Dreams of Leaving by Rupert Thomson Page B

noticed it – was what they had done to the pool-table, Elliot’s pride and joy. They had sawn the legs off, all four of them, andslashed the green baize into strips, with a razor-blade by the look of it, and then peeled it back to reveal the slab of grey slate, showing like bone through flesh, beneath.
    â€˜The same people?’ Moses asked.
    Elliot shrugged.
    It couldn’t be kids, that much was clear. And remembering what Elliot had told him about the previous break-in, Moses thought he recognised the style. The blood, the shit, the piss. The same sadistic premeditated violence. It had the feel of a vendetta, a psychotic vendetta, and, once again, Moses wondered exactly what truth lay beneath the rumours he had heard about Elliot. This kind of thing didn’t happen to just anyone.
    â€˜I suppose it’s no good getting the police in,’ he said.
    Elliot didn’t even hear. His face had clenched like a fist. He was, Moses saw, one of those people who feel fury rather than fear.
    He took Elliot by the arm. ‘Come on. Let’s go and get a drink somewhere.’
    He drove Elliot to a pub in Bermondsey. The jukebox was playing early Sinatra to an interior of dark wood. They drank in near silence. An idea occurred to Moses – or, rather, recurred, because it had first begun to hatch when Elliot told him what had happened in October. The idea now grew, spread wings, though, even as it did so, Moses realised that he would have to save it for a more propitious moment.
    *
    Winter eased. Spring became a possibility.
    When the vital conversation took place, Moses had been waiting almost a month. Insurance had restored the office to its former sleek condition. The windows were wide open. The roar of rush-hour traffic competed with the squeak of the blue chalk cube on the end of Elliot’s cue. The pool-table was playing as beautifully as ever, though Elliot still winced sometimes when he looked down at the green baize and remembered. Moses sat on the arm of the sofa, cue in one hand, a brandy in the other. A typical evening on the second floor of The Bunker.
    Elliot was telling Moses about a trip he had made to West Germany. ‘I was in this town, right?’ he was saying.
    Elliot in West Germany? ‘What were you doing there?’ Moses asked.
    â€˜Business.’
    â€˜Ah,’ Moses said.
    â€˜Anyway,’ Elliot went on, ‘there was this bloke going on about a dome – ’
    â€˜The cathedral?’ Moses suggested.
    â€˜Yeah, probably, but he called it a dome. Anyway, this bloke, he’s sort of a guide, right? He points at this dome and he says, “You see that?”, and I go, “Yeah”. “You see that?” he says, second time, OK?, and I’m thinking
What is this?
but I go, “Yeah,” anyway. Then he says, “Ugly,” he says. “Ugly ugly ugly”. And I’m cracking up but he hasn’t finished yet. “In the war,” he says, “boo boo boo, everything falls down, but that,” and he points at the fucking dome again, “that no bombs touch.” I’m thinking
Yeah, OK, so?
And then he says, “You know why no bombs touch?”, and I go, “No,” and he says, “Why God inside”.’
    Elliot shook his head. ‘God inside.
Jesus?
’
    â€˜You shouldn’t mock,’ Moses said, with the air of somebody who has just thought of something. ‘There’s a moral in that story.’
    â€˜Moral?’ Elliot said. ‘What moral?’ But he wasn’t really listening. He was loping round the table, running his cue back and forwards through his left hand, intent on victory.
    Moses smiled. His moment had come. ‘I mean, maybe you need God in here, Elliot.’
    â€˜What the
fuck
are you talking about?’
    â€˜Well, if you had God in here, maybe you wouldn’t get broken into any more.’
    Elliot paused in mid-shot and straightened up. There