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Chapter Twenty-six

At last, after waiting so long, after years of training and knocking around, I was here. I was twenty-one and I was off and out. People come from all over the world to get to London. They escape on rickety boats, hide under trains and inside lorries. Not to get to Europe, not to England, but London, because in London you can either find people like you, whoever you are, whatever you’re like, or you can lose yourself. People arrive at Heathrow airport and rip up their identifying documents so they can’t be sent back. I’d have done that if I’d known how. I’d like to have washed up in London, naked and nameless, so I could have given myself a new name and created a new identity. Instead I got off the train at Euston and started again.

One cold Friday evening, just a few days into the new year, I was sitting in a pub on the basin of the canal at King’s Cross. I was on my third pint of lager and starting to feel woozy. Then I saw my mate Duncan coming towards me with a girl I’d never met before. I saw immediately that she was the kind of girl who made me virtually unable to string together consecutive words. She was tall, with long legs and strong, slender arms, and in spite of the winter weather she was dressed in shorts and a brightly coloured T-shirt. She was tanned and her face was freckled from the wind and sun. Her curly dark hair was tied back off her face. She had very striking dark eyes, which shone with laughter at something Duncan was saying that I couldn’t quite hear. She was carrying a bottle of beer in one hand, a satchel and a riding helmet. They approached the table.

‘This is Astrid Bell,’ said Duncan. He looked at her. ‘This is the guy I was telling you about.’

‘Hi,’ said Astrid. ‘ Duncan says you’re looking for somewhere to live.’

Astrid wasn’t like any of the girls I had met before. She didn’t flirt or flatter people. She wasn’t tremulous, devious or eager to please. She didn’t care if I liked her or not. I don’t mean she was unfriendly; far from it. She just knew who she was and she wasn’t going to try to be anyone else. There was no side to her and no trickery. I could see that she would never pretend to have heard of a band that didn’t exist, or laugh at a joke she didn’t understand, or act coy to get her own way. I could tell that about her even before she sat down at the table opposite me, cupping her chin in her hands and looking at me with her clear, dark eyes. I watched her at the bar as she ordered us drinks, ignoring all the men who were ogling her. And I watched her as she made her way back to me, holding the two glasses carefully so she didn’t slop them, turning her head to grin and say something to a friend who called to her from the cigarette machine. There was a clean-limbed gracefulness about her, in spite of her skimpy cyclist clothes. It seemed to me that she was more clearly outlined than anyone else in the pub, as if she was backlit, or the central focus of a photograph in which all the other characters were marginal and slightly blurred.

‘Cheers,’ she said, taking a sip of her beer and wiping foam from her upper lip. ‘So, you’re looking for somewhere to live.’

‘Yes,’ I managed. ‘The place I’ve been staying in isn’t available any longer. I need to be out of there as soon as possible.’

‘This is a house in Hackney – is Hackney central enough for you? It’s a lovely house, really, a bit run-down maybe, with a big garden. There are six of us at the moment and we’re looking for a seventh.’

‘Is it you who owns it?’

She laughed at that, throwing her head back. I saw her white teeth and the pink inside of her mouth. ‘Do I look like I own a seven-bedroom house? I’m a despatch rider, for God’s sake. All I own is my bike and a few changes of clothes. No, it belongs to Miles. He’s got a real job but you don’t need to be alarmed. He’s cool. Or coolish.’

I tried to think of grown-up questions to ask. ‘How much does it cost?’

‘Fifty a week. Which is nothing. But we share the upkeep, the bills, stuff like that. Even some decorating. Gentlemen’s agreement. Could you hack that?’

‘Sounds good,’ I said. ‘What about things like mealtimes? Do you eat together?’

‘It’s not like the army. There aren’t many rules… Perhaps there ought to be more. But it’s worked so far. And it’s fun. Mainly. Are you interested?’

‘Yeah, definitely.’

‘You’d have to meet everyone, of course. First, though, can I ask you a few questions?’

‘Like what?’ I felt nervous and dry-mouthed, but I tried to appear relaxed, pretending to take a sip of my beer. I didn’t want any more to drink just yet. I needed to be alert, vigilant.

‘What kind of work do you do?’

‘I’ve not been in London that long. I’ve been doing odd bits of -’

Just then her mobile rang. She took it out of her pocket and flicked it open. ‘Hi, Miles.’

She looked at me and smiled. ‘I think I’ve found someone for the room. Yes. I’m with him now in the Rising Sun… That’s the one – down by the canal… He seems all right to me, on the whole.’ She looked at me again. ‘You’re all right, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think so.’

‘Trustworthy?’

‘For what?’

She laughed and resumed talking into the phone. ‘Why don’t you come and meet him?’ She raised her eyebrows questioningly at me, and I nodded vigorously. ‘Ten minutes, then.’ There was a pause and she listened, frowning. ‘Better and better. Bring her along. ’Bye.’

She shut her phone and turned to me. ‘There. The big boss is stopping by. I hope that’s all right with you.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Is someone else coming?’

‘Pippa. She lives in the house. The three of us – Pippa, Miles and I – have been there from the beginning. Everyone else kind of comes and goes, but we endure.’

‘So it’s like an interview?’

‘We’re not very frightening.’

But she was wrong. She didn’t understand how someone like her could make a person feel small and scared.

I knew it was them as soon as they came in. He was tall and rangy, with a closely trimmed beard, more like stubble, and a bald head that shone beneath the lights. He was wearing a suit of soft, dark material that looked expensive, with an overcoat on top, and carried a slim briefcase. He had a firm handshake, but his eyes only met mine for a second before he glanced at Astrid. He kissed her cheek and I saw how his face softened. I stored away the information: he fancied her. It was written all over him. But she didn’t fancy him. I was sure of it.

The woman – Pippa – didn’t bother to shake my hand. Instead she touched my arm with the tips of her fingers and widened her eyes, smiling with perfectly painted pink lips. I could smell her perfume. I’m good at smells. I remember them. My mother smelled of grass. Pippa was as tall as Astrid, maybe taller, but fairer, slimmer, breakable like porcelain. She was wearing a cream suit and high heels. Her long hair was coiled on top of her head and every so often she would touch it delicately, checking it was still in place. She looked so demure, but ‘You must be fucking crazy,’ were her first words.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘To want to live in our madhouse.’

‘Don’t pay any attention to her,’ said Astrid.

I offered to buy them a drink, thinking it would be money spent in a good cause, and as I stood at the bar I cast glances back at them. They leaned towards each other round the table and I heard a burst of laughter. Were they talking about me? Laughing at me?

They asked me questions. I smiled and nodded and told them the things they wanted to hear. Yes, I was pretty easy-going. Yes, I had friends in London. Yes, I could pay the rent each month. No, I didn’t mind clearing up. And no, I had no intention of moving on in a few months’ time.

‘Do you like curry?’ asked Pippa, abruptly.

‘Yes. Love it,’ I replied, though I don’t. Too greasy and salty.