Portobello by Ruth Rendell Page B

weren't. And maybe not, he thought, remembering his
scratched hand. Those two, White Hair and his woman, had disappeared
into the house. Lance walked about a bit, sat on a wall,
got off again when the person who owned the place came out,
went back to the corner where the lost cat notice was. They had
come out again. White Hair opened the car door on the passenger
side for the woman, then he got in and drove away. Lance let them
get out of sight before moving slowly towards the house they had
just left. Pity he couldn't go in there now, but it would be better
to leave it until after dark. He wasn't going back to Blagrove Road
and Uncle Gib. He'd go to his nan's in Kensal. Though she'd refused
him a loan, she'd said she never saw him these days and how about
coming round to her place, the launderette closing early on account
of it was the Bank Holiday weekend, and she'd cook him dinner or,
more likely, take him down the Good King Billy for a beer and a
Ploughman's. He might get a shower too in her nice clean bathroom.
    Pity it got dark so late. Lance could tell his nan wanted rid of
him round about six but it was still broad daylight, the sun
shining as bright as at midday. She'd told him twice her boyfriend
was coming over, and they'd be going to the dogs at Walthamstow
and he should be on his way. Lance felt uncomfortable. She'd given
him fish and chips in the pub and two pints of Stella, and tea and
crisps when they got back home and he knew he was outstaying
his welcome – but where to go until it got dark? It was the story
of his life, nothing to do for most of the time and nowhere to go.
At last, when his nan had got herself up in a miniskirt and white
leather jacket and turquoise-blue shades, and Dave arrived, Lance
got up and said he'd better be off. They saw him off the premises,
all over him now he was on his way.
    Though he'd come on the bus, he walked all the way back to
Chepstow Villas to save the fare, making his usual detour to pass
Gemma's flat. A light was on inside, the door opened a crack and
Gemma put her head out. Had Lance been given to that sort of
thing, when he saw her come out he might have said to himself,
Romeo-fashion though slightly paraphrasing, 'But, soft, what light
through yonder window breaks? It is the east and Gemma is the
sun.' However, she didn't appear to have seen him, for she leant
against the railing gazing up the road in the opposite direction. He
walked on, trying to think about the task ahead. Suppose those
two, White Hair and his girlfriend, had only been out for the day?
No, you don't take suitcases if you're only going to Richmond or
Maidenhead. It was still light but, though he wasn't much for
noticing what the sky was doing, he could see from the red glow
when he looked behind him that the sun had set. Back to sitting
on a wall, then. He'd walked so far he was exhausted, not to
mention getting hungry again. A bit more time was used up by his
buying a pie, a piece of fruit cake in a see-through pack and a
Mars bar, which he ate trailing along Westbourne Grove. Once,
when he looked behind him, he saw in the distance a man who
reminded him of Fize but, as far as he was concerned, one Asian
looked much like another.
    At last it was dark and there was no street lamp directly
outside White Hair's house. The dense trees in the pavements
and the front gardens of Chepstow Villas helped to darken
the place. Lance was so certain White Hair would have bolted
his side gate after all this time that he was surprised when it
yielded as he turned the key. There were lights on in a garden
next door, the kind that glow green, half hidden among the
bushes, but none here. It was very dark and there was no moon.
Lance went up to the french windows and peered at the keyhole.
As he had hoped, neither White Hair nor his girlfriend had taken
the key out after they had locked the door. He could see the tip
of its shaft inside the hole. Poking it through would be a skilful
business, best taken slowly,