There were no other customers at that time of day. The seedy, nicotine-stained interior and the smell of coffee have stayed with him more vividly that the faces of his fellows. He remembers buying Coca Cola and emulating the others by drinking it straight from the bottle. Somebody put a coin in the jukebox and played Rolling Stones songs. Randall had to show off by playing the pinball machine. In those final days of his school life, Arnold felt that he was one of the gang. In retrospect, it was as much a turning point in his life as the examinations. It symbolised his new-found independence, though he knows that in reality the pleasure soon palled for all of them. Nobody wanted a second drink because the coke was more expensive than in a sweet shop. Of course, nobody admitted to a sense of anticlimax.
The sight of the yellow Formica-covered tables brings back those memories. Thirst has driven Arnold into the cafe. It is not the sort of place which he would normally visit. A smell of bacon and eggs wafts from the plates of two labourers sitting by the window. There are only two other customers. As if stirred into action by Arnold's arrival, the old woman behind the counter begins wiping the well-worn surface with a grubby, damp cloth. She breathes noisily. Her thinning hair is uncombed, strands seeking to escape in every direction from the clips. Grease stains disfigure her maroon nylon overall. Arnold tries not to show his distaste as she breaks off from her labours to smile at him, revealing two brown teeth. He clears his throat. 'Can I have a glass of milk, please.'
She cocks her head, appearing not able to hear. 
'A glass of milk,' he repeats more loudly. 
'Milk?' she squawks.
'That's right.' He nods enthusiastically to emphasise the point. 
'Cold?' 
'Please.' 
'You want something nice and cold this weather, dear.' She shuffles into the kitchen. Her slippers are flattened. Distorted images of her maroon overall show through the ribbed glass screen. Arnold waits patiently, eyes straying over the meagre contents of the glass case on the counter: biscuits in cellophane packets, wrapped chocolate bars and livid yellow fairy cakes. Should he buy something to eat? The woman comes back before he has decided. 
'There we are,' she wheezes, placing the glass carefully on the high counter. 'Do you want anything else?'
'No thanks,' he responds, the sight of her fingernails deciding him.
'That'll be sixty pence, dear.' She waits patiently, watching as he sorts clumsily through a handful of change. 
'Hands are sweaty,' he excuses himself. 
'The milk's nice and cold. It's straight from the fridge.'
'Thanks,' he murmurs, putting the coins on the counter so that he does not have to touch her hand. He selects a table away from the other customers, putting his jacket carefully on the adjoining chair. After making sure that the glass is clean, he drinks the milk, enjoying the sensation of coldness which reaches into his stomach. It would be easy to drain the glass in one go, but habit and the desire for a brief rest make him drink slowly. With the dryness in his throat eased, he takes more notice of his surroundings. The cafe is a dispiriting place. The matchboard walls are yellow painted; above shoulder height, dust clings to the greasy surface. Posters of Swiss scenes are yellowing with age. The Formica table is sticky with spilled sugar. In the centre, grouped like a still life in an art class, are an ash tray, a sugar bowl, a salt cellar, a pepper pot and plastic bottles of HP sauce and ketchup, their tops sticky with residue.
His attention is distracted by a fly alighting on the sugar. As he moves, it takes off to join its fellows clinging to the light fitting overhead. The translucent plastic lampshade provides another link with his childhood. His grandmother had one in her kitchen, hanging from a similar dust-encrusted flex. The kitchen must have been old-fashioned even then. Because arthritis prevented her from using steps, the shade got increasingly dirty, making the corners of the ceiling which were already discoloured by cooking seem even darker. When he was small, he sometimes used to stay with his grandmother after school. In winter, the kitchen light was already on when he arrived, illuminating the red, quarry-tiled floor, the thick Belfast sink with its chipped edges and the tall, green and cream cabinet. The cabinet held a particular fascination for him. There was a hinged flap lined with Formica which pulled down to serve as a work surface. The cupboard above it had two ribbed glass doors. He stood on a chair to explore the packets of semolina, marzipan and candied peel,  and the stack of brightly-coloured jellies in cellophane wrappers with the Coop trademark printed on them. These were things which he never saw at home: his parents belonged to a generation which had abandoned home cooking. Between the doors of the cabinet was a clock which his grandmother never used, preferring the alarm clock on the mantelpiece. Having a clock built into a piece of furniture fascinated him. Once he pestered her to let him wind it up. She steadied him while he stood on tiptoe, his head in the cupboard with its aromas of foods as he tried to see what he was doing. When the clock failed to work after all his efforts, his disappointment was acute. To comfort him she gave him a big slice of Dundee cake which was still warm. 
With a start he realises that he is smiling at the memory. A glance at the other customers reassures him that they have not noticed. The two labourers are intent on their food. They are stripped to the waist. Sun has so darkened their skin that the tattoos are hardly discernible. At the next table, an old man with stubble on his chin stares into his tea with unwavering fascination. On a thick white plate beside the cup, a chocolate wafer biscuit lies untouched in its foil. He wears a heavy coat in defiance of the weather. The cuffs are worn. Impossible to tell whether his shirt should really be white. A rim of grease is visible around the frayed collar. His tie is so ingrained with dirt as to almost obscure the pattern. Arnold cannot understand why somebody who lets his standards of cleanliness sink so low should bother to put on a tie at all. His own suits are dry-cleaned each month. When shininess becomes obvious on the seat or around the cuffs, he has the suit cleaned again before donating it to Oxfam. 
The fourth customer sits on the far side of the cafe. She is a large woman in her sixties. Her green cotton dress is crumpled. Badges are arrayed over the shoulders and neckline. All that Arnold can identify from a distance is the CND symbol. She notices his interest and beams as though recognising a long-lost friend. Clutching a shiny, black plastic handbag in one hand and her tea in the other, she levers herself out of her seat and lumbers across to join him. The weight of the badges makes the thin fabric of her dress sag around her ample bosom. 
'You're one of us,' she declares, settling opposite him. 'I can tell by your eyes. You're dressed like a businessman, but your eyes give you away.' 
Arnold forces a smile. He wants to gulp down the milk and leave, but to do so would be rude. A smell of mothballs assails his nostrils. 
'Never mind,' she tells him, gripping his arm. 'We'll win through.' 
He tries not to show his distaste at being touched by a stranger as he explains, 'I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about.'
She leans forward. 'Sorry, I got carried away,' she mouths. 'You never know who's listening.' 
Her gaze travels over the other customers. Arnold looks as well. The old man still gazes into his tea with rapt contemplation. One of the labourers has got to the stage of mopping egg yolk with his bread—a practice which Arnold abhors—while  the other has pushed his plate away and is immersed in The Sun. 
'We'll leave in a minute,' the woman mouths. 'Then we can talk.' When she sees Arnold frowning, she assures him, 'There's no hurry. Drink your milk first.' 
Arnold sips his milk and racks his brains for a way of losing his new companion. All the while she is gazing on him with a fondness which she might more fittingly bestow on a favourite nephew. He watches, fascinated, as her bosom swells with each breath. 
'You're looking at my badges,' she says, making him turn away guiltily. She taps one of her trophies proudly. 'I belong to all these, you know.' 
Arnold makes out a badge for Friends of the Earth and another for Greenpeace. He raises his eyebrows to show appropriate astonishment. 
'Hot again, isn't it?' she says conversationally. 
'Very hot,' he agrees, conscious of the stickiness under his arms. He hopes that she cannot smell his sweat. He envies the labourers their freedom to go about bare-chested, though he does not think it fitting to eat like that in public place and certainly not without attempting to clean the rest of their clothes first. Mud cakes their boots and their trousers. Loose pieces have been shed on the floor around them. 
'Hottest day of the year yesterday,' his companion assures him. 
'I heard that,' he agrees, turning back to her with reluctance. He cannot stop his gaze from straying to her bosom. 
'It could be even hotter today.' She nods emphatically as he raises his eyebrows. 'They said so on the radio this morning.' 
'I didn't hear that. I must have left by then.' 
'It was in the five to eight weather forecast.' 
'I'd left,' he confirms, his thoughts returning to that strange journey. Never before has he failed to wake up when the train reached Liverpool Street. One possibility is that fumes from the plastic and paint in the new coach affected him. He is tempted to write a letter of complaint to the station manager. 
'You started out early.' 
'It's a long journey.' 
'Better not tell me,' she advises him, putting her hand over his. The gesture makes him feel soiled. He wants to wash, yet he is ashamed of his response. To cover his discomfiture, he drinks the rest of his milk, taking care to pick up the glass with his other hand. 
'Are you ready?' she asks. 
For a moment he is a child again, in the thrall of an overbearing and rather terrifying aunt. He looks around helplessly, but none of the other customers shows any inclination to help. The old woman behind the counter is stacking packets of biscuits in the glass case, indifferent to his fate. It passes through his mind to ask for another glass of milk as a way of postponing whatever his companion has in store for him, but the moment for offering excuses has passed. He knows that he will not escape that easily. 
'Are you ready?' she repeats as though chivying a recalcitrant child. 
'I suppose so,' he agrees. 
She glances over her shoulder with theatrical caution, as though expecting the labourers to block the doorway. Apparently satisfied, she turns back to her unwilling conspirator. 'Everything looks all right.' 
Arnold gets up, taking his jacket from the adjoining chair. He looks beseechingly at the woman behind the counter. From the way she smiles back, he can believe that she is colluding in what is happening. 
Outside, the diesel fumes make him feel nauseous. His companion keeps close beside him, as though aware that he might try to get away. 
'We can talk freely now,' she announces. 
He grunts, having no inclination to talk about anything. What he wants is to scuttle back to the safety of the station, however long he has to wait for a train. 
'How goes it?' she enquires. 
'I don't know how I came to be here.' 
'We all wonder that. What you've got to do is think of every day as a new beginning. I find that helps.' 
'I mean I fell asleep on the train. When I woke up, I didn't know where I was.' 
'I've done that.' 
'Now I'm late.' 
'I hadn't been waiting long. I knew it was you as soon as you walked in, but I thought I'd wait a few minutes. Be on the safe side.' 
'I didn't mean that,' he begins, but a glance at his companion's Seraphic countenance is enough to make him conclude that she will not listen to his explanation. 
His throat is tickling again, making him wish that he had asked for another glass of milk. Dust from the traffic lies in eddies over the pavement and coats the tread of a lorry tyre heaped like a dead snake against a factory wall. 
'How's the cell?' the woman asks suddenly. 
'The cell,' he repeats, bemused. 
'I know you've got to be careful. You can't say too much these days.' 
'I think you've got the wrong person.' 
'You'll do just fine, don't worry.' She smiles reassuringly. 'What I'll do is set you up with the contacts you need. Paresh is going to help.' 
'You're making a mistake,' Arnold murmurs, afraid than any more vehement objection might provoke an equally vehement response. 
'That we can never be sure about,' she agrees. 
'I meant in choosing me.' 
'Don't belittle yourself.' 
He sighs. 
'What do I call you, by the way?' she wants to know. 'You don't have to tell me your real name if you don't want to.' 
'Arnold.' 
'Arnold,' she repeats as though committing the word to memory. 'I'm Mary.' 
He does not reply. 
'That's my real name, by the way. I don't care what they do to me.' 
He longs to ask who 'they' are, but he suspects that he is supposed to know. 
'Paresh is a sweet boy. Always willing to help. You might have come across him. He goes to all the rallies.' 
Arnold shakes his head. 
'I suppose you can't be seen supporting us in public,' she continues. 'I understand that. It must be difficult if you've got a position to keep up.' 
He looks around helplessly. Never has he so wanted to see a policeman. 
'I do understand,' she insists, mistaking his expression. 
'That's good.' 
'Graham can seem difficult. I know he's got a temper, but we have to make allowances. He did have an unhappy childhood. It's got him into trouble a few times, I'm afraid.' 
'Trouble?' 
'With the police.' 
'He doesn't sound a very savoury character.' 
'He is very committed and that's the main thing, isn't it?' 
'I suppose so.' 
'Hussain's very good.' A note of pride enters her voice as she explains, 'He trained in Libya.' 
Arnold raises his eyebrows. 
'We've got to do something,' she reasons, sensing his uncertainty. 'Things are going from bad to worse in this country.' She sighs, her flagging pace emphasising her dejection. Arnold does not have the heart to argue. Meekly he slows his pace in line with hers. 
'What do you think?' she asks. 
'About what?' 
'The way things are going.' 
'I'm worried,' he has to admit. 
They leave the main road to plunge into an estate of low-rise flats and tower blocks of the sort which he glimpsed from the train. Drought and lack of attention have reduced the lawns to patches of dried mud, dug over by dogs and children and strewn with rubbish. Hemmed in by two low-rise blocks and a row of abandoned garages is a children's playground surrounded by a chain-link fence. Two of the three swings have lost their seats; the seat on the third dangles from a single chain. Two climbing frames have fared better. Scrap wood and cardboard are piled inside the circular one as though it is a nest. A boy old enough to go to school has found a more exciting plaything in an abandoned car outside the playground. He is standing on its roof. Arnold watches him raise a chunk of masonry above his head with both hands and drop it on the bonnet with evident enjoyment. The crash reverberates between the surrounding buildings where every accessible surface is covered with a tangle of graffiti. Metal plates cover the doors and windows of empty maisonettes. Above one window, the brickwork is blackened by smoke. There is a smell of drains. A dog barks incessantly. 
'Nearly there now,' Mary encourages. 
'If you could tell me a bit more.' 
'You'll meet the others in a moment, then we can go through everything.' 
An ordinary Monday has never seemed so desirable in its predictability. 
'Hey, mister.' 
Arnold hesitates, looking with distaste at the girl who approaches him. Her face is smeared with chocolate. She can be no older than five. She halts before him. 
'Give us a fiver.' 
He frowns, disconcerted by her audacity. At her age he would not have dared to ask a stranger for anything, let alone five pounds. Her smaller brother is watching. He wears a baseball cap back to front. 
'Come on, mister,' she urges, holding out her hand. That makes Arnold grip his jacket all the tighter. 
'I'm not giving you anything.' 
'Fuck you then.' 
He stares at the two children as they run off. 
Mary sighs and shakes her head. 'Deprived.' 
'No five pound notes to play with.' 
She looks puzzled. 
'Don't mind me,' Arnold murmurs. 'Just thinking aloud.' 
They are at the entrance to a tower block. Arnold gazes up. The orderly ranks of concrete panels stretching towards the sky make him dizzy. Impossible to imagine living there: a cramped flat with no garden, prey to vandals, surrounded by flats housing problem families and with the constant risk of fire and explosion. 
'Are you all right?' Mary asks. 
'Fine, fine,' he assures her, regarding the entrance without enthusiasm. It lives up to his forebodings. What was once an open space beneath the tower has been cheaply encased as a lobby. The plywood panels are splintered. The windows are opaque plastic windows reinforced with expanded metal. All the surfaces are covered in graffiti. One of the double doors is missing, torn away at the hinges. Strewn at his feet are the remains of an Indian takeaway. The foil container catches the sun. Red sauce has oozed over the paving and dried over lumps of chicken. 
'I ought to get on,' he murmurs, aware that he is falling fast in Mary's estimation. He glances back the way they have come and tells himself that there is no practical reason why he should not go back to the main road. The annoying thing is that he feels obligated to the woman at his side. 
'We want to make sure everything's ready now you're here,' she urges. 'We want everything to go off smoothly, don't we?' 
'Must go off smoothly,' he agrees, but either Mary does not hear or she is oblivious to sarcasm. She is already venturing inside the lobby, clutching her handbag as though ready to use it as a weapon against muggers. He hesitates, his thoughts still on the main road and freedom. 
'The others are waiting for us. We mustn't let them down.' Her voice booms around the empty space.
'Mustn't do that, must we?' he murmurs. 
'We're late already.' 
He follows her, skirting the curry. There is enough light in the lobby for him to see generations of stains discolouring the concrete floor. It is strewn with crushed beer cans. Vomit has congealed in a corner. The stench makes him try to hold his breath. 
'We'll have to use the stairs,' Mary announces after several minutes of fruitlessly pressing the button for the lift. 'That's two weeks it hasn't been working.' 
Arnold is not surprised. In all the television documentaries and dramas about tower blocks which he has seen, the lifts never work. Though he is glad to leave the entrance, the staircase proves no more prepossessing. It is pervaded by a smell of urine. Graffiti artists have made full use of the surviving window panes which are of reinforced opaque plastic like those in the lobby. Through one of the unglazed panels, Arnold glimpses the girl who asked him for money. She is throwing stones at a mongrel who has taken to the game with evident enjoyment. 
Mary pauses for breath on the second flight. 'At least the flat's only on the fourth floor,' 
'Only?' 
'You get used to it.' 
He does not want to get used to it. The thought of making his escape still preoccupies him. Even as he rejects the possibility, frustration makes him bang petulantly against the handrail with its BNP stickers. He tells himself that he does not have to follow Mary so meekly. He owes her nothing. 
He is still wrestling with the problem of what to do when they reach the fourth floor, though by then getting his breath is a more pressing concern. His adventure has revealed how out of condition he is. Mary is in a worse state. She holds open the fire door for him. He thanks her automatically, alarmed at how heavily she is panting, but unable to totally suppress his satisfaction. 
'I see somebody's been busy,' he observes, gazing around the landing. He is coming to expect the graffiti. A smell of rotting garbage permeates the confined space. Light fittings have been torn from the walls. The only daylight comes from a window over the rubbish chute, deep in shadow between two wings of the building. Predictably, the glass is missing.
'How do you mean?' Mary asks. 
He gestures around. 'The vandals. All this.' 
'It's how it's always been,' she assures him, rapping on one of the four doors. 'You'll like Paresh.' 
Arnold does not reply. He looks longingly towards the fire door and the staircase beyond,  remembering those glimpses of an outside world which now seem so enticing. The sound of a bolt being drawn forces his attention back to what might lie ahead. The door is opened by a smiling Asian youth whose hand flies to his mouth in what Arnold first imagines to be surprise. A second glance reveals that the youth is self-conscious about his attempts to grow a moustache. His T-shirt is inscribed with a slogan for Compassion in World Farming. At least his shirt and jeans are clean, Arnold notes with approval. From the flat comes the sound of a television audience clapping in a parody of a welcome. 
'This is Paresh,' Mary announces, a skittishness coming to her manner which she has not shown before. Arnold nods to the youth, who smiles back amicably and opens the door wider. As they troop into the hall, Arnold imagines at first that the walls have been stripped in preparation for decorating. The magnolia emulsion paint is scuffed, worn shiny where countless shoulders have rubbed against it and peppered with writing which he does not have time to read. Reading is no problem in the living room, where KILL PIGS is sprayed on one wall in large letters, forcing him to conclude that he is seeing the flat in its normal state. The furnishings are sparse: a scratched dining-room table with three ill-matched chairs, and a grubby, Rexine-covered settee on which an unshaven youth lounges, his gaze barely leaving the screen of a portable television on the floor. The case vibrates from the laughter of the studio audience. 
The other occupant of the room is middle eastern in appearance. His well-cut suit is  incongruous in the shabby surroundings and fails to disguises his swarthy build. The open window does not dispel the odour of garlic emanating from him—a smell which Arnold finds unpleasant. The man's gaze is suspicious. 
'This is our contact,' Mary says proudly, raising her voice to be heard above the sound of the television. She clutches Arnold's arm. With her free hand she gestures towards the Arab. 'This is Hussain and that's Graham on the sofa.' 
'Turn off the television,' Hussain orders. 
'I'm watching,' Graham objects, eyes not leaving on the screen. 
The silence comes suddenly as Hussain pulls the plug from the socket. 
'I was watching that,' Graham whines, his voice rising in pitch. Hussain ignores him, preferring to scrutinise Arnold, who gazes at the creased, threadbare carpet in preference to meeting those glowering, angry eyes. 
'So now we're moving?' Hussain queries. 
There is a silence. With a start Arnold realises that the question is directed at him. 
'Soon,' he agrees, judging it best to give an upbeat answer. 'But not just yet,' he adds to give himself leeway in a situation which threatens to spiral out of control. He has an uneasy feeling that the enterprise, whatever it is, might be illegal. 
His caution does not go down well. Hussain looks prepared to throw him out the window, while Mary looks crestfallen. Even Paresh's face has clouded. Graham is staring at the grey television screen, still mourning his lost programme. A thudding reggae rhythm seeps into the room from the adjoining flat. The incessant barking of a dog drifts up from the forecourt. 
'We thought it was going to be today,' Hussain objects. 
'We hoped it would,' Arnold improvises. 'I'm sorry.' 
'You're sorry,' Hussain repeats with such venom that Arnold takes a step back. Mary regards him sympathetically. He thinks that she might look the same way on a stray dog which is about to be destroyed. A glance at Hussain's face makes him fear that his own fate might not be so painless. 
'You know how long we wait in this place?' Hussain asks. 'Six days.' 
Arnold raises his eyebrows. 
'It won't be for much longer,' Mary intercedes. 
'Six days with him!' Hussain says venomously, glaring at Graham. Arnold feels some sympathy. 
'How do you think I like being stuck here with you?' Graham responds. 
'Television.' Hussain gestures contemptuously towards the set. 'Is always television with you—all crap chat shows and soaps.' 
'There's nothing else to do in this fucking dump.' 
'It won't be for long,' Mary tries to placate them. 
'Today, tomorrow, next week,' Hussain growls, looking ready to hit somebody. 'I did not come for this.' 
Arnold longs to ask what he did come for. Instead he murmurs, 'I suppose I'd better be getting along,' which makes Hussain glower all the more. 
'Getting along! What do you mean: getting along?' 
The vehemence makes Arnold back further away. He stumbles against Mary and apologises, shrugging in a gesture which he hopes communicates his helplessness. 
'Perhaps you ought to stay till it's over,' Mary suggests. 'How about if we all had a cup of tea?' 
'Tea!' Hussain spits. 
'I really ought to be going,' Arnold mumbles, hoping against hope that nobody will object, or better still that nobody is paying attention. 
'We have things to discuss,' Hussain announces in a tone which brooks no argument. In desperation Arnold looks at his watch, his face composed in what he hopes is the expression of one who is surprised by how time flies. 'I've got an appointment to go to,' he insists with all the conviction he can muster. 
Hussain glares. 'You are serious? You want this to happen?' 
'Of course I do!' Arnold insists, his voice rising to a squeak. 
'We all do,' Mary temporises. 
Arnold longs for tea, or for any drink: by this time, the milk which he drank in the cafe is no more than a memory. Saliva has thickened on his teeth. His tongue feels coated as it does first thing in the morning. 
'You say that,' Hussain exclaims, glowering at Mary. 'That one treats it like a game.' He nods towards Arnold. 
'I'm sure he doesn't mean to.' 
Hussain spits out the window. There is an uncomfortable silence. Even the unseen dog has stopped barking. 
'There's some beer in the fridge,' Graham announces. 
'If that's what you all want,' she says with all the enthusiasm of a teetotaller. 
'Let's have some beer,' Paresh agrees. 
With his guardian out of the room, Arnold keeps his gaze on the carpet again in the hope that if he avoids eye contact, Hussain will ignore him. His ploy proves fruitless. 
'How many groups are joining us?' Hussain wants to know. 
'I'm not quite sure,' Arnold admits. 
'Ten? A hundred?' 
'I don't know at this stage.' 
'Unless we can get a thousand people ...' Hussain makes a gesture which Arnold hopes signifies helplessness rather than anything more sinister. 
'We'll get that all right,' he agrees with all the confidence he can muster. 
'Are they all gonna be like you?' Graham interrupts. 'You look like a fucking bank manager.' 
'I wasn't expecting to come here.' 
'That's what they go for in Clapham, is it?' 
'You think everybody lives like you?' Hussain rounds on his colleague, to Arnold's surprise. 
'Ain' had your education, have I?' says a truculent Graham. 'I was deprived.' 
Hussain turns away in disgust. Fortunately, Mary's return forestalls further argument. She is clutching a pack of beer cans. 'I couldn't find any glasses.' 
'It's the beer we're after,' Graham tells her, showing more enthusiasm than he has done for anything else. 
Mary gives the cans to the men. Arnold drinks gratefully. He has never had beer straight from the can before. For a moment he feels like one of the boys. 
'When is everything coming?' Paresh queries, sending Arnold's morale plunging again. Everybody is looking at him. He wipes froth from his lips as he racks his brain for a suitable reply. 
'By this afternoon, as far was we know,' he ventures. 
'As far as you know,' Hussain repeats ominously. 
'Pretty well certain, I should say.' 
'The two of us can sort out the details,' Mary intervenes. 
'How about placards?' Paresh perseveres. 
Everybody looks at Arnold again, which causes him to choke over his beer. He recovers, though not before Mary has slapped him between the shoulder blades. She gives him a reassuring smile. He smiles back gratefully. 
'When are they coming?' she asks, like an ally who reveals herself to be in league with the enemy. 
'All organised,' he assures her, improvisation taking flight. 'You needn't worry about that.' 
'And the leaflets?' 
'They're all ready.' 
'Can we see them?' Paresh asks. 
'Haven't got one on me, I'm afraid. I came out in rather a hurry.' Arnold is aware of his audience's dissatisfaction with his answer. He clutches his can tightly and adds in a burst of inspiration, 'They were still being printed when I left.' 
'You said they were ready,' Mary points out. 
'They're nearly ready, the last I heard.' 
'So you've got fuck all for us?' Graham sums up. 
'I didn't know what I was supposed to bring,' Arnold defends himself. 
Hussain turns away, shaking his head. Arnold takes another gulp of beer, anxious to quench his thirst while the opportunity presents itself. 
'You know what I think?' Graham continues, even though nobody shows any interest. 'I think this whole thing's gonna go off at half cock.' 
'I don't think that's fair,' Mary protests. 
'You wouldn't.' 
'There's no need to be like that about it.' 
'Up yours.' 
Whilst attention is distracted by this exchange, Arnold seizes the chance to edge nearer the doorway. 
'Where are you going?' Hussain demands. 
Arnold's face colours. 'Thought I might see whether the leaflets were coming,' he explains, waiting for the inevitable objection. To his amazement, nobody argues. 'They might have done them by now,' he adds, with a burst of renewed confidence. 
'Phone them,' Paresh suggests. 
Arnold looks around helplessly. 
'Here.' Paresh ducks behind the settee and produces the telephone. Arnold puts his beer can on the floor and rests the telephone awkwardly on the door handle, not wanting to block his retreat by moving any nearer the table. He considers claiming that he has forgotten the number, but this might provoke Hussain's anger. People who trained in Libya deserve to be treated with respect. Instead, Arnold turns his back on the others, so they cannot see that he is repeatedly pressing the mute button. Nobody speaks as he waits, the receiver pressed to his ear so that the absence of a dialling tone will not be heard. 
'Doesn't look as if anybody's there,' he announces, putting the receiver down before anybody else can listen. 'I'd better go myself.' 
'Do you want me to come with you?' Mary asks. 
'I'll manage.' 
'How long is it going to take?' Hussain wants to know. 
'Not long. I can bring the leaflets back with me. And I'll bring a placard for you to see.' 
Hussain nods at Graham. 'Go with him.' 
'Why me?' Graham protests. 
'You wanted to get out of here.' 
'Not with him.' 
'You expect me to work with people like this?' Hussain appeals to Mary. 
'I know it's difficult when you're all cooped up together,' she sympathises. 
'He is a slob. You know that?' 
An indignant Graham springs up. 'Who are you calling a slob?' 
'Let's calm down,' Paresh interposes. 
'Why should I fucking calm down with him calling me a fucking slob?' 
'You're shit,' Hussain declares. 'You sit there drinking beer all day and watching crap television.' He spits out the window again to reinforce his message. Arnold pities anybody walking underneath—and then reflects that being spat on is a small price to pay for being out of the flat and away from its occupants. 
'I'm sure Graham doesn't mean any harm,' Mary temporises. 
'I need people I can rely on to work with.' Hussain points at Graham. 'I can't rely on him.' 
While Graham is the focus of attention, Arnold puts the telephone on the floor. The movement allows him to position himself in the hall doorway. He prays that his luck will hold until he gets to the front door. 
'Where are you going?' Hussain demands, rendering Arnold immobile. 
'To get the leaflets,' he explains, unwilling to go back into the room. His heart is thudding. 
'I don't trust you.' 
Arnold draws himself up to his full height, though not wearing a jacket makes maintaining his dignity seem harder than usual. 'I'm sorry,' he announces to the assembled company, his tone unsteady as fear vies with indignation. 
'I'll come with you,' Mary offers. 'You'll need somebody to help you carry the leaflets.' 
'It's all right,' he protests, but Hussain's expression suggests that further protestations will not be tolerated. If somebody has to go with him, Arnold would rather it be Mary.
'We'll be as quick as we can,' she assures the others. 
'You'll hardly notice we're gone,' Arnold adds, knowing that it is a fatuous remark, but feeling heady with the beer and the prospect of freedom. He does not stay to watch the reactions of his audience. Mary follows him along the hall. He expects somebody to stop him as he fumbles with the latch, but nobody does. Freedom is lovely.

