London and the South-East

23

IN A LONG series of hallucinations on the edge of sleep, he has lived through it many times. Has seen Martin and Andy meet in the green-striped interior of the Regency Tavern … Strawberries, flight bags … Light bulbs in the form of candle flames, orange and flickering … Each time, though, something essential seemed to be missing; whenever his puzzled head poked for a moment into the oxygen of wakefulness he wondered, in particular, whether the upshot was success or failure. Once, he threw off the sweaty duvet and left the house — was walking through streets, making for somewhere with an overwhelming sense of purpose … Once, more prosaically, he was in the kitchen, preparing his porridge. Often he experienced the moment when his mobile — unusually stationed upstairs — would startle him. Whenever this happened, he never managed to find it in time. It seemed to be hidden under mountains of stuff, or lost in a room at the far end of the house. He staggered down passageways pointing to infinity. And always with the panicky sense that the phone’s next iteration would be its last.

When finally it does start to vibrate and twitter, his searching hand thrashes on the side table like a little bull in a china shop, and his sticky mouth struggles to form the word hello.

‘Urluh,’ he says. A sort of tinnitus is howling in his head. ‘Ndy?’

‘It’s Roy Watt here.’

‘Oh.’ Paul sighs, and lying on his back says, ‘All right?’

‘What’s happening?’ Watt says urgently. They spoke yesterday evening, when Paul told him that the meeting with Martin had been set up.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did he see him?’

‘He’s seeing him now.’ Paul shuts his eyes. The TV is muttering under the floor. ‘What time is it?’

‘Six.’

‘I should be hearing from him soon.’

‘Can’t you call him?’

‘Not really.’

‘Why not?’

‘What if he’s still with Martin? He’ll call me as soon as he’s done.’

‘And you’ll call me.’

‘Yeah.’

‘As soon as you hear from him.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ll be waiting for your call.’

‘Okay.’

Paul drops the phone and turns away from the window. A wave of sweat shimmers over his whole skin. He farts. Then the phone starts again. It is Andy.

‘Mate?’ Andy says.

‘Yeah.’ Paul opens his eyes and sits up painfully. ‘What happened?’

‘Look, I’m sorry about this, mate.’ Andy sounds nervous.

‘Sorry about what? What happened?’

‘Look.’ There is a long silence. ‘I.’

‘You what? What happened?’

At first Andy tries to hide the fact that he is laughing — he hawks ostentatiously and holds the phone away from his face. Paul listens without emotion. ‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Andy says when he is able to speak again. ‘I was just … Everything’s fine.’

‘Everything’s fine?’

‘Yah.’

Surprised at his own lack of surprise, Paul leans over to the pack of Marlboro Lights on Heather’s side of the bed. Extending his fingers like Adam on the Sistine ceiling, he is just able to pick it up. He lights one, holding the phone to his ear with a round shoulder while Andy talks excitedly. When he has finished, Paul tells him to wait in the Regency Tavern. Then he phones Watt and passes on the news. Then he stands up — still smudged with exhaustion — and tugs on his clothes. He is working later; his first shift since Friday.

Descending the stairs, quivering slightly, he is surprised to hear strange voices in the lounge. A young man in a suit steps into the hall. ‘All right?’ he says.

‘All right …’

‘Your wife let us in.’

‘Did she?’

The young man offers no explanation for his presence; Paul presumes that he is an estate agent, one of Norris Jones’s people. Presently, he is followed out of the lounge by some other people, a man and a woman. They nod timidly in Paul’s direction, and are ushered into the kitchen. Heather is in there — Paul hears the woman say, ‘Sorry about this,’ and Heather says, ‘That’s all right.’

‘Lovely garden.’ The estate agent.

‘Um, when’s it available?’ the man says, a few moments later. The agent asks Heather when she is moving out, and she says, ‘A month. Just under.’

‘There you go.’

