Everyone beyond their bodies, absorbed in their own project, back in the depths of ancient Rome, their family tree, legal precedent or who knows what? There was a mix of ethnicity I’d not met elsewhere in the city and suddenly I missed London.
I logged onto the system, then scrolled through the internet, chasing Bill Senior until I thought I might have an idea of where else to look, then I got a librarian to direct me to where the microfiches of old newspapers were stored and struggled with the small plastic slides until I worked out how to use them. After a while I realised that I might be getting somewhere.
It was past three when I left the library and caught a bus over to the West End to pay back one of my debts.
The work address that Johnny had given me was on University Gardens, a short Victorian terrace that had once housed lecturers but was now converted into university offices and seminar spaces. I worked my way down the doors until I came to the number Johnny had given me. The outside of the building was covered in scaffolding that looked like it had been there for a while. I made my way up the entrance steps, past the neglected scrub of front garden and into the hallway.
Inside there was a fusion of damp, floor polish and books that hit me a smack of nostalgia for a time I’d almost forgotten. The foyer was as dark as I remembered, a notice-board on the wall covered in a confusion of posters and notices for classes, assignments, student theatre shows, political meetings and books for sale. I had a sudden memory of saturating campus with starry homemade advertisements for my new brand of magic. The scent of nostalgia was overlaid by the smell of turps and paint, the stairway swathed in spattered dustsheets, and suddenly it made sense why Johnny had given me this address.
A man in white overalls was balanced near the top of a long ladder in the stairwell reaching up towards a barely accessible slant of the underside of the stairs. I walked up towards him, the steps creaking under my weight; I could feel a corresponding creak in my chest that hadn’t been there when I’d used these buildings fifteen years ago. The painter peered down and I said, 'Can you tell me where Johnny is, mate?'
The man’s roller continued moving white on white across the wall; he was doing a fine job.
'Johnny?'
'Aye, he said he was working here, I think he’s probably one of your guys.'
'Oh, John.' The man pointed his roller upwards. 'Second floor, first room on the right, clap the door afore you go in: they might have the ladder in front of it.'
'Cheers.'
I kept on climbing. Johnny’s dad had been a painter decorator. I wondered if the firm had fallen to him now. Johnny had been smart enough to do whatever he wanted, but hash and booze had always threatened to hold him back. I’d been no better, spending the best part of my grant in the union bar before leaving halfway through my third year. I reached the second floor, turned right and rapped on the large dark-varnished door. A voice shouted, 'Aye, it’s clear.' And I went through. A broad-set, balding man was poised on the top of the ladder at the far side of the room painting the walls a sunshine yellow that looked washed out in the dim light. His apprentice was crouched on the floor, touching up the skirting near the door.
'I was looking for John.'
The older man stopped mid stroke and stared down from his ladder.
'You’ve found him. What can I do for you, son?'
I glanced at the nameplates on a couple of the doors until a uniformed attendant with a bundle of late- afternoon post tucked under his arm asked if he could help me. I saw myself as he must see me, a scruffy middle- aged waster skulking round a university campus, and gave him a grin to liven up his nightmares.
'Aye, is there a good pub round here?'
The guard directed me to one of my old student haunts, staring at me as if storing up my description for later use. I felt his eyes on my back as I walked down the stairs and supposed he’d reach for his radio as soon as I was out of earshot, alerting the rest of the security squad to the potential menace in range. I looked back up at his worried face peering down from the top of the stairwell and held my right hand up.
'May the lord hold you and keep you.'
Making a sign of the cross with my index finger just to freak him out. Then the front door opened behind me letting in a blast of sudden spring air.
'William!'
Johnny’s greeting caught me mid-genuflection.
The guard shouted down, 'Everything OK, Dr Mac?'
Johnny gave the grin that I bet swelled his lectures with swell young female students and nodded up at the guard.
'Fine thanks, Gordon, I’ll look after Mr Wilson.' My old friend turned to me. 'You’ve still got good timing.' Johnny’s hair was slightly wet, his face flushed. He smelt of something fresh and sporty. 'I just dropped by to dump this.'
I glanced at the sports bag he was carrying, suddenly feeling tongue-tied, and reached into my pocket for the fifty pounds he’d lent me, handing it over awkwardly.
'I wanted to return this.'
'Aye, thanks,' Johnny rubbed his fingers through his damp hair. 'I hope you didn’t mind…'
'No,' I tried for a smile. 'It helped to know someone had faith in me.' The weight of the hours I’d spent in the Mitchell that morning, searching out old newspaper accounts of crimes and cruelties, suddenly weighed on me. 'I was just going for a pint, d’you fancy one?'
John hesitated.
'I do but I can’t.'
