Echo

*9*

"Now," said Lawrence, when they were settled at a table with drinks in front of them, "perhaps Terry would like to tell me why I'm here."

Terry ducked the question by burying his nose in his pint of beer.

"It's quite simple-" began Deacon.

"Then I should like Terry to explain it," said the old man with surprising firmness. "I'm a lover of simplicity, Michael, but so far you've only confused me. I am very doubtful that Terry is who he says he is, which means you and I could be in the invidious position of accessories after the fact to a crime he committed previously."

A resigned expression settled on Terry's face. "I knew this were a bad idea," he told Deacon morosely. "For a kickoff I don't understand a bleeding word he says. It were like listening to Billy. He was always using words the rest of us had never heard of. I told him once to speak fucking English, and he laughed so much you'd of thought I'd just told the best joke in the world." His pale eyes fixed on Lawrence. "People get hung up on names," he said fiercely, "but what's so important about a fucking name? If it comes to that, what's so important about a person's age? It's the age you act that matters not the age you are. Okay, maybe my name isn't Terry and maybe I'm not eighteen, but I like 'em both because they give me respect. One day, I'm gonna be somebody, and people like you will want to know me whatever I'm calling myself. It's me that's important-" he tapped his chest above his heart-"not my name."

Deacon passed Terry a cigarette. "There's no crime involved, Lawrence," he said matter-of-factly.

"How do you know?"

"What did I tell you?" demanded Terry aggressively. "Fucking lawyers. Now he's calling me a liar."

Deacon made a damping motion with his hand. "Terry ran away from care two years ago at the age of twelve, and he doesn't want to be sent back because the man in charge is a pedophile. To avoid that happening he's added four years to his age and has been living under an alias in a squat. It's as simple as that."

Lawrence clicked his tongue impatiently, unintimidated by Terry's seething anger beside him. "You call it simple that a child has been living in dreadful circumstances without education or loving parental control during two of the most important years of his life? Perhaps I should remind you, Michael, that it's only five hours since you were telling me you wanted to be a father." He raised a thin, transparent hand towards Terry. "This young man is no harmless stray who can be left to his own devices now that you've prevented the police from exercising their responsibility towards him. He's in need of the care and protection that a civilized society-"

"There were Billy," broke in Terry fiercely. "He were caring."

Lawrence looked at him for a moment then took the photograph Deacon had given him from his wallet. "Is this Billy?"

Terry glanced at the haggard face then looked away. "Yeah."

"It must have grieved you to lose him."

"Not so's you'd notice." He lowered his head. "He weren't that bloody brilliant. Half the time he were off his head so it were me looking after him.''

"But you did love him?"

The boy's hands clenched into fists again. "If you're saying me and Billy were sodding poofs, I'll belt you one."

"My dear boy," murmured the old man gently, "such a thing never crossed my mind. I dread to think what kind of world you inhabit where men are frightened to express their fondness for each other because of what others might think. There are a thousand ways to love a person, and only one of them is sexual. I think you loved Billy as a father and, from the way you describe him, he loved you as a son. Is that so shameful that you have to deny it?"

Terry didn't say anything and a silence developed. Deacon broke it eventually because it was becoming uncomfortable.

"Look, I don't know about anyone else," he said, "but I had a terrible night last night, and I wouldn't mind calling it a day. My personal view is that Terry's a streetwise kid with a hell of a lot going for him-he's certainly got more brains than I had at his age-but there's a spare bed in my flat, I look to be spending a miserable Christmas on my own, and I'd welcome some company. What do you say, Terry? My place or the warehouse for the next few days? You and I can enjoy ourselves while Lawrence does the worrying about the future."

"I thought you said there was no food," he muttered ungraciously.

"There isn't. We'll grab a takeaway tonight and go looking for turkey tomorrow."

"Except you don't really want me. It's only because Lawrence reckons you'd make a lousy father that you thought of it."