In the hall, overhearing this, with the agent’s sharp sandalwood scent in his nostrils, Paul puts on his jacket. Without looking at him, the viewing party leave the kitchen and start up the stairs to inspect the bedrooms. Several times, he has been woken in the middle of the afternoon by a knot of such people whispering in the doorway.

Andy seems disappointed that Paul is not up for some sort of impromptu stag weekend. He offers to fund it himself with the two hundred pounds that he has paid him. Paul, however, sticks to a single half of lager — he did not even want that, and only agreed to it because Andy looked so spaniel-like and sad. Then he tells him not to be a stranger, and leaves him in the Regency Tavern, remembering on the bus back to Hove that he is still wearing his suit and shoes. He sends him a text message saying that he will pick them up next time he is in London. Then he dumps the flight bag in Lennox Road, puts on his uniform, and hurries to work. In the morning, he is supposed to leave the flight bag in a left-luggage locker at the station. Watt says he will transfer the money when he has seen the tape; first however, exhausted though he is, Paul wants to watch it himself. So with a microwaved shepherd’s pie, still in his uniform, he sits down on the sofa in front of the TV.

For a while the screen fizzes, then suddenly a picture appears. The first thing he notices is that the lens is not perfectly aligned with the spyhole — a wide band on the left of the screen is just black. The rest of the image shows the surface of the table and Martin’s suited torso, his shirt front and tie; the lower part of his face — and only the lower part — makes occasional appearances. This worries Paul until he sees the moment — some way in — when Martin lowers his whole face into the picture to sniff the punnet of fruit in front of him, thus providing an undeniable positive ID.

The film opens with Andy saying, ‘… at the fruit.’ He has obviously just taken it out and he hands the punnet to Martin. Martin examines it — he seems to eat one or two berries. Then he says, ‘So you use polytunnels, yeah?’ The voices are slightly muffled.

‘Yeah,’ Andy says.

Martin asks some more questions — in answer to which Andy says that the strawberries, Elsantas, will be supplied in 227-gram punnets; that he has a tonne of fruit in total; and that an arranged sale has unfortunately fallen through. It is at the end of this exchange that Martin’s face makes its short appearance on-screen. There is something almost lewd about the expert way in which he sniffs the berries — perhaps it is his fluttering eyes, his slight smile. Then he says, ‘Well.’

‘So,’ Andy says, ‘would you be interested?’

Martin laughs in a way that suggests he thinks his interlocutor is something of an idiot. This is not surprising. From the start, ‘Andrew Smith’ has presented an image of extraordinary innocence and simple-mindedness. Which is perfect, of course — he seems exactly the sort of person who would find themselves forced to offload a tonne of fruit for a painfully low price. And it is only now that Paul sees quite how perfect Andy was for the job. He told him to try not to sound too posh; he does not seem to be trying, and in fact his plummy voice is only enhancing the overall effect. He sounds soft, privileged, unschooled in the painful knocks and upsets of economic self-propulsion. ‘Would I be interested?’ Martin muses. ‘That rather depends, doesn’t it?’

And a few seconds later Andy says, ‘What does it depend on?’

With a forkful of shepherd’s pie poised to enter his mouth, Paul smiles. ‘What do you think?’ Martin says.

‘Money?’ Andy, after a long pause.

‘Got it in one.’

‘All right. So … Um …’

‘How much?’

‘I was thinking …’ Andy says. ‘Two hundred pence a kilo?’

The price is obviously lower than Martin had expected. Suspiciously low. The situation is suddenly tense. Perhaps sensing this, Andy says, ‘I really need to offload this fruit.’ And for the first time he sounds not foolish but insincere.

‘There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?’ Martin says.

Ignoring the steaming strata of mash and mince on his knees, Paul stares transfixed at the screen. The players have left the script. Nevertheless, what Andy should do — what Paul himself would do, what any salesman would do — is obvious. For a long time Andy says nothing. Judging from the quantity of smoke pouring into the image, he is puffing furiously on a Marlboro Light. Martin makes a dry, disapproving sound.

