aggressively. Deacon opened one eye and looked with extreme disfavor on his protege. 'Stop-doing-that,' he said slowly and clearly. 'I am not a well man.' He rolled over and prepared to go back to sleep again.
'Yeah, right, but you've got to get up.'
'Why?'
'Lawrence is on the phone.'
Deacon struggled to a sitting position and groaned as his hangover hit him behind the eyes. 'What does he want?''
'Don't ask me.'
'Why didn't you leave the machine to take a message?' growled Deacon, glancing at his clock and seeing that it was six-fifteen in the morning. 'That's what it's for.'
'I did-the first four times-but he just kept ringing back. How come you didn't hear it? Are you deaf or what?'
With muttered imprecations, Deacon stumbled through to the sitting room and picked up the receiver. 'What's so mportant that you have to wake me at the crack of dawn on Christmas Eve, Lawrence?'
The old man sounded worried. 'I've just been listening to the radio, Michael. I sleep so little these days. I'm guessing that either you or I or both of us can expect a visit from the police shortly. I know Terry's there because he answered the telephone, but can you vouch for his movements last night?'
Deacon rubbed his eyes vigorously. 'What's this about?'
'Another incident at what I assume is Terry's warehouse. Look, find a news bulletin on your radio and listen to it. I may be completely wrong, but it sounds to me as if the police are looking for your lad. Call me back as soon as you can. You may need me.' He rang off.
It was the top story, with details breaking as the newscaster was on air. Following an attempted murder and the arrest of a suspect on Friday afternoon, further trouble had erupted among the homeless community in a docklands' warehouse in the early hours of Christmas Eve, when several men had been doused with gasoline and their clothes set alight. The police were looking for a youth, five feet eleven inches tall, shaven-headed and wearing a dark coat, who was seen running from the warehouse following the incident. Although they had not released his name, the police were looking for a known suspect who was believed to hold a grudge against the warehouse community, following the attempted murder on Friday.
For all Terry's surface bravura, he was only fourteen years old. He stared at the radio in tearful panic. 'Someone's grassed me up,' he stormed. 'What am I gonna fucking do? The police'll crucify me.'
'Don't be an idiot,' said Deacon sharply. 'You've been here all night.'
'How would you know, you bastard?'' demanded Terry angrily, his fear sparking further aggression. 'I could have gone and come back without you knowing anything about it. Shit, you didn't even hear your phone ringing.'
Deacon pointed at the sofa. 'Sit down while I phone Lawrence back.'
'No chance. I'm out of here.' He bunched his hands into fists. 'I ain't gonna let the fucking pigs anywhere near me.'
'SIT DOWN,' roared Deacon, 'BEFORE I GET REALLY ANGRY!' Afraid that Terry would bolt if he left the room to search out Lawrence's number, he switched to the loudspeaker, pressed one-four-seven-one to give him a voiced number recall of the last person who had phoned him, then pressed three to dial that person back. 'Hi, Lawrence, it's Michael and Terry on the speakerphone. We think you're right. We think the guys at the warehouse have grassed Terry, and we think the police will come knocking. So what do we do?''
'Can you vouch for his movements?'
'Yes and no. We got back here at about two o'clock in the morning, courtesy of a taxi. I abandoned my car in Fleet Street because I was over the limit. We were with a chap called Barry Grover until about one-fifteen a.m. We were pissed as rats. The last thing I remember is telling Terry to stop giggling like a schoolgirl and go to bed. I crashed out immediately, and the next thing I knew was Terry giving me grief because you were on the phone. I can't swear he was here between two and when he woke me'-he squinted at his watch-'which means four and a quarter hours are unaccounted for. It's a hypothetical possibility that he went out, but a practical no-no. He could hardly stand when I pushed him into his bedroom, and I am one hundred percent certain that he's been there ever since.'
'Can you hear me, Terry?''
'Yeah.'
'Did you leave Michael's flat after you got back to it at two o'clock this morning?'
'No, I fucking didn't,' said the boy sullenly. 'And I've got a fucking headache, so I'm not answering fucking questions about what I didn't fucking do.'
Lawrence's dry laughter floated into the room. 'Then I'm sure we're worrying unnecessarily-perhaps there are two shaven-headed youths known to the police after Friday-but I do urge you to purify the flat. Our friends in the police force tend to react unfavorably to anything that requires chemical identification. Let me know if you run into trouble, won't you?'
'Why can't he speak English occasionally?' asked Terry ungraciously, as Deacon put the phone down. 'What was he saying? That I'm guilty of something?'
'Yes. Possessing a class C drug. How much cannabis have you got left?'
'Hardly any.'
'None'-Deacon banged the table-'as of now. It's going straight down the bog.' He fixed the boy with a gaze that would have pinned butterflies to a board. 'Do it, Terry.'
'Okay, okay, but it cost me a fortune, you know.'
'Not half as much as it's going to cost me if it's found here.'