"Right. But I have thought of it, so what's the answer?" He looked at the bowed head. ' 'Listen, you miserable little sod, I haven't done badly by you so far today. Okay, I don't know the first damn thing about parenting but a small thank-you for the efforts I have shown wouldn't go amiss."

Terry grinned suddenly and raised his head. "Thanks, Dad. You've done good. How about we make it an Indian takeaway?''

There was a gleam of triumph in the lad's pale eyes which came and went too swiftly for Deacon to notice. But Lawrence saw it. Being older and wiser, he had been looking for it.

Lawrence refused Deacon's offer of a lift home but took down the Islington address in case he was contacted by the police. He advised Terry to use his few days' grace to consider whether a return to the warehouse was in his best interests, warned him that his true age and identity would undoubtedly be discovered if and when he was required to give evidence against Denning in court, and suggested he think about regularizing his position voluntarily before he was forced into it. He then asked Terry to call him a taxi from the phone at the bar and, while the boy was out of earshot, he cautioned Deacon against naivety. "Retain a healthy skepticism, Michael. Remember the kind of life Terry's been leading and how little you actually know about him."

Deacon smiled slightly. "I was afraid you were going to tell me to embrace him to my heart with expressions of love. Healthy skepticism I can cope with. It's what I know best."

"Oh, I don't think you're quite so hardened as you think you are, my dear fellow. You've accepted everything he's told you without blinking an eyelash."

"You think he's lying?"

Lawrence shrugged. "We've had a conversation filled with references to homosexuality, and that troubles me. You'll be very vulnerable to a charge of attempted rape if you take him back to your flat. And that will leave you no option but to pay whatever he demands from you."

Deacon frowned. "Come on, Lawrence, he's completely paranoid on the whole subject. He'd never let me near enough to touch him so how could he accuse me of rape?''

"Attempted rape, dear chap, and do please recognize how effective his paranoia is. He's lulled you into thinking it's safe to take him home, which I'm bound to say is not something I would feel confident doing."

"Then why were you pushing me into it?"

Lawrence sighed. "I wasn't, Michael. I was hoping to persuade you both that Terry should be returned to care." He was watching the boy as he spoke. The barman was trying to give him a telephone directory which he seemed reluctant to take. "Tell me, what will your reaction be when he screams and tears his clothes, and threatens to run to one of your neighbors with stories of imprisonment and sexual assault?''

"Why would he want to do that?"

"I would imagine because he's done it before and knows it works. You really mustn't go into this with your eyes closed, my dear chap."

"Great," said Deacon, lowering his head wearily into his hands. "So what the hell am I supposed to do now? Tell the little bastard to get stuffed?"

Lawrence chuckled. "Dear, dear, dear! What a fellow you are for losing heart. The least generous but probably most sensible course would be to hand him back to the police and let the social workers deal with him, but that would be very unkind when you've just offered him Christmas in your flat. Forewarned is after all forearmed. I think you must honor your invitation to the poor lad but keep one step ahead of him all the time."

"I wish you'd make up your mind," growled Deacon. "Half a minute ago the poor lad was planning to con me out of thousands."

"Why should the two be mutually exclusive? He's an unloved, ill-educated, half-formed adolescent who, through living rough, will have learned some sophisticated tricks to keep himself in clothes, food, drink, and drugs. The truth may be that you're exactly the person he needs to bring him back into the fold."

"He'll run rings around me," said Deacon gloomily.

"Surely not," murmured Lawrence, looking towards the bar, where Terry had finally asked the barman to locate a minicab firm for him in the directory. "At least you have the advantage of literacy."

Barry experienced only humiliation at the hands of Fatima, who spoke very poor English. The light in her bed-sitting room was dim, and he looked in fastidious alarm at the tumbled bed which still seemed to bear the imprint of a previous client. There was a strong Turkish atmosphere in the frowsty room which owed more to Fatima herself than to the array of joss sticks burning on a dressing table.