chapter three

Even the fetid air of the landing smells good after being in the flat. Arnold's relief is such that he does not mind having Mary at his side.
'Don't take too much notice of Hussain's manner,' she advises. 'He can seem abrupt, but I'm sure he doesn't mean it. I think it's because his English isn't very good.'
Arnold is less certain, but he does not argue. He is intent on hastening down the stairs before anybody can call him back. In the lobby, he waits for Mary to catch up. She is panting again.
'I'm not as young as you,' she reproaches when she can speak. 
'Hardly young these days.' 
'Did you come by car?' 
'No.'
'Better to be safe than sorry. I know cars are convenient, but they can be identified.'
'That's what I thought,' he agrees, pleased at having supplied the right answer for once.
'And there's the ecological argument. I wouldn't run a car even if I could afford it.'
He feels on less safe ground here. His own concern for the environment barely goes beyond not letting Sam turn up the central heating thermostat, and that prohibition is for financial reasons. He suspects that Mary might scorn this tentative effort, though she would approve of his walking to and from the station. 
Environmental issues have not figured among his daughters' fads. The nearest either of them came to showing any concern was when Sam announced that she was giving up eating meat. Her avowed vegetarian stance never stopped her eating turkey at Christmas, but as she explained when Helen pointed out the inconsistency, her stand was against red meats.
'We should have rung for a cab while we were upstairs,' Mary is saying. 'We won't find a telephone box around here.'
He regards the oversight as fortuitous. If they were in a taxi together, he would never get rid of her.
'We're not going back,' he says more firmly than he intends.
'Never mind. I'm sure we'll manage on the bus.' 
The estate looks benign now that he is leaving. What had appeared sordid now seems no more than an endearing scruffiness. He is convinced that if the tenants were given pride in their surroundings, they would be prompted to put things right. 
The boy has abandoned throwing bricks from the car roof and is sitting in the metal skeleton of the driver's seat, steering to victory in the grand prix of his imagination. Arnold feels that vandalism is the action of bored children whose parents need reminding of their responsibilities. Given time, he is convinced that he could handle the problems of such estates better than politicians. 
Optimism courses through him now that he is likely to get back to his normal life, making him heedless of how his shirt sticks to his body and of Mary's puffing as she struggles to keep up with him. He knows that he must put aside his finer feelings and set his mind to losing her. One option is to run as fast as he can to the main road. After the graphic demonstration of her unfitness, he is confident of his ability to outpace her, though he is less sure how other people will react if they see him running through the estate. They might mistake him for a thief and try to detain him. A safer course might be to outwit her by dodging amongst the labyrinth of garages, maisonettes and tower blocks. As he tries to decide what to do, his pace slows, allowing Mary to fall into step beside him. They are in the shadow of another tower block. Air is funnelled downwards, creating a welcoming breeze even on a still day. Their steps crunch on a screed of glittering broken glass. Bricks pulled from a low retaining wall are strewn across the paving. He is tempted to ask Mary the way to the station, but he does not want her knowing what is in his mind. 
'I hope the boys in the flat don't argue with each other,' she frets. 
'I think they're doing that already.' 
'I suppose it's difficult when they're all cooped up together like that. It's worst for Hussain—he's used to an active life.' 
Arnold can believe it. 
'Paresh is very patient.' she confides. 'I don't know about Graham.' 
'He didn't strike me as patient.' 
'He is very committed.' 
'So you said.' 
'I know his manner can be unfortunate.' 
Before Arnold can answer, the girl runs up to him again. Her face is still smeared with chocolate. 
'Hey, mister. Can you give us a fiver?' 
'You've asked me once!' he responds, trying to step around her. 
'Can you give us a fiver?' she repeats like an automaton. 
'No. I'm sorry.' 
She scowls. 'Fucking wanker.' 
Surprise stops him from responding before she runs back to her brother. 
'She said that to me as well,' Mary complains. 'She should be at school.' 
'It makes you wonder what her mother's thinking of.' 
They walk on, united by a common concern. 
'Do you think she's on solvents?' he asks. 
'It wouldn't surprise me. A lot of the kids around here are.' 
'I've heard about it.' He gropes for words that will express his abhorrence and sense of futility. 'You'd think shopkeepers would know better than to sell them the stuff.' 
'They'd only steal it.' 
'Little kids—that's all they are.' He thinks back to the time when his own daughters were young. Problems like drugs and truancy were inconceivable. 
'When we've got a government like this ...' 
'What about the parents?' 
'... sitting back while unemployment goes up ...' 
'I blame them.' 
'... running the schools down, not letting councils build more houses. They deserve a shock.' 
Her final words draw him back to his immediate predicament. They make him shiver. He asks, 'Is that why Hussain's here?' 
'What's the best way of getting to your place?' Mary asks, apparently not hearing his question. 
'The train might be easiest,' he suggests, thinking that he might as well seize the opportunity to get to the station. 'But even that's difficult,' he adds, another idea forming in his mind. 'It means changing quite a few times, so we'd have a lot of waiting to do. It might be quicker if you did go back to the flat and ring for a taxi. Do you mind?' 
'That's what I suggested earlier.' She sounds aggrieved.
'I wasn't too keen on the idea until I had a chance to think about it,' he confesses with total honestly. 'I'd go myself, but I don't want to risk another set to with Hussain.' 
'I can see that,' she concedes. 
'I don't think he likes me.' 
'I'm sure everything's going to be all right once you get to know each other.' 
Arnold looks doubtful. 
'After all, you are both on the same side,' she argues. 'You've got the same ideals. That's the main thing, isn't it?' 
'I suppose so,' he agrees dutifully, 'but I'd rather you went back. I'll wait for you here.' 
'All right then,' she acquiesces, though without her customary enthusiasm. Arnold experiences a glorious feeling of release as he watches her walking away. All tension leaves his body. He calculates that returning to the tower block and climbing the stairs will take her at least five minutes. By then, he will be far from the menacing world of the flat and its inhabitants.
Once she is out of sight, he walks on at a sprightly pace, fired with renewed enthusiasm for life. His back is straighter. At least nobody can call him a creature of routine after what has happened. 
He has had little to do with dogs; certainly not with dogs which hunt in packs like the ones watching him. Two are Alsatians; the others are of indeterminate breed. They come closer, fanning out to surround him as though at a prearranged signal. His stomach  hardens. He understands how an animal must feel when it is cornered. One of the Alsatians barks; the other dogs take up the cry. 
The fear of dogs has been with him since his childhood, when one bounded up to him in the park, knocking him over. At the time he did not realise that it only wanted to play. Fortunately his grandmother was there to shoo it away and to dry his tears. He remembers her telling him to stand absolutely still if he was ever attacked again. Confronted by a pack of dogs, he finds her advice difficult to keep. His immediate response is to flee to the lobby of the nearest tower block, but he knows that the dogs will overtake him before he reaches it. Overlying his fear is annoyance that his escape plans have been thwarted. At any moment Mary may begin her journey down the stairs after telephoning for a taxi. If she finds him, he will have to confess that he was trying to escape from the dogs. They encircle him, alert for any movement. He has no option but to remain still. For the first time in many years he wants to pray. 
Salvation comes unexpectedly. A car backfires, or at least he hopes it is a car backfiring rather than a gunshot. The noise alarms the dogs. Two of them bolt. One Alsatian continues barking for a few moments as though to demonstrate its fearlessness, before it too scampers away, accompanied by the rest of the pack. Arnold watches with relief as the last animal disappears behind the garages. His legs feel unsteady, but he knows that he cannot delay his escape any longer. 
He thought that he was retracing his steps to the main road, but Mary must have taken him by a different route. The trouble is that all the low-rise blocks look identical. He tries to orient himself by the tower blocks. Once they had names, but only the studs which held the letters remain. He tries to decipher what the nearest block was called from their pattern. 
'Are you trying to get away from that woman, mister?' 
The girl's voice. He whirls round to see her looking up at him, her brother at her side. 
'We was watching you.' she announces. 'You was shit scared of them dogs.' 
'You ought to keep away from them.' 
'They won't touch us,' the boy says, his voice full of bravado. 
'They can be dangerous.' 
'Was you trying to get away from that woman?' the girl persists. 
'It's none of your business.' 
'We'll help you if you pay us.' 
'I can manage on my own, thank you.' 
'You ain't done much good so far.' 
'I've got to go now.' He turns away, suspecting that he will not escape so easily. 
'We'll tell her,' the girl calls. 
He turns to face the children again. He is developing a strong dislike of the girl. 
'We can stop the gangs getting you,' she adds. 
'I haven't seen any gangs.' 
'There's gangs all right,' she assures him, 'but you'll be all right with us. We can dodge 'em.' 
'Good.' He glances back at the tower block which he was so glad to leave, imagining Hussain and his friends looking down and drawing conclusions—probably the right ones. He knows that he must get as far away as possible, but he has an image of the children running beside him, kicking at his ankles. 
'A fiver,' the boy says. 
'Each,' adds the girl. 
Arnold wants to laugh, but the children's expressions show that they are serious. 
'Or we'll tell her,' the girl warns. 
He would like to give the children a stern talking to, explaining the implications of blackmail, but it is not the occasion for standing on principle. He reaches into his trouser pocket knowing that he must be on his guard against having his wallet snatched. 
'Five pounds each,' the boy reminds him. 
'I know.' Arnold brings out his wallet and hands over the notes with ill grace, taking care not to let the children see his credit cards or how much money he has left. 'Now can you leave me alone, please?' 
'We're gonna help you,' the girl points out. 
'I don't want to be helped,' he insists, putting his wallet away. 
'That's what you gave us the money for.' 
'We know all the back ways around here,' the boy says proudly. 
Arnold feels annoyed that he cannot simply turn his back on the children and run away. He pleads, 'I'm in a hurry.' 
'Down here,' the girl orders. 
He follows her along a narrow passageway between two blocks of garages. The boy is behind him. For a moment he suspects that their intention is to rob him. The thought of being mugged by such young delinquents leaves him incredulous and a little afraid. When he emerges unscathed at the far end of the garages, he cannot help feeling relieved. 
'You'll be all right now,' the girl says confidently. 
'I can still see the windows,' he points out, glancing back. 
'What windows?' 
'Of the flats.' 
The girl looks puzzled. 
'Some people in the flats are after me,' he explains, wishing that he had never bothered to indulge his guides. He finds talking to children difficult. His self-consciousness at using childish language showed itself when Helen was small. It was not what he expected from fatherhood. He never talked about it and Margaret never remarked upon it, though she must have realised that something was wrong. He tried to change. He played with Sam more when she was young, though he still could not feel at ease with her. As the girls grew up and went to friends' homes, they must have wondered why he was so distant compared with other fathers. Now he can blame the generation gap for his distance from them. Sam groans when he is in what she calls his pompous mood. She says that he does not laugh enough. Her words haunt him whenever he hears her phoning her friends. She laughs so much. Helen is more serious. She is not without humour, but she takes a more sardonic view of the world. He has always felt closer to Helen. 
'We can take you further away,' the girl offers. 
'So long as we hurry up.' 
'We could take him to our hiding place,' the boy suggests, looking at his companion. 
'All I want is to get away from here!' Arnold exclaims. As the children fall silent at his outburst, he makes his decision. He runs, not caring whether they keep up with him or not. Across the forecourt of the final low-rise block. His initial spurt of energy is soon dissipated. He cannot understand how people run marathons. The children catch him up without difficulty. 
'This way,' the girl calls as they reach the low hedge which marks the estate boundary. The bushes are sparse and stunted. Arnold is surprised that they have survived at all in those inhospitable surroundings. He pushes through them without difficulty. The shops across the road belong to an age before the tower blocks. They are more intimate in scale, yet just as run down. 
'Should you come any further?' Arnold pants, welcoming the excuse to stop. 
'Why not?' the girl asks. 
'I wondered if you were supposed to keep to the estate.' 
'Why?' 
'It doesn't matter.' He sets off at a brisk pace along the main road, running to keep up with him. By now, Mary must surely be looking for him. The alarming thought occurs to him that when the taxi comes, she might cruise the surrounding streets in search of him. A more unpleasant possibility is that Hussain guessed his motives more accurately and is already pursuing him. 
Glimpsed from the train, blackened brick terraces evoke in Arnold folk memories of a community standing together in the blitz, of street parties and of sing-alongs in smoky backstreet pubs. He knows that reality is nothing like that, but as he hurries past a row of four-storeyed town houses, the images will not leave him. Even when the houses were new, they must have lacked the grace of their Georgian predecessors. Now they are decayed, the crumbling cornices green with moss, cracked window panes held in place with adhesive tape and the railings protecting the basement areas bent and corroded. Across the ground floor window of the end house is a rusting grille clogged with litter. The first floor window is reinforced with timber; above it, a crack in the brick arch extends to the smaller window on the top floor. He imagines the house to be derelict until he notices that the steps are swept clean and that the paintwork is worn shiny around the lock. 
A woman stares at him. It is not until he has passed by that he realises why she should be suspicious of a well-dressed man accompanying two scruffy children. He has the uneasy feeling that she might report him. It was bad enough escaping from Mary and her friends without having to contend with the police. 
'Doesn't your mummy mind you talking to people you don't know?' he asks the girl who responds by looking at him blankly. 'Is she home?' 
'No.' 
'Who's supposed to be looking after you?' 
'I look after Darren.' 
'But who looks after you?' 
'I can look after meself.' 
He feels that this is a matter which ought to be reported to the authorities. The temptation is to tell the police before anybody complains about him, if he could find a policeman. Suggesting to the children that they go to with him the police station, are sure to cause a fuss. Instead, he takes what he knows is the easy way out of his dilemma. He stops walking and announces, 'I think I'll be all right now.' 
The children stop. The girl looks aggrieved. 'I thought you wanted us to stop that woman finding you,' she reminds him. 
'You've done that and I'm grateful, but I can find my own way from here.' 
'We was gonna show you our hiding place.' Darren sounds disappointed. 
'All I want is to get as far away as possible.' 
'You ain't seen where we're taking you,' the girl points out. 
'So where is it?' 
'That's what we're gonna show you,' she says patiently. 
'All right,' he agrees. The last thing he wants is to attract attention by causing a scene. The girl seems satisfied. He follows her meekly, the boy running ahead. They pass an Edwardian library, the elaborate stone decorations not disguising its pinched proportions. A consoling thought for Arnold is that once he has rid himself of the children, he can return to the library and consult a road atlas. 
The shops are notable for their meanness: an off licence where potential customers have to ring the bell to be admitted, a dry cleaners with broken wooden louvres above the door and a second hand shop in which battered office desks and chipboard furniture are piled against the glass. All the windows are protected by grilles. Arnold cannot imagine anybody shopping in that street from choice. In the window of a kebab house, the greasy remnants of yesterday's meat remain on a skewer in front of the unlit burners. Even Sam would baulk at buying food there. 
Passing the site of a demolished building, empty except for a few discarded tyres and a wooden hut with a dust-covered Michelin sign. The wire mesh which serves as a fence is rusting and misshapen. When Darren stops running to crouch beside it, the awful thought forms in Arnold's mind that the children expect him to crawl under the wire gate. When the boy gets up after inspecting a discarded cigarette packet, relief overcomes Arnold's repugnance. 
'I'm taking you a long way from home,' he feels compelled to say. 
'So?' The girl sounds scornful. 
'I don't know whether you ought be coming this far.' 
'We come here every day.' 
'You're sure your mother won't mind?' 
'You keep saying that.' 
'I want to be sure you're not going to get into trouble.' 
The girl looks away, evidently finding the topic not worth discussing. Darren shows no interest in the conversation and is walking along the kerbstones in imitation of a tightrope walker, inches from the traffic. 
'I don't think you ought to walk there,' Arnold calls. 
'Why?' Darren sounds as dismissive as his sister. 
'It's dangerous.' 
'I can balance right on the edge, see?' The boy stops to demonstrate the feat—and topples into the road. He recovers before Arnold can reach him. 
'I thought you wanted to get on,' the girl rounds on Arnold. 
'I was trying to stop your brother getting run over!' 
She transfers her glare to Darren. 'Stop playing around and keep with us, right?' 
'I was.' 
'No you weren't. And keep out the fucking kerb.' 
'I was miles away from the kerb.' 
'I'm in a hurry,' Arnold pleads. 
'Make up your mind,' says the girl. 
'There's no need to talk like that.' 
Bu she has turned her back on him and is pointing her finger at her brother. 'Watch it.' 
Darren pokes out his tongue at her back before as she stalks on. He follows sullenly.  Arnold feels that he ought to do something to improve relations between the children, though he is not sure what. At any moment he expects to hear Mary calling him. He glances back, fearful at the thought of being stalked by the Libyan-trained Hussain. All he sees are shoppers. 
The public garden is an unprepossessing place. Brightly-coloured cans and wrappers choke the dry basin of the stone and copper fountain which is its centrepiece. Between the chain link fencing beside the road and the hedge behind it, the bright colours of the litter are subdued by dust. The brick-built shelter at the far end of the garden is overhung by trees, its wood-shingled roof green with damp and streaked by bird droppings.  In the gloomy interior, down-and-outs drink cider. 
'I don't think we need to go in there,' Arnold calls as the girl enters the garden. 
She glares back at him. 'Yes we do.' 
'Why?' 
'You'll see.' 
He goes forward hesitantly, conscious of time being wasted and annoyed with himself for letting the children stay with him. 
'Come on,' she urges impatiently. Darren has already galloped past them and is hauling himself up the brim of the basin to peer inside. Arnold feels tempted to run from the children along the main road, but judging by his previous attempt, he suspects that they will not abandon him so easily. He follows the girl, hoping that there is a playground hidden behind the shelter where the pair will become too engrossed in their games to notice as he slips away. He keeps to the path in a vain attempt to set the children a good example. Pigeons scavenging the compacted ground strut away from the interlopers, to lumber into the air when Darren abandons trying to climb the fountain and runs at them. Near the shelter, Arnold feels nauseated by the stench of droppings which encrust every surface. His spirits sink further when he glimpses the rear fence of the garden behind the trees. Clearly there is no playground. The garden contains nothing which might attract children. 
'I don't think this is a very good idea,' he ventures, but the girl pays no attention. Darren has plunged into the bushes beside the shelter. The down-and-outs are watching. Such people always make Arnold feel uncomfortable. Fortunately he does not encounter them often: they are not tolerated by the City of London police and their presence would be unthinkable in the streets around his home. How can anybody sink so low? The question occurs to him every time he sees them. Not that he has ever tried to satisfy his curiosity by asking them, fearing that conversation will lead to demands for money and to being harangued if he refuses. Always at the back of his mind is the risk of violence, particularly if the down-and-outs are drunk or on drugs. When he encounters such people, he normally crosses the road rather than risk being intimidated and abused. He cannot understand why the authorities do not crack down on them. What irks him is that although they have no qualms about begging, they never seem short of money for cigarettes or alcohol. 
Four men are in the shelter. The oldest has a straggly, grey beard stained brown around his mouth. His overlong coat is unbuttoned as a concession to the weather. It is streaked with food or vomit. The filthy shirt has buttons missing, revealing an even dirtier woollen vest. Braces hold up his trousers which do not fasten properly. The turn-ups are ragged; one seam is held together with safety pins. The edges of all his clothes are shiny and black from use. 
Two of the other men are of Arnold's age. One wears a coat fastened with string; a torn pocket hangs like a flap against the wooden seat. His gaze is unnervingly expressionless. Arnold tries to avoid the staring eyes for fear of triggering an outburst of ranting. The other is a Negro. His blue anorak is ingrained with dirt. One foot is bound in bandages, stained brown where blood has seeped through. Arnold averts his eyes. The youngest man notices his abhorrence. A newcomer to the group, Arnold surmises, and the one most aware of his predicament. No more than a few days' stubble on his chin. Perspiration makes his face shiny, like melting wax. His suit is in better condition than the clothes of his fellows, though patently it was meant for a smaller man and he has lived in it day and night. He is not wearing socks; his legs showing above grubby trainers are surprisingly clean. 
For a moment, Arnold thinks that the girl is going to talk to the men, but instead she follows her brother into the bushes beside the shelter. 
'Come on,' she urges. 
Arnold wants to run away, but the down-and-outs are watching. Reluctantly he ventures after her among the straggly laurel and privet. The stench grows stronger. The ground and the leaves of the shrubs are spattered white. He presses forward until the bushes give way to a gap some ten feet wide and permanently in shadow between the back of the shelter and the fence. Darren is scrabbling at soil thick with droppings. Arnold watches with distaste, feeling that he should remonstrate, but knowing that at best his words will meet with indifference. 
'Nobody's gonna find you here,' the girl says triumphantly. 
'Do you come here a lot?' 
'No one gonna see you, are they?' She sounds disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm. 
'I realise that.' 
'I thought that was what you wanted.' 
'I wanted to get away from some people, yes.' 
'You can stay as long as you like.' 
'Right.' 
'You can sleep here if you want to.' 
The prospect makes him shudder. He watches her brother wiping his hands on his jeans. 
'We can't 'cos we've gotta go home when it gets dark,' she confides. 
'So I should hope.' 
She looks puzzled. 'Why did you want to get away from that woman? Is she yer mum?' 
He smiles grimly and shakes his head. 'Nothing like that.' 
The girl waits, apparently expecting more than this simple denial. How to explain to a child, he wonders, trying to recall how he might have explained to Sam or Helen. 
'She's got mixed up with some unpleasant people,' he says at last. 
'And you're scared of 'em?' 
'That's about right.' 
'Are they the ones you thought was looking at you from the flats?' 
'That's it.' 
She still looks baffled. 
'Do you come here a lot?' he repeats. 
'Most days,' she responds sullenly, less happy when she is not the interrogator. 
'Shouldn't you be at school?' 
She looks suspicious. 'Are you from the council?' 
He shakes his head. 'Nothing like that.' 
'Are you sure?' 
'I wouldn't have come here if I was—and I wouldn't have given you money.' 
'There's ants with wings here,' Darren calls excitedly. He is squatting by the fence.
'Does your mother know you come here?' Arnold persists. 
'You keep on about her,' the girl complains. 
'She ought to know where you are.' 
'She don't care.' 
'I'm sure that's not true.' 
The girl scowls. 'It wouldn't be a hiding place if we told her.' 
'I realise that, but I'm not sure whether you should be coming here.' 
'Why not?' 
'It's not a very nice place.' 
'You was keen enough to get away when you thought that woman was after you.' 
'I didn't know where you were taking me.' 
'You can fuck off if you don't like it.' 
'I didn't say that—' 
But she has turned her back on him again in a final, damning judgement on his ability with children. As she crouches beside her brother who is poking the ants' nest with a stick, Arnold takes the opportunity to peer around the corner of the shelter. A face peers back at him—the youngest of the down-and-outs. Though Arnold draws back immediately, he can hear the man forcing a path through the bushes. As the down-and-out appears, still clutching a can of beer, Arnold takes a few steps back. 
'What are you doing?' The voice carries an authority at odds with the man's appearance. Only the slurring betrays the effect of alcohol. 
'Nothing.' 
The man looks disbelieving. 
'Just hiding,' Arnold amends. 
'Why?' 
'I'm avoiding somebody.' 
'Who?' 
'Nobody you know.' 
The man nods towards the children who have broken off their exploration of the ants' next to follow the exchange. 'Why did you bring them here?' 
'I didn't. They brought me!' The answer sounds unconvincing even to Arnold. A glance at his adversary's face makes it clear that this is a shared view. 
'Clear off,' the man orders the children and they obey without demur. Arnold marvels at this achievement: even when his daughters were young, he rarely achieved such unquestioning compliance. He suspects that he will not be allowed to escape so easily. When he ventures another look at the down-and-out's face, the expression is not encouraging. 
'We don't like perverts around here, see?' the man says, stepping forward in what Arnold considers to be a threatening manner. 
Arnold takes another step back. He hears himself gabbling, 'It wasn't anything like that.' 
'No?' 
'I was hiding.' 
'I know why as well.' 
'I had somebody after me.' 
'So where is he?' 
'The children were helping me get away from them.' 
The man leans close enough for Arnold to smell the beer on his breath and the odour of sweat on his clothes. 'Do anything to them kids and you'll have me to deal with.' 
'I understand your reaction. It's very commendable.' Arnold retreats further into the void behind the shelter. His legs feel unsteady. No point in calling upon the children to collaborate his story: even if they are nearby, his accuser is likely to listen. Instead, Arnold suggests, 'Shall we go round the front of the shelter?' 
The man stares, suspecting a trick. 
'If you'll move,' Arnold prompts. 
'What for?' 
'So I can get out.' 
'So you don't have to get near me.' Belligerence has replaced suspicion, confirming Arnold's fear that his accuser is drunk. 'Too stuck up to mix with the likes of us, but you don't mind bringing children round the back here.' 
Arnold shakes his head. 'You're making a mistake.' 
'I know your sort.' The down-and-out scrutinises Arnold's face. 'Haven't I seen you before?' 
'No.' 
'I have.' 
'You're making a mistake.' 
'You've brought kids here before.' 
'Certainly not.' 
His accuser looks disbelieving. 
'I've never been here before!' Arnold insists. 
'I've fucking seen you.' 
'No you haven't.' 
'I'll be watching out for you in future.' 
For a glorious moment, Arnold takes this to mean that the encounter is at an end. The hope fades when his adversary makes no move, appearing to be locked in some profound train of thought. Arnold waits patiently, not wishing to provoke another outburst by disturbing him. 
'We're going round the front,' the man announces suddenly. 
'That was what I suggested.' 
'Are you arguing?' 
'No, not at all.' 
'Let the others have a look at you.' 
Arnold becomes alarmed and tries to back away again. 
'What are you doing?' The man is wary. 
'I'm not so sure it's a good idea.' 
'I'm not asking you—I'm fucking telling you. I want the others to see you.' 
As the down-and-out steps advances, Arnold assesses his chances of escape. Dealing with drunks is outside his experience. He is not sure to what extent alcohol has dulled his adversary's senses. The man is gesturing towards the front of the shelter with the beer can like a policeman on point duty. Arnold complies to avoid further trouble, but his attempt to avoid physical contact only arouses further suspicion. His captor backs away before him, eyes not leaving him, shepherding him to the awning where the other men sit. Bleary faces look up. Arnold glances longingly towards the main road with its traffic and its disinterested, anonymous people. The children have disappeared. Nobody else is in the garden. 
'Seen him before?' his captor asks.
'Who is he?' the old man with the beard wants to know. 
'Do you know him?' 
'No.' 
Arnold's accuser raises his eye heavenwards. 'Fuck me.'
'Why should I know him?' 
'Because he's been here before.' 
'I haven't,' Arnold insists, prompting the old man, so absurdly reminiscent of a weathered Father Christmas, to scrutinise him again. 
'What's your name?' the old man asks. 
Arnold hesitates before revealing his real name, but he knows that if the men search him, they will find ample evidence of his identity. No point in angering them by lying. For once he wishes that he had left his credit cards at home. 
'Never seen him before,' the old man declares, scratching his beard. 
'You're not here all the time,' Arnold's captor reasons. 
'I'm always here.' 
'No you're not.' 
'Course I am.' 
'If you was, you'd have seen him!' 
'I know what I do.' 
'You go to other places.' 
'I come here every day.' The old man emphasises his statement by banging his bottle against his leg with each word, not heeding the cider which slops over his trousers. 
Arnold's captor thrusts his head forward, shouting as though his companion is deaf, 'You come here every day, but you're not here all day, are you?' 
'Dah.' The old man spits on the concrete. Judging by the stains, Arnold guesses that he does this a lot. 
'He's been here before,' his captor insists, looking to the others for support. 'He's been taking kids round the back.' 
The other faces turn to Arnold again. 
'It wasn't like that,' he defends himself. 
'They're kids!' 
'They wanted to show me where they play.' 
'That suited you all right.' 
'It was nothing like that.' 
'You told me just now you was hiding from somebody.' 
The exchange is interrupted by the old man's laughter. The rasping sound merges into a bout of uncontrollable coughing. The Father Christmas face turns red. Arnold steps back in alarm, though the others seem unconcerned. The movement prompts his captor to grip his arm. 
'I didn't say you could go.' 
'I wasn't,' Arnold responds, trying to recoil from his captor. He feels annoyed at getting into his present situation. At the back of his mind is the added worry that the children will tell Mary and her friends where he is. The thought makes him glance uneasily towards the entrance to the garden. He wishes that he were a lot further from the flat. 
'What shall we do with him?' his captor asks when the old man's coughing has subsided. 
'He can fuck off,' the old man decides, taking a swig of cider as a restorative. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. 
'He's a pervert!' 
'I'm not,' Arnold insists. 
'We could get the police,' his captor suggests. 
'No polis,' declares string belt, suddenly becoming animated. There are rumbles of agreement from the Negro. 
'We let him go and he's gonna be after them kids again,' Arnold's captor reasons. 
'They've gone,' the Negro points out. 
'He'll go looking for them.' 
The company falls silent in the face of the dilemma. 
'Do you wanna drink?' the old man asks, holding out his bottle. 
Arnold's captor becomes agitated. 'Don't start giving him that.' 
'If he's drinking with us, he can't be messing with kids, can he?' 
Arnold is shaking his head, trying not to betray his distaste. The bottle wavers uncertainly. A look of puzzlement spreads across the Father Christmas features. 
'He's stuck up,' Arnold's captor says contemptuously. 
Arnold considers explaining that he has had enough alcohol for the morning, but he does not think that such an excuse will be taken seriously. 
'We can't keep him here for ever,' the old man points out. 
'Have you got some money?' string belt wants to know. 
'No,' Arnold responds with alacrity. He has a nasty feeling that his interrogators intend to find out for themselves. If they drag him behind the shelter, there is nobody to come to his aid. His best hope is that, with the exception of his captor, they are more interested in drinking. 
'Do you live round here?' string belt wants to know. 
Arnold considers recounting his story again, but there seems little point if it will not help him. He contents himself with a simple denial. 
'I suppose you live somewhere posh and come round here looking for kids,' his captor accuses.   
'No.' 
'That's what it looks like.' 
'Have you finished?' Arnold invests the words with all the authority which he can muster, but they only serve to make his captor grip his arm more tightly. 
'Why should I, eh?' 
Arnold turns away from the smell. 'Because I'm in a hurry.' 
'I bet you are.' 
'The children have gone. I can't do anything to them now.' 
'So you admit that's why you took them round the back?' 
'No—' 
'What you want is to go looking for them.' 
'No I don't,' Arnold insists, his stomach tensing in preparation for the blow which he is sure will come. He has always abhorred violence. At school he made a point of keeping well away from playground fights lest he should become involved. There was one occasion when his strategy failed. It was during his last year at junior school. Morning playtime was beginning. His attacker a newcomer from Manchester who had just joined his class and whose accent fascinated him. The occasion has remained vivid in his memory because it was unexpected and unprovoked. The boy punched him, watching for his reaction. Arnold was too surprised and frightened to do anything except stare at his opponent. The new boy was testing him and he was found wanting. The realisation still disturbs him: how might his opponent have used the knowledge if they had not gone on to different schools? Not that it mattered, for there were other boys at the secondary school who could detect weakness. Surrounded by down-and-outs in the shelter, Arnold has to face the fact that he is close to being the victim of violence again and that he is no more able to deal with it than the frightened schoolboy who haunts his memory. 
'Let him go,' rumbles the old man, much to Arnold's delight. 
'I don't like it,' his captor complains, complying. 
'We don't want a lot of fuss.' 
'We don't want him messing with children.' 
'You seen old Billy?' string belt asks Arnold. 
'He doesn't know him,' the old man answers for him. 
'If he's been here before.' 
'I haven't,' Arnold insists. 
'Weeks since we've seen him,' string belt muses. 
'Days,' the old man amends. 
'More than that.' 
'I know how long it was.' 
'Then why didn't I see him?' 
'You did.' 
String belt frowns. 
'You saw him,' the Negro agrees. 'We all saw him.' 
Arnold assesses his chances of escaping while the argument drags on, but his captor is still too close and shows no sign of joining in. 
'You seen old Billy?' string belt repeats, looking at Arnold again. 
'No.' 
'You sure?' 
'He told you—he don't know,' the old man says irritably. 
'I thought everybody knew old Billy,' string belt declares, looking bewildered. 
'The last time we saw him was when he told us about the convent,' the Negro reminds him. 
Arnold imagines the four men shuffling towards a convent. It is an unlikely picture. In spite of himself he is intrigued. Now he is no longer the centre of attention, it is easier to look at them dispassionately. His salary must be twenty or thirty times the benefits they receive. Everything about their lives is inimical to him. The surprising thing is that any of them should rise above their immediate concerns to protect the children. As a child, he would have been scared to go near them for fear of being kidnapped or killed. It annoys him that fear should still control him, though now his concerns about contact with the down-and-outs are as much about catching things from them as about the risk of violence. Yet his feelings are more ambivalent than he expected. He wants to despise them, but a voice deep inside him disputes whether he is really so different. They make the life which he has so carefully constructed seem both more desirable and more fragile. He tries to contemplate losing his family, his home and his job. His identity would be gone. It must have happened to other people—perhaps to the very men bickering in front of him. It is on the tip of his tongue to ask, but fear stops him. Hard to think of them leading ordinary lives. He tries to imagine them wearing clean clothes and working in an office—  
'What's he doing at the convent?' string belt wants to know. 
'They give out food,' the Negro explains. 
'So it's worth going along.' The staring eyes show a glimmer of enthusiasm.
'Dah.' The old man spits on the concrete again. 'It's bread and marge—always bread and marge.' 
'It's worth having.' 
'And they preach at you.' 
'We'd better get down there.' String belt is hauling himself off the seat. 
'Not till half past twelve,' the old man tells him. 'They always make you wait till half past twelve—that's what old Billy said.' 
'What time is it now?' 
All eyes turn to Arnold. As he pulls back his cuff, he realises his mistake in letting the men see his watch, but the damage is done. 'You've got an hour and a half yet,' he tells them, wondering whether he should forestall violence by offering them his valuables. 
'Are you coming?' string belt asks him. 
'I don't think so, thanks.' 
'He don't need handouts,' his captor says bitterly. 
'He might wanna come along,' string belt points out. 
'I don't trust him.' 
When the others do not bother to respond, Arnold decides to seize his opportunity. 'If that's the way you feel, I'll be on my way,' he declares with all the injured dignity which he can muster. He turns his back on the company and sets off for the gates. Nothing happens. With every step he experiences an increasing sense of relief and elation. Passing the fountain streaked with verdigris. Wanting to look back. Wanting to run. Unable to stop himself from walking faster. And then he is out of the garden.
Among the shoppers, he is in the familiar world again. He knows that he is free. The down-and-outs are like night wraiths who do not show themselves amongst the crowds. He glances towards the shelter: they have not moved.
Only then does he remember Mary.

chapter four

Even in a shopping street there are no telephone boxes. Given the levels of vandalism, Arnold is not surprised. The consoling thought is that if he did stumble upon a public telephone in working order, it would be of little use without the number of a local taxi company. Ringing home would serve no purpose except to amuse Sam. If he rang the office, he could only make the self-evident statement that he has been delayed. Explanations are best avoided. They sound unconvincing. 
He is having an adventure, he tells himself. It has never happened to him before. Being lost in east London might seem trivial to some people. Perhaps that is how it will seem to him in retrospect, but meanwhile he must make the best of the situation. While watching people like explorers and round-the-world yachtsmen recounting their adventures on television, he has often yearned for the predictability of his life to be overturned, if only for a while. The longing has not diminished with time, though he knows that for somebody of modest ambitions, routine is easier to cope with, while comfort and danger are best experienced at one remove. At least he will have something to tell the girl. 'You won't believe it,' he will begin, 'but after all the times I've made the journey, I fell asleep in the train and never woke up when it got to Liverpool Street. The first I knew, I was on this empty train clattering over a viaduct somewhere in the east end. I had to get off at this station miles from anywhere and walk back. Then I managed to get mixed up with a bunch of terrorists.' That will make Sam's eyes open wide. He has said little enough to hold the girls' attention since they reached their teens. His suspicion is that they despise his conventionality. 'The plodder' might be their nickname for him, though only Sam would say something like that to his face. They are keen on not being hidebound by what people think. Especially Sam. He can hear her saying, 'Enjoy the experience, dad. What's it matter about going to the office? You've done your stint.' 
Sam the rebel. He can hardly believe that she is the same little girl who liked to nestle in her parents' bed and could never be still for more than a few seconds. Though he has a sneaking admiration for her determination to assert her independence, her waywardness worries him. It is not as though she fights for an ideal like saving the whale. She can be difficult for the sake of being difficult. She has fads. He knows that deep down Margaret shares his concern, though it is not something they discuss. Playing the maverick might make Sam popular with her friends, but it will do nothing to help her pass examinations or settle into the world of work. His fear is that if he tries to be firmer, he might drive her into becoming even more difficult.
At least her sister is more farsighted. Helen knows her own mind, but she is willing to accommodate herself to the world as it is. Working in an office for a year before taking a degree has helped her to mature. He is pleased that she has chosen to study law, though he will miss her when she leaves home in the autumn. Sam will have nobody to argue with, which might make her turn on her parents more or spend more time with friends. The pity is that she does not follow her sister's example. He is proud of Helen's achievement. She is the first member of his family to go to university. His own further education was limited to day release classes for a qualification in insurance, though that was a source of pride to his parents.
If only the girls could see him now. He smiles. 'Time you saw what real life is about,' Sam would say, though she knows nothing about life in tower blocks and maisonettes. Her idea of real life revolves around music, clubs and discos. The girls have had an easy life. He does not begrudge them the comforts and advantages which he has been able to provide, though he wishes that Sam would not take so much for granted.
His spirits rise as he comes to a junction. The road crossing his route is flanked on one side by high walls shielding factory yards. He never realised that so many factories are left in the east end. In this locality at least, the manufacturing sector is alive and well in spite of dire prophesies in the Daily Telegraph. He hesitates. Which way to go? No sign points to the station; there is no bus stop in sight. He orients himself by the sun—something he has not done since the scouting games of childhood. It is a matter of some pride that the skill has not left him. He reasons that the safest course is to continue heading westwards, for if all else fails, he has only to keep walking and he will eventually reach the City.
Redevelopment is taking place beyond the junction. The clean lines of the newly-built brick terraces on the other side of the road contrast with the shabby shopfronts built out from the ground floors of Victorian town houses. The saris of shoppers bring flashes of colour to the drab street. West Indian music thuds from a speaker above the door of a record shop. Many of the shops have been utilised as workshops for clothing manufacturers; among the crudely-painted signs which jostle for attention are those in Indian scripts. Arnold glances through an open doorway into a passage lit by an unshaded light bulb. It is a place of bare floorboards and grubby, cream-painted walls disfigured by snaking cables and conduits. There is a smell of decaying wood. Behind a sagging sheet which partly covers the shop window, glowing fluorescent tubes hint at the intense industry hidden from passers-by. He looks up, glimpsing an open sash window on the top floor, the garish red curtains hanging over the dusty sill.
A row of four-storeyed shops from the turn of the century await demolition. The red bricks, crumbling stone decorations and stone balustrades between the ornate gables hint at the parade's former prestige. Glass is missing from the upper windows. The hoardings over the shop fronts are covered with a patchwork of flyposters. A peeling sign hanging above the corrugated iron proclaims where paints and decorators' sundries were sold. Shards of wine bottles strewn over the black and white tiles of the adjacent doorway are already coated in dust. A rusting wire frame hangs loose across a wooden board where newspaper placards were once displayed. The fascia of a butcher's shop has a painting of a cow's head discernible at one end and a pig's head at the other. Between them, above the reach of vandals, is the rail where poultry once hung.
One shop is still open. It is a barber's of the kind which only survives in the back streets of towns and cities. Arnold dodges inside on a whim, thankful for any opportunity to get out of sight of his pursuers and to ask for directions.
The shop must have been fitted out in the fifties, when plastic was new and fashionable. Since then, the chromium on the two chairs has become dull and scratched. The red Rexine coverings are engrained with grime except where the seats and backrests are worn smooth. A patch of newer material over a tear is peeling away. Behind both chairs, the linoleum is worn through in a semicircle, one being more noticeable than the other. The cumbersome white chine basins in front of the chairs have splashbacks of red Formica. The chromium taps and hoses have lost their sheen. On the ceiling is a ring of soot above the Ascot heater. Arnold is taken back to childhood visits to the barber with his mother. As he perched on the plank across the chair, he used to read the advertisements around the mirror. He thought that Durex was a brand of razor blade.
The barber might have stepped from Arnold's memories. Squat, elderly, with a pencil moustache and crinkled, greying hair, he smiles expectantly at his customer while trying to conceal a cigarette in his palm like a schoolboy. He wears a white coat too big for him, the cuffs turned up.
'Good morning, sir.' A trace of a Scottish accent. 'Looks as if we're in for another scorcher.'
'I was looking for the nearest bus route to the City.' 
The smile fades. The barber rubs his chin thoughtfully. 'You're a problem there. They've cut out a lot of buses now.' 
'But there is a regular service?' 
'If you call it a service—one bus every half an hour if you're lucky.' 
'Would I be better off going to the station?' 
'Is it just a cut you're wanting, sir, or a shampoo?' 
Arnold hesitates, wondering whether the man is deaf. 
'A lot of gentlemen find the scalp gets greasy this weather. I don't know whether that's something you've noticed.' 
'I haven't got time for a shampoo.' 
'Of course. You're a busy man, sir. I can see that. Lucky you've come at a slack time.' 
Arnold groans. 
'So it's just a cut, is it? A little overdue, if you don't mind me saying so, sir. If you'd like to sit down, I'll attend to you straight away.' 
'It's getting to the City I'm concerned about.' 
'You want to look your best.' 
'I suppose so.' 
'And you'll feel cooler.' 
'You really think it needs cutting?' 
'I'm surprised you haven't had it attended to before now, sir, a gentleman like you.' 
Arnold feels unsettled by this perspicacity. He is due for a haircut. He reasons that by taking up the barber's offer, at least he will avoid the normal wait at the hairdresser's on Saturday. As he settles in the chair, he reflects that at least a change of appearance might confuse his pursuers. He is still clutching his jacket. When he glances at the barber in the mirror, the cigarette has disappeared from the man's hand as if by a conjuring trick. 
'A trim is it, sir?' 
The temptation is for Arnold to indulge in a completely different style, surprising his family and his colleagues at work, not to mention his usual hairdresser. He glances at the yellowing posters on the walls, recognising fashions from when he started commuting. But caution prevails. He agrees that all he wants is a trim. 
'Do you want me to hang up your jacket, sir?' 
'It's all right.' 
The pale blue nylon cover billowing around him provides a welcome draught of cool air. As the fabric is tucked into his collar, he reflects that the pleasure of visiting a barber's shop is being ministered to. He confronts himself in the brown-speckled mirror: the face his fellow commuters see every day and think no more about. A face in the crowd. A middle-aged face? He does not feel middle aged, in spite of his hair beginning to recede. He smiles at his vanity; the face in the mirror smiles back obsequiously, unsettling him. He believed that one of his few social assets was the sincerity of his smile. 
The door is visible in the mirror. It remains open, letting in dust and fumes from the street and doing little to cool the shop. The few passers-by show no interest in a barber plying his trade. Instinctively Arnold lowers his gaze, willing Mary not to walk that way. He is still too close to the flat for comfort. If only the children had not delayed him. 
'Be nice to see some rain,' the barber observes. 'Before this summer I didn't think I'd be saying that.' 
Arnold grunts in a way which is intended to discourage conversation. He is content to enjoy the sensation of the comb being drawn through his hair. It has a soothing quality, like hearing waves lapping over shingle. 
'Just passing through, are you, sir?' the barber perseveres. 
'That's right.' 
'Thought I hadn't seen you before. You get to know your regulars in this business.' 
'I suppose so.' 
'And you're not dressed as though you're from around here, if you don't mind me saying so, sir.' 
Arnold searches for conversational gambits, knowing that other people manage to have their hair cut without encouraging conversation. 'You've been here a long while, have you?' is the best that he can manage.
'Too long, I expect,' the barber responds in gnomic fashion, beginning his work. Arnold finds himself lulled by the snipping of the scissors and the barber's shuffling dance around the chair. His anxiety to get to the office is temporarily allayed. He wonders idly why some barbers rely on scissors while others prefer electric cutters, but he cannot be bothered to ask. 
'Fifteen years almost to the day,' the barber continues. 'I was on the liners before that.' 
'As a hairdresser?' 
'Steward. Straight from school onto the Aureol at Liverpool. Elder Dempster Line, that was. Last of the liners to use Liverpool.' 
Arnold remembers the one-volume encyclopaedia which his mother gave him as a birthday present. He spent hours looking at the profusion of colour pictures. One page was devoted to drawings of British liners, with details of their speed, size and tonnage. Each line had its distinctive funnel colours: Ellerman Lines, Blue Funnel, Cunard and 
P & O. The last generation of liners. Though the encyclopaedia disappeared long ago, the illustrations are clear in his memory. What he liked best was the page of drawings of British warships. He would compare speeds and armaments as he put together his invincible navy. 
'The passenger routes were going by then. Cruises were the thing.' 
'You must have seen a lot of the world.' 
'Name any port—I've been there.' There is pride in the voice. Arnold tries to imagine a life of crossing and recrossing oceans, of exploring places which to other people are no more than names on maps. It is so different from his own ordered existence that he finds it difficult to comprehend. 
'What I liked best was the far east,' the barber continues. 'Hong Kong and Singapore. I suppose because they were different from anywhere I knew. Certainly different from Edinburgh.' 
Abandoning everything settled and known to go abroad: it has been one of Arnold's wilder dreams as he has stared out of the train window on winter mornings across an unending succession of waterlogged fields. Sometimes in his imagination, he buys a villa in the French countryside—not that he expects the fantasy ever to be realised. Dreams are a way of making tedium acceptable. He mentioned that dream to the family, yet if Margaret and the girls had become enthusiastic about living in France, he would find a hundred reasons why it was impracticable. That was his response when Margaret suggested that he should take early retirement so they could move to the West Country. Now the girls would not accept his veto with such equanimity. He suspects that they only went along with it in that case because they did not want to leave their friends, though at the time, he thought his firm stand was the reason for their acquiescence. Now he awaits the day when they will accuse him of being scared of change, yet a showdown becomes less likely as they lead their own lives. If Margaret did persuade him to move, he suspects that they would not want to come. 
'I wouldn't have done anything different,' the barber confesses. 'It was a good life.' 
'Amazing,' Arnold agrees, unable to think of a more appropriate answer. 
'It was a world of its own on those big liners—like a floating city.' 
'So I've heard.' 
'We didn't think it could ever change.' 
'Why did you leave?' 
'Everybody wanted air travel.' The barber's frustration is expressed in the staccato rhythm of the scissors. 'I got out when I saw the way things were going.' 
Giving up a career takes courage which Arnold admires. When there were rumours of restructuring at the office and redundancy was on everybody's lips, he studied the situations vacant columns with more than usual care. Some of his older colleagues were asked to retire early; others were transferred to different branches. Two years have passed and with no signs of further rationalisation, the concerns have subsided. 
'Once upon a time you could go to Tilbury, Southampton or Liverpool and the liners were queuing up to dock,' the barber is saying. 'Those were good days.' 
'I remember going to Tilbury when I was a kid,' Arnold remembers. 'Nearest I got to going on a liner was a ride on the ferry.' He waits for a response, but his remark elicits no more than a lift of the eyebrows from a man used to crossing the oceans. He continues, 'There was this great, echoing railway station. Tilbury Riverside. I don't know whether it's still there.' 
'I used to catch the train there when I was home on leave. That was built in the thirties for the liner passengers.' 
'There were six platforms, so it must have been important. When I was there, I didn't see more than a dozen passengers.' 
The barber sighs. 'That was what air travel did to the business.' 
'A Russian cruise ship was docked there.' 
'Aye, Russian cruise ships were the only passenger ships Tilbury handled towards the end.' 
'What fascinated me was seeing women sailors working on deck.' 
'You always got that on Russian ships.' 
'I thought I was in a different world.' 
'It was a different world, right enough.' For a moment the rhythm of the scissors falters. 'I had to do something else, so I bought this place with what I'd saved.' 
'How did you train?' 
'You pick it up. The old owner gave me some tips.' 
'I thought there were courses.' 
'Not in those days.' 
Arnold does not pursue the matter. He studies his reflection uneasily, ready to make an excuse to leave hurriedly if the barber's efforts prove disastrous. 
'It was different around here in those days. These were the better class of shops. Can you credit it? If you shopped here, you were a cut above the people who went further down the street. That was when the slums and war-damaged houses were being torn down. You could walk to work and wherever you looked there were building sites. You thought you were in a new town.' 
Arnold imagines the barber's enthusiasm at embarking on a new career. Yet underlying the venture must have been the unspoken fear of failure. 
'When the tower blocks started going up, we thought it was going to be a new world.' A new world: the words Arnold used when he suggested moving to the new estate. Hard to think of the tower blocks being seen in the same light. He realises that the barber is expecting him to reply. 
'Hard to believe,' he agrees. 
'Some people didn't like the old houses going, of course. You can understand that. You get attached to places you've known all your life, even if they haven't got any of the modern conveniences. You don't want to move away from your friends.' 
Moving away from your friends. That phrase again. It was uppermost in the minds of the girls when they heard about the move to the estate. He had expected them to be excited at the prospect. Their negative response disappointed him, though he did not show it. They were young enough for him not to be swayed by their objections: Helen was thirteen and Sam was not yet at secondary school. The excitement of the move, when it came, soon made them change their minds. It was fortunate that they settled down well at their new school. 
'The fact was that something had to be done about the slums,' the barber says. 
'I suppose so.' 
'I don't know whether you remember them?' 
'Not really.' 
When Arnold began commuting, many of the slums beside the railway viaduct had already been cleared. The roads were left, so that shiny corrugated iron surrounded pockets of waste ground seemingly too small to accommodate whole terraces, Weeds flourished unchecked as development was delayed year after year. What surprised him was the number of cars left there. By watching every day, he soon came to recognise the abandoned vehicles. 
'Terrible, some of those places,' the barber is saying. 'You got three or four families to a house with no proper cooking facilities. That's no way to live, is it?' 
Arnold tries to imagine sharing a house: being unable to use the kitchen because other people are cooking there, finding a stranger's hairs in the bath, or hearing other people's quarrels through the walls. The prospect makes him shiver. 
'And they were infested,' the barber adds. 'Bugs, mice—rats sometimes. You don't want rats where you're bringing up bairns, do you?' 
'Certainly not.' 
'You hear people talking about how we lost the old community spirit when the flats were built. They forget the slums.' 
'That's human nature.' 
'We take things like central heating and bathrooms for granted. In those days, every house had a tin bath hanging outside the back door.' 
How would Sam get on? In hot weather, she showers twice a day. When she is getting ready to go out for the evening, she often spends an hour in the bathroom. The image of her washing in a tin bath in the kitchen steals into his mind, to be quickly dismissed. 
'The worst of the slums went before the war, of course,' the barber is saying, 'but there were plenty of places around here in the sixties you wouldn't want to live in.' 
'I suppose so.' 
'We thought we'd be in paradise when the building finished. The trouble was everything was done in too much of a hurry. The contractors were building down to a price rather than up to a standard.' 
'I know there were problems.' 
'We thought they were just teething troubles. The man from the council would come round and put things right. What we didn't know was that the concrete hadn't been laid thick enough, so water got in and corroded the steel.' 
'I suppose nobody knew till it was too late.' 
'Now we've got the wear and tear on lifts and suchlike. Buildings get old like us. Some of those blocks are a generation old already, you know.' 
Arnold imagines the terraced houses of yesterday, each given a touch of individuality by its occupier: decorative net curtains, a stainless steel letter box, or painted brickwork. He feels that he knows the streets from countless black and white films: empty of traffic and blanketed by the smoke from belching chimneys in winter, the sulphurous fumes attacking washing, brickwork and lungs without discrimination. Children could play there in safety.
'One thing I'll say,' the barber continues. 'At least there was more respect for property then. These days you expect break-ins. It's a question of what damage they do rather than whether they get in.' 
'There's crime everywhere,' Arnold agrees, thinking of the recent spate of break-ins on the estate. Everybody blames tearaways from the neighbouring council estate. 
'You put a grille over the window—that doesn't stop them. They rip it off.' The barber sighs. The snipping grows slower. 'I don't know what the answer is.' 
Arnold makes sympathetic noises. 
'You get shutters and they twist the metal so you can't open them—that's happened to a trader down the road. You wouldn't credit it, would you?' 
'Sign of the times.' 
'Then the insurance companies start laying down all the antiburglary measures you've got to take and you can't argue or they'll withdraw your cover.' 
Arnold recalls of the way his own insurance premiums have soared. 
'You wouldn't think there was anything worth taking here, would you?' the barber asks. 'If I was staying, I'd have to think about shutters, but I told the insurance company there's nae point.' 
Arnold takes in the shabby fittings as if for first time. 'You're closing?' 
'When the lease is up.' The barber seems to grow older and smaller. 'You get the government talking about encouraging small businesses, then they do this ...' His scissors grow still. He sighs. 
'Do what?' Arnold ventures. 
'I know things have got to change, but this was a grand parade of shops till the council bought the freeholds and refused to renew the leases. It wasn't lack of business. They wanted the places to go to ruin so they had an excuse to pull them down.' 
'I noticed you're the only shop open.' 
'It's destruction for its own sake.' 
'What are they going to do with the site?' 
'Landscaping.' The barber begins cutting again. 'They knock down perfectly good shops for landscaping! They'll turn it into a lawn and put in a few seats. Then the drunks and the drug addicts take over and the ordinary people who live around here can't use it.' 
The haircut was not a good idea. Arnold surveys the barber's handiwork anxiously while the old man is immersed in his private worries. Sensing his customer's unease the barber explains, 'You need it short, if you don't mind me saying so, sir. Suits your face. I expect you've been told that before.' 
'Not this short.' 
'I think you'll like it once I've shaped it. If you can just bend your head down ...' 
The scissors are exchanged for electric clippers. Arnold likes the hum of the motor, the tickling of the cutters on the nape of his neck and the sound of hairs crunching between the blades. For a moment he can ignore what he might look like after the barber's ministrations. The outside world is kept at bay. If it could stay in the barber's chair for the rest of the day, he would be content. 
'Six months and I'll be finished for good.' 
'You're retiring?' 
'Aye.' The cutters hum close to Arnold's left ear. 'I expect you're wondering where I'll go.' 
Arnold keeps quiet in the hope of not being told. 
'Sussex. Sussex by the sea. Do you know the old song, sir?' 
'I've heard it.' 
'I'm fond of Shoreham.' 
'I've never been there.' 
'It's not so commercialised as Brighton.' 
'Are you married?' 
'Widowed.' 
Arnold wonders how somebody who has spent his working life at sea or cutting men's hair ever met a wife, but he does not want to spark another flood of reminiscence by asking. 
'So I've only got myself to please,' the barber is saying. 'I thought about one of those places built specially for older people.' 
Arnold finds it hard to accept that he will grow old, though he had to watch his parents age. The company's contributory pension scheme is generous and he makes additional voluntary contributions, but in spite of these preparations the prospect of being the one presented with a retirement gift and making a speech of thanks seems far in the future. Infirmity and dependency are matters not to be contemplated. 
'I don't know whether you've seen them,' the voice behind him continues. 
Arnold looks uncomprehendingly at the barber's face in the mirror. 
'Retirement flats they're called,' the barber explains.
'I've seen them advertised.' 
'I looked over one or two of the schemes. They've got everything you want: laundry facilities, lounges, games rooms. It's like being on a liner again.' 
Arnold tries to look interested. 
'You can keep yourself to yourself, or you can join in with other people. And there's a warden if you run into any problems.' 
'I hope it all goes well for you.' 
'I think I'm going to enjoy myself. There we are, sir.' 
The cutters are switched off. Arnold studies his reflection in the mirror, trying to remember the last time that his hair was so short. 
'You're sure you wouldn't care for a shampoo?' the barber asks, watching his customer's response anxiously. 
'I don't think I'd better. I'm late as it is.' 
'A lot of gentlemen find that the scalp gets greasy this weather.' 
'I'm all right,' Arnold insists, finding the ploy more resistible the second time around. He prefers to wash his hair in the privacy of his bathroom each Saturday. Sam washes hers every day, which he considers excessive. 
'Would you like some dressing?' 
In Arnold's childhood, old men used Brylcreem. In barbers' shops, it came in a black container like an Egyptian vase, topped with a chrome-plated pump dispenser which never worked. He scans the bottles and containers. 'Perhaps I will,' he decides, emboldened by the circumstances. 'How about Brylcreem?' 
'There's not so much call for it these days. Still, I've got some here ...' 
Not the black container. Not real Brylcreem. Arnold is disappointed, but he tries not to let his feelings show. Not surprisingly, the pump does not work: the barber has to remove it from the container and wipe the cream off the plastic pipe as in the days of childhood. Arnold savours the evocative smell and the feel of the barber's hands smoothing the dressing over his hair. 
'The younger people want gel now, but I see you agree with me, sir: Brylcreem adds the finishing touch.' 
'Quite right,' a nonchalant Arnold concurs. 
'I still use it myself.' 
Once again Arnold savours the restfulness of the comb running through his hair. He wishes now that he had agreed to a shampoo. Another memory comes back to him. He asks, 'I suppose you haven't got any of the old-fashioned type of razor blades?' 
'I've got Sword Edge, if that's what you mean.' The barber sounds wary. 
'How about Seven o'clock?' 
The barber looks surprised. 'You're going back a bit there, sir. I haven't seen them for years.' 
'I was looking at the advert.' Arnold points to the sticker on the edge of the mirror. The barber looks as well, as though it is something new to him. 
'I think that was there when I came. I suppose I ought to redecorate, but what's the point now?' He sighs. 
'Your heart's not in it.' 
'Aye, sir. You get my meaning precisely.' The barber removes the cover and dusts around Arnold's neck. 'There we are, sir.' 
'Thank you.' 
'Is it all right?' 
'Fine,' says Arnold, examining his reflection as best he can while the hand mirror is flashed around him. The traces of grey are becoming prominent. As he will never visit the shop again, he is tempted to ask about hair colourings. 
'Women always say a perm makes them feel better. It's the same for us with a haircut, don't you think, sir?' 
'Probably.' Arnold rubs his hand around the back of his neck, liking the prickly sensation of the close-cropped hairs. Reluctantly he climbs from the chair. The outside world intrudes on his thoughts again. 
The barber stands back deferentially. 'Sorry about the razor blades, sir.' 
'I don't use them.' Seeing the barber's perplexity, Arnold explains, 'It's just that I saw the advert and it reminded me of the packets—cream and a faded green. They always looked faded.' 
The barber's face clears. 'Do you remember Star blades, sir?' 
Arnold shakes his head. 
'Single-sided blades, they were. They're used for cutting wallpaper these days. You never see a razor that takes them.' 
Arnold feels in his pocket for change. 'I certainly haven't.' 
'That'll be three pounds, sir,' the barber says, taking the cue. 
Arnold gives him four pounds, waving away any attempt to return the extra coin. He always feels embarrassed about giving tips. 
'Thank you, sir. I hope your business goes well.' 
'Thank you.' Arnold hesitates, staring at the sunlit street, reluctant to leave now that the moment has come. 'Enjoy your retirement.' 
'I'm sure I will, sir.' 
They watch the traffic roaring by. 
'Must be the longest spell of hot weather since '76,' the barber reminisces. 'That was a summer and a half. They were warning people if it didn't rain, we'd be using standpipes.' 
'Nothing changes.' 
'You'd think they'd have found an answer by now, wouldn't you?' 
'How do you get to the City from here?' 
'Ah yes. You say you haven't got your car with you?' 
Arnold shakes his head. 
'Very wise, if you don't mind me saying so, sir. Leave a car around here and you don't know what's going to happen to it by the time you get back—smashed headlamps, the windscreen wipers and wing mirrors ripped off, scratches on the paintwork—' 
'So what's the best way?' 
The barber steps out to the pavement, sniffing the air as though it is fresh. He faces the direction from which Arnold has come. 'Your best bet is to go that way—' 
'I'd rather Not. There's some person I'm trying to avoid,' Arnold adds, seeing the man's puzzlement. 
'You met one of the gangs, did you?' 
'Yes—a gang.' 
'You get a lot of them round here, trying to stake out their territory like the old Glasgow gangs. I don't know whether you ever heard about them? I'd give them a wide berth, if I was you, sir. If they do set on you, there's not much you can do, one against half a dozen.' 
'So which is the best way to go?' 
'It's further to the buses the other way.' 
'I'll put up with that.' 
'You'd be better off going to the station.' The barber points westwards, towards the City. ' Go along to the traffic lights and bear right. You can't miss it.' 
'And that's easier than getting a bus?' 
'It's what I'd do, sir. A lot easier.' 
'Then the train it is.' 
'Bear right at the traffic lights, don't forget. You can't miss it.' 
'I've got it.' Arnold is smiling and nodding—and glancing over the barber's shoulder for Mary or Hussain. 'Thanks for everything.' 
'Pleasure, sir. I hope your business goes well.' 
Then Arnold is walking again. His throat feels as though he has drunk nothing since leaving home. It crosses his mind to go back to the barber's shop and ask for a glass of water, but that would only delay him further. He tells himself that he will soon reach the station and from there it can only be a short journey to the City. He can understand the barber's frustration at what the council is doing. The parade looks structurally sound as far as he can judge. In his local high street, shops of that size would command high rents. He feels saddened by the waste. A door hangs open where the corrugated iron has been wrenched away. Wine bottles litter the entrance. Curiosity prompts him to peer inside. Most of the floorboards are missing. He can make out joists spanning the cellar, powdered with plaster where the ground floor ceiling has collapsed. Shelves which must once have been piled with stock remain on the rear wall. It might be his imagination, but he thinks that he detects a movement. He turns away hastily. 
The side roads dwindle into wasteland behind the shops. There is a crossroads, but it has no traffic lights. Arnold hesitates before continuing westwards. Beyond the junction, the blight of redevelopment is lifted. Here the shops are busy, the narrowing of the road emphasising the bustle. The three-storeyed buildings press in on either side, creating permanent shadow which does nothing to dampen the vivacity of the shoppers. He pauses at the window of a bakery, tempted by the display of brightly-coloured cakes. The sight of cans of soft drinks prompts him to go inside and join the queue. That triggers more memories of his schooldays. If he had enough pocket money left on special occasions such as the end of term, he would buy a cake on the way home as a celebration. The shop was getting ready to close by then, so the choice was limited. That never worried him. What mattered was going in the shop by himself and being free to choose whatever he wanted. Cream horns were his favourites. They were covered in a dusting of sugar powder; the pastry was so fragile that it crumbled as he bit into it. The cake was gone long before he reached home, so his mother never knew. He recalls the sweet, smooth taste of artificial cream. When Margaret buys cream cakes, they always contain fresh cream. 
He buys two cans of drink, a Bakewell tart with yellow icing and a doughnut filled with jam—things which he would never eat normally. This time he does not bother asking the quickest way to the City. As he goes outside, grease from the doughnut is already soaking through the bag. Keeping it away from his jacket proves awkward. He stuffs the cans into side pockets of his jacket in disregard of his customary habits. Then he walks slowly, leaning forward to keep the cakes away from his clothes. As he bites into the doughnut, he savours the way jam oozes from either side. Sweetness overlies the greasiness. He glances into the shops which he passes: a newsagent's, a video store and a small supermarket piled to the ceiling with stock. People jostle him, but he does not mind. He is content to enjoy his unexpected treat while remaining unnoticed in the crowd. Snippets of conversation from passing shoppers reach him. 
'... I took Wayne down the doctors in the end, but she weren't no help. It was a fucking waste of time.' 
'What's she say?' 
'She wouldn't give him nothing—just said lots of kids go through it, then they get better ...' 
'... it's always a good laugh down the bingo even when you don't win nothing. Me mum was gonna come ...' 
'... you're joking! He said that? I'd have walked straight out.' 
The last time when he ate a doughnut must have been on a day trip to Brighton when the girls were young. He enjoyed himself as much as anybody. On the way back to the car park at the end of the day, he noticed a doughnut stall and bought doughnuts for the four of them. Sam had never eaten one before. After her initial caution she joined in showering castor sugar everywhere. Those doughnuts were not filled with jam. 
'... if he's not working nights, I wouldn't mind going, but I'm not going on me own ...' 
'Don't get on the pram,' comes a voice from close behind him. 'I've told you, ain' I? There ain't no room.' 
He moves closer to the post office window as the pram is pushed past. A tiny girl clings to the frame, running to keep up. 
'Get off it!' her mother screams. 'I'm gonna smack you in a minute.' 
A shabby, old-fashioned post office, the cracked woodwork of the window frame gaudy with fresh red paint. The place can have changed little since the days he went to the post office every week with his mother, pretending that he was guarding her. Now he rarely visits one, except occasionally in his lunch hour when he needs to renew the tax disc on his car. 
When the doughnut is eaten, he brushes the sugar from his fingers and wipes his mouth before opening the first of the cans. Orangeade cascades over the lid and drips down his trousers before he can do anything. He looks around helplessly for somewhere clean to put things down. There is nowhere. He resigns himself to having his suit dry-cleaned. 
Any liquid is welcome, though the warmth and sweetness of the drink prevents it from being as refreshing as he hoped. He drinks quickly, anxious to rid himself of the dripping can. Because there is no litter bin nearby, he drops the empty can in the gutter. He feels guilty at doing this, but nobody takes any notice. His hands are sticky as he turns his attention to the Bakewell tart. He uses the bag to hold it, savouring the delicious decadence of pink icing softened by the warmth. The almond-flavoured filling tastes even better than the doughnut. Sometimes he wishes that Margaret did not insist on buying expensive cakes.

