Deacon passed Terry a cigarette. "There's no crime involved, Lawrence," he said matter-of-factly.
"How do you know?"
"What did I tell you?" demanded Terry aggressively. "Fucking lawyers. Now he's calling me a liar."
Deacon made a damping motion with his hand. "Terry ran away from care two years ago at the age of twelve, and he doesn't want to be sent back because the man in charge is a pedophile. To avoid that happening he's added four years to his age and has been living under an alias in a squat. It's as simple as that."
Lawrence clicked his tongue impatiently, unintimidated by Terry's seething anger beside him. "You call it simple that a child has been living in dreadful circumstances without education or loving parental control during two of the most important years of his life? Perhaps I should remind you, Michael, that it's only five hours since you were telling me you wanted to be a father." He raised a thin, transparent hand towards Terry. "This young man is no harmless stray who can be left to his own devices now that you've prevented the police from exercising their responsibility towards him. He's in need of the care and protection that a civilized society-"
"There were Billy," broke in Terry fiercely. "He were caring."
Lawrence looked at him for a moment then took the photograph Deacon had given him from his wallet. "Is this Billy?"
Terry glanced at the haggard face then looked away. "Yeah."
"It must have grieved you to lose him."
"Not so's you'd notice." He lowered his head. "He weren't that bloody brilliant. Half the time he were off his head so it were me looking after him.''
"But you did love him?"
The boy's hands clenched into fists again. "If you're saying me and Billy were sodding poofs, I'll belt you one."
"My dear boy," murmured the old man gently, "such a thing never crossed my mind. I dread to think what kind of world you inhabit where men are frightened to express their fondness for each other because of what others might think. There are a thousand ways to love a person, and only one of them is sexual. I think you loved Billy as a father and, from the way you describe him, he loved you as a son. Is that so shameful that you have to deny it?"
Terry didn't say anything and a silence developed. Deacon broke it eventually because it was becoming uncomfortable.
"Look, I don't know about anyone else," he said, "but I had a terrible night last night, and I wouldn't mind calling it a day. My personal view is that Terry's a streetwise kid with a hell of a lot going for him-he's certainly got more brains than I had at his age-but there's a spare bed in my flat, I look to be spending a miserable Christmas on my own, and I'd welcome some company. What do you say, Terry? My place or the warehouse for the next few days? You and I can enjoy ourselves while Lawrence does the worrying about the future."
"I thought you said there was no food," he muttered ungraciously.
"There isn't. We'll grab a takeaway tonight and go looking for turkey tomorrow."
"Except you don't really want me. It's only because Lawrence reckons you'd make a lousy father that you thought of it."
"Right. But I have thought of it, so what's the answer?" He looked at the bowed head. ' 'Listen, you miserable little sod, I haven't done badly by you so far today. Okay, I don't know the first damn thing about parenting but a small thank-you for the efforts I have shown wouldn't go amiss."
Terry grinned suddenly and raised his head. "Thanks, Dad. You've done good. How about we make it an Indian takeaway?''
There was a gleam of triumph in the lad's pale eyes which came and went too swiftly for Deacon to notice. But Lawrence saw it. Being older and wiser, he had been looking for it.
Lawrence refused Deacon's offer of a lift home but took down the Islington address in case he was contacted by the police. He advised Terry to use his few days' grace to consider whether a return to the warehouse was in his best interests, warned him that his true age and identity would undoubtedly be discovered if and when he was required to give evidence against Denning in court, and suggested he think about regularizing his position voluntarily before he was forced into it. He then asked Terry to call him a taxi from the phone at the bar and, while the boy was out of earshot, he cautioned Deacon against naivety. "Retain a healthy skepticism, Michael. Remember the kind of life Terry's been leading and how little you actually know about him."
Deacon smiled slightly. "I was afraid you were going to tell me to embrace him to my heart with expressions of love. Healthy skepticism I can cope with. It's what I know best."
"Oh, I don't think you're quite so hardened as you think you are, my dear fellow. You've accepted everything he's told you without blinking an eyelash."
"You think he's lying?"
Lawrence shrugged. "We've had a conversation filled with references to homosexuality, and that troubles me. You'll be very vulnerable to a charge of attempted rape if you take him back to your flat. And that will leave you no option but to pay whatever he demands from you."
Deacon frowned. "Come on, Lawrence, he's completely paranoid on the whole subject. He'd never let me near enough to touch him so how could he accuse me of rape?''
"Attempted rape, dear chap, and do please recognize how effective his paranoia is. He's lulled you into thinking it's safe to take him home, which I'm bound to say is not something I would feel confident doing."
"Then why were you pushing me into it?"
Lawrence sighed. "I wasn't, Michael. I was hoping to persuade you both that Terry should be returned to care." He was watching the boy as he spoke. The barman was trying to give him a telephone directory which he seemed reluctant to take. "Tell me, what will your reaction be when he screams and tears his clothes, and threatens to run to one of your neighbors with stories of imprisonment and sexual assault?''
"Why would he want to do that?"
"I would imagine because he's done it before and knows it works. You really mustn't go into this with your eyes closed, my dear chap."
"Great," said Deacon, lowering his head wearily into his hands. "So what the hell am I supposed to do now? Tell the little bastard to get stuffed?"
Lawrence chuckled. "Dear, dear, dear! What a fellow you are for losing heart. The least generous but probably most sensible course would be to hand him back to the police and let the social workers deal with him, but that would be very unkind when you've just offered him Christmas in your flat. Forewarned is after all forearmed. I think you must honor your invitation to the poor lad but keep one step ahead of him all the time."
"I wish you'd make up your mind," growled Deacon. "Half a minute ago the poor lad was planning to con me out of thousands."
"Why should the two be mutually exclusive? He's an unloved, ill-educated, half-formed adolescent who, through living rough, will have learned some sophisticated tricks to keep himself in clothes, food, drink, and drugs. The truth may be that you're exactly the person he needs to bring him back into the fold."
"He'll run rings around me," said Deacon gloomily.
"Surely not," murmured Lawrence, looking towards the bar, where Terry had finally asked the barman to locate a minicab firm for him in the directory. "At least you have the advantage of literacy."
Barry experienced only humiliation at the hands of Fatima, who spoke very poor English. The light in her bed-sitting room was dim, and he looked in fastidious alarm at the tumbled bed which still seemed to bear the imprint of a previous client. There was a strong Turkish atmosphere in the frowsty room which owed more to Fatima herself than to the array of joss sticks burning on a dressing table.