“Of course not. What do you take me for?” Sid the Nerve shook out the words, saddened by the suggestion.
On his way to the door Mr Lawrence passed Albert and the colonel and Rasher who stood studying the tearaway nuts between the bottles. “Mr Lawrence, a moment of your time,” Albert muttered. “For young Paul someone's been looking. An unsuitable type. With more care you should choose his friends.”
“Did you tell this character that Paul was staying with me?” Albert's eyes glinted and his half-hidden lips widened. “Of course.” “That's kind of you, Albert.”
Mr Lawrence left The British early to visit Paul at the hospital. He didn't mind making the odd sacrifice. He picked up a brown paper bag of grapes from a Pakistani shop that opened all night, every night, even Christmas night. He had Christmas lights in his window next to a photograph of Mecca.
Green seedless grapes, brown-bagged, cheaper than Tesco and guaranteed by the foreign gentleman not to contain the fungicide Vinclozolin.
The Salvation Army were playing near the hospital entrance, belting out Jerusalem, and a few patients who could walk or manoeuvre their wheelchairs had gathered to listen. Sensing danger, Mr Lawrence hurried past the uniformed women who were brandishing their collection boxes and War Cries.
Paul sat up straight in his bed, a lonely figure, his gaze haunted, focussed on the hills that his feet and knotted knees made on the blanket. Under the wash of the bright strip he looked pale. Patients in the other beds were involved with their visitors. Paul was in another place. Not in this world.
“How are you?”
His eyes came back slowly. They slid towards Mr Lawrence. Nothing else on his body moved. It took a few moments for recognition and then he smiled and turned and caught up with his eyes. “Mr Lawrence.”
“How are you?”
“Mr Lawrence?”
“You're looking better.”
“Mr Lawrence, what are you doing here?”
“I brought you some grapes. I should have posted them.” “You shouldn't have.”
“You're right. The postman might have squashed them.” “You shouldn't have bothered coming.”
“You're right again. How are you?”
“I'm fine. Just fine. They're keeping me in overnight. I'll be out tomorrow. It's the heart, irregular or something. The shock, I expect.” “I expect it was.”
“Funny that. They use electric shocks to start a stopped heart and they use a pacemaker to keep a heart ticking over yet electricity sent mine the other way. Funny.”
“Yes, I see what you mean. But changing the subject for just a moment, someone's been asking about you.”
He frowned.
“A big chap. A big…chap.”
Paul sighed and shook his head. “You didn't tell him I was staying with you?”
“No. No I didn't and nor did Sid.”
He relaxed.
“Albert did.”
He grimaced. “Everything's going wrong,” he said. “Stuck in here innI? Haven't got time to find a place. Christmas's coming, you want me out by the weekend and now that bastard's looking for me.” “Who is that bastard exactly?”
“Someone I lived with.”
“My goodness, come again, exactly what does that mean?” “Inside, Mr Lawrence. Prison overcrowding, innit? You don't get a cell to yourself. Not unless you write books or something. I knew him inside, see. Shared a cell.”
“And now he's outside. Is he dangerous?”
Paul shrugged white bony shoulders.
“Why is he looking for you?”
Paul looked up appealingly and said meekly, “He's in love with me.”
“Love!”
“He thinks he is. He probably is.”
“Love! Goodness me, now that's a complication I hadn't considered. Do you love him?”
Paul pulled a face. “Leave it out, Mr Lawrence. Do I look like a rear admiral?”
“I can't answer that, dear boy. I wouldn't know what to look for. I have often wondered how you tell.”
“I think it’s an earring in the left ear, or it might be the right.” “I shall look out for that.”
“Or it might even be both ears.”
“Forget the ears, Paul.”
“He forced himself on me. Inside, you don't have a choice. You stick your arse in the air or you get beaten senseless and your arse goes in the air anyway.”
“That’s terrible but that's all right then. Now I know that, you can stay until Christmas, Boxing Day I mean. No longer and, only if you make yourself useful in the shop.”
His face softened in gratitude. “I won't be no trouble. Honest. I'll teach you to play chess. I'll do the cooking. I'll look after the shop. I'll get us a Christmas tree with lights.”
Mr Lawrence shook his head in wonder. Today’s youth! Who’d have them with their erratic enthusiasm and marvellous ambitions? “Chess. I'll settle for chess.”
“I'm a master at that, innI? The old Reti, the old King's Indian. Sound as a bell, that, that is. You saved me a lot of worry.” “Worry?”
“I was thinking about the turkey in the squat. They keep turning the electric off, see?”
“Well, I hope my electric is back on by then.”
“No sweat, Mr Lawrence. I've got this mate…”
“No, Paul. NO. I'll use the Yellow Pages.”
“Right.”
“But what about this rampaging lover?”
“Come again?”
“The bastard?”
“Yeah. He could be a problem.”
“You'll have to break it gently.”
“Yeah.”
“That his affections are not returned. It’s a sad business when love is not returned.”
“Sad, yeah, that’s it.”
A nurse walked through, stern and alarming. She paused at the end of Paul’s bed and glared at the two of them. Mr Lawrence busied himself with the grapes, slipped one in his mouth and stuck it in his cheek. The nurse shook her head and went on her way. Mr Lawrence watched her go. There was something about women and uniforms. There always had been, he supposed, ever since Boudicca had been riveted into her breastplates.
By the time Mr Lawrence left the hospital the Sally Annes had changed their tune. They had moved on to While Shepherds Watched but the women, striding about flat-footed, were thrusting their War Cries and collection boxes with even more aggression. To get back to the bus stop and to avoid the women Mr Lawrence was forced into a detour around the block.
Lunchtime the following day there was bad news to come in The British. Rasher had given the road outside a crimson glow. The tarmac had been washed in claret.
Bad news like that was enough to turn a man to drink but the woman was coming later so that would have to wait.
Rasher was a casualty of the night.
It happened last night, shortly after Mr Lawrence had left. Behind the bar, between the ranks of down-turned bottles riding on their 25ml measures – seventy proof rotors – the packets of tearaway peanuts waited to be plucked from their card. Beneath the nuts was a photograph of a naked lady and every time a packet was pulled a little more of her was exposed. So far on view there was one perfectly formed breast with a sixpenny nipple and
