The stone floor is blackened by the shadows of brick pillars, around which security cameras peer. Bebe's Shogun honks and flashes its headlamps from one of the bays for Flat 3 to greet Warren's key-ring. I climb in the back and am hauling the twisted safety belt to its socket when the car veers backwards, narrowly missing a dormant Jaguar. At the top of the ramp the Shogun barely gives the automatic door time to slope out of the way. 'Warren,' Bebe squeals, perhaps with delight more than fear.
The alley between the warehouses amplifies the roar of the engine as he speeds to the main road. He barely glances down from his height before swerving into the traffic. 'Hey, that's what brakes are for,' he responds to the fanfare of horns, and switches on the compact disc player.
The first notes of the 1812 surround me as the lit turrets of the Tower dwindle in the mirror. Whenever the car slews around a corner I'm flung against the window or as far across the seat as the belt allows. Is Warren too busy fiddling with the sound balance to notice? In Kensington he increases the volume to compete with the disco rhythm of a Toyota next to us at traffic lights, and Bebe waves her hands beside her ears. The overture reaches its climax on the Hammersmith flyover, beyond which the sky above a bend in the Thames explodes while cannon-shots shake the car. Rockets are shooting up from Castelnau and simultaneously plunging into the blackness of a reservoir. They're almost as late for the fifth of November as they're early for the New Year. The Great West Road brings the music to its triumphant end, which leaves the distant detonations sounding thin and artificial to my tinny ears. 'How did you rate that, Simon?' Warren shouts.
'Spectacular,' I just about hear myself respond.
'Pretty damn fine, I'd say. The guy knew what people liked and socked it to them. You don't make many enemies that way.'
'Never do that if you can't afford to,' Bebe says.
'All I did was look into the background of the films that were topping the charts. Colin wrote the piece about testing Oscar winners for drugs. He named too many people who should have owned up, that's why we were sued.'
The Hallorans stare at me in the mirror as if they weren't thinking of Cineassed. After a pause Warren says 'Shows you should be careful who your friends are. You could end up with their reputation.'
I'm not sure if he's talking to me or about me. Planes rise from Heathrow like inextinguishable fireworks. A reservoir is staked out by illuminated fishermen beside the old Roman road into Staines. Warren brakes in sight of the video library that's my daytime workplace, and then the car screeches off a roundabout to Egham. As we leave the main road near the outpost of London University, Bebe tuts at a student who's wearing a traffic cone on his head like a reminiscence of Halloween. The Shogun halts at the top of the sloping side street, between two ranks of disreputable parked cars. 'Open up while I find a space, Simon,' Warren directs.
I hurry to the slouching metal gate of the middle house they own and manoeuvre the gate over the humped path. A large striped spider has netted the stunted rhododendron that's the only vegetation in the token garden apart from tufts of grass. The spider is transmitting its glow through its equally orange web to discolour the leaves, except that the glare belongs to a streetlamp. I sprint to the scabby front door and twist my key in the unobliging lock. 'Hello?' I shout as the door stumbles inwards. 'Here's your landlords.'
Though the hall light is on beneath its cheap mosaic shade, nobody responds. Wole's door is shut – a ski-masked cliché on a poster bars the way with a machete – and so is Tony's, on which Gollum holds the fort. Besides a stagnant smell of pizza, do I distinguish a faint tang of cannabis? I try to look innocent enough for all the tenants as I swivel to meet Bebe. 'Just letting the men know you're here in case they aren't decent,' I improvise.
She turns to Warren, who has parked across the driveway of their house on the right. 'He's alerted the students we're here.'
'Showing solidarity, were you, Simon?'
'It isn't so long since I was one. Thanks again for letting me rent the room.'
I watch the Hallorans advance in unison along the hall, which is papered with a leafy pattern designed for a larger interior. Bebe knocks on Wole's door and immediately tries it while Warren does the same to Tony's, but both rooms are locked. Bebe switches on the light in the sitting-room and frowns at me, although I've left none of the items strewn about the brownish carpet that's piebald with fading stains. In any case the debris – disembowelled newspapers, unwashed plates, two foil containers with plastic forks lounging amid their not yet mouldy contents, a sandal with a broken strap – hardly detracts from the doddering chairs of various species in front of the elderly television and dusty video recorder. Bebe stacks the containers on top of the plates and takes them to the kitchen, only to find no space in the pedal bin, any more than there's room for additional plates in the sink. 'Simon, you're supposed to be the mature one,' she complains and dumps her burden among the bowls scaly with breakfast cereal on the formica table top. 'How long have you been letting this pile up?'
I'd tell her where I spent last night, but Natalie prefers to leave them in some doubt of our relationship until I have a job we can be proud of. I try remaining silent while Warren takes the rubbish out to the dustbin, but Bebe performs such a monodrama of tuts and sighs as she sets about clearing the sink that I'm provoked to interrupt. 'I can't play the caretaker when I'm out at work so much.'
'Students are investments like these houses,' Warren says, grinding home the bolts on the back door. 'Investments the rest of us make.'
Bebe thrusts a plate at me to dry. 'How much of one do you think you are, Simon?'
I lay it in a drawer rather than smash it on the linoleum. 'If Natalie values me, that's what matters.'
'How romantic. I expect she'd be pleased.' Bebe hands me another plate before adding 'I believe we matter as well. We've invested a whole lot in her.'
'I meant to tell her we met somebody she used to know,' Warren says. 'He's done real well for himself and anyone involved with him.'
Am I supposed to say she can have him or perhaps yield more gracefully? I know they're waiting for her to lose faith in me. Even renting me the accommodation makes it harder for us to meet and characterises me as a parasite. Arguing won't help, but I have to hold my lips shut with my teeth while I stow the dishes.
Warren's comment loiters in my head as he leads the way upstairs. A tear in the scuffed carpet snags my heel. Bebe lets her breath be heard when she sees the clutter in the communal bathroom. Joe's door has acquired a poster for a troupe presumably deliberately misspelled as Clwons Unlimited. Warren's knock brings no answer, and the door is locked. 'I'll open up if my quarters are due for inspection,' I say.
'That would be helpful,' says Bebe.
I was joking, and if they don't understand that, they're the joke. I might say as much, but I've nothing to hide except how demeaned I feel. I throw the blank anonymous door wide and switch on the light under the tasselled Japanese shade Natalie hoped would cheer up the room. Her parents stare in, though there isn't much to see or criticise. My clothes are stored in the rickety wardrobe, and yesterday I dragged the quilt over the bed. Books are lined up on shelves next to the skeletal desk on which my computer has pride of place. 'Do tell me what you're looking for if I can help,' I say.
'It seems to be in order,' Bebe says but gives a quick ominous sniff.
'We'll check our other properties,' says Warren, 'and then we can run you to the gas station.'