gets caught with one, they didn't get it from me, that's for sure. They could throw away the key just for what I've got in the van at the moment.” He jerked a thumb at the false floor.
“So some guy hired out enough of these that he gave you a lap-top computer in payment?” I said again. I still found it hard to believe.
Terry nodded, grinning. “He's got a week to come up with the money, otherwise this goes straight into the small ads,” he said. “Although, actually, I might keep it. I've never had one of these before.” He picked up the portable again, fiddling around until he found the on/off button.
The little computer whined into life, making buzzing and clicking noises like an electronic budgie. He stared for a few moments at the screen, which was tilted away from me, jabbing a couple of buttons, his brows drawn down. “The cheating bugger,” he said.
“What's up?”
“It's asking me for the password. He never mentioned anything about passwords. Bloody hell.”
“Can't you go back and ask whoever it was you got it from what the right password is?” I said, peering over his shoulder.
“We didn't exactly part on good terms,” Terry admitted. “In fact, he probably did this on purpose. Bugger.”
I sighed. For someone who's obviously pretty successful in business, he can be very naive sometimes. He stood there looking at the little computer like a kid who's just had his new toy broken in the school playground by the class bully. I swear I saw his bottom lip quiver. Mind you, the way parts of his fleshy face tended to wobble out of sync with the rest of him when he moved quickly, it was difficult to tell.
A sudden thought seemed to occur to him. “Hey, are you still mates with that computer bloke up at the Uni?” He raised his eyebrows hopefully.
I sighed again. No way did I want to help Terry get into a possibly nicked computer, given to him by some bloke in payment for illegal porn videos, but Terry's been a bit of a mate and I just couldn't stand the thought of the hurt look if I said no. Besides, I probably owed him a favour or two.
“OK,” I said. “I haven't seen Sam for ages, but I'll ask him if he could try and get round it for you, if you like?”
Terry looked relieved. He switched off the computer and folded the lid shut again. “Would you?” he said. “That'd be great. Tell you what, shall I leave it with you? If you can get your mate to have a play with it, I could pick it up later on in the week sometime.”
I agreed and he handed the machine across. It wasn't much bigger than a ream of A4 paper, and looked so innocuous. We hopped back out onto the street. He swung the Merc's side door shut and climbed into the cab. “I'll see you right for videos,” he called as he started the engine. I stuck the computer under my arm and walked back up the stairs to the flat.
***
When I got up the next morning the lap-top was where I'd left it on the coffee table. I worked round it for most of the morning, but eventually I couldn't put it off any longer.
I looked up the number of the university and dialled. After a short delay, they put me through to the right department. I asked whoever picked up for Sam, and the receiver was plonked down on a desktop. I heard someone calling, then cowboy-booted footsteps.
“Yeah?” His voice sounded bored. It was nearly lunchtime.
“Hi Sam, it's Charlie.”
“Oh, right!” he said, suddenly perking up. “Great to hear from you. When are we going out for another razz?”
I'd met Sam out one day in the Trough of Bowland. When the roads are quiet the Trough is fantastic biking country. In the summer I tend to go out there early in the morning when you can just get stuck into those long sweeping bends.
I was doing that at about six-thirty one Sunday morning when an old green 750cc Norton Commando appeared out of nowhere and proceeded to trample all over me. I gave chase, but I just haven't got the faith, or the courage, to hammer fully committed into blind corners and crests.
After a few miles he pulled in to a lay-by where there was a little burger caravan and I followed. The look on his face when I took my helmet off would have been worth a photograph. We had a brew, got to the point of exchanging phone numbers and met up regularly after that for a quick blast.
When Sam started suggesting we met up in the evenings, however, and without the bikes, I began to back off. He's a sweet bloke, but a touch on the sensitive side for my taste. Chaotic dark hair framing the long face of a Chaucer knight, with expressive dark eyes that follow you round the room like one of those Greenpeace posters against seal clubbing.
I suppose I knew he'd take things further if I gave him a sign, but I also knew the sparks were all on his side. I didn't think it was fair to let him believe anything might come of it, and I hadn't spoken to him for a few months.
Now, I explained about Terry's password-protected machine and asked if he thought there was anything he could suggest. I don't know exactly what it is that Sam does with computers, but he seems to be a bit of a whizz kid.
“Yeah, no problem,” he said. “I'll see what I can do. Most of these lap-tops aren't that difficult to get into. What's the make and model?”
I grabbed the computer and read off all the identifying marks I could find. “Shall I bring it round?” I asked.
“Er, well, you're just down on the quay, aren't you? Why don't I pop round to you tonight, about eight-thirty?” he said, adding quickly. “If that's OK, of course. I just thought it would save you carting it about strapped to the back of that bloody Jap rice-burner of yours.”
“At least my bike only burns oil, it doesn't dump most of it on the road,” I said. “Half eight is fine. I'll see you later.”
“Yeah, great. I'll look forward to it,” he said.
I put the phone down wondering if I'd done the right thing.
***
In the afternoon I packed my work-out clothes into my rucksack, climbed onto the Suzuki, and headed across town to the refuge.
I've been holding self-defence at the Shelseley Lodge Women's Refuge for the last couple of years. On paper, I suppose it doesn't make much financial sense to do so, but actually the arrangement suits us both quite well.
I teach there three times a week. The classes are open to all, and often people mix and match which days they attend, depending on their schedule. The residents of the Lodge are free to join in any time.
My regular students pay me their tuition fees direct, but Shelseley take the class fees themselves for their own people, if they charged them at all. Still, I didn't have to fork out for use of the venue, so I couldn't begrudge them my labours. Not for the work they were doing.
Shelseley Lodge had been turned into a women's refuge some time in the early seventies by the late mother of the present owner. Old Mrs Shelseley had used premature widowhood as the perfect opportunity to take in single mothers and battered wives as fast as she could make up camp beds for them. And if deserted husbands turned up in the middle of the night to kick up a fuss, she'd even been known to appear, a terrifying apparition with a shotgun and curlers, to show them the error of their ways. I'd never met her, but I thought she sounded wonderful.
I very much doubt that the new Mrs Shelseley knew one end of a shotgun from the other, but she was just as effective at shifting unwanted visitors. Ailsa had arrived temporarily at the Lodge as a trainee solicitor to offer advice to the residents on matters of divorce and child support.
She'd taken a fancy to the place in general – and the owner's son, Tristram in particular – and had stayed put. Although she's since given up the law and retrained as a counsellor, she can still spout enough legalese to put the fear of God into marauding men when the need arises.
I reached the entrance to the Lodge and turned the bike between a pair of red brick gateposts. The driveway was short and claimed to be gravel, but every summer the dandelions staged another covert incursion and I think they were finally winning the battle.
As always, there was a motley collection of cars sprawled in front of the impressive Victorian house. Where
