told him where I was in the first place.”
“You said he loved you?”
“I did. I know. I said that. You hurt the things you love. You know that. He was just trying to straighten me out.”
“And are you straightened?”
“I don't feel straight. To tell the truth, I feel pretty well bent right now.”
“I've seen you looking better, Paul, that's true. But that’s not the word I would have chosen. So, you've got a week?”
“Yes. Then I've got to give him my answer.”
“And if it's no?”
“He'll kill me. I think he'll kill me. And if you interfere he'll kill you too. It'll be a crime of passion. I think I'll have to take off for good. Disappear. Trouble is, he's good at finding things, people. He found me in the squat.”
Laura's voice travelled up the stairs.
“Mr Lawrence – customers!”
A middle-aged couple admired a canvas. He was short and squat and sourly. His banker’s eyes focused on the painting. His wife was heavier and taller. They wanted the painting but they wanted a discount too.
“Mallards,” he muttered and nodded to confirm it.
“Indeed. Notice how the artist has used the same colouring of the ducks in flight on the rich foliage in the foreground.”
The man wasn’t really noticing the colouring and was instead concentrating on the bandage on Mr Lawrence's right hand. He said, “Yes, I had noticed that, but thank you.”
He tugged at his nose. “Well, Hon?”
“It seems a little overpriced,” Hon said. So did her dress, whatever she paid for it.
“Good paintings are an investment. If madam would like to see some less expensive works in the other room…? The untrained eye would not spot the difference…”
An eyebrow raised. “Quite,” the squat man muttered as he reached for his cheque-book.
“Get the hang of it?” he said to Laura once they had gone, and then to Paul a few moments later: “Where were we? Oh yes, you're safe until Friday. Are we certain of that?”
Paul's nod was lopsided. The swelling on his neck was worse. He confirmed, “Friday.”
“I'll give it some thought. Perhaps I can come up with an idea. Did you get anywhere with your little errand?”
“Come again?”
“The woman from the subcontinent?”
“The Paki? Oh yes. Went across to the Ridgeway, to the address, like you said. She don't live there, Mr Lawrence. You probably got the number wrong. An old couple lives there. Saw me hanging around and gave me what for. Probably thought I was a dodgy character. There's lots of them about. Right?”
Mr Lawrence nodded thoughtfully. “When you're up and about, maybe later, I want you to help me in the shop. Christmas is coming and we're getting busy.”
“No sweat. You done me a favour. I'll do anything for you. No questions asked.”
“How are you feeling now?”
“Better. Be up and about in no time.” He paused then said sheepishly, “Look under the bed.”
Under the bed he'd lined up four pairs of trainers and a pile of rackets.
“Squash?”
“Badminton,” Paul put him right. “Taking it up once the swelling goes down. Might play with those girls from the art class, see, cos one of them won't be playing for much longer, will she?”
“Really?”
“She's pregnant, Mr Lawrence. You can't run around if you're carrying, can you?”
“I suppose not.”
“So I'll play with the other one.” Paul winked.
Laura called up. “Mr Lawrence – customer!”
“More ducks,” he muttered.
“Mr Lawrence…?”
Mr Lawrence paused at the door. “What is it, Paul?”
“What happened to your finger?”
Once the shop was closed he found Laura in the kitchen ironing a black skirt. She rocked from one foot to the other as she listened to her Walkman or pod thing or whatever they were called nowadays. It probably came with pictures. The cassette or whatever rode her right buttock, held by the white lace of her pants. Her free breasts swung in time over the ironing-board. The scene reminded Mr Lawrence of the nature programmes on the television, rows of chanting natives with swinging breasts against a jungle backdrop. Inside, in those days, you were allowed to watch the nature programmes between six and seven. Now of course, it was porn on your own portable in your own cell. Even so, he doubted that even then they’d get away with a bunch of white breasts swinging along to ‘I Wanna Be Like You’ before the watershed. Discrimination, without a doubt.
“You can stay here for a few days. God knows where you'll sleep.” She said, “I'll put my bag in your room for now,” and offered him a knowing little smile.
They left it like that.
“House rules!” he said when she carried her ironing through. He'd intended to tell her to cover up but after consideration decided against it. He didn't want her thinking he was old-fashioned.
She paused in her step and hugged the ironing against her chest. “While you're here I must insist that you give up your moonlighting.”
“Mr Lawrence, you're jealous.”
“I can't have the Gallery involved in…in… It's not on.”
“But what will I do for money?”
“You'll manage. Treat it like a holiday. A few days off.”
“OK.”
“Promise me, Laura.”
“I promise that while I'm here I'll give up the tricks.”
“Fine. You can help out in the shop, until Paul gets better.” “That reminds me.”
“What's that?”
“I did two hours down there today. What's the hourly rate?”
Chapter 23
At the rear of the studio a door opened on to a small yard of black sterile earth where even the weeds would not take hold. To the right of the door stood a rotting wooden shed. Its roof had fallen on to a rustswollen lawn- mower. A cracked concrete path led across the yard to a blistered gate where two galvanized bins stood. The heavy gate hung off its hinges and scraped the concrete path. An arc of scraped-clean concrete indicated that it wouldn't fully open, but the opening was sufficient for the bin men – the waste disposal executives – to manoeuvre the bins through.
The gate opened as far as it would go on to a back road that ran behind the shops. It was an empty road save for the parked cars and an occasional lorry that would stop to make a delivery to the back of one of the row of shops or restaurants. At such times the narrow road was blocked to any other vehicle and for that reason most deliveries were made in the High Road. Across the road a line of silent offices stood in various states of disrepair. Most of the dark windows were cracked. At some stage, before Mr Lawrence's time, the road had been a place of industry but now the offices were mostly unused. The few that did flicker with light were dark again soon after for it meant that smackheads had broken in and were cooking with candles. Next to the row of offices stood a row of garages with corrugated roofs covered in moss. There was only one shop front in the road, and that was farther
