Gardener heard running water beyond a door in the wall nearest to him. He was about to ask about it when he was suddenly caught in what he suspected was an earthquake. The sound was horrendous as the whole room shook, dislodging dust from above. He lowered himself to his knees, wrapping his hands around his head, trying to block out the sound and whatever destruction might follow. It finally passed. He straightened up, wincing.
“The trains – you get used to them. Come and sit down.” The giant chuckled before introducing himself as The Bear. He called to the vagrant working the spit. “George, three bowls of chicken broth, please.”
As Gardener crouched to sit, he was about to ask a question when the running water stopped. He turned his head, and Bob Crisp came through the door in a bathrobe.
“Mr Gardener! I’m pleased to make your acquaintance again. Please, be seated.” He glanced over at George. “Only the best china, please, George.”
Bob Crisp finished drying what little hair he had and took his place opposite Gardener.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been run over.” As Gardener’s senses returned, so too did his thirst for knowledge. “Why am I here?”
“Ah. ‘One of the greatest pains to human nature is the pain of a new idea.’ I don’t suppose for one minute the thought of mingling with us, in order to find me, seemed like a good idea to you.”
George approached the table with four bowls of chicken broth on a tray. He placed one in front of each of them before sitting with his own.
Gardener felt nauseous. He wasn’t sure whether it was his apparent lack of health or state of mind. Dining with vagrants was not his idea of fun. “What happened to me?”
Bob Crisp sighed. “The underground world of Leeds is split up and run by gangs. Pretty much like any other major city in England. I’m afraid you were set upon by one of those. You took a bit of a pasting. They left you for dead. It was George who found you.”
The beating explained the pain. The thought of gangs patrolling the city’s streets at night, involved in underground warfare, was a prospect he found chilling. And a topic he hadn’t the time to discuss.
“Look, you need to explain a few things to me. Where am I? What time is it?” Momentary panic overtook Gardener. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. “In fact, what day is it?”
“You must eat your food.” Bob Crisp passed around baguettes. They were sealed in packets and had yesterday’s date. Gardener didn’t want to know where they came from.
“Please, just answer my questions. My son’s life is at stake.”
“Your son?” Bob Crisp stopped eating. “Is that why you’re looking for me?”
“Among other reasons.”
“Fair enough.” He put down his spoon. “It’s Wednesday. As you can see from our magnificent time piece, it’s eight o’clock in the evening.”
Gardener jumped up and was rendered breathless from the pain in his ribs. “Oh, Christ!”
A quick calculation told him he’d been missing twenty-four hours without contacting his family. A quick search of his pockets informed him he no longer possessed a mobile phone. Nor his wallet.
“You appear to have lost something, Mr Gardener?”
“My mobile phone, my identification, my money. Everything. What happened? How did George know who I was?”
“You were mistaken for a vagrant. We’re not very well liked, you see. You’ve suffered head injuries and bruised ribs. George stumbled upon you, found you unconscious with your warrant card laid next to you. The gang must have realized you were not a vagrant after all. You’ve been out this entire time. You will need medical attention. You can never tell with head injuries.”
Gardener studied Bob Crisp. He reckoned the man was in his mid-fifties from his lined, weather-beaten face out of character with his smooth, bald head. Whether it was the velvet voice with the clipped English accent, the educated manner, whatever, he felt he could trust him. That was saying something.
Bob Crisp rose, taking Gardener by the arm. They made themselves comfortable on the three-piece suite in front of the fire.
“What’s happened to your son?”
The vagrant grabbed a menthol cigarette from a nearby table and lit it. Gardener sat back and told him what he knew, explaining the case in detail. Crisp barely interrupted. When Gardener finished, the well-spoken vagrant merely stared at the dancing flames.
He finally spoke, quietly. “‘I should renounce the devil and all his works, the pomps and vanity of this wicked world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh.’” He paused. “I’ve done you no favours, Mr Gardener. I should have spoken out sooner.”
“What are you talking about?”
Bob Crisp took a drag on his cigarette and blew out more smoke. He turned to face Gardener, his eyes imploring forgiveness.
“I used to work for Derek Summers. The man you call Warthead is his son. I know nothing more. Not even the identity of his mother. From what I have gathered, the misshapen head and the warts are a genetic defect. Another story is that Summers beat the girl who carried the child, and the result is what you see.”
“How were you involved with Summers?”
“I’m a solicitor by profession, Mr Gardener. Many years back I was disbarred, discredited. I now live underground in fear of my life. Hence, the reason I travel nowhere without The
