Mr Lawrence thought back to the conversation in The British and wondered whether the double-glazing salesman’s electric shock treatment might help.
Nervous Sid was in The British, Sid the Nerve, playing the devil's drum on the bottom rung of his bar stool. He worried that the DSS or whatever they were called nowadays had cancelled his weekly benefit. How would they like to be black with a little receiving form? It was all right for them with their index-related pay, but what about him? They treated illegal immigrants better than they treated him.
Nervous Sid turned to children; they were on his mind. The ASBOs were a complete waste of time and money; they had become a badge of honour. The kids actually felt out of it if they didn’t own one. Nervous Sid agreed with the colonel. The answer to their worrying ways was a sharp stab in the arse with a bayonet and then three years in a detention centre fed on nothing but green veg, sprouts if possible. No orange squash or trips out to holiday centres.
Children – they seemed wiser, more mature, less child-like. The boys were ill-natured, rude little gits and the girls had contemptuous, knowing eyes. Even twelve-year-olds knew what made the world go around. They looked as though they were waiting to get a little bigger so they could pay you back. A frightening thought, the thought of growing old and defenceless, and the only thing to do, he supposed, was to get them first, before they grew up. Devastating, really. It was all these fucking chemicals in the crops. All these E-numbers the colonel and Albert kept going on about. They were modifying the kids and not in a good way. Sod these GM crops. Sid the Nerve would take more notice in future. He made a mental note that if ever his luck changed and his number came in, he wouldn’t buy a motor car from those bastards.
He went on to explain that when he threw stones at a group of them who were climbing on his garage roof they threw them back again. And they were better shots. He lifted the plaster on his cheek to show Mr Lawrence the damage. They were aiming at his eye, he said, because he was black. They were still on his garage roof. He'd made a speedy retreat. The long way round. Sod that for a living. Then he said, “Is that Paul still with you?”
“Yes, I suppose that Paul is. Although, technically, he's in hospital at the moment.”
“Kids?”
“No. Electricity.”
“Oh.” He sipped his shaking pint, spilling a little down his chin. His foot-tapping quickened in tempo.
Mr Lawrence prompted, “Why do you ask?”
Nervous Sid's attention returned from parts of the barmaid. “Someone was asking about him. A very dodgy looking character. Fact is, dodgy isn't the word. Not really. Not at all. Dangerous is probably closer. Fucking dangerous closer still. A big bad bastard.” “My goodness. What did he want?”
“He said he wanted Paul.”
“Did he say what for?”
“No, he didn't say and I didn't ask. You don't prolong the conversation with people like that. I wanted out. Like…out. As soon as poss. Registered mail. Know what I mean?”
“Did you tell him he was staying with me?”
“Of course not. What do you take me for?” Sid the Nerve shook out the words, saddened by the suggestion.
On his way to the door Mr Lawrence passed Albert and the colonel and Rasher who stood studying the tearaway nuts between the bottles. “Mr Lawrence, a moment of your time,” Albert muttered. “For young Paul someone's been looking. An unsuitable type. With more care you should choose his friends.”
“Did you tell this character that Paul was staying with me?” Albert's eyes glinted and his half-hidden lips widened. “Of course.” “That's kind of you, Albert.”
Mr Lawrence left The British early to visit Paul at the hospital. He didn't mind making the odd sacrifice. He picked up a brown paper bag of grapes from a Pakistani shop that opened all night, every night, even Christmas night. He had Christmas lights in his window next to a photograph of Mecca.
Green seedless grapes, brown-bagged, cheaper than Tesco and guaranteed by the foreign gentleman not to contain the fungicide Vinclozolin.
The Salvation Army were playing near the hospital entrance, belting out Jerusalem, and a few patients who could walk or manoeuvre their wheelchairs had gathered to listen. Sensing danger, Mr Lawrence hurried past the uniformed women who were brandishing their collection boxes and War Cries.
Paul sat up straight in his bed, a lonely figure, his gaze haunted, focussed on the hills that his feet and knotted knees made on the blanket. Under the wash of the bright strip he looked pale. Patients in the other beds were involved with their visitors. Paul was in another place. Not in this world.
“How are you?”
His eyes came back slowly. They slid towards Mr Lawrence. Nothing else on his body moved. It took a few moments for recognition and then he smiled and turned and caught up with his eyes. “Mr Lawrence.”
“How are you?”
“Mr Lawrence?”
“You're looking better.”
“Mr Lawrence, what are you doing here?”
“I brought you some grapes. I should have posted them.” “You shouldn't have.”
“You're right. The postman might have squashed them.” “You shouldn't have bothered coming.”
“You're right again. How are you?”
“I'm fine. Just fine. They're keeping me in overnight. I'll be out tomorrow. It's the heart, irregular or something. The shock, I expect.” “I expect it was.”
“Funny that. They use electric shocks to start a stopped heart and they use a pacemaker to keep a heart ticking over yet electricity sent mine the other way. Funny.”
“Yes, I see what you mean. But changing the subject for just a moment, someone's been asking about you.”
He frowned.
“A big chap. A big…chap.”
Paul sighed and shook his head. “You didn't tell him I was staying with you?”
“No. No I didn't and nor did Sid.”
He relaxed.
“Albert did.”
He grimaced. “Everything's going wrong,” he said. “Stuck in here innI? Haven't got time to find a place. Christmas's coming, you want me out by the weekend and now that bastard's looking for me.” “Who is that bastard exactly?”
“Someone I lived with.”
“My goodness, come again, exactly what does that mean?” “Inside, Mr Lawrence. Prison overcrowding, innit? You don't get a cell to yourself. Not unless you write books or something. I knew him inside, see. Shared a cell.”
“And now he's outside. Is he dangerous?”
Paul shrugged white bony shoulders.
“Why is he looking for you?”
Paul looked up appealingly and said meekly, “He's in love with me.”
“Love!”
“He thinks he is. He probably is.”
“Love! Goodness me, now that's a complication I hadn't considered. Do you love him?”
Paul pulled a face. “Leave it out, Mr Lawrence. Do I look like a rear admiral?”
“I can't answer that, dear boy. I wouldn't know what to look for. I have often wondered how you tell.”
“I think it’s an earring in the left ear, or it might be the right.” “I shall look out for that.”
“Or it might even be both ears.”
“Forget the ears, Paul.”
“He forced himself on me. Inside, you don't have a choice. You stick your arse in the air or you get beaten senseless and your arse goes in the air anyway.”
“That’s terrible but that's all right then. Now I know that, you can stay until Christmas, Boxing Day I mean. No longer and, only if you make yourself useful in the shop.”
His face softened in gratitude. “I won't be no trouble. Honest. I'll teach you to play chess. I'll do the cooking. I'll look after the shop. I'll get us a Christmas tree with lights.”
Mr Lawrence shook his head in wonder. Today’s youth! Who’d have them with their erratic enthusiasm and marvellous ambitions? “Chess. I'll settle for chess.”
“I'm a master at that, innI? The old Reti, the old King's Indian. Sound as a bell, that, that is. You saved me a lot of worry.” “Worry?”