chapter five

A garden occupies the site of a demolished building. Jasmine, forsythia, Hypericum and mallow straggle over the bases of the wooden beams which support the end wall of the row of shops. Arnold follows the path between the unkempt bushes, hoping to find somewhere to sit while he opens the second can. Starlings squabble among the fast food wrappings.
One seat is broken. A woman sits on the second. Arnold groans: all women of a certain age are starting to look like Mary. A second glance reassures him that this is not his pursuer, but an older woman. Her ample form is wrapped in a plastic raincoat of the sort his father used to carry. The buttonholes are torn, the garment being held in place by a fabric-covered belt from a dress. He marvels anew at how down-and-outs seem impervious to the heat. Surrounding her is an array of grubby plastic bags, their handles tied together with string like barges awaiting a tug. She notices his interest and greets him with a smile, lifting her can of beer in salutation. He walks faster, looking steadfastly away from her, not caring that his trousers catch on Berberis thorns. He kicks a can accidentally, sending it clattering across the paving to roll under the spear-shaped leaves of the Hypericum. Larger items lie discarded amongst the bushes: a bent car bumper, a broken easy chair and a cardboard carton which once contained a television. He cannot stop himself from shaking his head at such irresponsibility.
There are no other seats. He pauses, undecided what to do and wishing that he had bought an ice cream while the chance was there. The remaining can weighs down his jacket. He examines the orangeade stain again, which looks more extensive than at first sight. With that and the pockets pulled out of shape, he doubts whether dry cleaning will be enough to make the suit presentable again. For a moment he feels at one with the down-and-outs who must congregate in the gardens, judging by the debris of cider bottles, British wine bottles and beer cans.
His thirst is returning. There is no reason to delay opening the second can any longer. He turns it over in his hand. Limeade this time—something which he has not drunk for years. This time he holds the can at arm's length as he pulls the ring, so that the foam cascades on the path. Only when the torrent subsides does he lift the can to his lips, leaning forward so that drips will not soil his clothes. The lemonade has already made him feel bloated. He burps—something which he would never do in the office. 
Qualms of conscience prick him as the office comes to mind. The morning will be almost over by the time he gets to work. What rumours are circulating about him now? Arnold has been taken ill and his wife is at his bedside, too distraught to telephone. He smiles, wondering what sarcastic comment Margaret will make about his haircut. The girls are sure to laugh when they see it.
The litter bin is missing from its stand. He looks around for another, but without much expectation of finding one—evidently neither the residents nor the council bother about litter. Rather than walking about with a dripping can, he discards it amongst the other rubbish in the flowerbeds. Within five minutes he has thrown two cans away. Without much success he tries to appease his conscience with the thought that if bins are not provided, it is no wonder that people do not take pride in their surroundings.
The woman is singing Onward Christian Soldiers in a surprisingly pure voice, like that of a choirboy. Arnold can still recite the first verse. The memories of school assemblies have not lost their vividness, though they come to him less often now: classes filing into the hall in a way which seemed chaotic but which always worked, passing battered hymn books with blue covers along the row and hoping that his copy would not have the relevant pages missing. His strongest hope was that the boys behind him would not put pellets of paper down his neck. He felt relieved when the deputy headmaster strode onto the stage and the babble of conversation was stilled. The routine was unvarying: a hymn, a Bible reading by a prefect, followed by another hymn. As the deputy headmaster gave the closing prayer, Arnold listened with his eyes closed, praying silently that when he got to the top form, he would not have to go on the stage before the whole school and give the reading. Now he can smile at his earnestness. At least his prayers were answered for once.
The path winds upwards from the main road, towards three tower blocks built on mounds like castles, dominating their surroundings. Lawns clothe the slopes. The old woman's singing becomes lost amongst the noise of traffic. Cycle ruts on either side of the path have dried hard. The grass has withered to the colour of straw. Hard to believe that it will ever recover. What happened to lawns after the summer of '76? He should have reminisced about those days instead of cutting short the Scotsman's flow of memories. A customer must be an event in the down-at-heel barber's shop these days. 
Some memories of '76 are clear. He was newly married. Each morning in early summer, he awoke to a cloudless sky, marvelling at how long the heatwave was lasting. He was studying for his insurance qualification. The train journey provided one of the few opportunities for reading textbooks without being disturbed. Day after day the train windows were wide open. Perfect cricketing weather. At the office, even his more staid colleagues took off their jackets. Many of them were nearing retirement. Experience counted in those days.
In front of him, a girl struggles to push a pram uphill. One wheel twists sideways with each rotation, making the pram veer off course. Each bump increases the baby's cries, which are ignored by the girl. Her faded pink top and tight jeans reveal a slight figure. As Arnold moves off the edge of the path to overtake her, the slope and her attempts to straighten the pram by lifting the front wheels combine to make the groceries on the tray beneath the baby carrier slide onto the path. A jar of jam smashes.
'Fuck!'
Arnold pretends not to hear. He watches her bending to retrieve the rest of the food with one hand, the other gripping the handle of the pram. Against his better judgement, he finds himself assessing her figure. He puts out his foot to stop a runaway tin of baked beans. As he bends to retrieve it, he scoops up a tin of baby food which is following it.
'Ta.' The girl smiles briefly as he hands her the tins. She looks tired and harassed —the pinched face of a girl whose only claim to beauty is lent fleetingly by youth. He judges her to be the same age as Helen. She wears little makeup.
'Do you want me to help you?' he offers.
She hesitates.
'If I carry the shopping and you push the pram,' he suggests, wishing that he had taken any path but this one.
'Okay.'
As he drags the remainder of the shopping from beneath the tray, he tells himself that he only had to give her the tins and go on his way. There was no reason to do more.
Their progress is slow as the girl struggles to keep the pram straight. He is glad that he did not offer to push it: he has not tried steering a pram since Sam was small. As least it is easier for her to lift the front wheels clear of the path now that the pram is no longer weighed down shopping. He carries a pack of nappies under one arm and a carrier bag in each hand, the plastic handles stretched taut by the weight.
'Another scorcher,' he remarks.
'Yeh.'
'It's getting to be too much of a good thing.' 
'I'd rather have this than the cold.' 
He peers at the red-faced baby which is crying continuously, its limbs flailing frantically. 'What's his name?' 
'Tracy.' 
The path zigzags up the slope. They do not speak again until they come to the final section in the shadow of the tower block. An electric drill whines from one of the upper floors. Tracy's howls go on and on. 
'Quite a climb,' he says, pausing. 
'You get used to it.' The girl has stopped. She glances back to the road. 'You have to go this way to get to the post office, otherwise it's a long way round.' 
'Do you want to see to Tracy?' 
'She's all right.'
'Shall we change over and I'll do the pushing?' he offers as she struggles to start the pram again. 
'It's okay. We're nearly there now.' 
'At least there aren't any steps to worry about,' he says as they set off again. 
'That's why the kids use it for skateboarding. In the school holidays you can't come along here. They knocked me over once.' 
'Did you tell their parents?' 
'You must be joking! You'd get a right mouthful.' 
He glances up at the shattered plastic dome on a lamp post. 'I suppose it's kids who break all the lights.' 
'You don't come this way at all after dark, what with them and the meths. men hanging about. Not that I go out at night. You can't—not with a kid.' 
'I suppose not.' 
'Sometimes me mum baby-sits for me, but she don't like leaving it too late to get home.' 
'Has she got far to go?' 
'Far enough.' 
They have reached the entrance to the flats. The gloom, the smell and the graffiti are familiar to him now, though this lobby has brick walls painted bright blue and is occupied by a gang of arguing children, their shrill voices reverberating beneath the high, concrete roof. Arnold glares at them to no effect. There is a buzzing in his ears as Tracy's cries reach a new frenzy. 
'It's good of you,' the girl says as they wait by the lift doors. Arnold has to cock his head towards her to hear. He can smell her scent. 
'No trouble,' he lies, glancing back at the children. The argument has erupted into violence. The boys crowd around the two protagonists, urging them on. The larger boy kicks his opponent, who doubles up. The larger boy seizes the opportunity to pin him against the wall. 
'Shouldn't they be at school?' Arnold asks, lowering his voice so that he has to put his mouth near the girl's ear to be heard. He notices the hole for an earing. Sam has her ears pierced. She wears studs. 
'Probably,' the girl says indifferently. She bangs her fist against on the lift doors, not bothering to glance at the boys as though their presence is unworthy of comment. 'This is what me mum don't like—all this hanging about, especially when the lift don't work.' 
In defiance of her words the lift doors open. She manoeuvres the pram inside with difficulty. Arnold watches helplessly, not wanting to put the shopping down lest the children should steal it. He has to force his way into the lift as the doors begin to close. 
'They don't give you much time, do they?' he remarks as the lift grates on its way. The girl does not answer. He tries not to look at her in the cruel fluorescent light, preferring to keep his eyes downcast to avoid the obscenities scrawled over the dimpled metal walls. Tracy's cries have diminished to a whimper. He wonders what floor the flat is on: he should have noted which button the girl pressed. The indicator over the door hangs loose, so he cannot even tell how far they have ascended. Childishly he hopes that he will have the opportunity to look down on London from the top of the tower. 
As if to resolve his unspoken query, the lift shudders to a halt. The doors open to reveal a bleak landing, empty and free of litter. The smell from the refuse chute deters loitering. Ubiquitous opaque plastic panels take the place of glass. 
'This is it.' 
Arnold steps out. As the lift doors begin closing, he struggles to hold them open until the girl has manoeuvred the pram out. 
'Ta.' 
'Which floor are we on?' 
'Third.' She hesitates. 'Do you wanna come in for a coffee or something?' 
The prospect of anything to allay his thirst and to take away the cloying sweetness left in his mouth by the cakes and the fizzy drinks prompts him to agree. The girl does not look put out by his response to what he suspects was an invitation only made for the sake of politeness. She pushes the pram to the nearest of the four doors. 
'Me mum's here,' she informs him, though whether to reassure him or to prompt him to change his mind is not clear. Although he has no wish to meet her mother, now he is the one trapped by the dictates of courtesy. He watches her fumbling in her handbag for the keys. The door with its wired glass panel has three locks, which strikes him as excessive when other tenants on the same landing each appear to make to with one. He wonders inconsequentially whether the council needs to be informed about such changes and whether they hold spare keys in case of fire. He cannot imagine her bothering to tell anybody. Nor does it come as any surprise that she only uses one lock. 
She balances the pram on its rear wheels once more as she manoeuvres it into the dark, narrow hall. He follows, pausing to close the door behind them. Tobacco smoke and baby smells pervade the flat. The relentless cheerfulness of a television chat show comes from the living room at the end of the hall. Too late he wishes that he had declined the offer of coffee. His only consolation is that Mary will not find him. 
The windowless room on his right is the bathroom. Opposite is a small bedroom. Though the single bed is made up, the room is rarely used, judging by its Spartan tidiness. The other door on the left is pulled to: he guesses that this is the girl's bedroom. The kitchen is beside the bathroom. It is utilitarian and dated, but surprisingly clean and tidy. The living room, too, is cleaner and more comfortably furnished than he was expecting after his experience with Mary. The elderly television stands on a low table rather than on the floor. The fabric of the three-piece suite is worn but clean. The woman on the settee has turned from the gaudy colours on the screen to stare at him. She is in her mid-forties and fuller in figure than her daughter. Makeup does not conceal the lines in her face. Smoke curls from her cigarette. On the cushion beside her, the pile of squashed filters in the ashtray is stained with lipstick. 
'He helped me when I dropped everything,' the girl explains, lifting Tracy from the pram. 
'Pleased to meet you,' says the woman without sounding as though she means it and without getting up. She has the husky voice of the confirmed smoker. 'I'm Sylvie—Jackie's mum.' 
Arnold smiles and murmurs a greeting, feeling self-conscious about his role as good Samaritan. 
'If you dump everything over there,' Jackie says, gesturing to the counter which separates the living room from the kitchen. 
The plastic handles of the bags cut into his palms. He puts his load down thankfully. 
'Do you want tea, coffee or orange?' Jackie asks. 
'Tea, please,' he says promptly. 
'Can you take Tracy, mum?' 
'What for?' Sylvie sounds wary. 
'So's I can make the tea.' 
'All right. Give her here then.' 
As Sylvie lodges her cigarette in the ash tray to take the baby, Arnold cannot decide which was the better course: leaving the district as quickly as possible and risk being seen on the street, or keeping out of sight by accepting Jackie's invitation to the flat. He wishes that he had asked for water rather than tea, so that he is not left to make conversation with Sylvie. In the kitchen, Jackie is filling the kettle. 
'Everything fell out the pram,' she calls. 'The jam broke all over the path, didn' it?' 
'That pram's had it,' Sylvie tells her. 'You ought to get yourself a new one.' 
'How can I? The Social won't give me nothing.' 
'You can't put up with that one much longer.' Sylvie takes a last draw at her cigarette and stubs it out before explaining to her guest, 'It had a wonky wheel when she got it. I dunno what she had to go and choose it for.' 
'Because it was cheap,' Jackie responds wearily in what is evidently a well-rehearsed argument. 
'He saw you coming, more like.' 
'Don't start that again, mum.' 
Sylvie switches her attention back to Arnold. 'Were you visiting somebody round here?' 
'Just passing through,' he answers automatically. 
'Thanks for helping Jackie.' 
'No trouble.' 
'Not everyone would have done it.' Sylvie says, taking the ashtray from the cushion to  balance it on the arm of the settee. 'Do you wanna sit down?' 
'Do you think I could wash my hands?' 
'The bathroom's through there—on the left.' 
'Thanks.' He goes out to the hall, glad to be away from her. The light switch in the bathroom operates an extractor fan. Its subdued roar obliterates all other sounds when the door is closed. The cloying scent of bath salts does not conceal the mustiness: the wall below the washbasin is turning black. Blue fittings were probably considered stylish when the flats were built; now they are streaked with lime scale and the basin is cracked. It a woman's bathroom, but not one where Sam would wish to spend much time. No sign that a man lives in the flat. Arnold puts speculation about Tracy's father aside as he stares in the mirror. The image confronting him is disconcerting. The haircut does not look so smart as it did in the barber's shop. It makes him resemble Jerry Lewis in those black and white comedies which he watched on television as a child. With sweat stains visible under the arms of his shirt and the stickiness of lemonade on his suit, he must resemble a seedy salesman or a debt collector. No wonder Sylvie regarded him suspiciously. 
He puts down his jacket and washes his face as well as his hands, drying himself on his paper handkerchief to avoid using Jackie's towel. Afterwards he has to pick pieces of disintegrating tissue from his face, which makes him long for the days of linen handkerchiefs. He puts the soggy remnants in the toilet, which he flushes after using. After washing his hands the second time, he wipes them dry on his trousers. Another look in the mirror prompts him to try on the jacket, but it hardly improves his appearance now the fabric is creased as well as stained. He takes it off before going back to the others. 
The tea is not ready. Sylvie has lit another cigarette. As Arnold stands by the living room window to avoid the tobacco smoke, he wonders what the two women have been saying about him. Sylvie has tidied her hair. Though he thinks of her as old, she is much the same age as Margaret. 
The noise of the kettle reaches a crescendo. He tells himself that he will have one cup of tea for the sake of politeness and then he will be free to leave. If he encounters Mary or Hussain outside, so be it. 
'Sit yourself down,' Sylvie urges. 
'I was just looking at the view.' He stares across the lawns to the tower blocks soaring above the jostling maisonettes, factories and warehouses. Tops of trees peep over the lower buildings, betraying the position of parks, gardens and churchyards. 
'If you can call it a view,' Sylvie responds in the indifferent tone which Jackie has emulated. She calls, 'Jackie—that kettle's boiling.' 
'I keep telling you—it turns itself off when it's ready.' 
'I should imagine you get a good view from right at the top,' he says. 
Sylvie snorts. 'Up there, you're more interested in whether the lift works.' 
'I suppose so.' 
'Specially when you've got a pram to lug up seventeen flights.' 
'I see that.' He watches Sylvie and knows that he has gone down in her estimation. She has lost interest in their conversation and is looking down at Tracy with a tenderness which touches him. 
'She's very quiet,' he says, confident that he is on safer ground talking about babies. 
'Tracy's a good little baby,' Sylvie agrees, the pride showing in her tone. 
'My two are teenage now.' 
'They grow up quickly. Too quickly.' 
Arnold tries to interest himself in the view again to conserve his stock of conversation about babies. Memories come unbidden of the heady feelings which gripped him when his own daughters were small. Each working day as the afternoon wore on he became impatient to be with them again. Other people's babies never generate the same excitement. At the office, an addition to the family is regarded as an excuse for a lunchtime celebration. He has a half to be sociable, though drinking alcohol in the middle of the day is not something which he enjoys: it makes him want to sleep in the afternoon. 
Thinking of the office makes him guiltily aware that he has hardly made strenuous efforts to get there. As a distraction, he tries to identify the block of flats where Mary took him, but without success. Nor can he see any familiar landmark such as Canary Wharf. 
The kettle switches itself off. The noise dies. 
'You can put your jacket down,' Sylvie prompts. 
'I don't want things to drop out the pockets.' 
'Do you want to hang it up?' 
'I'm fine as I am, thanks all the same.' 
'Too hot for wearing jackets.' 
'You get used to keeping things in the pockets.' 
'I don't mind a bit of sun, but this is too much of a good thing.' 
'The gardens could do with some rain,' he agrees, looking at the parched lawns. The setting could be dramatic if more care had been taken. He remembers the barber's words: 'The contractors were building down to a price rather than up to a standard,' and he decries the shortsightedness. 
Two youths stand on the mound, looking up at the windows. It passes through his mind that Hussain has ordered them to find him. He steps back.
'That don't worry me now I've got a flat,' Sylvie is saying. 'Not that I ever was much of a gardener. A few pots of geraniums in the back garden—that was enough for me.' 
He was ready to expand on what the dry weather has done to the garden, but Sylvie's words change his mind. She will not be interested. Better to let the conversation lapse. 
'Do you want sugar?' Jackie asks. 
'No thanks.' He glances outside again. The two youths are walking down the slope towards the shops. He wonders whether they saw him. 
'I think they're dangerous,' Sylvie is saying, making him turn in confusion. 'Them swing windows—they're dangerous. I keep saying there ought to be bars on them, or some sort of fasteners to stop them opening too far, specially when there's kids in the flats.' 
'He ain't interested,' Jackie's tells her. 
'I was only saying.' Sylvie turns back to Arnold. 'She don't stand up for herself.' 
'Give it a rest, mum,' Jackie pleads. 
'Are you allowed pets here?' he intervenes, remembering the pack of dogs. 
'You're not supposed to,' Sylvie answers. 'Mind you, a lot of them don't take no notice. You don't mind if it's a miniature poodle, but you look out some days and see them walking their Dobermans and bull terriers and whatever. If it's not the muggers you're scared of round here, it's them dogs.' 
He tries to look shocked. 
'The worst thing is when they're let out on their own,' she explains, warming to her subject. 'You get families who go out to work and leave the dogs to fend for themselves. Then you get these packs of dogs roaming everywhere and you never know whether they're gonna turn on you. I steer clear of them, I can tell you.' 
'They're not let out,' Jackie calls wearily. 'They're strays.' 
'They must belong to someone.' 
'They don't. They're fucking strays, ain't they?' 
'They must have belonged to somebody originally.' 
'They probably did once, but it don' have to be people in the flats, does it?' 
'All I'm saying is if you get packs of dogs running loose, you dunno what they're gonna do. Go to some countries and they'd shoot 'em.' 
Arnold imagines a change of circumstances forcing him to live in that place and to brave the packs of dogs each morning. The thought of Margaret and the girls having to give up the luxuries which they take for granted and make do with the cramped flat gives him a perverse pleasure. He can already hear Margaret complaining about the lift and the girls protesting because they have to share a bedroom. 
'Here she is,' Sylvie says with enthusiasm as Jackie brings in a tray and sets it on the table. Cups rather than the mugs, Arnold notices. Margaret uses cups when there are visitors. 
'Sit yourself down,' Sylvie urges once more, settling Tracy in the corner of the settee and plumping the cushion on the other side. 'You can't drink it standing up.' 
When he lowers himself into an armchair, she looks put out, but she does not complain. The foam rubber settles under him, so that he is almost at floor level. 
'Give the guest his tea first,' Sylvie reminds her daughter. 
'That's what I'm doing, ain' I?' The girl brings Arnold his cup, along with a plate on which is a meagre supply of Lincoln biscuits. He takes one for the sake of politeness,  lodging them on his saucer as he thanks her. 
'Can you bring mine?' Sylvie says. 'Save me getting up.' 
The girl complies sullenly. 
'We don't get many people coming up here 'cept the health visitor,' Sylvie tells Arnold, scooping up three biscuits. 
'Leave off, mum.' 
'I dunno what's got into you today.' Sylvie stirs her tea vigorously as Jackie slumps in an upright chair at the table. 'How much sugar did you put in this?' 
'Three.' 
Sylvie seems satisfied. She looks at Arnold. 'You're not from the council, I suppose?' Suspicion has crept back into her tone. 
'Mum!' Jackie wails. 
'I'm only asking. He might have been.' 
'I'm nothing to do with the council,' Arnold assures her. 
'She's been trying to get rehoused,' Sylvie confides. 'I've been down the housing department with her. She's almost crying by the time she comes out of there.' 
'Give it a rest,' Jackie pleads. 
'Well you are.' Sylvie turns back to their guest. 'They treat you like dirt down there. I reckon you deserve somewhere decent to live if you've got a kid and you're on your own.' 
Arnold nods uncertainly. 
'This place looks all right when you first come in, don' it?' 
He nods again, forbearing to mention that his first own impression was somewhat different. 
'She's tried to make it nice. I've helped her out a bit with the furniture and curtains and suchlike. I had to. She couldn't manage on what the Social gave her. It's all right in here, but you look in the other rooms and see the damp.' 
'I noticed it in the bathroom,' he agrees. 
'You don't mind so much in there. You expect bathrooms to be a bit damp. It's the bedroom I worry about. I tried to get this councillor to come and have a look at it. You'd think he'd be interested if anyone was, wouldn't you? I might as well have saved me breath. The only time you get them round here is when there's an election. They're quick enough to come then, promising everything they're gonna do. Then when they get in, you never hear from them again.' 
Arnold nods once more. He glances at Jackie. Her hands are clenched as she stares into her teacup on the table. 
'I tried to get a reporter from the newspaper to come up here and see what it's like,' Sylvie continues remorselessly. 'I mean it's not only the damp. The lifts don't work half the time and there's gangs of tearaways hanging about. You only have to look at them to see they're on drugs. You never know what they're gonna do. There was a gang of them on the landing the other night.' 
'Give it a rest, mum.' 
'She rang me up, she was so scared. She thought they was gonna break in. I said to her, "You get straight onto the police before they start smashing the door down," but she don't like making a fuss in case they take it out on her. What I say is the more people know about what she has to put up with, the better.' 
Arnold recalls the three locks on the front door. He can imagine Jackie sitting on the edge of her bed, cradling Tracy and listening to the voices of the unseen gang. 
'You're gonna get little problems wherever you live,' Sylvie continues. 'I 'spect you get them.' 
'A few,' he agrees. 
'Windows that don't fit proper or squabbles with the neighbours. Little things. Nothing like this.' 
'I don't know what the answer is.' 
'This estate's always had a bad reputation. I said to Jackie she should have refused to come here.' 
'I didn't have much choice, did I?' Jackie points out. 'Didn't stand up for yourself, you mean.' 
'Have you seen a social worker about it?' he suggests. 
Sylvie's manner changes. She sits upright, the cup and saucer held firmly on her lap with both hands. 'We won't have nothing to do with them, thank you very much.' 
Arnold remains silent, trying to work out how he can engineer his departure as soon as possible. 
'He don't wanna know,' Jackie whines. 
'I'm just saying: we don't want no social workers poking and prying.' 
'We had one come before,' Jackie explains to Arnold. 'She kept asking questions and looking everywhere.' 
'Thought she was Lady Muck,' Sylvie adds, curling her lip in disapproval. 'I wanted to complain about her, but Jackie wouldn't have it.' 
'If you've already been to the council, I can't think of any other way of getting rehoused,' Arnold has to confess. 
'Couldn't you put in a word?' Sylvie asks. 
'How can he, mum?' says a vexed Jackie. 'He said: he ain't nothing to do with the council.' 
'There's no harm in asking, is there?' 
'I don't know that I'm the best person,' he demurs, at which point Tracy starts crying again, saving him from further explanation. Jackie goes to her before Sylvie can put down her cup. He watches the teenager cradling the baby in her arms, remembering how Margaret did the same for the two girls and how his own efforts at quieting them were seldom as successful. He subscribes to the unfashionable view that women are better able to deal with babies. 
He tries the tea. Powdered milk imparts a tainted taste. Undissolved granules float on the surface. No amount of stirring disperses them. It is too hot to drink quickly. He wishes there was an opportunity to pour the whole lot away without anybody seeing. 
When he was new to fatherhood, the sound of crying used to frighten him. It was something beyond control, beyond rational understanding. Although he rarely complained, he was forced to go into another room. No chance of that here. He avoids catching Sylvie's eye as her daughter rocks the baby. The thought crosses his mind that in twenty years, the scenario will be repeated with Tracy as the mother and Jackie looking on helplessly, except that he will not be there to witness it. Doubtless he will face a similar scene with his daughters' babies. Margaret no longer speculates which daughter will marry first. Perhaps she realises that these days, many couples do not bother. In his estimation, Helen looks set to be a career girl. He suspects that for all Sam's rebellious ways, she is the one who will settle down and raise a family. 
As peace returns to the room, the shouting of children on the lawn reaches them. Sylvie clears her throat as though she is about to speak. Instead she breaks off part of a biscuit and chews noisily, like a child. 
'How long have you lived here?' Arnold asks Jackie to distract himself from the noise. She is swaying with the baby, as though in time to music which he cannot hear. 
'Three months.' 
He raises his eyebrows. 'I thought it was longer.' 
'Why?' 
'I don't know,' he answers lamely. 'You see settled somehow.' 
'I'd say to her come and live with me,' Sylvie breaks in, spraying crumbs over her lap, 'but I've only got the one bedroom. Anyway, she wants a place of her own. She's independent like me.' 
'Have you tried writing to your MP?' 
Both women stare at him. 
'It can be useful,' he assures them. 
'You hear that, Jackie?' Sylvie says admiringly. 'Get in touch with your MP.' 
'I dunno who he is.' 
'Your library can tell you,' Arnold suggests. 
'You wanna go down there this afternoon,' Sylvie tells her daughter. 
'All right. I heard.' 
'I'm only saying. The sooner you do it, the sooner you get out of this place.' 
Arnold stares into his cup. Half the tea is drunk. He takes another mouthful. What remains might be left without causing offence. He puts the cup and saucer on the floor. The biscuit is untouched. 'I'd better be going,'
'You're staying for another cup, aren't you?' Sylvie asks. 
'I ought to get on.' 
'It won't take a minute. I'm having another one meself.' She gets up, picking up his cup before he can protest further. 'How about you, Jackie?' 
'I haven't drunk this one yet, have I? I've been seeing to Tracy.' 
Arnold settles back helplessly in the armchair as Sylvie bustles into the kitchen. He watches Jackie, marvelling at the bond between mother and baby. 'She's soon calmed down.' 
'You ought to hear her sometimes. She's tired now 'cos she woke early. It'll be better when it don't get light so early.' 
'Don't wish the winter here,' Sylvie pleads from the other side of the counter. 
'I'm just saying.' Jackie goes back to her seat with Tracy in her arms. 'I'm dreading winter,' she confesses to Arnold. 'There's only the underfloor heating and it's so expensive nobody uses it. When it broke down in one flat, they had to dig the floor up with an electric drill.' 
'When was that?' Sylvie asks, her voice raised against the noise of the kettle. 
'Last winter.' 
'You weren't here then.' 
'The girl upstairs told me.' 
'I wouldn't fancy having drills in me living room.' 
'I'm gonna have an electric fire when it gets cold.' 
'You won't be here in the winter, I can tell you that, me girl.' 
'We dunno that, do we?' 
'Did you hear me? You won't be here.' 
'Let's hope not.' 
Hard to imagine winter when they are in the middle of a heatwave, Arnold reflects. Though he complains about the heat and the drought, they are preferable to freezing temperatures. In bad weather he drives to the station. Aside from the loss of his walk, there is the risk of vandalism to his car by leaving it in the car park all day. When he stood on the platform last January, facing into the raw wind and seeing the dusting of snow blowing across the car park, he seriously considered retiring early in preference to putting up with the same routine for another ten or fifteen years. Margaret used to urge him to look for work nearer home, but as he pointed out, where were the local jobs which offered a reasonable salary? Now the topic is never mentioned. 
'It's milk with no sugar, isn't it?' Sylvie asks him, leaning over the counter. The noise from the kettle has ceased. 
'Please.' Any liquid is welcome, but he wishes that he had asked for water. He would like to let the tap run until the water is really cold and then go on drinking until his thirst is quenched, but it is too late to change his mind. Instead he watches Jackie. She is staring out the window, lost in thought as she rocks the baby. She looks so young and vulnerable that his heart goes out to her. Easy to think of Sam sitting in her place, the course of her life changed by a moment of giving in to her impulses—
The image is provoking and disturbing. He turns away, focusing instead on the only picture in the room. It is one which he has seen before, always in the same gaudy colours: a girl with a tear dropping down her cheek. He tries to recall the pictures on the wall of his own living room. He left choosing them to Margaret. Stupidly they have all slipped from his memory, as though his old life has been discarded. He looks back at Jackie, suddenly aware that she talking to him. 
'I'm sorry?' 
'Do you have to come this way a lot on business?' she repeats as though reciting an exercise learned at school. He knows that she is not really interested. Absently she picks up one of the two biscuits remaining on the plate. 
'I shouldn't have been here at all if I hadn't overslept in the train.' Seeing her puzzled expression, he explains, 'I must have nodded off on the way into Liverpool Street. First thing I knew, I was at a station I didn't recognise, so I thought I'd better get off. I must have been asleep when everybody else got off.' He knows that he has lost Jackie's attention. His explanation is too involved. 'The train went onto another line at Liverpool Street and I was still on it. That's why I didn't recognise the station.' 
'Here we are.' Sylvie appears from the kitchen with two cups. She holds out Arnold's. 'That's yours with the biscuit in the saucer. I dunno how you can have it without sugar. Makes me shiver if I don't have three spoonfuls in it.' 
'You get used to it.' 
'I dunno if I'd want to. Aren't you going to eat your biscuit?' 
'Don't go pinching it off him,' Jackie interrupts, exasperated. 
'I wasn't going to. I was just reminding him.' 
'Have this one.' The girl holds out the remaining biscuit to her mother. 
'Have this,' Arnold offers, holding out the saucer to Sylvie. 'I'm not hungry.' 
'Are you sure?' 
'Quite sure.' 
'It's me sweet tooth.' Sylvie takes the proffered biscuit and goes back to the settee. 'If we write to our MP about this place, do you think he'll come and look?' 
'I couldn't say,' Arnold confesses. 'He'll probably write to the housing department for you.' 
'Do you think you could give us some sort of idea what to put in the letter to him?' 
'Mum,' Jackie wails. 
'There's no harm in asking, is there?' 
'He didn't come here to start writing letters.' 
'I'm not asking him to write it, just to give us an idea what to put.' 
'I'd point out what's wrong,' he tells her. 'Mention the damp and ask him to make representations to the local authority.' 
'Make representations,' Sylvie repeats carefully. 'Are you listening, Jackie?' 
'That's what I'd put,' he reiterates. 
'We'll do that—ask him to make representations.' Sylvie looks at her daughter triumphantly. 'I said he'd know, didn' I?' 
'Let him have his tea in peace, can't you?' 
'All right. I thought I'd ask him while he was here. What's wrong with that?' 
Arnold sips his tea, pleased that at least it is weaker than the first cup. He suspects that Sylvie has used the same tea bags. What touches him is that although Jackie and her mother bicker, there is a bond of affection between them. He guesses that they share their serious worries. With Sam, such conversations as there are never get beyond the monosyllabic. She seems exasperated with him. A phase, Margaret calls it, though the phase has been going on for more than a year. There were tantrums with Helen when she was younger, but they never lasted long. Sometimes he wonders whether Sam should see a psychiatrist, but he has never revealed his fear to anybody. Margaret would look askance. 
'When I saw you, I thought you was an official coming to see somebody in the flats,' Jackie confesses. 
'I was lost.' 
'I knew you wasn't from round here,' Sylvie says. 'The only people who come up here in suits are from the council—or the tallyman.' 
Jackie is soaking her biscuit in her tea. Arnold dislikes the practice. When Helen was tiny, he used to stop her from doing it. Margaret never backed him: she could not understand why he was fussing. He reflects that if Sylvie tried dunking her biscuits, it would stop the noise of chewing. 
'What she needs is one of them maisonettes,' Sylvie is saying. 'So long as it's not above the first floor. You can't go lugging a pram up all them stairs.' 
'Why don't you give it a rest, mum?' Jackie whines. 
'I'm just saying.' 
'He's not interested.' 
'You're gonna start Tracy off again in a minute.' 
In the uneasy silence, Arnold tries to gulp down his tea. 
'You should have got some more biscuits,' Sylvie says. 
'I forgot.' 
'That was clever.' 
'It's a pity you didn't bring some. You eat most of them.' 
'So I've gotta start bringing me own biscuits when I come here, have I?' 
'Make a change from eating mine.' 
Arnold dislikes having to drink hot tea quickly. At the office he always leaves it to cool. 
'Do you wanna eat this then?' Jackie holds out the remains of her biscuit to her mother. 
'I dunno what you have to make a scene for when we've got a visitor.' 
'I'm not making a scene.' 
'You're like a kid yourself sometimes, Jackie.' 
In Arnold's opinion, the opposite is true. Having a baby must have made Jackie grow up quickly. It would do that to any girl. Helen has a steady boyfriend, though what will happen when she goes to university, Arnold does not know. He suspects that they sleep together. His reaction if she became pregnant is something which he tries to push from his mind. The ideal response is to be supportive rather than shocked or censorious, but he is not sure that he would manage. Margaret's response is even more difficult to predict. Sometimes it disconcerts him how little he knows his wife. He suspects that she would go very quiet at first, but after the initial shock she would get down to offering practical support. 
Sam's impetuosity means that she is more likely to get pregnant. He wonders how her personality would be changed—whether it would make her more accommodating or more temperamental. 
'How would you like living here?' Sylvie asks him. 
'As you say, a lot of things need putting right.' He sips tea while deciding on his next move. The need for politeness is satisfied. He puts down the cup and announces, 'I must be going now.' As he stands, he wipes his mouth with his hand. 
'Sure you don't want any more?' Sylvie asks. 
'He just said: he's got to go,' Jackie tells her. 
'I know. I'm not deaf. He might be too polite to ask for another cup.' 
'I'm fine,' he assures them. 'Time I was getting to work.' 
'While you're here, you can have a look at something,' Sylvie says, putting down her cup and getting up. 
'Don't start again, mum,' Jackie pleads. 
'I just want to show him what you have to put up with.' 
'He's not interested.' Patches of red show on Jackie's cheeks. Roused by the raised voices, Tracy begins crying again. 'Now look what you've done.' 
'Has to be me, don' it?' Sylvie protests. 
'You're the one who started making all the noise.' 
'You come out here,' Sylvie says to Arnold, ignoring her. They go into the kitchen. Close to, he sees that the white fittings are chipped and scratched. A door is missing from the wall cupboard; inside are two tins of baked beans and a cereal packet. The bags of shopping have not been unpacked. 
'Have a look at this,' Sylvie says, opening the cupboard below the sink. Dutifully Arnold peers inside. Tentacles of mould cling to the wall. The musty smell is reminiscent of the bathroom. 
'The man who came said it was something to do with a leak in the waste pipe in one of the upstairs flats and it was going to be a big job. We never heard no more about it, of course.' 
'That's the sort of thing you can tell your MP about.' 
Tracy's wailing reaches another crescendo. 
'Can't you shut her up?' Sylvie calls. 
'I'm trying, ain' I? It don' help with you shouting.' 
'And there's been a mouse or something here,' Sylvie continues, her face close to Arnold's so that he can smell the cigarette smoke on her breath. 'You can see where it's gnawed through the wood.' 
The ragged edges repel him, as does anything to do with rodents. He stands up, averting his eyes. 
'Jackie put down some killer. There ain't been no droppings since, so at least it looks like that's one problem out the way.' 
The wailing goes on. Arnold glances at Jackie over the counter. She is staring at the baby as though it is something alien. The fear that she will to do something terrible makes his stomach knot. 
'You have a look at what she has to put up with in the bedroom,' Sylvie is saying, urging him into the hall again. 
'I really ought to be going.' 
'It won't take a minute.' 
Jackie screams, 'He doesn't want to fucking see it. How many more times?' 
'And you talk about me making all the noise.' Sylvie retorts. She is ahead of him as he leaves the kitchen, blocking his escape to the front door. 'You look in here.' She is opening the door to the other bedroom. 
'Don't take him in there,' Jackie orders, coming into the hall with Tracy in her arms. 'It ain't tidy.' But Sylvie is already pushing open the door. The single bed is in disarray. A square of gaudy mauve carpet, curling at the edges, inadequately covers the floor. It is strewn with clothes. There is a cloying smell from the jars and bottles crowding the top of the chipboard dressing table. One of the drawers has no front, exposing the underwear kept there. In the far corner of the room, the plaster has erupted along a crack from floor to ceiling. 
'The man said it's the concrete slabs,' Sylvie explains. 'The water gets between them. It's not so bad now. You ought to see it when we've had some rain.' 
'Terrible,' Arnold agrees. 
'What I want to know is how you're expected to bring up kids in a place like this?' 
'I wouldn't like to.' 
'They had rats in one of the flats.' 
'That was horrible.' Jackie shivers. She is standing in the doorway, cradling the baby whose face is red with crying. 'They get up the rubbish chutes. I couldn't sleep for thinking about them.' 
'At least the council came quick enough then,' Sylvie says with satisfaction. 
'That's something,' Arnold sympathises, turning away. 
'What they ought to have is a full-time caretaker for every block. They're doing that in some places. They don't bother here of course.' 
He is close to Jackie. She is staring at the floor, seemingly unaware of the noise Tracy is making. He wants to blot out everything about the flat and its occupants. 
'Have a look in the other bedroom,' Sylvie urges. 
'I haven't really got time.' 
'You just have a look. It won't take a minute.' She grips his arm to prevent him from escaping. He lets himself be led along the hall and into the other bedroom. Sylvie explains, 'All the damp collects under the window, see? She wanted to use it as a nursery, but how can you keep a baby in here? I use it sometimes if I'm staying overnight, but I don't like leaving my place empty—not these days.' She releases his arm to go to the window and lift a loose piece of peeling paper under the sill. Brown mould covers the plaster. 'Look at it.' 
'Terrible.' 
'You've seen the bathroom, haven't you?' 
'Yes. I've got to be going now.' He goes back into the hall. Nothing is between him and the front door. 
'And she needs all them locks at night,' Sylvie's voice follows him. 
'I'm sure she does,' he agrees, opening the front door. The smell of refuse assails him again. 'Well, goodbye. Thanks for the tea.' 
'You daren't open the front door at night.' 
'That's another thing to mention to your MP.' He turns away thankfully, noticing the stairs. 'I've got to dash now.' 
'It's quicker to wait for the lift,' Sylvie calls after him. 
'I'm fine,' he murmurs, not caring whether she can hear. 'Just fine.' 
He opens the fire door thankfully and begins his descent. Once around the first bend, he looks back, expecting to find Sylvie coming after him with more complaints about the flat; but he hears no voice, no footsteps. Even the crying is no more than a ringing in his ears. As he continues on his way, his body relaxes as he soaks up the sun blazing through the plastic panels. He tries to rid himself of the smell of mould by breathing deeply. He sniffs under his arms, detecting perspiration. Normally he would never allow his shirt to get in such a state. 
Nobody else is on the stairs. At the door to the ground floor lobby he hesitates, listening. Nothing. The children have gone. He pushes open the door cautiously, half expecting to see Mary or her friends. The lobby is empty. Suddenly his whole life seems a matter of fleeing from people in flats.

