Trudie, I walked through Euston Square and watched the morning get its kit on.
‘I heard that Imelda Probert’s daughter made a full recovery,’ Trudie said, her tone guardedly neutral.
‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘I heard that, too.’
‘Any idea where she’ll go now?’
‘She got a job,’ I said. ‘At a market stall in Walthamstow. It’ll pay the rent.’ My tone was even more off-hand than Trudie’s, but that was because the subject was one that still hurt too much to dwell on for long. I’d given Lisa back her life: I didn’t believe for a moment that in doing that I’d settled the debt between us.
‘You ever wish you were part of this?’ Trudie asked, indicating with a toss of her head the scuttling commuters, the street cleaners, the shopkeepers taking down their shutters on the station concourse.
‘Of life, you mean?’ I asked, surprised by the question. ‘No. Not much. I’d rather be an ironic commentator. ’ But it was a flip answer, and from the tone of her voice she’d meant the question seriously. ‘I suppose when I think of it at all, I feel like Janis Joplin in the Chelsea Hotel song. “We may be ugly, but at least we’ve got the music.” I wouldn’t want to give up what I’ve got for what they’ve got.’
‘No,’ Trudie agreed. ‘Me neither.’
We walked along together in silence for a while.
‘So how religious are you feeling today, Ms Pax?’ I asked at last.
‘Very. Very devout. How about you, Mr Castor?’
‘Atheistic. Blasphemous. Practically satanic.’
She leaned her head on my shoulder.
‘Let’s form an inter-faith study group,’ she suggested.
about the author
Mike Carey is the acclaimed writer of
For more information about Mike Carey visit www.mikecarey.co.uk
