LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘What difference is another week going to make?’ asked Johnston.

      ‘It depends if you want him nicked or not,’ said Richard. ‘He just does whatever I tell him, so it’ll be the same with anybody, won’t it?’

      Traffic was swirling and grinding all around Richard: he was shouting. Johnston, in the quiet of a room in a Brixton back street that called itself an office, lost his temper, and shouted instructions, the most important being that if Ben did insist on coming back, he must not know where he could find either him, Johnston, or Rita. Then he agreed to pay for another week.

      Richard told Ben that they would have another week’s holiday.

      ‘And then are we going home?’ asked Ben.

      ‘What do you want to go back there for? Why do you want to leave all this?’

      For Richard this coast had been a revelation of well-being. He had come from a northern English town, and an ugly background: you could say he had been born a criminal. Like Johnston he had been in borstal, and then in prison. Meeting Johnston was the luckiest thing that ever happened to him. He worshipped Johnston, was eager to do anything for him. He was sent to this coast by Johnston, for not too delicate negotiations about getting a car, a Mercedes, into France, without papers, had succeeded and stayed. The life, particularly the casual comings and goings of the cafés and restaurants, the sunshine, the skies of this coast, bathed him with promises of happiness. He had been living poorly, hardly able to eat, though it was worth it for the sake of living here. And now this little crook, because of Johnston, was going to have a quarter of a million pounds and planned to buy a small house, or a flat, anything, provided he would be here, on the edge of this sea, where the light was.

      And here was Ben, who always had to sit in the shade, and who wanted only to go back to London – but Richard had no idea at all how much.

      During that second week, one night when Ben had been left at the hotel, by Richard, he set off by himself and wandered into the streets, going up the steps, always higher into the town, until he was stopped because there, in a doorway, was a girl and she was smiling at him.

      She established that he was English, and then, using her few words in English to set the price, turned to go into her room. Ben did not have in his pockets what she had asked for; which was much more than Rita demanded. He thought that she would be the same as Rita, and be good to him. In the room, this girl examined Ben: she was enough like Rita to admire those great shoulders, the power of him. She turned away to slip off her skirt, and felt those hands on her shoulders, and that she was being bent forward, and the teeth in her neck. She struggled free, and screamed that he was a cochon, an animal, a pig, a bete, pushed him towards the door and out of it, and told him in French never to come near her again.

      Ben went off down the street back to his hotel thinking that he must find someone like Rita, a kindly female: he was craving the kindness of women.

      Richard told him that they had only three days left, and then Ben would be on his own. He did not like saying this: he did not want to leave Ben alone, and not only because it would mean the end of well-paid good times. He had become fond of this – whatever he was. He knew that Ben would be in trouble soon: he had no idea at all of what was dangerous for him and what was not.

      Now Ben said that he was going back to London. He had worked out that if he had a passport, and some money, all he needed was to tell the girls at the desk to book him a flight: he had watched while other hotel guests had done this.

      He wanted to see Johnston. He had done Johnston a favour. ‘You just do this for me, Ben, that’s right, you’re doing me a bit of a favour. And I’ll be real grateful to you.’ These words had had the same effect on Ben as the old lady’s, ‘You’re a good boy, Ben.’

      Ben felt warmly towards Johnston, imagined how he would be welcomed – but he was hearing Richard say, ‘Ben, you don’t understand, Johnston’s not there now.’

      ‘Why not? Where is he?’

      ‘He’s gone away. He’s not doing the minicabs any more.’

      This would be true very soon, even if not true at this moment. Johnston had said, ‘I don’t want him back here. And I’m not going to be here long anyway. And Rita’s left. Tell him that. Tell him Rita’s gone.’

      Richard told Ben, and saw what he knew was unhappiness, or at least unease.

      A dread was seizing Ben, a cold pain. He had had one refuge, one real friend – Rita. She was gone.

      Then he remembered the old woman. He could go back to her. He had some money now and so he would be welcome, could even give her money to buy food.

      He told Richard he would go to another friend, Mrs Biggs. And he found in his wallet the bit of paper she had given him. ‘See,’ he said. ‘That’s where she lives.’

      ‘If there was a telephone number you could ring her.’

      ‘She has a telephone,’ said Ben. ‘Everyone’s got a telephone.’

      Richard thought hard. If Ben went back to London, to this Mrs Biggs, then that would keep him out of Johnston’s way. He told Ben to stay where he was – as usual at a cafe table – and he went off to ring telephone enquiries. Loving France, or rather, this coast, had made it easy for him to learn some adequate phrases of French, but he did have difficulty, persuading the French directory girl that yes, there was a Mrs Biggs, at this address and she had a telephone. At last he was talking to the English directory enquiries and there he was told there was no Mrs Biggs at this address and therefore no number. Then he asked to be put through to the number at eleven Mimosa House, and was answered by a woman who said that Mrs Biggs no longer lived there. She had died in hospital.

      Richard told Ben that Mrs Biggs was dead, and Ben sat unmoving, silent, staring. He’s upset, Richard knew, and tried to talk him out of it, with suggestions they should have lunch, and then walk along the front.

      Richard did not know that Ben was so unhappy he would not talk, did not want to eat, could only sit there, not moving. It was an unhappiness that would never leave him now.

      He was understanding that nowhere in London, nowhere in his own country, was anyone at all who would smile when they saw him. He was thinking of Mrs Biggs’ room, where he had been happy, looking after her, of Rita, who had been kind, and then of his own home, but as soon as he imagined his mother, he saw, too, that scene where she had sat on the park bench and patted it so that Paul could come and sit by her. Paul, the image of that hated brother, rose up and filled his mind and brought with it thoughts of murder.

      He could not bear to think of his mother.

      Later, he did get up from his chair when Richard said he should, and did walk along the front, but he saw nothing, knew only that his heart was hurting most dreadfully, and that he felt so heavy he wanted to lie down there and then, on the pavement, where people passed and chattered and laughed.

      He said he wanted to lie down.

      Next day, Richard – he had a spare key to Ben’s room – went up and found Ben curled on his bed, eyes open, but not moving.

      Because Ben was in the habit of obeying Richard, he did get up because Richard said he must, and did go out to eat, and walk a little. He did not speak at all, not a word.

      And now Richard was going to abandon Ben: the time had come. He was fussing and exhorting and persuading: ‘You’ll remember how to do this Ben? Just do what we’ve been doing together and you’ll be all right.’

      Ben did not answer.

      On the morning Richard finally took his leave, he spoke to the girl at the desk, saying it was better if Ben had his money only in instalments. ‘In some ways he’s a bit childish,’ said Richard. ‘He hasn’t had much experience of life.’ When he said goodbye to Ben, up in his room, Ben curled on the bed, this rough and even cruel man knew he could easily cry. What did Johnston think he was doing, letting this loon, this simpleton, loose in the world?

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