‘Like what?’ Andy says finally.

Paul laughs out loud. It is not at all what he had in mind; it is impossible to imagine a more fumblingly idiotic line. And yet it is thus a masterstroke — instantly quashing Martin’s suspicion that Andy might be something other than a total imbecile.

‘You tell me,’ Martin says.

‘The thing is,’ Andy says quietly, ‘we’re not … um.’ He seems to be struggling. ‘Oh what is it?’ he wonders aloud.

‘I don’t know,’ Martin says. ‘What?’

‘BNC audited?’

‘Do you mean BRC audited?’

‘Um. Yeah.’

‘Right. Anything else?’

After a minute Andy says, ‘You know the Assured Production Scheme …’

‘You’re not part of it.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Um.’ A pause. ‘We’re just not.’

‘What do you mean, you’re just not?’ Martin says, very suspiciously.

There is a long silence.

Then Andy says, ‘Some of our pickers haven’t got their work visas yet.’ Watching the scene on television, Paul is sure that this is an attempt to move on to a new subject, not an answer to Martin’s question; Martin, however, seems willing to take it as one. He laughs. ‘Well, no wonder you’re not in the scheme,’ he says.

‘No, we’re not.’

‘So you’re not BRC audited,’ Martin says. ‘You’re not in the APS …’ He is marking the points off on his long fingers. ‘And you’re using illegal immigrants to pick your fruit.’

‘Yah,’ Andy says, hesitantly. And then — ‘Would that be a problem?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Um. Would it be a problem in principle?’

First, Martin simply restates the question. ‘Would it be problem in principle,’ he says. And he sighs. Then he inspects the fruit. This time, though, instead of lowering his face, he lifts the punnet. ‘These are nice fruit,’ he says eventually, having eaten several berries.

‘Yeah, they are,’ Andy eagerly agrees.

‘How much did you say you had?’

‘Um, a tonne. Yah.’

‘And you want two hundred pence a kilo?’

‘Two hundred pence …’

‘So two thousand pounds the tonne.’

‘Um …’

Twice, Martin thrums his fingers on the trompe l’oeil malachite of the tabletop. Though his face is out of shot, the fingers are eloquently expressive of tense vacillation. Then he says, ‘Fifteen hundred.’

Andy sighs stagily. There is the sound of a lighter being lit, and waves of fine blue smoke fall into the picture. ‘What about —’

Martin interrupts him. ‘Take it or leave it. It’s up to you.’

The pause that Andy inserts here is immense. ‘Okay,’ he says finally.

Suddenly, though, Martin seems wary. ‘Have you got a card or something?’

‘A card? Sure.’ Andy hands over one of Watt’s cards. Martin looks at it. Then he says, ‘All right. When can you deliver?’

‘Whenever,’ Andy says. ‘Immediately.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Um. Tomorrow morning?’

Martin laughs. ‘If that’s what you call immediately,’ he says. ‘All right. Deliver tomorrow morning. You know where we are.’

‘Yah.’

‘Fine.’ He slaps his knees and stands up. ‘Well. A pleasure doing business with you, Andrew.’

‘And you.’

‘Not too much of a pleasure, I hope! No, I’m joking. I hope I’ve been able to help you out.’

‘You have.’

A few more pleasantries are exchanged, and then Martin leaves. Andy stands up and walks through the picture to the bar. Only when he returns with a pint does he remember to stop the DVR, and the screen is suddenly void.

Paul watches it once more while he finishes his shepherd’s pie. He wonders whether Martin has since made enquiries about Morlam Garden Fruits — whether he has tried the mobile number on the card, and heard the automated female voice saying that it is not in use; whether he has tried the landline and found it to be a private home in Hastings; whether he has asked directory enquiries for Morlam Garden Fruits, and been told that they have nothing under that name — not in Kent, nor anywhere else in the UK.

