Faraday swopped the desk for a chair in the corner, waiting for her to finish sweeping J-J's debris into a black plastic sack. After Marta, he'd promised himself never again to make any assumptions about a woman, yet here he was, back in a relationship that felt all too real.
Part of it, he'd concluded, was simple admiration. Never had he met anyone, male or female, so single- minded, so gutsy, so undaunted by whatever odds life stacked against her. Even Nick Hayder was a pale imitation of Eadie Sykes.
'So how's it going?' Faraday nodded towards the PC but Eadie's attention had been caught by a tiny television on the other side of the office.
'The UN have abandoned the border and Reuters are reporting explosions in Basra.' She shook her head, disgusted. 'It's definitely going to happen, Joe. Tomorrow morning at the latest.'
'I meant your video.'
'Ah…' Eadie looked briefly confused. 'In that case I'd have to say slowly.'
'Because of the junkies?'
'Because of the absence of junkies.' She finally abandoned the television and turned to face him. 'This is a beautiful city, my love.
Smack, cocaine, whatever you fancy, it's all there. Show me a junkie, one I can trust, I'll write you a cheque.'
Faraday felt as if he'd been sharing this battle for an entire year.
Eadie was determined to make the definitive video about hard-core drug abuse. She wanted to explore, in the bluntest possible terms, what narcotics actually did to young people. No gimmicks. No fancy camera angles. No homilies. Just a candid account, passed on to a generation who in Eadie's opinion deserved a glimpse or two of the unvarnished truth.
To this end, with infinite patience, she'd stitched together a series of grants to fund the project. She'd twisted arms and bent ears. She'd knocked on doors and refused to take no for an answer. And slowly, cheque by cheque, the sheer force of her conviction had begun to bring in the cash.
Contributions had come in from prominent Portsmouth businesses. The Hampshire Police Authority had made a grant. The city council's Crime and Disorder Partnership had offered support. Other monies had turned up from God knows where until finally it fell to a govenment body the Portsmouth Pathways Partnership to match-fund the rest. With nearly 30,000 in the bank, Eadie Sykes was ready to shoot the documentary that would make her name. All she needed now was junkies.
'So where's the boy?'
'Down in Old Portsmouth. He came across someone at the Students' Union who thinks they've got the perfect answer. Happens every day. All you can do is say yes.'
'And J-J's hopeful?'
'J-J's always hopeful. Christ, you should know that. It's your fault.'
This was as close as Eadie ever got to offering a compliment, and Faraday took it as such. J-J's deafness had been with him since birth, and Faraday had spent most of the last two decades trying to reassure his son that it didn't really matter. Blind, he'd have been in some difficulty. Lame, he'd be dependent on someone else to push him around. Deaf, he simply had to figure out other ways of hearing.
Having a mother around would have helped but sadly that had never been possible.
'When's he due back?'
'When he turns up. You know J-J. Give him half a chance, he'll talk the guy to death.'
They both laughed. J-J had loaded standard British Sign Language with a repertoire all of his own and Faraday, on occasions too numerous to count, had watched him transform potentially embarrassing encounters into wild flurries of body language and laughter. For reasons he didn't fully understand, his son had the gift of getting through, of using his smile and his eyes and those extraordinarily gawky limbs to do the work of his poor mute tongue. Had he not been handicapped, the boy would probably be earning a fortune selling real estate or double glazing. Thank God, Faraday often thought, for deafness.
'So who was this contact?'
'Her name's Sarah. She knows a guy called Daniel Kelly. Heavily into smack.' Eadie was back in front of the television.
'Who?'
'Daniel Kelly. J-J thinks he's a student, too.'
Daniel Kelly? Faraday tried hard to place the name but drew a blank.
Eadie was still peering at the tiny screen.
'Blair's banging on about a just war again.' She shook her head. 'Can you believe that?'
J-J had the address written down. Chantry Court was a sought-after block of flats within sight of the cathedral. The parking space beneath the building was visible from the street and few of the residents had settled for less than a BMW. After weeks of nosing round squats, bed sits and chaotic student lets, J-J found it difficult to believe that his contact at the university had sent him here.
The speakerphone beside the locked front door controlled access to the flats. J-J checked his piece of paper again and pressed number 8. He counted to five, then held his tiny Sony cassette player to the microphone beneath the row of buttons. The tape played a prerecorded message from Eadie Sykes establishing the fact that the young man outside was deaf and dumb, and that he'd appreciate getting inside to meet the tenant. This message, repeated four times, was Eadie's idea, one of the many bridges she'd thrown up between J-J and the realities of video pre-production.
J-J had his hand on the door. A tiny tremor told him he'd won access.
Number 8 was on the first floor. A door at the end of the corridor was already open, a stooped figure silhouetted against the light from inside. He looked older than the usual student, mid twenties, maybe more.
'Sarah said you'd be round.' He stepped back. 'Come in.'
The flat, though smaller than J-J had expected, was expensively furnished with chintzy covers on the plump armchairs, a big wide screen TV, and piles of books everywhere, many of them brand new. J-J stood before a water colour on the back wall. A livid sunset hung over a skyline he recognised: the tiny squat church steeple, the pitch of the neighbouring roofs, the gleam of the enveloping creek, the memory of curlews stalking the mud flats at low tide.
J-J glanced over his shoulder. Daniel was wearing stained corduroy trousers and a pink button-down shirt that hadn't seen an iron for weeks. His head was unusually large, a cartoon head too big for its body, and there was a strange puffiness about his face. Discount the absence of bruises, and he might just have been in a fight.
Daniel plainly hadn't a clue what to expect next.
J-J nodded at the picture on the wall, then mimed taking a photo, briefly touching his chest in ownership before clapping his hands. His enthusiasm for the water colour was all the more convincing for being genuine.
Daniel looked from one to the other, then came the beginnings of a smile.
'You know Bosham?'
J-J nodded at once. Lip-reading had been an early skill, the key that unlocked conversations like these.
From the depths of his denim jacket he produced a single typed sheet he'd printed and photocopied weeks ago. Three briefs paragraphs set out the thinking behind the video.
Ambrym Productions wanted to explore the realities of drug-taking. They wanted to know how, and why, and where next. They wanted to get inside the heads of the people at the sharpest end and offer them the opportunity of sharing their experience.
The video was destined for schools all over the country. Kids would see it and make judgements of their own about the rights and wrongs of using drugs. Print material posters, teaching notes would complete the package.
Saying yes to J-J meant agreeing to a videotaped interview, an hour at the most. The questions would be straightforward. The interviewee would do most of the talking. No one was interested in point-scoring, or preaching, or any form of sensationalism. Was that too high a price for the good a video like this might do?
Daniel sank onto the sofa beside the audio stack and studied the single sheet of paper. When he finally looked up, his eyes were swimming behind the thick-rimmed glasses.
'You know Sarah well?'
J-J shook his head.
