Echo

'How do I do that?'

'As I said, I love my cats but I don't plan to marry them.'

'Are you telling me to get a pet?'

'I'm not telling you anything, Michael. You're intelligent enough to work this one out for yourself.' Lawrence took a card from his inside pocket. 'This is my phone number. You can call me at any time. I'm almost always there.'

'You might live to regret it. How do you know I won't take you up on it and drive you mad with endless phone calls?'

The old eyes twinkled with what looked to Deacon like genuine affection. 'I hope you will. It's such a rarity for me to feel useful these days.'

'You're the most dreadful old fraud I've ever met.'

'Why do you say that?'

'It's such a rarity for me to feel useful these days,' he quoted. 'I bet you say that to all the waifs and strays you pick up. As a matter of interest, does everyone get emotionally blackmailed or am I peculiarly privileged?'

The old man chortled happily. 'Only those who inspire me with hope. You can only feed the hungry, Michael.'

It was a startling trigger to Deacon's memory. Images of skeletal Billy Blake floated to the surface of his mind. He felt for his wallet and took out a print of the dead man's mug shot. 'Did you ever talk to him? He was a derelict who lived in a warehouse squat about a mile from here and died of starvation six months ago on that estate behind us. He called himself Billy Blake but I don't think it was his real name. I need to find out who he was.'

Lawrence studied the photograph for several seconds then shook his head regretfully. 'I'm afraid not. I'm sure I'd remember if I had. It's not a face you can easily forget, is it?'

'No.'

'I remember the story. It caused quite a stir here for a day or two. Why is he important to you?'

'The woman whose garage he died in asked me to find out who he was,' said Deacon.

'Mrs. Powell.'

'Yes.'

'I've seen her once or twice. She drives a black BMW.'

'That's the one.'

'Do you like her, Michael?'

Deacon thought about it. 'I haven't decided yet. She's a complicated woman.' He shrugged. 'It's a long story.'

'Then save it for your phone call.'

'It may never happen, Lawrence. My wives would tell you I score very low on reliability.'

'One little call, Michael. Is that so much to ask?'

'But it's not one little call, is it?' he growled. 'You're after people's souls, and don't think for one moment I don't know it.'

Lawrence glanced at the back of the photograph. 'May I keep this? I know quite a number of the homeless community and one of them might recognize him.'

'Sure.' Deacon stood up. 'But it doesn't mean I'll phone you so don't raise your hopes. I'm going to be very embarrassed about this tomorrow.' He shook the old man's hand. 'Shalom, Lawrence, and thanks. Go home before you freeze to death.'

'I will. Shalom, my friend.'

He watched the younger man walk away across the grass, then smiled to himself as he took out his address book and made a careful note of Deacon's name, followed by the address and telephone number of The Street offices which Barry Grover had thoughtfully stamped on the back of the photograph. Not that he expected to need them. Lawrence's faith in God's mysterious ways was absolute, and he knew it was only a question of time before Michael phoned him. The old man turned his face upstream and listened to the wind and the waves rebuking each other.

*8*

The fight that broke out inside the warehouse was a bloody affair, started by one of the more aggressive schizophrenics who decided the man next to him wanted to kill him. He pulled a flick-knife from his pocket and plunged it into his neighbor's stomach. The man's screams acted on the other inmates like a strident alarm, bringing some to his rescue and driving the rest to stampede in fear. Terry Dalton and old Tom snatched up pieces of lead piping and waded in to try to break up the affray but, like a fighting dog, the aggressor ignored the rain of blows that descended on his back and concentrated his energy on his victim. It ended, as so many of these fights ended, only when the man's stamina ran out and he retired, bruised and battered, to nurse his wounds.

Tom knelt beside the pathetic curled figure of the man who'd been stabbed. 'It's poor old Walter,' he said. 'That bastard Denning's done for 'im good an' proper. If 'e ain't dead now, 'e soon will be.'

Terry, who was shaking from head to toe in the aftermath of heightened adrenaline, flung his piece of pipe to the ground and stripped his coat from his thin body. 'Put this over Walt and keep him warm. I'm calling the ambulance,' he said. 'And get yourselves ready for when the cops get here. This time I'm having Denning put away