She was a well-covered woman, somewhere in her middle years, with a routine that was well-established and made no allowance for time-wasting. She recognized rapidly that she was dealing with a virgin and looked repeatedly at her clock, while Barry stumbled through an inarticulate introduction of himself as he tried to work out how to extricate himself from this dreadful situation without offending her.

"One hunra," she broke in impatiently, stroking her palm. "And take zee trowse off. Who care you call Barree? I call you sweeties. What you like? Doggy-doggy? Oil?" She pursed her full lips into a ripe rosebud. "You nice clean boy. For a hunra and fifty Fatima do sucky-sucky. You like sucky-sucky? Sounds good, eh, sweeties?"

Terrified that she wouldn't let him go without some sort of payment, Barry fumbled his wallet out of his coat pocket and allowed her to remove five twenties. It was a mistake. Once the money had changed hands, and when Barry didn't immediately start shedding his clothes, she set about doing it for him. She was a strong woman and clearly expected to fulfill her side of the contract.

"Come on, sweeties. No need to be shy. Fatima she know all the tricks. There, you see, no problem. You beeg boy." With deft hands she plucked a condom from a nearby drawer, applied it with consummate artistry, and proceeded to practice her Turkish delights at speed. Barry was no match for her skill, and matters reached a conclusion in seconds. "There you are, sweeties," she said, "all done, all enjoyed. You really beeg boy. You come back any time as long as you have a hunra. Fatima always willing. Next time, less talk more fun, okay? You pay for good sex, and Fatima give good sex. Maybe you like doggy-doggy and fondle Fatima's nice round arse. Now put zee trowse back on and say bye-bye." She had the door open before he was properly dressed and, because he didn't know what else to do with it, he put the condom in his pocket. She called after him as he walked away: "You come back soon, Barree," and his heart swelled with loathing for her and all her sex.

"What was the old guy saying to you while I was on the phone?" demanded Terry suspiciously as he and Deacon made their way back to the car.

"Nothing much. He's concerned about your future and how best to handle it."

"Yeah, well, if he does the dirty on me and goes to the police, he'd better watch his back."

"He gave you his word he wouldn't. Don't you believe him?"

Terry kicked at the curb. "I guess so. But he's a bit fucking heavy on the hand-patting and calling everyone dear. D'you reckon he's bent?"

"No. Would it make a difference if he were?''

"Bloody right it would. I don't hold with poofs."

Deacon inserted his key in the car door, but paused before turning it to look across the roof at his would-be passenger. "Then why do you keep talking about them?" he asked. "You're like an alcoholic who can't keep off the subject of booze because he's dying for his next drink."

"I'm not a bloody poof," said Terry indignantly.

"Then prove it by keeping off the subject."

"Okay. Can we stop at the warehouse?"

Deacon eyed him thoughtfully. "Why?''

"There's things I need. Extra clothes and such."

"Why can't you come as you are?"

"Because I'm not a fucking tramp."

After ten minutes of drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and with no sign of Terry's reemergence from the dark building, Deacon wondered if he should go after him. He could hear Lawrence's voice in his ear: "You think this is good parenting, Michael? You let a fourteen-year-old boy go into a den of thieves, and you call that responsible?"

He postponed one difficult decision by making another. He picked up his mobile telephone and dialed his sister's number. "Emma?" he said when a woman's voice answered at the other end.

"No, it's Antonia."

"You sound like your mother."

"Who is this, please?"

"Your uncle Michael."

"God!" said the voice at the other end in some awe. "Listen, hang on, okay? I'll get Mum." The phone clattered onto a tabletop at the other end and he heard her shouting for her mother. "Quick, quick! It's Michael."

His sister's breathless voice came down the line. "Hello, hello! Michael?"

"Calm down and get your breath back," he said in some amusement. "I'm still here."

"I ran. Where are you?"

"In a car outside a warehouse in the East End."

"What are you doing there?"

