The Painter's Friend by Howard Cunnell

Author:Howard Cunnell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan

Adam smoothed out a crushed piece of paper on the banquette. Ripped where he’d pulled the notice from the tree it was nailed to.

Take a look, he said.

Big meaty hands. He’d had the use of them, as Nan would have said.

The crumpled sheet and Adam’s living hands looked like they wanted nothing to do with each other.

Didn’t trust official letters. Told a story about your life you hadn’t written. Didn’t recognize. Subject to what the words said you were. Until you couldn’t be seen for all the black bars of type. But paper in all forms was also the material I worked with. Many times I’d turned over official letters to make a drawing on the back. Every clean piece of paper was a magic carpet. Even the crushed sheet under my hand.

It was late. Still warm. New moon. The wheelhouse door was open, letting our smoke out and the night sounds in. Birds called to each other like fond comrades. Music pulsed across the dark river. Kaplan’s house. A big party. All the lights burning.

Whirring moths crowded the wheelhouse bulb.

What’s it say? Adam said.

Made the mistake of looking at him.

I can read, the young giant said, putting on a fierce face. Just not all the legal bollocks.

Course, I said. Who understands that? Different language. Pass me my glasses.

Adam handed me the glasses without looking at me.

Right, I said, and read the notice of eviction out loud.

To anybody living in the forest:

You are illegally squatting on private land. You will be given a generous amount of time to leave voluntarily, but if you have not dismantled the camp and left by August thirty-first, you will be forcibly evicted and charged with:

Causing damage while in the property.

Not leaving when they’re told to by a court.

Stealing from the property.

Using utilities like electricity or gas without permission.

Fly-tipping.

They’re bringing in fence posts and wire, Adam said.

Kaplan clears you out, I said, then he’ll go after the rest of us.

Adam showed me a pair of wire cutters.

Put a fence up today, he said, and I’ll cut it down tomorrow.

There were other people at the camp. Summer visitors.

Dawn and Lala, teenage runaways from a gang of men who’d raped and prostituted them. Gloster Vince, an army veteran camped in the hollow of a dead tree inside a perimeter of sharpened sticks. Conor, an ancient former navvy, who had lost the ability to speak in a way that could be understood.

Bloke called Jason. Gnomic, balding under a cap, mostly smiling though he had his quiet sad days. Lots of teeth missing so he had an underbite like a bulldog. Insides were kaput, you could tell by looking at him. Yellow. Around thirty but looked closer to my age. For some reason he called me Paul.

All right Paul?

Jason played an imaginary guitar. He was very convincing. Fingers seemed to know what they were doing. A small cardboard sign said: Guitar lessons.

Walked into the camp one day and Jason was sitting with his back to a tree, waving a stick up and down.

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