chapter six

From the mound on which the tower block stands, Arnold gazes at a main road with its never-ending traffic as he tries to remember the barber's instructions. The route to the station seemed simple enough, but a lot has happened since then. Safer to go around the other side of the block to the shopping street from where he began his detour. He checks his course against the sun once more, imagining himself as an aborigine going walkabout. 
Just as the sweetness of orangeade clung to his palate, now it is the taste of tea made with powdered milk which he wants to wash away. Suddenly a long, cool drink seems the most desirable thing in the world.
Descending through the drab, municipal landscaping again, the thudding rhythms of music from one of the flats assailing his ears. The crying and Sylvie's whining voice still reverberate in his mind. Far overhead, an airliner glints in the sun. When he was walking with Jackie, he never noticed the initials scratched in the paintwork of the lamp standards. Nothing accessible is left untouched by vandals. He licks his lips, marvelling at the salty taste of sweat. Wanting to get out of the sun. Wishing that he had brought sunglasses. He has always thought them an affectation, though Helen keeps urging him to buy them. She worries about the damage caused to the eyes by ultraviolet light. Her concern touches him.
'Cooee.'
He groans, knowing who it is without looking back. If he had not stopped to help Jackie, he might already be on a train to Liverpool Street. He walks faster, wanting to run, but knowing that this will make his intentions obvious. Not seemly to run— 
'Cooee.'
Veering off the path. Though he knows that taking short cuts damages the grass, escape is uppermost in his mind. Climbing the mound of the next tower block, his heart pounding from the unaccustomed exercise. At least he has the satisfaction of knowing that Mary will be panting even more if she does not abandon the chase altogether. The block looms before him, identical to the one he has just left. At least it provides welcome shadow. As he nears the entrance he is tempted to dodge inside, exploiting his familiarity with the layout to outwit his pursuer if she has managed to get that far. He wants to look back to see whether she is still following, but to do so would be to acknowledge her presence. The prospect of having to face her again unnerves him. He does not know whether she would be angry or reproachful. Stories come to mind of animals on country lanes at night, caught in car headlights and so mesmerised that they cannot move. He feels some sympathy. 
Time to decide whether or not to go into the flats. Indecisiveness is costing him precious seconds. In the back of his mind is the fear that where Mary goes, Hussain might follow. One terrible scenario is of being pursued higher and higher in the tower by Hussain until there is no escape. Arnold hurries past the entrance, unwilling to take the risk. At least in the open he has a chance of giving his pursuer the slip. 
Running now the decision is made, not caring what people think. Running to the older streets, where there are more opportunities to evade her. Recalling inconsequentially that first stilted conversation with Jackie as he carried her shopping: she must have been to the post office, or she would have taken the other route. The slops must have seemed formidable as she struggled with the pram which was bought so cheaply.
A crowded pavement; a babble of languages. Arnold's pace has slowed to a walk. Passing Asian and Caribbean food shops stocked with vegetables which he does not recognise and which are displayed on boxes outside the windows, a prey to dust and flies. Fortunately, Margaret shops at Sainsbury's, where standards of hygiene can be relied on. At least that is something which they never have to argue about. He is careful to choose a clean restaurant on those rare occasions when he eats out. It worries him that Sam is so keen on takeaways. The whole house reeks when she brings home curries or Chinese meals late at night. The smell lingers the following morning.
One shop window unheeded by passers-by is crowded with racks of second hand suits, dresses, coats and sports jackets. Arnold shudders at the thought of who might have worn them. He is willing to bet that the garments were not dry cleaned before being put on sale.
The open doors of a betting shop reveal a tableau from a Beryl Cook painting: men crowding beneath a television screen while the floor around them is strewn with cigarette ends and betting slips. The window of the dental surgery next door is shielded with a tangled Venetian blind. He would not care to be treated there. The aroma of freshly-baked bread emanates from a bakery similar to the one which he visited, but there is no time to savour the smell. He overtakes window-shoppers, bent old men leaning on sticks and tiny children clinging to their mothers. 
'Cooee.'
The voice which he cannot lose stirs him to greater haste. If only there were a taxi to hail. A bus would at least take him away from her. He glances around in desperation, but there is no escape amongst the ranks of shops. All that catches his eye is an alley. Should he—  
'Cooee.'
Cool and dark in the alley. Barely a slit between the walls of the buildings on either side, which seem to converge over his head. Rubble is compacted underfoot; little grows there apart from a few spindly weeds at the base of the walls. Arnold is careful to avoid rubbing his clothes against the bricks. The noises of the street recede. He dare not look back. Beyond the buildings, garden walls rise to head height on either side. All he can do is to press on, hoping that the alley does not prove to be a dead end.
His immediate fear proves groundless: the alley connects with another running behind the shops. He turns left. The ground is rougher. He stumbles on rubbish concealed amongst weeds: a rusting lawn mower, bricks, empty and dented paint tins. Saplings spring back after him. By standing on tiptoe, he can see over the walls to the back yards of shops. Wooden stairways lead to the flats on the upper floors. None of the tenants bothers about gardening, judging by the rampant weeds and the discarded cartons. One yard has been laid out as a patio, but nobody has thought to water the pot plants. Not surprisingly they are dead. 
Arnold glances back. Either Mary did not notice the alley, or its narrowness deterred her. A moment of relief gives way to the thought that she might telephone Hussain, who will be more thorough in seeking out his erstwhile ally. Arnold feels the hardness returning to his stomach. He dodges into one of the yards to crouch half-hidden behind the broken gate, recalling those schoolboy games played on the walk home. He glances at his shoes: hard to believe that he polished them little more than twelve hours ago. One scratch is so deep that it will never come out. Goose grass from the alley clings to his clothes, resisting attempts to brush it away. He abandons the task in order to listen for his pursuer. Two Chinese are arguing in one of the shops. A phone-in blares from a radio. He tries to attune to the sound of footsteps. If Mary is following, his only hope is to remain hidden. Wait five minutes, he tells himself. If nothing has happened by then, he will see whether the alley provides a way out into the next street— 
'You hiding from somebody?'
Arnold turns, startled. From where he crouches, the grinning Negro looming over him looks huge. Seeing the immaculate black suit, white shirt and black shoes polished to a shine, it crosses Arnold's mind that he has stumbled into the back yard of a funeral director. Only the red tie and that grin belie the image. Arnold forces a smile in return. The can of lager his interrogator is holding makes him feel thirsty again.
'Trying to,' he admits, getting to his feet. His legs are stiff. He notices with a sinking heart how the knees of his trousers bulge. There is no question that his suit will have to be discarded. He watches his new companion standing in the gateway and peering along the alley.
'Nobody's here,' the man announces.
'That's something.' Now that he is standing, Arnold still feels like a pigmy. He clears his throat. 'I'm sorry to stray into your garden.'
'You see me shouting?'
'No.'
'Who were you running away from?'
'A woman.'
The grin widens. 'You were running away from a woman? She must have been keen on you.'
'Not that sort of woman.'
The smile erupts into a gurgling laugh which convulses the man's body.
'Could you have another look?' Arnold pleads as the laughter subsides. 
'Sure.' The man peers down the alley again, watched anxiously by Arnold. 'Looks like you're safe.'
'Good.' Arnold makes another half-hearted attempt to brush away the weeds, but he only succeeds in smearing green streaks over his trousers. He looks up to see his companion watching with amusement.
'You've got yourself in a state, man.'
'I'd agree with you there.'
'You don't want to wear a suit if you've got a woman chasing you down alleys.'
'I didn't know it was going to be like that. I was on my way to the office.'
His confidant roars with laughter again. 'That's good.' 
'I didn't think so.' 
'You want to keep your work and your women separate.' 
'It was unfortunate.' Arnold glances warily towards the gate. 
'There's nobody there,' the man assures him. 
'There could be four of them.' 
That provokes another gurgle of laughter. The huge body threatens to erupt again. 'Four women after you! You want to tell me how you do it?' 
'The other three are men.' 
'They're her relatives, right?' 
'No.' 
'What you want to do is come in and have a drink.' 
Arnold feels an arm encircling him. It propels him towards the back door and into a kitchen used as a storeroom. There is a pleasant smell which he cannot identify. He is more successful in placing the sounds coming from the shop beyond the bead curtain as South American folk music: Helen had a phase when she played a tape of it all the time. The inexpert twanging of a guitar from upstairs strikes an incongruous note. 
'You sit here,' his host commands, pressing Arnold onto a chair near the door. 'I'm Baz. Anything you want, Baz can help you.' 
'I'm Arnold.' 
'What you need is a beer to cool you down, Arne.' 
Arnold nods helplessly. Not since his schooldays has there been a morning when so many people have told him what to do. His saviour pulls a can from a pack on the table and hands it to him. 'You drink that. It'll make you feel better.' 
The can is delightfully cold. Condensation mists the surface. This time Arnold holds the can away from his clothes as he pulls the ring, but foam does not cascade over his hands. He drinks eagerly. Baz watches, nodding approval like a doctor encouraging his patient to take his medicine. 
'How's that?' 
'Good.' 
'You know what, Arne? Whoever they are, they sure scared you.' 
'You're not into politics, I suppose?' 
'Politics?' Baz chuckles. 'Is that what you are—a politician?' 
Arnold shakes his head. 
'When we had the council elections, they were all coming round. Labour, Conservative, Lib. Dems.—they were all here making promises.' 
'I'm nothing to do with them.' 
'They give you all these promises and you both know it's shit.' 
'That's politicians for you.' 
'You agree?' 
'More of less.' 
'Good.' 
They nod over the shortcomings of politicians. The guitarist has given up. When Baz glances out the window, Arnold is alert again. 
'What's happening?' 
'Relax. Nobody's there.' 
'Sorry.' 
'If she did come looking, she wouldn't find you in here.' 
'How about the front?' 
'You think she might be out the front?' 
'If she didn't see me dodge down the alley.' 
'I can look if you want.' 
'Please.' 
'So who I'm looking for?' 
'She's about sixty. Plump. Green dress with lots of badges on it.' 
Baz gazes at Arnold wonderingly. 'She's your girlfriend?' 
'No.' 
That deep-throated chuckle again. 'I thought your girlfriend was after you.' 
'Nothing like that,' Arnold assures him.
'She's your mother!' The thought sends Baz into paroxysms of laughter. He throws back his head. 'Mothers can be devils.' 
'She's not my mother! She's just somebody I can't get rid of.' 
'Okay, okay. I'll look for you.' Baz is still chuckling as he pushes aside the bead curtain. Arnold glimpses a display of brightly coloured rugs and an array of curios in brass and carved wood. He waits expectantly. The source of the smell comes to him: joss sticks. Helen had a fad for them after one of her friends had travelled in India. At first he thought that one of the neighbours was having a bonfire. Even when Helen's bedroom door was closed, the smell pervaded the house. It was not that he disliked the smell, but he did not want to live with it. Fortunately she soon lost interest. He was glad that he did not have to put his foot down: apart from the fact that asserting his authority always made him feel uncomfortable, Sam was only thirteen at the time and followed every argument between her older sister and their parents. Now Sam's interests are clothes and going to discos. These provoke more arguments than Helen's enthusiasms ever did. He does not think that he is being excessively strict in wanting to know where she is going and expecting her to be home at a reasonable hour. What she will not realise is that he has her safety at heart. 
The guitarist resumes practising with renewed vigour if with no greater prowess. Arnold raises his eyebrows expectantly as his host returns. 
'There's no one like your old lady hanging around,' Baz announces. 
'And no men? One's an Arab in a suit.' 
'Nobody's hanging around. You take a look if you don't believe me.' 
'I'll take your word for it.' 
'Why are they after you? You owe them money?' 
'They want me to get involved in something.' 
'To get involved in something,' Baz muses, looking puzzled. 
'I think it's something political.' 
'You said you weren't into that politics shit.' 
'I'm not, but they are.' 
'I'd keep out of it.' 
'That's what I'm trying to do, but they keep following me around.' Even to himself the plea is unconvincing, the tone whining. 
'You want to come up?' 
'Eh?' 
'Come upstairs. You can stay and meet the others.' 
'The others?' Arnold repeats stupidly. For a moment he fears that he has been tricked and that Mary and her fellow conspirators are waiting for him. 
'It's only Becky up there at the moment. We live upstairs.' 
'Ah.' 
'Do you want some more beer?' 
'I'm okay for the moment, thanks.' 
Baz peers out the window again. 'Looks as if you've shaken off your old lady.' 
'Good.' 
'Do you want to come up?' 
'Perhaps I'll just stay here for a while.' 
'Come on, Arne!' 
'I don't know.' 
'Say hello to Becky.' 
'She might not want a stranger barging in.' 
'She likes visitors.' 
Arnold can think of no more excuses. Clutching the lager can, he follows his host up the narrow staircase. The scent of joss-sticks is overlain with spices which are reminiscent of Sam's takeaways. The floral wallpaper with its orderly, vertical ranks of unidentifiable flowers might have appealed to his grandmother; it seems incongruous in this world of incense and exotic carved figures. The edges of the strips are torn. The stairs creak. Holes in the cord carpet reveal hollowed, wooden treads, making Arnold worry lest the stairs collapse beneath his host's weight. Baz's bulk blocks most of the light from above. 
The twanging of the guitar becomes more prominent. On the landing, the South American music can barely be heard. Baz holds aside a bead curtain. A huge paper ball of a lampshade is suspended in the centre of the room. Why it has to hang two feet from the floor so that anybody can trip over it, Arnold cannot imagine. Beside it, a girl with short, curly hair sits cross-legged on a rug, cradling a guitar. Her white blouse has an intricate, embroidered  pattern. A loose, cotton skirt reveals her ankles. The Doc Martens are incongruous, but he acknowledges that they are part of the uniform of youth. She gazes at him with liquid, hazel eyes which betray suspicion. A snub nose stops her from being beautiful—a girl who has retained her schoolgirl looks into her twenties. 
'Arnold's being watched,' Baz explains. 'He's staying here till he's sure it's all clear.' 
Difficult to tell from her expression whether she believes him. The story sounds unconvincing even to Arnold. 
Baz touches Arnold's shoulder. 'I'd better get back to the shop. Anything you want, ask Becky.' 
'Thanks—thanks for everything.' Arnold smiles. Now that he can be sure Baz is not in league with Mary and her friends, he feels more at ease. The bead curtain rattles across the doorway behind his good Samaritan. The stairs creak again. With some misgivings, Arnold switches his smile to the girl who is watching him. 'Go on playing.' 
'Were you really being followed?' 
'I was,' he agrees almost proudly, going to the open sash window overlooking the street. No net curtain shields him. He stands to one side as he looks down on the pavement. His pursuers are nowhere to be seen. It passes through his mind to get a better view by leaning out, but he does not want to tempt providence. 
As he turns away from the window, he becomes aware that the girl is staring at him. He smiles again. 'I'm Arnold. You know that, don't you? Silly of me.' 
She looks puzzled. 
'Baz found me hiding out the back and kindly invited me in.' Before she can ask any awkward questions, he stumbles on, 'You live here, do you?' It is on the tip of his tongue to ask whether she is Baz's wife, but he thinks better of it. So many young people live together without being married these days; he never knows how to address them. 
'Six of us do.' 
'And you take it in turns to look after the shop, do you?' 
'Three of us go out to work, the rest of us run the shop.' She looks wary of his interest. 
'And you're the cook?' 
'We take it in turns.' 
'I can see everything's well-organised.' It was not his intention to sound patronising, though from the way Becky's expression hardens, this must be the impression his words convey. His gaze strays to his surroundings. The living room is the sort of place which appeals to young people: white walls, worn carpet, not quite the right shape for the room, and no furniture except for a television. He would hardly call it furnished. 
Becky does not bother to watch him any longer. He suspects that she has written him off as a harmless crank and a has-been. 'I used to play the guitar myself,' he volunteers, but his attempt at conversation does not spark the expected interest. 'It was a long while ago, of course.' 
During his schooldays he had a sneaking admiration for his classmates who played in rock bands. When he started work, he felt able to buy his own guitar, saving up for it rather than buying it by weekly instalments as other boys did. He never had any intention of performing in public. None of his friends knew about his purchase. At first he practised assiduously whenever his parents were out, trying to emulate Eric Clapton, but his initial enthusiasm wore off after a couple of months. Evening classes took an increasing amount of his spare time. Four months later, he sold the guitar at a loss through a small-ad in the local paper. It was not a decision which he regretted. 
'How long are you staying for?' Becky asks. 
'I'm not sure yet. It won't be for long, unless you'd rather I went now.' 
'It's okay.' She lays down the guitar and scrambles to her feet—a slim girl with a boyish figure. 'I was wondering about food. Are you staying for a meal?' 
'I hadn't thought about it.' 
'Time to think.' She pushes through the bead curtain across a second doorway. As it shivers closed behind her, he looks around helplessly. He wants to sit in order to finish his lager, but cushions are the only seating. They are patterned in dark browns, blues and reds and are scattered around the edge of the carpet. He hesitates, toying with the idea of going downstairs again, but he does not want to offend Baz. After scanning the street again he lowers himself cautiously onto one of the cushions, trying not to stretch the knees of his trousers any further out of shape. He would like a saucer to put under the can so that no beer drips on the carpet, but he hesitates to ask Becky. Not that anybody else worries about the carpet, judging by its state. He shifts on the cushion, bending his knees upwards so that the legs of his trousers do not brush against the floor. He is uncomfortably aware of the bloating in his stomach. Normally he avoids fizzy drinks for this very reason. He rubs his abdomen, wondering whether Becky would hear if he belched quietly. The smell of cooking makes him hungry, though normally he would not lunch so early. As he glimpses her through the bead curtain, he thinks of Margaret at home in her kitchen. She is a good cook, though her tastes are traditional by the girls' standards. Her pastry is excellent, as other members of the Women's Institute acknowledge. He longs to know what she would think of the meal Becky is preparing. 
'Come through,' Becky calls. 
He gets up thankfully, brushing his clothes again. Pushing through the bead curtain, enjoying the sensation of strings of beads touching him. Becky is leaning over a large pot on the cooker. 
'Bean hot pot,' she announces. 'Do you want some?' 
'I'll give it a try,' he agrees, wanting to please her as much as to assuage his hunger. 
'You don't have to.' 
'I want to.' 
She does not reply. 
'The others help themselves when they get in, do they?' 
'We dip into it if one of us has to be in the shop.' 
'Sounds like a good idea.' 
She glances at him contemptuously. 'We do get busy sometimes.' 
'I'm sure you do.' 
She turns back to the cooker. Her face is hidden from him. 
'How long have you lived here?' he tries again.
'Six months.' 
'And you like it?' 
'Why not?' 
'I just wondered.' 
'I wouldn't stay otherwise, would I?' 
'I suppose not.' 
'Are you going to try some?' 
'Please.' 
She ladles a sample of hot pot into a bowl and gives it to him. 
'Thanks.' He puts down the lager can and sniffs the contents of the bowl. 'That's the stuff.' 
She looks puzzled. 
'Just a saying my mother used to use,' he explains. He has not thought of it for years. The smell of the hot pot brought it back to him. She made lots of stews. Looking back, he realises that this was more a matter of necessity than of choice. Though the family was not badly off, the only money coming into the house was what his father earned from his insurance round. There was never any suggestion that his mother should go out to work. His father had a position to keep up. 
'Try it then,' Becky prompts, watching him. 
Arnold takes a spoon from the cutlery on the draining board and tastes the hot pot. 'Good,' he pronounces. It reminds him of a highly-seasoned stew.
As Becky fills the bowl, her brow furrows. 'I still don't understand who was watching you.' 
'Just some people I got mixed up with.' 
'Cryptic.' 
'I didn't mean to be.' He considers explaining further, but he suspects that Becky might sympathise with his pursuers. 'Not very savoury people,' he compromises. 
'You shouldn't always be running away.' 
'It's not always happening! It's never happened to me before.' He knows that he is whining like Jackie. 
'Running away is always a mistake.' 
He wonders how Becky knows. He tries to think of circumstances where running away is the best thing to do, but when faced with such certainty his mind goes blank. All he can do is to explain, 'I was on my way to work.' 
'Where's that?' 
'In the City.' 
'Figures.' 
'How do you mean?' 
'Doesn't matter. So how did you come to be here?' 
He tells her. 
'You're lucky. I can never sleep in trains.' 
'I don't usually.' 
She frowns. 'You don't have to clutch your jacket like that. Nobody's going to steal it.' 
'Sorry.' 
'And you don't have to apologise.' 
'I suppose not.' 
'Do you want to put it down?' 
'Where?'
'How about the table? It is clean,' she adds, seeing his hesitation. 
'It's a bit damp.' 
'You can dry it with the tea cloth. If you'd rather spill soup down your jacket, it's up to you.' She turns back to the pot. Arnold wonders whether Helen will be so assured when she moves into digs. At least she has none of Becky's abrasiveness. He thinks that she will be able to cope, though Margaret is uncertain. For Helen's sake, he hopes that he is right. 
He becomes aware that Becky is watching him. 'Sorry,' he says, pulling himself together. 'Just thinking about my daughters.' 
Becky raises her eyebrows. 
'They're both in their teens,' he explains, wondering whether to bring out their photographs. 
Becky almost grins. 'Are you hoping they won't end up in a place like this?' 
'No.' He is not sure whether she is being sarcastic. 'I was just thinking how like Helen you are. She's the older one.' 
That does make Becky smile. She admits, 'I'm a long way from being a teenager.' 
'I'm sure you're not.' 
'You'd be surprised.' 
He tastes the hot pot again, reluctant to admit that Becky is a good cook. On probing it with his spoon, he finds three different types of bean. Margaret never uses dried beans. To break the silence he remarks, 'I didn't think there were any communes left.' 
'We don't call ourselves that.' 
'What do you call yourself?' 
'We share a house, that's all.' 
'Will the others be back for lunch?' 
She shakes her head. 'I got it ready early. I'll be out this afternoon.' 
'So I'm lucky.' 
'Just the three of us.' She smiles. 'You'll be able to tell us all about these people who've been following you.' 
Her evident disbelief irritates him. To change the subject he asks, 'When do you usually eat?' 
'Usually about twelve. The shop gets busy later on. Sometimes we leave it till the evening.' 
He glances at his watch. Gone eleven already. Alarming how the morning has flown by. While Mary might be lurking outside, he resigns himself to staying in spite of Becky's obvious antipathy. 
'Can you get the rolls out the bag and put them on a plate?' she tells him. 'The butter's in the fridge.' 
Overcoming his misgivings, Arnold puts down his jacket and the bowl. The fridge is packed with food: sprouting things in plastic bags which he does not examine too closely, half-empty tins of beans and sweet corn, and soup left in plastic bowls so long that the surface has formed a skin. Margaret is scrupulous about not leaving unwanted food in the fridge for more than two days and never leaving anything in tins. If members of the commune go down with food poisoning, he would not be surprised. 
'You said butter,' he queries. 
'Unless you want dry rolls.' 
'Real butter, you mean?' 
'Yes, real butter.' She looks at him quizzically. 'What's the matter now?' 
'I was expecting a spread.' 
'Only the real thing here. I should have got it out earlier to give it time to soften.' 
'I haven't had butter for years.' 
That amuses her. 'You haven't lived. There's nothing like unsalted butter. It's like cream.' She licks her lips in anticipation. 'I suppose you haven't had cream for years either?' 
'Don't you worry about cholesterol?' He takes the silver packet from the rack on the fridge door, noting that half the butter is left and that there is only a day to go before it should be used. He wonders whether to tell Becky.
'We worry more about the hydrogenated oils in spreads.'
'Where are the rolls?'
'In the bag on the table. If you put them on a plate.' 
He takes a plate from the pile on the draining board. The rattle of the bead curtain behind him makes him start. For so large a man, Baz moves silently. 
'I've had another look for you,' Baz announces. 'There's nobody watching.' 
'That's reassuring.' 
Baz leans over Becky's shoulder. 'How's it coming along?' 
'Ready whenever you want.' 
'Okay—let's eat.' 
Arnold carries the bowl of hot pot and his jacket back to the living room. As he watches Baz laying a pink plastic tablecloth on the carpet, he remembers his grandmother buying her first plastic cloth. For what seemed like years it covered the living-room table. After it was torn, it came in handy for lining a shelf in the larder. His grandmother hated throwing anything away. 
Baz kneels, smoothing the folds from the cloth. 
'Do you want me to help?' Arnold asks, conscious of his intrusion into the well-ordered routine. He is surprised that anybody in a suit should eat off the floor.
'No need,' Becky says, appearing from the kitchen with a tray on which are two bowls of steaming hot pot, spoons, the plate of rolls and the packet of butter. She kneels opposite Baz. Arnold watches this strange communion, wondering whether he will be expected to say grace. Religion has never figured strongly in his life. Apart from weddings and funerals, he never goes to church, though he considers himself to be a Christian. Margaret's viewpoint is similar. Sometimes he wonders whether the girls have missed out on something which would enrich their lives. Each time the thought occurs to him, it makes him question his fitness as a parent. 
Becky transfers the food from the tray to the cloth. Inconsequentially it occurs to Arnold that there should be a fourth diner to create symmetry. He finds himself watching the curve of her body as she kneels, leaning across the cloth. 
'Sit yourself down,' Baz invites. 
Arnold puts down his bowl and lays his jacket behind him on the carpet. He has never eaten without a table since a picnic as a child. As he settles on a cushion again, he arranges his legs sideways so that his trousers will not be stretched at the knees. He cuts  a roll open, trying to remember when he last ate butter. It must have been before the girls were born. His grandmother always bought butter when she could afford it, though she kept it in a glass dish rather than putting a packet on the table. 
When he attempts to spread the butter, pieces of dough adhere to the lump. 
'It's easier if you spread it thickly,' Baz advises. 
'He doesn't think it's good for him,' Becky explains. 
Baz chuckles. 'You know, Arne, you're the worrying type. Has anybody told you that?' 
'My daughters.' 
'They're right.' 
They do not hesitate to criticise him. He feels helpless in the face of how quickly they have grown away from him. It is his only regret about having children. He glances at Becky, so sturdily independent, and wonders whether her parents feel the same. 
'What do you think of Becky's hot pot?' Baz asks. 
'It's good.' 
'All good things in this: celery, thyme, coriander, garlic, beans ...' 
Margaret never makes soup. She says that it is not worth the effort when the commercially produced varieties are so good. Nor does she use garlic. He takes another mouthful of hot pot, trying to identify the flavours which Baz mentioned. Then he breaks off a piece of roll, smearing it with butter. The butter really does taste like cream. He can imagine Margaret's shock if he said that he would like butter in future. Helen would be appalled. 
'So who are these people you're running away from?' Becky wants to know. 
'I'm not sure.' 
'You got mixed up with them and you don't know who they are?' 
'They're some sort of left-wing group.' 
'Dangerous people, left-wingers.' 
Arnold can tell from her tone that she is being sarcastic. He looks down at his food. 
'Why were they looking for you?' Baz enquires. 
'They wanted me to get involved in something.' 
'Getting involved in left-wing activities,' Becky murmurs. 'Sounds heavy. What were they going to do—blow up something?' 
'I got away before they told me.' 
'So it might have been something completely harmless?' 
'They had a Libyan terrorist there.' He has the satisfaction of seeing his two companions exchange glances. 
'Do you know any of their names?' Becky asks. 
Arnold hesitates, afraid that Mary might be known to them. 
'We know all the left-wing groups around here,' Becky explains, confirming his suspicions. 'I don't know that any of them are involved with Libyans.' 
'I don't think they're local. They're staying in a flat till they've held some sort of demonstration.' 
Baz raises his eyebrows. 'That won't be popular.' 
'How do you mean?' 
'Having strangers muscling in.' 
Arnold feels that he has already said too much. He wishes that he had not stayed for the meal. Any pleasure in eating has evaporated now his pursuers are foremost in his thoughts again. 
'Where is this flat?' Becky wants to know. 
'In one of the tower blocks.' 
'Which one?' 
'I don't know.' When he sees her turning back to her food with what looks like contempt on her face, he knows that he has forfeited any sympathy she might have shown. He tries to eat quickly so that he can make his escape. 
'Did you get any cheese?' Baz asks her. 
'I forgot to put it out.' 
'Becky's our shopper,' Baz explains. 'She knows all the prices.' 
'I'm a bit more careful than you, that's all.' Becky amends, getting up. Her movements are graceful. As Arnold continues eating, he watches her going through the bead curtain into the kitchen. He hears her unpacking the carrier bag. When she returns, she is picking at the plastic around a block of cheese with a kitchen knife. 'I should have taken the wrapper off earlier to let it breathe.' 
'Do you want some, Arne?' Baz asks. 
'No thanks.' 
'He doesn't like the fat,' Becky explains. 
'I have cheese,' Arnold defends himself. 
'I got mature this time,' she says as if to entice him. 'It's got more flavour.' The wrapper breaks. She cuts off a slice of cheese for herself and offers the rest to him. When he declines, she gives the block to Baz, along with the knife. Baz helps himself to a thicker wedge. 
'Don't you have to watch the shop?' Arnold queries. 
'We'll hear the bell. Anyway we can't leave visitors to eat alone.' 
'Do you get many?' 
'Visitors or customers?' 
'Visitors.' 
'There's always people coming and going.' Baz nods slowly to himself. 'Coming and going.' 
'But not turning up the way I did.' 
'We get friends, friends of friends, people wanting to sample how we live, people with nowhere to go, people who want to criticise.' 
'You let them in if they come to criticise?' 
'Sure. Sometimes we convert them.' 
Warning bells sound in Arnold's mind. He has heard about cults. He wishes that he had looked more closely at the contents of the shop to check whether they are religious in tone. He glances around the room, but there are no ikons which might give a clue to Baz's remark. And no prayer was said before the meal. 
'Remember Dave?' Becky is looking at Baz. 'He was sceptical, but he ended up staying.' 
Arnold puts down his spoon. In other circumstances he might have asked for more. As it is, he thinks of the excuses which he might make before Becky presses him further about his pursuers. 
'You must have liked it,' Baz says, noticing the empty bowl. 
'Lots of flavour,' Arnold agrees, wiping his mouth with his hand. He wishes that he had a handkerchief. 
'There's plenty more,' Becky offers. 
'I ought to be going.' 
'Rushing about is bad for you,' Baz declares, 'especially after a meal. Anyway, you haven't finished your roll yet.' 
Arnold pulls another piece from the roll and chews. 
'The longer you stay, the less chance of running into these people who are looking for you,' Baz reasons.
Arnold has to concede the point. 
'You could stay till the others get back.' 
'When's that?' 
'About five.' 
He shakes his head. 'I can't wait that long.' 
'You could meet Derek. He does our accounts.' 
'I'm afraid don't know much about that.' 
'I thought you worked in the City,' Becky says. 
'In insurance.' 
'Insurance costs us a bomb,' Baz remarks. 
'All I can suggest is that you see a broker.' 
'We go through a broker.' 
'Then he should be getting you the best deal.' 
'What it amounts to is that we're paying more to boost insurance companies' profits and line the fat cats' pockets,' Becky declares. 
'Don't forget insurance companies have been making a loss over the last few years,' Arnold points out.
'The broker's a good guy,' Baz says. 'He came for a meal. We like everybody who comes here to share our lives.' 
'Hilary was the last one,' Becky recalls without much enthusiasm. 
Baz chuckles at the memory. 'Hilary was from the States,' he explains. 'She was over here doing some research on music. She stayed for a few weeks, but she didn't fit in.' 
'I suppose that's a risk,' Arnold admits. 
'People decide for themselves. We've never asked anybody to leave.' 
'That's good.' 
'What about that weird guy?' Becky glances at Baz. 'Do you remember Richard?' 
'He left of his own accord.' 
'After a row.' 
Baz shrugs. 'It was his choice.' 
Arnold swallows the last of his roll. 'I'd better be going.' 
'Wait till we've finished,' Baz urges. 
'I'm late as it is.' 
'You can have a look at the shop.' 
Arnold hesitates. 
'You might want to buy something,' Becky agrees. She is smiling. Arnold knows that it would be discourteous to disagree. 
'Buy some gifts for the family,' Baz suggests. 
'I'll have a look, but I can't be too long.' 
'Why do you want to sit in an office this sort of weather?' Becky asks. 
'I don't want to.' 
'Then why bother?' 
It crosses Arnold's mind to mention words like duty and responsibility, but he does not think that such sentiments will go down well with his hostess. 
'You're like my father,' Becky says scornfully, vindicating his decision to remain silent. 'Doesn't it worry you?' 
'How do you mean?' 
'Thinking about what you ought to do all the time rather than what you want to do.' 
'Not really.' 
'That's worrying in itself.' 
'Is it?' 
'I should have thought so. You do what you're told without thinking questioning things.' 
'Don't preach at our guest,' Baz cautions. 
'I'm not preaching. I'm interested.' 
'Becky gets carried away,' Baz explains to Arnold. 
'Don't you think we ought to do what we want while we've got the chance?' she perseveres, looking from one man to the other. 
Baz chuckles. 'In that case I'd close the shop and go to the Oval.' 
'Perhaps you should.' 
'We've got to pay the rent. Ask Arne.' 
'We only get one life.' 
'Depends what your religion is. Some people would say we get many lives.' 
'But you don't.' 
'We often get back to religion,' Baz explains to their guest. 
'Time to be going,' Arnold announces, his suspicions confirmed. He gets to his feet and picks up his jacket. His legs are stiff. He smiles at Becky. 'Thank you for your hospitality.' 
Becky smiles back, much to his surprise. 'Don't forget—you only get one life.' 
'I'll remember,' he assures her, backing towards the doorway. 'Thanks for everything.' 
'I'll show you the shop,' Baz offers, putting down his bowl. 
'I don't want to disturb your lunch.' 
'It gets disturbed whenever there's a customer. We're used to it.' 
Arnold is tempted to say that customers seem a rarity, but he thinks better of it. He leads the way down the stairs, gripping the handrail tightly. 
'Go straight through to the shop,' Baz calls from behind him when he hesitates at the bottom. He pushes through the bead curtain. The smell of joss sticks becomes prominent again. Brassware glows. The narrowness of the gangways and the high shelving on either side make the shop appear cluttered. 
'It's certainly quite a display,' he admits, fingering one of the carved wooden totems. 
'Is there anything you want?' 
'Perhaps one of these.' 
'Going by your first instincts.' 
'How much are they?' 
'The price is on the bottom.' 
Arnold turns it over to see the label. 'Three pounds thirty.' 
'They're popular as gifts.' 
'Are there enough customers around here?' Arnold takes a note from his wallet. 
'Do you ever get enough?' 
'It doesn't seem the sort of area ...' 
'Things tick over.' 
'So long as you can make a living.' 
'We're importers as well. We distribute to other shops.' 
'There must mean a lot of paperwork.' Arnold responds, curious in spite of his anxiety to get away. 
'Derek deals with that.' 
'Busy man, Derek.' 
'He likes figures.' 
'Thanks for showing me round—and for the food, the lager and your hospitality.' 
'Do you want a bag?' 
'Not to worry.' Arnold puts the totem in his jacket pocket and regrets his decision immediately. The hard edges will make holes in the fabric. 
'Do you think you could do something for me?' 
'What?' 
'Look after the shop for a few minutes while I go to the betting shop.' Seeing Arnold's alarm, Baz adds, 'You won't get anybody coming in—not this time of day—and I won't be long.' 
'Wouldn't Becky be better?' 
Baz leans closer to confide, 'I don't want to tell her. She don't like me betting.' 
'I don't know the prices.' 
'Everything's marked.' 
'What about change?' 
'There's plenty in the till.' 
'I've never used one of those before.' 
'You key in the price and press the entry button. It's like a calculator.' 
Arnold hesitates. 
'Go on, Arne.' 
Churlish to refuse. Arnold takes the till key. 
'You're a friend,' Baz declares, gripping his shoulder. 'I'll be two minutes. You won't get a customer, I promise.' 
It is not until Arnold is alone that he realises how trusting Baz has been—more trusting than he would be towards a stranger. He has never taken the role of shopkeeper before. The sense of power is heady. He is tempted to stand outside like the shopkeepers of old, beaming at prospective customers. It is a silly notion, he knows: for one thing, he does not want to draw attention to himself. To pass the time, he examines the rest of the stock: brass bowls enamelled in bright colours, hand bells, miniature wooden cabinets and carvings of elephants and masks. How there can be a demand for such items in a rundown area east London is beyond him. He lifts one of the bells. The clapper touches the outer metal with a tinkle which he muffles immediately. 
Two girls pause outside the window. Arnold watches, willing them not to come inside. The old anxieties return. He is conscious of his shirt sticking to his back again: he suspects that eating hot food has brought that on. He breathes deeply to calm himself as the girls saunter on, oblivious to the reaction which they have caused. He perches on the upright chair by the till, pleased that at least one small crisis is over. The smell of joss sticks is soporific, reminding him of the pipe tobacco his father smoked. How his mother hated the noise of blowing through the pipe. 'Got to clear the tubes,' his father would explain before cleaning the charred wooden bowl with a penknife. 
The jewellery catches Arnold's eye. Had he noticed it earlier, he would have bought an item of jewellery in preference to the totem, so long as it is reasonably priced. It would have been easier to carry. Sam likes hand-crafted jewellery. He gets up to examine the display, trying to decide whether the items are made of real silver. A pendant attracts his attention, both because he thinks it attractive and because it does not have to be worn against the skin: if it is made of inferior metal, it is liable to leave a mark or to cause allergies. From the price, he judges that the mauve stone is only glass. 
Glancing at his watch: no chance of getting to the office until after lunch. Work has not been paramount in his thoughts. He smiles. Perhaps Becky has been more successful that she realised in changing his priorities. 
Boredom with the role of shopkeeper soon overtakes him. He drifts to the front of the shop, looking for Baz, but ready to retreat into the gloom if he sees Mary. Boards creak as Becky moves about overhead. He feels an unreasoning irritation with her for not looking after the shop. Apparently she has nothing to do until the others come home. It crosses his mind to walk out, but Baz has trusted him. Anyway, there is money on the premises. He does not want to leave the shop unattended. 
The girls have wandered back to peer at the window display again. Arnold groans as they debate what to do. He goes back to the till. As they come into the shop, he grips the till key more tightly and pretends to busy himself looking at a catalogue, though he feels that he should watch them to deter shoplifting. They are interested in the jewellery. Easy to slip a ring into a pocket. He puts down the catalogue and moves closer, coughing to make sure that they are aware of his presence.  
'This is nice.' One girl picks up a ring. The way they handle items without asking fills him with indignation. 
'I like this one,' says her friend. 
Arnold is close enough to catch their muttered conversation. He is watchful as they examine rings, brooches, pendants and earings. They are giggling. He suspects that they are laughing at him. 
One of them holds an earing against her ear. 'What do you think?' 
'Try them on.' 
'I don't think you'd better,' he intervenes, adopting the tone he used for remonstrating with his daughters when they were younger. The girl holding the earings scowls. Her hair is dyed a vivid red. The smell of cheap perfume assails him. He notices her legs in black tights and averts his eyes. 
'Who are you?' she wants to know. 
'It doesn't matter who I am.' 
'Let's get out of here,' her friend says, scowling at Arnold. 'You get watched all the time.' 
'You can look as much as you like,' he offers, feeling guilty for losing Baz a potential sale. 'How would you like to buy earings other people have put on?' 
But the girls have lost interest. They walk to the door, the movement of their buttocks visible beneath the tight skirts. He is sure that they accentuate the movement deliberately. He is drawn to it in spite of himself. 
They leave without closing the door and without looking back. He is debating whether to close it or leave it open to let some air in when Baz returns. 
'You met Tracey and Michelle.' 
'The two girls.' 
'They're always coming in.' 
'Do they buy anything?' Arnold asks, his guilt blossoming. 
'Sometimes. They like to browse.' 
'And that's all right?' 
'If you turn away the browsers, you're turning away the potential buyers.' 
Arnold decides not the mention the earings. 
'Thanks, Arne.' Baz grins. 'You've helped me get nearer my fortune.' 
'Do you think you'll win?' 
'Sure.' 
'How much will you make?' 
'Only fifty pounds. Pocket money.' 
'Still, it's useful.' 
'Then I put it into lottery tickets for the big one.' 
'What would you do if you won the lottery?' 
'Go back to Jamaica.' 
'What about this place?' 
Baz shrugs. 'Who cares?' 
Arnold feels an unreasoning sense of disappointment which brings Baz down in his estimation, but makes him feel less guilty about the lost sale. He glances towards the door. 'I'd better be going.' 
'Thanks again, Arne.' 
'Thanks for everything.' Arnold grasps the proffered hand, conscious of his hypocrisy in not confessing that he lost a sale. 
'Becky,' Baz bellows. 'Arne's going.' 
'Okay,' comes the voice from upstairs. 
Baz turns back to Arnold. 'If you're ever this way, look us up.' 
'I'll do that,' Arnold agrees, knowing that it will never happen. He hears the stairs creaking as Becky comes down. He wishes that he had slipped away without seeing her again. 
She brushes back her hair after she comes through the bead curtain. 'I didn't realise you were still here.' 
'Just choosing a souvenir.' He takes the totem from his pocket for her inspection. 'I have paid for it.' 
That amuses her. 'I'm not arguing.' 
'Could one of you point me to the station? I want to get to Liverpool Street.' 
'Keen to get back to your office?' 
He does not think the question worthy of an answer. 
'It's quite a hike to the station,' she warns. 
'I'm getting used to walking.' 
'I'll go with you. I've got to go out.' 
'I don't want to put you out.' 
'No problem. I'll get my purse.' She turns away, pushing through the curtain again. Arnold hears her hurrying upstairs. 
Baz puts an arm around his shoulder. 'All sorted.' 
Arnold nods and wishes that he could have sorted it for himself.

