The Art of Drowning by Frances Fyfield

Author:Frances Fyfield [Fyfield, Frances]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780316727624
Google: SfUvXNbcPqwC
Amazon: B00GU385PS
Barnesnoble: B00GU385PS
Goodreads: 544517
Publisher: Sphere
Published: 2006-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

It turned out Blaker had been a country boy, once. Came from somewhere up north, territory unknown to Donald, who was London born and bred, although he could understand why someone might want to live anywhere else, the way it was now. He wasn’t a bad chap really, by which Donald meant he was interesting, he could talk, he was educated enough to have a nodding acquaintance with history, so therefore he passed. It did not make Donald approve of him, which was another matter, but in general he found thieves easier to understand than their more moral, less articulate counterparts.

All he had established that first time was that Blaker had the skill to threaten the judge in the way the judge had been threatened, and that by some weird coincidence he was enamoured of the judge’s ex-wife. The coincidence wasn’t so great when he considered the territory. The West End of London was still the uncomfortable but manageable refuge for runaways, thieves, opportunists, drug addicts, homeless drop-outs of all types and ages slipping through the social net. There was the official Centrepoint refuge in Tottenham Court Road, dumping ground for the displaced youth of several boroughs, there were the favourite places of shelter all around Charing Cross, with the warm underpasses for sleeping; there was the endless opportunity of casual, cash-paid labour; there were doorways and nearby hospitals and above all, millions of consumers. A person could live on what was dropped and left and a person could be paid to pick it up. Get to London, like Dick Whittington, because the pavements were paved with gold, flee inland from the coast, downhill from anywhere, get lost or found, and survive, for a while. Huddle together with kindred spirits, make friends and allies, or shun them. Celebrate a fresh misery or a win. Keep the cold out.

‘I reckon some of us blag our way out of the homeless shit out of sheer boredom,’ Blaker said. ‘Either that, or you lie down and die. I’ve known Ivy a long time. She was always going to rise, like a cork floating on the muck, because she had the will, and she never quite dropped out of the system. She had support. She chose the street. She shared stuff, though most of us don’t. I’d just got out of prison for the third time, back here like one of those bloody pigeons. Either here or down Embankment Gardens if the weather’s nice or I want a change. Ivy’s the same, but she has other places too. I saw her again when I was on bail for the last lot. Told her I’d come up in front of a German judge – is that what we fought the fucking war for? – but at least he gave me bail before the trial, and she said, You what? What was his name again? Then she laughed and laughed. Oh, he’s a judge now is he, now isn’t that rich? He wasn’t one of them when I was married to him.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.