He takes a bus to Brighton station and leaves the flight bag in a locker there. With sunlight filtering through the glass roof, he texts Watt to tell him which one. Then he walks down Queen’s Road. He feels unexpectedly melancholy. A sort of emptiness. And it is perhaps for this reason that he spurns the shops of Western Road and walks all the way down to the sea. Success — if this is what it is — seems as sad as failure. Sadder, in a way — without the psychological detritus to moon over, there is only a sad, immaculate sense of transience. He passes the conservatoried entrances of the Grand Hotel and the Hilton Metropole; wind-tousled doormen wait on the steps, and in the still air of glassy restaurants women in white blouses set the tables for lunch. On the other side of the road, the sea and the sky are formed from the same palette of cool blues and greys. What troubles him most, as he walks, is the fact that the fear is still there — fear of the future, fear of loneliness. For a week, he had lost sight of it. So much had happened — he had spoken to Andy on Thursday; on Saturday he had met Watt in Eastbourne; he had spent Saturday night experimenting with the equipment; on Monday morning — it seems a month ago — Andy had turned up. Then the events of the past forty-eight hours … The sea thuds lazily on the tiered pebbles to his left. And now this tiredness, this sense of time passing, this strange mourning sadness, this fear.

He sees Watt on the shop floor two mornings later. Their eyes meet for a moment. They never speak again. Of course he hears from Gerald, holding forth in the night-time smoking room, his version of events. (This is a few days further on.) Gerald says that the fresh-produce manager was called to HQ in London, that he went there expecting to be told that he would be succeeding Macfarlane, and was told instead that there was evidence he was using unlisted suppliers. He was, Gerald said — and even he seemed slightly sceptical — shown a video of himself doing so, and sacked. Freckled Hazel Ledbetter was made fresh-produce manager in his place …

From the night-shift, it seems like thunder over the horizon, someone else’s storm. Paul inspects Heather’s face for signs of it. He sees none. One morning, however, he is watching TV when the doorbell rings. He drops his spliff into the ashtray and stands wearily. Fucking estate agents, he thinks. He inspects himself for a moment in the hall mirror. Then he opens the door.

‘Martin …’

Martin does not look well. He looks like he has had a sleepless night — perhaps more than one. His face is bloodless — all the blood seems to have found its way into his grey-blue eyes. Smiling mildly, with mild perplexity, Paul says, ‘What …?’

‘I know it was you,’ Martin says.

‘What was?’

‘You know what.’

Paul shakes his head innocently. ‘What?’

‘Andrew Smith.’

‘What are you talking about? Who’s Andrew Smith?’

‘You’re just a fucking …’ Martin seems to search for the word. ‘Worm.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Paul says again.

‘An envious little worm.’

‘What?’

‘I know it was you, worm.’

‘Yeah, okay …’ Paul starts to shut the door. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Hazel Ledbetter saw you in the Stadium with Watt.’

‘Who’s Hazel Ledbetter?’

‘I knew I’d seen that bag somewhere,’ Martin says. ‘That bag. You had it with you when I saw you.’

‘What bag? What are you talking about?’

‘How can you deny it?’

‘Deny what?’

‘That you and Watt were in it together!’

‘In what together?’

‘You know what!’ He shoves the door open, forcing Paul two steps into the narrow hall. ‘Don’t come in … Don’t!’ Martin hesitates on the threshold. He is wearing his blue tracksuit. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Paul says. He is surprised himself how wounded he sounds. He is shaking. Staring at him, Martin says, ‘Why are you such a shit?’

Paul notices the cold sore on Martin’s lip, the reddish stubble on his jowls. ‘What?’

‘I said — why are you such a shit?’

Paul sighs, and says, in a sort of whisper, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ and shuts the door. For a moment, Martin’s tall blue shape lingers on the front step. Then he presses the doorbell. Presses it in. Filling the house with furious livid urgent noise.

