Chapter Nine #2
casually shoved into the back pocket of his jeans, in that other
world, where money, from its very superabundance, had ceased to
matter. Alison said, “That lady who paid you is Mrs. Jacobs. They
run the whole concern, and they take everything very personally.
This better not be some kind of weird con, Mr. Fitzroy.”
Laurie
thought about it. He supposed he could, at a far stretch of
imagination, go and trot out his talents at the next venue, squeeze
advance wages from them too, and move on. God, it would be easier
just to mug someone. He smiled. “No. And call me Laurie,
please.”
“Laurie.” Laurie watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her
ear and blush. What had he done to bring that on? He had kept his
sternest mask in place till now, he supposed, a shield for fear and
disappointment. He could feel his own smile melting the ice.
“Well,” the girl continued, helplessly smiling back at him. “You
have to understand this is temporary. Mr. Jacobs runs everything
aboveboard, so…”
“I understand.” It had been a relief to Laurie to be able to
hand over his Equity card, his one solid credential. He’d had it
for years, although he’d never got as far as using it. The one
problem he’d never had till now was paying membership fees. “Just
for a couple of weeks, till I get myself turned around. I really
appreciate it.”
“Okay. We’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow. And…we really do
need an address.”
“I know.” Laurie straightened his shoulders. “I’m going to get
one now.”
* *
*
And
Laurie found his first accommodation as easily as his first job,
and by much the same technique. It took much less time, which was
just as well. The adrenaline wave he had unconsciously been riding
since his audition was losing momentum, and whatever Mama Luna had
used to ease out the pain from his ribs was wearing off. He stared
at the unpromising Victorian terrace for a long time before
crossing the road to keep his appointment with the landlord, whose
name and number he’d selected more or less at random from a board
in the café. There was a small and dingy park, whose bench was
apparently some kind of pickup point. Laurie had to fend off two
leering hopefuls before he could gather the courage and energy to
go on.
After
all, what the hell was he doing? He looked around the two-room flat
in a daze, responding automatically as the landlord pointed out its
dubious assets. Convenient for bus and Tube. At the back of the
block, so shielded from road noise. Laurie smiled as an eastbound
passenger train shot by with a shriek on the tail of this
assertion, followed by a commercial one in the opposite direction.
External charms were as good as it got. Otherwise, a grim, unloved
little space with peeling fifties wallpaper and nonvintage
furniture of the same era, saved from being a studio only by the
afterthought bedroom wedged in at the back. The kitchen was a
two-ring gas hob, bathroom facilities shared down the
hall.
And this
was where he proposed to live. If asked, Laurie would have said he
did not depend upon the luxurious surroundings in which he had been
brought up. His university digs were simple enough and smaller than
this.
They
were also clean, serviced once a day by college staff, and
surrounded by the sounds of bustling student life. This was a
real-world dwelling place, where people who worked for a living
laid their heads at night. This was the choiceless bare
minimum.
No.
Staring at a patch of sunlight on threadbare carpet, Laurie drew a
breath. He was tired, that was all. A blanket on the steps of the
Hungerford Bridge was the bare bloody minimum, and Sasha had
survived that. This flat, bleak though it was, met all basic human
requirements. It was on the third floor and had a view of wintry
trees across the railway line and telephone wires where starlings
were gathering in the fading light. He told the landlord he would
take it.
The
landlord asked for references, two months down and a month’s
security. Laurie offered two weeks, and such character as could be
gleaned from his face and the clothes he stood up in. This time,
walking down the stairs after the outraged refusal, Laurie was not
at all sure what had brought the landlord running after him. He was
clean, he supposed, and not on welfare, and the rent he was
prepared to offer was in cash. He handed over all but twenty quid
of his advance from the theatre and found himself abandoned on the
first-floor landing with a set of keys in his hand.
He made
his way slowly back to the top floor and let himself in. Closing
the door behind him, he tried to feel some of the exultation he had
once supposed would come with finding freedom. He leaned his back
on the door. At the moment he was only cold. Well, there was a
lethal-looking barred electric fire on the far wall. That could be
his first domestic triumph. He straightened up, and a strange
metallic thud resounded through the flat, like a fuse-box tripping.
