Sam hit the edge of Hounslow and
accelerated, overtaking the next two cars on the inside.
He had pranged his car a dozen or
more times already but he didn’t care; he was almost there.
Hounslow was a relatively seedy
district close to Heathrow airport, the skies a constant network of
criss-crossing aeroplanes. Sam didn’t like the area; he avoided it.
He turned sharply onto the main shopping
street. A mother and child staggered back at the mouth of a crossing. He didn’t
slow down, ignoring the red light.
In his mind the plan view of the A to
Z map overlaid the three dimensional image of reality. He was visualising the
landmarks he recognised and tallying that in with the location of Jack’s house
so that he could second guess the turnings ahead of time.
It was less than half a mile away
now. Realising that almost made him slow down.
But he didn’t.
He accelerated.
9
Jack pushed his cuff back and looked
at his watch. Time up. His avenging angel wasn’t coming. He couldn’t wait
forever.
The seat belts in the back seat of the
taxi looked like they were going to hold his paintings in place just fine. His
suitcase was wedged in the cavity behind the front passenger seat. It might dig
into his back a little but that was okay; it was only a short journey. He
slammed the back door then motioned for the driver to wind down his window.
“Could you hold on for a second? I just want to say goodbye and check I haven’t
forgotten anything.”
The driver was unshaven. He had so
much gel in his hair it looked out-of-the-shower wet. “It’s your money mate.”
He pointed at the digital meter wired into the dashboard, already totting up
the minutes. “Take as long as you want.”
The front steps of Jack’s building
were wide, spreading out like a pyramid to their base. He jogged up and paused
at the door. There was a nametag for each room in the building in a column of
slots running down the right hand side of the doorframe. Next to each was a
doorbell that didn’t function. Several of the buttons were missing. For a long
time there had been no note to say what his name was in the corresponding slot;
until Lucy had scribbled “JACK” in massive babyish letters on a slip of pink
card and shoved it in. He reached up to slip the card out of its slot. He
touched the edge of it, taking hold in his thumb and first finger, feeling a
quiver of loneliness. He should take this with him to remember her; to remember
the happy times. But he didn’t. He left it for the next tenant to remove and
throw away. Then he headed upstairs.
He went into his old rooms and looked
round at the tatty furniture and seventies décor the next tenant would inherit:
pink flowers as big as a man’s head on the wallpaper blotched with brown swirls
of damp, white blocky furniture units coming apart, drawers with their bottoms
hanging out. This had been his first real place and like no other room he had
lived in, it represented the dreams of making it as an artist that had led him
to drain his account on day-to-day living while he concentrated on his work instead
of getting a proper job. Now he was leaving it behind. He stared absently round
for the last time.
Then he heard a sound in the
corridor. The door came open. He stepped forward to meet the man who was
pushing through, a box of what looked like books in his arms.
“Oh, hi,” said Jack. “You just moving
in?”
“Yeah. You couldn’t help me with this
could you? It’s coming apart.” The guy was Scottish.
“Sure.” Jack grabbed the bottom of
the cardboard box and slid it out of his hands. “Nice to meet you. I hope you
enjoy living here. I’ll get out of your way.”
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