LITMIR.BIZ

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because home, as he had known it, no longer existed.

      He regained control and wiped his face, dampening the corner of his handkerchief with spit just as his mother had done when he was a little boy, hoping that evidence of his weakness would not be apparent to anyone when he got home. It was late, and he made his way carefully, keeping to the warren of alleyways before going in through the back gate of Mrs Ryan’s house.

      ‘Where on earth have you been, love?’ His landlady called from the kitchen, opening the back door for him. ‘I left a plate in the oven for you if you want it? You must be starving. Spam fritters and spuds.’

      ‘Long story.’ He propped the useless bicycle up against the wall and left his boots outside by the door. He rested his forehead on the cold bricks of the outside wall until he felt composed, then went in.

      The meal was coming to an end, Arthur and Derek sitting there with plates that were empty but for the grease stains. Arthur was caught up in the full flow of conversation and Lawrie was grateful to slink past them all without attracting any attention. He hung his coat up in the hall and took his time about returning to the warm kitchen.

      ‘I tell you quite honestly, Mrs Ryan,’ Arthur was saying as he entered, ‘I ain’t never been so insulted. Not in all my life.’

      Arthur shook his head vigorously to emphasise his point. Usually Lawrie would be fighting back a smile, since Arthur took offence to something or someone at least once a week; twice last Tuesday alone. God only knew why the man had bothered to leave Trinidad when he seemed so miserable in London. Lack of funds seemed to be the only reason he was still here. In his forties, Arthur never spoke about his long dead wife, and Lawrie only knew of her existence through Mrs Ryan: landlady, matriarch and confidante – as long as you didn’t mind your secrets being shared within the boundary of her four walls.

      ‘So what did you say to him?’ Mrs Ryan asked, as she placed the teapot in the centre of the solid wood table that dominated her kitchen. She smiled at Lawrie, nodding to the cooker. ‘Sit down, love.’

      ‘What did I say?’ Arthur continued. ‘I say nothing. What else can I say? That man knows he can say whatever he likes to me. I say just one single word back to him, I’m out the door ’fore I can get my coat and hat on. He talks to me like I’m an imbecile ’cause he knows I just got to stand there and take it.’

      ‘What happen now?’ Lawrie asked Arthur, pouring himself some tea and cupping his hands around the mug.

      ‘My father would have beat me half to death, I even dared to think what this fella say to me.’ Arthur got into his stride. ‘I mean, is this what they teach children in this country? To give cheek to their elders ’stead of respect?’

      ‘Not in my day,’ Mrs Ryan agreed, placing a warm plate in front of Lawrie.

      ‘You should offer to kick the shit out of him,’ Derek advised, fitting a filter-less cigarette into his mouth. ‘I’ll give you a hand if you fancy teaching anyone a lesson.’

      ‘Derek!’ His mother nodded towards the large crucifix that watched over them from the wall opposite, brought over on the boat from Cork not quite twenty years before, though they all went to the local C of E these days.

      ‘Self-employed’ was how Derek described himself. A businessman. He ran a stall on Brixton Market and at least half his income was legit. A spiv, Evie called him, and Lawrie could see that he looked the part. His luxuriant moustache was as styled as his hair, worn parted on the side and greased down. He wore more cologne than was welcome; it made Lawrie’s nostril hairs twitch.

      Don’t trust him, Evie had warned Lawrie. He’ll say he’s doing you a favour but he’ll ask for double in return.

      He wasn’t so bad, Lawrie had decided, and there had been benefits to living with a petty criminal. Derek was generous enough to share his ill-gotten gains. A whole extra block of cheese last week, a pound of bacon the week before. Arthur and Lawrie usually went halves on their monthly bottle of rum, which Derek gave them a good price on. They were still one of the few houses on the street to have a telephone installed, a lifesaver for Lawrie. A last-minute booking could only be accepted if the club could actually get hold of you. And, of course, running deliveries for Derek was adding to Lawrie’s savings. He had almost enough saved up for a small wedding and a honeymoon – Mrs Ryan had reckoned on him needing seventy pounds plus a bit extra for spends. Except that because of Derek, Lawrie had been on Clapham Common at the worst time possible and he couldn’t marry Evie if he was sent to gaol. Or the gallows.

      The fritters had gone hard in the heat of the oven, their undersides wet with grease that turned Lawrie’s stomach. He tried to force down some of the mashed potato instead, washing it down with hot tea.

      ‘Well, I heard something scandalous,’ Mrs Ryan announced. ‘I was at the butcher’s earlier, trying to get a bit of beef so we can have a decent roast this Sunday. But no, they’d run out they told me. I tell you, I swear they keep back the good stuff. He’s a mason, Fred Yorke, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if the best cuts go to his little friends from down the lodge. Them and their funny handshakes…’

      ‘I tried to join once,’ Derek reminded her. ‘Bastards blackballed me. Can you believe the cheek of it?’

      Lawrie could well believe it but he kept his mouth shut.

      ‘While I was queuing, there were two women in front of me. Talking about a body being found up on Clapham Common. In one of the ponds. A child! And one of them had the ridiculous notion that it might have been there since the war. Kept hidden by the weeds. You do hear of it, people clearing away the rubble and finding people buried beneath, but not a child. The parents would have been going wild! Though the woman was ever so snooty with me when I pointed that out to her.’

      ‘It wasn’t a child. It was a baby.’ Lawrie’s voice sounded strange in his own ears, as though someone else was speaking through him.

      ‘A baby? You heard about it on your rounds then?’

      ‘No.’ He tried to smile, wanting to reassure her, but his lips trembled and he pressed them together until they stilled. They’d find out soon enough. Better it came from him. ‘I found it. I found the baby. In the pond.’

      Mrs Ryan stared at him oddly, as if she was struggling to comprehend his words. ‘Dear God.’ She looked to the crucifix and crossed herself. ‘Lawrie, you poor love! So is that why you’re so late home?’

      ‘I had to give a statement to the police and you know what they’re like.’ He tried once more to smile, still not entirely successfully. ‘I was just glad to get out of there in time. I need to be in Soho for eight o’clock.’

      ‘What? No, you can’t, Lawrie. You’ve had a terrible shock and you’ve not slept since yesterday. You can’t possibly go and play tonight. Your mother would never forgive me for letting you out in this state.’

      Mrs Ryan was a similar age to his mother and they shared several things in common: both widows, regular churchgoers, recovering slowly from a war that had left their families irreparably damaged. They exchanged letters frequently, a few thousand miles of ocean unable to prevent them from finding a sympathetic friend in one another.

      ‘I have to. Johnny’s expecting me. I’ll see Evie and then head out. I should be home by midnight so it’s not all bad.’ And then up at half four again to serve the Post Office. ‘Besides, it’s better to keep busy. Stop me thinking about it.’

      ‘I don’t know how you do it, I really don’t.’ Mrs Ryan shook her head. ‘Well, at least clear your plate first. A good meal’ll sort you out. Gosh, what a shock! You just never know what each day will throw at you.’

      With that he had to agree. The only thing he did know for certain was that playing his clarinet, immersing himself in music for a few hours, would take his mind away from the day’s events. He just couldn’t dispel the prodding fear that he was going to be facing DS Rathbone again. This wasn’t the sort of thing that went away with only slashed

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