Glancing up, Laurie saw that his power, far from being included in
the rent as he had naively supposed, depended on the meter screwed
over the door. Perhaps the landlord had shoved a pound coin into it
for the purpose of his viewing… Well, whatever, it had run out now,
the meter’s dial flipped to red. He should have asked, shouldn’t
he? Caveat emptor—lesson one. Laurie felt in his pockets, but all
he had left was the twenty-pound note and a handful of silver and
coppers.
He went
and sank down on the sofa, which creaked beneath him and gave off a
sad scent of dust. Laurie put his head into his hands: for this, he
had walked out on his baby sister, whose safety he had sworn
himself to guard? Had he honestly somehow thought he could bring
her here? And that reminded him… He didn’t dare call the house, but
the staff had their own private phones in their quarters. Perhaps
Mrs. Gibson would have cooled off and relented: her number was on
speed dial on his mobile.
Which
had run out of credit. Laurie stared at its blank little digital
screen in disbelief. It didn’t really matter, of course, or never
had done before—all he had to do was walk out of here, find a shop
and top it up with his bank card, which he’d found in the pocket of
his jeans that morning. He seldom checked his account. There was
always a floating couple of hundred quid in there. Sir William
didn’t put him through the humiliation of asking for pocket money;
his allowance, an unspecified but adequate amount, came in by
direct debit.
From the
same hands that had beaten him half to death the night before.
Laurie fished the card out of his pocket, stared at it blankly for
a minute, then snapped it in half. Briefly he considered slitting
his wrists with the pieces. Then he got up and left the flat,
locking up carefully behind him.
At a pay phone across the road, he punched in Gibson’s number
and rested his aching brow on the metal while the line rang and
rang. Christ, she had gone. And no chance that poor little Hannah would have come
back, not after last night’s scene. What the fuck had he done?
Cutting the line, he punched in Charlie’s mobile number and watched
in panic as the voice mail ate forty pence of the fifty he’d put
into the slot. Was that how much it cost from a landline? He’d
never had to count or care. The lessons were coming damn hard and
fast now. Scrabbling in the depths of Sasha’s coat pocket, he found
a twenty-pence piece and shoved that into the phone, mentally
adding it to the long tab he now owed him. He struggled to remember
the number for Charlie’s quarters—he rang the mobile when he wanted
a ride, didn’t he, never thinking about Charlie’s life outside his
chauffeur’s uniform and duties?—and swallowed dryly in relief when
the call was picked up on the second ring. “Charlie? It’s…it’s me,”
he began and then felt so strange to himself that he added
nervously, “Laurie.”
“Oh, thank God. Mrs. G wanted me to start ringing around the
hospitals when you didn’t come home today.”
Laurie
repressed a smile. He was ceasing to be surprised at the sources of
affection and concern in his life. He decided he would not bother
asking if his mother had been worried. “Is she still there, then?
Gibson?”
“You know her. Bark’s worse than her bite. She’s put her notice
in, but…” Charlie paused, and Laurie could almost hear him trying
to think of a tactful way to put it. “She knows the little girl
needs looking after.”
“Yes. Yes, she does. Thanks, Charlie.”
“So do you, son. Where are you? Do you want to be picked
up?”
Laurie
closed his eyes. The wind that had sprung up with the sunset
slipped its chilly fingers through the kiosk’s broken glass,
mitigating briefly its stench of urine. Yes, he thought distinctly.
Yes, come and get me. Lift off from my shoulders this deadweight of
adulthood. I can’t survive out here—take me back to my cage. He
heard, with weary surprise, his own weary voice declare, “No. I’m
okay, thanks. I’m staying with friends for a few days, keep out of
his way.”
“Not a bad idea. He’s away, actually, until the middle of next
week, so…” Charlie hesitated, and Laurie listened with a pang of
sympathy to the things he was trying not to say.
So you probably won’t be missed. So you don’t
have to worry about Clara until then. “Are
you sure you’ll be all right? The old bastard made a mess of
you.”
“Yeah. Yeah, fine, Charlie.” Laurie watched the last few
pennies of the last coin count down, felt them draining from him
like blood. He didn’t want him to hear the beeps, to get cut off
midsentence. “Bye,” he said softly and hung up.
Somehow
night had fallen between the start and the end of the call. Laurie
shoved the kiosk door open and half fell out into a street
belonging to the city that had been his home all his life—and which
felt to him entirely alien and hostile now. He saw that the long
terrace facing his, with its array of shabby shops and