"Nothing of any interest." He could see the conversation being hijacked by irrelevancies for, like him, Emma was adept at postponing anything difficult. "Look, I got your card. I also got one from Julia. I gather Ma's not well."

There was a short silence. "Julia shouldn't have told you," she said rather bitterly. "I hoped you'd rung because you wanted to end this silly feud, not because you feel guilty about Ma."

"I don't feel guilty."

"Out of pity, then."

Did he feel pity, either? His strongest emotion was still anger. "Do not bring that whore into my house,'' his mother had said when he told her he'd married Clara. "How dare you sully your father's name by giving it to a cheap tart? Was killing him not enough for you, Michael?" That had been five years ago, and he hadn't spoken to her since. "I'm still angry, Emma, so maybe I'm phoning out of filial duty. I'm not going to apologize to her-or you for that matter-but I am sorry she's ill. What do you want me to do about it? I'm quite happy to see her as long as she's prepared to keep a rein on her tongue, but I'll walk out the minute she starts having a go. That's the only deal you or she will get, so do I come or not?"

"You haven't changed one little bit, have you?" Her voice was angry. "Your mother's virtually blind and may have to have her leg amputated as a result of diabetes, and you talk about deals. Some filial duty, Michael. She was in hospital for most of September, and now Hugh and I are paying through the nose for private-nursing care at the farm because she won't come and live with us. That's filial duty, making sure your mother's being looked after properly even if it means hardships for yourself."

Deacon looked towards the warehouse with a frown in his dark eyes. "What happened to her investments? She had a perfectly good income five years ago, so why isn't she paying for the nursing care herself?''

Emma didn't answer.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes."

"Why isn't she paying herself?"

"She offered to put the girls through school and used her capital to buy their fees in advance," said Emma reluctantly. "She left herself enough to live on but not enough to pay for extras. We didn't ask," she went on defensively. "It was her idea, but none of us knew she was going to be struck down like this. And it's not as if there was any point keeping anything for you. As far as the rest of us were aware, you were never going to speak to us again."

"That's right," he agreed coolly. "I'm only speaking to you now because Julia was so damn sure I wouldn't."

Emma sighed. "Is that the only reason you phoned?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you. Why can't you just say sorry and let bygones be bygones?''

"Because I've nothing to be sorry for. It's not my fault Dad died, whatever you and Ma like to think."

"That's not what she was angry about. She was angry about the way you treated Julia."

"It was none of her business."

"Julia was her daughter-in-law. She was very fond of her. So was I."

"You weren't married to her."

"That's cheap, Michael."

"Yes, well, I can't accuse you of that, can I? Not when you and Hugh have scooped the pot," said Deacon sarcastically. "I've never taken a cent from Ma and don't intend to start now, so if she wants to see me, it'll have to be on my terms because I don't owe her a damn thing, never mind how many bloody legs she's about to lose."

"I can't believe you said that," snapped his sister. "Aren't you at all upset that she's ill?"

If he was, he wasn't going to admit it. "My terms, Emma, or not at all. Have you a pen? This is my telephone number at home." He gave it to her. "I presume you'll be at the farm for Christmas, so I suggest you talk this over with Ma and ring me with your verdict. And don't forget I promised to deck Hugh the next time I saw him, so take that into account before you reach a decision."

"You can't hit Hugh," she said indignantly. "He's fifty-three."

Deacon bared his teeth at the receiver. "Good, then one punch should do it easily."

There was another silence. "Actually, he's been wanting to apologize for ages," she said weakly. "He didn't really mean what he said. It just sort of came out in the heat of the moment. He regretted it afterwards."

"Poor old Hugh. It's going to be doubly painful then when I break his nose."

Terry appeared from the warehouse with two filthy suitcases, which he parked on the backseat. He offered the explanation that, as the warehouse was full of fucking thieves, he was safeguarding his possessions by bringing them with him. Deacon thought it looked more like wholesale removal to what promised to be luxury living.

"Doesn't the endless 'fucking' get a little boring after a while?'' he murmured as he drew away from the curb.

