Gents

“A big stick?”

Reynolds stood up, walked to the farthest corner, and picked up an oversize wooden walking-stick that leaned against the wall.

“You knock this against their ankles.”

Jason said, “You rattle their cage, man.” He laughed openly, shaking his head.

“Sometimes it doesn’t work,” Reynolds said. “Sometimes nothing happen.”

Ez swallowed. “What then?”

“You just have to wait for them to come out.”

Ez didn’t bother to hide his consternation. He knew he was under observation but he had moved beyond surprise. He looked from one to the other. Reynolds gave him a straight stare. Jason softly shook his head and turned away.

In the evening, as Ez took off his overalls and put his mop in the cupboard, Reynolds asked, “First day all right?”

“Fine.”

“Think you last?”

“Believe so.”

Jason drifted out on his way out through the side-door.

“Bye, man.”

Reynolds put on a scarf and coat. “See you tomorrow.”

Ez nodded. He followed Reynolds out into the winter dusk. He heard Reynolds lock the heavy door behind them, using several keys. Then he walked towards the underground station, past the grey and blue fluorescent lighting of the shops.

CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_3c4c4d1d-ec9a-51be-b553-2b53b92fe6ab)

Martha set a meal of mackerel and maize on the table in front of Ez. She sat down and watched him eat, her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her hands.

Ez took several mouthfuls. He said, “You not eatin’?”

“I ate earlier.”

Ez nodded. He glanced up at Martha and saw she was still watching him.

Martha said, “So how was it?”

“OK.”

“You like the others?”

“Mr Reynolds is the supervisor. Jason is the other cleaner.”

Martha said, “You get on?”

Between mouthfuls, Ez replied, “I get on fine.” He paused. “Where’s Stevie?”

“He’s out.”

“Not with that bad crowd?”

“Maybe not,” Martha said. “He tell me different.”

“Some fellows from West Kingston living round Buckle Street. Northampton estate. Some real bad boys. Seen them on the streets. Easy money.” He moved mackerel onto his fork with his knife. “Maybe afterwards, I go take a look for Stevie.”

Martha put a restraining hand on his elbow.

Ez watched her hand, the pale fingernails. He always liked the way the flesh sat on her fingers, firm.

Martha said, “I know where he is.”

“Where?”

“At the hairdresser’s.” She paused. “Biziou’s.”

“Getting a haircut?”

Martha smiled. “No. Learnin’.”

“Learnin’?”

“Learnin’. Takin’ up a new job, like you.”

Ez’s fork hovered.

“Stevie?”

Martha nodded. “It’s a good trade.”

Ez said, “He don’t play football no more.”

“Ez.” Martha’s fingers seemed to caress his arm. “Steve’s good at football, but he’s not so good. It’s not an easy life.”

“Application,” Ez said. He watched her hand retreat, almost with regret, then he returned to his eating. Martha seemed about to leave the table. He felt conciliatory.

“He’s good,” Ez said. “He could be something. The best in his youth club. Nothing to stop him. One day maybe he play for a club, maybe Arsenal.”

“Ez, don’t make Stevie do what you didn’t do.”

“He’s different,” Ez said. “I had a wife and kid, responsibilities. He got none. He could still do it.”

“Training, day in day out, for his father’s ambition.”