chapter seven

Arnold feels vulnerable standing in the street. He glances around uneasily, ready to run at the sight of Mary. Becky has her face raised to the sun as if in supplication, eyes closed. He watches, trying to rid himself of the feeling of being a voyeur and marvelling at how vulnerable she looks in that moment of blindness.
'It's good to get in the sun,' she murmurs, apparently confident that he has not slipped away.
'It's certainly hot.'
Her eyes open. She regards him pityingly. 'Is that all it means to you?'
'I don't know what I'm supposed to say.'
'The sun is the source of life. Doesn't that ever occur to you?'
'Not in that way.'
'Forget it.'
He stares past her, uneasy now that he has invoked her scorn once more. He wishes that he had insisted on leaving alone. 
'You'll stand out if you keep that up,' she observes. 
'What?' 
'Sulking.' 
'I didn't mean to.' 
'You're pretty noticeable anyway in those clothes.' 
'I didn't know I was going to be here, or I'd have worn something different.' 
'Coming?' 
They walk in silence, away from the tower blocks. 
'You don't have to come all the way,' he offers, made uncomfortable by her taciturnity. 'If you point me in the right direction.' 
'Were you really being followed?' 
'Yes.' 
'Okay. I'm only asking.' 
'Sorry. Didn't mean to snap.' 
'These left-wing people who were following you—they must have given up ages ago, right?' 
'That's what I thought before.' 
She stops walking again. This time she holds his gaze. 'Do you really want to go back to the office?' 
'I have missed the morning.' 
'Missed as in not being there, or do you mean you're pining to get back there?' 
'Missing as in not being there, I suppose.' 
'You only suppose. Don't you know?' 
'If you just tell me how to get to the station.' 
'So you're not going to work till the afternoon. What's it matter?' 
'It would if everybody did it.' 
'Bring down the company profits, wouldn't it?' 
'Customers would go somewhere else.' 
'Can't have that, can we?' 
'It's why you can shop around for insurance: because firms have to be competitive.' 
She smiles. 'All you want is to get away from here, don't you?' 
'Yes.' 
'It's not that bad.' 
'I'm not saying it is—' 
'Just not your sort of world.' 
'That's it.' 
'You ought to stay for a while—see whether you change your mind.' 
'That's not possible.' 
'You mean you don't want to.' 
'I have got a home and a family to think about.' 
'I worry about you.' 
That makes him smile. He assures her, 'You don't have to.' 
'It's your outlook.' 
He shakes his head, not understanding. 
'How old are you?' she asks. 
'I don't see that it matters.' 
'Forty-five?' 
'Why are you interested?' 
'I think you were middle-aged at twenty.' 
'If you want to see me in that way.' 
'What's your idea of enjoying yourself?' 
'Watching television, gardening ...' 
'Flowers.' 
'Eh?' 
'You grow flowers.' 
'Yes.' 
'You would.' 
'What's that mean?' 
'You go for appearances rather than what really matters.' 
'So what should I grow?' 
'Vegetables.' 
'I do.' 
'A few rows at the bottom of the garden.' 
He cannot deny it. 
'And I suppose you go somewhere like Greece for your holidays?' 
'We've been to Greece,' he agrees cautiously, 'but it was a long while ago. We haven't been away for a holiday lately.' 
'Don't you ever want to do something unpredictable and shock everybody?' 
'What's so marvellous about shocking people?' 
'It doesn't matter,' she says irritably, walking on. 
He falls into step beside her. 'Where are we going?' 
'The station. That's what you wanted, isn't it?' 
'If you just tell me how to get there.' 
'I'm taking you there, aren't I?' 
He cannot argue. When he glances at Becky, she seems self-absorbed. He tries to think of an excuse to break away from her, but he knows that if upsets her, she might storm off without giving him directions. 
Leaving the shops. Entering a narrow street with grim tenement blocks on both sides. At least they offer shade. The chatter of a sewing machine comes from an open window. Arnold tries to convince himself that Becky is taking him the right way. Asking her would only provoke a sarcastic reply. 
She halts by an archway leading through the tenement and into a courtyard. 'I've got to visit somebody. You might as well come along.' 
'If you could just tell me how to get to the station.' 
She sighs. 'I've told you—I'll take you there straight after.' 
He cannot rid himself of the suspicion that this might be a trap. Go with Becky and he will be confronted by his enemies. He watches her face, trying to assess whether she is deceiving him. 
'It won't take a minute,' she insists, her tone betraying that her mind is made up. He is torn between wanting to get away from her and uncertainty about facing the unknown city on his own. Even if he insists on being given directions to the station, she might take perverse pleasure in misleading him. When she enters the deeper shadow beneath the arch, he follows. 
The smell reminds him of the entrance to the tower blocks: a mixture of urine and decomposing rubbish. Bright red paint covers the brick walls to shoulder height; if the aim was to discourage graffiti, the attempt has not been a success. The courtyard behind the tenement is in permanent shadow. An identical barrack-like block flanks the far side. Both blocks have three tiers of walkways supported by slender iron columns. Wooden boards cover some of the doors and windows. Worn sheets and clothes faded by frequent washing hang from lines strung above the courtyard. Naked toddlers splash in a bright plastic paddling pool. The cries of older children playing football echo between the blocks. The noise mingles with music from a radio on one of the upper floors, the barking of dogs excited by the arrival of the newcomers and hammering as a bearded man with a ponytail dismantles pallets. He lifts a hand in salutation. Becky waves back before ascending a spiral stone staircase to the upper walkways. She has the confident movements of a regular visitor. Arnold follows cautiously, unused to the wedge-shaped steps. On the first landing she waits for him to catch up. 
'If you want to see what a real squat's like, this is your chance,' she tells him, a hint of triumph in her tone. 
No use objecting that he is not interested. An abrasive, self-willed girl is his assessment of her. She would not last long in an office. He feels thankful that she is not his daughter. 
He follows her along the first-floor walkway, trying not to think about the cracked concrete underfoot. Girls on the walkway opposite break off their conversation to watch. He pretends not to notice. Some of the windows have ill-fitting curtains sagging from string; others are bare. Through one, he glimpses a girl sitting cross-legged on a sleeping bag, mending a pair of jeans. There is nothing else in the room except for a pram. The image of poverty preoccupies him. When Becky stops abruptly, he almost cannons into her. 
There is no knocker. She raps on the glass panels of the door, calling, 'Are you up, Pete?' 
'Hang on,' comes a muffled male voice from inside. 
Flies buzz around the bulging black plastic rubbish sack. The window is uncurtained, but Arnold is not close enough to see in. He cannot quell his forebodings. The idea of meeting more people like the down-and-outs depresses him. He is trying to think of an excuse to get away as the door opens a few inches. A skinny, unshaven youth in boxer shorts regards them blearily. 
'He's okay,' Becky says, nodding towards Arnold. 
The door opens wider. Pete stands back so that his visitors can enter. There is no lobby. Arnold's misgivings seem justified as he looks around a room with bare floorboards and faded, torn wallpaper. There is no furniture except for a stained mattress in one corner. The grate is piled with ash; above it, smoke stains disfigure the tiled surround. A sheet of plywood is propped below the window. From the smell, he suspects that Pete does not wash himself or his clothes regularly. 
'Arne dropped in at the shop,' Becky explains. 'Some guys were chasing him.'
Pete makes no acknowledgement. Arnold wonders whether he is on drugs. 
'One of them's a Libyan,' Becky perseveres. 'I wondered if you knew them.' 
Pete stares at her, making an effort to concentrate. 'What are their names?' he asks eventually. 
Arnold hesitates. 
'Pete knows all the left-wing groups around here,' Becky explains. 
Arnold can believe it. 
'He can't tell you anything if he doesn't know who you're talking about,' she prompts. 
Reluctantly Arnold divulges the names of his pursuers. Mary is the only one whose name brings any hint of recognition to Pete's face. 
'I've come across her. She's mad.' 
'She's eccentric,' Arnold agrees. 
'She's into animal rights. She's got loads of cats.' 
'I can imagine.' 
'Ignore her.' 
'It's not her I'm worried about.' 
'She gets mixed up with some crazy people.' 
'I met them.' 
'She's harmless enough.' 
Arnold is less sure about her companions, but he does not want to prolong the conversation. He glances towards the door, hoping that Becky might take the hint and make an excuse to leave. The smell has become less noticeable. Through an open doorway he glimpses a kitchen like a photograph from the past: green-painted walls coated with dust and grease, and in the corner a chipped and stained Belfast sink with a brass tap on the exposed lead pipe. On the steel draining board clipped to the side of the sink are two mugs, a plate, a bar of soap and a flannel. On the green-painted wooden cover over the bath a floor is a camping stove and a bottle of gas, conspicuous by their newness, together with a tin of beans. 
'Not everybody has kitchens out of magazines,' Becky says, following his gaze. She sounds pleased at his discomfiture. 
'I realise that.' 
'Have a look round if you want.' 
'I don't want to.' 
'And don't keep worrying about the time,' she adds as he glances at his watch. 
'I thought we were going to the station.' 
'We are in a minute.' She turns back to Pete. 'Have you heard from the council yet?' 
Pete shakes his head. 'Not since that first bloke came.' 
'There's a dispute with the housing department,' Becky explains to Arnold. 
'Another one?' 
She looks puzzled. 
'Doesn't matter,' he assures her. 
'The council want to get a court order to evict everybody,' she explains. 'I suppose you'd say they're within their rights.' 
Arnold hesitates. His instincts are on the side of the council, but it is not the moment to voice such an opinion. Instead he ventures, 'They might want to put tenants in.' 
'The whole block was boarded up for years. Why should they suddenly bother now?' 
'It is the council's property.' 
'All they want to do is demolish it.' 
'If they're going to put up proper homes—' 
'So what about Pete and the others? They're going to be homeless—or don't you think that matters?' 
'It's difficult,' Arnold demurs, unwilling to become embroiled in an argument. 
'All they want is to be left alone to get on with things in their own way, right? They're like caretakers.' 
Arnold is tempted to point out that there is little sign of the place being looked after. 
'What are you supposed to do if you're unemployed and the government won't give you enough money to rent somewhere?' Becky presses, sensing his scepticism. He wants to answer that they should try working, or else go back to their parents, but he knows that such a sentiment would not go down well. Instead he asks, 'Did you live here?' 
'For a while.' 
'The flat over the shop's certainly more comfortable.' 
'It's nothing to do with being comfortable,' she flares. 'I went there because I wanted to be in the cooperative.' 
'Sorry.' 
'Is Arne a journalist?' Pete asks. 
Becky shakes her head. 'You ought to get some journalists in. It could be useful.' 
'We had a guy come from the local paper. He seemed interested, but they didn't print anything.' 
'You've got to push them.' 
'They're probably waiting till we get thrown out, so they can get better pictures.' 
'Bastards.' 
'I think I'd better go,' Arnold interrupts. 
'Don't hassle me, right?' Becky snaps. 
'I have got to get to the station.' 
'And I'll take you there, okay?' 
Arnold glances at his watch again. 'Time's getting on.' 
'You're getting boring.' 
'You don't have a job to worry about,' he rounds on her, exasperated. 
Becky exchanges glances with Pete—an unspoken conversation from which Arnold is excluded. 'Looks as if we've got to go,' she announces, making Arnold feel mean at his victory. He considers suggesting that they stay a few more minutes, but he brushes the thought aside: a few minutes can easily stretch to the whole afternoon. 
'If you give me directions, I'll find my own way,' he compromises. 
Becky shakes her head. 'I'll only be a few minutes.' 
Arnold resigns himself to staying. 
'There's somebody I've got to see first,' she explains. 
'Somebody else?' 
'Yes.' 
'Couldn't you do that after?' 
'Then I'll have to come back here and it's out of my way.' 
He tries not to look annoyed. Sam claims he is a bad loser, but he regards that as unfair and untrue. He always tries to see other people's points of view. 
'Wait here—I won't be a minute.' Becky goes outside before he can argue. She does not bother to close the front door. Arnold turns to Pete and raises his eyebrows, expecting the youth to be on his side against the fickleness of women. Pete looks indifferent. 
'Have you known her long?' Arnold perseveres. 
'Since she was living here.' 
'She's a good cook.' 
'Is she?' 
'I tried her hot pot.' Arnold's gaze ranges over the room in search of a topic of conversation which might elicit some response. His eyes light on the mattress. 'This is where you sleep, is it?' 
'This is the living room, bedroom, everything.' 
Arnold points to a closed door. 'What's in there?' 
'I think it used to be the bedroom. We don't use it: the dossers got in first, so it's in a state.' 
'Not many creature comforts,' Arnold remarks, noticing the radio-cassette player on the window sill and the carrier bag stuffed with clothes beside the mattress. He tries to imagine what the bedroom must be like if Pete refuses to use it. 
'There's a housing association interested in buying the block from the council and renovating it.' 
'I suppose it would be ideal for one-bedroom flatlets.' 
'There used to be families living here.' 
'When was that?' 
'A few years back.' 
Arnold glimpsed such tenements in his early days as a commuter. Most of the other travellers were asleep as the train threaded through the familiar yet unknown inner city. Only if the it stopped unexpectedly did they pay attention to their surroundings. Every day he would try to see through the windows of the flats and houses beside the viaduct, intrigued to know what sort of people lived there. Never did he imagine being in a tenement himself. He tries to envisage his daughters' reactions if they strayed into such a place. They would be horrified by the dirt and the absence of all the facilities which they take for granted. Sam might put on a show of bravado and claim that she liked the freedom from possessions, but she would soon be wanting her hair drier and her stereo, not to mention a bathroom with a constant supply of hot water. Helen would simply walk out. He hopes that when she goes to university and has to look for lodgings, she will not be offered anything like this. Student accommodation has a bad reputation. He would rather give her the extra money if it meant that she could live somewhere decent—
The shouting means nothing to him, but Pete's terror is evident. For a moment the youth is frozen, eyes bulging. Suddenly he launches himself at the door as though a demon has seized him, intent on slamming it closed and shooting the bolts at top and bottom. 
'Get some wood!' he screams. 
Arnold looks around helplessly. 
'The floorboards—by the fireplace.' 
Arnold looks for somewhere clean to put his jacket. 
'Get 'em for fuck's sake!' 
Infected by Pete's urgency, Arnold overcomes his misgivings and drops his coat on the mattress. He tugs at the boards by the fireplace. They are not nailed down. He drags them towards Pete who has taken the radio-cassette from the window sill and is forcing the plywood sheet into the opening. The room becomes gloomy: the only light comes from the kitchen doorway and the frosted glass panels of the front door. Pete wedges the plywood in place with the floorboards. 
'Christ,' he mutters as he scuttles into the bedroom. Arnold follows. The floorboards  around the fireplace are charred. The odour of burning lingers. Smoke has blackened the walls. Filthy rags which might once have been clothes are piled in one corner. The window overlooks the street. Peter throws it open and puts his head out. 'Christ,' he moans again, gazing in despair at the ground far below. 
'What's happening?' Arnold wants to know. His voice is strained. He is aware of how his heart pounds. He wishes that Becky were there to take charge. 
An anguished Pete faces him. 'We can't get out!' 
'Why do we need to?' 
'Christ.' 
Arnold wanders back to the living room to view events through the kitchen window. The girls who were gossiping on the walkway opposite have gone. All the doors are closed. The barking of the dogs reaches a frenzy. The shouting and the banging have both ceased. The children are no longer playing.  
'Get away from the window,' Pete whispers hoarsely from the doorway. There is enough terror in the voice to make Arnold obey. His second response is to smile at the melodrama of his companion's response. 
'Nobody's there,' he reasons. 
'There will be. Come in here.' 
Arnold returns to the bedroom. He watches without understanding as Pete crouches behind the door and gestures him to follow suit. Arnold compromises by standing behind him, feeling uncomfortable at the nearness of the almost naked youth. They wait in silence. Pete's hands are clenched. 
'How long are we going to stay like this?' Arnold queries when half a minute has elapsed. With no sign of a response he points out, 'Nothing seems to be happening.' 
'It will,' Pete insists. 
Though the tenement block across the road takes up most of the view from the window, from the end of the road Arnold glimpses the tower blocks of the city rising from a haze of pollution. He gazes at them longingly, finding their presence reassuring. All he has to do is to walk from the room, go back to the main road and ask anybody for a bus to the City. Then normality will reassert itself. For the moment he resigns himself to waiting until Pete is calmer. The youth's agitation is something he cannot understand. 
The clatter of steps on the walkway makes Pete go still. His face is white. 
Arnold shivers in spite of the heat. 'What's happening?' 
'Ssh.' 
The steps cease outside the flat. Arnold holds his breath, his sense of unease deepening. Somebody pushes the front door. When it does not open, there is a rap on the panels. 
'Come on Pete—we know you're in there.' A truculent, no-nonsense voice. Arnold wonders whether the police have come. He has heard about police raids. He wants to suggest letting the visitors in, but seeing Pete cringing in the angle between the door and the wall, he knows that there is little point. 'You might as well open up,' comes the voice as if echoing his thoughts. He looks to Pete for guidance, but his companion is unseeing. 
A pane of glass shattering in the front door wakens Pete as if from a dream. 'Shit.' 
'What's going on?' Arnold wants to know as a crash is accompanied by the sound of splintering wood, but Pete is leaping towards the window as though it might offer some chance of escape. As he turns away despairingly, another blow cracks the wood. A third and the door is open. Arnold feels a clamminess in his palms. He wishes that he had never fallen asleep in the train. He wishes that he had hidden in any garden except Baz's. He wishes that he had insisted on going straight to the station—
The three men swagger into the bedroom. They wear suits, though this gives Arnold little reassurance when he sees their expressionless faces. They are built like rugby players. One carries a sledge hammer. They make way for a fourth man who is slighter in build. The expensive suit, silk tie, polished shoes and styled hair mark him as the leader. He is smiling. A smell of aftershave pervades the kitchen. He fixes the hapless Pete with his gaze.
'Hello, Pete. Didn't you hear me knocking?' From the gentle insinuating voice with its Cockney inflection, Arnold can almost believe that this is a friend. 'They said you were in. What's the matter? You're not crying, are you?' 
Arnold looks towards the window, embarrassed. The movement does not go unnoticed. 
'Who's your friend? Not a lawyer, is he?' Suspicion has crept into the tone. Arnold feels his legs becoming unsteady now that he is the focus of attention. 
'He's with a friend.' Pete's voice is unsteady. 
'What friend?' 
'Becky.' 
The leader looks round. 'I can't see her.' 
'She's gone.' 
'So what's he still doing there?' 
'She was showing me the way to the station,' Arnold explains, his voice sounding gruff. 'We popped in here on the way.' 
'So where is she if she's taking you to the station?' 
'I don't know.' 
'I think you're giving me a load of balls.' 
Arnold wants to be indignant, but he is too afraid. 
The leader frowns. 'Sure you're not a lawyer?' 
'Quite sure.' 
'So you're an official or some sort, are you?'
'No.' 
'What then?' 
'Insurance. I work in insurance.' 
A grin spreads over the leader's face. 'You're not trying to flog insurance to that little toe rag, are you?' 
All eyes turn to Pete. His is still crouching in the corner. Urine drips from his shorts and runs in a rivulet which disappears between the burnt floorboards. Arnold knows that he should feel sympathy, but he is more concerned about the looseness of his bowels and with not disgracing himself. His concern grows as the leader turns to him again. 
'Do you know what? I think you're a fucking liar.' 
Arnold does not know how to answer. He glimpses the freedom outside the window and he wishes that he could fly. 
'I'm in the insurance line meself,' his adversary reveals. 'Trouble is Pete here doesn't pay his premiums regular, do you, Pete?' 
'The giro hasn't come,' Pete whines. 
'You should have kept some money back from last week, shouldn't you?' The leader turns to Arnold. 'Ain' that right?' 
'I suppose so,' Arnold has to agree. 
'I couldn't,' Peter wails. 
'What do you mean, you couldn't?' the leader demands. 
'I didn't have enough.' 
'Get up.' 
Pete obeys. The leader watches, enjoying his victim's obvious discomfiture. 
'I've warned you about this before, haven't I, Pete?' 
The hapless Pete nods. 
The leader grins. 'What you need is some lessons in budgeting. I think we can help you there.' 
On cue, two of his henchmen close on Pete. Arnold shuts his eyes. He hears the thudding as the blows strike home and the grunting. When he opens his eyes, Pete is curled on the floor, clutching his stomach. 
'You won't forget next time, will you, Pete?' the leader warns. 'Two weeks—plus interest, of course.' He turns to Arnold, appraising him as Pete's groans continue. 'I dunno what we can do about you.' 
Arnold's unease increases. He tries not to look at the speaker. He has a premonition of what is coming. 
'I think we'll just give you a little reminder to keep your mouth shut.' 
Arnold sees the leader nod to his companions before he closes his eyes again, remembering the prayers of his childhood. The first blow winds him. The noise of breath being forced from his body is like a cycle tube being deflated. The second blow is more painful now that his muscles offer no resistance. The moan rises spontaneously to his lips. He expects to find himself coughing blood. 
'That's enough,' comes the voice. 'Just a taster so he knows to keep quiet. We've got some more calls to make.' 
Arnold opens his eyes. As the four men sweep out, he feels a sense of relief such as he has never known. When he tries to speak, he has no breath to form the words. Instead he leans against the wall, gasping, his hands on his knees to support his body. The groans reassure him that Pete is alive. 
'Are you all right?' Arnold croaks when his breath comes more easily. 
'Christ.' 
'Do you need an ambulance?' 
'No.' 
'They might have broken something.' 
'Broken the fucking place up, or haven't you noticed?' 
There is little to break up, but Arnold does not think that clever comments are appropriate. He rests again, preoccupied with his own discomfort. Each breath brings a sharp pain, making him suspect that he has broken a rib. He has not moved when steps sound on the walkway again. For the moment he fears that his assailants have returned, but this is one person with light steps. Relief sweeps over him as Becky appears. 
'You look terrible.' 
The words could be addressed to either of them. 
'Get the police,' Arnold moans, expecting her to run in search of a telephone. Instead she ignores him and kneels beside Pete. 
'You've got to get the police,' Arnold urges. 
'We can't,' Becky says indifferently, more interested in cradling Pete. 
'Why?' 
She shakes her head, looking up at Arnold as though he is an annoying child.  'Because it won't do any good.' 
'Those thugs beat us up!' 
'I can see that.' 
'We've got to stop them.' 
'We can't.' She transfers her attention to Pete again, dabbing blood from his lip with a tissue which in Arnold's opinion is far from clean. 'Are you okay?' 
'Just about,' Pete mutters, wincing. 
'We can't let them get away with it,' Arnold persists. 
'Bring in the police and we get more heavies coming round,' Becky explains. 
'The point is to stop them.' 
'Then somebody else takes over.' 
'It's a protection racket!' 
'Isn't all insurance?' 
'No.' 
'We pay them and that keeps them off our backs.' 
Arnold shakes his head. 'I can't understand your attitude.' 
'It's happened before.' 
'There's always hassle,' Pete says, grimacing. 'The council, the police, people like Danny.' 
'You know his name?' Arnold exclaims.
'Everybody around here knows Danny,' Becky assures him.
'Don't you think you ought to get Pete to casualty?' 
'I'll be okay,' Pete insists. 
Arnold expects Becky to take the sensible view, but when she says nothing, he decides there is little point in pressing the matter. 'Has Danny gone?' he queries. 
'He was doing the rounds on the ground floor.' Becky shows a surprising lack of concern. 
'I want to go.' Arnold knows that he sounds like a petulant child. 
'We'll go in a minute. Let's make sure Pete's all right first.' 
'You're right. I'm sorry.' 
Becky helps Pete to his feet. He grunts and doubles up.
'What's the matter?' she asks, alarmed. 
'Hurts when I move.' 
'Perhaps you ought to go to hospital.' 
'I'll be okay.' 
Supported by Becky, Pete shuffles into the living room. Arnold follows, feeling superfluous and forgotten. The front door hangs open. Glass is scattered across the floor. As Pete lowers himself on the mattress, Arnold bends to remove his jacket. He grimaces as pain shoots through his ribs, but Becky is too busy to notice. 
'Are you sure we shouldn't get the doctor in?' she presses, crouching beside Pete as he curls on the mattress. 
'It's only bruising.' 
'I don't like this.' 
'I'm okay.' 
'Supposing you've damaged something internally?' 
'I'll see how it goes.' 
'I'm not sure.' 
'You get on.' 
'I'm not leaving you like this.' 
'I'll be okay.' 
'I don't think you ought to be left on your own.' 
'I'm not on my own. There's plenty of us here.' When Becky looks unconvinced he adds, 'You can't stay here all day, can you? Baz is going to wonder what's happened.' 
'I can ring him. That's no problem.' 
'There's no need.' 
Arnold wants to point out that she was supposed to be taking him to the station. 
'What's happened?' comes a girl's voice from behind them, making them all turn. What strikes Arnold is her height. Tangled blonde hair falls unchecked around her shoulders. A gentle rather than a beautiful face, he considers. It is overlain with concern. Tight jeans accentuate the length of her legs as she comes forward. 
'Danny got Pete,' Becky explains as the newcomer joins her in crouching beside the victim. 
'He's doing the rounds. Are you okay, Pete?' 
'Just about,' he agrees, his expression belying his words.
'We were wondering whether we ought to get a doctor to him,' Becky says. 
'I don't want a doctor.' 
'Rachel can have a look at you when she gets back,' the newcomer decides. 'She used to be a nurse.' 
'Do you think we ought to tell the police?' Arnold asks, scenting an ally. 
She looks up at him for the first time, strands of hair riding across her shoulders as she shakes her head. 'They don't care.' 
'They'd care about a protection racket.' 
'Not when it's in a squat.' 
'I told you that.' Becky sounds scornful. 
'So thugs like that get away with it?' he exclaims, looking from one girl to the other. The pain has decreased enough for indignation to become his predominant emotion. 
'If you've got enough money, you get away with things,' says Becky. 
'That's not true.' 
'It is. Property developers get away with pulling down places like this and putting up office blocks.' 
'I don't think they do these days.' 
'That's crap.' 
'We won't do any good arguing about it,' the newcomer interrupts. 
'Are you going to stay with Pete?' Becky asks her, ignoring Arnold. 
The other girl hesitates. 'What do you want?' she asks the youth groaning on the mattress. 
'I just want to rest.' 
'Do you want me to stay here?' 
'There's no need.' 
'I'll pop back later,' Becky tells him, getting to her feet. She turns to Arnold. 'I suppose it's going to keep you happy if we go.' 
'I should be getting back,' he agrees, worrying whether Danny is still downstairs. His only regret is saying goodbye to the other girl. Her body is beautiful. He feels caught up in her concern. 
'This is Arne,' Becky introduces him grudgingly as the newcomer unfolds her legs and stands. She is the tallest person in the room. 'I was showing him round before all this started.' 
The girl smiles at him. 'I'm Laura.' 
Arnold feels elated by her attention. He wonders what she makes of him. 
'We were on our way to the station,' Becky explains. 
'We might as well leave Pete to have a rest,' Laura decides. Pete does not respond. 
Arnold is glad to be outside. He hesitates by the doorway, looking with awed fascination at the splintered frame. The girls walk ahead. He catches them up. Their calmness surprises him. He scans the walkways opposite, half expecting to see Danny and his henchmen. The other residents have appeared again as though a storm has passed. 
'Are you going to look for somewhere else to live?' Becky asks Laura. 
'I think we'll have to after this.' 
'I don't understand,' Arnold breaks in. 
'Would you want to hang around?' Becky asks irritably, glancing at him.
'If they go somewhere else, Danny's going to find them again.' 
'Eventually,' Laura agrees. 
'So isn't it better to stop him?' 
'If we went to the police, it would make things a hundred times worse.' 
'As I told him,' Becky adds. 
Conversation ceases as they file downstairs. Arnold holds the handrail tightly, wary of encountering his attackers again, but the courtyard is reached without incident. He notices the dirt on his shirt cuffs—it probably got there when he pulled up the floorboards. What his colleagues will say about his appearance when he eventually gets to the office does not bear thinking about. 
Outside the tenement block, he trails sullenly after the girls, ashamed of his aberration in being attracted to Laura. The narrow road opens into a street market. He last wandered through one during a holiday in the Lake District. That was three years ago. Margaret and the girls were with him. At the time he never realised that it was to be their last holiday as a family. 
Becky and Laura are several yards ahead. They look like any other shoppers as they pause to finger bright Indian fabrics. He hopes Becky has not forgotten her promise to take him to the station. Another stall where the girls spend a long time sells nothing but shelled nuts. Their interest baffles him: he would certainly not buy nuts from an open stall, assuming he ever wanted them. He glances around uneasily. Everything looks normal, but Danny could be hiding nearby. For all Arnold knows, Mary is still looking for him. It takes a few moments for him to realise that the bustle conceals him as effectively as his pursuers. Silly to keep looking over his shoulder, he tells himself. Even the marks on his clothes are likely to pass unnoticed in those surroundings. He tries to relax, taking time to look at the displays like any other shopper. The market sells predominantly fruit and vegetables. He has to concede that the fruit looks enticing, though he knows that only the best produce is put on show. Shops are almost hidden behind the stalls. An electrical retailer has a window bright with flashing coloured bulbs and cluttered with small appliances. The clothing wholesaler next door eschews any pretence at a display. Other shops serve the local population: a shoe repairer, the bakers, a locksmith and a betting shop. The crude writing across the window of a pie and mash restaurant proclaims that jellied eels are being served. The very thought makes Arnold feel sick. 
For a moment he thinks that he has lost his companions; then he glimpses them on the far side of the street, squeezing between two stalls. They do not notice whether he is following. They are laughing. He starts forward and then hesitates, asking himself why he should trail after them. He can find his own way to the station. 
That is when he turns away.

