armpits, not exactly running but moving quickly. I didn't even have to follow him. He was coming toward me, probably on his way to screw up even more by going straight back to the cafe.
I stepped out in front of him and his look of horror said it all.
'Hello, Tom.'
At first he didn't move, he just stood there, rooted to the spot, then he half turned away, screwing up his face and looking down at the sidewalk, like a dog that thinks it's going to get hit. 'Please don't hurt me. I didn't say nothing to no one. On my life. Promise.'
'It's all right, Tom,' I said. 'I have nothing to do with those people now. That's not why I'm here.'
14
'Tell you what, I said, 'let's go back to your apartment, get the kettle on and have a chat.' I was trying to sound nice, but he knew I wasn't offering him a choice.
I put an arm around his shoulder and he stiffened. 'Come on, mate, let's have some tea and I'll tell you what this is all about. It's too cold out here.'
Being only about five foot five, he was easy to get my arm around. I could feel the softness of his body. He hadn't shaved for a few days and the result wasn't bristle but the sort of thing you could fill a comforter with.
I started to make small talk as we walked, trying to make him feel at ease. Also, this meeting needed to look a bit more normal to any third party nosing out of their window. 'How long have you been living round here then, Tom?'
He kept his head down, studying the concrete slabs. As we passed the multicolored houses, I noticed he was shaking.
'About a year, I suppose.' 'Hey, I called your apartment earlier on, and a woman answered. She your girlfriend?'
'Janice? Yeah.' There was a gap of a second or two before he stopped walking and looked up at me. 'Look, man, I have never, ever said nothing to no one about any of that stuff. Not a word, I swear on my mother's life. I haven't even told them I-'
'Tom, all I want to do is talk. I've got a proposition for you. Let's just sit down, have cup of tea and a chat.'
He nodded as I got us both walking again.
'I think you'll like what you hear. Come on, get the kettle on.'
We got to the house and walked up the four or five stone steps to the door. Tom fumbled for his key which was tied to an old bit of nylon string, his hand shaking as he tried to get it into the keyhole. He still thought he was going to get hammered. I decided to let him think it; maybe it would lighten him up when he finally realized I wasn't here to put him in hospital.
It was just as cold in the hallway as it was outside. The threadbare, dirty carpet matched the damp, peeling walls. An old-fashioned stroller blocked the hall, and I could hear what sounded like its passenger screaming in the flat to the left, trying to make more noise than the TV talk show sharing his room. Breathing in to pass the stroller and get to the stairs, I felt quite cheerful. Even my house smelled better than this.
Heat rises, but not in this place. Number 4 had its own small landing, with paint peeling off the door and banisters. He managed to get the key straight in the lock and the door opened into what I supposed was the living room. Dirty-gray net curtains made the dirty-gray light from outside even gloomier.
Ikea's flat pack division had done well out of Tom. Shiny waxed pine shone everywhere in the small room; even the two-seater sofa had wooden arms. The rest of the place was in a bad way-more damp walls, worn carpet, and cold. The fireplace was boarded up and a gas fire was stuck in its place, just dying to be turned on. I could still see my breath.
A ten-year-old wood-veneer TV stood on a waxed pine stand in the corner, with a VCR underneath, the timer flashing all the zeros, and a dozen or so videos stacked next to it on the floor. To the right of that was a Sorry Play Station with a stack of games scattered around it, and the world's oldest PC. The buff-colored plastic was dark and dirty and the vents at the back were so black it looked like it ran on diesel. Its keyboard was really worn; I could only just make out the instructions on the keys. Not the best of equipment for such a high-tech guy, but very good news for me. It would have been harder to get him to come along if he was making a fortune and living in a penthouse. The need for money makes people do things they would never normally dream of. I was a bit of an expert on that front.
We both stood there and I could feel his embarrassment. I broke the silence. 'Put the kettle on, mate, and I'll get the fire going, eh?'
He walked into a tiny kitchen off the main room and I heard coins getting fed into a meter and the knob turning to give us some gas. I heard the tap filling up the kettle as I threw my money on the sofa and tried to light the fire, clicking the pilot light several times before the gas ignited with a whoomph.
Opposite was another door that was open about six inches. Ikea hadn't got round to the bedroom. A mattress lay on the floor, the comforter pulled aside, dangerously close to a portable kerosene heater. The only other furniture seemed to be a digital alarm clock lying on the floor. It felt just like home.
There was no telling where the bathroom was, but I reckoned it would be on the other side of the kitchen somewhere; in fact, it was probably part of the kitchen. I stayed down with the fire for a while to warm up.
'So what are you doing with yourself now, Tom? Still in the computer business?'
At last there was a spark of life from him. He hadn't been filled in, and I was taking an interest in his subject. He stuck his chubby head into the living room; I'd forgotten how it jutted backward and forward like a cockerel's.
'Yeah, I've got a few irons in the fire, know what I mean? Games, that's where the money is, mate. I've got a few movers and shakers in the business desperate for my ideas. Know what I mean, desperate.'
I was still kneeling down, rubbing my hands by the flames. 'That's really good to hear, Tom.'
'Yeah, things are sweet. This is just temporary, while I decide who to sell my idea to. Then it's party time. Look for a house to buy cash, of course then start my own show. Know what I mean?'
I nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. He had no money, no job, and was still full of bullshit. He was going to like what I was about to tell him.
His head disappeared back into the kitchen and things started to be washed up. Standing up to go over to the sofa, I saw a pile of plain white cards on the mantel. The top two had lipstick kisses and a handwritten message on it: 'I hope you like my dirty panties. Love, Juicy Lucy xx.' I picked one up. At least the lipstick was genuine.
I raised my voice as I walked over to the sofa. 'How long have you been with Janice?'
'She sort of moved in a couple of months ago.'
'What does she do?'
'Just part-time at the supermarket; bits and pieces, you know.' He stuck his head around the door again. 'Sugar?'
'No, just some milk will be fine.'
He came in with two mugs and put them on the not-so-new carpet.
Sitting on the floor by the fire, facing toward me on the sofa, he passed mine over. His, I noticed, was without milk.
I saw him clock the open bedroom door and worry whether I'd seen what lay beyond it. We both picked up our tea at the same time.
'Don't worry about it, mate. I spent my childhood living in places like this. Maybe I can help you find somewhere better. Until the game thing kicks in.'
He tried to sip his tea as his eyes flicked toward the Mickey Mouse alarm on top of the fire.
Time to get down to business. 'By the looks of it, things ain't that good, are they? You on the dole?'
Jack the Lad came back with a grin. 'Yeah, who ain't? I mean, free money, madness not to. Am I right or what?'
He went back to concentrating on his tea.
'Tom, I think I can help. I've been offered a job that would earn you enough to buy an apartment and pay any debts outright.'
He didn't trust me: understandable, it wasn't as if he knew me as Mr.
Nice Guy. His eyes were still checking Mickey Mouse now and again.
