A Little Bit of Previous by I. K. Watson

Author:I. K. Watson [Watson, Ian K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-84982-139-1
Publisher: M P Publishing Limited
Published: 2011-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

Paul had time on his hands so he took care of Mr Lawrence’s little errand. He caught a bus to the Ridgeway and found the house he wanted, more of a cottage, really, with a large square of nipped grass surrounded by a waist-high fence. It was neat and moss firee. You just knew the owners spent a lot of time fussing around with Black & Decker. It was a street where the houses had drives and extensions, and boys and girls delivered broadsheets instead of tabloids and always on time. There were fewer satellite dishes. Paul noticed things like that. And here kids used playing felds with real goalposts instead of concrete and shop fronts. And dogs? They were smaller. And mostly white. Funny, that in the more affuent areas the size of dogs and TV screens went down. Funny that, innit? And sad in a way, cos it meant that kids from the rich homes didn't have big TVs to watch. And that meant they'd probably end up with glasses, short-sighted or squinting, or something. Yeah.

He spent a couple of hours there, hanging around the street, watching the comings and goings. Eventually an old couple emerged from the cottage and the old man shouted over the fence.

“You there! Yes, you! We've got our eye on you. Clear off or we'll call the police. Understand?”

Tory voters!

Fuck that.

Paul cleared off.

It didn't take much savvy to reason that Mr Lawrence had given him the wrong address. The old man had got it wrong. They say age messes with the memory and they were right. There was certainly no girl living there. No beautiful Indian girl with dark eyes and black hair and legs that went all the way to… Yeah, right! And those two old Tory voters weren't her parents. No sir. NO SIR! No way.

By the time he got back to the High Road dusk was falling and the street lights turned on Saturday night. Christmas illuminations gave the road a party feel, added a little excitement and cheer, like three lemons on a slot machine. Like a cold smile from a bargirl that meant no chance sunshine, no chance at all.

Shops stayed open late and a choir sang Christmas songs while a dozen Santas collected money in fat Toby jugs. He looked in the shop windows for the Christmas message, the birth of Christ, goodwill to all men, but couldn't find it between the spend, spend, spend and the banks of computers and widescreen TVs tied in Christmas ribbon. For a while, like, twenty minutes or so, he stood in front of a window and a TV, and watched in Cinerama – you'd need an extension on the house to get it in – a million people on the move. Africa was a vast graveyard, still uncivilized and uncaring, and while he watched the dark leatherskinned children cry while their mothers gazed out of helpless eyes and the shadows of vultures slid across the cooking battleground, a choir sang, 'Oh come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant.

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