chapter eight

The granite setts of the narrow side street are slippery with vegetables. Arnold walks quickly, anxious to be away from the market. All the time he is waiting for Becky to shout after him. Dodging into an alley behind the shops increases his sense of safety. Several times he glances back, expecting to see Becky silhouetted against the entrance. Her absence affords him some relief, though he does not slacken his pace until he turns the corner at the far end. Before him is a row of eighteenth-century houses. It is an oasis of order after so much squalor. The absence of through traffic helps to maintain an air of tranquillity in spite of the cars lining the kerb. The older houses abut the pavement; later ones are separated from it by basement areas protected by railings. Here are no rotting window frames or bent railings pitted with rust. Instead, brass door furniture glints against dark green paintwork. In this enclave of civilisation, architects and accountants have their offices. The presence of professional men helps Arnold to feel closer to the world he knows, though he only has to look beyond the children's playground across the road to see yet another estate of low-rise council flats. He heads that way reluctantly, knowing that he must move westwards, though on getting closer he is pleasantly surprised to discover that his forebodings are not completely fulfilled. The flats must have been built soon after the war. Though the yellow stock bricks betray that this was a time of austerity, the estate is attractively landscaped. The trees around the blocks have reached maturity; shrubs soften the hard lines of the buildings. More surprisingly, the straw-coloured lawns are free from rubbish and there is no graffiti. Jackie would appreciate living there. He wonders why all estates cannot be so well looked after. He is willing to bet that here the residents are not terrorised by gangs of children or packs of dogs. 
Mary must have given up her search. At this remove, he can feel sorry for her. He imagines her discovering his address and coming to find him. In the closes and crescents around his home, those badges on her clothes would mark her as an outsider. She would not be there for long before somebody telephoned the police.
The sight of a pub with its open doors reminds him how much time has passed since he alighted at the station—and how long since he had a drink. Thirst seems to be controlling him. He glances at his watch—getting on for one o'clock. He will not get back to the office until after lunch, so there is nothing to be lost by having another drink while the opportunity presents itself.
After the brightness of the sun it takes a few moments to become accustomed to the gloom of the bar. The cleaned glasses hanging over the bar seem to glow as much as the brassware. There are few customers. The barmaid looks at him expectantly. She is fortyish and heavily made up: no better than she ought to be, as his grandmother might have said. Close to, her scent overpowers the odour of stale tobacco smoke which lingers in the bar. 
He orders a half of lager, reflecting that he has drunk more alcohol in one morning than in a normal month. If he does manage to get a train back to the City, he will be in danger of falling asleep again in the stifling coach.
The drink is delightfully cold, its flavour closer to beer than the lager which Baz offered him. As the barmaid rings up the till, his eye is caught by a menu chalked on a blackboard behind the bar. He feels tempted to have something to eat, given that there might not be another opportunity until he gets home. Though Becky's hot pot was appetising, it was not filling. But by the time the barmaid brings his change, hunger has not overcome his distrust of pub food: he suspects that it is reheated several times, while most of the dishes contain too much fat. Better to wait.
He settles at a table away from the bar to avoid conversation with the barmaid and tries ineffectually to brush the creases from his jacket before draping it on the red velvet seat. The net curtains are stained with condensation and nicotine. He feels thankful that he was not tempted to sample the food if they are any indication of the standard of hygiene— 
'Hot enough for you?'
His heart lurches. He turns from the window with trepidation. The stranger smiling down at him is a tubby, bullet-headed figure in his thirties. His ruddy face is unshaven. Sweat stains show under the arms of his shirt.
'Hot enough?' the man repeats.
Arnold murmurs that it is. He waits to be left alone, but instead, the stranger puts his mobile phone and glass of beer on the table and sits opposite him.
'You wonder how long it can go on for.'
Arnold nods helplessly.
'I don't mind the heat meself,' his companion continues. 'I think that's because I was in Cyprus when I was in the army. You get acclimatised to it, see?'
Arnold nods again. He glances longingly through the net curtain to the street and to freedom.
'Why go to Spain for a bit of sun and then complain when you get it here?' his companion is saying. 'That's what I don't understand.'
'There's that to it,' Arnold agrees.
'Make the most of it, I say.'
Arnold tries to look interested.
'We'll be complaining about the cold weather soon enough.'
'I suppose so.'
His companion tastes his beer and smacks his lips appreciatively. 'That hits the spot all right.'
'The weather makes you thirsty.'
'Don't get many businessmen like yourself here.' 
'I'm passing through,' Arnold responds, wishing that he had chosen any other pub. 
'Everything's a rush now. Noticed that?' 
Half a pint of lager is too much to drink quickly. Arnold resigns himself to another recital of how things used to be. First the barber and now this man. Perhaps there have been too many changes in the east end for people to understand without looking back.
His companion brings out a packet of cigarettes and holds it out, taking one himself when Arnold shakes his head. 
'You look the sort who knows what's what,' the man decides, seemingly unaware of the smoke which drifts across the table and makes Arnold's wrinkle his nose. 'We might be able to help each other out.' 
Arnold grunts in what he hopes is a noncommittal way. 
'There's a little business I can put your way—some stuff a mate of mine's got. He's overstocked.' 
'I'm not really interested.' 
'I haven't told you what he's got.' 
'I don't want to carry things around. I haven't got the car.' 
'He can deliver things. It's a proper business, not one of these fly-by-night affairs.' 
'There's nothing I want.' 
'Plenty of electrical goods.' 
Arnold shakes his head. 
'All the top brands. None of your rubbish.' 
Arnold continues shaking his head. 
'How about another television set—one for the kids? You've got kids, haven't you?' 
'Two.' 
'Like me. They always want the other channel to what you're watching. Ever noticed that?' 
'They've already got televisions.' 
'There's trainers. That's another line I know he's got plenty of. All the best brands—Adidas and Nike.' 
Arnold suspects that even if he left without finishing his drink, the man would pursue him down the road. 
'The trouble is he orders these things specially for customers,' the salesman continues, 'then they turn round and say they don't want them and he's stuck with them. All he can do is get what he can for them.' 
'I see that.' 
'You must be able to help out with something. How about a Teasmade?' 
'We don't need one.' 
'Sort of thing the wife likes. I know that from experience.' 
'No.' 
'A toaster?' 
'We've got one.' 
'There's cosmetics—all your top brands. If you took a selection, your wife could sell them to her friends.' 
Arnold conjures a picture of Margaret holding a party to sell cosmetics. The thought makes him smile, which his companion takes as a sign of interest. 
'He's got the whole range: perfumes, eye makeup, nail varnish—' 
'I don't think she's interested.' 
'Do you want to ask her?' The man pushes the phone across the table. 
'She doesn't do that sort of thing.' 
'If you don't take the chance ...' 
Arnold shakes his head. 
'You're missing an opportunity.' 
'There's nothing I need.' 
'Thing is, you don't know what's going to happen. He could get somebody come along tomorrow and snap up the whole lot.' 
'I hope somebody does for your friend's sake.' 
'Then you'd miss out, see? That's what I'm thinking of.' 
'There's nothing I need.' 
The man leans closer. His teeth are stained with nicotine. 'What line did you say you were in?' 
'I didn't.' 
'I'd have sworn you did.' 
'It's insurance.' 
'Insurance, eh?' The man scratches his chin. 'That's something everybody needs.' 
'I suppose so.' 
'How about your mates at the office? Do you think they might be interested?' 
Arnold shakes his head. 'Not really.' 
'Straight-up offer. It's not stuff off the back of a lorry, you know.' 
'I appreciate that.' 
'Otherwise I wouldn't be offering it to a complete stranger, would I?' 
'True.' 
'I thought I saw you,' comes a familiar voice. Arnold catches his breath. He turns painfully, half expecting that he is due for another beating. It is some consolation that Mary does not have Hussain with her. She is breathing heavily, which makes the badges shift as her bosom heaves. 
His unwanted companion looks put out by the interruption, glaring at Mary as she sits with them. Getting up, he says curtly, 'I'll leave you two to talk.' 
'Thanks,' says Arnold. 'And thanks for the offer.' 
'Your loss.' The stranger snatches up his phone and his glass and retreats to the bar. 
'He was trying to sell me things,' Arnold explains. 
Mary frowns. 'I've seen his type before.' 
Arnold decides that on balance he prefers the salesman's company. A growing sense of unease makes his stomach churn again. His ribs are hurting. 
'You didn't have to run off like that.' Mary reproaches him.
'I'm sorry.' He waits with resignation, expecting to be led back to the flat. A voice inside him tells him that he does not have to go. She cannot force him, though Hussain, Graham and Paresh might. The unease takes control of him, making his muscles stiffen so that the pain grows sharper and more intense. There is a sourness in his stomach. He is glad that he did not have anything to eat. 
'I was looking everywhere for you.'
'Do you want a drink?' he asks. 
She shakes her head. 'I don't drink alcohol,' she informs him primly. 
'Sorry.' 
'I haven't told the others that you went. They'd be so disappointed if I go back without you.' 
An understatement, Arnold suspects, though at least he knows now that they will not be coming. He relaxes, trying not to betray his lightness of mood. The less Mary can predict what he is going to do the better. 
She beams. 'Still, I've found you. That's the main thing, isn't it?' 
Arnold nods and waits to be told his fate. If Hussain and his friends are unaware of his defection, he wants to delay his departure from the pub as long as possible. 
'When I came back from telephoning, I didn't know where you'd gone. I had to tell the taxi driver not to wait. He wasn't very pleased.' 
'I got waylaid.' 
She looks sympathetic. 'People are always getting attacked round here. It's terrible. They ought to do something about it.' 
He reflects that somebody who associates with Libyan terrorists is hardly in a position to berate the police for their lack of efficiency. He explains, 'I didn't mean I was attacked. I wandered off and lost my bearings.' He watches Mary's face, conscious that his explanation lacks conviction. 'All the blocks look the same,' he adds by way of mitigation. 
'They used to have the names on them,' she tells him. 
'Then I bumped into a girl who'd dropped her shopping. I helped her carry it up to her flat, so that took a while.' 
'I suppose they can't object to that.' Mary sounds unconvinced, though whether with his story or with Hussain's likely response is not clear. 
Arnold eyes his glass. After wanting to drink the lager as quickly as possible, now his problem is trying to make it last. 
'What's going to happen?' he ventures. 
'How do you mean?' 
'This demo. What do you think's going to happen?' 
'It depends how many people come. We've got to plan something that's going to make everybody take notice.' 
If the others had their way, Arnold guesses that a suitably dramatic event might be throwing him from the window of the flat. 
'We've still got all the leaflets and placards to collect,' Mary reminds him. 'There's a lot to do.' 
'I suppose so.' 
She sizes him up in the way that assistants in the gents' outfitters used to do when they measured him for his school uniform. 'You're going to be loaded up, you know.' 
'Am I?' 
'What I usually do is put a lot of the stuff on a pram.' 
'It should make things easier.' 
'One wheel's a bit wobbly, but it does the job.' 
'Didn't borrow it from Jackie, did you?' When he sees Mary's blank look, he adds, 'Don't take any notice.' 
'I don't know what I'm telling you for—we haven't got it.' 
'Pity.' 
'Let's hope we can do it in one journey. I'll help all I can, of course, but with my back I've got to be careful.' 
He raises his eyebrows in a show of interest. 
'Start lifting and you'll be in real trouble, that's what the doctor said. Otherwise, I'd have done it all myself. It was providence when I heard you were coming. Providence.' 
Arnold assumes what he hopes is the beatific look of an agent of providence. 
'You know what I'd do if I was you?' Mary continues, her brow furrowing. 
'What?' 
'Apologise to Hussain. He likes to play the tough guy, but he's a nice lad really.' 
'Is he?' 
'You'll find out as you get to know him.' 
'Would you excuse me for a moment?' Arnold stands. 'Just got to ...' He gestures to the toilets. 
'Don't go leading me a dance like last time.' 
He does not answer. 
The toilet is dark, smelly and damp. That does not surprise him: it is why he tries to avoid using toilets in pubs. The window is small and set high in the wall. Bars on the outside preclude escape. Arnold groans. But at least the toilet has paper. 
When he emerges into the bar again, he eyes the open door longingly. 
'You all right?' Mary asks. 
'Fine.' 
'You look worried.' 
'How surprising.' 
She looks puzzled, but he does not elaborate. Her attention is diverted by something behind him. She leans forward to whisper, 'You think they'd know better, wouldn't you?' 
He looks over his shoulder. 'How do you mean?' 
'There—the hot cabinet!' 
He stares at the pies and pasties heating in readiness for the lunchtime trade. For a moment it crosses his mind that she wants one. 
'Disgusting,' she says. 'Disgusting. That's somewhere we can picket.' 
'Where?' 
'The factory where they make those things.' 
'Is it around here?' 
'I don't know.' 
He drinks, glad of an excuse to let the conversation lapse. His relief at not being discovered eating a pie is tinged with regret: Mary might have been outraged enough to walk out. 
'I don't know how people can bear to eat them,' she is saying. 'If they realised the suffering those poor animals go through, they'd soon think twice.' 
Arnold nods. Some malign fate brought Mary to the pub where he was sitting. He breathes deeply, which proves a mistake after Danny's lesson. Mary does not notice as he winces. 
'I know I don't have to tell you this,' she confides, 'but you get people calling themselves vegetarians and they drink milk! They don't seem to realise that they only get milk by keeping the cows in calf. Then the calves get separated from their mothers and put into those terrible veal crates.' 
Sam is against veal production, though she has never demonstrated and she does not mind eating burgers or drinking milk. Helen never eats veal, but she has not said that she avoids it as a matter of principle. She keeps her own counsel. These days he has little idea when she is thinking. Sometimes it crosses his mind that his older daughter has a hidden life which is her outlet for passion and rebellion, though he knows the notion is fanciful. Margaret would be scornful if he voiced his fears. 
Mary is glaring at the food cabinet again. 'I've a good mind to tell that barmaid. I don't think she realises how obscene eating meet is.' 
'I shouldn't,' Arnold cautions, imagining the ensuing row in which he would be ejected along with Mary. 
'She needs to be told.' 
'I don't think this is the moment.' 
Mary looks unconvinced. 
'People don't always want to be converted,' he remonstrates. 
'If she could see the eyes of those poor animals.' 
'I know, I know,' he says, looking longingly at the steak and kidney pies with their golden crusts. He lifts his glass and finds it empty. To stay and risk a confrontation between Mary and the barmaid, or to leave and be taken back to the flat and another encounter with Hussain? No contest. He asks, 'Are you sure you don't want a drink? It doesn't have to be alcoholic.' 
'I don't drink in pubs—especially not in here.' 
'You need plenty to drink this sort of weather—that's all I was thinking.' 
She hesitates. 'I am thirsty after all this chasing around,' she admits. 
'You could have a lemonade or ginger beer.' 
'We ought to be getting on, or the others are going to be wondering what's happened to us.' 
'Supposing we have a quick drink and then we'll go? I'm still thirsty.' Seeing her indecision he presses on, 'An orange juice here is the same as an orange juice in the cafe.' 
'I suppose I could have a ginger beer,' Mary agrees grudgingly. 'I haven't tried it for a long while.' 
Arnold goes to the bar feeling that for once during the day, fate has been kind to him. After ordering, he glares with appropriate disapproval at the heated cabinet, though his stomach rumbles and his mouth waters. An idea forms in his mind. When the barmaid brings the drinks, he lowers his voice to order a double vodka. He pours it into the ginger beer, using his body to shield what he is doing from Mary. He wishes that he had followed her example and asked for a soft drink rather than another lager. He should be keeping a clear head, but it is too late to change his mind. 
With a last lingering look at the pies, he takes the drinks back to the table. In spite of her earlier reservations Mary looks pleased at the prospect of her ginger beer. 
'I am thirsty,' she confesses. 
'I knew you would be,' he says, resuming his seat. 'Do you know how much fluid you're supposed to drink every day?' 
'No.' 
'Two litres—more in this sort of weather. You can't go far without a drink, weather like this.' 
'I have a glass of hot water every morning.' 
Arnold looks suitably impressed. 
'I think it clears you out. You can't be too careful as you get older.' 
'I suppose not.' 
'I'll tell you another thing,' she confides, leaning closer. 'You can't drink a lot in the evening when you get to my age.' 
'I suppose not.' He can see the pies out of the corner of his eye. His longing returns, though he knows that they are greasy, made with inferior meat and probably past their best. He tries to avoid watching as Mary sips her drink: she has an annoying habit of sucking it through her lips. 
'What are your plans for the day?' he asks, hoping to pin down precisely what he has got involved in. 
Her enthusiasm revives. 'We've got to collect the leaflets and placards first.' 
'And after that I'm free?' 
'There's something else you've got to do.' 
'Eh?' 
'You can't have forgotten.' 
'I'm not sure what you mean.' 
'Working on your speech!' 
'Ah.' 
'Or is it finished?' 
'Pretty well,' he agrees. 
'You don't have to tell me ...' 
'Tell you what?' 
'What's in it?' 
'The usual things. Nothing original.' 
'I'm sure there's more to it than that.' 
'You'll see,' he says, praying that she will get on with drinking the ginger beer. He avoids prolonging the conversation to give her the opportunity. His reward is seeing her raise the glass to her lips. She seems to like the taste, because she drinks more. That pleases him enough to risk probing further. He asks, 'What's the purpose of this demonstration?' 
She looks puzzled. 
'What do you hope to gain from it?' he struggles on. 
'To tell people about what we're doing to animals,' she says, staring at him as though she cannot understand his reason for asking such a silly question. 
Arnold wants to laugh. He has spent the morning running from a band of vegetarians. Then he remembers the activities of some animal rights campaigners—and Hussain's Libyan training. They make him think that perhaps he has done the right thing after all. He enquires, 'You don't think Hussain might have a hidden agenda?' 
'Hidden agenda?' 
'Rather than just a peaceful protest.' 
'I don't understand you.' 
'He must have learned some pretty extreme methods.' 
'He's very committed.' 
'Do you know much about him?' 
'Only what I've heard from other campaigns.' 
'So you haven't come into contact with him personally before?' 
'No, but I'm sure he's totally committed to the cause.' 
'What about the others? What about Graham?' 
'I've known him a long while.' 
'He's a bit headstrong.' 
Mary has to agree. 
'And Paresh is a nice enough lad, as you say, but he's weak.'
'I suppose so.' 
'The impression I got is that Hussain can wrap the others round his little finger.' 
'I don't know about that.' 
'Even if it comes to using violence.' 
That makes her hesitate. 'What do you mean?' 
'I think he's the sort who'd use violence.' 
Mary looks incredulous. 'Hussain? I'm sure he wouldn't.' 
'I'm not so positive.' 
She shakes her head. 'Not Hussain.' 
She sips her ginger beer. Arnold is pleased with the speed at which it is disappearing. 
'I don't want to worry you,' he lies. 'I just thought you ought to know.' 
'If he does use violence, it's because of what people do to animals.' 
'And you wouldn't mind?' 
'Something's got to be done to make the public understand.' In her frustration she gulps down most of the ginger beer. 'It really quenches your thirst, this.' 
'Certainly does,' he agrees. 
'You're not having it.' 
'Just fancied a lager—a non-alcoholic lager, of course,' he adds, seeing her expression. 'Have you got animals of your own?' 
Sadness clouds her face. 'I used to have a cat, but it got run over. That was terrible. I couldn't bring myself to get another one. You get so attached to animals, don't you?' 
Arnold cannot imagine Hussain being attached to a cat—he is more likely to throw it out the window. 
'The feral cats are like a family,' Mary continues. 'When I go down the waste ground, they all come to see me.' 
'How often do you go there?' he asks, imagining Mary as a pied piper of feral cats. 
'Twice a day. Some of them are vegetarian now.' 
'You feed them?' 
'They've come to rely on me, so I can't let them down.' 
Arnold guesses that the local bird population might survive better if she did. He wishes that she would finish her ginger beer. 
'I still have to get tinned food for Mack,' she explains, 'but I don't like doing it. He's the leader. I make a nice lentil and potato dish for the others, but he won't touch it.' 
Arnold feels some sympathy for the rebellious Mack. 
'Can you understand the way some people treat them?' Mary wants to know. 
'It's difficult,' he agrees, trying to set aside dark thoughts about the cats who visit his garden. Out of curiosity he asks, 'What about dogs?' 
'Dogs?' 
'Stray dogs. There was a pack of them outside the flats.' 
'You get lots of them roaming around on these estates. People don't bother to look after them. Then they run wild and get run over. That's heart-breaking.' She takes a deep draught of ginger beer while Arnold tries to think of what animal he can talk about next. 'People don't realise what's involved in keeping a dog—that's the trouble. It can cost as much as a child what with food and vet's bills.' 
Sam once wanted a puppy. Margaret might have agreed, but fortunately he remained firmly against the idea. Mary is absolutely right on this issue. Sam would have soon lost interest; then responsibility for looking after the animal would have devolved onto Margaret and himself. He considers it impractical to keep pets in a built-up area. When he visits a house for the first time, it only takes a few moments to tell whether the owners have a cat or dog, even if there is no frenzy of barking when he rings the bell and no dog jumping up at him when the door is opened. He looks for telltale signs like scratches on the furniture and mud on the carpet. Aside from such practical considerations, keeping animals is not hygienic. Once when as treasurer of the residents' association he met with fellow officers at a neighbour's house, he saw the family's cat jump onto the kitchen worktop. When the time came for refreshments, he made a point of not eating any of the sandwiches, though with some misgivings he did accept a cup of tea to avoid offending his hosts. 
Has Mary a husband and children, he wonders, his gaze travelling to her left hand. The absence of a wedding ring does not surprise him: she is the sort who prefers animals to people. He notes with satisfaction that her glass is almost empty. 
'Drink up,' he urges, getting up before she can object. 'I'll buy you another.' 
She does say something, but he has already turned away and does not hear. By the bar, the smell of the pies becomes pervasive again. His stomach feels empty, but he cannot tarnish his image in Mary's eyes at this juncture. He hopes that she is not watching as the double vodka is measured. This time he orders Perrier—he is already experiencing the muzziness which comes from excessive alcohol. While the barmaid rings up the till, he tips the vodka into the ginger beer. When she gives him his change, she takes the empty glass without comment. 
'There we are.' Carefully he sets the brimming glass before Mary. 
'It's very good of you, but I wasn't going to have another one.' 
'You can manage that before we get going, can't you? You'll feel dry when you get outside.' 
She does not argue. He watches with approval as she drains the first glass. She licks her lips, which is an encouraging sign. 
'It's a long while since I've been in a pub,' she admits. 
'I don't go in for them much myself.' 
'I've never supported drinking alcohol. You don't know where it's going to lead.' 
'I know exactly what you mean.' 
'I think a lot of people come to pubs because they're meeting places. When I was young, we didn't have all these clubs and discos like they do today.' 
'They don't realise how lucky they are,' he agrees. It is something which he often tells Sam, but she still looks sceptical. In a few years, when she meets more people out of her own social circle, she may see things differently. She is less mature than Helen at her age, which is why he worries about her more. It leaves her vulnerable. 
'I know some people only drink at Christmas,' Mary is saying. 'That's not so bad, but you never know where it's going to lead.' 
'Very true.' 
She suddenly looks coy. 'I think I'll have to go to the little girls' room.' 
'That's the trouble with long drinks,' he sympathises, reflecting that buying vodka to make her drowsy was superfluous. 
She gets up, straightening her dress with a dignity which touches him. 'If you'll excuse me.' 
'Of course.' 
'You won't run away this time, will you?' 
'No.' 
'I won't be two minutes.' 
He watches her lumbering towards the toilet, without the grace which he sees in other members of her sex. He tries to maintain the look of somebody who is tactfully disinterested—until the door closes behind her. Then, with one regretful glance at his untouched drink, he flees. As he runs, he expects to hear Mary calling after him, or a police car to pull up beside him as a consequence of his suspicious behaviour; but nothing happens. It is not until he has turned off the main road that he slows, glad of the opportunity to get his breath. 
The trouble is that in his haste to get away, he has lost his sense of direction. He has to orient himself by the sun again, remembering the complications of British Summer Time which he overlooked before. With west established, he walks quickly away from the pub and towards the City. An element of doubt remains in his mind so long as the office blocks remain obstinately out of sight, but at least every step is taking him further from Mary. Guilt at how he has treated her gnaws at him, but then he thinks of Hussain and knows that there was no alternative. He hesitates, looking for any sign which might confirm that he is heading in the right direction, but seeing only the low-rise blocks from the sixties. Instinct tells him that indecision is dangerous. Mary might already be lumbering after him. He hurries on, willing himself not to look back. A block of maisonettes abuts the road. He notices the additional precautions which residents have taken against burglary. All the front doors have additional deadlocks. Some have grilles. He is glad not to be walking through the neighbourhood at night. 
At the next main road he hesitates again, cowed by the unrelenting traffic. Hardly surprising that few pedestrians brave the traffic fumes. He waits until an old man hobbling in his direction draws level. 
'Excuse me.' 
The old man hesitates, alarmed at being addressed by a stranger. His slippers are split to accommodate bloated, misshapen feet. Sunken, bloodshot eyes search for a way to escape. His knuckles are white as he grips his stick.
'Is the station this way?' 
The question elicits no response. It is as if the old man has not heard. 
'The station,' Arnold repeats. 
The old man mutters something whose meaning is made clear by the shake of the head, before shuffling on with all the speed which he can muster. Arnold continues walking in the other direction. Only other person coming towards him is a girl. Unusually tall. Her loping stride is familiar. He experiences a surge of excitement as he recognises Laura. As she comes closer, she is smiling. 
'We wondered where you'd got to,' she exclaims. 
'I lost track of you in the market.' 
'Becky thought you'd slipped off.' 
'How's Pete?' 
Her face clouds. 'I don't know. I haven't been back yet.' 
'I was afraid he'd broken a rib or something.' 
'That's why I want Rachel to see him. Anyway, how are you? I hear Danny had a go at you as well.'
'A bit stiff, that's all,' Arnold responds, revelling in her concern.
'At least you're walking okay.'
'Do you think Danny's going to come back?'
She pulls a face. 'I wouldn't be surprised—round up the people he missed.'
'You sound very calm about it.'
'You get used to things like that happening.'
'Won't Pete be at risk?'
'Danny's not going to be interested in having another go at him. If Pete hasn't got the money, there wouldn't be any point.'
'You ought to do something.'
'You said that before.' She stares past him. She says ruefully, 'It's a pity all this has happened. It was a good squat.'
'I wasn't expecting to see you again.'
'I was seeing some friends. I might crash out at their place if we have to look for somewhere else, so I wanted to sound them out.'
'And they don't mind you moving in?'
'No. It won't be for long.'
'That's helpful.'
'I'll walk along with you, if you like.'
'You're going the other way.'
She shrugs. 'I'm only killing time. There's somebody I've got to see later. She's getting married today.'
'Not something to miss.'
'I'm not going to the ceremony or anything—just popping in to wish her good luck.'
They walk slowly. Arnold feels more at ease in Laura's company than with Becky. It crosses his mind to offer her the spare room at home, though the idea has to be quickly discarded: she will not want to be cut off from her friends. All the same, he cannot help imagining Margaret's face as he introduced Laura and announced that he had invited her to stay. The girls would take to her: she belongs to their generation. He can see them going to a disco together. One qualm is that Sam might be attracted to the freewheeling lifestyle. Though Laura is a nice girl, he cannot approve of the way she lives. Sam would laugh at that; she would say it was dad being conventional again. The encounter with Danny is something which he is not going to mention, though it might give his younger daughter pause for thought about the so-called freedom which she craves. 
'Becky said you appeared in the shop,' Laura interrupts his musings.
'Baz helped me when I as trying to avoid some people.' 
'Baz is great.' 
'Becky was supposed to be showing me the way to the station, then for some reason she took me to where you live.' 
'I think she wanted to show you a different way of life.' 
'She told me she wanted to see somebody.' 
'That was an excuse.' A smile crosses Laura's face. 'When I first saw you, I thought you were her father.' 
Arnold cannot conceal his surprise. 'Do I look like her?' 
'If you're expecting people to look alike, they do. And you're the right age.' 
'Where is Becky?' 
'When she found you'd disappeared, she went to see some friends.' 
'Everybody seems to know everybody else around here.' 
'That's the way we live. It's a network.'' 
'Takes a bit of getting used to.' 
'You sound disapproving.' 
'I don't mean to.' 
'What sort of place do you like to live in?' 
'Somewhere with more privacy, I suppose.' 
'Net curtain country.' 
'Now you sound disapproving.' 
'It was how I grew up, with everybody keeping themselves to themselves.' 
'Where was that?' 
'Enfield.' 
'I don't know it.' 
'You haven't missed anything.' 
'I'm sure it's not that bad.' 
She pulls a face. 'It's worse. I didn't realise how stifling it was till I went to college.' 
'So you're a student?' 
'I was. Don't you approve of students?' 
'You must think I'm against everything.' 
'It's the way you said it.' 
'My older daughter's going to be a student in October. She's going to Exeter to read law.' 
'What's her name?' 
'Helen.' 
'I dropped out. That's me all over.' 
'What were you studying?' 
'Art. It was only the local college. The idea was to get into art school.' 
'You should have carried on.' 
'I had these grand ideas about being a commercial artist. Then you come up against reality.' 
Arnold remembers leaving school. By then, his dreams of being a lawyer or a barrister had already been discarded. Instead he went along with the opinion of the careers officer that insurance was the most appropriate field for his talents. 
Laura is saying, 'I couldn't afford a flat because I wasn't working and the rents are crazy—you know? That's when I started squatting.' 
He does not want to upset her by voicing his opinion that if she cannot afford accommodation, she should live with her parents. His other concern is what he would say to Sam if she announced that she wanted a place of her own. It will happen before long, he is sure. Margaret will try to dissuade her; if that does not work, he will probably end up helping her to pay for a flat, though he will insist that she finds a job first. 
'We haven't been able to tempt you to stay around here?' Laura asks, grinning. 
'I think I'll stay with net curtain country.' 
'Live dangerously.' 
'I don't fancy meeting Danny again.'
'Most of the time it's not like that. As I said, there's a network of people who help each other.'
'We do have communal activities: neighbourhood watch, the ratepayers' association, the Women's Institute.' 
'I don't think you'd find many of those around here.' 
He is not sure whether she is being sarcastic. He asks, 'How long have you lived at the squat?' 
'Three months in the place you saw, a month in another one. We try to find somewhere we can all stay together—a row of houses, something like that.' She glances at him as though expecting disapproval. 'When we move, we all move together like a flock of starlings.' 
The road forks. One route is lined with the sort of small, shabby shops which are becoming familiar to him. The other road is being widened. The single line of traffic waits for the dumper truck which is reversing into the site. A blue haze of traffic fumes hangs over the workmen in their yellow helmets. 
'Where are we going?' Arnold queries. 
'I thought you knew. You were coming this way.' 
'I was looking for a station.' 
'There's not one around here.' 
'That's where Becky was taking me.' 
'It's miles away.' Laura catches his expression. 'I'm not bullshitting you.' 
It disturbs him to be with a girl whom he finds attractive. Such a situation has not arisen for a long time. He allows himself the fantasy of giving up his comfortable, staid existence to live with her in the nomadic world of the squat. Then reality asserts itself. He insists, 'I should be getting back.' 
'We should have gone the other way if you want the station.' 
He glances back at the seemingly endless road. Mary will be looking for him. He says, 'There must be more than one station around here.' 
'Not really.' Laura's eyes are narrowed against the sun as she gets her bearings. 'The line curves north towards Liverpool Street, so the station's miles away. It's going to take ages if we walk.' 
'Is there a bus?' he persists, pleased that she means to stay with him. 
'Not to the station.' 
'I don't see how it can be so difficult to get to the City.' 
'We don't have much cause to go there.' 
'I'm sorry.' 
'What for?' 
'Being ratty with you.' 
'You're not.' 
'I wasn't very gracious.'
She looks uneasy as the silence lengthens. 'What do you want to do?' 
The dumper truck is discharging its load. Arnold stares at the line of slowly-moving of traffic corralled between lines of cones. Hoses snaking from compressors crisscross the broken concrete of the nearside lane, the workmen seeming indifferent to the noise. He imagines another endless trek leading nowhere. He explains, 'I was going back to the office once upon a time.' 
'You sound as if you're not so sure now.' 
'By the time I get there, it's going to be time to go home.' 
'Perhaps they won't miss you.' 
'I think they've already done that.' 
'Couldn't you ring in and say you're ill?' 
'I was going to telephone them earlier to say I'd be late. Good thing I didn't, or they'd wonder what I was playing at.' He refrains from adding that unlike some of his colleagues, he is not in the habit of lying to his employers. 
'So what do you want to do?' 
'Don't you want to see this friend who's getting married?' 
'I don't want to go too early. I'll be in the way.' 
'I'm beginning to think I'd better have something to eat.' He tries to keep his voice casual as he asks, 'Do you know any decent place?' 
'What sort of food do you like?' 
'I'd rather not have Chinese or Indian. Apart from that I don't mind, so long as it's somewhere clean.' Seeing her confusion, he adds, 'I hope you're coming.' 
She looks surprised and pleased. 'If you're inviting me.' 
For the first time since alighting from the train, Arnold feels that life is good. 
'Most of the places around here are the greasy spoon type,' Laura is saying. 'I don't suppose you'd like those.' 
'I'm sure we can do better than that.' He reaches into his pocket to check his money. His expression changes suddenly as the euphoria evaporates. 'I've left my jacket in the pub!' 
'We'd better go back for it.' 
'I can't. I was being chased,' he explains, seeing Laura's frown. 
'Who by this time?' 
'It's a long story. I'll tell you about it later.' 
'Do you want me to go back for you?' 
'Then you're going to be involved.' 
'So what do we do?' 
He cannot tell whether she is humouring him. He confesses, 'I wish I knew.' 
'Is your wallet in your jacket?' 
'No. To be in the safe side, I put it in my trouser pocket when I took off my jacket. Good job I did.' 
'So we could eat first and then go back for the jacket later, when these people who are chasing you have given up?' 
'I suppose so.' 
'You don't sound too sure.' 
'Somebody else might take it.' 
'You've got to take the risk, unless we go back for it now—or I get it.' 
'You're right, of course.' 
They begin walking again, into the street with the shops. 
'That's something living in a squat teaches you,' Laura says. 'You can't get hung up on possessions.' 
'It's annoying—especially if I'm left with half a suit.' 
'Then somebody else is making use of the jacket. Think of it that way.' 
'I suppose so,' he agrees, toying with this new concept. 
'It's usually the trousers that wear out first. You could probably find a jacket that matches in a charity shop.' 
'I've never been in one.' 
'Amazing.' 
'Is it?' He watches, amused by her incredulity. 'I suppose that makes me a bloated capitalist.' 
'Something like that,' she agrees, grinning. 'Never mind. I'll work on you.' 
'Like Becky was doing?' 
'I've got different methods.' 
The strange thing is that he does not mind.

chapter nine

'It's certainly brighter that the last cafe I went to,' Arnold admits, looking at the immaculate gingham cloths on the table.
'I come here when I want to get away from things,' Laura says, emptying the bottle of Perrier into her glass.
'You mean you actually get tired of the squat?' he says in mock horror.
'I like a change of surroundings sometimes. And the food's good here. I think so, anyway.'
'Do you usually have the fish?'
She shakes her head. 'Most of the time I keep to the cheapest thing on the menu:  beans on toast.'
'The reluctant vegetarian.'
'That's me.'
'It's nice to make an occasion of it.'
'Except I feel guilty.'
'Why?'
'Letting you pay for everything.'
'I offered. A sort of thank you.'
'What for?'
He loves the puzzled way she looks at him. He explains, 'I needed a friendly face and you came along.'
She bites her lower lip. 'You're making me feel terrible.' 
'Why?'
'Going for the most expensive item on the menu.' 
'I said choose whatever you want.' 
'I should have had pasta, like you.' 
'I just fancied lasagna,' he excuses himself, not wishing to destroy the mood by mentioning that in restaurants he always avoids fish and shellfish because they do not keep well. He pours his own Perrier into the glass, remembering how the bubbles rising to the surface of lemonade fascinated him as a child. 
'I'm not used to being bought meals.' 
'I don't often get the chance to treat somebody,' he confesses, reflecting that he has never taken Helen or Sam out for a meal since they were small. If he offered now, they would be likely to refuse. As for Margaret, he has not taken her out for a meal since last Christmas. He does not want to think of Margaret when he is with Laura.
'Thanks anyway,' Laura says. 
'My pleasure.' 
Laura looks down. Her sudden shyness is endearing. He glances at the other diners: a sprinkling of office workers taking their lunch, a middle-aged housewife gazing out the window, her coffee untouched, and a youth who might be a student, engrossed in a magazine and eating Laura's normal choice of beans on toast. Arnold feels content. 
'What are you smiling about?' Laura's voice intrudes into his thoughts. 
'You said you're not used to being bought meals. I'm not used to this.' 
'How do you mean?' 
'I feel like a schoolboy sneaking off school.' 
'Savour the experience.' 
'It seems odd not being at work in the middle of the day.' 
'What about holidays?' 
'They're different.' 
'Like being given a licence to do your own thing by your firm?' 
'That's one way of looking at it.' 
'I can't imagine getting hung up on a job.' 
'Is that what I am?' 
She bites her lower lip again. 'You buy me a meal and I insult you. Sorry.' 
'You weren't insulting me.' 
'I was, but you're too polite to say so. That's me all over, always opening my big mouth.' 
'Do you think I'm hung up?' 
'Forget I said it.' 
'I'd like to know.' 
'It was a stupid thing to say. I hardly know anything about you.' 
'I probably am hung up on it. You accumulate commitments, then I suppose that makes you more dependent on work to pay for them, more tied up in it. Work gets to be a big part of your life.' 
'What is your job?' 
'Insurance.' 
'So how come you're here if you work in the City?' 
As he explains, Laura's eyes grow wide. 
'It must have been a shock when you woke up,' she says when he has finished. 
'That's one way of putting it.' 
'Perhaps it was a sign. Time for a change of direction.' 
'I don't know whether I believe in signs.' 
'I don't know whether I do, but you can't disprove them.' Laura's expression is serious. It surprises him that she should admit to being superstitious. If his daughters harbour similar feelings, they never reveal them to him. 
'So what about you?' he asks to change the subject. 'Tell me all about you.' 
As she gazes past him, lost in thought, her beauty makes him hold his breath. The fantasy returns of living with her in a squat. He knows that it can never happen, but that does not affect the strength of his feelings. The experience is disturbing. He has never been unfaithful to Margaret. Suddenly he is not so sure whether the meal was a good idea. 
'There's nothing interesting to say about me,' Laura responds at least. 
'I'm sure there is.' He searches his mind for something significant from their conversation. 'You said you didn't have a job when you were looking for somewhere to live. Did you ever find one in the end?' 
'A job, you mean?' She shakes her head. 'There aren't any around here.' 
'What about central London?' 
'I wasn't sitting around on my arse feeling sorry for myself, you know.' 
'I'm sorry.' 
'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. I filled in dozens of applications, then that's the last you hear. It's like sending letters into a void.' 
He wants to suggest that she should have persevered, but at that moment a cheerful, dumpy girl in a red apron brings their food. He wonders whether the waitress thinks he is Laura's father—or her lover. Not that he minds when he is with strangers whom he will never see again. Seeing the pleasure on Laura's face as the food is put in front of her, his doubts about inviting her are banished.
'Looks good,' she says, unfolding her serviette when the waitress has gone. 
'Certainly does,' he has to agree. Her plaice is enormous and coated in breadcrumbs. It is surrounded by thinly-sliced chips and garnished with parsley and a slice of lemon. His own lasagne looks modest by comparison. Steam rises from the bubbling surface. He knows that he should have ordered something lower in fat. 
He wipes his knife and fork on the serviette. Laura does not begin eating until he does; then she tackles the fish eagerly. He tries the lasagne tentatively, noticing how much of it comprises melted cheese. It is not a dish Margaret makes. She always chooses reduced fat cheese, when she buys it at all. 
'Mmm, this is good,' Laura says. 'How's yours?' 
'Fine.' 
She notices his caution. 'Are you sure?' 
'It's a bit hot at the moment.' 
'Having dragged you here, I'd feel awful if you didn't like the food.' 
'You didn't drag me.' 
The conversation lapses. Laura eats hungrily. It crosses his mind that this might be her only meal of the day. He watches the waitress refilling the middle-aged housewife's cup with coffee from a glass jug. The sight and the smell takes him back to a teashop in Sidmouth where he went with Margaret before the girls were born—before Laura was born. The memory is vivid: the chatter of the two old ladies who ran the shop, a glass jug of coffee standing on a hotplate behind the counter and that pervasive aroma of coffee. It was a weekend break—their first time away after the honeymoon. He doubts whether Margaret still remembers. They will have to get used to being alone together once more when the girls leave. 
'How long does it take you to get to work each day?' Laura is asking. He looks up, surprised by her question. 
'From door to door about an hour and a half.' 
'So that's three hours a day travelling?' 
'About that. More if the trains aren't running properly.' 
'Twenty-one hours a week.' She pulls a face. 'Doesn't it piss you off?' 
'You get used to it.' 
'I don't think I'd want to.' 
'I like where I live, so I haven't got much choice.' 
'That's why I don't want to get hung up on property.' 
Suddenly she seems no older than Sam, which increases his shame about his feelings towards her. He tells himself that maturity and the discipline of a regular job will change her, but the thought does make him any more comfortable about his feelings. 
'Doesn't it ever worry you?' she queries. 
'How do you mean?' 
'Being on a treadmill: working to pay the mortgage, keep the car on the road and all the rest.' 
'No.' 
His blunt answer makes her turn back to her food. She looks subdued by his rebuff. Shocking her gives him a kind of satisfaction in standing up for his own values, though he is not sure whether what he said was true. Then memories of her kindness reassert themselves and he is ashamed of his rudeness. He tries to justify his tone by saying, 'I don't see what I can do about it,' but his words lack conviction. 
'You could dig your heels in and make a stand.' 
He thinks of himself as a teenager again, working as junior clerk in the household insurance department. Every desk was piled with the files which it was his job to find each day when correspondence came in. The central registry was a grand title for the basement room stuffed with files. Sometimes as he bought up yet another basket of files, he looked at the bowed heads of clerks who were not far off retirement and hoped that he would never be like them. Those were men who had failed to achieve senior positions. It is difficult now to be sure whether rebellion or ambition was in his mind—
He becomes aware that Laura is watching him. 
'You put up with more as you get older,' he demurs, knowing from her face that she is disappointed by his glib response, even though she refrains from arguing. She turns her attention to her food, leaving him conscious of having disappointed her. He goes back to eating the lasagne, wondering whether he is really as rigid in his attitudes as Laura thinks. Sam would say that he is. Familial affection might stop her from admitting it to a stranger, though if she were feeling mischievous, she might suggest it jokingly. Helen is more conservative and more accepting. He is not sure what she thinks of him any longer. His remembers a holiday in Paignton when Sam was seven or eight. He can see himself on the greensward, playing ball with the girls, while Margaret dozed in a deck chair. His awkwardness was forgotten. He loved his children; he tried to be a good father. There was no talk then of his attitudes being rigid. 
'I love fish in breadcrumbs much more than in batter,' Laura is saying. 'I suppose it's something to do with having fish fingers as a kid. It's that crispy, nutty taste that gets me—and breadcrumbs never seem so fatty.' 
'Sam used to like fish fingers. She's my younger daughter.' 
'Helen's sister.' 
'You remembered.' 
'Sam's short for Samantha, I take it?' 
'I wish she'd use her full name.' 
'Why? Sam's okay.' 
Arnold wonders whether there is anything he might say which will not provoke Laura to disagree. She is eating again as though Sam's name has already slipped from her memory. He knows that really he has nothing in common with her. That was something which he should have realised before inviting her. He knows how awkward he would feel if Helen or Sam was sitting opposite him, but it is the attraction of Laura which makes his present situation different and so much more disturbing. Not since his courting days has he taken a girl out for a meal. Margaret was his only serious girlfriend. Their early, embarrassing encounters sweep back with a terrifying vividness which makes him glance towards the door, longing to escape. 
'I don't think they'll find you here,' Laura's voice intrudes on his thoughts. 
He shakes free of his reverie. 'Sorry. You're right, of course.' 
'Who are these people who are after you?' 
'You make me sound paranoid.' 
Her expression becomes serious again. 'After what happened with Danny, I wouldn't say there's anything paranoid about it.' 
He tells her about Mary, pleased to have found a neutral topic which interests her. Laura stops eating as the story unfolds. 
'So why are you so scared of them if they're only animal rights freaks?' she wants to know.
He explains about the Libyan connection. 
'That's weird,' she says, frowning. 
'It's all true.' 
'I'm not saying it isn't. It's just ...' She shakes her head incredulously. 'I don't know.'
'And to think it started out as a nice, ordinary day.' 
'Most weird days do.' 
As she resumes eating, he feels the closeness which he experienced earlier. He does not want the meal to end. He sips Perrier, imagining ways of delaying her. 
'Don't you like the lasagne?' she asks, noticing his hesitation. 
'Yes—it's fine.' Dutifully he puts down his glass and resumes eating. The melted cheese is not so overpoweringly hot now. 
'I sign petitions for animal rights and that sort of thing, but I've never got into anything heavy,' Laura explains. She spears the chips with her fork. 'I've tried going completely vegetarian, but I love sausages. It's terrible. I can't keep away from them.' 
'Must be serious.' 
'It sounds so feeble when you say you can't help yourself.' 
'Sure you don't want sausages for second course?' 
'Don't.' 
'At least you don't have any weight problems.' 
'If only.' He waits until she is loading her fork again before he asks, 'Don't you get tired of always moving around?' 
'We only move when we're forced to. It's not like we're travellers.' She watches his face. 'I suppose you don't approve of them.' 
'They do cause problems.' 
'They get hassled all the time. Where are they supposed to go?' 
To suggest that they settle down might only upset her again. Instead he points out, 'They do leave a lot of rubbish behind.' 
'That's because the council won't collect it regularly from the sites.' 
He feels compelled to say, 'They don't have to leave it spread everywhere.' 
'Don't you envy their freedom?' 
This is something which he can deny without a qualm. 
'I'd like to go on the road for a while,' Laura reveals. 
'Rather you than me.' 
'Don't you ever want to do something different?' 
'I'm happy with what I've got, predictable though it might be.' He knows that he sounds smug and conventional. 
'I'd like to live abroad.' 
The questions which he wants to ask are clotted inside him, stifled by politeness. He hides his feelings by concentrating on his food, but Laura's words reverberate in his mind. His hunger has gone. 
'You don't agree,' she prompts, more attuned to his mood that he anticipated. She watches his face. 'And I've upset you again.' 
'No you haven't.' Dutifully he picks at his food as he searches for words which will make everything right again. 
'Everything's going back to what it was in the thirties,' Laura says suddenly. 'That's what gets me.' 
'How do you mean?' 
'Running down the schools and the health service, hitting the poor so they can give tax cuts to the rich. That's why I'd like to get out.' 
'You might find other countries have got the same problems.' 
She shakes her head. 'The attitude's different here.' 
He concentrates on his food, not wanting to antagonise her by disagreeing. The layer of mincemeat at the base of the lasagne comes as a surprise—for some reason he expected it to be vegetarian. The texture of the meat is rubbery. He pushes the remains to the side of the dish. 
'That was good.' Laura pushes her plate away. She dabs her lips with a serviette and then smiles. 'Thanks again.' 
'A pleasure,' he says, putting down his knife and fork. 
'Don't finish because of me.' 
'I'm full.' 
'Did you enjoy it?' 
'It was fine.' 
'Are you sure?' She looks as he pushes the unfinished food away. 
'Quite sure,' he insists. 'How about a sweet?' 
'Don't.' She bites her lip again in indecision. 
'Tempted?' 
'You're getting to know me.' 
'Then have one.' 
She watches for his reaction as she asks, 'Are you sure you wouldn't mind?' 
'I'm going to indulge myself.' He holds the menu so they can both read it. He enjoys craning his head close to hers. 'What do you fancy?' 
'It has to be the crumble. I love crumbles.' 
'As much as sausages?' 
She looks at him solemnly. 'More, I think.' 
'I'll try the same.' 
'All the other things are just as good.' 
'Let's stick to the crumble.' He looks around for the waitress. 
'She has a habit of disappearing when you want her,' Laura murmurs. 
'I'm not very good at attracting the attention of waitresses.' 
'You and me both.' 
As they wait in silence, Arnold keeps glancing over his shoulder at the kitchen doorway. 
'Here she is,' Laura whispers. Arnold turns again, catching the eye of the plump girl. 
'Did you enjoy that?' she asks as she clears the table. 
'Perfect, thank you,' says Laura, smiling. Arnold basks in her pleasure.  He orders two crumbles. 
'You're making an occasion of it,' Laura observes as the girl bustles away. 
'And why not?' He feels jaunty, though whether from the influence of the food, of Laura's closeness or the alcohol, he is not sure. 
'A group of us go to this art gallery down the road when there's a new show; then we come in here for coffee afterwards. You can sit here for hours talking and they don't hassle you to buy a meal.' 
'It's certainly a friendly atmosphere,' he agrees. 
'Are you into art?' 
'Not really.' 
She grins. 'I thought you were going to say you know what you like.' 
He finds himself responding to her mood by smiling himself. 'Would you have told me off?' 
'I couldn't do that when you've just bought me a meal, could I?'
'You might be groaning inwardly.' 
She shakes her head. 
'So am I excused?' 
'What for?' 
'Being ignorant about art.' 
'Of course you are.' 
'Thank you.'
'But I think I need to educate you.'

'Sounds interesting.'
When the sweet arrives, Laura licks her lips. 
'You like your food, don't you?' he observes. 
'If somebody else cooks it and it's as good as this.' 
He tries the crumble. It is sweeter than anything Margaret would make. When he  notices how Laura tucks in with relish, he wonders whether she feeds herself properly. 
'They have different crumbles according to what's in season,' she explains. 'Usually it's just apple, but if you're lucky it's blackberry and apple. And they have fresh apricots sometimes. That's gorgeous.' 
'At home we usually have pies rather than crumbles.' 
'You don't get the crunchiness with pies.' 
'You do if the pastry's good.' 
'A pie's different.' 
'So how's your pastry?' 
She hesitates. 'Making it, you mean?' 
He nods. 
She pulls a face. 'You don't want to know about my cooking.' 
He smiles. 
'What's that for?' she asks. 
'Nothing.' 
'Tell me.' 
'I don't think you'll be interested.' 
'I don't know if you don't tell me.' 
'I was thinking you're like Sam.' 
'See—it wasn't so bad, was it?' 
'Painless.' 
'You keep things to yourself when you don't need to.' 
'We are strangers.' 
'Are we?' She is staring at him in the way which makes him feel both elated and guilty. He cannot tell from her face whether she is being serious.
'I didn't know you before today.' 
'We're not strangers any more, are we?' 
He wants to argue, but he cannot risk upsetting her. 
'Anyway,' she continues, 'it's only how we define things. What's it matter if we call ourselves friends or strangers? It's who we are and how we get on that matters.' 
He does not know how to answer. He turns his attention to the food. 
'Do you ever go to art galleries?' she asks. 
'I've never been in one for years.' 
Her brow furrows. 'That's terrible.' 
'Do you think so?' He shifts uncomfortably on his chair, surprised by the vehemence of her response. 
'Where was it you went last?' 
'The Louvre—when we were on holiday.' He recalls that Margaret insisted on going there. The girls were restless, anxious to go somewhere more interesting. 
'To me it's like part of living,' Laura tells him. Her expression is serious. 'I go to the Tate every couple of weeks to recharge my batteries. I choose one room each time. The trouble is they rehang them before I've got round the whole gallery, so I never get to the end. I quite like that.' 
'It's a long way to go to look at one room.' 
'Sometimes I don't get round a whole room if there's a painting that really grabs me.' 
'How long do you spend there?' 
'Varies. An hour, perhaps. Sometimes the whole afternoon.' 
'An hour looking at one painting?' 
'Why not?' 
'It seems a long time, that's all.' 
'You go back to a favourite painting and it's like seeing an old friend. You enjoy it all the more.' 
'It's not something I've ever experienced.' 
'Don't you have favourite paintings?' 
He knows Constable's painting of Flatford Mill, but he is afraid that she will laugh if he confesses that he sees it on a table mat every day. Instead he shakes his head. 
'Mine's always changing,' she continues. 'Obviously nothing can compare with a Turner or a Vermeer, but I love Mondrian for his colours and Auerbach for his textures. That's the great thing about London: there's always an exhibition opening somewhere. If only they didn't cost so much.' 
Arnold tries to look knowledgeable. Though he is familiar with reproductions of Turner paintings, the other names mean little to him. 
'Would you like to look round the art gallery?' she asks. 
'When?' 
'Now.' 
'I've got to go to work.' 
'You've taken the morning off. Couldn't you make a day of it?' 
'Not really.' 
'Go on—just this once.' 
He knows that other people do. 
'How often are you off sick?' Laura persists. 
'Not very often, but that's not the point.' 
'You're entitled to be off sick for a certain amount of time each year.' 
'You're entitled to sickness benefit if you're sick. It's not like an extra holiday.' 
'Everybody takes time off. Employers expect it.' 
He permits himself a smile at such naivety. 'I don't know about that.' 
'Anyway, by the time you get to work, it'll be time to go home. You said so yourself.' 
'I know.' 
'Please.' She gazes at him with an expression which melts him. 'You'll enjoy it.' 
'You think?' 
'I promise.' 
'I don't know whether I could look at one painting for an hour.' 
A smile hovers on her lips. 'You won't have to.' 
'You're leading me into bad ways.' 
She cannot hold back the smile. 'Think of it as the start of a new life. Don't get so hung up on work.' 
He tries to keep his tone light as he reminds her, 'Don't forget I haven't got anybody else to pay the bills.' 
'That's not the way to approach art.' 
'Perhaps I'm not cut out to be an art lover.' 
'I'll have to convert you.' 
'We'll see.' 
As she resumes eating, Arnold tries to compose himself into the sort of mood of reverence which he feels is appropriate to visiting an art gallery. He knows that Laura would laugh if he told her what he is doing. There is a flutter of excitement in his stomach. Part of him feels the delicious naughtiness of breaking the rules. 
'You ought to take up painting,' she tells him. 
'You haven't seen my painting skills.' 
'That doesn't matter. It's a way of showing your feelings. They use art therapy in hospitals now.' 
He knows, but he tries to look surprised. 
'It helps you to open up,' she explains. 
'I don't know if I want to be opened up.' 
'You might not want to, but you need do.' Her face is solemn. 'What sort of things do you do in your spare time?' 
He permits himself a smile. 'When you're commuting, you don't get much spare time.' 
'What about weekends?' 
'I've got the garden to look after, things to do around the house ...' 
'Isn't there something you're passionate about?' 
'My family.' 
'Isn't there anything else that grabs you: politics, the environment, amateur dramatics, anything?' 
'Not really.' 
'You definitely need to go in an art gallery.' 
'Do I?' Her desire to order his life amuses him. 
'To open your eyes.' She looks repentant as he raises his eyebrows. 'I'm preaching at you, aren't I?' 
'A bit.' 
'I'm sorry.' She turns back to her food, but her enthusiasm has dimmed.  
'Sometimes they had crumbles on the menu at school,' Arnold remembers. 'They weren't so good as these, though.' 
'I bet they had sausages every day.' 
'They weren't very good either.' 
Eating hot food has made him sweat more. He is conscious of his shirt sticking to his skin again. As he watches Laura finishing her crumble, he is transported back to sitting at a table with Helen and Sam when they were young and watching them eating.
'Want another one?' he asks. 
'Don't.' 
'You can if you want. I shan't tell on you.' 
'I daren't.' 
'Forget about the calories.' 
'I wish I could, but I know how long it takes me to get into these jeans.' 
Images of her struggling into her jeans come easily. He tries to dismiss them, feeling like a voyeur. 
She looks down at his dish. 'You haven't finished yours.' 
'Have I got to eat every bit?' 
'Don't listen to me.' 
He pushes the remains of the crumble away. 'I don't feel all that hungry this weather—just thirsty.' 
'Do you want another bottle of Perrier? You know you could have asked for tap water? It would have been cheaper.'
'Not so much fun, though. I like the bubbles.'
'You're funny.' 
'We'd better get on if we're going to see this art gallery.' 
'We don't have to go there if you don't want to.' 
'Sure you don't want anything else to eat or drink?' 
She shakes her head. 'I feel guilty enough already, letting you pay for all this.' 
'My pleasure.' 
'Thanks anyway. If I get carried away and forget to tell you again, it is appreciated.' 
'Do we wait for the waitress to come with a bill?' 
'You pay at the counter.' 
What Arnold always finds uncomfortable about eating at restaurants: not knowing how to pay or how much to leave as a tip. He is glad when the business is done and they are outside. He looks expectantly at Laura. As she squints against the sun, he sees the fine hairs glowing golden on her face and arms. The emotions which threaten to overwhelm him have not been so strong since those first days of knowing Margaret. They disturb him. 
'Ready?' Laura asks. 
'Ready as I'll ever be,' he responds, trying to shrug off his thoughts. 
'It's only round the corner.' 
They walk slowly. The mew with its granite setts takes them away from the tower blocks and maisonettes to a world of gentrified Victorian cottages converted from stables, and flat-roofed, architect-designed houses in wood and yellow brick, with living room windows on the first floor extending the width of the frontage. The few surviving prewar garages are in need of painting. Their doors bristle with the hasps of multiple padlocks. 
The sound of a car makes Arnold look back. It is being driven slowly. He moves closer to the houses and behind Laura to let it pass. His eyes are drawn to her buttocks twisting in tight jeans. Part of him is disappointed when the car passes and he can walk by her side again; part of him is ashamed. 
'This is the nicer way to get to the gallery,' she explains. 'I come along here to get off the main road. I hate cars.' 
That makes him smile. 
'What's the matter?' she asks, glancing at him. She is almost smiling herself. 
'I must confess I've got a car.' 
'Shame on you.' 
'It does have its uses.' 
She frowns. 'Don't you worry about the damage it does to the environment?' 
'You've got to find a balance.' 
'And the environment always loses out.' 
'People have to get around.' 
'If you went to local shops, you wouldn't have to go to out-of-town supermarkets and shopping centres.' His silence makes her glance at him again, made curious by his lack of response. 'You're a car addict,' she accuses him, though not unkindly. 
'I don't use it all that much. I commute to London by train, don't forget.' 
'Does your wife use it when you're at work?' 
'She's got her own car.' 
'Ah. And I suppose your daughters want theirs.' 
'Not yet.' 
'They will. That's four cars to one house.' 
It occurs to him that he knows little about how Margaret spends her weekdays. When he has a day off, she is usually out seeing her friends. The Women's Institute gives her a lot of outside interests. The thought of her having a lover makes him smile at its absurdity. 
'What's amusing?' Laura asks. 'You're smiling to yourself.'

