attracts their attention, darling. I
mean, if you were a burglar – impossible, I know, but try to
imagine – what would you think if on a bright sunny day like
this one you passed a house with lights on? You'd either think the
householder was mad or they'd gone away, much more likely
the latter.'
Somewhere in Sussex, after the South Downs had come into
view, he asked her if she had seen Joel Roseman again.
'He's become a patient, a private patient.'
'Is there something wrong with him, then?'
'Well, he has had an operation on his heart,' said Ella. 'Isn't the
sunshine lovely, darling? I really think this is the most beautiful
time of year, don't you?'
'You mean you mustn't talk to me about your patients' ailments,'
said Eugene, laughing. 'Darling, I entirely understand.'
Uncle Gib was as good as his word. He wasn't going to lend
Lance a thousand pounds. 'It wouldn't be a loan,' he said,
wreathed in smoke at the breakfast table. 'You pass on cash to a
bloke what's out of work and it's not a loan, it's a gift. And I don't
feel like giving you no gifts.'
Lance didn't argue. He doubted if Uncle Gib had a thousand
pounds, though this wasn't the first time they had had this conversation.
Lance fell back on it, opening the subject afresh, each time
other people refused him. He had tried his parents and they didn't
argue either. They laughed. He had to be joking. His mother already
owed eight thousand on her Visa card. He tried his grandmother,
his mother's mother, who was still several years under sixty, the
women in his family giving birth while in their teens. She had a
job, managing a launderette, and was looked on by her friends and
descendants as practically an intellectual, but if she had a thousand
pounds she wasn't lending it to Lance. Nor were her other
two daughters, Lance's aunts, or his uncle, the ex-husband of one
of them, who had won ten thousand on the lottery. But Uncle Roy
came in useful. When he had refused Lance's plea, he gave him
the name and address of a receiver of stolen goods in a street just
off the Holloway Road.
Robbing the bloke with the white hair was now Lance's last
resort and once more it seemed feasible. In spite of all his preliminary
work in Chepstow Villas, he had almost given up the idea of
actually breaking in because he had nowhere to take the stuff he
nicked. Now he had Mr Crown at 35 Poltimore Road, N7.
It was already Saturday, the day on which he had to take the
money to Fize. He had been unable to keep away from Gemma's
flat and had been back there on two occasions. This would be the
third and his plan was to offer her and Fize all his week's benefit
on account, accompanying it with the promise that the rest would
be in their hands by, say, Tuesday. At any rate, he would get to see
her, with luck actually be in the same room with her. But as he
came up to the block where she lived, he spotted Fize on her
balcony with the baby on his lap, apparently feeding him with
something out of a bowl. Fize hadn't seen him but Lance lost his
nerve, crossed the street and, putting his hood up and hunching
his shoulders, hurriedly walked on down Leamington Road and
into Denbigh Road.
Still in hoodie disguise, he saw in the distance White Hair putting
stuff into the boot of a car. Lance recognised him with no difficulty.
He had a woman with him that he had never seen before, a
woman in a trouser suit with dark curly hair. It looked as if they
were going away somewhere. More than likely, seeing it was the
Bank Holiday weekend. People like them, rich and comfortable
and worry-free, people who'd never have a problem finding a
thousand pounds, always went away at holiday weekends, while he
was stuck for ever in a dump full of smoke and rats.
He hung about on the corner, pretending to read yet another
one of those lost cat notices, the stripy one – apparently called
William – having gone off somewhere on a jaunt. If they'd been
offering a reward he might have looked for the missing cat but
they
mean, if you were a burglar – impossible, I know, but try to
imagine – what would you think if on a bright sunny day like
this one you passed a house with lights on? You'd either think the
householder was mad or they'd gone away, much more likely
the latter.'
Somewhere in Sussex, after the South Downs had come into
view, he asked her if she had seen Joel Roseman again.
'He's become a patient, a private patient.'
'Is there something wrong with him, then?'
'Well, he has had an operation on his heart,' said Ella. 'Isn't the
sunshine lovely, darling? I really think this is the most beautiful
time of year, don't you?'
'You mean you mustn't talk to me about your patients' ailments,'
said Eugene, laughing. 'Darling, I entirely understand.'
Uncle Gib was as good as his word. He wasn't going to lend
Lance a thousand pounds. 'It wouldn't be a loan,' he said,
wreathed in smoke at the breakfast table. 'You pass on cash to a
bloke what's out of work and it's not a loan, it's a gift. And I don't
feel like giving you no gifts.'
Lance didn't argue. He doubted if Uncle Gib had a thousand
pounds, though this wasn't the first time they had had this conversation.
Lance fell back on it, opening the subject afresh, each time
other people refused him. He had tried his parents and they didn't
argue either. They laughed. He had to be joking. His mother already
owed eight thousand on her Visa card. He tried his grandmother,
his mother's mother, who was still several years under sixty, the
women in his family giving birth while in their teens. She had a
job, managing a launderette, and was looked on by her friends and
descendants as practically an intellectual, but if she had a thousand
pounds she wasn't lending it to Lance. Nor were her other
two daughters, Lance's aunts, or his uncle, the ex-husband of one
of them, who had won ten thousand on the lottery. But Uncle Roy
came in useful. When he had refused Lance's plea, he gave him
the name and address of a receiver of stolen goods in a street just
off the Holloway Road.
Robbing the bloke with the white hair was now Lance's last
resort and once more it seemed feasible. In spite of all his preliminary
work in Chepstow Villas, he had almost given up the idea of
actually breaking in because he had nowhere to take the stuff he
nicked. Now he had Mr Crown at 35 Poltimore Road, N7.
It was already Saturday, the day on which he had to take the
money to Fize. He had been unable to keep away from Gemma's
flat and had been back there on two occasions. This would be the
third and his plan was to offer her and Fize all his week's benefit
on account, accompanying it with the promise that the rest would
be in their hands by, say, Tuesday. At any rate, he would get to see
her, with luck actually be in the same room with her. But as he
came up to the block where she lived, he spotted Fize on her
balcony with the baby on his lap, apparently feeding him with
something out of a bowl. Fize hadn't seen him but Lance lost his
nerve, crossed the street and, putting his hood up and hunching
his shoulders, hurriedly walked on down Leamington Road and
into Denbigh Road.
Still in hoodie disguise, he saw in the distance White Hair putting
stuff into the boot of a car. Lance recognised him with no difficulty.
He had a woman with him that he had never seen before, a
woman in a trouser suit with dark curly hair. It looked as if they
were going away somewhere. More than likely, seeing it was the
Bank Holiday weekend. People like them, rich and comfortable
and worry-free, people who'd never have a problem finding a
thousand pounds, always went away at holiday weekends, while he
was stuck for ever in a dump full of smoke and rats.
He hung about on the corner, pretending to read yet another
one of those lost cat notices, the stripy one – apparently called
William – having gone off somewhere on a jaunt. If they'd been
offering a reward he might have looked for the missing cat but
they
Similar Books