He is looking for something in Portslade, south Hangleton or Shoreham. One morning, he looks over some properties — the sort of properties where lonely people die alone; one-bedroom flats in Victorian villas honeycombed with loneliness. Even the estate agents do not try too hard to talk up the small rooms they show him, with single electric hobs, and bathrooms housed in plasterboard boxes, over which dusty sleeping spaces wait at the top of ladders. They study the ceiling, the brown carpet, while Paul steps to the window to inspect the view — train tracks, ivy-filled ex-gardens, allotments.

‘Look, Heather …’ he says. He is hesitant, solemn. They are in the kitchen on Lennox Road. ‘Is there any way …’

She waits for him to finish his sentence, and when he does not, she says, ‘Paul …’ Then, failing to finish her own, she sighs.

‘I think,’ he says, ‘I think these things happen to everybody. Don’t they? I know I’ve been selfish. I see that now.’ She is staring past him, into the garden. It is May. ‘I mean … I can forget about what happened with Martin. I understand. I let you down.’

Looking at him — sober, afraid, unshaved, pale — she worries. Worries that if she surrenders — to herself, not to him — they will soon find themselves exactly where they were. Her sadness — which once seized her with something like fear in the clamorous solitude of Martin’s shower — is intensified by her sense of Paul’s fragility; it pained her physically, when she stepped from the vaporous stall and pulled Martin’s unfamiliar towel towards her, to think of him at that moment, on his own, preparing his porridge. Martin was waiting downstairs in a kimono, opening packs of Madagascan crevettes and a bottle of champagne. The more she thinks about Martin, the more he seems to be something unknown, a vague outline only, a worrisome shadow. He wept when she did not see him for a few days, when she punished him for phoning Paul. Since then, she has found a peevish, wheedling, even threatening side to him, a side new to her, which has made her realise how little she knows him; his emails and voice messages — several a day — seem veined with impatience, with irritation, with self-pity. And now, in the last week, with a sort of hysteria. Something seems to have happened to him. He has started to talk of quitting his job, of taking up gardening. He has stopped shaving. And he wants her to move in with him. Whatever happens, she has made up her mind not to do that. Where will she live then? With her parents? Will she sleep in the single bed from which she once set out for school, through grey suburban streets, through swirling orange chestnut leaves? Will she live as she once did, a sort of asylum seeker in her parents’ house? Everything the same as it was then? Thinking of the house in Hounslow, she finds herself thinking of a younger Paul — it was there that she was living when they met; there that she first spoke to him on the phone, taking it into the hall for privacy. Thinking of this younger Paul — this fusion of hope and nostalgia, memory and imagination — has often made her tearful these last few months.

He is waiting for her to speak.

She says, ‘I think I’m going to take the children to London this weekend.’

He nods, very sombrely. ‘Okay,’ he says.

On Sunday night, she returns to Hove with her terms. There are three of them. The first is that he stop drinking. He seems to think about this for a moment. Then he says, ‘All right.’

‘I’m serious,’ she says.

‘I know. So am I. I want to.’

She stares at him with open scepticism. ‘I mean completely.’

‘I understand. I’ll do my best.’

‘No, that’s not good enough,’ she says, shaking her head.

‘I’ll stop drinking, Heather.’ She holds him in her serious gaze. ‘I’ll stop drinking.’

The second is that he get ‘help’.

‘What do you mean “help”?’

‘Help,’ she says. ‘Professional help.’ And then, ‘I don’t know what exactly. There must be something — some sort of help you can get.’

He shrugs.

‘And you know … I thought you wanted to stop taking those pills,’ she says.

‘I do.’

‘Then you’ll need help.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

‘Will you get help?’ she wants to know, still unnervingly serious.

‘Yes,’ he says after a pause, ‘I will.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise.’