'It's nothing important.' 
'You're keeping things to yourself again.' 
'I don't mean to.' 
'That why something like art is useful. It helps you to express yourself.' 
'Not the way I draw.' 
'Don't put yourself down.' 
They leave the mews. In front of the warehouses, there are no pavements. Opposite, brick-built blocks of flats from the fifties are surrounded by gardens. Arnold wonders why they do not cross to the narrow pavement between the line of parked cars and the low brick wall: it would be easier than walking between the cars and vans parked on the forecourts. 
'This is it,' Laura announces, stopping before what might once have been a small factory. The projecting stonework around the entrance is freshly painted white. A white banner strung above it proclaims that Dexter Wylie and friends are showing their new works. 
'Who's Dexter Wylie?' Arnold enquires. 
'He left the Royal College of Art about three years ago. He does some really exciting work.' 
Arnold is not so sure, but dutifully he follows her up the steps. What strikes him about the entrance lobby is its whiteness. The bare brick walls, ceiling and woodwork are all painted white. The floor is covered with white vinyl. Posters provide the only splash of colour, but before he can give them more than cursory attention, Laura is leading him past the stairs and through the doors into the lower gallery. Display lights make the atmosphere hot and stifling, though the windows are open. The smells of paint, glue and hot plastic remind him of the train. There are no other viewers: he guesses that the venture will not last long. The noise from the street is stilled.
Laura murmurs, 'It's like having a gallery of your own. I've never been here this early before.' 
'I don't know if I'd call this early.' 
'It is for an art gallery.' 
The paintings are displayed on the white walls and on white screens. His initial impression is that they are daubs. Laura takes his arm and guides him towards one. The excitement of her closeness takes his breath away, so that he feels in danger of fainting. She gazes at the canvas as though it is an object of religious veneration. 
'What do you think?' she murmurs. 
'I don't know much about art.' 
'Doesn't its vividness get you?' 
Arnold stares dutifully at the bright reds arranged in vertical stripes, trying to discern a pattern as a distraction from thinking about his companion. 
'Just look at the colours,' Laura urges. 'Don't try to read anything into them.' 
The gaudy colours remind him of the paintings the girls brought home when they were at infants school. Primitives, he thinks they are called when they are painted by adults, though he does not want to show his ignorance by mentioning this to Laura and discovering that he is wrong. 
'Don't they get you?' she presses. 
'I'm not sure.' 
'Just respond to them. Don't try to analyse.' 
He obeys, but all his feelings are for Laura. 
'Look at the textures and the way the light catches them when you move,' she urges. 
He looks. The paint is applied thickly, creating a texture which reminds him of creosote on a rough wooden fence. 
'Doesn't it excite you?' 
'Not really.' 
'You're not letting your emotions take over.' 
He stares at the painting once more, feeling like a schoolboy struggling to understand some arcane principle of geometry. 
'Don't look for a picture,' she advises. 'It comes eventually, but you have to be patient.' 
'I don't think it's going to come at all.' 
'You're trying too hard. Just respond.' 
The more he tries, the more the verticals come to resemble planks in a crudely-made fence. He goes closer, peering into the thick streaks of colour and deciding that he could do just as well himself. 
'You need relaxing,' Laura declares. 
'I thought I was relaxed.' 
She touches the back of his neck gently. 'Your muscles are all stiff. What you need is a massage with essential oils.' 
He feels a shiver of excitement pass down his spine at her touch. He tries to turn his attention to something else. Thinking of the girls. Sam uses essential oils in her bath. They pervade the bathroom. He found the smell cloying at first, but now he scarcely notices. 
'There's a girl at the squat who does massage if you fancy coming back afterwards.' 
'I don't fancy meeting Danny again.' 
'He won't be back today—too busy with his clubs.' 
'Clubs?' 
'Drinking clubs, discos.' 
'He seems to have a lot of interests.' 
'Anything he can make money out of.' She leads Arnold to the next painting. 'What do you think of this?' 
He feels disconsolate when she lets go of his arm, but dutifully he peers at the painting. This time the vertical streaks have no gaps between them and there are more browns amongst the reds. 
'It's got a thicker texture,' he ventures. 'Like wood.' 
'Good.' 
He looks at her. 'Is there more?' 
'Whatever you want to see in it.' 
'Nothing else.' 
'Shame on you.' 
'What have I missed?' 
She smiles. 'It's not a question of missing anything. It's what you feel. Don't you find there's something disturbing about the browns?' 
'I suppose so,' he agrees, wanting to please her. 
'They're like shadows,' she murmurs, gazing at the painting. 
'We need some shadow in here.' 
She does not bother to answer. Arnold knows that it is a crass remark and deserves her disdain. He longs for the closeness again, but she has entered a world which he cannot understand, in spite of his best efforts. Looking closely at those thick, muddy textures evokes no emotion. Losing interest, he glances at the other works. They mean no more to him. 
'There's like a dialogue going on between the colours,' Laura explains, still mesmerised. 'I wish I could do that.' 
'Is that one of Dexter Wylie's?' 
Reluctantly she draws her attention from the painting before them to see what Arnold is pointing at. She nods. 'I met Dexter once. I was a bit in awe of him.' 
'Does he always paint in reds and browns?' 
'Mainly.' 
'Why?' 
'To explore the potential of a limited colour range.' 
Arnold does not understand, but he does not want to show his annoy his companion by pursuing the matter. Instead he asks, 'Who are his friends?' When he sees her puzzlement, he adds, 'The banner said he was with his friends.' 
'They were his fellow students.' 
'So where's their work?' 
'There's one behind you.' 
He turns to find himself almost stepping on a heap of white-painted pebbles. An arc of stones sweeps from them. 
'It's really elegant.' Laura sounds wistful. 
Arnold inspects the card within the arc. It informs him that the work is entitled Seashore and that the artist is Tina Shaw. 
'Do you know her?' he asks. 
Laura shakes her head. 'I'd like to meet her. What's great about this place is that at the weekend they invite the artists to give talks about their work.' 
'And you go.' 
'That's how I met Dexter Wylie.' 
Arnold tries without success to imagine the sort of person who is obsessed with painting red stripes. 
'You ought to come,' she urges. 'It would help you to understand what he's getting at.' 
'It's a long journey.' 
'It's worth it.' 
He looks down at the pebbles and resists the urge to kick them. Impossible to tell whether they are glued together; intriguing to think how they might fare if a child decided to play with them. He turns his attention to a collection of white-painted boxes nearby. 'Are those Tina Shaw's work as well?' 
'I think they must be.' 
As Laura goes closer to inspect the card, Arnold finds himself watching her rather than looking at the exhibits. Fantasies about her steal into his mind again, bringing that addictive and dangerous exhilaration. 
'You're right,' she announces. 'The title's Five.' 
He goes close to her to contemplate the five boxes arranged apparently at random. He knows by now that he is expected to give his first impression. He admits, 'They don't mean anything to me.' 
'Nothing at all?' 
'Not really.' 
'You must get some sort of first impression.' Laura sounds disappointed. 
He grins. 'They remind me of those boxes you get lying round the back of the stores in the high street.' 
'So you're linking the work with everyday life. That's fine.' 
'I thought I wasn't supposed to read things into them?' 
'Not necessarily. It's all about making connections.' 
He does not argue, though the distinction means nothing to him. He stares at the boxes, trying to discern why they should be called art. 
'She's so precise,' Laura marvels. 
'What do you make of it?' 
'It's the precision I notice first. Then there's what you said—the relationship to everyday life. She's taking something ordinary and making it into art, like you might take a piece of wood and turn it into a carving.' 
'There's skill in carving.' 
'Why should you judge art by the skill that goes into making it rather than the result? What about a piece of driftwood or a shell? Can't they be works of art because nobody's put any work into them?' 
'I don't know.' 
'What about a spider's web? Can't that be beautiful just because the spider's doing what comes naturally?' 
'It's a point of view,' Arnold murmurs, disconcerted by her vehemence. He turns to the other paintings, hoping to find something they can agree on. 
'The other thing I like is the way she doesn't make compromises,' Laura continues, still gazing at the boxes. 'She's saying, "This is what I want the world to see. Take it or leave it."' 
'You make more of it than me.' 
'You let your preconceptions get in the way. You probably do the same with music, poetry and films.' 
Arnold does not disagree. The newer films shown on television shock him with their violence. The last time he went to a cinema was when he took the girls to see a Disney film. Helen was about to go to grammar school, so Sam could have been no more than eight. As for music, his preference is for the music of his youth—something Laura would probably dismiss as hopelessly old-fashioned as Sam does, though he is amused to notice that his younger daughter likes listening to Beatles records. Poetry has played no part in his life since leaving school. 
Laura leads him away from the boxes to a painting which he guesses is another of her favourite works. 'Look at this and tell me what you feel,' she instructs. 'Don't analyse it. That's when your prejudices take over.' 
He peers closer. 'Is it by Dexter Wylie?' 
'You're analysing already,' she warns, watching his face. 
'There's an overlapping series of coloured dots—reds, blues, greens. Amongst them there's the outline of a head. That appears several times. Impossible to say whether it belongs to a man or a woman.' 
'Good.' 
'That's about all.' 
'You've described what you see. Now tell me what you feel.' 
Arnold hesitates before admitting, 'Nothing very much.' He hardly dares to face his mentor. 
'You're terrible.' Laura looks at the ceiling in mock despair. 
'I'm past redemption,' he agrees. 
'Drugs would help you.' When she sees his disapproval, she adds, 'Seriously. They'd loosen you up.' 
'I don't think so.' He is shaking his head.
'I knew you'd say that.'
'I'm very predictable.'
'Think about it.' 
'What do you make of that?' he asks, pointing to the adjacent painting before Laura can ask for his views. It is entitled Demolition Site, though he can recognise little except the gantry of a crane. 
'Activity and mud,' Laura says decisively. 'You've got the feeling and textures of a building site.' 
'There's plenty of mud,' he agrees. 
'You can make out all the paraphernalia: the girders being cut up and the hoses to the drills.' 
The snaking yellow lines have puzzled him. 
'It's a bit gloomy,' he points out. 
'Demolishing a building is a pretty gloomy business—especially when they're going to put up some awful office block or a shopping mall in its place.' 
'I wouldn't like it on my wall.' 
Her expression makes it clear that he has given the wrong answer. 
'The textures are interesting,' he adds, remembering a phrase which Laura used. 'Those whorls of thick, brown paint look like rust.' 
'That's good.' 
Her praise makes him feel disproportionately pleased. He asks, 'Is that one you'd look at that for an hour?' 
'Getting bored?' 
'No.' 
'We can go upstairs if you like.' 
He gestures her to go first. Through the swing doors to the entrance lobby and up stone steps worn smooth by years of use. He watches the delicious tilting of her hips as she climbs. 
The upper gallery has no ceiling. The roof timbers and the slender steel rods supporting the roof are painted white. More windows here, the sunlight diffused by blinds, though the air is just as stifling. No other visitors. 
'What's your favourite painting out of all these?' he asks.
'Do you really want to know?' 
He does not answer. He is close to her, watching her face. Her eyes are large. He wants to kiss her. Perhaps she realises and that is why she moves away. 
'Over here,' she says. 
He follows, drawn to Laura rather than to the painting. It is as though she has cast a spell on him. 
'What do you think?' she asks. 
He has to drag his gaze from her to what is recognisably a portrait. When he leans forward to read the card, she puts her hand in front of it. 
'Just respond,' she urges. 
'Lots of red again. Is it by your friend Dexter Wylie?' 
'What do you feel?' 
When he glances at her, she is watching him intently. He ventures, 'It's a man's face.' 
She nods encouragingly. 
'It's difficult to tell his expression.' Arnold gazes into the thick textures. 'Not a very nice thing to say, but it looks as though his skin's been pulled away and we're looking at his muscles and blood vessels.' 
'That's good.' 
'Was I right?' 
'It's not a question of being right. Anything else?' 
Arnold looks again. 
'Is he happy or unhappy?' Laura prompts. 
'Unhappy?' 
'He's dreadfully unhappy.' She stares at the painting as though it is sapping her own vitality. 'I wouldn't like to be him.' 
'Do we know who it's a painting of?' Arnold peers at the label, this time without being restrained. 'It doesn't say.' 
'I woke up last night and I could see those empty eye sockets.' Laura shivers. 
'Let's look at something else.' 
'Are you sure you want to carry on?' 
'Yes.' 
'I dragged you here.' 
'No you didn't. I can stand up for myself, you know.' 
That makes her smile. 'Ever the gentleman.' 
'I don't know about that.' 
'You are. You're so gentlemanly.' 
'Don't forget this friend you want to see.' 
'You're bored, aren't you?' 
'No—I'm interested.' 
'In this place, or seeing my friends?' 
'Both. I'm not in any hurry to leave. Really.' 
She stares into his face, trying to divine the truth of his statement. He finds himself holding his breath. He knows whose face will be in his thoughts that night, wherever he is.

chapter ten

Arnold is reluctant to leave the gallery. The roar of traffic on the main road depresses him. The traffic fumes are more noticeable than before. They dry his throat.
'Are your daughters into art?' Laura asks.
'No. No artistic genes in our family, I'm afraid.' 
'It's not genes—not all of it.' 
'What about Rembrandt or Constable?' 
'What they had was a gift from the gods. For the rest of us, it's the sort of early experiences you're exposed to. If you don't interest kids in art when they're young, they'll never think about it.' 
'I wasn't exposed to it and neither was Margaret, so I suppose we never had anything to pass on.' 
'That's sad.' 
'I think most people are in the same position.' 
'Everybody needs some outlet. If you don't find one, you get frustrated. That's when there's violence.' 
'Like Danny.' 
'He's just a thug.' 
'I'm not violent.' 
'I gathered that.' 
'Thank you.' 
'So what's your outlet?' 
'I don't know.' 
'You must have some way of letting your feelings out.' 
'Gardening, I suppose.' 
'Gardening can be artistic. Think of Gertrude Jekyll.' 
'Mine's not up to that standard.' 
'What grabs you: the designing side, or growing things?' 
'Growing things. There's not much designing you can do in a pocket-handkerchief garden.' 
'I should have thought you'd need to be more careful about design when you've only got a small area to work with.' 
'I just get on with it.' 
'I can't imagine you hurrying home to get your hands dirty. I can see you doing something like stamp collecting.' 
'I like a change after spending all day behind a desk.' 
'Makes sense.' 
'Helen's the thinker in our family: she took A-level literature and she's always got her nose in a book.' 
'What sort of things does she read?' 
'Anything: poetry, novels, biography, travel.' 
'What about Sam?' 
'Sam's more interested in enjoying herself: going to discos and rock concerts.' 
'Rock can be creative—or don't you agree?' 
'I don't know much about it.' 
'I bet you never listen to it.' 
He can imagine Sam's response if he said that he wanted to listen to her cassettes. The thought makes him smile. He dismisses it to ask, 'Do you still paint?' 
'Not these days.' 
'Why?' 
'Because I know other people can do it better.' 
'Defeatist talk.' 
'What's the point when I know I'm second rate?' 
'You don't know that.'
'I do, believe me.' 
'Perhaps you need to practise more.' 
'It's not something you get better at by practising like driving. You've got to have the right attitude.' 
'And yours is wrong?' 
'If you want to put it like that.' 
'You were saying just now that everybody should have an outlet.' 
'You don't have to inflict it on other people.' 
'So you still paint for your own amusement?' 
'I wouldn't call it amusement. I look at things in visual terms—I can't stop myself —but I don't sit down to create a work of art.' 
'Are your parents artistic?' 
'You must be joking! Dad works in a builders' merchants and mum in a shoe shop, if you call that artistic. I think dad was a frustrated artist. He was the one who encouraged me to paint.' She smiles, remembering. 'He used to bring home rolls of wallpaper that had got battered at the ends so they couldn't be sold. He'd cut them up so I could use the back.' 
'So you were lucky.' 
'Luckier than some.' She sounds nostalgic. He wants to ask more about her parents, but something in her tone makes him hold back. 
'So you had a happy childhood?' he prompts.
'Pretty good.' She shakes herself from her reverie and grins. 'I'd love to see what you'd paint.' 
'You wouldn't. I'm hopeless at art.' 
'It's not drawing a vase of flowers so it looks like the original. You might as well take a photograph if that's what you want. Think of drawing as a way of looking into another person's mind. We don't have many ways: the arts, talking and making love.' 
'I don't think painting is my way.' 
She looks mischievous. 'What is—apart from gardening?' 
'I was interested in amateur theatricals once.' 
'Wow!' 
'Surprised?' 
'Amazed. But you don't do it now?' 
'You don't get time when you're commuting. Once you're home, you want to stay there.' 
'That's a pity.' She cannot conceal her amusement. 'Have you got any photographs of you in costume?' 
'I was strictly a backstage boy.' 
'Figures.' 
'How about showing me some of your work?' 
'Never was so much interest shown in so little.' 
'You're running yourself down again.' 
'I mean there isn't much of it. I told you—you can't afford to get hung up on possessions when you're moving around.' 
His thoughts return to the squat. Compared with Pete's flat, his own home is overflowing with electrical appliances, ornaments and cared-for furniture. Margaret would hate anything different. He wonders how he would fare living more simply. He asks, 'Where are you going to stay?' 
'Tonight, you mean?' 
'Eventually. You said you'll have to leave the squat.' 
'I don't know what's happening. We'll scout around for somewhere.' 
'Couldn't you stay at Baz's place?' 
That makes her furrow her brow. 'Why do you say that?' 
'You told me you got on with him.' 
'They're not looking for anybody else. I could doss down for a night or two, but that's about all.' 
He considers offering to help with the rent of a room, but he does not want her to suspect his motives. And he guesses from the 'we' she referred to that she lives with a boyfriend. He wonders whether Pete is her partner. The thought arouses jealousy which he knows is unreasoning, but which he cannot altogether control. 
'This way,' she says, interrupting his thoughts. 
They turn off the main road into another street of three-storeyed blocks built of yellow brick and set in gardens. Now the moment of meeting Laura's friends is closer, Arnold feels uneasy. He wishes that he had deflected her by showing more interest in the gallery; then they might still be there. As they left, he could have excused himself by saying that he had to get back to the office. He would have been giving up Laura's company, but he knows that eventually he will lose her. 
'I hope they won't expect us to stay for food,' she is saying. 'I can't eat anything now.' 
'We can always make an excuse,' he suggests, pleased at the opportunity to refer to themselves as a couple and to share a secret. 
'Lying?' Her face registers mock horror. 
'A little white lie.' 
'Shame on you.' 
'Is this another squat we're going to?' 
That makes her laugh. 'Don't let them hear you saying that. They've lived around here for years. They're real cockneys.' 
'And they're not involved in animal welfare?' 
'You're safe, don't worry.' 
But he does worry as they leave the pavement and take the path through the gardens. The entrance to the block is clean, which does something to reassure him. No lift. Their steps echo through the brick and concrete stairwell as they climb. 
'I should have got a present for them,' Laura murmurs. 
'Too late now.' 
'Don't rub it in.' 
The walkways are along the rear of the building, shaded from the sun. Children in the courtyard clamber over a climbing frame. No broken glass to be seen; no boarded windows. On the far side of the courtyard are the brick arches of a railway viaduct. 
'This is it.' 
A front door with a mat outside. Taped to the glass panel is a silhouette of wedding bells cut from silver card. 
'I don't feel dressed for a wedding,' Arnold complains as Laura rings the bell. 
'We're not going to the ceremony.' 
'They might ask us.' 
'It's just going to be family.' 
The door opens before he can argue. The woman who faces them is in her forties: dumpy, homely and wearing smart clothes. 
'Hello, love.' She beams at Laura.
'I said I'd come,' Laura greets her. 
'Karen'll be pleased to see you. Come on in.' 
'I've bought a friend.' Laura glances towards Arnold. 
'Everybody's welcome today,' the woman tells them, opening the door wider. As her visitors crowd into the tiny hall, she explains, 'I'd like to leave the front door open to let a bit of air through, but you can't do that, can you?' 
'You could put the chain on,' Laura suggests. 
The woman's face becomes serious. 'You need more than a chain round here. I know we're only in the other room, but when you're talking, you can't always hear what's going on out here. Some of them would cut the chain and strip the bedrooms before you knew what was happening.' 
Arnold closes the front door before going into a living room already made small by the crush of people and furniture. The shelves of the mahogany display case are stuffed with china ornaments. They form a backdrop to the bride, who occupies the tapestry-covered armchair as though it is a throne. The cream dress with white lace trimmings cascades around her. Excitement gives her a radiance which Arnold suspects that she does not normally possess. One arm is held out as a girl he guesses to be her older sister fusses with the sleeve. Seated on the settee is their father: gaunt, sideboards growing profusely in compensation for prematurely baldness, his remaining hair smoothed back. He is in his shirt-sleeves; his tie is loosened.  He raises a can of lager in salutation to the guests. Beside him sits his father, looking ill at ease in a suit. The pinched family features are accentuated in the older man. He is smoking: the air is heavy with smoke in spite of the open window. Arnold struggles not to cough. He notices the curious glances of the family as they speculate on his relationship to Laura. The mystery amuses him. He guesses that they are wondering if he is her lover. 
The bride's face lights up at the sight of Laura. 
'We thought you wasn't coming.' 
'We got delayed. Sorry about that.' Laura touches his arm. 'This is Arnold, a friend of mine. Arnold—this is Karen. It's her day.' 
He nods to the bride before being introduced to her sister, Pauline, and their parents, Gladys and Ted. Nobody introduces him to grandad. 
Gladys holds up a bottle of sparkling wine. 'Anybody want some fizz?' 
'Please,' says Laura. 
Gladys turns to Arnold with eyebrows raised after pouring Laura's drink. 'Are you having some?' 
'Could I have a soft drink instead?' 
'We've got orange juice. Is that all right?' 
'Fine, thanks.' 
'What's happening?' Laura asks Karen as Gladys bustles into the kitchen. 'Are you meeting Gary at the registry office?' 
'He's coming here first.' Karen glances at the clock. 'I thought that was him when the bell went.' 
'I expect he's getting ready.' 
'It's supposed to be the bride who's late.' 
'That's equality for you.' 
'Him winding me up, more like.' 
'How long is it you've been seeing him?' 
'Two years.' The bride's tone has softened. 
Laura turns to Arnold. 'Karen and me met down the council offices.' 
'Laura helped Karen a lot when we was having problems with the housing people,' Gladys explains, coming back with a glass of orange juice. 
'Me and Gary was after a flat,' Karen adds. 'Trouble is they're so bloody-minded down that place, I end up losing me cool.' 
'You make things worse that way,' Gladys reproves her. She gives Arnold a glass of orange juice. 'Anyway, Laura got the housing aid centre on our side and introduced us to a councillor. He got it all got sorted out.' 
'We've got a lot to thank Laura for,' Ted agrees. 
'You've got to know your way around the system these days,' Laura says modestly. 
'Sit yourself down,' Gladys urges her guests. 'Don't stand on ceremony.' 
'Sit on it instead,' Karen jokes. Laura smiles as she perches on an upright chair to sip her wine. Arnold picks his way between the cans and ashtrays to join the men on the settee. Their combined weight makes the seat sag, so that he fears it might collapse altogether. He finds himself sitting close to the floor, as he did in Jackie's flat.
Ted explains, 'Soon as Gary comes, we're going straight down the registry office. We'll have separate cars, of course. Keep to tradition.' 
'We thought it would be easier if we all started from here,' Gladys adds. 'We should have known better.' 
'Give it a rest,' Karen pleads. 
'I'm just saying.' Gladys brushes away a tear. 'It'll be quiet here with you gone.' 
'I'll only be round the corner.' 
'It's not like living here, is it?' 
'You'll have my room spare.' 
'We don't need any more room.' 
'You could do your dressmaking in there. And I'll be popping in most days.' 
'And I'm always coming round,' Pauline adds. 
'We'll manage all right,' Ted reassures his wife. 
'I know we'll manage,' Gladys agrees. 'I'm saying it'll mean a big change.' 
As the conversation lapses, Arnold tries to avoid the smoke drifting from grandad's cigarette. 
'You're coming to the reception, aren't you?' Gladys asks, looking at Laura. 
Laura is shaking her head. 'It's kind of you, but I won't know anybody.'
'You'll be very welcome, won't she, Karen?' 
'I've told her that,' Karen agrees. 
'You come,' Ted urges. 
Gladys turns back to Laura. 'If you want to come, you know we'd love to see you.' She glances at Arnold. 'Both of you.' 
'Thanks.' Laura smiles at Karen. 'You look lovely.' 
'Thanks.' Karen looks pleased. 
'Did you make it yourself?' 
'Mum and Pauline did it. I'm no good at dressmaking.' 
'Don't you listen to her,' Gladys interrupts. 'She did a lot of work on it.' 
'All I did was say what I wanted.' 
'You did a lot more than that.' 
'Anyway, it looks lovely,' Laura breaks in. Arnold wonders whether she is envious. He watches her surreptitiously, trying to fit this new facet of her personality into what he knows of her. She does not strike him as the sort to interest herself in wedding dresses, yet the same could be said of Helen and he remembers how excited she became when she was asked to be a bridesmaid. Sam enjoyed being a bridesmaid when she was small, though he can only guess what her reaction would be now. 
He becomes aware that Ted is talking to him. 
'Are you something to do with the squat?' Ted repeats. 
'No, nothing like that.' 
'When's Gary coming?' grandad wants to know. 
'Any time now,' Pauline tells him, speaking more loudly than she would to the others. 
'Do you want to go to the toilet again?' Gladys asks him. 
'No I don't.' 
'Don't go leaving it till the last minute.' 
'Don't keep on,' Ted complains. 
'You know what'll happen.' 
'You're always making a fuss,' grandad mutters. 
'I'm the one who has to wash your things, that's why.' 
'Dah.' 
'Do you think we ought to ring Gary?' Pauline breaks in, looking at the clock. 
'He'll be here in a minute,' Karen says irritably. 'How long are you gonna be with that sleeve?' 
'I'd do it quicker if you didn't move around.' 
Ted twists his head to look at Arnold again. 'Sure you don't want a can of lager?' 
'No thanks. I ought to be going in a minute.' 
That makes Laura pay attention. He feels guilty at letting her down. 
'You can stay and meet Gary,' Gladys urges. 'He'll be here any minute.' 
Arnold tries to gauge Laura's mood. Something of their closeness has gone. She is disappointed in him, which only compounds his remorse. He longs for the opportunity to be alone with her in order to explain. 
The rumble of a train distracts him, reminding him of the chain of misfortunes which have brought him to his present situation. 
'Which way is it to the station?' he asks Ted. Now the matter of leaving has been raised, there is no reason why he should not take advantage of the opportunity. 
'It's not far. I'll show you when we go.' Ted pulls another can from pack. 'Trouble with this weather—you wanna keep drinking all the time.' 
'You don't need much excuse,' Gladys observes. 
'It's a fact. This weather you dehydrate if you don't drink enough.' 
Arnold tries to catch Laura's eye during the exchange, hoping to offer a mute apology for his betrayal; but either she does not notice or she does not wish to notice. He turns to Karen. The sleeve is finished.
'The dress looks perfect,' he tells her, feeling self-conscious at praising something about which he knows little. 
'Thanks.' Karen looks surprised.
Margaret would enjoy fussing over a wedding dress. She would want to be involved in choosing it if Helen or Sam was getting married. That would lead to arguments. He reflects that Gladys and Ted have walked the same precarious path between parental control and interference as their daughters grew up. It provides a bond with them. He wonders whether they have coped any more successfully, but it is not the moment to ask.
'Has Gary got far to come?' he asks to break the developing silence. 
'It's only five minutes in the car.' Karen sounds irritated. 'He could have walked it by now.' 
'Except you wouldn't get Gary walking,' says Pauline. 
'What's that mean?' 
'What I say. Anywhere he goes, he takes the chance to show off that car of his.' 
'What's the matter with it?' 
'Nothing, so long as you don't mind being stopped by the police every five minutes.' Pauline turns to Arnold and explains, 'He's got this car he's customised. It's about three foot off the ground so's you can hardly get into it and he's painted it metallic pink so's you need sunglasses to look at it.' 
'It's his hobby,' Karen defends him. 
'Obsession, you mean.' Pauline turns back to Arnold. 'If he's held up at the traffic lights or something, he has to rev it up all the time so's everybody knows he's there.' 
'So what?' Karen demands. 
'I'm just saying.' 
'He's not going to the registry office in it, is he?' Ted asks. 
Gladys pulls a face. 'I hope not.' 
'Why shouldn't he?' Karen wants to know. 
'It's not the sort of thing you turn up in for a wedding, is it?' 
'He's gotta go in something, ain' he?' 
'He could use one of his mates' cars.' 
'Why should he?' 
'Might be a good idea if he got one of them to drive it as well,' Pauline observes. 
'Why?' Karen looks mutinous. 
'So he gets there in one piece. He drives like a maniac, Karen, you've got to admit it.' 
'He drives fast, that's all. He knows what he's doing.' 
'Famous last words.' 
'You were glad of a lift the other night.' 
'Only because I didn't fancy walking home on me own in the dark. Mind you, I might have taken me chance if I'd known what it was going to be like.' 
'How do you mean?' 
'I wouldn't go through that again.' Pauline shivers. 'I was hanging onto the seat belt catch all the time, so's I could get out quick when we crashed.' 
'I dunno what you're making a fuss about.' 
'When he's waiting at the traffic lights and he's got some of his mates with him, you think they're starting a grand prix.' 
'Leave it off, Pauline,' Gladys warns. 'She's on edge enough as it is.' 
As Pauline goes to the window, Karen scowls. 
'Where are you going for your honeymoon?' Arnold asks to change the subject. 
'Majorca—if we ever get the wedding over.' 
'Majorca, eh?' He sees Laura watching. There is scorn on her face at the crassness of his remark. He tries to redeem himself by saying, 'I was remembering when we got married. We went to Paris.' 
'Very romantic,' Laura observes. 
'It was.' 
She looks impish. 'Are you a romantic?' 
Romantic is something which he would never call himself. He can imagine Sam's reaction if he told her of the question. She would be unable to keep a straight face. Suddenly her irrepressible good humour seems intensely precious and he aches for his daughters. He knows that Laura is waiting for an answer. If they were on their own, he would have enjoyed giving her the opportunity to mock his staid approach to life. Now he feels embarrassed by not knowing whether she is being serious and by his inability to ask. The only certain thing is that their hosts have more pressing concerns. He wants to warn Laura not to make the matter into an issue, but he cannot do so without seeming to make an issue of it himself. To deflect her interest, he says, 'I'll have to think about that one.' 
'Don't you know?' 
He hesitates. 
'I'd call you a closet romantic,' she decides. He raises his eyebrows briefly and sips his orange, hoping that she will drop the matter. 
'I'm gonna get sweaty if I keep this on for long,' Karen complains. 
'Give Gary a ring and find out what's happening,' Ted urges. 'Do you want me to do it?' 
'I can ring him.' She gets up reluctantly, smoothing her dress before sidling behind Laura's chair to the telephone. The others become still, pretending not to take any notice as she stabs out the numbers. Nobody speaks. Only the ringing tone and the wheezing of the old man breaks the silence in the room. After fifteen rings she gives up. 'I bet he's broken down or something.' 
Nobody answers. Arnold watches Pauline staring out the window. He suspects that she is secretly pleased at the way the errant Gary is sinking in everybody's estimation. 
'I'll have to do me makeup again,' Karen wails, catching sight of herself in the mirror. 
'You look lovely,' Gladys assures her. 
'I'm getting all shiny.' 
'No you're not,' Pauline tells her, abandoning the window. 
'I'm gonna be terrible if we have to wait much longer.' 
'We could ring the police,' Gladys suggests. 
Ted clears his throat. He looks uneasy. 'I dunno about that.' 
'At least we'd know he hasn't had an accident.' 
'You're cheerful.' 
'Well he ain't here, is he?' 
'Don't I get a say in all this?' Karen wants to know. 
'All right—what do you think we ought to do?' 
'Gary's not gonna want the police looking out for his car.' 
'At least they couldn't miss it,' Pauline retorts. 'We can't wait around for ever,' she adds when Karen makes a face at her. 
'So what do we do?' Gladys asks. When nobody shows any sign of answering, she moves towards the telephone muttering, 'I'm phoning them if nobody else is.' 
Arnold cannot rid himself of the frisson of excitement as she dials 999. He has never had occasion to do it itself. The ringing tone is cut short. Gladys's voice sounds strained as she asks for the police. When Ted gets out a packet of cigarettes, Karen signals that she wants one. He throws it to her. Arnold tries not to betray his disapproval as she lights up and exhales thankfully. He strains to catch the tenor of the telephone conversation while turning away from the smoke of Ted's cigarette. As Gladys puts down the receiver, he watches her face. All he sees are confused emotions. 
'So what did they say?' Karen asks. 
'There's not been an accident as far as they know, but we'd have to phone round the hospitals to be sure.' 
'So we're no further forward,' Ted sums up. 
'I'd better try the hospitals.' 
'His folks would have told us if anything had happened.' 
'Perhaps they don't know yet.' 
'There ain't been no accident,' Ted insists. 'The police would have known.'
'You're sure you're not supposed to be meeting him at the registry office?' Gladys asks Karen. 
'Course I'm sure.' 
'All right. I'm only asking.' 
A closet romantic. Arnold's surprise at Laura's description of himself is not altogether overwhelmed by curiosity about Gary's whereabouts. What has Laura discerned in him? He longs to watch her, hoping for some clue as to her meaning, though he knows this will tantalise him all the more. Everything they talked about needs to be reexamined as he seeks some understanding of what she has concluded about him. In his own estimation he has come across as dull and staid. It would not have surprised him if she made an excuse to extricate herself from his company as quickly as possible, yet instead she invited him to the cafe. The uncharitable explanation is that she wanted him to buy her a meal, but this does not explain her keenness to take him to the art gallery. 
This time he cannot resist looking at her, but her expression gives nothing away. He turns, staring resolutely towards the window, trying to decide whether he has upset her or whether her interest in him is exhausted. But what was that interest? The question keeps recurring. Was it sexual? He wants to smile as the possibility, yet it cannot be easily dismissed. Something about his conversation or his demeanour attracted her, if attraction is the right word. Perhaps he made her curious in the same way as a circus freak. It is a more plausible explanation. To somebody with her lifestyle, his routine must seem like that of an automaton. Yet he likes to think that there was something suggestive about the way she looked at him and touched him, particularly when they were in the art gallery. Some girls are attracted to older men, but he has never imagined being the object of such an interest. He is too staid to attract a girl no older than Helen. 
If he recounted the events of the last few hours to Margaret and told her of his feelings, she would accuse him of creating fantasies. Perhaps she is right. Yet if she is the level-headed one, what does that make him? Can he be so unimaginative and predictable? One thing is certain: however Margaret judged him would do nothing to boost his self-esteem. She pretends to agree when he makes a stand on an issue such as Sam's habit of talking to friends on the telephone for half an hour at a time, but it is obvious that she is humouring him. Sometimes he suspects that her sole purpose is to make him annoyed in order to criticise him for getting worked up over trifles. At other times she sides with the girls, so that it is a case of the three of them ganging up on him. 
If he were unfaithful, would Margaret detect his infidelity? The question has never arisen before. He does not know how good he would be at deceiving her. His eyes are drawn involuntarily to Laura again as he assesses her as a potential partner. To his discomfort she notices. From the way she uncrosses her legs and deliberately evades his gaze while keeping a ghost of a smile on her lips, he guesses that she has divined his feelings all too accurately. He does not want to think of her as calculating, though he suspects that this is how Margaret would describe her. He dwells irresistibly on the fantasy of Laura undressing at night. The thought brings him pleasure before it brings guilt. 
'There's no point ringing all the hospitals,' Ted insists as Gladys pulls the Yellow Pages from the pile of directories under the phone. 
'Have you got a better idea?'
'I'll do it,' Pauline offers. 
'Thanks, love.' Gladys turns to Arnold. 'Do you want some more orange?' 
'I'm fine.' Automatically he puts his hand over the glass. 
'Anybody want the rest of this?' She holds up the wine bottle. 'Ted?' 
'Too gassy for me.' 
'It didn't stop you having lager.' 
'That's different.' 
'It's all got gas in it.' 
'Can't I have a few cans of lager on me daughter's wedding day?' 
'You've never needed an excuse.' 
Ted turns to Arnold. 'Sure you won't have one?' 
'I'd better not.' 
'Go on.' He pulls another can from the pack and holds it out. 
'He don't want one,' Gladys says. 'He told you.'
'I've still got some orange,' Arnold excuses himself, holding up his glass. The others are staring at him. He feels his face going red. 
'At least there'll be somebody who isn't pissed to do the driving,' Gladys observes. 
'I'm not pissed,' Ted objects. 
'No? Well you'll be stinking of beer in the registry office, whether you want to call yourself pissed or not.' 
'It's not beer, it's lager. You don't get no smell from lager.' 
'Don't start arguing,' Pauline appeals. She is thumbing through the Yellow Pages. 
'I'm not arguing,' Ted protests. 'I'm just saying you don't get no smell from lager. Anyway, I've only had a couple of cans.' 
'And the rest,' Gladys adds. 
'I think I'd better go,' grandad decides, trying to haul himself to his feet. Gladys comes forward to help him before Arnold can make more than a token attempt to get up. The settee judders as the weight is lifted. Arnold watches the old man leaning on his daughter-in-law's arm to shuffle towards the hall. When the door closes behind them, Karen asks her father, 'Do you think he ought to come?' 
'He's looking forward to it,' Pauline says. 
'I don't want him farting in the middle of it.' 
'Mum's there to keep an eye on him.' 
Karen looks unconvinced. 
'You can't stop him coming now, can you?' Pauline points out. 
'I could tell him not to.' 
'He's been looking forward to it. You can't disappoint him.' 
Karen does not answer. She looks rebellious. 
Arnold shifts uneasily. 
'He'll be all right,' Ted assures her. 
'I hope so,' Karen says, sounding less confident. As Pauline begins telephoning, Arnold sips his orange juice again. There comes the muffled sound of a cistern flushing, followed by a murmur of voices as Gladys and grandad return. 
'He did want to go,' Gladys tells them. 
'We don't need the details,' Karen complains. 
Arnold steadies his glass as the settee sinks under grandad's weight again. 
'All we need now is the bridegroom,' Ted says. 
Karen glares at him. 'Shut it, can't you?' 
'Don't get yourself worked up,' Gladys cautions. 
Pauline hisses at them to be quiet. When she puts the receiver down, she asks, 'How many hospitals are we supposed to try?' 
'All of them,' says Gladys. 
'There's hundreds in London!' 
'You want to try the local ones,' Ted advises. 'They're the likely ones.' 
'That's what I am doing.' 
'What did they say?' Gladys wants to know. 
'They haven't got any record of him.' 
'Told you it was a waste of time,' Ted says triumphantly. 
'Pity you can't suggest anything better,' Pauline snaps, glancing at the clock. 'We're supposed to be at the registry office in half an hour.' 
Ted stubs out his cigarette. 'I've had enough of this.' 
'What do you mean?' Gladys sounds wary. 
'I'm going round there—see what's happening.' 
The settee quivers again as he gets up. 'There wasn't anybody there when Karen phoned.' 
'In that case I'll see him on the way, won' I?' 
'Don't go putting his back up.' 
'Why not? He's buggering us about.' 
'It's no good losing your temper.' 
'What are we supposed to do—sit here like lemons?' 
'Supposing Gary gets here while you're out?' Pauline objects. 
'I won't be ten minutes.' 
When the front door bangs after him, Gladys looks at Arnold. 'You couldn't go with him, could you? Make sure he don't do nothing silly.' 
Arnold glances at Laura, hoping that she might object, but her face is impassive. It is as though she enjoys his discomfiture. He points out, 'I don't know where he's going.' 
'Gary's place—he said. You'll catch him up if you get a move on.' 
'What am I supposed to say to him?' 
'Just make sure he don't get too worked up and have a row with Gary's mum and dad. You'll lose him if you don't hurry up.' 
Arnold hurries up. He expects Laura to come after him, but she shows no sign of following. As he clatters down the stairs, he rehearses what he will say to Ted, while knowing that Laura would dismiss his efforts as platitudes. At the bottom, he looks around, relieved that he is alone and able to report the failure of his mission. Only at the last moment does he see his quarry getting into a battered Escort. The temptation is to turn away, but a sense of duty makes Arnold dismiss the notion. As he hurries towards the car, he waves to attract Ted's attention. The engine is already running as he draws near. Ted has wound down the window.
'Thought I'd come with you,' Arnold pants, hoping that Ted will be too preoccupied to ask awkward questions. 
'You mean Gladys asked you to.' 
'That as well.' 
'Get in then.'
The car is moving before Arnold has settled in his seat. He manages to slam the door closed. The stifling heat and the odour of stale tobacco make him want to gasp for air. 
'What the fuck's she expect us to do?' Ted wants to know as they bounce over the ramps across the car park exit. 'Sit there and hope the bastard bothers to show up?'
Arnold can think of no answer. He winds down the passenger window. 
'I dunno what's happened,' Ted declares, 'but I'll tell you one thing: if he's jilted her, he's gonna fucking pay for it.' 
'I don't think he'd have let things get this far,' Arnold demurs, casting aside his own doubts now that he has assumed the mantle of peacemaker. 
'I wouldn't put it past him. I've always had a feeling about him: you know how you do about some people?' 
Arnold murmurs that he does. As he fumbles with his seat belt, he wishes that he had shown the courage to refuse when Gladys asked him to mediate. Better still, he wishes that Laura had never taken him to see her friends. He cannot understand what she has in common with them. He peers out the window, torn between the desire to get his bearings and his obligation to Gladys to make some effort at tempering her husband's anger. Seeing the trees in full leaf, the neat beds of shrubs and the communal lawns, it is easy to imagine being in a suburb little different from the one where he lives. Normality seems temptingly close, until he glances at his companion and sees his anger. 
A sign at a junction reveals that they are heading towards the City. As they slow, it passes through Arnold's mind that he should ask to be let out, but he does not think his request will go down well. And if he loses contact with Ted, he will lose contact with Laura. The emptiness he feels now that he is away from her surprises him given that he has known her for barely a couple of hours. 
The car plunges into the side streets, making him lose all sense of direction. Here, the maisonettes and tower blocks are unrelieved by gardens. It looks suspiciously like the estate where he first ran from Mary. He glances at Ted again, hoping to glean how far an irate father might go to avenge his daughter, but Ted's face is set hard. 
When they stop, Arnold notices that anger does not distract his companion from locking the car. Nothing is said as they climb the ubiquitous concrete stairway. Ted leads the way. So much drinking is having its effect on Arnold: he hopes that he will have an opportunity to use a lavatory soon. He does not relish having to urinate in a corner of  the stairway. 
On the topmost walkway of the four-storey block, Arnold struggles to keep up with his companion. The walkway is parallel to a railway viaduct and above the level of the track. The familiar squeal of flanges against rail heralds the approach of a train. As it passes, he sees the disinterested faces of the passengers and remembers being the idle spectator of dramas played out beyond the window. How he wishes that he were in the train as it accelerates, drawing the faces away. 
'Is this the Liverpool Street Line?' he queries as they stop outside a scuffed door, but Ted is rapping the knocker and pays no attention. The noise of London seems hushed as they listen for a response. 
'There's somebody in there,' Ted mutters, banging hard enough to make the door rattle. This time Arnold hears the shuffling. 
'Open up,' Ted calls, kicking the door hard enough to make the knocker rattle. There is a movement on the other side of the frosted glass panel. A long pause ensues before the door is opened. The old man looks startled. His breathing is harsh. The sunken cheeks are dirty with stubble. He emanates a smell of unwashed clothes. Arnold suspects that the bent, emaciated figure is in the terminal stages of illness. 
'Where's Gary?' Ted demands. 
'How should I know?' the old man wheezes. 
Ted pushes past him. Arnold follows more cautiously, trying not to frighten their unwilling host any further. The maisonette is as cramped as the one which they have just left, though less cared for and with cheap furnishings which have not stood up to continued use. A trolley is crowded with packets of tablets, tissues and sweets; its white quilted plastic covering is yellowing and spattered with the stains of spilled medicines. The odour of urine and unwashed clothes makes Arnold long to be outside. 
'You can't come marching in here,' the old man protests. 
'He's supposed to be round our place,' Ted tells him, going back to the hall. The other  doors of the flat are thrown open. 
'You won't find him here,' the old man calls in a wavering voice. 
'So where is he?' Ted calls back.
'I dunno.' 
Arnold sees fear in the old man's face when Ted returns from his search. 
'He's getting married to my daughter in about twenty minutes. I suppose you don't know nothing about that?' 
'I know. I ain't stupid.' 
'He must have said something.' 
'He went out an hour ago.' 
'Where?' Ted's fists are clenched. As he steps forward, the old man almost knocks over the trolley in his haste to back away. 
'I think you ought to be careful,' Arnold cautions, but Ted shows no signs of hearing. 
'I dunno where he is,' the old man insists, breathing noisily. 'How many more times?' 
'Was he dressed for a wedding?' 
'How should I know?' 
'Was he wearing a suit?' 
The old man hesitates before admitting, 'He had his ordinary things on.' 
'Did he say when he was coming back?' 
'He never tells me nothing.' The old man looks to Arnold in mute appeal. 
'Perhaps we ought to go back and see whether he's turned up,' Arnold temporises. 
Ted turns to their host again. 'Where's his mum and dad?' 
'They went.' 
'Went where?' 
'They were getting ready for the wedding, weren't they?' 
'Are you taking the mickey?' Ted takes a step forward. 
'I'm telling you what I know.' Fear introduces a quavering note to the old man's voice. 
'You're saying they've gone to the registry office?' 
'Half an hour ago.' 
Ted heads for the door, leaving Arnold to smile his apologies at the old man before following. He does not catch up until they are nearing the stairs. 
'He's done a runner,' Ted declares. 
'It looks that way,' Arnold has to agree. 
'We're gonna find him and when we do, I'm gonna fucking kill him.' 
'He might have gone to a friend's house to change.' 
'So where is he then? He's done a runner all right.' 
'What are you going to do?' 
'I said—have it out with him.' 
'We don't know where he is.' 
'Don't we?' 
This time in the car, Arnold pays little heed to his surroundings. His attention is divided between worrying about Ted's driving and what might happen when they reach their destination. He closes his eyes as the traffic lights change to red and Ted shows no sign of slowing. He does not look again until the junction is behind them. 
'Where are we going?' he ventures, made curious by Ted's certainty. 
'You'll see.' 
He prays that Gary has had the sense to go a long way away. If they do come upon the errant bridegroom, Arnold's fear is that it will fall to him to restrain Ted. He is not sure how he will do it. He wonders again how he allowed himself to be persuaded into placating an angry father. 
'It's still possible there's been an accident,' he ventures. 
'Who are you kidding?' 
Arnold peers helplessly out of the car window at a maze of streets which he does not recognise. He looks for some clue to where he is, but Ted is keeping away from the main routes. The car bumps over kerbs as they negotiate corners. Remembering what Pauline said about her journey in Gary's car, Arnold keeps his hand on the release button of his seat belt. Ted had not bothered to fasten his own belt. 
The pub is a Victorian survival, sandwiched between nondescript warehouses built since the war and already disused. Graffiti adorn the brickwork; the textured maroon finish covering the original tiles below window level is caked with dust. In the absence of a car park, cars straddle the pavement. From Pauline's description, the metallic pink car standing high off the ground is easily recognisable. A battery of lights is suspended under the grille. Chromium bull bars sparkle. 
'Don't you think we ought to be a bit careful?' Arnold cautions. But Ted opens the car door without answering and is heading for the pub entrance while Arnold is struggling out of his seat belt. It is Arnold who turns off the engine, removes the key and locks the doors. By this time, Ted has gone inside. 
A pub for working men, though still busy in early afternoon. Laughter and shouted conversations vie with the music from the jukebox, the news bulletin on the television and the bleeping of the fruit machine. The carpet is ground to an unidentifiable colour. 
Ted is bearing down on the men grouped around the pool table at the far end of the gloomy bar. When Arnold tries to call out, nervousness and the acrid smell of tobacco smoke pull at his throat, taking away his voice. He hurries after his erstwhile companion. 
It is obvious from the shouting that Ted has found his quarry. The other men crowd around the two protagonists, anticipating a fight. Arnold tries to get closer. He hears Ted yelling, 'So why aren't you round our place?' 
'Cos I'm here,' comes a truculent voice. 
'What about Karen?' 
'She's not here.' 
'I know she's fucking not here. She's waiting for you!' 
'She'll have to fucking wait then, won't she?' 
Arnold has sidled to the front of the group. He has his first glimpse of Gary: nineteen or twenty, gangling, hair shorter than an army cut, wearing grubby jeans and a red T-shirt, his face greasy with acne. Around him are youths of similar age. Arnold sees two older men restraining Ted. 
'What about getting married?' Ted demands. 
'What about it?' 
'Yer fucking wedding's today, that's what about it!' 
'I fancied a game.' Gary's voice is strained. 
'So you thought you'd come here instead of getting married?' Ted sounds nonplussed. 
'Yer.' 
'You don't mind standing her up?' 
'We can get married some other time.' 
'It's all arranged for today!' 
'If I wanna go out with me mates, I will.' 
'You what?' 
'What I said. I'm not gonna be tied down.' Bravado has returned to the tone. 
'I'm gonna fucking murder you.' Ted tears free of the restraining hands and launches himself at the errant bridegroom. Gary tries to fend him off with a cue which Ted twists sideways. The wood snaps. Gary topples backwards into the crowd as Ted punches him. Arnold feels the old helplessness in the face of violence. His chest becomes tight as excitement vies with fear and revulsion. 
Blood is welling on Gary's lip. Arnold's first impression is that the youth lowers his head because he is hurt—until he charges Ted, propelling him against the table. The breath is forced from the older man's body with a noise which brings uncomfortable memories of Danny's more calculated violence in the squat. Arnold knows that he ought to intervene, but cowardice stops him. The excitement of the fight communicates itself to the other customers who press closer. Gary has more supporters. 
Arnold lays what he hopes is a restraining hand on Ted's sleeve, but it is brushed aside. 
'I think you ought to be careful,' he perseveres, but it is doubtful whether Ted hears. Arnold watches him edging round the pool table watched by Gary. Then the two men are grappling. Arnold is pushed towards them by the mass of bodies. He is conscious of the smells of beer, sweat and cigarettes. There is breaking glass, shouting. The table is overturned ... 
The noise of the sirens is overpowering. Flashing blue lights give the pub a nightmarish quality. The voices are authoritative. Arnold is glad that the fight is at an end.

