Gents. Warwick Collins

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СКАЧАТЬ then paused in the concourse. He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to see daylight. Walking up a flight of grey flagged stairs, he stepped out into the street.

      Drifts of London sunlight touched his eyes; a flock of pigeons wheeled above the buildings. Traffic fumes hung over the city.

      He approached a sign on a wrought iron stairway which said GENTS. Straightening his tie, he walked down the steps. At the bottom, he faced a turnstile. He glanced around for assistance, but could see no one. Shrugging his shoulders, he shifted the change in his pocket and put ten pence in the slot. Then he walked through the turnstile and paused to glance around him.

      The interior was faced with geometric tiles, white with a motif of green. The floors were meticulously clean. In the background he could hear the occasional hiss of the fountains. On the right of the entrance, set back discreetly into a wall of rough, whitewashed plaster, was a green-painted door marked MANAGER.

      Ez adjusted his collar and knocked.

      After a while, the door opened. The man facing him was as tall as a beanpole. His clothes hung on his skinny frame. He had that almost albino whiteness of certain Jamaicans on the south side of the island. Standing in the doorway, he considered Ez for a moment.

      “Mr Murphy?”

      “That’s right.”

      “Josiah Reynolds.” He seemed to pause for several seconds, and Ez gained the impression he was trying to work out something. “Come in, come in.”

      Reynolds stood aside. Ez stepped into a small, neat office with a wooden table and several folding chairs. Against the wall was a filing cabinet, on top of which was a shelf with some grey box files. The only decoration on the walls was a white calendar without pictures, covered by the heavy black print of dates. Ez gained the impression of a pervasive austerity.

      Reynolds picked up a clipboard from his desk. He lifted a ball-point from his top pocket.

      “Murphy,” he read out. “Ezekiel Stanislaus.”

      Ez nodded.

      Reynolds smiled, as though in recognition. He indicated one of the wooden seats.

      “Sit down, man.”

      Reynolds took several paces back and leaned, half seated, on the edge of the table. His long bony wrists emerged from the cuffs. Raising his clipboard, Reynolds consulted his notes.

      “You cleaner at Lambeth Council four years. Before that you from Jamaica.”

      Ez nodded.

      “Which part you from?”

      “Brixton.”

      “I mean Jamaica,” Reynolds said.

      Ez noted the long move of the Adam’s apple in Reynolds’ bony neck. He tried to guess Reynolds’ age. “West Kingston. Greenwich Farm. You know it?”

      A thin smile spread across the other man’s face. “Course I know it, man,” Reynolds said. “Mandy’s on George Street. Friday Café. Singular.” He shifted a little against the table. “Aunt Mimmy’s Place. What was it then? Sideways? What is it now?”

      “Cornstocks,” Ez said.

      “Cornstocks?”

      “Selling to Rastas, mostly.” Ez paused, then added, “You live there sometime?”

      “Once a time.”

      Ez was delighted. He said, “Bacon juice.”

      “Bacon juice.” Reynolds laughed suddenly. The corners of his eyes became creased. “All those corner smokers?”

      “Still there.”

      Reynolds smiled. His face shifted back to an expression of watchfulness. “You know what work is here?”

      Ez shrugged.

      Reynolds said, “Washing out, mopping floors, keeping turnstiles working, maintaining a change box, controlling the kiddies. Keeping order.”

      “Keeping order?” Ez asked.

      “Sometimes. Sometimes things get out of hand in the cubicles.”

      Ez nodded but he was not certain he had understood.

      Reynolds scratched his cheek, a minor gesture of perplexity.

      “You religious?” Reynolds asked. “Don’ mind my askin’?”

      “Adventist, maybe.”

      Reynolds chuckled. “That makes you.”

      “You could say.”

      “How you like Lambeth?” Reynolds asked.

      “So-so.”

      “Strange place, man. Council turnin’ itself inside out. Maybe you safer here.”

      Ez did not answer. In the silence, Reynolds said, “You meet Jason yet?”

      “No.”

      Reynolds nodded and moved to the door. He opened it and called out.

      “Jason!”

      Reynolds returned and leaned back against the table. He smiled, then seemed content to subside into patois again. “Him no dog – like cat, man. Call, him come in own time.”

      “He work here?”

      “Pass time here,” Reynolds said. “Like you and me pass water.”

      Ez watched the movement of Reynolds’ Adam’s apple, the swallow before mirth. Reynolds chuckled softly at his joke.

      Not long afterwards a figure appeared at the door, of medium height, slender, with wide eyes and Rasta dreadlocks.

      Reynolds said, “Jason.” He indicated Ez. “Meet him here.”

      Ez stood up. “Ez Murphy.”

      Jason seemed to hesitate. Then he moved forward. Seriously, almost carefully, he shook Ez by the hand. Jason’s right eye was lazy, the left direct. It took a while to work out which eye was assessing you. Back in Kingston they called it chameleon.

      Reynolds turned to address Jason formally. “Look after him. He join us now.”

      With a brief nod to Reynolds, Jason asked, “You from Kingston?”

      “Greenwich.”

      Jason nodded.

      “Loud place.”

      Reynolds translated, “Loud mean good.”

      Ez nodded.

      “Fat Lion Stevens?” Jason asked.

      “He СКАЧАТЬ