The last of her terms is that he find a job in sales. In fact, she says ‘a proper job’. There is, however, only one ‘proper job’ that he is able to do.

The second of these terms fares the worst. He has a short conversation with Dr Marlowe, who prescribes his Felixstat, and who advises him that, while it might be desirable in principle, in practice he should probably not stop taking it. Especially not now. He finds a few phone numbers on the Net, and sets up a single appointment with some sort of mental-health professional, which he postpones twice and then fails to turn up for. This takes a few weeks and by then — perhaps because he is making progress elsewhere — Heather seems willing to let it lie.

The first of her terms, meanwhile, is allowed to morph into something other than its original form. In its new form it stipulates, essentially, that he is not to drink in the house. Once he starts his new job he does drink in London, which must be obvious to Heather — though in those first few weeks he never shows up drunk — and eventually, over several months, this too, like the second of her terms, is quietly phased out.

The last, however, is fulfilled in full.

He quits the night shift, and in the morning phones Neil Mellor. ‘You still looking for someone to sell fruit, Rainey?’ Neil says as soon as Paul has identified himself. ‘No, mate,’ he says. ‘I’m looking for a job.’

Neil laughs loudly. He seems to be showing off to someone. ‘Went that well, did it?’ he shouts.

‘It went all right, actually. It was just a one-off.’

‘And do you really think Lawrence is going to let you work here again?’

‘Lawrence? I thought he’d left.’

‘Yeah, he is leaving,’ Neil admits.

‘And I hear you’re taking over. As sales director.’

‘Do you? Who told you that?’

‘I just heard it.’

‘Well … It’s not official yet.’ Neil is speaking more quietly now. He pauses, and then says, ‘I do have a managerial vacancy as it happens.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Remember Simon Beaumont?’

‘Simon. Of course.’

‘Had a heart attack.’

‘Shit …’

‘He’s still alive. Just can’t work.’

‘Oh. Is he …? What’s he going to do?’

‘Don’t know. This is quite funny actually,’ Neil says, ‘because you know what he was going to be working on?’

‘No.’

‘European fucking Procurement Management.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your mate fucked it up, didn’t he. I heard about that. Delmar Morgan fucked it.’ The name draws from Paul a delicate qualm of depression. ‘They totally fucked it,’ Neil is saying, ‘and the federation sent it straight back to us. We started on the January edition last week.’

‘I thought Simon did the in-flight magazines,’ Paul says.

‘He did. Till the fuckers took them away from us. World Alliance.’

‘They took them away?’

‘They did. So … Up for it? European Procurement Management? Only because I’m desperate, you understand.’

‘Well. Yeah. I need something.’

Neil sighs. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘I’ll have to talk to Yvonne about it. I’ll get back to you.’

‘Yvonne?’

‘Yvonne Jenkin. The MD …’

‘Yeah, I know who she is. Why do you have to talk to her?’

‘You’re quite controversial, mate. She might not appreciate you being rehired.’

‘All right. Well …’

‘I’ll get back to you, yeah.’

‘Thanks, mate.’

Neil does not get back to him that day, or the next, and Paul starts to suspect that Yvonne has vetoed his appointment, and to wish — in view of this — that he had not phoned Neil at all. He went to PLP first, despite what had happened, for the simple reason that it seemed easier to be somewhere he knew, with people he knew, than to start again at an unknown place with strangers. There was, of course, something humiliating about it. It was the idle, the fearful, the easy option, and he almost hopes that it will not work out.

It does work out, though. He phones Neil two days later and is told that he has spoken to Yvonne and that there is a job for him there if he wants it, starting on Monday. ‘Oh, and another thing,’ Neil says, pleased with himself. ‘You can have young Andy back on your team.’

‘Andy?’

‘Yeah. Andy. I hear he’s been doing some freelance stuff for you anyway.’ Neil laughs. ‘See you on Monday, Rainey.’