They ate their takeaway, perched on the hood of Deacon's car. They were in danger of freezing to death in the night air, but he preferred that to having his upholstery splattered with red tandoori chicken dye. Terry wanted to know why they hadn't eaten in the restaurant.

"I didn't think we'd ever get served," said Deacon rather grimly, "not after you called them wogs."

Terry grinned. "What d'you call them, then?"

"People."

They sat in silence for a while, gazing down the street ahead of them. Fortunately it was well nigh deserted, so they attracted little curiosity. Deacon wondered who would have been the more embarrassed, himself or Terry, had some acquaintance passed by and seen them.

"So what are we going to do next?" asked Terry, cramming a last onion bhaji into his mouth. "Go down the pub? Visit a club maybe? Get stoned?"

Deacon, who had been looking forward to putting his feet up in front of the fire and dozing through whatever film was on the television, groaned quietly to himself. Pubbing, clubbing, or getting stoned? He felt old and decrepit beside the hyperactivity of movement-fidgeting, scratching, position changing-that had been going on beside him for over an hour now. This, in turn, meant that his mind toiled with the threat of fleas, lice, and bedbugs, and the problem of how to get Terry into a bath and every stitch of his clothing into the washing machine without having his motives misconstrued.

One thing was certain. He had no intention of giving house room to Terry's wildlife.

The row between Emma and Hugh Tremayne had reached stentorian proportions and, as usual, Hugh had resorted to the whiskey bottle. "Have you any idea what it's like to be the only man in a houseful of domineering women?" he demanded. "Don't you think I've been tempted to do what Michael did and walk out? Nag, nag, nag. That's the only thing you and your mother have any talent for, isn't it?"

"I'm not the one who called Michael a sack of worthless shit," said Emma furiously. "That was your wonderful idea, although what made you think you could order him out of his own house I can't imagine. The only reason you're in our family is because you married me."

"You're right," he said abruptly, replenishing his glass. "And what the hell am I still doing here? I sometimes think the only member of your family I've ever really liked was your brother. He's certainly the least critical."

"Don't be so childish," she snapped.

He stared at her moodily over the rim of his glass. "I never liked Julia-she was a frigid bitch-and I certainly didn't blame Michael for taking up with Clara. Yet I let myself get dragged into defending you and your mother when I should have told Michael to go ahead and smash the house up with you and Penelope in it. As far as I'm concerned, he was well within his rights. You'd been screaming at him like a couple of fishwives for well over an hour before he lost his temper, and you had the damn nerve to accuse his wife of being common as muck." He shook his head and moved towards the door. "I'm not interested anymore. If you want Michael's help, then you'd better persuade your mother to treat him with a little respect."

Emma was close to tears. "If I try, she won't talk to him at all. It's Julia's fault. If she hadn't told him Ma was ill, he'd probably have rung anyway."

"You're running out of people to blame."

"Yes, but what are we going to do?" she wailed. "She's got to sell the farm."

"It's your blasted family," he growled, "so you sort it out. You know damn well I never wanted your mother's money. It was obvious she'd use it as a stick to beat us with." He slammed the door behind him. "And I'm not going to the farm for Christmas," he yelled from the hall. "I've done it for sixteen bloody years, and it's been sixteen years of undiluted misery."

"This is how we're going to play it," said Deacon, pausing outside the door to his flat after carrying a suitcase up three flights of stairs. "You're going to remove everything washable from these cases out here on the landing. We will then put it into black trash bags which I will empty into the washing machine while you're having your bath. You will leave what you're wearing outside the bathroom door, and when you're locked inside, I will take your clothes away and replace them with some of my own. Are we agreed?''

In the half-light of the landing, Terry looked a great deal older than fourteen. "You sound like you're scared of me," he remarked curiously. "What did that old bugger Lawrence really say?"

"He told me how unhygienic you were likely to be."

"Oh, right." Terry looked amused. "You sure he didn't tell you about the rape scam?"

