been like when he was at university anyway. Since he’d met Keira here, the area had changed dramatically: out with the dingy students’ union and tiny bolt-hole pubs, in
with the wine bars, ‘student services’ buildings, music venues, fancy aquatics centre and all sorts of other smart glass-fronted buildings that only ‘under-funded’
universities could afford.
The side streets and cut-throughs were still the same as in his day, so Andrew weaved his way along the paved areas until he found the all-new red-brick set of private halls two streets over
from the main road. In the summer, the stretch of lawn at the front would be covered with young people kicking balls around, drinking their way through crates of whatever was on special down the
offy and, occasionally, revising. In the gloomy beginnings of a November morning, it was a giant mud pit, almost filthy enough to host a music festival.
A sign at the front listed the buildings next to rows of numbers, with arrows pointing off in all directions. Andrew checked the note on his phone about where Scott lived and then tried to
figure out exactly what that meant in practical terms. It was a good job the people living here were studying for a degree, given that you’d need something that advanced to decipher what the
sign was trying to say.
Eventually, Andrew gave up, asking a passing lad with an oversized backpack if he knew the location of the flat. He even got a sensible reply.
Two minutes later, he was making his way along a darkened corridor, using the light on his phone to check the numbers on the various doors before finally finding Scott’s. He had to knock
twice before a yawning teenager opened the door, towel around his waist, pasty white chest on display.
As Andrew was invited in, it dawned on him that, to the casual observer, a man in his mid-thirties being invited into a student’s apartment by a half-naked young man might seem a little
off
. Still, it wouldn’t be the worst thing that had happened to him in the previous twenty-four hours, given his disastrous break-up.
Scott led him into a cluttered living room, full of football posters, scattered lads’ mags, pizza boxes and various computer games. He muttered something about being right back and then
disappeared through a door.
The smell of tobacco clung to the furniture, despite the open window allowing cool air to chill the room. On the windowsill, a saucer was overflowing with cigarette ends, flecks of ash peppering
the carpet underneath. An air-freshener was sticking out of the electrical socket, with a small transparent bulb of yellow liquid being squirted into the air, doing a half-arsed job of masking the
fags.
In the corner was a jumbled stack of textbooks, mingled with newspapers, more magazines and the odd novel. Andrew checked for anything spell-related but there was nothing similar to what
he’d found in Nicholas’s room.
A few minutes later, Scott emerged back into the room, rubbing his wet brown hair with a towel. Luckily, he was now wearing jeans, with a T-shirt and hoody. His accent was as local as it came.
‘Sorry about that, pal, lost track of the time.’
He flopped onto the sofa, squishing himself into the corner, before digging a remote control out from underneath him and putting it on a table that had more coffee rings than clean wood.
‘So you’re a private investigator?’
Andrew sat opposite him. ‘Right.’
‘And you’re looking into what happened to Nicholas?’
‘Exactly. I gather you were one of his better friends?’
A shrug. ‘I s’pose. I only knew him from college.’
‘How long did you know him for?’
Scott began counting on his fingers, muttering under his breath. ‘About a year and half before he . . . went away.’
‘What sort of things were you into?’
Scott glanced nervously towards the window. ‘Mind if I have a fag?’
‘It’s your flat.’
He dug into the pockets of his hoody and pulled out a crumpled packet
with the wine bars, ‘student services’ buildings, music venues, fancy aquatics centre and all sorts of other smart glass-fronted buildings that only ‘under-funded’
universities could afford.
The side streets and cut-throughs were still the same as in his day, so Andrew weaved his way along the paved areas until he found the all-new red-brick set of private halls two streets over
from the main road. In the summer, the stretch of lawn at the front would be covered with young people kicking balls around, drinking their way through crates of whatever was on special down the
offy and, occasionally, revising. In the gloomy beginnings of a November morning, it was a giant mud pit, almost filthy enough to host a music festival.
A sign at the front listed the buildings next to rows of numbers, with arrows pointing off in all directions. Andrew checked the note on his phone about where Scott lived and then tried to
figure out exactly what that meant in practical terms. It was a good job the people living here were studying for a degree, given that you’d need something that advanced to decipher what the
sign was trying to say.
Eventually, Andrew gave up, asking a passing lad with an oversized backpack if he knew the location of the flat. He even got a sensible reply.
Two minutes later, he was making his way along a darkened corridor, using the light on his phone to check the numbers on the various doors before finally finding Scott’s. He had to knock
twice before a yawning teenager opened the door, towel around his waist, pasty white chest on display.
As Andrew was invited in, it dawned on him that, to the casual observer, a man in his mid-thirties being invited into a student’s apartment by a half-naked young man might seem a little
off
. Still, it wouldn’t be the worst thing that had happened to him in the previous twenty-four hours, given his disastrous break-up.
Scott led him into a cluttered living room, full of football posters, scattered lads’ mags, pizza boxes and various computer games. He muttered something about being right back and then
disappeared through a door.
The smell of tobacco clung to the furniture, despite the open window allowing cool air to chill the room. On the windowsill, a saucer was overflowing with cigarette ends, flecks of ash peppering
the carpet underneath. An air-freshener was sticking out of the electrical socket, with a small transparent bulb of yellow liquid being squirted into the air, doing a half-arsed job of masking the
fags.
In the corner was a jumbled stack of textbooks, mingled with newspapers, more magazines and the odd novel. Andrew checked for anything spell-related but there was nothing similar to what
he’d found in Nicholas’s room.
A few minutes later, Scott emerged back into the room, rubbing his wet brown hair with a towel. Luckily, he was now wearing jeans, with a T-shirt and hoody. His accent was as local as it came.
‘Sorry about that, pal, lost track of the time.’
He flopped onto the sofa, squishing himself into the corner, before digging a remote control out from underneath him and putting it on a table that had more coffee rings than clean wood.
‘So you’re a private investigator?’
Andrew sat opposite him. ‘Right.’
‘And you’re looking into what happened to Nicholas?’
‘Exactly. I gather you were one of his better friends?’
A shrug. ‘I s’pose. I only knew him from college.’
‘How long did you know him for?’
Scott began counting on his fingers, muttering under his breath. ‘About a year and half before he . . . went away.’
‘What sort of things were you into?’
Scott glanced nervously towards the window. ‘Mind if I have a fag?’
‘It’s your flat.’
He dug into the pockets of his hoody and pulled out a crumpled packet
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