In Paul’s bedroom there were six TVs in two stacks of three and he was back watching them. He sat cross-legged on the end of his bed. Sky News and ITV and BBC covered the same story. Paul's eyes were wide, his mouth open, his attention held by the six screens. There was no sound. He had the sound turned down. The colours of east Africa slid across the cuts and bruises on his face. His ear was torn and his clothes were stained red in various places.
On the six screens a migration had begun. Women carried dead babies and babies that were dying. Men staggered on makeshift crutches. Children held their extended bellies. Flies crawled into eyes. Behind them a war continued. Ahead of them was another African border with trenches and mines and guns. The Dark Continent had never looked so cruel. There was no oil in this African country. It didn’t even have a name that anyone could remember.
At the door Mr Lawrence coughed to attract his attention. “Mr Lawrence,” Paul said and a shudder worked through his body. “What the devil's happened?”
“Oh, Mr Lawrence.”
Paul's eyes filled with tears that refused to roll. His hands were clenched in front of him. A vein on his forehead throbbed. “Oh, Mr Lawrence, I've been hurt a bit.”
“Come on, Paul, try to lie back.”
“I would, but the pain in my side…”
“Lie on the other side.”
“Both sides, Mr Lawrence.”
With his good hand Mr Lawrence pulled a plug and the irritating screens blanked out.
“That's better. Can't do with all that flickering. What is it? A Tarzan film?” Mr Lawrence sighed. “Goodness me. You've been gone… How long? Two Days? And look at you. What on earth shall I do with you? Now try to relax and lie back.”
Slowly, painfully, he eased back. Mr Lawrence undid the three remaining buttons on his shirt. Deep bruises patterned his left side. Around his kidneys the skin was red and swollen and his groin was caked in dried blood.
“You need a doctor, dear boy, the A and E or casualty. You need checking over. X-rays and a thermometer.”
"No! No! No doctors. They'll call the police. They always do. I can't get away with walking into a lamppost, not this time.” “You're right. Being run over by a bus would be more like it.” Using his good hand Mr Lawrence cleaned him up with a sponge and a bowl of warm water turned pink. He dried him off and dabbed Germolene antiseptic cream onto the cuts and covered him with a single sheet. He had tried the ointment on the stub of his own finger but it hadn’t stopped the bleeding.
“Thank you,” Paul said before sleeping.
Like a baby.
Mr Lawrence watched him for a few moments. The boy really needed pyjamas but his wardrobe was full of baby things. His own clothes were in a heap on the floor. On the hangers tiny one-piece baby-growers in five bright colours were packed in. On the shelf above, two cellophane cartons of disposables were packed next to a selection of bottles and sterilization equipment.
Mr Lawrence went down to the shop, his head still shaking in puzzlement. He was not the worrying kind but he was worried and it showed in the deepening lines on his forehead. Somehow he had allowed other people to creep into his life and things were getting out of hand, spiralling out of his control, and something else was on its way.
She arrived with a small battered green suitcase that had travelled. She shrugged her luscious brown shoulders and raised her eyebrows and threw him a wicked smile from cherry-red lips.
“Me mum's kicked me out! She said she would and she did.” He sighed his resignation. “Well, we don't choose our parents. If we did the majority of us would have different parents.”
“He's given me a week. I told him I needed time. Told him I was confused by the electric, see? Confused, innI? Told him.” “Why did he hit you?”
“He's like that. He likes that. He hits everything, even the wall when he's really angry. Even the screws were frightened of him.” “We'll go to the police. That's what they're there for. Protecting the innocent.”
“You don't understand, Mr Lawrence. The filth won't help. They're not interested. It was probably them that told him where I was in the first place.”
“You said he loved you?”
“I did. I know. I said that. You hurt the things you love. You know that. He was just trying to straighten me out.”
“And are you straightened?”
“I don't feel straight. To tell the truth, I feel pretty well bent right now.”
“I've seen you looking better, Paul, that's true. But that’s not the word I would have chosen. So, you've got a week?”
“Yes. Then I've got to give him my answer.”
“And if it's no?”
“He'll kill me. I think he'll kill me. And if you interfere he'll kill you too. It'll be a crime of passion. I think I'll have to take off for good. Disappear. Trouble is, he's good at finding things, people. He found me in the squat.”