It is a strange, quiet, somehow melancholy weekend. They spend most of Saturday in the presence of predictably smarmy estate agents. The houses they see are all more or less the same, Hove being a town of a thousand two-storey Victorian terraces. Though Norris Jones has not found new tenants and would have let them stay, they have decided to move — to escape from Martin, who has not taken things very well, and to make a new start themselves.

Emerging, with a dozen others, from the evening suntrap of Portslade station — two open platforms on a line running due west — Paul steps out into Portland Road. Waiting on the traffic island, he wonders whether to pop into the Whistlestop for a quick one. The pub sits at the junction of Portland and Boundary roads, where the former ends, outstaring its wide, low-lying, desolate length — desolate under November rain, of course, but also under the heavy stare of this July sun. At this time of day there is no shade on Portland Road. He decides against the pint. He had a few in the Penderel’s Oak with the others after work, and now, seventy minutes of rammed train later, he has a lurking, indefinite headache; it is hardly perceptible, merely a shimmer of pain as he turns his head to look for further traffic, and seeing none, steps onto the tarmac. His new shoes — bright black Churches — pinch his hot feet, and as he walks he looks forward to easing them off, to peeling off his black undertaker’s socks, and waggling his blind toes in the warm shade of the garden. Summer evenings, the sun is shut out of the garden, the new sun umbrella — cream canvas and solid wood — unnecessary. He knows that Heather drinks coffee under it in the morning, and on Sunday mornings when the weather is fine he reads the papers there. Occasionally he looks up from the acres of text and surveys his square of lawn — pleasingly wider than the narrow space of the Lennox Road house — with its flagstones set into the turf to form a serpentine path (true, only two stubby turns) and a displeased-looking, spiky palm at the end — the sort of palm you see outside hotels and in front gardens all over Hove. The house has a proper front garden, with some tall beige feather-dusters of grasses. The neighbours in the other half of the semi have rose bushes in theirs. The next house along has a monkey-puzzle tree.

He passes the the pink-brick cube of Martello House (‘HM Customs & Excise, VAT Office’) — with few windows, it looks like some sort of prison — and turns into the wide street that is Portland Villas. He wishes it were shadier — that is his only problem with the street on which he now lives. The sun glares off the expanse of tarmac, off the exposed pavements, blindingly off the parked cars. Now, even on the west side of the street there is almost no shade, what little there is falling into the gardens in front of the houses, which are mostly semi-detached, and grouped in stretches of eight or ten to the same pattern.

As he approaches his house, already feeling the jacket on his arm for his keys, he squints warily at the parked cars. After what happened in June, there is, of course, no yellow Saab; he knows, however, that Martin has been around since then — once he saw him (he is pretty sure) in a nondescript grey Ford. He stared at the car for several minutes, until its occupant started the engine and moved off. Even that was a month ago now. The phone calls, the text messages, the emails, the letters (some put through the door in the dead of night) have petered out. Yes, since the police had a word with him — it was traumatic to involve them — things have quietened down. Seeing no sign that the house is under surveillance, Paul opens the freshly painted gate and pulls the keys from the pocket of his tangled jacket. Since then, there have been only two messages. The first, an email full of foul-mouthed abuse, was followed, only a few days later, by an invitation to a barbecue — a photocopied invitation with Hope you can make it! added in a flourish of blue biro. Under the circumstances, this invitation was far more disturbing, seemed far more insane, than the abusive email that immediately preceded it. Yes, there had been something terrifying about that barbecue invite. On meat-red paper, there was a cartoon — so crudely drawn it seemed to have been done with a marker pen — of some meat sizzling over coals, and a knife and a long barbecue fork … Portland Villas throbs with the dusky peace of wood pigeons. The moon floats up pale and ethereal in the sky. Tired, Paul half turns for a last sweep of the quiet street, then unlocks the door — it has panes of glass frosted to look like silk — and enters his house.