"That, too," said Deacon.

"It always works, you know. I met a guy once who scored five hundred off of it. Some old geezer took him in out of the goodness of his heart, and the next thing he knew this kid was screaming rape all over the place." He smiled in a friendly way. "I'll bet Lawrence tore strips off you for inviting me back here-he's sharp as a tack, that one-but he's wrong if he thinks I'd turn on you. Billy taught me this saying: Never bite the hand that feeds you. So you've got nothing to worry about, okay? You're safe with me."

Deacon opened the front door and reached inside for the light switch. "That's good news, Terry. It lets us both off the hook."

"Oh, yeah? You had something planned just in case, did you?''

"It's called revenge."

Terry's smile broadened into a grin. "You can't take revenge on an underage kid. The cops'd crucify you."

Deacon smiled back, but rather unpleasantly. "What makes you think you'd still be a kid when it's done, or that I'm the one who'd do it? Here's another saying Billy should have taught you: Revenge is a dish best eaten cold." His voice dropped abruptly to sound like sifted gravel. "You'll have a second or two to remember it when a psycho like Denning does to you what was done to Walter this afternoon. And, if you're lucky, you'll live to regret it."

"Yeah, well, it's not going to happen, is it?" muttered Terry, somewhat alarmed by Deacon's tone. "Like I said, you're safe with me."

Terry was deeply critical of Deacon's flat. He didn't like the way the front door opened into the sitting room-"Jesus, it means you've got to be well tidy all the time"-nor the narrow corridor that led off it to the bathroom and the two bedrooms-"It'd be bigger without these stupid walls all over the place''-only the kitchen passed muster because it was attached to the sitting room-"I guess that's pretty handy for TV dinners." Once all his underlying odors had been effectively soaked away, he prowled around it in a pair of oversized jeans and a sweater, shaking his head over the blandness of it all. He reeked strongly of Jazz aftershave ("nicked from a chemist," he said proudly) which Deacon had to admit introduced an exotic quality into the atmosphere that hadn't been there before.

The final verdict was damning. "You're not a boring bloke, Mike, so how come you live in such a boring place?''

"What's boring about it?" Deacon was using a long-handled wooden spoon to poke Terry's patchwork quilt with infinite care into the washing machine. He kept his eyes peeled for anything that looked like hopping, although as his only plan was to try and whack the offending parasites with the head of the spoon, it was fortunate they never emerged.

Terry waved an arm in a wide encompassing circle."The only room that's even halfway reasonable's your bedroom, and that's only because there's a stereo and a load of books in there. You ought to have more bits and pieces at your age. I reckon I've got more fucking stuff-sorry-and I ain't been knocking around half as long as you."

Deacon produced his cigarettes and handed one to the boy. "Then don't get married. This is what two divorces can do to you."

"Billy always said women were dangerous."

"Was he married?"

"Probably. He never talked about it, though." He pulled open the kitchen cupboard doors. "Is there anything to drink in this place?"

"There's some beer in the fridge and some wine in a rack by the far wall."

"Can I have a beer?''

Deacon took two cans from the fridge and tossed one across. "There are glasses in the cupboard to your right."

Terry preferred to drink from the can. He said it was more American.

"Do you know much about America?" Deacon asked him.

"Only what Billy told me."

Deacon pulled out a kitchen chair and straddled it. "What did Billy say about it?"

"He didn't rate it much. Reckoned it'd been corrupted by money. He liked Europe better. He were always talking about Commies-said they took after Jesus."

The phone rang but as neither of them answered it, the tape went into action. "Michael, it's Hugh," said his brother-in-law's tipsy voice over the amplifier."I'll be in the Red Lion in Deanery Street tomorrow at lunchtime. I'm not going to apologize now because it's only fair you break my nose first. I'll apologize afterwards. Hope that's okay."

Terry frowned. "What was that about?''

"Revenge," said Deacon. "I told you, it's a dish best eaten cold."