chapter eleven

Laura puts her arm around Arnold as they leave the police station. Her closeness makes him feel elated.
'Let's get away from there,' she urges.
'I never thought I'd be so glad to get away from a police station.'
'You're finding out what it's like to be hassled.' 
'They made me feel like I was the one who started it all.' 
'That's part of the technique.' 
Seven o'clock. The air is motionless, stifling. Rush hour traffic escaping from central London still clogs the main road. 
'They were going spare at the flat when they heard what happened,' Laura reveals. 
'Gary was in the pub all the time.' 
'So we heard.'
'He wanted a game of pool—that was his excuse.' 
'I always thought he was a bastard—not that I'd tell Karen.' 
'Was she very upset?' 
'What do you think when he let her down on her wedding day?' 
'Stupid question.' 
'She ended up getting pissed.' 
'Who can blame her?' 
'Gladys tried to stop her ripping the dress up.' 
'With any success?' 
'Not much.' 
'I can understand how Karen felt.' 
'I don't think Pauline was too upset.' 
'I got the impression she wasn't too keen on Gary.' 
'Gladys went on about what she was going to do if she got her hands on him.' 
'Something unpleasant, I should imagine.' 
'When she got a call from the police, she went spare.' 
'I had visions of ending up in a cell for the night.' 
'I'm sorry I got you into this.' 
'It's not your fault.' 
'I dragged you to see Karen. Then I let you get talked into going with Ted to keep the peace.' 
'What's happened to him?' 
'The police are still holding him. He's okay apparently—apart from a few cuts and bruises. They're charging him.' 
'I suppose they don't have much choice.' 
'Pauline persuaded Gladys to go home.' 
'I wasn't allowed to see him.' 
'They don't want you comparing stories before you've made a statement.' 
'How long were you waiting?' 
'Since four—when we heard what had happened.' 
'You shouldn't have stayed all that time.' 
'I wanted to.' 
Her words spin in his mind. Suddenly he can imagine a future with her. 
'Think what it must be like—having everything falling apart on your wedding day and everybody knowing,' she is saying,
'At least she's got the family to rally round.' 
'I wonder what she'll do.' 
'She won't be seeing Gary again—that's for sure.' 
'I'd go away.' 
'Gladys is going to have her work cut out. There's all the food to use up and the presents to give back.' 
'That's a job for Pauline. She's the down-to-earth one.' 
'I thought her mother was.' 
'Gladys can be volatile. One minute she's taking on the world, the next she's got her head in her hands.' 
'She didn't strike me as particularly emotional.' 
'She is—must be her Slav blood.' 
'What happened to Gary's parents?' 
Laura brightens. 'They rang us from the registry office to find out what was happening. Gladys gave them an earful.' 
'What did they say when they heard what Gary had done?' 
'They washed their hands of the whole thing. All Gary's fault—nothing to do with them. That got Gladys's goat.' 
'I can see this is going to run and run.' 
'I think you're right.' 
'Where are we going?' 
'Where would you like to go?' 
Those visions again—of visiting Baz's shop together, hearing her laughter as she talks to her friends, and of seeing that self-possessed smile as she settles on the floor cushions, a bottle of wine in her hand. Though he knows the images can never be more than fantasies, their vividness makes him ache for her. 
'I ought to get my jacket,' he reminds her. 'That's if nobody's taken it.' 
'That's what you ought to do. What would you like to do?' 
'I'm happy like this.' 
'You're easily satisfied.' 
'What's happening about the squat?' 
'I haven't had time to think about it.' 
'You're making me feel guilty.' 
'Why?' 
'Making you stay at the police station when you should have been looking for somewhere else to live.' 
'It was my choice.' 
Arnold does not answer. 
'I was the one who kept on at you to go to the cafe and the art gallery,' she reasons. 
'If we hadn't bumped into each other, you'd have had the afternoon to find somewhere.' 
'I'd still have gone to see Karen. Anyway, I can go back to the squat tonight.' 
'Is it safe?' 
'Have I got a choice?' She glances at him. 'Don't worry—it'll be okay. Nothing's going to happen before tomorrow.' 
'You don't make it sound very secure.' 
'Who wants to be secure?' 
'Me.' 
'Do you want to come?' 
Uncertain what she is suggesting. Wanting to be with her, but wary of facing the squat and its other inhabitants. If he suggested finding a flat together, what would she say? Uncertainty clouds the excitement her presence brings. He enjoys having her arm around him and he glories in her closeness. He asks, 'Is the cafe still open?' 
'It closes at six. Why?' 
'Just wondered.' 
'Do you want something to eat?' 
'Not especially.' 
'So why mention the cafe?' 
'I liked it there—and the art gallery.' 
That makes her smile. 
'You keep amazing me.' 
'I'm not all that predictable, you see.' 
'I never said you were.' 
'True.' 
'When we were at the art gallery, I half expected you to walk out.' 
'Why?' 
'Not your sort of thing.' 
'It was interesting.' 
She tries to smile. 'I think that was the only part of the day that went right.' 
'I thought the crumble was your high spot.' 
'That was me being a pig. If it came to a choice between food and going to an art gallery, the gallery would win every time—unless I was really hungry.' 
And if it came to a choice between art and living with an older man, a fuddy-duddy? He dare not ask. He could change, he tells himself—the events of the day have demonstrated that. And if the choice was between his marriage and being with Laura? With Laura so close, he does not think that he could say no to her. 
'I hate walking in the rush hour,' she is saying. 'All that traffic pouring out of London and spewing out fumes.' 
'Crawling rather than pouring at the moment.' 
'Do you think it's right—all those people driving their cars through our patch so that we have to put up with the congestion and pollution?' 
'It's a public highway.' 
'That doesn't mean it's right. And they made it worse by building all those office blocks in docklands instead of housing for local people. Now we get more traffic than ever.' 
'At least I've always commuted by train. You should approve of that.' 
'What's it like where you live?' 
'A lot greener than around here—not much traffic except when people are coming home from work, detached houses ...' 
His other life has hardly impinged on his thoughts for hours. He thinks of it with reluctance, wanting to keep distanced from all its associations, yet feeling nostalgia for its calm predictability. 
'Everybody with comfortable, well-paid jobs and minding their own business.' 
'I don't think the job side applies these days. A lot of them retire early or get made redundant.' 
'They might whinge, but I bet they earn more than the people around here.' 
Now he finds her idealism endearing rather than annoying. 
'Isn't that right?' she persists. 
'Probably. A lot of families have two incomes coming in.' 
'So of course they have to have two cars.' 
'You don't like people having two cars, do you?' 
'You're getting to know me.' 
The compliment makes him feel pleased. 
'So are we going to the pub where you left your jacket?' she prompts. 
'I suppose we'd better. Let's get off the main road first.' 
'Good idea.' Her hand shifts, clutching him more firmly. They watch a car leaving the line of traffic and pulling into the bus lane. Another follows. Arnold expects this to provoke a diatribe from Laura, but all she does is to shake her head in despair.
'Do you want to go on living around here?' he asks. 
'Where else can I go?' 
He tries to imagine her life: the ideals never transformed into reality, the lack of money and the inevitable compromises. He presses her arm more firmly against his body with his elbow. 
'What's the matter?' she asks, glancing at him. 
'Nothing. I'm just grateful to have you here.' 
'That's a nice thing to say.' 
'I can be nice.' 
'I'm not disagreeing.' 
They walk slowly into the side street, past the queue of cars waiting to enter main road. 
'I never did find the station,' he reminds her. 
'Is that where you want to go?' She sounds disconcerted. 
'I'm just saying—that's where I was going once.' He fears that she will take her hand away. 'We're going to have a drink in the pub where I left my jacket, aren't we?' 
'Or we could get a bottle, go back to the squat and get pissed on our own.' 
The thought of returning to the bleakness of the squat depresses him. He says, 'I'd rather go to the pub—get the taste of the police station out of my mouth.' 
'Did they do anything to you?' She sounds concerned. 
'Nothing physical. It just wasn't very pleasant.' 
'You get used to being hassled if you live around here.' 
'Have you been through it?' 
'I've been hassled, but I haven't been arrested yet. I know plenty of people who have.' 
'Are we going the right way?' 
'I don't know which pub it was, do I?' 
'Ah.' 
'I thought you knew where we were going.' 
'I was following you. 
'What was the name of the pub?' 
'I never noticed.' 
'That's not much help.' 
'If we could get back to where we met, I could probably find it.' 
'We'll do that. Must find your jacket and make you respectable again, mustn't we?' 
'Sounds terrible when you put it like that.' 
She does not answer. He suspects that in spirit she has moved away from him, though he cannot think of what else he should have said. The gulf between them saddens him. They walk in silence. When she takes her arm from around him, he feels bereft. He tells himself that it does not matter, that they will not see each other again; but the trite phrases offer no consolation. 
'Supposing you could afford a flat?' he ventures. 
'It doesn't apply, does it?' 
'But supposing you could? Would you leave the squat, or is that selling out?' 
'I've got friends there.' 
'So you wouldn't go?' 
'We've got to leave the building—I know that—but I wouldn't want to leave the others. They're my family.' 
He risks his last dream by asking, 'What's happening about Karen's honeymoon?' 
Laura looks surprised by the question. 'I should imagine it's off.' 
'I realise that.' 
'So what did you ask for?' 
'I wondered what they were going to do with the tickets.' 
'Waste them, I suppose. Why?' 
He wills her to understand. In the mood she was in when they went around the art gallery, she might have realised. Now it does not seem to occur to her what he is offering. All he can bring himself to say is, 'I just wondered whether they'd taken out insurance.' 
'I shouldn't think so.' 
The closeness ebbing further away because of his crassness. He has forgotten how to keep control of events, so long has passed since he was out with a girl. He suspects that Laura is regretting her long wait at the police station. If she makes some excuse to extricate herself from his company, he will not be surprised. To break the silence he says, 'I've lost my sense of direction.' 
'You're not with it yet, are you?' 
'I'll sort myself out eventually. Give me time.' 
'Poor old you.' 
He feels reassured that the closeness is not altogether lost. 
Now the traffic is left behind, the monotonous rows of maisonette blocks look peaceful in the evening sun, with children playing on the lawns. The nearest buildings look familiar. He remembers the triple locks on the front doors.
'I'm getting my bearings,' he tells her. 'The pub's around the next corner—right?' 
'You tell me. All I'm doing is pointing us in the direction you were coming from when we met up.' 
Does he imagine the sarcasm in her tone? He makes no further attempt at conversation until they reach the pub. He hesitates outside, trying to see through the windows. 
'Are we going in?' she prompts, letting go of him. 
'I wanted to make sure Mary isn't in there.' 
'She's not going to be waiting for you after all this time.' 
'I know I'm being silly.' 
'I don't know what you're so scared of her for.' 
'You didn't meet her friends.' 
'What does she look like?' 
'Why?' 
'So I can see whether she's inside.' 
'In her sixties, fat, wearing a green dress with lots of badges on it.' 
Laura peers inside the doorway. 'It's okay, you're safe,' she announces.
There is only one customer: a middle-aged man too engrossed in the racing results to take any interest in the newcomers. The same woman is serving behind the bar. Arnold wonders whether she is the landlady. 
'What do you want?' he asks Laura. Her eyes grow wide as she gazes at the array of bottles. He loves that sense of wonderment. It reminds him of the look on Helen's face when as a child he took her into a toy shop to choose a present. 
'Can I have wine?' Laura asks. 
'Whatever you want.' 
'Anything?' Her eyes are fixed on him, though he pretends not to notice. Her expression is unmistakable. He orders two glasses of wine, taking the opportunity to enquire about his jacket. The woman remembers him. To his delight she produces it from the back room. 
'Now you can relax,' Laura says as they take their drinks to a table by the window. 'One problem out of the way.' 
'If only the rest could be solved so simply.' 
They settle beside each other on the long seat beneath the window. He watches her stretching her legs beside the table and desire haunts him. To distract himself he remarks, 'I wonder what things are like back at the flat with Karen and her family.'
'At least they've got plenty of booze in.' 
'You think that's what they'll do—drink too much?' 
'Ted will, if they release him and if he can't find Gary to smash his head in.' 
'If Gary's got any sense, he'll make himself scarce.' 
'He hasn't. He'll be getting pissed with his mates as usual and having a good laugh about it all.' 
'I wonder why he ducked out of the wedding at the last moment.' 
'Because he's a little turd.' 
'Karen would probably agree with you.' 
'I could have told her that a long while ago, only she wouldn't have believed me. There's not much you can do in a situation like that except bite your tongue.' 
'I got the feeling her parents weren't too impressed with their prospective son-in-law even before he did his disappearing act.' 
'All Gary's interested in are his mates, his car, booze and sex, though not necessarily in that order. He doesn't want anything to get in the way of them.' 
'A tough judgement.' 
'It's true. It probably seemed like a good idea to get married when he suggested it after a few drinks. Marriage usually does.' 
'That sounded heartfelt.' 
'Don't take any notice.' Her tone has softened. She avoids Arnold's gaze. He guesses that he is treading on delicate ground. 
He hesitates before venturing, 'Were you thinking of anybody in particular?' 
'Yes—me.' 
'You were married?' He cannot keep surprise out of his voice. 
'For two months.' She watches his reaction with amusement. He does not know how to compose his face—whether to show surprise or sympathy. It crosses his mind that she is testing him, half expecting his disapproval. 
'I'm sorry,' he murmurs, aware that the trite words convey nothing of his feelings. 
'It was a while ago. We're divorced now, needless to say.' Her tone brightens as she asks, 'What about you? How long have you been married?' 
'Nineteen years.' 
She raises her eyebrows. 'Long time.' 
'Some people are married a lot longer than that.' 
'They stay together. That doesn't always mean they wouldn't be better off separating.' 
'Another one from the heart.' 
'There's no putting anything over on you, is there?' 
'Were you talking about your parents?' 
She smiles ruefully. 'All my secrets coming out.' 
'The things that go on in sunny Enfield.' 
'You remembered where I lived.' She looks pleased. 
'All filed away for reference,' he says lightly—and then worries whether Laura might take any mention of filing as proof of his conventional mind. She looks thoughtful. 
'Everything seemed all right when I was a kid, but perhaps I didn't recognise the signs. You take everything that's going on around you for granted then. You've nothing to compare it with.' She toys with her glass. 'I don't know whether they decided to stay together for my sake. That's the old cliché, isn't it: staying together for the sake of the kids.' 
He nods. 'I suppose they tried to make a go of it—I've got to give them that. I was eleven or twelve when I knew something was wrong. Even then I didn't understand what. I kept wondering whether it was my fault. When they did talk to each other, they'd end up snapping. It was like I was sharing the house with two lodgers who didn't get on.' She pulls a face. 'They'd have done better going their separate ways.' 
'Are they still together?' 
'They're too used to each other to change.' 
Arnold sips his drink, uncertain how to respond. 
'Isn't the wine much good?' she queries, noticing his expression. 
'Not great.' 
She tries it herself and pulls a face. 'It tastes as if they opened the bottle weeks ago and left it.' She puts down the glass and pushes it away. 'I don't want any more.' 
'I'll get it changed.' He gets up, picking up the glasses. As he goes back to the bar, the awareness that Laura is watching makes him determined not to be fobbed off with excuses. It almost comes as an anticlimax when the woman opens a new bottle for them without demur. 
'My knight in shining armour,' Laura declares on his return. 
He puts down the glasses and settles beside her. 'See whether that's any better.' 
She sips. 'Not brilliant, but drinkable.' She puts the glass down. 'I didn't think of you as a complainer.' 
'You'd be surprised.' 
'A man with hidden depths.' She watches as he tries the wine himself. 'You shouldn't really drink alcohol in hot weather: it dehydrates you.' 
'Do you want something else?' 
She lays a hand on his arm. 'Don't start getting up again. I was winding you up. Let's live dangerously.' 
He leans back, disappointed when she takes her hand away. He reminds her, 'You were telling me about your parents.' 
'There's not much else to say.' 
'Is that why you left home—because they didn't get on?' 
'My secret's out.' 
'Another one.' 
'Messy little life, isn't it?' She looks contrite. 
'It's normal.'
'I didn't go straight into the squat. I glossed over what happened in between.' 
'You said you were looking for a flat.' 
'First of all I got a room of my own. I thought it was going to be great—free to do my own thing, you know? The only trouble was I couldn't stand my own company. I kept going out to pubs and discos to get away from the place. That was how I met Jeff. I suppose I got married because I was lonely.' She bites her lower lip again. 'That should have been great as well. It was—for about two weeks.' 
'And then what happened?' 
'I discovered he was an alcoholic.' 
'I'm sorry.' 
'I'd known he was a heavy drinker before, but I'd ignored it. He'd go to the pub getting pissed while I went out working to pay for it. Then at closing time he'd come home and knock me about.' 
'You didn't think of going back to your parents?' 
She shakes her head. 'Mum and dad thought I'd made a mistake marrying, so I didn't want to go crawling back and have them saying "I told you so". Anyway, we split up. When we got divorced, he wanted me to pay maintenance.' She watches Arnold's face as he smiles disbelievingly. 'It's true! My solicitor was gobsmacked at first.' She grins. 'Messy little life, isn't it?' 
As they sip wine, he imagines the rows, the frustrations and the constant changes in her life as she tried to achieve something better. He is conscious of his own good fortune—and his complacency. 
'You get over it,' she assures him. 'You have to.' 
'I suppose so.' She glances at him. 'You haven't been divorced, have you?' 
'No.' 
'It was the way you said it.' 
'Just my way of putting things.' 
'I thought there was some great trauma in your past you were going to reveal.' 
'Nothing like that. Mine's been a boring sort of life.' 
She looks about to say something, but she changes her mind. 
'What is it?' he prompts. 
'Don't you ever get scared of being stuck in a rut?' 
He sips his wine before answering, 'When you're in it, you don't notice.' 
'You said your life's boring, so you must be aware of what's happening.' 
'Predictable rather than boring.' 
'At least you've got out of your rut today.' 
'I didn't come out—I was forced out.' 
She grins mischievously. 'What do you think of the world outside?' 
'Alarming.' 
'You're not going to sink back after you've come this far, are you?' 
'I don't know.' 
'But you agree you're in a rut?' 
'It sounds terrible when you put it like that.' 
'I'm not criticising—I'm interested.' 
'You make me feel like something you're examining under a microscope.' 
'I'm sorry.' Her contrite expression melts him and immediately he is flooded with remorse for criticising her. 
'Carry on analysing me,' he offers. 
'You're limiting what you're capable of—that's all I'm trying to say.' 
'I haven't thought of myself as limited.' 
'You get trapped in your own little world.' 
'Doesn't everybody?' 
'No. The people you mix with might, but not everybody. The people at the squat don't.' 
'I'll take your word for it.' 
She watches as he sips his wine. 
'But you don't really agree.' 
'I wouldn't say that.' 
'Because you think I'll be upset.' 
'I've got a family, a job and a nice home. That must count for something.' 
'And are you happy?' 
'As happy as the next man.' 
'Sure?' 
'Yes. I'm probably as happy as anybody in the squat—and I live more comfortably.' 
'I think you've got sides which you never show and because of that they don't develop.' 
He does not know how to answer. 
'There's a whole different you waiting to get out,' Laura assures him. 'Don't you ever want to see what it's like?' 
'I suppose we've all got sides we don't want to show to other people.' He is tempted to add that given what happened to her marriage, she of all people should know that; but he does not want to risk upsetting her. 
'What about your creative side?' she probes. 
'Have I got one?' 
'Everybody has.' 
'I haven't found mine yet. Obviously it's part of my hidden side.' 
'You've got a quirky sense of humour, even if you do keep it under wraps most of the time ...' 
'Most people don't think I've got one at all.' 
'... you're open to new influences, if you let yourself, and you're willing to give modern art a go, which a lot of people aren't.' 
'I sound a fascinating character.' 
'Then start from there.' 
'I don't think you'll be seeing my collected works in a gallery.' 
'You ought to try painting.' 
He smiles as she drinks, thinking that she is joking. 
'I'm serious.' She regards him solemnly. It crosses his mind to kiss her, but he distracts himself by sipping the wine as she assures him, 'You'd discover things about yourself.' 
'I don't know whether I want to.' 
'It's not good to be afraid of things in yourself.' 
'That was supposed to be an example of my quirky sense of humour.' 
'Perhaps you're revealing what you really think.' 
'I don't know about that.' He gazes towards the doorway, hoping that she will not pursue the matter. The tenor of the conversation is beginning to disturb him. He thinks back to his normal life—his life in the rut. By quarter past seven he is normally washing up after dinner. Helen is getting ready to go out with her latest boyfriend. The thud of music comes from Sam's room—he is never sure whether she is doing homework or idling her time away. Margaret is out. He knows that he should have rung her. 
'Haven't you ever wanted to travel?' Laura is asking. 
'I am allowed holidays.' 
'Haven't you ever had the urge to leave everything and go on the road?' 
'I don't think I'd want to do it alone.' 
'Go with your wife, you mean?' 
'I can't imagine that, somehow.' 
Laura gazes at him. 
'What's the matter?' he asks, unable to read her expression. 
'It's the way you said it.' 
'How was that?' 
'Like she's a stranger.' 
'I wasn't thinking.' 
'Aren't you close?' 
'Things change over nineteen years.' 
'Tell me to mind my own business if you want, but are you still in love with her? I'm trying to understand, that's all.' 
'We've always got on,' he insists. 
'Getting on sounds pretty low key.' 
'My way of putting things again.' 
'Or you're showing your true feelings.'
He shakes his head. 'You're reading too much into an innocent remark.' 
'Do you think you might be using your marriage as a cocoon to shelter from the world?' 
He stares past her, not answering, wanting to tell her that it is anything but a cocoon. 
'You ought to think of it as a springboard,' she urges. 
Her earnestness makes him want to smile. Laura, the expert on marriage. To humour her he admits, 'I've always wanted to go to America.' 
'Then go.' 
This time he cannot resist smiling. 
'I'm serious,' she tells him. 'Don't put up a lot of obstacles—just do it.' 
'It's not that easy.' 
'It is. You pick up the telephone and book a flight. That's all there is to it. You can afford it, can't you?' 
'I've got a job to think about.' 
'You see, you're arguing yourself into the rut again.' 
'You need to go there for at least a month to make it worthwhile and that costs a lot. Don't forget, if I walk out of my job, they won't want me back.' 
'So?' 
'I've got a mortgage to pay.' 
'You can go on making excuses till you're too old to enjoy life.' She is watching for signs of disagreement. 'I think you ought to cram everything in when you're young.' 
He smiles again. 'In that case I've left it too late.' 
'You're not in your dotage yet.' 
'That's reassuring.' 
'It's true!' 
'So long as I don't look in the mirror.' 
'How do you get on with Helen and Sam?' 
'I get ratty with Sam sometimes.' 
'Do they call you dad?' 
'Yes.'  He feels embarrassed by Laura's sudden amusement. 'What's the matter?' 
'I can't imagine it, that's all.' 
'It's true!' 
She composes herself by taking another drink before asking, 'How about with your wife? Do you get ratty with her?' 
He hesitates before admitting, 'We have disagreements. I wouldn't say we have rows.' 
'I can believe that. You bottle things up.' 
'I wouldn't say that throwing things at each other is better.' 
'At least you both know where you stand.' When he does not respond, she presses, 'So how many of these disagreements do you have?' 
'Not too many.' 
Guilt at not ringing Margaret troubles him again. 
'One a week, one a month?' 
'We try not to put ourselves in positions where we have them.' 
'I think you'd do everything to avoid a confrontation.' 
He does not answer, knowing that her words are true. 
'What sort of things do you disagree about?' she persists. 
'Why?' 
'I'm interested.' 
'Nothing important,' he confesses, shaking his head. He notices her empty glass. 'Do you want some more wine?' 
'I shouldn't.' 
'But you will.' 
'Such temptation. Can I have a shandy instead? I feel like something thirst-quenching.' 
He takes the glasses back to the bar and orders two shandies. As he waits, he knows that Laura is watching, trying to fit everything he has told her into her picture of him. He is in her debt for standing by him and he feels tenderness towards her; at the same time he has to face the fact that she is a stranger. He carries the glasses back carefully, putting them down before resuming his seat. Laura murmurs her thanks. If she notices how his eyes are drawn inexorably to her legs, she does not show it. 
'Sometimes dad used to buy me shandy,' she recalls. 'I thought it was a special sort of beer, so it was ever so grown up. I haven't had one for years. I just fancied it.' As she raises the glass, she licks her lips. Easy to imagine her as a small girl. Arnold sees the crescent of liquid on her upper lip dry after she takes the first mouthful. 'It's lovely. What are you drinking?' 
'The same.' 
'You didn't have to have it because I am.' 
'I thought I'd better cut down on the alcohol.' 
'You've been down the police station half the afternoon. I'm sure they didn't ply you with booze.' 
'I had too much earlier.' 
'It loosens you up.' She presses against him. 'Why not go the whole hog and get pissed?' 
'I don't want to.' 
'Nobody's going to tell you off.' 
'I've never got drunk.' 
'Never?' 
'Never.' 
'You're not serious, are you?' She gazes at him incredulously. 
'I used to go to pubs with friends when I was in my teens,' he confesses, 'but I'd stop when my head felt swimmy.' 
'Have you even taken drugs?' 
'There weren't any in my day.' 
'Didn't you smoke?' 
'The traditional smoke behind the cycle sheds. That was about all.' 
She is shaking her head, though whether in wonderment or despair he is not sure. He is mesmerised by her legs as she changes position to make herself more comfortable. He longs to feel them against him. 
'You need to let yourself go more,' she tells him. 'You could have a few drinks and sleep it off tonight.' 
That ambiguity again. He does not know whether she expects him to share her bed. It is not something which he can broach. 
'Doesn't your wife approve of drinking?' 
'Margaret doesn't drink much herself, but she's not violently against it.' He manages a smile. 'She hasn't signed the pledge.' 
'She's not religious?' 
'No.' 
'Were your parents?' 
'No.' 
'I wondered whether that was why you hold yourself back all the time.' 
'It's just the way I am, I'm afraid.' 
'You talk about your wife as though she's quite a dominant woman.' 
'Do I?' 
'Don't sound so surprised. Didn't you realise?' 
He drinks to cover his confusion. The shandy is tepid and too sweet. At length he answers, 'I don't think of her like that.' 
'It can still be true.' 
'I suppose so.' 
'I get the impression you always do what she wants.' 
He hesitates, shocked by Laura's temerity and hesitant about revealing more of his personal life. 
'Go on,' she prompts. 
'Margaret wouldn't agree.' 
'And what do you think?' 
'No. I don't do what I'm told all the time.' He tries to keep his tone steady. 
'And that causes friction?' 
He is silent. 
'She's hurt you, hasn't she?' 
'Whatever I do, it's different from what she wants.' He cannot control the bitterness in his voice. He knows that he has said too much to turn back. 
Laura wrinkles her brow. 'I thought you were the couple who shy away from rows?' 
'We do.' 
'Then I don't understand.' 
'We get on in our own fashion,' he insists, wanting to change the subject now the confession is made. 
'But things aren't right, are they?' Laura is watching him carefully. He finds her closeness disturbing and intoxicating. 
'Like I say—we get on.' 
'But you're not close?' 
'Not in the sense I expect you mean.' 
'Then why let the situation drift on?' 
'We get on in our own way.' 
'How do you mean?' 
'Just that.' He stares across the shabby bar, searching for words which will make everything clear. Fumes drift through the open doorway from a revving car, nauseating him. He insists dully, 'We each go our own way.' 
'You should talk to her. Tell her how you feel.' 
'We don't get the chance.' 
'Come on.' 
'It's true! I leave before she gets up.' 
'And what about when you get home?' 
'She'll be watching her soaps, or she's off to one of her classes.' 
'Does she go to a lot of classes?' 
'This year it's French and philosophy.' 
'Keen.' 
'If it's not that, it's a WI meeting.' 
'And you don't share any of her interests?' 
He shakes his head. Such close scrutiny makes him uncomfortable. 'I told you: once you get home after commuting, you don't want to go out again.' 
'So she likes gadding about and you prefer to put your feet up?' 
'Not putting my feet up. This time of year the garden takes all my time, what with having to use a watering can because of the hosepipe ban.' 
'You should still find time to talk.' 
'She won't. She won't talk.' His tone is uncontrolled. He knows that he must look foolish in Laura's eyes. 
'How long has it been like this?' she asks gently. 
'Difficult to say.' 
'Try.' 
'It was all right when the girls were small ...' 
'Then what happened?' 
'There wasn't anything particular.' 
'But you didn't get on with Margaret so well?' 
Laura cannot expect him to tell her everything, he reasons. Some things should remain within the family. 
'Things changed when the girls were growing up?' she presses. 
'I felt I was getting further away from them as well.' 
'It's difficult when you're a girl and you get into your teens. You get embarrassed by your parents.' 
'That's what the others at work said.' 
'So you have talked about it?' 
'Some of the other men were talking about their children. I didn't tell them how it spilled over.' 
'How do you mean?' 
'The disagreements—they spilled over between Margaret and me, so I couldn't say anything without being in the wrong.' He blinks tears away. 'She makes a point of siding with the girls against me.' 
'I'm sure she doesn't.' 
'Sometimes I think she despises me and everything I've tried to do for her and the girls.' 
'She stays, doesn't she? That must mean something.' 
'It means I pay the bills. That's all I'm good for.' He feels Laura's hand on his. 'I get the feeling the three of them are waiting for me to leave. They barely tolerate me.' 
'I'm sure that's not true.' 
'Sometimes I wish that things would come to a head, only if it did, I'd be afraid of what might happen.' 
'You must talk to her.' 
'I've suggested counselling, but Margaret says there's no need to parade family problems before strangers. Ironic, isn't it, considering what I'm doing now.' He glances at Laura again, fearful of her reaction, marvelling anew at how she can derive any pleasure from his company. Tears blur his eyes. When Laura smiles, hr smiles back, guilty at his thoughts. She takes her hand away. 
'What do your daughters think about the situation?' 
'I don't know.' 
'You don't talk to Helen? She sounds as though she's got it together.' 
'The girls have got their own lives.' 
'It would be nice if you could do something together as a family.' 
'The girls wouldn't be interested—not since they grew up—and when they were children I couldn't talk to them.' 
'That's sad: four people living in the same house and leading separate lives.' 
'Have you got brothers or sisters?' 
Laura shakes her head. 'I suppose you're going to say who am I to talk?' 
'I wasn't.' 
'You're too well mannered. Anyway, it's true.' She stares into her shandy. 'I can stand going to see my parents for about half an hour, then I make some excuse to get away. Terrible, isn't it?' 
'I don't suppose it's unusual.' 
'I feel mean, because mum always makes an effort when I'm coming: getting things I used to have for tea like this special ginger cake.' 
'Mothers and daughters are supposed to be close.' 
'Are they in your family?' 
'Closer than I am to Helen and Sam these days.' 
'Does that hurt you?' 
'Not hurt exactly. I accept it.' 
'Do you hate going home?' 
'Can't stay at the office all night, can I?' 
'Sometimes I wish my parents were dead.' She faces him. 'That's terrible, isn't it? I know I'm horrible when I say it and that I should feel grateful to them and everything, but I want to feel free of all obligations.' 
'You never get free of them.' 
'That sounded heartfelt.' 
'Don't take any notice.' 
'We're getting maudlin.' She picks up her glass. He watches her tipping her head back to drink. Her throat seems to have its own life. He imagines kissing it. His gaze travels to her breasts. 
'I haven't thanked you yet,' he tells her as she puts down her glass. 
'What for?' 
'Waiting for me when I was in the police station.' 
'Couldn't leave you to the tender mercies of the fuzz, could I?' 
'I might have been there all the evening.' 
'Then I'd have had a longer wait.' 
'Anyway, thank you.' 
'I was in two minds whether to go to the law centre before it closed and get them to send a solicitor.' 
'I don't think the police intended to charge me.' 
'The trouble is it's difficult to keep calm when you're thrown into that sort of situation. You say things you don't mean.' 
'I wouldn't have believed it till it happened. I thought I was in a nightmare.' 
'Poor you.' She touches his hand. There is a moment of stillness before he pulls his hand away. He drinks to hide his confusion. 
'I suppose we ought to make a move soon,' he says dully. 
'There's still time to get pissed.' She glances at him slyly. 'Try another new experience while you've got the chance.' 
'You're keen on that, aren't you?' 
'It would take you out of yourself.' 
'I think I've had enough new experiences for one day.' 
'Live dangerously.' 
He stares at the doorway, not answering. A queue of cars has come to a halt. He has to remind himself that normally he would be in his garden by this time. 
'So what do you want to do?' she asks at length. 
'We never did find the station.' 
'You mean you're going home?' Her tone is expressionless. 
'I ought to.' 
'It might be easier to get a cab.' 
'Even in the rush hour?' 
'It's a long walk. Anyway, the worst of the rush hour's over.' 
'I haven't seen a phone around here.' 
'At the far end of the bar.' 
'Observant of you.' 
'That's me. Hawkeye.' 
He gets up, aware that he has upset her and knowing it is too late to put things right.  From the bar, he watches Laura as he listens to the ringing tone. She sits motionless, shoulders hunched, staring into her drink, her role spent. He yearns to spark in her the vitality which she possessed earlier—he knows that its loss is his fault—but tiredness has settled on him, robbing him of all facility for action. 
Sam answers. When he tells her that he will be late, she does not ask questions: she is used to the vagaries of the train service. His whereabouts is of little interest to her. 
His second call is to the taxi company. When he goes back to Laura, she does not look up. He wonders whether she overheard him. 
'I don't know how long they'll take getting here,' he ventures.
'I shouldn't rush your drink if I were you.' 
'I don't like it much. Too sickly.' 
'I've got a sweet tooth, as you've noticed.' 
Their time in the cafe comes back to him as something precious, making his regret all the more poignant. He asks, 'What are you going to do about finding somewhere to live?' 
'I told you: go back to the squat tonight, then look for somewhere else tomorrow.' 
It crosses his mind to give her money, but he does not want to offend her. Instead he says, 'I'll leave you my number.'  He takes a pen and a diary from the inside pocket of his jacket and writes his name and home telephone number on a page which he tears off. She glances at it before folding it and putting it in the pocket of her jeans. Her eyes focus on him again and for a moment he glimpses that vivacity which sends his spirits soaring and makes him wonder whether he should tell her everything in his mind. 
'What are you going to put in your diary about today?' she asks. 
'I only use it for appointments, alas.' 
'I tried to keep a diary when I was a kid. Mum would buy me one for Christmas every year and I'd start with all these resolutions about putting down everything I did and recording all my feelings. The trouble was I'd give up by the middle of January. I couldn't think of anything to write.' 
Laura's chatter only fuels his remorse. He can hardly bear to look at her. 
'So I ended up with these piles of diaries I didn't want to throw away,' she continues, her gaiety ebbing. 
'Sounds like me.' 
'We make a pair.' 
'You've redeemed a terrible day.' 
'Nice to know I've got my uses.' 
'Thank you.' 
'I've never been thanked so much for doing so little.' 
'My saviour.' 
'Don't.' She looks away, embarrassed. 
'I was wondering if I ought to send Karen a card to say I'm sorry.' 
'Better draw a veil over things. Excuse the pun.' Laura looks at the ceiling and bites her lower lip. 'Why did I promise to look in?' 
'Because she's your friend.' 
'I don't know her all that well. Because I've got a big mouth, more like.' 
He smiles. As he watches, Laura's eyes grow so large that he doubts whether he will ever lose the vision of them. He insists, 'Because you're open-hearted.' 
'Don't.' She looks away. 'I should be thanking you.' 
'What for?' 
'Buying me a meal—' 
'You've already thanked me for that.' 
'Humouring me.' When she sees Arnold's look of puzzlement, she hurries on, 'You let me prattle on about my views on art and life without trying to gag me.' 
'I was interested.' 
'You gave me moral support at Karen's.' 
'Did I?' 
They watch the doorway for a while, as though in mute agreement that silence is easier. 
'What did you think when you saw me coming down the road?' he ventures, knowing that their time together is short. 
'I was glad of somebody to talk to.' 
'Did Becky tell you anything about me?' 
'Only how you came to the shop.' 
'I think she'd rather I hadn't.' 
'What makes you say that?' 
'We didn't exactly hit it off.' 
'Don't run yourself down.' 
'Bad habit,' he agrees. 
Laura rubs her fingers across the rim of the glass. 'I said you'd have a long wait for a cab.' 
'I don't mind. Quite the opposite.' 
She is watching for his response as she says, 'You'll try painting, won't you?' 
'I'll try. I don't promise to show the results to anybody.' 
'You don't have to. It's just a way of expressing your thoughts.' 
'I thought you didn't approve of the second rate?' 
'It's to get your own thoughts clear. You can go on from there.' She looks towards the door again. 'I've got this theory that the hallmarks of being civilised are having a moral code, being able to control our reproduction and expressing ourselves through art. But I'd better not start on about my ideas, or we'll be here for hours.' 
'A philosopher as well as an artist.' 
'I don't suppose it's original. Nothing I do is. I like an excuse to jabber on.' 
'If I promise to try painting, will you think about art school?' 
That makes her smile. 'I'm better at telling other people what to do than doing it myself.' 
'I haven't seen any of your work.' 
'Give me your pen and the diary.' When she sees his puzzlement, she adds, 'I'm not going to look at what you've written.' 
He obeys, still curious as she turns to a blank page at the back. Laura's purpose does not become clear until she begins sketching. He sees his image conjured in a few strokes. 
'You've seen it now.' She gives the open diary and the pen back to him. He studies the likeness. No more than a cartoon, but his essence is there: the worried expression, the hopeful smile and the receding hair. He cannot help smiling in embarrassed recognition. 
'Thank you.' 
'Commissions welcomed.' 
'It's good.' 
'I'm not all mouth.' 
'I didn't think you were.' 
'That's just to prove it.' 
'You should have gone to art school.' 
'Now you sound like my dad.' 
'Sorry.' 
'At least you've got a souvenir of me.' 
'You should use your talent.' 
'I did design some menus for a restaurant.' 
He does not close the diary as he says, 'I don't think you should go back to the squat.' 
'It's my home.' 
'Danny might come back.' 
He detects something disingenuous in her expression as she points out, 'There's not much option, is there?' 
'I could pay for you to stay in a hotel for the might.' 
That does startle her. She is shaking her head as she says, 'It's good of you to offer, but I can't.' 
'It would give you a chance to look around for something else.' 
'I'll be okay. I'm a streetwise kid, don't forget.' 
The sound of a car horn makes them both glance towards the door. 
'Time to go,' Laura says. 
'I'll miss you.' 
'Once you get back to suburbia, you'll think I was a mirage, or part of a nightmare or something.' 
'No.' He is shaking his head. 'This has been the most exciting day of my life.'
The horn again. 
'Get going,' she urges, 'or he'll get stroppy.' 
'Thanks for everything.' Arnold stands, still clutching the pen and the open diary as he scoops up his jacket awkwardly. For the last time he looks at Laura's legs. He half expects her to turn away as he bends to kiss her cheek, but she does not. When she looks at him, shame, elation and desire threaten to overwhelm him. 
'Bye,' she says softly.
'Look after yourself.'
They do not speak again. He hurries outside, not able to face her again, not even daring to look back when he is ensconced in the back of the cab. When he asks to be taken to the nearest station, he feels the everyday world closing around him again, draining his emotions. The low sun is in his eyes. He turns away. Only as he looks out at the streets where he walked with Laura is he reminded of what might have been.

END