Laura's voice travelled up the stairs.
“Mr Lawrence – customers!”
A middle-aged couple admired a canvas. He was short and squat and sourly. His banker’s eyes focused on the painting. His wife was heavier and taller. They wanted the painting but they wanted a discount too.
“Mallards,” he muttered and nodded to confirm it.
“Indeed. Notice how the artist has used the same colouring of the ducks in flight on the rich foliage in the foreground.”
The man wasn’t really noticing the colouring and was instead concentrating on the bandage on Mr Lawrence's right hand. He said, “Yes, I had noticed that, but thank you.”
He tugged at his nose. “Well, Hon?”
“It seems a little overpriced,” Hon said. So did her dress, whatever she paid for it.
“Good paintings are an investment. If madam would like to see some less expensive works in the other room…? The untrained eye would not spot the difference…”
An eyebrow raised. “Quite,” the squat man muttered as he reached for his cheque-book.
“Get the hang of it?” he said to Laura once they had gone, and then to Paul a few moments later: “Where were we? Oh yes, you're safe until Friday. Are we certain of that?”
Paul's nod was lopsided. The swelling on his neck was worse. He confirmed, “Friday.”
“I'll give it some thought. Perhaps I can come up with an idea. Did you get anywhere with your little errand?”
“Come again?”
“The woman from the subcontinent?”
“The Paki? Oh yes. Went across to the Ridgeway, to the address, like you said. She don't live there, Mr Lawrence. You probably got the number wrong. An old couple lives there. Saw me hanging around and gave me what for. Probably thought I was a dodgy character. There's lots of them about. Right?”
Mr Lawrence nodded thoughtfully. “When you're up and about, maybe later, I want you to help me in the shop. Christmas is coming and we're getting busy.”
“No sweat. You done me a favour. I'll do anything for you. No questions asked.”
“How are you feeling now?”
“Better. Be up and about in no time.” He paused then said sheepishly, “Look under the bed.”
Under the bed he'd lined up four pairs of trainers and a pile of rackets.
“Squash?”
“Badminton,” Paul put him right. “Taking it up once the swelling goes down. Might play with those girls from the art class, see, cos one of them won't be playing for much longer, will she?”
“Really?”
“She's pregnant, Mr Lawrence. You can't run around if you're carrying, can you?”
“I suppose not.”
“So I'll play with the other one.” Paul winked.
Laura called up. “Mr Lawrence – customer!”
“More ducks,” he muttered.
“Mr Lawrence…?”
Mr Lawrence paused at the door. “What is it, Paul?”
“What happened to your finger?”
Once the shop was closed he found Laura in the kitchen ironing a black skirt. She rocked from one foot to the other as she listened to her Walkman or pod thing or whatever they were called nowadays. It probably came with pictures. The cassette or whatever rode her right buttock, held by the white lace of her pants. Her free breasts swung in time over the ironing-board. The scene reminded Mr Lawrence of the nature programmes on the television, rows of chanting natives with swinging breasts against a jungle backdrop. Inside, in those days, you were allowed to watch the nature programmes between six and seven. Now of course, it was porn on your own portable in your own cell. Even so, he doubted that even then they’d get away with a bunch of white breasts swinging along to ‘I Wanna Be Like You’ before the watershed. Discrimination, without a doubt.
“You can stay here for a few days. God knows where you'll sleep.” She said, “I'll put my bag in your room for now,” and offered him a knowing little smile.
They left it like that.
“House rules!” he said when she carried her ironing through. He'd intended to tell her to cover up but after consideration decided against it. He didn't want her thinking he was old-fashioned.
She paused in her step and hugged the ironing against her chest. “While you're here I must insist that you give up your moonlighting.”
“Mr Lawrence, you're jealous.”
“I can't have the Gallery involved in…in… It's not on.”
“But what will I do for money?”
“You'll manage. Treat it like a holiday. A few days off.”
“OK.”
“Promise me, Laura.”
“I promise that while I'm here I'll give up the tricks.”
“Fine. You can help out in the shop, until Paul gets better.” “That reminds me.”
“What's that?”
“I did two hours down there today. What's the hourly rate?”